CHAPTER I. CRICKET.

Kayuna was the loveliest home in the world. At least, the Ward children said so. The family usually went out of the city as soon as the children’s schools closed, in June, and stayed in the country till quite the first of October.

Kayuna was also the name of a brook that danced gayly through the lower part of the grounds of the summer home, and that was a never-failing delight to the children. The house itself was wide, old-fashioned and roomy, with such a splendid great garret as you never saw before, for rainy days.

Do you want to know how many Wards there were? Well, let me count. Of course, first to be mentioned came Doctor papa, and dear, beautiful mamma, who was never very strong. Then there was Donald, who was seventeen, and 12a big fellow, as well, and Marjorie, who was two years younger, but who already began to give herself grown-up airs. Eunice was next, nearly twelve. Then came Cricket, the “middleman.” They never knew whether to take her with the older ones, or leave her at home with the small fry. Donald would call her “trundlebed trash,” to her great indignation. Her name was really Jean, but she was such a chirpy, cheery little soul, that Cricket seemed just to suit her. Below her were the six-year-old twins; and, lastly, baby Kenneth, everybody’s pet, who was nearly three.

Wasn’t that a house full? And such a noise as they were equal to when they set about it! Mamma often said that it was fortunate that the roof was high and the walls were strong, else surely the house would have come down about their ears.

This year, to the wild delight of the entire family, papa had decided to go out into the country very early, on mamma’s account, for she needed the country air. So the middle of April found them comfortably settled for a long, lovely summer.

It was so early that papa thought it quite 13worth while for Eunice and Cricket, at least, to go to the country school for the rest of the term, while the older ones had lessons at home with him.

Cricket, especially, was greatly delighted with this arrangement. Her little friend, Hilda Mason, of whom she was very fond, of course went to school, and it was such fun going together. The little girls were delighted to be with each other, and Hilda always looked forward to the summer, when Cricket would come out into the country.

Hilda was a year older than Cricket, for she was eleven in June, and Cricket was ten in August. By reason of this extra year, she always thought Cricket should do just as she, Hilda, wanted.

Hilda was an only child, and lived with her mother and grandmother, who thought her perfect. Cricket, on the other hand, was very used to giving up her own way, as children in a large family generally are. Hilda was a quiet, demure little girl, with polite, grown-up manners. She always remembered to say “How-do-you do!” and that mamma sent her love, and she never forgot any errand she was sent on.

14Cricket was a heedless little witch, and rarely, by any chance, remembered anything she was told to do. Her father always said that any errand she was given meant two, for she was never known to bring home both her package and her change at the same time.

Hilda was pretty, with big brown eyes and long, orderly, golden curls. She was plump and straight, and rather proper.

Cricket had short, brown curls, every one of which took a different kink, and gray-blue eyes that twinkled like merry little stars. She was thin and tall for her age, and her papa used to tease her by calling her long legs “knitting-needles,” and offering them to mamma for her fancy knitting.

Every morning Hilda called for Cricket on her way to school. If Cricket had gone off earlier, having been sent on some errand, as often happened, she left a little red stone on the gate-post, as a sign to her little friend that she had gone. If Hilda came by early and couldn’t stop, as seldom happened, she picked up the little red stone from its hiding-place, and left it for Cricket to see.

But, usually, Hilda turned in at the gates 15promptly at twenty minutes of nine, and walked up the long avenue, around to the side piazza. Then she would open the door, and call gently up the side staircase, “Ready, Cricket?”

A voice from above would answer, promptly, “I’m coming. Have you got your sums?” and Cricket would come out of her room at the head of the stairs, giving a last, smoothing touch to her kinky hair.

Then she would plunge down stairs, usually arriving at the bottom by way of the bannisters, provided she did not trip at the top and come down head-foremost. Next would follow a wild search for her hat, until she remembered she had left it last night in the grape arbour; then her sacque must be found, and that was probably hanging on some tree,—where she had taken it off to climb better. Strange to say, her books were generally at hand, for heedless Cricket loved to study.

Hilda always carried her school-books in a neat little bag, for she said that a strap bent the edges of the books. Cricket strapped hers as tightly as possible, for she liked to swing them by the long end as she walked along. Besides, they made a splendid thing to throw at a stray cat,—which she never hit.

16By the time she was fairly ready, Eunice would appear, fresh and sweet and unhurried. Then Hilda and Eunice would walk quietly down the piazza steps, while Cricket would say, “Want to see me jump off the piazza as far as that stone?” Off she would shoot through the air, and, alighting, would race down the avenue, to wait panting at the gate till Hilda and Eunice should come up. Then for two minutes, perhaps, they would keep side by side, while they talked over those dreadful decimals, which they hated so.

Hilda and Eunice kept straight along the shady path, but Cricket was seldom known to walk. She ran, she skipped, she danced, she went backward, and varied the way still further by betaking herself to the stone fences, wherever they were smooth enough on top.

When they arrived at school Hilda was orderly, cool and sweet, and as trim as if she had just left her mother’s hands; Cricket had riotous looking clothes, hot, tumbled curls, hat hanging off her head, but was always dimpling and smiling, and serenely sure that every one would greet her with a shout.

Eunice sat with her particular friend, Edith 17Craig, but Cricket and Hilda shared the same desk, to the distraction of the long-suffering teacher. She was always threatening to separate them, but her heart would melt, at the last minute, at their beseeching looks and penitent vows to be good and study hard, and never whisper any more. They usually did have their lessons, as it happened, for they were both bright, and both fond of study.

Hilda was not altogether a favourite, for she was apt to be both selfish and exacting, often a little jealous, and always determined to be first in everything. She was quick in all her studies but her arithmetic, and here Cricket excelled, greatly to Hilda’s disgust. Many a time she slyly rubbed out Cricket’s just completed work, and the surprised child would presently whisper, “Did you ever! I’ve gone and rubbed out my to-morrow’s examples by mistake. Did you ever see such a goose?” and by the time she had done them again, Hilda would have been able to make up her work.

Altogether their friendship was just on this basis: Hilda always wanted her own way, and Cricket was willing she should have it; so they got on swimmingly.

18Nevertheless, one day they quarrelled. It happened in this wise:

Playing charades was one of the children’s favourite amusements. At Kayuna there was a fine, large nursery, opening off the wide hall, which gave a splendid field for action, and the good-natured nurse was always ready to help them out with their plans.

One rainy Saturday the whole troop were indoors, and after luncheon charades were voted for. There were Eunice and her little friend, Edith Craig, Hilda, Cricket, the twins, Helen and Zaidee, and Kenneth.

Kenneth was a star, by the way. He was always willing to be pulled about like a rag-doll, and really seemed to enjoy it. They would roll him up for a caterpillar, and stand him up straight for a post, and sprawl him out for a spider. He would take any position they put him in, as if he were wax, and would inquire anxiously, after the scene was over, “Did I do zat all right?”

On this particular day, for some reason, none of them were quite as good-natured as usual. Perhaps they had been together rather too long, for Edith and Hilda had both arrived quite 19early, and had stayed to luncheon. Perhaps, also, the unusual confinement in the house made them all a little irritable.

The children usually divided themselves into actors and audience, by turns. Cricket and Hilda had the stage now, with Kenneth as support. Eunice and Edith, with the twins, therefore, were audience.

The little actors were searching their brains for a new word to act. “Penobscot,” and “connundrum,” and “goldsmith,” and “antidote” had already been used, with dozens of others.

“I know,” cried Cricket, brightening up. “Let’s take secure.”

“Secure? Well, how shall we do it?” questioned Hilda.

“Why, sick-cure, of course,” answered Cricket, promptly. “Won’t that do? In the first scene, Kenneth would be sick—”

“And I’d be the doctor,” put in Hilda.

“And I’d be his mother,” went on Cricket.

“And I’d come and see him and give him some pills—”

“And in the next scene we’d cure him.”

“I ’on’t tate any pills,” announced the baby behind them, unexpectedly, and very decidedly.

20“Oh, yes, you will,” said Hilda, impatiently, “they won’t taste bad—just little make-believe pills.”

“I don’t lite ’em,” wailed the baby, rebelling, for the first time, against his elders. He was tired, poor little fellow, for he had gone through many experiences that afternoon. He had been wound on to a lap-board with shawls, to represent an Esquimau baby. He had been placed on a very insecure table, with newspaper wings tied on his bare shoulders, to pose as a Cupid. Besides this, he had been Daniel in the lion’s den, with Zaidee and Helen as lions, growling and spitting so frightfully around him, and making such an alarming pretence of eating him up, that he had fled, in sudden dismay, to the audience, to take refuge behind Cricket, who was always his protection in times of trouble.

Now, the suggestion of pills was more than the little fellow could stand.

“Just pretend, baby dear,” coaxed Cricket. “See, I’ll sit down here with this funny old cap on, and this shawl over my shoulders, and I’ll play I’m your mamma,” dressing herself as she spoke. “And then,” she went on, “you can lie on my lap, this way, and Hilda will put on 21Donald’s overcoat and those big spectacles. Just see how funny she looks! and she’ll put that fur cap on her head, and she’ll come in and feel your pulse, and say, ‘Very sick child, marm.’ And then, she will only just pretend to give you some pills.”

Kenneth still looked doubtful, but Cricket caught up a shawl and wrapped it around him, and drew his head down.

“That’s a good boy. Put your head down on mamma’s arm,” she said, still coaxingly.

“I doesn’t ’ant to,” fretted Kenneth, but, nevertheless, he stretched himself obediently on Cricket’s lap. As his head dropped back, he shut his eyes very tightly, as he was told, and opened his mouth very wide, as he always did, in the funniest way, whenever he shut his eyes to order.

CHAPTER II. THE QUARREL.

Now, Hilda was a good deal of a tease, in a quiet way. The little fellow looked so funny as he lay there with closely shut eyes, and wide-open mouth, that, quick as a flash, came the impulse to throw something in it. She turned to the washstand close by, where was still standing some water in which they had just washed their hands. Nurse’s big thimble was on the washstand also, and Hilda snatched it up, and emptied a thimbleful of the water right down the poor baby’s throat.

There was a gurgle, a howl, a choke, and Kenneth lay gasping and struggling for breath, for the water had gone down his little windpipe. The audience from the hall, and nurse from an adjoining room, came rushing in. Poor little Kenneth was purple in the face. Nurse snatched him up and patted his back, and blew in his mouth, to make him catch his breath.

Hilda stood frightened at the mischief she 23had unthinkingly done. Cricket turned upon her, in a sudden blind fury of rage, for almost the first time in her life.

“You mean, mean, horrid girl! To treat my baby so! I hate you, there! You’re always doing mean things, and you always take the biggest of everything, and you’ve made baby cry before.”

“You are mean,” chimed in Eunice; “I’ve seen you rub out Cricket’s sums, and I always meant to tell everybody, when I got a good chance.”

“And I know who ate up all my candy,” added Edith.

“You tooked my dolly and hided her, and I cried!” put in Zaidee, joining the attacking force.

“And I know who’s a sneak, and told on Mabel Wilson, when none of the other girls would!” cried Eunice.

“You’re the selfishest, meanest old thing!” it was Cricket’s turn again. She had gotten hold of Kenneth now, and he was clinging with both arms around the neck of his favourite sister.

“To pour that horrid, dirty water down his throat, just to tease him,” went on Cricket, 24furiously. “I’ll never forgive you, and I won’t play with you any more, forever ’n’ ever, ’n’ I wish you’d go home this moment, Hilda Mason, there!”

Hilda stared helplessly, as the unexpected words rained around her. Could they be really talking to her? Was it her little Cricket who was blazing like a little fury, and actually telling her to go home? She was quite too frightened to speak, at first, as the angry group around her all talked at once.

“I didn’t mean,” she faltered, at last; then she, too, burst into angry tears. “You’re horrid, rude girls to say such things to company,” she sobbed. “I’m going straight home to tell mamma how you treated me, and she’ll never let me come here again.”

“You’d better go right away, Miss Hilda,” said nurse, dryly, and she brought the little girl’s hat and put on her sacque. Hilda had never been at all a favourite with her, for she had often seen her slyly tease the little ones.

Hilda marched off abused, excited and angry. The idea—the very idea of such language to her, to Hilda Mason, whom everybody called so good, and who was used to being held up as the model child of the neighbourhood.

HILDA BY THE BROOK.

27And Cricket, her dear Cricket, whom she really loved heartily, had told her she hated her, and would never forgive her, and wouldn’t ever play with her any more.

What had she done to deserve all this? Why, nothing at all; only poured a little water down the baby’s throat, when he looked so funny, lying there with his eyes squeezed shut, and his mouth wide open. She didn’t know it would choke him so; of course she didn’t mean to hurt him. Such a fuss about nothing. Then, suddenly, they all flew at her, and said dreadful things, right before nurse. Hilda did not realize that such an outbreak is seldom as sudden as it seems, and that many grievances will often smoulder for a long time, till some trifle fires the flame.

She walked along, miserable enough, half-crying, half-indignant. The rain had ceased, and the sky had cleared, so she stopped by the brook in the grassy lane, which the children used as a short cut, and sat down by the little bridge. She was ashamed to go on into the village street while she was crying.

Here she and Cricket had spent many happy hours, and had never, never quarrelled before. 28She did not stop to think, then, to whom the credit of this belonged. Cricket certainly always did as Hilda wished, but she was sure she was equally ready to do as Cricket wished, wasn’t she? She began to think. Cricket always liked to keep on through the woods to Hilda’s house, while she liked to strike off into the village street. How seldom they went through the woods, although it was nearer, and Cricket liked it so well! Cricket loved marsh-mallows, while Hilda was devoted to chocolate-creams; but when they spent their weekly pennies together for candy, as they always did, how was it they so rarely bought marsh-mallows? Hilda’s conscience pricked her faintly.

“Well, I am always willing she should buy them, if she’d just say she would, any way,” she reflected, uneasily.

But then, Cricket never did say she “would, anyway.”

What a delight it was to her little friend to be out in the fields and woods, searching out the earliest wild-flowers, exploring for the first chestnuts, perfectly happy if she were simply out-of-doors. She, herself, preferred quiet, indoor sports and dolls, excepting when the weather 29just suited her, and was neither too warm nor too cold. Did they ever stay out when she did not wish to?

And she did rub out Cricket’s examples, often and often.

“Cricket was so quick,” she argued, with her conscience, “and she could do them right over, and she didn’t like to get behind herself. Cricket was such a silly, not to guess it.” And why shouldn’t she take the biggest of anything? One of them had to have it, and she was the oldest. Still, she remembered, with another faint sting of conscience, she didn’t like it when Eunice took things for the same reason, and Cricket had to yield to them both.

Had Cricket ever been heard telling the twins they must do certain things because they were younger?

Hilda began to feel very queerly. She was so used to praise and petting, that the plain speeches she had heard had almost taken her breath away, true though they were. Cricket was always being lectured, because she was careless and disorderly, and heedless and forgetful, and Hilda had always felt superior. 30But was she really horrid? was she hateful? was she selfish? was she a sneak?

“Mamma doesn’t think so, anyway,” she said, with a little sob. But it was that very morning, when she asked permission to go and see Cricket, that her mother had hesitated, and said,—

“I thought perhaps you would be willing to stay at home this morning, darling. My head aches badly, and poor, sick grandmamma says she has scarcely seen her little girl this week.”

But Hilda looked so abused that her mother hastened to add,—

“Never mind, dear, go on and have a good time, but I would like you to come home to lunch;” and the little girl had neglected her mother’s words, as of no importance.

It was a very sober, subdued Hilda, who, much later, slipped quietly into the house.

Her mother had been in bed all day, with one of her worst headaches, the maid said, and she herself had been sitting with grandmamma, and reading to her, for the old lady felt very lonely. Hilda winced as she thought of that hard, rasping voice reading to an invalid.

Mrs. Mason heard her little girl’s voice and 31spoke to her, and Hilda crept quietly into her mother’s room. She knew, well enough, that her little soft fingers had magic power to drive away mamma’s nervous headaches, but usually it was “such a bother” to sit in the darkened room, that often, as she now guiltily remembered, she had slipped away, when she knew mamma had a headache, lest she should be asked to do it. Oh, she was a selfish, selfish Hilda!