Black-Eyed Susan Part 6

But, finally, Phil found his voice. "No, no!" he shrieked; "I'll be good! I'll be good! I'll be good!"

His father turned and looked at him.

"Stop crying," said he.

Phil sobbed and capered about a moment longer, but at last his sobs died away and he stood still.

His father eyed him a moment longer. Then he shut his pen-knife with a snap and dropped the switch in the gra.s.s.

At this welcome sight Phil vanished into the house, and his father slowly followed him.

"What a horrid day," thought Susan. "Poor Philly! But I won't tell I saw. I mean I won't tell any one but Grandmother and Grandfather and Flip."

Armed with her cookies, Susan traveled back to the schoolhouse. On the little stone walk she stopped and stared. The schoolhouse steps were bare!

Where was the squash baby? Surely she hadn't walked away by herself.

Neither had she rolled off, toppled over by her own weight, for Susan searched carefully in the gra.s.s about the steps. She shook the schoolhouse door. It was firmly locked. She peeped in the window. The same familiar scene met her eye: rows of old-fas.h.i.+oned benches, rusty stove, dingy maps upon the wall, tin dipper left upon the window-sill.

To Susan's relief she saw Grandfather's business friend drive away, and she hurried across the road to tell of the mysterious disappearance.

"Too bad," said Grandfather, as hand in hand they walked up to the house. "But I'll make you another baby. Some mischievous boy has pa.s.sed by and taken it. There is not much travel on this road, though, and you never lost anything before, did you? It's strange."

Over on the Tallman steps sat Phil alone. He was spick and span in a clean starched suit, his hair was brushed to a gloss, and he was turning the leaves of a picture-book in a way that any proper and well-behaved child might imitate. At this moment, whatever may have been true earlier in the day, there was not the slightest suggestion of Naughty Adolphus about little Phil.

But he seemed dispirited, and Grandmother, who had sharp eyes and ears as well as a warm heart, and who had guessed something of Phil's unhappy afternoon, looked from the drooping little figure on the steps to the red-rimmed eyes of her own Susan.

"Susan," said she briskly, "it's a long while to supper-time. You run over and ask Mrs. Vane to let Philip come back here with you. Tell her I have a little treat for you two. I hope I won't give them bad dreams,"

Grandmother added to herself, as Susan gladly sped over the garden wall and across the green lawn on her pleasant errand.

Back came the children, hand in hand, already looking brighter, and when they saw the little saucer pie, neatly cut in two, they broke into broad smiles.

"Chew it well," instructed Grandmother, "and when you have finished, be sure you run around the house three times.

"But I believe their pleasure is worth one nightmare," reflected she, "though I don't know that Mrs. Vane would agree with me."

"It's good," announced Phil, his own cheerful self once more, as he joyously ate berry juice with a spoon.

"It's the best pie I ever tasted," said Susan, twisting about in her chair to smile at Grandmother. Never, never again would she be rude to Grandmother; of that she was sure.

"But I do wish," said Susan, looking round at every one, "that I knew who took my squash baby."

CHAPTER V-DOWN AT MISS LIZA'S

"Here is your tin pail, Susan. Try not to lose the cover, child."

"Yes, Grandmother."

"And I've put your slippers in this little bag. Be sure to bring them home again with you."

"Yes, Grandmother."

"And tell Miss Liza she is to start you home at half-past three.

"Tell her I said so. She will have had quite enough of you children by that time, but she is so good-natured she would let you stay till Doomsday if you liked." And Grandmother, straightening Susan's hat, smiled down into the expectant little face looking up into hers.

"Yes, Grandmother," answered Susan for the last time, and ran off to join Phil, who, also provided with a pail and a pair of bedroom slippers, stood waiting in the lane.

"Isn't this nice?" asked Susan as, clas.h.i.+ng their pails cheerfully, they moved briskly along the road. "I do love to go to Miss Liza's. When she lived in your house I used to go over every day, and sometimes when she was baking she would let me help. She had little wee cake pans of a fish, and a leaf, and a star." And Susan smiled at happy memories of Miss Liza's baking-days.

"Will we make cakes to-day, do you think?" inquired Phil, who, invited with Susan to spend the day at Miss Eliza Tallman's, was making his first social call of the season and was not quite sure what was expected of him. For all he knew to the contrary, it was customary to carry a tin pail and bedroom slippers when going visiting for the day.

"I don't believe so," returned Susan doubtfully. "Miss Liza doesn't live alone now. She lives with her niece, Miss Lunette. And Miss Lunette can't bear the tiniest bit of noise. That's why we brought our slippers.

We have to put them on the minute we get there, and walk on tiptoe, and just whisper." And Susan's voice sank mysteriously as she related their programme for the day.

Phil looked downcast. The prospect of whispering and walking on tiptoe was not in the least pleasing to him.

"Is Miss Lunette sick?" he inquired soberly.

"Oh, yes," Susan a.s.sured him, "she is. I heard Grandmother and Miss Liza talking. No one knows just what is the matter with her, but she must have good things to eat, and some one to wait on her, and not one bit of noise. And I heard Grandmother and Grandfather talking, too," went on the "little pitcher." "Grandmother said, 'Liza's a saint on earth,' and Grandfather said, 'In my opinion, all Miss Lunette needs is a little hard work!' I don't know just what they meant. But, anyway, we are going to fill our pails with currants and raspberries. Miss Liza said so."

Phil brightened for a moment, but his face clouded again and he stopped in the road.

"Can't we shout before we get there, Susan?" he asked plaintively. "I feel just like shouting to-day."

"I do, too," agreed Susan willingly. "Let's shout now where there is no one to stop us." And putting down their bundles so that they might swing their arms as well, the children opened their mouths and shouted until they could shout no more.

On either side of the road lay a dense little wood. The noise of the shouting woke the echoes and startled the birds who rose in the air with a whirr of wings and then settled down again. There was the crackling of underbrush and the rustle of leaves, but neither of the children saw a cautious little figure, with brown face and tumbled black hair, peering at them from behind a tree. His hungry eyes traveled to their pails and stopped there.

"I'll race you!" shouted Phil suddenly. And he was off, with Susan close behind, their empty pails swinging as they ran.

The little brown figure turned and disappeared among the tree-trunks.

Miss Eliza Tallman stood waiting for her guests on the steps of the white cottage that was separated from the street by an old-fas.h.i.+oned flower garden, now glowing in its prime.

Miss Liza herself was as wholesome and sweet and crisp as the row of pinks that bordered the walk and sent their spicy odors out upon the warm summer air. Miss Liza was round and plump. Her crinkly brown hair, with only a few threads of gray, was drawn into a round little k.n.o.b at the back of her head. Her eyes, round and blue, looked out pleasantly from behind round gold spectacles. She stood, absently smoothing down her stiffly starched white ap.r.o.n, until she caught sight of the children, and then she waved her hand in greeting.

"I'm glad to see you," she called softly.

And something in the quiet voice made Susan remember to close the gate behind her gently instead of letting it swing shut with a slam.

"Sit right down here on the porch steps and put on your slippers. Miss Lunette feels right well to-day, and she wants you to come up and see her before dinner."

And Miss Liza smiled so warmly at little Phil that he cheered up immediately. Going to see Miss Lunette couldn't be very dreadful if Miss Liza looked so pleasant about it.