CHAPTER V--HELEN DAYTON'S CALL

The sun shone in at the kitchen window and made a golden panel on the floor.

"Looks like another hot day," said Mrs. Weston, and she paused a moment and looked out at the meadow, where the little brook sparkled in the sun.

"Mother, are we very poor?" said Randy, irrelevantly.

Mrs. Weston wheeled around abruptly in her surprise, and promptly dropped the dishcloth which she held in her hand. "There," said she, "look at that dishcloth; somebody's comin' sure as preachin'. I never knew it to fail."

"Oh, I do hope somebody will, if it's Miss Dayton, if that's her name," added Randy. "But you didn't answer what I asked you," said the girl. "_Are_ we, mother?"

"Why, Randy, what's in your mind? Lately you've been dreamin' most of the time, and askin' queer questions between times. Are we what? Poor? Why no, I do'no's we be. Your father ain't a rich man, but he's well-to-do. What put it in your head to ask me?"

"Nothing," said Randy, "only I was wondering what the reason was that all the folks in church yesterday looked so different from Mrs. Gray's boarders. Was it because they were poorer or was it some other reason?"

"Well," said Mrs. Weston, as she took the towel from Randy's listless hands, and commenced energetically to finish wiping the dishes, "I guess we're as well fixed as any one around here; your father owes nobody nothin', and our farm's one of the biggest and best in the town. I've heard say that some city folks was rich, an' I heard tell of other city folks as wasn't so well off as their clothes seemed to make them out; and as to our lookin' different, there ain't any call to dress up any more than what we do now. I tell you what, Randy, to be clean and neat ought to satisfy any one."

To this Randy could not agree, so she wisely said nothing. In her inmost heart she knew that, were she the possessor of an immense hat loaded with flowers, she would not have the courage to walk into church, the cynosure of all eyes. On the other hand, a sunbonnet never had looked so uncouth and unbecoming as now.

The dishes put away, the chickens fed, and a dozen other little chores attended to, Randy was free to do as she liked; so off to the "best" room she flew, eager to brighten it in any way which might suggest itself. The best room was a front room, and the front door, although seldom used, opened from it, showing a little garden in which grew boys' love, larkspur, balsams, and, later in the season, marigolds.

But the front room and the front door were never used; and the little path from the door-stone to the flower beds was overgrown with weeds, years ago. The side door which led to the barn, the well, and the woodpile was the proper one to use. So Randy did not open the door; it never occurred to her to do so; but she drew up the green paper curtains, and let in the sunlight, and, although the room was scrupulously clean, she decided that the correct thing to do first was to dust.

Between the front windows stood a little table with an oil-cloth cover, dotted with red and green figures. Over the table, and quite too high for any one to take a peep, hung a small, square looking-glass with a broad, wooden frame.

Randy remembered having seen a huge asparagus plume over a mirror in the parson's sitting room on one gala occasion when the sewing-circle had met there, and she had been permitted to be present with her mother. Asparagus, then, would be quite the thing with which to decorate the glass. The parson's mirror had a gilt frame and a gorgeous landscape above the glass, and Randy felt sure that the wooden frame needed the decoration even more than the gilt one. The asparagus in place, Randy stopped in the middle of the floor, duster in hand, to view the effect. Her eyes wandered about the room, and this is what she saw.

On the opposite wall was a picture entitled "The Tree of Life," on which every known virtue hung pendant from the branches on one side, while every evil of which man is guilty kept the balance on the other.

This picture always served to depress Randy. The tree was a sombre green, and Randy espied Envy printed in large type on that side where hung the sins, and she felt sure that a wee bit of envy had crept into her heart on Sunday, and as she looked at the pictured tree she said, under her breath: "Must have been vanity that made me almost hate my sunbonnet. The parson preached a while ago on the sin of vanity."

Poor Randy! To think it a sin to long with all her girlish heart for pretty things! With a sigh she turned from the picture of the tree to the one hanging upon the side wall. This was more cheerful--an ancient fashion plate in which insipid-looking gentlemen, in white trousers and long, blue coats, were smiling at some waxen-faced ladies whose beruffled skirts were voluminously extended.

She rather admired this picture, mainly because the people in it, at least, looked cheerful. Leaving the pictures, Randy let her eyes slowly wander over the furnishings. As none of her neighbors or acquaintances had carpets, the yellow painted floor seemed quite fine. The chairs were also yellow, and as a crowning luxury, a green enamelled cloth lounge stood in all its slippery grandeur against the wall, beside the door.

Randy liked the lounge, but wished it possible to sit upon it without slipping. While she was wishing that she had some pretty thing in the shape of an ornament for the table, her eyes wandered to the window, where, looking out into the garden, she could see the tall spikes of pink and blue larkspur waving in the breeze. A bright idea! Why not have some flowers upon the table?

Away she ran to the kitchen closet, and there she inspected everything on the shelves, so anxious was she to find something fine for her flowers.

"Oh, that's the thing," said Randy, "if mother'll let me have it." Appealed to, Mrs. Weston looked doubtful. "'Tain't a vase," said she, "it's my old white and blue spoon holder, an' I do'no how it will look in the best room."

"But you'd be willing I should use it, wouldn't you?" Randy asked eagerly.

"Oh, I don't mind your usin' it; go put your posies in it an' see how it looks."

Surprised and delighted that her mother should express the least interest, Randy skipped out into the garden and came running back in a few moments with a dozen long stalks of larkspur in her hands. She filled the old spoon holder with water and crowded in the flowers, then away she ran to the best room.

"Oh, mother," she called, a minute later, "do come and see the room." Mrs. Weston stopped in the doorway.

"Wal', I do declare," she ejaculated, "I must say that does look pretty. Why, Randy, you do have a real knack to fix it up so. Them flowers brighten up the place wonderful, and that sparrowgrass just beats anything."

"Oh, I'm so glad you like it, mother! Would you put some on the mantel if you were me?"

"I'd put some anywhere," said her mother, wiping her eyes with the corner of her apron. "I declare I'd actually forgotten how much the blossoms cheer up the house. I used to bring them in when I was first married, but ever sence I've been too busy to think of anything but cookin', sweepin', sewin', and mendin' from Monday 'til Saturday; but, Randy, if you're a mind to, you may bring in a few blossoms once in a while. It seems like the time when I used to fix up the house, and myself too, for that matter."

Mrs. Weston was a reserved woman, and Randy was amazed that her mother should show so much feeling, and delighted that her efforts at decoration were approved.

"I wish I had something to hang down from the mantel in some way. I don't know how to say it, but I know just how it ought to look." A moment Randy stood thinking with a queer little scowl over her eyes. Then her face brightened, and out of the room she darted, then across the yard to the old well around whose sides the wild morning glory clambered. Lifting her skirt, she filled it with the long vines and hurried back to the house.

She filled a small stone jar with water, carried it to the front room and stood it in the centre of the mantel, and then proceeded to fill it with long sprays of the morning glory. When all the vines were thus disposed of, she inspected her work.

"There, you couldn't have done better," said her mother, and Randy felt rewarded for her efforts. Then they turned to go back to the kitchen, and there, in the doorway, stood Helen Dayton. Randy started.

"Forgive me for startling you, and also for coming in without knocking. I was out for a walk, and coming up the hill I thought of your invitation. I walked toward the house and was about to knock when this little puss offered to lead me through the house to you."

"I'm sure you're welcome any time, Miss Dayton, and this girl of mine," laying her hand on Randy's arm, "has been so eager to see you again I do'no what would have become of her if you had waited long to come."

Randy blushed, and Helen Dayton laughed and said that she was very glad to be so welcome. Then she chatted pleasantly with Mrs. Weston "just as if she had always known her," as Randy afterward said.

While she was talking, a little book which lay upon Miss Dayton's lap fell to the floor and flew open, showing a page of bright little sketches, and Randy and Prue stared at it in wonder. "My sketch book," said Miss Dayton. "I am not an artist, but I have a bit of talent and have studied a little, and when I go out for a walk I jot down a part of a birch tree, a few wild flowers, or some tall weeds beside an old wall. Take the book and look at it if you like," she added, as she caught the eager look upon Randy's face.

Gladly Randy picked up the little book. The drawings were not wonderful, only rather clever, but to the country girl, who had never seen a sketch, they were truly charming. Randy looked at each little picture at least a dozen times, always telling Prue in a whisper that she must not put her little fingers on them.

"However did you do them?" asked Randy. "I didn't know that anybody ever did such beautiful things."

"Thank you for liking them," said Helen; "but you must not call them beautiful."

"But," said Randy, "that old mullein stalk looks just like a mullein, and those birches look just 's if you could strip the bark off."

Helen laughed at Randy's enthusiasm. "Sometime, when I come," said she, "I will make a sketch of your old well."

"Our well!" said Randy, "would that look pretty in a picture?" Helen was amused. "You shall see," said she; "and now tell me who arranged the flowers and vines so prettily?"

"I did," said Randy; "I did it to please you," and Randy, the sketch book still in her hand, looked up into the lovely face.

Helen Dayton laid a gentle hand on Randy's shoulder, saying sweetly, "Thank you so much, but tell me why you so wished to please me?"

"Because you are the very loveliest girl I ever saw in this world," and then Randy blushed and looked down to cover her confusion.

"And because you are the princess," chimed in Prue, who had been still an unusually long time.

"The princess!" echoed Helen. "Whatever do you mean, dear? I am not a princess," and Randy hastened to explain. She told all about the fairy book, and how on Sunday in church little Prue had felt sure that Miss Dayton was the princess of the fairy tales.

"Well, of all things!" said Helen; "now I must assure you, little one, that I am not a princess, only Helen Dayton of Boston."

"But you look like one," persisted the child, looking at her with round, admiring eyes. Mrs. Weston had slipped from the room, while the children entertained their visitor, and as she bustled about the kitchen, doing many things, she murmured softly to herself, "Randy's right, the girl _is_ lovely."

A pretty picture they made--the young girl and the two children--as they sat in the best room, chatting now like old acquaintances. Helen had taken little Prue upon her lap, where she sat looking admiringly up into that young lady's face, while Randy sat beside her on the floor, telling her all her small confidences.

"Randy's such a homely name," she was saying. "'Tain't so bad as Jerushy, but it's homely enough."

"But that isn't the whole name, is it? Isn't it 'Miranda'?" asked Helen.

"Why, yes," said Randy, "and it sounds almost fine when you say it; but, generally, it's just Randy. And there's Prue. Her name is Prudence, after Aunt Prudence."

"Who's just horrid," said Prue, so vehemently that Helen and Randy laughed. After a pause Randy asked, abruptly, "If you belong in Boston, how could you come here to board; Boston's a city, my geography says so, and this is just country."

"That is just why I came here," said Helen. "The spring found me very tired, after a long, gay winter, and I came here to be quiet, and get rested."

"How funny!" said Randy. "I was wishing and wishing the other day that it wasn't always so quiet here, and the other night when father was talking to Jason Meade about buying the big piece of meadow land, Mr. Meade was saying that he was going to Boston for a spell--he's been there once--and he told about the streets full of people, and cars running all day, and teams and everything; and I did wish things would fly around here awhile."

Randy paused for breath, and looking at the pretty, eager face, Helen stooped, and touching the curly head ever so lightly with her lips she said, "Dear Randy, I'll try to stir things up a bit, and we will see if we cannot have some pleasant times while I am here."

"Oh, will you?" said Randy, eagerly.

"I never went anywhere 'cept to a sewing-circle once."

"What will you do?" asked Prue.

"Oh, you shall see," said Helen, laughingly. "We are planning a picnic now," said she, "and if we really have it, I'll invite you, and you shall go with me."

"With you!" said Randy. "I'd love to, but I shouldn't look fit," and she looked admiringly at Helen Dayton's dainty outing suit, and glanced up at the trim sailor hat perched upon her pretty head.

"Oh, you will look every bit fine enough with a shade hat--we shall all wear broad-brimmed hats--and a clean gingham dress," said Helen, cheerily.

"But I've got nothing but sunbonnets," said Randy, "'less father will buy me one next time he takes eggs and vegetables to the village. I mean to ask him to if that would be soon enough," and she looked up eagerly at Helen.

"Oh, yes, indeed," said Helen, "we've planned to have it in about two weeks."

"I want to go, too," said little Prue.

"Of course, dear, so you shall," said Helen, "and now I must be going, but I'll tell you all about the picnic the next time we meet. Do you know where Mrs. Gray lives, Randy?"

Randy laughed. "Of course I do," said she.

"Well, when father brings home your new shade hat, and of course he will, if you wish it so much, suppose you take a walk over to Mrs. Gray's and make a little call upon me, and when you come bring the new hat with you; I shouldn't wonder if I had something with which to trim it."

"Oh, I will, I will!" said Randy, eagerly, "and then you'll tell me all about the picnic."

With sheer excitement little Prue was executing a funny little jig, which reminded Helen to inquire for the injured foot.

"It's all well. See!" and Prue hopped upon that one foot to assure her that it was quite itself again.

"I should call that foot very well indeed," said Helen. Then together they walked out to the kitchen where, bidding good morning to Mrs. Weston, Helen said that she had enjoyed her call, admired Randy's tasteful decoration, and asked if she might borrow Randy once in a while.

"Why, yes, you may have Randy whenever I can spare her," said Mrs. Weston, "'though she seems so took up with you, and so delighted, that when she comes home from a call on you I'm afraid she'll about tread on air."

Helen laughed, and taking Randy's hand they walked together as far as the road where Randy, perched upon the wall, watched her new friend out of sight.

Helen turned many times to wave her hand until a bend in the road hid her from view. Then Randy walked slowly to the house, followed by Prue, and as they walked they talked of nothing but Helen's beauty and sweetness and the wonderful picnic.