Chapter II: A Cottage Re-Christened

The stage creaked up the slope. The four horses, sedate enough during the long drive, wound up with a flourish, the off-leader prancing, and all four making that final exhibition of untamed spirit, which is the stage-driver's secret. And from the body of the vehicle arose a chorus of voices.

"Is this it? Oh, girls, this can't really be it!"

The stage-driver took it on himself to answer the question.

"You asked for Leighton's place, and this here's it. Now, if you want suthin' else, all you've got to do is to say so." He folded his arms with the air of being only too well accustomed to the vagaries of city people, an implication which his passengers were too elated to notice. They scrambled out, not waiting for his assistance, Peggy first, extending a hand to Aunt Abigail, who waved it briskly aside, and jumped off the steps like a girl. Her bright dark eyes--she never used spectacles except for reading--twinkled gaily. And her cheeks crisscrossed with innumerable fine wrinkles, were as rosy as winter apples.

Dorothy followed Aunt Abigail, flinging herself headlong into Peggy's extended arms, and then wriggling free to satisfy herself as to what the country was like, as well as to scan the landscape for a possible bear. The others crowded after, and the stage-driver relenting, began to throw off the trunks.

The Leighton cottage was a rambling structure, suggesting a series of architectural after-thoughts. Its location could hardly have been surpassed, for it stood on a rise of ground so that in any direction one looked across fertile valleys to encircling hills. A porch ran about three sides of the house, shaded here and there by vines. In spite of a certain look of neglect, emphasized by the straggling branches of the untrimmed vines, and the cobwebs everywhere visible, its appearance was distinctly prepossessing.

"Going to get these doors open any time to-day?" asked the stage-driver, apparently struggling for resignation.

"The keys, Aunt Abigail!" Amy cried.

"Bless you, child, I haven't any keys!" the old lady answered. Then, with no apparent loss of serenity, "Oh, yes, I do remember that you handed them to me. But I haven't an idea where they are now."

The girls looked reproachfully at Amy. After having set forth the peculiarities of her relative in such detail, she should have known better than to have entrusted her with anything as important as keys. But clearly it was no time for recrimination, and after a moment all of them were following Peggy's example, and hastily examining the various articles of hand luggage which contained Aunt Abigail's belongings. Owing to the old lady's habitual forgetfulness these were numerous, for the articles which had been left out when her trunk was packed had made the journey in shawlstraps and large pasteboard boxes. Just as every one had become thoroughly convinced that the keys had been left behind in Friendly Terrace, Dorothy made a discovery.

"I hear bells," she announced dreamily, "little tinkly bells like fairies."

Aunt Abigail jumped, and this time everybody's ears were sharp enough to hear the fairy-like chime.

"Of course," cried Aunt Abigail beaming. "They're in the pocket. I told my dressmaker that if I was the only woman in the United States to boast a pocket, I wouldn't be satisfied without one. I will say for her though, that she located it in the most inaccessible place she could possibly have chosen. Girls, come and help me find it."

Aunt Abigail stood resignedly, while a group of girls made a rush, like hounds attacking a stag. The pocket was located without much difficulty, though some valuable time was expended in finding the opening. At last the keys were produced in triumph, the front door was unlocked, and the stage-driver grunting disdainfully, carried in the trunks.

Indoors the cottage lived up to the promise of its exterior. The front door opened into a big living-room furnished comfortably, though simply, and with a large brick fireplace at one end. Beyond this were the dining-room and kitchen, with store-room and pantry, and a long woodshed running off to one side. The second floor consisted of a number of small bedrooms, each with just enough in the way of furnishings to provide for the comfort of the occupants, without adding to housekeeping cares. From this story a staircase of ladder-like steepness, led up to an unfinished garret, empty, except for a few pieces of dilapidated furniture and sundry piles of magazines and paper-covered books, which had undoubtedly contributed to the entertainment of the cottagers in past seasons.

Thanks to an early start, it was little past noon when the arrivals from Friendly Terrace took possession. Luncheon was first in order. The dust of the winter having been removed from the dining-table, various alluring pasteboard boxes were placed upon it, and seven hungry people ranged themselves in expectant rows. The piles of sandwiches melted away as if by magic, and as they disappeared, the rooms silent for so long, echoed to the whole-hearted laughter which is the best of all aids to digestion.

The meal over, the trunks were ransacked for old dresses, gingham aprons, and sweeping caps, and under Peggy's leadership, the girls fell to work.

"Now we'll divide up, so as not to get in each other's way. Priscilla, suppose you and Claire take the up-stairs rooms. Ruth and I will start here in the living-room, and Amy--where is Amy, anyway?"

Amy's sudden appearance in the doorway was the signal for a general shriek of protest. The evening before, her father had presented her with a kodak, which she now pointed toward the group of girls in their house-maid's uniforms, with the air of a hold-up man, demanding one's money or one's life.

"Oh, don't please," cried Claire, cowering and hiding her face. She wore her gingham apron with an unaccustomed air, and had looked askance at the sweeping cap, before she had followed the example of the other girls, and pulled it over her soft, brown hair. "Please don't take my picture," she implored in a doleful whimper. "I look like such a fright."

"Oh, do stand in a row with your brooms and mops over your shoulders," pleaded Amy. "You look perfectly dear--and so picturesque."

Peggy perceived that Claire's consternation was real, and sternly checked her friend. "Amy Lassell, put that camera away, and get to work. It will be time enough to take pictures when this house is fit to sleep in."

By four o'clock at least a superficial order had been secured. The fresh breezes blowing from the windows on all sides, had aided the efforts of the girl housekeepers in banishing dust and mustiness, and they were ready to wait another day for the luxury of clean windows. By this time, too, most of the girls were frankly sleepy, for the prospect of an early start had interfered seriously with the night's rest of some of them, and the freshly aired, newly made beds presented an irresistible temptation.

The indefatigable Peggy however, emerging from the wash-bowl as glowing as a rose, scorned the suggestion of a nap. "Couldn't think of wasting this gorgeous afternoon that way. I'm going over to the farmhouse Mrs. Leighton spoke of, and make arrangements about eggs, butter, milk, and all that sort of thing."

"And fresh vegetables too," exclaimed Amy with surprising animation, considering that she was in the middle of a tremendous yawn.

"Yes, of course. And girls, if the farmer's wife will make our bread, I think it will be lots more sensible to buy it of her, than to bother with baking."

"Oh, you fix things up just as you think best," exclaimed Priscilla. "The rest of us will stand by whatever you agree to." A drowsy murmur of corroboration went the rounds, and Peggy, making open mock of them all for a company of "sleepy-heads," went blithely on her way toward the particular column of smoke which she felt sure was issuing from the chimney of the Cole farmhouse.

A very comfortable, pleasant farmhouse it was, though quite eclipsed by the big red barn which loomed up in the background. Something in the appearance of the front door suggested to Peggy that it was not intended for daily use, and she made her way around to the side and knocked. A child not far from Dorothy's age, with straight black hair, and elfish eyes, opened the door, looked her over, and shrieked a staccato summons.

"Ro-set-ta! Ro-set-ta Muriel!"

"Well, what do you want?" demanded a rather querulous voice, and at the end of the hall appeared the figure of a slender girl, her abundant yellow hair brought down over her forehead to the eyebrows, and tied in place by a blue ribbon looped up at one side in a flaunting bow. Her frock of cheap blue silk was made in the extreme of the mode, and as she rustled forward, Peggy found herself thinking that she was as unlike as possible to her preconceived ideas of a farmer's daughter. As for Rosetta Muriel, she looked Peggy over with the unspoken thought, "Well, I'd like to know if she calls them city styles."

Peggy, in a two-year-old gingham, quite unaware that her appearance was disappointing, cheerfully explained her errand and was invited to walk in. Mrs. Cole, a stout, motherly woman, readily agreed to supply the party at the cottage with the necessary provisions, including bread, twice a week. And having dispatched the business which concerned the crowd, Peggy broached a little private enterprise of her own.

"Mrs. Cole, I thought I'd like to try my luck at raising some chickens this summer. Just in a very small way, of course," she added, reading doubt in the eyes of the farmer's wife. "If you'll sell me an old hen and a setting of eggs, that will be enough for the first season."

"'Tisn't an extry good time, you know," said Mrs. Cole. "Pretty near July. But, if you'd like to try it, I daresay we've got some hens that want to set."

"The old yellow hen's a-settin'," exclaimed the little girl who had listened with greedy interest to every word of the conversation. Rosetta Muriel looked wearily out of the window, as if she found herself bored by the choice of topics.

"Yes, seems to me I did hear your pa say something about the old yellow wanting to set, and him trying to break it up."

"He drove her out of the woodshed three times yesterday," said the little girl. "And Joe tried to throw water on her, but she flew off a-squawking and Joe splashed the water over himself." She broke into a delighted giggle at the recollection of Joe's discomfiture, and Peggy smiled in sympathy with her evident enjoyment. Peggy's heart was tender to all children, and this small, communicative creature was so nearly Dorothy's size as to appeal to her especially.

"I think you are about the age of my little niece," said Peggy in her usual friendly fashion. "You must come to play with her some day. You see, she is the only little girl among a lot of big ones, and she might get lonely."

"I'll come along with you this afternoon," said the child readily, whereat Rosetta Muriel uttered a horrified gasp, and her mother hastily interposed.

"Annie Cole! You won't do any such thing. Folks that snap up invitations like a chicken does a grasshopper, ain't going to be asked out very often."

It was arranged that Peggy should carry home a basket of provisions for the evening meal, and that Joe should come over in the morning with a larger supply, bringing at the same time the yellow hen who was desirous of assuming the cares of a family. During the discussion of these practical matters, Rosetta Muriel had maintained a disdainful silence. But when Mrs. Cole went to pack a basket, the daughter, for the first time, took an active part in the conversation.

"I guess you'll find it pretty dull up here, with no moving picture shows nor nothing."

Peggy disclaimed the idea in haste. "Dull! I think it's perfectly lovely. I couldn't think of missing anything up here, except folks, you know."

"Moving pictures ain't any rarity to me," said Rosetta Muriel, trying to appear sophisticated. "I've seen 'em lots of times. But I get awfully tired of the country. I've got a friend who clerks in a store in your town. Maybe you know her. Her name's Cummings, Gladys Cummings."

Peggy had never met Miss Cummings, and said so. Rosetta Muriel went on with her description.

"It's an awful stylish store where she works, Case and Rosenstein's. And Gladys, she's awfully stylish, too. She looks as if she'd just stepped out of a fashion plate." And something in her inflection suggested even to Peggy that from Rosetta Muriel's standpoint, she had failed to live up to her opportunities. Certainly in a gingham frock two seasons old, and faded by frequent washings, Peggy did not remotely suggest those large-eyed ladies of willowy figure, so seldom met with outside the sheets of fashion periodicals.

"I'll be glad to call on you some day soon," said Rosetta Muriel following Peggy to the door. And Peggy, basket in hand, assured her that she would be welcome, and so made her escape. The air was sweet with myriad unfamiliar fragrances. Over in the west, the cloudless blue of the sky was streaked with bands of pink. Peggy reached the road, guiltless of sidewalks, and winding, according to specifications, and broke into a little song as she walked along its dusty edge. Such a beautiful world as it was, and such a beautiful summer as it was going to be. "If I couldn't sing," exclaimed Peggy, breaking off in the middle of her refrain, "I believe I should burst."

Something rustled the grass behind her, and she turned her head. A gaunt dog, of no particular breed, had been following her stealthily, but at her movement he stopped short, apparently ready to take to flight at any indication of hostility on her part. He was by no means a handsome animal, but his big, yellowish-brown eyes had the look of pathetic appeal which is the badge of the homeless, whether dogs or men.

That hunted look, and a little propitiating wag of the tail, which was not so much a wag as a suggestion of what he might do if encouraged, went to Peggy's heart. "Poor fellow!" she exclaimed, and the mischief was done. Instantly the dog had classified her. She was not the stone-throwing sort of person, who said "get out." He bounded forward and pressed his head against her so insinuatingly that Peggy found it impossible not to pat it, then gave a little expressive whimper, and fell back at her heels. Whenever Peggy looked behind, during the remainder of her walk, he was following as closely and almost as silently as a shadow.

Peggy had the time to get supper preparations well under way before the other girls made their appearance, pink and drowsy-eyed after their long naps. Priscilla was the first to come down, and she started at the sight of the tawny body stretched upon the doorstep.

"Mercy, Peggy. What's that?"

"It's a dog, poor thing, and the thinnest beast I ever imagined."

"I hope you haven't been giving him anything to eat, Peggy."

The flush in Peggy's cheeks was undoubtedly due to the heat of a blazing wood-fire. "I guess we won't miss a few dried-up sandwiches," she said with spirit.

"Oh, it isn't that. It's only that if you feed him, we'll never get rid of him. Doesn't he look dirty though, like a regular tramp?"

The other girls slipped down one by one, and if there were any truth in the saying that many cooks spoil the broth, Peggy's anticipations for the supper she had planned, would never have been realized. The meal was almost ready to be put on the table, when Amy appeared, demanding anxiously what she should do to help.

"We really don't need you a mite," Peggy assured, with a laugh. "But I'd hate to disappoint such industry. Come here and stir this milk gravy so it won't burn."

Amy moved to her post of duty without any unbecoming alacrity.

"I'm not industrious," she retorted. "And I don't want to be. I intend to work when you girls make me and that's all. This is my vacation and I'm going to use it recuperating."

"I really can't see the need myself," Claire whispered to Priscilla, but Priscilla did not return her smile. Amy's plumpness was a joke which Amy enjoyed as well as anybody, but Claire's covered whisper seemed to put another face on it. Priscilla bent over a loaf of bread on the board and sliced away with an impassive face.

"And that reminds me," continued Amy cheerfully, "that I feel like re-naming this cottage for the season. Mrs. Leighton wouldn't care what we called it."

"Why, I think Sweet Briar Cottage is a beautiful name," Claire protested.

"I think so, too. But it's too dressy to suit my ideas. I'm sure I never could live up to it. Say, girls, I move we call it Dolittle Cottage."

And, in spite of Claire's manifest disapproval, the motion was carried.