iend in
the world, except Mother and Dorinda and Lute, of course. I can't
thank you enough for shielding us all these years; there's no use in my
trying. But if ever I can do anything to help YOU--anything--I'll do it.
I'll swear to that."

He shook my hand.

"I know you will, Ros," he said. "I told you I knew you."

"If ever I can do anything--"

He interrupted me.

"There's one thing you can do right now," he said. "That's get out and
mix. That'll please me as much as anything. And begin right off. Why,
see here, the Methodist society is going to give a strawberry festival
on the meeting-house lawn next Thursday night. About everybody's going,
Nellie and I included. You come, will you?"

I hesitated. I had heard about the festival, but I certainly had not
contemplated attending.

"Come!" he urged. "You won't say no to the first favor I ask you.
Promise me you'll be on hand."

Before I could answer, we heard the door of Mother's room open. George
and I hastened into the dining-room. Doctor Quimby and Nellie Dean were
there. Nellie rushed over to her lover's side.

"You bad boy," she cried. "You're wet through."

Doctor Quimby turned to me.

"Your ma's getting on all right," he declared. "About all that ails her
now is that she wants to see you."

George was assisting Nellie to put on her wraps.

"Got to leave you now, Ros," he said. "Cap'n Jed and Matildy'll think
we've eloped ahead of time. Good-night. Oh, say, will you promise me to
take in the strawberry festival?"

"Why" I answered, "I suppose--Yes, Mother, I'm coming--Why, yes, George,
I'll promise, to please you."

I have often wondered since what my life story would have been if I had
not made that promise.

CHAPTER VIII

The Methodist church stood on the slope of a little hill, back from the
Main Road, and the parsonage was next door. Between the church and
the parsonage was a stretch of lawn, dotted with shrubs and cedars
and shaded by two big silver-leaf poplars. It was on this lawn that,
provided the night was fair, the strawberry festival was to be held. If
the weather should be unpropitious the festival was to be in the church
vestry.

All that day Dorinda was busy baking and icing cake. She was not going
to the festival--partly because I was going and she could not leave
Mother--but principally because such affairs were altogether too
frivolous to fit in her scheme of orthodoxy. "I don't recollect," she
said, "that the apos