Little did I think that night as I snuggled into my pillow, trying to find a comfortable spot for my sunburned shoulder, what momentous events the coming week held in store.

Sunday was quiet enough, however. Eve and I both overslept but this, Aunt Cal supposed, was no more than was to be expected after our “dissipation.” She had apparently forgotten that the dissipation had been her own suggestion. Indeed her Sunday morning severity seemed to have quite erased all traces of that softened mood I had imagined I detected yesterday.

Sunday at Aunt Cal’s had its own particular ritual. Breakfast was half an hour later, a concession to the day of rest. Or perhaps to keep us from getting too hungry for the cold dinner which followed church.

I enjoyed going to the service in the little white meeting house with its faintly musty smell, which reminded me somehow of things I had never known but which seemed curiously a part of me nevertheless. Eve said it was my New England ancestry coming out. Eve likes to dwell on the fact that her own ancestors were among the pioneers who made tracks into the western wilderness and it is to this fact that she attributes her own love of change and adventure. Though, as I pointed out to her, both our family trees probably had their roots in the same soil—so where was the difference really? It is a subject we never tire of discussing, that of ancestry and the chances of life which made us what we are!

We were talking about it that morning as we got ready for church, taking Aunt Cal as an example of what the past in the shape of tradition and custom could do for one. Aunt Cal had never spoken of her family or forbears but I felt practically certain that her direct ancestral line included a Scotch Covenanter, a Puritan preacher and one of the judges who sentenced the Salem witches to be burned!

Hattie May was at church in ruffled organdy and a floppy hat with Hamish, looking very much like a rebellious little boy in his stiff white collar. I guessed that his sister had him well in hand for the time at least.

As we walked home in the bright midday sun, one on either side of Aunt Cal, I felt as if I were taking part in a scene which had happened over and over again. Perhaps not so long ago, Aunt Cal had walked like this with her mother on Sunday morning.

As we approached Captain Trout’s cottage, the Captain himself, dressed immaculately as usual, rounded the corner of the house. “Good morning, ladies!” he swept off his blue visored cap, revealing the shining expanse of his bald head. “A beautiful day!”

We smiled at him but Aunt Cal’s only response was a stiff inclination of the head. As she was about to sweep on, however, a light-footed gray form darted from behind the hedge, made a wild spring into the air and landed clinging on the fringe of Aunt Cal’s sash.

“That miserable cat!” cried the Captain, darting spryly through the gate. But Eve had the kitten first and was gently detaching her sharp little claws. The Captain’s apologies were almost abject.

“Oh, no damage, I think.” Aunt Cal, unbending a little, was smiling in spite of herself. “She seems a very lively kitten.”

“Madam, I assure you my life is quite dizzy with keeping up with her. After—er—my other one——. But you know how it is—these young things!” He smiled expansively upon Eve and me. “For all their wild ways, they do help to keep us young!”

To this outburst Aunt Cal’s only response was a murmured word that she must be getting on. But Eve and I lingered to watch Daisy June who was now half way up a telegraph pole. “Captain Trout,” asked Eve unexpectedly, “did you ever happen to know a man by the name of Bangs? Harry Bangs, I think he is—a barber or something?”

The Captain shook his head. “Can’t say that I have. I’ve met some queer barbers in different quarters of the globe but I don’t recall any by that name. Is the gentleman a friend of yours?”

“Oh, no,” returned Eve hastily. “Not at all. We—just heard of him. And no doubt that isn’t his real name anyway!”

“Sandy,” said Eve that afternoon. We were in our room supposed to be writing letters. But I had finished mine and Eve said she didn’t believe in making the Sabbath a day of work. “Sandy, I wish we could take just one more look for that Circe. I’m not half satisfied yet that she isn’t somewhere about.”

“I know,” I agreed, “I feel that way too. And if you can think of any plausible excuse to give Aunt Cal for our going out there again—you see, now that she knows about things, she’s pretty sure to keep here eye on us from now on.”

Eve nodded. “Don’t I know it! But I’ve been wondering if we couldn’t go out and make a call on that friend of hers in Old Beecham. Mrs. Viner, you know, the one who was sick. Don’t you think we might take her out—oh, some soup or something? Or just drop in on her to cheer her up?”

“Maybe she don’t want to be cheered up,” I said. “Maybe she enjoys being gloomy like Aunt Cal!”

“Just the same I’m going to suggest it,” returned Eve. “’Twon’t do any harm to try.”

“Well you’d better wait till tomorrow anyway,” I said. “I don’t think she’s in a very auspicious mood today. I guess maybe her trip to Millport yesterday had a bad effect on her.”

I was making the bed next morning when Eve came racing up the stairs. “I’ve done it!” she said, her eyes dancing. “I asked her wouldn’t she like to have us go out and inquire about Mrs. Viner as it was such a lovely cool morning and we’d enjoy the trip.”

“Well?”

“Well, she was a little surprised. Guess she suspects some hidden motive but she did admit that she’d like to know how Mrs. V. is getting along. So she finally agreed and said she’d send her a bottle of dandelion wine. She lives in the big stone house next the feed store and we’re not to stay more than ten minutes and not to talk any nonsense.”

“The shorter, the better for me,” I said. “Invalids give me the jitters! Make me feel sorta creepy like.”

“Sandy, I’m ashamed of you! And you a missionary’s daughter!”

“What’s that got to do with it? Besides you can’t pretend that your own—er—motives are purely hu—what d’you call it?”

“Humanitarian, you mean. Well, what if they’re not! I guess,” she added sagely, “hardly anybody’s are when you come right down to it!”

“You don’t know my father,” I said.

“Well, I said hardly anybody. Anyway don’t let’s stand here arguing. I guess you can stand a ten minute call.”

“But what shall we talk about?” I persisted.

“Oh anything—ships or shoes or sealing wax,” she returned lightly. “Personally I’ve always found shoes a good subject when hard pressed. Middle-aged people are practically certain to have foot troubles and they just dote on telling you about the kind of shoes they wear and where they got ’em and what a lot they had to pay!”

I giggled. “But if Mrs. Viner’s in bed she won’t be wearing shoes.”

“Oh, I guess she isn’t a permanent invalid. I guess it’ll work out all right. Now do hurry and get ready so we can catch the nine-thirty bus. Aunt Cal’s wrapping up the dandelion wine.”