Sidney was not only out "on-the-pad" that day, but she came home later than usual. The children and Uncle Watty were hungry and waiting impatiently for the basket; and there were many urgent household duties to be done before bedtime. Doris made one or two shy attempts to speak of her dancing lesson and the incident which had occurred in connection with it. But speaking to Sidney in the rush of her domestic affairs was like trying the voice against the roar of a storm. So that Doris was compelled to put off the telling till the next morning.

On the next morning, however, there was even less chance for a quiet word than there had been on the night before. Sidney was up betimes, to be sure, and bustling round, but it was merely in order to be ready for an important engagement, a most important one, which brooked no delay. It was barely nine o'clock when she set off up the big road, with her ball of yarn held tightly under her left arm, and her knitting-needles flying and flashing in the sunlight. Her sunbonnet was pushed as far back on her yellow head as it could be, to stay on at all, and such was her stress of mind that she took it off and hung it on the fence, and let her hair down and twisted it up again, thrusting the comb back in place with great emphasis, no less than three times, within the few minutes during which Doris stood at the gate looking after her.

It was a hard task which lay before Sidney that day. She was the peacemaker, as well as the funmaker, for the entire community. One fact was as well known, too, as the other, but there was nothing like an equal demand for the two offices; for the Oldfield people dwelt together, as a rule, in such harmony as Sidney found, not only monotonous, but even a little dull now and then. It is but natural to wish to exercise a talent, and to be unwilling to hide it, when we know ourselves to be possessed of it in no common degree. When, therefore, some foolish joke of Kitty Mills's set the long-smouldering sense of wrong fiercely blazing in Miss Pettus's breast, Sidney could but feel that her longed-for opportunity had come at last. She was not in the least daunted by the knowledge that the quarrel was an old one, newly broken out afresh like a rekindled fire, and consequently much harder to mend, or even to control, than if it were new. Nor had her ardor been lessened in the slightest by finding that everything which she had said on the previous evening had served but as oil to the flame of Miss Pettus's burning wrath. Sidney's self-confidence and courage, being of the first order, only rose with all these obstacles. They merely put her all the more on her mettle, and she had rested well and confidently through the night, satisfied to have secured Miss Pettus's promise not to say or to do anything until the following morning. Ten hours' sleep must cool even Miss Pettus's temper in a measure, Sidney thought, like the real philosopher that she was, and she herself would be better prepared with arguments after time for reflection. Miss Pettus had flared up like gunpowder, then as always, when least expected, so that Sidney had hardly known at the moment what to say.

And for all her reliance upon her own strength and tact, she had none too fully realized the necessity for prompt action. It was lucky, indeed, that she was early; for, early as she set out, she met Miss Pettus coming down the big road "hotfoot," as Sidney said afterward, already on the way to see Kitty Mills. It was not of the slightest use, Miss Pettus cried,—beginning as soon as she came within speaking distance of the peacemaker,—not of the least use in the world for Sidney to begin again arguing about Kitty Mills's never meaning to cheat anybody. She, Miss Pettus, was sick and tired of having things smoothed over, and of being told and told that she was mistaken. She was not mistaken. The facts stood for themselves: Kitty Mills had said when she swapped the dorminica for the yellow-legged pullet and a bit to boot, that the dorminica laid big eggs. Let Kitty Mills deny that if she dared! Then let Sidney, or the whole of Oldfield, come and look at the little eggs that that dorminica did lay. It was bad enough to be so cheated in a hen trade, without having it thrown up to you almost every day of your life, in some silly joke. What did Kitty Mills mean, except insult, by sending her word that she couldn't expect a fat hen to lay the same up hill and down dale. And then, as if that were not enough, what did Kitty Mills do, but send back that same yellow-legged pullet, and even the very same bit, offering to swap again. All this Miss Pettus demanded breathlessly in unabated excitement.

"I give you, and anybody else, my solemn word, as a member of the Methodist Episcopal Church, that that was the tenth time that the identical yellow-legged pullet and the identical bit have been toted up this hill and toted down again. Kitty Mills offers to swap back every time she thinks of it, just to be aggravating. No, you needn't talk to me, Sidney. Kitty Mills means to show me that she believes it's the pullet and the bit that I care about, not the principle of the thing."

Plainly it was now become a case for diplomacy, not for further argument. Sidney, therefore, said simply, like a wise woman, that she would go at once and try to make Kitty Mills see how foolish she had been.

"I told Miss Pettus," Sidney said later to Kitty Mills, when giving her an account of this encounter with Miss Pettus, "that there was no more satisfaction in quarrelling with you than in fighting a feather bed. But I couldn't do much with her. Nobody can budge 'er, once her dander is up. I left her there, planted right in the middle of the big road, with her skirt dragging behind, and held high before, showing her pigeon-toes turned in worse than ever, and her bonnet hung wild over her left ear, as it always is when she's in one of her tantrums. And now I've come after you, and I want you to stop laughing,—right off the reel, too,—and listen to what I've got to say. I'll vow I don't know what to make of you myself, Kitty Mills! What's this I hear about all the Millses a-swarming down from Green River, and about you're inviting them to dinner? It certainly does seem as if the more they pile on you the better you like it."

Mrs. Mills, trying to stop laughing, and wiping her eyes, protested (laughing harder than ever) that Sidney was talking nonsense. She declared that nobody was piling anything on her. She said that she was always delighted to have Sam's sisters come, because Sam liked to have them, and Father Mills liked it, too.

"Well, they oughtn't to like it; they ought to be ashamed to like it. It's nothing less than scandalous to allow it, when you've got to cook the dinner after nursing all night, and the weather's getting real warm," said Sidney, sharply, jerking out a knitting-needle, and slapping the ball of yarn back under her arm.

"But you know, Sidney, neither Sam nor Father Mills have much enjoyment. Sam's had a mighty hard time this winter, with the misery in his back, coming on whenever he tried to do anything; and all his bad luck too."

"What bad luck?" demanded Sidney, hard-heartedly.

"Why, didn't you know about his corn? Every ear of his share of the crop, that his tenant raised on that field of mine, rotted right in the pen, when nobody else lost any. I declare I can't yet see how it was."

"Did Sam cover his pen as everybody else did?" asked Sidney, relentlessly.

Kitty Mills stared, growing grave for an instant or two, being much puzzled. She wondered what in the world the question could possibly have to do with her husband's loss of his corn.

"No. He didn't cover the corn," she replied, much at a loss still. "He thought the winter was going to be drier than it turned out to be. And he doesn't often make mistakes in prophesying about the weather. He's a mighty close, good observer of all the signs. I've known him to sit still a whole day, without getting out of his chair, watching to see whether the ground-hog saw its shadow."

"Yes, I lay that's all so. I reckon he would sit still long enough to find out almost anything," responded Sidney, dryly. "There's not much use in talking to you, Kitty Mills; you're just as unmanageable in your way as Miss Pettus is in hers. But I know how to get round her if you'll help me do it. You know as well as I do how good-hearted she is, in spite of that peppery temper of hers."

Kitty Mills nodded silently, laughing again so that she could not speak.

"Well, I want you to let me ask her to come down here and take care of the old man, while you are getting dinner for that gang of Millses—when they swarm down from Green River. I would offer to do it myself, but I think I can help you more by talking to the Millses while you are busy about the cooking."

"Of course you can," assented Kitty Mills, eagerly. "And you mustn't let me forget to fix up a basket full of the nicest things for Uncle Watty and the children."

"Never mind about that now. Only I'll tell you that I'm not going to pack off the cooked victuals. You've got all the work you can do. But you may give me something raw. We won't bother now about the basket. The main thing is to settle this everlasting old dorminica! I never was so tired of anything in all my born days, as I am of that contrary old hen, and there's only one way to settle her. If you'll let me ask Miss Pettus to come, she will do it in a moment—just to make you ashamed of yourself," Sidney said, trying not to smile, knowing that to do so would be to start Kitty Mills laughing again.

The quarrel having been thus adjusted, Sidney went to tell Miss Judy about it, knowing how pleased she would be to hear it, even though the news seemed to describe a mere truce rather than to be a declaration of peace. The little lady was just crossing the big road, returning from a visit to Tom Watson and from a futile effort to cheer Anne. She stopped at her own gate, feeling depressed by what she had just seen and looking rather sad, and waited for Sidney to come up, welcoming her as one welcomes a strong, fresh breeze on a heavy day. They sat down in the passage, where Miss Sophia was already seated, and the two little sisters listened to all that Sidney had to tell of the quarrel, without the vaguest notion that they were hearing a truly humorous account of an utterly absurd affair. Instead, they began listening with the gravest concern, which turned gradually to the happiest relief.

Miss Judy's thoughts, however, were too full of Doris and the dancing-lesson and the events of the previous day to talk long about anything else. She accordingly told Sidney the whole story in minutest detail, as soon as she could get in a word, wondering somewhat that Sidney had not already heard it from Doris, until the circumstances were explained. With the mention of the young man the same thought stirred, silently and secretly, in both the women's breasts, naturally enough, since they were both true women. It had, indeed, stirred in Miss Judy's innocent heart while she lay dreaming with her blue eyes open in the darkness of the preceding night. But neither Miss Judy nor Sidney spoke of what they were feeling rather than thinking. Women rarely voice these subtle stirrings of the purely feminine instinct, if indeed they have any words for what they thus feel. All that Sidney said was to remark, in a matter-of-fact tone, that she must be going, as the sun was getting high, and she had several pressing engagements to keep before she would be free to fulfil her promise to help Kitty Mills entertain that gang of Millses, swarming down from Green River.

"If I can get away in time—for I'm engaged to take supper with Mrs. Alexander, as the doctor has gone 'way out on one of his long trips to the country—I'll drop in at old lady Gordon's and see what the old Hessian is about."

Miss Judy shook her little curly head at Sidney's calling any one such a hard name. She could not let such a serious matter pass without remonstrance. Yet at the same time she smiled and looked rather mysterious. She had secretly hit upon a nice little plan while talking about Doris and the young gentleman, and she could hardly wait till Sidney was out of hearing before disclosing it to Miss Sophia.

"Of course I couldn't mention it to Sidney until I knew your opinion, sister Sophia. I am sure, though, that I am only expressing your ideas—less well than you would express them yourself—when I say that it is our plain duty to do something at once, to show our high regard for Doris, something to place her in a proper social light at a single stroke. It is all important that a girl should be properly launched;" Miss Judy went on as though she had given long and deep consideration to the subject, and as if she and Miss Sophia were the all-powerful social dictators of a large and complicated circle of the highest fashion. "Just think what a difference it might have made for us, had our dear mother lived and Becky's too, poor child."

"Just so, sister Judy," responded Miss Sophia, with the greatest promptness and decision.

"I thought I could not be mistaken as to your views and wishes," said Miss Judy, truly gratified. "And you don't think, do you, that it is at all necessary for us to do anything very elaborate or—expensive?" she continued, as if it were solely a consideration of the finest taste. "To my notion a tea would be most genteel, most highly refined; but you are, of course, the one to decide. Your judgment is always more practical than mine. I should not dare rely upon my own in so important a matter. But as I look at it, a tea would serve as well or better than anything else we could do to show everybody—including old lady Gordon and her grandson, who may not, being a stranger, and seeing Sidney and Uncle Watty, understand how Doris has been brought up—the high estimation in which we hold the dear child."

"Just so, sister Judy," responded Miss Sophia, with positively inflexible firmness and almost abrupt promptness, when she now began to understand that eating was in question.

"It is really a very simple matter to arrange a tea," Miss Judy went on eagerly, her sweet face growing rosy. "There's mother's sea-shell china, so thin, so pink, and so refined. And there's her best tea-cloth that she planted the flax for, and bleached and spun and wove and hemstitched—all with her own dear hands. I am sure that the darn in the middle of it won't show at all, if we set the cut-glass bowl over it. And we can fill the bowl so full of maiden's blush roses that the nick out of the side will never be seen. Mother's sea-shell china and the blushes are about the same color. Why, I can actually see the table now—as if it were a picture—all a delicate, lovely pink!" cried little Miss Judy, blushing with eagerness, and all a delicate, lovely pink herself. "And the food must be as dainty as the table. Something very light and appetizing. Isn't that your idea, sister Sophia?"

Miss Sophia assented as usual, but not quite so promptly, nor quite so cordially, and anybody but Miss Judy must have seen how her face fell. She had known so many things that were light and appetizing, and so few that were really satisfying—poor Miss Sophia!

"Delicate slices of the thinnest, pinkest cold tongue will be the only meat necessary. Anything more would be less genteel, and I am almost certain that Mr. Pettus would exchange the half of a beef's tongue for the other head of early york. Don't you remember, sister Sophia, how much he liked the other two—the ones he took in exchange for the sugar?" Miss Judy chirruped on, with growing enthusiasm. "And Merica could make some of her light rolls, and shape a little pat of butter like a water-lily, and put it in the smallest tin bucket with the tight top and let it down in the well by a string, till it got to be real cool and firm. For dessert we've the tiny jar of pear preserves which we've been saving so long. Nothing could be more delicate than they are, clear as amber, with the little rose-geranium leaf at the bottom of the jar, giving both flavor and perfume, till you can't tell whether it looks prettiest, tastes nicest, or smells sweetest."

Miss Judy's flax-flower eyes, bright with delightful excitement, were fixed on Miss Sophia's face, without seeing, as grosser eyes would have seen, that Miss Sophia's mouth actually watered. There was a momentary silence; and then an uneasy thought suddenly clouded Miss Judy's beaming, blushing countenance.

"I had forgotten about that new-fashioned dish. Of course we must have some of those delicately fried potatoes, some like we had at old lady Gordon's supper; they are cut very, very thin and browned till they are crisp and beautiful—dry and rustling, as the golden leaves of the fall. Yes, I am afraid the tea will not be really complete, will not be quite up to the latest fashion, unless we have a little dish of those. And we haven't any potatoes, except the handful of peach-blows that we have saved for planting." She sighed in perplexity, looking at her sister.

"Just so, sister Judy," responded Miss Sophia, more promptly and more firmly, if possible, than she had yet spoken.

Miss Judy sat for a moment in dejected silence, turning the matter over in her mind. Miss Sophia rocked heavily, the sleepy creak of her low chair mingling pleasantly with the contented murmur of the bees in the honeysuckle.

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Judy, her face illuminated by a bright inspiration. "How dull of me not to think of it before. Now I see how we can eat the peach-blows and plant them too! We have only to pare them very thin, being very, very careful to leave all the eyes in the peel. Then we can plant the peel and fry the inside."

"But they won't grow," protested poor Miss Sophia, almost groaning and quite desperate, foreseeing the long winter fast which must follow this short summer feast.

"Oh, but they'll have to, if we plant them in the dark of the moon," said Miss Judy, with unabated enthusiasm.

Miss Sophia, now on the verge of tears, turned her broad face away, so that Miss Judy should not see how overcome she was, and that eager little lady sprang up, without suspecting, and ran to climb on a chair in order to look in the tea-caddy. This always stood on the mantelpiece in their room. It was drier there, Miss Judy said; it was also safer from Merica's depredations, but Miss Judy said nothing about that. There was a momentary dismayed silence as a single quick glance noted the stage of its contents. She set the caddy in its place, and descended slowly from the chair, thinking deeply.

"Sister Sophia, do you happen to know whether Mr. Pettus has been getting any boxes of tea lately?" she asked casually, almost indifferently, as though it were an entirely irrelevant matter of but small consequence.

Miss Sophia, who kept better advised as to the edible side of the general store than she did regarding most things, nodded with reviving spirit.

"Then I really must go down there at once. It's a shame for me to have neglected a plain duty so long. You and I both know, sister Sophia, how much it means to Mr. Pettus to be able to tell his customers what we think of his teas. He has certainly told us often enough that our opinion has a considerable commercial value. For this reason—and on account of his being so obliging about exchanging things—it isn't right for us to be unwilling to taste any other variety than the one we like. Mr. Pettus unfortunately is aware that we care personally for no kind except the English breakfast. That no doubt makes him backward in asking us to sample the other varieties. And that is not right, nor at all neighborly, you see, sister Sophia," so Miss Judy argued, believing every word she said, with all her honest, kind little heart.

"Just so, sister Judy," responded Miss Sophia, as readily and unreservedly as Miss Judy could have wished.

Forthwith Miss Judy began to get ready for going to the store. She got out the lace shawl, which had been her mother's, and which was darned and redarned till little of the original web was left. She took it out of its silver paper and folded it again with dainty care, so that the middle point would just touch the heels of her heel-less prunella gaiters. Any crookedness in the location of that middle point would have shocked Miss Judy like some moral obliquity. The strings of her dove-colored bonnet of drawn silk must also be tied "just so" in a prim little bow precisely under her pretty chin. Miss Sophia was always anxiously consulted as to the size and the angle and the precision of that little bow, as if she had been some sharp critic, who was most difficult to please. And then, when Miss Judy had drawn on her picnic gloves of black lace, she unrolled the elaborate wrapping from her sunshade, which was hardly bigger than a doll's parasol, and turned it up flat against its short handle. Finally, having pinned a fresh handkerchief in a snowy triangle to the left side of her small waist so that her left hand might be free to hold up her skirt, she took the dainty pinch of black bombazine between her forefinger and thumb, and, with the sunshade in the other little hand, sailed off down the big road, smiling back at Miss Sophia.

She was always a brisk walker, and she had nearly reached the front of the store before Mr. Pettus knew that she was coming. But Uncle Watty, fortunately, saw her approach from his post of lookout over the whole village, as he sat on the goods-box in the shade, whittling happily, the pile of red cedar shavings rising high and dry through the windless, rainless summer days. Without stirring from his comfortable place, Uncle Watty was thus enabled, by merely putting his head in the door, to give Mr. Pettus instant warning of Miss Judy's nearness. Even then there hardly would have been time for Mr. Pettus to make the usual preparation for the little lady's visit, had she not stopped to shake hands with Uncle Watty and to inquire about the misery in his broken leg. She lingered still a moment longer to ask, with all the deference due a weather prophet of Uncle Watty's reputation, when he thought there would be rain, this being indeed a matter of importance, with the consideration of the planting of the peach-blow peel lying heavy in the back of her mind.

Mr. Pettus, meanwhile, made good use of the limited opportunity. Hastily taking up a large clean sheet of brown paper, he quickly divided it into six squares with the speed and skill of long practice. These squares he then hastily laid at regular spaces along the counter. Reaching round for his scoop, he ladled out a generous quantity of tea, all of a kind. He had but one chest of tea, yet when the contents of the scoop was distributed in six separate heaps, it looked quite as different as he meant it to look, and as Miss Judy believed it to be.

She came in, radiant with smiles, fanning herself almost coquettishly with her sunshade, and congratulating Mr. Pettus on the growth of his business, as her beaming gaze fell upon the array of teas. To think that he should find demand for half a dozen varieties! And, by the way, that was the very thing which she had come expressly to see him about. Then followed the usual long and polite conversation. Mr. Pettus again apologized for asking Miss Judy to sample so many kinds of tea, knowing that she really liked but one kind. Miss Judy, never to be outdone in politeness, protested on her side that it was not the slightest trouble to herself or Miss Sophia, whose judgment was more reliable than her own, to test the six varieties, and, indeed, as many more as might be necessary. She really would feel hurt, so she said, if Mr. Pettus ever again thought of hesitating to send them every variety in his stock. She admitted that she should never have been so thoughtless as to let him find out that her sister and herself had a preference for one kind above another. But she begged him to believe that it was mere thoughtlessness, not any wish to be disobliging. The upshot of it all was, that the six heaps of tea were made into a parcel too large for Miss Judy to carry, and Uncle Watty, who had been an interested listener from his seat on the goods-box, kindly offered to bring it with him and leave it at Miss Judy's door on his way home that evening.

Miss Judy thought Uncle Watty's offer most kind, so very kind, indeed, that she straightway began to be troubled about inviting him to the tea-party. She, herself, did not mind his leg at all; it only made her more sorry for him, and she knew that the same was true of Miss Sophia. It was not his fault, poor soul, that his leg had been set east and west, instead of north and south, as Sidney said. Maybe young Mr. Gordon would not mind either; he certainly seemed to be kind-hearted. But there was his grandmother, who was such a game-maker. Old lady Gordon did not mean any harm, perhaps; Miss Judy never believed that any one meant any harm. Still, Doris might be mortified if she thought Uncle Watty was being criticised—which would be the cruelest thing that Miss Judy could imagine, and the furthest from the secret object of the entertainment. She was frightened, and ready for the moment to give up the tea-party. Then, brightening, she began to hope that something would occur to spare Uncle Watty's feelings—and yet keep him away from the tea-party. Thus she thought as she went home, and thus she continued thinking aloud after she fancied that she was consulting Miss Sophia.

"For of course we can't give the tea without inviting old lady Gordon. Her social position makes it essential that she shall be invited if Doris is to be properly launched," Miss Judy said just as though she were some artful, calculating schemer, dealing with some keen and suspicious stranger who was likely to raise objections. "And I am sure that I merely express your views, when I say that we could not be so discourteous as to invite old lady Gordon without also inviting her grandson, when he is a guest at her house."

And Miss Sophia answered all this artfulness firmly, even sternly, as if she were an able abetter, standing ready to carry out the dark, deeply laid plot.