September 23. And my Age still going Sixteen.

It was the week before Hugh John went to college that what I am going to tell took place. September is almost always nice about Edam—with the corn standing white in stooks all down the valley, waving blonde half-way up the sides of the wide glen, and looking over into it from the heights of Kingside still as green as grass. Yes, in our part September is wonderfully quiet and windless—generally, that is. Yet withal, there is the stir of harvest about the farm-town, the merry whirr of the "reaper" over the hedge, and always the clatter of voices as the workers go homeward in the twilight. The big scythe is now only used about our house for "opening up" a field. After that the horses pull the red-and-blue "McCormick" round as neatly as a toy. The squares get less and the yellow stooks rise, as it were, out of the very ground.

This year it was a specially gay time for us all. Mr. Ex-Butcher Donnan had more customers. His wife had taken a laboratory assistant in the shape of an apple-cheeked lass, Meg Linwood, the daughter of the station-master at Bridge of Edam—honest as the day, but at first incapable in the kitchen as a crossing-sweeper of goldsmith work.

Mrs. Donnan told me of Meg's iniquities in her frank impulsive Irish way.

"There's not a thing breakable the craitur has not broke, or at least tried her best to break. And what she can't knock to flinders with one skelp, she will fall over like an applelaunche (avalanche?) and rowl out flat like so much sheet lead. I dare not show the master the tenth of her breakages, or there would be bloodshed and wounds. And yet she is the honest, well-meaning craitur too, and would not hurt a fly. Only it is the heaven's pity she has no power of her feet! Hear to that now!"

Poor Mrs. Donnan ought, of course, to have remained unmoved where she was and entertained me with a stomach-aching smile so long as I chose to stay. But, being an Irishwoman and natural, she sprang up and ran forthwith into the kitchen.

She came out with tears in her eyes.

"It's the Épergne," she said, "I might have known it. The green figs is just come in, and as they are a new thing in Edam I thought to make a kind of trophy out of them. And now——!"

Mrs. Donnan's motherly eyes overflowed, good, kindly soul, without very much anger at the breaker, but with real grief for the loss of the "trophy" she had counted upon to display in her plate-glass shop window.

I patted her on one plump shoulder, and she murmured my undeserved praises—undeserved, I mean, at that moment. But I had remembered that there was in our china-closet at home a huge Épergne of many storys, which Somebody had taken a prejudice against, because when loaded it shut off the entire view of the people at table, and they played at "Bo-peep" all the time around it and about—all right for us little ones who, unseen, could convey extra fruits and comfits to our plates, but abhorred by Somebody who was thus prevented from keeping a kindly, governing eye upon us. So the tall Épergne was banished—a life sentence firmly expressed.

I went quickly home and excavated it from a general ruck of odd plates and cupless saucers. In triumph I carried it to the good mistress of New Erin Villa.

"Oh, Miss Sweetheart," she said, "I cannot—I cannot indeed——"

"Suppose that your—that 'Somebody' were to come along and see that Épergne in my window—sure they might have in the police!"

Finally I satisfied Mrs. Donnan that though I had not asked special permission, it was only because there was no need, and that Somebody, if duly approached, would be the first of her customers, and the most helpful of her friends. I said so because I knew.

"It would look like all Dublin Castle and Sackville Street!" said Mrs. Donnan, visibly flinching as her own inner eye built up the green figs, and decorated the Épergne with the leaves that had proved so useful early in the history of the world.

"Well," I answered, taking my leave, "Hugh John and I will be round about four to see if it is as fine as you say."

"It will be finer," cried Mrs. Donnan eagerly; "I have got another idea entirely since I set eyes on it."

But after all it was the deft hands of Elizabeth Fortinbras which decorated our long-condemned and dusty Épergne. She polished it, she set it on foot again as good as new, mingling the tawny-red-bitten oak-leaves and acorns with the deep green figs, and making the thing a joy, if not for ever, at least for as long as it remained in Mrs. Donnan's window.

This, however, was not for long.

For Fuz—yes, the very old Fuz as ever was—coming home from a tramp with his eyes apparently mooning, but really registering everything as remorselessly as a calculating machine marshals figures, spied the green figs in Mrs. Donnan's window. Hardly in Edam was there any one else, at that date, who so much as knew what they were. He saw. He admired. There was a little dinner at our house that night to which just a couple of neighbors were coming. The idea of a surprise germinated in the mind of Fuz, and he came home the happy possessor of his own Épergne, with the green and yellow leaves cinturing it round!

Poor Mrs. Donnan dared not say a word, and as for Elizabeth, it was not her business. Moreover, she had far too great a sense of the ridiculous. You see, Fuz carried his own parcel off, with his invariable remark that "it is a proud horse that will not carry his own corn!"

Nothing like Fuz's pride that night! Nothing more knowing than the smiles of the initiated! Only Hugh John did not consider it "quite the square thing," and obstinately refused to attend the banquet, which, however, passed off very well without him. Fuz became quite poetic over his new acquisition. To find such a thing in Edam! These cherubs' heads now! Just look at them. They reminded him of—I think, something in the Cathedral at Florence which you had to strike matches to see—little cublets squirming about a font or something. He had quite forgotten having ordered the identical thing into the ignominy of a dungeon for obscuring the prospect. Now it was the finest piece of "Dresden" he had ever set eyes upon.

And he promised—if I were a good girl—to give it to me as a wedding present.

That is Fuz all over. He says he is Scotch, but his part of Scotland is so near Ireland that (according to the best authorities) Saint Patrick swam across with his head between his teeth. Perhaps Fuz did too. But don't tell Hugh John that I said so.

Well, when Hugh John would not dress and come for dinner on account of us letting Fuz be taken in about the Épergne, he went off on one of his long rides. Or so at least he thought. For really he got no farther than the Gypsies' Wood, and then that took place which was bound to take place sooner or later.

For, you see, Elizabeth Fortinbras owned a cycle also, and she used it to run home to see her people—even during her short half-hour in the afternoon she would go, no matter how hot it was. And she was teaching her sister Matilda to house-keep. She had had a row the first time or two, of course. But that was to be expected. Once she had gone back between two or three of the afternoon—which was slack time at the confectionery shop opposite the Market Hill, and when she arrived, lo! her mother was deep in one ragged volume, Matilda sat crouched in a corner of the sofa with another, and from the garret came the sound of hammering, where Mr. Fortinbras the unfortunate was working out another epoch-making invention.

Flies buzzed about the greasy, unwashed plates and dishes where breakfast had been pushed aside to make way for early dinner.

Elizabeth thrust her head into a bedroom. The clothes trailed on the floor, and the very windows had not been opened. The air of night, warmed through blindless windows by an autumn sun, had produced an atmosphere which might have been cut with a knife. Elizabeth shuddered. She demanded the reason why the house had not been "done up."

"Well," said Matilda, lifting her head languidly, "you had hidden the knife-board when you went away, and as to the beds, I knew you were coming home to-day, and you might just as well help me as not."

Elizabeth helped her by going out without a word, and not returning till her father, who at least could not be called idle, had intimated to her that Matilda was beginning to take her household duties seriously.

From the first Elizabeth had given half her wages to her father, on the distinct understanding that the money was to be used for housekeeping, and not for perfecting any new invention which was to alter the center of gravity of the earth, and give back equal rights in sunshine and moisture to all the world.

Well, it chanced that this evening of the September dinner Elizabeth Fortinbras was returning from her daily visit of inspection. She was in a happier mood than usual. For Matilda had really made a start, and at home she had discovered less to find fault with than usual. She was reckoning up her wages, which the Donnans, generous in all things, were freely advancing—perhaps even too frequently to suit Elizabeth's spirit of independence. Some day she might manage to let her people have a servant!

From the first the two old folk of Erin Villa—old only in the number of their years—had looked upon Elizabeth Fortinbras as doing honor to their business, almost, indeed, as a daughter born to their old age.

Hugh John had leaned his bicycle against a tree at the corner of the Gypsies' Wood. Far above, his keen gray eye caught the slight purple stain among the rocks of the hillside which marked the mouth of his Cave of Mystery. For a moment he had an idea of climbing up there and watching the twilight sinking into dark, as he had done so many times before. But the instinctive respect of a good rider for his cycle restrained him. He knew of one or two hiding-places safe enough, it was true. But on such a night, immediately before the Edam September fair, who might not be abroad? All the gypsies of three counties were converging on Edam, and so, with a sigh, Hugh John abode where he was.

Now of course anybody who did not know both Hugh John and Elizabeth Fortinbras would have come to a wrong conclusion. For Elizabeth, after a day in the shop followed by an evening visit of inspection and assistance to Matilda, took it into her head that a spin round by the Gypsies' Wood would freshen her up, and so put her in trim for a good day's work on the morrow.

That is why she encountered Hugh John, stretched long and lazy by the side of the stream. He rose as soon as he saw Elizabeth. They did not shake hands. They did not say, "How-d'ye-do—Very-well-thank-you!" which is the correct Edam fashion for all concerned.

But Hugh John indicated the most comfortable portion of an old half-submerged trunk, and Elizabeth sat down without dispute. Hugh John disposed himself where he could see her profile without looking at her. It was only when he was making up his mind about you that Hugh John regarded you fixedly. He had long made up his mind about Elizabeth.

"Well, Elizabeth?" said Hugh John (I will tell you afterwards how I know).

"Well, Hugh John?"

Then ensued a long pause. The water sang its lucid continual song. How many had sat and watched it, thus singing, glide on and on? Well, as Hugh John says, that did not matter. He was only occupied in finding "soorocks" for Elizabeth Fortinbras, and Elizabeth busied herself in eating them.

"About Nipper?" said Elizabeth softly. "I can't have it, you know."

"No, of course not!" said Hugh John.

Having known him, it was impossible that Elizabeth could decline upon Nipper Donnan. Hugh John did not, as you may well imagine, put it that way. The thing was simply unthinkable, that was all. He could no more let it happen than he would to his sister. He turned ever so little, and saw Elizabeth Fortinbras' face pale against the sunset.

Elizabeth looked at the boy, and her lips quivered a little. Hugh John became a shade more rigid.

"Let me speak to Nipper Donnan!" said Hugh John in a level tone.

"No," said the girl, "I do not wish to go back home again—to that!"

She meant to slatternly makeshift and lightly disguised lying.

"No need!" said a fierce voice immediately behind them, and Nipper Donnan leaped the stone wall from behind which he had been watching Elizabeth and Hugh John.

"Ah, Nipper!" said Hugh John lazily, handing up another sorrel stem to Elizabeth; "glad to see you, Nipper. Sit down and help to look for fat ones!"

"You are mocking me, both of you!" cried poor Nipper blackly. His face was hot and angry, his eyes injected like his father's when in wrath, and his hands were clinched tight.

"You came here to talk about me," he said hoarsely, bending forward towards them like a beast ready for the spring.

"Nonsense!" said Hugh John; "we met by pure accident. I did not want any dinner, and Elizabeth wanted a breath of fresh air."

"You lie! I do not believe you!" cried Nipper.

"You will have to, Nipper," said Hugh John, who had not moved an inch.

"And why?"

"Because I say it!" said Hugh John quietly. "I do not tell lies!"

"A likely story!" growled Nipper. "You were talking about me! I heard you. You will have to fight me—Hugh John Picton Smith!"

"That we shall see," said Hugh John coolly. "What must be, must be. But there is a word or two to say first."

"Talk!" cried Nipper. "Oh, that does no good to a fellow like me. You shall fight me, I tell you!"

"Not before Elizabeth Fortinbras!" said Hugh John, taking off his cap with a quick, instinctive gesture of respect. "You and I can't behave like two angry dogs before her!"

"You're afraid!"

"Possibly," said Hugh John, "but not in any way you would understand."

Then Elizabeth Fortinbras took up speech.

"Nipper Donnan," she said, "I won't pretend I don't know what you mean. You are driving me from the single happy place of refuge I have on earth. I cannot stay with your father and mother unless you stop pestering me. And then you talk about fighting. Why, Hugh John is nearly five years younger than you are——"

"He is as tall!" growled Nipper.

"Taller!" corrected Elizabeth coolly. "But if you behave like a whole menagerie of brutes, that won't make me care more about you. Hugh John is my brother; I have no other!"

"Umph!" snorted Nipper, "he doesn't come and sit out by Esk-waterside with his sisters."

I know that at that moment Hugh John's eye sought the deep purple stain of the Cave of Mystery, where he and I so often sat together. But he said nothing at all to his adversary. It might have been mistaken. It was to Elizabeth he spoke.

"I have something to say to Nipper which you had better not hear," he remarked quietly. "Here is a special handful of sorrel to take home with you. Let me see you as far as the first lamp-post on my cycle. Then I will come back and speak with Nipper."

They went, and Nipper sat on the empty log, gloomily cursing fate—but, educated by the experience of many years, never for a moment doubting that Hugh John would keep his word.

He even timed him. He knew to within half-a-minute when the bright bull's-eye of his acetylene lantern would turn the corner of the Gypsies' Tryst. He saw it come. He stood up on his feet, and jerked his clenched hands once or twice forward into the gloaming.

Then Hugh John leaped from his cycle by the wall.

"Sit down, Nipper," he said. "I have something to say to you."

"Oh, I dare say," said Nipper; "you want to get out of fighting."

"Very well—you think so. I shall show you!" said Hugh John. "But first you have got to listen. You are troubling Elizabeth Fortinbras. She does not mean to be troubled. She will go away if you do not stop going into the shop. She told me so. She has always been my friend, and my sister's friend. Her father and mother are no use to such a girl. That is why I have tried to be a brother to her——"

"Brother, is it?" shouted Nipper, clenching his fists. "I will show you what it is to take a girl from Nipper Donnan. You were making love to her."

"I am her brother. She is my sister," Hugh John repeated, with his usual quiet persistency. "She is not yours in any way. Therefore I cannot take from you what you never possessed."

"I love her, and I will kill you, Hugh John Picton Smith!" moaned poor Nipper, his whole body shaking with impotent anger.

"Very well, you can try, though you are older," said Hugh John; "only, if I win, you will let Elizabeth Fortinbras alone."

"All right," said Nipper, "I agree. And if I lick you, you will stop prejudicing her against me!"

"You won't win!" prophesied Hugh John still more quietly.

And that is why Elizabeth Fortinbras' afternoons and evenings at New Erin Villa were thenceforward full of peace. Also why no young butcher hung any more over the counter, and why Mr. Nipper Donnan spent his evenings in the kitchen with Meg Linwood. It explains also why, when he came to say good-by to Elizabeth Fortinbras, Hugh John had a split lip.

Yet the girl asked no questions of her champion. She did not appear to notice the slight wound, and she sent away Hugh John with a single token of (sisterly) gratitude, and the curious reflection that a split lip does not spoil kissing nearly so much as a fellow might think.