Dulcie chuckled over the story of Roxy’s carrying the food to the runaway, and Grandma Miller was well pleased that her little granddaughter had realized the importance of telling what had really occurred; and Roxy was now eager to tell Polly, who she was sure suspected the truth about who had secured the food for the hungry soldier.

“Polly didn’t say anything about luncheon, but perhaps I’d better take something to eat in my basket?” Roxy suggested on the following morning, as she put on the wide-rimmed hat of rough straw, and went to the closet for the small covered basket that she often carried in her walks with Polly.

“Dar ain’ no col’ chicken, Missy,” Dulcie reminded her, “but I reckon I kin fin’ somt’in’ ter gib you,” and she took the basket and started for the pantry, and Roxy was confident the little basket would be well filled.

Roxy, basket in hand, trudged happily off across the pasture turning to wave a good-bye to Grandma Miller who stood on the side porch looking after her; a few minutes later the little girl was out of sight as she went down the slope toward the big sycamore.

A little cloud of yellow butterflies floated over her head and Roxy stopped to watch their wavering flight until they settled over a hedgerow of bittersweet. She had started in good season, and realized that she would reach the big sycamore long before Polly; so she lingered along her way, stopping to gather a bunch of the orange-colored blossoms of butterfly-weed, one of the most gorgeous of the wild flowers of Maryland.

The June morning was growing very warm and Roxy was glad to reach the shade of the wide-spreading branches of the sycamore, and taking off her hat she tucked the butterfly-weed blossoms under its ribbon band and gazed at them admiringly. “I wish Amy Fletcher could see them, and the blue mountains, and the bridges,” she thought a little wistfully. For Amy Fletcher had lived next door to the Delfields in Newburyport, and the two little girls were fast friends, and Roxy often wrote to Amy telling her of all the adventures that befell her among the hills of Maryland. “I guess Amy will think it is almost like a story when I write her about what happened yesterday,” she thought, well pleased at having so real an adventure to describe; and at the sound of Polly’s well-known call: “To-who-to-whoo!” she called back: “Who-to-whoo.” Roxy smiled happily, thinking that no one except Polly and herself knew the real meaning of these calls. To any chance listener it would, the girls thought, mean the note of a bewildered young owl, but the first call: “To-who-to-whoo,” really meant: “I’m on the way,” while “Who-to-whoo” meant: “I am waiting.”

Polly now came in sight, her red hair shining as the light flickered upon it.

“Oh, Polly! How can you go bareheaded when the sun is so hot?” was Roxy’s greeting.

“I like it,” replied Polly as she flung herself down on the soft moss beside her friend.

“Polly, you always look just right,” declared the admiring Roxy as she touched the loose sleeve of Polly’s tan-colored linen dress.

“If I look just right you talk just right, little Yank—I mean Roxy-poxy,” responded Polly.

“You needn’t have stopped at ‘Yank,’” laughed Roxy. “I like it, since the soldier told me my father would be proud to be called Yankee. And I liked the tall soldier too, even if he did run after me. Oh, Polly! It was I who carried the basket of food to the runaway man!”

Polly’s smile vanished, and her blue eyes regarded Roxy sternly. “And you let Dulcie call him a thief! And you let your grandmother think that he crept into her house and stole! I wouldn’t have believed it,” she said.

In a second Roxy was on her feet and had grabbed up her hat and basket.

“You are hateful, Polly Lawrence! Yes, you are! I don’t care if you are handsome. I couldn’t tell because I’d promised not to; but then I did tell because I knew I must! So there now!” exclaimed the angry girl, and without giving Polly a chance to speak she dashed off toward home.

But in a breath the long-legged Polly was after her and Roxy ran her best, resolved not to be overtaken. But Roxy’s eyes were clouded by angry tears, and she stumbled over a trailing vine and went headlong, her basket flying in one direction and her hat in another, as the prickly vines caught at her cotton dress and her outstretched hands were scratched and hurt by their thorns.

“Oh, Roxy! Roxy! I am so sorry,” exclaimed Polly, endeavoring to pull away the clutching vines and lift the little girl to her feet; but Roxy struggled against her, sobbing with pain and anger: “Go away! Go away!” until Polly could only stand back and let her alone.

“I am so sorry, Roxy! Do let me help you!” she pleaded, as Roxy now scrambled to her feet and looked about for her hat and basket. For the moment she did not notice her scratched hands and the long tear in her skirt.

Polly picked up the basket, whose contents had been saved by its cover from being spilled, and Roxy grabbed it from her before Polly could offer it, seized her hat from the thick growth of wild rose bushes where it had landed, and without a word or look toward Polly rushed down the path.

Polly stood watching her for a moment, and then with a little sigh turned toward home. She told herself that she was the one to blame; that she had been unfair to Roxy, and that Roxy was right in resenting her words.

“Roxy is only a little girl; I forget that I am nearly five years older than she is,” she thought, and resolved that in future she would be more careful and patient toward this little girl from far-off New England.

While Polly was making these resolutions Roxy had run down the path bordering the brook, hardly noticing the direction she had taken until she found herself beside a quiet pool where the brook widened. On the further side there was a thick growth of hazel-bushes, while the path ended at the edge of the pool, and just along the water’s edge beyond the path grew tall water-weeds and waving grass.

A willow-tree leaned over the water, and Roxy, hot, tired and angry, sat down in its shade and leaned her head against its rough trunk.

“Polly spoils everything!” she thought. “She spoiled my ride yesterday, and now she has spoiled to-day! Oh, dear,” and the little girl began to whimper unhappily.

But after she had bathed her hot face and scratched hands in the cool water, she began to feel less unhappy; and as she noticed her lunch basket a little smile crept over her face.

“I’m sure there are plum tarts in it,” she said aloud. “Dulcie always makes plum tarts on Thursday mornings.”

In order to find out Roxy lifted the cover of the basket, drew out the white napkin that was so carefully folded over the contents, and looked in.

“Yes, indeed! Two apiece!” she exclaimed.

“Well, Polly can’t have even a taste!” she said, and helped herself to one of the flaky puffs that was well filled with delicious plum jelly. It was so good that Roxy promptly began on a second and had soon finished a third, then remembering that it was not yet the middle of the morning and, unless she went directly home, she would soon be hungry again, she reluctantly pushed the basket away, and now her unhappy thoughts about Polly again filled her mind.

“I wish there was another girl to play with,” she thought a little mournfully, and suddenly exclaimed: “Oh! There are other girls! There’s the three little Hinham girls! And their father asked me to come and see them. I’ll go now!” And Roxy jumped up and seized her hat. “I guess it wouldn’t look very polite to carry a lunch,” she decided, and so ate the remaining plum tart and one of the spice-cookies.

“I’ll come after the basket on my way home,” she resolved, and turned back and crossed the pasture to the highway. She knew where the Hinham house stood, a low, rambling building with shabby barns, nearly a mile below the bridge where she had encountered the mounted soldiers, but she had never seen the three little girls whom she had now set out to visit; but their father had come to the Miller farm one day on business, and on seeing Roxy had said that he had three little girls and that Roxy must come and see them; and Grandma Miller had politely responded that she hoped the three little Hinham girls would come and visit Roxy.

As Roxy now trudged along the road, keeping on the shady side, she remembered this, and told herself that Grandma Miller would be pleased when she heard of the visit.

“Maybe I’ll ask the little Hinham girls to come to Grandma’s birthday party, and I can tell them about my paper circus. I guess Polly Lawrence will find I don’t have to play with her,” she thought, but someway even the prospect of three new little girls as possible friends and playmates did not make Roxy wholly happy. The remembrance of Polly’s radiant smile, of the plan of signalling from the upper windows, all the jokes they shared together and that no one else knew, crept into her mind and made the distance to the Hinham house seem very long, and when Roxy came in sight of the lane that led up to the farm buildings she was not only tired but very hot and thirsty.

“Oh, dear! I hope they’ll ask me if I don’t want a drink of water,” she whispered to herself, as she left the highway and started up the lane.

But Roxy had gone only a little way when the sharp bark of a dog, quickly echoed by several others, made her stop suddenly and as she looked up the lane she saw a number of dogs come dashing toward her. Their barks sounded very threatening to the tired little girl, and for a moment Roxy was tempted to turn and run, but she was too tired, and she quickly remembered that these dogs must belong to the Hinhams and, as there were three little girls in the family, the dogs would not be surprised to see another little girl, so Roxy walked bravely on toward them.