ECHO PARK

If only the rain would cease!

It had poured all night and thus far all day, but it was sure to change at three o’clock; Jane always said so.

There had been no chance to speak with Trixy, she left school at two-thirty and now, time for Gloria to leave, the excitement she suppressed all day was threatening to break out—violently.

Even Squire Hanaford’s attempt to make her understand the importance of having a house and lot transferred to her, big, wonderful thing that it was, really seemed trifling compared with the thrill of actually exploring her own house. A deed! Just a document like so many of her dad’s, but the house!

What if the Board of Health had condemned it? Squire Hanaford was right when he said they paid too much attention to new places and none to old. Hadn’t Gloria seen the Gorman kitchen leak like a sieve in the lightest shower Saturday afternoon?

She was borrowing Mona’s wheel again. Marty brought it back, all shined up Sunday right after Sunday School, and Mona didn’t mind in the least lending it a second time. The wheel Marty would ride was sort of mongrel, being composed of many varieties, but it would “go,” he had declared, so that was the only and important consideration.

“The sun’s out!”

“Who cares,” retorted Natalie Warren. “The day is over now.”

“I care. I’m going some place.” Gloria couldn’t hide her eagerness.

“Oh. I suppose you’re going riding with Beatrix Travers,” sneered the petulant Natalie. “Well, I can’t see how some folks can put on such airs.”

“I can,” flung back Gloria, with a face pulled unbecomingly out of shape.

As she hurried home a group fell in easily to Natalie’s mood. They stared after her and “simped.” Natalie had a way of collecting audiences on such occasions, and Gloria Doane was ever a popular topic for dissection. Not that any one added much to Natalie’s opinion. They didn’t need to. It was always causticly complete, but they did coincide, thoroughly.

“She’s too stuck up to live!”

“Isn’t she!”

That was about the gist of it. But the unfriendly ones had their troubles for their opinions, as Gloria hurried home, first making sure her Aunt Hattie was better, and then proceeding to wheel away. Mrs. Towers was getting well as quickly “as a lanced finger” Martha Drake said, and her real trouble had been the delaying in “lancing,” this term representing the unburdening of her mind on Gloria’s money and the house deed that stood for it. No questions were asked when Gloria waved a good-bye and promised to be back “early,” but she turned her head over her shoulder and shouted “good-bye” again as she sped out the gate through the low cut hedge.

“I guess I’m romantic,” she was accusing, that one persistent thought of “her own house that nobody wants” demanding constant mental attention. “But all the same, it’s more interesting than going to a poky old boarding school,” she derided.

Marty met her at the Twin Butternuts. He wanted to tell her so many things about his reconstructed home, with Mrs. Berg there all the time, and the baby sleeping all night long, and his mother going to be operated upon, that Gloria felt obliged to accept the appreciated report with a hasty word and reminder. They had to hurry, it might rain again.

“And dad’s tickled to death,” he flung in recklessly. “Says the op’ration ’ul fix ma fine, and says she’s got a swell nurse,” he puffed, in rhythm to the pumping of his wheel.

“Is he satisfied about the money now?” Gloria asked. She hoped he would cease “hounding” her Uncle Charley.

“Oh, ye’ah, yeah, sure,” replied Marty. “Gee whiz! He thinks you girls are wonders!”

They were leaving the village behind them now, and entering one of those suburbs outlined by indiscriminate dumps, struggling trees, railroad gardens and fearless, little, puddily brooks.

“We’re near there,” announced the scout. “This is the junction.”

“Not very attractive,” said Gloria too low for Marty to hear, but just now she was fearful of disappointment in her Echo Park interests.

“But it’s all cleaned up fine out further,” added Marty. “This is kinda rough, ain’t it?”

“Yes,” said Gloria, grasping her handle bar desperately while Marty fairly hugged his.

“Lots o’ puddles,” he remarked again. Marty was never dull company.

“Yes; we had a lot of rain. Sure you’ve got the key?”

“You betcha’,” and he clapped a hand over his sweater pocket. “It’s on a long string, can’t lose it.”

“Don’t,” cautioned Gloria.

“Never been out here before?” he asked pompously.

“No, I thought it was all a sort of fairy tale.”

“Ain’t it? That’s what ma used to say. She said maybe a fairy would move in and settle her family there. They ain’t afraid of water in the cellar,” he scoffed approvingly.

“Oh, what a pretty—”

“That’s it! That’s the park! Ain’t it swell?”

“Lovely,” breathed Gloria. Without the warning of even a smoothed road they had fairly spilled into the park—Echo Park! A rustic sign swinging from a real home grown, non-transplanted, little white birch tree, announced in quaint letters, cut deep into a barked shingle:

“Oh,” exclaimed Gloria. “Isn’t it beautiful!”

“Ain’t it,” paraphrased Marty. “And ain’t they the dubs to condemn it?”

“Looks so,” murmured Gloria. They were off their wheels and entering the park.

“See that pretty little house in the hollow, back of the hill? That’s it!”

“Mine!”

“Ain’t it a peach?” babbled the guide. His manner was as enthusiastic as might have been the real estate agent’s in the rustic office to the left—had an agent been there.

Speechless now, Gloria carefully placed her wheel against a tree and followed Marty along the winding path. Although it was almost winter, the beauty and solace of soft beds of colored leaves, of rich meadow grass clinging faithfully to its task, of swaying birches like girls of the family guarded by big oaks—the men with ruddy color, all this was too impressive to be overlooked.

“Swell, ain’t it?” again prompted Marty.

“I can’t imagine—”

“Could y’u? Dad says it was just mean politics because some of the Board of Health didn’t get the pipin’ jobs. Y’u see, these streets is all new.”

“Yes, and it’s all laid out like a landscape garden!”

“That’s what it is. That there Sherry was some swell boss. He had maps and pictures—”

“Did you know him?”

“Sur-r-r-r. I helped him lots of times.”

They made one more turn along a new pebbly path and were there in front of the one, lone, solitary model cottage.

“Gloria’s!”

She stopped to grasp the strange situation. It was unbelievable. That a house like that, with artistic green shingles resting on a veritable vase of concrete should be left idle and condemned.

“Swell!” breathed the inexhaustible Marty. “An’ dad did all that. Look at that foundation!”

She was looking at it all. Trying to understand the blight, and Nature’s blunder.

“No wonder Aunt Hattie risked it!” she said. “This looks too good to be any risk at all.”

“Don’t it!” Marty was dangling the key. “They’re dubs—them health fellows. Water in the cellar ain’t so bad. We often have it.”

Shadows warned them. “We better hurry,” said Gloria. “I’m so excited. I wonder shall we find the fairy keeping house?”

“Nope. Fairies don’t like inspectors, I guess, and this house gets inspected every time the health fellows think of it. We go in the front door,” grandly. “I’ve got matches an’ a candle, too.”

“It won’t get dark?”

“The cellar’s dark and that’s the curiosity.” Not even a shove was necessary to open the quaint door. It swung back gladly as Gloria stepped within. She breathed and gasped a little, then smiled broadly and threw Marty a look of complete satisfaction. He was watching for it. He wanted to see how surprised she would be and he withheld his impatient questions.

“I can’t believe it,” she murmured.

“Could you?” he followed. “But just wait. Of course it ain’t all finished, but you can see. This is the living room—swell? This—here’s the dining room. That’s the built in boo-fay.” He paused before the leaded glass cabinet, fondly, proudly. “And just wait, see here, ain’t that some kitchen?”

“Simply—beautiful,” Gloria couldn’t adequately express her delight. In fact, a real fairy over by that long, white built-in table, mixing up an angel cake, could hardly have added to her surprise, it was all so fairy like.

“It’s a model, you know,” explained Marty. “They call it the model bungalow, but there’s an upstairs. Come on up.” He was as eager as little Dick had been when Trixy’s car swung up the path, or as Tommy had been when he fetched Miss Trivett’s potted geranium slip to his mother. Boys were so satisfactory, thought Gloria. They always seemed so genuine. Perhaps lade of polish displayed their personal gleams.

Upstairs fully sustained the reputation of the first floor. While the woodwork was unfinished it was all so prettily laid out.

“Here’s where the bathroom was to be. See the holes for the shower?” Marty stood in the basin-bed and looked up, probably feeling an invisible shower trickle over him delightfully.

“And it’s all wired for the lights,” commented Gloria. “What ever did they intend to do with it? Surely no sensible man would leave a place like this?”

“But there wasn’t any more money! And Sherry Graves got sick, awful sick. He just had to beat it for China or some place. So who was to finish it? Mr. Travers, your girl friend’s father, told dad he’d see it through if he had to get engineers from Washington. But they don’t dast tackle a job till Spring,” concluded Marty with a wag of his business like head.

Gloria glanced out of a paint stained window. “We’ll have to hurry, Marty,” she said. “It will be dark early tonight.”

“Sure. Come on down to the cellar. I’ll bet it’s full of the rain,” he predicted.

They wended their way down to complete the novel survey.

The cellar door was under the stairs, between the dining room and kitchen.