Mrs. Brandon was such a mother as one might readily imagine would be the parent of Nancy and Ted. In the first place she was young, so young as to be mistaken often for Nancy’s big sister. Then she was lively, a real chum with her two children, but more important than these qualities, perhaps, was her sense of tolerance.

Fair play, she called it, believing that the children would more surely and more correctly learn from experience than from continuous preaching. Perhaps this was due to her own experience. She had been a girl much like Nancy. She had not inherited the so-called domestic instinct; no more did Nancy. To that cause was ascribed Nancy’s unusual disposition toward business and her dislike for all kitchens.

“Those roses!” she breathed deeply over the scented mass Nancy had gathered. “Aren’t they just um-um? Wonderful?”

“I knew you would like them, mother,” responded Nancy happily. “I’m sorry we couldn’t get things slicked up better today, but we were so constantly interrupted.”

“You will be, Nan dear. It is always just like that when business runs into housework.”

“Oh, but say, Mother,” interrupted Ted. “It’s just great here. There’s the best lot of boys. And we’ve got a camp, a regular brigand camp—”

“Look out for mischief, Teddy boy,” replied his mother fondly. “I want you both to have a fine time, but a little mischief goes a long ways toward spoiling things, you know,” she warned, earnestly.

“Oh, I know. I’ll be careful. We won’t have any real guns nor knives, nor swords—”

“Ted Brandon! I should hope not!” cried Nancy. “Real guns and swords and knives, indeed! If you go out playing with that sort of ruffian—”

“But they aren’t. We don’t have them. No real firearms at-all,” protested Ted. “And the boys are nice fellows.”

“But just imagine what I would do if you came in hurt. And mother away and everything,” reasoned Nancy foolishly, as if she enjoyed the sensation. “It is not like it was when Anna was with us. Mother,” Nancy asked, “don’t you really think we should have someone in Anna’s place?”

“No, girlie, I don’t,” promptly replied the mother, who was just taking from the gas oven a deliciously broiled steak. “While we had Anna you never had a chance to find out all the simple things that you didn’t know. Anna was an ideal maid, but maids are not educators and none of us can learn without being given a chance. Ted, please get the ice water. And I would try, Nancy, to have every meal, no matter how simple it is, served either on the side porch or in the dining room,” counselled Mrs. Brandon. “Nothing so demoralizes us as upset kitchen meals.”

“Yes, mother, I know that,” admitted Nancy, who, with her mother nearby for inspection, was daintily arranging the salad. “As a matter of fact, I lose things in the kitchen. Imagine losing the potatoes, pan and all!”

A hearty laugh followed the recalling of Nancy’s and Ted’s dinner disaster. But even to that accident Mrs. Brandon insisted that her daughter was one of the girls who must learn by experience, so there were no long arguments given to point out her weakness.

“But Anna is coming back, isn’t she?” Ted pleaded. A boy wants to be sure of his meals in spite of all the educational processes necessary for training obdurate sisters.

“Yes, dear. I expect she will be back to us in the autumn, and I’m sure she will be benefited by her vacation,” said Mrs. Brandon. “Anna does not really have to work now. The salary and light expenses of maids soon place them in a position to retire, you know,” she pointed out practically.

“And besides,” chimed in Nancy, “it’s lots of fun to live all alone for the summer, at least. Why, if Anna were here she would be forever poking in and out of the store, and really mother,” Nancy’s voice fell to a very serious tone, “when I get things going, I intend to make you take a vacation. I’m going to make that store pay.”

“That’s lovely, girlie,” replied the mother, “and I’m sure you and Ted are going to be wonderful little helpers. Now, come eat dinner. You must be ravenous. Here, Nancy, carry along the beans with the butter. Make each hand do its share to help out each foot, you know,” she teased.

“But I’m starved,” declared Ted, making a rather risky dive for the three dinner plates and hurrying into the little dining room with them. “That ice cream was good while we were eating it, but it doesn’t last long, does it, Nan?”

This brought up the story of Mr. Sanders’ treat, and as her children related it, each outdoing the other in vivid description and volumes of parentheses, Mrs. Brandon listened with but few interruptions. When the story was told, however, she gave her version of the gossip concerning the stranger.

“He is really a professor, I’m sure,” she stated, “for Miss Townsend told me that much. Of course professors can be as queer as other folks—”

“Queer?” interrupted Ted, holding his plate out for another new potato.

“Yes, they are often odd,” admitted his mother, smiling at the boy’s joke. “But then, too, we expect to depend upon their intelligence for reasonable explanations.”

“Mother, anyone would know you were a librarian, the way you talk,” said Nancy. “I suppose we act booky too, only we can’t realize it ourselves. Ted, your knife is playing toboggan—”

“I’m too starved to notice,” said Ted. “Hope you won’t lose the potatoes and burn the meat again, Sis,” he added, “I can’t stand starvation.”

“I didn’t do it, we did it,” insisted Nancy. “I’m sure we were both getting dinner—”

“But about Miss Townsend, dear,” her mother forestalled their argument. “Did she say she regretted agreeing to sell?”

“No, mother; that’s the queer part of it all,” Nancy replied. They were now settled at their meal and could chat happily. “She acted so mysterious about everything. And you should see her little dog, Tiny, sniff around! Honestly, I thought he’d sniff his little stumpy nose off at the fireplace. By the way, mother, can’t we have the old stove moved out into the back storeroom? We don’t want it standing around all summer waiting for a blizzard next Christmas, do we?”

“No. But I’m afraid we will have to put off that sort of work until my vacation, Nancy. You must remember, dear, we have only agreed to let you run the little store practically as it is, to sell out Miss Townsend’s stuff and to give you some experience.”

“Oh, yes. I know,” said Nancy a little ruefully. “But mother—” she hesitated. Then began again, “Mother, I simply can’t have the girls come in and have things so upset, and I won’t, positively won’t have Miss Townsend fussing around—”

“You can’t be rude to her, Nan,” the mother said rather decidedly. “And, after all, there is nothing here she doesn’t know about.”

“Well, there seems to be,” sighed Nancy, “or else what did she start right in to search for? And the very first time she met me, too.”

“Perhaps her brother lost some papers, or something like that,” suggested Mrs. Brandon. “I do know he is a little odd in his manner.”

“But if it were only that she wouldn’t need to act so mysteriously about it, would she, mother?”

“And the dog,” put in Ted. “He couldn’t know about papers, could he? Dogs are awfully wise, I know that much, and I’m going to get one—”

Paying no attention to Ted’s last sentence, Nancy continued to deplore Miss Townsend’s threat of more visits to her shop.

“And the girls, that is Vera, said that she and her brother had a quarrel about the place before they left,” Nancy continued. “Vera is talkative, but I could see myself that Miss Townsend was awfully unhappy about something.”

“Yes,” snapped Ted, again allowing his fork to rest in the prohibited sliding position from his plate, “and she’s the one who talks about Mr. Sanders, too. That girl Veera—”

“Vera, Ted. Just like very,” said Nancy critically.

“Yeah,” groaned Ted. “Just like scary, too. That’s what she is, scary. And the fellows say Mr. Sanders is a first-rate scout, a real scout. They say he’s even a scoutmaster—”

“Did they say anything about his habit of disappearing?” asked Nancy, quizzically.

“Now, Nan. You know very well that isn’t so. It couldn’t be. How could any one dis-sa-peer?” inquired Ted, emphatically.

“That wasn’t the question, brother,” insisted Nancy. “I just asked you if the boys spoke of his reputation as Disappearing Dick?”

This was too much for Ted, and again his mother was forced to intervene.

“Anyway,” the boy managed to interject, “if they did say something about it they didn’t say he was a spook, like your old Very-scary girl told it.”

“Ted Brandon! Nothing about spooks! We never even mentioned them, that I remember. But they said that Mr. Sanders lived somewhere around here but no one knew where, that he went right up the hill to the stone house and never went in the house nor in the barn nor anyplace but just disappeared,” rattled off Nancy.

“Why daughter!” protested Mrs. Brandon, “how perfectly absurd. I’m surprised that you should listen to such truck.”

“But of course I don’t believe it, Mother, it’s just funny, that’s all,” explained Nancy, who had begun to carry the dishes to the kitchen quite as if she just loved to do it.

According to their new schedule, both Ted and Nancy were expected to do their part in the clearing of the table, and washing the dishes, and as this was a beautiful summer evening, the children “fell to” very promptly.

“It’s too lovely to stay inside,” remarked Nancy. “You’ll come out with us, won’t you Mother? There’s heaps of things you haven’t yet had a chance to see around here,” she pleaded.

“But we really must get things in order,” declared the mother. “You and Ted hurry along with your work—Ted will dry and you wash tonight, Nancy, and meanwhile I’ll sort of dig in—”

“Mother! You can’t. You have just got to have your evenings free,” protested Nancy. “You need lots of fresh air out here—”

“I know, dear, but after all we are just ordinary mortals and we must live as such. That means—civilization, around here,” laughed Mrs. Brandon, who was already “digging in.”

“I’ll put these pans away first.” She paused. “Whatever is this? I do declare, children, here are your lost potatoes, packed away in among the empty pans. Now, who could have done that?”

“Ted did,” replied Nancy. “He was sorting the tins. But Mother,” she said, in a grieved tone, “I know I did waste a lot of time today.”

Nancy was carrying out a tray but she had stopped abruptly. No punishment could be greater to her than the loss of a summer evening out of doors, except it was her mother’s loss of that self-same evening.

“I’m so sorry,” she sighed. “I know I did idle my time today, Mother dear, but I can’t bear to have you—pay for it.”

“Nonsense, dear, I don’t mind. Really the exercise will do me good,” insisted Mrs. Brandon. “Just attend to the dishes and you won’t know these quarters presently. I’m glad we found the potatoes,” she said, but Nancy was now too serious to joke.

A call from the side porch checked their argument. It was Ruth calling to Nancy.

“Come along!” she shrilled through the screen door. “There’s going to be a band concert—”

“Oh, I can’t, Ruth,” Nancy called back. “I must do—”

“You must go, dear,” interrupted her mother.

At this Ruth came in to wait. Ted was already off—he did not need to be coaxed to give up his task, and when dishes were not being washed surely they could not be dried.

But Nancy felt guilty. In fact the band concert, novelty though it was, with firemen and a baseball team making up the “scrambled” programme, was not loud enough to still the voice of regret.

“I can’t bear to think of mother doing, now on this beautiful evening, what I should have done today,” she confided to Ruth, as they waited between numbers.

“I’ll help you tomorrow,” offered Ruth kindly. “And I won’t bring Vera. She’s rather critical—”

“I’ll be up at daybreak,” resolved Nancy, really determined now to get the little country home in order.

A band concert in Long Leigh was plainly an important event, and the numbers of persons crowding about the band-stand on the village green attested hearty appreciation for the musical efforts. The firemen, however, seemed to draw out the heaviest applause, but that was because old Jake Jacobs, the best piccolo player around, had been training them. Still, there was Pete Van Riper, the drummer on the baseball side of the platform. He certainly could drum, and the small boys around kept calling to him in baseball parlance such encouragements as “Make it a homer, Pete! Hug the mat! Hit her hard!” and such outfield coaching.

Ruth had met a number of her friends and some she introduced to Nancy, but the concert was spoiled for Nancy. She could see and actually feel her mother working in that little country place to which she had come, just to give Ted and Nancy a happy vacation.

When her worry was becoming so keen that she felt she must ask Ruth to go home with her, there pushed into the crowd an old man in a broad-brimmed straw hat, although the sun was well out of all mischief.

“Look!” whispered Ruth. “There’s Mr. Townsend! And that’s Mr. Sanders—with him!”

Just then the two men stepped over to the little mound where the girls were. They did not see the girls, but Mr. Sanders drew Mr. Townsend to a sudden stop in a space directly in front of Nancy and Ruth.

“I tell you, Sanders,” Mr. Townsend said, in a voice not at all suitable for his surroundings, “the whole town is talkin’. They say all kinds of things and you had better out with the whole thing.”

Mr. Sanders laughed as if he enjoyed the joke.

“Keep cool, keep cool, friend,” he said.

But Mr. Townsend was by no means keeping cool, and he said so, sharply.

“And I’ve left my home, got my sister on her ear, made a poor man’s name for myself—”

Mr. Sanders grasped his arm with a sudden movement, perfectly evident to the astounded girls.

“When you are tired of your bargain, Elmer Townsend,” he said, “just let me know.”