Part 26 (1/2)

”You cut to bed, youngster,” Pauline commanded. ”You're losing all your beauty sleep; and really, you know--”

Patience went to stand before the mirror.

”Maybe I ain't--pretty--yet; but I'm going to be--some day. Mr. Dayre says he likes red hair, I asked him. He says for me not to worry; I'll have them all sitting up and taking notice yet.”

At which Pauline bore promptly down upon her, escorting her in person to the door of her own room. ”And you'd better get to bed pretty quickly, too, Hilary,” she advised, coming back. ”You've had enough excitement for one day.”

Mr. Paul Shaw stayed a week; it was a busy week for the parsonage folk and for some other people besides. Before it was over, the story-book uncle had come to know his nieces and Winton fairly thoroughly; while they, on their side, had grown very well acquainted with the tall, rather silent man, who had a fas.h.i.+on of suggesting the most delightful things to do in the most matter-of-fact manner.

There were one or two trips decidedly outside that ten-mile limit, including an all day sail up the lake, stopping for the night at a hotel on the New York sh.o.r.e and returning by the next day's boat. There was a visit to Vergennes, which took in a round of the shops, a concert, and another night away from home.

”Was there ever such a week!” Hilary sighed blissfully one morning, as she and her uncle waited on the porch for Bedelia and the trap. Hilary was to drive him over to The Maples for dinner.

”Or such a summer altogether,” Pauline added, from just inside the study window.

”Then Winton has possibilities?” Mr. Shaw asked.

”I should think it has; we ought to be eternally grateful to you for making us find them out,” Pauline declared.

Mr. Shaw smiled, more as if to himself. ”I daresay they're not all exhausted yet.”

”Perhaps,” Hilary said slowly, ”some places are like some people, the longer and better you know them, the more you keep finding out in them to like.”

”Father says,” Pauline suggested, ”that one finds, as a rule, what one is looking for.”

”Here we are,” her uncle exclaimed, as Patience appeared, driving Bedelia. ”Do you know,” he said, as he and Hilary turned out into the wide village street, ”I haven't seen the schoolhouse yet?”

”We can go around that way. It isn't much of a building,” Hilary answered.

”I suppose it serves its purpose.”

”It is said to be a very good school for the size of the place.” Hilary turned Bedelia up the little by-road, leading to the old weather-beaten schoolhouse, standing back from the road in an open s.p.a.ce of bare ground.

”You and Pauline are through here?” her uncle asked.

”Paul is. I would've been this June, if I hadn't broken down last winter.”

”You will be able to go on this fall?”

”Yes, indeed. Dr. Brice said so the other day. He says, if all his patients got on so well, by not following his advice, he'd have to shut up shop, but that, fortunately for him, they haven't all got a wise uncle down in New York, to offer counter-advice.”

”Each in his turn,” Mr. Shaw remarked, adding, ”and Pauline considers herself through school?”

”I--I suppose so. I know she would like to go on--but we've no higher school here and--She read last winter, quite a little, with father. Pauline's ever so clever.”

”Supposing you both had an opportunity--for it must be both, or neither, I judge--and the powers that be consented--how about going away to school this winter?”

Hilary dropped the reins. ”Oh!” she cried, ”you mean--”

”I have a trick of meaning what I say,” her uncle said, smiling at her.

”I wish I could say--what I want to--and can't find words for--” Hilary said.