Part 27 (2/2)

”Edna, you're hopeless,” answered her mother. ”And here we are at home again.”

At the supper-table Will announced that he and Archie and the _Gentle Jane_ were all ready to take a sailing party to the Gurnet Lights the next day, if the party so desired. By the clapping of hands it was judged that the party did so desire.

”But about grandma?” asked Mrs. Somers, when she could make herself heard. ”I can't go and leave her for all day when she is so helpless.”

Cricket coloured at the allusion, but she instantly said, bravely:

”If you will go with the others, auntie, I'll stay with grandma.”

”If you stay, Cricket, I'll stay, too,” said Hilda, quickly.

”But you _can't_, Hilda. You're the party, don't you see? We've all been to the Gurnet, and we're going to get up this picnic on purpose for you. You've got to go.”

”Yes, you've got to go,” struck in Archie. ”It's like the man who was on his way to be executed. He saw people all running along the street, and he called out to some one, 'No hurry, friend. It can't go on till I get there. I'm the man to be hung.'”

”Then, since Hilda is the man to be hung she'll have to go. That's certain. And besides, children, you can't go to-morrow, for we must give cook a day's notice if she is to provide luncheon enough to last you entirely hollow young people for a whole day. Then I'll see Mrs. Emmons, and perhaps she will come and spend the day with grandma on Wednesday, and we'll set sail then for the Gurnet Lights. Will that do? I'll go over directly after supper and see her, so you can put your minds at rest.”

Mrs. Emmons would be delighted to come and spend the day with grandma, it proved, so the plans for Wednesday instantly began, as if they did not have a whole day before them. The hour of the start must be settled at once. As it would be low tide at eleven, they must be off at eight in the morning, to get well over the mud-flats before they were exposed.

They would go outside the point for a little cruise, if it was not too rough, and then come back and land at the Gurnet, and show all the sights there to Hilda, and eat their luncheon either before or after, as they liked.

The boys were both good sailors, and understood a boat perfectly. Their grandfather Maxwell had trained them well from the time they were wee bits of boys, and even before his death, three years before, he had trusted them to go out alone.

But the next day the excitement began in earnest, and there was hurrying to and fro, and consultations over what to take, and what to wear, and what to do, and proposals for this, and objections to that, till the whole house was in a whirl.

”Children, you couldn't make more preparation if you were going to Europe,” cried distracted auntie, finally, as all the girls burst into her room for the fortieth time, as she was trying to take a nap that afternoon. ”I don't know where your sketch-book is, Edna. Yes, wear your sailor caps. Of course you'll wear your sailor suits, and not ginghams. Yours is torn, Edna? Then, my dear, please go and mend it directly. Your fis.h.i.+ng-tackle is in the lobby, by the side kitchen door, Cricket. You left it in Billy's room, and he brought it over. Yes, I told cook to make some chocolate cake, Eunice. Now scamper, every one of you. I'm going to lock my door now, and don't anybody dare to come and disturb for an hour.”

But within five minutes a small voice called through the keyhole, imploringly:

”'Scuse me, auntie dear, but _couldn't_ we take George W.? he's just begging to go, and I know he'll be good.”

”Scat!” cried auntie, and Cricket scatted.

”Sha'n't we take some books, in case we get becalmed?” suggested Eunice, as they all finally rested on the piazza, and tried to think of something else to get ready.

”Of course. Sometimes we are becalmed for an hour, Hilda, and it's awfully stupid.”

”I'll take 'Jack and Jill,'” said Cricket. ”And, oh, girls, let's take our blank books and pencils, so we can write on our stories for the 'Echo' if we want to.”

”I won't, and that's flat!” said Edna, decidedly. ”Going on a picnic for fun, and writing stories! What do you think I'm made of, Cricket?”

”Sugar and spice, and all that's nice,” returned Cricket, cheerfully.

”Did I tell you, girls, that Hilda is going to write a story for our next 'Echo?' 'Our estinguished contributor, Miss Hilda Mason!' Doesn't that sound fine? And she's written some poetry, too! Isn't she lovely?”

and Cricket hugged Hilda in a sudden burst of affection.

”This is the first poetry I ever wrote,” said Hilda, trying not to look conscious.

”And it's lovely!” said Cricket, approvingly. ”Read it to the girls, please, Hilda.” And Hilda, waiting for a little urging, though she was really dying to read it, produced her ”poem,” and read:

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