Part 35

“Jim Patterson asked me to marry him when I asked him to tell me how much seven and two made in my arithmetic lesson.”

Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha looked at each other.

“Arnold Carruth asked me, too, when a great big wasp flew on my arm and frightened me.”

Cyril and Martha continued to look. The little, sweet, uncertain voice went on.

“And Johnny Trumbull asked me when I 'most fell down on the sidewalk; and Lee Westminster asked me when I wasn't doing anything, and so did Bubby Harvey.”

“What did you tell them?” asked Miss Martha, in a faint voice.

“I told them I didn't know.”

“You had better have the child go to bed now,” said Cyril. “Good night, little Lucy. Always tell father everything.”

“Yes, father,” said little Lucy, and was kissed, and went away with Martha.

When Martha returned, her cousin looked at her severely. He was a fair, gentle-looking man, and severity was impressive when he assumed it.

“Really, Martha,” said he, “don't you think you had better have a little closer outlook over that baby?”

“Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such a thing,” cried Miss Martha.

“You really must speak to Madame,” said Cyril. “I cannot have such things put into the child's head.”

“Oh, Cyril, how can I?”

“I think it is your duty.”

“Cyril, could not--you?”

Cyril grinned. “Do you think,” said he, “that I am going to that elegant widow schoolma'am and say, 'Madame, my young daughter has had four proposals of marriage in one day, and I must beg you to put a stop to such proceedings'? No, Martha; it is a woman's place to do such a thing as that. The whole thing is too absurd, indignant as I am about it. Poor little soul!”

So it happened that Miss Martha Rose, the next day being Saturday, called on Madame, but, not being asked any leading question, found herself absolutely unable to deliver herself of her errand, and went away with it unfulfilled.

“Well, I must say,” said Madame to Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha tripped wearily down the front walk--“I must say, of all the educated women who have really been in the world, she is the strangest. You and I have done nothing but ask inane questions, and she has sat waiting for them, and chirped back like a canary. I am simply worn out.”

“So am I,” sighed Miss Parmalee.

But neither of them was so worn out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating her cousin's reproaches. However, her wonted silence and reticence stood her in good stead, for he merely asked, after little Lucy had gone to bed:

“Well, what did Madame say about Lucy's proposals?”

“She did not say anything,” replied Martha.

“Did she promise it would not occur again?”

“She did not promise, but I don't think it will.”

The financial page was unusually thrilling that night, and Cyril Rose, who had come to think rather lightly of the affair, remarked, absent-mindedly; “Well, I hope it does not occur again. I cannot have such ridiculous ideas put into the child's head. If it does, we get a governess for her and take her away from Madame's.” Then he resumed his reading, and Martha, guilty but relieved, went on with her knitting.

It was late spring then, and little Lucy had attended Madame's school several months, and her popularity had never waned. A picnic was planned to Dover's Grove, and the romantic little girls had insisted upon a May queen, and Lucy was unanimously elected. The pupils of Madame's school went to the picnic in the manner known as a “strawride.” Miss Parmalee sat with them, her feet uncomfortably tucked under her. She was the youngest of the teachers, and could not evade the duty. Madame and Miss Acton headed the procession, sitting comfortably in a victoria driven by the colored man Sam, who was employed about the school. Dover's Grove was six miles from the village, and a favorite spot for picnics. The victoria rolled on ahead; Madame carried a black parasol, for the sun was on her side and the day very warm. Both ladies wore thin, dark gowns, and both felt the languor of spring.

The straw-wagon, laden with children seated upon the golden trusses of straw, looked like a wagonload of blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy faces looked forth in charming clusters. They sang, they chattered. It made no difference to them that it was not the season for a straw-ride, that the trusses were musty. They inhaled the fragrance of blooming boughs under which they rode, and were quite oblivious to all discomfort and unpleasantness. Poor Miss Parmalee, with her feet going to sleep, sneezing from time to time from the odor of the old straw, did not obtain the full beauty of the spring day. She had protested against the straw-ride.