if only that hateful Frank Bell had never kissed her! Then she could have defied
Davy, and gone to her beloved Sunday School.
They dared not, of course, go fishing on the pond, where they would be seen
by people going to church. They had to resort to the brook in the woods behind
the Cotton house. But it was full of trout, and they had a glorious time that
morning—at least the Cottons certainly had, and Davy seemed to have it. Not
being entirely bereft of prudence, he had discarded boots and stockings and
borrowed Tommy Cotton’s overalls. Thus accoutered, bog and marsh and
undergrowth had no terrors for him. Dora was frankly and manifestly miserable.
She followed the others in their peregrinations from pool to pool, clasping her
Bible and quarterly tightly and thinking with bitterness of soul of her beloved
class where she should be sitting that very moment, before a teacher she adored.
Instead, here she was roaming the woods with those half-wild Cottons, trying to
keep her boots clean and her pretty white dress free from rents and stains.
Mirabel had offered the loan of an apron but Dora had scornfully refused.
The trout bit as they always do on Sundays. In an hour the transgressors had
all the fish they wanted, so they returned to the house, much to Dora’s relief. She
sat primly on a hencoop in the yard while the others played an uproarious game
of tag; and then they all climbed to the top of the pig-house roof and cut their
initials on the saddleboard. The flat-roofed henhouse and a pile of straw beneath
gave Davy another inspiration. They spent a splendid half hour climbing on the
roof and diving off into the straw with whoops and yells.
But even unlawful pleasures must come to an end. When the rumble of wheels
over the pond bridge told that people were going home from church Davy knew
they must go. He discarded Tommy’s overalls, resumed his own rightful attire,
and turned away from his string of trout with a sigh. No use to think of taking
them home.
“Well, hadn’t we a splendid time?” he demanded defiantly, as they went down
the hill field.
“I hadn’t,” said Dora flatly. “And I don’t believe you had—really—either,”
she added, with a flash of insight that was not to be expected of her.
“I had so,” cried Davy, but in the voice of one who doth protest too much.
“No wonder you hadn’t—just sitting there like a—like a mule.”
“I ain’t going to, ‘sociate with the Cottons,” said Dora loftily.
“The Cottons are all right,” retorted Davy. “And they have far better times
than we have. They do just as they please and say just what they like before
everybody. I’m going to do that, too, after this.”