FullReads

Jean’s husband had all the Carolan beauty and charm, and was his most gracious and radiant self to-day. His sunny cordiality gave Mary no chance to remember that she had a little feared the writer and critic. But, after the first moment, her eye was irresistibly drawn to the child.

Tawny-haired, erect, and astonishing in the perfection of his childish beauty, Peter Carolan advanced her a bronzed, firm little hand, and gave her with it a smile that seemed all brilliant color–white teeth, ocean-blue eyes, and poppied cheeks. His square little figure was very boyish in the thin silk shirt and baggy knickerbockers, and a wide hat, slipping from his yellow mane, added a last debonair touch to his picturesque little person. He was flushed, but gracious and at ease.

“You’re one of the reasons we came!” he said in a rich little voice–when his mother’s “You’ve heard me speak of Mrs. Moore, Peter?” had introduced them. “You have boys, too, haven’t you?”

“I have three,” said Mrs. Moore, in the rational, unhurried tone that only very clever people use to children. “Billy is nine, George seven, Jack is three; and then there’s a girl–my Mary.”

“I come next to Billy,” calculated little Peter, his eyes very eager.

“You and he will like each other, I hope,” said Billy’s mother.

“I hope we will–I hope so!” he assented vivaciously. “I’ve been thinking so!”

Mrs. Carolan presently suggested that he go off with Betta to pack the luncheon things in the car, and the three watched his sturdy, erect little figure out of sight. Mrs. Moore heard his gay voice break into ready Italian as they went.

A horde of workmen took possession of Carolan Hall a few days later, and for happy weeks Jean and Mary followed and directed them. The Moore children and Peter Carolan explored every fascinating inch of house and garden. Linen and china were unpacked, old furniture polished, and old paintings restored.

Mrs. Moore, with her two oldest sons frolicking about her like excited puppies, came up to Carolan Hall one exquisite morning a month later. Brush fires were burning in the thinning woods, and the blue, fragrant smoke drifted in thin veils across the sunlight.

A visit to the circus was afoot, and Peter Carolan, seated on the porch steps in the full glory of starched blue linen and tan sandals, leaped up to join his friends in a war-dance of wild anticipation.

Jean came out, also starched and radiant, kissed her guests, piled some wraps into the waiting motor, and engineered the group into the shaded dining-room, where the excited children were somehow to be coaxed into eating their luncheon. Sidney came in late, to smile at them all from the top of the table.

It was rapidly dawning on the adult consciousness that, above every other sound, the voices of the children were really reaching inexcusable heights, when a burst of laughter and a brief struggle between Peter and Billy Moore resulted in an overturned mug, the usual rapidly spreading pool of milk, and the usual reckless mopping. Peter’s silver mug fell to the floor, and rolled to the sideboard, where it lay against the carved mahogany base, winking in the sun.

“Peter!” said Jean, severely. “No, don’t ring, Sidney! He did that by his own carelessness, and mother can’t ask poor, busy Julia to pick up things for boys who are noisy and rude at the table. Go pick up your mug, dear!”

“Yes. Quite right!” approved Sidney, under his breath.

Peter, who had been laughing violently a moment before seemed rather inclined to regard the incident as a tribute to his own brilliancy. He caught his heels in a rung of his chair, raised himself to a standing position, and turned a bright little face to his mother.

“But–but–but what if I don’t WANT to pick it up, mother?” he said gayly.

The little Moore boys, still bubbling, giggled outright, and Peter’s cheeks grew pink. He was innocently elated with this new role of clown.