Honor Bright. Richards Laura Elizabeth Howe

children will get the top ones.”

      “Why shouldn’t they?” asked Honor, as they sped up the allée. “There’ll be plenty for every one.”

      Jacqueline turned a look of surprise on her.

      “The top ones,” she said, “are the last off the griddle; naturally, one desires them!”

      CHAPTER III

      THE MOUNTAINEERS

      It was Madame’s birthday, a bright June day; it was also the feast of St. Zita.

      Every girl, Catholic and Protestant alike, had laid a flower on the Saint’s shrine, the pretty little marble shrine at the end of the garden, with the yellow roses climbing over it. Every girl had presented her gift to Madame at breakfast, to the good lady’s unbounded astonishment. They had been making the gifts under her benevolent nose for a month past, but she had seen nothing; Soeur Séraphine said so, and she ought to know. The steel beads of Honor’s neck chain (Honor was not skilful with her needle, but she could string beads with the best!) had flashed in sun and lamp light, had dropped on the floor and been rescued from corners and cracks; Madame never noticed. She did not even notice when Maria Patterson’s handkerchief case fell into the soup, which, as Patricia said, served Maria right for tatting at table. Soeur Séraphine saw, and Maria got no pudding, but Madame Madeleine never so much as looked that way, and never faltered in her recital of the virtues and sufferings of St. Zita.

      She almost wept with pleasure over her gifts; never, she declared, were such charming objects seen. And of a utility! Tiens! this beautiful blotter, how it would adorn her desk! And the exquisite chain! Would it not sustain her spectacle case, which in future would never, as had so often happened, become wholly lost? And – “Ma Patricia! this beautiful scarf cannot be for me: tell me not so, my child! It is for a princess rather!” etc., etc.

      Dear Madame Madeleine! Surely her birthday was the happiest day of the happy year for herself and all of us.

      After the presentation, all was joyous bustle and hurry: baskets to pack, shawls and cloaks to collect, fiacres to summon; all for the annual expedition to the Rochers de Meillerie, the most wonderful picnic place in the world. The fiacres (three of them! it made quite a procession!) took the party down to the lake, where the little steamer lay at her pier, the smoke pouring from her funnel. What terror lest they should be late! What frantic signals waved from the six windows of the procession of fiacres! The steamer gave no sign, but puffed away stolidly; they had been on board half an hour, sitting on their camp stools in a serried phalanx, before she rang her bell, shrieked thrice through her whistle and began her leisurely progress across the lake.

      What a voyage of wonder that was! The morning was crystal clear, the mountains stood in dazzling white and resplendent green, the lake was a great sparkling sapphire studded with gold and diamonds.

      Honor, sitting near the stern, watched the swirling wake, stretching far behind, saw the rainbow bubbles rise, dance, break, fall away in silver showers. She was fascinated, could not even look up at her beloved mountains.

      “Tiens!” whispered Stephanie. “This tall stranger, very distinguished, who regards us, Moriole!”

      Honor shook her shoulders a little impatiently. Stephanie was always seeing distinguished strangers; they seldom, if ever, were distinguished in Honor’s eyes.

      Suppose, she thought, an Arm should suddenly appear, rising from the bosom of the lake,

      “Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful!”

      Suppose Undine were there – no! she lived in a fountain; well, other nymphs then! There must be ever so many. But it was to be some time yet before Honor came to her water world.

      “Regard the mountains, my child!” said Madame. “They also are dressed to welcome us, is it not so?”

      Honor looked up, and the mountains took possession of her again. One could hardly look at the white giants themselves, they were too dazzling, midway between the vivid blues of sky and lake, the blinding sunlight beating on them. Instinctively one’s eyes blinked, fell, rested on the lovely green of the lower forest-clad heights; lower still, on the mellow brown huddle at their feet, on the very edge of the water, the Rocks of Meillerie.

      “Behold!” said Madame. “The good rocks which await us!”

      The good rocks, basking in sunshine as soft as it was warm, neither dazzled nor blinded; they welcomed. They were actually warm under the feet, as, released from the steamer, the happy girls clambered over them, laden with baskets, shawls, campstools.

      “This way!” the brown rocks invited: “to the left here, my children, under our shadow, for the sun is hot! here rather to the right, since the footing is better. Yonder is a place of treachery; avoid always that emerald patch! Unknown depths lurk beneath.”

      And so on, and so on! Did the rocks actually speak, or was it Soeur Séraphine panting in the rear, cautioning, adjuring? Never mind! Here they were at last in the picnic place, their own place, discovered by the two good sisters, Madame Madeleine and Soeur Séraphine, hundreds of years ago, when they were girls themselves. No one else knew of it, they were sure; except, of course, Atli and Gretli, and they were safe. It was a family affair, the rock parlor, with its brown walls and its carpet of softest moss. No treachery here! The moss was as dry as it was soft; a wonderful moss, like tiny velvet ferns; Honor and Stephanie agreed it could grow nowhere else in the world. Here and there baby rocks jutted through the green, making perfect stools; there was even an armchair for Madame; it was arranged, Soeur Séraphine assured them gaily. Nature, the good Mother Superior of the White Sisters yonder – she indicated the towering giants above them – had designed this place for them.

      “Sit down, my children! My sister, this cushion for thy back, is it not so? Voilà!”

      The snowy cloth was laid on the moss before Madame’s rock armchair; the baskets were unpacked, amid squeaks of rapture. Oh! the great pie! ah! the brioches, the galette, the Lyons sausage, all the good, good Swiss dainties! how wonderful they were, eaten here in the rock parlor, at the very foot of the mountains! And when the girls were thirsty – Ah! at the good hour! Here were Atli and Gretli.

      Down through the brown rocks, stepping as sturdily and easily as if on level ground, came the gigantic twins, Margoton’s brother and sister; he bearing a shining milkcan, she a comb of golden honey in a blue bowl. This also was a part of the regular programme. Never were twins more alike. Clip Gretli’s flaxen hair and put her into Atli’s white shirt, broad green breeches and worsted stockings; furnish Atli with two heavy braids hanging to his waist, and dress him in bodice and petticoat – Madame asked you – was there a difference? They were superb, even Patricia allowed that. Their massive, regular features, their blue eyes, the flash of their white teeth, the ruddy brown of cheek and chin, contrasting with the milk-white strip of forehead when the shady hat came off – all this with the figure of a Norse viking and – “Is there such a word as ‘vi-queen’?” asked Patricia. Soeur Séraphine thought not: the idea, however, was admirable. That was certainly what our good Atli and Gretli resembled. Vee-king! vee-quin – : ki – veen! my faith! That was difficult, if you would! a majestic language, but of a complexity!

      Honor thought silently that they were more like the Norse Gods: Baldur the Beautiful, Nanna the Fair: there was a story about them in a little brown book —

      Atli, all unconscious of either kinglike or godlike attributes, poured the rich, foaming milk into the tin cups held out by a dozen eager hands: Gretli dispensed the honey with golden smiles; then the twins sat down simply, and had their share of galette, brioche, and all the rest of it, and answered the questions showered upon them by the two ladies. Yes, the cows were well, with thanks to the holy ladies for their interest; that is, the present time found them in health. La Dumaine had been ill in the spring: but desperately ill! They had despaired of her. During a week they had watched beside her as those expecting the end. She was good as bread, the poor sufferer; her moans were as eloquent as words. When she said “Moh!” one knew she had thirst, one brought water on the instant; when she sneezed, it expressed affection.

      “It