Whiteoak Heritage. Mazo de la Roche

table and filled his glass with water.

      The spirits cheered him and he tried to think of something to say to his child…. Lord, he should have brought her a present. Children expected presents. “You’ve grown like anything,” he offered.

      She sat straighter. “Yes. I’m tall for my age.”

      He looked her over critically. “But you’ll not be a tall woman.”

      He realized by her expression that he had said the wrong thing and he added:

      “I don’t like tall women.”

      Mrs. Clinch brought the pudding.

      When they were alone again Pheasant asked, in the voice that still did not sound like her own — “Are you glad the War is over?” She was pleased with this question which sounded really grown-up.

      He considered it with his brows knit.

      “No,” he answered at last. “I don’t think I am.”

      Pheasant kept her eyes on her plate. Then he was not glad to see her! He would rather be thousands of miles from home, fighting in a war, than be with her. Tears crept slowly, painfully into her eyes. A deep flush covered her small pointed face.

      “The war wasn’t so bad,” he said. “But when I’ve settled down I daresay I shall be glad. How are you getting on with your lessons?”

      Pheasant had lessons from Miss Pink who was the organist of the Church.

      “Do you mean the school lessons or the music lessons?” she asked, after a silence in which Maurice almost forgot he had asked the question.

      “Both.”

      “I’m pretty good at literature and history. I’m not much good at music.” She could control her tears no longer. They ran swiftly down her cheeks and dropped on to the rather soggy spice pudding.

      Maurice stared at her embarrassed and annoyed. Did the child think he was a brute?

      “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You may stop the music lessons if you wish.”

      She took a large spoonful of the pudding and, in the effort of swallowing it, found self-control. Maurice left his unfinished and lighted a cigarette. He wondered if there were any way out of having the child with him at meals. Pheasant made a resolute effort to carry on the conversation.

      “Finch Whiteoak likes music,” she said. “He sits by the organ in the church while Miss Pink plays. She says she can hardly play for looking at him. He throws his whole soul into his eyes, she says.”

      “Hmph…. He was at the station to meet Renny…. Do you see much of the Whiteoaks?”

      “Not very much. Wakefield is the sweetest little fellow. Once he ran away and came here, all by himself. When he can’t have what he wants he just lies down on the floor and rolls over and over till he gets it.”

      “Do you ever see Miss Whiteoak — Meg?”

      “No. I never see her. But once I met one of the uncles — the one called Nicholas — and he was very nice. Two days afterward a parcel came addressed to me and, when I opened it, there was a beautiful doll!”

      “That was kind.”

      “Shall I fetch it and show you?”

      “If you like.”

      She pushed back her chair and left the room. Upstairs she stood breathing quickly, trying to keep back the tears. She was not sure why she wanted to cry. She drew out the bottom drawer where she kept the doll, for she no longer played with it. It lay with closed eyes like someone dead, she thought. She felt suddenly very sorry for it. She took it up and buried her face against it. She no longer tried to control herself.

      She did not go back to the dining room and after a little she saw Maurice walking slowly along the path that led to the wood.

      A dimness came over the sun and a few drops of rain fell. There was a deep silence except for the chirping of a small bird. Then the rain came swiftly, lightly, as though not to injure the delicate blossoms of May. Pheasant wondered if Maurice would get wet. But he seemed unreal suddenly. Had he really come home? Was the meeting with him, which she had strained toward so long, already over? A cackling laugh came from the kitchen. Wragge had found his way into Mrs. Clinch’s good graces!

      III

      Newcomers

      As Pheasant had in earlier days followed Maurice about, she now shunned him. The sound of his step sent her flying, with beating heart. She ate her tea alone and was in bed when he had his dinner. She had left for Miss Pink’s when he appeared the next morning. Eating his bacon and eggs he thought that after all the kid was not going to be greatly in evidence. If she had had any look of his family he should not so much have minded her presence, but she bore no resemblance to anyone except the girl who had, for a brief season, made him forget his loyalty to Meg. Yet there was something in the child that was like no one. That look of a young wild creature that watches you with no understanding, yet seems to see right through you. She made him uncomfortable, and that was the truth.

      It was late in the afternoon of the next day before they met again.

      She had had her tea and was writing in an exercise book on the dining room table when he came into the room. The light was fading and she was bent over the book, her thick, brown hair falling over each cheek, so that her face appeared very pale and narrow, as though between bars. On the wall opposite her was a patch of dusky-red sunshine. A plate of bread and butter, a pot of strawberry jam and a jug of milk stood on the table. A half-eaten cookie lay beside her and just as he came in she reached for it, her eyes still on her book, and took a bite.

      His step startled her and she stared at him, the bit of cookie distending her cheek. She was so unused to sudden sounds in that quiet house that it took little to startle her.

      “What are you jumping for?” asked Maurice irritably. “I’m not a burglar.”

      “No, I know you’re not,” she stammered. “I just … I wasn’t expecting you.”

      “I can’t send word that I’m coming every time I enter a room, you know.”

      “Yes — no — of course you can’t.”

      She had spoken indistinctly through the bite of cookie. Now she swallowed it and looked at him as though asking whether she should stay or go. He dropped into an armchair and took a note-book out of his pocket. He fluttered the leaves, in search of some entry. Neither heard the new step in the hall. A moment later the door opened and Renny Whiteoak stood before them.

      “Hello,” he said. “I didn’t ring because I saw you through the window. All settled down, eh? Hello, Pheasant!”

      She rose and went to him, shyly holding out her hand. Maurice’s face lightened at the sight of his friend. “It’s about time you showed up,” he said.

      Renny shook hands with the little girl. “If you had been through what I have —” he said.

      “I suppose they’ve fairly eaten you up.”

      “I’ve been like a scrap of bread on the duck pond. Among them — from Gran down to the baby — I haven’t had a moment to myself. I’ve talked myself hoarse. I’ve stripped to display the marks of battle. That was for the old lady. She wasn’t a bit shocked. She just ran her fingers along the scars and said — ‘Ha! We were always good fighters!’ I was out in the stables by seven this morning. I’ve been all over the farm.”

      “It sounds just like my homecoming…. Sit down and have a drink.”

      Maurice went to the sideboard and filled two glasses. “Happy days!” he said.

      “Happy days!”

      They sat down.

      “Pheasant,” said Renny, “come and