passed and March came. "Trixie" had reached the hundred-thousand mark now—and was still selling, so Martin Kent wrote. Martin Kent's letters to his fiancée were still frequent, still affectionate, still brightly full of his doings and of the honors being showered upon him. He was tenderly solicitous of her health and welfare—but he said nothing whatever about being married.
Sister Sue's letters in return were also frequent, affectionate, and frequently full of the doings and sayings in the Gilmore household—but they also said nothing whatever about marriage. The subject was tacitly tabooed.
In Gilmoreville Sister Sue pursued her daily round with at least a semblance of serenity and good cheer. In reality she was still humming that meaningless little tune of—the woman who does not want to think. She was so busy, however, through the day that she had little time to think, and she was so tired when it came night that her insistent counting of sheep jumping over a wall usually brought the desired sleep.
And Sister Sue was, indeed, busy. The number of her pupils had increased, and she was teaching in the Gilmoreville Graded School, as well as in the school at the Junction—ten miles away. In a rash moment of sympathy for a much-harassed minister, she had taken upon herself the playing of the piano for the Sunday-School. The rehearsals of her home-talent orchestra made still more demands on her time, to say nothing of the increasing popularity of her sings and candy-pulls. Even May had to be counted in for no small share of attention, for May was already trying to sell her stories, and when they came back, flanked with their cruel rejection slips, there was no one quite like Sister Sue to soothe her, and give her comfort and sympathy and to put those undiscerning editors where they belonged with a few well-chosen words of sharp, stinging rebuke which May only wished they could have heard.
And above all else, always there was for Sister Sue the childish old man, who was growing day by day more exacting.
Indeed, there was no doubt that Sister Sue was busy that winter in Gilmoreville. She told Mrs. Preston sometimes that she was very, very busy peeling those potatoes; that she would n't mind her backaches and headaches if she were only doing something really worth while. But to be so utterly weary and then have nothing to show for it but a pan of peeled potatoes—! And then she would make up a wry little face and shrug her shoulders and, with a merry twinkle in her eyes, glance over to Mrs. Preston, who would always remark: "I'm a-thinkin' more folks is needin' potatoes ter-day than turkey." Then both of them would laugh.
But it all helped and made it easier to go back to the potato-peeling.
In June Gordon was graduated from the High School. He was valedictorian of his class. His sister was proud of him and told him so. He was eighteen years old that spring. He had told Sister Sue that he had carefully considered the matter from all sides and had decided not to go to college. He was going into business, he said. And he said it with a very brave show of meaning it, too, but she was not so easily deceived by his words. She detected the "Oh, I wish I could go" under his effort to appear indifferent.
So Sister Sue laughed and said "Nonsense!" That he was going to do no such thing; that she could arrange beautifully now to send him, she was sure, if he would n't mind being a little economical and did n't choose too expensive a college and would perhaps help a little himself.
And Gordon kissed her (a quite extraordinary tribute for him to pay) and said she was a peach, and a brick, and he'd wanted to go all the time, only he did n't want to be a selfish pig about it. And of course he'd help pay his way. He'd black boots, or wait on tables, or shovel paths, or anything—She'd see! He said he could begin this summer to earn some money, but, in thinking it over, he did n't believe he would after all. Better start fresh in the fall. Besides, he had another chance to go camping this summer where he had such a good time last year, and he knew Sister Sue would want him to do that. And Sister Sue said, "Yes, yes, indeed! Of course!"
And so on the first of July he went.
Martin Kent came the sixth. All the spring he had been writing his fiancée that he was coming to Gilmoreville for a vacation. He said it was just the place he needed, and he was really looking forward to the quiet of the old town with its quaint, comfortable Inn. To say nothing of his longing to see her—his dear sweetheart.