II

ANNE WINS A FRIEND

“Come, Anne,” called Mrs. Stoddard at so early an hour the next morning that the June sun was just showing itself above the eastern horizon.

“Yes, Mistress Stoddard,” answered the little girl promptly, and in a few minutes she came down the steep stairs from the loft.

“It is early to call you, child,” said the good woman kindly, “but the captain has made an early start for the fishing grounds, and I liked not to leave you alone in the house in these troublous times; and so eat your porridge and we’ll go and milk Brownie.”

Anne hastened to obey; and in a few moments the two were making their way up the slope through the fragrant bayberry bushes, and breathing in the sweet morning air. No one else seemed astir in the little settlement. Now and then a flutter of some wild bird would betray that they had stepped near some low-nesting bird; and the air was full of the morning songs and chirrupings of robins, red-winged blackbirds, song sparrows, and of many sea-loving birds which built their nests among the sand-hills, but found their food upon the shore.

Anne noticed all these things as they walked along, but her thoughts were chiefly occupied with other things. There was one question she longed to ask Mrs. Stoddard, yet almost feared to ask. As they reached the summit of the hill and turned for a look at the beautiful harbor she gained courage and spoke:

“Mistress Stoddard, will you please to tell me what a ‘spy’ is?”

“A spy? and why do you wish to know, Anne?” responded her friend; “who has been talking to you of spies?”

“Is it an ill-seeming word?” questioned the child anxiously. “The Cary children did call it after me yesterday when I went to the spring.”

“Did they that!” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard angrily, “and what reply did you make, Anne?”

The little girl shook her head. “I said nothing. I knew not what they might mean. Does it mean an orphan child, Mistress Stoddard?” and the little girl lifted her dark eyes appealingly.

“I will tell you its meaning, Anne, and then you will see that it has naught to do with little girls. A ‘spy’ is like this: Suppose some one should wish to know if I kept my house in order, and what I gave the captain for dinner, and could not find out, and so she came to you and said, ‘Anne Nelson, if you will tell me about the Stoddard household, and open the door that I may come in and see for myself, I will give thee a shilling and a packet of sweets’; then, if you should agree to the bargain, then you could be called a spy.”

“But I would not do such a thing!” declared Anne, a little flash of resentment in her dark eyes. “Do the Cary children think me like that? I will throw water on them when next we meet at the spring—aye, and sand.”

“Nay, Anne,” reproved Mrs. Stoddard, but she was not ill-pleased at the child’s spirit. “Then you would be as bad as they. It does not matter what they may say; that is neither here nor there. If you be an honest-thinking child and do well they cannot work harm against you.”

As they talked they had walked on and now heard a low “Moo!” from behind a bunch of wild cherry trees.

“There’s Brownie!” exclaimed Anne, “but I do wish she would not ‘moo’ like that, Mistress Stoddard. The British might hear her if they come up this far from shore.”

“’Tis only to remind me that it is time she was milked,” said Mrs. Stoddard. “You can play about here, child, till I have finished.”

Anne did not wander far. There was something else she wished to know, and when the bucket was filled with foamy, fragrant milk, of which Mrs. Stoddard bade the child drink, she said:

“’Tis near a month since my father went. The Cary children also called after me that my father was a ‘traitor’; is that an ill-seeming word?”

“The little oafs!” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard, “and what else did they say?”

“’Twill not make you dislike me, Mistress Stoddard?” questioned the child. “I honestly do not know why they should so beset me. But they called me ‘beggar’ as well, whatever that may be; though I’m sure I am not it, if it be an ill-seeming word.”

Mrs. Stoddard had set down her milking-pail; Brownie was quietly feeding near by; there was no one to see, and she put her arm about the little girl and drew her near. It was the first outward show of tenderness that she had made toward the child, and as Anne felt the kindly pressure of her arm and looked up into the tender eyes her own face brightened.

“We’ll sit here for a bit and rest, child,” said Mrs. Stoddard, “and be sure I think only well of you. Thou art a dear child, and I will not have aught harm thee or make thee unhappy.”

Anne drew a long breath, and snuggled closely to her good friend’s side. A great load was lifted from her sad little heart, for since she had come to Province Town she could remember but few kindly words, and to have Mistress Stoddard treat her with such loving kindness was happiness indeed. For a moment she forgot the taunts of the Cary children, and sat silent and smiling, her head resting against Mrs. Stoddard’s shoulder. There was a peaceful little silence between the two, and then Anne spoke.

“I would wish to know what ‘traitor’ might mean, Mistress Stoddard?”

“Very like to ‘spy,’” answered Mrs. Stoddard. “The children meant that your father had told the British that they could find good harbor and provisions here. That, like a spy, he had opened the door of a friend’s house for silver.”

Anne sprang from the arm that had encircled her, her cheeks flushed and her eyes blazing. “Now!” she declared, “I will throw water upon them when I go to the spring! All that the bucket will hold I will splash upon them,” and she made a fierce movement as if casting buckets full of wrath upon her enemies, “and sand!” she continued; “while they are wet with the water I will throw sand upon them. ’Tis worse to say things of my father than of me.”

“Come here, child,” said Mrs. Stoddard; “we will not let words like the Cary children speak trouble us. And you will remember, Anne, that I shall be ill-pleased if I hear of water-throwing at the spring. Come, now, we’ll be going toward home.”

Anne made no response, but walked quietly on beside her companion. When they reached the hilltop they paused again before going down the slope toward home.

“Look, Anne! Are not the fishing-boats all at anchor? What means it that the men are not about their fishing? We’d best hurry.”

Captain Enos met them at the door. He gave Anne no word of greeting, but said to his wife, “The British tell us to keep ashore. They’ll have no fishing. They know full well how easy ’tis for a good sloop to carry news up the harbor. They are well posted as to how such things are done.”

“But what can we do if we cannot fish?” exclaimed Mrs. Stoddard. “’Tis well known that this sandy point is no place for gardens. We can scarce raise vegetables enough to know what they mean. And as for corn and wheat, every grain of them worth counting has to be bought from the other settlements and paid for in fish. If we do not fish how shall we eat?”

The captain shook his head. “Go about your play, child,” he said, turning toward Anne, and the little girl walked slowly away toward a bunch of scrubby pine trees near which she had established a playhouse. She had built a cupboard of smooth chips, and here were gathered the shells she had brought from the beach, a wooden