"i wonder who that pleasant-looking girl who drives cows down the beech lane every morning and evening is," said pauline palmer, at the tea table of the country farmhouse where she and her aunt were spending the summer. mrs. wallace had wanted to go to some fashionable watering place, but her husband had bluntly told her he couldn't afford it. stay in the city when all her set were out she would not, and the aforesaid farmhouse had been the compromise.
"i shouldn't suppose it could make any difference to you who she is," said mrs. wallace impatiently. "i do wish, pauline, that you were more careful in your choice of associates. you hobnob with everyone, even that old man who comes around buying eggs. it is very bad form."
pauline hid a rather undutiful smile behind her napkin. aunt olivia's snobbish opinions always amused her.
"you've no idea what an interesting old man he is," she said. "he can talk more entertainingly than any other man i know. what is the use of being so exclusive, aunt olivia? you miss so much fun. you wouldn't be so horribly bored as you are if you fraternized a little with the 'natives,' as you call them."
"no, thank you," said mrs. wallace disdainfully.
"well, i am going to try to get acquainted with that girl," said pauline resolutely. "she looks nice and jolly."
"i don't know where you get your low tastes from," groaned mrs. wallace. "i'm sure it wasn't from your poor mother. what do you suppose the morgan knowles would think if they saw you taking up with some tomboy girl on a farm?"
"i don't see why it should make a great deal of difference what they would think, since they don't seem to be aware of my existence, or even of yours, aunty," said pauline, with twinkling eyes. she knew it was her aunt's dearest desire to get in with the morgan knowles' "set"—a desire that seemed as far from being realized as ever. mrs. wallace could never understand why the morgan knowles shut her from their charmed circle. they certainly associated with people much poorer and of more doubtful worldly station than hers—the markhams, for instance, who lived on an unfashionable street and wore quite shabby clothes. just before she had left colchester, mrs. wallace had seen mrs. knowles and mrs. markham together in the former's automobile. james wallace and morgan knowles were associated in business dealings; but in spite of mrs. wallace's schemings and aspirations and heart burnings, the association remained a purely business one and never advanced an inch in the direction of friendship.
as for pauline, she was hopelessly devoid of social ambitions and she did not in the least mind the morgan knowles' remote attitude.
"besides," continued pauline, "she isn't a tomboy at all. she looks like a very womanly, well-bred sort of girl. why should you think her a tomboy because she drives cows? cows are placid, useful animals—witness this delicious cream which i am pouring over my blueberries. and they have to be driven. it's an honest occupation."
"i daresay she is someone's servant," said mrs. wallace contemptuously. "but i suppose even that wouldn't matter to you, pauline?"
"not a mite," said pauline cheerfully. "one of the very nicest girls i ever knew was a maid mother had the last year of her dear life. i loved that girl, aunt olivia, and i correspond with her. she writes letters that are ten times more clever and entertaining than those stupid epistles clarisse gray sends me—and clarisse gray is a rich man's daughter and is being educated in paris."
"you are incorrigible, pauline," said mrs. wallace hopelessly.
"mrs. boyd," said pauline to their landlady, who now made her appearance, "who is that girl who drives the cows along the beech lane mornings and evenings?"
"ada cameron, i guess," was mrs. boyd's response. "she lives with the embrees down on the old embree place just below here. they're pasturing their cows on the upper farm this summer. mrs. embree is her father's half-sister."
"is she as nice as she looks?"
"yes, ada's a real nice sensible girl," said mrs. boyd. "there is no nonsense about her."
"that doesn't sound very encouraging," murmured pauline, as mrs. boyd went out. "i like people with a little nonsense about them. but i hope better things of ada, mrs. boyd to the contrary notwithstanding. she has a pair of grey eyes that can't possibly always look sensible. i think they must mellow occasionally into fun and jollity and wholesome nonsense. well, i'm off to the shore. i want to get that photograph of the cove this evening, if possible. i've set my heart on taking first prize at the amateur photographers' exhibition this fall, and if i can only get that cove with all its beautiful lights and shadows, it will be the gem of my collection."
pauline, on her return from the shore, reached the beech lane just as the embree cows were swinging down it. behind them came a tall, brown-haired, brown-faced girl in a neat print dress. her hat was hung over her arm, and the low evening sunlight shone redly over her smooth glossy head. she carried herself with a pretty dignity, but when her eyes met pauline's, she looked as if she would smile on the slightest provocation.
pauline promptly gave her the provocation.
"good evening, miss cameron," she called blithely. "won't you please stop a few moments and look me over? i want to see if you think me a likely person for a summer chum."
ada cameron did more than smile. she laughed outright and went over to the fence where pauline was sitting on a stump. she looked down into the merry black eyes of the town girl she had been half envying for a week and said humorously: "yes, i think you very likely, indeed. but it takes two to make a friendship—like a bargain. if i'm one, you'll have to be the other."
"i'm the other. shake," said pauline, holding out her hand.
that was the beginning of a friendship that made poor mrs. wallace groan outwardly as well as inwardly. pauline and ada found that they liked each other even more than they had expected to. they walked, rowed, berried and picnicked together. ada did not go to mrs. boyd's a great deal, for some instinct told her that mrs. wallace did not look favourably on her, but pauline spent half her time at the little, brown, orchard-embowered house at the end of the beech lane where the embrees lived. she had never met any girl she thought so nice as ada.
"she is nice every way," she told the unconvinced aunt olivia. "she's clever and well read. she is sensible and frank. she has a sense of humour and a great deal of insight into character—witness her liking for your niece! she can talk interestingly and she can also be silent when silence is becoming. and she has the finest profile i ever saw. aunt olivia, may i ask her to visit me next winter?"
"no, indeed," said mrs. wallace, with crushing emphasis. "you surely don't expect to continue this absurd intimacy past the summer, pauline?"
"i expect to be ada's friend all my life," said pauline laughingly, but with a little ring of purpose in her voice. "oh, aunty, dear, can't you see that ada is just the same girl in cotton print that she would be in silk attire? she is really far more distinguished looking than any girl in the knowles' set."
"pauline!" said aunt olivia, looking as shocked as if pauline had committed blasphemy.
pauline laughed again, but she sighed as she went to her room. aunt olivia has the kindest heart in the world, she thought. what a pity she isn't able to see things as they really are! my friendship with ada can't be perfect if i can't invite her to my home. and she is such a dear girl—the first real friend after my own heart that i've ever had.
the summer waned, and august burned itself out.
"i suppose you will be going back to town next week? i shall miss you dreadfully," said ada.
the two girls were in the embree garden, where pauline was preparing to take a photograph of ada standing among the asters, with a great sheaf of them in her arms. pauline wished she could have said: but you must come and visit me in the winter. since she could not, she had to content herself with saying: "you won't miss me any more than i shall miss you. but we'll correspond, and i hope aunt olivia will come to marwood again next summer."
"i don't think i shall be here then," said ada with a sigh. "you see, it is time i was doing something for myself, pauline. aunt jane and uncle robert have always been very kind to me, but they have a large family and are not very well off. so i think i'll try for a situation in one of the remington stores this fall."
"it's such a pity you couldn't have gone to the academy and studied for a teacher's licence," said pauline, who knew what ada's ambitions were.
"i should have liked that better, of course," said ada quietly. "but it is not possible, so i must do my best at the next best thing. don't let's talk of it. it might make me feel blueish and i want to look especially pleasant if i'm going to have my photo taken."
"you couldn't look anything else," laughed pauline. "don't smile too broadly—i want you to be looking over the asters with a bit of a dream on your face and in your eyes. if the picture turns out as beautiful as i fondly expect, i mean to put it in my exhibition collection under the title 'a september dream.' there, that's the very expression. when you look like that, you remind me of somebody i have seen, but i can't remember who it is. all ready now—don't move—there, dearie, it is all over."
when pauline went back to colchester, she was busy for a month preparing her photographs for the exhibition, while aunt olivia renewed her spinning of all the little social webs in which she fondly hoped to entangle the morgan knowles and other desirable flies.
when the exhibition was opened, pauline palmer's collection won first prize, and the prettiest picture in it was one called "a september dream"—a tall girl with a wistful face, standing in an old-fashioned garden with her arms full of asters.
the very day after the exhibition was opened the morgan knowles' automobile stopped at the wallace door. mrs. wallace was out, but it was pauline whom stately mrs. morgan knowles asked for. pauline was at that moment buried in her darkroom developing photographs, and she ran down just as she was—a fact which would have mortified mrs. wallace exceedingly if she had ever known it. but mrs. morgan knowles did not seem to mind at all. she liked pauline's simplicity of manner. it was more than she had expected from the aunt's rather vulgar affectations.
"i have called to ask you who the original of the photograph 'a september dream' in your exhibit was, miss palmer," she said graciously. "the resemblance to a very dear childhood friend of mine is so startling that i am sure it cannot be accidental."
"that is a photograph of ada cameron, a friend whom i met this summer up in marwood," said pauline.
"ada cameron! she must be ada frame's daughter, then," exclaimed mrs. knowles in excitement. then, seeing pauline's puzzled face, she explained: "years ago, when i was a child, i always spent my summers on the farm of my uncle, john frame. my cousin, ada frame, was the dearest friend i ever had, but after we grew up we saw nothing of each other, for i went with my parents to europe for several years, and ada married a neighbour's son, alec cameron, and went out west. her father, who was my only living relative other than my parents, died, and i never heard anything more of ada until about eight years ago, when somebody told me she was dead and had left no family. that part of the report cannot have been true if this girl is her daughter."
"i believe she is," said pauline quickly. "ada was born out west and lived there until she was eight years old, when her parents died and she was sent east to her father's half-sister. and ada looks like you—she always reminded me of somebody i had seen, but i never could decide who it was before. oh, i hope it is true, for ada is such a sweet girl, mrs. knowles."
"she couldn't be anything else if she is ada frame's daughter," said mrs. knowles. "my husband will investigate the matter at once, and if this girl is ada's child we shall hope to find a daughter in her, as we have none of our own."
"what will aunt olivia say!" said pauline with wickedly dancing eyes when mrs. knowles had gone.
aunt olivia was too much overcome to say anything. that good lady felt rather foolish when it was proved that the girl she had so despised was mrs. morgan knowles' cousin and was going to be adopted by her. but to hear aunt olivia talk now, you would suppose that she and not pauline had discovered ada.
the latter sought pauline out as soon as she came to colchester, and the summer friendship proved a life-long one and was, for the wallaces, the open sesame to the enchanted ground of the knowles' "set."
"so everybody concerned is happy," said pauline. "ada is going to college and so am i, and aunt olivia is on the same committee as mrs. knowles for the big church bazaar. what about my 'low tastes' now, aunt olivia?"
"well, who would ever have supposed that a girl who drove cows to pasture was connected with the morgan knowles?" said poor aunt olivia piteously.
