emily found the drive through the blossomy june world pleasant. nobody talked much; even saucy sal had subsided into the silence of despair; now and then cousin jimmy made a remark, more to himself, as it seemed, than to anybody else. sometimes aunt elizabeth answered it, sometimes not. she always spoke crisply and used no unnecessary words.

they stopped in charlottetown and had dinner. emily, who had had no appetite since her father’s death, could not eat the roast beef which the boarding-house waitress put before her. whereupon aunt elizabeth whispered mysteriously to the waitress, who went away and presently returned with a plateful of delicate, cold chicken—fine white slices, beautifully trimmed with lettuce frills.

“can you eat that?” said aunt elizabeth sternly, as to a culprit at the bar.

“i’ll—try,” whispered emily.

she was too frightened just then to say more, but by the time she had forced down some of the chicken she had made up her small mind that a certain matter must be put right.

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“aunt elizabeth,” she said.

“hey, what?” said aunt elizabeth, directing her steel-blue eyes straight at her niece’s troubled ones.

“i would like you to understand,” said emily, speaking very primly and precisely so that she would be sure to get things right, “that it was not because i did not like the roast beef i did not eat it. i was not hungry at all; and i just et some of the chicken to oblige you, not because i liked it any better.”

“children should eat what is put before them and never turn up their noses at good, wholesome food,” said aunt elizabeth severely. so emily felt that aunt elizabeth had not understood after all and she was unhappy about it.

after dinner aunt elizabeth announced to aunt laura that they would do some shopping.

“we must get some things for the child,” she said.

“oh, please don’t call me ‘the child,’” exclaimed emily. “it makes me feel as if i didn’t belong anywhere. don’t you like my name, aunt elizabeth? mother thought it so pretty. and i don’t need any ‘things.’ i have two whole sets of underclothes—only one is patched.——”

“s-s-sh!” said cousin jimmy, gently kicking emily’s shins under the table.

cousin jimmy only meant that she would better let aunt elizabeth buy “things” for her when she was in the humour for it; but emily thought he was rebuking her for mentioning such matters as underclothes and subsided in scarlet conviction. aunt elizabeth went on talking to laura as if she had not heard.

“she must not wear that cheap black dress in blair water. you could sift oatmeal through it. it is nonsense expecting a child of ten to wear black at all. i shall get her a nice white dress with black sash for good, and some black-and-white-check gingham for school. jimmy, we’ll leave the child with you. look after her.”

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cousin jimmy’s method of looking after her was to take her to a restaurant down street and fill her up with ice-cream. emily had never had many chances at ice-cream and she needed no urging, even with lack of appetite, to eat two saucerfuls. cousin jimmy eyed her with satisfaction.

“no use my getting anything for you that elizabeth could see,” he said. “but she can’t see what is inside of you. make the most of your chance, for goodness alone knows when you’ll get any more.”

“do you never have ice-cream at new moon?”

cousin jimmy shook his head.

“your aunt elizabeth doesn’t like new-fangled things. in the house, we belong to fifty years ago, but on the farm she has to give way. in the house—candles; in the dairy, her grandmother’s big pans to set the milk in. but, pussy, new moon is a pretty good place after all. you’ll like it some day.”

“are there any fairies there?” asked emily, wistfully.

“the woods are full of ’em,” said cousin jimmy. “and so are the columbines in the old orchard. we grow columbines there on purpose for the fairies.”

emily sighed. since she was eight she had known there were no fairies anywhere nowadays; yet she hadn’t quite given up the hope that one or two might linger in old-fashioned, out-of-the-way spots. and where so likely as at new moon?

“really-truly fairies?” she questioned.

“why, you know, if a fairy was really-truly it wouldn’t be a fairy,” said uncle jimmy seriously. “could it, now?”

before emily could think this out the aunts returned and soon they were all on the road again. it was sunset when they came to blair water—a rosy sunset that flooded the long, sandy sea-coast with colour and brought red road and fir-darkened hill out in fleeting clearness of outline. emily looked about her on her new environment

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and found it good. she saw a big house peering whitely through a veil of tall old trees—no mushroom growth of yesterday’s birches but trees that had loved and been loved by three generations—a glimpse of silver water glistening through the dark spruces—that was the blair water itself, she knew—and a tall, golden-white church spire shooting up above the maple woods in the valley below. but it was none of these that brought her the flash—that came with the sudden glimpse of the dear, friendly, little dormer window peeping through vines on the roof—and right over it, in the opalescent sky, a real new moon, golden and slender. emily was tingling all over with it as cousin jimmy lifted her from the buggy and carried her into the kitchen.

she sat on a long wooden bench that was satin-smooth with age and scrubbing, and watched aunt elizabeth lighting candles here and there, in great, shining, brass candlesticks—on the shelf between the windows, on the high dresser where the row of blue and white plates began to wink her a friendly welcome, on the long table in the corner. and as she lighted them, elvish “rabbits’ candles” flashed up amid the trees outside the windows.

emily had never seen a kitchen like this before. it had dark wooden walls and low ceiling, with black rafters crossing it, from which hung hams and sides of bacon and bunches of herbs and new socks and mittens, and many other things, the names and uses of which emily could not imagine. the sanded floor was spotlessly white, but the boards had been scrubbed away through the years until the knots in them stuck up all over in funny little bosses, and in front of the stove they had sagged, making a queer, shallow little hollow. in one corner of the ceiling was a large square hole which looked black and spookish in the candlelight, and made her feel creepy. something might pop down out of a hole like that if one hadn’t behaved just right, you know. and candles cast such queer wavering shadows. emily didn’t

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know whether she liked the new moon kitchen or not. it was an interesting place—and she rather thought she would like to describe it in the old account book, if it hadn’t been burned—but emily suddenly found herself trembling on the verge of tears.

“cold?” said aunt laura kindly. “these june evenings are chilly yet. come into the sitting-room—jimmy has kindled a fire in the stove there.”

emily, fighting desperately for self-control, went into the sitting-room. it was much more cheerful than the kitchen. the floor was covered with gay-striped homespun, the table had a bright crimson cloth, the walls were hung with pretty, diamond-patterned paper, the curtains were of wonderful pale-red damask with a design of white ferns scattered all over them. they looked very rich and imposing and murray-like. emily had never seen such curtains before. but best of all were the friendly gleams and flickers from the jolly hardwood fire in the open stove that mellowed the ghostly candlelight with something warm and rosy-golden. emily toasted her toes before it and felt reviving interest in her surroundings. what lovely little leaded glass doors closed the china closets on either side of the high, black, polished mantel! what a funny, delightful shadow the carved ornament on the sideboard cast on the wall behind it—just like a negro’s side-face, emily decided. what mysteries might lurk behind the chintz-lined glass doors of the bookcase! books were emily’s friends wherever she found them. she flew over to the bookcase and opened the door. but before she could see more than the backs of rather ponderous volumes, aunt elizabeth came in, with a mug of milk and a plate whereon lay two little oatmeal cakes.

“emily,” said aunt elizabeth sternly, “shut that door. remember that after this you are not to meddle with things that don’t belong to you.”

“i thought books belonged to everybody,” said emily.

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“ours don’t,” said aunt elizabeth, contriving to convey the impression that new moon books were in a class by themselves. “here is your supper, emily. we are all so tired that we are just having a lunch. eat it and then we will go to bed.”

emily drank the milk and worried down the oat-cakes, still gazing about her. how pretty the wallpaper was, with the garland of roses inside the gilt diamond! emily wondered if she could “see it in the air.” she tried—yes, she could—there it hung, a yard from her eyes, a little fairy pattern, suspended in mid-air like a screen. emily had discovered that she possessed this odd knack when she was six. by a certain movement of the muscles of her eyes, which she could never describe, she could produce a tiny replica of the wallpaper in the air before her—could hold it there and look at it as long as she liked—could shift it back and forth, to any distance she chose, making it larger or smaller as it went farther away or came nearer. it was one of her secret joys when she went into a new room anywhere to “see the paper in the air.” and this new moon paper made the prettiest fairy paper she had ever seen.

“what are you staring at nothing in that queer way for?” demanded aunt elizabeth, suddenly returning.

emily shrank into herself. she couldn’t explain to aunt elizabeth—aunt elizabeth would be like ellen greene and say she was “crazy.”

“i—i wasn’t staring at nothing.”

“don’t contradict. i say you were,” retorted aunt elizabeth. “don’t do it again. it gives your face an unnatural expression. come now—we will go upstairs. you are to sleep with me.”

emily gave a gasp of dismay. she had hoped it might be with aunt laura. sleeping with aunt elizabeth seemed a very formidable thing. but she dared not protest. they went up to aunt elizabeth’s big, sombre bedroom where there was dark, grim wallpaper that could

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never be transformed into a fairy curtain, a high black bureau, topped with a tiny swing-mirror, so far above her that there could be no emily-in-the-glass, tightly closed windows with dark-green curtains, a high bedstead with a dark-green canopy, and a huge, fat, smothering feather-bed, with high, hard pillows.

emily stood still, gazing about her.

“why don’t you get undressed?” asked aunt elizabeth.

“i—i don’t like to undress before you,” faltered emily.

aunt elizabeth looked at emily through her cold, spectacled eyes.

“take off your clothes, at once,” she said.

emily obeyed, tingling with anger and shame. it was abominable—taking off her clothes while aunt elizabeth stood and watched her. the outrage of it was unspeakable. it was even harder to say her prayers before aunt elizabeth. emily felt that it was not much good to pray under such circumstances. father’s god seemed very far away and she suspected that aunt elizabeth’s was too much like ellen greene’s.

“get into bed,” said aunt elizabeth, turning down the clothes.

emily glanced at the shrouded window.

“aren’t you going to open the window, aunt elizabeth?”

aunt elizabeth looked at emily as if the latter had suggested removing the roof.

“open the window—and let in the night air!” she exclaimed. “certainly not!”

“father and i always had our window open,” cried emily.

“no wonder he died of consumption,” said aunt elizabeth. “night air is poison.”

“what air is there at night but night air?” asked emily.

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“emily,” said aunt elizabeth icily, “get—into—bed.”

emily got in.

but it was utterly impossible to sleep, lying there in that engulfing bed that seemed to swallow her up, with that cloud of blackness above her and not a gleam of light anywhere—and aunt elizabeth lying beside her, long and stiff and bony.

“i feel as if i was in bed with a griffin,” thought emily. “oh—oh—oh—i’m going to cry—i know i am.”

desperately and vainly she strove to keep the tears back—they would come. she felt utterly alone and lonely—there in that darkness, with an alien, hostile world all around her—for it seemed hostile now. and there was such a strange, mysterious, mournful sound in the air—far away, yet clear. it was the murmur of the sea, but emily did not know that and it frightened her. oh, for her little bed at home—oh, for father’s soft breathing in the room—oh, for the dancing friendliness of well-known stars shining down through her open window! she must go back—she couldn’t stay here—she would never be happy here! but there wasn’t any “back” to go to—no home—no father—. a great sob burst from her—another followed and then another. it was no use to clench her hands and set her teeth—and chew the inside of her cheeks—nature conquered pride and determination and had her way.

“what are you crying for?” asked aunt elizabeth.

to tell the truth aunt elizabeth felt quite as uncomfortable and disjointed as emily did. she was not used to a bedfellow; she didn’t want to sleep with emily any more than emily wanted to sleep with her. but she considered it quite impossible that the child should be put off by herself in one of the big, lonely new moon rooms; and laura was a poor sleeper, easily disturbed; children always kicked, elizabeth murray had heard. so there was nothing to do but take emily in with her; and when

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she had sacrificed comfort and inclination to do her unwelcome duty this ungrateful and unsatisfactory child was not contented.

“i asked you what you were crying for, emily?” she repeated.

“i’m—homesick, i guess,” sobbed emily.

aunt elizabeth was annoyed.

“a nice home you had to be homesick for,” she said sharply.

“it—it wasn’t as elegant—as new moon,” sobbed emily, “but—father was there. i guess i’m father-sick, aunt elizabeth. didn’t you feel awfully lonely when your father died?”

elizabeth murray involuntarily remembered the ashamed, smothered feeling of relief when old archibald murray had died—the handsome, intolerant, autocratic old man who had ruled his family with a rod of iron all his life and had made existence at new moon miserable with the petulant tyranny of the five years of invalidism that had closed his career. the surviving murrays had behaved impeccably, and wept decorously, and printed a long and flattering obituary. but had one genuine feeling of regret followed archibald murray to his tomb? elizabeth did not like the memory and was angry with emily for evoking it.

“i was resigned to the will of providence,” she said coldly. “emily, you must understand right now that you are to be grateful and obedient and show your appreciation of what is being done for you. i won’t have tears and repining. what would you have done if you had no friends to take you in? answer me that.”

“i suppose i would have starved to death,” admitted emily—instantly beholding a dramatic vision of herself lying dead, looking exactly like the pictures she had seen in one of ellen greene’s missionary magazines depicting the victims of an indian famine.

“not exactly—but you would have been sent to some

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orphanage where you would have been half-starved, probably. you little know what you have escaped. you have come to a good home where you will be cared for and educated properly.”

emily did not altogether like the sound of being “educated properly.” but she said humbly,

“i know it was very good of you to bring me to new moon, aunt elizabeth. and i won’t bother you long, you know. i’ll soon be grown-up and able to earn my own living. what do you think is the earliest age a person can be called grown-up, aunt elizabeth?”

“you needn’t think about that,” said aunt elizabeth shortly. “the murray women have never been under any necessity for earning their own living. all we require of you is to be a good and contented child and to conduct yourself with becoming prudence and modesty.”

this sounded terribly hard.

“i will be,” said emily, suddenly determining to be heroic, like the girl in the stories she had read. “perhaps it won’t be so very hard after all, aunt elizabeth,”—emily happened at this point to recall a speech she had heard her father use once, and thought this a good opportunity to work it in—“because, you know, god is good and the devil might be worse.”

poor aunt elizabeth! to have a speech like that fired at her in the darkness of the night from that unwelcome little interloper into her orderly life and peaceful bed! was it any wonder that for a moment or so she was too paralyzed to reply! then she exclaimed in tones of horror,

“emily, never say that again.”

“all right,” said emily meekly. “but,” she added defiantly under her breath, “i’ll go on thinking it.”

“and now,” said aunt elizabeth, “i want to say that i am not in the habit of talking all night if you are. i tell you to go to sleep, and i expect you to obey me. good-night.”

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the tone of aunt elizabeth’s good-night would have spoiled the best night in the world. but emily lay very still and sobbed no more, though the noiseless tears trickled down her cheeks in the darkness for some time. she lay so still that aunt elizabeth imagined she was asleep and went to sleep herself.

“i wonder if anybody in the world is awake but me,” thought emily, feeling a sickening loneliness. “if i only had saucy sal here! she isn’t so cuddly as mike but she’d be better than nothing. i wonder where she is. i wonder if they gave her any supper.”

aunt elizabeth had handed sal’s basket to cousin jimmy with an impatient, “here—look to this cat,” and jimmy had carried it off. where had he put it? perhaps saucy sal would get out and go home—emily had heard cats always went back home. she wished she could get out and go home—she pictured herself and her cat running eagerly along the dark, starlit roads to the little house in the hollow—back to the birches and adam-and-eve and mike, and the old wing-chair and her dear little cot and the open window where the wind woman sang to her and at dawn one could see the blue of the mist on the homeland hills.

“will it ever be morning?” thought emily. “perhaps things won’t be so bad in the morning.”

and then—she heard the wind woman at the window—she heard the little, low, whispering murmur of the june night breeze—cooing, friendly, lovesome.

“oh, you’re out there, are you, dearest one?” she whispered, stretching out her arms. “oh, i’m so glad to hear you. you’re such company, wind woman. i’m not lonesome any more. and the flash came, too! i was afraid it might never come at new moon.”

her soul suddenly escaped from the bondage of aunt elizabeth’s stuffy feather-bed and gloomy canopy and sealed windows. she was out in the open with the wind woman and the other gipsies of the night—the fireflies,

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the moths, the brooks, the clouds. far and wide she wandered in enchanted reverie until she coasted the shore of dreams and fell soundly asleep on the fat, hard pillow, while the wind woman sang softly and luringly in the vines that clustered over new moon.