She came up to me and took both my hands in hers; but all she
said was 'Thank you.'"
"And did she pay you a whole lot for it?" inquired Ellen sordidly.
"I didn't think anything about that part of it," said Fanny. "Jim
carried it all over the next day, with a lot of old stuff mother had.
Jim says she's had a man from Grenoble working in the barn for weeks
and weeks, putting everything in order. My old set was painted over,
with all the little garlands and blue ribbons, like new."
"But how much--" persisted Ellen. "She must have paid you a lot for
it."
"I didn't ask mother," said Fanny. "I didn't want to know. I've got a
new set; it's real pretty. You must come over and see my room, now
it's all finished."
What Fanny did not tell Ellen was that after Lydia's departure she
had unexpectedly come upon the photograph of the picnic group under a
book on her table. The faded picture with its penciled words had
meant much to Fanny. She had not forgotten, she told herself, she
could never forget, that day in June, before the unlooked-for arrival
of the strange girl, whose coming had changed everything. Once more
she lived over in imagination that perfect day, with its white clouds
floating high in the blue, and the breath of clover on the wind. She
and Wesley Elliot had gone quietly away into the woods after the
boisterous merriment of the picnic luncheon.
"It's safe enough, as long as we follow the stream," Fanny had
assured him, piloting the way over fallen logs and through dense
thickets of pine and laurel, further and further away from the sounds
of shrill laughter and the smoky smell of the camp fire, where the
girls were still busy toasting marshmallows on long sticks for the
youths who hovered in the rear.
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