seem to feel hungry this noon, that was
all."

Mother Jess patted her arm. "Well, run away now, dear. You are not to
give a thought to the dishes. We will see to them."

At that minute Elliott almost told her about the letter in her pocket,
that lay like a lump of lead on her heart. But Henry appeared just
then in the doorway and the moment passed.

"Run away, dear," repeated Aunt Jessica, and gave the girl a little
push and another little pat. "Run away and get rested."

Slowly Elliott went down the steps and along the path that led to the
flower borders and the apple trees. She wasn't really conscious of the
way she was going; her feet took charge of her and carried her body
along while her mind was busy. When she came out among a few big trees
with a welter of piled-up crests on every side, she was really
astonished.

"Why!" she cried; "why, here I am on the top of the hill!"

A low, flat rock invited her and she sat down. It was queer how
different everything seemed up here. What looked large from below had
dwindled amazingly. It took, she decided, a pretty big thing to look
big on a hilltop.

She drew Aunt Margaret's letter out of her pocket and read it. It was
very nice, but somehow had no tug to it. Phrases from a similar letter
of Aunt Jessica's returned to the girl's mind. How stupid she had been
not to appreciate that letter!--stupid and incredibly silly.

But hadn't she felt something else in her pocket just now? Conscience
pricked when she saw Elizabeth Royce's handwriting. The seal had not
been broken, though the letter had come yesterday. She remembered now.
They were putting up corn and she had tucked it into her pocket for
later reading and then had forgotten it completely. Luckily, Bess need
never know that. But what would Bess have said to see her friend
Elliott, corn to the right of her, corn to the left of her, cobs piled
high in the summer kitchen?

Bess's staccato sentences furnished a sufficiently emphatic clue. "You
poor, abused dear! Whenever are you coming home? If I had an aeroplane
I'd fly up and carry you off. You must be nearly _crazy_! Those
letters you wrote were the most TRAGIC things! I shouldn't have been a
bit surprised any time to hear you were sick. _Are_ you sick? Perhaps
that's why you don't write or come home. Wire me _the minute you get
this_. Oh, Elliott darling, when I think of you marooned in that awful
place--"

There was more of it. As Elliott read, she did a