against the house so that he would be sure to see it on his return from the hayfield.
In less time than it takes to write of it Emily had got the window up, climbed out on the sill, and backed down the ladder. She was too intent on escaping from that horrible room to be conscious of the shakiness of the rotten rungs. When she reached the ground she bolted through the balm-of-gileads and over the fence into Lofty John’s bush, nor did she stop running till she reached the path by the brook.
Then she paused for breath, exultant. She was full of a fearful joy with an elfin delight running through it. Sweet was the wind of freedom that was blowing over the ferns. She had escaped from the spare-room and its ghosts — she had got the better of mean old Aunt Elizabeth.
“I feel as if I was a little bird that had just got out of a cage,” she told herself; and then she danced with joy of it all along her fairy path to the very end, where she found Ilse Burnley huddled up on the top of a fence panel, her pale-gold head making a spot of brilliance against the dark young firs that crowded around her. Emily had not seen her since that first day of school and again she thought she had never seen or pretended anybody just like Ilse.
“Well, Emily of New Moon,” said Ilse, “where are you running to?”
“I’m running away,” said Emily, frankly. “I was bad — at least, I was a little bad — and Aunt Elizabeth locked me in the spare-room. I hadn’t been bad enough for that — it wasn’t fair — so I got out of the window and down the ladder.”
“You little cuss! I didn’t think you’d gimp enough for that,” said Ilse.
Emily gasped. It seemed very dreadful to be called a little cuss. But Ilse had said it quite admiringly.
“I don’t think it was gimp,” said Emily, too honest to take a compliment she didn’t deserve. “I was too scared to stay in that room.”
“Well, where are you going now?” asked Ilse. “You’ll have to go somewhere — you can’t stay outdoors. There’s a thunderstorm coming up.”
So there was. Emily did not like thunderstorms. And her conscience smote her.
“Oh,” she said, “do you suppose God is bringing up that storm to punish me because I’ve run away?”
“No,” said Ilse scornfully. “If there is any God He wouldn’t make such a fuss over nothing.”
“Oh, Ilse, don’t you believe there is a God?”
“I don’t know. Father says there isn’t. But in that case how did things happen? Some days I believe there’s a God and some days I don’t. You’d better come home with me. There’s nobody there. I was so dodgastedly lonesome I took to the bush.”
Ilse sprang down and held out her sunburned paw to Emily. Emily took it and they ran together over Lofty John’s pasture to the old Burnley house which looked like a huge grey cat basking in the warm late sunshine, that had not yet been swallowed up by the menacing thunder-heads. Inside, it was full of furniture that must have been quite splendid once; but the disorder was dreadful and the dust lay thickly over everything. Nothing was in the right place apparently, and Aunt Laura would certainly have fainted with horror if she had seen the kitchen. But it was a good place to play. You didn’t have to be careful not to mess things up. Ilse and Emily had a glorious game of hide and seek all over the house until the thunder got so heavy and the lightning so bright that Emily felt she must huddle on the sofa and nurse her courage.
“Aren’t you ever afraid of thunder?” she asked Ilse.
“No, I ain’t afraid of anything except the devil,” said Ilse.
“I thought you didn’t believe in the devil either — Rhoda said you didn’t.”
“Oh, there’s a devil all right, Father says. It’s only God he doesn’t believe in. And if there is a devil and no God to keep him in order, is it any wonder I’m scared of him? Look here, Emily Byrd Starr, I like you — heaps. I’ve always liked you. I knew you’d soon be good and sick of that little, white-livered lying sneak of a Rhoda Stuart. I never tell lies. Father told me once he’d kill me if he ever caught me telling a lie. I want you for my chum. I’d go to school regular if I could sit with you.”
“All right,” said Emily offhandedly. No more sentimental Rhodian vows of eternal devotion for her. That phase was over.
“And you’ll tell me things — nobody ever tells me things. And let me tell you things — I haven’t anybody to tell things to,” said Ilse. “And you won’t be ashamed of me because my clothes are always queer and because I don’t believe in God?”
“No. But if you knew Father’s God you’d believe in Him.”
“I wouldn’t. Besides, there’s only one God if there is any at all.”
“I don’t know,” said Emily perplexedly. “No, it can’t be like that. Ellen Greene’s God isn’t a bit like Father’s, and neither is Aunt Elizabeth’s. I don’t think I’d like Aunt Elizabeth’s, but He is a dignified God at least, and Ellen’s isn’t. And I’m sure Aunt Laura’s is another one still — nice and kind but not wonderful like Father’s.”
“Well never mind — I don’t like talking about God,” said Ilse uncomfortably.
“I do,” said Emily. “I think God is a very interesting subject, and I’m going to pray for you, Ilse, that you can believe in Father’s God.”
“Don’t you dast!” shouted Ilse, who for some mysterious reason did not like the idea. “I won’t be prayed for!”
“Don’t you ever pray yourself, Ilse?”
“Oh, now and then — when I feel lonesome at night — or when I’m in a scrape. But I don’t want any one else to pray for me. If I catch you doing it, Emily Starr, I’ll tear your eyes out. And don’t you go sneaking and praying for me behind my back either.”
“All right, I won’t,” said Emily sharply, mortified at the failure of her wellmeant offer. “I’ll pray for every single soul I know, but I’ll leave you out.”
For a moment Ilse looked as if she didn’t like this either. Then she laughed and gave Emily a volcanic hug.
“Well, anyway, please like me. Nobody likes me, you know.”
“Your father must like you, Ilse.”
“He doesn’t,” said Ilse positively. “Father doesn’t care a hoot about me. I think there’s times when he hates the sight of me. I wish he did like me because he can be awful nice when he likes any one. Do you know what I’m going to be when I grow up? I’m going to be an elo-cu-tionist.”
“What’s that?”
“A woman who recites at concerts. I can do it dandy. What are you going to be?”
“A poetess.”
“Golly!” said Ilse, apparently overcome. “I don’t believe you can write poetry,” she added.
“I can so, true,” cried Emily. “I’ve written three pieces—’Autumn’ and ‘Lines to Rhoda’ — only I burned that — and ‘An Address to a Buttercup.’ I composed it to-day and it is my — my masterpiece.”
“Let’s hear it,” ordered Ilse.
Nothing loath, Emily proudly repeated her lines. Somehow she did not mind letting Ilse hear them.
“Emily Byrd Starr, you didn’t make that out of your own head?”
“I did.”
“Cross your heart?”
“Cross my heart.”
“Well” — Ilse drew a long breath—”I guess you are a poetess all right.”
It