Aunt Irene never talked much and Amy and Marigold talked in whispers.
"I wonder if Hip Price will be in church to-night," said Amy.
"Who is Hip Price?" asked Marigold.
"He's the minister's son. His real name is Howard Ingraham Price, but he never gets anything but Hip - from his initials. He's awfully clever. I never," vowed Amy, speaking out of her tremendous experience of eleven and a half years, "met any one who knew so much. And he's so brave. He saved a little girl from drowning once, at the risk of his life."
"When?"
"Oh, before he came here. They only moved to this church last spring. He says he can lick his weight in wildcats. And he took the diploma for learning the whole Shorter Catechism by heart."
Marigold felt rather bored with this prodigy.
"What does he look like?"
"He's handsome. His eyes are just like an archangel's," said Amy fervently.
"How do you know? Did you ever see an archangel's eyes?" demanded Marigold relentlessly.
2
The choir was singing Joy to the World, and Marigold was thinking of "Tidal, king of nations," in the chapter the minister had just read. That phrase always fascinated her whenever she heard it. There was something so mysterious about it. Tidal, king of nations, was so much grander than just Tidal, king of one little country. Splendid. Triumphal. An entrancing figure of royalty ruling over hundreds of subject peoples. And just then Marigold saw Hip and thought no more forever of Tidal, king of nations.
He was sitting right across from her in the corner seat, staring at her. He continued to stare at her. Marigold felt that glance on her inescapably. She tried to look away - she fought against looking back - but in the end HER eyes always returned to the corner seat to find HIS eyes still intent on her. Eyes can say so much in a second. Marigold felt very queer.
And, oh, he WAS handsome. Just like the slim princeling of fairy- tales. Brown curls shining in the lamplight. Cheeks rose-red under golden-tan. Dark-blue, romantic eyes. She felt that she would die of shame and humiliation when an old lady behind her suddenly held a peppermint out to her over the back of the seat. Marigold had to take it - and could not help looking at Hip as she did it. She could not - would not - did not eat it, but she felt as if Hip must see it all the time, moist and sticky in her warm, unwilling hand, and despise her for a baby who had to be kept good in church with peppermints. Marigold, to her dying day, never quite forgave Aunt Lucy Bates, who thought she had done a kind act to Lorraine Winthrop's little girl.
Marigold found her legs were trembling when she got up for the last hymn. Her face was burning under Hip's seemingly mesmerised eyes. She was sure every living soul in the church must notice him.
One at least had. Marigold met Caroline on the porch, going out, and it seemed to her that Caroline was a bit cool.
"Did you see Hip Price?" asked Caroline.
"Hip Price?" Marigold was not without the feminine knack of protective coloration. "Who is he?"
"That boy in the corner seat. I saw him staring at you. He always stares like that at a new girl."
"Sly thing," thought Marigold - not meaning Hip.
Amy did not go back with them. She was staying all night with June. So Marigold walked home alone with Aunt Irene. Not altogether alone.
On the other side of the road, until they reached the pasture gate, stalked a slender figure with a smart cap worn a bit rakishly on the back of its head. The figure whistled The Long, Long Trail. Marigold knew that it was Hip Price and she also knew that the manse was away on the other side of the church. It is terrific what damsels of eleven do know sometimes. But she was - almost - glad when they left the road and started up over the fields.
As they walked along Marigold was not thinking of the charm of starlit evening or the wind in the trees or the pixy lantern- shadows. I shall not tell you what she was thinking of. I will only state that next day she scorched a panful of cookies she had been left to watch because she was thinking of the same thing. Aunt Irene was annoyed. A Cloud of Spruce Lesley was supposed never to be careless. But Marigold with shining eyes and a dreamy smile lingering on her lips, did not worry about the cookies at all.
3
During the following three weeks life was a thing of rainbows for our Marigold. She had a delightful secret - a secret that nobody knew. Even when she wrote "everything" to Mother she did not tell her about Hip Price. Though she put an extra row of kisses in to make up for it.
The morning after that memorable Sunday evening, when Marigold went down to the end of the lane to mail Mother's letter, she found a letter in the box addressed to herself. Marigold trembled again - a delicious trembling. She sat down among the goldenrod under a friendly little spruce-tree and read it. It was a very wonderful epistle. Ask Marigold. To be told she was beautiful! Once in awhile she had heard a hint that she was pretty. But beautiful! And what did it matter that he spelled "angel" angle? Angel really was a very tricky word. ANYBODY might spell it wrong. Besides, doesn't everybody know that it doesn't make a mite of difference how a love-letter is spelled? He signed himself "fondestly yours" with lots of flourishes and curlicues. And there was a little x for a P. S.
Marigold's cheeks were so rosy when she went back to the house that Aunt Irene thought the child was picking up wonderfully. Marigold slept that night with Hip's letter under her pillow. And found another in the mailbox the next morning! In which he asked her if she were going to June Page's party Thursday evening and would she wear the blue dress she had worn to church? Would she? She had been wondering which of her two "good" dresses became her most and had been dangerously near selecting the green. And he wrote, "When the moon rises to-night think of me and I'll think of you." Marigold hunted out the time of moonrise in the almanac. Really, the moons of Owl's Hill were wonderful. Cloud of Spruce never had such moons. And would any other boy she knew ever think of saying a thing like that? Not in a thousand years.
Hip cornered her off at the party and asked her why she hadn't answered his letters. Marigold didn't think she could without Aunt Irene knowing.
"But you don't mind my writing them?" asked Hip softly - tenderly. Looking at her as if his very life depended on her answer. Marigold, dyed in blushes, confessed she didn't. Whereupon Hip surveyed the room with the air of a conqueror. When called upon to recite he gave "Casabianca" in ringing tones, standing all beautiful and brave as the immortal hero. A horrible thought suddenly arose in Marigold's mind. Did he KNOW he was all beautiful and brave. She strangled and buried the hateful intruder instantly.
Hip was certainly captivating. He said such smart up-to-date things like "attaboy" and "apple-sauce" and "I'll tell the world!" - looking at Marigold to see if she admired his smartness. And he walked home with her - not exactly from the house. He joined her on the road, having dashed across lots. And at the gate of Owl's Hill lane he took her hand and kissed it. Marigold had read of young knights doing that but that it should happen to HER!
It was thrilling to hear of all the deeds of high emprise Hip had done. That he had once saved a little girl from being burned to death - Amy must have got it twisted - that he often climbed to the very top of telegraph-poles - that he had once stopped a team of runaway horses by his own unaided prowess - that he would, on occasion, really relish a fight with blood-maddened tigers. As for sea-serpents, take Hip's word for it, they ate out of his hand.
"I don't believe he's done all the wonderful things he's always talking about," Amy said scornfully once.