"Somebody
is always murdering or being murdered in those Balkan States. It's their
normal condition and I don't really think that our papers ought to print
such shocking things. The Enterprise is getting far too sensational with
its big headlines. Well, I must be getting home. No, Anne dearie, it's
no use asking me to stay to supper. Marshall has got to thinking that if
I'm not home for a meal it's not worth eating--just like a man. So off
I go. Merciful goodness, Anne dearie, what is the matter with that cat?
Is he having a fit?"--this, as Doc suddenly bounded to the rug at Miss
Cornelia's feet, laid back his ears, swore at her, and then disappeared
with one fierce leap through the window.
"Oh, no. He's merely turning into Mr. Hyde--which means that we shall
have rain or high wind before morning. Doc is as good as a barometer."
"Well, I am thankful he has gone on the rampage outside this time and
not into my kitchen," said Susan. "And I am going out to see about
supper. With such a crowd as we have at Ingleside now it behooves us to
think about our meals betimes."
CHAPTER II
DEW OF MORNING
Outside, the Ingleside lawn was full of golden pools of sunshine and
plots of alluring shadows. Rilla Blythe was swinging in the hammock
under the big Scotch pine, Gertrude Oliver sat at its roots beside her,
and Walter was stretched at full length on the grass, lost in a romance
of chivalry wherein old heroes and beauties of dead and gone centuries
lived vividly again for him.
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