She came upon the twins in a fair dell, where they watched other children at a game, and she took very civil notice of them, saying, “How do you do, young gentlemen?” in deep, thrilling tones, and though they had been doing very well until that moment, neither of the twins had recovered strength to say so.  To them she had been more formidable than a schoolteacher.  Their throats had closed upon all utterance.  Now as she faced them, a dozen feet away, even though the words “Patricia Whipple” applied to but one of their number, the twins took the challenge to themselves and quailed.  They knew that deep and terrible voice menaced themselves as well as the late Ben Blunt—­for that mere street urchin, blown upon by the winds of desolation, had shrivelled and passed.  In his place drooped a girl in absurd boy’s clothes, her hair messily cut off, smoking something she plainly did not wish to smoke.  The stricken lily of vice drooped upon its stem.

One by one the three heads turned to regard the orator.  How had she contrived that noiseless approach?  How had she found them at all in this seclusion?  The heads having turned to regard her, turned back and bowed in stony glares at the rich Whipple-nourished turf.  They felt her come toward them; her shadow from the high sun blended with theirs.  And again the voice, that fearsome organ on which she managed such dread effects: 

“Patricia Whipple, what does this mean?”

She confronted them, a spare, grim figure, tall, authoritative, seeming to be old as Time itself.  How were they to know that Juliana was still youthful, even attired youthfully, though by no means frivolously, or that her heart was gentle?  She might, indeed, have danced to them as Columbine, and her voice would still have struck them with terror.  She brought her deepest tones to those simple words, “What does this mean?” All at once it seemed to them that something had been meant, something absurd, monstrous, lawless, deserving a ghastly punishment.

The late Ben Blunt squirmed and bored a heel desperately into the turf above a Whipple whose troubles had ceased in 1828.  She made a rough noise in her throat, but it was not informing.  The Wilbur twin, forgetting his own plight, glanced warm encouragement to her.

“I guess she’s got aright to run away,” he declared, brazenly.

But in this burst of bravado he had taken too little account of his attire.  He recalled it now, for the frosty gray eyes of Juliana ran about him and came to rest upon his own eyes.  For the taut moment that he braved her glance it unaccountably seemed to him that the forbidding mouth of the woman twitched nervously into the beginning of a smile.  It was a fleeting effect, but it did seem as if she had almost laughed, then caught herself.  And there was a tremolo defect in the organ tone with which she now again demanded in blistering politeness, “May I ask what this means?”

The quick-thinking Merle twin had by now devised an exit from any complicity in whatever was meant.  He saw his way out.  He spoke up brightly and with no shadow of guilt upon his fair young face.