Mrs. Berry was famous for her rich doughnuts, and the first supply had been quite exhausted.  William went up to her at once when she returned to the party.  “Where’s the rest of the doughnuts?” he whispered.

“Your father’s hid ’em,” she whispered back.  “Hush, don’t say anything.”

William scowled and made an exclamation.  “The old—­”

“Hush!” whispered his mother again; “go up to the house and get the sweetened water.  I’ve mixed another jug.”

“Where is he?” demanded William.

“I dunno.  He ain’t to the store.”

William strode off across the field, and he searched through the house with an angry stamping and banging of doors, but he could not find his father or the doughnuts.  “Father!” he called, in an angry shout, standing in the doorway, “Father!” But there was no reply, and he went back to the others with the jug of sweetened water.  Rebecca watched him with furtive, anxious eyes, but he avoided looking at her.  When he passed her a tumbler of sweetened water she took it and thanked him fervently, but he did not seem to heed her at all.

After dinner they played romping games under the trees—­hunt the slipper, and button, and Copenhagen.  Mrs. Barnard and two other women had come over to see the festivity, and they sat at a little distance with Mrs. Berry, awkwardly disposed against the trunks of trees, with their feet tucked under their skirts to keep them from the damp ground.

Copenhagen was the favorite game of the young people, and they played on and on while the afternoon deepened.  Clinging to the rope they formed a struggling ring, looping this way and that way as the pursuers neared them.  Their laughter and gay cries formed charming discords; their radiant faces had the likeness of one family of flowers, through their one expression.  The wind blew harder; the girls’ muslin skirts clung to their limbs as they moved against it, and flew out around their heels in fluttering ruffles.  The cherry boughs tossed over their heads full of crisp whispers among their dark leaves and red fruit clusters.  Over across the field, under the low-swaying boughs, showed the old red wall of the tavern, and against it a great mass of blooming phlox, all vague with distance like purple smoke.  Over on the left, fence rails glistened purple in the sun and wind—­a bluebird sat on a crumbling post and sang.  But the young men and girls playing Copenhagen saw and heard nothing of these things.

They heard only that one note of love which all unwittingly, and whether they would or not, they sang to each other through all the merry game.  Charlotte heard it whether she would or not, and so did Barney, and it produced in them as in the others a reckless exhilaration in spite of their sadness.  William Berry forgot all his mortification and annoyance as he caught Rebecca’s warm fingers on the rope and bent over her red, averted cheek.  Barney, when he had grasped Rose’s hands, which had fairly swung the rope his way, kissed her with an ardor which had in it a curious, fierce joy, because at that moment he caught a glimpse of Thomas Payne’s handsome, audacious face meeting Charlotte’s.