And presently they all found themselves seated on the fragrant grass, under the stars.  George Carew, at Sidney’s feet, solemnly wrapped sections of molasses popcorn in oiled paper, and passed them to the ladies.  Barry’s coat made a comfortable seat for Mrs. Burgoyne and little Mrs. Brown; Barry himself was just behind, and Mrs. Carew and her big son beside them.  All about, in the darkness, were other groups:  mothers and fathers and alert, chattering children.  Alice Carter, the big mill-girl, radiant now, and with a hoarse, inarticulate, adoring young plumber in tow, went by them, and stooped to whisper something to Mrs. Burgoyne.  “I wish you would come, Alice!” the lady answered eagerly, as they went on.

Then the rockets began to hiss up toward the stars, each falling shower of light greeted with a long rapturous “Ah-h-h!” Catherine-wheels sputtered nearer the ground; red lights made eerie great spots of illumination here and there, against which dark little figures moved.

“I don’t know that I ever had a happier day in my life!” said Sidney Burgoyne.

CHAPTER XIV

More happy days followed; for Santa Paloma, after the Fourth of July, felt only friendliness for the new owner of the Hall, and Mrs. Burgoyne’s informal teas on the river bank began to prove a powerful attraction, even rivaling the club in feminine favor.  Sometimes the hostess enlisted all their sympathies for a newly arrived Old Paloma baby, and they tore lengths of flannel, and busily stitched at tiny garments, under the shade of the willow and pepper trees.  Sometimes she had in her care one or more older babies whose busy mother was taking a day’s rest, or whose father was perhaps ill, needing all the wife’s care.  Always there was something to read and discuss; an editorial in some eastern magazine that made them all indignant or enthusiastic, or a short story worth reading aloud.  And almost always the children were within call, digging great holes in the pebbly shallows of the river, only to fill them up again, toiling over bridges and dams, climbing out to the perilous length of the branches that hung above the water.  Little Mary Scott, released from the fear of an “op’ration,” and facing all unconsciously a far longer journey than the dreaded one to a San Francisco hospital, had her own cushioned chair near the bank, where she could hear and see, and laugh at everything that went on, and revel in consolation and bandages when the inevitable accidents made them necessary.  Mary had no cares now, no responsibility more serious than to be sure her feet didn’t get cold, and to tell Mrs. Burgoyne the minute her head ached; there was to be nothing but rest and comfort and laughter for her in life now.  “I don’t know why we should pity her,” little Mrs. Brown said thoughtfully, one day, as they watched her with the other children; “we can’t ever hope to feel that any of our children are as safe as she is.”