“Now, David, you know that I know that you don’t know what I know.  Therefore, if I know that you don’t know what I know you don’t know, it’s very plain to be seen that either you or I know very little.  Now, which of us is a know-nothing?  Don’t be afraid to confess.  Remember, we are your friends.”  Hippy Wingate beamed benevolently upon his victim, bland expectation written on his plump face.

“No real friend of mine would ever take such cowardly advantage of the English language,” was David Nesbit’s scathing retort.  “I’ll leave it to Grace if I’m not right.”

“There, Grace.  At last you have an opportunity to strike for the right.  I believe in striking a valiant blow for the right ­”

“So do I,” cut in Reddy Brooks decisively.  “There is no time like the present.  There couldn’t be a better place.  Away out here in this sequestered spot no one will hear your frenzied yells for help.”  Reddy rose determinedly from the steps of the old Omnibus House and made a nimble spring toward the loquacious prattler.

“Never touched me,” was wafted defiantly back, as Hippy Wingate skilfully eluded Reddy’s avenging hand and disappeared around the protecting corner of the one-time hostelry.  The old Omnibus House had ever been his refuge when put to flight by his long-suffering companions.

“You might have known it,” shrugged Nora Wingate with an indifference which marked long association with the verbose refugee.  “In about three minutes you’ll hear a frantic voice calling on me for protection.  Don’t say a word, any of you, but just listen.”

A sudden silence, broken only by a soft chuckle from the abused David, descended on the seven young people occupying the worn stone steps.

“No-ra!” From the rear of the old house a plaintive voice sent up this anguished plea for succor.

“What did I tell you?” Nora’s elaborate air of indifference vanished in a dimpling smile that was reflected on the faces of the group.  No one said a word; neither did Nora rise to the noble duty of rescuer.

    “All alone, all alone! 
    By the wayside she has left me,
    And no other’s love I’ll be;
    For to-night I am deserted;
    Nora has forgotten me!”

intoned a mournful voice, flagrantly off the key.

“For to-night you are a nuisance, you mean,” was Reddy Brooks’ shouted correction.  “I’ll rescue you.”

“Oh, my!” came Hippy’s horrified accents, as Reddy Brooks leaped to his feet and dived toward the sheltering shadow that concealed the self-made outcast.

“Isn’t it a lovely evening, David?  Have you noticed it?” A fat, beaming face was cautiously thrust forth round a corner opposite to that from which the call for help had so recently emanated.  A plump body still more cautiously followed the face.  It was evident that Hippy considered David the lesser of two evils.  “May I sit by you, Anne?  I have always had a great deal of faith in you.”  Hippy became ingratiating.  “I’m sorry I can’t say as much for certain other persons whose names I courteously refrain from bringing into the discussion.”  Without waiting for the requested permission, Hippy crowded himself onto the small space which Anne, seated at one end of the top step, obligingly made for him, and calmly awaited the return of his pursuer.

“Oh, what’s the use!” jibed the disgruntled avenger, when, strolling back to the steps, he beheld the nimble object of his pursuit waiting for him with a wide grin.

“Thus one is always brought to recognize the futility of revenge,” murmured Hippy with sad gentleness.  “Let us agree to forget the bitter past, Reddy, and turn our faces toward the glorious future.  I might also add that it doesn’t pay to take up another’s grievances.  After all I didn’t actually accuse David of being a know-nothing.  I merely asked him about it.  However, I take it all back.  David may know a great deal more than appears on the surface.”

“I decline to rise to the bait,” laughed David.  “I came out here to enjoy myself; not to squabble.  It’s our last evening together until we all gather home again to see Grace and Tom take the highway of matrimony.  Let’s make the most of it.”

Those who have faithfully followed Grace Harlowe through the eventful phases of her high school and college life are equally well acquainted with the other seven members of the Eight Originals.  In “Grace Harlowe’s Plebe Year at High School,” “Grace Harlowe’s Sophomore Year at High School,” “Grace Harlowe’s Junior Year at High School,” and “Grace Harlowe’s Senior Year at High School,” were recorded the countless interesting sayings and doings of these eight highly congenial friends.  Later, when Grace had been graduated from Oakdale High School to continue her education at Overton College, accompanied by her friends, Anne Pierson and Miriam Nesbit, the devoted little band had remained unswerving in their allegiance to one another.

Once she had become a freshman at Overton College, Grace’s equable disposition and love of fair play had attracted equally loyal allegiance to her standard.  In “Grace Harlowe’s First Year at Overton College,” “Grace Harlowe’s Second Year at Overton College,” “Grace Harlowe’s Third Year at Overton College,” “Grace Harlowe’s Fourth Year At Overton College,” “Grace Harlowe’s Return To Overton Campus” and “Grace Harlowe’s Problem,” will be found a minute record of the principal happenings which made her college years memorable.

Absorbed in what she had firmly believed to be her destined work, Grace had long and obstinately shut love from her life, only to find at last that even her beloved work could not forever crowd it out.  Seeing clearly, after months of doubt, she had cheerfully resigned her position as manager of Harlowe House to prepare for the more important position in life which early September was to bring her.

“It doesn’t seem possible that we’ve had the blessed chance to be together for two whole weeks.”  Grace’s eyes had grown dreamy.  “I can’t really believe that I’ve been back in Oakdale that long.  It seems not more than two evenings ago that we held a reunion at our Fairy Godmother’s and ­” She paused, a little flush rising to her cheeks.

“And you and Tom told us the good news,” supplemented Nora mischievously.

“I hadn’t intended to say that, but never mind,” laughed Grace.  “It ceased to be a secret on that night.  While I am on the subject I might as well add that until yesterday we couldn’t make up our minds regarding our wedding day.  But it’s all settled now.  Every one of you must be sure to be with us on the evening of September tenth.”

“‘Must’ is the word,” broke in Tom Gray, his eyes resting fondly on the slender, radiant-faced girl beside him.  “We can’t start on the great adventure without the blessing of this happy band.”

“Rest assured, Thomas, we’ll be there,” averred Hippy.  “Having comported myself with dignity at my own and several other weddings, I shall hail yours with the greatest of joy.”

“Which means that I shall be obliged to keep a watchful eye on you every moment,” translated Nora, her blue eyes twinkling.

“I’ll help you, Nora,” volunteered Reddy.  “I haven’t yet forgiven your wayward husband for the unkind remarks he made about my hair on my wedding day.”

“I don’t remember them,” retorted Hippy, unabashed.  “I’ve made so many remarks at so many different times about those same flaming, crimson locks that it would take a long while to sort out the dates.  But there’s nothing like trying.  Let me see.  The first occasion on which I chanced to note ­”

“Now see what you’ve done.”  David Nesbit fixed the unfortunate Reddy with a severe eye.

“I see,” was Reddy’s grim comment.  Picking up the idle mandolin that he had hastily deposited on Jessica’s lap when he made his vengeful dash upon Hippy, he strummed it lightly.  “Why lug a mandolin along if no one intends to sing?” he asked pointedly, ignoring Hippy’s disrespectful reminiscences.

“Oh, very well.”  Promptly foregoing the will to gather data concerning Reddy’s too-oft maligned Titian locks, Hippy began a lively warbling which had nothing in common with the tinkling melody of the mandolin.  As a result the patient instrument immediately ceased its complaining tinkle.  Hippy, however, lilted on, undisturbed, for a matter of five seconds, when a chorus of threatening protests warned him to cease.

“Do be good,” admonished Nora, laughing in spite of herself.  “Either sing prettily or don’t try to sing at all.”

“Madam, it is not necessary for me to try to sing.  Song and I are one.  Let me give you an illustration.  Name a ditty best suited to my voice and I will prove myself.”

“I can’t recall one,” discouraged Nora.

“Silent singing would suit you best,” grumbled Reddy.  “You could make your lips do the deed without damaging any one else’s ear drums.”

“I’ll try it,” amiably agreed the noisy soloist.  “Just watch me.”  He proceeded to indulge in a series of labial contortions that a dumb man would have envied, and which had a most hilarious effect upon those whom he had lately persecuted with raucous sound.  Rudely requested to desist from even this newly discovered pastime, he subsided with a frantic signalling to the effect that he had actually been stricken dumb.

“It’s too good to be true,” exclaimed the relieved Reddy, laying fresh hold on the mandolin.  “While we have peace, sing for us, Nora.  We ought to make the most of this unexpected opportunity.”

“Give us that song you used to sing about Golden Summer,” begged Jessica.  “Don’t you remember, that was one of the first pieces Reddy learned to play on the mandolin?  I haven’t heard it in ages.  I’d love to hear Nora sing it again.”

“Yes, sing it, Nora.”  Grace added her plea.  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard it.  It will be very appropriate to the occasion.”

“Wait a minute until I think how it goes.”  Reddy began a reflective strumming, bringing back, bit by bit, a plaintive little air that carried a subdued heart throb.  “I’ve got it,” he nodded.  “Go ahead, Nora.”

Her hands loosely clasped, Nora’s clear, high voice, which Grace always declared “had tears in it,” took up the song of Jessica’s fancy to the subdued accompaniment of the mandolin.

    “Golden Summer’s in the land! 
      Hark!  Her call soars high and sweet. 
    Hedge-rows flow’r at her command;
      Roses spring beneath her feet. 
    Skies grow azure; life beats strong;
      Nature listens to adore;
    Thrilling at the siren’s song,
      Yields her wond’rous treasured store. 
    Precious fabrics of her loom
      Clothe her darling of the year;
    Wealth of sunshine; breath of bloom;
      Cloudless days, so fair, so dear.

    “Golden Summer’s voice is stilled ­
      Autumn chants a requiem low. 
    Gone the days with rapture filled. 
      Life’s a-throbbing, sad and slow. 
    Skies grow hazy; sunshine wanes,
      Vivid green fast turns to brown;
    Here and there along the lanes,
      Flames the sumac’s lonely crown. 
    Sings the voice of Mem’ry now,
      ’Cleave to Love ­lest it depart;
    Bind remembrance on thy brow,
      Cherish Summer in thy heart.’”

“I don’t like that song at all.”  As the last haunting cadence died away, the dumb man came into energetic speech.

“Why not, Hippy?  I think it is beautiful.”  Grace turned surprised eyes on the stout protestant.

“It gives me the creeps,” he declared shortly and with unmistakable earnestness.  “The first verse is all very nice.  Summer is a golden time, etc.  But why remind us that fall is coming?” He had now resumed his old, bantering tone.  “I prefer to have summer three hundred and sixty-five days in the year.  I don’t like murky skies, worn-out grass, skeleton hedge-rows, muddy lanes, lonesome sumacs and cold winds.  As for winter, lead me away from it.  I absolutely refuse to carry summer about in so useful an organ as my heart, when it’s ten below zero and the water pipes are all frozen up.”

“That is because you have no sentiment,” challenged Reddy.  Whereupon the divine power of song was at once swallowed up in a fresh burst of argument as futile as it was laughable.  It was ended by tactful Anne, who was always supremely useful when called upon to arbitrate such important matters.  The relative merits of “Golden Summer” having been successfully decided and laid to rest, Nora again lifted up her voice in a selection infinitely more to her liege lord’s liking.  Then followed an old-fashioned song in which every one took part, filling the quiet moonlit night with sweetest harmony.

“It’s half-past ten, children,” reminded David, as striking a match he consulted his watch.  “Anne, Jessica, Reddy, and I are due to catch early trains to-morrow morning.  Anne and I mustn’t miss ours.  We promised Miriam we’d surely be with her to-morrow night.”

“Anne, don’t forget to tell Miriam not to dare do any shopping until Mother and I arrive in New York,” reminded Grace.  “She promised to wait for me, so that we could do our shopping together.  I’ve written her about it, but I wish you’d emphasize the fact for me.”

“I will,” promised Anne.  “I know she will wait for you, though.  She told me she intended to.”

With knowledge of the coming parting so near, the little company grew a trifle less merry as they strolled home across the familiar fields in the moonlight.  Though Hippy had been the only one to confess it, the plaintive melody of Nora’s song of Golden Summer haunted them.  With summer at high tide in each heart, it was, as Hippy had remarked, not quite pleasant to be reminded even tunefully that life holds the inevitable autumn.

“I really believe Hippy meant what he said about that song,” Tom remarked meditatively to Grace.

“Were you thinking of that, too?” A faint, almost melancholy smile flickered about Grace’s lips as she asked the question.  “It seemed to me he was in earnest.”

“I almost wish Nora hadn’t sung it,” returned Tom with unexpected bluntness.  “I went through such a long, dreary winter before my Golden Summer came.  Now I wish it to stay with me forever.  I’d like our lives from this moment on always to be one long, continued Golden Summer like the last two weeks.  I can’t bear to think that it might ever be otherwise.”

“‘Perfect love casteth out fear,’” quoted Grace softly.  “It’s the only true safeguard against the ills of life.  After all, there’s a note of triumph in the ending of that song.  With love to light us on our way, it can’t help but be always Golden Summer in our hearts.”