“There's one thing you can do right now,” he said. “That's get out and mix. That'll please me as much as anything. And begin right off. Why, see here, the Methodist society is going to give a strawberry festival on the meeting-house lawn next Thursday night. About everybody's going, Nellie and I included. You come, will you?” I hesitated. I had heard about the festival, but I certainly had not contemplated attending. “Come!” he urged. “You won't say no to the first favor I ask you. Promise me you'll be on hand.” Before I could answer, we heard the door of Mother's room open. George and I hastened into the dining-room. Doctor Quimby and Nellie Dean were there. Nellie rushed over to her lover's side. “You bad boy,” she cried. “You're wet through.” Doctor Quimby turned to me. “Your ma's getting on all right,” he declared. “About all that ails her now is that she wants to see you.” George was assisting Nellie to put on her wraps. “Got to leave you now, Ros,” he said. “Cap'n Jed and Matildy'll think we've eloped ahead of time. Good-night. Oh, say, will you promise me to take in the strawberry festival?” “Why” I answered, “I suppose--Yes, Mother, I'm coming--Why, yes, George, I'll promise, to please you.” I have often wondered since what my life story would have been if I had not made that promise. CHAPTER VIII The Methodist church stood on the slope of a little hill, back from the Main Road, and the parsonage was next door. Between the church and the parsonage was a stretch of lawn, dotted with shrubs and cedars and shaded by two big silver-leaf poplars. It was on this lawn that, provided the night was fair, the strawberry festival was to be held. If the weather should be unpropitious the festival was to be in the church vestry. All that day Dorinda was busy baking and icing cake. She was not going to the festival--partly because I was going and she could not leave Mother--but principally because such affairs were altogether too frivolous to fit in her scheme of orthodoxy. “I don't recollect,” she said, “that the apostles did much strawberry festivalin'; they had other things to attend to.” Lute, however, was going and if he had been invited to a Presidential reception he could not have been much more excited. He was dressed and ready at supper time, although the festival did not begin until seven-thirty. “Think I'm all right, Dorindy, do you?” he queried, anxiously turning himself about for his wife's inspection. “How about these new pants? Fur enough down on my boots, be they?” Dorinda looked him over with a critical eye. “Um-hm,” she observed, “that end of 'em seems to be all right. But I cal'late the upper end ain't been introduced to your vest yet. Anyhow, the two don't seem to be well enough acquainted to associate close.”