"Mickey," Marigold said seriously. "I need to ask you something very important, and I don't want you to get upset."

The young man grinned. "I'll try my hardest not to bite your head off. What's up?"

Marigold drew in a deep breath. "Is Sylvia Kent the girl you're in love with?"

Mickey's face darkened. For a moment he looked as though he was furious, but then he took one or two deep breaths and calmed down. "What makes you ask that?"

"Are you?" Marigold persisted.

Mickey smiled then—a bitter, twisted smile with no good humor in it whatsoever. "Is it that obvious? Written on my face, I reckon, so the whole world can see it and laugh at me."

"No—no!" cried Marigold, distressed. She laid an earnest hand on Mickey's arm. "It's not obvious. I just—I guessed, that's all."

Mickey shrugged. "Well, now you know. Do you understand now why I have to leave? Sylvia Kent is the last girl in the world for me. I can't—I can't stay on here and see her fall in love with some other fellow."

This was shaky ground. For a moment, Marigold's courage quailed, but she remembered the wistful look in Sylvia's eyes and spoke. "Mickey, I don't think you should leave. I think you should have faith in yourself and in Sylvie's judgment. If you really love her, go to her parents and ask for permission to court her. How could you look at yourself in the mirror for the rest of your life if you don't at least try?"

"Now look here, Mari," said Mickey, straightening up from planting flowers and facing her squarely. "Sylvia is fifteen. I've a little over a score o' years to my credit. Even if there weren't no class difference—and there is, no matter what you in your innocence want to think—she's far too young for a rugged old sailor like me."

"Oh yes, five or six years is such an insurmountable difference," agreed Marigold sarcastically. She rolled her eyes. "Mickey, you're making excuses. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were afraid! Listen, if you're planning on leaving anyway, why not at least confess your feelings before you go? That way, if she rejects you, you can sail away and never come back or think of her again. And if she doesn't, why then everything is perfect!"

He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "You've caught me there. Drat it, I can't think of one single good argument against that one." He paused a moment. "You really think I'd have a chance with her?"

Marigold smiled smugly. "I'm sure of it."

"Well then—well, durn it, I'll give it a try. If it don't work, though, I'm out of here on the first ship to sail away, and you're never to tell another soul about it, mind?"

Marigold was amazed at the fierceness unrequited love brought out in people. "Not a word." She went inside to clean up for dinner, leaving a suddenly nervous Mickey behind.

The next morning, Marigold innocently wandered over to Hope Fulfilled. She wouldn't admit, even to herself, that she wanted to be there when Mickey came by, but the thought was in the back of her mind.

"Mari!" Murray was coming out the front door just as Marigold came up the walk. All thoughts of Sylvia and Mickey flew out of her head at his deep voice and kind eyes.

"Good morning," she said shyly.

He smiled at her. "I'm glad you're here. I have wonderful news—at least, I think it is wonderful."

"Oh, what?" she cried, keenly interested.

A proud expression crept over his finely chiseled face. "I finally finished my novel."

"That's wonderful!"

Marigold knew—for Murray had told her all about it—that alongside the short stories and poems he constantly wrote, he had also been at work for years on a novel. He'd never let anyone read it, but he'd told her what it was about—a man returning from the War to his old home, only to find his wife had left him, his family had forgotten about him, and his friends had deserted him; and his journey from despair and hopelessness to find joy and fulfillment apart from all the things he once thought he needed.

"I'm a little scared to send it out for publication, though. What if the publishers don't like it?"

"Of course they'll like it," said Marigold with supreme confidence. "What sort of idiots would they be if they didn't?"

Murray laughed. "Yes, but just because I think it's good doesn't mean anyone else will."

"Why don't you send it to your Uncle Dean?" suggested Marigold. "He could read it over and tell you if it needed improvement, and if it would be likely to get published."

Murray's face lit up. "What a wonderful idea! Thank you, Marigold. That's just what I'll do." Brimming over with excitement, he absently dropped a kiss on her cheek before hurrying off down the lane.

Marigold stood stock-still, her fingers pressed to her cheek. "Why did he do that? What does it mean?" she whispered to herself.

A glad call from Sylvia brought her mind back to the reason she was there. She hurried inside and tried to put Murray out of her mind—a nearly impossible task.


The girls visited in the kitchen for quite a while, laughing and joking with Mrs. Kent and Mrs. Miller and Sophie. Marigold didn't quite like Mrs. Miller, but she had to admit that Rosy's mother was jolly and fun. She was in the midst of telling them a story from when she and Mrs. Kent had been in high school together and gone canvassing the countryside for newspaper subscriptions when a knock sounded on the door.

To the others, no doubt, the knock sounded like any other knock, but to Marigold, it was fraught with importance. Her heartbeat sped up as Mrs. Kent answered it.

Sure enough, Mickey was standing on the doorstep, dressed in his Sunday best, his face beet red from embarrassment. "Good morning, ma'am," he said awkwardly. "I—I was wondering if I might have a word with you and Mr. Kent."

Mrs. Kent looked surprised, but answered graciously. "Of course, Mickey. Come right in. Sophia, would you go call your father? He's working in his studio."

Marigold stood up from the table, dragging Sylvia along with her. "We'll just be running along," she announced to the room at large, before hurrying out the door.

"Oh Mari," gasped Sylvia, once they were safely in the hall. "What's he doing here? What can it mean?"

Marigold couldn't tell her the truth, but she gave her friend a hug. "What do you think, you goose? He's certainly not here to discuss Aunt Edna's garden." She bit her lower lip, wondering if, in these circumstances, it would be right to listen at the keyhole. She heroically resisted the temptation, however, though she did decide that it would be acceptable to wait in the hall, where they could at least hear people's tones.

After showing her father in to the kitchen, Sophie joined them, her blue eyes sparkling with amusement and excitement. "You'd think Aunt Ilse would have enough sense to leave them alone," she hissed.

"Oh hush, hush," implored Sylvia, nearly dancing in anxiety. Marigold reached over and squeezed her hand.

The three girls listened in breathless stillness to the murmur of voices from the other room. First came Mickey's, rising and falling with a great deal of earnestness and passion. Then Mrs. Kent spoke in a surprised tone, and Mickey answered. Sylvia bit down hard on her wrist to keep from gasping.

Mr. Kent spoke next, sounding stern, but then Mrs. Kent spoke again, this time for quite a while. Marigold's own heart was thumping rapidly. This seemed encouraging!

Mickey spoke once more, his voice pleading. Mr. Kent spoke again, his voice grave. Mickey answered, and then the door shut. Marigold ran to the window to see Mickey walking down the path. He didn't look triumphant, but he wasn't defeated, either.

"What happened?" gasped Sylvia, taking her wrist, now red and covered in bite marks, out of her mouth. "What did he ask? What did they say? Why did he leave?"

"Calm down, Sylvia," said Sophie in a low voice. "We'll find out soon enough."

Sure enough, Mrs. Kent flung open the door. "Sylvia!" she started to call in a loud voice, stopping short at the sight of the three girls huddled together in the hallway. A smile threatened the corners of her mouth, but all she said was, "Ah. Very well, come on in, all three of you."

They entered the kitchen meekly. Mr. Kent was standing by the stove, his finely drawn face, so similar to his son's, set in a stern line. Mrs. Miller, her mouth pursed up unpleasantly, was still seated at the tables, and Mrs. Kent gravely sat down next to her. The three girls stood together, Sophie and Marigold on either side of Sylvia, holding her hands for support.

"Sylvia," Mr. Kent said gently, his deep voice soft. "Mickey Lewis was just here asking for permission to court you."

Sylvia gasped out loud. She raised trembling hands to cover her mouth. "Wh-what did you say?" she whispered, lowering them slowly.

"We asked him to give us some time to discuss the matter," answered Mrs. Kent. "After all, this is very unexpected. You are rather young, and neither your father nor I were quite prepared to have any young man showing serious interest in you for a few years yet."

"Especially such a young man," muttered Mrs. Miller in a barely audible aside.

"But Mother," spoke up Sophie. "Didn't you tell us that Un—that someone proposed to you when you were fifteen? And that you knew that Father was the only man for you when you were fourteen? Surely Sylvia's age shouldn't be any great consideration."

"Enough, Sophie," said Mrs. Kent. "This is your sister's affair, not yours. Sylvia, what do you think of Mickey?"

"I—I think very highly of him, Mother," said poor Sylvia. She cast one tortured glance at Marigold, as if asking why this couldn't be easier.

Mrs. Miller let out an un-ladylike snort. "Emily, surely you aren't thinking of letting that—person actually court—(what a Victorian phrase!)—your Sylvia?"

"She is old enough to know her own heart, Ilse," said Mrs. Kent. "As long as Mickey is willing to wait for several years to think about marriage, I don't see why not, do you, Teddy?"

Mr. Kent looked grave. "I still don't care for the idea. We know nothing about this young man. we don't know who his parents are, where he comes from, what he's done in his life, anything. I can't hand my daughter over to just anyone."

Marigold drew a deep breath and spoke up. "I'm sure Aunt Edna would be happy to speak for Mickey's character, Mr. Kent."

"That should be good enough, shouldn't it, Dad?" interposed Sophie again, seeing that Sylvia was apparently incapable of speech. "After all, it's not who a person's parents were that is important, it is who they are."

"Sophie," Mrs. Kent was beginning to reprimand, when Mr. Kent spoke.

"I suppose so. After all, Emily, we don't want to do to our daughter what your grandfather did to your parents. Mickey is a fine young man. It will take me some time to get used to the idea of my baby being old enough to have a young man, but that is the curse of fathers everywhere, I suppose. Sylvia, you have my blessing."

A smile started to blossom on Sylvia's face, but before it could fully develop, Mrs. Miller stood up, arms akimbo. "Emily Byrd Starr Kent! Are you out of your mind? Would you let a hired hand marry your daughter? That Lewis boy isn't possibly good enough for Sylvia!"

"You married a hired boy, Ilse," Mr. Kent pointed out, a hint of either laughter or bitterness behind his voice—Marigold couldn't tell which.

"Perry was not a hired boy! He made something of himself—he rose above his lowly beginnings. Not that Lewis boy! All he'll ever be is Edna Babcock's gardener. How will he support Sylvia? Where will they live? In the chamber above the kitchen?" The sarcasm in her voice was killing. "He had the unmitigated gall to waltz in here and ask for Sylvia, and you idiots just handed her over to him on a silver platter. Emily B., I never thought you an utter fool until today."

"Aunt Ilse, I don't care how rich or poor Mickey is!" Sylvia cried passionately. "I don't care if he's only a gardener for the rest of his life. It doesn't matter the slightest to me. I've never had any great ambition anyway! Don't you understand? I love him!" She stopped, crimson rushing in over her face.

"You don't know a thing about love, dearie," said Mrs. Miller. She turned back to Mrs. Kent. "At least wait a bit and think it over, Emily. Talk about it with Aunt Elizabeth."

Mrs. Kent hesitated, then nodded. "Yes—she is still the head of the Murray family. It should be discussed with her."

"Why?" cried Sophie. "Mother, you've never cared a whit for what the family wants! If you did, you'd have married Cousin Andrew and never been a writer. If you don't live by their expectations, why should Sylvia?"

"That's enough, Sophia!" said Mr. Kent. "I will not have you speak disrespectfully to your mother."

"I'm not going to make my decision based on what Aunt Elizabeth says," explained Mrs. Kent. "But she does deserve to hear about this first. That is only courteous." She looked over at her husband. "And we might call Dean about it, too."

Mr. Kent looked displeased, but he nodded.

The two of them hurriedly threw on some wraps and went over to New Moon. Mrs. Miller, still fuming under her breath, put on her wraps and left without a word. Sophie and Marigold turned to Sylvia, who was standing stricken, slow tears working down her face.

"It won't work," she moaned softly. "Aunt Elizabeth will never approve, and even sweet Aunt Laura will cluck and fret over it. Uncle Dean—Uncle Dean is still jealous. He doesn't want to share us with anyone. He'll never agree. They'll badger Mother and Father, and convince them, and I'll never be allowed to see Mickey again!" She sat down and buried her face in her arms.

"We don't know that," comforted Sophie, but her voice lacked conviction. Marigold, too, had a sinking feeling. "I have to go to Mickey," she said in a low voice.

"Go—go," said Sylvia suddenly, lifting her head. "Tell him—tell him how I feel! Tell him that no matter what, I'll always love him. Oh Mari, hurry! Tell him!"

"I will," promised Marigold, speeding away on light feet.

As she turned into Misty Hollow's lane, she was confronted by a strange sight: Ilse Miller, hurrying away from the house, pursued by Aunt Edna, who was waving her walking stick and scolding shrilly.

Marigold passed Mrs. Miller without a word and caught up with Aunt Edna. "What's going on?" she asked, completely bemused.

"You might well ask," snapped Aunt Edna, her tiny face all wrinkled up in anger. "That Miller woman has just been here saying dreadful things to our Mickey—all about wanting a rich wife and being a scoundrel and a deceiver, and accusing him of all sort of horrid things." She smiled in sudden satisfaction. "I had a few things of my own to say to her! She won't forget my tongue-lashing for a while, I promise you that. But now Mickey is all upset and saying he won't stay a minute longer, and everything's all kerflummoxed. Marigold, child, do explain things to a poor old woman?"

"It's nothing," explained Marigold, helping Aunt Edna back to the house. "It's just that Mickey is in love with Sylvia Kent, and she with him, and everybody is trying to keep them apart."

"What a fuss over nothing!" said the old lady with superb disdain. "Why shouldn't the children be together if they want? Ooh, I hope that Ilse Miller comes back. I could say a few things about her marriage, let me tell you!"

Marigold left her fuming and hurried to find Mickey. He was in the pine woods behind the house, staring into the distance, his face set with anger. He spoke as soon as he she came into sight, though he didn't turn his head or otherwise acknowledge her presence.

"Don't try to talk me out of it, Mari. I ain't staying around here so that folks can say I'm a no-good scoundrel jest trying to catch a rich wife." He spun to face her, his eyes blazing with so much fury that she took an involuntary step backward. "I told you this would happen! Why'd I ever listen to you? Now look at the mess that's been made."

"I'm sorry," Marigold cried. "But Mickey—Sylvia is in love with you!"

He stood very still. "What?" he whispered.

"She—she wanted me to tell you," Marigold said quickly, stumbling over her words. "She loves you—she doesn't care what other people say or think; she doesn't care that you don't have money or education, she loves you for who you are."

Mickey's eyes slid closed. When he opened them again, the anger was gone, but they still shone with a grim resolution. "It don't make no difference. I can't live with people saying such things about me. Even if she don't care, I do. Like you said before, I got to be able to look at myself in the mirror without being ashamed. Well, I can't do that if I let people think I took advantage of her."

Marigold swallowed her words of protest. There was no point in arguing with that much determination. She might as well have tried to argue against the sandstone cliffs. "What will you do?

He flashed a faint imitation of his old bright smile at her. "Jest what I told you I would do if it went wrong. I'll go back out to sea. There's ways and means for a fellow to make his fortune there. I'll make a name for myself, and then I'll come back and claim Sylvia. By then, she'll be old enough to do as she pleases anyhow, and we won't care who turns their noses up at us. As long as I know she's waiting here for me, I'll do whatever it takes, no matter what."


He left for the harbor the next morning, seeking a berth on any ship sailing out soon. Marigold went over to the Kents to fill Sylvia in on the details. All was in uproar over there. Aunt Elizabeth had risen up in majestic fury against the match. Uncle Dean, showing once again that streak of Priest jealousy, announced that he would cut Sylvia out of his will and never see her again if she persisted with that "Lewis scoundrel." Perry Miller 'phoned from Montreal to warn them against the morals of sailors. Under so much opposition, Mr. and Mrs. Kent withdrew their blessing and announced that under no circumstances was Sylvia to have anything to do with Mickey. Everyone disapproved of the match except Sophie and Murray, who staunchly supported their sister through it all, and the Morgans, who wisely offered no opinion one way or the other.

When Marigold entered the Kent kitchen, she walked into a mess. Mrs. Miller was spewing venom against Mickey and Aunt Edna alike. Sylvia was trying to convince her mother that she didn't care about Uncle Dean's will. Mr. Kent and Murray were in a full-blown argument. Sophie, the only bit of calm, raised her eyebrows wryly at Marigold and shook her head.

Marigold did not speak loudly, but her voice carried an authority in it that sliced through the din like a knife through butter. "Mickey has asked me to inform you," she said, "That he has no intentions of being branded a sneak and rogue. Therefore, he is leaving as soon as possible to make something of himself. He is not withdrawing his suit for Sylvia, merely postponing it until he can offer her something besides his name."

Mr. Kent drew a deep breath. "Well! That settles that, then. A very sensible young man. When he returns—if he returns—with a way to provide for my daughter, I'll be pleased to give him my blessing."

"What?" cried Sylvia. "You chased him away! All of you! I don't care about his status, or his money, or anything like that! All I care about is him. Even poor, he's richer than anyone I know. He's the very best person I've ever met, and you have all tried to take him away from me. How dare you? How dare you?" Her voice broke, and she turned and fled out the door.

Marigold also left. She wandered around for a while aimlessly, berating herself. All she'd wanted to do was make her friends happy, and instead she caused both of them to be more miserable than they'd ever been. What a disaster! She desperately wished she could fix it, but instinct told her that she'd done enough. Whatever happened now was out of her hands.

"I declare this, though," she said aloud, stopping in the middle of the road. "I, Marigold Lesley, will never, ever again, meddle in anyone else's love affair."