best.”
Pamela clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying with all her might to remember the whole song.
Aunt Sarah’s voice, shrill with anger, cut through her song scattering the broken phrases. “Randall, I absolutely refuse to permit you to do anything so foolish.”
For an awful moment the notes were gone—scattered like frightened birds. With almost painful effort Pamela tried once more to bring them back; and suddenly she could remember it all. Silently it sang in her mind, free and clear, strong and unshaken, as it had before. She looked over at her father with what she knew was a look of confidence and faith.
Father stood up. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I know you want the best for Pamela, but I don’t think you understand. I’m Pamela’s father, and she belongs with me. We’ll get along just fine. Come on, Pam. Perhaps we’d better leave right away.”
The song was gone again, leaving not a note behind. But something had changed at Oak Farm, just as Ponyboy had said it would. Pamela smiled at her father, and he smiled back.
The legs of Aunt Sarah’s chair screeched angrily as she shoved it back violently and strode from the room, her face pale with anger. The room seemed suddenly very quiet when she had gone.
Pamela, Father, and Aunt Elsie looked at each other uneasily for a moment. Then Father grinned, “Cheer up, everybody. She’ll get over it.”
Aunt Elsie smiled weakly. “You might as well sit down and finish your breakfast. No reason to leave without eating.”
“I guess you’re right, Elsie,” Father said. “We can pack as soon as we’re through eating. No need to waste your Aunt Elsie’s good waffles, is there, Pam?”
“No, Father,” Pamela said, her eyes on her father’s face. And as Aunt Elsie passed the waffles and Father poured the syrup, she kept right on watching him. She was watching him because suddenly his Oak Farm Look was gone and he was the way she wanted him to be—strong and sure and full of fun.
“Don’t be so solemn, Pam,” he said, smiling. “Everything’s going to be all right. Except your pigtail’s about to get in your syrup.”
Pamela giggled.
“That’s better. By the way, Elsie. Is there a radio on somewhere in the house? A little while ago I thought I heard music.”
“No,” Aunt Elsie answered, “but isn’t that strange. I thought I heard something, too.”
Pamela smiled and said nothing at all.
Later that morning a very remarkable thing happened while Pamela and her father were packing her horse collection.
“Better give this fellow some extra wrapping,” Father was saying. “He looks like he—” He broke off suddenly and stared towards the bedroom door.
Pamela turned to see Aunt Sarah standing in the doorway, watching them with a very strange expression on her face. Pamela’s alarm turned to amazement as she realized the odd expression was a smile—unmistakably a smile.
“It’s not necessary to do that just now, Randall,” Aunt Sarah said. “You might as well leave tomorrow as you had planned.”
“Well, all right, Sarah. If you want us to stay until then,” Father said. “But I thought that with things the way they are it might be easier for everyone if—”
“I know,” Aunt Sarah interrupted. “However I’ve been thinking the matter over, and I have decided that—” She stopped and seemed to take a deep breath, “—that you both were quite right.” She stopped and regarded them both sternly for a moment, as though expecting someone to disagree. Then she turned with great dignity and disappeared down the hall.
Father sat down on the foot of the bed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, what do you know about that,” he said.
The next day on the wide veranda of Oak Farm House, Pamela told the aunts good-by.
“I’ll miss you, Aunt Elsie,” she whispered. “Write to me every day.”
“Of course I’ll write, dear,” Aunt Elsie said. “But not every day, I’m afraid. You see,
Pamela clenched her teeth and squeezed her eyes tight shut, trying with all her might to remember the whole song.
Aunt Sarah’s voice, shrill with anger, cut through her song scattering the broken phrases. “Randall, I absolutely refuse to permit you to do anything so foolish.”
For an awful moment the notes were gone—scattered like frightened birds. With almost painful effort Pamela tried once more to bring them back; and suddenly she could remember it all. Silently it sang in her mind, free and clear, strong and unshaken, as it had before. She looked over at her father with what she knew was a look of confidence and faith.
Father stood up. “I’m sorry, Sarah. I know you want the best for Pamela, but I don’t think you understand. I’m Pamela’s father, and she belongs with me. We’ll get along just fine. Come on, Pam. Perhaps we’d better leave right away.”
The song was gone again, leaving not a note behind. But something had changed at Oak Farm, just as Ponyboy had said it would. Pamela smiled at her father, and he smiled back.
The legs of Aunt Sarah’s chair screeched angrily as she shoved it back violently and strode from the room, her face pale with anger. The room seemed suddenly very quiet when she had gone.
Pamela, Father, and Aunt Elsie looked at each other uneasily for a moment. Then Father grinned, “Cheer up, everybody. She’ll get over it.”
Aunt Elsie smiled weakly. “You might as well sit down and finish your breakfast. No reason to leave without eating.”
“I guess you’re right, Elsie,” Father said. “We can pack as soon as we’re through eating. No need to waste your Aunt Elsie’s good waffles, is there, Pam?”
“No, Father,” Pamela said, her eyes on her father’s face. And as Aunt Elsie passed the waffles and Father poured the syrup, she kept right on watching him. She was watching him because suddenly his Oak Farm Look was gone and he was the way she wanted him to be—strong and sure and full of fun.
“Don’t be so solemn, Pam,” he said, smiling. “Everything’s going to be all right. Except your pigtail’s about to get in your syrup.”
Pamela giggled.
“That’s better. By the way, Elsie. Is there a radio on somewhere in the house? A little while ago I thought I heard music.”
“No,” Aunt Elsie answered, “but isn’t that strange. I thought I heard something, too.”
Pamela smiled and said nothing at all.
Later that morning a very remarkable thing happened while Pamela and her father were packing her horse collection.
“Better give this fellow some extra wrapping,” Father was saying. “He looks like he—” He broke off suddenly and stared towards the bedroom door.
Pamela turned to see Aunt Sarah standing in the doorway, watching them with a very strange expression on her face. Pamela’s alarm turned to amazement as she realized the odd expression was a smile—unmistakably a smile.
“It’s not necessary to do that just now, Randall,” Aunt Sarah said. “You might as well leave tomorrow as you had planned.”
“Well, all right, Sarah. If you want us to stay until then,” Father said. “But I thought that with things the way they are it might be easier for everyone if—”
“I know,” Aunt Sarah interrupted. “However I’ve been thinking the matter over, and I have decided that—” She stopped and seemed to take a deep breath, “—that you both were quite right.” She stopped and regarded them both sternly for a moment, as though expecting someone to disagree. Then she turned with great dignity and disappeared down the hall.
Father sat down on the foot of the bed and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, what do you know about that,” he said.
The next day on the wide veranda of Oak Farm House, Pamela told the aunts good-by.
“I’ll miss you, Aunt Elsie,” she whispered. “Write to me every day.”
“Of course I’ll write, dear,” Aunt Elsie said. “But not every day, I’m afraid. You see,
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