From the vantage point of her house, facing the green, Ellen did not even need to go out to keep an eye on all that was going on. She watched John, Ed Taggart, and two of the Lovelands busy setting up logs for sawing, and the greased pole, of course, too. Rather characteristically Willard appeared to be about to celebrate a bicentennial simply by being itself. The only change—and it was hardly radical—was the discreet presence of Jem’s markers tacked up on trees here and there, to date the building of a house and name its original owners.

As usual a whole posse of children materialized from nowhere. It never ceased to amaze Ellen how many children turned up on Old Home Day—usually the village seemed to be inhabited only by the elderly. But there they were now, racing around in jeans, screaming like jays, gathered in a knot to watch Ed pour a handful of pennies into a heap of sawdust in one corner of the field. Buddy Townsend came along just then on a pony, leading a second one. He trotted round the green and back of the church, followed by two little girls pleading for a ride. A gang of little boys had taken over the speaker’s platform, facing the church; then they were chased off by someone testing the loudspeaker, and retired to the Civil War monument just behind it, to scramble about on the granite plinth.

Ellen looked at her watch—after ten. They’d better get the games started. She had heard that there was to be a greased pig as a special treat—that would take some arranging. Nervous, on edge as always, Ellen took a dim view of the organizers so far. But what did it matter? None of hers would be coming this year. Micah and his family were down in Maine, and her daughter had to work.

Well, at least she didn’t have to make sandwiches. Christina had invited her to join the Chapmans for a picnic lunch in front of the church. The summer people gathered there, while the natives preferred the long trestle tables set up under the maples at the side. Smoothing down her fresh blue cotton dress, Ellen had to admit to a whiff of excitement. It would be a pleasant change to be a guest, for once … but how would Cornelius stand the heat? The shrill buzz of a cicada told her to be prepared for a humdinger—that and the absence of dew early that morning. She went upstairs and put a dab of lavender water on a handkerchief, then came down again, restless as all get-out. When she looked out the window this time, she did see an unexpected sight at last.

“For heaven’s sake,” she said to Foxy, snoozing under the table, “the Healds have brought Old Pete!”