Miss Moody was the one brought to tears. She walked up to Miss Lizzie holding a towel in front of her breast and weeping. “He’s our life saver, Miss Lizzie. Remember? Our Boy Scout. Oh, mercy, I’m thankful you’ve come, he’s been doing that a long time. Stand in the shade, Miss Lizzie.”

“Boy Scout? Why, he ought to be—he ought to be—I can’t stand it, Parnell Moody.”

“Can’t any of us help it, Miss Lizzie. Can’t any of us. It’s what he came for.” She wept.

“That’s Easter,” Geneva said. “That is.”

“He ought to be put out of business,” Miss Lizzie Stark said. She stood in the center of them all, squeezing Nina uncomfortably for Jinny Love, who flouted her up in front, and Nina could look up at her. The white rice powder which she used on the very front of her face twinkled on her faint mustache. She smelled of red pepper and lemon juice—she had been making them some mayonnaise. She was valiantly trying to make up for all the Boy Scout was doing by what she was thinking of him: that he was odious. Miss Lizzie’s carelessly flung word to him on sight—the first day—had been, “You little rascal, I bet you run down and pollute the spring, don’t you?” “Nome,” the Boy Scout had said, showing the first evidence of his gloom.

“Tears won’t help, Parnell,” Miss Lizzie said. “Though some don’t know what tears are.” She glanced at Mrs. Gruenwald, who glanced back from another level; she had brought herself out a chair. “And our last afternoon. I’d thought we’d have a treat.”

They looked around as here came Marvin, Miss Lizzie’s yard boy, holding two watermelons like a mother with twins. He came toward the table and just stood there.

“Marvin. You can put those melons down, don’t you see the table’s got somebody on it?” Miss Lizzie said. “Put ’em down and wait.”

Her presence made this whole happening seem more in the nature of things. They were glad Miss Lizzie had come! It was somehow for this that they had given those yells for Miss Lizzie as Camp Mother. Under her gaze the Boy Scout’s actions seemed to lose a good deal of significance. He was reduced almost to a nuisance—a mosquito, with a mosquito’s proboscis. “Get him off her,” Miss Lizzie repeated, in her rich and yet careless, almost humorous voice, knowing it was no good. “Ah, get him off her.” She stood hugging the other little girls, several of them, warmly. Her gaze only hardened on Jinny Love; they hugged her all the more.