49686	----	[Frontispiece: Going to Barbara's Wedding] Little Prudy Series ------------------- LITTLE PRUDY'S COUSIN GRACE BY SOPHIE MAY BOSTON: LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO. Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by LEE & SHEPARD, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. ----- COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY REBECCA S. CLARKE. ----- LITTLE PRUDY'S COUSIN GRACE CONTENTS. ----- I. THE CUP AND SAUCER II. THE RUBY SEAL III. THE PRIZE IV. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS V. FORTUNES VI. MISFORTUNES VII. THE REGARD-RING VIII. PRUDY PARLIN IX. BARBARA'S WEDDING X. WHO GETS THE PRIZE? XI. THE CHILDREN'S FAIR COUSIN GRACE ------------ CHAPTER I. THE CUP AND SAUCER. Grace Clifford and Katharine Hallock were such dear friends, and spent so much time together, that you could not think of one without thinking of the other, and people linked their names together, and spoke of "Grace and Cassy," just as one speaks of a "cup and saucer" or a "hook and eye." Yet they were not in the least alike. There was something very eager and vivid about Grace, with her bright blue eyes, auburn curls, and brilliant color. She had an ecstatic way of laughing, and a wild, agonized way of weeping. She clapped her hands for joy, or wrung them for grief. Her tears fell in showers, but afterward the sun was sure to shine out clearly. Cassy, on the other hand, was a gentle, brown-eyed little maiden, with long lashes sweeping her cheeks, and brown hair lying quietly behind her ears. She never stormed nor raved. It was a very rare thing for the girls to disagree. They had such a dear love for each other that they decided never to marry, but to live together in a charming cottage adorned with woodbine, and keep chickens, pigeons and a cat. At the beginning of our story they were nearly twelve years old, and closer friends than ever. They had exchanged rings as pledges of everlasting fidelity. The ring which Cassy gave Grace was set with gems--ruby, emerald, garnet, amethyst, ruby, and diamond--the initials spelling the word "Regard." This regard-ring had once belonged to Mrs. Hallock; but after being broken and mended it was too small for her, and she had given it to Cassy. In exchange, Grace put on her friend's third finger a pretty emerald, which had been a good-by present from Mr. Augustus Allen. One day in March these two Hoosier girls were walking hand in hand down Vine Street, where there was always a fine shade in the summer. Now the trees were leafless, and the bright sun shadowed forth little flickering pictures of their branches on the girls' shawls and hats. "Why, Cassy Hallock," said Grace, shading her face with one hand, "this sun is bright enough to blind an eagle." "But it doesn't blind _me_," laughed Cassy. "I can almost look at it without winking." "Then you must be a half-eagle, Cassy. Why, you don't mind the weather, or any of the bothers! You never fly out of patience! O, Cassy Hallock, I think you're splendid!" As this was not the first time Cassy had been eulogized as "splendid," she was by no means astonished, but continued to move quietly along, with her usual composure. Grace Clifford seemed a little nervous. Every now and then she would drop her friend's hand, and gather a few blades of grass, or pick up a pebble, then seize Cassy's hand again, and walk on. Cassy watched her companion with some curiosity. "Now, Gracie Clifford," said she at last, "you're keeping something to yourself; I just know you are." "What if I am?" said Grace, tossing an orange into the air and catching it as it fell; "I needn't tell you every single thing, Cassy!" "Yes, you must, Gracie Clifford," was the firm reply. "I'm your dearest friend, and am I not going off next week visiting?" "Well, I've nothing to tell, any way, but just thoughts," said Grace, pocketing her orange, and taking Cassy's hand again, while they each hopped on one foot like happy little robins. "I've a great many thoughts whizzing in my mind all the time, Cassy. I've been thinking lately about-- I mean, I've been wishing, for ages and ages, that I'd been born a boy; but it's silly, and so I never say it." "Why, Gracie Clifford, I've heard you say it five hundred times! I'd as soon be a girl, because I _am_, and there's the end of it." "But to grow up and be a woman!" said Grace, with a shudder. "Do you ever think of the wrinkles, and the cross kitchen girls, and the children that have to cut their teeth? And you can't sleep nights; and then they won't let you vote!" "I don't want to vote, Gracie; what would _I_ vote for?" "O, child! For union and liberty, and all the good things. Don't you go to encouraging slavery, Cassy!" "No," laughed Cassy, "I won't." "And don't let such swearing people as Mr. Blake go to Congress. But there, _you_ can't help it, Cassy; _you_ never'll vote, neither will I. And there's Horace, --what do you suppose that boy cares about politics? But _he'll_ vote fast enough." "O, yes," chimed in Cassy, beginning to grow indignant, "only because he's a boy!" "And he'll come to me, Horace will, just as likely as not, Cassy, and I'll have to tell him which way to vote." The girls looked rather scornful as they pictured to themselves an imaginary Horace, tall and twenty-one, anxiously inquiring of his sister what ticket he should throw into the ballot-box. "Now, you see," said Grace, "it's very absurd to make a fuss that way over boys. They feel it. It sets them up on a throne." "O, yes, I reckon it does, Gracie. Isn't it right funny now to look at boys, and see the airs they put on?" "It is _so_," said Grace, sweeping back her curls with a gesture of disdain. "There's their secret societies, Cassy." "Yes, Gracie, and I don't approve of any such goings on. Johnny looks so wise and important! How I wish I knew what it's all about!" "Why, Cassy, I wouldn't know if I could. I'd scorn to care." "So would _I_ scorn to care," replied Cassy, quickly. "O, of course! It's of no account, you might know." "What vexes me, Cassy, is the way they look down on us girls, and boast that they can keep secrets and we can't, when it's no such a thing, Cassy Hallock, as you and I very well know--we that have kept secrets for years and years, and never, never told, and never will to our dying days!" Cassy nodded her head emphatically, implying that words could not do justice to the subject. "Cassy, dear, you asked me, a little while ago, what I was thinking about; and now I'll tell you. I've been wondering if we mightn't get up a secret society our own selves!" Cassy stopped short, laughed, and said, "Capital!" forgetting that not five minutes before she had expressed contempt for such "goings on." "How many girls will we have, Gracie?" "Why, our graduating class, that's seven. We don't go much with the other girls, you know. I'm so glad you like the idea, Cassy! and, now you do, I'm going to have it. I've just made up my mind!" "But suppose the others don't approve?" "O, pshaw, Cassy! that's of no sort of consequence! What you and I think _they'll_ think--all but Isa Harrington, and we'll soon manage her." "Well," replied Cassy, drawing a long breath, "don't let's walk quite so fast, Gracie, we'll be at the schoolhouse before we know it, and you and I must have everything arranged between us. What name, Gracie?" "What think of calling ourselves Princesses of the-- the-- some kind of a seal? The seal must be golden, or diamond, or something else that's precious." "The Ruby Seal," suggested Cassy. "O, that's it, dear! Our _lips_ are the ruby seal, Cassy, and never, never will they open to utter the secrets of our order. We'll promise to love, honor and protect one another as long as we all shall live. Our motto will be, "_Vera ad finem_." I suppose you don't know what that means, Cissy; but it's "_true to the end_," Robin says." "I've only one thing to say," interrupted Cassy; "this mustn't make any difference between you and me, Gracie; we'll be good friends enough with the others, but--" "Yes, Cassy, good friends enough; but it's you and I that are the _dear_ friends. We'll be "_vera_" --that's _true_ --to the others, but never the least speck intimate. But hush! Here we are at the schoolhouse. Don't you breathe a word, you know, Cassy! We'll take our seats just as sober as if nothing had happened!" CHAPTER II THE RUBY SEAL. The graduating class of the Girls' Grammar School comprised seven young misses, of whom Grace Clifford was the youngest, though by no means the most timid and retiring. They all met on Saturday afternoon at Mrs. Hallock's to talk over the new project. The vote was unanimous in favor of the Ruby Seal. Isabel Harrington opposed it for a while, it is true; but this may possibly have been because she was not the very first one consulted. "Now," said Grace, when she saw that, as usual, Cassy expected her to manage affairs, "here I sit with pencil and paper; and now we'll pass resolutions, if you please. I'm secretary." "First place," said Isabel Harrington, with a toss of the head, "I'd like to ask what's the good of a society, any way?" "What's the good?" repeated Grace; "ahem! it's to-- to-- make us better, of course." "Then mightn't we pass one resolution to read the Bible?" asked gentle Mahla Linck, the lame girl, whom everybody loved. "Yes, we will, we will!" cried every voice. "It's a vote," said Grace, writing down: "We hereby solemnly pledge ourselves to read two chapters in the Bible daily." "And say our prayers," suggested Mahla again. "O, that's all understood," replied Grace. "I'd be ashamed to put that down. It looks like we could ever forget our prayers!" "Now," said Judith Pitcher, "I move we forbid the use of all unladylike words." This vote was passed. The next was against falsehoods of every hue, from little white lies up to the big black ones. "We mustn't talk about 'oceans of tears,' and 'biting our tongues out,' I suppose," said Isabel, demurely, but with a sly glance at the secretary. "That means me," said Grace, blushing. "And now," continued she, pausing and looking at Cassy, who would not speak for her, "--now let's all agree never-- never to be married. If that be your minds, please to manifest it." The girls looked astonished. "I've been reading Mythology," pursued Grace, "and some of the nicest goddesses and nymphs didn't marry -- Diana, and Minerva, and Clytie, and Sappho." "We're not goddesses and nymphs, I hope," said Diademia Jones, shaking her head. "Nor heathens," added Isa, with spirit. "O, no; but if ladies want to be very great, and do oceans of good, and write poems and everything, why, they mustn't be married. You see how it is, girls; there's so much housekeeping and sewing to attend to." "But, then," added Lucy Lane, mournfully, "if we're not married, we'll be--old maids!" "O, no, indeed," said Grace, positively. "Why, if you're great and splendid, you never will--no such a thing! Maria Edgeworth was splendid, and she never was an old maid that ever I heard of. And there was--" "Grace Greenwood," suggested Cassy, in the tone of one who has added the finishing stroke to an argument. But the girls exclaimed,--"Why, Grace Greenwood is married; what are you talking about? There, there, people can be married, and be splendid, too." Grace felt that her cause had received a blow. "Now, girls," said she, after a pause, "I'll tell you how it is. Grace Greenwood was married a long while ago. If she was a little girl now, and saw such acting boys, she'd say, 'It's an awful thing!' Why, girls, I think, for my part," Grace went on with much dignity, "we lower ourselves, we degrade ourselves, when we associate with boys. They smoke, and chew, and use very improper language. It does seem to me we're white lilies, and they're nothing but--but thistles. Let's faithfully promise not to converse with boys, --unless it's to try and reform them, you know." "Our brothers," urged soft-voiced Lucy Lane, timidly. "Yes, our brothers," murmured the other girls. "And our cousins, you know," added dashing Diademia Jones. No one was quite so enthusiastic over this non-marrying resolve as Grace had expected; still, the vote was passed with much solemnity, the girls resigning themselves to the prospect of single lives like a little band of heroines. They were now certain of becoming distinguished, and might be doctors, judges, or ministers, just as they liked, though, as Grace very justly remarked, they need be in no haste about choosing professions. It was decided that Grace should be queen of the Ruby Seal Society. The girls bound themselves to one another by solemn pledges, and if any member should, by word or deed, do anything to the injury of a princess, the offender was to be expelled at once. The name, and even the existence, of the society must be kept a profound secret. They agreed that a lecture should be delivered once a month, the queen leading off, and the princesses following in turn, according to ages. Isa Harrington tried to pass a resolution against any two members of the society being especially intimate, and setting themselves up for "particular friends." She was quite eloquent upon this resolution, but was frowned into silence by Grace, who would have cried, "Down with the Ruby Seal," sooner than she would have given up Cassy for an intimate friend. The society broke up mutually pleased, every one of the princesses sealing the compact with a kiss, and parting with the password for the month, "_Vera_." The only discontented face was Isa's, and her handsome eyes darkened with jealousy as she looked back and saw that Grace lingered, talking with Cassy. What was there about Cassy Hallock so very remarkable? For Isa's part, she couldn't see that she was better than other folks! Ah, Isa Harrington, look out for that tiny serpent of jealousy. Crush it before it grows to a monster. [Illustration: Grace and Cassy] Grace and Cassy walked slowly along, their arms about each other's waists, chatting socially, and making the most of the time, for Cassy was to go to Kentucky next week. There are few things more pure and delightful than the mutual friendship of two good little girls. Isa Harrington, to be sure, did not think so, but her jealousy was not more than half suspected by Grace and Cassy. The Cliffords lived a little way out of town, and their beautiful grounds were soon in full view. The broad lawn, enclosed by a trimly-cut hedge, was now of a sleepy brown, in harmony with the freestone house which stood on a terrace overlooking the clusters of evergreen trees and well-trained shrubbery. On the other side of the house was a conservatory filled with choice flowers, and beyond that the cottage of Mr. Sherwood, the English gardener. The girls parted at their trysting-place, the "acorn-tree," and Grace walked the rest of the way alone, musing upon the glorious destiny which awaited the distinguished Miss Clifford in the rosy future. When within a few steps of the gate, she saw her mother coming from Mr. Sherwood's cottage in apparent haste. There was evidently some cause of disturbance, for every member of the Sherwood family ran out of the house, one after another, followed by Barbara Kinkle, with her apron over her head. "What _is_ the matter," cried Grace, rushing into the yard in breathless haste. "Nothing much," replied Barbara, trying to speak calmly. "Your brother has only been and lost himself. But don't you have no fears, Miss Grace; he never did go and fall in the river." Every particle of color fled from Grace's face. She forgot that Horace belonged to the condemned race of "awful boys." The bare possibility that he might be drowned was too horrible! "O, Barby," she cried out. "O, Mr. Sherwood, run for the river." And for her own part, she ran round and round in a maze, wringing her hands, peeping under the hedge, examining the gravel path, and all the places where Horace certainly could not be, even if he had tried to conceal himself. Mr. Sherwood and his wife had gone to the river. "It is, perhaps, a foolish alarm," said Mrs. Clifford, pacing the yard. "Horace asked me to let him go, with some other boys, shooting squirrels, but I said _No_, very decidedly. I cannot think Horace would disobey me so." "Hurrah!" shouted a boyish voice from the house. "Here is the runaway, safe and sound. Please come here, Mrs. Clifford, if you want to see a curiosity." Mrs. Clifford, Grace, and Barbara went up stairs with hearts wonderfully lightened. "Further yet," said Robert Sherwood's voice from a distance. Ascending the fourth flight of stairs, they entered the square, unfinished room called the Observatory. Here sat the boy who had caused this anxiety, surrounded by a chaos of tools, blocks of wood, pieces of tin, and coils of rope. "Now, there!" cried he, bending his elbows into acute angles, and trying to hide his work in his leather apron. "What made you come in my shop? My pa said--" "My son," said Mrs. Clifford, trying not to smile at the boy's perplexed gestures and eager attempts to put things out of sight, "if you had only told us you kept shop in the roof of the house, we would have been spared this needless alarm." "Yes, Horace Clifford," said Grace, loftily, "I do despise to see anyone so secret and mysterious." "I wonders we didn't think he was whittling sticks some-place," said Barbara, glancing admiringly at Horace. "Well, now you know," said the boy, fidgeting. "You've found me, and I wasn't lost; now can't you go off?" "Pretty talk to your ma," cried Grace. "O, ma, I don't mean you. But I just don't want anybody to see this thing I'm making till it's plum done." "Plum done!" repeated Grace; "where did you pick up such droll words? and why will you twist your mouth so, Horace?" The boy threw down his jackknife with a jerk of despair. "There, now, can't you go away?--I mean you and Barby. 'Tisn't fair play. This is my own shop-room, and my pa said I could keep my tool-chest in it, and there shouldn't anybody--" But Horace found himself talking to empty air, for his visitors had disappeared. He unrolled his leather apron, removed the bit of straw matting from sundry boards, and gazed at them fondly, muttering, "Too good for Gracie, now, isn't it, when she blows me up so?" But for all that, he set to work again till it was so dark that he could not see to guide his jackknife; when he went downstairs, declaring--to use his own words--that he "was hungry enough to eat ginger." Phebe, the little colored girl, who, during all the excitement about Horace, had been obliged to stay in the nursery with the baby, was glad now to wash dishes for Barbara, and pour into her ears complaints of wee Katie, who was, she said, "a right cross one--as cross as two hundred sticks." Barbara listened in indignant silence, only asking at last, "What for a baby would she be now, if she goes to cut her teeth and doesn't cry?" "Bravo! Chalk Eyes," cried Horace, suddenly rushing out upon Phebe, "none of your grumbling." "O, Horace," whispered Grace, reprovingly, "hush saying Chalk Eyes. Haven't you any feeling for poor _discolored_ creatures? "Poh, Gracie! _Niggroes_ don't feel any worse than we do. Come, let's play catch." They played till they were called into the parlor to learn their Sabbath school lessons. Grace's last waking thought was about the new society. Who knew but they might some day build a little asylum for poor children? People would wonder and admire. Well, nobody should know a word about it yet,--not for a year and a day. Just as if girls couldn't keep secrets! And Grace at last dropped to sleep with her finger on her lip. CHAPTER III. THE PRIZE. The princesses quite enjoyed their stolen meetings and their mysterious signs. O, how little the world suspected that they were keeping weighty secrets! So surprised as the world would be if the princesses only had a mind to tell! It was evident that Isabel was more interested as soon as Cassy Hallock had gone away to Kentucky. Then there was no rivalry, for Isa was sure that she stood next to Cassy in Grace Clifford's esteem. But an event soon occurred which caused the Ruby Seal to sink into comparative insignificance. The graduating class walked home from school one evening, looking, one and all, as if they had something on their minds. They were talking of a prize which had been promised to the best scholar at close of school. Judith Pitcher, the girl with long features and melancholy eyes, looked discouraged. Diademia Jones, who usually wore a Berlin iron breastpin, which looked like an ink-blot, pouted, and said she wouldn't try: what did she care? Weak little Lucy Lane was nervous, and declared, if she hadn't staid home and got behind in her lessons, she might try; but, as it was, she didn't call it quite fair. All agreed it was a pity that Cassy Hallock should be away; they wondered her ma would allow her to go visiting in the midst of the term. One little girl, with bright and animated face, listened to all these remarks, but said nothing herself. Grace Clifford and Isabel Harrington were walking together, hand in hand. This was not quite to Grace's fancy. If she might have had her way, she would hardly have joined hands with any one but Cassy, certainly not with Isa, who was not a particular favorite of hers. They happened to be walking directly behind Mahla Linck and Diademia Jones. Diademia, or Di, as she was called, was saying, "I reckon you'll get the prize, Mahla, dear. I'm sure I hope so." A pink color flushed Mahla's pale cheeks, and she looked very eager, but said, sadly,-- "No use, Di. I could, perhaps, if it wasn't for Gracie Clifford; but she's so smart in arithmetic she'll get it. O, I'm sure she will." And as Mahla spoke she seemed to lean more helplessly on her crutch, and to limp more painfully than ever. She little knew that every word she spoke was overheard by Grace Clifford, and was sinking deep into her heart. Mahla was a gentle, studious girl, pitied by every one for her incurable lameness, and beloved for the sweet patience with which she bore her great sufferings. It was certainly Grace's intention, and had been ever since the promise of a prize, to try for it; but when she heard Mahla's hopeless words she was grieved, and felt an impulse to rush forward and throw her arms about the poor girl's neck, and say, "Now don't be afraid of me, Mahla. I'll not stand in your way." But this impulse Grace checked at once. In the first place, it would have been a silly parade of sentiment, she thought; and, in the second place, ambition was a strong feature in Grace's character; she could not, without a struggle, give up the hope of a prize. By this time she and Isabel had crossed the street, and heard nothing more that passed between Mahla and her companion. "Well, Gracie, dear," said Isa, "I'd be ashamed, if I was Di Jones, to talk about Mahla Linck's getting this prize, when Di knows well enough Mahla isn't half so good a scholar as you are." "O, but she is, though, Isa," said Grace, faintly. "Mahla's very studious, very, indeed." "Studious? Yes, she stays in from recess because she can't play. Now, if Cassy was here, she'd try for the prize--wouldn't she, Gracie?" "I dare say--I don't know." "Well, she's the last person to be afraid of," said Isa, sharply. She could never speak of Cassy without a feeling akin to anger. The thought of the tender friendship which existed between Grace and Cassy was like gall and wormwood to the unhappy, jealous little girl. "Why, Isa, to hear you talk, one would think that Cassy was dull! I'm sure Cassy's smart!" "O, dear me," said Isa, "how you do take a body up! I said Cassy's the last person to be afraid of,--I mean for you to be afraid of. She's smart, Cassy is; but then everybody knows, Gracie, she isn't so smart as you are, and don't begin to be." "I'd like to know," thought Grace, as she parted with Isa, and walked from the acorn-tree alone,--"I'd just like to know what does possess Isa to be so spiteful about Cassy! I wish that darling old Cassy was here this minute! I don't see what I did without her all last summer, when I was east!" "Ma," cried Grace, rushing into the parlor, swinging her hat by one string, "just guess what a splendid thing has happened! The three live trustees were all in school this day, and you never saw the like of the way they smiled and patted us on the head, ma! And they're going to give a beautiful prize to the one that improves most between this and July, and passes the best examination for the High School, you know." "Indeed, and shall you try for it, my dear?" "I don't know, ma," replied Grace, with quivering lips; for just at that moment Mahla's words, "Grace Clifford will get it; I'm sure she will," came back and rang in her ears. Mrs. Clifford saw that something was troubling her daughter, but refrained from asking any questions. She always preferred that Grace should confide in her of her own free will. "I don't know, my child," said she, "that I can say I am glad of this project." "But wouldn't you be proud to have me get it--not the least bit proud, ma?" Mrs. Clifford smiled meaningly. "O, no, ma; not exactly _proud_; pleased and gratified, I mean." "You always gratify me, my child, when you do your best. As for your excelling your schoolmates, why should I care for you to do that?" Grace thought her father would not listen to her story as coolly as her mother had done. "What's this I hear about a prize?" said he that evening. And Grace grew quite eager again, describing the benevolent looks and manners of the trustees, and declaring that the prize must be something elegant, everybody said. "But how did _you_ hear of it, pa?" "Your head trustee and I talked the matter over yesterday." "You didn't approve of it, Henry?" asked Mrs. Clifford, looking surprised. "I did, Maria; why not? Dear knows there's need enough of ambition in our schools." "But, Henry, I don't like children to strive so hard to outdo one another. Don't you think prizes are likely to awaken envy and ill-feeling?" Grace listened with her eager mind all awake. She very well knew that on such a question a little girl's opinion is worth nothing; still it seemed strange that her mamma could talk of "envy and ill feeling" in the same breath with the Girls' Grammar School. Mrs. Clifford, however, did not know of the Ruby Seal, which had united the girls in such strong bonds of friendship that it would never be possible for a trifle like this to part them. Captain Clifford settled himself into his dressing-gown and slippers. "I know," said he, "there are various opinions with regard to giving prizes; but so far as my own experience goes, they are real helps to industry. Begging your pardon, Maria, I highly approve of anything that quickens the ambition." Grace's eyes shone. "Yes," continued Captain Clifford, stroking his daughter's hair, "and if our Grace can win the prize, I'll promise to give her a handsome present to go with it." Grace gave a little scream of delight. "O, pa," cried she, throwing her arms about Captain Clifford's neck, "you're just the greatest darling! I do believe nobody else ever had such a father." Mrs. Clifford looked at her little girl's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, and feared a sleepless night for her. "Remember this, Gracie," said she, gently: "'The reward is in the race we run, not in the prize.' Do your best, and then never mind who wins." Grace laughed nervously. "Ma doesn't care a speck," she thought. "You can't get ma eager about anything; but pa cares. O, dear me, won't I work hard just for the sake of pleasing pa!" It occurred to Grace that she must write at once to Cassy, and tell her what Mahla had said. Those mournful words, "Grace will get it," haunted her. It seemed to the child that she could not press forward and gain the prize without walking right over Mahla's heart. So Grace seated herself at the centre-table, and opened her little writing-desk; when her father, who had been quietly reading to himself, suddenly exclaimed, "Really, Maria, this is horrible," and began to read aloud an account of the last battle. When Grace heard any mention of the war, she either stopped her ears or ran away. Now she hastily gathered up her writing materials, and went into the kitchen, where Barbara sat with her unfailing black knitting-work. Barbara was very glad to have her tidy premises honored with a visit, and insisted upon bringing an arm-chair out of the dining-room for her guest. Grace seated herself at the kitchen table, which was as white as it could be scoured; but scarcely had she smoothed out her paper and written "Darling old Cassy," when Horace appeared in the door-way, making mysterious signals to Barbara. What could the boy mean? The good, foggy-brained German girl was sorely puzzled,--did not know the deaf and dumb alphabet, and could never take a hint. "Come here, then, Barby," cried the boy; "I'll make you '_ferstand_.'" "So I'm the one in the way," said Grace, quickly; "you're so mightily mysterious, all of a sudden, Horace!" "Good evening, Grace," said Robert Sherwood, appearing at the door; "what about the prize?" "O, dear, I don't know, Robin." "What think I heard? That the trial would lie between two of you girls--Grace Clifford and Mahla Linck." Grace flushed to the temples. Then other people thought that, as well as the school-girls. "What are you doing, Grace?" said Horace, returning from the dining-room, and eying his sister's writing-desk with some curiosity. "Writing a letter, or trying to," replied Grace, flourishing her pen nervously in the air. "Why is your letter like the equator?" said Robert. "Equator? Don't know. Can't stop to guess conundrums." "Because it's only an imaginary line." "My letter? O, Robin, how smart! It always will be imaginary, I reckon, while you boys stand there looking at me. Do, please, let me alone!" "O, good by, South Carolina," said Robert, bowing. "I'm off." "Good by, Car'line," echoed little Horace, with a patronizing sweep of his thumb. Grace returned to her writing, her feelings still somewhat ruffled. She had proceeded as far as "I want to see you more than tongue can tell," when Horace burst into the room again with a second message to Barbara. "Is there, or is there not, a place in this house where a body can go to write a letter?" cried Grace, rising and pushing back her paper. But her remark was unheeded. Barbara and Horace went on whispering together, and seemed to be enjoying their little secret, whatever it might be. Grace's nerves were quivering from the day's excitement. "I'm not cross," thought she. "O, no, not cross; but I'd like to give that boy a good shaking. It's not my temper, it's my 'nervous system.' The doctor said my nervous system was torn to pieces by the chills." Grace would never forget this unfortunate remark of her physician. But she was a sensible girl, and it suddenly occurred to her that her "nervous system" could never go to scolding unless she opened her mouth. Bitter, sharp words sprang to her tongue; but if her tongue was only "kept between her teeth," the words couldn't fly out. "I'll just 'lock my lips,'" mused Grace, "for, as ma says, 'A spoken word no chariot can overtake, though it be drawn by four swift horses.'" Tedious little Horace at last made an end of his story, and left the kitchen whistling either Dixie or Yankee Doodle, no mortal could tell which; for out of Horace's mouth they were one and the same thing. Barbara seated herself, and resumed her knitting. She usually nodded over that black stocking as drowsily as if it had been a treatise on philosophy, or something quite as stupid; but to-night she was painfully wide awake. "O, my patience!" thought Grace; "can't she look at anything but me?" There by the stove sat the glaring white kitty, staring at Grace with winking eyelids, and on the mantel stood the clock ticking at her, and in the corner sat Barby clicking needles at her; every tick and every click seeming to go through Grace's ears like percussion caps. "Miss Grace," said Barbara, picking up a stitch, "be you writin' to Susy Parlin?" "No, Barby," replied Grace, frowning at her paper. Barbara went on with her knitting, the clock went on with its ticking, and the cat still stared at Grace. Presently Barbara dropped another stitch. "Miss Grace," said she, "does you write to little Prudy Parlin?" "No, Barby; to Cassy. But seems to me you're amazingly wide awake." "Yes, dear; I doesn't feel sleepy a bit." Sharp words were on Grace's tongue again; but she said gently, after a pause,--"Barby, will you please not talk? It troubles me." "Bless your little white heart," cried Barby, turning about, and putting her feet on the stove hearth, "not a word more will I speak." Grace felt quieted. She had fought against her "nervous system," and conquered a peace. Now, for the first time, she could write, and forget clocks, cats, and knitting-needles in her subject. She told Cassy just what her father said, what her mother said, and how "there never was anything she wanted so much as that splendid prize." Then she spoke of Mahla Linck, and asked Cassy to be sure and write what she thought about her. Would it be a shame to try to get ahead of a poor lame girl? Why need one mind Mahla more than the other princesses? Hadn't one a right to push by all that came in one's way? Somehow Grace did not wish to tell her mother of the strife going on in her mind. "Ma wouldn't care a picayune about my winning," thought she; "she'd say, 'Give it up to the little German.' Ma is almost too good to live. But pa cares about it; O, I can see that pa cares very much." Grace's mind was settling itself. By writing the facts in black and white they had become clearer to her. Now she was fully decided what course to take about Mahla. She wrote till nine o'clock, then signed herself, "Yours, like everything--Gracie." "Now, Barby," said she, "yon may talk as much as you please, for I've no more writing to do. Much obliged to you for keeping so still." Barby laughed in high good humor, and going into the pantry, brought out a funny little table, about a foot and a half long. It was a miniature extension table, of black walnut, freshly polished with sweet oil. Grace clapped her hands, screaming with delight. "Why, where did this come from? Just what I've wanted for my dining-room department, Barby, ever since I had my cabinet!" Barbara took out the inside leaves, making an oval centre-table. "O, so cunning! Whose is it, Barby? I haven't felt like I could give dinner parties for my enormous doll on that tea-poy--it's too tall." Barbara laughed quietly, by and by telling Grace that this new article of furniture was hers, made on purpose for her by Horace. Grace could hardly believe it, for even a small extension table requires much mechanical skill. "O, but he has worked at it all the days for so long!" said Barbara, who was extremely proud of Horace. Upon inquiry, she confessed that he had been to see the "tischler" (joiner) "two times," and that Robin had helped him a little. "O, where's Horace?" cried Grace; "I want to see him this minute, to thank him for my beautiful present." "Sound abed and asleep," replied the German girl, yawning. When had Barby been known to sit up so late? Faithful creature, she had kept her sleepy eyes open for the sake of presenting this pretty table to Grace; for, as she said, "I just does like to hear her laugh!" "Deary me," thought Grace, "if I'd spoken up pettishly when she bothered me so, I'd want to bite my tongue out! Reckon I know of something as good for my 'nervous system' as quinine; and that's _patience_." CHAPTER IV. A SNAKE IN THE GRASS. Next morning, when Barbara was building the kitchen fire, she heard the sound of small boots, and, looking up, saw Horace, who had run down stairs in such haste that as yet he had put on but one sleeve of his jacket. "Ho, Barby!"--Horace considered it a waste of breath to say "good morning,"--"what were the first words she said?" "Let's me think," replied Barby, with an air of deep reflection. "'Where did this thing came from?' Them's the first words she said." "That all? Poh! If I'd known that, I wouldn't have touched to make it! Did you tell her Ike Davis couldn't? and he's learned the joiner's trade, too." "There, now, if I didn't forget to say dat!" "Why, Barby, I wouldn't have thought that of you, now!" "But she liked it. She was just as pleased." "Pleased, was she? Did she clap her hands?" "Yes; clapped 'em hard, she did, and laughed." "Will she put it in her cabinet, think, Barby?" "O, yes; she said it's what she did always want." Horace's face brightened like the moon sailing out of a cloud. Grace's cabinet held nothing but choice articles, and was kept as orderly as a paper of pins. "See here, Barby; you needn't tell Gracie I asked you any questions." When the children met that morning, Grace threw her arms about her brother's neck,-- "O, Horace, dear, there never was anything so nice as my little dining-table." "Poh!" exclaimed the boy, dipping, swallow-like, this way and that, to avoid a kiss. "Why, you dear little brother, mayn't I kiss you for thanks?" said the affectionate sister, trying to find a spot on his face which was not in motion. She succeeded at last in touching his forehead with her lips. "There, _once'll_ do," said Horace, impatiently; for he considered kissing an amiable weakness, and only submitted to it as a painful duty. "O, pshaw!" said he; "such a fuss over just nothing!" And this was all the remark he would deign to make concerning a piece of work which must have cost him many days of hard labor. Still, he was proud of his success, and for a long while afterward felt the keenest delight in seeing that table brought out for exhibition to visitors, or standing in a corner adorned with his sister's work-box. Grace had a bright face this morning, as Mrs. Clifford noticed at once. She sent her letter to the post-office by her father, then had a frolic with Horace, who was rather "wildish," and with little Katie, who, for a wonder, did not appear to be cutting a tooth that morning, and was "as cunning as a baby can be and live." As Grace entered the school-room, she met Mahla Linck, whose white face warmed to a glow at her friendly greeting. "She's the girl that thinks it's of no use to try for the prize," thought Grace. "Poor thing, I'll soon make her understand that she needn't be afraid of Grace Clifford." The school was called to order, and the teacher, a tall, fine-looking young lady, began to read the morning lesson in the New Testament. A part of the beautiful Sermon on the Mount was repeated by teacher and pupils. When they came to the words, "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so to them," Grace involuntarily glanced across the room to Mahla, who sat resting her head on her hand. Such a hand! You could trace its veins as easily as the blue lines in white paper. Her pale hair shone in the sun like threads of gold. Grace's eyes were fixed on the little girl with a sort of fascination. If anything could be done to help poor Mahla, she would do it. What though by helping her she should lessen her own chance of the prize? Never mind. Hadn't Christ made the Golden Rule? Grace had fought out the battle with herself the night before. She had put her hand to the plough, and would not look back. When recess-time came, Mahla had no heart for play, but kept her seat, still vexing herself over a question in analysis, which was buried in a fog. Grace watched her with real pity. It was almost unaccountable, she thought, how any one who had ever studied "Colburn's Mental" could be puzzled by anything in analysis. But Grace was a natural mathematician, and Mahla was not. When school was over at noon, the pale young German girl still sat biting her slate pencil, and pressing one colorless hand upon her throbbing temples. "Now, what is it, Mahla?" said the sweet voice of Grace Clifford, as she came and leaned over her friend's shoulder, her face covered with smiles. "I do believe you're puzzling over the same thing that vexes everybody so to-day. Want me to show you just a speck? For you'll catch the headache, Mahla, if you think so hard." Mahla gave a sigh of relief. "I don't know, Gracie; things seem to spin round and round; I can't get a start." [Illustration: Grace helping Mahla.] "Let's look at it, Mahla. Do piece work--three men--how many days? It's that same old firm of A, B, and C. How long suppose they've been in company? I just believe they set up a shop in the ark?" Mahla laughed a little, the first time for that day; and it did her good. "Well, now, if those old patriarchs A, B, and C--" But we will not follow Grace in her explanation. She never wearied till Mahla's eyes brightened, and she cried out, "O, how stupid! Why couldn't I see that before? You make things so clear! You do beat everything in arithmetic, Gracie!" Then Mahla laid aside her slate and book with a smile of heartfelt satisfaction, and made ready to eat her dinner of plain bread and butter and Dutch cheese. Grace dropped an orange into her basket. "Good by, Mahla. If you have any more trouble with those horrid questions, let me know, please. Remember, we belong to the Ruby Seal and are bound to help one another." Mahla looked up with a face full of joy and gratitude, and tried to speak her thanks. But a swelling in her throat choked her voice. Grace felt strangely happy as she bounded out of the school-yard; yet the exquisite joy which throbbed at her heart, and called tears to her eyes, was not so much happiness as blessedness. She had obeyed the Saviour's Golden Rule in a sweet, unselfish spirit, and had her reward. Just outside the gate she met Isa Harrington, who had been waiting for her impatiently. "What did keep you so long, Gracie?" "O, I was talking with Mahla," replied Grace, who did not care to make a parade of her generous deeds. "It's right kind in you to take so much notice of Dutch girls," pursued Isa, who was extremely anxious to make the most of Cassy's absence, and win Grace's favor as far as she could, not caring how much flattery she used for the purpose. "Why, Isa, she's a respectable German--Mahla is." "O, yes, Gracie; but her ma used to work at your house before she was married. Wouldn't catch Cassy Hallock making so much of their hired girl's children. One of the kid-glove sort Cassy is, or would be if she was only rich." "Not proud, Isa Harrington." Isa cleared her throat. "Deary me, no! I declare, I forgot I was talking to _you!_ You'll never hear a word against Cassy, and I don't blame you, Grace Clifford." Grace's joyous mood changed; she looked vexed. Why would Isa persist in saying little hateful things, which pricked like cambric needles? "We girls would like to see Cassy Hallock stand up so for you--that's all," added Isa, shutting her mouth firmly, as if her teeth were all on edge. "Well, so she would. Cassy never would hear me abused. She's not a milk-and-water sort of person; and that you know, Isa Harrington!" Isa cleared her throat again with a provoking cough, which said, as plainly as words, "O, couldn't I tell you something surprising if I only would!" "Isa Harrington," said Grace, impetuously, "what's that you say?" "I said nothing at all," replied Isa, demurely. "But you _look_ mighty wise. I'd sooner a body'd speak right out than to look so wise; I would _so_, Isa." "Ah, Gracie. I could tell a heap of things I reckon; but no good--you wouldn't believe a word." "Speak out," said Grace, severely, as she proceeded to curl a dandelion stem. "Ahem! Remember that time you had the oyster supper at your house, don't you, Gracie? Well, did you stay in the room with the company? I always wanted to know." "Yes, Isa, part of the time. Why?" Isa rolled her eyes, and looked unutterable things. "O, nothing, only Mrs. Hallock was there, you know. Ahem! Well, next day, Mrs. Hallock said to her husband, and Cassy was right there in the room--" Isa hesitated. It seemed to be her painful duty to stop. "Do go on," said Grace. "If it's ever so bad I want to hear it." "I just happened to think, Gracie, dear, you haven't promised not to tell." "And I'll not promise any such thing, Isa," cried Grace, spiritedly. "Then I've said all I'm going to," replied Isa, folding her arms in a hard knot. "But you're not going to leave off right in the middle! Now, Isa, that's not fair." "Well, no more it isn't fair for you not to promise." By this time they had nearly reached Captain Clifford's, for Isa had walked a long distance out of her way to accompany Grace. "Isa Harrington, I think you might tell." "Gracie Clifford, I think you might promise." "Isa, I'd never dare. 'Twould fly out of my lips when I saw Cassy, and I couldn't help it. Don't make me tell a lie!" Grace ate her dinner that noon in silence. What dreadful thing could Mrs. Hallock have said to her husband? "Nothing much, I reckon; Cassy wouldn't go and tell stories about me! I'll trust Cassy as long as I live." Grace twirled her regard-ring about her finger. "I'd be crazy if I believed my best friend was false!" Still the thought troubled her. Grace had asked Cassy's views regarding the prize. To her it seemed a thousand pities that Cassy should have gone away, and so missed all chance of it. Cassy's reply was just like her. She didn't care her little finger for the prize. "It wouldn't probably be worth more than five dollars, any way; and as she had five dollars already, what could she want of any more?" She didn't see why Grace should want it, either; but if she did, Cassy hoped she'd get it. "If Mahla feels badly, you can give her something," added Cassy, sagely. Grace pondered over this letter for some time. It was short and to the purpose, for its writer never wasted words. Grace fancied, too, that it was rather cool; but every time a doubt tried to creep into her mind, she shut it out, saying to herself,-- "Cassy's my dear friend: I'll trust Cassy as long as I live." From this time Mahla Linck seemed to take a fresh start in arithmetic. Grace knew very well that as much as she helped Mahla, just so much she hindered herself. In everything but figures Mahla excelled. Her copy-book was a pattern of neatness; she could spell quite accurately; and as for geography, she was at home all over the world. But if left to herself, she was sure to spoil the whole by her dulness in arithmetic. Miss Allen was not possessed of "long patience," and dear little Mahla could make nothing of her scientific explanations. But Grace had a way of shedding light on that dismal book, which, though called _Ray's_ Arithmetic, was quite rayless to Mahla. So the poor child turned to her new friend with joyful eagerness. Grace did not falter; but she had one trial. Every night Captain Clifford said, smiling,-- "Well, daughter, how comes on the studying? Any nearer the prize?" And Grace had to answer, slowly, "O, pa, don't go to expecting I'll get it, please! Mahla's the one." When she had said this, her father would turn again to his newspaper, looking slightly disappointed. Then Grace felt a pang of regret; but it soon passed away, and never left a sting. CHAPTER V. FORTUNES. All the school-girls were talking just now about a wonderful woman, who had suddenly dropped down, perhaps out of the moon--a woman who could tell what had happened, and what would happen, as easily as she would wink. "Why," said the graduating class, talking two or three at once, "she can tell you when you were born, how your parents look, what's your given name, and all about your friends, whether they're light or dark complexion, and--" "Well, there," said Grace, contemptuously, "that's smart! Does anybody want to hear it all over again, when they knew it before? I'd like her to tell something new." "So she does," cried the girls, with breathless eagerness; "she can foretell things, and they do come to pass, too,--things that make your hair stand on end." "I wonder!" said timid Lucy Lane, shivering, and looking behind her. "O, fie! Lucy," said. Grace, patronizingly; "don't you be a bit afraid, dear; it's all a sham. I can foretell as well as Mrs. Gypsy. I'll foretell what we're going to have for dinner--a dog in a blanket." "There, now," laughed Diademia; "I've heard of eating roasted horses, but I didn't know it ever came to cats and dogs." Grace explained that a dog in a blanket was a roly-poly pudding. "But about this gypsy," continued Di; "anybody'd think, to hear you, Grace Clifford, that you supposed we believed in her." At this speech the girls all declared, by gestures and exclamations, that nothing could be more absurd than to suppose that they had any faith in such nonsense. What did they care about it? Only it was so queer! True, they knew of girls who had been to see this strange being,--young ladies who never told a lie in their lives,--and these young ladies all "deposed" and said that the gypsy was a perfect wonder! Grace listened with curling lip to the strange stories which the princesses narrated. There was Panoria Swan,--the proud young lady who, the boys said, had swallowed a whalebone and couldn't stoop,--even Panoria Swan sailed down in all her majesty to this gypsy, who sent her home so terribly frightened that she ran every step of the way, and forgot to scowl for six hours. Then there was the large girl with the geographical name, Missouri Arkansas Smith, who had found a pot of gold, or was going to; and a man who had had a splendid future foretold, which had come to pass; that is to say, all that had happened beforehand had come to pass, every speck of it. The arrival of this singular stranger was the most startling thing which had fallen to the notice of the Ruby Seal Society since its birth. For a day or two the usual game of skipping the rope was voted tedious, and the princesses formed a group by themselves, greatly fascinated by hearing and telling stories of this weird woman of the woods. How delightful if they could make up a party and go to consult her! It would be an appalling thing to venture alone; but there is strength in numbers. "Now, Gracie Clifford, if you'll only go ahead!" "O, yes, Gracie; what a gay time we'll have! Not that we, any of us, believe such witch stories. Just for the frolic, you know." "But I have a perfect _despise_ for fortune-tellers; it's not respectable; it's silly, and--I'd be ashamed." Grace did not add what she really thought--"and I'm afraid it's wicked." "I'm right glad you feel so, Gracie," said gentle Mahla Linck, laying her hand caressingly on their queen's shoulder. "I just know it's not right to go." But in spite of her assumed indifference, Grace had as much curiosity as any of the others. True, she declared, over and over again, that she didn't care about going within fifty miles of this gypsy; that, let the crazy creature say what she might, it would surely turn out exactly the reverse. Still, after having cleared her conscience by all this preamble, she consented to go, "just to please the girls." They were all delighted; for, in their opinion, Grace's presence gave an air of respectability to the enterprise. They decided that this was one of those affairs which could not be mentioned to any of their mothers. It was not probable that their mothers could be brought to understand the case; so difficult is it for grown-up women to perceive that there is no harm in a little frolic! Grace was very uneasy; still she freely acknowledged, with the others, that the thing must be done by stealth, or not at all. The princesses shook hands in all solemnity, promising secrecy till death. They arranged, all but Mahla Linck, to meet for a walk the next "evening," which with New Englanders means "afternoon." Delay was dangerous, for the gypsy might not stay long in town. She lived on the wing, and was no more to be depended upon than a butterfly. Saturday "evening" came, clear and cloudless; and at two o'clock the girls met by appointment. Did Grace Clifford feel no twinges of conscience when her kind mother packed a basket with dainties, and kissed her good by? Did she think the queen of the Ruby Seal had a right to keep such secrets from such a mother? Ah, this was not the conduct one might expect from a little girl who reads two chapters in the Bible every day. It is to be feared, however, that Grace only tripped carelessly over her task, instead of studying the Best of Books with real attention. After much chatting and laughing, and losing their way a few times in the "green gloom of the woods," the girls reached a settlement in the country called "Small's Enlargement," passed a romantic log church, and came in sight of the fortune-teller's dwelling, an unpainted cottage snuggled in among gooseberry-bushes, tulip-trees, scrub-oaks, persimmon, and Judas-trees. The tenement was owned by Mr. Harrington, Isa's father, but was so sadly out of repair that no respectable person would rent it; and it was usually occupied only by rats, or for a short time in the summer by some wandering family. Grace pulled something which seemed to be the remains of a door-knob; but if it was connected with a bell, the bell was certainly tongue-tied, for it would not ring. "Let's walk right in," said Grace, lifting the latch. Like many Western houses, this cottage had no front hall, and you stepped at once into the parlor. The girls were greeted by a dense cloud of smoke, which quite filled the room. Grace fancied for a moment that this strange woman had been invoking some sort of a spell with the aid of magic, and looked about her, half expecting to see "black spirits and white" floating in the air. But if spirits there were, they could not be discerned through the smoke, which was pouring out through the acorn-shaped stove in the corner. The occupant of the room did not come forward to greet her guests, but said in a low tone, as if muttering to herself, "Whatever is to be will be! Can't help your fate! As well go set an army of grasshoppers to fighting against the United States army! Yes, go set 'em to fighting, I tell you." This singular speech startled everybody. Poor Lucy Lane trembled, and caught fast hold of Grace's hand, while Grace, for her part, felt, as she had declared she should feel, ready to laugh, though partly from nervousness. The strange hostess glared at Grace in silence, but with much displeasure, and very likely from that moment marked out for her a dark future. This mysterious woman was dressed in a half barbaric costume. She had on a garment which resembled a coat, only the sleeves were loose and flowing, like those of a lady's dress. She wore Turkish drawers of green calico, gathered into a band at the ankle, and her feet blazed with red slippers, brilliantly adorned with "gold spangles." Over her shoulders she now threw a loose robe, like a cloak, made of scarlet moreen, for all the world like a pulpit curtain, down which dangled two huge tassels. By the time this robe of state had been carefully adjusted, the gypsy came forward and welcomed her visitors. Isa she patted on the shoulder with much cordiality, shook hands with Judith Pitcher and Lucy Lane, but passed by Grace with only a glance. The old crone's face was as strange as her dress. Her eyes were intensely black and bright; they seemed to have burned out the rest of her face, which was very thin and haggard. These wild eyes sank far into her head, "like birds' nests under the eaves of a house." To crown all, she wore a fierce turban of soiled white lace. Altogether, she was weird-looking enough to frighten a person of tolerably strong nerves. Well for the more timid of the little girls if they should escape from her with no worse effects than horrible dreams! "Well, my pretty dears," said she at last, "what can I do for you? Whatever is to be will be! We're nothing but a handful of grasshoppers! Do you dare to have me tear down the _mountainious_ veil of futurity?" It seemed necessary to make some reply. "Yes,'m," said two or three of the girls, in tremulous tones. "Please, may I raise the window, ma'am?" said Grace. The fortune-teller deigned no reply, but went on talking as if to herself:-- "The proper and true way to cure smoke, is to start a roaring fire, then pour on salt and water, and the steam will choke out the smoke. There are," continued she in the same tone, "some children of this generation who think they know more than their betters; but they never'll set the river afire. Now, you mark my words, such knowing children never'll set the river afire." The smoke growing worse, Isabel proposed that they should hear their fortunes out of doors. The gypsy readily consented, for from the first she had looked upon Isabel with a friendly eye. The truth was, she remembered the little girl's babyhood, and had often held her in her arms, though of this Isa knew nothing. Seated on a rude bench under the budding trees, the little girls and their dark hostess formed a picturesque group. All hearts beat high with awe and curiosity, as the gypsy drew out from the folds of her scarlet robe a pack of soiled cards, "shuffled" them with much deliberation, and passed them to Isabel, saying, "Tell me, young miss, shall I predicate your fortune by astrology, by cards, or by the lines on the palm of your hand?" Isa looked at the other girls, hoping for advice in this important matter. "What _would_ you do, Gracie?" "Suppose we each have it different?" replied Grace. "You take the cards, I'll take the astrology, and some of the others can use the lines on their hands." "Very well," replied Isa, turning to the gypsy, "I reckon I'll take the cards. Aren't they just as good?" "First," replied Mrs. Gypsy, with a solemn glance sky-ward, "first you may cross my palms with silver." "We've nothing but scrip," replied Grace, who was obliged to do the financial business for the whole party. "They said you asked six bits apiece for your fortunes, and we've brought it," added she, putting into the woman's hand three dollars and seventy-five cents in paper bills, the joint sums which the girls had brought with them. They might have made a vastly better use of their money by throwing it into the acorn-shaped stove for kindling. Grace's "six bits" was all she had left of her monthly allowance, and this she had been setting aside for the soldiers in the hospital; but the soldiers could wait a while for their currant jelly, whereas it is not every day one can have one's fortune told by a black-browed gypsy, with a turban on her head. The woman pretended to be surprised at the scarcity of silver, and the girls trembled lest she should, even now, send them off with no fortunes, just when they were on tiptoe with awe and curiosity. CHAPTER VI. MISFORTUNES. But to the immense relief of the girls, the gypsy at last consented, most kindly, to accept the money, and after the cards had been "cut," proceeded to assort them, and read from their dirty faces Isabel's future destiny. "Dark complect?" said she, looking up at Isa. "Yes, yes, coal-black hair, or will be, and a pair of eyes! There's two kinds of eyes in this world, little miss: one's the oily blank eye, and the other's the snapping black eye. Yours is the snapping black eye. 'Twill break the hearts, my dear--break the hearts," repeated Mrs. Gypsy, approvingly. "Here you are, the queen of spades, the queen of beauty, and behind you there I see trouble." The gypsy scanned the cards closely. "Ah, I know it all, now. It's a child, a girl, dead since way back. Your sister: you were named for her." The girls were dumb with surprise, and gazed at one another with parted lips. They had all heard of "the other Isa," and had seen her little head-stone in the graveyard. "You have one brother," continued the gypsy; "light hair; name begins with a T." "Thomas," cried the girls in a breath. "Where could she have heard of Tommy?" cried Grace. "Where, to be sure, miss?" was the tart reply. "Never heard of him till he looked up at me out of the cards." By this time five pairs of eyes had grown very large, and five little hearts were throbbing high with awe and curiosity. How could these children know that the gypsy was acquainted with the history of her landlord's family? How were they to imagine that she purposely told Isa's fortune first in order to excite their wonder? "I see here," said the gypsy, fumbling at the cards mysteriously, as if she could pierce quite through them with her sharp eyes, "I see a present for you: it's worth a power of money. I see a journey for you: it's across the waters. Here is a great nobleman; and O, how rich! He rolls in gold! He'll set great store by you, miss, and when you grow up you'll marry him, and you'll roll in gold, too." Isa smiled; and it is worthy of notice that she did not wonder at all at this future husband, though, according to her promise to the Ruby Seal Society, she could no more think of marrying than a veiled nun. "Such a lady as you'll be. You know of girls now that are pretty _thin_ with you. You wish yourself as rich and grand. But never mind. The day'll come when they'll be glad of a smile from you." The wicked woman continued this harangue for some time, painting in gorgeous colors the splendor which was to shine upon the happy Isa one of these days; while Isa sat listening to the romance in a tumult of delight. "What girls were those who felt themselves better? That must mean Grace Clifford, if anybody. She would come humbly to Isa Harrington, begging for a smile. Cassy Hallock would then have sunk into a nobody. O, how exquisite! Grace was cool and indifferent now--was she? Ah, well! the tables were about to be turned, and then maybe somebody else would know how to be cool and indifferent too." "O, Isa," laughed Grace, "think of the lovely dresses you'll wear! Please give me one, Isa. I hope you'll not forget your old friends." The gypsy scowled, but was keen to take observations. "I reckon I'll know who are my real friends better than some people do," replied Isa, meaningly. "I'll have so many friends that I just hope I'll not have to pick out the meanest of the whole to go with; I just hope I'll not be such a stupid as that, and then feel cross when anybody says she isn't perfect." Grace smiled, and so did the other girls. It was plain that Isa was so dazzled as to come very near fancying herself a great lady already. The glances which passed between the girls did not escape the sharp eyes of the gypsy. "Ah, ha! I see how it is. Somebody jealous! I'll soon study it out." Next came Diademia's turn, and she chose to have her fortune read by the zigzag lines on the palm of her hand. The woman declared that these lines were curved in just the right way on the little brown hand of Diademia, who was therefore sure to live in peace and plenty, and to receive a large legacy in five years. So it was with all. The gypsy fairly buried them under heaps of gold and precious stones, till it came to poor Grace Clifford. She bent her black brows, and looked upon this last candidate with a frown, pausing some time before she spoke. Grace did not understand this ominous scowl, but looked into the woman's face with a bright smile of anticipation. "I'd like my fortune told by astrology, please, madam. That's the stars--isn't it?" "First give me your hand, miss; not that--the left one, like the others did. Alas!" sighed the artful woman, poring over the soft little palm, "life-line short and crossed, matrimony-line and line of riches cut clean off! I daresn't to lift the tempestuous veil of fortune. Black, mighty black!" Grace might have answered, "Very well, madam; then pray don't take the trouble to do it, but give me back my 'six bits,' and I'll buy that jelly for the soldiers." But Grace was by far too much interested; she could not go away now without hearing her fortune, however dark it might prove. "Please go on, ma'am," said she, with a brave smile, though her heart quaked for fear. "What day and year was you born, miss?" "September 3d, 1851." "Then you are under the influence of the planet _Marcury_," said the gypsy, after an intense study of the sky, during which she looked as wise as an astronomer calculating an eclipse. "Marcury, sorry to say. You have friends who have been--ahem!--who will go to the war." Here the gypsy paused and gazed at the heavens again, lost in thought. "She means your pa," whispered Lucy, "when you supposed he was dead, and he wasn't." "As I was saying, you have a very dear relation who was killed, or almost killed, in the wars," continued the gypsy, starting up from her reverie, and beginning where she had left off, without appearing to pay the slightest attention to Lucy's whisper. "I had to study a while to find out if he died; but the truth is, he's alive now--your father, I mean." If possible the girls were more amazed than ever. What didn't the gypsy know? Wasn't it awful? "Yes, at the time you was born, poor thing! the planets Marcury and Haskell were disjunctive. Whatever is to be will you'll see trouble. You have a dear friend: you set store by her." Here the gypsy perceived that she had made another happy hit, for Grace looked surprised again. "This friend pretends to have a heart for you; you think she's true; but mark my words,"--and the prophetess dropped her monotonous voice to a hoarse whisper; "mark my words: you never were more mistaken in your life." Here Isa's face took on an expression of pleasure, and she touched Grace's elbow, whispering, "Didn't I tell you so? There now!" Grace grew an inch taller; would not look at Isa, but tossed a reply to her over her shoulder:-- "Please don't say any more, Isa. The woman may have told the other things right, but she's made a mistake about Cassy Hallock." "Cassy Hallock! ah, that's the name," spoke up the gypsy. "What do you say about mistakes? I don't make mistakes! I tell you that smooth friend of yours is a snake in the grass. Flies buzz, girls talk. Don't trust that girl. Trouble's coming thick as sand." The girls cast pitying glances upon Grace, as if they already saw her the victim of sorrow. "Needn't curl your lip; you are soon to have a fever and lose all your pretty hair. When you're twelve and some odd, your father'll die, and the next year your mother'll die too. You're one of them that considers every rain-storm nothing but a clearing-off shower; but you'll find one storm that won't clear off. You'll near about come nigh starving, miss. It's an awful way to die; but you won't die so. You'll be bit by a rattlesnake, and won't live a day after you're sixteen year old." Grace tried to laugh. "Come, girls," said she, "let's go." "You're an awful unlucky child," cried the gypsy, pointing her finger at Grace, who did not look quite humble enough yet. "You're very _peart_ now; but trouble's coming: now you mark my words." So saying, the crazy woman arose to enter the house; but as she saw the smoke still clouding the air, a new freak seized her bewildered brain. She quite forgot her character of fortune-teller, and shouted aloud, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness. Tell me one thing before I have you, little army of grasshoppers: what did John Baptist do with the locusts? Did he eat 'em raw, or did he smoke and roast 'em?" Then with "tinsel-slippered" feet, the gypsy entered the house, and closed the door. The girls heard a shout of wild laughter. Could it be from the gypsy? They started with one accord, and ran till they were out of breath. "Where are the baskets with our picnic?" cried Diademia, suddenly pausing. "Under one of the 'simmon-trees," replied Lucy Lane, who was a natural housekeeper, and had carefully collected the scattered baskets, and put them together in what she considered a safe place. Now, who would dare go for them? Tho girls were hungry, but they were also in a panic. Who could it be that had laughed so wildly? How did they know that the strange creature might not spring out upon them, and drag them into her den? Grace at last summoned courage, and the girls followed her, hoping that nothing dreadful could happen to any one but Grace, after such excellent fortunes. They went to the persimmon-trees, but found no baskets. Lucy, usually timid and irresolute, was firm enough in this case. She had placed the baskets under a certain tree; but they were not there now, neither could they be found. "Magic!" murmured Di. "I wonder," said Grace, "if they've been magicked off? What if I go ask our gypsy?" She stepped cautiously along towards the house. "Gracie Clifford, you don't dare." "How do you know that, Isa?" "Don't go," whispered the girls, crouching together behind the trees. They were divided in their minds between superstitious terror and sharp hunger. Grace's eyes were flashing with strong excitement. She was as much frightened as any of the others; but a spirit of desperation had seized her, and she walked up to the house and entered it in spite of the feeble remonstrances of the girls. She did not come out again for several minutes, and by that time her companions were alarmed. Not that they really believed the "fortune-woman" was an ogress, who ate children; but they did not know clearly what they did believe, and herein was the chief perplexity. If the gypsy had only been like other human beings! But that she certainly was not. Grace came out of the cottage at last. "Did you find her?" cried the girls. "Yes, but not the baskets. Where, think, she was? Sitting on the stove, muttering over some magic to top the smoke. There was her red robe, or whatever it is, on the floor, with something under it. I went up to her, and said I, 'Do you know, ma'am, where our baskets are?'--I reckon she doesn't like me. Why, girls, she glared at me like a wild tiger, and told me if I touched a hem of that red thing I'd be sorry, for she was the voice of one crying in the wilderness, and I don't know what all." "O, fie! I wouldn't have minded that," said Di. "Why didn't you go right along and take up the cloak? I'd have done it in a twinkling." "Then you may go do it, Di," retorted Grace, who thought such a scornful remark was but a poor return for her own valiant conduct. Di was dumb. "But," continued Grace, "I just feel as if those baskets were under that cloak; I do _so_." "If she eats my cookies," said Isa, "I hope they'll choke her." "There now, Gracie, what shall we do?" sighed Lucy Lane, trying to conceal her tears. "I brought three custards, and a silver teaspoon, and six slices of pound-cake; and Jane covered them up with one of ma's nice napkins. O, dear, dear, dear!" "My basket," said Judith Pitcher, "was ma's sweet little French bird's-nest, they call it, with a bird at each end for a handle. I'd starve to death and never mind it; but it's that basket that breaks my heart." "Girls, I'm going home to tell my pa to get a search-warrant, and a policeman, and a protest; see if I don't," cried Diademia, half frantic. "Di Jones, if you do," interposed Isa, "if you let on one word about this fix, you'll be turned straight out of our society. Didn't we promise secrecy till death?" "Hush!" said Grace, soothingly; "let's hunt the baskets a little longer." Accordingly they searched in all directions as long as they dared, then set their faces towards home, tired and discouraged. Lucy Lane stealthily wiped a few tears from her eyes. "Pretty doings!" whispered Di, confidentially. "_Gracie_ has got us into a curious fix." Lucy wondered how Grace could be blamed, but had not the courage to take her part; so she merely gave a little groan, which Di understood to mean, "Yes, dear; just so." Lucy was what Grace Clifford called a "yes-yes sort of girl;" she agreed with everybody. "You see now, Lucy, if Grace had said, up and down, she wouldn't go to see this horrid old witch, why, we would not have stirred a step. Grace is our queen; oughtn't she to keep us out of mischief, pray?" "Yes," said Lucy, "I think so too.--O, my silver teaspoon!" Grace and Isa were also talking in confidence. In spite of the lost baskets Isa "walked on thrones." "So queer, Gracie, what she said about Cassy Hallock!" "O, Isa, I believe she's the Witch of Endor." "Now, Grace Clifford, I'll tell you how Cassy slanders you, only you can't make me say where I heard it. A forward little miss, she says, you are, always speaking up when you aren't spoken to. Mighty grand you feel. Right vain of your hair, she says; but it's not auburn--it's fire-red." "Why, Isa Harrington," cried Grace, breathless with surprise, "Panoria Swan has fire-red hair. I'll leave it to you--does it look a speck like mine?" "Dear me, no, indeed, Gracie. Nobody ever dreamed of such an idea but just Cassy. But that's not all, nor half. She says her ma don't like her to go with you so much. There, that's all I'll tell." "Isa Harrington, I can't believe one word of that last part," said Grace, indignantly; "it's a mistake, and you may take it back." "I can't take back the sober, solemn, honest truth," returned Isa, firmly. "Seems to me Cassy's changed amazingly, then," said Grace, with a quivering voice. "Hasn't she seemed rather odder since the oyster party, Gracie? I mean Mrs. Hallock?" "Why, no," said Grace, hesitating; "no, indeed! Let me see: once or twice she wouldn't let Cassy go home with me farther than the acorn-tree; but that was because she must have her mind the baby.--Here we are at home." Grace was not ready to believe that her friend and her friend's mother were both so treacherous; still, she entered the house in a state of much perplexity. CHAPTER VII. THE REGARD-RING. Mrs. Clifford wondered why her daughter should return from a picnic so eager for supper. "Why, ma, we lost every single thing we carried to eat." "Lost it! What, not all your five baskets?" "Yes, ma," replied Grace, uneasily; "that's the solemn truth." Mrs. Clifford was naturally surprised. "But, ma, it's a secret. Don't ask me to break my promise, please. Some time, may be, I'll tell you. I will when I can." At the tea-table, Horace's curiosity was very active. He wanted to know where the girls spread out their picnic, what games they played, and would have gone on with his trying questions if Mrs. Clifford had not kindly come to her daughter's relief, and turned the boy's attention to something else. Grace was grateful to her mother, but a sense of guilt weighed heavily on her mind. She had sunk very low in her own esteem, and envied little Horace the innocent frankness with which he dared look people in the face. Added to these twinges of conscience, Grace was in a state of wretched doubt regarding Cassy. What charm would be left in this bleak world, she thought, if this only friend should prove false! Grace's sleep was haunted that night by witches and goblins. She felt the fever which had been predicted "coming to pass" in her burning veins, and was greatly relieved next morning when she awoke as well as usual. But the terrors of witchcraft still haunted her. In a few days another mysterious event took place. Grace lost her regard-ring. When she came from school one evening she was sure she had it on her finger. It must be lost in the house. All possible and impossible places were searched. So strange that Cassy's ring should disappear! Had it melted away like Cassy's friendship? At last Grace settled down to the conviction that Phebe, the little nurse, had stolen it. "What else could have gone with it, unless that wild woman had magicked it away?" Flying into the nursery, she met Phebe walking the floor with little Katie, who was wailing with the ache of some invisible little teeth. "Black people have light fingers, everybody knows," thought Grace, by way of fortifying herself. "Phebe Dolan, my beautiful regard-ring is gone--gone; and who do you suppose took it, Phebe Dolan? _You_ did!" Phebe's eyes rolled like wheels. In her surprise, she almost dropped the baby. "Why, now, I done declar, Miss Grace, I never took it--never seen it; much as ever I knowed you had a ring." "O, Phebe Dolan, you're trembling this minute. What could you want of my ring, you little wretch?" "I declar for't, Miss Grace, I hope to die fust!" "No, you mustn't hope to die, Phebe: you're too wicked to die!" "Then I never, never, in all my born days in this world, and never did, and never will," moaned Phebe, looking about for a handkerchief. It was the first time Grace had spoken sharply to her. She had been in Mrs. Clifford's family for two years, and in that time her excellent mistress had taught her much in regard to her duty; so, if Phebe had now broken the eighth commandment, it could not have been a sin of ignorance. The moment Grace's whirlwind of anger was over, she regretted her hasty words to the desolate little orphan. "Everything has gone wrong since Cassy went away," mused Grace. "I wonder what I'll do or say next? But there, Phebe needn't steal, I declare! It's good enough for her, if she did; and where's my ring if she didn't?" Grace would as soon have suspected one of Horace's pet doves, as Barbara Kinckle. Up to this time the little girls had not found their baskets. But one noon, Captain Clifford came home with a strange account of a crazy woman who had escaped from an almshouse in an adjoining county. She had been wandering about the woods for weeks, fancying herself a prophetess, and sometimes crying out to passers-by, "I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness; prepare ye the way." She had entered a country church and cut down one half of a pulpit curtain for a cloak. She had just been found now at Small's Enlargement, and had become so raving that she was carried away in a strait jacket. "They say," said Captain Clifford, helping himself to venison, "she has been telling fortunes with a pack of dirty cards. I must confess I was surprised to hear that our Grace had been one of the rabble to visit her, Maria." Mrs. Clifford looked at her husband in surprise. "Our Grace?" "Yes, our Grace. It seems to be new to you. Mr. Harrington told me to-day that she was ringleader of a party of little girls who went out to Small's Enlargement on a picnic excursion. The woman stole their baskets, and said such hobgoblin things that his Isabel has been nearly frantic ever since." "My daughter!" said Mrs. Clifford, in a sorrowful voice. "O, ma, I've wanted every hour and minute to tell you, and pa too; but I promised not to!" "Shame, shame!" cried Horace, pointing his index finger at his sister; "before I'd sneak off to a gypsy that way!" "That will do, my son," remarked Captain Clifford. "You may finish your dinner." "O, pa," said Grace, pushing back her chair, and burying her face in her handkerchief, "we all promised not to tell, you know, and I wouldn't, not for my right hand; and here's Isa, pa, she's gone and broken her word." "Wrong, I grant," replied Captain Clifford, with a provoking smile; "there should he honor even among thieves." Grace winced at this proverb. The subject was now dropped, for what Mrs. Clifford said to her daughter she preferred to say to her alone. ----- Cassy Hallock came home. Her father, mother, and brother Johnny were at the wharf to meet her. "Where's Gracie?" was her first salutation, after she had quietly kissed her relatives. "Why, my dear, I've hardly seen Grace since you went away," said Mrs. Hallock. "Goes with Isa Harrington nowadays," remarked brother John, thrusting his thumbs into his vest pockets: "just the way with girls. It's all their wonderful friendships amount to." "O, Johnny!" replied Cassy, faintly; and then she walked on in silence, for Cassy Hallock was not a little girl who wore her heart on her sleeve; it was kept out of sight, and usually did its aching in secret. The next day was Saturday; but Grace did not come to see Cassy, who was quite wretched, but too proud to let any one know it. At last, a happy thought struck her. "Ma, mayn't I go round to see Gracie, and carry a bottle of your cream beer? I reckon she doesn't know I'm home again." "Strange," thought Cassy, as she drew near her friend's house, and paused to rest. "Strange Johnny should say Grace has changed! Why, I've only been gone two months, and folks don't change in two months." Yet she felt strangely agitated as she entered the yard. Gracie must know she was home again; she almost wished she had waited to see if she would call. "I declare, if there isn't Cassy Hallock coming, bless her heart. O, dear me, no, the hypocrite!" said Grace, looking out of her chamber window. "I reckon she hasn't seen me; I'll run and hide. She needn't come here and pretend to be friends!" Grace stole into the library, and locked the door. "Miss Gracie," cried the sorrowful voice of black Phebe. No answer. At last, Phebe came to the library door and rattled it. Grace whispered through the key-hole,-- "Ask the person into the parlor, Phebe, and say I'll be down very soon." _The person!_ "O, won't I be dignified?" thought Miss Grace, walking the floor with a queen-like tread. But the affection of years was tugging at her heart-strings. "I'll not cry." She flung off the bright drop which fell on her hand. "I'll not be caught crying, when anybody I've loved as I did that girl--" Grace hastened down stairs, and "turned her tears to sparks of fire." "How d'ye, Miss Cassy?" Her old friend stood looking out of a window, her back towards the door. She felt the chill in Grace's voice, and was frozen stiff in a minute. "How d'ye, Miss Grace?" without moving her head. "Pleasant day. Please be seated, Miss Cassy." "Thank you, Miss Grace; I must be going." Cassy moved forward. The sun shone straight into her honest face. Grace saw its expression of astonishment, mingled with pride and grief. "Cassy Hallock, don't go yet." "Thank you, Grace Clifford; can't stop--only came to bring your ma some beer. In the music-room, on the piano." "Cassy Hallock, what's the matter with you?" "Gracie Clifford, what's the matter with YOU?" "You've been talking about me, Cassy," Grace burst forth, impetuously. "You've slandered me worse than I can bear. You think I'm proud and forward. Your ma don't like us to be friends. You say my hair is fire-red. O, Cassy Hallock!" Cassy's eyes expanded. "Who said that?" "Isa Harrington." "The biggest lie that ever was told!" "O, Cassy Hallock: then _'tisn't_ true!" "True, Gracie Clifford! and you my best friend!" "Are you right sure you never said so, Cassy?" "There, that's enough, Gracie Clifford. I'll not deny it again. If you believe Isa, and won't believe me, it's just as well. Good by." And Cassy moved to the door with "majestical high scorn." "Cassy Hallock," cried Grace, throwing her arms about her friend's neck, "you're not going one step. I don't believe a word of that lie, and never did!" Cassy allowed herself to be detained, but still held the door-knob in her hand. "I'll tell you what it is, Gracie Clifford. I'll not say how much I think of you, because you know; but if you can't trust me, there's the end of it." "O, I can trust you, I do trust you, Cassy. You're one of the salts of the earth--salt, I mean." "A small pinch," suggested Cassy, almost smiling. "O, Cassy, there's nobody in this world so splendid as you are!" But Cassy's indignation was not quite appeased. "Where's your ring, Gracie?" "Lost. O, you don't know how I feel about that. I'm afraid our Phebe stole it." "Glad of it." "Why, Cassy, you're crazy! That regard-ring, dear, that your ma gave you, and you gave me for my emerald, down by the acorn-tree! Why, Cassy!" "I said I was glad," replied Cassy, in a softer tone. "I mean glad you didn't take off the ring and go hide it. I supposed you did, just to let me see you didn't care for me any more." A complete revulsion of feeling had come over Grace: she laughed and cried in a breath. "O, you old Cassy! to think I ever could--" "There," said her friend, placidly, "let it all go." "But I can't let it go; it's a downright wicked shame. Now, Cassy, I ask you if we ought to allow such a girl as Isa in our R. S. S.?" "Not if I was queen, we wouldn't," was the decided answer. Now that the reconciliation was complete, Cassy declared she had a world to say, and Grace replied that she had "a hemisphere to say, herself." Then she told the story of the gypsy, and made confession that her dismal fortune had kept her awake "night after night." "Humph!" said Cassy; "nothing ever keeps _me_ awake! Thunder can't, nor cannons; and I'm sure that crazy old woman couldn't. What about the prize, Gracie?" "O, I don't know, Cassy; I've taken Mahla into Square Root." "Why, Gracie, what made you? You won't get that splendid present from your pa!" "O, Cassy," sighed Grace, "I thought I'd be good, just once, and do as the Bible said, and see how it would seem." "The Bible says so many things!" said Cassy, thoughtfully. "Yes, Cassy; but I mean the Golden Rule. Why, I never mistrusted that rule was so beautiful. It just makes me love Mahla dearly." Cassy's brown eyes kindled with sympathy; but she exclaimed, suddenly,-- "Come, let's go in the kitchen and talk German with Barby." Horace set by the white table, sighing over his Geography. Robert came in, looking mischievous. "What say to a story, girls?" said he, glancing at Grace. "I'll begin with a landscape, book-fashion:-- "Twas a lovely evening in May. The aged stars were twinkling as good as new; the moon was 'resting her chin' against a cloud: the serene heavens--" "Stop," cried Horace; "that's not a landscape: it's a skyscape." "What's that you say? You've interrupted me, and now I'll have to begin again:-- "The new moon was shaking down her silver hair most mournfully, or, in other words, she looked at a distance like a slice of green cheese. I had been giving a few elegant touches to the flower-beds, pulling out the weeds, pig and chick, you know, and--well, suffice it to say, I wended my way across a verdant lawn, not twenty miles from here. I went into a house. It was all papered and pictured. The master of the house offered me no seat, for he was not at home; but I helped myself to a sort of feather-bed chair near a window. I took my handkerchief out of my pocket in this way; a key came out with it, as you see now, and dropped into the chair. It slipped between the stuffed cushion and the back of the chair. I put in my thumb, and drew out--" "A plum," suggested Horace. "The key." The children looked as if they had been trifled with. "But the key was not all. To my surprise, I also drew out what you now see me holding up to view." "My ring!" cried Grace, darting forward. "O, Robin, where did you find it?" "Where I told you, in the Elizabeth chair in the parlor." [Illustration: "My ring! cried Grace."] Grace's first act was to clap her hands; her next, to rush out, calling for Phebe, who was in her own room, having a good cry. The child appeared at the head of the back stairs, and answered, in a subdued and husky voice, "What is't you want, Miss Gracie?" "I want _you_, you poor little dear," cried Grace, flying up the stairs, and hugging the disconsolate Phebe, whose wits were scattered to the four winds with surprise. "I've found my ring--my regard-ring, you forlorn little thing. Robin picked it out of the Elizabeth chair; and if you don't forgive me, I'll bite my tongue right out." "O, I've done forgive you, Miss Grace, if you'll forgive me too," sobbed poor Phebe, who had a confused idea that she must be somehow to blame for crying so hard. She had for two days been in the depths of despair; and now, this sudden turn of the wheel of fortune made her fairly dizzy with delight. Many were the choice tidbits which Phebe found beside her plate after this, and many were the snips of bright ribbon or calico which were given to her to put away among her treasures. If Grace had forgotten that "charity thinketh no evil," and had spoken rashly, she surely did all she could now to atone for her fault. CHAPTER VIII. PRUDY PARLIN. Isa Harrington's surprise was great when she saw all her artful plans overthrown, and Grace and Cassy the same "cup and saucer" as ever. "O, Gracie," said she, "you don't love Isa any more, now Cassy has come home." Grace drew coldly away. "You tried to turn me against my best friend, Isa." "O, Gracie, I never! I only told what I heard, and Lucy Lane was the one that said it. You may ask her." Lucy was as harmless a fly as ever got caught in a spider's web. Isa thought she could manage her finely. So the moment she had done talking with Grace, she made Lucy tease Miss Allen to let them both go into the recitation-room to study their lessons. "We'll promise, solemnly, we won't say a word only grammar," said Isa, earnestly. "Can't you trust us?" The teacher hesitated, looked at timid little Lucy, and said, "Yes. But if you break your word, girls, remember, 'tis the last time you'll ever go in there to study." Isa had no intention of keeping her word. She wanted to have Lucy to herself for the purpose of "managing" her. For a while the girls studied in silence, their heads close together, and covered by a shawl. "O, Lucy," said Isa, suddenly, "I've a compliment for you." Lucy put her finger on her lip. "Dear me, Lucy, didn't I speak good grammar? That's all the promise _I_ made--that I wouldn't say anything but _grammar_, and I won't, unless I make a mistake. A certain person said you had lovely hair. Got a compliment for me?" "Why, yes," said Lucy, innocently; "I heard a lady say you might be a right good little girl perhaps, but you're rather homely." Isa bit her lip. "It was Cassy Hallock that told yours, Lucy. By the way, did you ever hear her say Gracie's hair is fire-red?" "Why, Isa, no, indeed!" "Didn't? Why, that's nothing to the way she's slandered her; and Grace her best friend, too." Lucy was horrified. "Do you remember when you, and I, and Cassy staid, ever so long ago, to scrub our desks? Well, don't you know how Cassy spoke of Mrs. Clifford's oyster party?" "Yes, I do. She said Grace appeared like a lady." "There, Lucy Lane, is that the way you hear? Didn't understand it, did you, any more than a baby? She was hinting that Grace talked like old folks--very pert and bold." "O, was she?" "Of course she was, Lucy. Can't you see through a mill-stone, child? I wouldn't want any one to hint about me the way Cassy does about Grace." "Nor I wouldn't, either," echoed Lucy. "Didn't you think, Lucy, by what Cassy said, that her ma wanted to break up the friendship? You told me at the time that you thought so, now certainly." "O, what a story!" Lucy spoke very loud in her surprise. "Very well," said Isa, adjusting the shawl, "you've forgotten, perhaps. Your memory is about as long as my little finger, Lucy. But no matter; I know what Cassy meant if you didn't. Reckon I've got eyes in my head." "Well, I knew what she meant, too, I suppose, at the time of it," said soft-voiced Lucy, anxious to prove that she had eyes in her head, and could see through a mill-stone. Foolish fly! When a cunning spider said, "Will you walk into my parlor?" Lucy always walked right in. "I hate Cassy Hallock," cried Isa, unconsciously raising her voice very high: "I just hate her. She's no business to make believe friends with Gracie. Let's you and I put a stop to it." "Hush, Isa; don't speak so loud." "I didn't mean to. Peek out, Lucy, and see if the door is shut." Lucy pushed the shawl to one side and peeped out. Terror-stricken, she drew back again, glad to hide her head. The door was wide open, and the school so still you might have heard a pin drop! Not a word had been lost. There stood Miss Allen by the desk, her finger up to hush the faintest noise. Having opened the door and found the girls talking, she decided to let the whole school know it. Isa was in an agony of unavailing remorse. Not only had she lost her teacher's respect, but she had forever ruined her cause with Grace. She longed for the earth to open and hide her shame; but as the earth refused to take her in, the best she could do was, to steal home, her proud head bent low and concealed under her sun-bonnet. It was a bitter punishment; but Miss Allen, who had long understood her crooked conduct, was sure she deserved it. She was discharged from the R. S. S. Angry and mortified, and not knowing of any better way to annoy the girls, she told their secrets to the wide world. Grace had never dreamed of this. "What are we to do with that little black cow?" said Robert to Grace. "She always wants to be somewhere else. She's a regular tornado at tearing down fences. What say to her joining a secret society?" Grace was helping train a prairie-rose. "Don't know what you mean, Robin." "Just what I say. These strong-minded cows ought to form a Mutual-Improvement, Cows' Rights Society. I've thought of a good name," added Robert, with a twinkle in his eye: "Princesses of the Crooked Horn." "Now, Robin, what do you mean? Tell, this minute," cried Grace, dropping her ball of twine, and blushing. The boy whistled. "Tell me, Robin, have you heard something?" "I've heard something, yes." "What have you heard?" "Shan't tell. Reckon _you've_ heard of the Ruby Seal!" "That'll do, Robin," said Grace, suddenly looking down to watch an ant with threadlike limbs dragging off a cold shoulder of fly. "See here, Gracie: what cute hands girls are to keep secrets!" "Don't want to hear another word, Robin." "Cassy," said Grace, a little later, "what'll we do about the R. S. S.? Isa's been and spread it all over town!" "You don't believe it, do you? Why that makes me think what Johnny said to-day. He's sorry I'm such a broken-hearted old maid at this time of life. Now I know what he meant." "But what'll we do about our R. S. S.? I'm so mortified!" "Let it die: who cares?" "O, Cassy, I care. Don't let's give up at trifles." "Then turn it into a Soldiers' Aid." Grace clapped her hands and waltzed across the street. "So we will, Cassy; so we truly will! That's so very respectable!" "We'll marry, too, if they're going to make such a fuss," suggested Cassy. "I won't--unless I please. I'll never be married to keep people from laughing, Cassy Hallock." Here Grace set her little foot firmly upon a toad, which she mistook for solid ground. "Cassy," continued she, after a little scream, "let's work for those darling old soldiers in the hospital. What have we been thinking about? Don't you let on! After a little, you know, when school stops, Cassy! O, can we wait that long?" Meanwhile, we must attend to a new arrival. Uncle Edward Parlin dropped in suddenly, as good and smiling as ever, and with him little Prudy, blushing like a rose, but so dusty that she almost made you sneeze. But where was Susy? It seemed that Mrs. Parlin had not had time to prepare both the children for such a hasty journey. Horace shouted like a young Indian. Grace clapped her hands, and laughed in every note of the scale up to the second octave and back again. Prudy threw her arms about Mrs. Clifford's neck. "O, aunt Ria," she whispered, "bimeby I shall cry." "Aren't you well, darling?" "Yes'm; but I feel as if I wasn't _going_ to feel well." It had been a hard journey for the poor little thing. She was soon nicely bathed and put in a comfortable bed, where, for about at minute, she lay wondering at the mosquito-bar, and then forgot all her trials in sleep. Next morning, Horace asked what she had dreamed. "O," said Prudy, much refreshed, "I slept so fast I never heard my dreams. There, aunt Ria, you know Mrs. Mason, that gave Susy the bird? She's dead: I thought you'd be glad to hear that!" "I didn't know the lady," said Mrs. Clifford, smiling; "yet I am not glad she is dead." Prudy was constantly espying wonders. Her fear of pigs was extreme, and the whole Ohio valley seemed to her one vast pig-pen without any fence. The creatures had such long noses, too! From a safe distance, Prudy liked to watch them cracking nuts. She thought they could not have picked out the meats better if they had been gifted with fingers. She wandered with Grace and Cassy about the beautiful garden and green-house in a maze of delight. She might have been too happy if the mosquitos had not laid plans to devour her. Grace bathed the poor child in camphor. "It hurts," said Prudy, the quiet bears rolling down her cheeks; "but Gracie bathes me for my good, and I won't cry. O, aunt Ria, when I'm naughty, and you want to punish me, you can just put me to bed, and let the skeeters bite me." Owing to the savage conduct of these bloodthirsty creatures, there was no trace left of Prudy's beauty, except what Horace called her "killing little curls." Grace was disappointed, for she had hoped to exhibit her charming cousin to great advantage. However, the mosquito-hills disappeared from her face in time, and then Prudy was quite "a lioness," as Horace said. The princesses admitted her to their social meetings. All they did now was, to state that they had read the required amount of Scripture, had told no wrong stories, and used no language which they regarded as unladylike. For the present, they met and played games, intending during holidays to begin work for the soldiers in earnest. When Prudy visited the school, she sat with every one of the Princesses in turn, and liked them all but the discarded member of the society, Isa Harrington. In private, she told Grace that Isa looked "like the woman that killed the man," meaning Lady Macbeth, whose face she had often seen in a picture. "Don't you like me, darling?" said Isa, offering her a handful of peppermints. "O, yes, I like you," said the child, accepting the sugar-plums, "but I don't like the _spirit_ of you." "What does that mean, you funny thing?" "I don't know, but that's the way they talk." Prudy loved Mahla Linck at once. She said she had had just such a lameness her own self, and knew how it felt. "Ah, little dear," said Mahla, laying her wasted cheek close to Prudy's, "but you can walk now without a crutch, and I never can." "O, Mahla, yes, you can _never_; you can when you grow an angel." The Princesses liked to escort Prudy through the streets, and hear her exclamations of surprise. She told them the "Yankees wouldn't 'buze their horses so;" for it seemed to her rather unkind to braid their tails like heads of hair, and tie them up in knots; though Grace assured her this was done to keep them from trailing in the dust. The mules were another curiosity. Prudy was also amazed at the "loads of oxen" driven by men who sat in the carts, and "drove 'em and whipped 'em same as if they was horses." "Yankees," she said, "walked with the oxen, and talked into their ears." She informed the girls that the Hoosier sky was very odd-looking. "It's Quaker color," she said; "but the sky to Portland is as blue as a robin's egg, 'cept when it fogs." She described feathery snow-storms, "frost-bitten" windows, and the nice fishing in "Quoddy Bay;" told her listeners that eastern people "_shave_" their grass in summer, and when it is dry it's good to jump on. For the short time Prudy staid in Indiana her sunny face was a pleasure to everybody. "Why, aunt Ria," said she, "do you think I'm good, though? Well, I'm ever'n ever so much better away from home." CHAPTER IX. BARBARA's WEDDING. Barbara had now been at home for some time making preparations for her wedding, and had cordially invited all the children to see her married,--Grace, Cassy, Prudy and Horace; everybody but little "Ruffle-neck," as Horace sometimes called the baby. They set out in the morning in high spirits, Grace and Cassy walking under one umbrella, Horace and Prudy under another. Prudy was bareheaded, and her "killing little curls" were blown into wild confusion by the breezes. The June air was very sweet, for it was "snowing roses." Prudy asked Horace if he didn't think "the world smelt nice?" Horace put on a look of calm superiority, and replied that "the flowers were very much like essence bottles, to be sure, what we call _odiferous_, Prudy." Some way behind the two children sailed the other umbrella, marked, in white paint, "Stolen from H. S. Clifford;" while under it Grace and Cassy talked confidentially. Prudy had heard they were going to a place called the Bayou, and supposed it to be some sort of a house. But after a walk of two miles, they came to an immense field, where the corn shot up very tall and luxuriant. "There's the bayou over yonder," laid Horace, with a sweep of his thumb. "Where?" said Prudy, straining her eyes. "I don't see a single thing but sugar-canes." "_Corn_, you mean! Well, it's a bayou, and the water runs up over it in the spring, and that makes bottom-land rich as mud." Prudy stared at the cornfield, then at the river. "You don't mean that that little thing went over it," said she, waving her hat towards the Ohio. "Poh! you needn't think our river looks that way," dropping the umbrella over his shoulder. "Tell you what it is: that river rises out of bed every spring, but it's hung out to dry in the summer, Prudy." The little girl stopped short and swung her hat off into space. Horace gallantly restored it. "O, what is that big thing there? a whale, or an ice-bug?" Horace laughed. "Whales in the river! Goodness sakes, that's a sand-bar, miss. A man waded across here the other day. Tell you what, if he could do it, I could--want to see me?" Prudy was alarmed, agreeably to expectation. "Well, now," said the boy, holding the umbrella upright once more, "here we are at the Kinckles'. Come ahead, girls." Prudy looked, and saw nothing but a crooked fence. Horace waited till Grace and Cassy came up, then let down the bars. Prudy trembled, and caught fast hold of Horace, for Farmer Kinckle's calves were wandering about the field, eating grass, or playfully biting one another. Tall hickory, persimmon, peach, apple, and mulberry trees cast a deep shade. For some time nothing was to be seen of the house; but at last it appeared in view--dark, unpainted, with chimneys built outside. A cooking-stove stood in the yard, its long, black funnel puffing out smoke; and, strange to tell, under the stove a nest of young ducklings enjoying the heat and the smell of the cooking. "Understand it to me, please," said little Prudy. "Do the folks know their stove is out here?" Barbara appeared at the door with peony-colored cheeks and pleasant smiles. She would hardly have consented to be married unless the "childers" might be there to see. There was no entry, and the front door was at the side of the house just opposite the back door. A huge fireplace spread itself over a large part of the room; but it was never used except for smoking hams or mosquitos. It was the only fireplace in the house. On the high mantel stood a candlestick, a pipe, a beer bottle, a wooden clock, and a bowl of blackberries. On one side, exactly in the way, were two or three long drawers of black walnut, which ran nearly the length of the room, and on the top of the drawers were tubs, buckets, and clothes baskets. The house was propped on four feet. Horace discovered, under the house, a cat and kittens, a brood of chickens, and a dog. He called Prudy to admire this domestic menagerie, then crept under the house, and, by accident, overturned the cat's saucer of milk; whereat Pussy looked up at him with a glance of mild reproach. He next thrust both hands into a pool of corn-meal dough, which was meant for the chickens. "O, Horace," said Grace, shocked at the dismal plight of her brother's clothes, "I did think you'd try to keep clean for the wedding." This was expecting too much. Grace felt that it was a trial to take Horace visiting. At the table he declined mutton gravy, saying he never ate "tallow," and remarked about the cheese, that it was "as mouldy as castile soap;" yet Horace could not see that this was rude. Mrs. Kinckle wore a small black cap, which reminded Prudy of a wire cover which is used to keep off flies. Horace thought it looked about as big as a percussion cap. Prudy watched the good woman doing work just like anybody, though she was a German and a Jewess, and therefore could not have known the "truly name" of a single dish she touched. There were a few articles to be ironed for the bride, and Prudy had a mind to try the Jewish flatirons; so, with Barbara's leave, she smoothed out some handkerchiefs on a [text missing from book] But soon the rabbi, or Jewish priest, arrived, and it was time for the wedding. The company formed a circle, as if they were playing the "Needle's Eye," thought Prudy. In the middle of the ring stood Barbara and Solomon, the rabbi before them. The bride's dress was a straw-colored silk, which must have cost many months' wages; but it was quite hidden under a long white veil, which enveloped Barbara from head to foot. The honest young bridegroom wore a solemn countenance; but how the bride's face looked, no one could tell. The rabbi began to chant something in Hebrew, probably the marriage service. After this, Grace supposed he would pray; but he did not. Mrs. Kinckle now kissed the bride--not through the veil, however--and then all the rest kissed her, this being the only part of the ceremony which the children fairly understood. Prudy espied a small tear in Barbara's eye, and wished Solomon only knew it, in which case he would never carry Barbara off in the world. After the bride had been duly embraced, cake was passed around, and a certain Jewish wine, very strong and fiery, which, of course, the children did not taste. A basket of cigars came next, and in a few moments the gentlemen of the party were puffing at them. Thus the affair, after all, ended in smoke; and before sunset the children were on their way home. It seemed to Grace that the world had begun to fall in pieces. To think that Barby would never more be seen in Mrs. Clifford's kitchen, polishing and scrubbing! To think that just a few little Hebrew words had made such a dreadful change; spiriting away that splendid Barby forever. Cassy wondered how the Jews could endure their synagogues, and rabbis, and strong wines. Horace thought it a deal worse than keeping pigs. Grace would even sooner be married with candles and crucifixes, like a Roman Catholic. Cassy said _she_ should have fifteen bridesmaids, "like they had in Kentucky." Prudy gave it as her opinion that poor Barby was crying all the while the man "sing-songed." "She hates Solomon," added the child; "for I asked her if she didn't think so much whiskers was homely, and she said she did." Before the children reached home the full moon was rising. "I didn't use to know what the moon was," quoth Prudy. "I thought it was a chip." "What put that in your head, dear?" said Grace. "O, I threw it up, you know, when I wasn't three years old, there at grandma's. I threw it up in the air, and didn't see it go down; and then, when I looked up, there was the moon; and I said, 'O, grandma, see my chip!'" "But you don't know what 'tis now any better than you did then, I'll warrant," said Horace, sitting down in the road to laugh. "Don't know, Horace Clifford? I guess I do!" "Well, tell then, can't you?" "Silver, of course! Didn't you never know that before?" "It's a big world, darling," said Grace, laughing. "I know that, Gracie Clifford; did I say it wasn't? It's a silver ball as big as a house, and there's a man lives there, and I've seen him making up faces." Everybody laughed, and Prudy tried to be angry; but her fiercest indignation frightened you about as much as a firefly trying to flash out a little chain-lightning. Mr. Parlin was daily expected back from St. Louis, and Grace and Horace clung to their little cousin, dreading the thought of losing her. "Aunt Ria," said Prudy, "don't you think 'twould be a good plan for you to get the baby's picture took, and send it to my mamma for a present?" Mrs. Clifford said she would try; so, on Saturday afternoon, she went to Mr. Drake's photograph-rooms with the little girls, while Horace wheeled the baby in her small carriage. It was of no use. There were sure to be a dozen noses in Katie's picture, or as many mouths. In vain Horace chirruped to her, calling her dove-names. "Still, now, Brownbrimmer! Ho, little Topknot!" The more he tried to hush her, the more eager she grew for a frolic. "My fine little fellow," said the artist, "suppose you and the young misses go in the next room for a while?" They all went. Prudy threw off her hat, and sat down to hold the white kitty which she had carried in her arms all the way. "Sit still, little youngling," cried Horace; "I'll _take_ you!" So the boy arranged an apparatus by turning down one chair, setting another across it, and throwing over both a table-cover for a screen. Prudy looked solemnly at her finger-nails. "That's jolly, Miss Parlin. Just keep that little nose straight, so it won't be foreshortened or forelengthened. Now, young lady," continued the little artist, poking his roguish face between the bars of the chair, "afraid your dress won't take! too near--ahem--snuff color." "Don't say snuff-color, Horace, or I'll sneeze, and that'll spoil my nose." "O, what foolishness!" laughed Grace and Cassy. "Hush! There, I've fixed the focus. Now, observe this fly on my jacket (coat, I mean), young lady, and don't you wink." Horace consulted a small bottle he held in his hand for a watch. "These pictures were all failures," he said. "Some had 'no focus,' while others were 'all focus;' they 'flattered,' and were likewise too '_negative_.'" Meanwhile, the artist, Mr. Drake, much amused, brought in his photographic apparatus, and made a picture of the little group. This picture Mrs. Clifford purchased for Mrs. Parlin, instead of the many-nosed miniature of the baby. The day before starting for the east, Prudy went with Mrs. Clifford, her cousins, and Cassy, to visit the hospital, which was filled with sick and wounded soldiers. They wanted to give something to every man they saw, and mourned when their "goody-basket" was emptied of its contents. "O, ma," said Grace, with ready tears, "it just makes me feel like we must get up that fair, and raise money!" "I only wish _I_ could be here to help," said little Prudy. "Come here, my dear," said a pale gentleman who heard the child's voice. "I cannot see you, for I am blind. Will you tell me who you all are?" "Yes, sir; this is me, that's got your hand. My name is Prudy Parlin, and that boy that isn't in this room is Horace." "Horace! Whose son?" "He's my uncle Henry Clifford's son; but uncle Henry isn't _his_ uncle: he's his father. Horace is his only son, and me, and Susy, and Dotty is _my_ father's only daughters!" "Possible! Now, my sweet little one, will you ask Horace to come here?" It was Mr. Lazelle, with whom the Cliffords had travelled east the year before. They had a pleasant meeting. Horace had once been angry with this very gentleman for boxing his ears; but he forgot it all when he looked at the blind, helpless soldier, and wanted to open his savings' bank at once in his behalf. Next day Prudy went home. Grace and all the Princesses wept bitterly at parting with the dear child; still, it was better for them that she should go away. She claimed too much of their attention at the very time when they should have thought only of study. CHAPTER X. WHO GETS THE PRIZE? Mahla Linck seemed to grow paler and thinner. Her mother, when kindly advised to keep her at home, replied, "My Mahla loves her book; she must in the school go." The poor woman could not and would not see the danger. But though Mahla looked ill, she no longer seemed discouraged. Since Grace had undertaken to help her, she was gaining confidence. "Mother, I feel just this way," Mahla would say sometimes: "if I can't get the prize, I hope Grace Clifford will, for she's the best girl in school." Mrs. Linck was glad that Mahla felt so kindly towards her rival, but sighed as she looked at her daughter's pale face, and thought of the weary hours she had spent in study, while other girls were at play. Examination-day came. It was sultry even for July. But the girls at the Grammar School, who had drooped like wilted flowers, now bloomed bright and fresh once more. Those who had new dresses wore them on this occasion, and all came to school with hair smoothly brushed the very last thing. Ah, who does not know the flutter at the heart when the "three committee-men," or "trustees," knock; and are solemnly asked in and seated? Some of us have felt this flutter for the last time; but you children will understand just how the girls felt that day, with parents, older sisters, and neighbors to look on and criticise. Tall Miss Allen looked serene, but there was a tremulous motion of her mouth and fingers. On her desk was a vase of beautiful flowers, which Grace had brought, carefully shielded under her sun-umbrella. Mrs. Clifford and Mrs. Hallock, with a few other ladies, occupied the raised platform behind the desk. Mrs. Linck sat near the window, cooling her heated face by the use of a large feather fan. Mahla was in her old seat; there was a beautiful pink color in her cheeks, which one could see was the flush of excitement, not the glow of health. And over by the west window sat the bosom friends, Grace and Cassy, their tender friendship undisturbed by a single feeling of rivalry; for, owing to Cassy's long absence from school, she had not the faintest hope of the prize. Grace's sunny ringlets and sparkling eyes danced with eagerness. She looked as tidy as ever, in a thin blue dress, with rivulets of blue ribbon flowing down the skirt. Cassy's pensive face was lighted up with more than usual animation. It was a pleasure to see these two young friends together. Mrs. Clifford looked at them with a smile which was half a tear, as she remembered just such a friendship in her own childhood. Many other ladies watched Grace and Cassy with interest, and were carried back to the "days that are no more"--days whose dewy freshness can no more he recalled than the sweet apple-blossoms which fell so softly into the grass last year. But the question of the day was, "Who would get the prize?" Perhaps Captain Clifford, who sat with several other gentlemen near the door, felt more interest in the result than he confessed to himself. Horace stood near his father, as grave as a little judge. He ran over the whole school with his eye, and mentally decided that Grace was the prettiest girl in the room next to Cassy; for Cassy was his beau-ideal of beauty and goodness. The reading was over, and the copy-books were offered for inspection. Then the trustees began to ask questions. Grace's face lighted up; the hectic in Mahla's cheeks burned brighter still. Mrs. Clifford was sorry to see this feverish eagerness. She had never liked prizes, and now approved of them less than ever. In geography, Isa Harrington held out bravely, but at last yielded to Grace and Mahla, who kept together, neither gaining upon the other. The audience grew interested: the trustees looked at one another and smiled. Then came spelling. So many odd words were found--words which most of the girls had forgotten were in McGuffey's Spelling-Book. But though the others hesitated, neither Grace nor Mahla were caught tripping. One by one, all dropped off from the ranks but these two, who resolutely held their ground, though hard words rattled about their ears like bullets. At last came the test-word--one of the easiest, too--"pillory." Grace spelled it with an "a" instead of an "o." She knew her mistake in a second, and Mr. Reynolds paused, hoping she would correct herself. But though others had done this repeatedly, Grace was at once too proud and too generous. The flash in Mahla's eyes, as she spelled the word after her, was not one of triumph. She was really sorry Grace had not done better for herself. Next came arithmetic. This had always been Mahla's weak point, and Mr. Reynolds at first asked questions slowly, meaning to give her time to think. But it was soon evident that Mahla knew very well what she was doing, and could not be easily puzzled. True, Grace had gone over more ground; but this the trustees would not have known if Miss Allen had not informed them in an aside-whisper. "Ah, yes, yes," nodded Mr. Reynolds, peeping over his spectacles at Grace, with a glance which meant, "Well done! well done!" In grammar, again, Grace and Mahla were well matched. If there was any difference, Mahla excelled in giving rules, for her verbal memory was excellent. The trustees were surprised to find the two rivals so well informed, while at the same time they were puzzled as to any preference. They whispered together. Mr. Reynolds rubbed his spectacles as if they would help him see his way clear; Dr. Snow scratched his learned head, and Mr. Newell leaned backward in his chair to meditate. The audience felt somewhat as people feel in a court-room when the jury are out deciding an interesting case. From time to time Mrs. Linck looked anxiously at her daughter, as if she feared the excitement would be too much for her. All the while the prize was lying on the desk, wrapped in brown paper. What it was no one knew; but the girls fancied it was "large enough to be almost anything." They were growing uneasy, and the teacher herself tapped the floor gently with her foot, as if she thought it high time a decision was made. At last, when Mr. Reynolds had finished polishing his spectacles, he took from the brown wrapper a beautiful rosewood writing-desk, and held it up to view, opening it to show the elegant workmanship. "Young ladies, I would like your attention a few moments! Upon examination, we find two of you so nearly equal that it is no easy matter to decide which deserves the prize. Miss Grace Clifford does well--exceedingly well. Her reading we consider superior to Miss Mahla Linck's, and their copy-books are equally neat. The truth is, we wish we had two prizes to give, instead of one. But as that cannot be, we have at last concluded to award this writing-desk to--Miss Mahla. Now we wish you all distinctly to understand why we do this," continued he, placing the points of his forefingers together. "It is because we think the effort she has made in arithmetic this term deserves a reward. She has always been a good student, but within the past few weeks her progress in arithmetic has been remarkable!" There was a general hum of satisfaction. Poor Mrs. Linck was fairly trembling for joy, and Mahla looked as if a star had dropped from the sky at her feet. As for Grace, her heart was so full that she could hardly force back the tears. They should not fall. Nobody would understand that she was crying for joy! When Mahla whispered to Grace that night, "O, Gracie, I wouldn't have had it but for you, dear!" it would be hard to tell which was the happier girl, grateful Mahla Linck, or noble Grace Clifford. Nobody but the Lincks, the Cliffords, and Cassy ever knew the whole story. If people had heard it, they would have foolishly praised Grace for her beautiful simplicity of conduct. Then Grace might possibly have grown proud and self-conscious, and that would have spoiled all. Mrs. Clifford begged leave to furnish the desk with the choicest writing materials. It gave her pleasure to do this, for nothing in her daughter's best deeds had ever touched her like her disinterested kindness to Mahla. Grace was overjoyed to find that her father did not seem disappointed or displeased with her. He was apparently as glad as any one of Mahla's good fortune. He kissed his daughter that night more tenderly than usual, and there was something in his approving smile which Grace valued, after all, more than a hundred prizes. CHAPTER XI. THE CHILDREN'S FAIR. It was now vacation. Mahla was too ill to go out; and, as for the other girls, they said they had the "sleeps;" and, instead of working for the soldiers, they preferred to lie under the trees and dream away the summer days. Not so Grace Clifford. She saw so much of the sick men, and heard so much of them from Lieutenant Lazelle, that she was resolved to give the R. S. S. a good shaking, and wake it up. Quiet was Grace's abomination. She made a speech before the society--an off-hand effort, which I will record, first remarking that Grace could have done vastly better if she had stopped two minutes to think. _The Queen's Address._ DEAR PRINCESSES: In our early youth, while in the morning of life, and with the dew yet sparkling upon us like down on the cheek of a beautiful peach, I think (_we_ think, I mean) it's our glorious duty, as little girls of the _eighteenth_ century (_nineteenth_, I mean), to put our shoulder to the plough of our dear country! O, my Princesses, will we let the rebels, with glaring eyeballs, set their iron hoofs upon our necks, and choke, and grind, and crush, and trample us into--powder? Will we fold our idle arms, and shut our idle ears, and listen to the cry of their war-whoop, which goes rolling over and over the hills and down into the valleys of our glorious Union? Will we see the furious and howling enemy seize, plunder, and wring off the neck of our American Eagle,--that golden, glorious bird; and, while he screams with hoarse, cavernous echoes, pluck the noble eyes out of his head--his _bald_ head, O Princesses! (The queen looked round her for sympathy, and not in vain: she was carrying her audience away with her.) Think of our great, great, very great grandpas, how they fought and bled in freedom's cause. Hail, ye heroes!--No, I mean to say, Friends, countrymen, _girls_, let's put on our--helmets, and fight for dear life! Are we too weak to fire cannonades? Will we be forbidden to pour out our hearts' blood? And are our limbs too tender to be broken in a thousand pieces? Then we'll fight with our _needles_! We'll make our glorious, splendid, poor, miserable, dying soldier-boys comfortable! If that's all we can do, we'll do that!--Now, girls, I'll tell you what it is, continued the queen, suddenly dropping from her airy flight, let's work like spiders, won't we? and buy jellies, and broths, and things! I'll not have a new dress forever if I can help it. Who's in for a Fair? All that are agreed say, _Ay!_ It "was a vote." The girls concluded to shake off the "sleeps," and go to work. Mahla, who was duly informed of all that went on, was delighted with the project, and promised to make lace bags and a few little things at home. At Mahla's urgent request, poor Isa was taken back as a member of the society. She had been wretched enough to satisfy all ideas of justice, and could do no harm now by disclosing secrets. Isa was tolerably subdued and grateful, but a trifle sullen, withal. Her manner said, plainly,-- "O, girls, I'll do anything to make you trust me and like me once more. That's the way I feel; but I don't want you to know it; so I'm trying to look as if I didn't care." The Princesses were rather youthful, but they had this advantage--they were old enough to know their own ignorance. They chose their mothers for advisers--the wisest thing they could have done. Twice a week they held meetings in a large chamber at Mrs. Clifford's. Here they kept their pieces of work, each girl having a separate basket. Articles accumulated: unfinished pincushions, babies' socks, bookmarks, dolls' bodies, kettle-holders, and garments of "domestic muslin," known in New England as "factory cloth." Mrs. Clifford, who was not only a patriotic lady, but an accomplished needlewoman, had a general oversight of matters, and spent an hour or two each afternoon with the children, making suggestions and adding finishing touches. Before long, a dozen girls from the High School joined the R. S. S. Fancy articles grew apace. It was even hoped now that the Fair could be held before the opening of the schools in September. Grace was fathoms deep in business. She wanted Horace to work too, and thought he and Phebe should be ready at all hours to run of errands, drive nails, or hold skeins of silk. Horace ought never be complain when called away from play; for what did she ask of him but to help the poor, bleeding soldiers? All he did for the R. S. S. was so much done for his country. Horace had his own opinion upon this subject, forgot his errands, and when sent shopping, stupidly asked if sewing-silk was "cloth," and if tape came in "skeins"? He was willing to work when he could manage for himself, but didn't like to be "anybody's waiter." Grace's patience sometimes failed; but Cassy could effect wonders with her smiling--"Now, please, Horace." When _Cassy_ wanted anything, the wilful boy put on what his sister called "his heroics," and went to work with a will. To be sure, the "cup and saucer" were buried in cares; yet somehow they could steal time for long chats "down by the acorn-tree," their heads under an umbrella or a shawl. While thus pleasantly engaged, it was natural that Grace should think she had no time to assist her brother in pasting his scrap-books or making his kites. "See, now," said Horace, when, after a search, he had found Grace and Cassy under the acorn-tree, "you make mighty small of some folks! Can't lift a finger to help _me_; but when _you_ want some work done, it's 'Horace, dear,' and 'O, you darling!' Reckon I know a thing or two!" The girls' friendship flowed on smoothly. It was hardly in the power of the most designing person to make any more mischief between them. Grace's highest hopes for her baby-sister were, that she might grow up as "smart and good as Cassy." All this while, though Mahla Linck never lost interest in the society, she was growing weaker every day. Her little nerveless hands dropped the work they had attempted. She had no more use for her crutch, which lay on the table beside her bed, taking a long rest. Grace and Cassy made daily visits to their sick friend. Mahla assured them that her writing-desk was one of her greatest comforts: it was almost as good as a sister. When she was too feeble to sit up, it was placed on the bed near her elbow, and she would lie and look over its contents, counting the sheets of perfumed note-paper, and feeling their gloss with her fingers. When strong enough to write, she liked to copy poems in a neat round hand with her gold pen. "See how she that desk does love!" said Mrs. Linck, breaking her English into small pieces, as she always did when very earnest. "O, Miss Grace, your kindness forget never I shall." Grace felt inclined to kiss Mahla and to cry. "O, Mahla," said she, "if you're only well, won't we girls have good times in the upper room when school takes up?" Mahla smiled sadly. "I'm going some-place else." "Some-place else? O, Mahla, you're too sick!" "Not too sick to go to heaven, Gracie!" Grace shuddered, and hid her face in Mahla's bosom. "It don't frighten me a bit, Gracie." "But, Mahla, darling, it's so far off!" "O, Gracie, no, indeed; it seems as if heaven was right in this room." "So dark and cold down there," sobbed Grace. "But I'll not be there!" Mahla whispered. "Not in the grave a minute! I don't know what way I'll go up to heaven, but the Lord will know. O, he loves me so!" After this conversation, Grace and Cassy walked home together very quietly. Grace looked at the fair, green earth and soft sky, and remembered some of the poetry Mahla had copied:-- "The world is lovely. O, my God, I thank Thee that I live." As Grace repeated these lines to herself, she drew closer to her friend. "O, Cassy, it's so lonesome to be in the grave!" Yet Mahla, whom she pitied, was happier on her sick bed than even these joyous girls. Her clinging trust in God was more delightful than opal skies, and ruddy health, and even the dearest friendships. The Children's Fair was held in the Music Hall, and was fully attended. Robin said there was no room for more people, unless you drove up some nails. The benevolent enterprise had been undertaken by a handful of young girls, who had worked with great zeal in the very warmest days of summer; and since this fact was well known, it was enough in itself to bring a crowd of people out of mere curiosity. The little heroines of the evening, dressed in white, with wreaths on their heads, looked as fresh as lilies, but kept modestly in the background, leaving the management of affairs to older people. It was very much like other fairs--ice cream, cake, chicken salad, sandwiches, saucers of peaches and cream; then singing, some of which "jingled," Horace said, and he liked it. Grace held up her hands in horror. "You queer boy, a 'jingle,' as you call it, is a discord, and it sets my ears on edge! It's worse than the creaking of a horrid grindstone!" Then there were patriotic remarks, no speaker omitting to praise the "fair and noble young misses" who had been the means of raising hundreds of dollars for the soldiers. If these enthusiastic gentlemen had used less flattery, it might have been wiser; for I fear that some of the Princesses went home that night fancying their own little heads and hearts to be running over with wisdom and benevolence. The very next day Mahla Linck passed quietly away to the Saviour who "loved her so." It did not seem like death. Grace and Cassy looked at the face which Mahla had once lighted up. It was quite still, now, and changeless; but the sweet, trusting look was there yet--the very look she gave, her Saviour when she saw him coming to take her in his arms and bless her, and bear her away to heaven. Grace kissed the cold forehead, but it no longer thrilled to her touch. The purified spirit of little Mahla was not there. "O, Cassy, do you remember what she said?" whispered Grace through a mist of tears. "She said heaven was right in this room; and seems to me I can feel it!" The quiet of the spot was indeed hallowed. One might almost believe that the peace which had filled little Mahla's heart still lingered about her sleeping form. "She loved God dearly," thought Grace. "O, I wish I loved Him so!" Mrs. Linck took Grace's hand and laid it upon the beautiful writing-desk which stood on a table by the bed. "Keep it," said she; "my Mahla said it must to you belong. She will not, in heaven, need it any more." Grace sobbed out her thanks, and said she would "always love that desk, and never, never part with it." She preserves it now among her choicest treasures. It reminds her of the blessed Golden Rule; and she thinks--though I hope never with pride--of the happiness she was once able to give a tired and sick little friend. It is yet fresh and new; but the years pass so swiftly, that only a little while, and that very desk will be a relic of the past, which another generation of young people will regard as a sacred memento of Grace Clifford's happy girlhood. [Transcriber's note: Many of the characters in this book speak in dialect or mispronounce words. The many misspellings in the text, including "declar" for "declare" and "mountainious" for "mountainous" have been carefully checked against the hardcopy. The all-caps YOU near the end of the story also appears, as such, in the hardcopy.] 
42246	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). QUICKSILVER SUE [Illustration: READING CLARICE'S LETTER.] QUICKSILVER SUE by LAURA E. RICHARDS Author of "Captain January," etc. Illustrated by W. D. Stevens New York The Century Co. 1901 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I SOMETHING EXCITING 1 II THE NEW-COMER 16 III MARY'S VIEW 34 IV EARLY IN THE MORNING 50 V THE PICNIC 67 VI AT THE HOTEL 89 VII THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 105 VIII THE CIRCUS 122 IX THE LONELY ROAD 140 X ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 158 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS READING CLARICE'S LETTER _Frontispiece_ PAGE MISS CLARICE PACKARD RUSTLED INTO HER FATHER'S PEW 27 ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC 63 EACH CAME FORWARD AND SHOOK CLARICE'S GLOVED HAND SOLEMNLY 79 "MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER" 113 AT THE CIRCUS 137 MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW 145 QUICKSILVER SUE CHAPTER I SOMETHING EXCITING "Mother! Mother! he has a daughter! Isn't that perfectly fine?" Mrs. Penrose looked up wearily; her head ached, and Sue was so noisy! "Who has a daughter?" she asked. "Can't you speak a little lower, Sue? Your voice goes through my head like a needle. Who is it that has a daughter?" Sue's bright face fell for an instant, and she swung her sunbonnet impatiently; but the next moment she started again at full speed. "The new agent for the Pashmet Mills, Mother. Everybody is talking about it. They are going to live at the hotel. They have taken the best rooms, and Mr. Binns has had them all painted and papered,--the rooms, I mean, of course,--and new curtains, and everything. Her name is Clarice, and she is fifteen, and very pretty; and he is real rich--" "_Very_ rich," corrected her mother, with a little frown of pain. "Very rich," Sue went on; "and her clothes are simply fine; and--and--oh, Mother, isn't it elegant?" "Sue, where have you been?" asked her mother, rousing herself. (Bad English was one of the few things that did rouse Mrs. Penrose.) "Whom have you been talking with, child? I am sure you never hear Mary Hart say 'isn't it elegant'!" "Oh! Mary is a schoolma'am, Mother. But I never did say it before, and I won't again--truly I won't. Annie Rooney told me, and she said it, and so I didn't think. Annie is going to be waitress at the hotel, you know, and she's just as excited as I am about it." "Annie Rooney is not a suitable companion for you, my daughter, and I am not interested in hotel gossip. Besides, my head aches too much to talk any more." "I'll go and tell Mary!" said Sue. "Will you hand me my medicine before you go, Sue?" But Sue was already gone. The door banged, and the mother sank back with a weary, fretful sigh. Why was Sue so impetuous, so unguided? Why was she not thoughtful and considerate, like Mary Hart? Sue whirled upstairs like a breeze, and rushed into her own room. The room, a pleasant, sunny one, looked as if a breeze were blowing in it all day long. A jacket was tossed on one chair, a dress on another. The dressing-table was a cheerful litter of ribbons, photographs, books, papers, and hats. (This made it hard to find one's brush and comb sometimes; but then, it was convenient to have the other things where one could get at them.) There was a writing-table, but the squirrel lived on that; it was the best place to put the cage, because he liked the sun. (Sue never would have thought of moving the table somewhere else and leaving the space for the cage.) And the closet was entirely full and running over. The walls were covered with pictures of every variety, from the Sistine Madonna down to a splendid four-in-hand cut out of the "Graphic." Most of them had something hanging on the frame--a bird's nest, or a branch of barberries, or a tangle of gray moss. Sometimes the picture could still be seen; again, it could not, except when the wind blew the adornment aside. Altogether, the room looked as if some one had a good time in it, and as if that some one were always in a hurry; and this was the case. "Shall I telephone," said Sue, "or shall I send a pigeon? Oh, I can't stop to go out to the dove-cote; I'll telephone." She ran to the window, where there was a curious arrangement of wires running across the street to the opposite house. She rang a bell and pulled a wire, and another bell jingled in the distance. Then she took up an object which looked like (and indeed was) the half of a pair of opera-glasses with the glass taken out. Holding this to her mouth, she roared softly: "Hallo, Central! Hallo!" There was a pause; then a voice across the street replied in muffled tones: "Hallo! What number?" "Number five hundred and seven. Miss Mary Hart." Immediately a girl appeared at the opposite window, holding the other barrel of the opera-glass to her lips. "Hallo!" she shouted. "What do you want?" "Oh, Mary, have you heard?" "No. What?" "Why, there's a girl coming to live at the hotel--coming to stay all summer! Her father is agent of the Pashmet Mills. She is two years older than we are. Isn't that perfectly fine, Mary? I'm just as excited as I can be about it. I can't stand still a minute." "So I see," said Mary Hart, who had a round, rosy, sensible face, and quiet blue eyes. "But do try to stand still, Sue! People don't jump up and down when they are telephoning, you know." "Oh! I can't help it, Mary. My feet just seem to go of themselves. Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? You don't seem to care one bit. I'm sorry I told you, Mary Hart." "Oh, no, you're not!" said Mary, good-naturedly. "But how can I tell whether it is splendid or not, Sue, before I have seen the girl? What is her name?" "Oh! didn't I tell you? Clarice Packard. Isn't that a perfectly lovely name? Oh, Mary, I just can't wait to see her; can you? It's so exciting! I thought there was never going to be anything exciting again, and now just see! Don't you hope she will know how to act, and dress up, and things? I do." "Suppose you come over and tell me more about it," Mary suggested. "I must shell the peas now, and I'll bring them out on the door-step; then we can sit and shell them together while you tell me." "All right; I'll come right over." Sue turned quickly, prepared to dash out of the room as she had dashed into it, but caught her foot in a loop of the wire that she had forgotten to hang up, and fell headlong over a chair. The chair and Sue came heavily against the squirrel's cage, sending the door, which was insecurely fastened, flying open. Before Sue could pick herself up, Mister Cracker was out, frisking about on the dressing-table, and dangerously near the open window. "Oh! what shall I do?" cried Sue. "That horrid old wire! Cracker, now be good, that's a dear fellow! Here, I know! I had some nuts somewhere--I know I had! Wait, Cracker, do wait!" But Cracker was not inclined to wait, and while Sue was rummaging various pockets which she thought might contain the nuts, he slipped quietly out of the window and scuttled up the nearest tree, chattering triumphantly. Sue emerged from the closet, very red in the face, and inclined to be angry at the ingratitude of her pet. "After all the trouble I have had teaching him to eat all kinds of things he didn't like!" she exclaimed. "Well, at any rate, I sha'n't have any more eggs to boil hard, and Katy said I couldn't have any more, anyhow, because I cracked the saucepans when I forgot them. And, anyhow, he wasn't very happy, and I know I should just hate to live in a cage, even with a whirligig--though it must be fun at first." Consoling herself in this wise, Sue flashed down the stairs, and almost ran over her little sister Lily, who was coming up. "Oh, Susie," said Lily, "will you help me with my dolly's dress? I have done all I can without some one to show me, and Mamma's head aches so she can't, and Katy is ironing." "Not now, Lily; don't you see I am in a terrible hurry? Go and play, like a good little girl!" "But I've no one to play with, Susie," said the child, piteously. "Find some one, then, and don't bother! Perhaps I'll show you about the dress after dinner, if I have time." Never stopping to look at the little face clouded with disappointment, Sue ran on. There was no cloud on her own face. She was a vision of sunshine as she ran across the street, her fair hair flying, her hazel eyes shining, her brown holland dress fluttering in the wind. The opposite house looked pleasant and cheerful. The door stood open, and one could look through the long, narrow hall and into the garden beyond, where the tall purple phlox seemed to be nodding to the tiger-lilies that peeped round the edge of the front door. The door was painted green, and had a bright brass knocker; and the broad stone step made a delightful seat when warmed through and through by the sun, as it was now. The great horse-chestnut trees in front of the house made just enough shade to keep one's eyes from being dazzled, but not enough to shut out the sunbeams which twinkled down in green and gold, and made the front dooryard almost a fairy place. Mary came out, bringing a basket of peas and a shining tin dish; she sat down, and made room for Sue beside her with a smile. "This is more satisfactory than telephoning," she said. "Now, Sue, take a long breath and tell me all about it." Sue breathed deep, and began again the wonderful tale: "Why, I met Annie Rooney this morning, when I went down for the mail. You remember Annie, who used to live with us? Mamma doesn't like her much, but she was always nice to me, and she always likes to stop and talk when I meet her. Well! and so she told me. They may be here any day now, Mr. Packard and his daughter. Her name is Clarice--oh! I told you that, didn't I? Don't you think it's a perfectly lovely name, Mary? It sounds like a book, you know, with long, golden hair, and deep, unfathomable eyes, and--" "I never saw a book with golden hair," said Mary, "to say nothing of unfathomable eyes." "Mary, now stop teasing me! You know perfectly well what I mean. I am sure she must be beautiful with a name like that. Oh, dear! I wish I had a name like that, instead of this stupid one. Susan! I don't see how any one could possibly be so cruel as to name a child Susan. When I grow up, Mary, do you know what I am going to do? I made up my mind as soon as I heard about Clarice Packard. I'm going to appear before the President and ask him to change my name." "Sue, what do you mean?" "My dear, it's true! It's what they do. I've read about it somewhere. It has to be done by act of legislature, and of course the President tells Congress, and they see about it. I should _like_ to have that same name--Clarice. It's the prettiest name I ever heard of; don't you think so, Mary? But of course I can't be a copy-cat, so I am going to have it Faeroline--you remember that story about Faeroline? Faeroline Medora, or else Medora Faeroline. Which do you think would be prettiest, Mary?" "I like Sue better than either!" said Mary, stoutly. "Oh, Mary, you do discourage me sometimes! Well, where was I?" "You had got as far as her name," said Mary. "Oh, yes. Well, and her father is rich. I should think he must be enormously rich. And she must be beautiful,--I am quite sure she must; and--she dresses splendidly, Annie says; and--and they are coming to live at the hotel; and she is fifteen--I told you that? And--well, I suppose that is all I really know just yet, Mary; but I _feel_ a great, _great_ deal more. I feel, somehow, that this is a very serious event in my life, Mary. You know how I have been longing for something exciting to happen. Only yesterday, don't you remember, I was saying that I didn't believe anything would ever happen, now that we had finished 'Ivanhoe'; and now just see!" "I should think they would try to get a house, if they are well off," said practical Mary. "It must be horrid, living at a hotel." "Oh, Mary, you have _no_ imagination! I think it would be perfectly delightful to stay at a hotel. I've always just longed to; it has been one of my dreams that some day we might give up housekeeping and live at the hotel; but of course we never shall." "For pity's sake! I should hope not, Sue, with a good home of your own! Why, what would there be to like about it?" "Oh, it would be so exciting! People coming and going all the time, and bells ringing, and looking-glasses everywhere, and--and never knowing what one is going to have for dinner, and all kinds of good things in little covered dishes, just like 'Little Kid Milk, table appear!' Don't you remember? And--it would be so exciting! You know I love excitement, Mary, and I just hate to know what I am going to have for dinner." "I know I am going to have peas for dinner," said Mary,--"at least, I want them. Sue, you haven't shelled a dozen peas; I shall have to go and get Bridget to help me." "Oh, no; I will, I truly will!" cried Sue; and she shelled with ardor for a few minutes, the pods flying open and the peas rattling merrily into the tin basin. "Do you remember the three peas in the Andersen story?" she said presently. "I always used to wish I had been one of those--the one that grew up, you know, and made a little garden for the sick girl. Wouldn't it be lovely, Mary, to come up out of the ground, and find you could grow, and put out leaves, and then have flowers? Only, I would be sweet peas,--not this kind,--and look so lovely, just like sunset wings, and smell sweet for sick people, and--Mary! Mary Hart! who is that?" Sue was looking down the street eagerly. Mary looked too, and saw a carriage coming toward them with two people in it. "No one we know, I think," said Mary. "They are strangers!" cried Sue, in great excitement,--"a man and a girl. Mary Hart, I do believe it is Mr. Packard and Clarice! It must be. They are strangers, I tell you! I never saw either of them in my life. And look at her hat! Mary, _will_ you look at her hat?" "I _am_ looking at it!" said Mary. "Yes, Sue; I shouldn't wonder if you were right. Where are you going?" "Indoors, so that I can stare. You wouldn't be so rude, Mary, as to stare at her where she can see you? You aren't going to stare at all! Oh, Mary, what's the use of not being _human_? You are too poky for anything. A stranger,--and that girl, of all the world,--and not have a good look at her? Mary, I do find you trying sometimes. Well, I am going. Good-by." And Sue flew into the house, and flattened herself behind the window-curtain, where she could see without being seen. Mary was provoked for a moment, but her vexation passed with the cracking of a dozen pods. It was impossible to be long vexed with Sue. As the gay carriage passed, she looked up quietly for a moment, to meet the unwinking stare of a pair of pale blue eyes, which seemed to be studying her as a new species in creation. A slender girl, with very light hair and eyebrows, a pale skin, and a thin, set mouth--not pretty, Mary thought, but with an "air," as Sue would say, and very showily dressed. The blouse of bright changeable silk, with numberless lace ruffles, the vast hat, like a flower-garden and bird-shop in one, the gold chain and lace parasol, shone strangely in the peaceful village street. Mary returned the stare with a quiet look, then looked down at her peas again. "What, oh, what shall we do," she said to herself, quoting a rhyme her father had once made,-- "What, oh, what shall we do With our poor little Quicksilver Sue?" CHAPTER II THE NEW-COMER Sue Penrose went home that day feeling, as she had said to Mary, that something serious had happened. The advent of a stranger, and that stranger a girl not very far from her own and Mary's age, was indeed a wonderful thing. Hilton was a quiet village, and it happened that she and Mary had few friends of their own age. They had never felt the need of any, being always together from babyhood. Mary would never, it might be, feel the need; but Sue was always a dreamer of dreams, and always longed for something new, something different from every-day pleasures and cares. When the schooners came up the river, in summer, to load with ice from Mr. Hart's great ice-houses, Sue always longed to go with them when they sailed. There were little girls on them sometimes; she had seen them. She had gone so far as to beg Mr. Hart to let her go as stewardess on board the "Rosy Dawn." She felt that a voyage on a vessel with such a name must be joy indeed. But Mr. Hart always laughed at her so, it would have been hard to have patience with him if he were not so dear and good. She longed to go away on the trains, too, or to have the pair of cream-colored horses that were the pride of the livery-stable--to take them and the buckboard, and drive away, quite away, to new places, where people didn't have their dresses made over every year, and where they had new things every day in the shop-windows. Her dreams always took her away from Hilton; for it seemed impossible that anything new or strange should ever come there to the sleepy home village. She and Mary had always made their plays out of books, and so had plenty of excitement in that way; but Hilton itself was asleep,--her mother said so,--and it would never wake up. And now, all in a moment, the scene was changed. Here, into the very village street, had come a stranger--a wonderful girl looking like a princess, with jewels and gold chains and shimmering silk; and this girl was going to lead a kind of fairy life at a marvelous place called a hotel, where the walls were frescoed, and you could make up stories about them all the time you were eating your dinner; and the dinner itself was as different as possible from a plain brown leg of mutton, which Katy would always do over three times in just the same order: first a pie, then a fricassee, then mincemeat. Katy was so tiresome! But this girl with the fair hair and the beautiful name would have surprises three times a day, surprises with silver covers,--at least, they looked like silver,--and have four kinds of pie to choose from. And she came from New York! That was perhaps the most wonderful part of all. Sue sat down on her window-seat, gave a long sigh, and fell into a dream of New York. They drove curricles there, glittering curricles like those in books. (Sue was very fond of books, provided they were "exciting.") And the houses--well, she knew something about those, of course; she had heard them described; and of course it was stupid to have them all alike outside, row upon row of brownstone; but, on the other hand, perhaps it made the mystery of the inside all the more amazing. To go in at a plain brown door in a plain brown house, and find--find--oh! what would not one find? There would be curtains of filmy lace--lace was always filmy when it was not rich and creamy; well, on the whole, she would have the curtains rich and creamy, and keep the filmy kind for something else. And the carpets were crimson, of course, and so thick your feet sank quite out of sight in them. ("I don't see how you could run," Sue admitted to herself; "but no matter.") The walls were "hung," not papered--hung with satin and damask, or else with Spanish leather, gilded, like those in the Hans Andersen story. Sue had begged piteously, when her room was done over last year, to have it hung with gilded Spanish leather. She had quoted to her mother the song the old hangings sang after they had been there for ages and ages: "The gilding decays, But hog's leather stays." But it made no difference; the room was papered. Sue had chosen the paper, to be sure, and it was certainly pretty; but--she sighed as she looked around and fancied the Spanish leather creaking in the wind; then sank into her dream again. The rooms, downstairs, at least, were in suites, opening out of each other in long vistas ("vista" was a lovely word! there were no houses in Hilton big enough to have vistas, but probably they would have them at the hotel), with long French windows opening on to velvet lawns-- No! Sue shook herself severely. That was the other kind of house--the kind that was embosomed in trees, in Miss Yonge's stories. Of course they wouldn't have French windows in New York; the burglars could get in. An adventure with a burglar would be terribly exciting, though! There might be just one French window. Sue's mind hovered for a moment, tempted to wander into a dream of burglary; but she rejected it, and went on with the house. The furniture would be just perfectly fine--rosewood and satinwood, and one room all ebony and pale yellow satin. You wore a yellow crape dress when you sat there, with--yes; now came in the filmy lace, lots and lots of it round your snowy neck, that rose out of it like a dove,--no, like a swan, or a pillar, or something. Then, upstairs--oh! she hadn't got to upstairs yet, but she must just take a peep and see the silver bedstead, all hung with pale blue velvet. Oh, how lovely! And--why, yes, it might be--in the bed there would be a maiden sleeping, more beautiful than the day. Her long, fair hair was spread out on the pillow (when Sue was grown up she was never, never going to braid her hair at night; she was always going to spread it out), and her nightgown was all lace, every bit, and the sheets were fine as a cambric handkerchief, and her eyelashes were black, and so long that they reached half-way down her nose, like that paper doll Mrs. Hart made. Well, and Sue would go up and look at her. Oh! if she herself were only a fairy prince in green and gold, or could change into one just for a little while! But, anyhow, she would look at the lovely maiden and say: "Love, if thy tresses be so dark,--" But these tresses were fair! Well, never mind; she could change that: "Love, if thy tresses be so fair, How bright those hidden eyes must be!" That was really almost as good as the real way. It would be just lovely to be a poet, and say that kind of thing all the time! Sue wondered how one began to be a poet; she thought she would try, when she got through with this. And then the maiden would wake up and say: "Hallo!" and Sue would say: "Hallo! what's your name?" and she would say, soft and low, like the wind of the western sea: "Clarice!" And then they would be friends for life, the dearest friends in the world--except Mary, of course. But then, Mary was different. She was the dearest girl that ever was, but there was nothing romantic about her. Clarice! It was a pity the other name was Packard! It ought to have been Atherton, or Beaudesert. Clarice Beaudesert! That was splendid. But Mr. Packard didn't look as if he belonged to that kind of people. Well, then, when Clarice grew up she would have to marry some one called Beaudesert--or Clifford. Clarice Clifford was beautiful! And he would be a lord, of course, because there was the good Lord Clifford, you know. And--and--well, anyhow, Clarice would get up, and would thrust her tiny feet into blue velvet slippers embroidered with pearls (if there had really been fairies, the very first thing Sue would have asked for would have been small feet, instead of these great things half a yard long), and throw round her (they always threw things round them in books, instead of putting them on) a--let me see--a long robe of pale blue velvet, to match the bed, and lined with ermine all through; and then she would take Sue round and show her the rest of the house. That would be perfectly lovely! And they would tell each other the books they liked best; and perhaps Clarice would ask her to stay to tea, and then they would sit down to a small round ebony table, with a snowy cloth,--no; bare would be finer if it was real ebony,--and glittering with crystal and silver (they always do that), and with rose-colored candle-shades, and--and-- Tinkle, tinkle! went the dinner-bell. "Oh, dear!" said Sue. "Just as I was going to have such a delightful feast! And it's mincemeat day, too. I hate mincemeat day!" * * * * * When she was not dreaming, Sue was planning how she could make the much-desired acquaintance of the new-comer. Mary advised waiting a little, and said her father was going to call on Mr. Packard, and the meeting might perhaps come about naturally in that way. But this was altogether too prosaic for Sue. She must find a way that was not just plain being introduced; that was stupid and grown-up. She must find a way of her own, that should belong entirely to her. Of course, the best thing, the right and proper and story-book thing, would be for Mr. Packard's horse to run away when only Clarice was in the carriage. Then Sue could fling herself in the path of the infuriated animal, and check him in mid-career by the power of her eye--no; it was lions you did that to. But, anyhow, she could catch him by the bridle, and hang on, and stop him that way. It didn't sound so well, but it was more likely. Or if Clarice should fall into the river, Sue could plunge in and rescue her, swimming with one hand and upholding the fainting form of the lovely maiden with the other, till, half-unconscious herself, the youthful heroine reached the bank, and placed her lovely--no; said that before!--her beauteous burden in the arms of her distracted parent. Oh, dear, how exciting that would be! But nobody ever did fall into the river in Hilton, and the horses never ran away, so it was not to be expected. But there must be some way; there should be! So it came to pass that on the Sunday after the Packards' arrival, Miss Clarice Packard, rustling into her father's pew in all the conscious glory of a flowered organdie muslin and the biggest hat in town, found in the corner of the pew something that made her open her pale blue eyes wider than usual. It was a large heart of red sugar, tied round with a true-lover's knot of white satin ribbon. Looking round, she became aware of a pair of eyes fixed eagerly on her, the brightest eyes she had ever seen. They belonged to a little girl--well, not so very little, either; rather a tall girl, on the whole, but evidently very young--sitting across the aisle. This girl was ridiculously dressed, Miss Packard thought, with no style at all about her; and yet, somehow--well, she was pretty, certainly. It seemed to be one of the best pews in the church. Her mother--that must be her mother--was "real stylish," certainly, though her gown was too plain; and, after all, the girl had style, too, in her way. It would be nice to have some one to speak to in this dreadful, poky little place that "Puppa" would insist on bringing her to. The idea of his not trusting her to stay alone at the boarding-house! Clarice had wept tears of vexation at being "cruelly forced," as she said, to come with her father to Hilton. She had called it a hole, and a desert, and everything else that her rather scanty vocabulary could afford. But now, here was a pretty little girl, who looked as if she were somebody, evidently courting her acquaintance. There was no mistaking the eager, imploring gaze of the clear hazel eyes. Clarice nodded slightly, and smiled. The younger girl flushed all over, and her face seemed to quiver with light in a way different from anything Clarice had ever seen. There might be some fun here, after all, if she had a nice little friend who would adore her, and listen to all her stories, which the other girls were sometimes disagreeable about. [Illustration: "MISS CLARICE PACKARD RUSTLED INTO HER FATHER'S PEW."] Two people in church, that Sunday, heard little of the excellent sermon. Sue could not even take her usual interest in the great east window, which was generally her mainstay through the parts of the sermon she could not follow. To begin with, there were the figures that made the story; but these were so clear and simple that they really said less, when once one knew the story by heart, than some other features. There were the eight blue scrolls that looked almost exactly like knights' helmets; and when you looked at them the right way, the round blue dots underneath made the knights' eyes; and there you had them, all ready for tournaments or anything. Scruples of conscience obliged Sue to have them always Templars or Knights of Malta, and they only fought against infidels. One of the knights had lost an eye; and the number of ways and places in which he had lost it was amazing: Saladin had run a lance into it at Acre; he had been tilting, just for fun, with Tancred, and Tancred hit him by mistake and put his eye out; and so on and so on. Then, there were the jewels, high up in the window; the small, splendid spots of ruby and violet and gold, which Sue was in the habit of taking out and making into jewels for her own adornment. The tiara of rubies, the long, dangling ear-rings of crystal set in gold, the necklace of sapphires--how often had she worn them to heart's content! And to-day she did, indeed, make use of them, but it was to adorn her new beauty, her new friend. She would bring them all to Clarice! She would put the tiara on her head, and clasp the necklace round her slender neck, and say, "All is yours!" And then she, Sue, would go by dale and would go by down with a single rose in her hair, just like Lady Clare; but Clarice would call her back and say: "Beloved, let us share our jewels and our joys!" Oh! Sue quivered at the thought, and looked so brightly and earnestly at the minister that the good old man was surprised and pleased, and said to himself that he should hardly have supposed his comments on Ezra would so impress even the young and, comparatively speaking, thoughtless! When Clarice Packard came out of church, she found her would-be acquaintance dimpling and quivering on the door-step. "Hallo!" said Clarice, with kind condescension, just exactly as she had done when Sue waked her up, in the dream! "Hallo!" whispered Sue, in a rapturous whisper. This, she told herself, was the great moment of her life. Till now she had been a child; now she was--she did not stop to explain what, and it might have been difficult. "Did you put this in my pew?" the new-comer went on, secretly displaying the sugar heart. Sue nodded, but could not trust herself to speak. "It was just perfectly sweet of you!" said Clarice. "I'm real glad to have somebody to speak to; I was feeling real homesick." Sue was dimly conscious that it was not good English to say "real" in that way; but perhaps people did say it in New York; and in any case, she could not stop to think of such trifles. She was in a glow of delight; and when Clarice asked her to walk down the street with her, the cup of happiness seemed brimming over. She, Sue Penrose, who had never in her life been out of Hilton, except now and then to go to Chester, the neighboring town--she was the one chosen by this wonderful stranger, this glittering princess from afar, to walk with her. Sue did not see Mary at first. At length she became aware of her, gazing in wonder, and she gave a little quick, rapturous nod. There was no time to explain. She could only catch Mary's hand, in passing, and give it a squeeze, accompanied by a look of intense, dramatic significance. Mary would see, would understand. Of course Mary would share her treasure, her new joy, sooner or later; but just now she could not surrender it to any one, not even to Mary. As Clarice passed her arm through hers, Sue straightened her slight figure, and looked as if the world were at her feet. And so they passed down the street; and Mary, left alone for the first time since she could remember, stood in the church porch and looked after them. CHAPTER III MARY'S VIEW "Mammy, I have seen her!" "Well, Mary dear?" "Oh, Mammy, it isn't well! It isn't a bit well; it's just horrid! I don't like her a bit, and I never shall like her, I know." Mrs. Hart made room beside her on the wide sofa in the corner of which she sat knitting. "Come and tell me, dear!" she said comfortably. "Let us take the trouble out and look at it; it may be smaller than you think. Tell Mammy all about it!" Mary drew a long breath, and rubbed her head against her mother's arm. "Oh, Mammy, you do smooth me out so!" she said. "I feel better already; perhaps it isn't quite so bad as it seems to me, but I'm afraid it is. Well, I told you how they made friends?" "Yes; Sue put a red sugar heart in the corner of the Packard pew, and she and the little girl--she isn't little? well, then, the big girl--made eyes at each other all through the service, and fell upon each other's neck afterward. My dear, it wasn't the thing to do, of course; but Sue meant no harm, and it was a truly Susannic proceeding. What came next?" "You know I was busy all day Monday, helping you with the strawberry-jam. Well, they were together all day; and yesterday, when I went over to see Sue, she was at the hotel with Clarice, and had been invited to stay to dinner. I stayed and played with Lily, who seemed pretty forlorn; and I kept hoping Sue would come back; but she didn't. Mammy!" "Yes, dear." "I _do_ think Lily has a forlorn time! You spoke to me about it once, and I said then I didn't think so. I--I think it was just that I didn't see, then; now I do!" Mrs. Hart patted Mary's arm, but said nothing; and the girl went on: "Well, then, this morning, about an hour ago, Sue came flying over in the wildest excitement. Clarice Packard was there at her house, and I must come over that very minute. She was the dearest and loveliest creature in the world; and we must love each other, too; and we should be three hearts that beat as one; and she never was so happy in her life! You must have heard her, Mammy; all this was in the front entry, and she was swinging on the door all the time she was talking; she hadn't time to let go the handle, she said." "Yes, I heard; but I was busy, and did not notice much. She seemed to be rather unusually 'quicksilvery,' I thought. And did you fly over with her?" "Why, no; I was just going to feed the dogs,--I promised the boys I would, because they wanted to go fishing early,--and I had the chickens to see to, and I couldn't go that minute. I oughtn't to have gone at all, Mammy, for you needed me, though you would say you didn't. Well, Sue went off quite huffy; but when I did go over, she forgot all about it, and was all beaming and rippling. She _is_ a darling, if she does provoke me sometimes! She flew downstairs to meet me, and hugged me till I had no breath left, and almost dragged me upstairs to her room. She was out of breath as well as I, and she could only say: 'Oh, Clarice, this is Mary! Mary, this is Clarice Packard, my new friend. She doesn't care a bit about being two years older than we are! And now we shall all three be friends, like--like the Dauntless Three, don't you know? Oh, isn't this splendid! Oh, I never was so happy in my life!' "Mammy, Clarice Packard didn't look as if she had ever heard of the Dauntless Three! but she smiled a little, thin smile, and opened her eyes at me, and said, 'So glad!' I shook hands, of course, and her hand just flopped into mine, all limp and froggy. I gave it a good squeeze, and she made a face as if I had broken her bones." "You have a powerful grip, you know, Mary! Everybody isn't used to wrestling with boys; you probably did hurt her." "I know, Mammy; I suppose I did squeeze too hard. Well! Sue had been showing her everything--all _our_ things, that we play with together. She didn't say much,--well, perhaps she could not have said very much, for Sue was talking all the time,--but I felt--Mammy, I felt sure that she didn't really care about any of them. I know she laughed at the telephone, because I saw her. "'I have a real telephone in my room at home,' she said, 'a long-distance one. My dearest friend lives in Brooklyn, and we have a line all to ourselves. Puppa is one of the directors, you know, and I told him I couldn't have other people listening to what Leonie and I said to each other, so he gave us a private line.' Mammy, do you believe that? I don't!" "I cannot say, my dear!" said Mrs. Hart, cautiously. "It sounds unlikely, but I cannot say it is not true. Go on." "I think Sue had been showing Clarice her dresses before I came, for the closet door was open, and her pink gingham was on the bed; and presently Clarice said: 'Have you any jewelry?' "Sue ran and brought her box, and took out all her pretty little things. You know what pretty things Sue has, Mammy! You remember the blue mosaic cross her godmother sent her from Italy, with the white dove on it, and the rainbow-shell necklace, and that lovely enameled rose-leaf pin with the pearl in the middle?" "Yes; Sue has some very pretty trinkets, simple and tasteful, as a child's should be. Mrs. Penrose has excellent taste in all such matters. Sue must have enjoyed showing them to a new person." "Dear Sue! she was so pleased and happy, she never noticed; but I could see that that girl was just laughing at the things. Of course none of them are showy--I should hope not!--but you would have thought they were nothing but make-believe, the way she looked at them. She kept saying, 'Oh, very pretty! quite sweet!' and then she would open her eyes wide and smile; and Sue just quivered with delight every time she did it. Sue thinks it is perfectly beautiful; she says it is Clarice's soul overflowing at her eyes. _I_ want to shake her every time she does it. Well, then she said in a sort of silky voice she has--Sue calls it 'silken,' and I call it 'silky'; and I think, somehow, Mammy, that shows partly the way she strikes us both, don't you?--she said in that soft, silky way, 'Any diamonds, dear?' Of course she knew Sue had no diamonds! The idea! I never heard anything so ridiculous. And when Sue said no, she said: "I wish I had brought my chain; I should like to show it to you. Puppa thought it hardly safe for me to bring it down here into the backwoods, he said. It goes all round my neck, you know, and reaches down to my belt. It cost a thousand dollars.' Mammy, do you believe that?" "I don't think it at all likely, my dear! I am afraid Clarice is given to romancing. But of course she may have a good deal of jewelry. Some very rich people who have not just our ideas about such matters often wear a great many jewels--more than we should like to wear, even if we had the means. But people of good taste would never allow a young girl to wear diamonds." "I should think not, Mammy! Clarice Packard had no diamonds on, but her hands were just covered with rings--rather cheap, showy rings, too. There was one pretty one, though, that took Sue's fancy greatly, and mine too, for that matter. It was a ring of gold wire, with a tiny gold mouse running loose round it--just loose, Mammy, holding on by its four little feet. Oh, such a pretty thing! Sue was perfectly enchanted with it, and could not give over admiring it; and at last Clarice took it off, and put it on Sue's finger, and said she must wear it a little while for her sake. I wish, somehow, Sue had said no; but she was so happy, and 'quicksilvered' all over so, it was pretty to see her. She threw her arms round Clarice's neck, and told her she was a dear, beautiful, royal darling. Then Clarice whispered something in Sue's ear, and looked at me out of the corner of her eye, and Sue colored and looked distressed; and--and so I came away, Mammy dear, and here I am!" "Rather hot, and a little cross?" said Mrs. Hart. "Yes, Mammy." "And with a sore spot in your heart?" "Yes, Mammy." Mrs. Hart put down her knitting and held out her arms, and Mary curled up in her lap, and tried to shorten her long legs and make herself as small as might be. "You know what I am afraid of, Mammy!" she said. Her mother nodded, and pressed the comforting arms closer round her little girl, but said nothing. "I am afraid I am going to lose my Sue, my own Sue, who has always belonged to me. It doesn't seem as if I could bear it, Mammy. It has come--so--don't you know?--so all of a sudden! We never thought anything could possibly come between us. I never should think of wanting any one but Sue, and I thought--it was the same--with her. And--and now--she does not see herself how it is, not a bit; she is just as sweet and loving as ever, and she thinks that I can start right in as she has done, and love this girl, and that there will be three of us instead of two. Mammy, it cannot be. You see that, I'm sure; of course you do! And--and I am very sad, Mammy." Mrs. Hart stroked the brown head in silence for a few minutes; then she said: "Dear child, I don't really think we need be afraid of that--of your losing Sue permanently. You are likely to have an uncomfortable summer; that, I fear, we must expect. But Sue is too good and loving at bottom to be seriously moved by this new-comer; and a tie like that between you and her, Mary, is too strong to be easily loosed. Sue is dazzled by the glitter and the novelty, and all the quicksilver part of her is alive and excited. It is like some of your stories coming true, or it seems so to her, I have no doubt. Remember that you are very different, you two, and that while you are steady-going and content with every-day life, she is always dreaming, and longing for something new and wonderful. She would not be so dear to you if you were more alike, nor you to her. But by and by the other part of her, the sensible part, will wake up again, and she will see what is foolish in this new friendship, and what is real and abiding in the old. Then, too, Mary, you must remember that you are excited as well as Sue, and perhaps not quite just. You have only seen this girl once--" "It would be just the same, Mammy, if I had seen her a hundred times; I know it would!" "No, love; you cannot know that. Some people show their worst side on first acquaintance, and improve as we know them better. You certainly must show some attention to Clarice Packard. Your father has met Mr. Packard, and says he seems a sensible man, though not a person of much education. Suppose you invite the girl here and let me see her? We might ask her to tea some evening this week." "No, Mammy; Papa would not endure it; I know he would not. There! look, Mammy! There they go, she and Sue. Look and see for yourself!" Mrs. Hart looked, and saw the two girls pacing along the opposite sidewalk, arm in arm. Clarice was bending over Sue with an exaggerated air of confidence; her eyes languished, and she shook her head and shrugged her shoulders with an air of ineffable consequence. "You are right, dear," said Mrs. Hart; "not to tea, certainly. What shall we do, then? Let me see! You might have a picnic, you three girls; that is an excellent way of improving acquaintance. You may find it quite a different thing, meeting in an informal way. The first interview would, of course, be the trying one." Mary brightened. "That would be just the thing!" she said. "And I will try, Mammy, I surely will try to like Clarice, if I possibly can; and of course I can be nice to her, anyhow, and I will. Oh, here comes Sue back again, and I'll ask her!" Sue came flying back along the street at a very different pace from the mincing steps to which she had been trying to suit her own. Mary rapped on the window. Sue flashed an answering smile, whirled across the street and in at the door, hugged Mary, kissed Mrs. Hart, and dropped on a hassock, all in one unbroken movement. "Oh, Mrs. Hart," she cried, "did you see her? Did you see Clarice? Isn't she too perfectly lovely? Did you ever see such hair and eyes? Did you ever see any one walk so?" "No, dear; I don't know that I ever did!" said Mrs. Hart. "But I could hardly see your friend's face, you know. You are very much pleased with her, are you, Sue dear?" "Oh!" cried Sue, throwing her head back with a favorite ecstatic movement of hers. "Mrs. Hart, she is simply the most lovely creature I ever saw in my life. Her ways--why, you never imagined anything so--so gracious, and--and queenly, and--and--oh, I don't know what to call it. And she is going to stay all summer; and we are to be three together, she and Mary and I. You dear!" She stopped to hug Mary and take breath. "You dear old Sobriety, you haven't got a bit used to Clarice yet; I'm only just beginning to get used to her myself, she's so different from us. She comes from New York, Mrs. Hart; just think of that! She walks down Broadway every day when she is at home. And she has told me all about the elevated railroad; she isn't a bit afraid to go on it, and I don't believe I should be. And--and--oh, Mrs. Hart, isn't it wonderful?" Mrs. Hart smiled down into the beaming face; it was impossible not to respond to such heartfelt joy. "Dear Sue!" she said affectionately. "You must bring your new friend to see me soon." "Oh, of course I shall!" cried Sue. "And Mary and I were just wondering whether it would be pleasant for you three to have a picnic some day soon." "Oh, Mrs. Hart, how perfectly delightful! When can we go? To-day? I'll run after Clarice and tell her." "No, no, Quicksilver!" said Mary, catching Sue's skirt as she sprang up, and pulling her down to her seat again. "We can't go to-day, possibly. Perhaps to-morrow--what do you say, Mammy? or would Friday be better?" Sue's face fell. "Friday!" she said. "Why, Mary, Friday is ever and ever so far off! I don't see how we _can_ wait till Friday!" "To-morrow will do very well," said Mrs. Hart. "I have a small chicken-pie that will be the very thing; and there are doughnuts and cookies. How is your mother feeling, Sue? Will she or Katy be able to get up something for you, do you think?" "Oh, yes, indeed, Mrs. Hart! I'll make an angel-cake; and there is jam, and--well, Katy was going to show me how to make croquettes some time, and perhaps I'll learn how to-morrow, and then they will be all ready, you see; and oh, we'll have all kinds of things. Let's go and see about them now, Mary! Oh, and we'll ask the boys. Don't you think they will come, Mary? Clarice wants to know them. Isn't that sweet of her?" "Indeed!" said Mrs. Hart and Mary, in one breath. "Has she seen them?" "No; but she asked if there were any nice boys here, and of course I said yes, the nicest boys in the world--Tom and Teddy; and she asked me to introduce them to her; and--and so, you see!" "I see!" said Mrs. Hart, with a quiet smile. "There are the boys now, back from fishing. Why don't you all go and have a good game of 'I spy' in the orchard?" "Oh, good!" cried both girls. They ran to the door just in time to meet two jolly, freckled boys who came rolling in, both talking at once. Sue stumbled and fell over one of them, knocking his cap off, and his basket out of his hand. "Now, then, Quicksilver," said Tom, "where are you a-coming to? Thermometer smashed, and mercury running all over the lot, eh?" "Oh, I beg your pardon, Tom--I do indeed! But I saved you the trouble of taking off your hat, anyhow. Come along and play 'I spy' in the orchard." "Hurrah!" cried the boys. "Where's Mammy? Oh, Mammy, pickereels! five fine fat festive pickereels! Fried for supper, please, Mammy! Coming, Quicksilver! All right, Ballast!" (Ballast was Mary's nickname, as the opposite of Quicksilver.) "Who'll count out?" "I!" "Me!" "You!" They tumbled out of the back door together, and the last sound Mrs. Hart heard was: "Wonozol, zoo-ozol, zigozol, zan, Bobtail, vinegar, tittle-tol, tan; Harum-scarum, virgin marum, Hy, zon, tus!" CHAPTER IV EARLY IN THE MORNING At six o'clock on Thursday morning Sue was up and scanning the clouds. There were not many clouds to scan; the sun was rising bright and glorious in a wonderful blue sky. "It's going to be a perfectly splendid day!" said Sue. "I must call Mary. I don't believe she is awake. Oh, I'll send a pigeon; that's just what I'll do. It will be lovely to be waked up by a pigeon this glorious morning; and I have to feed them, anyhow, because I said I would. I am never going to forget the pigeons again--never! The next time I do, I shall go without food for two days, and see how _I_ like it." Sue dashed into her dress, buttoned it half-way up, and rushed headlong down the stairs and through the kitchen. Katy, the maid of all work, was crossing the floor with a brimming pan of milk. Crash! Sue ran directly into her. The pan fell with a mighty splash; the milk flew over both Katy and Sue, wetting them from head to feet. "Indade, then, Miss Sue, 'tis too bad of yez entirely!" cried Katy. "And laughin', too, after sp'ilin' me gown and desthroyin' me clane flure, let alone all the milk in the house gone." "Oh, but, Katy, if you knew how funny you look, with the white milk all over your red face! I can't help laughing; I truly can't. And my dress is spoiled too, you see, so it's all right. I can't stop now; I'm in the most terrible hurry!" She flew on, but popped her head back through the door to say: "But I am sorry, Katy; I truly am! And if you'll just leave the milk there, I'll pick it up--I mean wipe it up--just as soon as I get back from the picnic." Her smile was so irresistible that Katy's angry face softened in spite of herself. "Sure it's merely a child she is," the good woman said. "Miss Lily's twice the sinse of her, but yet 'tis her takes the heart of one!" She brought the mop and wiped up the milk, then went soberly to change her dress, wondering how the mistress would make her breakfast without the milk-toast which was usually all she could fancy in the morning. Sue had already forgotten the milk. She ran on across the yard, where the dew lay thick and bright, to a small building that stood under a spreading apple-tree. It had been a shed once, and its general effect was still, Sue admitted, "a little sheddy"; but the door was very fine, being painted a light pea-green, the panels picked out with scarlet, and having a really splendid door-plate of bright tin, with "S. PENROSE" in black letters. Some white pigeons sat on the roof sunning themselves, and they fluttered down about the girl's head as she tried the door. "Dear me!" said Sue. "How stupid of me to lock the door last night! I might have known I should forget the key this morning. Never mind; I can get in at the window." She could, and did; but, catching her dress on a nail, tore a long, jagged rent in the skirt. "Dear me!" said Sue, again. "And I don't believe there is another clean one, since I spilt the ink last night. Never mind!" Sue ran up the narrow stairs, and, crossing a landing, entered a tiny room, papered with gay posters. There was plenty of room for the little table and two chairs, and if a third person should come in she could sit on the table. A narrow shelf ran all round the room. This was the Museum, and held specimens of every bird's nest in the neighboring country (all old nests; if Sue had caught any one robbing a nest, or stealing a new one, it would have gone hard with that person), and shells and fossils from the clay bank near the river. The boys played "Prehistoric Man" there a good deal, and sometimes they let Sue and Mary join them, which was great glory. Then there was smoked glass for eclipses (Sue smoked them after the last eclipse, a year ago, so as to be ready for the next one; but the next one was only the moon, which was tiresome, because you didn't need smoked glass), and a dried rattlesnake, and a portrait of Raphael framed in lobster-claws. Sue did not look at these treasures now, because she knew they were all there; but if any "picknickle or bucknickle" had been missing, she would have known it in an instant. Flinging herself into a chair, she hunted for a piece of paper; found one, but rejected it in favor of a smooth, thin sheet of birch bark, on which she wrote as follows: "DEAREST JULIET: It is the east, and thou art the sun, and it's time to get up. I pray thee, wake, sweet maid! This white bird, less snowy than thy neck, bears thee my morning greeting. Do hurry up and dress! Isn't this day perfectly fine? Sha'n't we have a glorious picnic? What are you going to wear? My cake is just lovely! I burned the first one, so this isn't angel, it's buttercup, because I had to take the yolks. Star of my night, send back a message by the bird of love to thy adored "ROMEO." Hastily folding the note into a rather tipsy cocked hat, Sue opened a little door upon a ladder-like staircase, and called: "Coo! coo! coo!" Down fluttered the pigeons, a dozen or more, and taking one in her hands, she fastened a note to a bit of ribbon that hung round its neck. "There!" she said. "Oh, you dear darlings! I must give you your corn before I do another thing." The corn was in a little covered bin on the landing at the head of the stairs. This landing was called the anteroom, and was fully as large as a small table-cloth. Sue scattered the corn with a free hand, and the pigeons cooed, and scrambled for it as only pigeons can. She kept one good handful to feed the messenger bird, and several others perched on her shoulders and thrust their soft heads into her hand. "Dear things!" said Sue, again. "Zuleika, do you love me? Do you, Leila and Hassan? Oh, I wonder if I look like Lili, in the Goethe book! If I were only tall, and had a big white hat and a long white gown with ruffles, I think perhaps--" She stopped short, for a voice was calling from below: "Sue, Sue, where are you?" Sue's face, which had been as bright as Lili's own, fell. "Oh, Mary Hart!" she cried. "How could you?" "How could I what?" and Mary's rosy face looked up from the foot of the staircase. "Why, I supposed you were still sound asleep, and I was just going to send a pigeon over. See! The note is all fastened on; and it's a Romeo note, too; and now you have spoiled it all!" "Not a bit!" said Mary, cheerfully. "I'll run right back, Sue. I am only walking in my sleep. Look! see me walk!" She stretched her arms out stiffly, and stalked away, holding her head high and staring straight in front of her. Sue observed her critically. "You're doing it more like Lady Macbeth than Juliet!" she called after her. "But still it's fine, Mary, only you ought to glare harder, I think. Mind you stay asleep till the pigeon comes. It's Abou Hassan the wag" (the pigeons were named out of the "Arabian Nights"), "so you might give him a piece of apple, if you like, Juliet." "No apples in Verona at this season!" said Juliet, in a sleep-walking voice (which is a loud, sepulchral monotone, calculated to freeze the blood of the listener). "I don't suppose hard-boiled egg would hurt him!" Then she snored gently, and disappeared round the corner. "That was clever of Mary," said Sue. "I wish I walked in my sleep really and truly, like that funny book Mr. Hart has about Sylvester Sound. It would be splendid to be able to walk over the housetops and never fall, and never know anything about it till you woke up and found yourself somewhere else. And then, in that opera Mamma told me about, she walked right out of the window, and all kinds of things happened. It must be dreadfully exciting. But if I did walk in my sleep, I would always go to bed with my best dress on, only I'd have my feet bare and my hair down. Dear me! There's that gray cat, and I know she is after my pigeons! Just wait a minute, you cat!" Sue dismissed the pigeons gently, and they fluttered obediently up to their cote, while she ran downstairs. Sure enough, a wicked-looking gray cat was crouching on a branch of the apple-tree, watching with hungry eyes the few birds that had remained on the roof. The cat did not see Sue, or, at all events, took no notice of her. Sue slipped round to the farther side of the tree and began to climb up silently. It was an easy tree to climb, and she knew every knob and knot that was comfortable for the foot to rest on. Soon she was on a level with the roof of the pigeon-house, and, peeping round the bole, saw the lithe gray body flattened along the bough, and the graceful, wicked-looking tail curling and vibrating to and fro. The pretty, stupid pigeons cooed and preened their feathers, all unconscious of the danger; another minute, and the fatal spring would come. Sue saw the cat draw back a little and stiffen herself. She sprang forward with a shout, caught the branch, missed it--and next moment Sue and cat were rolling on the ground together in a confused heap. Poor pussy (who could not understand why she might not have pigeons raw, when other people had them potted) fled, yowling with terror, and never stopped till she was under the kitchen stove, safe from bright-eyed, shouting avalanches. Sue picked herself up more slowly, and rubbed her head and felt for broken bones. "I _won_'t have broken anything," she said, "and spoil the picnic. Ow! that hurts; but I can wiggle it all right. I'll put some witch-hazel on it. My head seems to be a little queer!" Indeed, a large lump was already "swellin' wisibly" on her forehead. "Never mind!" said Sue. "I'll put arnica on that, and vinegar and brown paper and things; perhaps it'll be all right by breakfast-time; and anyhow, I drove off the cat!" And she shook herself, and went cheerfully into the house. Punctually at nine o'clock the three girls met on the door-step of the Penrose house, each carrying her basket. They were a curious contrast as they stood side by side. Clarice Packard was gaily dressed in a gown of figured challis, trimmed with rows on rows of ribbon, and a profusion of yellow lace. Her vast hat was tilted on one side, and her light hair was tormented into little flat curls that looked as if they were pinned on, though this was not the case. She had on a brooch, a gold chain, a locket, seven charms, five "stick-pins," four hat-pins, three bracelets, and eight rings; and, as Mary said to herself, she was "a sight to behold." If Clarice, on the other hand, had been asked to describe Mary, she would probably have called her a red-faced dowdy. As a rule, people did not think Mary Hart pretty; but every one said, "What a _nice_-looking girl!" And, indeed, Mary was as pleasant to look at as clear red and white--and freckles!--could make her, with the addition of a very sweet smile, and a pair of clear, honest, sensible blue eyes. Her brown holland frock was made in one piece, like a child's pinafore, and, worn with a belt of russet leather, made a costume of such perfect comfort that she and Sue had vowed to keep to it till they were sixteen, if their mothers would let them. Sue was not in brown holland to-day, because she had torn her last clean pinafore dress, as we have seen; but the blue gingham sailor-suit did well enough, and the blouse was very convenient to put apples in, or anything else from a tame squirrel to a bird's nest. Just now it held a cocoanut and some bananas that would not go into the basket, and that gave the light, fly-away figure a singular look indeed. But Sue's bright face was clouded just now. She stood irresolute, swinging her basket, and looking from one to the other of her companions. "Mother says we must take Lily!" she announced in a discontented tone. "I don't see how we can be bothered with having her. She'll want to know everything we are talking about, and we sha'n't have half so much fun." Clarice looked sympathetic. "Children are such a nuisance!" she said, and shrugged her shoulders. "Seems to me they ought to know when they are not wanted." "Nonsense, Sue!" said Mary, ignoring the last speech. "Of course we will take Lily; she'll be no trouble at all, and she will help a good deal with the wreaths and baskets. I'll see to her," she added, a little pang of bitterness mingling with one of self-reproach. She had not always wanted to take Lily when she and Sue were together. They always had so much to say to each other that was extremely important, and that no one else could possibly understand, that a third in the party, and that third a child of nine, seemed sadly in the way. Now, however, all was changed. Somehow, it was herself who was the third. Perhaps Lily's presence would be a relief to-day. Presently the little girl came running out, all beaming with delight at being allowed to go on the big girls' picnic. "Mother has given me a whole bottle of raspberry shrub!" she announced joyfully. "Hurrah!" cried Sue, her face brightening again. "We can have toasts, and that will be splendid. Now let's start, girls! Come, Clarice. Let me carry your basket; it's heavy, and I can carry two just as well as one." "Start!" echoed Clarice. "We are not going to walk, are we?" [Illustration: ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC.] "Why, yes," said Sue, looking a little blank. "Don't you--aren't you fond of walking, Clarice? We always walk, Mary and I." "Oh, certainly; I adore walking. Only, if I had known, Puppa would have sent the team for us. Is it far?" And Clarice glanced down at her shoes, with their paper soles and high heels. "No," said Sue, cheerily. "Only a little bit of a way, not more than a mile. Oh, Clarice, what a lovely brooch that is! Won't you tell me about it as we go along? I am sure there is a story about it; there's something so exciting about all your things. Do tell me." Clarice simpered and cast down her eyes, then cast a significant glance at the others. She took Sue's arm, and they walked on together, one listening eagerly, the other evidently pouring out some romantic story. Mary took Lily's hand in hers. "Come, Lily," she said; "we will go together, and I'll tell you a story as we go. What one would you like? 'Goosey, Gobble, and Ganderee'? Very well!" But to herself Mary was saying: "I don't believe that girl ever walked a mile in her life. We shall have to carry her before we get to the Glen!" CHAPTER V THE PICNIC Clarice Packard was indeed in rather a sad plight before they reached the Glen. Part of the road was sandy, and her high heels sank into the sand and made it hard walking for her, while her companions, in their broad-soled "sneakers," trod lightly and sturdily. Then, too, she had from time to time a stitch in her side, which forced her to sit down and rest for some minutes. Mary, looking at her tiny, wasp-like waist, thought it was no wonder. "Her belt is too tight," she whispered to Sue. "Of course she can't walk. Tell her to let it out two or three holes, and she will be all right." "Oh, hush, Mary," whispered Sue. "It isn't that at all; it's only that she is so delicate. I ought never to have brought her all this way. She has been telling me about the fainting-fits she has sometimes. Oh, what should we do if she had one now!" "Pour some water over her," said downright Mary. "But don't worry, Sue; we are nearly there, and it really _cannot_ hurt her to walk one short mile, you know." "Do you think not, Mary? But I am afraid you don't understand her. You see, she is so delicate, and you are as strong as a cart-horse. Clarice said so. And I suppose I am pretty strong, too." "I'm much obliged to her," said Mary. "Come, Sue, let's push along; she will be all right when we once get there and she has rested a little." The Glen was indeed a pleasant place. A clear stream ran along between high, rocky banks, with a green space on one side, partly shaded by two or three broad oak-trees. Under one of these trees was a bank of moss, as soft and green as if it had been piled by the fairies for their queen. Indeed, this was one of Sue's and Mary's theories, the other being that this special oak was none other than Robin Hood's own greenwood tree, transplanted by magic from the depths of Sherwood Forest. The former theory appealed more to Sue now, as she led the weary Clarice to the bank, and made her sit down in the most comfortable place. "There, dear," she cried; "isn't this lovely? You shall rest here, Clarice, and we will play fairies, and you shall be Titania. You don't mind, do you, Mary, if Clarice is Titania this time? She is so slender, you see, and light; and besides, she is too tired to be anything else." Mary nodded, with a smile; she could not trust herself to speak. She had been Titania ever since they first read "Lamb's Tales"; but it was no matter, and she had promised her mother to do her very best to bring Clarice out, and learn the better side of her. "Isn't it lovely, Clarice?" she asked, repeating Sue's question as she took her place on the mossy bank. "Alegant!" was the languid reply; "perfectly alegant. Isn't it damp, though? Doesn't it come off green on your clothes?" Mary reassured her on this point. She examined her challis anxiously, and sank back again, apparently relieved. She looked round her. Sue and Lily had vanished for the moment. The trees met over their heads. There was no sound save the tinkling of the brook and the faint rustle of the leaves overhead. "It's real lonesome, isn't it?" said Clarice. "Yes," said Mary; "that's part of the beauty of it. There is never any one here, and we can do just as we like, with no fear of any one coming. I think in the woods it's pleasant to be alone, don't you?" "Alegant!" said Clarice; "perfectly alegant! Are there any more people coming, did you say?" "Only my brothers; they are coming later." Clarice brightened, and sat up, arranging her trinkets. "Are they in college?" she asked, with more interest than she had shown in anything that day. "Oh, no!" said Mary, laughing. "They are--" But at this moment Sue came running up with an armful of ferns and oak-leaves, Lily following with another load. "I had to go a long way before I found any that were low enough to reach!" cried Sue, panting after her run. "I mustn't shin to-day, 'cause these are new stockings, and last time I tore them all to pieces." "Tore these all to pieces?" asked Mary, laughing. "Be still, Mary; I won't be quirked at. Now let's all make garlands. No, not you, Clarice; you must just rest. Do you feel better? Do you think you'll be all right in a little while? Now you shall be Titania and give us orders and things; and then, when we have finished the wreaths, we'll sing you to sleep. I am Oberon, you know, generally; but I'll be one of the common fairies now; and Lily--yes, Lily, you can be Puck. Now, can you say some of it, Clarice?" "Some of what?" asked Clarice, with an uncomprehending look. "Why, 'Midsummer-Night's Dream.' We always play that here, except when we play Robin Hood. Perhaps you would rather play Robin, Clarice; perhaps you don't care for 'Midsummer-Night's Dream.' Oh, I hope you do, though. We are _so_ fond of it, Mary and I!" "I don't know what you mean," said Clarice, rather peevishly. "Oh, Shakspere's play? I never read it. I didn't take literature at school. Puppa thought I was too delicate to study much." Sue looked blank for a moment. Not to know "Midsummer-Night's Dream"--that did seem very strange! But Clarice opened her eyes at her and smiled and sighed. "My eyes have never been strong!" she murmured plaintively. Sue's arms were round her in an instant. "You poor darling!" she cried. "Isn't that hard, Mary? isn't it cruel? To think of not having strong eyes! Clarice, I will come and read to you every day; I should just love to do it. We'll begin to-morrow morning. Oh, how splendid that will be! What shall we read first? You have read 'Westward Ho!' of course, and all Mrs. Ewing, and 'Prince Prigio,' and 'The Gentle Heritage,' and the Alices, and all the Waverleys?" No; Clarice had read none of these. She had read "Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an Hour," she said, last; and she had just begun "My Petite Pet" before she came here. It was perfectly sweet, and so was another by the same author, only she couldn't remember the name. "Aren't we going to play something?" asked Lily, plaintively. Lily could never understand why big girls spent so much good time in talking. "Oh, yes!" cried Sue. "We must play, to get up an appetite for dinner; I've got one already, but I'll get another. What would you like to play, Clarice?" "I don't care," said Clarice. "Anything you like." "Oh, but do care, please!" cried Sue, imploringly; "because this is your picnic, really. We got it up for you; and we want you to have everything just as you like it; don't we, Mary?" Mary assented civilly, and pressed Clarice to choose a game. "Oh, but I really don't care in the least!" said Clarice. "I don't know much about games; my set of girls don't play them; but I'll play anything you like, dear!" She opened her eyes and smiled again, and again Sue embraced her ardently. "You dear, sweet, unselfish thing!" she cried. "I think you are an angel; isn't she, Mary? Perhaps we needn't play anything, after all. What _would_ you like to do, Clarice?" But Clarice would not hear of this--would not choose anything, but would graciously play any game they decided on. A game of "Plunder" was started, but somehow it did not go well. Plunder is a lively game, and must be played with ardor. After two or three runs, Clarice put her hand to her side and gasped for breath. "Only a stitch!" she murmured; and she sank down on the mossy bank, while the others gathered round her with anxious faces. "It will go off in a minute. I'm afraid I am not strong enough to play this any more, girls. Rough games never suit me." Mary flushed and looked at Sue; but Sue's gaze was fixed on Clarice, all contrition. "My dear! I am so sorry! You see, we've never been delicate, and we don't know how; we don't even know what it's like. Lie down, dear, and rest again! Oh, Mary, I feel as if we were murderers. See how white she is! Do you think she is going to die?" This was more than Mary could stand. "I think you would be better, Clarice," she said bluntly, "if you loosened your dress a little. Sha'n't I let out your belt for you?" But Clarice cried out, and declared her dress was too loose already. "I never wear anything tight," she said--"never! See, I can put my whole hand up under my belt." And so she could, when she drew her breath in. "No," she said; "it is my heart, I fear. I suppose I shall never be strong like some people. But don't mind me! Go on playing, and I will watch you." But three were not enough for Plunder; and besides, the heart for playing seemed to be gone out of them all, except Lily, who pouted and hung her head, and thought this a very poor kind of picnic indeed. Clarice lay on the bank and fanned herself, looking utterly bored, as indeed she was. Sue regarded her with wide, remorseful eyes, and wondered what she ought to do. In desperation, Mary proposed lunch. "I am getting hungry!" she said. "Aren't you, girls? It will take a little time to get the things out and trim the table; let's begin now." All agreed with alacrity, and there was some animation as the baskets were unpacked and their contents spread on the "table," which was green and smooth, and had no legs. The platters were made of oak-leaves neatly plaited together. The chicken-pie was set out, the cakes and turnovers beside it, with doughnuts and sandwiches at convenient intervals. Sue tumbled the bananas and the cocoanut out of her blouse, and piled them in an artistic pyramid, tucking in fern-fronds and oak-leaves. "There!" she said, surveying the effect with her head on one side. "That is pretty, isn't it, Mary--I mean Clarice?" Mary pressed her lips together and squeezed Lily's hand hard. Clarice said it was "perfectly alegant," and then asked again if the gentlemen were coming. "Gentlemen!" said Sue. "Oh, how funny you are, Clarice! Mary, isn't she funny? The idea of calling the boys gentlemen!" "I hope they are!" was on the tip of Mary's tongue; but she refrained, and only said it was time they were here. As if in answer to her words, a joyous whoop was heard, and a scuttling among the branches. Next moment Tom and Teddy burst into the open, out of breath, as usual, tumbling over each other and over their words in their eagerness. "Hallo! Hallo, Quicksilver! Are we late?" "I say! we stopped to get some apples. Did you remember apples? I knew you wouldn't, so we--" "And we found a woodchuck--" "Oh, I say, Mary, you should have seen him! He sat up in the door of his hole, and--" "Salt! you forgot the salt, Ballast, and Mammy sent it. Saccarappa! it's all spilled into my pocket. Do you mind a few crumbs?" "Boys! boys!" said Mary, who had been trying in vain to make herself heard, "do be quiet! I want to introduce you to Miss Packard. Clarice, these are my brothers, Tom and Teddy." The boys had no hats to take off,--they wore hats on Sunday, though!--but they bowed with the short, decisive duck of fourteen (indeed, Tom was fifteen, but he did not look it), and tried to compose their features. "Do!" they murmured; then, at a severe look from Mary, they came forward, and each extended a grimy paw and shook Clarice's gloved hand solemnly, leaving marks on it. The ceremony over, they breathed again, and dropped on the grass. "Isn't this jolly?" they cried. "Ready for grub? We are half starved." Clarice's look was almost tragic as she turned upon Sue. "Are these the boys you meant?" she asked in a whisper that was fully audible. "These--little--ragamuffins?" [Illustration: "EACH CAME FORWARD AND SHOOK CLARICE'S GLOVED HAND SOLEMNLY."] Fortunately, Mary was talking to Teddy, and did not hear. Sue did, and for the first time her admiration for Clarice received a shock. She raised her head and looked full at Clarice, her hazel eyes full of fire. "I don't understand you," she said. "These are my friends; I invited them because you asked me to." Clarice's eyes fell; she colored, and muttered something, Sue did not hear what; then she put her hand to her side and drew a short, gasping breath. In an instant Sue's anger was gone. "Boys!" she cried hastily. "Tom, bring some water, quick! She's going to faint." Clarice was now leaning back with closed eyes. "Never mind me," she murmured softly; "go on and enjoy yourselves. I shall be--better--soon, I dare say." Splash! came a shower of water in her face. Tom, in eager haste, had stumbled over Sue's foot, and his whole dipperful of water was spilled over the fainting maiden. She sprang to her feet with amazing agility. "You stupid, stupid boy!" she cried, stamping her foot, her eyes blazing with fury. "You did it on purpose; you know you did! Get away this minute!" Then, while all looked on in silent amaze, she burst into tears, and declared she would go home that instant. She would not stay there to be made a fool of by odious, rude, vulgar boys. There was dead silence for a moment. Then Tom said, slowly and solemnly (no one could be so solemn as Tom when he tried): "I beg your pardon, Miss Packard; I am very sorry. I will go away if you wish it, but I hope you will stay." Sue wanted to hug Tom, but refrained. (She had decided a little while ago that she was getting too big to hug the boys any more.) "Tom, you are a darling," she whispered in his ear--"a perfect dear duck! And you can use the telephone all you like to-morrow. Clarice," she added aloud, "he has apologized; Tom has apologized, and that is all he can do, isn't it? You are all right now, aren't you?" Clarice hesitated. Her dignity was on the one hand, her dinner on the other; she was hungry, and she yielded. "If he didn't really mean to," she began ungraciously; but Mary cut her short with what the boys called her full-stop manner. "I think there has been quite enough of this foolishness," she said curtly. "Sue, will you pass the sandwiches? Have some chicken-pie, Clarice!" A sage has said that food stops sorrow, and so it proved in this case. The chicken-pie was good, and all the children felt wonderfully better after the second help all round. Tongues were loosed, and chattered merrily. The boys related with many chuckles their chase of the woodchuck, and how he finally escaped them, and they heard him laughing as he scuttled off. "Well, he _was_ laughing--woodchuck laughter; you ought just to have heard him, Mary." Sue made them all laugh by telling of her encounter with Katy and the milk-pan. Even Clarice warmed up after her second glass of shrub, and told them of the picnics they had at Saratoga, where she had been last year. "That was why I was so surprised at this kind of picnic, dear," she said to Sue, with a patronizing air. "It's so different, you see. The last one I went to, there were--oh, there must have been sixty people at the very least. It was perfectly alegant! There were two four-in-hands, and lots of drags and tandems. I went in a dog-cart with Fred. You know--the one I told you about." She nodded mysteriously and simpered, and Sue flushed with delighted consequence. "What did you take?" asked Lily, her mouth full of chicken. "Oh, a caterer furnished the refreshments," said Clarice, airily. "There was everything you can think of: salads, and ice-cream, and boned turkey, and all those things. Perfectly fine, it was! Everybody ate till they couldn't hardly move; it was alegant!" "Didn't you do anything but just gob--I mean eat?" asked Mary. "Oh, there was a band of music, of course; and we walked about some, and looked at the dresses. They were perfectly alegant! I wore a changeable taffeta, blue and red, and a red hat with blue birds in it. Everybody said it was just as cute! The reporter for the 'Morning Howl' was there, and he said it was the handsomest costume at the picnic. He was a perfect gentleman, and everything I had on was in the paper next day." "This is soul-stirring," said Tom (who did sometimes show that he was fifteen, though not often), "but didn't I hear something about toasts?" Clarice looked vexed, but Mary took up the word eagerly. "Yes, to be sure, Tom; it is quite time for toasts. Fill the glasses again, Teddy! Clarice, you are the guest of honor; will you give the first toast?" Clarice shook her head, and muttered something about not caring for games. "Then I will!" cried Sue; and she stood up, her eyes sparkling. "I drink to Clarice!" she said. "I hope she will grow strong, and never have any heart again,--I mean any pain in it,--and that she will stay here a long, long time, till she grows up!" Teddy choked over his glass, but the others said "Clarice!" rather soberly, and clinked their glasses together. Clarice, called upon for a speech in response to the toast, simpered, and said that Sue was too perfectly sweet for anything, but could think of nothing more. Then Tom was called upon. He rose slowly, and lifted his glass. "I drink to the health of Quicksilver Sue! May she shun the false, and seek the true!" Mary gave him a warning glance, but Sue was enchanted. "Oh, Tom, how dear of you to make it in poetry!" she cried, flushing with pleasure. "Wait; wait just a minute, and I'll make my speech." She stood silent, holding up her glass, in which the sunbeams sparkled, turning the liquid to molten rubies; then she said rather shyly: "I drink to Tom, the manly Hart, And wish him all the poet's art!" This was received with great applause. Mary's turn came next; but before she could speak, Clarice had sprung to her feet with a wild shriek. "A snake!" she cried; "a snake! I saw it! It ran close by my foot. Oh, I shall faint!" Teddy clapped his hand to his pocket, and looked shamefaced. "I thought I had buttoned him in safe," he said. "I'm awfully sorry. The other one is in there all right; it was only the little one that got out." But this was too much for Clarice. She declared that she must go home that instant; and after an outcry from Sue no one opposed her. The baskets were collected, the crumbs scattered for the birds, and the party started for home. Mary and her brothers led the way with Lily, Sue and Clarice following slowly behind with arms intertwined. Sue's face was a study of puzzled regret, self-reproach, and affection. "Mary," said Tom. "Hush, Tom!" said Mary, with a glance over her shoulder. "Don't say anything till we get home." "I'm not going to say anything. But what famous book--the name of it, I mean--expresses what has been the matter with this picnic?" "Oh, I don't know, Tom. 'Much Ado about Nothing'?" "No," said Tom. "It's 'Ben Hur'!" CHAPTER VI AT THE HOTEL "Oh Clarice, isn't it too bad that it's raining?" said Sue. "It hadn't begun when I started. It did look a little threatening, though. And I meant to take you such a lovely walk, Clarice. I don't suppose you want to go in the rain? I love to walk in the rain, it's such fun; but you are so delicate--" "That's it," said Clarice, ignoring the wistful tone in Sue's voice. "I shouldn't dare to, Sue. There is consumption in my family, you know,"--she coughed slightly,--"and it always gives me bronchitis to go out in the rain. Besides, I have such a headache! Have some candy? I'll show you my new dresses, if you like. They just came this morning from New York--those muslins I told you about." "Oh, that will be fun!" said Sue. But as she took off her tam-o'-shanter she gave a little sigh, and glanced out of the window. The rain was coming down merrily. It was the first they had had for several weeks, and sight, sound, and smell were alike delightful. It would be such fun to tramp about and splash in the puddles and get all sopping! Last summer, when the drought broke, she and Mary put on their bathing-dresses, and capered about on the lawn and played "deluge," and had a glorious time. But of course she was only twelve then, and now she was thirteen; and it made all the difference in the world, Clarice said. The water was coming in a perfect torrent from that spout! If you should hold your umbrella under it, it would go f-z-z-z-z-z! and fly "every which way"; that was centrifugal force, or something-- "Here they are," said Clarice. Sue came back with a start, and became all eyes for the muslin dresses which were spread on the bed. They were too showy for a young girl, and the trimmings were cheap and tawdry; but the colors were fresh and gay, and Sue admired them heartily. "Oh, Clarice, how lovely you will look in this one!" she cried. "Don't you want to try it on now, and let me see you in it?" Clarice asked nothing better, and in a few minutes she was arrayed in the yellow muslin with blue cornflowers. But now came a difficulty: the gown would not meet in the back. "Oh, what a shame!" said Sue. "Will you have to send it back, Clarice, or can you have it altered here? There is a very good dressmaker; she makes all our clothes,--Mary's and mine,--except what are made at home." Clarice tittered. "I'm afraid she wouldn't be quite my style," she said. "I wondered where your clothes _were_ made, you poor child! But this is all right. I'll just take in my stays a little, that's all." "Oh, don't, Clarice! Please don't! I am sure it will hurt you. Why, that would be tight lacing, and tight lacing does dreadful things to you. I learned about it at school. Dear Clarice, don't do it, please!" "Little goose! who said anything about tight lacing? I'm only going to--there! Now look--I can put my whole hand in. You mustn't be so awfully countrified, Sue. You can't expect every one to go about in a bag, as you and Mary Hart do. I am two years older than you, my dear, and I haven't lived in a village all my life. It is likely that I know quite as much about such matters as you do." "I--I beg your pardon, Clarice!" said Sue, the quick tears starting to her eyes. "Of course you know a great, great deal more than I do; I--I only thought--" "There, do you see?" Clarice went on. "Now, that is real comfortable--perfectly comfortable; and it does fit alegant, don't it?" "It certainly makes you look very slender," faltered Sue. "Don't it?" repeated Clarice. "That's what my dressmaker always says." She was turning slowly round and round before the glass, enjoying the effect. "There is nothing like a slender figure, she says; and I think so, too. Why, Sue, if you'll promise never to tell a soul, I'll tell you something. I used to be fat when I was your age--almost as fat as Mary Hart. Just think of it!" "Oh, did you? But Mary isn't really fat, Clarice. She's only--well, rather square, you know, and chunky. That is the way she is made; she has always been like that." "I call her fat!" said Clarice, decisively. "Of course, it's partly the way she dresses, with no waist at all, and the same size all the way down. You would be just as bad, Sue, if you weren't so slim. I don't see what possesses you to dress the way you do, making regular guys of yourselves. But I was going to tell you. My dressmaker--she's an alegant fitter, and a perfect lady--told me to eat pickled limes all I could, and put lots of vinegar on everything, and I would get thin. My! I should think I did. I used to eat six pickled limes every day in recess. I got so that I couldn't hardly eat anything but what it had vinegar in it. And I fell right away, in a few months, to what I am now." "Oh! Oh, Clarice!" cried Sue, transfixed with horror. "How could you? Why, it must have made you ill; I know it must. Is that why you are so pale?" "Partly that," said Clarice, complacently. "Partly, I used to eat slate-pencils. I haven't had hardly any appetite for common food this year. The worst is these headaches I have right along. But I don't care! I should hate to have staring red cheeks like Mary Hart. Your color is different; it's soft, and it comes and goes. But Mary Hart is dreadful beefy-looking." "Clarice," said Sue, bravely, though she quivered with pain at the risk of offending her new friend, "please don't speak so of Mary. She is my oldest friend, you know, and I love her dearly. Of course I know you don't mean to say anything unkind, but--but I'd rather you didn't, please." "Why, I'm not saying anything against her character!" said Clarice; and any one save Sue might have detected a spiteful ring in her voice. "I won't say a word about her if you'd rather not, Sue, but if I do speak, I must say what I think. She's just as jealous of me as she can be, and she tries to make trouble between us--any one can see that; and I don't care for her one bit, so there!" "Oh, Clarice, don't say that! I thought we were all going to be friends together, and love one another, and-- But you don't really know Mary yet. She is a dear; really and truly she is." Clarice tossed her head significantly. "Oh, _I_ don't want to make mischief!" she said. "Of course it doesn't matter to _me_, my dear. Of course I am only a stranger, Sue, and I can't expect you to care for me half as much as you do for Mary Hart. Of course I am nobody beside her." "Clarice, Clarice, how can you? Don't talk so. It _kills_ me to have you talk so! when you know how I love you, how I would do anything in the wide world for you, my dear, lovely Clarice!" Clarice pouted for some time, but finally submitted to be embraced and wept over, and presently became gracious once more, and said that all should be forgiven (she did not explain what there was to forgive), and only stipulated that they should not talk any more about Mary Hart. Then she changed the subject to the more congenial one of clothes, and became eloquent over some of the triumphs of her dressmaker. Finally, in a fit of generosity, she offered to let Sue try on the other muslin dress. Sue was enchanted. "And then we can play something!" she cried. "Oh, there are all kinds of things we can play in these, Clarice." "I guess not!" said Clarice. "Play in my new dresses, and get them all tumbled? Sue Penrose, you are too childish. I never saw anything like the way you keep wanting to play all the time. I should think you were ten, instead of thirteen." Much abashed, Sue begged again for forgiveness. She did not see so very much fun in just putting on somebody else's dress and then taking it off again, but she submitted meekly when Clarice slipped it over her head. But the same difficulty arose again: the dress would not come anywhere near meeting round Sue's free, natural figure. "Here," said Clarice; "wait a minute, Sue. I've got another pair of stays. We'll fix it in a moment." Sue protested, but was overruled. Clarice was determined, she said, to see how her little friend would look if she were properly dressed for once. In a few moments she was fastened into the blue muslin, and Clarice was telling her that she looked too perfectly sweet for anything. "Now _that_ is the way for you to dress, Sue Penrose. If I were you I should insist upon my mother's getting me a pair of stays to-morrow. Why, you look like a different girl. Why, you have an alegant figure--perfectly alegant!" But poor Sue was in sore discomfort, and no amount of "alegance" could make her at ease. She could hardly breathe; she felt girded by a ring of iron. Oh, it was impossible; it was unbearable! "I never, never could, Clarice!" she protested. "Unhook it for me; please do! Yes, it is very pretty, but I cannot wear it another moment." She persisted, in spite of Clarice's laughing and calling her a little countrified goose, and was thankful to find herself free once more, and back in her own good belted frock. "Oh, Clarice," she said, "if you only _knew_ how comfortable this was, you would have your dresses made so; I know you would." "The idea!" said Clarice. "I guess not, Sue. Have some more candy? My, how my head aches!" "It is this close room," said Sue, eagerly. "Clarice, dear, you are looking dreadfully pale. See, it has stopped raining now. Do let us come out; I know the fresh air will do you good." But Clarice shook her head, and said that walking always made her head worse, and she should get her death of cold, besides. "Then lie down, and let me read to you. Why, I forgot; I have 'Rob Roy' in my pocket; I wondered what made it so heavy. I remember, now, I did think it might possibly rain, so I brought 'Rob' in case. There, dear, lie down and let me tuck you up. Oh, Clarice, you do look so lovely lying down! I always think of you when I want to think of the Sleeping Beauty. There, now; shut your eyes and rest, while I read." Clarice detested "Rob Roy," but her head really did ache,--she had been eating candy all the afternoon and most of the morning,--and there was nothing else to do. She lay back and closed her eyes. They were dreadfully stupid people in this book, and she could hardly understand a word of the "Scotch stuff" they talked. She wished she had brought "Wilful Pansy, the Bride of an Hour," or some other "alegant" paper novel. And thinking these thoughts, Clarice presently fell asleep, which was perhaps the best thing she could do. Sue read on and on, full of glory and rejoicing. Di Vernon was one of her favorite heroines, and she fairly lived in the story while she was reading it. She was in the middle of one of Di's impassioned speeches when a sound fell on her ear, slight but unmistakable. She looked up, her eyes like stars, the proud, ringing words still on her lips. Clarice was asleep, her head thrown back, her mouth open, peacefully snoring. Another snore, and another! Sue closed the book softly. It was a pity that Clarice had lost that particular chapter, it was so splendid; but she was tired, poor darling, and her head ached. It was the best thing, of course, that she should have fallen asleep. Sue would watch her sleep, and keep all evil things away. It was not clear what evil things could come into the quiet room of the respectable family hotel, but whatever they might be, Sue was ready for them. Sue's ideas of hotel life had become considerably modified since she had had some actual experience of it. Instead of being one round of excitement, as she had fancied, she was obliged to confess that it was often very dull. The Binns House was a quiet house, frequented mostly by "runners," who came and went, and with a small number of permanent boarders--old couples who were tired of housekeeping, or ancient single gentlemen. The frescoes and mirrors were there, but the latter reflected only staid middle-aged faces, or else those of bearded men who carried large handbags, and wore heavy gold watch-chains, and smelt of strong tobacco and cheap perfumery. Even the table, with its array of little covered dishes that had once promised all the delights of fairy banquets, proved disappointing. To lift a shining cover which ought to conceal something wonderful with a French name, and to find squash--this was trying; and it had happened several times. Also, there was a great deal of mincemeat, and it did not compare with Katy's. And the bearded men gobbled, and pulled things about, and talked noisily. Altogether, it was as different as could well be imagined from Sue's golden dream. And it was simply impossible to use the soap they had, it smelt so horribly. Hark! was that a foot on the stairs? Suppose something were really going to happen now, while Clarice was asleep! Suppose she should hear voices, and the door should open softly, softly, and a villainous face look in--a bearded face, not fat and good-natured looking like those people's at dinner, but a haggard face with hollow, burning eyes and a savage scowl. Some robber had heard of Clarice's jewelry and her father's wealth, and had come all the way from New York (there were no robbers in Hilton) to rob, perhaps to murder her. Ah! but Sue would fling herself before the unconscious sleeper, and cry: "Back, villain, or I slay thee with my hands!" He might go then; but if he didn't, she would throw the lamp at him. She and Mary had decided long ago that that was the best thing to do to a robber when you had no weapons, because the oil and glass together would be sure to frighten him. And--and--oh! what was that? This time it was no fancy. A man's voice was heard in the hall below; a man's foot came heavily up the stairs, and passed into the next room. A hand was laid on the latch. "Clarissy, are you here?" asked the voice. Sue sprang to her feet. It was Mr. Packard. What should she do? Mr. Packard was no robber, but Sue did not like him, and it seemed quite out of the question that he should find her here, with Clarice asleep. Seizing her tam and her jacket, and slipping "Rob Roy" into her pocket, she opened the window softly, and stepped out on the balcony which formed the roof of the hotel porch. She might have gone out of the other door, but the window was nearer; besides, it was much more exciting, and he might have seen her in the passage. Sue closed the window behind her, with a last loving glance at Clarice, who snored quietly on; and just as Mr. Packard entered the room she climbed over the balustrade and disappeared from sight. "What upon earth is that?" asked Mrs. Binns, looking out of the window of the office, which was on the ground floor. "Somebody shinnin' down the door-post!--a boy, is it? Do look, Mr. Binns. I ain't got my glasses." Mr. Binns looked. "Well, I should say!" he remarked, with a slow chuckle. "It's Mis' Penrose's little gal. Well, she is a young 'un, to be sure! Be'n up to see the Packard gal, I s'pose. Now, you'd think she'd find the door easier; most folks would. But it wouldn't be Sue Penrose to come out the door while the' was a window handy by, _and_ a post." "Sue Penrose is gettin' too big to go shinnin' round the street that way," said Mrs. Binns. "I don't care for that Packard gal myself; she's terrible forthputtin', and triflin' and greedy, besides; but you wouldn't see her shinnin' down door-posts, anyway." "Humph!" said Mr. Binns. "She don't know enough!" CHAPTER VII THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT "Mary! Mary Hart! I want to speak to you. Are you alone?" "Yes," said Mary, looking up from her mending. "I am just finishing Teddy's stockings; he does tear them so. Come in, Sue." "Hush! No; I want you to come out, Mary. It's something very important. Don't say a word to any one, but come down to the arbor this minute. I must see you alone. Oh, I am so excited!" The arbor was at the farther end of the Harts' garden--a pleasant, mossy place with seats, and a great vine climbing over it. Mary put away her basket methodically, and joined Sue, whom she found twittering with excitement. "Oh, Mary, what do you think? But first you must promise not to tell a living soul. Honest and true, black and blue! Promise, Mary, or my lips are sealed forever!" "I promise," said Mary, without thinking. Sue's tremendous secrets were not generally very alarming. Sue drew a long breath, looked around her, said "Hush!" two or three times, and began: "Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? The circus is coming to Chester on the 24th, and Clarice and I are going. It is going to be the greatest show in the world; the paper says so; and I've seen the pictures, and they are simply glorious. Isn't it fine? Clarice has asked me to spend the day with her at the hotel, and Mother says I may; and Clarice is going to treat me. Mary, she is the most generous girl that ever lived in this world. You don't half appreciate her, but she is." "Who is going to take you to the circus?" asked practical Mary. "Mr. Packard?" "Hush! No. That is the exciting part of it. We are going alone, just by ourselves." "Sue! You cannot! Go up to Chester alone--just you two girls?" "Why not? Clarice is much older than I, you know, Mary. Clarice is fifteen, and she says it is perfectly absurd for us to be such babies as we are. She says that in New York girls of our age wear dresses almost full length, and put up their hair, and--and all kinds of things. She says it's just because we live down East here that we are so countrified. And she knows all about going to places, and she has lots of money, and--and so--oh, Mary, isn't it exciting?" "What does your mother say?" asked Mary, slowly. "Is she willing, Sue?" "I am not going to tell her!" said Sue. Her tone was defiant, but she colored high, and did not look at Mary as she spoke. "You are not--going--to tell your mother?" repeated Mary, in dismay. "Oh, Sue!" "Now, hush, hush, Mary Hart, and listen to me! Clarice says what's the use? She says it would only worry Mother, and I ought not to worry her when she is so delicate. She says she thinks it is a great mistake for girls to keep running to their mothers about everything when they are as big as we are. She _never_ does, she says--well, it's her aunt, but that makes no difference, she says; and she is fifteen, you know. Besides, my mother is very different from yours; you know she is, Mary. I suppose I _should_ want to tell things to your mother if she was mine. But you know perfectly well how Mamma is; she never seems to care, and it only bothers her and makes her head ache." "Sue, how can you talk so? Your mother is ill so much of the time, of course she can't--can't be like my Mammy, I suppose." Mary faltered a little as she said this. She had often wished that Mrs. Penrose would take more interest in Sue's daily life, but she felt that this was very improper talk. "I don't think you ought to talk so, Sue!" she said stoutly. "I am sure you ought not. I think Clarice Packard has a very bad influence over you, and I wish she had never come here." "Clarice says you are jealous, Mary, and that you try to make trouble between her and me. I don't believe that; but you have _no_ imagination, and you cannot appreciate Clarice. If you knew what she has done for me--how she has opened my eyes." Sue's vivid face deepened into tragedy. "Mary, I believe I will tell you, after all. I didn't mean to,--Clarice warned me not to,--but I will. Mary, there is a mystery in my life. Hush! don't speak--don't say a word! I am a foundling!" If Mary had been less amazed and distressed, she must have laughed aloud. Sue, in her brown holland frock, her pretty hair curling round her face, her eyes shining with excitement, was the very image of her mother. As it was, Mary could only gasp, and gaze round-eyed. "I am! I am sure of it!" Sue hurried on. "It explains everything, Mary: Mamma's not caring more, and my feeling the way I do, and everything. Clarice says she is sure it must be so. She knows a girl, the most beautiful girl she ever saw, and she never knew it till she grew up, because they were so fond of her; but she was left on their door-step in a wicker basket lined with pink satin, and a note pinned to her clothes saying that her parents were English noblemen, but they never would acknowledge her because she wasn't a boy. And so! And you know I have always felt that there was _something wrong_, Mary Hart, and that I was not like other children; you know I have!" "I know you have often talked very foolishly," said Mary, "but I never heard you say anything wicked before. Sue, this is downright wicked, and ridiculous and absurd besides. I never heard such nonsense in my life, and I don't want to hear any more of it." Both girls had risen to their feet, and stood facing each other. Mary was flushed with distress and vexation; but Sue had turned very pale. "Very well!" she said, after a pause. "I see Clarice is right. You have a mean, jealous spirit, Mary. I thought I could tell the--the great thing of my life, to my most intimate friend,--for you _have_ been my most intimate friend,--and you would understand; but you don't. You never have understood me; Clarice has said so from the beginning, and now I know she is right. At least, I have _one_ friend who can feel for me. Good-by, Mary--forever!" "Oh, Sue!" cried Mary, wanting to laugh and cry together. But Sue was gone, dashing through the garden at tempest speed, and flinging the gate to behind her with a crash. Mary went into the house, and cried till she could not see. But there were no tears for Sue. She ran up to her room, and locked the door. Then, after looking carefully around, she drew out from under the bed an old brown leather writing-desk, produced a key that hung by a ribbon round her neck, unlocked the desk, and took out a faded red morocco blank-book. It had once been an account-book, and had belonged to her grandfather; the great thing about it was that it had a lock and key! Opening it, Sue found a blank page, and flinging herself over the table, began to write furiously: "Mary and I have parted--parted forever. She was my dearest upon earth, but I know her no more. Her name is Hart, but she has none, or at least it is of marble. I am very unhappy, a poor foundling, with but one friend in the world. I sit alone in my gloomy garet." (The sun was pouring in at the window, but Sue did not see it.) "My tears blot the page as I write." (She tried to squeeze out a tear, failed, and hurried on.) "My affecktions are blited, but I am proud, and they shall see that I don't care one bit how mean they are. I am of noble blood, I feel it corsing in my viens, and I shouldn't wonder a bit if I were a princess. And if I die young, Mary Hart can come and shed tears on my moniment and be sorry she acted so." Meantime, in the room below, little Lily was saying: "Mamma, I wish I had some one to play with. Couldn't you get me another sister, about my age? Sue says she is too old to play with me!" And Mrs. Penrose was sighing, and wondering again why her elder child was not the comfort to her that Mary Hart was to her mother. [Illustration: "'MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER.'"] The days that followed were sad ones for Mary. The intimacy between her and Sue had been so close that they had never felt the need of other friends; and, indeed, in their small neighborhood it happened that there were no pleasant girls of their own age. It had not seemed possible that anything could ever come between her and Sue. They loved to say that they were two halves, and only together made a whole. Now it was bitter to see Sue pass by on the other side of the home street with averted eyes and head held high. Mary tried to greet her as usual; for had they not said a hundred times how silly it was for girls to quarrel, and what spectacles they made of themselves behaving like babies? But it was of no use. The breach was complete; and Sue refused to speak to Mary, or even to recognize her, and had only the most frigid little nod for her brothers. Many a time did Mary curl up for comfort in her mother's lap, and rest her head on her shoulder, and tell her how it hurt, and ask what she should do, and how she should live without her friend. She never failed to find comfort; and always, after a good little talk, there was something that Mrs. Hart particularly wanted done, and that Mary could help her so much with; and Mary found that there is no balm like work for a sore heart. One day Mrs. Hart said: "Mary, how would you like to ask little Lily to come and spend the afternoon with you? Mrs. Penrose is really very far from well, and Sue seems to be entirely absorbed. It would be a kind thing to do, daughter." So Lily came; and in making her happy Mary forgot the sore spot in her own heart. From that day the two were a good deal together. Beside Sue's glancing brightness Lily had seemed rather a dull child; or perhaps it was merely that Mary had no thought to give her, and felt with Sue that children were in the way when one wanted to talk seriously. But in Mary's companionship the child expanded like a flower. She was so happy, so easily pleased. It was delightful to see her face light up at sight of Mary. And Mary determined that, come what might, she and Lily would always be friends. "And, Lily," she would whisper, "if--no! _when_ we get our Sue back again, won't she be surprised to see how much you have learned, and how many of our plays you know? And there will be three of us then, Lily." And Lily would smile and dimple, and look almost a little like Sue--almost! The boys, too, were a great comfort in those days. Never had Tom been so considerate, so thoughtful. Hardly a day passed but he would want Mary to play or walk or fish with him. She had never, it seemed, seen so much of Tom before, though he had always been the dearest boy in the world--except Teddy. "Oh!" she cried one day, when Tom, after an hour's patient search, found the silver thimble that she had carelessly dropped in the orchard--"oh, it _is_ good to have a brother Tom. I don't see what girls do who have none." "It's pretty nice to have a sister Mary," said Tom, shyly; he was always shy when there was any question of feeling. "Do you know, Ballast--do you know, I've never had so much sister Mary as I've been having lately. Of course it's a great shame about Sue, and I miss her no end, and all that--but it's nice to have such a lot of you, dear." Sister and brother exchanged a silent hug that meant a good deal, and Mary inwardly resolved that, come what might, Tom should always hereafter have all the sister Mary he wanted. "And it's simply no end for Lily," Tom added. "Lily has never had a fair chance, you know, Mary." "Lily is a very nice little girl," said Teddy, with kind condescension. "There's a great deal more in Lily than people think. Mary, if you are going over there, you might take her these horse-chestnuts. She likes the milky ones, before they turn brown." "Take them yourself, Master Teddy!" said Mary, laughing. "You know it's what you want to do. Bring her over, and we'll go and play in the orchard, all four of us. We'll play 'Wolf,' if you like." "Oh, no!" cried Teddy. "Let's play 'Indian'; let's play 'The Last of the Mo's.' We haven't played that for ever and ever so long." "Lily doesn't know 'The Last of the Mohicans,'" said Mary. "She has never read it. I'll read it to her, I think. We might begin the next rainy day, boys, and all read together." "Hooray!" said both boys. "I can be making my new net," said Tom. "And I can work on my boat," said Teddy. "And I have about six dozen things to make for Christmas!" said Mary, laughing. "Who is to do the reading, I should like to know?" "Oh, Mammy will read it to us." "All right! Hurrah for Mammy! Of course she will." "But that is no reason why we should not play 'The Last of the Mo's' now," resumed Tom. "We can tell Lily enough, as we go along, to show her what it's like, and of course she wouldn't take an important part, anyway--just a squaw or an odd brave. Cut along, Teddy, and bring the kid over." Lily came hurrying back with Teddy; and the four stood for a moment together by the front door, laughing and chatting, and giving out the parts for the game. They had never played it before without Sue. Mary would rather not have played it now, but that seemed no reason why the boys should not have their favorite game, and no doubt Tom could play Uncas very well--though, of course, not _as_ well, even if he was a boy. Tom was just striking an attitude and brandishing an imaginary tomahawk, when, on the opposite side of the street, Sue came along, arm in arm, as usual, with Clarice Packard. The Hart children looked in dismay. Was this their Sue? Something was wrong with her hair. It was rolled up high over her forehead, and bobbed up into a short cue behind. Something was wrong with her feet; at least, so it seemed from the way she walked, mincing on her toes. And she had a spotted veil on, and she carried a parasol. Was this their Quicksilver Sue? Could it be? As they passed, Clarice looked across the way and bowed a triumphant little bow; then tittered rudely, and whispered something in her companion's ear. Sue held her head high, and was walking past looking straight before her, as she always did now, when suddenly it seemed as if some feeling took hold upon her, stronger than her own will. She turned her head involuntarily, and looked at the group standing on the familiar door-step. A wave of color swept over her face; the tears rushed into her eyes. For a moment she seemed to waver, almost to sway toward them; then resolutely she turned her head away again, and walked on. "Mary," said Tom, "do you know what?" "No, Tom. I don't know this particular 'what.' I know--what you saw just now." And poor Mary looked as if the heart for play was clean gone out of her. "Well, I'll tell you. Our Sue has had just about enough of her new treasure. I'll bet my new fishing-line that she would give all her best boots to come and play 'Last of the Mo's' with us in the orchard." CHAPTER VIII THE CIRCUS Tom was right. That moment was the turning-point for Sue Penrose. When she saw that group on the familiar door-step across the way, something seemed to clutch at her heart, something seemed to fall from her eyes. What did this all mean? There were her friends, her dear old friends, with their honest faces and their clear, kind, true eyes. She had seen the longing look in Mary's eyes, and Tom's grave glance which seemed to say that he was sorry for her. It was the afternoon playtime, and they were all going to play together some of the happy boy-and-girl plays in which she, Sue, had always been the leader; and she was not with them. She had lost them all, and for what? All at once, Clarice's giggle, her whispered talk of dresses and parties and "gentlemen friends" sounded flat and silly and meaningless. What did Sue care for such stuff? How could she ever have thought she cared? What would she not give for a good romp in the orchard, and a talk with Mary afterward! A small voice said in her heart: "Go back! A kiss to Mary, a word to the boys, and all will be forgotten. Go back now, before it is too late!" But two other voices spoke louder in Sue's ear, drowning the voice of her heart. One was pride. "Go back?" it said. "Confess that you have been wicked and silly? Let the boys and Lily see you humbling yourself--you, who have always been the proud one? Never!" The other was loyalty, or rather a kind of chivalry that was a part of Sue. "You cannot desert Clarice," said this voice. "She is a stranger here, and she depends upon you. She is delicate and sensitive, and you are the only person who understands her; she says so. She isn't exactly nice in some ways, but the others are hard on her, and you must stand by her. You cannot go back!" So when Clarice tittered, and whispered something about Mary's dress, Sue pressed her arm, and straightened herself and walked on, looking steadfastly before her. "My! Sue, what is the matter?" her companion asked. "You look as cross as a meat-ax. No wonder! I call the way that boy stared at you downright impudent. They seem to have taken up with Lily, now that they can't get you. He, he!" And a new sting was planted in Sue's heart, already sore enough. Yes; they had taken up with Lily; Lily was filling her place. Sue took the pain home with her, and carried it about all day, and many a day. The little sister had never been much to her, as we have seen. Her own life had been so overflowing with matters that seemed to her of vital importance that she had never had much time to bestow on the child who was too old to be set down with blocks and doll and told to amuse herself, and yet was too young--or so Sue thought--to share the plays of the older children. She had "wished to goodness" that Lily had some friend of her own age; and "Don't bother!" was the answer that rose most frequently to her lips when Lily begged to be allowed to play with her and Mary. "Don't bother, Lily. Run along and amuse yourself; that's a good girl! We are busy just now." She had never meant to be unkind; she just hadn't thought, that was all. Well, Lily did not have to be told now not to bother. There was no danger of her asking to join Sue and Clarice, for the latter had from the first shown a dislike to the child which was heartily returned. People who "think children are a nuisance" are not apt to be troubled by their company. After the morning hour during which she sat with their mother, reading to her and helping her in various ways (how was it, by the way, that Lily had got into the way of doing this? she, Sue, had never had time, or had never thought of it!), Lily was always over at the Harts' in these days. Often when Sue and Clarice were sitting upstairs, talking,--oh, such weary, empty, stupid talk, it seemed now!--the sound of Lily's happy laughter would come from over the way and ring in her sister's ears. They were playing Indians again, were they? "The Last of the Mohicans"! Tom was Hawkeye, of course; but who was Uncas in her stead? She had always been Uncas. She knew a good many of his speeches by heart. Ah! she thrilled, recalling the tremendous moment when the Delawares discover the tortoise tattooed on the breast of the young hero. She recalled how "for a single instant Uncas enjoyed his triumph, smiling calmly on the scene. Then motioning the crowd away with a high and haughty sweep of the arm, he advanced in front of the nation with the air of a king, and spoke in a voice louder than the murmur of admiration that ran through the multitude. "'Men of the Lenni-Lenape,' he said, 'my race upholds the earth. Your feeble tribe stands on my shell. What fire that a Delaware can light would burn the child of my fathers?' he added, pointing proudly to the simple blazonry on his skin. 'The blood that came from such a stock would smother your flames!'" Ah! and then the last speech, that she always spoke leaning against a tree, with her arms folded on her breast, and her gaze fixed haughtily on the awe-struck spectators: "Pale-face! I die before my heart is soft!" and so on. They all said she did that splendidly--better than any one else. What was Clarice saying? "And I said to him, I said: 'I don't know what you mean,' I said. 'Oh, yes, you do,' he said. 'No, I don't,' I said. 'I think you're real silly,' I said. And he said: 'Oh, don't say that,' he said. 'Well, I shall,' I said. 'You're just as silly as you can be!'" And so on and so on, till Sue could have fallen asleep for sheer weariness, save for those merry voices in her ear and the pain at her heart. But when Clarice was gone, Sue unlocked her journal and wrote: "I am very unhappy, and no one cares. I am alone in the world, and I feel that I have not long to live. My cheek is hollow, and my eyes gleam with an unnatural light; but I shall rest in the grave and no one will morn for me. I hear the voices of my former friends, but they think no more of the lonely outcast. I do hope that if I should live to be fifteen I shall have more sense than some people have; but she is all I have left in the world, and I will be faithful to death. They have taken my sister from me--" But when she had written these last words Sue blushed hotly, and drew her pen through them; for she was an honest child, and she knew they were not true. Then she went downstairs. Her room was too lonely, and everything in it spoke too plainly of Mary. She could not stay there. Mrs. Penrose looked up as she entered the sitting-room. "Oh! it is you, Sue," she said, with her little weary air; "I thought it was Lily." "Would you like me to read to you, Mamma?" asked Sue, with a sudden impulse. "Thank you, my dear," said Mrs. Penrose, doubtfully; "isn't Clarice here? Yes, I should like it very much, Sue. My eyes are rather bad to-day." Sue read for an hour, and forgot the pain at her heart. When the reading was over, her mother said: "Thank you, my dear; that was a real treat. How well you read, Sue!" "Let me read to you every day, Mother," said Sue. She kissed her mother warmly; and, standing near her, noticed for the first time how very pale and thin she was, how transparent her cheek and hands. Her heart smote her with a new pain. How much more she saw, now that she was unhappy herself! She had never thought much about her mother's ill health. She was an "invalid," and that seemed to account for everything. At least, she could be a better daughter while she lived, and could help her mother in the afternoon, as Lily did in the morning. * * * * * The day of the circus came. A week ago, how Sue had looked forward to it! It was to be the crowning joy of the season, the great, the triumphal day. But now all was changed. She had no thought of "backing out"; an engagement once made was a sacred thing with Sue; but she no longer saw it wreathed in imaginary glories. The circus was fun, of course; but she was not going in the right way, she knew--in fact, she was going in a very naughty way; and Clarice was no longer the enchanting companion she had once seemed, who could cast a glamour over everything she spoke of. Sue even suggested their consulting Mr. Packard; but Clarice raised a shrill clamor. "Sue, don't speak of such a thing! Puppa would lock me up if he had any idea; he's awfully strict, you know. And we have both vowed never to tell; you know we have, Sue. You vowed on this sacred relic; you know you did!" The sacred relic was a battered little medal that Clarice said had come from Jerusalem and been blessed by the Pope. As this was almost the only flight of fancy she had ever shown, Sue clung to the idea, and had made the vow with all possible solemnity, feeling like Hannibal and Robert of Normandy in one. This was not, however, until after she had told Mary of the plan; but, somehow, she had not mentioned that to Clarice. Mary would not tell, of course; perhaps, at the bottom of her heart, Sue almost wished she would. The day was bright and sunny, and Sue tried hard to feel as if she were going to have a great and glorious time; yet when the hour came at which she had promised to go to the hotel, she felt rather as if she were going to execution. She hung round the door of her mother's room. Could this be Sue, the foundling, the deserted child of cloudy British princes? "If you need me, Mamma, I won't go!" she said several times; but Mrs. Penrose did not notice the wistful intonation in her voice, and she had not yet become accustomed to needing Sue. "No, dear!" she said. "Run along, and have a happy day. Lily and Katy will do all I need." Then, with an impulse she hardly understood herself, for she was an undemonstrative woman, she added: "Give me a kiss before you go, Susie!" Sue hung round her neck in a passionate embrace. "Mamma!" she exclaimed, "Mamma! if I were very, very wicked, could you forgive me?--if I were very dreadfully wicked?" "I hope so, dear!" said Mrs. Penrose, settling her hair. She had pretty hair, and did not like to have it disarranged. "But you are not wicked, Sue. What is the matter, my dear?" But Sue, after one more almost strangling embrace, ran out of the room. She felt suffocated. She must have one moment of relief before she went. Dashing back to her room, she flung herself upon her journal. * * * * * "I go!" she wrote. "I go because I have sworn it, and I may not break my word. It is a dreadful thing that I do, but it is my fate that bekons. I don't believe I am a foundling, after all, and I don't care if I am. Mamma is just perfectly sweet; and if I _should_ live, I should never, never, _never_ let her know that I had found it out. Adieu! "The unfortunate "SUSAN PENROSE." After making a good flourish under her name, Sue felt a little better; still, her heart was heavy enough as she put on her pretty hat with the brown ostrich-feathers, which went so well with her pongee dress. At least, she looked nice, she thought; that was some comfort. * * * * * The circus was a good one, and for a time Sue forgot everything else in the joy of looking on. The tumbling! She had never dreamed of such tumbling. And the jumping over three, four, six elephants standing together! Each time it seemed impossible, out of the question, that the thing could be done. Each time her heart stood still for an instant, and then bounded furiously as the lithe, elastic form passed like an arrow over the broad brown backs, and lighted on its feet surely, gracefully, with a smile and a courtly gesture of triumph. That one in the pale blue silk tights--could he really be human, and go about on other days clad like other men? Then, the wonderful jokes of the clown! Never was anything so funny, Sue thought. But the great, the unspeakable part, was when the Signora Fiorenza, the Queen of Flame, rode lightly into the arena on her milk-white Arabian charger. Such beauty Sue had never dreamed of; and, indeed, the Signora (whose name was Betsy Hankerson) was a handsome young woman enough, and her riding-habit of crimson velvet, if a little worn and rubbed, was still effective and becoming. To Sue's eyes it seemed an imperial robe, fit for coronations and great state banquets, or for scenes of glory like this. Round and round the Signora rode, bending graciously from the saddle, receiving with smiling composure the compliments of the clown. "Well, madam! how did you manage to escape the police?" "The police, sir?" "Yes, madam! All the police in Chester--and a fine-looking set of men they are--are on your track." "Why, what have I done, sir, that the police should be after me?" "What have you done, madam? Why, you have stolen all the roses in town and put them in your cheeks, and you've stolen all the diamonds and put them in your eyes; and worse than that!" "Worse than that, sir?" "Yes, madam. You've stolen all the young fellows' hearts and put them in your pocket." Whack! "Get up there, Sultan!" And he smacked the white horse with his hand, and the Signora cantered gaily on. This was delightful; and it was all true, Sue thought, every word of it. Oh, if she could only look like that, what would she not give? But now, a new wonder! The Signora had leaped lightly to her feet, and was standing on the back of the fiery steed, always galloping, galloping. She was unfastening the gold buttons of her riding-habit; it fell off, and she stood transformed, a wonderful fairy in gold-spangled gauze, with gold slippers, and a sparkling crown--had she had it on all the time under her tall hat?--set in her beautiful black hair. The clown shouted with glee, and Sue could have shouted with him: "Glory hallelujah! See the fireworks! Oh, my! somebody get my smoked glasses; she puts my eyes clean out. Smoked glass, ladies and gentlemen, five cents a piece! You'll all go stone-blind if you try to look at her without it." The music quickened its time, the snow-white steed quickened his pace. The Signora called to him and shook the reins, and the good beast sprang forward in response. Faster and faster, louder and louder, till the air was palpitating with sound, and that glittering figure flashed by like a fiery star. And now two men in livery came running out, holding a great ring of living flame. They sprang up on two stools. They held the ring steady while the flames leaped and danced, and Sue fancied she could actually hear them hiss. The clown shouted and waved his hat; the ring-master cracked his whip; the music crashed into a maddening peal; and with a flash and a cry, horse and girl dashed through the circle of fire. [Illustration: AT THE CIRCUS.] It was over. The flames were gone. The Signora was once more seated, cantering easily round the ring, bending again to the clown's remarks. But Sue still sat breathless, her hands clasped together, her eyes shining. For a time she could not speak. At last she turned to Clarice with burning cheeks and fluttering breath. "Clarice, from this moment that is what I live for! I can do that, Clarice, I know; I feel that I can. Do you suppose she would take me as a pupil? Do you think she would? If I can do that just once, then I can die happy!" "How you talk, Sue Penrose!" said Clarice. "The idea! Who ever heard of a young lady going into a circus? Say, don't look over opposite. Those horrid Hart boys are over there, and they've been staring at you as if you belonged to them. Such impudence!" CHAPTER IX THE LONELY ROAD The day of the circus was not a happy one for Mary Hart. She watched Sue go down the street, and her heart went out toward her friend. What a darling she was! How pretty she looked, and how well the plumed hat set off her delicate, high-bred face, and the little air she had of owning the world and liking her possession! Now that there were no mincing steps beside her, she walked with her own free, graceful gait, head held high, eyes bent forward, ready for anything. "She ought really to be a princess," thought humble-minded Mary; and in her glow of admiration she did not see the troubled look in Sue's bright eyes. The day went heavily. The boys, too, went off to the circus in the afternoon. Mary might have gone with them, but she had been given her choice between this treat and the concert that was coming off a week or two later, and had chosen the latter. If she and Sue could have gone together with the boys, that would have been another matter. She longed to tell the boys her secret, and beg them to keep an eye on Sue, in case she should get into any trouble. Several times the words were on the tip of her tongue, but the thought of her promise drove them back. She had promised in the solemn school-boy formula, "Honest and true, black and blue"; and that was as sacred as if she had sworn on any number of relics. There was a dreadful passage in "Lalla Rookh": "Thine oath! thine oath!" She and Sue had decided long ago that they would not take oaths, but that a promise should be just as binding. The promise lay heavy on Mary's heart all day. She found it hard to settle down to anything. Sue's face kept coming between her and her work, and looked at her from the pages of her book. Her imagination, not very lively as a rule, was now so excited that it might have been Sue's own. She saw her friend in every conceivable and inconceivable danger. Now it was a railway accident, with fire and every other accompaniment of terror. She could hear the crash, the shrieks, and the dreadful hiss of escaping steam; could see the hideous wreck in which Sue was pinned down by burning timbers, unable to escape. Now a wild beast, a tiger or panther, had escaped from his cage and sprung in among the terrified audience of pleasure-seekers. She saw the glaring yellow eyes, the steel claws. This time she screamed aloud, and frightened Lily Penrose, who, luckily, came over at that very moment to ask advice about the cutting of her doll's opera-cloak. Mary forced herself to attend to the cloak, and that did her good; and there was no reason why Lily should not be made happy and amused a little. Then there were some errands to do for her mother, and then came her music lesson; and so, somehow or other, the long day wore away, and the time came for the arrival of the circus train from Chester. The time came, and the train with it. Mary heard it go puffing and shrieking on its way. She stationed herself at the window to watch for Sue. Soon she would come by, twinkling all over, quicksilvering with joy as she did when she had had a great pleasure--making the whole street brighter, Mary always thought. But Sue did not come. Five o'clock struck; then half-past five; then six. Still no Sue. In an anguish of dread and uncertainty, Mary pressed her face against the pane and gazed up the fast-darkening street. People came and went, going home from their work; but no slight, glancing figure came swinging past. What had happened? What could have happened? So great was Mary's distress of mind that she did not hear her mother come into the room, and started violently when a hand was laid on her shoulder. "My dear," said Mrs. Hart, "I think the boys must have missed the train. Why--why, Mary, dear child, what is the matter?" for Mary turned on her a face so white and wild that her mother was frightened. "Mary!" she cried. "The boys! Has--has anything happened? The train--" "No, no!" cried Mary, hastily. "It isn't the boys, mother. The boys will be all right. It's Sue--my Sue!" Then it all came out. Promise or no promise, Mary must take the consequences. On her mother's neck she sobbed out the story: her foolish "solemn promise," the day-long anxiety, the agony of the last hour. "Oh, what can have happened to her?" she cried. "Oh, Mammy, I'm so glad I told you! I'm so glad--so glad!" "Of course you are, my dear little girl," said Mrs. Hart. "And now, stop crying, Mary. Thank goodness, there's your father driving into the yard this moment. Run and tell him; he will know just what to do." * * * * * [Illustration: "MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW."] The glory was over. The scarlet cloths and the gold spangles had disappeared behind the dingy curtains; the music had gone away in green bags; and the crowd poured out of the circus, jostling and pushing. Sue was walking on air. She could hear nothing but that maddening clash of sound, see nothing but that airy figure dashing through the ring of flame. To do that, and then to die suddenly, with the world at her feet--that would be the highest bliss, beyond all other heights; or--well, perhaps not really quite to die, but swoon so deep that every one should think her dead. And then, when they had wept for hours beside her rose-strewn bier, the beautiful youth in pale blue silk tights, he with the spangled velvet trunks, might bend over her--having read "Little Snow-white"--and take the poisoned comb out of her hair, or--or something--and say-- "Ow!" cried Clarice, shrilly. "That horrid man pushed me so, he almost tore my dress. I think this is perfectly awful! Say, Sue, let's go and see the Two-headed Girl. We've lots of time before the train." Sue for once demurred; she did not feel like seeing monstrosities; her mind was filled with visions of beauty and grace. But when Clarice pressed the point, she yielded cheerfully; for was it not Clarice's party? But already the glow began to fade from her sky, and the heavy feeling at her heart to return, as they pushed their way into the small, dingy tent, where the air hung like a heavy, poisonous fog. It happened that they were just behind a large party of noisy people, men and women laughing and shouting together, and the showman did not see them at first. They had made their way to the front, and were gazing at the two slim lads who, tightly laced into one crimson satin bodice, and crowned with coppery wigs, made the Two-headed Girl, when the showman--an ugly fellow with little eyes set too near together--tapped Sue on the shoulder. "Fifty cents, please," he said civilly enough. Sue looked at him open-eyed. "Fifty cents," he repeated. "You two come in without payin'. Quarter apiece, please." Sue put her hand to her pocket, which held both purses (Clarice had no pockets in her dresses; she said they spoiled the set of the skirt), but withdrew it in dismay. The pocket was empty! She turned to Clarice, who was staring greedily at the monstrosity. "Clarice!" she gasped. "Clarice! did you--have you got the purses?" "No," said Clarice. "I gave mine to you, to put in your pocket; don't you remember?" "Yes, of course I do; but--but it is gone! They are both gone!" "Come, none o' that!" said the man. "You've seen the show, and you've got to pay for it. That's all right, ain't it? Now you hand over them fifty cents, little lady; see? Come! I can't stand foolin' here. I got my business to attend to." "But--but I haven't it!" said Sue, growing crimson to the roots of her hair. "Somebody--my pocket must have been picked!" she cried, as the truth flashed upon her. She recalled the dense crowd, the pushing, the rough lad who had forced his way between her and Clarice just at the doorway. "Oh, Clarice," she said, "my pocket has certainly been picked! What shall we do?" "What shall we do?" echoed Clarice. "Oh, Sue, how could you? I don't see why I let you take my purse. There was a ten-dollar gold piece in it. I might have known you would lose it!" And she began to whimper and lament. This was poor comfort. Sue turned from her friend, and faced the angry man bravely. "I am very sorry," she said. "My pocket has been picked, so I cannot pay you. We did not know that we had to pay extra for the side-shows. I hope you will excuse--" "Not much I won't excuse!" said the man, in a bullying tone, though he did not raise his voice. "You'll pay me something, young ladies, before you leave this tent. I ain't runnin' no free show; this is business, this is, and I'm a poor man." Sue looked round her in despair. Only vacant or boorish faces met her eyes; it was not a high-class crowd that had come to see the Two-headed Girl. Suddenly a word of Mr. Hart's flashed into her mind like a sunbeam: "If you are ever in danger away from home, children, call a--" "Is there a policeman here?" she asked eagerly. "There must be one outside, I am sure. Will you call him, please?" "No; there ain't no policeman!" said the man, quickly. He glanced warily about him, and added in a conciliatory tone: "There ain't no need of any policeman, young ladies. I guess we can settle this little matter right now, between ourselves, friendly and pleasant. You step right in this way, out of the jam. There's a lady here'll be real pleased to see you." He half led, half pushed, the frightened girls into an inner compartment of the tent, where a stout, greasy-looking woman was counting greasy coppers into a bag. The woman looked up as they entered, still counting: "Seventy--seventy-five--eighty--and twenty's a dollar. What's the matter, Ed?" "These little ladies got their pockets picked, so they say!" said the man, with a wink. "They're real ladies; any one can see that with half an eye. They don't want to rob a poor man like me. Maybe they've got some jew'lry or something they'd like to give you for the money they owe. You see to 'em, Min; I got to go back." With another wink at the woman, and a leer at the children which was meant to be attractive, he slipped out, and left them alone with the stout woman. "Well!" she began, in a wheedling voice, "so you had your pockets picked, my dears, had you? Well, now, that was a shame, I should say! Let me see!" She advanced toward Clarice, who retreated before her, cowering in a corner and crying: "I haven't got any pocket; it's her! She took my purse, and now she's lost it. Oh, dear! I wish we hadn't come!" "Let me see, dear," said the woman. She felt Clarice all over with swift, practised fingers. "Sure enough, you ain't got no pocket," she said. "I thought you might be makin' a mistake, you see. There! why, what's this? Stand still, ducky! I wouldn't hurt ye for the world; no, indeed--such a sweet, pretty young lady as you be. Ain't this a pretty chain, now? and a locket on the eend of it--well, I never! It ain't safe for young ladies to be goin' round alone with such a lot of jew'lry. Why, you might be murdered for it, and laid welterin' in your blood. I guess I'll take this, dear, to pay for the show; it'll be safer for you goin' home, too. What's this, again? gold stick-pins? Well, now, I call them dangerous! I don't see what your ma was thinkin' of, lettin' you come out rigged up like this. I'm doin' you a kindness takin' 'em off'n ye; they might cost ye your life, sure as you stand here. There's a terrible rough set o' folks round these grounds, specially come night." All the while she was talking she was quietly stripping Clarice of her trinkets. Clarice was too frightened to speak or move; she could only moan and whimper. But after the first moment of stupefaction, Sue came forward with flashing eyes and crimson cheeks. "How dare you?" she cried. "How dare you steal her things? Her father or Mr. Hart--Mr. George Hart of Hilton--will send you the money to-morrow, everything we owe. You shall not steal our things, you wicked woman!" The woman turned on her with an evil look. "Highty-tighty!" she said. "Ain't we fine, miss? I wouldn't talk so free about stealin', after you stealin' our show, sneakin' in and thinkin' you'd get it free. No you don't!" And she caught Sue as she tried to slip past her out of the tent. "Let's see what you've got, next." "Police!" cried Sue. "Help! police!" Instantly the woman's hand was over her mouth, and she was held in a grasp of iron. "You holler ag'in, and I'll strip the clothes off yer back!" she hissed. "Hold yer tongue, or I'll call Ed. He won't stand no foolin'!" Sue struggled fiercely, but it was of no use. The woman shifted her easily to one arm, and with the other hand searched her pocket. "Not even a handkerchief!" she said. "No jew'lry, neither. Well, your mother's got sense, anyway. Hallo! here's a ring, though. Guess I'll take that. Le' go, sis, or I'll hurt ye." "It--it's not my ring!" gasped Sue, shaking her head free. "It's hers--my friend's. Don't take it!" "Guess it's mine, now!" said the woman, with a chuckle. She forced back the girl's slender fingers, and drew off the gold mouse-ring. "There! now you can go, dears; and next time, you take my advice, and get some of your folks to take you to the circus. Ah! and be thankful I've left you them pretty hats. I know a little girl as would be pleased to death with that hat with the feathers; but you might take cold if I let ye go bare-headed, and I'm a mother myself." Trembling, half fainting, the girls found themselves outside the tent. The grounds were well-nigh deserted, all the spectators being gone. Here and there a group of stragglers leaned on the railings of the neighboring fence, smoking and talking. Rough-looking men were at work about the tents, and some of them looked curiously at the girls as they hurried along. Neither spoke. Clarice was still whimpering and crying under her breath. Sue's eyes were blazing; her cheeks felt on fire. She ran hastily across the grounds, dragging Clarice after her by the hand. She felt every moment as if they might be seized and carried back to that horrible den. Suppose the man should be coming after them now! He might put them in prison, and her mother would never know where she was. She choked back the sob that rose in her throat. On, on, as fast as feet could fly! At last the palings were reached and passed. Now they could stop to draw breath, for they were on the highroad, and out of sight of the hated inclosure. Panting, Sue leaned against the fence, and waited till she should have breath enough to speak some word of encouragement to her companion. No one was in sight; there was no sound save the crickets keeping time in the grass. All was as peaceful and serene as if there were no dreadful things or wicked people in the world. They were not far from the station now, and once in the train for home, with the friendly conductor, who knew her and would take charge of them both-- Then, suddenly, a new thought flashed into Sue's mind, and struck ice into the fever of her blood. How long had they been in that dreadful place? How was it that no one was to be seen going toward the station, of all the throng that had come up with them in the train? "Clarice!" she gasped. "I am--afraid--we may miss the train. We must run. It isn't far now. Run as fast as you possibly can!" Clarice answered with a sob; but she began to run as well as her foolish dress and shoes would let her. But another answer came at that moment: a whistle, long and clear, loud at first, then growing fainter and fainter till it died away. In desperation the girls flew on along the road--to reach the station and find it empty! The long curve of the rails stretched away toward home. The train was gone! CHAPTER X ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL Six o'clock was supper-time in the little town of Chester, so the usual loungers had left the station as soon as the train departed; and by the time the girls arrived it was deserted, even by the ticket-seller. No one was in sight; at least, they saw no one. They were too much absorbed in their trouble to notice two faces that peeped at them for a moment round the corner of the station, and then vanished. They were alone, six miles from home, with no money. What were they to do? Clarice broke out in tearful reproaches: "Sue Penrose, you have brought us to this! It is all your fault! I never should have thought of coming up here if it hadn't been for you." Sue looked at her, but made no reply. Clarice's eyes dropped under the steady look; she faltered, but hurried on: "And losing all my money, too! If you hadn't lost my money, I should not have been robbed of my beautiful jewelry--all I had in the world! and it was worth lots and lots." Sue, in bitterness of spirit, thought, "How about the diamond chain?" but she said nothing. She felt, suddenly, many years older than Clarice. Was this a girl of fifteen, whimpering like a baby? Was this the friend for whom she had given up Mary? "And how are we ever to get home?" asked Clarice, in conclusion. "We must walk!" said Sue, briefly. "Walk!" shrieked Clarice. "Sue Penrose, are you crazy? It's twenty miles, if it's a step!" "Nonsense!" said Sue. "It's a short six miles." "That's just as bad!" moaned Clarice. "You know I should die before we had gone a mile; you _know_ I should, Sue! Isn't there some one we can borrow money from? Can't we go to the hotel and telephone to somebody at home?" They might indeed have done this, but in her excited state Sue could not think it possible. Her high-strung, sensitive nature was strained beyond the possibility of sober judgment; she could only act, and the action that began instantly was the only one that she could think of. Besides, to see more strangers, perhaps meet with more insults--never! They must walk home; there was no other way; and they must start this instant. "I am sure you can do it, Clarice," she said, speaking as cheerfully as she could. "You can take my arm, and lean on me when you are tired; and every little while we can sit down and rest. Come! we must start at once; it will be dark before we get home, as it is." Clarice still protested, but yielded to the stronger will, and the two girls started on their lonely walk. As they turned their backs on the station, a head was cautiously advanced from behind the building; a pair of sharp eyes followed the retreating figures for a few moments, then the head was as cautiously withdrawn. The road from Chester to Hilton was a pleasant one. On one side was the railway, with the river beyond; on the other, green meadows rolling up and away to the distant hills. There were few houses, and these scattered at long distances. To Sue the road was familiar and friendly enough; but to Clarice it seemed an endless way stretching through an endless desert. She was thoroughly frightened, and her blood was of the kind that turns to water; very different from the fire that filled Sue's veins and made her ready to meet an army, or charge a windmill or a railway-train, or anything else that should cross her path. Over and over again Clarice lamented that she had ever come to Hilton. "Why did I come to this hateful, poky place?" she wailed. "Aunt Jane didn't want me to come. She said there wouldn't be anybody here fit for me to associate with. Oh! why did I come?" "I suppose because you wanted to!" said Sue; and it might have been Mary that spoke. "Come, Clarice," she went on more gently, "we might as well make the best of it. Let's tell stories. I'll begin, if you like. Do you know about the Maid of Saragossa? That is splendid! Or Cochrane's 'Bonny Grizzy'? Oh! she had to do much worse things than this, and she never was afraid a bit--not a single bit." Sue told the brave story, and the thrill in her voice might have warmed an oyster; but Clarice was not an oyster, and it left her cold. "Grizzy is a horrid, ugly name," she said. "And I think it was real unladylike, dressing up that way, so there!" "Clarice!"--Sue's voice quivered with indignation,--"when it was to save her father's life! How can you? But perhaps you will care more about the Maid of Saragossa." But after a while Clarice declared that the stories only made her more nervous. She was unconscious of the fact that they had carried her over two miles of the dreaded six. "Besides," she said peevishly, "I can't hear when you are talking, Sue. Listen! I thought I heard footsteps behind us. I do! Sue Penrose, there is some one following us!" Sue listened. Yes, there were footsteps, some way behind. "But, my dear," she said, "this is the highroad! Why should they be following us? People have a right to walk on the road--as good a right as we have." They stopped a moment, instinctively, and listened; and the footsteps behind them stopped too. They went on, and the steps were heard again, light yet distinct, keeping the distance between them, neither more nor less. Clarice grasped Sue's arm. "They are tramps or robbers, Sue! We are going to be murdered. Oh, I shall scream!" "You will _not_ scream!" said Sue, grasping her arm in return, and resisting the impulse to shake it. "You are talking nonsense, Clarice! I believe--I believe it is nothing in the world but an echo, after all. If it were not for this fog, we could see whether there was any one there." She looked back along the road, but the river-fog was rising white and dense, and closed in behind them like a curtain. "They can't see us, anyhow, whoever they are!" said Sue. "Why, it's exciting, Clarice! It's like the people in the forest in 'Midsummer-Night's Dream.' If we were only sure that these were nice people, we might call, and they could answer, and hunt round for us, and it would be fine." "Oh, it's awful! It's just awful!" moaned Clarice; and she shook with real terror. "And the worst of it is, I can't walk any more. I can't, Sue! It's no use! I am going to faint--I know I am." "Nonsense!" said Sue, stoutly, though her heart sank. "Keep up a little, Clarice, do! There is a watering-trough a little farther on, and we can bathe our feet. That will be a great help; and we must be nearly half-way home now." But tight lacing and tight shoes are not nonsense. They are very real things, and poor Clarice was really suffering more than Sue had any idea of. The stitch in her side was not imaginary this time. She stopped involuntarily to draw breath; and the footsteps behind them stopped too, and went on when they did. There was no longer any doubt; the girls were being followed. Clarice began to cry again; and Sue set her teeth, and felt that a crisis was coming. "Clarice," she said, "let me see if I can carry you! I think I can! I know the way Sir Bedivere did with King Arthur: he made broad his shoulders to receive his weight, you know, and round his neck he drew the languid hands--kind of pickaback, you see. You are not heavy; I think I can do it!" And she actually took Clarice on her back, and staggered on perhaps a hundred yards--till they both came to the ground, bruised and breathless. "I'm going to die!" said Clarice, doggedly. "I won't walk another step. I may just as well be murdered as plain die. I--can't see!" and the poor girl sank down, really half fainting. Sue set her teeth hard. She dragged Clarice back from the road, and propped her against a tree, then took her stand in front of her. She felt no fear; the quicksilver ran riot in her veins. If she only had her dagger, the good sharp dagger paper-knife that she had worn in her boot for two whole months, while she was playing cow-boy! It hurt a good deal, and made holes in her stockings, so she had given it up. What would she not give for it now! Or if she had something poisoned that she could hand to the people when they came up,--like Lucrezia Borgia,--and see them drop dead at her feet! But she had nothing! Stop! yes! her hat-pin, the hat-pin Uncle James had sent her from Russia! Carefully, with a steady hand, she drew out the long, sharp steel pin, and felt its point; then set her back against the tree, and waited. The footsteps behind the fog-curtain hesitated, stopped altogether. There was a silence, but Sue's heart beat so loud, the sound seemed to fill the air. All at once, from the opposite direction came another sound, the sound of horses' hoofs, the rattle of wheels; and, as if at a signal, the footsteps came on again, quickened their pace, were close at hand. Two figures loomed through the white fog; paused, as if reconnoitering in the dim half-light. Then, at sight of Sue standing alone before her prostrate companion, they broke into a run, and came up at racing speed, panting. "Anything wrong?" asked Tom. "Because we're right here!" said Teddy. "Right here, Quicksilver!" said Tom. The hat-pin dropped from Sue's hand. A great sob rose and broke,--only one!--and then--oh! it didn't matter now if she was getting to be a big girl. Her arms were round Tom's neck, and her head was on his good broad brotherly shoulder, and she was crying and laughing and saying, "Oh, Tom! Oh, Tom!" over and over and over again, till that young gentleman began to be seriously alarmed. "I say!" he said; "I wouldn't, Quicksilver! Come! I wouldn't if I were you! Teddy, you've got the handkerchief, haven't you? I had the peanuts, you know." But Teddy, who was going to be a surgeon, was stooping over Clarice with keen professional interest. "We might haul her down to the river and put her head in!" he said. "This hat won't hold water any more; will yours? I say! don't they still bleed people sometimes, when they haven't got salts and things? My knife is just as sharp!" Poor Clarice started up with a faint scream. Altogether, these four were so absorbed that they never heard the approaching wheels, and Mr. Hart almost ran over them before he could pull up his horse. "Hallo!" he said. "What upon earth--now, Mary, Mary, do be careful, and wait till I--Dear me, sirs! What a set of children! Stand still, Jupiter!" For Mary had scrambled down among wheels and legs, and had thrown herself upon Sue and Tom; and Teddy, abandoning Clarice, exhausted himself in a vain endeavor to get his short arms round the three. "Oh, Mary, Mary! is it really you? Can you ever forgive me?" "Sue! Sue, my Sue, don't talk so, dear! It is all my fault, for not telling Mammy this morning. Oh, Tom, you blessed boy, I might have known you would take care of her!" "Young people," said Mr. Hart, bending over from the wagon, "perhaps if you would kindly get in, it might facilitate matters, and you can continue this highly interesting conversation as we go along. Other girl faint? Hand her here, Tom! Put your arm round my neck, my child--so! there we are!" They jogged along in silence for a few minutes. Sue and Mary had nothing to say at first--in words, at least. They sat with their arms round each other's neck and their heads together. Now and then one would make a little murmur, and the other respond; but for the most part they were still, too full of joy to speak. "What happened, Tom?" asked Mr. Hart, when he thought time enough had elapsed to quiet the excitement a little. "Why, sir," said Tom, "we saw the girls, of course; but then we lost sight of them after the circus,--I don't know how" (Sue shuddered and Clarice moaned),--"so we went straight to the station. So when they didn't get there in time for the train, we thought we'd better wait and see how things were. So we followed them along--" "Oh, Tom, we were so frightened!" cried Sue. "Of course you didn't know how frightened we were, Tom--but I had my hat-pin all ready to stick into you!" "No! had you?" said Tom, chuckling. "You young ninny!" said his father. "Why didn't you join the girls, instead of hanging behind and scaring them half to death?" Tom hung his head. "I--it was awfully stupid!" he said. "Because I was a fool, sir, I suppose, and thought--" "Because _I_ was a fool, Mr. Hart!" said Sue. "Because I had been wicked and hateful and ungrateful, and a Perfect Pig, and he knew it!" Mrs. Hart sat at her window, sewing her seam and listening to the music she loved best, the music of children's voices. There were five of them, her own three and the two Penroses; and they were all sitting on the broad door-step, husking sweet corn and talking. Sue had just come over; she had been helping Katy, who had a lame arm. She looked pale and grave, for the adventure of two days before seemed still very near; yet her eyes were full of light as she looked from one to the other of the children, gazing as if she could not get her fill. Now and then she and Mary held out a hand and exchanged a silent squeeze that meant rivers of speech; but somehow Tom seemed to be doing most of the talking. "Look at that!" he said, holding up an ear like glossy ivory, every row perfect as a baby's teeth. "Isn't that bully? Save the silk, Sue and Lily! We want to make wigs for the harvest feast to-night." "Oh, tell me!" cried Sue, her eyes kindling. "A harvest feast? What fun!" "Why, hasn't Mary told you? You and Lily are coming to tea, you know, and we thought we would make it a harvest tea. So we are all to wear corn-silk wigs, and we're going to put the candles in Jack-o'-lanterns--little ones, you know; squashes, of course, or apples." "Apples will be best!" said Mary. "I have some pound sweets all picked out. We meant this for a surprise, you know, Tom, but never mind! It's really better fun for us all to know." "Lots!" said Tom. "I forgot, though, about the surprise part. And then--it'll be full moon--we'll go out Jack-o'-lanterning, and that'll be no end; and then Mammy says we can roast chestnuts, and Father has the bonfire all ready, and we'll have a celebration. A Quicksilver Celebration, eh, Sue?" "Oh, Tom!" said Sue. "Not Quicksilver any more; just stupid, stupid, grubby lead--and rusty, too!" "Lead doesn't rust," said Teddy, gravely. "This lead does! And--I've got something to read to you all. It is part of my penance, Mary. Yes, I will! It isn't all true, but part of it is." She drew a letter from her pocket (it was written on pink paper, scented with cheap scent), and began to read: "Miss Clarice Stephanotis Packard presents her compliments to Miss Susan Penrose, and tells her that I am going home to-morrow with my Papa, and I never shall come to this mean place any more. It is all my fault for assoshating with my soshal inpheriars, and if you hadn't have poked your nose into my afairs, Miss Penrose, and put your old candy in my pew, I shoud not have been robbed and most murderd. The girl here says I could have the law of you to get back the money my mouse ring cost,--" "What girl?" asked Mary. Sue blushed hotly. "The--the chambermaid," she said. "She--Clarice has made a kind of companion of her. She isn't a very nice girl, I'm afraid." Then resuming the reading-- "but Papa says he will get me a new one, and I shall see that nobody gets that away from me. You never will see me again, Sue, but you will have those common Harts; I supose they will be glad enouf to take up with you again. "So I remain, Miss Penrose, "Yours truly, "Miss CLARICE STEPHANOTIS PACKARD." Sue's eyes remained fixed on the paper; her cheeks glowed with shame and mortification; she could not meet her friends' eyes. There was a moment of dead silence; then came a sound that made her look up hastily, blushing still deeper. "Why! why, you are all laughing!" she cried. "My dear, of course we are laughing!" cried Mary, catching her in her arms. "What should we do but laugh? And we _are_ glad to take up with you again, aren't we, boys?" "Rather!" said Tom. "Why, Sue, it's been only half living without our Quicksilver." "Have you really missed me?" cried poor Sue. "Oh, Tom! Of course I know Mary has, because I know how wretched I have been, really, all the time, even at first, when I didn't know it. But you, too, and Teddy? Oh, I am so glad! so glad! And now there are five of us, aren't there, Lily?" Lily answered with a warm caress. She knew privately that she was the happiest of the five, but she did not know how to say it. "Five of us!" echoed Teddy. "I say! we ought to have a name. The Frisky Five! No! that isn't good. Somebody else try!" "The Festive Five!" suggested Tom. But Mary shook her head. "I have it!" she said. "Join hands, all! the Faithful Five! Hurrah for us!" The five children stood up and held hands, looking at one another with a certain solemnity. "The Faithful Five!" they repeated. "Hurrah for us!" And Teddy added: "But we'll make a toast of it to-night with shrub--lots of shrub!" "And now we must make the wigs!" said Mary. "We'll do that in the barn chamber, so that we sha'n't mess with the silk." "And then can't we climb a tree?" said Sue, plaintively. "I haven't climbed a tree for a month, Mary! I will be Isabella of Buchan, if you like, and you can all capture me and put me in the cage in the greening-tree." "All right!" "Hurrah!" "Come on!" The joyous voices died away; and Mrs. Hart took off her glasses and wiped her eyes, but not before a tear had fallen on her work. "Bless them!" she said. "And hurrah for them! This may have been a good thing, after all." An hour later Sue was bending once more over her journal; but this time Mary's arms were round her, and Mary's eyes were looking over her shoulder as she wrote. "My troubles are over, and they were all my own fault; but now I am happy, and nothing but death can part me and Mary. I have the dearest and best friends in the world--" "Oh, don't, Sue!" said Mary. "I shall!" said Sue, and wrote on: "And I have told Mamma all about everything, and she has forgiven me, and now we are all different, and she is perfectly lovely, and we understand all about things together, like Mary and her mother. And I hope I am going to be a better girl now all my life; but still the name I shall always love best is that I am Mary's own 'QUICKSILVER SUE.'" * * * * * Transcriber's note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. 
27985	----	[Illustration: MARY KNELT ON THE DRIVEWAY AND GATHERED CHARLIE INTO HER ARMS. _Marjorie Dean High School Sophomore._] MARJORIE DEAN High School Sophomore By PAULINE LESTER AUTHOR OF "Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman" "Marjorie Dean, High School Junior" "Marjorie Dean, High School Senior" A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Copyright, 1917 BY A. L. BURT COMPANY MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL SOPHOMORE CHAPTER I WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE "Come on in, Connie. The water's fine!" invited Marjorie Dean, beckoning with one round, dripping arm to the girl on the sands, while with the other she kept herself lazily afloat. The sun of a perfect August morning poured down upon the white beach, dotted here and there with ambitious bathers, who had grasped Time firmly by his venerated forelock, and fared forth with the proverbial early bird for a morning dip in a deceitfully dimpled and smiling sea. It was not yet nine o'clock, but, fearful of losing a minute of her precious seaside vacation, Marjorie Dean had come down to her favorite playground for her usual early morning swim. "I know it's fine," laughed Constance Stevens, "but this nice white sand is even finer." "You'll never learn to swim if you just sit on the beach and dream," reminded Marjorie. "I feel that it's my stern duty to see that your education as a water paddler is not neglected. So here goes!" With a few skilful strokes she brought up in shallow water. There was a quick rush of lithe feet, the sound of sweet, high laughter, then a little, good-natured gurgle of protest from the golden-haired, blue-eyed girl curled up on the sand as she found herself being dragged into the water by a pair of sturdy young arms. "Now--sink or swim, survive or perish!" panted Marjorie, as the lapping shallows broke over the yielding figure of her friend. "You'll simply have to be a water baby, Connie, dear. It's as important as being a sophomore in Sanford High, and you know just how important that is! Now, watch me and do likewise." Her day dream thus rudely interrupted, Constance Stevens laughingly resigned herself to Marjorie's energetic commands, and, now thoroughly awake to the important business at hand, tried her best to follow her friend's instructions. A fifteen minutes' lesson in the art of learning to float followed, and at the end of that time, by common consent, the two girls waded ashore and flung themselves on the warm sand. "I'll never learn to swim. I feel it in my bones," asserted Constance, as she lazily rose, wrung the water from her bathing suit and seated herself on the white beach beside Marjorie, who lay stretched at full length, her head propped upon her elbows, her alert gaze upon the few bathers who were disporting themselves in the water. "Then your bones are false prophets," declared Marjorie calmly. "You know how to float already, and that's half the battle. We'll rest a little and talk some more, and then we'll try it again. Next time I'll teach you an easy stroke. Isn't it funny, Connie, we never seem to get 'talked out.' We've been here together five whole weeks and yet there always seems to be something new to say. You are really a most entertaining person." "That's precisely my opinion of you." Constance's blue eyes twinkled. The two girls laughed joyously. Two wet hands stretched forth and met in a loving little squeeze. "It's been wonderful to be here with you, Marjorie. Last year at this time I never dreamed that anything so wonderful could possibly happen to me." The golden-haired girl's voice was not quite steady. "And I've loved being here with you. What a lot of things can happen in a year," mused Marjorie. "Why, at this time last year I never even knew that there was a town called Sanford on the map, and when I found out there was really such a place, and that I was going to live there instead of staying in B---- and going to Franklin High, I felt perfectly _awful_ about it." It had, indeed, been a most unhappy period for sunny, lovable Marjorie Dean when the call of her father's business had made it necessary for him to remove his family from the beautiful city of B----, where Marjorie had been born and lived sixteen untroubled years of life, to the smaller northern city of Sanford, where she didn't know a soul. All that happened to Marjorie Dean from the first day in her new home has been faithfully recorded in "MARJORIE DEAN, HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN." In that narrative was set forth her trials, which had been many, and her triumphs, which had been proportionately greater, as a freshman in Sanford High School. How she had become acquainted with Constance Stevens and how, after never-to-be-forgotten days of storm and sunshine, the friendship between the two young girls had flowered into perfect understanding, formed a story of more than ordinary interest. Now, after several happy weeks at the seashore, where the Deans had rented a cottage and were spending their usual summer outing with Constance as their guest, the two friends were enjoying the last perfect days of mid-summer before returning to Sanford, where, in September, Constance and Marjorie were to enter the delightful realm of the sophomore, to which they had won admission the previous June. There had been only one shadow to mar Marjorie's bliss. She had hoped that her childhood friend and companion, Mary Raymond, might be with them at the seashore, but, owing to the ill-health of Mary's mother, the Raymonds had been obliged to summer in the mountains, where Mary was needed at her mother's side. That Constance and Mary should meet and become friends had ever been Marjorie's most ardent desire. It was Constance's remarkable resemblance to Mary that had drawn her toward the girl in the very beginning. "It's all been so perfectly beautiful, Connie." Marjorie gave a little sigh of sheer happiness. "I've only one regret." "I know--you mean your chum, Mary," supplemented Constance, with quick sympathy. Marjorie nodded. "It seems strange I haven't heard from her. She hasn't written me for over two weeks. I hope her mother isn't worse." "No news is good news," comforted Constance. "Perhaps there will be a letter for me from her when we get back to the cottage. Suppose there should be! Wouldn't that be glorious?" "Perhaps we'd better go up now and see," suggested Constance. "It must be time for the postman." "We're not going until after you've had fifteen more minutes' instruction in the noble art of swimming, you rascal," laughed Marjorie. "See how self-sacrificing I am! You don't appreciate my noble efforts in your direction." "Of course I appreciate them, Marjorie Dean." Constance's habitually wistful expression broke up in a radiant smile that set her blue eyes dancing. "But I must confess, this minute, that I can live and be happy if I never learn to swim." "That settles it. In you go again." Marjorie sprang energetically to her feet, and began dragging her protesting friend down the beach to the water. Another fifteen minutes' instruction followed, punctuated by much laughter on the part of the two girls. "There! I'll let you off for to-day," conceded Marjorie, at last. "Now, come on. I have a hunch that there _is_ a letter for me. I haven't had any letters for two whole days." It was only a few rods from the bathing beach to the "Sea Gull," the cottage in which the Deans were living. As they neared it, a gray-uniformed figure was seen hurrying down the walk. "It's the postman! What did I tell you?" Marjorie broke into a run, Constance following close at her heels. The two girls brought up flushed and laughing at the pretty, vine-covered veranda, where Mrs. Dean sat, in the act of opening a letter. Half a dozen other postmarked envelopes lay in her lap. "Oh, Captain," Marjorie touched a hand to her bathing cap, "how many of them are for me?" "All of them except this, Lieutenant," smiled her mother, holding up the letter she had been reading. "But why all this haste? I hardly expected you back so soon. Five minutes before luncheon is your usual time for reappearing," she slyly reminded. "Oh, I had an unmistakable hunch that there was a letter here for me from Mary, so I let Connie off easy on her lesson. I'll make up for it to-morrow." By this time Marjorie held in her hand the half-dozen envelopes, each bearing its own special message from the various friends who held more or less important places in her regard, and was rapidly going over them. "Here's one from Jerry and one from Hal." The pink in her cheeks deepened at sight of the familiar boyish hand. "One from Marcia Arnold, another from Muriel Harding. Here's a tiresome advertisement." She threw the fifth envelope disdainfully on the wicker table at her side. "And--yes, here it is, in Mary's very own handwriting!" Laying the other letters on the table with a carefulness that bespoke their value, Marjorie hastily tore open the envelope that contained news of her friend and drawing out a single closely written sheet of paper said apologetically, "You won't mind if I read this now, will you, Connie and Mother?" "Go ahead," urged Constance. "We couldn't be so hard-hearted as to object." Mrs. Dean smiled her assent. Marjorie's thoughtfulness of others was always a secret source of joy to her. Marjorie read down the page, then uttered a little squeal of delight. "Mother!" she exclaimed joyously, "just listen to this: "DEAREST MARJORIE: "You will wonder, perhaps, what has happened to me. I know I have owed you a letter for over two weeks, but I have been so busy taking care of mother that I haven't had very much time to write. Of course, we have a nurse, but, still, there are so many little things to be done for her, which she likes to have me do. She is much better, but our doctor says she must go to a famous health resort in the West for the winter. She will start for Colorado in about two weeks, and now comes the part of my letter which I hope you will like to read. I am going to make you a visit. Father and I are coming to see you on a very mysterious mission. I won't tell you anything more about it until I see you. Part of it is sad and part of it glad, and it all depends upon three persons whether it will ever happen. There! That ought to keep you guessing. "You wrote me that you would be at home in Sanford by the last of next week. Please writs me at once and let me know just exactly when you expect to reach there. We shall not try to come to the seashore, as father prefers to wait until you are back in Sanford again. With much love to you and your mother, "Yours Mysteriously, "MARY." Marjorie finished the last word with a jubilant wave of the letter. "What do you think of that, Captain? What do you suppose this mysterious mission can be?" Marjorie's face was alight with affectionate curiosity. "I am not good at guessing," Mrs. Dean smiled tolerantly. The ways of schoolgirls were usually shrouded with a profound mystery, which disappeared into nothingness when confronted with reality. "It must be something extraordinary. She says it's part sad and part glad. I hope it's mostly glad. I know _I'm_ glad that I'm going to see her. Why, it's almost a year since we said good-bye to each other! Oh, Connie," she turned rapturously to Constance, "you two girls, my dearest friends, who look alike, will actually meet at last! You'll love Mary. You can't help yourself, and she'll love you. She can't do anything else." "I hope she will like me," said Constance a trifle soberly. "I know I shall like her, because she is your friend, Marjorie." "You'll like her for yourself, Connie," predicted Marjorie loyally, and secure in the belief that neither of these two girls, whose friendship she held above rubies, could fail her, Marjorie Dean dreamed of a kingdom of fellowship into which the three were fated to enter only after scaling the steep and difficult walls of misunderstanding. CHAPTER II THE SHADOW "Listen, Connie! Do you hear that train whistling? I'm sure it's Mary's train." Marjorie Dean peered anxiously up the track in the direction of the sound. In the distance her alert eyes spied the smoke of the approaching train before it rounded the bend and appeared in full view, and her heart beat high with the thought that the longer-for moment had come at last. Since her return to Sanford, five days before, Marjorie had been in a quiver of affectionate impatience. How slowly the days dragged! She read and re-read Mary's latest letter, stating that she and her father would arrive at Sanford on Wednesday on the 4.30 train and her impatience grew. It was not alone that she desired to see Mary. There was the "mysterious mission" to be considered. What girl does not love a mystery? And Marjorie was no exception. At that moment, however, as she waited for her childhood's friend, all thought of the mystery was swept aside in the longing to see Mary again. As the train rumbled into the station and after many groans and shudders stopped with a last protesting creak of wheels, Marjorie's anxious gaze traveled up and down its length. Suddenly, at the far end, she spied a tall, familiar figure descending the car steps. Close behind him followed a slender girl in blue. With a cluck of joy and a "There she is!" Marjorie fairly raced up the station platform. Constance followed, but proceeded more slowly. To Marjorie belonged the right to the first rapturous moments with her chum. In her girlish soul lurked no trace of jealousy. She understood that with Marjorie, Mary must always be first, and she was filled with an unselfish happiness for the pleasure of the girl who had braved all things for her and would forever mean all that was best and highest to her. "Mary!" Marjorie exclaimed, her clear voice trembling with emotion. "Oh, Marjorie, it's been ages," quavered Mary Raymond. Then the two became locked in a tempestuous embrace. "Here, here, where do I come in?" asked an injured voice, as the two young women continued to croon over each other, all else forgotten. Marjorie gently disengaged herself from Mary's detaining arms and turned to give her hand to Mr. Raymond. "I'm so glad to see you," she said fervently. "Mother is waiting in our car, just the other side of the station. But first, let me introduce my friend, Constance Stevens. Why, where is she? I thought she was right behind me. Oh, here she comes. Hurry up, Connie!" Constance approached rather shyly. In spite of the fact that the old days of poverty and heartache lay behind her like a bad dream, she was still curiously reserved and diffident in the presence of strangers. The decision of her aunt, Miss Susan Allison, to take up her abode in Sanford in order that Constance might finish her high school course with Marjorie had brought many changes into the life of the once friendless girl. Miss Allison had purchased a handsome property on the outskirts of Sanford, and, after much persuasion, had, with one exception, induced the occupants of the little gray house to share it with her. Soon afterward Mr. Stevens, Constance's foster-father, whose name she still bore and refused to change, had accepted a position as first violin in a symphony orchestra and had gone to fulfill his destiny in the world of music which he loved. Uncle John Roland and little Charlie, once puny and crippled, but now strong and rosy, had, with Constance, come into the lonely old woman's household at a time when she most needed them, and, in her contrition for the lost years of happiness which she had so stubbornly thrust aside, she was in a fair way to spoil her little flock by too much petting. The fact that from a mere nobody Constance Stevens had become the social equal of Sanford's most exclusive contingent did not impress the girl in the least. Naturally humble and self-effacing, she had no ambition to shine socially. Her one aim was to become a great singer, and it was understood between herself and her aunt that when she was graduated from high school she was to enter a conservatory of music and study voice culture under the best masters. It seemed to Constance that she now had everything in the world that she could possibly hope for or desire, but of the great good which had come to her in one short year she felt that above all she prized the friendship of Marjorie Dean and in whatever lay Marjorie's happiness, there must hers lie also. This was her thought as she now stepped forward to meet Mary Raymond. She was prepared to give this girl who was Marjorie's dearest friend a loyalty and devotion, second only to that which she accorded Marjorie herself. "At last my dearest wish has come true!" exclaimed Marjorie when Constance had been presented to Mr. Raymond and she and Mary had clasped hands. "I've been so anxious for you two to know each other. Now that you're here together I can see that resemblance I've told you of. Connie, you look like Mary and Mary looks like you. You might easily pass for sisters." Constance smiled with shy sweetness at Mary and Mary returned the smile, but in her blue eyes there flashed a sudden, half-startled expression, which neither Constance nor Marjorie noted. Then she said in a tone intended to be cordial, but which somehow lacked heart, "I'm awfully glad to know you, Miss Stevens. Marjorie has written me often of you." "And she has talked to me over and over again of you," returned Constance warmly. "Now that you know each other, you can postpone getting chummy until later," laughed Marjorie. "Mother will wonder what has happened to us. She'll think you didn't come on that train if we don't put in an appearance." Possessing herself of Mary's traveling bag she led the way with Mary through the station and out to the opposite side where Mrs. Dean awaited them. Constance followed with Mr. Raymond. In her heart she experienced an odd disappointment. Was it her imagination, or did Mary's cordiality seem a trifle forced? Perhaps it would have been better if she had not accompanied Marjorie to the station to meet Mary. Perhaps Mary was a trifle hurt that her chum had not come alone. She decided that she would not ride to Marjorie's home with the party, although she had been invited to dine with them that night. She could not bear to think of intruding. She managed to answer Mr. Raymond's courteous remarks, but her thoughts were not centered upon what he was saying. Without warning, her old-time diffidence settled down upon her like an enveloping cloak, and her one object was to slip away as quickly and as unobtrusively as possible. "I think I had better not go home with you, Marjorie," she said in a low voice. They had reached the waiting automobile and Mary and Mrs. Dean were exchanging affectionate greetings. "Oh, why not, Connie?" Marjorie's happy face clouded. "You know we'd love to have you, wouldn't we, Mary?" "Of course." Mary again smiled at Constance, but again her smile lacked warmth. Constance shook her head almost obstinately. "I think I had better not come," she repeated, and in her speech there was a shadowy return of the old baffling reserve that had so greatly disturbed Marjorie in the early stages of their friendship. "But you promised to take dinner with us to-night," remarked Marjorie. "I--I have changed my mind. It will be best for me to go home, I think. I'll come over to-morrow." Mrs. Dean added her persuasions, but Constance was firm, and, after bidding a courteous farewell to the Deans' guests, she hurried away, more agitated than she cared to admit. "Why, what ails Constance, Marjorie?" asked Mrs. Dean in surprise. "Nothing--that is, I don't know." Marjorie looked after her friend's rapidly disappearing figure, a puzzled expression in her brown eyes. Mary Raymond viewed Marjorie with a faint frown. It was rather provoking in Marjorie to express so much concern over this Constance Stevens. After their long separation she felt that her chum's every thought ought to be for her alone. And in that instant a certain fabled green-eyed monster, that Mary had never believed could exist for her, suddenly sprang into life and whispered to her that, perhaps, after all, she was not first in Marjorie Dean's heart. CHAPTER III SOWING THE SEED OF DISCORD "Before you talk of another single thing, Mary Raymond, please tell me what you mean by a 'mysterious mission' that is 'part sad and part glad,'" exclaimed Marjorie. Mr. Raymond was occupying the front seat of the automobile, beside Mrs. Dean, who drove the car, a birthday present from her husband, and the two girls had the tonneau of the automobile to themselves. They had scarcely deposited Mary's luggage on the floor of the car and settled themselves for the short ride to the Deans' home when Marjorie had made her eager inquiry into the nature of the "mysterious mission" that had so aroused her curiosity. "Well," began Mary, brightening, "father and I _have_ come to see you on a mission, but the only mystery about it is that you don't as yet know why we've come. I thought 'mysterious mission' looked rather well on paper so I set it down." "But you're going to tell me about it this instant, you wicked, tantalizing girl," insisted Marjorie with pretended sternness. "I thought perhaps you might be able to guess certain things from my letter," continued Mary. "You see, I wrote you that mother would have to go to Colorado for the winter and----" "You are going with her," supplemented Marjorie. "No, that's a wild guess. I'm not going west with her. Father says I must stay in the East and go through my sophomore year in high school." "But you can't stay at home by yourself, Mary. Just think how dreadful that would be for you, with your father away most of the time," reminded Marjorie. Mary's father was a traveling salesman for a large furniture manufactory, and spent the greater part of his time on the road. "That's just the point," responded Mary. "I know I can't stay at home alone. Mother's illness and what is to become of me when father goes on the road again is the sad part of it, but the glad part is--oh, Marjorie, can't you guess now?" Mary caught Marjorie's hand in hers. "We've come all the way to Sanford to see if," her voice rose high with excitement, "there isn't a little corner in the Dean barracks that a certain lieutenant can call her own for this year and----" "Mary!" It was Marjorie's turn to become excited. "Do you really mean that you wish to come to live with me and enter Sanford High? That we'll be sophomores together?" Mary clung to Marjorie's hand and nodded. For a moment she was too near to tears for speech. But they were tears of happiness. Marjorie really desired her for a best friend after all. Her sudden jealousy of Constance Stevens vanished. "I should say that was a _glad_ part of your mission," laughed Marjorie happily. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve such good fortune. Mother will be glad, too. She loves you almost as much as she loves me." "Oh, Mother," Marjorie leaned impulsively forward, "Mary's coming to live with me this year while her mother is in Colorado. You'll have two lieutenants instead of one to look after. We are going to win sophomore honors together and be promoted to be captains next June!" "There," declared Mr. Raymond with comical resignment, "now you have let the cat out of the bag with a vengeance, Mary Raymond. All this time I had been planning to ask Mrs. Dean, in my most ingratiating manner, if she thought she might possibly make room for a certain very frisky member of my family for a while. I had intended to proceed carefully and diplomatically so that she wouldn't be too much shocked at such a prospect, but now----" "It's all settled, isn't it, Mother?" interrupted Marjorie. "You are just as anxious as I for Mary to come and live with us, aren't you?" "Shall I stop the car in the middle of the street and assure you of my willingness to increase my regiment?" laughed Mrs. Dean. "No, no," protested Marjorie. "Let's hurry home as fast as we can and talk it over. We're only two squares from our house now. Besides, I've planned everything already. Mary can have the spare bedroom next to my house." Marjorie always referred to her room as her "house." "There's only the bath between and we'll use that together, and have a regular house of our own. Oh, Mary, won't it be perfectly splendid?" Regardless of what passersby might think, Mary and Marjorie embraced with an enthusiasm that threatened to land them both in the tonneau of the rapidly moving car, while their elders smiled at this reckless display of affection. The automobile had hardly come to a full stop on the broad driveway, that wound through the wide stretch of lawn that was one of the chief beauties of the Deans' pretty home, when Marjorie swung open the door and skipped nimbly out of the car with, "Welcome home, Mary!" Mary was only an instant behind Marjorie in leaving the car, and the two hugged each other afresh out of pure joy of living. "Take Mary up to her room at once, dear," directed Mrs. Dean. "I'm sure she must be tired and hungry after her long ride in the train. We will have an early dinner to-night. I expect Mr. Dean home at almost any moment," she continued, turning to Mr. Raymond. "Come on, Mary." Marjorie had lifted Mary's bag from the automobile. Now she stretched forth an inviting hand to Mary, and piloted her across the lawn and up the short stretch of stone walk to the front door. The door opened and a trim, rosy-cheeked maid appeared as by magic. She reached for Mary's bag, but Marjorie waved her gently aside. "I'll do the honors, Delia. You can look after mother and Mr. Raymond. We are very self-sufficient persons who don't need anything except a chance to go upstairs and talk ourselves hoarse." A wide smile irradiated the maid's goodnatured face, as she stepped aside to allow Marjorie and Mary to enter the hall. "What a darling house!" Mary's glance traveled about the pretty Dutch hall to the large, comfortable living room beyond. "You have oceans of room here, haven't you?" Marjorie nodded. "Yes; when first we came here I felt lost. It was actually lonesome. It took me a whole week to grow accustomed to looking out without seeing rows of brick houses across the street and on each side of me. Don't you remember, I wrote you all about it? You see, I didn't enter high school until we'd been here almost two weeks, and in all that time I never met a single girl. I felt like a shipwrecked sailor on a great, big, lonely, old island. Shall we go upstairs now? I'm so anxious to have you see my 'house.' It's a house within a house, you know. Mother had it all done up in pink and white for me, and I spent hours in it. Your house is blue. I made general and captain let me have one of the spare bedrooms done in blue, so that when you came to visit me you'd feel at home. And now it's going to be your very own for a whole year! It's too good to be true." Releasing Mary's hand, Marjorie led the way up the stairs to the second floor and down the short hall to her "house." Mary cried out in admiration at her friend's dainty room. She walked about, exclaiming over its perfect details after the manner of girls, then three minutes later the two somehow found themselves seated side by side on Marjorie's pretty white bed, their arms about each other's waists, and fairly launched into one of the good, old-time confabs they were wont to indulge in when the top step of the Deans' veranda in B---- had been their favorite trysting place. Half an hour later Mrs. Dean entered the room to find them still talking at an alarming rate, the rest of their world apparently forgotten. "I might have known it," she smiled. "Why, you haven't even taken off your hats, and dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Marjorie, you are a most neglectful hostess." "Oh, we don't mind having dinner with our hats on," returned Marjorie cheerfully. Then, rising, she took off her broad-brimmed Panama, and began gently pulling the pins from Mary's hat. "Make it fifteen minutes, instead of ten, Captain, and we'll be as spick and span as you please." "Discipline seems to be very lax in these barracks," commented Mrs. Dean. "I am afraid I ought to call upon General to help me enforce my orders. Under the circumstances I'll be lenient, though, and stretch the time to fifteen minutes. There, I hear General downstairs now!" She disappeared from the doorway and immediately a great scurrying about began, punctuated with much talk and laughter. To Marjorie it seemed as though she had not been so happy for ages. It was wonderful to know that her beloved Mary was actually with her once more, and still more wonderful that she would continue to be with her indefinitely. At dinner she beamed joyously across the table at the little blue-eyed girl, while their elders discussed and settled her destiny for the coming year. Mr. and Mrs. Dean met Mr. Raymond's request in behalf of his daughter with the whole-heartedness that so characterized them. In fact, they were highly in favor of receiving Mary as a member of their little household. "Two soldiers are better than one," asserted Mr. Dean humorously. "I believe in preparedness. 'In times of peace prepare for war,' you know. With such a valiant army under my command I could do wonders if attacked by the enemy." After dinner they all repaired to the living room, where the discussion of the all-important subject was continued, and when at eleven o'clock two sleepy, but blissfully happy, lieutenants climbed the stairs to bed, Mary Raymond lacked nothing except actual adoption papers, signed and sealed, to admit her into the Deans' hospitable fold. Yet there was one tiny drawback to Mary's joy. Try as she might she could not forget Constance Stevens and Marjorie's too evident fondness for her. From Marjorie's early letters she had formed the conclusion that Constance was merely a poor nobody, whom her chum, with her usual spirit of generosity had tried to befriend. Marjorie's later letters had contained little pertaining to Constance. Mary had not known of the long period of estrangement between Constance and Marjorie that had so nearly wrecked their budding friendship, and of the many changes that time had wrought in the life of the girl who looked like her. She had, therefore, been quite unprepared to meet the dainty, well-dressed young woman whom Marjorie appeared to hold in such strong affection. She reflected that night, a trifle resentfully, after Marjorie had kissed her good-night and left her, that it was very strange in Marjorie not to have put her in possession of the real facts of the case. Still, it was really not her affair. If Marjorie chose to become chummy with Constance without even writing a word of it to her, there was nothing to do except to be silent over the whole affair. Perhaps Marjorie would tell her all about it later. Certainly she would ask no questions. And then and there, little, blue-eyed Mary Raymond made her first mistake, and sowed a tiny seed of discord in her jealous heart that was fated later to bear bitter fruit. CHAPTER IV INTRODUCING MARY TO THE GIRLS "We've come for a last inspection, Captain. How do we look?" Marjorie Dean danced into her mother's room, her brown eyes sparkling with anticipation, her charming face all smiles. Mary Raymond followed her excited chum. "Halt! Company, attention!" commanded Mrs. Dean, as she turned from her dressing table to pass an opinion upon the waiting brigade of two. Her brown eyes rested approvingly upon the trim figures drawn up in their most soldierly attitude before her. Marjorie's frock of pink linen, with its wide lace collar and cuffs, exactly suited her dark eyes and hair, while Mary's gown of pale blue of the same material served to accentuate the fairness of her skin and the gold of her curls. "Shall we do, Captain? Are we absolutely spick and span?" Marjorie turned slowly about, then made a laughing dive at her mother and enveloped her in a devastating embrace. "Now see the havoc you've wrought," complained Mrs. Dean. "I shall have to do my hair over again. Never mind. I'll forgive you, and, being magnanimous, will state that I am very proud of the appearance of my army." "You're a gallant officer and a dear, all in one." Marjorie caught her mother's hand in hers. "Now, we must be on our way. We are going to school early because Mary will have to see Miss Archer. Besides, I'm anxious for her to meet Jerry Macy and some of the other girls. If only she had come to Sanford sooner, I'd have loved to give a party for her. Then she'd know every one of my friends. Oh, well, there is plenty of time for that. Good-bye, Captain. We'll be back before long. There is never very much to do in school on the first day." Dropping a gay little kiss on her mother's smooth cheek, Marjorie left the room, followed by Mary, who stopped just long enough to kiss Mrs. Dean good-bye. Three weeks had slipped by since Mr. Raymond and Mary had come to Sanford upon the so-called mysterious mission that had made Mary Raymond a member of the Dean household. They had returned to the city of B---- the following day. From there Mr. Raymond had gone directly to the mountains, for his wife, who, in spite of her ill-health, had insisted on returning to her home to oversee the making of Mary's gowns and the choosing of her wardrobe in general. Two days before coming to Sanford, Mary had seen her mother off on her journey to Colorado in quest of health. She had put on a brave face and smiled when she wished to cry, and it was alone the thought that she was going to live with Marjorie during her mother's absence that kept her from breaking down at the last sad moment of farewell. It was a sober-faced, sad-eyed Mary that Marjorie had met at the train, but, under the irresistible sunniness of Marjorie's nature, Mary had soon emerged from her cloud, and now the prospect of entering Sanford High School filled her with lively anticipation. As Marjorie and Mary emerged from the house and swung down the stone walk in perfect step, they beheld a stout, and to Marjorie, a decidedly familiar figure turning in at the gate. In the same instant a joyous "Hello" rent the air, and the stout girl cantered up the walk at a surprising rate of speed. There was a delighted gurgle from Marjorie, that ended in a fervent embrace of the two young women. "Oh, Jerry, I'm so glad to see you! I was afraid you wouldn't be back in Sanford before school opened. I saw Irma day before yesterday and she said she hadn't heard a word from you for over a week." "We didn't get here until last night at ten o'clock Maybe I'm not glad to see _you_." Jerry beamed affectionately upon Marjorie. "This is my friend, Mary Raymond, Jerry," introduced Marjorie. "She is going to live with us this winter and be a sophomore at dear old Sanford High. There will be six of us instead of five now." "I'm glad to know you." Jerry smiled and stretched forth a plump hand in greeting. "I've heard a lot about you." "I've heard Marjorie speak of you, too. I'm ever so pleased to meet you." Mary exhibited a friendliness toward Jerry Macy that had been quite lacking in her greeting of Constance Stevens. As the three stood for a moment at the gate Jerry's eyes suddenly grew very round. "Why, Marjorie, your friend looks like Connie, doesn't she?" "Of course she does," replied Marjorie happily. "Don't you remember I told you long ago that that was why I felt so drawn toward Connie in the first place?" "Yes, I remember it now. Isn't it funny that your two dearest friends should look alike? Have you met Constance, Mary? I'm going to call you Mary. I never call a girl 'Miss' unless I can't bear her. I'm sure I'm going to like you. Not only because you're Marjorie's chum, but for yourself, you know. If you turn out to be even one half as nice as Constance Stevens, I'll adore you. Connie is a dear and no mistake about it." The shadow of a frown touched Mary's forehead. Why must she be compelled to hear continually of Constance Stevens? And why should this Jerry Macy place her and Constance on the same plane in Marjorie's affection? She did not propose to share her place in her chum's heart with anyone. Of course, this girl could not possibly know just how much she and Marjorie had always been to each other. Later on they would understand. They would soon see that Marjorie preferred her above all others. Comforted by this reflection the shadow passed from Mary's face and the trio started down the street for school, chatting and laughing as only carefree schoolgirls can. Once inside the school building, Jerry said good-bye to them and turned down the corridor toward the study hall. Marjorie smiled with tender reminiscence as she and Mary climbed the familiar broad stairway to the second floor. She was thinking of another Monday morning that belonged to the past, when a timid stranger had climbed those same stairs and diffidently inquired the way to the principal's office. How far away that day seemed, and how much had happened within those same walls since that fateful morning. "I'll never forget my first morning here," she said to Mary, as they walked down the corridor toward their destination--the last room on the east side. "Captain had a headache and couldn't come with me. I had to march into Miss Archer's office all by myself. I felt like a forlorn stranger in a strange, unfriendly land. Then I met such a nice girl, Ellen Seymour, a friend of mine now, and she took me to the office and introduced me to Miss Archer." Before Mary had time to reply they had entered the cheerful living-room office that had so greatly impressed Marjorie on her first introduction to Sanford High. A tall, dark girl, seated at a desk at one end of the room, glanced up at the sound of the opening door. She hurried forward with a little exclamation of delighted surprise. "Why, Marjorie!" she exclaimed. "I was just thinking of you. I was wondering if you'd be in for the first day. I had made up my mind to run down to the study hall a little later and see." She now had Marjorie's hands in an affectionate clasp. "I've been wondering about you, too," nodded Marjorie. "You are another stray who didn't come back until the last minute." "I'm a working girl, you know," reminded Marcia. "Doctor Bernard was dreadfully disappointed because I wouldn't give up high school and keep on being his secretary. But I couldn't do that." "Of course you couldn't," agreed Marjorie, "especially now that you are a senior." Mary Raymond had drawn back a little while Marjorie and Marcia Arnold, Miss Archer's once disagreeable secretary, but now a changed girl through the influence of Marjorie, exchanged greetings. Marjorie turned and drew her chum forward, introducing her to Marcia, who bowed and extended her hand in friendly fashion. "Is Miss Archer busy, Marcia?" asked Marjorie, after she had explained that Mary was to become a pupil of Sanford High School. "Wait a moment, I'll see." Marcia went into the inner office, returning almost instantly with, "Go right in. She is anxious to see you, Marjorie." Miss Archer's affectionate welcome of Marjorie Dean brought a blush of sheer pleasure to the girl's cheeks. Her heart thrilled with joy at the thought that there was now no veil of misunderstanding between her and her beloved principal. "And so this is Mary Raymond." Miss Archer took the newcomer's hand in both her own. "We are glad to welcome you into our school, my dear. Your principal at Franklin High School has already written me of you. How long have you been in Sanford?" Mary answered rather shyly, explaining her situation, while Marjorie looked on with affectionate eyes. She was anxious that Miss Archer should learn to know and love Mary. "I will put you in Marjorie's hands," declared Miss Archer, after a few moments' pleasant conversation. "She will take you to the study hall and see that you are made to feel at home. We wish our girls to look upon their school as their second home, considering they spend so much of their time here. Please tell your mother, Marjorie," she added, as the two girls turned to leave the room, "that I shall try to call on her this week." "How do you like Miss Archer? Isn't she splendid?" were the quick questions Marjorie put, as they retraced their steps down the long corridor. "I know I'm going to love her," returned Mary fervently. "I hope I'll be happy here, Marjorie." There was a wistful note in her voice that caused Marjorie to glance sharply at her friend. Mary's charming face was set in unusually sober lines. "Poor Mary," was her reflection. "She's thinking of her mother." But Mary Raymond's thoughts were far from the subject of her mother. Instead, they were fixed upon what Jerry Macy had said that morning about Constance Stevens. Miss Archer had asked about Constance, too. She had spoken of her as though she and Marjorie were best friends. What had she meant when she said, "Well, Marjorie, you and Constance deserve fair sophomore weather after last year's storms." The flame of jealousy, which Mary had sought to stifle after her first meeting with Constance, was kindled afresh. "What did Miss Archer mean when she spoke of you and Miss Stevens--and last year's storms?" she asked abruptly. "Oh, I can't explain now. It's too long a story. Here we are at the study hall." Her mind occupied with school, Marjorie had not caught the strained note in Mary's voice. "She doesn't wish me to know," was Mary's jealous thought. "She is keeping secrets from me. All right. Let her keep them. Only I know one thing, and that is--I'll _never_, _never_, _never_ be friends with Constance Stevens, not even to please Marjorie!" CHAPTER V AN UNCALLED-FOR REBUFF The great study hall which Marjorie and Mary entered had little of the atmosphere supposed to pervade a hall of learning. A loud buzz of conversation greeted their ears. It came from the groups of girls collected in various parts of the hall, who were making the most of their opportunities to talk until called to order. Marjorie gave one swift glance toward the lonely desk on the platform. It had always reminded her of an island in the midst of a great sea. She breathed a little sigh of relief. Her pet aversion, Miss Merton, was not occupying the chair behind it. This, no doubt, accounted for the general air of relaxation that pervaded the room. Her alert eyes searched the room for Constance Stevens. She was not present. She gave another sigh, this time it was one of disappointment. She had seen Constance only twice since Mary's arrival. On one occasion she had taken dinner at the Deans' home. The three girls had spent, what seemed to Marjorie, an unusually pleasant evening. Constance, feeling dimly that Mary did not quite approve of her, had dropped her usually reticent manner and exerted herself to please. So well had she succeeded that Mary had rather unwillingly succumbed to her charm and grown fairly cordial. Totally unconscious of the shadow which had darkened the pleasure of Constance's first meeting with Mary, and equally ignorant of Mary's secret resentment of her new friend, Marjorie had retired that night inwardly rejoicing in both girls and planning all sorts of good times that they three might have together. Several days later Constance had entertained them at luncheon at "Gray Gables," the beautiful, old-fashioned house Miss Allison had purchased, on the outskirts of Sanford. Mary had been secretly impressed with its luxury and had instantly made friends with little Charlie. The quaint child had gravely informed her that she looked like Connie and immediately taken her into his confidence regarding his aspirations toward some day playing in "a big band." He had also obligingly favored her with a solo of marvelous shrieks and squawks on his much tortured "fiddle." Mary loved children, and this, perhaps, went far toward stilling the jealousy, which, so far, only faintly stirring, bade fair to one day burst forth into bitter words. "I'll see you in school on Monday," Marjorie had called over her shoulder, as she and Mary had taken their departure from Constance's home that afternoon. But now Monday had come and there was no sign of the girl Marjorie held so dear in the study hall. "Connie had better hurry. It's five minutes to nine. She'll be late." Marjorie's gaze traveled anxiously toward the door. An unmistakable frown puckered Mary's brows, but Marjorie did not see it. "Oh, Marjorie Dean, here you are at last. We've been waiting for you." Susan Atwell left a group of girls with which she had been hob-nobbing and hurried down the aisle. "Come over here, you dear thing. We've been looking our eyes out for you." She stopped short and stared hard at Mary. "Why, I thought----" she began. "You thought it was Connie, didn't you?" laughed Marjorie. She introduced Mary to Susan. "The girls over there thought you were Constance Stevens, too," smiled Susan, showing her dimples. "You see, Marjorie and Connie are inseparable, so, of course, we naturally mistook you for her. I never saw two girls look so much alike. If we have a fancy dress party this year you two can surely go as the Siamese Twins. Wouldn't that be great?" Mary smiled perfunctorily. She had her own views in the matter, and they did not in the least coincide with Susan's. A moment later they were hemmed in by an enthusiastic bevy of girls, each one trying to make herself heard above the others. Marjorie was besieged on all sides with eager inquiries. The girls had discovered, as she neared them, that her companion was not Constance Stevens. Marjorie, at once, did the honors and Mary found herself nodding in quick succession to half a dozen girls. "You fooled us all for a minute, Miss Raymond," cried Muriel Harding. "She didn't fool me," announced Jerry Macy, who had joined them just in time to hear Muriel's remark. "I knew she was coming, but I kept still because I wanted to see you girls stare." "Look around the room, Marjorie," observed Irma Linton in a guarded tone. "Do you miss anyone? Not Constance. I wonder where she is?" "I don't know." Marjorie's eyes took in the big room, then again sought the door. "She said she would meet me here this morning. Let me see. Do I miss anyone? Do you mean a girl in our class, Irma?" Irma nodded. Marjorie cast another quick look about her. "Why, no. Oh, now I know. You mean Mignon." Again Irma nodded. Under cover of a burst of laughter from the others she murmured, "Mignon won't be with us this year. You will observe, if you look hard, that I'm not weeping over our loss." Marjorie was silent for a moment. The past rode before her like a panorama, as the thought of the elfish-faced French girl and of how deeply she had caused both herself and Constance Stevens to suffer. Her pretty face hardened a trifle as she said, in a low voice, "I'm not sorry, either, Irma. But why won't she be in high school this year? Has she moved away from Sanford? I haven't seen her since we came home from the beach." "She has gone away to boarding school," answered Irma. "Between you and me, I think she was ashamed to come back here this year. Susan told me that her father wanted her to stay in high school and go to college, but she teased and teased to go away to school, so finally he said she might. She left here over two weeks ago. One of the girls received a letter from her last week. In it she said she was so glad she didn't have to go to a common high school and that the girls in her school were not milk-and-water babies, but had a great deal of spirit and daring." Marjorie's lip curled unconsciously. "I'd rather be a 'milk-and-water baby' than as cruel and heartless as she. I'll never forgive her for the way she treated Connie. Let's not talk of her, Irma. It makes me feel cross and horrid, and, of all days, I'd like to be happy to-day. There's so much to be happy over, and I'm so glad to see all of you. Life would be a desert waste without high school, wouldn't it?" Marjorie's soft hand found Irma's. She was very fond of this quiet, fair-haired girl, who, with Jerry Macy, had stood by her so resolutely through dark days. "Here she comes--our dear teacher. Look out, girls, or you'll be ushered out of Sanford High before you've had a chance to look at the bulletin board," warned Muriel Harding's high-pitched voice. Her sarcastic remarks carried farther than she had intended they should, as a sudden hush had fallen upon the study hall. Miss Merton, Marjorie's pet aversion, had stalked into the great room. She cast a malignant glance, not at Muriel, but straight at Marjorie Dean. "Oh," gasped Muriel and Marjorie in united consternation. "That's the time you did it, Muriel," muttered Jerry Macy. "I always told you that you ought to be an orator or an oratress or something. Your voice carries a good deal farther than it ought to. Only Miss Merton didn't think it was you who made those smart remarks. She thought it was Marjorie. Now she'll have a new grievance to nurse this year." "I'm awfully sorry." Muriel was the picture of contrition. "I didn't intend she should hear me--but to blame you for it! That's dreadful. I'll go straight and tell her that I said it." Muriel made a quick movement as though to carry out her intention. Marjorie caught her by the arm. "You'll do nothing of the sort, Muriel Harding. My sophomore shoulders are broad enough to beat it. Perhaps she didn't really hear what you said. She can't dislike me any more for that than she did before she thought I said it." "Young ladies, I am waiting for you to come to order. Will you kindly cease talking and take seats?" Miss Merton's raucous voice broke harshly upon the abashed group of girls. They scuttled into the nearest seats at hand like a bevy of startled partridges. "What a horrid woman," was Mary Raymond's thought, as she slipped into a seat in front of Marjorie, and stared resentfully at the rigid figure, so devoid of womanly beauty, in its severe brown linen dress, unrelieved by even a touch of white at the neck. With a final glare at Marjorie, the teacher proceeded at once to the business at hand. Within the next few minutes she had arranged the girls of the freshman class in the section of the study hall they were to occupy during the coming year. Marjorie awaited the turn of the sophomores to be assigned to a seat with inward trepidation. She had had no opportunity to introduce Mary to Miss Merton. What should she do? She half rose from the seat, then sat down undecidedly. Miss Merton had arranged the freshmen to her satisfaction. Now she was calling for the sophomores to rise. Perhaps she would not notice Mary. If she did not, then Mary could pass with the sophomores to their section. As soon as the session was dismissed, she would introduce her to Miss Merton. But Miss Merton was lynx-eyed. "That girl there in the blue dress," she blared forth. "You were not in the freshman class last year." Mary turned in her seat and shot a glance of appeal to Marjorie. The girl rose bravely in friend's behalf. "Miss Merton," she said in her clear, young voice, "I brought Miss Raymond here with me. She----" "You are not supposed to bring visitors to school, Miss Dean," was the teacher's sarcastic reminder. Marjorie's eyes kindled with wrath. Then, mastering her anger, she made courteous reply. "She is not a visitor. She expects to enter the sophomore class." "Come down to this front seat, young woman," ordered Miss Merton, ignoring Marjorie's explanation. "I'll attend to you later." Mary sat still, surveying Miss Merton out of two belligerent blue eyes. "Do as she says, Mary," whispered Marjorie. Mary obeyed. Walking down the aisle with maddening deliberation, she seated herself on the bench indicated. "No talking," rasped Miss Merton, as a faint murmur went up from the girls in the sophomore section. Once the classes had been assigned to their places for the year there was little more to be done. Nettled by her recent resentment against Marjorie, Miss Merton took occasion to deliver a sharp lecture on good conduct in general, making several pointed remarks, which caused Marjorie to color hotly. More than one pair of young eyes glared their resentment of this harsh teacher who had never lost an opportunity in the past school year of censuring their favorite. The moment the short session was over the girls of her particular set gravitated toward Marjorie. "Well, of all the old cranks!" scolded Geraldine Macy. "She's the most hateful teacher in the world," was Muriel Harding's tribute. "I wouldn't pay any attention to her, Marjorie. I'd go straight to Miss Archer," advised Susan Atwell. "Just see her now! She looks as though she'd actually snap at your friend." Miss Merton was engaged in interviewing the still belligerent Mary, who stood listening to her, a sulky droop to her pretty mouth. "Oh, I must go and help Mary out. Wait for me outside, girls." "Do you need any help?" inquired Jerry. "I never was afraid of Miss Merton, if you'll remember." "Oh, no." Marjorie hurried toward her friend, and stood quietly at Mary's side. "Well, Miss Dean, what is it?" Miss Merton eyed Marjorie with her most disagreeable expression. "I came to tell you, Miss Merton," began Marjorie in her direct fashion, "that Miss Raymond saw Miss Archer this morning before we came to the study hall. She sent us----" "That will do, Miss Dean," interrupted Miss Merton. "I hope Miss Raymond is capable of attending to her affairs without your assistance. I should greatly prefer that you go on about your own business and leave this matter to me. I believe I have been a teacher in Sanford High School long enough to be trusted to manage my own work." A bitter retort rose to Marjorie's lips. She forced it back and with a dignified bow to Miss Merton and, "I will wait for you in the corridor, Mary," walked from the room, her head held high, her eyes burning with resentful tears. CHAPTER VI MARY'S DISTURBING DISCOVERY Once outside the study hall Marjorie Dean's proud manner left her. Her recent joy in returning to high school gave place to a feeling of deep dejection. Everything had certainly gone wrong. She had had so many pleasant little thrills of anticipation that she had quite forgotten Miss Merton and the teacher's unreasoning dislike for her, which she had never taken pains to conceal. Muriel's injudicious remarks had made a bad matter worse. Marjorie knew that from now on she would have to be doubly on her guard. It was evident that Miss Merton intended to take her to task whenever the slightest opportunity presented itself. Marjorie even had her suspicions that Miss Merton had known that it was Muriel instead of herself who had uttered those distinctly unflattering words. "I'll have to be very careful not to offend Miss Merton," she ruminated gloomily, as she stood waiting for Mary, her eyes fastened on the big study-hall door. Then her thoughts switched from Miss Merton to Constance Stevens. Why hadn't Connie come to school? Surely she could not be ill. Perhaps Charlie was sick. The opening of the study-hall door interrupted her worried reflections. Mary emerged from the hall, looking like a young thundercloud. She closed the door after her with a resounding bang, which conveyed more than words. "Of all the hateful old tyrants!" she exclaimed, as she hurried toward Marjorie. "I despise her. How dared she treat you so?" "Oh, never mind," soothed Marjorie. "Let us forget her. Tell me, are you or are you not a sophomore? Or must we go to Miss Archer to straighten things?" "I'm a sophomore all right enough," said Mary grimly. "I told her what Miss Archer said, and after that she treated me more civilly. Such a teacher is a disgrace to a school. Why is she so bitter against you, Marjorie?" Marjorie shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. She has always acted like that toward me. It's just a natural dislike, I suppose. Sometimes, after a teacher has taught school a great many years, she takes sudden likes and dislikes. I've been in her black books since my very first day in Sanford High." "Poor old Lieutenant." Mary patted Marjorie's hand with sympathetic affection. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I don't really care much. There are so many nice teachers here who _do_ like me that I'm not going to worry over Miss Merton. Come along." She linked her arm in Mary's. "The girls will be waiting for us outside. We are all going down to Sargent's for ice cream. Then we'll go home and report to Captain. After luncheon, I think we had better walk over to Gray Gables. I am afraid Connie or, perhaps, little Charlie is sick. You know Connie promised us, when we were there on Friday, that she'd see us at school." Mary's face clouded. "I--I think I won't go to Gray Gables with you. I must write to mother. Besides, you and Constance may wish to be by yourselves." Marjorie's brown eyes opened wide. "Why should we?" she asked. "You know you are always first with me. I haven't any secrets from you." Mary's face brightened. Perhaps she had been too hasty in her conclusions. "I wish you would tell me all about yourself and Constance," she said slowly. "You promised you would." "Well, I will," began Marjorie. Then she paused and flushed slightly. It had suddenly come to her that perhaps Constance would not care to have Mary know of the clouds of suspicion that had hung so heavily over her freshman year. "I'd love to tell you about it now, Mary, but I think I had better ask Constance first if she is willing for me to do so. You see, it concerns her more than me. I am almost sure she wouldn't mind, but I'd rather be perfectly fair and ask her first. You know Captain and General have always said to us, 'Never break a confidence.'" A hurt look crept into Mary's face. "Oh, never mind," she managed to say with a brave assumption of indifference. "I don't wish to know about it if you don't care to tell me." "But I _do_ care to tell you, and I will if Connie says I may," assured Marjorie earnestly. Mary had no time for further remark. They had reached the double entrance doors to the building and were hailed by a crowd of girls at the foot of the steps. "Oh, Connie," Marjorie Dean cried out delightedly. She had spied her friend among them. Constance ran forward to meet Marjorie and Mary. "I couldn't come before. I've been to the train. Father is here. He's going to be at home for two days. And what do you think he wishes me to do?" "You are not going away with him?" asked Marjorie in sudden alarm. "No, indeed. I couldn't give up my sophomore year here, even for him. It isn't anything so serious. He proposed that as long as he was here to play for us, it would be a good idea to----" "Give a dance," ended Jerry Macy. "Hurrah for Mr. Stevens! Long may he wave!" "Yes, you have guessed it, Jerry," laughed Constance. "I'm going to give a party in honor of Mary. I was so excited over it that I left him to go on to Gray Gables by himself, while I rushed over here as fast as I could come. I wanted to catch you girls together so I could invite you in a body. Jerry, do you suppose Hal would be willing to see Lawrie and the Crane and some of our boys? It will have to be a strictly informal hop, for I haven't time to send out invitations." "Of course he'll round up the crowd," assured Jerry slangily. "If he doesn't, I will. I guess I won't go to Sargent's with you. What is mere ice cream when compared to a dance? Besides, it's fattening--the ice cream, I mean. I've lost five pounds this summer and I'm not going to find them again at Sargent's if I can help it. So long, I'll see you all to-night." Jerry bustled off on her errand, leaving her friends engaged in an eager discussion of the coming festivity. A little later they trooped down the street to their favorite rendezvous, where most of their pocket money found a resting place. "We won't have a single bit of appetite for luncheon," commented Marjorie to Mary, when, an hour later, they set out for home. "I suppose not," assented Mary indifferently. Her thoughts were far from the subject of luncheon. Her jealousy of Constance Stevens was thoroughly aroused and flaming. She wished Marjorie had never seen nor heard of this hateful girl. And to think that Constance had announced that she was going to give a party in honor of _her_, the very person she had robbed of her best friend! It was insufferable. What could she do? If she refused to go, Marjorie and all those girls would wonder. She could give no reasonable excuse for declining to go at this late day. She told herself she would rather die than have Marjorie know how deeply she had hurt her. Oh, well, she was not the first martyr to the cause of friendship. She would try to bear it. Perhaps, some day, Marjorie, too, would know the bitterness of being supplanted. It was an unusually quiet Mary who slipped into her place at luncheon that day. "What is the matter, dear?" asked Mrs. Dean, noting the girl's silence. "Don't you feel well?" "Oh, I am all right," she made reply, torturing her sober little face into a smile. "Mary had troubles of her own this morning, Captain," explained Marjorie. Then she launched forth into an account of the morning's happenings. Mrs. Dean looked her indignation as her daughter's recital progressed. She had met Miss Merton and disliked her on sight. "I have no wish to interfere in your school life, Marjorie," she said with a touch of sternness, when Marjorie had finished, "but I will not hear of either of you being imposed upon. If Miss Merton continues her unjust treatment I shall insist that you tell me of it. I shall take measures to have it stopped." "Captain won't stand having her army abused," laughed Marjorie. "At least you must admit that I'm a conscientious officer," was her mother's reply. "To change the subject, would you like to go shopping with me this afternoon?" "Oh, yes," chorused the two. Even Mary forgot her grievances for the moment. As little girls they had always hailed the idea of shopping with their beloved captain. The shopping tour took up the greater part of the afternoon, and it was after five o'clock when the two started for home. "No lingering at the dinner table to-night for this army," declared Marjorie, finishing her dessert in a hurry. "It's almost seven, Mary. We'll have to hurry upstairs to dress for the dance." "You didn't apply to me for a leave of absence," reminded Mr. Dean. "You know the penalty for deserting." "We've forgotten it, General. You can tell us what it is to-morrow," retorted Marjorie. "Come on, Mary. Salute your officers and away we go." In the excitement of dressing for the dance Mary almost forgot that she was about to enter the house of the girl she now believed she disliked. Marjorie's praise of her pretty white chiffon evening frock almost restored her to good humor. Marjorie herself was radiant in a gown of apricot Georgette crepe and filmy lace. Mrs. Dean had elected to drive them to their destination in the automobile, and when they alighted from the machine at the gate to Gray Gables, waving her a gay good night, Mary felt almost glad that she had come and that the dance was to be given in her honor. "I've been watching for you." A slender figure in pale blue ran down the steps to meet them. Out of pure sentiment Constance Stevens had chosen to wear the blue chiffon dress--Marjorie's gracious gift to her. She had taken the utmost care of it, and it looked almost as fresh as on the night she had first worn it. Mary Raymond stared at her in amazement Could it be--yes, it was the very gown that Marjorie's aunt had given her a year ago as a commencement present. Had not Marjorie declared over and over again that she would never part with it? And now she had deliberately given it to Constance. This proved beyond a doubt where Marjorie's true affection lay. Mary was obsessed with a wild desire to turn and run down the drive and away from this hateful girl. This was, indeed, the last straw. CHAPTER VII THE PROMISE Mary Raymond wondered, as she walked up the steps of Gray Gables, between Constance and Marjorie, and into the brightly lighted reception hall, how she could manage to endure the long evening ahead of her. She was seized with an insane desire to break from Marjorie's light hold on her arm and rush out of the house of this girl who had stolen her dearest possession, Marjorie's friendship. How well she remembered the day on which Marjorie had received the blue dress which Constance was wearing so unconcernedly. It had come by express in a huge white pasteboard box, while she and Marjorie were seated on the Deans' step engaged in one of their long confabs. How excited they had been over it! How they had exclaimed as Marjorie drew the blue wonder from its pasteboard nest. Then a great trying-on had followed. She recalled with jealous clearness how great Marjorie's disappointment had been when she found it too small for her. Then Marjorie had said as she lovingly patted its soft folds, "Never mind, I'll keep it always, just to look at. It was awfully dear in Aunt Louise to send it to me and I wouldn't let her know for worlds that it doesn't fit me." And now, after all she had said, she had lightly given it away--and to Constance Stevens. Mary forced herself to smile and reply to the friendly greeting of Miss Allison, who stood in the big, old-fashioned hall helping to receive her niece's guests. A moment more and she was surrounded by Geraldine Macy, Irma Linton and Susan Atwell, who had come forth in a body from the long, palm-decorated parlor off the hall to welcome her, accompanied by a singularly handsome youth, a very tall, merry-faced young man and a black-haired, blue-eyed lad, with clean cut, sensitive features. She was presented in turn to Harold Macy, Sherman Norwood, known as the Crane to his intimate associates, and Lawrence Armitage. "So, _you_ are Marjorie's friend, Mary Raymond, of whom she has spoken to me so often," smiled Hal Macy. "We are very glad to welcome you to Sanford, Miss Raymond." "Thank you," Mary returned, almost forgetting her first bitter moment. Hal Macy's direct hand-clasp and frank, bright smile of welcome stamped him with sincerity and truth. She liked equally well Lawrence Armitage's deferential greeting and she found the Crane's wide, boyish grin irresistible as he bowed low over her small hand. Yes, the Sanford boys were certainly nice. She was not so sure that she liked the girls. They made too much of Marjorie, and Marjorie had proved herself disloyal to her sworn comrade and playmate of years. Once inside the drawing-room, which had been transformed into an impromptu ball-room by taking up the rugs and moving the piano to one end of it, introductions followed in rapid succession. "Mary, you must meet my foster father." Constance slipped her arm through Mary's and conducted her to the piano where stood a man with an immense shock of snow-white hair, sorting high piles of music arranged on top. "Father." The man at the piano wheeled at the sound of the soft voice. His stern, almost sad face broke into a radiant smile that completely transformed it. "This is Mary Raymond. Mary, my father, Mr. Stevens," introduced Constance. "And this is my uncle, Mr. Roland." Both men bowed and took Mary's hand in turn, expressing their pleasure at meeting her. Old John Roland's faded blue eyes contained a puzzled look. "You are very familiar," he said. "Where have I seen you before?" "Look sharply, Uncle John," laughed Marjorie, who had joined them. "You have never seen Mary before. She is like someone you know." "'Someone you know,'" repeated the old man faithfully. He would never outgrow his quaint habit of repetition, although he had improved immensely in other ways since the change in Constance's fortune had released him from the clutch of poverty. Mary eyed him curiously. Then her gaze rested on Mr. Stevens. What peculiar persons they were. And Marjorie had never written her of them. They must have a strange history. She made up her mind that she would never ask her fickle chum about them. She would find out whatever she wished to know from others. Now that she was a pupil of Sanford High she would soon become acquainted with girls of her class other than those she had already met. Perhaps she might learn to like some one better than---- Her sober reflections stopped there. She could not bring herself to the point of breaking her long comradeship with the girl who had failed her. Uncle John Roland was still staring at her and smilingly shaking his gray head. "I don't know. I can't think, and yet----" Suddenly a jubilant little shout rent the air, causing the group about the piano to smile. In the same instant Mary felt a small hand slip into hers. "I knew you comed to see Charlie again. Charlie wouldn't go to bed because Connie said you'd surely come. Charlie loves you a whole lot. You look like Connie." "Look like Connie," muttered Uncle John. Then his faded eyes flashed sudden intelligence. "I know. Of course she's like Connie. I guessed it, didn't I?" He glanced triumphantly at Marjorie. "So you did, Uncle John," nodded Marjorie brightly. Mr. Stevens gazed searchingly at the young girl so like his foster daughter. Mary felt her color rising under that penetrating gaze. It was as though this dreamy-eyed man with the dark, sad face had read her very soul. For a brief instant she sensed dimly the ignobleness of her jealousy of his daughter. She felt that she would rather die than have him know it. Perhaps, after all, she was in the wrong. She would try to dismiss it and do her best to enter into the spirit of the merry-making. An impatient tug at her hand caused her to remember Charlie's presence. "Talk to me," demanded the child. "Connie says I have to go to bed in a minute, so hurry up." Mary stooped and wound her arms about the tiny, insistent youngster. She clasped Charlie tightly to her and kissed his eager face. And that embrace sealed the beginning of an affection between them, the very purity of which was one day to lead her from the terrible Valley of Doubt into the sunlight of belief. "Now you've done it," was Marjorie's merry accusation. "You've stolen my cavalier. Oh, Charlie, I thought I was your very best girl." She made reproachful eyes at Charlie, who, delighted at receiving so much attention, sidled over to her with a ridiculous air of importance and took her hand. "Everybody likes Charlie," he observed complacently. "Now he can stay up all night and listen to the band." "You'd go to sleep and never hear the band at all," laughed Constance. "No, Charlie must go to bed and sleep and sleep, or he will never grow big enough and strong enough to play in the band." The half pout on Charlie's babyish mouth, born of Constance's dread edict, died suddenly. Even the joys of staying up all night were not to be compared with the glories of that far-off future. "All right, I'll go," he sighed. "But you and Marjorie must come again soon in the daytime when I don't have to go to bed. I'll play a new piece for you on my fiddle. Uncle John says it's a marv'lus compysishun." A burst of laughter rose from the group around him at this calm statement. After kissing everyone in his immediate vicinity, Charlie made a quaint little bow and marched off beside Constance, well pleased with himself. "Isn't he a perfect darling?" was Mary's involuntary tribute. "Yes, I adore Charlie," returned Marjorie. "I used to feel so dreadfully for him when he was crippled. Isn't it splendid, Mr. Stevens, to see him so well and lively?" She turned radiantly to the white-haired musician. His face lighted again in that wonderful smile. He was about to answer Marjorie, when Constance, who had seen Charlie to the door where he had been taken in charge by a white-capped nurse, returned to them, saying: "What shall we have first, girls, a one step?" "Oh, yes, do!" exclaimed Jerry Macy, who had come up in time to hear Constance's question, in company with a mischievous-eyed, freckled-faced youth who rejoiced in the dignified cognomen of Daniel Webster Seabrooke, but who was most appropriately nicknamed the Gadfly. "Mr. Seabrooke, Miss Raymond," introduced Jerry. The freckled-faced boy put on a preternaturally solemn expression and begged the pleasure of the first dance with Mary. Mr. Stevens had already handed the old violinist the music for the dance and placed his own score in position upon the piano. The slow, fascinating strains of the one step rang out and a great scurrying for partners began. Marjorie found herself dancing off with Hal Macy, while Lawrence Armitage swung Constance into the rapidly growing circle of dancers. Irma Linton and the Crane danced together, while Jerry Macy, who danced extremely well for a stout girl, was claimed by Arthur Standish, one of her brother's classmates. Once the hop had fairly begun, dance followed dance in rapid succession. Much to Mary's secret satisfaction there were no gaps in her programme. As it was, there were no wall flowers. An even number of boys and girls had been invited and every one had put in an appearance. At eleven o'clock a dainty repast, best calculated to suit the appetites of hungry school girls and boys, was served at small tables on the side veranda, which extended almost the length of the house. It was not until after supper, when the dancing was again at its height, that Marjorie and Constance found time for a few words together. The two girls had slipped away to Constance's pretty blue and white bedroom to repair a torn frill of Marjorie's gown. "Isn't it splendid that we can have a minute to ourselves?" laughed Constance. "I'm glad you happened to need repairing. I hope Mary is having a good time. As long as it's her party I'm anxious that she should enjoy herself." "Of course she's having a good time. How could she help it?" returned Marjorie staunchly. "All the boys have been perfectly lovely to her and so have the girls. I knew everyone would like her. You and Mary and I will have lots of fun going about together this winter." Constance smiled an answer to Marjorie's joyous prediction. Then her pretty face sobered. "Marjorie," she said, then paused. Marjorie glanced up from the flounce she was setting to rights. Something in Constance's tone commanded her attention. "What is it, Connie?" "Have you ever said anything to Mary about you--and me--and things last year?" "Why, no. I wouldn't think of doing so unless I asked you if I might. I----" "Please don't, then," interrupted Constance. "I had rather she didn't know. It is all past, and, as long as so few persons know about it, don't you think it would be better to let it rest?" Marjorie bent her head over her work to conceal the sudden disturbing flush that rose to her face. She had intended telling Constance that very night of the remark that Miss Archer had made in Mary's presence about their freshman year. She had felt dimly that, perhaps, Mary ought to be put in possession of the story, although she had not the remotest suspicion of the jealousy that was already warping her chum's thoughts. Her one idea had been to answer all her questions as freely as she had done in the past. She intended to put the matter to Constance in this light. But now Constance had forestalled her and was asking her to be silent on the very matters she wished to impart to Mary. "It isn't as though it is something which Mary ought to know," continued Constance, quite unaware of Marjorie's inward agitation. "It wouldn't make her happier to learn it and--and--she might not think so well of me. I wish her to like me, Marjorie, just because she is your dearest friend. Don't you think I am right about it? You wouldn't care to have even the friend of your best friend know all the little intimate details of your life. Now, would you?" Constance slipped to her knees beside Marjorie, one arm across her shoulder, and regarded her with pleading eyes. Marjorie stared thoughtfully into the earnest face of the girl at her side. What should she say? If she told Constance that Mary had twice asked questions regarding her affairs, Constance might think Mary unduly curious. Perhaps, after all, silence was wisest. Mary might forget all about it, and, in any case, she was far too sensible to feel hurt or indignant because she, Marjorie, was not free to tell her of the private affairs of another. "Promise me, Marjorie, that you won't say anything," urged Constance. Her natural reticence made her dread taking even Mary into confidence regarding herself. "I promise, Connie," said Marjorie with a half sigh. "There, I guess that flounce will stay in place. I've sewed it over and over." The two girls returned to the dance floor arm in arm. Mary Raymond's blue eyes were turned on them resentfully as they entered the room. They had been having a talk together, and hadn't asked her to join them. Then her face cleared. She thought she knew what that talk was about. Marjorie had been asking Constance's permission to tell her everything. She would hear the great secret on the way home, no doubt. Her spirits rose at the prospect of the comfy chat they would have in the automobile and for the rest of the evening she put aside all doubts and fears, and danced as only sweet and seventeen can. CHAPTER VIII THE LATEST SOPHOMORE ARRIVAL Though the evening of the dance had been deceitfully clear and balmy, dark clouds banked the autumn sky before morning and the day broke in a downpour of rain. It was a doubly dreary morning to poor little Mary Raymond and over and over again Longfellow's plaintive lines, "Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary," repeated themselves in her brain. Yes, rain had indeed fallen into her life. The bitter rain of false friendship. All the days must from now on be dark and dreary. Last night she had danced the hours away, secure in the thought that Marjorie would not fail her. And Marjorie had spoken no word of explanation. During the drive home she had talked gaily of the dance and of the boys and girls who had attended it. She had related bright bits of freshman history concerning them, but on the subject of Constance Stevens and her affairs she had been mute. Mary fancied she had purposely avoided the subject. In this respect she was quite correct. Marjorie, still a little disturbed over her promise to Constance, had tried to direct Mary's mind to other matters. Deeply hurt, rather than jealous, Mary had listened to Marjorie in silence. She managed to make a few comments on the dance, and pleading that she was too sleepy for a night-owl talk, had kissed Marjorie good night rather coldly and hurried to her room. Stopping only to lock the door, she had thrown herself on her bed in her pretty evening frock and given vent to long, tearless sobs that left her wide awake and mourning, far into the night. It was, therefore, not strange that lack of sleep, coupled with her supposed dire wrongs, had caused her to awaken that morning in a mood quite suited to the gloom of the day. A vigorous rattling of the door knob caused her to spring from her bed with a half petulant exclamation. "Let me in, Mary," called Marjorie's fresh young voice from the hall. "Whatever made you lock your door? I guess you were so sleepy you didn't know what you were about." Mary turned the key and opened the door with a jerk. Marjorie pounced upon her like a frolicsome puppy. Wrapping her arms around her chum, she whirled her about and half the length of the room in a wild dance. "Let me alone, please." Mary pulled herself pettishly from Marjorie's clinging arms. "Why, Lieutenant, what's the matter? You aren't sick, are you? If you are, I'm sorry I was so rough. If you're just sleepy, then I'm not. You needed waking up. It's a quarter to eight now and we'll have to hustle. Captain let us sleep until the last minute. Now, which are you, sick or sleepy?" "Both," returned Mary laconically. "I--that is--my head aches." "Poor darling. Was Marjorie a naughty girl to tease her when her was so sick?" Marjorie sought to comfort her chum, but Mary eluded her sympathetic caress and said almost crossly, "Don't baby me. I--I hate being babied and you know it." Marjorie's arms dropped to her sides. "I didn't mean to tease you. I'm sorry. I'll go down and ask Captain to give you something to cure your headache." She turned abruptly and left the room, deeply puzzled and slightly hurt. What on earth ailed Mary? The moment the door closed Mary pattered into the bathroom and banged the door. She hurried through her bath and was partly dressed when Marjorie returned with a little bottle of aspirin tablets. "One of these will fix up your head," she declared cheerily. "I don't want it," muttered Mary. "My head is all right now." "That is what I would call a marvelous recovery," laughed Marjorie. "I wish Captain's headaches would take wing so easily. You know what dreadful sick headaches she sometimes has. She had one on the first day I went to Sanford High, and I had to go alone." "I remember," nodded Mary carelessly. "That was one of the things you _did_ write me." "I wrote you lots of things," retorted Marjorie lightly, failing to catch the significance of Mary's words. "But now you are here, I don't have to write them. I can _say_ them." "Then, why don't you?" was on Mary's tongue, but she did not say it. Instead, she maintained a half sulky silence, as she walked to the wardrobe and began fingering the gowns hung there. Selecting a blue serge dress, made sailor fashion, she slipped into it and began fastening it as she walked to the mirror. Marjorie stood watching her, with a half frown. She did not understand this new mood of Mary's. The Mary she had formerly known had been sunny and light-hearted. The girl who stood before the mirror, grave and unsmiling, was a stranger. "I'm ready to go downstairs." Mary turned slowly from the mirror and walked toward the door. Beneath her quiet exterior, a silent struggle was going on. Should she speak her mind once and for all to Marjorie, or should she go on enduring in silence? Perhaps it would be best to speak and have things out. Then, at least, they would understand each other. Then her pride whispered to her that it was Marjorie's and not her place to speak. Marjorie must know something of her state of mind. At heart she must be just the least bit ashamed of herself for shutting her out of her personal affairs. Had they not sworn long ago to tell each other their secrets. _She_ had always kept her word. It was Marjorie who had failed to do so. No, she would not humble herself. Marjorie might keep her secrets, for all _she_ cared. She was sorry that she had ever come to Sanford. Now that she was here she would have to stay. If she wrote her father to take her away, her mother would have to be told. Mary was resolved that no matter what happened to her, her mother must be spared all anxiety. She would try to bear it. Marjorie should never know how deeply she was wounded. She would pretend that all was as it had been before. Mrs. Dean looked up from her letters, as the two girls entered the dining room. "Hurry, children," she admonished. "You haven't much time to spare. These social affairs completely break up army discipline. Look out you don't go to sleep at your post this morning." "Who's sleepy? Not I," boasted Marjorie. "I feel as though I'd slept for hours and hours. Your army is ready for duty, Captain. Lieutenant Mary's headache has been put to rout and everything is lovely." "Are you sure you feel quite well, dear?" questioned Mrs. Dean anxiously. She noted that Mary was very pale and that her eyes looked strained and tired. "I'm quite well now, thank you." The ghost of a smile flickered on her pale face. "Did you enjoy the dance? It was nice in Connie to give it in your honor. We are all very fond of her and of little Charlie." Mary's wan face brightened at the mention of the child's name. "Isn't he dear?" she asked impulsively. "Mary has stolen Charlie from me," put in Marjorie. "He adores her already. I don't blame him. So do I, and so does Connie, too. We three are going to have splendid times together this winter." During the rest of the breakfast Marjorie regaled her mother with an account of the dance. Mary said little or nothing, but amid her friend's merry chatter her silence passed unnoticed. "Wear your raincoats," called Mrs. Dean after them, as, their breakfast finished, they ran upstairs for their wraps. Fifteen minutes later they had joined the bobbing umbrella procession that wended its way into the high school building. "You'll have to go to Miss Merton, Mary, and be assigned to a seat. She didn't give you one yesterday, did she?" asked Marjorie. "You can put your wraps in our locker. We are to have the same lockers we had last year. Connie and I have a locker together. There is lots of room in it for your things, too. I'll task Marcia Arnold to let you in with us. She has charge of the lockers." Mary's first impulse was to decline this friendly offer. On second thought she closed her lips tightly, resolved to make no protest. Later--well, there was no telling what might happen. "Don't be afraid of Miss Merton," was Marjorie's whispered counsel, as they crossed the threshold of the study hall. "She can't eat you." "I'm not afraid." Mary's lip curled a trifle scornfully. Marjorie treated her as though she were a baby. "I have come to you for my seat," was her terse statement, as she paused squarely before Miss Merton's desk. Miss Merton glanced up to meet the unflinching gaze of two purposely cold blue eyes. Something in their direct gaze made her answer with undue civility, "Very well. I will assign you to one. Come with me." She stalked down the aisle, Mary following, to the last seat in one of the two sophomore rows, and paused before it. "This will be your seat for the year," she said. "Thank you." Mary sat down and took account of her surroundings. Across the aisle on one side, Susan Atwell's dimpled face flashed her a welcome. On the other side sat a tall, severe junior who wore eye-glasses. The seat in front of her was vacant. Marjorie sat far down the same row. Mary could just see the top of her curly head. It still lacked five minutes of opening time and the students were, for the most part, conversing in low tones. Now and then an accidentally loud note caused Miss Merton to raise her head from her writing and glare severely at the offender. Susan Atwell leaned across the aisle and patted Mary's hand in friendly fashion. "I'm so glad you are going to sit here," she said in an undertone. "I was afraid Miss Merton would put some old slow-poke there who wouldn't say 'boo' or pass notes or do anything to help the sophomore cause along." "I'm glad she put me near you," returned Mary affably. She had made up her mind to win friends. They would be indispensable to her now that all was over between her and Marjorie. "I don't imagine that tall girl is very sociable." "She's a dig and a prig," giggled Susan. "You'd get no recreation from labor from that quarter." Mary echoed Susan's infectious giggle. "Who sits in front of me?" she asked. "No one, yet. Who knows what manner of girl is in store for us? That's the only vacant seat in the section. The first late arrival into our midst will get it. I don't believe we'll have any more girls, though, unless someone comes into school late as Marjorie came last year. It's too bad. It makes an awkward stretch if one wants to pass a note. I always am caught if I throw one. Last year I threw one and hit Miss Merton in the back. She was standing quite a little way down the aisle. I thought it was a splendid opportunity. I'd been waiting to send one to Irma Linton, who sat two seats in front of me. The girl between us wouldn't pass it. So I threw it, and it went further than I thought." Susan's fascinating giggle burst forth anew. She rocked to and fro in merriment at the recollection. Mary found herself laughing in concert. Just then the opening bell clanged forth its harsh note of warning. The low buzz of voices in the great study hall died into silence. Every pair of eyes faced front. Miss Merton rose from her chair to conduct the opening exercises. A sudden murmur that swept the hall caused her to say sternly, "Silence." Then, noting that the eyes of her pupils were fixed in concerted gaze on the study-hall door, she turned sharply. A black-haired, black-eyed girl, whose elfish face wore an expression of mingled contempt and amusement, advanced into the room with a decided air of one who wishes to create an impression. "Mignon!" gasped Susan. "Well, _what_ do you think of that?" CHAPTER IX THE BLINDNESS OF JEALOUSY At sight of the newcomer Miss Merton's severe face underwent a lightning change. She stepped from the platform and hurried toward the dark-eyed girl with outstretched hand. Her harsh voice sounded almost pleasant, as she said, "Why, Mignon, I am delighted to see you!" Mignon La Salle tossed her head with an air of triumph as she took Miss Merton's hand. In her, at least, she had a powerful ally. Lowering her voice, the teacher asked her several questions. Mignon answered them in equally guarded tones, accompanied by the frequent significant gestures which are involuntary in those of foreign birth. A subdued buzzing arose from different parts of the study hall. Apparently engrossed in her conversation with the girl who had been her favorite pupil during her freshman year, Miss Merton paid no attention to the sounds provoked by Mignon La Salle's unexpected arrival. As a matter of fact, she was quite aware of them, but chose to ignore them solely on Mignon's account. To rebuke the whisperers would tend toward embarrassing the French girl. "There is just one vacant place in the sophomore section," she informed Mignon. "I think I must have reserved it specially for you." She contorted her face into what she believed to be an affable smile. Mignon answered it in kind, with an inimitable lifting of the eyebrows and a significant shrug. "Look at her," muttered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear. "Miss Merton is taffying her up in great style. She always puts on her cat-that-ate-the-canary expression when she's pleased. And to think that we've got to stand for _her_ again this year!" Jerry gave a positive snort of disgust. "Shh! They'll hear you, Jerry," warned Marjorie. "Don't care if they do. Wish they would," grumbled the disgruntled Jerry. "I'll bet you ten to one she was sent home from boarding school." There was a general turning of heads and craning of necks as Miss Merton conducted Mignon down the aisle to the vacant seat in front of Mary Raymond. There was a brief exchange of low-toned words between the two, then Mignon seated herself, while Miss Merton marched stolidly back to her desk and without further delay began the interrupted morning exercises. Mary Raymond viewed the black, curly head and silken-clad shoulders of the newcomer with some curiosity. The subdued ripple of astonishment that had passed over the roomful of girls told her that here was no ordinary pupil. Mignon's expensive frock of dark green Georgette crepe, elaborately trimmed, also pointed to affluence. Mary reasoned that she must be known to the others. A stranger would not have created such a buzz of comment. Then, she remembered Susan's amazed exclamation. She turned to the latter and made a gesture of inquiry, Susan shook her head. Her lips formed a silent, "After school," and Mary nodded understandingly. "Young ladies, you will arrange your programme of recitations this morning as speedily as possible," was Miss Merton's command the moment opening exercises were over. "You will be given until ten o'clock to do so. Then there will be twenty-minute classes for the rest of the morning. Classes will occupy the usual period of time during the afternoon. Try to arrange your studies so that you will not have to waste valuable time in making changes. Please avoid asking unnecessary questions. The bulletin board will tell you everything, if you take pains to examine it carefully. Let there be no loud talking or personal conversation." Miss Merton sat down with the air of one who has done her duty, and glared severely at the rows of attentive young faces. She was not in sympathy with these girls. Their youth was a distinct affront to her narrow soul. The business of arranging the term's studies began in quiet, orderly fashion. The majority of the pupils had long since decided upon their courses of study. Their main duty now lay in making satisfactory arrangements of their classes and the hours on which their various recitations fell. Marjorie Dean studied the bulletin board with a serious face. She had successfully carried five studies during her freshman year. She decided that she would do so again, provided the fifth subject held interest enough to warrant the extra effort it meant. Plane geometry, of course, she would have to take. Then there was second year French. She and Constance intended to go on with the language of which they were so fond. Her General had insisted that she must begin Latin. She should have begun it in her freshman year. That made three. Then there was chemistry. Should she choose a fifth subject? Yes, there was English Literature. It would not be hard work. She was sure she would love it. Besides, she wished to be in Miss Flint's class. Once she had decided upon her subjects, she studied the board anew for a proper arrangement of her recitation hours. For a wonder they fitted into one another beautifully, leaving her that last coveted period in the afternoon, free for study. She sat back at last with a faint breath of satisfaction. She wondered how Mary was getting on and what she intended to study. They had agreed beforehand on Chemistry. Only the day before Mr. Dean had half-promised to fit out a tiny laboratory for them in a small room at the rear of the house. Mary, however, was frowning darkly at the board. She wondered in which section Marjorie intended to recite geometry. She had been so busy with her own woes that gloomy morning that she had quite forgotten to plan with Marjorie. Oh, well, she reflected, what difference did it make? Marjorie wouldn't care whether they recited together or not. Very likely she had already made plans with that odious Constance Stevens that would leave her out. Marjorie had already said that she and Constance intended to go on with French together. Then there were Cæsar's Commentaries. She had finished first-year Latin. She would have to take them next. Suddenly a naughty idea came into her perverse little brain. Why not purposely leave Marjorie out of her calculations? Marjorie had wished her to take chemistry. Very well. She would disappoint her by choosing something else. Then if Mr. Dean fitted out a laboratory, his daughter would have the pleasure of working in it all by herself. She would show a certain person what it meant to cast aside a lifelong friendship. Oh, yes, Marjorie was anxious for her to take English literature. She would take rhetoric instead. She would go still further. If when classes assembled she found herself in the same geometry section with her chum she would make an excuse and change to another period of recitation. The frown deepened on her smooth forehead as she jotted down her subjects on the sheet of paper before her. Suddenly conscious of the intent regard of someone, she raised her head. A pair of elfish black eyes were fixed upon her in curious intent. "Who are you?" asked Mignon La Salle with cool impudence. "You look like that priggish Miss Stevens. I hope for your sake you are not a relative of hers." "Most certainly I am not," retorted Mary, flushing angrily. It was too provoking. Why must she be constantly reminded of her resemblance to one she disliked so intensely? In her annoyance at the nature of the French girl's remarks, she quite overlooked the impertinence of her address. A gleam of satisfaction flashed across Mignon's face. "Then there is hope," she returned, holding up her forefinger in an impish imitation of a world-wide advertisement. "Say it again. I can't believe the evidence of my own ears." "I am not a relative of Miss Stevens," repeated Mary a trifle stiffly. The French girl's mocking tones were distinctly unpleasant. "Why do you ask?" "Because I wish to know," shrugged Mignon Then she added tactfully, "Please don't think me rude. I am always too frank in expressing my opinions. If I dislike anyone I can't smile deceitfully and pretend them to be my dearest friend." Mary's sullen face cleared. Here at last was a girl who seemed to be sincere. She unbent slightly and smiled. Mignon returned the smile in her most amiable fashion. "Pardon me for a moment." Mignon turned in her seat and began fumbling in a little leather bag that lay on her desk. Mary felt a quick, light touch on her arm. Susan Atwell began making violent signs at her behind Mignon's back. She desisted as suddenly as she began. The French girl had turned again toward Mary with the quick, cat-like manner that so characterized all her movements. "Here is my card," she offered, placing a bit of engraved pasteboard on Mary's desk. The latter picked it up and read, "Mignon Adrienne La Salle." "What a pretty name!" was her soft exclamation. "I'm glad you like it," beamed Mignon. "But you haven't told me yours." "I haven't any cards with me," apologized Mary. "My name is Mary Raymond." "Have you lived long in Sanford?" inquired Mignon suavely. She had already decided that a girl who was in sympathy with her on one point might prove to be worth cultivating. "Only a short time. My mother is in Colorado for her health and I am living in Marjorie Dean's home until Mother returns next summer." Mary's innocent words had an electrical effect on the French girl. Her heavy brows drew together in a scowl and her dark face set in hard lines. "Then that settles it," she said coldly. "You and I can _never_ be friends." She switched about in her seat with an angry jerk. Mary leaned forward and touched her on the shoulder. "I don't understand," she murmured. "Please tell me what you mean." The French girl swung halfway about. She regarded Mary with narrowed eyes. Was it possible that Marjorie Dean had never mentioned her to her friend? "Hasn't Miss Dean ever spoken to you of me?" she asked abruptly. Mary shook her head. "No, I am sure I never before heard of you. I don't know many Sanford girls yet. I have met Miss Atwell and Miss Macy and a few others who were at Miss Stevens' dance last night." "So, Miss Stevens is doing social stunts," sneered Mignon. "Quite a change from last year, I should say. I used to be friends with Susan Atwell and Jerry Macy, but this Stevens girl made mischief between us and broke up our old crowd entirely. Your friend, Miss Dean, took sides with them, too, and helped the thing along. She made a perfect idiot of herself over Constance Stevens. Oh, well, never mind. I'm not going to say another word about it. I'm sorry we can't be friends. I'm sure we'd get along famously together. It is impossible, though. Miss Dean wouldn't let you." Mary suddenly sat very erect. She had listened in amazement to Mignon's recital. Could she believe her ears? Had her hitherto-beloved Marjorie been guilty of trouble-making? And all for the sake of Constance Stevens. Marjorie must indeed care a great deal for her. She had not been mistaken, then, in her belief that she had been supplanted in her chum's heart. And now Mignon was suggesting that Marjorie would not allow her to be friends with the girl whom she had wronged. Mary did not stop to consider that there are always two sides to a story. Swayed by her resentment against Constance, she preferred to believe anything which she might hear against her. "Please understand, once and for all, that Marjorie has nothing to say about whoever I choose to have for a friend," she said with decision. "I hope I am free to do as I please. I shall be very glad to know you better, Miss La Salle, and I am sorry that you have been so badly treated." The ringing of the first recitation-bell broke in upon the conversation. "Oh, gracious, I haven't looked at the bulletin board. Excuse me, Miss Raymond. I'll see you later and we'll have a nice long talk. I'm sure I shall be pleased to have _you_ for a friend." "Are you going to recite geometry in this first section?" asked Mary eagerly. The students were already filing out of the great room. "Let me see." Mignon consulted the bulletin board. "Why, yes, I might as well." "Oh, splendid!" glowed Mary. "Then you can show me the way to the geometry classroom." "Delighted, I'm sure," returned Mignon. Her black eyes sparkled with triumph. At last she had found a way to even her score with Marjorie Dean. With almost uncanny shrewdness she had divined what Marjorie herself had not discovered. This blue-eyed baby of a girl, for Mignon mentally characterized her as such, was jealous of Marjorie's friendship with the Stevens girl. Very well. She would take a hand and help matters along. Of course there was a strong chance that it might all come to nothing. Marjorie might take Mary in charge the moment school was over and tell her a few things. Yet that was hardly possible. Much as she hated the brown-eyed girl who had worsted her at every point, in her own cowardly heart lurked a respect for Marjorie's high standard of honor. So far Mary knew nothing against her. Perhaps she would never know. Perhaps if Marjorie and Jerry and Irma tried to prejudice Mary against her, the girl would rebel and send them about their business. She had looked stupidly obstinate when she said, "I hope I am free to do as I please." Mignon smiled maliciously as she walked down the long aisle ahead of Mary. Marjorie had risen from her seat at the sound of the first bell. Now she gazed anxiously up the aisle toward Mary's seat. She looked relieved as she saw her chum approaching. She bowed coldly to Mignon as she passed. "Oh, Mary," she said, "I was looking for you. If you are going to recite geometry now, then please don't go. Wait and recite in my section. You know, we said we'd recite it together." Mary's blue eyes glowed resentfully. "I've made up my programme," she answered with cool defiance. "I can't change it now. Miss La Salle is going to show me the way to the geometry classroom. I'll see you later." Without waiting for a reply she marched on, leaving Marjorie to stare after her with troubled eyes. CHAPTER X THE VALLEY OF MISUNDERSTANDING For a brief instant Marjorie continued to stare after the retreating form of her chum, oblivious to the steady stream of girls passing by her. Then, seized with a sudden idea, she slipped into her seat and hastily consulted the bulletin board. The ringing of the third bell found her hurrying from the aisle toward the door. That brief survey of the schedule had resulted in an entire change of her programme. She had decided to recite geometry in the morning section. It meant giving up the cherished last hour in the afternoon which she had reserved for study. She would have to recite Latin at that time. Well, that did not matter so much. Reciting geometry in the same section with Mary was what counted. She had experienced a curious feeling of alarm as she had watched Mary and Mignon La Salle disappear through the big doorway side by side. Mignon was the last person she had supposed Mary would meet. To be sure, there was nothing particularly alarming in their meeting. As yet they were comparative strangers to each other. She had noted that Miss Merton had assigned the French girl to the seat in front of Mary. It was, therefore, quite probable that Mary had inquired the way to the geometry classroom and Mignon had volunteered to conduct her to it. Marjorie's sober face lightened a little as she hastened down the corridor to the geometry room. Miss Nelson, the instructor in mathematics, was on the point of closing the door as she hurriedly approached. She smiled as she saw the pretty sophomore, and continued to hold the door open until Marjorie had crossed the threshold. The latter gave an eager glance about the room. The classrooms were provided with rows of single desks similar to those in the study hall. Mary was occupying one of them well toward the front of the room. Directly ahead of her sat the French girl. On one of the back seats was Jerry Macy, glaring in her most savage manner, her angry eyes fixed on the black, curly head of the girl she despised. There was no vacant seat near Mary. Marjorie noted all these facts in that one comprehensive glance. It also seemed to her that the French girl's face wore an expression of mocking triumph. And was it her imagination, or had Mary glanced up as she entered and then turned away her eyes? What did it all mean? Marjorie took the nearest vacant seat at hand, the prey of many emotions. Then, as Miss Nelson stepped forward to address the class, she resolutely put away all personal matters and, with the fine attention to the business of study which had endeared her to her various teachers during her freshman year, she strove to center her troubled mind on what Miss Nelson was saying. After a short preliminary talk on the importance of the study the class was about to begin, Miss Nelson proceeded to the business of registering her pupils and giving out the text books. Miss Nelson laid particular stress on the thorough learning of all definitions pertaining to the study in hand. "You must know these definitions so well that you could say them backward if I requested it," she emphasized. "They will be of greatest importance in your work to come." Then she heartlessly gave out several pages of them for the advance lesson. The rest of the period she spent in going over and explaining these same definitions in her usual thorough manner, ending with the stern injunction that she expected a letter-perfect recitation on the following morning. "Miss Nelson doesn't want much," grumbled Jerry Macy in Irma Linton's ear, as they filed out of class at the ringing of the bell which ended the period. Then, before Irma had time to reply, she continued: "_What_ do you think of Mignon? Isn't it a shame she's back again? And did you see her march in here with Mary Raymond? It's a pretty sure thing that neither of them knows who is who in Sanford. I suppose Mary, poor innocent, asked her the way to the classroom. Where was Marjorie all that time, I wonder? I'll bet you a box of Huyler's that they won't walk into geometry again to-morrow morning. Hurry up, there's Marjorie just ahead of us with Mary now. The fair Mignon has vanished. I can see her away ahead of them. I guess Marjorie didn't know who piloted Mary into class. She came in last, you know." Irma laid a detaining hand on Jerry's arm. "Oh, wait until after school, Jerry," she counseled. This quiet, unobtrusive girl was a keen observer. She had noted Marjorie's half-troubled expression as she entered the room. The suspicion that Marjorie knew and was not pleased had already come to her. "All right, I will. Wish school was out now. Those geometry definitions make me tired. I'm worn out already and school hasn't fairly begun yet. I hate mathematics. Wouldn't look at a geometry if I could graduate without it." But while Jerry was anathematizing mathematics, Marjorie was saying earnestly to Mary, whom she had joined at the door, "I am so sorry I didn't come back to your seat in the study hall before the first bell rang. I really ought to have asked permission to do so, but I was afraid Miss Merton would say 'no.' She never loses a chance to be horrid to me. When you said you were going to recite in this section I hurried and changed my programme to make things come right for us." Marjorie's earnest little speech, so full of apparent good will, brought a quick flush of contrition to Mary's cheeks. She experienced a swift spasm of regret for her bitter suspicion of Marjorie. Her tense face softened. Why not unburden herself to her chum now and find relief from her torture of doubt? "Marjorie," she began, laying her hand lightly on her friend's arm, "I wish you would tell me something. Miss La Salle said that Constance Stevens----" "Mary!" Marjorie's sunny face had suddenly grown very stern. "I am sorry to have to speak harshly of any girl in Sanford High, but as your chum I feel it my duty to ask you to have nothing to do with Mignon La Salle, or pay the slightest attention to her. She made us all very unhappy last year, particularly Constance and myself. I can't help saying it, but I am sorry that she has come back to Sanford. I understood that she was at boarding school. I am sure I wish she had stayed there." Marjorie spoke with a bitterness quite foreign to her generous nature. Mary's lips tightened obstinately as she listened. Her brief impulse toward a frank understanding died with Marjorie's emphatic utterance. She was inwardly furious at her chum's sharp interruption. "I am very well aware that you would stand up for Miss Stevens, whether she were in the right or in the wrong," she said with cold sarcasm. "I've been seeing that ever since I came to Sanford. But just because she is perfect in _your_ eyes is not reason why _I_ should think so. For my part, I like Miss La Salle. She was awfully sweet to me this morning, and I don't think it is nice in you to talk about her behind her back." In the intensity of the moment both girls had stopped short in the corridor, oblivious of the passing students. Mary's flashing blue eyes fixed Marjorie's amazed brown ones in an angry gaze. "Why, Ma-a-ry!" stammered Marjorie. "What _is_ the matter? I don't understand you." Her bewilderment served only to increase the rancor that had been smouldering in Mary's heart. Now it burst forth in a fury of words. "Don't pretend, Marjorie Dean. You know perfectly well what I mean. It isn't necessary for me to tell you, either. When I came to Sanford to live with you I thought I'd be the happiest girl in the world because I was going to live at your house and go to school with you. If I had known as much when Father and I came to see you as I know now--well, I wouldn't--ever--have come back again!" Her anger-choked tones faltered. She turned away her head. Then pulling herself sharply together, she turned and hurried down the corridor. For a second Marjorie stood rooted to the spot. Could she believe her ears? Was it really Mary, her soldier chum, with whom she had stood shoulder to shoulder for so many years, who had thus arraigned her? Her instant of inaction past, she darted down the corridor after Mary. But the latter passed into the study hall before she could overtake her. She could do nothing now to straighten the tangle in which they had so suddenly become involved until the morning session of school was over. She glanced anxiously toward Mary's seat the moment she stepped across the threshold of the study hall, only to see her friend in earnest conversation with Mignon La Salle. An angry little furrow settled on her usually placid brow. Mignon had lost no time in living up to her reputation. Mary must be rescued from her baleful influence at once. When they reached home that day she would tell her chum the whole story of last year. Once Mary learned Mignon's true character she would see matters in a different light. But what had the French girl said about Constance? If only she had held her peace and not interrupted Mary. Even as a little girl Marjorie remembered how hard it had been, once Mary was angry, to discover the cause. In spite of her usual good-nature she was unyieldingly stubborn. When, at rare intervals, she became displeased or hurt over a fancied grievance, she would nurse her anger for days in sulky silence. "I'll tell her all about last year the minute we get into the house this noon," resolved Marjorie. "When she knows how badly Mignon behaved toward Connie----" The little girl drew a sharp breath of dismay. Into her mind flashed her recent promise to Constance Stevens. She could tell Mary nothing until she had permission to do so. That meant that for the day, at least, she must remain mute, for Constance was not in school that morning, nor would she be in during the day. She had received special permission from Miss Archer to be excused from lessons while her foster father was at Gray Gables. It was a very sober little girl who wended her way to the French class, her next recitation. Out of an apparently clear sky the miserable set of circumstances frowned upon her dawning sophomore year. But it must come right. She would go to Gray Gables that very afternoon and ask Constance to release her from her promise. Connie would surely be willing to do so, when she knew all. Comforted by this thought, Marjorie brightened again. "_Bon jour_, Mademoiselle Dean," greeted the cheerful voice of Professor Fontaine as she entered his classroom. "It is with a great plaisure that I see you again. Let us 'ope that you haf not forgottaine your French, I trost you haf sometimes remembered _la belle langue_ during your vacation." The little man beamed delightedly upon Marjorie. "I am afraid I have forgotten a great deal of it, Professor Fontaine." Marjorie spoke with the pretty deference that she always accorded this long-suffering professor, whose strongly accented English and foreign eccentricities made him the subject of many ill-timed jests on the part of his thoughtless pupils. "I'm going to study hard, though, and it will soon come back to me." "Ah! These are the words it makes happiness to hear," he returned amiably. "Some day, when you haf learned to spik the French as the English, you will be glad that you haf persevered." "I'm sure I shall," smiled Marjorie. Then, as several entering pupils claimed the little man's attention, she passed on and took a vacant seat at the back of the room. Professor Fontaine had begun to address the class when the door opened and Mignon La Salle sauntered in. She threw a quick, derisive glance at his back, which caused several girls to giggle, then strolled calmly to a seat. A shade of annoyance clouded the instructor's genial face. He eyed his countrywoman severely for an instant, then went on with his speech. Marjorie received little benefit that morning from the professor's gallant efforts to impress the importance of the study of his language on the minds of his class. Her thoughts were with Mary and what she had best say to conciliate her. She had as yet no inkling of the truth. She did not dream that jealousy of Constance had prompted Mary's outburst. She believed that the whole trouble lay in whatever Mignon had told Mary. She was more hurt than surprised when at the last period in the morning she failed to find Mary in the chemistry room. Of course she might have expected it. Nothing would be right until she had chased away the black clouds of misunderstanding that hung over them. Still, it grieved her to think that Mary had not trusted her enough to weigh her loyalty against the gossip of a stranger. The hands of the study hall clock, pointing the hour of twelve, brought relief to the worried sophomore. The instant the closing bell rang she made for the locker room. It would be better to wait for Mary there, rather than in the corridor. If Mary's mood had not changed, she preferred not to run the risk of a possible rebuff in so prominent a place. There were too many curious eyes ready to note their slightest act. It would be dreadful if some lynx-eyed girl were to mark them and circulate a report that they were quarreling. Arrived at the locker-room, she opened her locker and took out her wraps. A faint gasp of astonishment broke from her. Only one rain-coat, one hat and one pair of rubbers were there, where at the beginning of the morning there had been two. Mary Raymond's belongings were gone. CHAPTER XI CHOOSING HER OWN WAY Marjorie stood staring at her locker as one in a dream. "Hurry up, Marjorie!" Jerry Macy's loud, matter-of-fact tones broke the spell. Behind her were Irma Linton and Susan Atwell. The faces of the three were alive with suppressed excitement. Jerry caught sight of the tell-tale locker and emitted an indignant snort. "Mary took her advice, Susie! If I were the President of the United States I'd have that Mignon La Salle deported to the South Sea Islands, or Kamchatka, or some place where she couldn't get back in a hurry. It would be a good deal farther than boarding school, I can just tell you," she ended with an angry sputter. Marjorie faced the battery of indignant young faces. "What is the trouble, girls?" She tried to keep her voice steady, though she was at the point of tears. "What's the matter with your friend, Mary Raymond, Marjorie?" continued Jerry in a slightly lower key. "Has she gone suddenly crazy or--or----" Jerry hesitated. She could not voice the other question which rose to her lips. "Girls," Marjorie viewed her friends with brave, direct eyes, "you know something that I don't about Mary. What is it?" "It's about Mignon," blurted Jerry. "Susie says that the minute she landed in her seat she began talking to Mary." "I made signs to Mary to pay no attention to her," broke in Susan Atwell, "but she didn't understand what I meant and I couldn't explain, with Mignon sitting right there. The next thing I saw, they were walking down the aisle together as though they'd known each other all their lives." "Yes, and they came into geometry together, too," supplemented Jerry. "But that's not the worst. Tell Marjorie what you overheard, Susie." "Well," began Susan, looking important, "when I came back to the study hall just before the last class was called, they were both there ahead of me. Just as I was going to sit down at my desk I heard Mignon tell Mary she'd love to have her share her locker. Mary was looking awfully sober and pretty cross, too, as though she were mad about something. I heard her say, 'How can I get my wraps?' and Mignon said, 'Go to Marcia Arnold and see if you can borrow Miss Stevens' key for a minute. If she hasn't come back to school yet, very likely Marcia has it. Tell her you want to take something from it and don't care to bother Miss Dean. You can easily do it, because you haven't a recitation at this hour. I'd get it for you, but I haven't any good reason for asking her for it.' I couldn't hear what Mary said, but she left her seat and I saw her stop at Miss Merton's desk. Miss Merton nodded her head and Mary went on out of the study hall. Mignon saw me looking after her and smiled that hateful smile of hers. I was so cross I made a face at her. Then the third bell rang and I had to go to class. I wasn't sure whether Mary did as Mignon told her to do until we saw you staring into your locker and Jerry called my attention to it." Marjorie listened gravely to Susan's recital. She stood surveying the three girls in silence. "What has happened, Marjorie?" questioned Jerry impatiently. "Or isn't it any of our business? If it isn't, then forget that I asked you." "Girls," Marjorie's clear voice trembled a little, "I think I'd better tell you about it. At first I thought I couldn't bear to tell anyone, but as long as you all know something of what happened to Connie and I last year, you might as well know this, too. Miss Archer made a remark to me about our misunderstanding yesterday when Mary was with me. Mary asked me afterward what she meant. I wanted to tell her, but I didn't feel as though I had the right to, until I asked Connie if I could. I was going to ask her last night, but before I had a chance she asked me not to tell Mary about it. She was afraid Mary might not understand and--and blame her. Of course, I knew that Mary wouldn't mind in the least, but Connie seemed so worried that I promised I wouldn't." Jerry Macy's frown deepened. Susan Atwell made a faint gesture of consternation, while Irma Linton looked distressed and sympathetic. "I thought perhaps Mary would forget about Constance," went on Marjorie. "I never dreamed that Mignon was coming back, let alone she and Mary becoming friendly. I saw them go down the aisle to geometry class together and followed them. You see, Mary and I had planned to recite in the same section. I asked her to wait and recite later, but she wouldn't. Then I changed my hour so as to be in her class. After class I caught up with her. She began to tell me something about what Mignon had said of Connie. It made me so cross that I interrupted her, almost before she had started. I told her she must have nothing to say to Mignon and--she--I guess I hurt her feelings, for she walked off and--left--me." Marjorie ended with a half sob. She turned her face to the locker and leaned against it. The tears that she had bravely forced back now came thick and fast. "What a shame!" burst forth Jerry. "Don't cry, dear. We'll straighten things out for you. I'll go to Mary my own self and give her Mignon's history in a few well chosen words." She patted the shoulder of the weeping girl. "You might know that Mignon would bring trouble, hateful girl," was Susan's indignant cry. "Never mind, we'll fix her." "I'll do all I can to help you, Marjorie," soothed Irma, who was known throughout the school as a peace-maker. With a long, quivering sigh Marjorie turned slowly and faced her friends. "You are very sweet to me, every one of you," she said gratefully, "but, girls, you mustn't say a word. I promised Connie, and I'll keep my word until she releases me from that promise. I'm going over to see her to-night to ask her to do that very thing. She'll say 'yes,' I know. Then I can tell Mary and it will be all right. I'm sorry I made such a baby of myself, but Mary and I have been chums for years--and----" Her voice broke again. Jerry wound her plump arms about the girl she adored. "You poor kid," she comforted slangily. "If you must cry, cry on my shoulder. It's nice and fat and not half so hard as that old locker." "You are a ridiculous Jerry," Marjorie laughed through her tears. "There, I feel better now. I'm not going to cry another tear. Are my eyes very red? I don't care to have the public gape at my grief. Come on, children. It must be long after twelve. I suppose Mary is home by this time. Naturally she wouldn't wait for me," she added wistfully. As a matter of fact, Mary had waited. Once she had removed her wraps to Mignon's locker she had been seized with a sharp attack of conscience. She felt a trifle ashamed of herself and decided that she would ask her chum to forgive her and allow her to put her wraps in Marjorie's locker again. At the close of the session she made a hasty excuse to Mignon, seized her belongings and hurrying out of the building, took up her stand across the street. When at twenty minutes past twelve Marjorie did not appear, her good resolutions took wing, and sulkily setting her face toward home, Mary left the school and the chance for reconciliation behind, and angrily went her way alone, thus widening the gap that already yawned between herself and Marjorie. It was twenty minutes to one when the latter ran up the steps of her home in an almost cheerful frame of mind. The hall door yielded to her touch and she rushed into the hall, her clear call of "Mary!" re-echoing through the quiet house. "I'll be down in a minute," answered a cold voice from the head of the stairs. "I'll be up in a second," laughed Marjorie, making a dive for the stairs. The next instant she had caught the immovable little figure at the landing in an impulsive embrace. "Poor old Lieutenant, I'm so sorry," was her contrite cry. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. Listen, dear. I'm going over to see Connie this afternoon after school and ask her to let me tell you everything you wished to know about last year. Then you will understand why----" Mary freed herself from the clinging arms with a jerk. "If you say a word to Constance Stevens, I'll never forgive you!" she cried passionately. "I won't be made ridiculous. Do you understand me? You could tell me without asking her, if you cared to. I'd never say a word and she'd never know the difference." "But, Mary, I promised her----" Marjorie stopped in confusion. She had not meant to mention her promise to Constance. She had spoken before she thought. "So _that's_ the reason, is it?" choked Mary, her cheeks flaming with the humiliating knowledge. "Thank you, I don't care to hear your old secrets. You may keep them, for all I care!" She whirled and started toward her room. Marjorie caught her arm. "I haven't any secrets that I wish to keep from you, Mary," she said with quiet dignity. "Last night at the dance Constance asked me to promise I wouldn't say anything to you about the trouble she had with Mignon La Salle during our freshman year. We were upstairs in her room. I was mending my flounce. It got torn when we were dancing. I had intended asking her permission then to tell you, and when she spoke of it first I hardly knew what to do. I didn't like to let her think that you were curious and----" "How dare you call me curious!" Mary stamped her foot in a sudden fury of temper. "I'm not. I wouldn't listen to your miserable secret if you begged me to. Now I truly believe what Miss La Salle told me. You and your friend Constance ought to be ashamed of the way you treated that poor girl last year. I'm sorry I ever came to your house to live. I'd write to Father to come and take me away, but Mother would have to know. She sha'n't be worried, no matter what I have to stand. You needn't be afraid, I'll not make a fuss, either, so that General and Captain will know. I'll try to pretend before them that we're just the same chums as ever, and you'd better pretend it, too. But we won't be. From to-day on I'll go _my_ way and choose _my_ friends and you can do the same." "Mary Raymond, listen to me." Marjorie's hands found the shoulders of her angry chum. The brown eyes held the blue ones in a long, steadfast gaze. "Mignon La Salle is only trying to make trouble. If you knew her as well as I know her, you wouldn't pay any attention to her. We've been best friends and comrades since we were little tots, Mary, and I think you ought to trust me. No one can ever be so dear to me as you are." "Except Constance Stevens," put in Mary sarcastically, twisting from Marjorie's hold. "Why, that very first day when you came to the train to meet me I could see you liked her best. You can imagine how I felt when even your friends spoke of it. If you really cared about me, you would have written to me of every single thing that happened last year. You promised you would. You are very anxious to keep a promise to Constance, but you didn't care whether you kept one to me. As for what you say of Miss La Salle, I don't believe you. I'd far rather trust her than your dear Miss Stevens!" "What has happened to my brigade?" called Mrs. Dean from the foot of the stairs. "It is five minutes to one, girls. Come to luncheon at once." "We are coming, Captain," answered Marjorie in as steady a tone as she could command. Then she said sorrowfully to her companion, "Mary, I feel just the same toward you as always, only I am terribly hurt. I wish your way to be my way and your friends mine. If you are sure that you would like Mignon for a friend, then I am going to try to like her for your sake. But we mustn't quarrel or--not--not speak--or--let General and Captain know--that----" Marjorie's words died in a half-sob. "It doesn't make any difference to me whether you like Miss La Salle or not," retorted Mary, ignoring Marjorie's distress, "but if you say a single word to either General or Captain about us, I'll never speak to you again." With this threat the incensed lieutenant ran heartlessly down the stairs, leaving her sadly wounded comrade to follow when she would. Luncheon was a dismal failure as far as Marjorie was concerned. She tried to talk and laugh in her usual cheery manner, but she was unused to dissembling, and it hurt her to play a part before her Captain, of all persons. Mary, however, found a certain wicked satisfaction in the situation she had brought about. Now that she had spoken her mind she would go on in the way she had chosen. Marjorie would be very sorry. There would come a time when she would be only too glad to plead for the friendship she had cast aside. But it would be too late. The moment the two girls left the house for the afternoon session of school, a blank silence fell upon them. It was broken only by a cool "Good-bye" from Mary as they separated in the locker room. But during that silent walk Marjorie had been thinking busily. Hers was a nature that no amount of disagreeable shocks could dismay for long. No sooner did a pet ideal totter than she steadied it with patient, tender hands. True always to the highest, she was laying a foundation that would weather the stress of years. Now she dwelt not so much upon her own hurts, but rather on how she should bind up the wounds of her comrades. What had been obscure was now plain. Mary was jealous of her friendship with Constance. She had completely misunderstood. If only she, Marjorie, had known in the beginning! And then there was Mignon. If she had stayed away from Sanford, all might have been well in time. Mary was determined to be friends with her. Marjorie knew her friend too well not to believe that Mary would now cultivate the French girl from sheer obstinacy. There was just one thing to do. She had said to Mary that she would try to like Mignon for her sake. She stood ready to keep her promise. Perhaps, far under her mischief-making exterior, Mignon's better self lay dormant, waiting for some chance, kindly word or act to awaken it into life. What was it her General had said about the worst person having some good in his nature that sooner or later was sure to manifest itself? How glorious it would be to help Mignon find that better self! But she could not accomplish much alone. She needed the support of the girls of her own particular little circle. She was fairly sure they would help her. But how had they better begin? Suddenly Marjorie's sober face broke into a radiant smile. She gave a chuckle born of sheer good-will. "I know the very way," she murmured, half aloud. "If only the girls will see it, too. But they _must_! It's a splendid plan, and if it doesn't work it won't be from lack of trying on my part." CHAPTER XII THE COMPACT "DEAR IRMA," wrote Marjorie, the moment she reached her desk, "will you meet me across the street from school this afternoon? I have something very important to say to you. "MARJORIE." She wrote similar notes to Muriel Harding, Susan Atwell and Jerry Macy, managing in spite of the watchful eyes of Miss Merton to convey them, through the medium of willing hands, to her schoolmates. This done, she made a valiant effort to dismiss her personal affairs from her thoughts and settled down to her lessons. The first period in the afternoon was now her study hour, due to the change she had made in her geometry recitation. Marjorie managed to study diligently for at least twenty minutes, on the definitions in geometry given out by Miss Nelson as an advance lesson. Then her attention flagged. She found herself wondering what she had better do in regard to asking Constance to release her from her promise. She was sure Connie would do it. Then, if Mary could be coaxed to listen to her, she would---- Marjorie took a deep breath of sheer dismay. Of what use would it be to plan to help Mignon find her better self, then deliberately turn the one girl who liked her against her by relating her past misdeeds? Here indeed was a problem. She knitted her brows in troubled thought over this new knot in the tangle. One thing she was resolved upon, however. She would open her heart to Connie. Perhaps she might be able to suggest a satisfactory adjustment. The afternoon dragged interminably to the perplexed sophomore and she hailed the ringing of the closing bell with thankfulness. She had caught distant glimpses of Mary during the session and in each instance had seen her in conversation with the French girl. Mignon was losing no time. That was certain. As Marjorie rose from her seat to leave the study hall she had half a mind to wait just outside the door for Mary. Then a flash of wounded pride held her back. Mary would undoubtedly pass out with Mignon. If she spoke to her chum, she was almost sure to be rebuffed. She could imagine just how delighted Mignon would look at her discomfiture. Unconsciously lifting her head, Marjorie left the study hall without so much as a backward glance. Outside the door she encountered Jerry Macy. "Your note said, 'Wait across the street,' but this is a lot better," greeted Jerry. "Let's hurry and get our wraps. Irma and Susie will probably steer straight for your locker. I haven't seen Muriel to speak to this afternoon, but she'll be on the scene, I guess. The sooner we collect the sooner we'll hear what's on your mind. I can just about tell you what you're going to say, though." "Then you're a mind-reader," laughed Marjorie. Nevertheless, a quick flash rose to her face at Jerry's significant speech. "I can add two and two, anyhow," asserted Jerry. True to Jerry's prediction, three curious young women stood grouped in front of Marjorie's locker, impatiently awaiting her arrival. "Wait until we are outside, girls. I'll be ready in a jiffy." Marjorie slipped into her raincoat and pulled her blue velour hat over her curls. "We can't talk here. Miss Merton is likely to wander down, and then you know what will happen." "Oh, bother Miss Merton!" grumbled Jerry. "I can stand anything she says and live. Still, I don't blame you, Marjorie. It tickles her to pieces to get a chance to snap at you. Now if Mignon La Salle wanted to sing a solo in front of her locker at the top of her voice, Miss Merton would encore it." Susan Atwell giggled. "I can just hear Mignon lifting up her voice in song with Miss Merton as an appreciative audience." The quartette thoughtlessly echoed her merriment. So intent were they upon their own affairs that they did not notice the two girls who were almost hidden behind an open locker at the end of the room. The black eyes of one of them gleamed with rage. She turned to the fair-haired girl at her side with a gesture which said more plainly than words, "You see for yourself." The other nodded. Mignon laid a finger on her lips. Then noiselessly as two shadows they flitted through the open door without having been observed by the group at the other end. For the moment Marjorie's back had been turned toward that end of the room. She whirled about just too late to see Mignon and Mary as they hurried away. Unusually sensitive to impressions, she had perhaps felt their presence, for she asked abruptly, "Girls, have you seen Mary? She can't have gone, for I'm sure I left the study hall before she did. I ought to wait for her, but I don't know what to do." She glanced irresolutely about her. Then, her pride again coming to her rescue, she said, "Never mind. Suppose we go on. Perhaps I'd better not try to see her now, because I must tell you my plan and I--well--I can't--if she is with us." Muriel Harding elevated her eyebrows in surprise. Of the four girls who had received Marjorie's notes, she alone had no suspicion of the purpose which had brought them together. Five pairs of bright eyes scanned the street across from the school building as the little party came down the wide stone steps. "The coast is clear," commented Jerry. "Now do tell us what's the matter, Marjorie. No, wait a minute." Jerry fumbled energetically in a small leather bag. "Hooray! Here's a real life fifty-cent piece! I can see it vanishing in the shape of five sundaes, at ten cents per eat. We can't go to Sargent's. They cost fifteen----" "I've a quarter," insinuated Irma. "All contributions thankfully received," beamed Jerry. "On to Sargent's! We'll talk about the weather until we get there. It's been such a lovely day," she grimaced. "If it rains much more we'll have to do as they do in Spain." "What do they do in Spain?" Susan Atwell rose to the bait, despite a warning poke from Irma. "They let it rain," grinned Jerry. "Aren't you an innocent child?" Well pleased with her success in putting over this time-worn joke on one more victim, Jerry continued with a lively stream of nonsense that lasted during the brief walk to Sargent's. Once seated about a small round table at the back of the room, which from long patronage they had come to look upon almost as their own, an expectant murmur went the round of the little circle as Marjorie leaned forward a trifle and began in a low, earnest tone. "Girls, I am going to ask you to do something for me that perhaps you won't wish to do. All of you know what happened last year to Connie and me. You know, too, that if anyone has good reason to cut Mignon La Salle's acquaintance, we would be justified in doing it. I was awfully surprised to see her come into the study hall this morning, and I said to myself that aside from bowing to her if I met her on the street, I would steer clear of her. But since then something has happened to make me change my mind. Mary wishes Mignon for a friend, and so----" "What a little goose!" interrupted Jerry disgustedly. "I beg your pardon, Marjorie, but I can't help saying it." "This _is_ news!" exclaimed Muriel Harding. "Come to think of it, I _did_ see your friend Mary walking into geometry with Mignon, Marjorie. Why don't you enlighten her on the subject of Mignon and her doings?" "That's just it." Marjorie repeated briefly what she had said to the others at noon. "I'm going to Gray Gables to see Constance before I go home," she continued, addressing the group. "You see, it's like this. Even if Connie says I may tell Mary everything, will it be quite fair to Mignon? And now I'm coming to the reason I asked you to come here with me. Sometimes when a girl has done wrong and been hateful and no one likes her, another girl comes along and begins to be friendly with her. That makes the girl who has done wrong feel ashamed of herself and then perhaps she resolves to be more agreeable because of it." "Not Mignon, if you mean her," muttered Jerry. "I do mean Mignon," was Marjorie's grave response. "Every girl has a better self, I'm sure, but if she doesn't know it she will never find it unless someone helps her. We've never even stopped to consider whether Mignon had any good qualities. We've judged her for the dishonorable things she has done. I can't help saying that I don't like her very well. You can't blame me, either. Still, if we are going to be sophomore sisters we must all stand together." She glanced appealingly about her circle, but on each young face she read plain disapproval. "You might as well try to carry water in a sieve as to reform Mignon," shrugged Muriel Harding. "You can't tame a wildcat," commented Susan Atwell. "Look here, Marjorie," burst forth Jerry Macy. "We know that you are the dearest, nicest girl ever, but you are going to waste your time if you try to go exploring for Mignon's better self. She never had one. If you try to be nice to her she'll just take advantage of your goodness and make fun of you behind your back. Let me tell you something. You know Miss Elkins, who sews for people. Well, she's at our house to-day. She is making some silk blouses for me, and when I went upstairs to the sewing-room for a fitting to-day she asked me if Mignon was in school. Her sister is the housekeeper at the La Salle's and she told Miss Elkins that Mignon was expelled from boarding school because she wouldn't pay attention to the rules. She was threatened with dismissal twice, and the other night she coaxed a lot of the girls to slip out of the dormitory and go to the city to the theatre without a sign of a chaperon. One of the girls had a key to the front door and she lost it. They didn't get home until after one o'clock, and then they couldn't get into the dormitory. The night watchman finally had to let them in and he reported them. She and two others were expelled because they planned the affair. I don't know what happened to the rest of them. Anyway, that's why our dear Mignon is with us once more. I only wish that girl hadn't lost the key." Jerry's face registered her disgust. "I don't believe Mother would like to have me associate with Mignon." This from gentle Irma Linton, who was usually the soul of toleration. "And you, too, Irma!" was Marjorie's reproachful cry. "Then there isn't much use is asking you girls to help me." This was too much for the impulsive Jerry. "Don't look at us like that. As though you had lost your last friend. Just let me tell you, you haven't. I take it all back. I'll promise to go on a hunting expedition for Mignon's better self any old time you say." "Sieves _have_ been known to hold water," acknowledged Muriel, not to be outdone by Jerry's burst of loyalty. "And wildcats have sometimes become household pets," added Susan with her infectious giggle. "So have mothers been known to change their minds," put in Irma. "I'm ashamed of myself for being a quitter before I've even heard your plan." Marjorie's dark eyes shone with affection. "You are splendid," she praised with a little catch in her voice. "I can't help telling you now. After all, it isn't a very great plan, but it's the best I could think of just now, and this is it. Mother said I might give a party for Mary when she first came to live with us, but I wished to wait until she got acquainted with the girls in school. Then Connie gave her dance. So I thought it would be nice to have mine in about two weeks, after we were settled in our classes and didn't have so much to worry us. But now I've changed my mind. I'm going to give my party next week and I shall invite Mignon to it You girls can help me by being nice to her and making her have a pleasant evening. If we are really determined to carry out our plan we will have to invite her to our parties and luncheons, too, and ask her to share our good times. The only way we can help her is to make her one of us. If we draw away from her she will never be different. She will just become more disagreeable and some day we might be very sorry we didn't do our best for her." The eloquence of Marjorie's plea had its effect on her listeners. "I guess you are on the right track," conceded Jerry Macy warmly. "I am willing to try to be a busy little helper. We might call ourselves the S. F. R. M.--Society For Reforming Mignon, you know." This proposal evoked a ripple of laughter. "Irma, do you suppose your mother wouldn't like you to--to--be friendly with Mignon?" asked Marjorie anxiously. "We mustn't pledge ourselves to anything to which our mothers might say 'no.'" "I think I can fix that part of it," said Irma slowly. "If I explain things to Mother, she'll understand." "Perhaps we all ought to talk it over with our mothers," suggested Susan. "I guess we'd better," nodded Jerry. "But what about Connie? Suppose she shouldn't be in favor of the S. F. R. M.? You couldn't blame her much if she wasn't." "I'm going to see her to-night, after dinner. I intended to go to Gray Gables after school, but you see me here instead," returned Marjorie. "I am almost sure she'll say 'yes.'" "How are we going to begin our reform movement?" asked Muriel Harding. "That's what I'd like to know. Who is willing to be the first martyr to the cause? Let me tell you right now, I'd just as soon make friends with a snapping turtle. Only the snapper would probably be more polite." "You are a wicked Jerry," reproved Marjorie smilingly, "and you know you don't mean half you say." "Maybe I do, and maybe I don't. Anyhow, on in the cause of Mignon! I feel like one of the knights of old who buckled on his armor and went forth to the fray with his lady's colors tied to his sleeve, or his lance, or some of his belongings. I've forgotten just what the style was. We are gallant knights, going forth to battle, wearing Marjorie's colors, and Mignon will have to look out or she'll be reformed before she has time to turn up her nose and shrug her shoulders." "Suppose we start by being as nice to her as we can in school to-morrow," proposed Irma Linton thoughtfully. "If she meets us in the same spirit, maybe something will happen that will show us what to do next." "That wouldn't be a bad idea," declared Susan Atwell. "I sit near her, so I'll be the first one to hold out the olive branch. But if you hear something drop on the floor with a dull, sickening thud, you'll know that my particular variety of olive branch was rejected." "Somehow, I have an idea she won't be so very scornful," said Marjorie hopefully. "Being expelled from boarding school may have a soothing effect on her," agreed Jerry grimly. "I suppose it really isn't very knightly to say snippy things about a person one intends to reform." "I think you are right, Jerry," broke in Marjorie with sweet earnestness. "We must try to think and say only kind things of Mignon if we are to succeed." Taking in the circle of girls with a quick, bright glance, she asked: "Then you are agreed to my plan? It is really a compact?" Four emphatic nods answered her questions. "Hurrah for the S. F. R. M.!" exclaimed Jerry. "Long may it wave! Only there's one glorious truth that I feel it my duty to impress on your minds. The way of the reformer is hard." CHAPTER XIII IN DEFENCE OF MIGNON "Here are two letters for you, Lieutenant," called her mother, as Marjorie burst into the living-room, her cheeks pink from a brisk run up the drive. After leaving her schoolmates Marjorie had set off for home as fast as her light feet would carry her. She managed to keep to a decorous walk until she had swung the gate behind her, then she had sped up the drive like a fawn. "Oh, lovely!" cried Marjorie. "Your permission, Captain." She touched her hand to her hat brim in a gay little salute. Her spirits had been rising from the moment she had left the girls, carrying with her the precious security that they were now banded together in a worthy cause. Surely the snarl would straighten itself in a short time. Mary would soon see that she intended to keep her word about being friends with Mignon. Then she would understand that she, Marjorie, was loyal in spite of her unjust accusations. Then all would be as it had been before. Perhaps Mary wouldn't be quite her old, sunny self for a few days, but the shadow would pass--it must. "Why, it's from Connie!" she cried out in surprise, as her eyes sought the writing on the upper-most envelope. It was in Constance's irregular, girlish hand. She hastily tore it open and read. "DEAREST MARJORIE: "Last night at my dance I didn't know that father was to be concertmeister in the symphony orchestra. It is a great honor and we are all very happy over it. He kept it to himself until the last minute, because he knew that if he told me, I would insist on going back to New York with him for his opening concert. But I'm going with him just the same. I shall be away from Sanford for a week or so, for I want to be with him until he goes to Boston. I'll study hard and catch up in school when I come back. I wish you were going, too, but later in the season he will be in New York City again. Then Auntie says she will take you and Mary and me there to hear him play. Won't that be glorious? I'll write you again as soon as I reach New York and you must answer with a long letter, telling me about school and everything. I am so sorry I can't see you to say good-bye, but I won't have time. Don't forget to answer as soon as I write you. "Lovingly, "CONSTANCE." Marjorie's cheerful face grew blank. Certainly she was glad that Connie would experience the happiness of hearing her father play before a vast assemblage who would gather to do him honor. Nevertheless she was just a trifle cast down over the unexpected flight of her friend to New York. With a start of dismay she remembered that she had intended going to see Constance with the object of clearing away the clouds of misunderstanding. Now she would have to wait until Connie returned. And then, there was Mignon. She felt that it would be hardly fair to begin her crusade without consulting the girl whom Mignon had wronged most deeply. She had perfect faith in the quality of her friend's charity. Constance was too generous of spirit to hold a grudge. Through suffering she had grown great of soul. Still, it was right that she should be asked to decide the question. If she refused outright to sanction the proposed campaign for reform, or even demurred at the proposal, Marjorie was resolved not to carry it forward, even for Mary's or Mignon's sake. Suddenly she recollected her adjuration to the girls to gain their mothers' consent before going on with their plan. Her brows drew together in a perplexed frown. Had not Mary threatened, in the heat of her anger, that if Marjorie told her mother of their disagreement she would never speak to her again? How could she inform Captain of the compact she and her friends had made without involving Mary in it? Her mother would naturally inquire the reason for this rather remarkable movement. She might be displeased, as well as surprised, over Mary's strange predilection for the French girl. Her Captain knew all that had happened during her freshman year. On that memorable day when she had leaped into the river to rescue Marcia Arnold, and afterward come home, a curious little figure clad in Jerry Macy's ample garments, the recital of those stormy days when she had doubted, yet clung to Constance, had taken place. She recalled that long, confidential talk at her mother's knee, and the peace it had brought her. All at once her face cleared. She would tell her mother about the compact, but she would leave out the disagreeable scenes that had occurred between herself and Mary. "I'll tell her now and have it over with," she decided. "What makes you look so solemn, dear?" Her mother had glanced up from her embroidery, and was affectionately scanning her daughter's grave face. "Does your letter from Connie contain bad news? I hope nothing unpleasant has happened to the child." "Oh, no, Captain. Quite the contrary. It's something nice," returned Marjorie quickly. "Let me read you her letter." She turned to the first page and read aloud rapidly Constance's little note. "I'm so glad for her sake," she sighed, as she finished, "but I shall miss her dreadfully." "I suppose you will. Good fortune seems to have followed the Stevens family since the day when my lieutenant went out of her way to help a little girl in distress." "Perhaps I'm a mascot, Captain. If I am, then you ought to take good care of me, feed me on a special diet of plum pudding and chocolate cake, keep me on your best embroidered cushion and cherish me generally," laughed Marjorie, with a view toward turning the subject from her own generous acts, the mention of which invariably embarrassed her. "And give you indigestion and see you ossify for want of exercise under my indulgent eye," retorted her mother. "I guess you had better go on cherishing me in the good old way," decided Marjorie. "But you won't mind my sitting on one of your everyday cushions, just as close to you as I can get, will you?" Reaching for one of the fat green velvet cushions which stood up sturdily at each end of the davenport, Marjorie dropped it beside her mother's chair and curled up on it. "I've something to report, Captain," she said, her bantering tone changing to seriousness. "You remember last year--and Mignon La Salle?" Mrs. Dean frowned slightly at the mention of the French girl's name. Mother-like, she had never quite forgiven Mignon for the needless sorrow she had wrought in the lives of those she held so dear. Marjorie caught the significance of that frown. "I know how you feel about things, dearest," she nodded. "Perhaps you won't give your consent to the plan I--that is, we--have made. But I have to tell you, anyway, so here goes. Mignon La Salle went away to boarding school, but she--well she was sent home, and now she's back in Sanford High again. This afternoon Jerry, Irma, Susan, Muriel Harding and I went together to Sargent's for ice cream. While we were there we decided that we ought to forgive the past and try to help Mignon find her better self. The only way we can help her is to treat her well and invite her to our parties and luncheons. If she finds we are ready to begin all over again with her, perhaps she'll be different. We made a solemn compact to do it, provided our mothers were willing we should. So to be very slangy, 'It's up to you, Captain!'" "But suppose this girl merely takes advantage of your kindness and involves you all in another tangle?" remarked Mrs. Dean quietly. "It seems to me that she proved herself wholly untrustworthy last year." "I know it." Marjorie sighed. She would have liked to say that Mignon had already tied an ugly snarl in her affairs. But loyalty to Mary forbade the utterance. Then, brightening, she went on hopefully: "If we never try to help her, we'll never know whether she really has a better self. Sometimes it takes just a little thing to change a person's heart." "You are a dear child," Mrs. Dean bent to press a kiss on Marjorie's curly head, "and your argument is too generous to be downed. I give my official consent to the proposed reform, and I hope, for all concerned, that it will turn out beautifully." "Oh, Captain," Marjorie nestled closer, "you're too dear for words. There's another reason for my wishing to be friendly with Mignon. Mary has met her and likes her." "Mary!" Mrs. Dean looked her astonishment. "By the way, Marjorie, where is Mary? I had quite forgotten her for the time being. You didn't mention her as being with you at Sargent's." "She wasn't there," explained Marjorie. "She didn't wait for me after school. She must have gone on with--with someone and stopped to talk. I--I think she'll be here soon." A hurt look, of which she was entirely unconscious, had driven the brightness from the face Marjorie turned to her mother. Mrs. Dean was a wise woman. She discerned that there had been a hitch in the programme of her daughter's daily affairs, but she asked no questions. She never intruded upon Marjorie's little reserves. She knew now that whatever her daughter had kept back had been done in accordance with a code of living, the uprightness of which was seldom equalled in a girl of her years. She, therefore, respected the reservation and made no attempt to discover its nature. "What are you going to do first in the way of reform, Lieutenant?" she inquired brightly. "Well, I thought I would invite Mignon to my party, the one you said I could give for Mary. I'd like to have it next Friday night. Friday's the best time. We can all sleep a little later the next morning, you know." "Very well, you may," assented Mrs. Dean. "Does Mary know of the contemplated reform?" "No. You see I hated to say much to her about Mignon, because it wouldn't be very nice to discredit someone you were trying to help. Don't you agree with me?" "I suppose I must. But what of Constance?" "That's the part that bothers me," was Marjorie's troubled reply. "I'm going to write her all about it. I know she'll be with us. She's too splendid to hold spite. I think it would be all right to invite Mignon to my party, at any rate. But there's just one thing about it, Captain, if Connie objects, then the reform will have to go on without me. You understand the way I feel, don't you?" "Yes. I believe you owe it to Constance to respect her wishes. She was the chief sufferer at Mignon's hands." The confidential talk came to a sudden end with the ringing of the doorbell. "It's Mary." Marjorie sprang to her feet. "I'll let her in." Hurrying to the door, Marjorie opened it to admit Mary Raymond. She entered with an air of sulkiness that brought dread to Marjorie's heart. "Oh, Mary, where were you?" she asked, trying to appear ignorant of her chum's forbidding aspect. "I was with Mignon La Salle," returned Mary briefly. "Will you come upstairs with me, please?" "I'd love to, Lieutenant Raymond. Thank you for your kind invitation." Marjorie assumed a gaiety she did not feel. Without further remark Mary stolidly mounted the stairs. Marjorie followed her in a distinctly worried state of mind. The quarrel was going to begin over again. She was sure of that. Mary stalked past the half-open door of Marjorie's room and paused before her own. "I'd rather talk to you in _my_ room, if you please," she said distantly. "All right," agreed Marjorie, with ready cheerfulness. She intended to go on ignoring her chum's hostile attitude until she was forced to do otherwise. Mary closed the door behind them and faced Marjorie with compressed lips. The latter met her offended gaze with steady eyes. "I heard you and your friends making fun of Miss La Salle this afternoon, and I am going to say right here that I think you were all extremely unkind. She heard you, too. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Marjorie Dean!" "Why, I don't remember making fun of Mignon!" exclaimed Marjorie. "What do you mean?" "Then your memory is very short," sneered Mary. "But I might have expected you to deny it." It was Marjorie's turn to grow indignant. "How can you accuse me of not telling the truth?" she flashed. "I did not----" She stopped, flushing deeply. She recalled Jerry Macy's humorous remark about Mignon as they stood talking in front of her locker. "I beg your pardon, Mary," she apologized. "I _do_ remember now that Mignon's name was mentioned while we were standing there. But it was nothing very dreadful. We were saying that if Miss Merton heard us talking she would scold us, and Jerry only said that if Mignon chose to sing a solo at the top of her voice, in front of _her_ locker, Miss Merton wouldn't mind in the least. Everyone knows that Mignon has always been a favorite of Miss Merton. I am sorry if she overheard it, for truly we hadn't the least idea of making fun of her. It was Jerry's funny way of saying it that made us laugh. I'll explain that to her the first time I see her." Mary's tense features relaxed a trifle. She was not yet so firmly in the toils of the French girl as to be entirely blind to Marjorie's sincerity. Her good sense told her that she was making a mountain of a mole hill. There was a ring of truth in Marjorie's voice that brought a flush of shame to her cheeks. Still she would not allow it to sway her. "It wasn't nice in you to laugh," she muttered. "She was dreadfully hurt. She feels very sensitive about being sent home from school. Of course, she knows she deserved it. She said so. But----" "Did she really say that?" interrupted Marjorie eagerly. "I am not in the habit of saying what isn't true," retorted Mary coldly. "Listen, Mary." Marjorie's face was aglow with honest purpose. "I said to you, you know, that if you wished Mignon for a friend I would be nice to her, too. Captain has promised to let me give my party for you on next Friday night. I am going to invite Mignon to it, and we are all going to try to make her feel friendly toward us." "She won't come," predicted Mary contemptuously. "I wouldn't, either, if I were in her place. I shall tell her not to come, too." "Then you will be proving yourself anything but a friend to her," flung back Marjorie hotly, "because you will be advising her against doing something that is for her good." With this clinching argument Marjorie walked to the door and opened it. "Whether I say a word or not, she won't come," called Mary after her. But Marjorie was halfway down the stairs, too greatly exasperated to trust herself to further speech. CHAPTER XIV THE COMMON FATE OF REFORMERS Nevertheless the session behind closed doors had one beneficial effect. It broke the ice that had lately formed over the long comradeship of the two girls, and, although nothing was as of old, they were both secretly relieved to still be on terms of conversation. Out of pure regard for Mary, Marjorie treated her exactly as she had always done, and Mary pretended to respond, simply because she had determined that Mr. and Mrs. Dean should not become aware of any difference in their relations. She affected an interest in planning for the party and kept up a pretty show of concern which Marjorie alone knew to be false. Privately Mary's deceitful attitude was a sore trial to her. Honest to the core, she felt that she would rather her chum had maintained open hostility than a farce of good will which was dropped the moment they chanced to be alone. Still she resolved to bear it and look forward to a happier day when Mary would relent. The invitations to the party had been mailed and duly accepted. Much to Mary's secret surprise and chagrin, Mignon had not declined to shed the light of her countenance upon the proposed festivity, but had written a formal note of acceptance which amused Marjorie considerably, inasmuch as the acceptances of the others had been verbal. Despite her hatred for Marjorie Dean and her friends, Mignon had resolved to profit by the sudden show of friendliness which, true to their compact, the five girls had lost no time in carrying out. Ignoble of soul, she did not value the favor of these girls as a concession which she had been fortunate enough to receive. She decided to use it only as a wedge to reinstate herself in a certain leadership which her bad behavior of last year had lost her. She had no idea of the real reason for their interest in her. She preferred to think that they had come to a realization of her vast importance in the social life of Sanford. Was not her father the richest man in the town? She had an idea that perhaps Mary Raymond might be responsible for her sudden accession to favor. She had taken care to impress her own importance upon Mary's mind, together with certain vague insinuations as to her wrongs. After her first brief outburst against Marjorie and Constance Stevens, she had decided that she would gain infinitely more by playing the part of wronged innocence. When she received her invitation she had already heard that Constance was in New York and likely to remain there for a time. This influenced her to accept Marjorie's hospitality. Her own consciousness of guilt would not permit her to go to any place where she would meet the accusing scorn of Constance's blue eyes. Then, too, she had still another motive in attending the party. She had always looked upon Lawrence Armitage with eyes of favor. He had never paid her a great deal of attention, but he had shown her less since the advent of Constance Stevens in Sanford. She resolved to show him that she was far more clever and likable than the quiet girl who had taken such a strong hold on his boyish interest, and with that end in view Mignon planned to make her reinstatement a sweeping success. Friday afternoon was a lost session, so far as study went, to the Sanford girls who were to make up the feminine portion of Marjorie's party. "Good gracious, I thought half-past three would never come!" grumbled Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear as they filed decorously through the corridor. "Let's make a quick dash for the locker-room. I've a pressing engagement with the hair-dresser and I'm dying to get through with it and sweep down to dinner in my new silver net party dress. It's a dream and makes me look positively thin. You won't know me when you see me." "You're not the only one," put in Muriel Harding. "You won't be one, two, three when I appear to-night in all my glory." "Listen to the conceited things," laughed Irma Linton. "'I won't speak of myself,' as H. C. Anderson beautifully puts it." "Who's he?" demanded Jerry. "I know every boy in Sanford High, but I never heard of him." A shout of laughter greeted her earnest assertion. "Wake up, Jerry," dimpled Susan Atwell. "H. C. stands for Hans Christian. Now does the light begin to break?" "Oh, you make me tired," retorted Jerry. "Irma did that on purpose. That's worse than my favorite trap about letting it rain in Spain. How was I to know what she meant?" "That's all because you don't cultivate literary tastes," teased Muriel. "I do cultivate them," grinned Jerry. "I've read the dictionary through twice, without skipping a page!" "It must have been a pocket edition," murmured Marjorie. "Stop teasing me or I'll get cross and not come to your party," threatened Jerry. "You mean nothing could keep you away," laughed Irma. "You're right. Nothing could. I'll be there, clad in costly raiment, to spur the reform party on to deeds of might." "Do come early, all of you," urged Marjorie as she paused at her corner to say good-bye. "We'll be there," chorused the quartette after her. "I hope everyone will have a nice time," was Marjorie's fervent reflection as she hurried on her way. "I do wish Mary would walk home with me once in a while, instead of always waiting for Mignon. I wouldn't ask her to for worlds, though." To see Mary walk away with Mignon at the end of every session of school had been a heavy cross for Marjorie to bear. Surrounded as she always was with the four faithful members of her own little set, she was often lonely. If only Constance had been in school she could have better borne Mary's disloyalty, although the latter could never quite fill the niche which years of companionship had carved in her heart for Mary. But Connie was far away, so she must go on enduring this bitter sorrow and make no outward sign. Usually ready to bubble over with exhilaration when on the eve of participating in so delightful an occasion as a party, it was a very quiet Marjorie who tripped into the living-room that afternoon. The big, cosy apartment had undergone a marked change. It was practically bare, save for the piano in one corner, which had been moved from the drawing-room, and a phonograph which was to do occasional duty, so that the patient musicians might now and then rest from their labor. Mrs. Dean was giving a last direction to the men who had been hired to move the furniture about as Marjorie entered. "Everything is ready, Lieutenant," smiled her mother. "We have all done a strenuous day's work in a good cause." "Thank you over and over again, Captain. It's dear in you to take so much trouble for me. I'm afraid you've worked too hard." Her lately pensive mood vanishing as she viewed the newly waxed floor, Marjorie executed a gay little _pas-seul_ on its smooth surface and made a running slide toward her mother, striking against her with considerable force. "Steady, Lieutenant." Her mother passed an arm about her and gave her a loving little squeeze. "Please have proper respect for the aged." "There are no such persons here," retorted Marjorie, "I see a young and beautiful lady, who----" "Must go straight to the kitchen and see what Delia is doing in the way of dinner," finished Mrs. Dean. "Remember, we are to have it at half-past five to-night, so don't wander away and be late. Your frock is laid out on your bed, dear. You had better run along and dress before dinner. Then you will be ready. The time will fairly fly afterward. Where is Mary? Why doesn't she come home with you in the afternoon? For the past week she has come in long after school is out." "Oh, she stops to talk and walk with Mignon," replied Marjorie, with an air of elaborate carelessness. "They are very good friends." Mrs. Dean seemed about to comment further on the subject when Delia appeared in the doorway and distracted her attention to other matters. Marjorie breathed a sigh of relief as she went upstairs. She was glad to escape the further questions concerning Mary which her mother seemed disposed to ask. Her gaiety had been evanescent and she now experienced a feeling of positive gloom as she entered her pretty room and prepared to bathe and dress for the evening. She could not resist a thrill of pleasure at the sheer beauty of the white chiffon frock spread out on her bed. She wondered if Mary would wear her pale blue silk evening frock, or the white one with the lace over-frock. They were both beautiful. But she had always loved Mary in white. She wondered if she dared ask her to wear the white lace gown. While she was dressing, through her half-opened door she heard Mary's voice in the hall in conversation with her mother. Hastily slipping into her pretty frock, she went to the door hooking it as she walked. Mary was just appearing on the landing. "Oh, Mary," she called genially, "do wear your white. You will look so lovely in it." "I'm going to wear my blue gown," returned Mary stolidly, and marched on down the hall to her room, closing the door with a bang. "Just as though I'd let her dictate to me what to wear," she muttered. The two young girls made a pretty picture as they took their places at the dinner table. "I wish General were here to see you," sighed Mrs. Dean. Mr. Dean had been called away on a business trip east. "So do I," echoed Marjorie. "Things won't be quite perfect without him." Neither girl ate much dinner. They were far too highly excited to do justice to the meal. In spite of their estrangement they were both looking forward to the dance. At half-past seven o'clock Jerry and the rest of the reform party arrived, buzzing like a hive of bees. "Is she here yet?" whispered Jerry Macy in Marjorie's ear, after paying her respects to Mrs. Dean and Mary, who, with Marjorie, received their guests in the palm-decorated hall. "No, she hasn't come. I suppose she will arrive late. You know she loves to make a sensation." Marjorie could not resist this one little fling, despite her good resolutions. The guests continued to arrive in twos and threes and Marjorie was kept busy greeting them. True to her prediction, it was after eight o'clock when Mignon appeared. She wore an imported gown of peachblow satin that must have been a considerable item of expense to her doting father. Her elfish face glowed with suppressed excitement and her black eyes roved about, with lightning glances, born of a curiosity to inspect every detail of her unfamiliar surroundings. "I am glad you came," greeted Marjorie graciously, and presented Mignon to her mother. The French girl acknowledged the introduction, then turning to Mary began an eager, low-toned conversation, apparently forgetting her hostess. Mrs. Dean betrayed no sign of what went on in her mind, but her thoughts on the subject of Mignon were not flattering. Ill-bred, she mentally styled her, and decided that she would look into the matter of her growing friendship with Mary. The dancing had already begun when, piloted by Mary, who had apparently forgotten that she was of the receiving party, the two girls strolled into the impromptu ballroom. Mary was immediately claimed as a partner by Lawrence Armitage, who tried to console himself with the thought that, at least, she looked like Constance. Mignon's face darkened as they danced off. Lawrie had merely bowed to her. But he had asked Mary to dance. That was because she resembled that odious Stevens girl. Her resentment against Constance blazed forth afresh. She hoped Constance would never return to Sanford. Thanks to a long lecture which Jerry had read to her brother Hal, Mignon was not neglected. Although none of the Weston High boys really liked her, she was asked to dance almost every number. Later in the evening Lawrence Armitage asked her for a one-step, and she vainly imagined that, after all, she had made an impression on him. Radiant with triumph over her social success, Mignon saw herself firmly entrenched in the leadership she dreamed would be hers. But her triumph was to be short-lived. After supper, which was served at two long tables in the dining-room, the guests returned to their dancing with the tireless ardor of first youth. Chancing to be without a partner, Mignon slipped into a palm-screened nook under the stairs for a chat with Mary, who had followed her about all evening, more with a view of hurting Marjorie than from an excess of devotion. From their position they could see all that went on about them, yet be quite hidden from the unobservant. The unobservant happened to be Marjorie and Jerry Macy, who had come from the ballroom for a confidential talk and taken up their station directly in front of the alcove. Save for the two girls behind the palms, the hall was deserted. "Well, I guess Mignon's having a good time," declared Jerry Macy in her brisk, loud tones. "She ought to. I nearly talked myself hoarse to Hal before he'd promise to see that the boys asked her to dance. This reform business is no joke." "Lower your voice, Jerry," warned Marjorie. "Someone might hear you." Mary Raymond made a sudden movement to rise. Stubborn she might be, but she was not so dishonorable as to listen to a conversation not intended for her ears. Mignon pulled her back with sudden savage strength. She laid her finger to her lips, her black eyes gleaming with anger. "Oh, there's no one around. Say, Marjorie, do you think it's really worth while to go out of our way to reform Mignon? Look at her to-night. You'd think she had conquered the universe. She was all smiles when Laurie Armitage asked her to dance. He can't bear her, he told me so last Hallowe'en, after she made all that fuss about her old bracelet. If we hadn't banded ourselves together to find that better self which you are so sure she's carrying around with her, I'd say call it off and forget it. None of us really likes her. You know that, even if you won't say so. She is----" The waltz time ended in a soft chord and the dancers began trooping through the doorway to the big punch-bowl of lemonade in one corner of the hall. They were just in time to see a lithe figure in pink spring out, catlike, from behind the palm-screened alcove and hear a furious voice cry out, "How dare you insult a guest by talking about her, the moment her back is turned?" CHAPTER XV AN IRATE GUEST Jerry Macy and Marjorie Dean whirled about at the sound of that wrathful voice. Mignon La Salle confronted them, her eyes flashing, her fingers closing and unclosing in nervous rage, looking for all the world like a young tigress. "Oh, for goodness' sake, some one lead her away!" muttered the Crane to Irma Linton. "I told Hal to-day that, with Mignon aboard the good old party ship, we'd be sure to have fireworks. Real dynamite, too, and no mistake. I wonder what's upset her sweet, retiring disposition?" His boyish face indicated his deep disgust. "I heard every word you said!" screamed Mignon. Rage had stripped her of the thin veneer of civilization. She was the same young savage who had kicked and screamed her way to whatever she desired when years before she had been the terror of the neighborhood. "So, that's the reason you invited me to your old party! You got together and picked me to pieces and decided to reform me! Just let me tell you that you had better look to yourselves. I don't need your kind offices. You are a crowd of hateful, deceitful, mean, horrible girls! I despise you all! Everyone of you! Do you hear me? I despise you! And _you_, Jerry Macy, had better be a little careful as to what you gossip about me. I can tell you----" There came a sudden interruption to the tirade. Through the amazed groups of young people who could not resist lingering to find out what it was all about, Mrs. Dean resolutely made her way. "That will do, Miss La Salle," she commanded sternly. "I cannot allow you to make such a disgraceful scene in my home, or insult my daughter and her guests. If you will come quietly upstairs with me and state your grievance, I shall do all in my power to rectify it. Marjorie," she turned to her daughter, who stood looking on in wide-eyed distress, "ask the musicians to start the music for the next dance." Marjorie obeyed and, somewhat ashamed of their curiosity, the dancers forgot their thirst for lemonade and flocked into the ballroom. Only Jerry Macy and Mary Raymond remained. "It's all my fault, Mrs. Dean," began Jerry contritely. "I didn't know Mignon was in the alcove. I can't help saying she had no business to listen, but----" "It _is_ my business," began Mignon furiously. "I have a right----" "Don't begin this quarrel all over again." Mrs. Dean held up her hand for silence. "I repeat," she continued, regarding Mignon with marked displeasure, "if you will come upstairs with me----" "Mrs. Dean, it's a shame the way Mignon has been treated to-night," burst forth Mary Raymond, "and I for one don't intend to stand by and see her insulted. Miss Macy said perfectly hateful things about her. I heard them. Marjorie is just as much to blame. She listened to them and never said a word to stop them." "Mary Raymond!" Mrs. Dean's voice held an ominous note that should have warned Mary to hold her peace. Instead it angered her to open rebellion. "Don't 'Mary Raymond' me," she mocked in angry sarcasm. "I meant what I said, every word of it. Mignon is my dear friend and I shall stand up for her." "Oh, let me alone, all of you!" With an agile spring, Mignon gained the stairway and sped up the stairs on winged feet. Two minutes later, wrapped in her evening coat and scarf, she reappeared at the head and ran down the steps two at a time. "Thank you so much for a delightful evening," she bowed ironically. "I'm so sorry I haven't time to stay and be lectured. It's too bad, isn't it, Miss Mary, that the reform couldn't go on?" To Mary she held out her hand. "Come and spend the day with me to-morrow, Mary. You may like it so well, you'll decide to stay. If you do, why just come along whenever you feel disposed. I can assure you that our house is a pleasanter place to live in than the one you are in now." With this pointed fling she bowed again in mock courtesy to the silent woman who had offended her and flounced out the door and into the starlit night to where her own electric runabout was standing. "Can you beat that?" was the tribute that fell from Jerry Macy's lips. Mrs. Dean looked from one to the other of the three girls. "Now, girls, I demand an explanation of all this. Who of you is at fault in the matter?" "I told you it was I," answered Jerry. "Marjorie and I were talking about Mignon and saying that she was having a good time. Then I had to go on and say some more things that I don't take back, but that weren't intended for listeners. I didn't know Mignon and Mary were hidden in that alcove. Do you suppose I'd have spoiled our reform, after all the trouble we've had making it go, if I'd known they were there?" Mrs. Dean could not repress a faint smile at Jerry's rueful admissions. She liked this stout, matter-of-fact girl in spite of her rough, brusque ways. "No, I don't suppose you would, but you were in the wrong, I am afraid. You must learn to curb that sharp tongue, Jerry. It is likely, some day, to involve you in serious trouble." "I know it." Jerry hung her head. "But, you see, Marjorie understands me. That's why I say to her whatever I think." "Mary," Mrs. Dean gravely studied Mary's sulky face, "I am deeply hurt and surprised. Later I shall have something to say to you and Marjorie. Now go back to your friends, all of you, and try to make up to them for this unpleasantness." Marjorie, who all this time had said nothing, now began timidly. She had seldom seen her beloved Captain so stern. "Captain, we are----" "Not another word. I said, 'later.'" Jerry and Marjorie turned to the ballroom. Mary however, with a scornful glance at Mrs. Dean, faced about and went upstairs. She had been imbued with a naughty resolve and she determined to proceed at once to carry it out. The dancing went on for a little, but the disagreeable happening had dampened the ardor of the guests and they began leaving for home soon afterward. It was midnight when the last sound of the footsteps of the departing youngsters echoed down the walk. Side by side, Marjorie and her mother watched them go, then the latter slipped her arm through that of her daughter and said, "Now, Marjorie, we will get to the bottom of this affair. Come with me to Mary's room." They reached it to find the door closed. Mrs. Dean knocked upon one of the panels. "What do you want?" inquired an angry voice. "We wish to come in, Mary," was Mrs. Dean's even response. There was a muttered exclamation, a hurry of light feet, then the door was flung open. "You can come in for all I care," was Mary's rude greeting. "You might as well know now that I'm not going to live here after to-night. I'm going to Mignon's house to live." Piles of clothing scattered about and a significantly yawning trunk bore out the assertion. Mrs. Dean knew that the time for action had come. Walking over to the girl, she placed deliberate hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me, Mary Raymond," she said decisively. "You are _not_ going one step out of this house without my consent. Your father intrusted you to my care, and I shall endeavor to carry out his wishes. You know as well as I that he would be displeased and sorry over your behavior. I had intended to talk matters over with you and Marjorie now, but you are in no mood for reason. Therefore we will allow this affair to rest until to-morrow. But, once and for all, unless your father sanctions your removal in a letter to me, you will stay here, under my roof. Come, Marjorie." With a sorrowful glance toward the tense, angry little figure, Marjorie followed her mother from the room. CHAPTER XVI THE PENALTY Marjorie awoke the next morning with a dull ache in her heart. It was as though she had been the victim of a bad dream. She stared gloomily about her, struggling to recollect the cause of her depression. Then remembrance rushed over her like a wave. No, she had not dreamed. Last night had been only too real. If anyone had even intimated to her beforehand that the party which had promised so much was fated to end so disagreeably, she would have laughed the prediction to scorn. If only Jerry had kept her unpleasantly candid remarks to herself! Yet, after all, she could hardly blame her very much. What Jerry had said had been intended for her ears alone. As hostess, however, she should not have permitted Jerry to continue. Marjorie blamed herself heavily for this. To be sure, it had been hardly fair in Mary and Mignon to listen. They should have made known their presence. She wondered what she would have done under the same circumstances. Her sense of honor answered her. She knew she would have immediately come forward. She could not understand why Mary had not done so. Loyal to the core, Marjorie's faith in her chum refused to die. The Mary she had known for so many years had not been lacking in honor. What she had feared from the first had come to pass. Mary had been swayed by Mignon's baleful personality. The much-talked-of reform had ended in a glaring fizzle. For some time Marjorie lay still, her thoughts busy with the disquieting events of the previous night. She had longed to turn and comfort the tense little figure standing immovable in the middle of her room, but her Captain's word was law, and Marjorie could but sadly acknowledge to herself that her mother had acted for the best. So she could do nothing but follow her from the room with a heavy heart. What was to be the outcome of the affair she dared not even imagine. A reconciliation with Mary was her earnest desire. This, however, could hardly be brought about. Perhaps they would never again be friends. A rush of tears blinded her brown eyes. Burying her face in the pillow, Marjorie gave vent to the sorrow which overflowed her soul. The sound of light, tapping fingers on the door caused her to sit up hastily. "Come in," she called, trying to steady her voice. The door opened to admit Mary Raymond. Her babyish face looked white and wan in the clear morning light. For hours after her door had closed upon Marjorie and her mother she had sat on the edge of her bed in her pretty blue party frock, brooding on her wrongs. When she had finally prepared for sleep, it was only to toss and turn in her bed, wide-awake and resentful. At daylight she had risen listlessly, then fixing upon a certain plan of action, had bathed, put on a simple house gown and knocked at Marjorie's door. A single glance at Marjorie's face was sufficient for her to determine that her chum had been crying. She decided that she was glad of it. Marjorie had made _her_ unhappy, now she deserved a similar fate. "Why, Mary!" Marjorie sprang from the bed and advanced to meet her. Involuntarily both arms were outstretched in tender appeal. Mary took no notice of the mutely pleading arms, save to step back with a cold gesture of avoidance. "I haven't come here to be friends," she said with deliberate cruelty. "I've come to ask you what you intend to say to your mother." "What _can_ I say to her?" Marjorie's voice had a despairing note. "You can say nothing," retorted Mary. "That is what _I_ intend to do. Your friend, Jerry Macy, said too much last night. I cannot see why our school affairs should be discussed in this house. I am sorry that Mignon made a--a--disturbance last night. I didn't intend to listen, but----" Her old-time frankness had almost overcome her newly hostile bearing. She was on the point of saying that she had been ready to step forth from behind the palms at Jerry's first speech. Then loyalty to Mignon prevailed and she paused. Marjorie caught at a straw. "I _knew_ you didn't intend to listen, Mary." The assurance rang out earnestly. "I couldn't make myself believe that you would. I wanted to stay last night and tell you how sorry I was for--for everything, but I owed it to Captain to obey orders. Mary, dear, can't we start over again? I'm sure it's all been a stupid mistake. Let's be good soldiers and resolve to face that dreadful enemy, Misunderstanding, together. Let's go to Captain and tell her every single thing! Think how much better we'll both feel. It almost broke my heart, last night, when you said you were going to Mignon's to live. If Captain thinks it best, I'll break my promise to Connie and tell you----" At the mention of Constance Stevens' name Mary's face darkened. Touched by Marjorie's impassioned appeal she had been tempted to break down the barrier that rose between them and take the girl she still adored into her stubborn heart again. But the mere name of Constance had acted as a spur to her rancor. "Don't trouble yourself about begging permission of Miss Stevens on _my_ account," she sneered. "I know a great deal too much of her already. What do you suppose the girls and boys of Franklin High, who gave you your butterfly pin, would say if they knew that you let the girl who stole it from you wear it for months? If you had been honorable you would have made her give it back and then dropped her forever." Marjorie's sorrow disappeared in wrath. "Mary Raymond, you don't know what you are talking about," she flamed. "I can guess who told you that untruth. It was Mignon La Salle. It was _not_ Constance who took my butterfly pin. It was----" Again she remembered her promise. "Well," jeered Mary, "who was it, then?" "I shall not say another word until I see Captain." Marjorie's tones were freighted with decision. "You mean that you can't deny that your friend Constance was guilty," cut in Mary scornfully. "Never mind. I don't care to hear anything more. You needn't consult your mother, either. I'm never going to be friends with you again, so it doesn't matter. But if you ever cared the least bit for me you'll do as I ask and not tell tales to Captain--I mean Mrs. Dean," she corrected haughtily. "If you do, then I repeat what I said the other day. I'll never speak to you again--no, not if I live here forever. But I won't have to do that, for I shall write to Father and ask him to let me go to Mignon's to live. So there!" With this dire threat Mary flounced angrily from the room, well pleased with the stand she had taken. It was a most unsociable trio that gathered at the breakfast table that Saturday morning. Mary carried herself with open belligerence. Marjorie looked as though she was on the point of bursting into tears, while Mrs. Dean was unusually grave. A delicate task lay before her and she was wondering as she poured the coffee how she had best begin. Still she had determined to thresh the matter out speedily, and as soon as Delia had served the breakfast and retired to the kitchen, she glanced from one to the other of the two principals and said, "Now, girls, I am waiting to hear about last night." A blank silence fell. Marjorie fixed her eyes on Mary. To her belonged the first word. The silence continued. "Well, Mary," Mrs. Dean spoke at last, "what have you to say for yourself?" "Nothing," came the mutinous reply. "I am sorry that you won't meet me frankly," commented Mrs. Dean. "I had hoped to find you on duty." Her searching gaze rested on Marjorie "Lieutenant, it is your turn, I think." Marjorie flushed with distress. She was between two fires. Obedience won. She related what had transpired in the hall in a few brief words, shielding Mary as far as was possible. "But I know all this," said Mrs. Dean, a trifle impatiently. "Jerry told me last night. There is more to this affair than appears on the surface. What has happened to estrange you two, who have been chums for so many years? I have seen for some time that matters were not progressing smoothly between you. Things cannot go on in this way. You must take me into your confidence. It is evident that a reform is needed here at home." Mary stared fixedly at her plate. She was resolved not to be a party to that reform. If Marjorie failed her, well--she knew the consequences. Marjorie saw the sullen, mutinous face through a mist of tears. She tried to speak, but speech refused to come. "I am ashamed of my soldiers." Mrs. Dean spoke sadly. "What would General say, if he were here?" The grave question rang like a clarion call in Marjorie's soul. A vision of her father's merry, quizzical eyes grown suddenly sober and hurt over the stubborn resistance of his little army was too much for her. One mournfully appealing glance at the unyielding Mary and she burst forth with, "I can't stand it any longer. I must speak. Last year, when--when--Connie and I had so many unhappy days over my lost butterfly pin I didn't write Mary about what was happening, because I felt terribly and wished her to know only the pleasant side of my school life. So she hadn't the least idea that Connie and I had become such friends. She thought Connie was just a poor girl whom I tried to help because I was sorry for her. When I asked Connie to come with us to the station to meet Mary I was so happy to think they were going to meet that I am afraid I made Mary believe that Connie had taken her place with me. You know, Captain, that it couldn't be so. Mary has been and always will be my dearest friend. I never dreamed she would become----" Marjorie hesitated. She could not bring herself to say "jealous." A smile of contempt curved Mary's lips. "Why don't you say 'jealous'? That's what you mean," she supplemented. "Very well, I will say it," rejoined Marjorie quietly. "I never dreamed Mary would become jealous of my friendship with Connie. Before long I noticed she was not quite her own dear self. Then she said something that made me see that I ought to tell her all about last year, but I didn't feel that it would be right until I had asked Connie's permission. I told Mary I would do that very thing, but at Connie's dance before I ever had a chance _she_ asked me not to say anything. She was still so hurt over that affair of my pin that she was afraid Mary might not like her so much if she knew. I didn't know what to do, then. If I were to say that Mary had asked me to tell her, well--I thought Connie might think her curious." Mary made a half-stifled exclamation of anger. Then she shrugged her shoulders with inimitable contempt and fixed her gaze on the opposite wall, assuming an air of boredom she was far from feeling. "Go on," commanded Mrs. Dean. Marjorie had hesitated at the interruption. "There isn't much more to tell," continued Marjorie bravely, "only that Mignon came back to school and met Mary and made mischief. You know the rest, Captain. You remember what I said to you the other day----" "Then you _had_ told your mother things about me, already!" burst forth Mary furiously. "Very well. You know what I said this morning. Just remember it." Marjorie gazed piteously at the angry girl. She could not believe that Mary intended to carry out her threat of the morning. "What did you say to Marjorie this morning?" inquired Mrs. Dean in cold displeasure. She was endeavoring to be impartial, but her clear mental vision pointed that it was not her daughter who was at fault. Mary's reply was flung defiantly forth. "I said I'd never speak to her again, and I won't! I won't!" If Mary had expected Mrs. Dean either to order her to reconsider her rash words or plead with her for reconciliation, she was doomed to disappointment. "We will take you at your word, Mary," came the calm answer. "Hereafter Marjorie must not speak to you unless you address her first. Of course, it will be unpleasant for all of us, but I can see nothing else to be done. You may write to your father if you choose. He will undoubtedly write me in return, and naturally I shall tell him the plain, unvarnished truth, together with several items of interest concerning Mignon La Salle which cannot be withheld from him. I shall not forbid you to continue your friendship with her. You are old enough now to know right from wrong. So long as she does nothing to break the conventions of society, I can condemn her only as a trouble-maker. My advice to you would be to drop her acquaintance. When Constance returns it would be well for you and Marjorie to invite her here and clear up this difficulty. However, that rests with you. So far as General and I are concerned, nothing is changed. We shall continue to the utmost to fulfill your father's trust in us. Now, once and for all, we will drop the subject. I must insist on no more bickering and quarreling in my house. That applies to both of you." "Please let me say just one thing more, Captain." Marjorie turned imploring eyes upon her mother. "If Mary will let me bring Connie here, when she comes back, I'm sure every cloud can be cleared away. Mary," her vibrant tones throbbed with tender sympathy, "won't you take back what you've said and believe in me?" For answer Mary Raymond rose from the table and left the room, obstinately trampling friendship and good will under her wayward feet. She had begun to keep her vow. CHAPTER XVII A STEP IN THE RIGHT DIRECTION The days following the final break in the friendship between the two sophomores were dark indeed for Marjorie. The tale of Mignon's stormy outbreak at her party had been retailed far and wide. It furnished material for much speculative gossip among the students of Sanford High School, and, as is always the case, grew out of proportion to truth with each subsequent recital. Although the five girls who had banded themselves together in the reform that met with such signal failure refused to commit themselves, nevertheless the purpose of their compact, revealed by Mignon's sarcastic tirade at the party, was no longer a secret. Regarding the conscientiousness of their motives, opinions were divided. Certain girls who had a wholesome respect for wealth, personified in Mignon, murmured among themselves that it was a shame she had been so badly treated, while under the Deans' roof. A few still bolder spirits went so far as to criticize Mrs. Dean for interfering in a school-girl's quarrel. They asserted that Mary Raymond had behaved wisely in openly defending her. Marjorie Dean was a great baby to allow her mother to run her affairs. There was no one quite so tiresome as a goody-goody. On the other hand, Marjorie possessed many firm friends who defended her, to the last word. For the time being discussion ran rife, for youth loves to take up arms in any cause that promises excitement, without stopping to consider dispassionately both sides of a story. After the party Mignon had lost no time in imparting to those who would listen to her that the Deans had treated their guest with the utmost cruelty and it was for her invalid mother's sake alone that Mary had resigned herself to remain under their roof and go on with her school. Her distortion of the truth grew with each recital and, as the autumn days came and went, she found she had succeeded in dividing the sophomore class far more effectually than she had divided it the preceding year, when in its freshman infancy. At the Hallowe'en dance which the Weston boys always gave to their fair Sanford schoolmates, dissension had reigned and broken forth in so many petty jealousies that the boyish hosts had been filled with gloomy disgust "at the way some of those girls acted," and vowed among themselves never to give another party. There were exceptions, of course, they had moodily agreed. Marjorie Dean and _her_ crowd were "all right" girls and "nothing was too good for them." As for some others, well--"they'd wait a long time before the fellows broke their necks to show 'em another good time." After a three weeks' absence Constance Stevens had returned to Sanford and school. To her Marjorie confided her sorrows. So distressed was the latter at the part she had unwittingly played in the jangle that she wrote Mary Raymond an earnest little note, which was read and contemptuously consigned to the waste-basket as unworthy of answer. Long were the talks Constance and Marjorie had on the sore subject of Mary's unreasonable stand, and many were the plans proposed by which they might soften her stony little heart, but none of them were carried out. They were voiced, only to be laid aside as futile. To Marjorie it was all a dreadful dream from which she forlornly hoped she might at any moment awaken. Three times a day she endured the torture of sitting opposite Mary at meals, of hearing her talk with her mother and father exactly as though she were not present. Mr. Dean had returned from his Western trip. His wife had immediately advised him of the painful situation, and, after due deliberation, he had decided that the only one who could alter it was Mary herself. "Let her alone," he counseled. "She has her father's disposition. You cannot drive her. You were right in leaving her to work out her own salvation. It is hard on Marjorie, poor child, but sooner or later Mary will wake up. When she does she will be a very humble young woman. I wouldn't have her father and mother know this for a good deal, and neither would she. You can rest assured of that. Still you had better keep an eye on her. I don't like her friendship with this La Salle girl. Mark me, some day she will turn on Mary, and then see what happens! I'll have a talk with my sore-hearted little Lieutenant and cheer her up, if I can." Mr. Dean kept his word, privately inviting his sober-eyed daughter to meet him at his office after school and go for a long ride with him in the crisp autumn air. Once they had left Sanford behind them, Marjorie, who understood the purpose of the little expedition, opened her sorrowing heart to her General. Sure of his sympathy, she spoke her inmost thoughts, while he listened, commented, asked questions and comforted, then repeated his prediction of a happy ending with a positiveness that aroused in her new hope of better days yet to come. Marjorie never forgot that ride. They tarried for dinner at a wayside inn, justly famous for its cheer, and drove home happily under the November stars. As she studied her lessons that night she experienced a rush of buoyant good fellowship toward the world in general which for many days had not been hers. Yes, she was certain now that the shadow would be lifted. Sooner or later she and Mary would step, hand-in-hand, into the clear sunlight of perfect understanding. She prayed that it might dawn for her soon. As is usually the case with persons innocent of blame, she took herself sharply to task for whatever part of the snarl she had helped to make. She did not know that the stubborn soul of her friend could be lifted to nobler things only by suffering; that Mary's moment of awakening was still far distant. But while Marjorie prayed wistfully for reconciliation, Mary Raymond sat in the next room, her straight brows puckered in a frown over a sheet of paper she held in her hand. On it was written: "DEAR MARY: "Be sure to come to the practice game to-morrow. I think you will find it interesting. If it is anything like the last one, several persons are going to be surprised when it is over. I won't see you after school to-day, as I am not coming back to the afternoon session. "MIGNON." Mary stared at the paper with slightly troubled eyes. Estranged from Marjorie, she and Mignon had become boon companions. Since that eventful morning when she had chosen her own course, she had discovered a number of things about the French girl not wholly to her liking. First of all she had expected that her latest sturdy defiance of the Deans would elicit the highest approbation on the part of Mignon. Greatly to her disappointment, her new friend, in whose behalf she had renounced so much, had received her bold announcement, "I'm done with Marjorie Dean forever," quite as a matter of course. She had merely shrugged her expressive shoulders and remarked, "I am glad you've come to your senses," without even inquiring into the details. Ignoring Mary's wrongs, which had now become an old story to her and therefore devoid of interest, she had launched forth into a lengthy discussion of her own plans, a subject of which she was never tired of talking. After that it did not take long for the foolish little lieutenant, who had so unfeelingly deserted her regiment, to see that Mignon was entirely self-centered. Other revelations soon followed. Mignon was agreeable as long as she could have her own way. She would not brook contradiction, and she snapped her fingers at advice. She was a law unto herself, and to be her chum meant to follow blindly and unquestioningly wherever she chose to lead. Mary tried to bring herself to believe that she had made a wise choice. It was an honor to be best friends with the richest girl in Sanford High School. She owned an electric runabout and wore expensive clothes. At home she was the moving power about which the houseful of servants meekly revolved. All this was very gratifying, to be sure, but deep in her heart Mary knew that she would rather spend one blessed hour of the old, carefree companionship with Marjorie than a year with this strange, elfish girl with whom she had cast her lot. But it was too late to retreat. She had burned her bridges behind her. She must abide by that which she had chosen. To give her due credit, she still believed that Mignon had been misjudged. She invested the French girl with a sense of honor which she had never possessed, and to this Mary pinned her faith. Perhaps if she had not been still sullenly incensed against Constance Stevens, the scales might have fallen from her eyes. But her resentment against the latter was exceeded only by Mignon's dislike for the gentle girl. Thus the common bond of hatred held them together. She had only to mention Constance's name and Mignon would rise to the bait with torrential anger. This in itself was an unfailing solace to Mary. To-night, however, her conscience troubled her. For the past three weeks basket ball had been the all-important topic of the hour with the students of Sanford High School. It was the usual custom for the instructor in gymnastics to hold basket ball try-outs among the aspiring players of the various classes. Assisted by several seniors, she culled the most skilful players to make the respective teams. But this year a new departure had been declared. Miss Randall was no longer instructor. She had resigned her position the previous June and passed on to other fields. Her successor, Miss Davis, had ideas of her own on the subject of basket ball and no sooner had she set foot in the gymnasium than she proceeded to put them into effect. Instead of picking one team from the freshman and sophomore classes, she selected two from each class. Then she organized a series of practice games to determine which of the two teams should represent their respective classes in the field of glory. Marjorie, Susan Atwell, Muriel Harding, a tall girl named Esther Lind, and Harriet Delaney made one of the two teams. Mignon La Salle, Elizabeth Meredith, Daisy Griggs, Louise Selden and Anne Easton, the latter four devoted supporters of Mignon La Salle, composed the other. There had been some little murmuring on the part of Marjorie's coterie of followers over the choice. Miss Davis was a close friend of Miss Merton and it was whispered that she had been posted beforehand in choosing the second team. Otherwise, how had it happened to be made up of Mignon's admiring satellites? Miss Davis had decreed that three practice games between the two sophomore teams should be played to decide their prowess. The winners should then be allowed to challenge the freshmen, who were being put through a similar contest, to play a great deciding game for athletic honors on the Saturday afternoon following Thanksgiving. She also undertook to make basket ball plans for the juniors and seniors, but these august persons declined to become enthusiastic over the movement and balked so vigorously at the first intimation of interference with their affairs that Miss Davis retired gracefully from their horizon and devoted her energy to the younger and more pliable pupils of the school. Not yet arrived at the dignity of the two upper classes, the sophomores and freshmen were still too devoted to the game itself to resent being managed. To find in Miss Davis an ardent devotee of basket ball was a distinct gain. Miss Archer, although she attended the games played between the various teams, was not, and had not been, wholly in favor of the sport since that memorable afternoon of the year before when Mignon had accused Ellen Seymour, now a junior, of purposely tripping her during a wild rush for the ball. Privately, Miss Archer considered basket ball rather a rough sport for girls and they knew that a repetition of last year's disturbance meant death to basket ball in Sanford High School. Two of the three practice games had been played by the sophomore teams. The squad of which Marjorie was captain had easily won the first. This had greatly incensed Captain Mignon and her players. A series of locker and corner confabs had followed. Mary, who did not aspire to basket ball honors, had been present at these talks. In the beginning the discussions had merely been devoted to the devising of signals and the various methods of scoring against their opponents. But gradually a new and sinister note had crept in. Mignon did not actually counsel her team to take unfair advantages, but she made many artful suggestions, backed up by a play of her speaking shoulders that conveyed volumes to her followers. It began to dawn upon Mary that these "clever tricks," as Mignon was wont to designate them, were not only flagrant dishonesties but dangerous means to the end, quite likely to result in physical harm. Her sense of honor was by no means dead, although companionship with Mignon had served to blunt it. She had remonstrated rather weakly with the latter on one occasion, as they walked toward home together after leaving the other girls, and had been ridiculed for her pains. She now stared at Mignon's irregular, disjointed writing, which in some curious way suggested the girl's elfish personality, with unhappy eyes. Just what did Mignon mean by intimating that several persons were "going to be surprised" when to-morrow's practice game was over? It sounded like a threat. No doubt it was. Suppose--some one were to be hurt through this tricky playing of Mignon's team! Suppose that some one were to be Marjorie! Mary shuddered. She remembered once reading in a newspaper an account of a basket-ball game in which a girl had been tripped by an opponent and had fallen. That girl had hurt her spine and the physicians had decreed that she would never walk again. Mary put her hands before her eyes as though to shut out the mental vision of Marjorie, lying white and moaning on the gymnasium floor, the victim of an unscrupulous adversary. What could she do? She could not warn Marjorie to be on her guard. She had now passed out of her former chum's friendship of her own free will. She could not go privately to Muriel or Susan or the other members of the team. No, indeed! Yet, somehow, she must convey a message of warning. Seized with a sudden impulse to carry out her resolve, she picked up a pencil and began to scrawl on a bit of paper in a curious, back-handed fashion, quite different from her neat Spencerian hand. Over and over she practiced this hand on a loosened sheet from her note-book. At length she rose and, going to her chiffonier, took from the top drawer a leather writing case. Tumbling its contents hastily over, she selected a sheet of pale gray paper. There was a single envelope to match. Long it had lain among her stationery, the last of a kind she had formerly used. She was sure Marjorie had never seen it, so if it fell into her hands she could not trace it to her. Once more she practiced the back-handed scrawl. Then, with an energy born of the remorse which was to serve as a continual penance for her folly, she wrote: "TO THE SOPHOMORE TEAM: "Be on your guard when you play to-morrow. If you are not very careful you may be sorry. Beware of 'tricks.' "ONE WHO KNOWS." Folding the warning, Mary slipped it into its envelope. But now the question again confronted her, "To whom shall I send it?" After a moment's frowning thought she decided upon Harriet Delaney as the recipient. But dared she trust it to the mail service? Suppose it were not delivered until afternoon? Then it would be too late. The Delaneys lived only two blocks further up the street. It was not yet ten o'clock. Mrs. Dean had gone to a lecture. Marjorie was in her room. If she met General she would merely state that she was going to post a letter. That would be entirely true. She would run all the way there and back. Once she had reached Harriet's house she must take her chance of being discovered. Drawing on her long blue coat, Mary crept noiselessly down the stairs. General was not in sight. The living room was in darkness. Only the hall lights burned. It took but an instant to softly open the door. Mary sped down the walk and on her errand of honor like a frightened fawn. Fortune favored her. No eye marked her cautious ascent of the Delaney's steps. She breathed a faint sigh of relief as she slipped the envelope into the letter slot in the middle of the front door. Then she turned and dashed for home like a pursued criminal. She had hardly gained the shelter of her room when she heard the front door open to the accompaniment of cheerful voices. Mr. Dean had evidently gone forth to bring his wife home from the lecture. Mary threw herself on the bed, her heart pounding with excitement and the energy of her brisk run. And though she was conscious only of having done a good deed for honor's sake, nevertheless she had faced about and taken a long step in the right direction. CHAPTER XVIII A MYSTERIOUS WARNING "Good-morning, Mrs. Dean. Is Marjorie here?" There was a hint of suppressed excitement in the clear voice that asked the question. "Good morning, Harriet. Come in." Mrs. Dean smiled pleasantly upon her caller, as she ushered her into the hall. "You are out early this morning. Yes, Marjorie is here. She hasn't come downstairs yet. She is a little inclined to linger in bed on Saturday morning." "I can't blame her," laughed Harriet. "I am fond of doing the same. But I've a special reason for being out early this morning. It's about basket ball. You may be sure of that." "Basket-ball is enjoying its usual popularity. I hear a great deal about it of late," returned Mrs. Dean. "Pardon me." Raising her voice, she called up the stairway, "Mar-jorie!" "Coming down on the jump, Captain!" answered Marjorie's voice. Verifying her words, she bounded lightly down the stairs, still in her dressing gown, her hair falling in long loose curls about her lovely face. "I knew who was here. I heard Harriet's voice." "Oh, Marjorie," burst forth Harriet, taking a quick step forward. "I--something awfully queer has happened!" She glanced nervously about her, but Mrs. Dean had already vanished through the doorway, leading into the dining room. She rarely intruded upon Marjorie's callers longer than to welcome them. "What is it, Harriet?" fell wonderingly from Marjorie's lips. Her friend's early call, coupled with her agitated manner, betokened something unusual. "Read this!" Harriet thrust a sheet of pale gray note paper into Marjorie's hand. "It's the strangest thing I ever heard of!" Marjorie swept the few scrawling lines of which the paper boasted with a keen, comprehensive glance. As its import dawned upon her, her brown eyes grew round with amazement. She re-read it twice. "Where did you receive it?" came her sharp question, as she continued to hold it in her hand. "I don't know when it came. Mother found it on the floor in the vestibule this morning. I was still in bed. She sent Nora, our maid, upstairs with it. You can imagine I didn't stop to finish my nap. I hurried and dressed, ate about three bites of breakfast and started for your house as fast as I could travel. I thought you ought to see it first. What do you make of it?" "I hardly know what to think." Marjorie's glance strayed from Harriet's perturbed face to the mysterious letter of warning. "Somehow, I don't believe it was written for a joke. Do you?" "No, I don't." Harriet shook her head positively. "I think it was intended for just what it is, a warning to be on our guard to-day. I'll tell you something, Marjorie. I never mentioned it before because--well--you know I've never liked Mignon La Salle since she nearly broke up basket ball at Sanford High last year, and I was afraid it might sound hateful on my part, but the girls of Mignon's squad are as tricky as can be. Twice, in the first practice game we played, I had my own troubles with them. Once Daisy Griggs nearly knocked me over. She pretended it was an accident, but it wasn't. Then, in the second half, Mignon poked me in the side with her elbow. We were bunched so close that not even the referee saw her. I almost had the ball, but my side hurt me so that I missed it entirely. Susan Atwell was awfully cross about something that day, too. I asked her what had happened, but she only muttered that she hoped she'd get through the game without being murdered. She wouldn't say another word, but you can guess from what I've told you that she must have had good reason for getting mad. Did she say anything to you?" "No; I wish she had." A flash of anger darkened Marjorie's delicate features. "The girls of Mignon's team have played fairly enough with me. They are rough, I'll say that, but, so far they've not overstepped the rules." "They know better than to try their tricks on _you_!" exclaimed Harriet hotly, "or on Muriel, either. Mignon's afraid of you because you are everything that's good and noble!" "Nonsense," Marjorie grew red at this flattering assertion. "It's true, just the same. She's afraid of Muriel, too, because she knows that Muriel would report her to Miss Archer in a minute. She thinks she can harass Esther and Susan and me and that we won't dare say anything for fear Miss Archer will make a fuss. She knows how crazy we are to play and that we'd stand a good deal of knocking about rather than spoil everything. It's different with Muriel. If _she_ got mad, she would walk off the floor and straight to Miss Archer's office, and those girls know it." Marjorie was silent. What Harriet said in regard to Muriel was undoubtedly true. Since the latter had turned from Mignon La Salle to her, she had been the soul of devotion. She had never forgiven Mignon for her cowardly conduct on the day of the class picnic. Muriel reverenced the heroic, and Mignon had disgraced herself forever in the eyes of this impulsive, hero-worshipping girl. "We had better show this letter to the other girls," Marjorie said with sudden decision. "Come upstairs to my house. I'll hurry and dress. Suppose you have a few more bites of breakfast with me. Your early morning rush must have made you hungry, and you ought to be well fed, if you expect to do valiant work on the field of battle this afternoon." "I _am_ hungry," conceded Harriet, "and I won't wait to be urged. I'd love to take breakfast with you." Then, lowering her voice, she asked: "Is Mary going to the game?" A faint wistfulness tinged Marjorie's voice as she said slowly. "I don't know. I haven't asked her. I suppose she is, though." Although it was whispered among Marjorie's close friends that the unpleasant scene at her party had left a yawning gap between the two friends, never, by so much as a word, had Marjorie intimated the true state of affairs to any one except Constance and Jerry Macy. Not even Susan Atwell and Muriel Harding knew just how matters stood. Harriet remembered this in the same moment of her question, and, flushing at her own inquisitiveness, remarked hurriedly, "Everyone in school is coming to see us play." "I'm glad of that." Marjorie had recovered again her usual cheerfulness, and answered heartily. She kept up a lively stream of talk as she completed her dressing. Tucking the letter inside her white silk blouse she led the way downstairs to the dining room. She was slightly relieved to see Mary's place at the table vacant. She guessed that the latter had heard Harriet's voice and had purposely remained in her room. She had not gone astray in this supposition. Mary _had_ heard Harriet speak and knew only too well what had brought her to the Deans' house so early that morning. It was nine o'clock when Marjorie and Harriet left the house to call on Susan Atwell, who lived nearest. Susan read the mysterious warning and was duly impressed with its significance. She was equally at sea as to the writer. It soon developed, however, that Harriet had been correct in assuming that Susan's wrath at the first game played against Mignon's team had been occasioned by their unfair tactics. She had been slyly tripped by Louise Selden, she asserted, and had fallen heavily. "All this is news to me," declared Marjorie, frowning her disapproval. "It must be stopped." "How?" inquired Susan almost sulkily. "If necessary, we must have an understanding with our opponents," was the quiet response. "That is easy enough to say," retorted Susan, "but if we were to accuse those girls of playing unfairly, they would simply laugh at us and call us babies." "I'd rather be laughed at and called a baby than allow such unfairness to go on." There was a ring of determination in Marjorie's reply. "Let us hurry on to Muriel and hear her views," suggested Harriet. "She lives next door to Esther Lind, so we can call them together and show them the letter." Once the team were together they spent an anxious session over the letter left by an unseen hand. Discussion ran rife. With her usual impetuosity Muriel announced her intention of taking Mignon to task before the game. "I'm not afraid of her," she boasted. "I'd rather not play than to feel that at any minute I might be laid up for repairs. I'm much obliged to the one who wrote this. He or she must have had a troubled conscience." Marjorie cast a startled glance at Muriel. Could it be possible that Mary had written the note? And yet something about the gray stationery had seemed familiar. She was not sure, but she thought she had at some time or other received a letter from her chum written on gray note paper. She resolved to look through Mary's letters to her as soon as she reached home. If Mary had, indeed, sent the warning, it was because she felt constrained to do the only honorable thing in her power. Association with Mignon had not entirely deadened her sense of right and wrong. A wave of love and longing brought the tears to Marjorie's eyes. She winked them back. She must not betray herself to her schoolmates. "Listen to me, girls," she began earnestly. "We mustn't say a word to our opponents before the game. I know I just said that we ought to have an understanding, and I meant it. But we had better wait until the end of the first half. If everything is all right, then so much the better. If it isn't--well--we shall at least have given them their chance." The players lingered in the Hardings' living room to discuss the coming contest, go over their signals and prepare themselves as effectually as possible for the fray. It was almost noon when Marjorie sped up the stairs to her room, there to put into execution the search she had decided to make. Mary's letters to her, tied with a bit of blue ribbon, reposed in a pretty lacquered box designed especially to hold them. Marjorie untied the ribbon and fingered them with a sigh of regret for the happy past. Most of them were written on white paper, a few were on pale blue, Mary's color. Almost at the bottom of the box was one gray envelope. The searcher drew a quick breath as she separated it from its fellows. Drawing the envelope from her blouse, she compared the two. They were identical. The mysterious warning was no longer a mystery to her. CHAPTER XIX A BOLD STAND FOR HONOR Thrilled with the discovery she had just made, Marjorie's first impulse was to seek admittance to the room so long denied her and confront Mary with the knowledge of her good deed. Remembering her General's injunction, "Let her alone," she refrained from yielding to that impulse. Her pride, too, asserted itself. It was not her place to make advances, all too likely to be rebuffed. No, she must keep her secret until time had done its perfect work. Reconciliation lay in Mary's hands, not hers. She decided, however, that the girls must never know who had been the author of the warning. So far as she was concerned, it must remain a mystery to them. "Where is Mary?" she inquired of her mother, as they sat down to luncheon a little later. Mary's place at the table was vacant. "Oh, she was invited to luncheon at her friend Mignon's home," returned Mrs. Dean, frowning slightly. "I suppose she is hoping that Mignon's team will win the game this afternoon." "I suppose so," returned Marjorie absently. Her mind was still on her discovery. Should she tell Captain about it? Perhaps it would be best. Briefly she acquainted her mother with what she had so recently found out. "I am not greatly surprised," was her mother's quiet comment. "Mary is too good a girl at heart to persist for long in this ridiculous stand she has taken. I am glad you said nothing of it to her. She must clear her own path of the briars she has sown. When she does, she will have learned a much-needed lesson." "But, Captain, it's dreadful to think of Christmas coming and Mary and--I--not--friends," faltered Marjorie. "I can't give her a present, and I'd love to. I suppose she doesn't care to give me one. We've always exchanged gifts ever since we were little tots." "Perhaps everything will be all right by that time. If it isn't--well, I have a plan--but I'm not going to say a word about it yet. Wait until nearer Christmas. Then we shall see." "Oh, Mother, if only you could think of something that would make us friends again, just for a day, I'd be so happy!" Marjorie clasped her hands in fervent appeal. "Wait and see," smiled Mrs. Dean enigmatically. As Marjorie set out for the high school that afternoon she hummed a jubilant snatch of song, due to the bright ray of sunlight that had pierced the gloom. She could afford to wait, if waiting would bring about the miracle that her mother had hinted might be wrought. She quite forgot basket ball until she reached the steps of the high school. There her mind reverted to the coming contest and she set her lips in silent determination. Her team must win to-day. She could not endure the thought that Mignon's team should be the one to play against the freshmen for sophomore honors. It was half past one o'clock when she entered the building and hurried to the dressing room at one side of the gymnasium, which was reserved for her squad. The first to arrive, she hastily prepared for the game. Meanwhile, she kept up an earnest thinking as to the course she had best pursue if Mignon and her supporters overstepped the bounds of fair play. But she could make up her mind to nothing. Mere contemplation of the subject was so disagreeable she hated to face it. While she pondered, Susan Atwell bustled in with Muriel Harding. The two remaining members of the team appeared soon after and a lively dressing and talking bee ensued. The sophomore team, which Marjorie captained, had chosen to wear their black basket ball regalia of the year before, but instead of the violet "F" that had ornamented their blouses, a scarlet "S" now replaced it. Black and scarlet were the sophomore colors. Should their team win, they could wear the same suits in the more important game to come. It was reported, however, that Mignon's team would shine resplendently in new suits of gray, ornamented with a rose-colored "S," which Mignon had provided at her own expense. If they won, she had promised her adherents the prettiest black and scarlet suits that could be obtained for the Thanksgiving Day contest. It is needless to say that they had also set their minds on carrying off the victor's palm. The game had been set for half past two o'clock, but long before that hour the gallery audience of Sanford School girls, with a fair sprinkling of boys from Weston High, had begun to arrive. Opinion was divided as to the prospective winners. Marjorie's team boasted of seasoned players, whose work on the field was well known. Mignon had not been so fortunate. Neither Daisy Griggs nor Anne Easton had played basket ball, previous to the opening of the season. But Mignon herself was counted a powerful adversary. The sympathy of the boys lay for the most part with Marjorie's squad. The Weston High lads were decidedly partial to the pretty, brown-eyed girl, whose modest, gracious ways had soon won their boyish approbation. Among the girls, however, Mignon could count on fairly strong support. As it was a practice game no special preparations in the way of songs or the wearing of contestants' colors had been observed. That would come later, on Thanksgiving Day. But excitement ran higher than usual in the audience, for it had been whispered about that it was to be "some game." "It's twenty-five after, children," informed Jerry Macy, who, with Irma Linton and Constance Stevens, had been accorded the privilege of invading the dressing room of Marjorie's team. Jerry had elected to become a safety deposit vault for a miscellaneous collection of pins, rings, neck chains and other simple jewelry dear to the heart of the school girl. Marjorie's bracelet watch adorned one plump wrist, while her own ornamented the other. "Look out, Jerry, or you'll make yourself cross-eyed trying to tell time by both those watches at once," giggled Susan Atwell. "Don't you believe it," was Jerry's good-humored retort. "They're both right to the minute." "Remember, girls, that we've just _got_ to win," counseled Marjorie fervently. "Keep your heads, and don't let a single thing get by you. We've practiced our signals until I'm sure you all know them perfectly." "We'll win fast enough, if certain persons play fairly," nodded Muriel Harding, "but look out for Mignon." A shrill blast from the referee's whistle followed Muriel's warning. It called them to action. The next instant five black and scarlet figures flashed forth onto the gymnasium floor to meet the gray-clad quintette that advanced from the opposite side of the room. United cheering from the gallery constituents of both teams rent the air. The contestants acknowledged the applause and ran to their stations. A significant silence fell as the referee poised the ball for the opening toss. Mignon La Salle's black eyes were fastened upon it with almost savage intensity. She leaped like a cat for it as it left the referee's hands. Again the screech of the whistle sounded. The game had begun. It was Marjorie who won the toss-up, however. She had been just a shade quicker than Mignon. Now she sent the ball flying toward Susan Atwell with a sure aim that made the onlookers gasp with admiration. Before the gray-clad girls could comprehend just how it had all happened, their opponents had scored. But this was only the beginning of things. Buoyant over their initial gain, the black and scarlet girls played as though inspired and soon the score stood 8 to 0 in their favor. Mignon La Salle was furious at the unexpected turn matters had taken. Her players, of whom she had expected wonders, were behaving like dummies. They had evidently forgotten her fierce exhortations to fight their way to victory regardless of expense. Well, she would soon show them their work. It did not take her long to put her resolve into execution. Joining a wild rush for the ball, which Harriet Delaney was valiantly trying to throw to basket, Mignon made good her word. Just what happened to her Harriet could not say. She knew only that a sly, tripping foot, unseen in the turmoil, sent her crashing to the floor, while the ball passed into the enemy's keeping, and they scored. Inspired by the sweetness of success, Mignon's "dummies" awoke and carried out the instructions, so often impressed upon them in secret by their unscrupulous leader, in a series of plays that for sly roughness had never been equalled by any other team that had elected to take the floor in that gymnasium. Yet so cleverly did they execute them that beyond an occasional foul they managed to elude the supposedly-watchful eyes of the referee, an upper class friend of the French girl's, and rapidly piled up their score. When the whistle called the end of the first half it found the score 10-8 in favor of the grays. It also found a quintet of enraged black-clad girls, nursing sundry bruises and vows of vengeance. "It's a burning shame!" cried Susan Atwell, the moment the teams had reached the safety of their dressing room. "I won't stand it. My ankle hurts so where some one kicked it that I thought I couldn't finish the first half. And poor Harriet! You must have taken an awful fall." "I did." Harriet Delaney was half crying. Muriel Harding's dark eyes were snapping with rage and injury. She was nursing a scraped elbow, which she had received in the melee. "I'm going straight to Miss Archer," she threatened. "I won't play the second half with such dishonorable girls. That Miss Dutton, the referee, must know something of the rough way they are playing. But _she_ is a friend of Mignon's. I don't care much if Miss Archer forbids basket ball for the rest of the season. I'd rather have it that way than be carried off the floor, a wreck. I'm going now to find her. She's up in her office. Jerry saw her just before she came to the gym. Didn't you, Jerry?" She turned to the stout girl, who had just entered. At the beginning of the game, Jerry, Constance and Irma had hurried to the gallery to watch it. Seasoned fans, they had observed the playing with critical eyes that saw much. The instant the first half was over, they had descended to their friends with precipitate haste. "Yes, she's in her office." Jerry had appeared in time to hear Muriel's tirade. "I think I _would_ go to her, if I were you, Muriel. Those girls are a disgrace to Sanford." "Let's all go," proposed Harriet Delaney, wrathfully. "I'd rather do that than stay and be murdered." Marjorie stood regarding her players with brooding eyes. She smiled faintly at Harriet's vehement utterance. "Girls," she said in a clear, resolute voice, "I told you this morning that if anything like this happened I'd go straight to Mignon and have an understanding. I'm going. I wish you to go with me, though. I have a reason for it." She walked determinedly to the door. "What are you going to say to them, Marjorie?" demanded Muriel. "You might as well save your breath. They'll only laugh at you. Miss Archer is the person to go to." "Not yet." Marjorie shook her head in gentle contradiction. "Please let me try my way, Muriel. If it doesn't work, then I promise you that I'll go with you to Miss Archer. Oh, yes. I wish you all to stand by me, but don't say a word unless I ask you to. Will you trust me?" She glanced wistfully at her little flock. "Go ahead," ordered Muriel shortly. "We'll stand by you. Won't we, girls?" Three heads nodded on emphatic assent. "All right. Come on. We haven't much time left. How many minutes, Jerry?" "Eight," replied the stout girl. "Can Irma and Connie and I come, too?" "No. I'd rather you wouldn't." "We'll forgive you. Now beat it." Although Jerry was earnestly endeavoring to eliminate slang from her vocabulary, she could not resist this forceful advice. "Suppose we go around through the corridor and use that side door nearest Mignon's dressing room," suggested Marjorie. "Then we won't be noticed. I'd rather we weren't. This is really private, you know." Four black and scarlet figures gloomily followed their leader. There were two doors to each dressing room. One led into the gymnasium, which was situated in a wing of the school, the other led into the corridor. Through the half-open door of Mignon's dressing room the sound of exultant voices reached the advancing squad. She stood with her back toward them. "We were a little too much for them." Mignon's boasting tones brought fresh resentment to her injured opponents. "I told you that----" "Miss La Salle!" Marjorie's stern voice caused the French girl to whirl about. "We heard what you were saying. We came over here to notify you that we do not intend to play the second half of the game with you unless you give us your promise to play fairly and without unnecessary roughness." Mignon's black eyes blazed. "What do you mean by stealing into our room and listening to our private conversation?" she demanded passionately. Marjorie faced the furious girl with calm, contemptuous eyes. Before their steady gaze, Mignon quailed a trifle. "We did not _steal_ into your room. If you had not been so busy boasting over your own unfairness you could have heard our approach. However, that doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is this. Come here, Muriel." She beckoned Muriel to her side. "Show Miss La Salle your elbow," she commanded. Muriel rolled back her loose sleeve and showed the raw, red spot on her soft, white arm. Mignon laughed sarcastically and shrugged her scorn of the injury. "You can't be a baby and play basket ball," she jeered. "Neither can you behave like a savage and expect it to pass unnoticed--by at least a few persons," retorted Marjorie. She was fighting hard to control the rush of temper which this heartless girl always brought to the surface. "Harriet was badly shaken up, because someone purposely tripped her. Some one else kicked Susan on the ankle. It is too much. We won't endure it. Now I give you fair warning, if any girl of my squad is handled roughly during the next half she intends to call a halt in the game. The rest of us will then leave the floor and go to Miss Archer's office. Think it over. That's all." Marjorie turned on her heel. Without so much as a glance toward the discomfited girls of Mignon's team, she walked from the room, followed by her silently obedient train. "Well, _what_ do you think of that?" gasped Louise Selden. Nevertheless, she had had the grace to turn very red during Marjorie's stern arraignment. Mignon turned savagely upon the abashed members of her squad. "If you pay any attention to _her_, you are all _babies_," she hissed. "You are to play the second half just as I told you. Don't let that priggish Dean girl scare you. _She_ wouldn't go to Miss Archer. She knows better than that." "You're wrong, Mignon. She meant every word she said." Daisy Griggs' ruddy face had grown suddenly pale. "_I'm_ going to be pretty careful how I play the rest of this game." "So am I," echoed Elizabeth Meredith. "If Miss Dean went to Miss Archer it would raise a regular riot." Anne Easton and Louise Selden nodded in solemn agreement with Daisy's bold stand. In her heart each of them stood convicted of unworthiness. The righteous gleam of Marjorie's clear eyes had made them feel most uncomfortable. "You're cowards, every one of you," burst forth Mignon, her dark face distorted with rage, "and if----" "T-r-r-ill!" The referee's whistle was summoning them to the game. Mignon ran to her station resolved on vengeance. Four girls followed her to their places divided between two fears. Awe of Miss Archer and the disaster that would surely overtake them if they persisted in their former tactics acted as a spur to their sleeping consciences. Fear of Mignon became a secondary emotion. They vowed within themselves to play fairly and they kept their vow. The second half of the game opened very well for Marjorie's team. She passed the ball to Susan Atwell, who scored, thereby winning a salvo of hearty applause from the gallery. The watchful spectators had not been blind to the unfair methods of the grays. Two goals followed in their favor. So far the grays had done nothing. Unnerved by Marjorie's just censure and the fear of exposure, they paid little heed to Mignon's glowering glances and frantic signals. They played in a half-hearted, diffident fashion, quite the opposite of their whirlwind sweep during the first half. The black and scarlet girls soon brought the score up to 14 to 10 in their favor, and from that moment on had things decidedly their own way. Time after time Mignon cut in desperately for the basket to receive a pass, but on each occasion her team-mates made a wild throw. Marjorie's team, however, played with perfect unity, working in several successful signal plays. Try as she might, the French girl could do nothing to arouse her players. Their passing became so delinquent that once or twice it brought derisive groans from the male spectators in the gallery. As the second half neared its end, Muriel Harding made a sensational throw to basket that aroused the gallery to wild enthusiasm. It also served to take the faint remaining spirit from the disheartened grays, and the game wound up with a score of 30 to 12 in favor of the black and scarlet girls. They had won a complete and sweeping victory over their unworthy opponents. It was a proud moment for Marjorie Dean, as she stood surrounded by a flock of jubilant boys and girls, who had rent the gallery air with appreciative howls, then hustled from their places aloft to offer their congratulations to the victors. "I'm so glad you won, Marjorie," cried Ellen Seymour. Lowering her voice, she added: "I could see a few things. I'm not the only one. But what happened to them? They actually played fairly in the second half--all except Mignon. But she couldn't do much by herself." Marjorie smiled faintly. "We must have discouraged them, I suppose. We never before worked together so well as we played in that second half. Wasn't that a wonderful throw to basket that Muriel made?" "Splendid," agreed Ellen warmly. "I predict an easy victory for the sophomores on Thanksgiving Day." Marjorie breathed relief. "Are you coming to see us play, or are you going away for Thanksgiving?" was her tactful question. Ellen plunged into a voluble recital of her Thanksgiving plans, quite forgetting her curiosity over the sudden change of tactics of the defeated grays. Several girls joined in the conversation, and thus the talk drifted away from the subject Marjorie wished most to avoid. In Mignon's dressing room, however, a veritable tornado had burst. Four sullen, gray-clad girls bowed their heads before the storm of passionate reproaches hurled upon them by their irate leader. They were seeing and hearing Mignon at her worst, and they did not relish it. It may be set down to their credit that not one of them took the trouble to answer her. Beyond a mute exchange of meaning glances, they ignored her scorn, slipping away like shadows when they had changed their basket ball suits for street apparel. Outside the high school they congregated and made solemn agreement that now and forever they were "through" with Mignon. Several friends of the latter, including Miss Dutton, the referee, dropped into the dressing room, and to them Mignon continued her tirade. But the face of one hitherto ardent supporter was missing. Mary Raymond had fled from the school the moment the game was ended. For once she had seen too much of Mignon. She had tried to force herself to believe that she was sorry for the latter's deserved defeat, but, in reality, she was glad that Marjorie's team had won. She determined to go home and wait for her chum. She would confess that she was sorry for the past and ask Marjorie to forgive her. Putting her determination into swift action, she left the high school behind her almost at a run. Once she had reached home she paused only to hang her wraps on the hall rack, then posted herself in the living-room window, an anxious little figure. When Marjorie came she would open the hall door for her. She would say, "I surrender, Lieutenant. Please forgive me." She smiled a trifle sadly to herself in anticipation of the forgiving arms that Marjorie would extend to her. She was not sure she merited forgiveness. But when at last Marjorie came in sight of the gate, Mary vented an exclamation of pain and anger. Marjorie was not alone. Up the walk she loitered, arm-in-arm with Constance Stevens. The old jealousy, forgotten in Marjorie's hour of triumph, swept Mary like a blighting wind. She turned and fled from the hated sight that met her eyes, a deserter to her good intentions. CHAPTER XX HOISTING THE FLAG OF TRUCE Thanksgiving Day walked in amid a flurry of snow, accompanied by a boisterous wind, which roared a bleak reminiscence of that first Thanksgiving Day on a storm rock-bound coast, when a few faithful souls had braved his fury and gone forth to give thanks for life and liberty. Despite his challenging roar, the boys of Weston High School played their usual game of football against a neighboring eleven and emerged from the field of conquest, battered and victorious, to rest in the proud bosoms of their families and devour much turkey. In the afternoon, the long-talked-of game of basket ball came off between the sophomores and the freshmen. It was an occasion of energetic color-flaunting, in which black and scarlet banners predominated. It seemed as though almost every one in Sanford High School, with the exception of the freshmen themselves, was devoted heart and soul to the sophomores. The rumor of the unfair treatment they had received in the deciding practice game had been noised abroad, and Marjorie and her team mates were in a fair way to be lionized. A packed gallery, much jubilant singing and frantic applause of every move they made, spurred the black and scarlet girls to doughty deeds, and, although it was a hard-fought battle, in which the freshmen played for dear life, the sophomores won. Altogether, it was a day long to be remembered, and Marjorie lived it for all that lay within her energetic young body and mind. Only the one flaw that marred its perfection and left her sober-eyed and retrospective when the eventful holiday was ended. She felt that one word of commendation from Mary would have been worth more than all the praise she had received from admiring friends. But Mary was as stony and implacable as ever, giving no sign of the surrender which Constance Stevens had unconsciously nipped in the bud. Just how Mary spent that particular Thanksgiving Day Marjorie did not learn until long afterward. She knew only that Mary had left the house directly after dinner, merely stating that she intended making several calls, and was seen no more until ten o'clock that night, when she flitted into the house like a ghost and vanished up the stairs to her own room. After Thanksgiving, basket ball echoes died out in the growing murmur of coming Christmas joys, and like every young girl, Marjorie grew impatient and enthusiastic over her holiday plans. She did not chatter them as freely to General and Captain when at table as had been her custom each year in the happy days when only they three had been together. As her formerly lovable self, Marjorie would have felt no reserve in Mary's presence, but this strange, new Mary with her white, immobile face and indifferent eyes, chilled her and killed her desire to exchange the usual gay badinage with her General, which had always made meal-time a merry occasion. "I don't like Mary's effect on our little girl, Margaret. Of late, Marjorie is as solemn as a judge," remarked Mr. Dean one evening as he lingered at the dinner table after Mary and Marjorie had excused themselves and gone upstairs on the plea of studying to-morrow's lessons. "I counseled Marjorie, the night I took her to Devon Inn to dinner, to let matters work out in their own way. That was some time ago. Perhaps I'd better take a hand and see what I can do toward ending this internal war. Christmas will soon be here. We can't have our Day of Days spoiled by one youngster's perversity." "I have thought of that, too," returned Mrs. Dean, smiling, "and I have a plan. I shall need your help to carry it out, though." When she had finished the laying out of her clever scheme for a congenial Christmas all around, Mr. Dean threw back his head in a hearty laugh. "It's decidedly ingenious, and in keeping," was his tribute. "I'll help you put it through, with pleasure. But after Christmas----" He paused, his laughing eyes growing grave. "After Christmas our services as peace advocates may not be needed," supplemented Mrs. Dean. "At least, I hope they may not. I am still of the opinion, however, that Mary must be left to repent of her own folly. If she is coaxed and wheedled into good humor she will never realize how badly she has behaved." "I suppose that is so. But, naturally, I am more interested in healing our poor little soldier's hurts than in trying to bring a certain stubborn young person to her senses. We will try out our idea. It will insure one satisfactory day, I hope. Unless I prove a poor diplomat." Although Marjorie's blithe voice was too frequently stilled in Mary's presence, she was uniformly sunny when she and her Captain were alone together. Now fairly familiar with Sanford, Mrs. Dean had made it a part of her daily life to seek and assist certain families among the poor of the little northern city. Now that Christmas was so near she was making a special effort to gladden the hearts of those to whom life had seemed to grudge even daily bread. She had contrived wisely to interest Marjorie in this charitable work, with the idea of taking her mind from the bitter disappointment Mary's change of heart had brought her, and had been touched and gratified at the unselfish eagerness with which Marjorie had taken up the work. The latter had aroused Jerry Macy's, as well as Constance Stevens', interest in planning a merry Christmas for the poor of Sanford. Constance was particularly desirous of helping. She would never forget the previous Christmas Eve, when, laden with good will and be-ribboned offerings, Marjorie had smilingly appeared at the little gray house where Poverty reigned supreme and helped her transform Charlie's rickety express wagon into a veritable fairy couch, piled high with the precious tokens of unselfish love. She felt that the only way in which she might show her lasting gratitude for the gifts of that snowy Christmas Eve was to share her blessings with others who were in need, and she quickly became Marjorie's most faithful servitor. Good-natured Jerry was also keen to bestow her time and world goods in the Christmas cause, and almost every afternoon when school was over the three girls conspired together in the cause of happiness. Marjorie unearthed a trunk of her childish toys from an obscure corner of the garret, and a great mending and refurbishing movement ensued. Jerry, not to be outdone, canvassed among her friends for suitable gifts to lay at the shrine of Christmas, which rose to life eternal when three wise men placed their reverent offerings at the feet of a Holy Child long centuries before. While Constance Stevens drew largely on a sum of money, which her indulgent aunt had placed in the bank to her credit and enjoyed to the full the blessedness of giving. "Maybe we haven't been busy little helpers, though," declared Jerry Macy one blustering afternoon, as the three girls sat in the Deans' living room, surrounded by ribbon-bound packages of all shapes and sizes. "Truly, I never had such a good time before in all my life." "That's just the way I feel," nodded Constance, as she tied an astounding bow of red ribazine about an oblong package that suggested a doll, and consulted a fat note book, lying wide spread on the library table, for the address of the prospective possessor. "Marjorie, will you ever forget how happy Charlie was last year?" "Dear little Charlie!" Marjorie's lips smiled tender reminiscence of the tiny boy's jubilation over his wonderful discovery that Santa Claus had not forgotten him. "His Christmas will be a merry one this year, even to the good, strong leg that he hoped Santa would bring him." "He can't possibly be any happier than he was _last_ Christmas morning," was Constance's soft reply. "And it was all through you, Marjorie." "Oh, I wasn't the only one. Your father and you and Uncle John gave him things, and Delia popped the corn for his tree, and, don't you remember, Laurie Armitage brought you the tree and the holly and ground pine?" Constance flushed slightly at the mention of Lawrence Armitage. A sincere boy and girl friendship had sprung up between them that promised later to ripen into perfect love. "That reminds me," broke in Jerry bluntly. "I've something to tell you, girls. Hal told me. He's my most reliable source of information when it comes to news of Weston High. Laurie is writing an operetta. He's going to call it 'The Rebellious Princess,' and he would like to give a performance of it in the spring. There's to be a big chorus and Professor Harmon is going to pick a cast from the boys and girls of Weston and Sanford High Schools." "Who is Professor Harmon?" asked Constance curiously. "Oh, he's the musical director at Weston High," answered Jerry offhandedly. "He looks after the singing and glee clubs there, just as Miss Walters does at Sanford High. You can sing, Connie, and Laurie knows it. I wouldn't be surprised if you'd get the leading part." "I'd be more surprised if I did," laughed Constance, "considering that I don't even know Professor Harmon when I see him." "Laurie will introduce you to him, I guess," predicted Jerry confidently. "Hal said something about a try-out of voices. I can't remember what it was. I'll ask him when I go home." "I don't believe I could even sing in a chorus," laughed Marjorie. "I haven't a strong voice." "You can look pretty, though, and _that_ counts," was Jerry's emphatic consolation. "That's more than I can do. I can't see myself shine, even in a chorus. I don't sing. I shout, and then I'm always getting off the key," she ended gloomily. Constance and Marjorie giggled at Jerry's funny description of her vocal powers. The stout girl's brief gloom vanished in a broad grin. "Two more days and Christmas will be here!" exclaimed Marjorie with a joyous little skip, which caused a pile of packages on the floor near her to tumble in all directions. "Easy there!" warned Jerry. Secretly she was delighted at her friend's lightsome mood. Marjorie had been altogether too serious of late. Privately, she had frequently wished that Mary Raymond had never set foot in Sanford. The early December dusk had fallen when, the last package wrapped, Constance and Jerry said good-bye to Marjorie. "I'll be over bright and early Christmas morning," reminded Constance. "Remember, you are coming to Gray Gables on Christmas night, Marjorie. Charlie made me promise for you ahead of time. I'd love to have you come, too, Jerry." "Can't do it. Thank you just the same, but the Macys far and near are going to hold forth at our house and poor little Jerry will have to stay at home and do the agreeable hostess act," declared Jerry, looking comically rueful. "I'll surely be there, Connie. I'll bring my offerings with me. Don't you forget that you are due at the Deans' residence on Christmas morning. Bring Charlie with you." After her friends had gone, Marjorie went into the living room to speculate for the hundredth time on the subject of Mary's present. It was a beautiful little neckchain of tiny, square, gold links, similar to one her Captain had given her on her last birthday. Mary had frequently admired it in times past and for months Marjorie had saved a portion from her allowance with which to buy it. She had a theory that a gift to one's dearest friends should entail self-sacrifice on the part of the giver. Mary's changed attitude toward her had not counted. She was still resolved upon giving her the chain. But how was she to do it? And suppose when she offered it Mary were to refuse it? The entrance of her mother broke in upon her unhappy speculations. "I'm glad you came, Captain," she said. "I've been trying to think how I had best give Mary her present." "Then don't worry about it any longer," comforted Mrs. Dean. Stepping over to the low chair in which Marjorie sat she passed her arm about her troubled daughter and drew her close. "That is a part of my plan. Wait until Christmas morning and you will know." "Tell me now," coaxed Marjorie, snuggling comfortably into the hollow of the protecting arm. "That would be strictly against orders," came the laughing response. "Have patience, Lieutenant." "All right, I will." Sturdily dismissing her curiosity, Marjorie began a detailed account of the afternoon's labor, which lasted until Mr. Dean came rollicking in and engaged Marjorie in a rough-and-tumble romp that left her flushed and laughing. Despite her many errands of good will and charity, the next two days dragged interminably. On Christmas Eve Mr. Dean took his family and Mary to the theatre to see a play that had had a long, successful run in New York City the previous season and was now doomed to the road. After the play they stopped at Sargent's for a late supper. Under Mr. Dean's genial influence Mary thawed a trifle and even went so far as to address Marjorie several times, to the latter's utter amazement. This was in reality the beginning of Mrs. Dean's carefully laid plan. Marjorie guessed as much and wondered hopefully as to what might happen next. Nothing special occurred that evening, however, except that Mary bade her a curt "good night." But Marjorie hugged even that short utterance to her heart and went to sleep in a buoyantly hopeful state of mind. She was awakened the next morning by a military tattoo, rapped on her door by energetic fingers. "Report to the living room for duty," commanded a purposely gruff voice, which she was not slow to recognize. "Merry Christmas, General," she called. "Lieutenant Dean will report in the living room in about three minutes." Hopping out of bed she reached for her bath robe. Then the sound of tapping fingers again came to her ears. This time they were on Mary's door. Hastily drawing on stockings and bed-room slippers, she sped from her room and down the stairs. Her father stood stiffly at the foot of the stairway in his most general-like manner. She saluted and came to attention. A moment or two of waiting followed, then Mary appeared at the head of the stairs. She began to descend slowly, but Mr. Dean called out, "No lagging in the line," and long obedience to orders served to make her quicken her pace. "Twos right, march," ordered Mr. Dean, motioning toward the living room. Wonderingly the company of two obeyed. Then two pairs of eyes were fastened upon a curious object that stood upright in the middle of the living-room table. It was a good-sized flag of pure white. "Form ranks!" came the order. Two girlish figures lined up, side by side. "Salute the Flag of Truce," commanded the wily General. Mary gave an audible gasp of sheer amazement. Marjorie laughed outright. "Silence in the ranks," bellowed the stern commandant. "Pay strict attention to what I am about to say. In time of war it sometimes becomes necessary to hoist a flag of truce. This means a suspense of hostilities. The flag of truce is hoisted in this house for all day. It will remain so until twelve o'clock to-night. Respect it. Now break ranks and we'll enjoy our Christmas presents. I hope my army hasn't forgotten its worthy General!" "Mary," Marjorie's voice trembled. Tears blurred her brown eyes. "It's Christmas morning. Will you kiss me?" Mary was possessed with a contrary desire to turn and rush upstairs. She felt dimly that to kiss Marjorie was to declare peace against her will. But her better nature whispered to her not to ruin the peace of Yuletide. She would respect the flag of truce for one day. Then she could give Marjorie the ring she had bought for her before coming to Sanford and laid away for Christmas. Afterward she would show her that she had softened merely for the time being. She returned Marjorie's affectionate kiss rather coolly. Nevertheless, the ice was broken. Five minutes later she found herself running upstairs for her presents for the Deans in an almost happy mood, and she joined in the present giving with a heartiness that was far from forced. Once she had ceased to resist Marjorie's winning advances she was completely drawn into the divine spirit of the occasion, and she allowed herself to drift once more into the dear channel of bygone friendship. Marjorie fairly bubbled over with exuberant happiness. The unbelievable had come to pass. She and Mary were once more chums. She longed to tell Mary all that was in her heart, but refrained. For to-day it was better to live on the surface of things. Later there would be plenty of time for confidences. After breakfast she mentioned rather timidly that she expected a call from Constance and little Charlie. Mary received the statement with an apparent docility that brought welcome relief to Marjorie. She was not sure of her chum on this one point. When Constance and Charlie arrived at a little after ten o'clock, burdened with gaily decked bundles, Marjorie's fears were set at rest. To be sure, Mary showed no enthusiasm over Constance, but Charlie was a different matter. She had conceived a strange, deep love for the quaint little boy and spared no pains to entertain him. While she was putting Marjorie's beautiful angora cat, Ruffle, through a series of cunning little tricks, which he performed with sleepy indolence, Marjorie managed to say to Constance, "I can't come to see you to-night, Connie. I'll explain some day soon. You understand." Constance nodded wisely. Nothing could have induced her to mar the reconciliation which had evidently taken place. "Come when you can," she murmured. Generously leaving herself out of the question, she purposely shortened her stay, although Charlie pleaded to remain. "I'll come again soon," he assured Mary, as he was being towed off by his sister's determined hand. "I like you almost as well as Connie." Marjorie's glorious day was over all too soon. She hovered about Mary with a friendly solicitude that could not be denied. The latter graciously allowed her the privilege, but behind her pleasant manner there was a hint of reserve, which did not dawn upon Marjorie until late that evening. At first she reproached herself for even imagining it, but as bedtime approached the conviction grew that when twelve o'clock came Mary would again resume her hostile attitude. "It is time taps was sounded," reminded Mr. Dean, looking up from his book, as the grandfather's clock in the living room pointed half past eleven. Mrs. Dean sat placidly reading a periodical. "We'll obey you, General, as soon as we've finished our game." Marjorie looked up from the backgammon board at which she and Mary were seated. It had always been a favorite game with them and Marjorie had proposed playing to relieve the curious sensation of apprehension that was gradually settling down upon her. It was five minutes to twelve when she put the board away. Mary had strolled to the living-room door. Pausing for an instant she said, as though reciting a lesson, "I've had a lovely day. Thank you all for my presents." Without waiting for replies, she turned and mounted the stairs. The sound of a door, closed with certain decision, floated down to the three in the living room. Marjorie walked slowly to the table, and drawing the flag of truce from its improvised standard, handed it to her father. "I knew it would end like that, General," she commented sadly. "I felt it coming all evening. Just the same it was a splendid plan, and I thank you for it." She lingered lovingly to kiss her father and mother good night, then marched to her room with a brave face. But as she passed the door that had once more been closed against her she vowed within herself that from this moment forth she would cease to mourn for the "friendship" of a girl who was so heartless as Mary Raymond. CHAPTER XXI THE LAST STRAW It had been Mary Raymond's firm intention when she closed her door that Christmas night to resume hostilities the next day. But when she met Marjorie at breakfast the following morning, her desire for continued warfare had vanished. Some tense chord within her stubborn soul had snapped. Looking back on yesterday she realized that it had not been worth while. Now her proud spirit cried for peace. She wished she had not been so ready to doubt her chum's loyalty and with a curious revulsion of feeling she began to long for a reinstatement into her affections. But her perfunctory "good night" had cost her more than she dreamed. It had awakened a tardy resentment in Marjorie's hitherto forgiving heart that she could not readily efface. Outwardly Marjorie seemed the same. She returned Mary's greeting pleasantly enough, showing nothing of the surprise it had given her. Mary was not destined to learn for some time to come that a reaction had taken place. Mr. and Mrs. Dean were relieved to find that Marjorie's prediction was not verified. To all appearances the two girls had definitely resumed their old, friendly footing. Only Marjorie knew differently, but she did not intend then or on any future occasion to betray herself, even to her Captain. As the winter days glided swiftly along the road to Spring, it was circulated about among Marjorie's intimate friends that she and Mary had settled their differences. Keen-eyed Jerry Macy, however, had seen deeper than her classmates. Although Mary now occasionally walked home with them or accompanied them to Sargent's, spending considerably less time with Mignon, Jerry was quick to feel rather than note the slight reserve Marjorie exhibited toward Mary. "Don't you believe they've made up," she declared to Irma Linton. "Mary may think they have, but they haven't. I guess Marjorie's grown tired of Mary's nonsense. I'm glad of it. She's a silly little goose, I mean Mary, and she's lost more than she thinks." It was on a sunny afternoon in late March, however, before Mary was rudely jolted into the same conclusion. Mignon La Salle was also possessed of "the seeing eye." Mary was no longer her devoted satellite, although she still kept up an indifferent kind of friendship with the French girl. Mignon soon divined the cause of her lagging allegiance. "You are a little idiot, Mary Raymond, to follow Marjorie Dean about as you do. She doesn't care a snap for you. She may treat you nicely, but that's as far as it goes. She cares more for that miserable Stevens girl in a minute than she cares for _you_ in a whole year. Why can't you let her alone and chum with some one who appreciates you." "I don't follow Marjorie about," contested Mary hotly. "I never go anywhere with her unless she asks me." "She merely does that through courtesy," shrugged Mignon. "I suppose she thinks it her duty. She's a prig and I despise her." Mary's face flamed at the obnoxious word "duty." In a flash her mind reviewed all that had passed since that memorable Christmas day. Her cheeks grew hotter at the brutal truth of Mignon's words. "If you think I care anything about her, you have made a mistake," she retorted, stung to untruthfulness by the taunt. "I'll soon prove to you that I don't." "Stop running around with her and her wonderful friends and I'll believe you," sneered Mignon. "I will, if only to show you that I don't care," flung back the angry girl. "That's the way to talk," approved Mignon. She had kept but few friends among the sophomores since that fatal practice game and she did not intend to lose Mary from her diminished circle. Besides, she was certain that the Deans, one and all, did not approve of Mary's friendship with her and it accorded her supreme pleasure to annoy them. "I'm going to give a fancy dress party two weeks from Friday night," she went on, with an abrupt change of subject. "Nearly all the girls I'm intending to invite are juniors and seniors. We'll have a glorious time. I don't have to strip our living room of furniture for a place to dance. I have a _real_ ballroom in my home. I'll send you an invitation in a day or two." Surely enough, three days after Mignon's announcement the invitation was duly delivered to Mary through the mail. She read it listlessly. She was not keen about attending the party. Marjorie merely smiled when Mary showed her the invitation and briefly announced her intention of going. She graciously offered the Snow White costume she had worn at the masquerade of the previous Spring. Mary declined it coldly. She had not forgotten Mignon's taunts. Since then she had kept strictly to herself, steadily refusing Marjorie's polite invitations to accompany her here and there. Earlier in the year Marjorie would have grieved in secret over this frostiness, but Marjorie had hardened her gentle heart and now fancied that Mary's movements were of small concern to her. And so the wall of misunderstanding towered higher and higher. Mrs. Dean willingly helped Mary plan a cunning little girl costume, and when on the night of the party she entered the living room in obedience to her Captain's call, "Come here and let us see how you look, Mary," a lump rose in Marjorie's throat. In her short, white, embroidered frock, with its Dutch neck and wide, blue ribbon sash, she looked precisely like the pretty child that she had been when she and Marjorie played "house" together in the Raymonds' backyard. The blue silk stockings and heelless, blue kid slippers emphasized the babyish effect of her costume, and Marjorie had hard work to keep back her tears. But Mary could not read that sudden rush of emotion in the calm, uncritical face which Marjorie turned to her. Mignon had sent her runabout for Mary and it was a trifle after eight o'clock when the La Salle's chauffeur drove up the wide, handsome driveway to Mignon's home. It was an unusually mild evening in April and as they neared the port-cochere, a slim figure in gypsy dress ran down the steps. "I've been watching for you," called Mignon, as Mary stepped from the runabout. "The musicians are here and so are most of the girls. I can't imagine why the boys don't come. Only six have appeared, so far. We've had one dance," she went on crossly. "Some of the girls had to dance together. Wasn't that horrid? Take off your cloak and let me see your costume. It's sweet." The chauffeur had disappeared and the two girls stood for an instant at the foot of the steps. Advancing suddenly out of the darkness marched a sturdy little figure. Under its arm was thrust a diminutive violin case. "How do you do?" it greeted with a quaint, bobbing bow. "I comed to play in the band." With a quick exclamation of surprise, Mary Raymond darted toward the tiny youngster. "Charlie Stevens!" she gasped. "What are you doing away over here after dark?" "I comed to play in the band," repeated Charlie with a jubilant wave of his violin case that almost sent it hurtling from his baby fingers. "Uncle John comed and so I comed, too." Mary knelt on the driveway and gathered him into her round, young arms. "Listen to Mary, dear little boy. Did Charlie run away?" She had heard from Marjorie of Charlie's frequent attempts to sally forth to conquer the world with his violin. The child's sensitive face clouded. His lip quivered. "Connie says I have to always tell the truth," he wailed. "I runned away because I have to play in the big band. A man comed to see Uncle John this afternoon. I heard him talk about the band. Uncle John comed to play in it, so I comed, too. Only he didn't see me. I kept behind him till he got to the gate. Then after a while I comed, too!" Mignon La Salle stood watching the wailing aspirant for the "big band" with frowning eyes. "I suppose this ridiculous child belongs to those Stevens," she sneered. "Ain't a 'diclus child," contradicted Charlie with dignity. "I'm a mesishun. I can play the fiddle. I like Mary. I don't like you." "I have heard that this Stevens boy was an idiot. Now I believe it," snapped Mignon. "I suppose I'll have to take him in until some one comes after him. I didn't know his uncle was to be one of the musicians. If I had, I would have made the leader hire some other man. I sha'n't tell his uncle that he's here. He's hired to play for my dance, not to waste his time taking a simpleton home. It's a perfect nuisance." Her long hoop ear-rings swung and shook with the vehemence of her displeasure. Mary Raymond's face changed from red to white as she listened to the French girl's callous speech. A lover of all children, she could not endure the slight put upon this tiny boy. She straightened up with an alacrity that nearly threw Charlie off his balance. Her blue eyes flashed with righteous wrath. "How can you be so harsh with this cunning boy?" she cried. "He isn't an idiot or a simpleton! He's as bright as--as----" (courtesy conquered) "as any child of his age. Why, he's only a baby. He's not going into your house, either, to wait for his family to find him. He's going home now, and I'm going to take him." "You can't go very far in that short dress and those thin slippers," mocked Mignon. "Don't be a silly. Bring him in, I say, and hurry. I must go back to my guests." "Please go to them," Mary spoke in icily dignified tones. "As for me, I have my cloak." She held forth one bare arm on which swung her long, gray evening cape. "I should never forgive myself if I neglected this little tot. I'm sorry to be so rude, but I can't help it. I'm going now. Good night. Come, Charlie." Wrapping her cloak about her, Mary gently disengaged the violin case from Charlie's clutch, tucked it under one arm and took firm hold of the youngster's hand. Charlie was still regarding Mignon's swaying ear-rings with childish fascination. "You are a orful naughty girl," he pouted reproachfully. "If you leave me now to take that impudent child home, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Mignon, her black eyes snapping. "Very well. You may do as you please," was Mary's laconic response over her shoulder. She had already started down the driveway with her venturesome charge. The little boy had been momentarily awed into silence at Mignon's menacing features. "She's a cross girl," he observed calmly, as he marched along beside Mary, "but we don't care, do we?" "_No_, we _don't_," came emphatically from Mary's lips. And she meant it. CHAPTER XXII FACE TO FACE WITH HERSELF Although Mary Raymond had deliberately snapped the chain that bound her to Mignon La Salle, she now found herself confronted by a far more difficult task. How was she to return little Charlie to Gray Gables without meeting Constance Stevens or another member of her family? It was not yet nine o'clock. It was, therefore, barely possible that Charlie had not been missed. Perhaps Constance and her aunt were not at home. It stood to reason that if they had been, Charlie would never have succeeded in slipping away and following John Roland to his evening's assignment. Once outside the La Salle's gate, Mary paused uncertainly. Charlie tugged impatiently at her hand. "Come on, Mary. Take Charlie home," he demanded. Apparently unmindful of the child's presence, Mary stood still, staring thoughtfully up and down the moonlit street. It was an unusually mild night for that time of year, and the ground was bare of snow. March was in a deceptive, springlike mood, smiling and sunny by day, with the merest touch of snappiness by night. Nevertheless, it was scarcely an occasion for a walk in thin kid slippers and silk stockings, and Mary shivered slightly as she stood there trying to decide what was to be done. "Listen to Mary, Charlie boy," she began suddenly, bending down and looking seriously into the child's bright, black eyes. "Where were Connie and Auntie when you ran away?" "_They_ runned away from Charlie," was the prompt reply, given with an aggrieved pout. "Charlie wanted to go, too, and Connie said 'no.' They wented to the the'ter where the band plays all the time." "And where was nurse?" "She wented away, too, but Connie didn't know it. She thought Charlie didn't know, either. But she told Bessie, and Charlie heard." "So, that is the reason," murmured Mary. Then she said to Charlie, "If Mary takes you home will you promise her something?" "Yes," nodded Charlie. "Then promise Mary that you won't tell anyone you ran away, or that Mary brought you home." "Aren't you going to tell Connie that Charlie was a naughty boy?" came the anxious question. "No, not unless someone sees Charlie when he goes home and asks about it." "Then Charlie won't tell, either," was the calm response. The boy was proving himself anything but a simpleton. "All right. Now we must hurry." Mary took firm hold of the tiny hand and the two started for Gray Gables as fast as the boy's small feet would permit of walking. It was not far from the La Salle's home to Gray Gables. Mary was thankful for that. Not in the least oppressed with a sense of his own shortcomings, Charlie kept up an animated conversation during the short walk. He even proposed stopping in the middle of the street to demonstrate for her special edification his prowess as a fiddler. Mary vetoed this proposal, however. She was bent on reaching Gray Gables as soon as possible. Just inside the grounds she halted and viewed the house with speculative eyes. Lights gleamed from the hall, the living room, and from one upstairs window. Then, with Charlie's hand still in hers, she walked boldly up the driveway and mounted the steps. Within the shielding shadow of the veranda she paused for a long moment and listened. Turning to the child she laid her finger on her lips with a gesture of silence. Charlie beamed understandingly. Mary's strange behavior was as interesting to him as though it were a new game invented for his pleasure. He entered completely into the spirit of it. "Now," whispered the girl, "Mary is going to ring the bell and run away. Charlie must stand still and wait until someone opens the door. If no one comes, Charlie must ring the bell again. And remember, he mustn't tell who brought him home!" "Charlie won't tell," gravely assured the youngster. Mary pressed a firm finger on the bell and held it there for a second. Then she darted down the steps, around a corner of the house and across a wide stretch of frozen lawn. She remembered that she could climb the low fence at the back of the grounds, cut across a field which lay below them and emerge on a small street not far from the Deans' home. She did not pause for breath until she reached the street she had in mind. Flushed and panting from her wild flight it was several minutes before she could compose herself sufficiently to go on toward home. Luckily for her she met but two persons, a boy of perhaps fifteen and a laboring man. Neither gave her more than the merest glance. But her last ordeal was yet to come. What would Marjorie and her mother think when they saw her? They would immediately guess that something unusual must have happened to bring her home from the party before it had hardly more than begun. Her recent experience had left her in no mood for explanations. She decided to try slipping quietly in at the rear door of the house. There was, of course, a possibility that it might be locked, but if it were not--so much the better for her. There was an instant of breathless suspense as she noiselessly turned the knob. It yielded to her touch, and she stole into the kitchen and up the back stairs like an unsubstantial shadow of the night, rather than a very tired and sore-hearted girl. Once in her room she sat down on her bed to think things over. She dared not move about for fear of being heard by Marjorie or her mother. Long she sat, moodily reviewing the year that had promised so much, yet had yielded her nothing but dissension and sorrow. One bare, ugly fact confronted her, looming up like a hideous monster whose dreadful claws had shredded her peace of mind and now waved at her the tattered fragments. It had all been her fault. For the first time she saw herself as she really was. A jealous, suspicious, hateful girl. It was she, not Marjorie, who had been unfaithful to friendship. But she had gone on blindly, unreasoningly, preferring to think the worst, until now it was too late to bridge the gap that she had daily widened between herself and her chum by her absurd jealousy. She could never regain her lost ground. She felt that Marjorie's patience with her had long since been exhausted. She dared not, could not, plead for reinstatement. All that remained to be done was to go through the rest of that dreadful year alone. When she and Marjorie had finished their sophomore course she would go quietly away, and they would, perhaps, never meet again. Alone with her bitter remorse, Mary wept until she could cry no more. As is usually the case with youth, she was sweeping in her self-condemnation. But that bitter hour of self-revelation did more to arouse within her the determination to conquer herself and establish the foundation for a noble womanhood than she could possibly believe. At last she pulled herself together to play the final scene in her evening's drama. Mrs. Dean had given her a latchkey, in order that she might let herself into the house, should she return from the party after the Deans had retired. At half-past ten o'clock she heard Marjorie and her mother come up the stairs to their rooms. Mr. Dean was away from home on a business trip. When all sounds of conversation between the two women had ceased and the house had apparently settled down for the night, Mary crept softly out of her room and down the stairs. Opening the hall door with stealthy fingers, she stepped into the vestibule. She listened intently for a sign from above that her soft-footed journey down the stairs had been discovered. But none came. Turning deliberately about, she retraced her steps, closing the hall door with sufficient force to announce her arrival. Without attempt at stealth she walked across the hall, up the stairs and into the pretty blue room that she had lately left. The closing of her own door purposely sounded her home coming. "Is that you, Mary?" called Marjorie's voice from the next room. Mary trembled with positive relief at the signal success of her manoeuver. Steadying her voice, she replied, "Yes, it is I." "Did you have a nice time?" Mary read merely polite inquiry in the tone. It lacked Marjorie's former warmth and affection. "Not particularly." Impulsively she added, "I missed you, Marjorie. I'm sorry you weren't there." Breathlessly she waited for a response. But Marjorie was only human. Resentment against Mignon, rather than Mary, permeated her reply. "It's nice in you to say so, but I am very glad I wasn't there. I should consider an invitation to Mignon La Salle's party as anything but an honor." It was the first deliberately cutting speech that Marjorie Dean had ever uttered. Realizing its cruelty she called out contritely, "That was hateful in me, Mary. Please forget what I said." "Oh, it doesn't matter. Good night." Mary managed to force the indifferent answer. She felt that she deserved even this and more. She was rapidly learning to her sorrow that, when one plants nettles, in time they are sure to grow up and sting. CHAPTER XXIII FOR THE FAME OF SANFORD HIGH When Marjorie Dean went down to breakfast the following morning it was with the feeling that her sharp answer to Mary's unexpected comments of the night before had been unworthy of her better self. Mary's reply, "Oh, it doesn't matter," had somehow sounded wistful rather than indifferent. To be sure, Mary had literally forced upon her the reserved stand which she had at last taken. Yet underneath her proud attitude of distant courtesy toward the girl who had once taken first place in her friendship still lurked the faint hope of reconciliation. But she had made her last advance on that memorable Christmas day when Mary had shown her so plainly that she respected the flag of truce for the day only and had returned to her former state of antagonism at the first opportunity. In the beginning it had been hard to stifle her impulsive nature, and appear courteous yet wholly unconcerned regarding her chum's welfare, but in time she found it comparatively easy. Friendship was dying hard, yet it _was_ dying, nevertheless. This thought had startled Marjorie a little as she recalled how easy it had been to be disagreeable, where once it would have seemed absolutely impossible to allow those cutting words to pass her lips. It came soberly to her that morning as she walked into the dining room that, after all, she did not wish that friendship to die. Something must be done to keep it alive until Mary was quite herself again. The faint line of concern which appeared between her dark brows deepened as this latest conviction took hold of her. As she pondered, the object of her thoughts appeared in the doorway. Mary's face wore an air of listlessness that quite corresponded with her subdued, "Good morning, Marjorie. Good morning, Captain." "You look all tired out, my dear," remarked Mrs. Dean solicitously. There was a curiously pathetic droop to Mary's mouth which gave her the appearance of a very tired child who had played too hard and was ready to be put to bed, rather than to begin the day's round of events. "Did you dance too much?" "No." A peculiar little smile flickered across the girl's pale features. She wondered what Mrs. Dean would say if she told her just how she had spent her evening. Marjorie regarded Mary almost curiously. In some indefinable way she had changed. Then it flashed across her that Mary's usual stubborn expression had given place to one of distinct sadness. With a kindly endeavor toward lightening her chum's heavy mood, she tried to draw her out to talk of the party. She met with little success. As Mary, in reality, knew nothing further of it than the fact that Mignon had worn a gypsy costume and that the majority of the boys invited had not put in an appearance, she was hardly prepared to describe the affair. She, therefore, answered Marjorie's questions in brief monosyllables and volunteered no information whatever. "I am going over to see Jerry Macy this morning. Would you like to go with me?" asked Marjorie, after her attempt to discuss the party had proved futile. "No; I thank you just the same. I have several things to buy at the stores, and then I am going for a walk. I would ask you to go with me, only you are going to Jerry's." "I'd love to," a touch of Marjorie's old heartiness came to the surface, "but I promised Jerry I'd surely go to see her to-day." "Perhaps we can take a walk some other day," remarked Mary vaguely as they rose from the table. "I will take you both for a ride this afternoon, if you are good," volunteered Mrs. Dean. She had been observing the signs. She decided, within herself, that matters were assuming a more hopeful turn. Yet she had long since left the two girls to work out their problem in their own way. "That will be splendid!" cried Marjorie. "I should like to go," acceded Mary almost shyly. Mrs. Dean smiled to herself and saw light ahead. The barrier seemed about to crumble. But as the days went by, both she and Marjorie grew puzzled over the change in blue-eyed Mary. She had, indeed, lost her belligerent spirit of animosity, but a profound melancholy had settled down upon her like a pall. Gradually it became noised about in school that Mary Raymond and Mignon La Salle were no longer on speaking terms. Why this was so, no one knew. Mary was mute on the subject. For once, also, the French girl had nothing to say. As it happened, she believed that no one of the guests had witnessed the scene between herself and Mary, and to try to relate it, even with emendations of her own, would hardly redound to her credit. She was too shrewd not to know that the average person resents an affront against childhood. Then, too, Constance Stevens was making rapid strides toward popularity among the girls of Sanford High School and her cowardly nature warned her to be silent. But her chief reason for silence lay in the fact that Mary had curtly informed her on the Monday morning following the party that she had seen Charlie safely home, that so far as she could learn his family did not know who had escorted him home, and that if she, Mignon, were wise she would say nothing whatever of the occurrence. Without further words, Mary had walked away, but that same afternoon she had removed her wraps to another locker, a significant sign that she was done with the French girl forever. When it came to Marjorie's ears that Mary and Mignon had quarreled, she decided a trifle sadly that Mary's melancholy was due to the French girl's defection. She was sure that, whatever the quarrel had been about, Mignon was to blame. Until then she had never quite believed in the sincerity of Mary's affection for this unscrupulous, headstrong girl, and it hurt her to see Mary take the estrangement so to heart. She said as much to Constance Stevens as they walked home from school together on the Monday following the Easter vacation. To Marjorie the Easter holidays had been a continuous succession of good times. She had attended half a dozen parties given by her various schoolmates, and numerous luncheons and teas. To all these Mary had received invitations also. She had politely declined them, however, going on long, lonely walks by day and moping in the living room or her own room by night. "Somehow," Marjorie confided to Constance, "I never believed Mary could be so deceived in a person. But she must think a lot of Mignon, or she wouldn't be so dreadfully sad all the time." "It's queer," mused Constance. "I don't think she knows to this day the truth about last year." "I am sure she doesn't. Mary is really too honorable to stand by a--a--person that you and I know isn't worthy of loyalty. That sounds rather hard, especially from one of the reform party. But I can't help it. I am quite ready to say and mean it, Mignon La Salle hasn't a better self. She never had one!" "It hasn't been very pleasant for you this year, has it?" was Constance's sympathizing question. "It's too bad. After all the nice things we had planned. Sometimes I think it is better not to make plans. They never turn out as one hopes they will." "I know it," rejoined Marjorie with a sigh. "Jerry Macy says that Mary has something on her mind besides Mignon." "Perhaps she is sorry that she----" Constance hesitated. "That we aren't chums any more?" finished Marjorie. "I don't think so. If she had been truly sorry she would have come to me and said so. I thought so the day after Mignon's party. Then I heard that they had quarreled, and I changed my opinion." There was a faint touch of bitterness in Marjorie's speech. "Suppose we don't talk of it any more. I wish to forget it, if I can. It doesn't do much good to mourn over what can't and won't be changed. Did Jerry tell you that Laurie Armitage has finished his operetta? Professor Harmon is going to have a try-out of voices in the gymnasium next Saturday morning." "Laurie told me himself. He brought the score of the operetta to Gray Gables last night and we tried it over on the piano. The music is beautiful. It is so tuneful it lingers. I've been humming snatches of it ever since he played it for me. The 'Rebellious Princess' has some wonderful songs. That clever young man, Eric Darrow, composed the libretto and thought out the plot. It's about a princess who grew tired of staying at home in her father's castle and going to state dinners and receptions, so she put on the dress of a peasant girl and ran away from the castle to see the world. She took some gold with her, but it was stolen from her the very first thing. No one paid any attention to her because she was poor, and she had a dreadfully hard time. But she was so stubborn she wouldn't go back to her father and say she was sorry, so she wandered on until her clothes were ragged and her shoes were worn out. Then an old woman took the poor princess to live with her and she had to work terribly hard and wait on the woman's daughter, who loved nothing but pretty clothes and to have a good time. No one was good to her except the woman's adopted son, who was left on her doorstep when he was a baby. At last the princess grew so tired of it all she went back to her father, but to punish her he pretended he didn't know her. So she had to go away again, but the woman's son had followed her and when he saw her leave the castle, crying, he told her he loved her and asked her to marry him. She said 'yes,' because he was the only person in the world who cared for her. But her father hadn't really intended that she should go away. He sent his courtiers after her to bring her back to the castle. She wanted to go back, but she wouldn't go unless the young man went with her. When he found out that she was really a great princess he said he would never dare to ask her to marry him. But she said that true love was better than all the wealth in the world, and she would not go back unless he went with her, and so he said he would go. That is where the operetta ends. They sing a duet, 'True Love Is Best,' and you have to imagine what the king said. There isn't so much in the plot, but it is very sweet, and the music is delightful," finished Constance. "I know I shall love to hear it!" exclaimed Marjorie. "I do hope you will be chosen to sing the part of the princess." Constance flushed. "Laurie wishes me to have it," she said almost humbly. "But there are sure to be others who can sing it better than I. However, the try-out will settle that. At any rate, I may be chosen for a court lady in the chorus. I hope you'll be in it, too." "I can't sing well enough," laughed Marjorie. "But I'll be there on Saturday, and perhaps I'll be lucky enough to get into it somehow. Won't it be fun to rehearse? Hal Macy ought to have a part. He has a splendid tenor voice, and the Crane can sing bass. I can hardly wait until Saturday comes. I am so anxious to see who will be chosen." Marjorie's pleasant anxiety was shared by the majority of the girls of Sanford High School. The proposed operetta became the chief topic for discussion as the unusually long week dragged interminably along toward that fateful Saturday. Even the high and mighty seniors condescended to become interested. Among their number, more than one ambitious seeker after fame secretly imagined herself as carrying off the rôle of the Rebellious Princess, and conducted assiduous practice of much neglected scales in the hope of glory to come. As the star singer of her class, Constance Stevens' name was often brought up for discussion among her classmates as the possibly successful contestant in the try-out. Besides, was it not Lawrence Armitage's opera? It was generally known that the dark-haired, dreamy-eyed lad had a decided predeliction for Constance's society. Rumor, therefore, decreed that if Laurie Armitage had the say, Constance would have no trouble in carrying off the leading rôle. But the most determined aspirant for fame was none other than Mignon La Salle. With her usual slyness, she kept her own counsel. Nevertheless, she believed she stood a fair chance of winning the prize of which she dreamed. For Mignon could sing. From childhood her father had spared no expense in the matter of her musical education. An ardent lover of music he had decreed that Mignon should be initiated into the mysteries of the piano when a tiny girl, and, although Mr. La Salle had allowed her undisputed liberty to grow up as she pleased, on one point he was firm. Mignon must not merely study music; she must each day practice the required number of hours. In the beginning she had rebelled, but finding her too indulgent parent adamant in this one particular, she had been forced to bow her obstinate head to his decree. In consequence she profited by the enforced practice hours to the extent of becoming a really creditable performer on the piano for a girl of her years. At fourteen she had begun vocal training. Possessed of a strong, clear, soprano voice, three years under the direction of competent instructors had done much for her, and, although she was far too selfish to use her fine voice merely to give pleasure to others, she never allowed an opportunity to pass wherein she might win public approval by her singing. The mere fact that "The Rebellious Princess" was Lawrence Armitage's own composition served to spur her on to conquest. Given the leading rôle, she believed that she might awaken in the young man a distinct appreciation of herself which hitherto he had never demonstrated toward her. Once she had brought him to a tardy realization of her superiority over Constance Stevens, by outsinging the latter, along with all the other contestants, she was certain that admiration for herself as a singer would blot out any unpleasant impression he might earlier have conceived of her. She had heard that "the Stevens girl" could sing. It was to be doubted, however, if her voice amounted to much. Another point in her favor lay in the fact that Professor Harmon was a close friend of her father. He would surely give her the preference. But while she dreamed of triumphantly holding the center of the stage before a spellbound audience, her rival to be, Constance Stevens, was seriously debating within herself regarding the wisdom of even entering the contest. Of a distinctly retiring nature, Constance was not eager to enter the lists. On the Friday afternoon before the try-out she was still undecided, and when the afternoon session of school was over, and she and the five girls with whom she spent most of her leisure hours were walking down the street, headed for Sargent's and its never-failing supply of sweets, she was curiously silent amid the gay chatter of her friends. "I suppose you girls know that our dear Mignon has designs on the Princess," announced Jerry Macy, with the elaborate carelessness of one who gives forth important news as the commonest every-day matter. "Mignon!" exclaimed Marjorie Dean in amazement. "I never even knew she could sing." "She thinks she can," shrugged Muriel Harding. "Goodness knows she ought to. She has studied for ages. I'm surprised to hear that she is going to enter the try-out, considering it's Laurie's operetta. You know just how much he likes her. She knows, too." "Who told you, Jerry?" quizzed Susan Atwell. "The way you gather news is positively marvelous. Was it big brother Hal?" "No, he doesn't know it. If I told him, he'd tell Laurie and Laurie would promptly have a spasm. One of the girls in the senior class mentioned it to me." "Mignon really sings well," put in Irma. "Don't you remember the time she sang at Muriel's party, two years ago? She has been studying ever since. She must have improved a good deal since then." "Oh, I've heard her sing more than once," said Jerry Macy, "but I don't like her voice. It's--well, it isn't sweet and sympathetic." "Neither is she," put in Susan with her customary giggle. "Wait until Connie sings at the try-out. Then someone can gently lead Mignon to a back seat," predicted Jerry. "It would give me a good deal of pleasure to be that 'someone.'" "I don't think I shall enter the try-out," remarked Constance, flushing. "Why not?" was the questioning chorus. "Oh, I don't know, only I just don't care to. If I do, someone might say that I went into it because----" She hesitated, and the flush on her cheeks deepened. "Because you expected Laurie to choose you, you mean," finished Jerry. "Yes; that is what I meant," admitted Constance. "Of course, I know there are other girls who are better singers than I, and that I couldn't possibly be chosen. Still, I'd rather not go into it at all, unless I could just be in the chorus." "You are a goose; a nice, dear goose, but a goose, just the same," was Jerry's plain sentiment. "Connie Stevens, if you don't try for that part, I'll never speak to you again," threatened Muriel. "I'll disown you," added Susan in mock menace. "Connie," Marjorie's voice vibrated with sudden energy, "I think you _ought_ to try for the Princess. I am almost sure no other girl in Sanford High can sing so beautifully. Then there is Laurie. He has always been nice to you. It would hurt his feelings dreadfully if you didn't try for a part in his operetta. Besides, I know it sounds hateful, but I can't help saying that I'd be glad to see you take the Princess away from Mignon. That is, if she really stands a good chance of winning it. I suppose that is what Miss Archer would call 'an ignoble sentiment,' but I mean it, just the same." Marjorie glanced half defiantly around the bright-eyed circle. They were now in Sargent's, seated about their favorite table. "Hurrah for you, Marjorie!" cried Jerry, flourishing her hand as though it were a pennant of triumph. "That's what I say, too. You are really a human, everyday person, after all. I used to think you were almost too forgiving toward certain persons, but now I can see that you aren't such a model forgiver, after all." "That is rather a doubtful compliment, isn't it?" laughed Marjorie. "Frankness is the soul of virtue," jeered Muriel. "Oh, now, you know what I mean," protested Jerry, looking somewhat sheepish. "You girls do like to tease me. All right, I'll do the forgiving act and order the refreshments. I'll pay for them, too. I've a whole dollar. I am supposed to buy some stationery with it, but I'll just let my correspondence languish and treat instead. Name your eat and you can have it. Fifteen cents apiece is your limit. I need the other ten to buy stamps." "What is the use in buying stamps if you don't intend to correspond?" put in Irma mischievously. "I might need them some day," was Jerry's calm retort. "Besides, if I don't spend the ten cents I may lose it. Now the bureau of information is closed. Order your fifteen cents' worth!" After changing their minds several times in rapid succession to the infinite disgust of the waitress, the sextette finally made unanimous decision for a new concoction in the way of a fruit lemonade, known as Sargent Nectar. "Now," announced Jerry, as the long-suffering waitress deposited the tall glasses on the table and retired to the back of the room to grumble uncomplimentary comments to a fellow-worker on the ways of high school girls who didn't know their own minds, "let us all drink a toast to Miss Connie Stevens, the celebrated star of 'The Rebellious Princess.' But remember, we can't drink it until the star says she will shine. "'Twinkle, twinkle, little star, Shall we see you from afar? On the Sanford stage so shy, For the fame of Sanford High.' "Who says I'm not a poet?" "Connie, you can't resist that poetic appeal," giggled Susan. Constance's blue eyes shone misty affection upon the circle of fresh, young faces, alight with the honest desire for her success. Her voice trembled a little as she said: "I'll take it all back, girls. Now that I know just how you feel about the try-out, _I'd_ be an ungrateful girl to say I wouldn't do my best. I'll sing to-morrow, but if I'm not chosen, please don't be disappointed." "To Connie, our Princess! Long may she warble!" Jerry raised her glass of lemonade. "Drink her down!" CHAPTER XXIV THE MOMENT OF TRIUMPH It was a buzzing and excited assemblage of young men and women that gathered in the gymnasium of Weston High School on Saturday morning for the much-discussed try-out. As it had been strictly enjoined upon the students of both high schools that unless they desired to take part in the coming operetta their presence was not requested, nor would it be permitted, on the momentous occasion, the great room was only comfortably filled. Weston High School was represented by not more than twenty-five or thirty ambitious aspirants for fame, but at least a hundred girls from Sanford High cherished hopes of gaining admission to the magic cast. After much discussion, Marjorie and her four friends had decided to make a bold attempt at chorus celebrity, purely for the sake of seeing what happened. Constance had earnestly urged them to do so, declaring that she could not sing unless they were present to encourage her. "I wonder if all this crowd expects to be chosen," was Jerry Macy's blunt comment, as the sextette of girls stood grouped at one side of the room, waiting for the affair to begin. "I hope I'm not asked to sing alone. Not so much for my own sake. I hate to make other people feel sad. I practised 'America' and 'Marching through Georgia' last night, just to see what I could do. One of our maids came rushing into the living room because she said she wondered who was making all that noise. Then Hal poked his head in the door and asked if I was hurt. So I quit. It was time." Jerry's painful experience as a soloist provoked a burst of laughter from her friends. It had hardly died away when Professor Harmon, a stout, little man, with a shock of bushy hair and an expression of being always on the alert, bustled in. With him came Lawrence Armitage and a tall, dark-haired young man, a stranger to those present. The professor trotted to the piano, opened it, held a hurried conference with his companions, then, stepping forward, ran a searching eye over the assembled boys and girls. The more ambitious contestants of both sexes carried music rolls containing the selections they intended to offer, but the majority of that carefree congregation aspired to nothing higher than the chorus, looking upon the whole affair as a grand lark. Professor Harmon proceeded to make a short speech, briefly outlining the plot of the opera and stating the nature of the try-out. "We shall ask those who wish to try for principals to step to that side of the room," he said, indicating the left. "I wish to hear them sing, first. Afterward, I shall select the chorus, and hear them sing together." "That lets me out," was Jerry's relieved, inelegant comment to Susan Atwell, as she moved to the right. Susan stifled an irrepressible chuckle and sobered her face for what was to come. Over among the groups of possible principals Constance became obsessed with sudden shyness. The majority of the girls were of the upper classes, and she felt lonely and ill at ease. She noted that she and Mignon La Salle were the only representatives of the sophomore class. Mignon, looking radiant self-possession in a smart old-rose suit and hat to match, carried herself with the air of one whose success was already assured. Her black eyes were snapping with excitement as they darted from the professor to the two young men standing beside the piano. She fingered her gray morocco music roll nervously, her thin fingers never still. Stepping over to the piano the professor seated himself. "That young lady on the right, please come to the piano." The girl indicated, a dignified senior, obeyed the summons, coolly handed the professor her music, stationed herself at his side and awaited trial with the air of a Spartan. After a short prelude she began to sing a popular air that was at that time going the round of Sanford. She sang one verse, then the professor dropped his hands from the keys, inquired her name, made a memorandum on a pad, and, dismissing her, signaled another girl to take her place. The try-out proceeded with a business-like snap that bade fair to end it with speedy commission. So far nothing startling in the way of voices had been discovered. Constance listened to the various girl soloists and wondered if she could do as well as they. Mignon leaned far forward with breathless interest. She was firmly convinced that her singing would create a sensation. When at last her turn came, she walked boldly forward. Professor Harmon smiled approval and encouragement. He desired particularly to see her carry off the honor of the leading rôle. She darted a lightning glance at Lawrence Armitage as she approached the piano, but in his impassive features she could read neither approval nor indifference. She had chosen a French song, full of difficult runs and trills, and it may be set down here to her credit that she sang it well. As her clear, but somewhat unsympathetic voice rang out, a faint murmur of approbation swept the listeners. Her long training now stood her in good stead. Professor Harmon allowed her to go on with her song, instead of halting her in the middle of it, as he had in the case of the previous aspirants. When she had finished singing, she was greeted with a round of genuine applause, the first accorded to a singer since the beginning of the try-out. The brilliancy of her performance could not be denied, even by those who had reason to dislike her. "Excellent, Miss La Salle," was Professor Harmon's tribute, as he handed her her music. Flushing with pride of achievement, the French girl returned to her place among the others, tingling with the sweetness of her success. There now remained not more than half a dozen untried soloists. Constance Stevens was among that number. By this time Marjorie was becoming a trifle anxious. There was just a chance that Connie might be overlooked. Naturally retiring, she would be quite likely to make no sign, were Professor Harmon to pass her by, under the impression that she had already sung. But Marjorie's fears were needless. Constance had a staunch friend at court. During the try-out Lawrence Armitage's blue eyes had been frequently directed toward the quiet, fair-haired girl of his choice. Locked in his boyish heart was a secret knowledge that he had composed the operetta chiefly because he had wished Constance to have the opportunity of singing the part of the Princess. He had consented to the try-out merely to please Professor Harmon. He was convinced that no other girl could compare with Constance in the matter of voice. He was glad that she was to sing last, and a smile of proud expectation played about his mouth as Professor Harmon abruptly cut off an enterprising senior, the last contestant before Constance, in the midst of a high note. The smile quickly faded to an expression of dismay as he saw the professor rise from the piano, his eyes on his memorandum pad. At the same instant a faint ripple of consternation was heard from a group of girls of which Marjorie formed the center. The latter took a hurried step forward. Marjorie was determined that Connie must not be cheated of her chance. She had caught a glimpse of Mignon, her black eyes blazing with insolent triumph and positive joy at the possibility of this unexpected elimination of the girl she hated. But Marjorie's intended protest in behalf of her friend was never uttered. Laurie Armitage had come to the rescue. She saw him halt Professor Harmon, as he was about to address the company. She saw the little man's eyebrows elevate themselves in a glance toward Constance, following Laurie's low, energetic communication. Then she felt herself trembling with relief as Professor Harmon announced apologetically, "I understand that I almost made the mistake of overlooking one of Sanford's promising young singers. Will Miss Stevens please come forward?" Pink with the embarrassment of the professor's words, Constance made no move to comply with the request. Good-natured Ellen Seymour, who was one of the contestants, pushed her gently forward. Ellen's light touch awoke Constance to motion. She walked mechanically toward the piano, as though propelled against her will by an unseen force. The humiliation of being even accidentally passed by looked forth from her sensitive features. Quick to note it, Lawrence Armitage advanced toward her, took her tightly rolled music from her hand, and, conducting her to the piano, introduced her to Professor Harmon, apparently unmindful of the many pairs of eyes intently watching the little scene. "Now we are ready." The professor nodded to Constance, who stood with her small hands loosely clasped, her grave eyes fastened upon him. He half smiled, as his experienced fingers began the first soft notes of Mendelssohn's Spring Song. Long ago her foster father had written a set of exquisitely tender words that had exactly seemed to fit those unforgettable strains, so familiar to every true lover of music. Constance had sung them so many times that she knew them by heart. Now she fixed her eyes on the east wall of the gymnasium, and, leaving the world behind her, rendered the beautiful selection as though she were in her own home, with only her dear ones to listen to the flood of ravishing melody that issued from her white throat. Marjorie Dean felt a swift rush of tears flood her brown eyes as she listened to her friend. She recalled the time when she had halted at the door of the little gray house, in wonder at that glorious voice. Conquering her emotion, she began to take stock of the effect of the song upon those assembled. She saw the proud flash of gladness that leaped to Laurie's fine face. His faith in Connie's powers was being amply fulfilled. She read the profound surprise and admiration of Professor Harmon, as he accompanied the singing girl. She glimpsed enthusiastic admiration in the countenances of the spell-bound students, many of whom had never before heard Constance sing. Then her gaze centered upon Mignon. Anger, surprise and chagrin swept the elfish face of the French girl. She read vocalization more flawless than her own, as well as greater sweetness and an intense sympathy, which she lacked, in the full, sweet, rounded tones that issued from her rival's lips. This was the voice of a great artist. Professor Harmon turned from the piano as the last golden note died away and held out his hand. "Allow me to congratulate you, Miss Stevens. You----" His voice was drowned in tumult of noisy and fervent approbation on the part of the delighted audience. Boys and girls forgot the dignity of the occasion, and the next instant the surprised Constance found herself surrounded by as admiring a throng as ever did honor to a triumphant basket-ball or football star. If signs were true presagers of victory, if the united acclamation of the majority counted, then Constance Stevens had, indeed, come into her own. CHAPTER XXV AN UNHAPPY PRINCESS It took Professor Harmon several minutes to reduce the noisy enthusiasts to the decorous state of order in which they had entered the gymnasium. Far from being elated over her triumph, Constance Stevens received the ovation with the shyness of a child brought before an audience against its will to speak its first piece. She heaved an audible sigh of relief when at last she was left to herself and retired behind Marjorie and her friends with a flushed, embarrassed face. The boys' try-out was shortened considerably by the fact that there were fewer singers to be heard. When it was over it was announced that Hal Macy had carried off the rôle of the poor, neglected son, which was in reality the male lead. The Crane was selected for the king, while freckle-faced Daniel Seabrooke was chosen for the jester, greatly to his delight and surprise. There was an emphatic round of applause when Professor Harmon announced that Constance Stevens had been selected to sing the Princess. Ellen Seymour captured the rôle of the queen, and to Mignon La Salle was allotted the part of the disagreeable step-sister. It was second in importance to that of the Princess, but the French girl's face was a study as she received the announcement. She tried to smile, but the baffled anger and keen disappointment which was hers blazed forth from her elfish eyes. The minor parts were soon given out, and then came the trial of the chorus. The hope of Marjorie and her four friends that they might be chosen was fulfilled. A number of the girls who had sung solos were also selected, and, with one or two disgruntled exceptions, resigned themselves to the lesser glory, gratefully accepting what was offered them. It was evident, however, that pretty faces had much to do with the Professor's choice of the chorus, and when he had gathered the elect together and heard them sing "The Star Spangled Banner" as a test, he expressed himself as satisfied, and appointed a rehearsal for the following Tuesday afternoon at four o'clock. With the exception of Constance, it was a most jubilant sextette that set out for Sargent's, at Marjorie's invitation, after the try-out was over. She was still somewhat dazed over her success. Although she smiled as the five girls paid her affectionate tribute, she had little to say. "Girls, did you see Mignon's face when Connie was singing?" began Muriel Harding, as soon as they were out of earshot of any possible participants in the try-out. "Did we see it? Well, I guess so." Jerry made prompt answer. "At least, I did. While Connie was singing I was dividing my seeing power between her and the fair but frowning Mignon. Maybe she wasn't mad! She tried to pretend she wasn't listening, but she never missed a note. She had sense enough to know good singing when she heard it." "I was watching her, too," nodded Muriel Harding. "Her eyes positively glittered when Professor Harmon almost missed hearing Connie sing. I knew she was hoping he would. Then Laurie Armitage came to the rescue." "I was going to say something," was Marjorie's quiet comment. "I had made up my mind that Connie shouldn't be overlooked. I was so glad when Laurie spoke to the professor." "I thought you were," declared Jerry. "I was going to say something, if no one else did." "I don't believe any one of us could have stood there and seen Connie miss her turn without making a fuss," said gentle Irma Linton. "I am so glad it all came out nicely. Laurie Armitage is a splendid boy." "So is the Crane," put in Jerry slyly. "Of course he is," agreed Irma, placidly ignoring Jerry's attempt to tease. "So is your brother Hal. There are lots of nice boys in Weston High." Jerry merely grinned cheerfully at this retort and returned to the subject of the coming opera. "Is Laurie going to help you with your songs?" she asked, addressing Constance. "Yes," replied Constance simply. "He said he would. I can't quite believe yet that I am to sing the Princess. I may be able to manage the songs, but I can't act. I imagine Mignon would make a better actress than I." "She ought to," jeered Muriel Harding, who could never resist a thrust at the French girl. "She never does anything else. I don't believe she'd know her real self if she came face to face with it in broad daylight." "Oh, forget Mignon. Who was that tall, dark man with Laurie and Professor Harmon?" interposed Susan Atwell. "You ought to know, Connie. I saw Laurie introduce you to him." "His name is Atwell," answered Constance. "He is an actor, I believe. I don't know why he happened to be at the try-out to-day. Perhaps Professor Harmon invited him." "I'll find out all about him and tell you," volunteered Jerry. "Hal may know. If he doesn't, some one else will." "For further information, ask brother Hal," giggled Susan. It was not until Marjorie and Constance had said good-bye to the others and were strolling home in the spring sunshine that the latter asked, "Where was Mary to-day?" "I don't know." Marjorie spoke soberly. "She left the house before I did this morning. She said last night that she wasn't interested in the try-out. I thought perhaps she might like to be in the chorus, but she doesn't appear to care about it. She has a sweet, soprano voice and can sing well." "I am sorry," was Constance's brief answer. "So am I." Marjorie did not continue the painful subject. They had talked it over so many times, there was nothing left to be said. "I am glad you were chosen for the Princess," she said after a little silence, during which the two girls were busy with their own thoughts. "I am going to try to sing well, if only to please you and Laurie," was Constance's earnest avowal. "I'm glad Mignon didn't get the part. It won't be very pleasant for you to have to sing with her. I wouldn't say this to anyone else, but if I were you I would keep a watchful eye on her, Connie." "If she tries to be disagreeable, I shall simply pay no attention to her." "That will be best," nodded Marjorie. Nevertheless, she reflected that as a member of the chorus she would have opportunity to observe the French girl and mentally decided to keep an eye on her. "Has Mary come in, Delia?" was Marjorie's quick question, as the maid answered her ring. "Here I am," called Mary from the living room. She had heard Marjorie's question. Now she appeared in the doorway of the living room, viewing her former chum with sombre gravity. "Who is going to sing the Princess?" she asked abruptly. "Connie was chosen. She sang beautifully." "I'm glad Mignon didn't get the part," muttered Mary. Wheeling about, she walked into the living room, and, taking up a book she had turned face downward on the table, became, to all appearances, absorbed in its pages. For a moment Marjorie stood watching her through the half-drawn portieres. She would have liked to continue the conversation, but pride forbade her to do so. Mary's mood presaged rebuff. Later, at luncheon, she unbent sufficiently to question Marjorie further regarding the try-out. Although she did not say so, she was sorry that Mignon had been given a principal's part in the operetta. Privately, she wished she had made an attempt to get into the chorus. She, too, was of the opinion that the French girl would bear watching. Failure to carry off the highest honors would act as a spur to Mignon's unscrupulous nature, and sooner or later some one would pay for her defeat. Mary was quite correct in her conjecture that Mignon would not allow matters to rest as they were. From the moment that Constance had been announced as the Princess she had made a vow that by either fair or unfair means she would supplant "that white-faced cat of a Stevens girl," who had been awarded the honor that should have been hers. The first step consisted in holding a private session with Professor Harmon after the others had gone, to ascertain if by any chance he might be relied upon to help her. She found him engaged in conversation with the dark young man. He eyed her with interest, bowed affably when presented to her by the professor, and expressed somewhat profuse pleasure at meeting her. In the presence of a stranger, Mignon dared not ask Professor Harmon openly to reconsider his recent decision in her favor. Three minutes' conversation with him showed her that, had she made the request, it would have availed her nothing. The brisk little man's mind was made up. He congratulated her on capturing second honors with a finality that could not be assailed. Then a brilliant idea entered her wily brain. "Professor Harmon," she began, with a pretty show of girlish confusion, quite foreign to her usual bold method of reaching out for whatever she coveted, "I would like to ask you if I might understudy the Princess. Of course, I know that I can't sing as Miss Stevens sings, and I wouldn't for the world wish anything to happen to prevent her from singing on the great night, but I am so fond of music that it would be a pleasure to understudy the rôle. I shouldn't like anyone to know that I was doing so, though. It is just a fancy on my part." "Certainly you may, Miss La Salle," was the professor's hearty response. "Your idea is excellent. It is a mistake, even in an amateur production, not to provide an understudy for an important rôle, such as Miss Stevens will sing. I must provide an understudy for Mr. Macy, and others of the cast, also. But you are too modest in your request that no one else must know. I am sure Mr. Armitage will be pleased with your suggestion." "Oh, please don't tell him!" exclaimed Mignon. A shade of alarm crossed her dark face, which was not lost on the professor's companion, Ronald Atwell. A mere acquaintance of Professor Harmon's, he had lately arrived in Sanford, at the close of a season as leading man in a popular musical comedy, to visit a cousin. Brought up in that hard school of experience, the stage, he was an adept at reading signs, and he was by no means deceived as to the true character of the girl who stood before him. Far from being displeased with his deductions, he became mildly interested in her and mentally characterized her as being worth cultivating. He had watched her during the try-out, and he had glimpsed her true self in the varying expressions that animated her dark face. He had attended the try-out on the polite invitation of Professor Harmon, and at the latter's earnest solicitation had agreed to take charge of the stage direction of the operetta. The professor had congratulated himself on obtaining such valuable assistance, while the actor looked upon the affair as a pastime which would serve to lighten his stay with his rather dull cousin. He had come to Sanford for a period of relaxation before going to New York to begin rehearsals with a summer show, and the prospect of directing the operetta promised to be amusing. "Very well, I will say nothing," promised the professor amiably. He had come to the try-out, hoping to see the daughter of his friend capture the rôle of the Princess, but the enthusiasm of the artist had driven that hope from his mind when he had heard Constance sing. Now he dwelt only on the success of the operetta, and was distinctly relieved to find that Mignon was in an amiable frame of mind over the unexpected change in his plans. Knowing her tempestuous disposition, he decided that it would be policy to humor her whim. "Thank you so much," beamed Mignon. "I must go now. Good-bye." "I find I must leave you, also," said Ronald Atwell, glancing at his watch, "or I shall be late for luncheon." Mignon had already walked toward the east door of the gymnasium. With a hurried "Good-bye, Professor. I will be here for rehearsal on Tuesday," the dark, young man strode after Mignon and overtook her in the corridor. "I wonder if our ways lie in the same direction," he said pleasantly. "I am the guest of Mr. and Mrs. Horton. Mr. Horton is a cousin of mine." "I pass their house on my way home," was the prompt reply. Elated at receiving the marked attention of this distinguished stranger, Mignon exerted herself to the utmost to be agreeable during their walk. From the few words she had heard pass between the professor and Mr. Atwell as she approached them, she had gathered the information that the latter was to manage the stage and coach the actors in the operetta. She determined that, if it were possible, she would enlist his services in her behalf. She had counted on Professor Harmon, and he had failed her. In this good-looking, affable young man she foresaw a valuable ally. The presentation of "The Rebellious Princess" was still four weeks distant. A great many things might happen in that time. Her companion's suave comment, "I think Professor Harmon made a mistake in assigning the Princess to the young woman who sang last," uttered with just the exact shade of regret, caused Mignon to thrill with new hope. Mr. Atwell, at least, was of the same mind as herself. She brightened visibly when he went on to say that as stage manager he would try to give her every advantage that lay in his power. "I am certain that you have within you the possibilities which go to make a great actress, Miss La Salle," was his parting remark to her, and these flattering words, which were, in reality, merely idle on the part of the actor, she accepted as gospel truth. It was always very easy for her to accept that which she wished to believe, for self-analysis was not one of her strong points. When the cast and chorus for the operetta met in the gymnasium the following Tuesday afternoon, it did not take the lynx-eyed feminine contingent long to discover that Mignon La Salle had a friend at court. Laurie Armitage, also, soon became aware of the fact. He was secretly displeased that Mignon had been chosen to sing in his operetta, and almost on first acquaintance he had formed a dislike for Ronald Atwell. Behind his polished manners he read insincerity, and he was sorry that Professor Harmon had asked this newcomer to assist in managing the production. But, manlike, he kept his prejudice to himself, admitting reluctantly that Atwell seemed to know what he was about. In the frequent rehearsals that followed, however, many irritating incidents occurred to try his boyish soul. Most of all he disapproved of the actor manager's brusque manner toward Constance Stevens. He found fault continually with her in the matter of the speaking of her lines, and developed a habit of rehearsing her over and over again in a single scene until she was ready to cry of sheer humiliation at her own failure to please him. More than once Laurie made private protest to Professor Harmon, but the latter invariably reminded him that despite Miss Stevens' beautiful voice, she was far from grasping the principles of acting, and that Mr. Atwell was a striking example of a conscientious director. Lawrence Armitage was not the only one whose resentment against the too conscientious stage manager had been aroused. His unfair attitude toward Constance was the subject of many indignant discussions on the part of the girls who comprised her coterie of intimate friends. "It's a shame," burst forth Jerry Macy in an undertone to Marjorie, as they stood together at one side of the gymnasium and watched the impatient manner in which the actor ordered their idol about. "I wouldn't stand it, if I were Connie. I guess you know who is to blame for it, don't you?" Marjorie nodded. A faint touch of scorn curved her red lips. Mignon's growing friendship with Ronald Atwell was the talk of the cast. He frequently accompanied her home from school, invited her to Sargent's, and it was rumored that he was often a guest at dinner or luncheon at her home. Proud of the fact that his daughter was to sing an important rôle in "young Armitage's opera," Mr. La Salle had treated his daughter's new acquaintance with considerable deference and allowed Mignon to do as she pleased in the matter of entertaining him. "Laurie told Hal that he was sorry Professor Harmon had asked that old crank to help. Laurie didn't say 'old crank,' but I say it, and I mean it," continued Jerry vindictively. "Don't breathe it to anyone, though. It was a brotherly confidence and Hal would rave if he knew I repeated it." "Jerry," whispered Marjorie. Her brief scorn had faded into a faint frown of anxiety. "I don't think Mr. Atwell is really the best sort of person for Mignon to go around with. He is ever so much older than she and, somehow, he doesn't seem sincere. Someone told Muriel that he told Mignon she would make a wonderful actress. Mignon was boasting of it. Suppose she were to get an idea of going on the stage. She is so headstrong she might run away from home and do that very thing if she happened to feel like it. I don't like her, but I can't help being just a little bit sorry for her. You know, she hasn't any mother to help her and love her and advise her. Her father is so busy making money, he doesn't pay much attention to her. Fathers are splendid, but mothers are simply splendiferous. I don't know what I'd do without my Captain." Marjorie sighed in sweet sympathy for all the motherless girls in the universe. "Mothers are a grand institution," agreed Jerry, looking a trifle solemn. "I think mine is just about right. I never thought of Mignon in that way before. Now, I suppose I'll have to be sorry for her, too. She doesn't look as though she needed much sympathy just now. She's so pleased with the way Connie is being ordered about that she can't see straight. There, he's through with the poor child at last. Come on. It's time for the chorus to perform. Try to imagine that this good old gym is the king's palace and that our mutual friend the Crane is a kingly king. He looks more like a clothes-pole!" Marjorie was forced to laugh at Jerry's uncomplimentary comparison. They had no further opportunity for conversation in the busy hour that followed. Professor Harmon drilled them rigidly, his short hair positively standing erect with energy, and they were quite ready to gather their little band together and hurry off to Sargent's for rest and ice cream when the rehearsal was at last over. "See here, Connie, why don't you tell that Atwell man to mind his own business," sputtered Jerry as the six girls walked down the street in the direction of their favorite haunt. "He _is_ minding his business," returned Constance ruefully. Her small face was very pale and her blue eyes were strained and unhappy. "It is my fault. But he makes me nervous, and then I can't act. When I am at home I can say my lines just as I ought, but the minute he begins to tell me what to do, everything goes wrong. Then he finds fault and almost makes me cry. I wish I hadn't tried for a part. If it weren't so late I'd resign from the cast." "And let Mignon sing the Princess!" came from Muriel in deep disgust. "Don't you do it," advised Susan. "That's precisely what she'd like you to do." "It's a plot between Mignon and Mr. Snapwell--I mean Atwell," declared Jerry. "She's crazy to be the Princess and he is trying to help her along. A blind man could see that." "I think so, too," said Irma Linton slowly. "You must try not to mind him, Connie, then you won't be nervous." "Why don't you ask Laurie to interfere?" proposed Jerry. "He looked crosser than I look when I'm mad when that Atwell man was worrying you about your lines this afternoon. I'll ask him myself, if you say so." "No." Constance shook her head. "I wouldn't for the world complain to Laurie. He has enough to think of now, without bothering his head over my troubles. I suppose I am too easily hurt. I must learn not to mind such things, if ever I expect to become a real artist." "That's the way you ought to feel, Connie," put in Marjorie's soft voice. She had been thinking seriously, while the others talked, as to what she might say to cheer up her disconsolate schoolmate. "You were chosen to sing the part of the Princess, and I am sure no one else can sing it half so well. Try to think that, all the time you are rehearsing. Remember, Laurie believes in you, and so do we. When the great night comes you won't have to listen to that horrid Mr. Atwell's nagging, or say your lines over and over again. You will truly be the Princess, and that will make you forget everything else. If you believe in yourself, nothing can make you fail. For your own sake, don't think for a minute of giving up the part." CHAPTER XXVI MAKING RESTITUTION Greatly to Mr. Ronald Atwell's chagrin, Constance Stevens began suddenly to show a marked improvement in her work that did not in the least coincide with his plans. Influenced by Mignon's tale of her wrongs, laid principally at Constance's door, albeit Marjorie, too, came in for her share of blame, he had taken a dislike to the gentle girl and lost no opportunity to humiliate her. Privately, he regarded the entire cast, Mignon included, as a set of silly children, and his only regard for Mignon lay in a wholesome respect for her father's money. At heart he was not a scoundrel, he was merely vain and selfish, and imbued with a profound sense of his own importance. It had pleased his fancy to assume the charge of the staging of the operetta, but now he was growing rather tired of it and wished that it were over. Long before this he and Mignon had come to a definite understanding regarding the operetta. Mignon had informed him boldly that she wished to sing the part of the Princess, and he had assured her that he would arrange matters to her satisfaction. It, therefore, became incumbent upon him to keep his word. He had begun his persistent annoying of Constance, convinced that, unable to endure it, she would resign and leave the field of honor free to the French girl. But Constance did nothing of the sort. She stood her ground, half-heartedly at first, but afterward, with Marjorie's words ringing in her ears, she exhibited a steadiness of purpose that he could not shake. At the dress rehearsal, the last before the public performance, she was a brilliant success, compelling even his reluctant admiration. It was now too late even to consider the possibility of Mignon replacing her, and he informed the latter rather sheepishly of this, as he rode home with her in her electric runabout. For the first and last time he had the pleasure of seeing Mignon in a royal rage, and when they reached her home, he declined her sullen offer to send him home in her automobile, and made his escape with due speed. Deciding he had had enough of amateurs and amateur operettas, he mailed a note to Professor Harmon excusing himself from further service on the plea of a telegram summoning him to New York. Whether the telegram were a myth, history does not record. Sufficient to say that he actually went to New York the following afternoon. And thus "The Rebellious Princess" lost a stage manager and Mignon the hitherto chief factor in her plans. She was also the recipient of an apologetic note from the actor, which caused her to clench her hands in rage, then shrug her thin shoulders with a gesture that did not spell defeat. Somehow, in some way, she would accomplish her purpose. Even at the eleventh hour she would not acknowledge herself beaten. Yet as the day wore on toward evening she could think of nothing to do that would bring her her unreasonable desire. The operetta was to be sung in the Sanford Theatre, where the dress rehearsal had been held. Furious almost to tears at her inability to bring about the impossible, Mignon at last ordered her runabout and made sulky preparations to start for the theatre. The possession of an automobile gave her the advantage of being able to don her first act costume at home, but her really attractive appearance in the fanciful gown of the heartless step-sister afforded her no pleasure. She hooked it up pettishly, made a face at herself in the mirror of her dressing table, and, drawing her evening cloak about her, flounced downstairs to her runabout, completely out of humor with the world in general. She drove along recklessly, as was her custom, and when half way to the theatre narrowly missed running down a small, sturdy figure that was marching across the street. "Naughty old wagon," screamed a familiar voice after her. At sound of that piping voice, Mignon stopped her car and peered out. Trotting along the sidewalk a little to her rear was a small boy with a diminutive violin case tucked under his arm. Little Charlie Stevens had come forth once more to see the world. In a flash wicked inspiration came to Mignon. The Stevens child was running away again, but this time he had chosen an evening exactly to her liking. Slipping out of her car she ran toward the boy. "Why, good evening, little boy," she called pleasantly. "Where are _you_ going?" "I know you. You're a naughty girl!" observed Charlie with more truth than courtesy. He braced himself defiantly and regarded Mignon with patent disapproval. "I am so sorry you think so." Mignon affected a sadness which she was far from feeling at this unvarnished statement. "I was going to take you for a ride and buy you some ice cream." Charlie considered this astonishing offer in silence. He stared frowningly at Mignon. "Is it chok'lit ice cream?" he asked, eyeing her in open disbelief. "Of course it is. As much as you can eat." "All right. I want some. But you're a naughty girl, just the same. Mary said so." Mignon shrugged indifferently. She was not greatly concerned at either his or Mary's opinion of her. "Come on, if you want a ride," she urged. Charlie obeyed with some show of reluctance. He was not sure that even the prospect of ice cream warranted his surrender. Mignon caught him up and swung him into the runabout. Her wrist watch pointed to fifteen minutes past seven. She had no time to lose. She drove rapidly through the town to a small confectioner's store at the other end. Charlie kept up a lively chatter as they rolled along. Stopping before it she lifted the boy from the automobile, and, taking his hand, hurried him into the brightly lighted store. Seating him at a table, she ordered two plates of chocolate ice cream and sat down opposite the boy, her black eyes glittering as she watched him eat. From time to time she glanced at her watch. When the child had finished his plate of cream, she pushed her own toward him. "Eat it," she commanded. Charlie responded nobly to the command. When she saw the last spoonful vanish, she smiled elfishly. It was eight o'clock. The operetta began at half past eight. Allowing herself fifteen minutes to reach the theatre and carry out the last step in her plan, she would arrive there at fifteen minutes past eight. The wandering musician made strenuous objection, however, to leaving the ice cream parlor. "I could eat more chok'lit cream," he informed her. "You are a greedy boy," she said, her former friendliness vanishing into angry impatience. "Come with me this minute." "You're a cross old elefunt," was Charlie's crushing but inappropriate retort. Mignon was in no mood for an exchange of pleasantries. Seizing Charlie by the arm she hustled him out of the shop into her runabout, and was off like the wind. When half way between the shop and the theatre, she halted her car. Lifting the boy out she set him on the sidewalk before he had time to protest. "Now go where you please. I'll tell Connie to come and find you," was her malicious farewell. Stepping into the runabout she drove away, leaving Charlie Stevens to take care of himself as best he might. Although Mignon was unaware of the fact, there had been an amazed witness to the final scene in her little drama. A fair-haired girl had come up just in time to hear her heartless speech and see her drive away, leaving a small, perplexed youngster on the sidewalk. That girl was Mary Raymond. She had steadily refused Marjorie's earnest plea that she attend the much-talked-of performance of "The Rebellious Princess," and directly after dinner that evening, on the plea of mailing a letter, had slipped from the house on one of her melancholy, soul-searching walks which she had become so fond of taking. Convinced that she was an utter failure, imbued with a daily growing sense of her own unfitness to be the friend of a girl like Marjorie Dean, Mary was plunged into the depths of humiliation and unhappiness. This alone had been the cause of the marked change in her that Marjorie had innocently attributed to Mignon's defection. In her sad little soul there was now no bitterness against Constance Stevens. Quite by chance she had one day not long past encountered Jerry Macy in Sargent's, alone. Touched by her woe-begone air, Jerry had taken pains to draw her out. With her usual shrewdness the stout girl had discovered the real cause of Mary's depression, and kindly advised her to have a heart-to-heart talk with Marjorie. Jerry had also made it a point to inform Mary, so far as she knew the details, of the trouble over the butterfly pins during Marjorie's freshman year, and of Mignon's cruel treatment of Constance. Distinctly to Jerry's credit, she told no one afterward of that chance meeting, yet she secretly hoped that what she had said would have its effect upon Mary. Overwhelmed with shame, Mary had left the talkative, stout girl and dragged herself home, in an agony of humiliation that can be better imagined than described. She felt that she could never forgive herself for the ignoble thoughts she had harbored against innocent Constance Stevens, and she was still more certain that she could never ask either Marjorie or Constance to forgive _her_. Again and again she had tried to bring herself to approach Marjorie and humbly sue for pardon. The weight of her own troubled conscience prevented her from yielding, and thus she kept her sorrow locked in her aching heart and waited dejectedly for the day when she must leave the Deans' pleasant home, taking with her nothing but bitter self-reproach for her own folly. It was in this black mood that Mary had wandered forth that evening and straight into the path of the very thing that was destined to bring her peace. Mignon had hardly driven away when Mary caught the venturesome youngster in her arms. The boy gave a jubilant little shout as he saw who held him. Mary, however, was still at a loss regarding the meaning of what she had seen. "Every time the cross girl scolds Charlie, you come and get him," was the joyful exclamation. "She wasn't cross all the time. She gave Charlie a ride and lots of ice cream. Then she wented away. She said she'd tell Connie to come and find me. Connie's gone to the the'tre. I wented, too, but the naughty girl got Charlie." "Charlie boy, try to tell Mary, where was he when the cross girl got him?" "Way over there." Charlie waved an indefinite hand in the wrong direction. Mary stood still, in a perplexed endeavor to read meaning in the nature of Mignon's strange action. Suddenly the light burst upon her. "Oh!" she cried, dismay written on every feature. "Now I begin to understand!" She glanced wildly about her. Far up the street shone the light of an oncoming street-car. Seizing Charlie by the hand she hurried him to the corner. It was not more than two minutes until the car came to a creaking stop before them. Mary helped Charlie into it and fumbled in her purse. She had just two nickels. Breathing her relief, she paid the fares, deposited Charlie on a seat beside her, then stared out the window in an anxious watch of the streets. But while Mary Raymond was making a desperate attempt to redeem herself by at least one kind act, Mignon La Salle had reached the theatre. Dropping all appearance of haste, she strolled past the groups of gaily attired boys and girls, nodding condescendingly to this one and that, and switched downstairs to the dressing room which she occupied with several other girls. Leisurely removing her cloak, she plumed herself before the mirror. Her black eyes constantly sought her watch, however. At last she turned from the mirror with a peculiar smile and abruptly left the room. Straight to the star's dressing room she walked. Her thin fingers beat a sharp tattoo on the door. It opened, and she stood face to face with Constance Stevens, who was just about to take her place in the wings, preparatory to the beginning of the opera. She was to make her first entrance directly after the opening chorus. "I came to tell you, Miss Stevens," said Mignon with an indescribable smile of pure malice, "that I saw your brother, Charlie, wandering along the street as I drove to the theatre. I suppose he has run away." With a frightened cry, Constance dashed past her and up the stairs. Mignon laughed aloud as she watched the vanishing figure. "That settles her," she muttered. "Harriet Delaney can sing my part. She has understudied it." Springing into sudden action she ran to her dressing room, eluding a collision with the feminine portion of the chorus who were scurrying for the stage in obedience to a gong that summoned them to the wings. Reaching to a hook in the wall, from which depended her several costumes, hung over one another, she took from under them an almost exact copy of the gown Constance Stevens was wearing in the first act and held it up with a murmur of satisfaction. Stripping off the gown she wore she hastily donned this other costume. Then she sat down to await what she believed would happen. But while Mignon busied herself with her own affairs, Constance was making a hurried search for Laurie Armitage. Unluckily, he had gone, for the moment, to the front of the house. Professor Harmon, too, was not in sight. He also had gone to the front to take his place in the orchestra pit. What could she do? The performance was about to begin. To leave the theatre on a search for Charlie meant disaster to Laurie's operetta. To leave Charlie to wander about the streets alone was even more terrifying. She flitted past the waiting choristers, drawn up for action, without a word of explanation. Marjorie Dean caught one look at her friend's terrified face. It was enough to convince her that something unusual had happened. Slipping out of her place in the line she followed Constance, who was making directly for the stage door. Marjorie saw her fling it open and glance wildly into the night. She ran toward Connie, calling out, "What is the matter?" As the question crossed her lips both girls saw a familiar girlish figure, strangely burdened, running toward them as fast as the weight she carried would permit her to run. With a cry which rang in Marjorie's ears for days afterwards Constance darted forward. She wrapped the girl and her burden in a tumultuous embrace, laughing and crying in the same breath. "The cross girl got Charlie, then she runned away and Mary comed and found him. Charlie's goin' to the the'tre to play in the band. Mary said so." He wriggled from the tangle of encircling arms to the stone walk. "Hello, Marj'ry," he greeted genially. Marjorie turned from the marvelous sight of the two she loved best in each other's arms. It was too wonderful for belief. Tardy remembrance caused her to utter a dismayed, "You'll be late, Connie! Hurry in. Mary and I will take care of Charlie. It doesn't matter if I do miss the opening number." With a swift glance at Mary that contained untold gratitude, Constance faltered, "I--love--you--Mary, for taking care of Charlie! I'll see you again as soon as I can. Good-bye!" She was gone in a flash, leaving Mary and Marjorie to face each other with full hearts. "You are my own, dear Mary again." Marjorie's clear voice was husky with emotion, "and my very first and best chum, forever!" Mary nodded dumbly, her blue eyes overflowing. "I've--come--back--to--you--to stay," she whispered. And on the stone steps, worn by the passing of the feet of those who had entered the theatre to play many parts, these two young players in Life's varied drama enacted a little scene of love and forgiveness that was entirely their own. CHAPTER XXVII THE FULFILLMENT The chorus were tunefully lifting up their voices in their initial number, their watchful eyes on Professor Harmon's baton, when the belated Princess hurried to her position in the wings. Laurie Armitage had returned to the stage and was instituting a wild search for Constance. Failing to find her upstairs, he had hastened below, and was rushing desperately up and down the corridors, peering into the open doorways of the deserted dressing rooms. Only one door was closed. Behind it a black-haired girl awaited a call to fame. He called Constance by name, again and again, then, receiving no answer, he dashed up the stairs, encountering the object of his search at the very height of his alarm. Marjorie Dean stood on guard beside her. She advanced toward the excited composer, saying briefly, "Let her alone, Laurie. She's awfully nervous and upset. She has just had a dreadful fright. I'll tell you about it later." Constance cast a reassuring glance at Laurie. She had heard Marjorie's protecting words. "I'm all right now," she nodded. "I won't fail you." The dulcet notes of her opening song, "I'm tired of being a Princess," brought immeasurable relief to Lawrence and Marjorie, as they stood in the wings, their anxious gaze fixed upon Constance. In one of the dressing rooms below, the silver strains came faintly to the ears of Mignon La Salle. During her interval of waiting she had been softly humming that very song, confident of the summons she believed she would receive. She had no doubt that her cowardly plan had worked only too well. Knowing Constance Stevens' deep affection for her tiny foster brother, she could readily see a vision of the terrified girl rushing out into the night in search of him, her duty to the operetta completely forgotten. As the sound of that hated voice reached her, she sprang to the door of her dressing room and half opening it, halted to listen. A wave of black rage swept over her. Forgetting her recent change of costume, she took the stairs, two at a time, and ran squarely against Lawrence Armitage and Marjorie Dean. Marjorie could not resist a low laugh of contemptuous scorn as she viewed the stormy-eyed girl whose unscrupulous plan had failed. The contempt in her pretty face deepened as her quick eyes took in the details of Mignon's costume. The French girl's indiscreet haste to make ready had convicted her. Marjorie had already learned from Mary all that had occurred. It needed this one proof to complete the evidence. Lawrence Armitage was regarding Mignon with perplexed brow. "That is not the costume you wore last night, Miss La Salle," he said with cold abruptness. Scrutinizing her closely, amazement began to dawn on his clear-cut features. "When did you----" With a low cry of mingled humiliation and fury, Mignon turned and ran down the stairs, her slender body trembling with the anger of a defeat born of the failure of her plan and her own betraying haste. Gaining the shelter of her dressing room, she gave herself up to a paroxysm of rage that ended in a burst of hysterical sobs. The end of the first act brought a troop of hurrying, laughing girls downstairs. Instead of the alert, self-possessed Mignon who had swept proudly into the dressing room that night, those who shared the room with her found a convulsive weeper lying face downward on the floor. "What's the matter?" was the concerted cry. A good-natured senior took Mignon gently by the shoulders. "Get up, Mignon," she commanded. "If you don't stop crying, you won't be able to go on when your cue comes, let alone trying to sing." Mignon's first entrance took place in the second act and occurred directly after the rise of the curtain. The French girl half raised herself at this reminder, then sank back to her original position with a fresh burst of racking sobs. Finding her good-natured ministrations ineffectual, the senior left Mignon to herself and began to change methodically to her peasant costume of the second act, the scene of which was laid in a village and in front of the cottage where she supposedly dwelt. "Ten minutes," called the warning tones of the freshman who was serving as call boy. Still Mignon refused to heed the admonitions of her companions. "Better call Laurie Armitage," suggested one girl. "She can't possibly go on. Harriet Delaney will have to take her place. Mignon isn't even dressed for her part. Where do you suppose----" The senior did not finish her sentence. Something in the familiar details of the gown Mignon wore aroused an unpleasant suspicion in her active brain. A swift-footed messenger had already sped away to find the young composer, who, with the departure of Ronald Atwell had taken the arduous duties of stage manager upon his capable shoulders. When the information of Mignon's collapse reached him, he made no move to go to her. Instead, he beckoned to Harriet Delaney, who had just come upstairs, and whispered a few words to her which caused her colorful face to pale, then turn pinker than usual. "But I haven't a suitable costume," several girls heard her protest. "Go on as you are. Your costume is suitable," reassured Laurie. But down in the dressing room Mignon had struggled to her feet. The knowledge that her unfairness was to cost her her own part in the operetta aroused her to action. In feverish haste she began to tear off the gown she wore. "Second act," rang out through the corridor. With a low wail of genuine grief, Mignon dropped into a chair. She heard Harriet Delaney begin her first song. Unable to bear the chagrin that was hers, she sprang up. Readjusting the gown she had partly thrown off, she seized her cloak and wrapped it about her. Then she fled up the stairway, and into the calm, starlit night to where her runabout awaited her, the victim of her own wrong-doing. * * * * * It was a happy trio of girls that, shortly before midnight, climbed into the Deans' automobile, in which Mr. and Mrs. Dean sat patiently awaiting their exit from the stage door. Lawrence Armitage's operetta had been an artistic as well as a financial success. It had been a "Standing Room Only" audience, and the proceeds were to be given to the Sanford Hospital for Children. Laurie had decreed this as a quiet memento to Constance's devotion to little Charlie during his days of infirmity. The audience had not been chary of their applause. The principals had received numerous curtain calls, Constance had received an enthusiastic ovation, and many beautiful floral tokens from her admiring friends. Laurie had been assailed with cries of "Composer! Speech! Speech!" and had been obliged to respond. Even the chorus came in for its share of approbation, and to her intense amazement Marjorie Dean received two immense bouquets of roses, a fitting tribute to her fresh, young beauty. One of them bore Hal Macy's card, the other she afterward learned was the joint contribution of a number of her school friends. Only one person left the theatre that night who did not share in the enthusiasm of the Sanford folks over the creditable work of their town boys and girls. Mignon La Salle's father had, for once, put business aside and come out to hear his daughter sing. Why she had not appeared on the stage, he could not guess. His first thought was that she had told him an untruth, but the printed programme carried her name as a principal. He arrived home to be greeted with the servant's assertions that Miss La Salle was ill and had retired. Going to her room to inquire into the nature of her sudden illness, he was refused admittance, and shrewdly deciding that his daughter had been worsted in a schoolgirl's dispute in which she appeared always to be engaged, he left her to herself. It was not until long afterward, when came the inevitable day of reckoning, which was to make Mignon over, that he learned the true story of that particular night. It had been arranged beforehand that Constance was to spend the night with Marjorie. Shortly after Charlie had been comfortably established in Constance's dressing room, Uncle John Roland had appeared at the stage door of the theatre, his placid face filled with genuine alarm. He had been left in charge of Charlie, and the child had eluded his somewhat lax guardianship and run away. Finding the little violin missing, he guessed that the boy had made his usual attempt to find the theatre, and the old man had hastened directly there. Charlie was sent home with him, despite his wailing plea to remain, thus leaving Constance free to carry out her original plan. The Deans exchanged significant smiles at sight of Marjorie, Mary and Constance approaching the automobile, three abreast, arms firmly linked. "Attention!" called Mr. Dean. "Salute your officers!" Two hands went up in instant obedience of the order. Constance hesitated, then followed suit. "I see my regiment has increased," remarked Mr. Dean, as he sprang out to assist the three into the car. "Yes, Connie has joined the company," rejoiced Marjorie. "I am answering for her. She needs military discipline." "Three soldiers are ever so much more interesting than two," put in Mary shyly. Her earnest eyes sought the face of her Captain, as though to ask mute pardon for her errors. Mrs. Dean's affectionate smile carried with it the absolution Mary craved, and Mr. Dean's firm clasp of her hand, as he helped her into the car, was equally reassuring. Mrs. Dean had ordered a light repast especially on account of Constance and Marjorie. She had not counted on Mary, but she was a most welcome addition. Their faithful maid, Delia, had insisted on staying up to make cocoa and serve the supper party. "Captain," begged Marjorie, as the three girls appeared in her room, after going upstairs, "please let us stay up as late as we wish to-night? We simply must talk things out. To-morrow is Saturday, you know." "For once I will withdraw all objections. You may stay up as late as you please." The three girls kissed her in turn. Mary was last. Mrs. Dean drew her close and kissed her twice. "Have you won the fight, Lieutenant?" she whispered. Mary simply nodded, her blue eyes misty. She could not trust herself to speak. "To-morrow--I'll--tell you," she faltered, then hurried to overtake Constance and Marjorie, who were half-way upstairs. The "talk" lasted until two o'clock that morning. It was interspersed with laughter, fond embracing and a few tears. When it ended, Marjorie's dream of friendship had come true. Mary had more to say than the others. She confessed to writing the letter of warning that had so mystified the basket-ball team. "I knew you wrote it," Marjorie said quietly. "I found it out by comparing the paper it was written on with a letter I had received from you. I was so glad. I knew you couldn't be like Mignon, even if you were her friend." "I was never her friend, nor she mine," asserted Mary with a positive shake of her head. "I was jealous of Constance and was glad to find someone besides myself who didn't like her. I never knew the true story of the pin until Jerry----" She paused, coloring deeply. "So Jerry told you. That is just like her. She is the kindest-hearted girl in the world. Next to you two, I like her best of all my schoolmates." Marjorie's affectionate tones bespoke her deep regard for the stout girl whose matter-of-fact ways and funny sayings were a perpetual joy. "If only I had listened to you and Connie in the first place." Mary sighed. "I've spoiled my sophomore year and tried hard enough to spoil yours. And there's so little of it left! I won't have time to show you how sorry I am and how much I care." "We will begin now and make the most of what is left of it," proposed Marjorie gently. Then she added, "Jerry didn't know all that happened last year. I would like to tell you about it." "Please do," urged Mary humbly. Marjorie told the story of her first year in Sanford, frequently turning to Constance for confirmation. When she had finished Mary was silent. She had no words with which to express her utter contrition. "Now you know our sad history," smiled Marjorie, with a kindly attempt at lightening the burden of self-reproach Mary bore. "But neither of you has told _me_ how Mary happened to find Charlie to-night," reminded Constance. "I am anxious to know. This is the first time he ever ran so far away." "Oh, no, you forget the night he went to Mignon's----" Mary broke off shortly, red with embarrassment. She had not intended to speak of this. Constance's positive assertion had caught her off her guard. "Went to Mignon's?" was the questioning chorus of her two listeners. Mary was obliged to enlighten them. "I wondered if he ever told you, Connie. He promised he wouldn't," she ended. "And he never told, the little rascal," was Constance's quick reply. "No one except the maid knew it, and you may be sure she never said a word." "It was that night I came to my senses." Mary smiled a trifle wistfully. "I saw myself as others saw me. You thought I was grieving over Mignon, Marjorie. But I wasn't. It was my own shortcomings that bothered me. Now I must tell you about to-night, and then you will know everything about me." Constance received the account of Mignon's attempt to supplant her in the operetta with no trace of resentment. "I ought to be angry with her, but I can't. She has suffered more to-night than I would have if her plan had succeeded. Poor Mignon, I wonder if she will ever wake up?" "That's hard to say. At any rate, she did some good, even if she didn't intend to," reminded Marjorie. "I'm going to try to keep my junior year in high school free of snarls. There is no use in mourning for the past. Let us set our faces to the future and be glad that we three are done with misunderstandings. Marjorie Dean, High School Junior, is going to be a better soldier than Marjorie Dean, High School Sophomore has ever been." Both Constance Stevens and Mary Raymond smiled at this earnest resolve. In their hearts they felt that Marjorie Dean need make no vows. She stood already on the heights of loyalty and truth, steadfast and unassailable. How fully Marjorie Dean carried out her resolve and what happened to her as a junior in Sanford High School will be told in "Marjorie Dean, High School Junior," a story which every friend of this delightful girl will surely welcome. THE END Transcriber's Note: Alternative spelling and variations in hyphenated words have been retained as in the original publication. The following changes have been made: who were maknig _changed to_ who were making Do you miss anyone? _changed to_ "Do you miss anyone? racuous voice _changed to_ raucous voice atuomobile, and when _changed to_ automobile, and when asperin tablets _changed to_ aspirin tablets strange predeliction _changed to_ strange predilection sinmply because she _changed to_ simply because she atlhough the latter _changed to_ although the latter stayled her, and _changed to_ styled her, and continual penace for _changed to_ continual penance for the previous Christmas eve _changed to_ the previous Christmas Eve please don't be disapponted _changed to_ please don't be disappointed Who says I'm not a poet _changed to_ "Who says I'm not a poet That let's me out _changed to_ That lets me out was alloted the part _changed to_ was allotted the part red with embarassment _changed to_ red with embarrassment soldier than Marjorie, Dean _changed to_ soldier than Marjorie Dean 
28805	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 28805-h.htm or 28805-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h/28805-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/28805/28805-h.zip) DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY by EVELYN RAYMOND Illustrations by S. Schneider Chatterton-Peck Company New York, N. Y. Copyright 1908 by Chatterton-Peck Co. [Illustration: THE MOONLIGHTED FIGURE BY THE LILY POND. _Dorothy's House Party._] CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I END OF AN INFAIR 9 II CHOOSING THE GUESTS 21 III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST 35 IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING 44 V RIDDLES 61 VI A MORNING CALL 79 VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING 93 VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS 106 IX HEADQUARTERS 118 X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS 133 XI MORNING TALKS 145 XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH 159 XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN 174 XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND 189 XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING 203 XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY 215 XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED 229 XVIII CONCLUSION 244 DOROTHY'S HOUSE PARTY CHAPTER I THE END OF AN INFAIR Dorothy sat up in bed and looked about her. For a moment she did not realize where she was nor how she came to be in such a strange and charming room. Then from somewhere in the distance sounded a merry, musical voice, singing: "Old Noah of old he built an ark-- One more river to cross! He built it out of hickory bark-- One more riv----" The refrain was never finished. Dorothy was at the open window calling lustily: "Alfy! Alfy Babcock! Come right up here this very, very minute!" "Heigho, Sleepy Head! You awake at last? Well, I should think it was time. I'll be right up, just as soon as I can put these yeller artemisias into Mis' Calvert's yeller bowl." A fleeting regret that she had not waked earlier, that it was not she who had gathered the morning nosegay for Mrs. Betty's table, shadowed the fair face of the late riser; but was promptly banished as the full memory of all that happened on the night before came back to her. Skipping from point to point of the pretty chamber she examined it in detail, exclaiming in delight over this or that and, finally, darting within the white-tiled bathroom where some thoughtful person had already drawn water for her bath. "Oh! it's like a fairy-tale and I'm in a real fairy-land, seems if! What a dainty tub! What heaps of great soft towels! and what a lovely bath-robe! And oh! what a wonderful great-aunt Betty!" A moisture not wholly due to the luxurious bath filled Dorothy's eyes, as she took her plunge, for her heart was touched by the evidences of the loving forethought which had thus prepared for her home-coming before she herself knew she possessed a birthright home. Of her past life the reader if interested may learn quite fully, for the facts are detailed in the two books known as "Dorothy's Schooling," and "Dorothy's Travels." So though it was still a radiantly happy girl who welcomed Alfaretta it was a thoughtful one; so that Alfy again paused in her caroling to demand: "Well, Dolly Doodles, what's the matter? If I'd been as lucky as you be I wouldn't draw no down-corners to my mouth, I wouldn't! I'd sing louder'n ever and just hustle them 'animals' into that 'ark' 'two by two,' for 'There's one more river to cross! One more river--One more river to cro-o-o-oss!'" But without waiting for an answer the young farm girl caught her old playmate in her strong arms and gave her a vigorous hug. "There, Miss Dorothy Calvert, that don't begin to show how tickled I am 'bout your good fortune! I'm so full of it all 't I couldn't hardly sleep. Fact. You needn't stare, though 'tis a queer thing, 'cause if there's one thing more to my liking than another it's going to bed on such a bed as Mis' Calvert has in every single one of her rooms. There ain't no husk-mattresses nor straw shake-downs to Deerhurst. No, siree! I know, for I went into every single chamber from roof to cellar and pinched 'em all. The 'help' sleep just as soft as the old lady does herself. Softer, Ma says, 'cause old-timers like her if they didn't use feathers just laid on hard things 't even Ma'd despise to have in her house. However, everybody to their taste! and say, Dolly, which of all them pretty dresses are you goin' to put on? What? That plain old white linen? Well, if you don't beat the Dutch and always did! If I had all them silks and satins I'd pick out the handsomest and wear that first, and next handsome next, and keep right on, one after another, till I'd tried the lot, if I had to change a dozen times a day. See! I found them cardinal flowers down by the brook and fetched 'em to you." With one of her sudden changes of mood Alfaretta dropped down upon the floor and pulled from the pocket of her old-fashioned skirt a cheap paper pad. It was well scribbled with penciled notes which the girl critically examined, as she explained: "You see, Dorothy, that your story is like reading a library book, only more so; and lest I should forget some part of it I've wrote it all down. Listen. I'll read while you finish fixin'. My! What a finicky girl you are! You was born----" "But, Alfy, please! I protest against hearing my own history that way!" cried the other, making a playful dash toward the notes, which Alfaretta as promptly hid behind her. Then, knowing from experience that contest was useless, Dorothy resigned herself to hearing the following data droned forth: "You was born----" "Of course!" "'Twon't do you a mite of good to interrupt. I'm in real down earnest. You'll--you'll be goin' away again, pretty soon, and having come into your fortunes you'll be forgettin'----" Here Alfy sobbed and dabbed her knuckles into her eyes--"'Cause Ma says 'tain't likely you'll ever be the same girl again----" "I should like to know why not? Go on with your story-notes. I'd even rather hear them than you talking foolishly!" "Well, I'll have to begin all over again. You was born. Your parents were respectful--respective--hmm! all right folks though deluged with poverty. Then they died and left you a little, squallin' baby----" "Alfy, dear, that's unkind! I don't admit that I ever could be a squaller!" Alfaretta raised her big eyes and replied: "I ain't makin' that up. It's exactly what Mis' Calvert said her own self. 'Twas why she wouldn't bother raisin' you herself after your Pa and Ma died and sent you to her. So she turned you into a foundling orphan and your Father John and Mother Martha brung you up. Then your old Aunt Betty got acquainted with you an' liked you, and sort of hankered to get you back again out of the folkses' hands what had took all the trouble of your growing into a sizable girl. Some other folks appear to have took a hand in the business of huntin' up your really truly name; and Ma Babcock she says that Mis' Calvert'd have had to own up to your bein' her kin after awhile, whether or no; so she just up and told the whole business; and here you be--a nairess! and so rich you won't never know old friends again--maybe--though I always thought you--you--you--Oh! my!" Alfaretta bowed her head to her knees and began to cry with the same vigor she brought to every act of her life. But she didn't cry for long; because Dorothy was promptly down upon the floor, also, and pulling the weeper's hands from her flushed face, commanded: "It's my turn. I've a story to tell. It's all about a girl named Alfaretta Babcock, who was the first friend I ever had 'up-mounting,' and is going to be my friend all my life unless she chooses otherwise. This Alfy I'm talking about is one of the truest, bravest girls in the world. The only trouble is that she gets silly notions into her auburn head, once in a while, and it takes kisses just like these--and these--and these--to drive them out. She's going to be a teacher when she grows up----" Alfy's tears were dried, her face smiling, as she now interrupted: "No. I've changed my mind. I'm either going to be a trained nurse or a singer in an opera. Premer donners, they call 'em." "Heigho! Why all that?" Alfaretta dropped her voice to a whisper and cautiously glanced over her shoulder as she explained: "Greatorex!" "Miss Greatorex? What has that poor, learned dear to do with it?" demanded Dorothy, astonished. "Everything. You see, she's the first woman teacher I ever saw--the first _woman_ one. Rather than grow into such a stiff, can't-bend-to-save-your-life kind of person I'd do 'most anything. Hark! There's somebody to the door!" Both girls sprang to open it and found a maid with a summons to breakfast; also with the request that "Miss Dorothy should attend Mrs. Calvert in her own room before going below stairs." Dorothy sped away but Alfaretta lingered to put the cardinal flowers into a vase and to admire afresh the beautiful apartment assigned to her friend. There was honest pleasure in the good fortune which had come to another and yet there was a little envy mingled with the pleasure. It was with a rather vicious little shake that she picked up the soft bath-robe Dorothy had discarded and folded it about her own shoulders; but the reflection of her own face in the mirror opposite so surprised her by its crossness that she stared, then laughed aloud. "Huh! Ain't you ashamed of yourself, Alfy Babcock? When you put on that two-sticks, ten-penny-nails-look you're homely enough to eat hay! 'Tain't so long ago that Dolly hadn't no more in this world than you've got this minute. Not half so much either, 'cause she hadn't nobody belongin', nobody at all, whilst you had a Ma and Pa and a whole slew of brothers and sisters. All she's found yet is a terrible-old great-aunt and some money. Pa says 'money's no good,' and--I guess I'll go get my breakfast, too." Her good temper quite restored, this young philosopher skipped away and joined her mother and sisters in the great kitchen where they were already seated at table. In Mrs. Calvert's room the happy old lady greeted Dorothy with such a warmth of affection that the girl felt no lack of others "belongin'"--for which lack Alfaretta had pitied her--and only yearned to find a way to show her own love and gratitude. There followed a happy half-hour of mutual confidences, a brief reading of the Word, a simple prayer for blessing on their new lives together, and the pair descended to the cheerful room where their guests were assembling: each, it seemed, enjoying to the utmost their beautiful surroundings and their hostess's hospitality. Jests flew, laughter rang, and the Judge could scarcely refrain from song; when just as the meal was over James Barlow appeared at the long, open window, his mail bag over his shoulder, and instant silence succeeded as each person within waited eagerly for his share in the contents of the pouch. There were letters in plenty, and some faces grew grave over their reading, while for the Judge there was a telegram which Jim explained had just come to the office where was, also, the post-office. "Hmm! that ends my vacation in earnest! I meant to stay a bit longer out of business, but--Mrs. Calvert, when's the next train cityward, please?" Mrs. Betty returned: "I've half a mind not to tell you! But, of course, if--Dorothy, you'll find a parcel of time tables in that desk by the fireplace. Take them to Judge Breckenridge, please." Nor was he the only one to make them useful; for it followed that the Deerhurst "infair," begun on the night before and planned to extend over several days must be abruptly ended. The hostess was herself summoned elsewhere, to attend the sick bed of a lifelong friend, and the summons was not one to be denied. Even while she was reading the brief note she knew that she must forsake her post and with a thrill of pride reflected that now she had one of her own kin to install in her place. Young as Dorothy was she must act as the hostess of Deerhurst, even to these gray-headed guests now gathered there. But, presently it appeared, that there would be no guests to entertain. President Ryall was needed to supervise some changes at his college; merchant Ihrie must hasten to disentangle some badly mixed business affairs; Dr. Mantler would miss the "most interesting case on record if he did not come at once to his hospital;" and so, to the four old "boys," who had camped together in the Markland forests, the end of playtime had indeed come, and each after his kind must resume his man's work for the world. Young Tom Hungerford's furlough from West Point expired that morning, and his mother felt that when he returned to the Academy she must establish herself for a time at the hotel near-by. At her invitation Mrs. Cook and Melvin were to accompany her; that these Nova Scotians might see something of lads' military training outside their own beloved Province. Catching the general spirit of unrest, Miss Greatorex suddenly announced that it was time she returned to the Rhinelander. Maybe she dreaded being left the only adult in the house, for as yet no mention had been made as to the disposal of her charges, Molly and Dolly. Certainly, she felt that having been burdened with their cares during the long summer she was entitled to a few days' rest before the beginning of a new school year. The lady added: "Besides all that, I shall have no more than sufficient time to arrange my specimens that I obtained in Markland." A short silence fell once more upon that company in the breakfast room, and somehow the brilliant sunshine seemed to dim as if a storm were rising; or was it but a mist of disappointment rising to Dorothy's eyes as she glanced from one to another and realized how well she loved them each and all, and how sad the parting was. But her last glance fell upon her Aunt Betty's face and she bravely smiled back into the kindly eyes so tenderly smiling upon her. After all, that was the Calvert way! To meet whatever came with "head erect and colors flying," and she, too, was Calvert. She'd prove it! Cried she, with that characteristic toss of her brown curls: "Well, if everybody _must_--what can I do to help? As for you two, darling 'father' and 'mother,' I hope nothing's going to take you away from Deerhurst all of a sudden, like the rest!" But there was, although there was no suddenness in this decision. As they presently informed her, the crippled ex-postman had made himself so useful at the sanitarium where he had spent the summer that he had been offered a permanent position there, at a larger salary than he had ever received as letter-carrier in Baltimore. He had also secured for his wife Martha a position as matron of the institution; and the independence thus achieved meant more to that ambitious woman than even a care-free home with her beloved foster-child. The death of their old aunt had released Martha from that separation from her husband which had so sorely tried her and, though sorry to part again from Dorothy, she was still a very happy woman. "We shall always love one another, Dolly dear, but we've come to 'the parting of the ways.' Each as the Lord leads, little girl; but what is the reason, now that Mrs. Calvert's grown-up party has ended, what is the reason, I say, that you don't give a House Party of your very own?" CHAPTER II CHOOSING THE GUESTS Those who must go went quickly. By trains and boats, the various guests who had gathered at Deerhurst to welcome Dorothy's home-coming had departed, and at nightfall the great house seemed strangely empty and deserted. Even Ma Babcock had relinquished her post as temporary housekeeper and had hurried across the river to nurse a seriously ill neighbor. "I may be back tomorrer and I may not be back till the day after never! I declare I'm all of a fluster, what with Mis' Calvert goin' away sort of leavin' me in charge--though them old colored folks o' her'n didn't like that none too well!--and me havin' to turn my back on duty this way. But sickness don't wait for time nor tide and typhoid's got to be tended mighty sharp; and I couldn't nohow refuse to go to one Mis' Judge Satterlee's nieces, she that's been as friendly with me as if I was a regular 'ristocratic like herself. No, when a body's earned a repitation for fetchin' folks through typhoid you got to live up to it. Sorry, Dolly C.; but I'll stow the girls, Barry and Clarry and the rest, 'round amongst the neighbors somewhere, 'fore I start. As for you, Alfy----" "Oh, Mrs. Babcock! Don't take Alfy away! Please, please don't!" cried Dorothy, fairly clutching at the matron's flying skirts, already disappearing through the doorway. Mrs. Babcock switched herself free and answered through the opening: "All right. Alfy can do as she likes. She can go down help tend store to Liza Jane's, t'other village, where she's been asked to go more'n once, or finish her visit to you. Ary one suits me so long as you don't let nor hender me no more." Not all of this reply was distinct, for it was finished on the floor above, whither the energetic farm-wife had sped to "pack her duds"; but enough was heard to set Alfaretta skipping around the room in an ecstasy of delight, exclaiming: "I'm to be to the House Party! Oh! I'm to be to the Party!" But this little episode had been by daylight, and now the dusk had fallen. The great parlors were shut and dark. Prudent old Ephraim had declared: "I ain't gwine see my Miss Betty's substance wasted, now she's outer de way he'se'f. One lamp in de hall's ernuf fo' seein' an' doan' none yo chillen's go foolin' to ast mo'." So the long halls were dim and full of shadows; the wind had risen and howled about the windows, which were being carefully shuttered by the servants against the coming storm which Dinah prophesied would prove the "ekernoctial" and a "turr'ble one"; and to banish the loneliness which now tormented her, Dorothy proposed: "Let's go into the library. There's a fine fire on the hearth and the big lamp is stationary. Ephraim can't find fault with us for using that. We'll make out a list of the folks to ask. You, Alfy, shall do the writing, you do write such a fine, big hand. Come on, Molly girl! I'm so glad you begged to stay behind your Auntie Lu. Aren't you?" "Ye-es, I reckon so!" answered the little Southerner, with unflattering hesitation. "But it's mighty lonesome in this big house without her and West Point's just--just heavenly!" "Any place would be 'heavenly' to you, Molly Breckenridge, that was full of boys!" retorted Dolly. "But don't fancy you'd be allowed to see any of those cadets even if you were there. Beg pardon, girlie, I don't want to be cross, but how can I have a decent party if you don't help? Besides, there's Monty and Jim left. They ought to count for something." "Count for mighty little, seems if, the way they sneak off by themselves and leave us alone. Gentlemen, _Southern_ gentlemen, wouldn't act that way!" "Oh, sillies! What's the use of spoiling a splendid time? It's just like a cow givin' a pailful of milk then turnin' round and kickin' it over!" cried good-natured Alfy, throwing an arm around each girl's shoulders and playfully forcing her into the cheery library and into a great, soft chair. Of course, they all laughed and hugged one another and acknowledged that they had been "sillies" indeed; and a moment later three girlish heads were bending together above the roomy table, whereon was set such wonderful writing materials as fairly dazzled Alfaretta's eyes. So impressed was she that she exclaimed as if to herself: "After all, I guess I won't be a trained nurse nor a opera singer. I'll be a writin' woman and have just such pens and things as these." "Oh, Alfy, you funny dear! You change your mind just as often as I used to!" "Don't you change it no more, then, Dorothy C.?" demanded the other, quickly. "No. I don't think I shall ever change it again. I shall do everything the best I can, my music and lessons and all that, but it'll be just for one thing. I lay awake last night wondering how best I could prove grateful for all that's come to me and I reckon I've found out, and it's so--so simple, too." "Ha! Let's hear this fine and simple thing, darling Dolly Doodles, and maybe we'll both follow your illustrious example!" cried Molly, smiling. "To--to make everybody I know as--as happy as I can;" answered the other slowly. "Huh! That's nothing! And you can begin right now, on ME!" declared Miss Alfaretta Babcock, with emphasis. "How?" "Help me to tell who's to be invited." "All right. Head the list with Alfaretta Babcock." "Cor-rect! I've got her down already. Next?" "Molly Breckenridge." "Good enough. Down she goes. Wait till I get her wrote before you say any more." They waited while Alfy laboriously inscribed the name and finished with the exclamation: "That's the crookedest back-name I ever wrote." "You acted as if it hurt you, girlie! You wriggled your tongue like they do in the funny pictures;" teased Molly, but the writer paid no heed. "Next?" "Dorothy Calvert." "So far so good. But them three's all girls. To a party there ought to be as many boys. That's the way we did to our last winter's school treat," declared Alfaretta. "Well, there's Jim Barlow. He's a boy." "He's no _party_ kind of a boy," objected Molly, "and he's only--_us_. She hasn't anybody down that isn't us, so far. We few can't make a whole party." But Dolly and Alfy were wholly serious. "Montmorency Vavasour-Stark," suggested the former, and the writer essayed that formidable name. Then she threw down the pen in dismay, exclaiming: "You'll have to indite that yourself or spell it out to me letter by letter. He'll take more'n a whole line if I write him to match the others." "Oh! he doesn't take up much room, he's so little," reassured idle Molly, with a mischievous glance toward the doorway which the other girls did not observe; while by dint of considerable assistance Alfy "got him down" and "all on one line!" as she triumphantly remarked. "That's two boys and three girls. Who's your next boy?" "Melvin Cook. He's easy to write," said Dolly. "But he's gone." "Yes, Alfy, but he can come back. They'll all have to 'come' except we who don't have to." A giggle from behind the portières commented upon this remark and speeding to part them Dolly revealed the hiding figures of their two boy house-mates. "That's not nice of young gentlemen, to peep and listen," remarked Molly, severely; "but since you've done it, come and take your punishment. You'll have to help. James Barlow, you are appointed the committee of 'ways and means.' I haven't an idea what that 'means,' but I know they always have such a committee." "What 'they,' Miss Molly?" "I don't know, Mister Barlow, but you're--it." "Monty, you'll furnish the entertainment," she continued. The recipient of this honor bowed profoundly, then lifted his head with a sudden interest as Dorothy suggested the next name: "Molly Martin." Even Alfy looked up in surprise. "Do you mean it, Dorothy C.?" "Surely. After her put Jane Potter." James was listening now and inquired: "What you raking up old times for, Dorothy? Inviting them south-siders that made such a lot of trouble when you lived 'up-mounting' afore your folks leased their farm?" "Whose 'Party' is this?" asked the young hostess, calmly, yet with a twinkle in her eye. "All of our'n," answered Alfaretta, complacently. "How many girls now, Alfy?" questioned Molly, who longed to suggest some of her schoolmates but didn't like a similar reproof to that which fell so harmlessly from Alfaretta's mind. "Five," said the secretary, counting upon her fingers. "Me, and you, and her, and----five. Correct." "Mabel Bruce." "Who's she? I never heard of her," wondered Molly, while Jim answered: "She's a girl 'way down in Baltimore. Why, Dorothy C., you know she can't come here!" "Why not? Listen, all of you. This is to be _my_ House Party. It's to be the very nicest ever was. One that everyone who is in it will never, never forget. My darling Aunt Betty gave me permission to ask anybody I chose and to do anything I wanted. She said I had learned some of the lessons of poverty and now I had to begin the harder ones of having more money than most girls have. She said that I mustn't feel badly if the money brought me enemies and some folks got envious." Here, all unseen by the speaker, honest Alfaretta winced and put her hand to her face; but she quickly dropped it, to listen more closely. "Mabel was a dear friend even when I was that 'squalling baby' Alfy wrote about. I am to telegraph for her and to send her a telegraphic order for her expenses, though Aunt Betty wasn't sure _that_ would be acceptable to Mr. and Mrs. Bruce. To prevent any misunderstanding on that point, you are to make the telegram real long and explicit. I reckon that's what it means to be that committee Molly named. She'll make six girls and that's enough. Six boys--how many yet Alfy?" "Three. Them two that are and the one that isn't." "Mike Martin." Both Jim and Alfy exclaimed in mutual protest: "Why Dorothy! That fellow? you must be crazy." "No, indeed! I'm the sanest one here. That boy is doing the noblest work anybody ever did on this dear old mountain; he's making and keeping the peace between south-side and north-side." "How do you know, Dorothy?" asked Jim, seriously. "No matter how I know but I do know. Why, I wouldn't leave him out of my Party for anything. I'd almost rather be out of it myself!" Then both he and Alfaretta remembered that winter day on the mountain when Dorothy had been the means of saving Mike Martin from an accidental death and the quiet conference afterward of the two, in that inner room of the old forge under the Great Balm Tree. Probably something had happened then and there to make Dolly so sure of Mike's worthiness. But she was already passing on to "next," nodding toward Alfy, with the words: "The two Smith boys, Littlejohn and Danny." Jim Barlow laughed but did not object. The sons of farmer Smith were jolly lads and deserved a good time, once in their hard-worked lives; yet he did stare when Dorothy concluded her list of lads with the name: "Frazer Moore." "You don't know him very well, Dolly girl. Beside that, he'll make an odd number. He's the seventh----" "Son of the seventh son--fact!" interrupted Alfaretta; "and now we'll have to find another girl to match him." "I've found the girl, Dolly, but she won't match. Helena Montaigne came up on the train by which your Father John left for the north. You could hardly leave her out from your House Party, or from givin' her the bid to it, any way." "Helena home? Oh! I am so glad, I am so glad! Of course, she'll get the 'bid'; I'll take it to her myself the first thing to-morrow morning. But you didn't mention Herbert. Hasn't he come, too?" James Barlow nodded assent but grudgingly. He had never in his heart quite forgiven Herbert Montaigne for their difference in life; as if it were the fault of the one that he had been born the son of the wealthy owner of The Towers and of the other that he was a penniless almshouse child. Second thoughts, however, always brought nobler feeling into the honest heart of Jim and a flush of shame rose to his face as he forced himself to answer. "Yes, course. The hull fambly's here." Dorothy checked the teasing words which rose to her lips, for when ambitious Jim relapsed so hopelessly into incorrect speech it was a sign that he was deeply moved; and it was a relief to see Alfaretta once more diligently count upon her fingers and to hear her declare: "We'll never'll get this here list straight and even, never in this endurin' world. First there's a girl too many and now there's a girl too short!" "Never mind; we'll make them come out even some way, and I'll find another girl. I don't know who, yet, and we mustn't ask any more or there'll be no places for them to sleep. Now we've settled the guests let's settle the time. We'll have to put it off two or three days, to let them get here. I wish your cousin Tom Hungerford could be asked to join us but I don't suppose he could come," said Dolly to her friend Molly. "No, he couldn't. It was the greatest favor his getting off just for those few hours. A boy might as well be in prison as at West Point!" "What? At that 'heavenly' place? Let's see. This is Wednesday night. Saturday would be a nice time to begin the Party, don't you all think?" "Fine. Week-end ones always do begin on Saturday but the trouble is they break up on Monday after;" answered Molly. "Then ours is to be a double week-ender. Aunt Betty said 'invite them for a week.' That's seven days, and now Master Stark comes your task. As a committee of entertainment you are to provide some new, some different, fun for us every single one of those seven days; and it must be something out of the common. I long, I just long to have my home-finding House Party so perfectly beautiful that nobody in it will ever, ever forget it!" Looking into her glowing face the few who were gathered about her inwardly echoed her wish, and each, in his or her own way, resolved to aid in making it as "perfect" as their young hostess desired. Monty heaved a prodigious sigh. "You've given me the biggest task, Dolly Doodles! When a fellow's brain is no better than mine----" "Nonsense, Montmorency Vavasour-Stark! You know in your little insides that you're ''nigh tickled to death' as Alfy would say. Aren't you the one who always plans the entertainments--the social ones--at your school, Brentnor Hall? You're as proud as Punch this minute, and you know it, sir. Don't pretend otherwise!" reproved Molly, severely. "Yes, but--that was different. I had money then. I hadn't announced my decision to be independent of my father and he--he hadn't taken me too literally at my word;" and with a whimsical expression the lad emptied his pockets of the small sums they contained and spread the amount on the table. "There it is, all of it, Lady of the Manor, at your service! Getting up entertainments is a costly thing, but--as far as it goes, I'll try my level best!" They all laughed and Dorothy merrily heaped the coins again before him. "You forget, and so I have to remind you, that this is to be _my_ Party! I don't ask you to spend your money but just your brains in this affair." "Huh! Dorothy! I'm afraid they won't go much further than the cash!" he returned, but nobody paid attention to this remark, they were so closely watching Dorothy. She had opened a little leather bag which lay upon the table and now drew from it a roll of bills. Crisp bank notes, ten of them, and each of value ten dollars. "Whew! Where did you get all that, Dorothy Calvert?" demanded Jim Barlow, almost sternly. To him the money seemed a fortune, and that his old companion of the truck-farm must still be as poor in purse as he. She was nearly as grave as he, as she spread the notes out one by one in the place where Monty had displayed his meager sum. "My Great-Aunt Betty gave them to me. It is her wish that I should use this money for the pleasure of my friends. She says that it is a first portion of my own personal inheritance, and that if I need more----" "More!" they fairly gasped; for ten times ten is a hundred, and a hundred dollars--Ah! What might not be done with a whole one hundred dollars? "'Twould be wicked," began James, in an awestruck tone, but was not allowed to finish, for practical Alfaretta, her big eyes fairly glittering, was rapidly counting upon her fingers and trying to do that rather difficult "example" of "how many times will seven go into one hundred and how much over?" "Seven into ten, once and three; seven into thirty--Ouch!" Her computation came to a sudden end. The storm had broken, all unnoticed till then, and a mighty crash as if the whole house were falling sent them startled to their feet. CHAPTER III THE FIRST AND UNINVITED GUEST For an instant the group was motionless from fear; then Jim made a dash for the front entrance whence, apparently, the crash had come. There had been no thunder accompanying the storm which now raged wildly over the mountain top, and Alfy found sufficient voice to cry: "'Tain't no lightnin' stroke. _Somethin's_ fell!" The words were so inadequate to the description that Molly laughed nervously, and in relieved tension all followed James forward; only to find themselves rudely forced back by old Ephraim, gray with fear and anxiety. "Stan' back dere, stan' back, you-alls! 'Tis Eph'am's place to gyard Miss Betty's chillens!" He didn't look as if the task were an agreeable one and the lads placed themselves beside him as he advanced and with trembling hands tried to unbar the door. This time he did not repulse them, and it was well, for as the bolts slid and the heavy door was set free it fell inward with such force that he would have been crushed beneath it had they not been there to draw him out of its reach. "Oh! oh! oh! The great horse chestnut!" cried Dorothy, springing aside from contact with the branches which fell crowding through the doorway. Hinges were torn from their places and the marvel was that the beautifully carved door had not itself been broken in bits. Jim was the first to rally and to find some comfort in the situation, exclaiming: "That's happened exactly as I feared it would, some day; and it's a mercy there wasn't nobody sittin' on that piazza. They'd ha' been killed dead, sure as pisen!" "Killing generally does mean death, Jim Barlow, but if you knew that splendid tree was bound to fall some day why didn't you say so? We--" with a fine assumption of proprietorship in Deerhurst--"we would have had it prevented," demanded Dorothy. Already she felt that this was home; already she loved the fallen tree almost as its mistress had done and her feeling was so sincere, if new, that nobody smiled, and the lad answered soberly: "I have told, Dolly girl. I kept on tellin' Mrs. Calvert how that lily-pond she would have dug out deeper an' deeper, and made bigger all the time, would for certain undermine that tree and make it fall. But--but she's an old lady 't knows her own mind and don't allow nobody else to know it for her! Old Hans, the gardener, he talked a heap, too; begged her to have the pond cemented an' that wouldn't hender the lilies blowin' and'd stop trouble. But, no. She wouldn't listen. Said she 'liked things perfectly natural' and--Well, she's got 'em now!" "Jim Barlow, you're--just horrid! and--ungrateful to my precious Aunt Betty!" cried Dorothy, indignant tears springing to her eyes. To her the fallen tree seemed like a stricken human being and the catastrophe a terrible one. "It's taken that grand chestnut years and years and years--longer'n you or I will ever live, like enough--to grow that big, and to be thrown down all in a minute, and--you don't care a mite, except to find your own silly opinion prove true!" "Hold on, Dolly girl. This ain't no time for you an' me to begin quarrelin'. I do care. I care more'n I can say but that don't hender the course o' nature. The pond was below; 'twas fed by a spring from above; she had trenches dug so that spring-water flowed right spang through the roots of that chestnut into the pond; and what could follow except what did? I'm powerful sorry it's happened but I can't help bein' common-sensible over it." "I hate common-sense!" cried Molly, coming to the support of her friend. "Anyway, I don't see what good we girls do standing here in this draughty hall. Let's go to bed." "And leave the house wide open this way?" Dorothy's sense of responsibility was serious enough to her though amusing to the others, and it was Monty who brought her back to facts by remarking: "The house always has been taken care of, Dolly Doodles, and I guess it will be now. Jim and I will get some axes and lop off these branches that forced the door in and prop it shut the best way we can. Then I'll go down to the lodge with him to sleep for he says there's a room I can have. See? You girls will be well protected!" and he nodded toward the group of servants gathered at the rear of the great hall. "So you'd better take Molly's advice and go up-stairs." Dolly wasn't pleased to be thus set coolly aside in "her own house" but there seemed nothing better to do than follow this frank advice; therefore, taking a hand of each of her girl friends, she led the way toward her own pretty chamber and two small rooms adjoining. "Aunt Betty thought we three'd like to be close together, and anyway, if we had all come that I wanted to invite we'd have to snug up some. So she told Dinah to fix her dressing-room for one of you--that's this side mine; and the little sewing-room for the other. She's put single beds in them and Dinah is to sleep on her cot in this wide hall outside our doors. It seemed sort of foolish to me, first off, when darling Auntie planned it, as if anything could happen to make us need Dinah so near; but now--My! I can't stop trembling, somehow. I was so frightened and sorry." "I'm sorry, too, and I'm scared, too; but I'm sleepier'n I'm ary one," yawned Alfaretta. "I'm sleepy, too;" assented Molly; and even the excited Dorothy felt a strange drowsiness creeping over her. It would be the correct thing, she had imagined, to lie awake and grieve over the loss of Mrs. Calvert's beloved tree, which would now be cut into ignominious firewood and burned upon a hearth; but--in five minutes after her head had touched her pillow she was sound asleep as her mates already were. Outside, the storm abated and the moon arose, lighting the scenery with its brilliance and setting the still dripping trees aglitter with its glory. Moonlight often made Dorothy wakeful and did so on this eventful night. Its rays streaming across her unshaded window roused her to sit up, and with the action came remembrance. "My heart! That money! All those beautiful new bills that are to buy pleasant things for my Party guests! I had it all spread out on the library table when that crash came and I never thought of it again! Nobody else, either, I fancy. I'll go right down and get it and I mustn't wake the girls or Dinah. It was careless of me, it surely was; but I know enough about money to understand it shouldn't be left lying about in that way." Creeping softly from her bed she drew on her slippers and kimono as Miss Rhinelander had taught her pupils always to do when leaving their rooms at night, and the familiar school-habit proved her in good stead this time. Once she would have stopped for neither; but now folding the warm little garment about her she tiptoed past old Dinah, snoring, and down the thickly carpeted stairs, whereon her slippered feet made no sound. Quite noiselessly she came to the library door and pushed the portière aside. Into this room, also, the moonlight streamed, making every object visible. She had glanced, as she came along the hall, toward the big door, bolstered into place by the heavy settle and hat-rack; and the latter object looked so like a gigantic man standing guard that she cast no second look but darted within the lighter space. Hark! What was that sound? Somebody breathing? Snoring? A man's snore, so like that of dear Father John who used, sometimes, to keep her awake, though she hadn't minded that because she loved him so. The sound, frightful at first, became less so as she remembered those long past nights, and mustering her courage she tiptoed toward the figure on the lounge. Old Ephraim! Well, she didn't believe Aunt Betty would have permitted even that faithful servant to spend a night upon her cherished leather couch; but the morning would be time enough to reprimand him for his audacity, which, of course, she must do, since she stood now in Mrs. Calvert's place, as temporary head of the family. She felt gravely responsible and offended as she crossed the room to the table where three chairs still grouped sociably together, exactly as the three girls had left them. Ah! yes. The chairs were in their places, Alfaretta's list of guests as well, and even the little leather bag out of which she had drawn the wealth that so surprised her mates. But the ten crisp notes she had so spread out in the sight of all--where were they? Certainly nowhere to be seen, although that revealing moonlight made even Alfy's written words quite legible. What could have become of them? Who had taken them? And why? Supposing somebody had stolen in and stolen them? Supposing that was why he was sleeping in the library? Yet, if there had been thievery there, wouldn't he have kept awake, to watch? Supposing--here a horrible thought crept into her mind--supposing _he_, himself, had been the thief! She was southern born and had the southerner's racial distrust of a "nigger's" honesty; yet--as soon as thought she was ashamed of the suspicion. Aunt Betty trusted him with far more than she missed now. She would go over to that window and think it out. Maybe the sleeper would awake in a minute and she could ask him about it. The question was one destined to remain unasked. As she stood gazing vacantly outward, her hands clasped in perplexity, something moving arrested her attention. A small figure in white, or what seemed white in that light. It was circling the pond where the water-lilies grew and was swaying to and fro as if dancing to some strange measure. Its skirts were caught up on either side by the hands resting upon its hips and the apparition was enough to startle nerves that had not already been tried by the events of that night. Dorothy stood rooted to the spot. Then a sudden movement of the dancer which brought her perilously near the water's edge recalled her common sense. "Why, it's one of the girls! It must be! Which? She doesn't look like either--is she sleep-walking? Who, what can it mean?" Another instant and she had opened the long sash and sped out upon the rain-soaked lawn; and she was none too soon. As if unseeing, or unfearing, the strange figure swept nearer and nearer to the moonlit water, its feet already splashing in it, when Dorothy's arms were flung around it to draw it into safety. "Why--" began the rescuer and could say no more. The face that slowly turned toward her was one that she had never seen before. It was the face of a child under a mass of gray hair, and its expression strangely vacant and inconsequent. Danger, fear, responsibility meant nothing to this little creature whom Dorothy had saved from drowning, and with a sudden pitiful memory of poor, half-witted Peter Piper who had loved her so, she realized that here was another such as he. In body and mind the child had never grown up, though her years were many. "Come this way, little lady. Come with me. Let us go into the house;" said the girl gently, and led the stranger to the window she had left open. "You must be the odd guest I needed for my House Party, to make the couples even, and so I bid you welcome. Strange, the window should be shut!" But closed it was; nor could all the girl's puny pounding bring help to open it. Against the front door the great tree still pressed and she could not reach its bell; and confused by all she had passed through Dorothy forgot that there were other entrances where help could be summoned and sank down on the piazza floor beside her first, her uninvited guest, to wait for morning. CHAPTER IV TROUBLES LIGHTEN IN THE TELLING But a few moments sufficed to show that this would not do. Despite her own heavy kimono she was already chilled by the air of that late September night, while the little creature beside her was shivering as if in ague, although she seemed to be half-asleep. She reasoned that Ephraim must have waked and closed the library window and departed to his own quarters. But there must be some way in which a girl could get into her own house; and then she exclaimed: "Why, yes! The sun-parlor, right at the end of this very piazza. All that south side is covered with glass and if I can get a sash up we can climb through. The place is as nice as a bedroom. Anyway, I'll try!" She left the stranger where she lay and ran to make the effort, and though for a time the heavy sash resisted her strength, it did yield slightly and her fresh fear that it had been locked vanished. Yet with her utmost endeavor she could lift it but a few inches and she wondered if she would be able to get her visitor through that scant opening. "I shall have to make her go through flat-wise, like crawling through fence bars, and I wonder if she will! Anyhow, I must try. I--I don't like it out here in the night and we'll both be sick of cold, and that would end our party." Dorothy never quite realized how that affair was managed. Though the wanderer appeared to hear well enough she did not speak and had not from the first. Probably she could not, but she could be as stubborn and difficult as possible and she was certainly exhausted from exposure. It was a harder task than lifting the great window, but, at last, by dint of pushing and coaxing, even shoving, the inert small woman was forced through the opening and dropped upon the matted floor, where she remained motionless. Dolly squeezed herself after and stooped above her guest, anxiously asking: "Did that hurt you? I'm sorry, but there was no other way. Please try to get up and lie down. See? There are two nice lounges here and lots of 'comfy' chairs. Shawls and couch-covers in plenty--Why! it'll be like a picnic!" The guest made no effort to rise but waved the other aside with a sleepy, impatient gesture, then fell to shaking again as if she were desperately cold. Dorothy was too frightened to heed these objections and since it was easier to roll a lounge to the sufferer than to argue, she did so and promptly had her charge upon it; but she first stripped off the damp cotton gown from the shaking body and wrapped it in all the rugs and covers she could find. She did not attempt to penetrate further into the house then, because she knew that Ephraim had bolted and barred the door leading thither. She had watched him do so with some amusement, early in the evening, and had playfully asked him if he expected any burglars. He had disdained to reply further than by shaking his wise old head, but had omitted no precaution because of her raillery. "Well, this may not be as nice as in my own room but it's a deal better than out of doors. That poor little thing isn't shivering so much and--she's asleep! She's tired out, whoever she is and wherever she came from, and I'm tired, also. I can't do any better till daylight comes and I'll curl up in this big chair and go to sleep, too," said Dorothy to herself. She wakened to find the sunlight streaming through the glass and to hear a chorus of voices demanding, each in a various key: "Why, Dorothy C!" "How could you?" "Yo' done gib we-all de wussenes' sca', you' ca'less chile! What yo' s'posin' my Miss Betty gwine ter say when she heahs ob dis yeah cuttin's up? Hey, honey? Tell me dat!" But Dinah's reproofs were cut short as her eye fell upon the rug-heaped lounge and saw the pile of them begin to move. As yet no person was visible and she stared at the suddenly agitated covers as if they were bewitched. Presently, they were flung aside; and revealed upon a crimson pillow lay a face almost as crimson. "Fo' de lan' ob lub! How come dat yeah--dis--What's hit mean, li'l gal Do'thy?" Dolly had not long been missed nor, when she was, had anybody felt serious alarm, though the girl guests had both been aggrieved that she should not have wakened them in time to be prompt for breakfast. They dressed hurriedly when Norah came a second time to summon them, explaining: "Miss Dorothy's room is empty and her clothes on the chairs. I must go seek her for she shouldn't do this way if she wants to keep cook good natured for the Party. Delaying breakfast is a bad beginning." Then Norah departed and went about her business of dusting; and it was she who had found the missing girl in the sun-parlor, and it had been her cry of relief that brought the household to that place. Demanded old Ephraim sternly: "Why fo' yo'-all done leab yo' baid in de middle ob de night an' go sky-la'kin' eround dis yere scan'lous way, Missy Dolly Calve't? Tole me dat!" "Why do you leave yours, to sleep on the library couch, Ephraim?" she returned, keenly observing him from the enclosure of her girl friends' arms, who held her fast that she might not again elude them. Ephraim fairly jumped; though he looked not at her but in a timid way toward Dinah, still bending in anxious curiosity over the stranger on the couch; and she was not so engrossed but that her turbaned head rose with a snap and she fixed her fellow servant with a fiercely glaring eye. Between these two equally devoted members of "Miss Betty's" family had always existed a bitter jealousy as to which was the most loyal to their mistress's interests. Let either presume upon that loyalty, to indulge in a forbidden privilege, and the wrath of the other waxed furious. Both knew that for Ephraim to have lain where Dorothy had discovered him, during that past night, was "intol'able" presumption, and at Dinah's care would be duly reported upon and reprimanded. Alas! The old man's start and down-dropped gaze was proof in Dorothy's opinion of a graver guilt than Dinah imputed to him, and when he made no answer save a hasty exit from the room her heart sank. "Oh! how could he do it, how could he!" and then honesty suggested. "But I haven't asked him yet if he did take the bills!" and she smiled again at her own thoughts. Attention was now diverted to Dinah's picking up the stranger from the couch and also departing, muttering: "I 'low dis yeah's a mighty sick li'l creatur'! Whoebah she be she's done fotched a high fevah wid her, an' I'se gwine put her to baid right now!" Illness was always enough to enlist the old nurse's deepest interest and she had no further reproof for the delayed breakfasts or Ephraim's behavior. There followed a morning full of business for all. Jim Barlow and old Hans, with some grumbling assistance from the "roomatical" Ephraim, whose "misery" Dinah assured him had been aggravated by sleeping on a cold leather lounge instead of in his own feather-bed--these three spent the morning in clearing away the fallen tree, while a carpenter from the town repaired the injured doorway. When Dorothy approached Jim, intending to speak freely of her suspicions about the lost money, he cut her short by remarking: "What silliness! Course, it isn't really lost. You've just mislaid it, that's all, an' forgot. I do that, time an' again. Put something away so careful 't I can't find it for ever so long. You'll remember after a spell, and say, Dolly! I won't be able to write that telegram to Mabel Bruce. I've got no time to bother with a parcel o' girls. If I don't keep a nudgin' them two old men they won't do a decent axe's stroke. They spend all their time complainin' of their j'ints!" "Well, why don't you get a regular woodman to chop it up, then?" "An' waste Mrs. Calvert's good money, whilst there's a lot of idlers on her premises, eatin' her out of house and home? I guess not. I'd save for her quicker'n I would for myself, an' that's saying considerable. I'm no eye-servant, I'm not." "Huh! You're one mighty stubborn boy! And I don't think my darling Aunt Betty would hesitate to pay one extra day's help. I've heard her say that she disliked amateur labor. She likes professional skill," returned the girl, with decision. James Barlow laughed. "I reckon, Dolly C., that you've forgot the days when you and I were on Miranda Stott's truck-farm; when I cut firewood by the cord and you sat on the logs an' taught me how to spell. 'Twouldn't do for me to claim I can't split up one tree; and this one'll be as neat a job as you ever see, time I've done with it. Trot along and write your own telegrams; or get that Starky to do it for you. Ha, ha! He thought he could saw wood, himself. Said he learned it campin' out; but the first blow he struck he hit his own toes and blamed it on the axe being too heavy. Trot along with him, girlie, and don't hender me talkin'." The "Little Lady of the Manor," as President Ryall had called her, walked away with her nose in the air. Preferred to chop wood, did he? And it wasn't nice of him--it certainly wasn't nice--to set her thinking of that miserable old truck-farm and the days of her direst poverty. She was Dorothy Calvert now; a girl with a name and heiress of Deerhurst. She'd show him, horrid boy that he was! But just then his cheerful whistling reached her, and her indignation vanished. By no effort could she stay long angry with Jim. He was annoyingly "common-sensible," as he claimed, but he was also so straight and dependable that she admired him almost as much as she loved him. Yes, she had other friends now, and would doubtless gain many more, but none could ever be a truer one than this homely, plain-spoken lad. She spied the girls and Monty in the arbor and joined them; promptly announcing: "If our House Party is to be a success you three must help. Jim won't. He's going to chop wood. Monty, will you ride to the village and send that telegram to Mabel Bruce?" The lad looked up from the foot he had been contemplating and over which Molly and Alfy had been bending in sympathy, to answer by another question: "See that shoe, Dolly Calvert? Close shave that. Might have been my very flesh itself, and I'd have blood poisoning and an amputation, and then there'd have been telegrams sent--galore! Imagine my mother--if they had been!" "It wasn't your flesh, was it?" "That's as Yankee as I am. Always answer your own questions when you ask them and save a lot of trouble to the other fellow. No, I _wasn't_ hurt but I _might_ have been! Since I'm not, I'm at your service, Lady D. Providing you word your own message and give me a decent horse to ride." "There are none but 'decent' horses in our stable, Master Stark. I shall need Portia myself, or we girls will. You can go ask a groom to saddle one--that he thinks best. I see through you. You've just been getting these girls to waste sympathy on you and you shall be punished by our leaving you alone till lunch time. I'll write the message, of course. I'd be afraid you wouldn't put enough in. Only--let me think. How much do telegrams cost?" "Twenty-five cents for ten words," came the prompt reply. "But ten would hardly begin to talk! Is telephoning cheaper? You ought to know, being a boy." "Long distance telephoning is about as expensive a luxury as one can buy, young lady. But, why hesitate? It won't take all of that hundred dollars," he answered, swaggering a trifle over his superior knowledge. Out it came without pause or pretense, the dark suspicion that had risen in Dorothy's innocent mind: "But I haven't that hundred dollars! It's gone. It's--_stolen_!" "Dorothy Calvert! How dare you say such a thing?" It was Molly's horrified question that broke the long silence which had fallen on the group; and hearing her ask it gave to poor Dorothy the first realization of what an evil thing it was she had voiced. "I don't know! Oh! I don't know! I wish I hadn't. I didn't mean to tell, not yet; and I wish, I wish I had kept it to myself!" she cried in keen regret. For instantly she read in the young faces before her a reflection of her own hard suspicion and loss of faith in others; and something that her beloved Seth Winters had once said came to her mind: "Evil thoughts are more catching than the measles." Seth, that grand old "Learned Blacksmith!" To him she would go, at once, and he would help her in every way. Turning again to her mates she begged: "Forget that I fancied anybody might have taken it to keep. Of course, nobody would. Let's hurry in and get Mabel's invitation off. I think I've enough money to pay for a message long enough to explain what I want; and her fare here--well she'll have to pay that herself or her father will. I've asked to have Portia put to the pony cart and we girls will drive around and ask all the others. So glad they live on the mountain where we can get to them quick." "Dolly, shall you go to The Towers, to see that Montaigne girl?" asked Alfaretta, rather anxiously. "Yes, but you needn't go in if you don't want to, Alfy dear. I shall stay only just long enough to bid her welcome home and invite her for Saturday." "Oh! I shouldn't mind. I'd just as lief. Fact, I'd _admire_, only if I put on my best dress to go callin' in the morning what'll I have left to wear to the Party? And Ma Babcock says them Montaignes won't have folks around that ain't dressed up;" said the girl, so frankly that Molly laughed and Dorothy hastened to assure her: "That's a mistake, Alfy, dear, I think. They don't care about a person's clothes. It's what's inside the clothes that counts with sensible people, such as I believe they are. But, I'll tell you. It's not far from The Towers' gate to the old smithy and I must see Mr. Seth. I must. I'm so thankful that he didn't leave the mountain, too, with all the other grown-ups. So you can drop me at Helena's; and then you and Molly can drive around to all the other people we've decided to ask and invite them in my stead. You know where all of them live and Molly will go with you." "Can Alfy drive--safe?" asked Molly, rather anxiously. Dolly laughed. "Anybody can drive gentle Portia and Alfy is a mountain girl. But what a funny question for such a fearless rider as you, Molly Breckenridge!" "Not so funny as you think. It's one thing to be on the back of a horse you know and quite another to be behind the heels of another that its driver doesn't know! Never mind, Alfy. I'll trust you." "You can," Alfaretta complacently assured her; and the morning's drive proved her right. A happier girl had never lived than she as she thus acted deputy for the new little mistress of Deerhurst; whose story had lost none of its interest for the mountain folk because of its latest development. But it was not at all as a proud young heiress that Dorothy came at last to the shop under the Great Balm Tree and threw herself impetuously upon the breast of the farrier quietly reading beside his silent forge. "O, Mr. Seth! My darling Mr. Seth! I'm in terrible trouble and only you can help me!" His book went one way, his spectacles another, dashed from his hands by her heedless onrush; but he let them lie where they had fallen and putting his arm around her, assured her: "So am I. Therefore, let us condole with one another. You first." "I've lost Aunt Betty's hundred dollars!" Her friend fairly gasped, and held her from him to search her troubled face. "Whe-ew! That is serious. Yet lost articles are sometimes found. Out with the whole story, 'body and bones'--as my man Owen would say." Already relieved by the chance of telling her worries, Dorothy related the incidents of the night, and she met the sympathy she expected. But it was like the nature-loving Mr. Winters that he was more disturbed by the loss of the great chestnut tree than by that of the money. Also, the story of the stranger she had found wandering by the lily-pond moved him deeply. All suffering or afflicted creatures were precious in the sight of this noble old man and he commented now with pity on the distress of the friends from whom the unknown one had strayed. "How grieved they'll be! For it must have been from some private household she came, or escaped. There is no public asylum or retreat within many miles of our mountain, so far as I know. I wonder if we ought to advertise her in the local newspaper? Or, do you think it would be kinder to wait and let her people hunt her up? Tell me, Dolly, dear. The opinion of a child often goes straight to the point." "Oh! Don't advertise, please, Mr. Seth! Think. If she belonged to you or me we wouldn't want it put in the paper that--about--you know, the lost one being not quite right, someway. If anybody's loved her well enough to keep her out of an asylum they've loved her well enough to come and find her, quiet like, without anybody but kind hearted people having to know. If they don't love her--well, she's all right for now. Dinah's put her to bed and told me, just before I came away, that it was only the exposure which had made her ill. She had roused all right, after a nap, and had taken a real hearty breakfast. She's about as big as I am and Dinah's going to put some of my clothes on her while her own are done up. Everybody in the house was so interested and kind about her, I was surprised." "You needn't have been. People who have lived with such a mistress as Madam Betty Calvert must have learned kindness, even if they learned nothing else." Dorothy laughed. "Dear Mr. Seth, you love my darling Aunt Betty, too, don't you, like everybody does?" "Of course, and loyally. That doesn't prevent my thinking that she does unwise things." "O--oh!!" "Like giving a little girl one hundred dollars at a time to spend in foolishness." Dorothy protested: "It wasn't to be foolishness. It was to make people happy. You yourself say that to 'spread happiness' is the only thing worth while!" "Surely, but it doesn't take Uncle Sam's greenbacks to do that. Not many of them. When you've lived as long as I have you'll have learned that the things which dollars do _not_ buy are the things that count. Hello! 'By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.'" The blacksmith rose as he finished his quotation and went to the wide doorway, across which a shadow had fallen, and from whence the sound of an irritable: "Whoa-oa, there!" had come. It was a rare patron of that old smithy and Seth concealed his surprise by addressing not the driver but the horse: "Well, George Fox! Good-morning to you!" George Fox was the property of miller Oliver Sands, and the Quaker and his steed were well known in all that locality. He was a fair-spoken man whom few loved and many feared, and between him and the "Learned Blacksmith" there was "no love lost." Why he had come to the smithy now Seth couldn't guess; nor why, as he stepped down from his buggy and observed, "I'd like to have thee look at George's off hind foot, farrier. He uses it----" he should do what he did. How it was "used" was not explained; for, leaving the animal where it stood, the miller sauntered into the building, hands in pockets, and over it in every part, even to its owner's private bedroom, as if he had a curiosity to see how his neighbor lived. Seth would have resented this, had it been worth while and if the miller's odd curiosity had not aroused the same feeling in himself. It was odd, he thought; but Seth Winters had nothing to hide and he didn't care. It was equally odd that George Fox's off hind foot was in perfect condition and had been newly shod at the other smithy, over the mountain, where all the miller's work was done. "It seems to be all right, Friend Oliver." "Forget that I troubled thee," answered the gray-clad Friend, as he climbed back to his seat and shook the reins over his horse's back, to instantly disappear down the road, but to leave a thoughtful neighbor, staring after him. "Hmm. That man's in trouble. I wonder what!" murmured Seth, more to himself than to Dorothy, who had drawn near to slip her hand in his. "Dear me! Everybody seems to be, this morning, Mr. Seth; and you haven't told me yours yet!" "Haven't I? Well, here it is!" He stooped his gray head to her brown one and whispered it in her ear; with the result that he had completely banished all her own anxieties and sent her laughing down the road toward home. CHAPTER V RIDDLES "There's a most remarkable thing about this House Party of ours! Every person invited has come and not one tried to get out of so doing! Three cheers for the Giver of the Party! and three times three for--all of us!" cried happy Seth Winters, from his seat of honor at the end of the great table in the dining-room, on the Saturday evening following. Lamps and candles shone, silver glittered, flower-bedecked and spotlessly clean, the wide apartment was a fit setting for the crowd of joyous young folk which had gathered in it for supper; and the cheers rang out as heartily as the master of the feast desired. Then said Alfaretta, triumphantly: "The Party has begun and I'm to it, I'm in it!" "So am I, so am I! Though I did have to invite myself!" returned Mr. Winters. "Strange that this little girl of mine should have left me out, that morning when she was inviting everybody, wholesale." For to remind her that he "hadn't been invited" was the "trouble" which he had stooped to whisper in Dorothy's ear, as she left him at the smithy door. So she had run home and with the aid of her friends already there had concocted a big-worded document, in which they begged his presence at Deerhurst for "A Week of Days," as they named the coming festivities; and also that he would be "Entertainer in Chief." "You see," confided Dolly, "now that the thing is settled and I've asked so many I begin to get a little scared. I've never been hostess before--not this way;--and sixteen people--I'm afraid I don't know enough to keep sixteen girls and boys real happy for a whole week. But dear Mr. Winters knows. Why, I believe that darling man could keep a world full happy, if he'd a mind." "Are you sorry you started the affair, Dolly Doodles? 'Cause if you are, you might write notes all round and have it given up. You'd better do that than be unhappy. Society folks would, I reckon," said Molly, in an effort to comfort her friend's anxiety. "I'm as bad as you are. It begins to seem as if we'd get dreadful tired before the week is out." "I'd be ashamed of myself if I did that, Molly, I'll go through with it even if none of you will help; though I must say I think it's--it's sort of mean for you boys, Jim and Monty, to beg off being 'committees.'" "The trouble with me, Dolly, is that my ideas have entirely given out. If you hadn't lost that hundred dollars I could get up a lot of jolly things. But without a cent in either of our pockets--Hmm," answered Monty, shrugging his shoulders. Jim said nothing. He was still a shy lad and while he meant to forget his awkwardness and help all he could he shrank from taking a prominent part in the coming affair. Alfaretta was the only one who wasn't dismayed, and her fear that the glorious event might be abandoned was ludicrous. "Pooh, Dorothy Calvert! I wouldn't be a 'fraid-cat, I wouldn't! Not if I was a rich girl like you've got to be and had this big house to do it in and folks to do the cookin' and sweepin', and--and rooms to sleep 'em in and everything!" she argued, breathlessly. "You funny, dear Alfaretta! It's not to be given up and I count on you more than anybody else to keep things going! With you and Mr. Seth--if he will--the Party cannot fail!" and Alfy's honest face was alight again. It had proved that the "Learned Blacksmith" "would" most gladly. At heart he was as young as any of them all and he had his own reasons for wishing to be at Deerhurst for a time. He had been more concerned than Dorothy perceived over the missing one hundred dollars, and he was anxious about the strange guest who had appeared in the night and who was so utterly unable to give an account of herself. So he had come, as had they all and now assembled for their first meal together, and Dorothy's hospitable anxiety had wholly vanished. Of course, all would go well. Of course, they would have a jolly time. The only trouble now, she thought, would be to choose among the many pleasures offering. There had been a new barn built at Deerhurst that summer, and a large one. This Mr. Winters had decreed should be the scene of their gayest hours with the big rooms of the old mansion for quieter ones; and to the barn they went on that first evening together, as soon as supper was over and the dusk fell. "Oh! how pretty!" cried Helena Montaigne, as she entered the place with her arm about Molly's waist, for they two had made instant friends. "I saw nothing so charming while I was abroad!" "Didn't you?" asked the other, wondering. "But it _is_ pretty!" In secret she feared that Helena would be a trifle "airish," and she felt that would be a pity. "Oh! oh! O-H!" almost screamed Dorothy, who had not been permitted to enter the barn for the last two days while, under the farrier's direction, the boys had had it in charge. Palms had been brought from the greenhouse and arranged "with their best foot forward" as Jim declared. Evergreens deftly placed made charming little nooks of greenery, where camp-chairs and rustic benches made comfortable resting places. Rafters were hung with strings of corn and gay-hued vegetables, while grape-vines with the fruit upon them covered the stalls and stanchions. Wire strung with Chinese lanterns gave all the light was needed and these were all aglow as the wide doors were thrown open and the merry company filed in. "My land of love!" cried Alfaretta. "It's just like a livin'-in-house, ain't it! There's even a stove and a chimney! Who ever heard tell of a stove in a barn?" "You have! And I, too, for the first time," said Littlejohn Smith at her elbow. "But I 'low it'll be real handy for the men in the winter time, to warm messes for the cattle and keep themselves from freezin'. Guess I know what it means to do your chores with your hands like chunks of ice! Wish to goodness Pa Smith could see this barn; 'twould make him open his eyes a little!" "A body could cook on that stove, it's so nice and flat. Or even pop corn," returned Alfaretta, practically. "Bet that's a notion! Say, Alfy, don't let on, but I'll slip home first chance I get and fetch some of that! I've got a lot left over from last year, 't I raised myself. I'll fetch my popper and if you can get a little butter out the house, some night, we'll give these folks the treat of their lives. What say?" Whatever might be the case with others of that famous Party these two old schoolmates were certainly "happy as blackbirds"--the only comparison that the girl found to fully suit their mood. When the premises had been fully explored and admired, cried Mr. Seth: "Blind man's buff! Who betters me?" "Nobody could--'Blind man's' it is!" seconded Monty, and gallantly offered: "I'll blind!" "Oh! no choosing! Do it the regular way," said Dolly. "Get in a row, please, all of you, and I'll begin with Herbert. 'Intry-mintry-cutry-corn; Apple-seed-and-apple-thorn; Wire-brier-limber-lock; Six-geese-in-a-flock; Sit-and-sing-by-the-spring; O-U-T--OUT!' Frazer Moore, you're--IT!" The bashful lad who was more astonished to find himself where he was than he could well express, and who had really been bullied into accepting Dorothy's invitation by his chum, Mike Martin, now awkwardly stepped forward from the circle. His face was as red as his hair and he felt as if he were all feet and hands, while it seemed to him that all the eyes in the room were boring into him, so pitilessly they watched him. In reality, if he had looked up, he would have seen that most of the company were only eagerly interested to begin the game, and that the supercilious glances cast his way came from Herbert Montaigne and Mabel Bruce alone. Another half-moment and awkwardness was forgotten. Dorothy had bandaged the blinder's eyes with Mr. Seth's big handkerchief, and in the welcome darkness thus afforded he realized nothing except that invisible hands were touching him, from this side and that, plucking at his jacket, tapping him upon the shoulder, and that he could catch none of them. Finally, a waft of perfume came his way, and the flutter of starched skirts, and with a lunge forward he clasped his arms about the figure of: "That girl from Baltimore! her turn!" he declared and was for pulling off the handkerchief, but was not allowed. "Which one? there are two Baltimore girls here, my lad. Which one have you caught?" Mabel squirmed, and Frazer's face grew a deeper red. He had been formally introduced, early upon Mabel's arrival, but had been too confused and self-conscious to understand her name. He was as anxious now to release her as she was to be set free, but his tormentors insisted: "Her name? her name? Not till you tell her name!" "I don't know--I mean--I--'tain't our Dolly, it's t'other one that's just come and smells like a--a drug store!" he answered, desperately, and loosened his arms. Mabel was glad enough to escape, blushing furiously at the way he had identified her, yet good-naturedly joining in the laugh of the others. Though she secretly resolved to be more careful in the use of scents of which she was extravagantly fond; and she allowed herself to be blindfolded at once, yet explaining: "Maybe I shall have to tell who you are by just such ways as he did me. I never was to a House Party before and you're all strangers, 'cept Dolly C., and anybody'd know her!" But it wasn't Dolly she captured. Susceptible Monty beheld in the little Baltimorean a wonderfully attractive vision. She was as short and as plump as he was. Her taste ran riot in colors, as did his own. He was bewildered by the mass of ruffles and frills that one short frock could display and he considered her manner of "doing" her hair as quite "too stylish for words." It was natural, therefore, that he should deliberately put himself in her way and try his best to be caught, while his observant mates heartlessly laughed at his unsuccessful maneuvers. But it was handsome Herbert upon whose capture Mabel's mind was set, and it was a disappointment that, instead of his arm she should clutch that of James Barlow. However, there was no help for it and she was obliged to blindfold in his turn the tall fellow who had to stoop to her shortness, while casting admiring glances upon the other lad. So the game went on till they were tired, and it was simple Molly Martin who suggested the next amusement. "My sake! I'm all beat out! I can't scarcely breathe, I've run and laughed so much. I never had so much fun in my life! Let's all sit down in a row and tell riddles. We'll get rested that way." To some there this seemed a very childish suggestion, but not to wise Seth Winters. The very fact that shy Molly Martin had so far forgotten her own self-consciousness as to offer her bit of entertainment argued well for the success of Dorothy's House Party with its oddly assorted members. But he surprised Helena's lifted eyebrows and the glance she exchanged with the other Molly, so hastened to endorse the proposition: "A happy thought, my lass; and as I'm the oldest 'child' here I'll open the game myself with one of the oldest riddles on record. Did anybody ever happen to hear of the Sphinx?" "Why, of course! Egypt----" began Monty eagerly, hoping to shine in the coming contest of wits. Seth Winters shook his head. "In one sense a correct answer; but, Jamie lad, out with it! I believe _you_ know which Sphinx I mean. All your delving into books--out with it, man!" "The monster of the ancients, I guess. That had the head of a woman, the body of a dog, the tail of a serpent, the wings of a bird, the paws of a lion, and a human voice;" answered Jim blushing a little thus to be airing his knowledge before so many. "The very creature! What connection had this beauty with riddles, if you please?" They were all listening now, and smiling a little over the old farrier's whimsical manner, as the boy student went on to explain: "The Sphinx was sent into Thebes by Juno for her private revenge. The fable is that he laid all that country waste by proposing riddles and killing all who could not guess them. The calamity was so great that Creon promised his crown to anyone who could guess one, and the guessing would mean the death of the Sphinx." "Why do you stop just there, Jim, in the most interesting part? Please go on and finish--if you can!" cried Dorothy. Mr. Winters also nodded and the boy added: "This was the riddle: What animal in the morning walks on four feet, at noon on two, and at evening on three?" "At it, youngsters, at it! Cudgel your brains for the answer. We don't want any mixed-anatomy Sphinxes rampaging around here," urged the farrier. Many and various were the guesses hazarded but each fell wide of the mark. Helena alone preserved a smiling silence and waited to hear what the others had to say. "Time's up! Five minutes to a riddle is more than ample. Helena has it, I see by the twinkle of her eyes. Well, my dear?" "I can't call it a real guess, Mr. Winters, for I read it, as James did the story. The answer is--_Man_. In his babyhood, the morning of life, he crawls or walks on 'all fours'; in youth and middle age he goes upright on two feet; and at evening, old age, he supplements them by a staff or crutch--his three feet." "Oh! how simple! Why couldn't I guess that!" exclaimed Molly, impatiently. "But who did solve the silly thing, first off?" "Oedipus; and this so angered the Sphinx that he dashed his head against a rock and so died." "Umm. I never dreamed there could be riddles like that," said Molly Martin; "all I thought of was 'Round as an apple, busy as a bee, The prettiest little thing you ever did see,' and such. I'd like to learn some others worth while, to tell of winter evenings before we go to bed." "I know a good one, please, Mr. Seth. Shall I tell it?" asked Frazer Moore. "Pa found it in a 'Farmers' Almanac,' so maybe the rest have seen it, too." "Begin, Frazer. Five minutes per riddle! If anybody knows it 'twon't take so long," advised Mr. Seth, whom Dolly had called "the Master of the Feast." "What is it men and women all despise, Yet one and all so highly prize? Which kings possess not? though full sure am I That for the luxury they often sigh. That never was for sale, yet, any day, The poorest beggar may the best display. The farmer needs it for his growing corn; Nor its dear comfort will the rich man scorn; Fittest for use within a sick friend's room, Its coming silent as spring's early bloom. A great, soft, yielding thing that no one fears-- A little thing oft wet with mother's tears. A thing so hol(e)y that when it we wear We screen it safely from the world's rude stare." "Hmm. Seems if there were handles enough to that long riddle, but I can't catch on to any of them. They contradict themselves so," cried Dorothy, after a long silence had followed Frazer's recitation. Handles enough, to be sure; but like Dorothy, nobody could grasp one, and as the five minutes ended the mountain lad had the proud knowledge that he had puzzled them all, and gayly announced: "That was an easy one! Every word I said fits--AN OLD SHOE!" "Oh!" "A-ah!" "How stupid I was not to see!" "'The farmer needs it for his growing corn!'" cried the Master, drawing up his foot and facetiously rubbing his toes. "Even a farmer may raise two kinds of corn," suggested he and thus solved one line over which Jane Potter was still puzzling. Thereupon, Monty sprang up and snapped his fingers, schoolroom fashion: "Master, Master! Me next! Me! I know one good as his and not near so long! My turn, please!" They all laughed. Laughter came easily now, provoked even by silliness, and again a thankful, happy feeling rose in the young hostess's heart that her House Party was to be so delightful to everybody. Helena Montaigne now sat resting shoulder to shoulder with proud Alfaretta upon a little divan of straw whose back was a row of grain sheaves; Mabel was radiant amid a trio of admiring lads--Monty, Mike Martin, and Danny Smith; Herbert was eagerly discussing camp-life with shy Melvin, who had warmed to enthusiasm over his Nova Scotian forests; and all the different elements of that young assembly were proving most harmonious, as even smaller parties, arranged by old hostesses, do not always prove. "All right, Master Montmorency. Make it easy, please. A diversion not a brain tax," answered Seth. "'If Rider Haggard had been Lew Wallace, what would 'She' have been?'" "'Ben Hur'!" promptly shouted Frazer, before another had a chance to speak, and Monty sank back with a well-feigned groan. "I read that in the Almanac, too. I've read 'Ben Hur,' it's in our school lib'ry, but not 'She,' though Pa told me that was another book, wrote by the other feller." "I'll never try again; I never do try to distinguish myself but I make a failure of it!" wailed Monty, jestingly. "But Herbert hasn't failed, nor Melvin. Let's have at least one more wit-sharpener," coaxed Dorothy. But Herbert declined, though courteously enough. "Indeed, Dorothy, I don't know a single riddle and I never could guess one. Try Melvin, instead, please." The English boy flushed, as he always did at finding himself observed, but he remembered that he had heard strangers comment upon the obligingness of the Canadians and he must maintain the honor of his beloved Province. So, after a trifling hesitation, he answered: "I can think of only one, Dorothy, and it's rather long, I fancy. My mother made me learn it as a punishment, once, when I was a little tacker, don't you know, and I never forgot it. The one by Lord Byron. I'll render that, if you wish." "We do wish, we do!" cried Molly, while the Master nodded approvingly. So without further prelude Melvin recited: "'Twas whispered in Heaven, 'twas muttered in Hell, And Echo caught softly the sound as it fell; On the confines of Earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the Depths of the ocean its presence confessed. 'Twill be found in the Sphere when 'tis riven asunder, Be seen in the Lightning and heard in the Thunder. 'Twas allotted to man with his earliest Breath, Attends at his Birth and awaits him in Death; It presides o'er his Happiness, Honor, and Health, Is the prop of his House and the end of his Wealth. Without it the soldier and seaman may roam, But woe to the Wretch who expels it from Home. In the Whispers of conscience its voice will be found, Nor e'en in the Whirlwind of passion be drowned. 'Twill not soften the Heart; and tho' deaf to the ear 'Twill make it acutely and instantly Hear. But in Shade, let it rest like a delicate flower-- Oh! Breathe on it softly--it dies in an Hour." Several had heard the riddle before and knew its significance; but those who had not found it as difficult to guess as Frazer's "Old Shoe" had been. So Melvin had to explain that it was a play of words each containing the letter H; and this explanation was no sooner given than a diversion was made by Mabel Bruce's irrelevant remark: "I never picked grapes off a vine in my life, never!" "Hi! Does that mean you want to do so now?" demanded Monty, alert. He, too, had grown tired of a game in which he did not excel, and eagerly followed the direction of her pointing, chubby finger. A finger on which sparkled a diamond ring, more fitting for a matron than a schoolgirl young as she. Along that side of the barn, rising from the hay strewn floor to the loft above, ran a row of upright posts set a few inches apart and designed to guard a great space beyond. This space was to be filled with the winter's stock of hay and its cemented bottom was several feet lower than the floor whereon the merry-makers sat. As yet but little hay had been stored there, and the posts which would give needful ventilation as well as keep the hay from falling inward, had been utilized now for decoration. The boyish decorators had not scrupled to rifle the Deerhurst vineyards of their most attractive vines, and the cluster of fruit on which Mabel had fixed a covetous eye was certainly a tempting one. The rays from two Chinese lanterns, hung near it, brought out its juicy lusciousness with even more than daylight clearness, and Mabel's mouth fairly watered for these translucent grapes. "That bunch? Of course you shall have it!" cried Monty, springing up and standing on tiptoe to reach what either Jim or Herbert could have plucked with ease. Alas! His efforts but hindered himself. The vine was only loosely twined around the upright and, as he grasped it, swung lightly about and the cluster he sought was forced to the inner side of the post, even higher than it had hung before. "Huh! That's what my father would call 'the aggravation of inanimate things'! Those grapes knew that you wanted them, that I wanted to get them for you, and see how they act? But I'll have them yet. Don't fear. That old fellow I camped-out with this last summer told me it was a coward who ever gave up 'discouraged.' I'll have that bunch of grapes--or I'll know the reason why! I almost reached them that time!" cried the struggler, proudly, and leaped again. By this time all the company was watching his efforts, the lads offering jeering suggestions about "sheets of paper to stand on," and Danny Smith even inquiring if the other was "practising for a climb on a greased pole, come next Fourth." Even the girls laughed over Monty's ludicrous attempts, though Mabel entreated him to give up and let somebody else try. "I--I rather guess not! When I set out to serve a lady I do it or die in the attempt!" returned the perspiring lad, vigorously waving aside the proffered help of his taller mates. "I--I--My heart! Oh! Jiminy! I--I'm stuck!" He was. One of the newly set uprights had slipped a little and again wedged itself fast; and between this and its neighbor, unfortunate Montmorency hung suspended, the upper half of his body forced inward over the empty "bay" and his fat legs left to wave wildly about in their effort to find a resting place. To add to his predicament, a scream of uncontrollable laughter rose from all the observers, even Mabel, in whose sake he so gallantly suffered, adding her shrill cackle to the others. All but the Master. Only the fleetest smile crossed his face, then it grew instantly grave as he said: "We've tried our hand at riddles but here's another, harder than any of the others. Monty is in a fix--how shall we get him out?" CHAPTER VI A MORNING CALL So ended the first "Day" of Dorothy's famous "Week." At sight of the gravity that had fallen upon Seth Winter's face her own sobered, though she had to turn her eyes away from the absurd appearance of poor Monty's waving legs. Then the legs ceased to wave and hung limp and inert. The Master silently pointed toward the door and gathering her girl guests about her the young hostess led them houseward, remarking: "That looks funnier than it is and dear Mr. Seth wants us out of the way. I reckon they'll have to cut that post down for I saw that even he and Jim together couldn't move it. It's so new and sticky, maybe--I don't know. Poor Monty!" "When he kept still, just now, I believe he fainted. I'm terribly frightened," said Helena Montaigne, laying a trembling hand on Dolly's shoulder. "It would be so perfectly awful to have your House Party broken up by a tragedy!" Mabel began to cry, and the two mountain girls, Molly Martin and Jane, slipped their arms about her to comfort her, Jane practically observing: "It takes a good deal to kill a boy. Ma says they've as many lives as a cat, and Ma knows. She brought up seven." "She didn't bring 'em far, then, Jane. They didn't grow to be more than a dozen years old, ary one of 'em. You're the last one left and you know it yourself," corrected the too-exact Alfaretta. "Pooh, Alfy! Don't talk solemn talk now. That Monty boy isn't dead yet and Janie's a girl. They'll get him out his fix, course, such a lot of folks around to help. And, Mabel, it wasn't your fault, anyway. He needn't have let himself get so fat, then he wouldn't have had no trouble. I could slip in and out them uprights, easy as fallin' off a log. He must be an awful eater. Fat folks gen'ally are," said Molly Martin. Mabel winced and shook off the comforter's embrace. She was "fat" herself and also "an awful eater," as Dolly could well remember and had been from the days of their earliest childhood. But the regretful girl could not stop crying and bitterly blamed herself for wanting "those horrible grapes. I'll never eat another grape as long as I live. I shall feel like--like a----" "Like a dear sensible girl, Mabel Bruce! And don't forget you haven't eaten any grapes _yet_, here. Of course, it will be all right. Molly Martin is sensible. Let's just go in and sit awhile in the library, where cook, Aunt Malinda, was going to put some cake and lemonade. There'll be a basket of fruit there, too; and we can have a little music, waiting for the boys to come in," said Dorothy, with more confidence in her voice than in her heart. Then when Mabel's tears had promptly ceased--could it have been at the mention of refreshments?--she added, considerately: "and let's all resolve not to say a single word about poor Monty's mishap. He's more sensitive than he seems and will be mortified enough, remembering how silly he looked, without our reminding him of it." "That's right, Dorothy. I'm glad you spoke of it. I'm sure nobody would wish to hurt his feelings and it was--ridiculous, one way;" added Helena, heartily, and Dorothy smiled gratefully upon her. She well knew that the rich girl's opinion carried weight with these poorer ones and of Alfaretta's teasing tongue she had been especially afraid. Nor was it long before they heard the boys come in, and from the merry voices and even whistling of the irrepressible Danny, they knew that the untoward incident had ended well. Yet when the lads had joined them, as eager for refreshments as Mabel now proved, neither Jim, Mr. Seth, nor Monty was with them; and, to the credit of all it was, that the subject of the misadventure did not come up at all, although inquisitive Alfy had fairly to bite her tongue to keep the questions back. They ended the evening by an hour in the music room, where gay college songs and a few old-fashioned "rounds" sent them all to bed a care-free, merry company; though Dorothy lingered long enough to write a brief note to Mrs. Calvert and to drop it into the letter-box whence it would find the earliest mail to town. A satisfactory little epistle to its recipient, though it said only this: "Our House Party is a success! Dear Mr. Seth is the nicest boy of the lot, and I know you're as glad as I am that he invited himself. I thank you and I love you, love you, love you! Dolly." Next morning, as beautiful a Sunday as ever dawned, came old Dinah to Dorothy with a long face, and the lament: "I cayn't fo' de life make dat li'l creatur' eat wid a fo'k an' howcome I erlows he' to eat to de table alongside you-alls, lak yo' tole me, Miss Do'thy? I'se done putten it into he' han', time an' time ergin, an' she jes natchally flings hit undah foot an' grabs a spoon. An' she stuffs an' stuffs, wussen you' fixin' er big tu'key. I'se gwine gib up teachin' he' mannehs. I sutney is. She ain' no quality, she ain'." "But that's all right, Dinah. She's only a child, a little child it seems to me. And whether she's 'quality' or not makes no difference. I've talked it all over with Mr. Seth and he says I may do as I like. Whoever she is, she's somebody! She came uninvited and sometimes it seems as if God sent her. She can't understand our good times but I want her to share them. So, now that you say she is perfectly well, just let her take the place at table near the door where we settled she should sit. Let Norah wait upon her and I do believe the sight of all of us, so happy, will give some happiness to her. 'Touched of God,' some people call these 'naturals.' She's a human being, she was once a girl like me, and she's simply--_not finished_! She isn't a bit repulsive and I'm sure it's right to have her with us all we can." "She's a ole woman, Miss Do'thy, she ain' no gal-chile. He' haid's whitah nor my Miss Betty's. I erlow she wouldn'----" "There, there, good Dinah! You and I have threshed this subject threadbare. You are so kind to me, have done and will do so much to make my Party go off all right, that I do hate to go against anything you say. But I can't give up in this. That poor little wanderer who strayed into Deerhurst grounds, whom nobody comes to claim, shall not be the first to find it inhospitable. I've written Aunt Betty all about this 'Luna' and I know she'll approve, just as Mr. Winters does. So don't try to keep her shut up out of sight, any longer, Dinah dear. It goes to my heart to see her pace, pace around any room you put her in by herself. Like a poor wild animal caged! It fairly made me shiver to see her, yesterday, when you led her into the great storeroom and left her. She followed you to the door and peered, and peered, out after you but didn't offer to follow. As if she were fastened by invisible chains and couldn't. Then around and around she went again, playing with those bits of bright rags you found in the pocket of her own dress. I'm so glad she likes that red one of mine and that it fits her so well. So don't worry, Dinah, over the proprieties of your Miss Betty's home. There's something better than propriety--that's loving kindness!" Nobody had ever accused old Dinah of want of kindness and Dorothy did not mean to do so now. The faithful woman had been devoted to the unknown visitor, from the moment of discovering her asleep upon the sun-parlor lounge; but she could not make it seem right that such an afflicted creature, and one who was evidently so far along in life, should mix at all familiarly with all those gay young people now staying in the house. But she had never heard her new "li'l Missy" talk at such length before and she was impressed by the multitude of words if not by their meaning. Besides, her quick ear had caught that "Luna," and she now impatiently demanded: "Howcome you' knows he' name, Miss Do'thy, an' nebah tole ole Dinah?" "Oh! I don't know it, honey. Not her real one. That's a fancy one I made up. She came to us in the moonlight and Luna stands for moon. So that's why, and that's all! So go, good Dinah, and send your charge in with Norah. All the others are down and waiting and, I hope, as hungry for their breakfast as I am!" Dinah departed, grumbling. In few things would she oppose her "Miss Do'thy" but in the matter of this "unfinished" stranger she felt strongly. However, she objected no more. If Mr. Seth Winters, her Miss Betty's trusted friend, endorsed such triflin', ornery gwines-on, she had no more to say. The blame was on his shoulders and not hers! Since nobody knew a better name for the stranger than "Luna" it was promptly accepted by all as a fitting one. She answered to it just as she answered to anything else--and that was not at all. She allowed herself to be led, fed, and otherwise attended, without resistance, and if she was especially comfortable she wore a happy smile on her small wrinkled face. But she never spoke and to the superstitious servants her silence seemed uncanny: "I just believe she could talk, if she wanted to, for she certainly hears quick enough. She's real impish, witch-like, and she fair gives me the creeps," complained Norah to a stable lad early on that Sunday morning. "And I don't half like for Miss Dolly to 'point me special nurse to the creatur'. I'd rather by far be left to me bedmakin' an' dustin'. She may be one of them 'little people' lives at home in old Ireland--that's the power to work ill charms on a body, if they wish it." "True ye say, Norah girl. 'Twas an' ill charm, she worked on me not an hour agone. I was in the back porch, slippin' off me stable jacket 'fore eatin' my food, an' Dinah had the creature by the hand scrubbin' a bit dirt off it. I was takin' my money out one pocket into another and quick as chain-lightnin' grabs this queer old woman and hides the money behind her. She may be a fool, indeed, but she knows money when she sees it! and the look on her was like a miser!" "Did you get it back, lad?" "'Deed, that did I! If there's one more'n another this Luny dwarf fears--and likes, too, which is odd!--it's old black Dinah; and even she had to squeeze the poor little hand tight to make its fingers open and the silver drop out. Then the creature forgot all about it same's she'd never seen it at all, at all. But Tim's learned his lesson, and 'tis that there's nobody in this world so silly 't he don't know money when he sees it! 'Twas a she this time, though just as greedy." But if Norah dreaded the charge of poor Luna the latter made very little trouble for her attendant. She did not understand the use of knife and fork and all her food had to be cut up, as for a helpless infant; but she fed herself with a spoon neatly enough, though in great haste. Afterwards she leaned back in her chair and stared vacantly at one or another of the young folks gathered around that big table. Finally, her eyes rested upon the gaily bedecked person of Mabel Bruce and a smile settled upon her features; while so unobtrusive was she that her presence was almost forgotten by the other, happy chatterers in the room. "Who's for church?" asked Mr. Winters, with a little tap on the table to secure attention. "Hands up, so I can count noses!" Every hand went up, even Luna following the example of the rest, quite unknowing why. Seeing this, Dorothy must needs leave her seat and run around to the poor thing's chair and pat her shoulder approvingly. "The landau will hold four, and it's four miles to our church. Who is for that?" again demanded the Master. There was a swift exchange of glances between him and the young hostess as she returned: "Shall I say?" "Aye, aye!" shouted Monty, with his ordinary fervor. The considerate silence of his house-mates concerning his mishap in the barn had restored his self-possession, and though he had felt silly and awkward when he had joined them he did not now. "Very well. Then I nominate Jane, Molly Martin, Alfaretta, and Mabel Bruce, for the state carriage," said Dorothy. "Sho! I thought if that was used at all 'twould be Helena and the other 'ristocratics would ride in that," whispered the delighted Alfy to Jane. But the young hostess had quickly reflected that landaus and other luxurious equipages were familiar and commonplace to her richer guests but that, probably, none of these others had ever ridden in such state; therefore the greater pleasure to them. The Master produced a slip of paper and checked off the names: "Landau, with the bays; and Ephraim and Boots in livery--settled. Next?" "There's the pony cart and Portia," suggested Dolly. "Helena and Melvin? Jolly Molly, and Jim to drive? Satisfactory all round?" again asked the note-taker; and if this second apportionment was not so at least nobody objected, although poor Jim looked forward to an eight-mile drive beside mischievous Molly Breckenridge with some misgiving. "Very well. I'll admit I never tackled such an amiable young crowd. Commonly, in parties as big as this there are just as many different wishes as there are people. I congratulate you, my dears, and may this beatific state of things continue till the end of the chapter!" cried Mr. Seth, really delighted. "Why, of course, Mr. Winters. How could we do otherwise? In society one never puts one's own desires in opposition to those of others. That's what society is for, is what it means, isn't it? Good breeding means unselfishness;" said Helena, then added, with a little flush of modesty: "Not that I am an oracle, but that's what I've read and--and seen--abroad." "Right, Miss Helena, and thank you for the explanation. And apropos of that subject: What's the oldest, most unalterable book of etiquette we have?" Nobody answered, apparently nobody knew; till Melvin timidly ventured: "I fancy it's the Bible, sir. My mother, don't you know, often remarks that anybody who makes the Bible a rule of conduct can't help being a gentleman or gentlewoman. Can't help it, don't you know?" Old Seth beamed upon the lad who had so bravely fought his own shyness, to answer when he could, and so prove himself by that same ancient Book a "gentleman." "Thank you, my boy. You've a mother to be proud of and she--has a pretty decent sort of son! However, we've arranged places for but half our number. As I said the distance is four miles going and it will seem about eight returning--we shall all be so desperately hungry. We might go to some church nearer except that at this distant one there will be to-day a famous preacher whom I would like you all to hear. He is a guest in the neighborhood and that is why we have this one chance. Come, Dolly Doodles. You're the hostess and must provide for your guests. How shall eight people be conveyed to that far-away church?" "I've been thinking, Master. There's the big open wagon, used for hauling stuff. It has a lot of seats belonging though only one is often used. So Ephy told me once. We could have the seats put in and the rest of us ride in that." "Good enough. The rest of us are wholly willing to be 'hauled' to please our southern hostess. The rest of us are--let's see." "You, Mr. Seth; Littlejohn and Danny; Mike and Frazer; Luna and me. Coming home, if we wish, some of us could change places. Well, Mabel? What is it? Don't you like the arrangement?" "Ye-es, I suppose so. Only--you've put four girls in our carriage and four boys in your own. That isn't dividing even; and if it's such an awful long way hadn't we--shouldn't--shan't we be terrible late to dinner?" Poor Mabel! Nature would out. That mountain air was famous for sharpening every newcomer's appetite and it had made hers perfectly ravenous. It seemed to her that she had never tasted such delicious food as Aunt Malinda prepared and that she should never be able to get enough. A shout of laughter greeted her question but did not dismay her, for the matter was too serious; and she was greatly relieved when the Master returned, kindly and with entire gravity: "Little Mabel is right. We shall all be glad of a 'snack' when service is over and before we start back. Dolly, please see that a basket of sandwiches is put up and carried along. Also a basket of grapes. Some of us are fond of grapes!" he finished, significantly, and that was the only reference made to the episode of the night before. But there was one more objector and that outspoken Alfy, who begged of Dorothy, in a sibilant whisper: "Do you mean it? Are you really goin' to take that loony Luna to meeting?" "I certainly am. She is not to be hidden, nor deprived of any pleasure my other guests enjoy. Besides, somebody who knows her may see and claim her. Poor thing! It's terrible that she can't tell us who she is nor where she belongs!" "Hmm. I'm glad she ain't goin' to ride alongside of me, then. Folks will stare so, on the road, at that old woman rigged out like a girl." "Never mind, Alfy dear. Let them stare. She's delighted with the red frock and hat, and it's something to have made her happy even that much. Remember how she clung to those bits of gay rags Dinah found on her? She certainly knows enough to love color, and I shall keep her close to me. I'd be afraid if I didn't her feelings might be hurt by--by somebody's thoughtlessness." "Mine, I s'pose you mean, Dorothy C. But--my stars and garters! Look a-there! Look round, I tell you, quick!" Dolly looked and her own eyes opened in amazement. Framed in the long window that reached to the piazza floor stood a curiously garbed old man holding firmly before him two tiny children. He wore an old black skull cap and a ragged cassock, and he announced in a croaking voice: "I pass these children on to you. I go to deliver the message upon which I am sent;" and having said this, before anyone could protest or interfere, he was disappearing down the driveway at an astonishing pace, as if his "message" abided not the slightest delay. CHAPTER VII A MEMORABLE CHURCH GOING "Of all things! If that don't beat the Dutch!" cried Alfaretta, and at sound of her voice the others rallied from their amazement, while Mr. Winters begged: "Run, lads, some of you and stop that man. Owen Bryan spoke of a half-crazy fanatic, a self-ordained exhorter, who had lately come to the mountain and lived somewhere about, in hiding as it were. An escaped convict, he'd heard. Run. He mustn't leave those children here." Jim and Frazer were already on the way, obedient to the Master's first words, without tarrying to hear the conclusion of his speech. But they were not quick enough. They caught one glimpse of a ragged, flying cassock and no more. The man had vanished from sight, and though they lingered to search the low-growing evergreens, and every hidden nook bordering the drive, they could not find him. So they returned to report and were just in time to hear Dorothy and Molly questioning the babies, for they were little more than that. They were clad exactly alike, in little denim overalls, faded by many washings and stiff with starch. Their feet were bare as were their heads, and clinging to one another they stared with round-eyed curiosity into the great room. "Oh! aren't they cute! They're too funny for words. What's your name, little boy? If you are a boy!" demanded Molly. The little one shook her too familiar hand from his small shoulder and answered with a solemnity and distinctness that was amazing, when one anticipated an infantile lisp: "A-n an, a ana, n-i ni, anani, a-s as, Ananias." Monty Stark rolled over backward on the floor and fairly yelled in laughter, while the laughter of the others echoed his, but nothing perturbed by this reception of his, to him, commonplace statement, master Ananias looked about in cherubic satisfaction. Then again demanded Molly of the other midget. "What's yours, twinsy? For twins you must be!" Evidently tutored as to what would be expected of her the other child replied in exact imitation of her mate and with equal clearness: "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, sapphi, r-a ra, Sapphira." Utter silence greeted this absurd reply, then another noisy burst of laughter in which even the really disturbed Master joined. "Surely a man must be out of his mind to fasten such names on two such innocents! But they must be taken elsewhere. Deerhurst must not become a receptacle for all the cast-off burdens of humanity. I must go ask Bryan all he knows about the case," said Mr. Seth, as soon as he had recovered his gravity. But Dorothy nodded toward the great clock and with a frown he observed the hour. If they were to make ready for their long drive to church, yet be in time for the beginning of the service, they must be making ready, so he consented: "I don't suppose any great mischief can be done by their remaining here till we get back; but----" "Why not take them with us, Teacher?" asked Alfaretta. "We could take one in the lander with us." Her tone was as complacent as if the vehicle in question were her own and her head was tossed as she waited for his reply. But it was Dorothy who forestalled him and her decision was so sensible he did not oppose it: "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but I think we would better take them. If we leave them they may get into mischief and the servants have enough to do without worrying with them. They're so little we can tuck them into the big wagon with us and it won't hurt even babies to go to church. But I wonder which is which! Now they've moved around and changed places I can't tell which is Ananias and which Sapphira! Poor little kiddies, to be named after liars!" "I know. This one has a kink in its hair the other one hasn't. I think it was Sapphira. Or--was it Ananias? Baby, which are you?" Neither child replied. They clung each to the other and stared at this too inquisitive Molly Breckenridge with the disconcerting stare of childhood, till she turned away and gathering a handful of biscuits from the table bade them sit down and eat. She forbade them to drop a single crumb and they were obedient even to absurdity. A half-hour later the three vehicles were at the door and the happy guests made haste to take the places allotted them; the big wagon following last, with Luna smilingly, yet in a half-frightened clutch of Dorothy, sitting on the comfortable back seat. Mr. Seth had lifted her bodily into the wagon and she had submitted without realizing what was happening to her till the wagon began to move. Then she screamed, as if in terror, and hid her face on Dolly's shoulder. "Doan' take he'. 'Peah's lak she's done afeered o' ridin'. Nebah min', Miss Do'thy. Some yo' lads jes' han' he' down to Dinah and she'll be tooken' ca' ob, scusin' dey is a big dinnah in de way an' half de he'ps' Sunday out. Han' 'er down!" However, without physical force this was not to be done. When Jim strove to lift her, as he might easily have done in his strong arms, she clung the closer to her little hostess and screamed afresh. So he gave up the attempt and turned his attention to the twins, the last arriving members of this famous House Party. There was no reluctance about them--not the slightest. They were fairly dancing with impatience and Ananias--or was it Sapphira?--was already attempting to enter the "wagging" by way of climbing up the "nigh" horse's leg, while her--or his--mate clung to the spokes of the forward wheel, wholly ready to be whirled around and around with its forward progress. "Evidently, these babies aren't afraid to ride!" cried Dorothy, laughing yet half-frightened over the little creatures' boldness. "Please set them right on the bottom, between your knees and Littlejohn's, Mr. Seth! Then they'll be safe. And there, Luna dear, poor Luna, you see we're off at last and--isn't it just lovely?" Luna made no more response than usual but her hidden face sank lower and more heavily upon Dorothy's shoulder, till, presently, she was sound asleep. Then Mike Martin climbed back over the seats to the spot and deftly placed his own cushion behind the sleeper's head. Dolly thanked him with a smile but wondered to see him stare at the sleeper's face with that puzzled expression on his own. Then he scratched his head and asked in a whisper: "Can you tell who she looks like? Terrible familiar, somehow, but can't guess. Can you?" Dorothy shook her head. "No, I've never seen another like her. I hope I never will." "If we could think, we might find her folks and you could get rid of her," continued the lad. "I don't know as I'm so anxious to be rid of her. I do believe she's happy--happier than when she came--and--Look out! If the wagon goes over another thank-ye-ma-am and you're still standing up you'll likely be pitched over into the road. My! But the horses are in fine fettle this morning!" A fresh jolt made Mike cling fast to escape the accident she suggested and he returned to his place, riding on the uncushioned seat as cheerfully as any knight errant of old. Dorothy was his ideal of a girl. She had taught him the difference between bravery and bullying and she had been his inspiration in the task to which he had pledged himself--to be a peacemaker on the mountain. Once, her coolness and courage had saved his life, and on that day he had promised to fulfil her desire, to bridge the enmity between south-side and north-side. His methods had not always been such as Dorothy would have approved but the result was satisfactory. In school and out of it, peace prevailed on the "Heights," and Mike Martin was a nobler boy himself because of his efforts to make others noble. There was a little stir of excitement in the small country church when Seth Winters and his following of young folks entered it, and by mere force of numbers so impressing the ushers that the very front pews were vacated in their behalf, although the farrier protested against this. However, he wasn't sorry to have his company all together, and motioned Dorothy into the same pew with himself, and to a place directly under the pulpit. Into this, also, they led the still drowsy Luna, Dorothy gently settling her in the corner with her head resting upon the pew's back, and here she slept on during most of the service. Here, also, they settled the twins, but could not avoid seeing the curious and amused glances cast upon this odd pair as they trotted up the aisle in Dorothy's wake. "Two peas in a pod," whispered one farmer's wife to her seat neighbor. "Where'd they pick up two such little owls? They're all eyes and solemn as the parson himself, but them ridiculous clothes! My heart! What won't fashionable folks do next, to make their youngsters look different from ours!" returned the other. Nobody guessed that the funny little creatures were an accidental addition to the House Party; and after the strangers were settled nobody was further concerned with them. The service began and duly proceeded. The singing was congregational and in it all the young people joined, making the familiar hymns seem uncommonly beautiful to the hearers; and it was not till the sermon was well under way that anything unusual happened to divert attention. Then there came a soft yet heavy patter on the uncarpeted aisle and two black animals stalked majestically forward and seated themselves upon their haunches directly beneath the pulpit. With an air of profound interest they fixed their eyes upon the speaker therein and, for an instant, disconcerted even that self-possessed orator. "Ponce and Peter! Aunt Betty's Great Danes! However has this happened!" thought poor Dorothy, unable quite to control a smile yet wofully anxious lest the dogs should create a disturbance. However, nothing happened. The Danes might have been regular worshipers in the place for all notice was accorded them by the well trained congregation; and after they were tired of watching the minister the animals quietly stretched themselves to sleep. Their movement and the prodigious yawn of one had bad results. The twins had been having their own peaceful naps upon the kneeling bench at Mr. Seth's feet, but, now, with the suddenness native to them, awoke, discovered the dogs, and leaped out of the pew into the aisle. There they flung themselves upon the dogs with shrieks of delight. It was as if they had found old friends and playmates--as later developments proved to be true. Poor Mr. Winters stared in consternation. He detested a scene but saw one imminent; and how to get both dogs and babies out of that sacred place without great trouble he could not guess. But Dorothy put her hand on his arm and gently patted it. She, too, was frightened but she trusted the animals' instincts; she was right. After a moment's sniffing of the twins, they quietly lay down again and the twins did likewise! and though they did not go to sleep again they behaved well enough, until growing impassioned with his own eloquence the speaker lifted his voice loudly and imploringly. That was a sound they knew. Up sprang one and shouted: "Amen!" and up sprang the other and echoed him! The minister flushed, stammered, and valiantly went on; but he never reached the climax of that sermon. Those continually interrupting groans and "Amens!" uttered in that childish treble, were too much for him. A suppressed titter ran over the whole congregation, in which all the Deerhurst party joined though they strove not to do so; and amid that subdued mirth the clergyman brought his discourse to a sudden end. The benediction spoken there was a rush for the door, in which the Great Danes and the twins led; riotously tumbling over one another, barking and squealing, while the outpouring congregation stepped aside to give them way. Happy-hearted Seth Winters had rarely felt so annoyed or mortified, while Dorothy's face was scarlet even though her lips twitched with laughter. These two lingered in their places till the clergyman descended from his pulpit and prepared to leave the church. Then they advanced and offered what apologies they could; the farrier relating in few words the story of the morning and disclaiming any knowledge as to the identity of the twins or how the dogs had been set loose. "Don't mention it. Of course, I could see that it was accidental, and it isn't of the slightest consequence. Doubtless I had preached as long as was good for my hearers and--I wish you good morning," said the minister, smiling but rather hastily moving away. Mr. Winters also bowed and followed his party out of doors. But he wasn't smiling, not in the least; and it was a timid touch Dorothy laid upon his arm as she came to the big wagon to take her place for the drive home. He looked down at her, and at sight of tears in her eyes, his anger melted. "There, there, child, don't fret! It was one of those unavoidable annoyances that really amount to nothing yet are so hard to bear. Here, let me swing you up. But we must get rid of those youngsters! Sabbath day or not I shall make it my business so to do at the earliest possible moment. By the way, where are they now?" For a moment nobody could say, though the Deerhurst wagons waited while the lads searched and all the regular congregation departed to their homes. Then called Mabel from her seat of honor in the landau: "Dolly Doodles, whilst we're waiting we might as well eat our lunch." For once Mabel's greediness served her neighbors a good purpose. Mr. Seth promptly replied, with something like a wink in Dorothy's direction: "Couldn't do better. There's the church well, too, a famous one, from which to quench our thirst. There's an old saying that 'Meal time brings all rogues home' and likely the presence of food may attract our little runaways. Indeed, I've half a mind to leave them behind, any way. 'Pass them on' to the world at large as that old man 'passed them on' to us." To this there was protest from every side, even Alfaretta declaring she had never heard of such a heartless thing! But she need not have feared, and Dorothy certainly did not. She knew the big heart of her old friend too well; and producing the basket of sandwiches she went about offering them to all. Nobody declined although Monty triumphantly exclaimed: "We haven't any right to be so hungry for an hour yet, 'cause if the dogs hadn't come to church we'd have been kept in that much longer." Then still munching a sandwich he set about to bring water for all, in the one tin dipper that hung by the well, the other lads relieving him from time to time. They were all so merry, so innocently happy under the great trees which bordered the church grounds, that the Master grew happy, too, watching and listening to them and forgot the untoward incident of the service; even forgot, for a moment, that either twins or dogs existed. Then, after both fruit and sandwich baskets had been wholly emptied and all had declared they wanted no more water, the cavalcade prepared to move; Dorothy begging: "Can Luna and I sit on the front seat, with Littlejohn driving, going back? See, she's no longer afraid and I always do love to ride close to the horses." "Very well. Here goes then," answered Mr. Seth gently lifting Luna--wholly unresisting now and placidly smiling--to the place desired while Dolly swiftly sprang after. Then the others seated themselves and Ephraim cracked his whip, the landau leading as befitted its grandeur. Then there were shrieks for delay. From Molly Breckenridge at first, echoed by piping little tongues as the lost "twinses" came into sight. Over the stone wall bordering the road leaped Ponce and Peter, dripping wet and shaking their great bodies vigorously, the while they yelped and barked in sheer delight. Behind them Ananias and Sapphira, equally wet, equally noisy, equally rapturous, and beginning at once to climb into the richly cushioned landau as fast as their funny little legs would permit. Then came another shriek as, rather than let her beautiful clothes be smirched by contact with the drenched children, Mabel Bruce drew her skirts about her, gave one headlong leap to the ground, and fell prone. CHAPTER VIII CONCERNING VARIOUS MATTERS The laughter which rose to the lips of some of the observers was promptly checked as they saw that the girl lay perfectly still in the dust where she had fallen, making no effort to rise, and unconscious of her injured finery. "She'd better have kep' still an' let 'em wet her," said Alfy, nudging Jane Potter. "She ain't gettin' up because she can't," answered Jane and sprang out of the landau, to kneel beside the prostrate girl; then to look up and cry out: "She's hurt! She's dreadful hurt!" Unhappy Mr. Winters set his teeth and his lips were grim. "If ever I'm so misguided as to engineer another young folks' House Party, I hope----" He didn't express this "hope" but stooped and with utmost tenderness lifted Mabel to her feet. She had begun to rally from the shock of her fall and opened her eyes again, while the pallor that had banished her usual rosiness began to yield to the returning circulation. Already many hands were outstretched to help, some with the dipper from the well, others with dripping wooden plates whereon their luncheon had been packed. Mabel pushed the plates aside, fretfully, explaining as soon as she could speak: "If that gets on my clothes--they're so dusty--Oh! what made me--Oh! oh! A-ah!" Then she began to laugh and cry alternately, as the misfortune and its absurdity fully appeared, and Helena saw that the girl was fast becoming hysterical. Evidently, in their wearer's eyes, the beautiful frock now so badly smirched and the white gloves which had split asunder in her fall were treasures beyond compute, and Helena herself loved pretty clothes. She felt a keen sympathy in that and another respect--she had suffered from hysteria and always went prepared for an emergency. Stepping quietly to Mabel's side, she waved aside the other eager helpers, saying: "I'm going to ride back in the landau, Alfy, please take my place in the cart. Here, Mabel, swallow a drop of this medicine. 'Twill set you right at once." Her movements and words were as decided as they were quiet and Mabel unconsciously obeyed. She submitted to be helped back into the carriage and as Helena took the empty seat beside her, Ephraim drove swiftly away. Thus ignored the dripping twins stared ruefully after the vanishing vehicle and Mr. Seth looked as ruefully at them. But Molly begged: "Let them go in the cart with us. Alfy's frock and mine will wash, even if they soil us. One can ride between Jim and me and Melvin and Alfy must look after the other. Let's choose. I take Ananias. I just love boys!" "Be sure you've chosen one then," laughed Jim as he rather gingerly picked up one infant and placed it behind the dashboard. He had on his own Sunday attire and realized the cost of it, so objected almost as strongly as Mabel had done to contact with this well-soused youngster. "Say, sonny, what made you tumble in the brook? Don't you know this is Sunday?" "Yep. Didn't tumble, just _went_. I'm no 'sonny'; I'm sissy. S-a-p sap, p-h-i----" began the little one, glibly and distinctly. "You can't be! You surely are Ananias! Your hair is cut exactly like a boy's and you wear boy's panties! You're spelling the wrong name. Look out! What next?" cried Molly anxiously, as the active baby suddenly climbed over the back of that seat to join her mate behind. There master Ananias--or was it really Sapphira?--cuddled down on the rug in the bottom of the cart and settled himself--herself--for sleep. Neither Alfy nor Melvin interfered with these too-close small neighbors; but withdrawing to the extreme edges of the seat left them to sleep and get dry at their leisure. After that the homeward drive proceeded in peace; only Herbert calling out now and then from his place in the big wagon to make Melvin admire some particular beauty of the scene, challenging the Provincial to beat it if he could in that far away Markland of his own. "But you haven't the sea!" retorted Melvin, proudly. "We don't need it. We have the HUDSON RIVER!" came as swiftly back; and as they had come just then to a turn in the road where an ancient building stood beneath a canopy of trees, he asked: "Hold up the horses a minute, will you, Littlejohn? I'd like our English friend to say if he ever saw anything more picturesque than this." "This" was a more than century-old Friends' meeting-house. Unpainted and shingled all over its outward surface. "Old shingle-sides" was its local name, and a lovelier location could not have been chosen even by a less austere body of worshipers. Meeting had been prolonged that First Day. The hand clasp of neighbor with neighbor which signaled its close had just been given. From the doorways on either side, the men's and the women's, these silent worshipers were now issuing; the men to seek the vehicles waiting beneath the long shed and the women to gossip a moment of neighborhood affairs. Mr. Winters was willing to rest and "breathe the horses" for a little, the day being warm and the drive long, and to observe with interest the decorous home-going of these Plain People; and it so chanced that the big wagon, where Dorothy sat on the front seat with Luna resting against her, halted just beside the entrance to the meeting-house grounds. From her place she watched the departing congregation with the keen interest she brought to everything; and among them she recognized the familiar outlines of George Fox, the miller's fine horse; and, holding the reins over its back, Oliver Sands, the miller himself. So close he drove to the big wagon that George Fox's nose touched Littlejohn's leader, and the boy pulled back a little. "Huh! That's old Oliver in his First Day grays! But he's in the grumps. Guess the Spirit hasn't moved him to anything pleasant, by the look," he remarked to Dorothy beside him. "He does look as if he were in trouble. I don't like him. I never did. He wasn't--well, nice to Father John once. But I'm sorry he's unhappy. Nobody ought to be on such a heavenly day." If Oliver saw those watching beside the gate he made no sign. His fat shoulders, commonly so erect, were bowed as if he had suddenly grown old. His face had lost its unctuous smile and was haggard with care; and for once he paid no heed to George Fox's un-Quakerlike gambols, fraught with danger to the open buggy he drew. A pale-faced woman in the orthodox attire of the birthright Friends sat beside the miller and clung to him in evident terror at the horse's behavior. It was she who saw how close the contact between their own and the Deerhurst team, and her eye fell anxiously upon the two girlish figures upon the front seat of the wagon. For a girl the unknown Luna seemed, clad in the scarlet frock and hat that Dorothy had given; while Dolly, herself, clasping the little creature close lest she should be frightened looked even younger than she was. "Sisters," thought Dorcas Sands, "yet not alike." Then casting a second, critical glance upon Luna she uttered a strange cry and clutched her husband's arm. "Dorcas, thee is too old for foolishness," was all the heed he paid to her gesture, and drove stolidly on, unseeing aught but his own inward perturbation which had found no solace in that morning's Meeting. Dorcas looked back once over her shoulder and Dorothy returned a friendly smile to the sweet old face in the white-lined gray bonnet. Then the bonnet faced about again and George Fox whisked its wearer out of sight. "I declare I'd love to be a Quakeress and wear such clothes as these women do. They look so sweet and peaceful and happy. As if nothing ever troubled them. Don't you think they're lovely, Littlejohn?" "Huh! I don't know. That there Mrs. Sands--Dorcas Sands is the way she's called 'cause the Friends don't give nobody titles--I guess there ain't a more unhappy woman on our mountain than her." "Why, Littlejohn! Fancy! With such a--a good man; isn't he?" "Good accordin' as you call goodness. He ain't bad, not so bad; only you want to look sharp when you have dealings with him. They say he measures the milk his folks use in the cookin' and if more butter goes one week than he thinks ought to he skimps 'em the next. I ain't stuck on that kind of a man, myself, even if he is all-fired rich. Gid-dap, boys!" With which expression of his sentiments the young mountaineer touched up the team that had rather lagged behind the others and the conversation dropped. But during all that homeward ride there lingered in Dorothy's memory that strange, startled, half-cognizant gaze which gentle Dorcas Sands had cast upon poor Luna. But by this time, the afflicted guest had become as one of the family; and the fleeting interest of any passer-by was accepted as mere curiosity and soon forgotten. After dinner Mr. Winters disappeared; and the younger members of the House Party disposed themselves after their desires; some for a stroll in the woods, some in select, cosy spots for quiet reading; and a few--as Mabel, Helena, and Monty--for a nap. But all gathered again at supper-time and a happy evening followed; with music and talk and a brief bedtime service at which the Master officiated. But Dorothy noticed that he still looked anxious and that he was preoccupied, a manner wholly new to her beloved Mr. Seth. So, as she bade him good-night she asked: "Is it anything I can help, dear Master?" "Why do you fancy anything's amiss, lassie?" "Oh! you show it in your eyes. Can I help?" "Yes. You may break the news to Dinah that those twins are on our hands for--to-night at least. I'm sorry, but together you two must find them a place to sleep. We can't be unchristian you know--not on the Lord's own day!" He smiled his familiar, whimsical smile as he said this and it reassured the girl at once. Pointing to a distant corner of the room, where some considerate person had tossed down a sofa cushion, she showed him the ill-named babies asleep with their arms about each other's neck and their red lips parted in happy slumber. "They've found their own place you see; will it do?" "Admirable! They're like kittens or puppies--one spot's as good as another. Throw a rug over them and let them be. I think they'll need nothing more to-night, but if they do they're of the sort will make it known. Good-night, little Dorothy. Sleep well." After a custom which Father John had taught her, though he could not himself explain it, Dorothy "set her mind" like an alarm clock to wake her at six the next morning and it did so. She bathed and dressed with utmost carefulness and succeeded in doing this without waking anybody. Those whose business it was to be awake, as the house servants, gave her a silent nod for good-morning and smiled to think of her energy. The reason appeared when she drew a chair to a desk by the library window and wrote the following letter: "MY DARLING AUNT BETTY: "Good-morning, please, and I hope you'll have a happy day. I've written you a post card or a letter every day since you went away but I haven't had one back. I wonder and am sorry but I suppose you are too busy with your sick friend. I hope you aren't angry with me for anything. I was terrible sorry about somebody--losing--stealing that money! There, it's out! and I feel better. Sorrier, too, about it's being _him_. Well, that's gone, and as you have so much more I guess you won't care much. Besides, we don't need much. Dear Mr. Seth is just too splendid for words. He thinks of something nice to do all the time. "Yesterday we went to church and so did the dogs and the twins. I haven't told you about them for this is the first letter since they came and that was just after breakfast Sunday. A crazy man brought them and said he'd 'passed them on.' They're the cutest little mites with such horrible names--Ananias and Sapphira! Imagine anybody cruel enough to give babies those names. They aren't much bigger than buttons but they talk as plain as you do. They said 'A-ah!' and 'A-A-men!' in the middle of the sermon and stopped the minister preaching. I wasn't sorry they did for I didn't know what they'd do next nor Luna either. They three and Mr. Seth are the uninvited, or self-invited, ones and they're more fun than all the rest. Mabel fell out the carriage, or jumped out, and spoiled her dress and fainted away. "My House Party is just fine! Monty got stuck in the barn and had to be sawed apart. I mean the barn had to be, not Monty; and not one of us said a word about it. "I'm writing this before the rest are up because afterward I shan't have a minute's chance. It's a great care to have a House Party, though the Master--we call Mr. Winters that, all of us--takes the care. I don't know what we would do without him, and what we can without that stolen money. Monty says if he had that or had some of his own, he'd be able to manage without any old Master, he would. That was when he wanted to go sailing Sunday afternoon and Mr. Seth said 'no.' "Monty's real smooth outside but he has prickly tempers sometimes; and I guess he--he sort of 'sassed' the Master, 'cause he refused to give us any money to hire a sail boat and Monty hadn't any left himself. But it all blew over. Mr. Seth doesn't seem to mind Monty any more'n he does his tortoise-shell cat; and he's a very nice boy, a very nice boy, indeed. So are they all. I'm proud of them all. So is Mabel. So is Molly B. Those two are so proud they squabble quite consid'able over which is the nicest, and the boys just laugh. "Oh! I must stop. It's getting real near breakfast time; and dear Aunt Betty, will you please send me another one hundred dollars by the return of the mail? I mean as quick as you can. You see to-day, we're going around visiting 'Headquarters' of all the revolution people. There's a lot of them and they won't cost anything to see; but to-morrow there's 'The Greatest Show on Earth' coming to Newburgh and I _must_ take my guests to it. I really must. "Good-by, darling Aunt Betty. "DOROTHY. "P. S.--I've heard that people can telegraph money and that it goes quicker that way. Please do it. "D. "P. P. S.--Mr Seth says that this Headquartering will be as good as the circus, but it isn't easy to believe; and Melvin isn't particularly pleased over the trip. I suppose that's because our folks whipped his; and please be sure to telegraph the money at once. The tickets are fifty cents a-piece and ten cents extra for every side-show; and Molly and I have ciphered it out that it will take a lot, more'n I'd like to have the Master pay, generous as he is. Isn't it lovely to be a rich girl and just ask for as much money as you want and get it? Oh! I love you, Aunt Betty! "DOROTHY; for sure the last time." One of the men was going to early market and by him the writer dispatched this epistle. Promptly posted, it reached Mrs. Calvert that morning, who replied as promptly and by telegram as her young relative had requested. The yellow envelope was awaiting Dorothy that evening, when she came home from "Headquartering" with her guests, and she opened it eagerly. But there seemed something wrong with the message. Having read it in silence once--twice--three times, she crumpled it in her hand and dashed out of the room scarlet with shame and anger. CHAPTER IX HEADQUARTERS "Well, lads and lassies--or lassies and lads, it's due you to hear all I've found out concerning Ananias and Sapphira. I don't believe that those are their real names but I've heard no other. The curious old man who left them here is, presumably, insane on the subject of religion. He appeared on the mountain early in the summer, with these little ones, and preëmpted that tumble-down cottage over the bluff beyond our gates. Most of you know it by sight; eh?" "Yes, indeed! It looks as if it had been thrown over the edge of the road, just there where it's so steep. Old Griselda, the lodge-keeper's wife I live with claims it's haunted, and always has been. Hans says not, except by tramps and such," answered James Barlow. "Tramps? Are tramps on this mountain? Oh! I don't like that. I'd have been afraid to come if I'd known that!" protested Molly Breckenridge with a little shiver. Of course they all laughed at her and Monty valiantly assured her: "Don't you worry. I'm here." Then added as an after-thought, "and so are the other boys." Laughter came easily that Monday morning and it was Monty's turn to get his share of it, and he accepted it with great good nature. They were such a happy company with almost a whole week of unknown enjoyment before them, and the gravity of Mr. Seth's face did not affect their own hilarity. Dorothy had confided to Alfaretta that she had written to Mrs. Calvert for "another hundred dollars" and the matter was a "secret" between these two. "You, Alfy dear, because you never had, and likely never will have, a hundred dollars of your own, may have the privilege of planning what we will do with mine. That's to prove I love you; and if you plan nice things--real nice ones, Alfy--I'll spend it just as you want." Sensible, but not too-sensitive, Alfaretta shook her head, and asked: "Do you know how to make a hare pie?" "Why, of course not. How should I? I'm not a cook!" "First catch your hare! You haven't got your money yet and I shan't wear my brains out, plannin' no plans--yet. You couldn't get up nicer times'n the Master does, and he hasn't spent a cent on this House Party, so far forth as I know, savin' what he put in the collection plate to church, yesterday. Come on; he promised to tell all he'd found out about the twinses and all the rest of us is listenin' to him now." So Dorothy had followed to the wide piazza where the young people had grouped themselves affectionately about their beloved Master; who now repeated for the newcomers' information: "The old man is the children's grandfather, on their father's side. The twins are orphans, whom the mother's family repudiate, and he has cared for them, off and on, ever since their father died, as their mother did when they were born." "Oh! the poor little creatures!" cried Helena Montaigne, and snuggled a twin to her side; while there were tears in Molly Breckenridge's eyes as she caressed the other. "I said 'off and on.' The off times are when the old man is seized by the desire to preach to anyone who will listen. Then he wanders away, sleeps where the night finds him, and eats what charity bestows. Ordinarily, he does not so much as place the babies anywhere; just leaves them to chance. When they are with him he is very stern with them, punishing them severely if they disobey his least command; and they are greatly afraid of him. Well, here they are! I've tried to place them elsewhere, in a legitimate home; but I hesitate about an Orphanage until--Time sometimes softens hard hearts!" with this curious ending Mr. Winters relapsed into a profound reverie and nobody presumed to disturb him. Until Mabel Bruce suddenly demanded: "Where's their other clothes?" The farrier laughed. Mabel was an interesting study to him. He had never seen a little girl just like her; and he answered promptly: "That's what neither Norah nor I can find out. Only from the appearance of some ashes in the fireplace of the hut I fear they have been burned. I took Norah down there early this morning, for a woman sees more than a man, but even she was disappointed. However, that's easily remedied. One of the Headquarters we shall visit is in Newburgh, where are also many shops. Some of you girls must take the little tackers to one of these places and outfit them with what is actually needed. Nothing more; and I will pay the bill." "Beg pardon, Mr. Seth, but you will not! I will pay myself," cried Dorothy, eagerly. "With what, Dolly dear? I thought you were the most impecunious young person of the lot." "I am--just now; but I shan't be long," answered the young hostess, with a confident wink in Alfaretta's direction. To which that matter-of-fact maid replied by a contemptuous toss of her head and the enigmatical words: "Hare pie!" "Wagons all ready, Mr. Winters!" announced a stable boy, appearing around the house corner. "Passengers all ready!" shouted Danny Smith, perhaps the very happiest member of that happy Party. Never in his short, hard-worked life had he recreated for a whole week, with no chores to do, no reprimands to hear, and no solitude in distant corn-fields where the only sound he heard was the whack-whack of his own hoe. A week of idleness, jolly companionship, feasting and luxury--Danny had to rub his eyes, sometimes, to see if he were really awake. "All ready, all?" "All ready!" Much in the order of their Sunday's division they settled themselves for the drive to Newburgh, where the first stop was to be made, except that Molly Breckenridge declared she must ride beside Dorothy, having something most important to discuss with her friend. Also, she insisted that the twins ride with them, on the wagon-bottom between their feet. "They can't fall out that way, and it's about them--I'll tell everybody later." It was an hour when nobody wished to dash the pleasure of anybody else, so Mr. Seth nodded compliance; saying: "Then I'll take this other little lady alongside myself!" and lifted Luna to the place. This time she showed neither fear nor hesitation. She accepted the situation with that blankly smiling countenance she wore when she was physically comfortable, and the horses had not traveled far before her head drooped against the Master's shoulder, as it had against Dorothy's, and she fell asleep. "Poor thing! She has so little strength. She looks well but the least exertion exhausts her. Like one who has been imprisoned till he has lost the use of his limbs. I wonder who she is! I wonder, are we doing right not to advertise her!" thought the farrier; then contented himself with his former arguments against the advertising and the fact that Mrs. Calvert would soon be coming home and would decide the matter at once. "Cousin Betty can solve many a riddle, and will this one. Meanwhile, the waif is well cared for and as happy as she can ever be, I fancy. Best not to disturb her yet." When the wagon stopped at the door of the old stone Headquarters on the outskirts of Newburgh city, Helena said: "It will save time, Mr. Winters, if some of us drive on to the business streets and do the shopping for these twins. I'm familiar with this old house--have often brought our guests to see it; so I could help in the errands." "And I!" "And I!" cried Molly and Dolly, together. "Our school used to come here to study history, sometimes, right from the very things themselves. Besides--" Here Molly gave her chum such a pinch on the arm that Dolly ended her explanation with a squeal. So it was quickly settled. Mr. Winters handed Helena his purse, which she at first politely declined to take--having designs herself in that line. But when he as courteously and firmly insisted, she took it and said no more. Helena Montaigne would never carry her own wishes to the point of rudeness; yet in her heart she was longing to clothe the really pretty children after a fancy of her own. However, she put this wish aside, and the three girls with the orphans were swiftly driven to the best department stores the city afforded. Here trouble awaited. At the statement that one was a girl and one a boy--which her own perception would not have taught her--the saleswoman produced garments suitable for the two sexes. "Now which shall I fit first?" she asked smiling at the close resemblance of the pair. "Why, ladies first, I suppose!" laughed Helena and moved one child forward. The other immediately placed itself alongside, and Molly exclaimed: "Now, I don't know which is which! Anybody got a ribbon? or anything will answer to tie upon one and so distinguish them. Baby, which are _you_?" The twin she had clasped smiled at her seraphically but made no reply; merely cocked its flaxen head aside and thrust its finger in mouth. At once its mate did likewise, and Helena tossed her hands in comical dismay. "Oh! Get the ribbon, please! Then we'll make them _spell_ themselves and tie the mark on before we forget." So they did; and the attendant listened in amusement to the performance; till finding themselves of so much interest to others the midgets began again glibly to spell and--both together. Prancing and giggling, fully realizing their own mischievousness, the babies made that hour of shopping one which all concerned--save themselves--long remembered. Also, if there were the slightest difference between the garments selected for them they set up such a violent protest that peace could only be restored by clothing them alike. So they emerged from the establishment clad in snowy little suits that seemed as fitting for a girl as for a boy, with pretty hats which they elected to wear upon their backs, and sandals on their stubby feet--the nearest approach to shoes to which they would submit. A big box of suitable underwear was put into the wagon and they were lifted in after it, while Molly begged to walk a block or two till she found a confectioner's. Here she expended all her pocket-money, and climbing back beside Dorothy politely opened her big box and offered it to her friends. Incidentally, to the twins; who stared, tasted, and stared again! "My heart! I don't believe they have ever tasted candy! They don't know what it means!" cried Molly, laughing. They soon found out. In a flash they had seized the pasteboard box and snuggled it between them. Then with it securely wedged beneath their knees they proceeded to empty it at lightning speed. "Why! I never saw anything eat like that, not even a dog! You can't see them swallow!" said Helena, amazed. "They're getting themselves all daubed with that chocolate, too--The pity!" "Give it back to me, at once!" commanded Molly sternly, but she spoke to unhearing ears. Then she tried to snatch it away, but they were too strong for her, as anybody who has ever thus contested with sturdy five-year-olds can guess. "They'll make themselves ill! and they'll ruin their new clothes. What will Mr. Winters say? Molly, how could you!" wailed Dorothy. "I wish we'd never brought them. I mean, I wish you hadn't thought of candy. I wish----" "You'd hold your tongue!" snapped Molly, so viciously that her friends both stared and Dolly said no more. "I don't mean to be so horrid, girls, but it is so vexatious! I'd spent all I had and meant it to be such an addition to our picnic dinner in the woods. I'm ashamed--course--and I apologize. Though I remember Miss Penelope says that apologies and explanations are almost worse than useless. Besides----" Here Molly paused and looked at Dorothy most meaningly; but whatever she meant to say further Dolly stopped by a shake of her head, adding: "Now it's my turn to apologize, Helena dear, but there's something we two have in mind that we want to spring on the whole lot of you at once. Will you forgive and wait?" "Surely. But--those children! I hope we'll get back to the others soon and that Mr. Winters will have more influence with them than we've had." It proved that he had. One glance and word from him and the twins cowered as if they expected cruel blows, and without the slightest resistance permitted him to take away the nearly empty box. "Doesn't look very tempting now, I think. Best throw it away, especially as I had already provided sweeties for the crowd. Now, lads, westward ho! It's nearly dinner time again, and I believe it's being with so many other hungry youngsters makes me one too!" cried the Master, stepping to his place and saying with an air of authority which nobody disputed: "Hand over the twins. I'll take them under my care for the rest of this day!" The Headquarters which they were next to visit, and on whose grounds they were to picnic, was bordered by a stream that just there widened into a little lake. As they approached the place, cramped by their long ride, most of the lads left the wagons to finish the distance on foot. "Ever hear the story of General Lafayette and this creek, Melvin?" asked Herbert. "Good enough to tell and not against your side either." "Go on," said Melvin, resignedly. "I fancy I can match any yarn of yours with one of my own, don't you know." "Can't beat this. In those days there was no bridge here, not even a footbridge. One had to ford the stream. The General was going to a party at that very house yonder and was in his best togs. Course, he didn't want to get his pumps wet so he hired an Irishman--more likely a Britisher--to carry him over. Half way over--a little slip--not intentional, of course!--and down goes my General, ker-splash! Just this way it was! Only it's turn and turn about, now. Young America totes old England and----" "Lads, lads! That footbridge is unsafe! See! The plank's gone in the middle--Oh! the careless fellows!" Having been a boy himself the farrier was prepared for pranks; and the good-natured badinage between Herbert and the young Canadian had aroused no anxiety till now. He had been near enough to hear Herbert's recital of the Lafayette incident but had merely been amused. Now--Oh! why didn't they keep to the wide, safe bridge, that wagons used! Already it was too late even for his warning. Herbert had only meant to catch up the slighter Melvin, scare him by pretending to drop him, but in reality carry him pick-a-pack safely to the further shore. He considered himself an athlete and wished to show "young England how they do things in Yankeeland," and with a shout he darted forward. Headlong he came to the spot above the water where no foothold was--a space too wide for even his long legs to cover, and all the watchers shivered in fear. But from his elevation on Herbert's back, Melvin had already seen the chasm and as if he had been shot from a catapult--he cleared it! "Hip, hip, hooray! England forever!" yelled Frazer Moore and every other lad in the company added his cheers. Then Melvin, from his side the chasm, doffed his cap and bowed his graceful acknowledgments for his country's sake. And at sight of that the girls cheered, too, for Herbert had already regained his feet in that shallow stream and they could see that he had taken no hurt beyond a slight wetting. "Never mind that. He'll dry off, same as the twins did," laughed Molly Breckenridge. Which he did, for the sun was warm and his plunge had been a brief one; and in fact this "little international episode," as Monty called it, but served to increase the jollity of that day. Such a day it proved; without cloud or untoward incident to mar its happiness; and as they wandered here and there, inspecting for the last time the historical spot which had given them hospitable shelter, none dreamed of any mishap to come. Even the twins were tired enough to behave with uncommon docility, beyond continually removing from one another the ribbon which should have designated Ananias from Sapphira. "They've changed it so often I've really forgotten which is which, but I'm sure--that is I think--I'm really positive--that the hair with a kink belongs to Sapphira! After all, that isn't such a dreadful name when you say it softly," said Molly. "I think this is the loveliest old house I ever saw. I'd just like to stay here forever, seems if. The funny roof, so high up in front and away down, low almost as the ground behind. The great chimney--think of standing in a chimney so big you can look straight up, clear through to the sky!" murmured studious Jane Potter. "'Tisn't as big as the Newburgh one, and they haven't any such Hessian boots, though it does have a secret staircase and chamber," answered Jim who, also, was greatly interested in the ancient building. "But come on, Janie; they're getting ready to leave." "In just a minute. Just one single minute, 'cause I shan't ever likely come here again, even if I do live so near it as our mountain." Home through the twilight they drove, for kindly Seth couldn't abridge for his beloved young folks that long, delightful day; and they were ready to declare, most of them, that even the circus to come could hardly be more enjoyable than this day's "Headquartering" had been. It was then, on that happy return, that Dorothy had found the telegram awaiting, and had caught it up with a loving thought of her indulgent Aunt Betty. Then her happiness dashed as by cold water she had flown out of the room and shut herself in her pretty chamber to cry and feel herself the most unhappy girl in all the world. Twice had Norah come to her door to summon her to supper before she felt composed enough to go below among her guests. Over and over she assured herself that none of them should ever know how badly she had been treated. Nobody, of course, except Alfaretta, and the first thing that girl would be sure to ask would be: "Have you caught your hare?" In other words: "Did she send the money?" But in this she did poor Alfy great injustice. It had needed but one glance to tell her--being in the secret--what sort of an answer had come to Dorothy by way of that unexplained yellow envelope. Well, it was too bad! After all, Mrs. Betty Calvert must be a terribly stingy old woman not to give all the money she wanted to her new-found, or new-acknowledged great niece! Huh! She was awful sorry for Dolly Doodles, to have to belong to just--great aunts! She'd rather have Ma Babcock, a thousand times over, than a rich old creature like Dolly had to live with. She would so! Therefore it was not at all of news from town that warm-hearted Alfaretta inquired, as Dorothy at last appeared in the supper room, but with an indifferent glance around: "Why, where's Jane Potter?" CHAPTER X MUSIC AND APPARITIONS Where, indeed, was good Jane Potter! The least troublesome, the most self-effacing, staidest girl of them all. "Didn't she ride home with _you_?" "Why no. I supposed she did with _you_. That is--I never thought." "But--somebody should have thought!" cried Dorothy, diverted from her own unhappiness by this strange happening. "Yes, and that 'somebody' should have been myself," admitted Mr. Seth, after question had followed question and paling faces had turned toward one another. "Are you sure she isn't in her room?" asked Helena. "Sure as sure. I thought it funny she didn't come to clean herself, I mean put on her afternoon things; but I guessed she was too tired, and, anyway, Jane never gets mussed up as I do," answered Molly Martin, tears rising in her eyes. The Master rose from his unfinished meal. "Then we've left her behind and the poor child will be terrified. I'll have one of the work horses put to the pony cart at once, and go back for her. I'd like one of you lads to go with me. I might need somebody." Jim rose and Herbert, and, oddly enough, Mr. Winters nodded to Herbert; adding to Dorothy: "Have a bottle of milk and some food, besides a heavy wrap sent out to the cart. She will have missed her supper." "But you and Herbert are missing yours, too. I shall send something extra for you two and mind you eat it. I--I'm sure you'll find Jane all right only maybe frightened," said Dorothy, doing her utmost to banish anxiety from her friends, though she felt troubled enough in her own mind. If it had been any other girl but Jane, the steady! However, there was the long evening to get through, even though the rescuing party made their best speed. Many miles stretched between the old mansion and this with the distance to cover twice; and all the time there lay on the hostess's heart the burden of her own personal grief. But she mustn't think of that. She must not. She was a Calvert, no matter what Aunt Betty said. A gentlewoman. Only yesterday Helena had explained that a gentlewoman, "in society," had no thought save for the comfort of others. Well, she was in "society" now, and--She almost wished she wasn't! She'd rather have been a poor little girl, unknowing her own name, who'd never dreamed of being an heiress and who'd have been free to run away and hide and cry her eyes out--if she wished! So she put her best efforts to her task of entertaining and a jolly evening followed; though now and then one or another would pause in the midst of a game and ask: "Ought we to be carrying on like this, while we don't know what's happened to Janie?" Then the spirit of fun would sway them all again; for, as Alfaretta practically put it: "Whether we laugh or cry don't make any difference to her. Time enough to solemn down when we find out she's hurt." They were rather noisily singing the old round of "Three Blind Mice," with each particular "mouse" putting itself into its neighbors' way, so that the refrain never would come out in the proper order, when it was caught up by lusty voices in the outer hall and Mr. Seth's deep tones leading. "They've come! They've come--and it must be all right, else they wouldn't sing like that!" cried Molly Martin, infinitely relieved on her friend's and room-mate's account; she and the sedate Jane being as close chums as Dolly and the other Molly were. "The Campbells Are Coming," whistled Herbert merrily, and with the air of a courtier led the embarrassed Jane into the midst of the circle. She jerked her hand away with the reproof: "Don't be silly! I've made trouble enough without acting foolish over it." She seemed so completely ashamed of herself that Dorothy pitied her and hastened to put her arm about her and say: "Why should you think of trouble to anybody else since you're--alive?" "Alive! Did you think I might be dead, then? That makes it worse, still. I was never in the slightest danger. I was only just a--dunce." "You couldn't ever be that, Jane Potter!" cried Molly Martin, enthusiastically embracing the restored one from her other side. But Jane shook herself free from the caresses of both and calmly explained: "Since you'll all want to know I may as well tell just how thoughtless I was. I wanted to find that secret staircase Jim had told about, and the hidden chamber above it, under the roof. I couldn't at first. It led out of the paneled chamber, he said, where all the side walls looked like doors and only one of them would move. Finally, after I'd tried 'em all, and that took some time, I slid one open. It was the secret stair; nothing but a close sealed cupboard, so little that even I could hardly squeeze up it. It wasn't a regular stair, only tiny three-cornered pieces of board nailed in the back angles, first one side and then another. They are far apart and some are gone. I thought I'd never get up the thing, but I hadn't stayed behind to be worsted by a sort of old grain-chute like that." "Weren't you scared? Didn't you feel as if some enemy were after you?" Molly Breckenridge interrupted to ask. Jane coolly sat down and glanced contemptuously at the questioner. All the company felt a trifle disappointed by Jane's manner. They had expected a more exciting revelation. "What should I be afraid of? I haven't any enemies, as I know." "But it must have been very dark in such a place, a shut-in box like that," protested Helena, who as well as the others thought Jane might have made more out of her adventure. "No, it wasn't, not there. The panel-door let the light through from the big room where there are no blinds or curtains. All the light there was--only dusk, you know--came through. It was at the top, after I'd climbed off the top step into the hidden chamber that it got dark--black as night. Because, you see, I accidentally hit my foot against the trap-door and it fell shut. That's all. I ain't dead, you see, and there's nothing to be sorry for except the trouble I gave Mr. Winters and this boy. I've told them I was sorry, so that's all there can be done about it now. Anyway I've learned something, and that is how a prisoner must feel, shut up in a box like that." A sort of groan came from the further side of the room where the Master had sunk into a great chair as if he were utterly weary. Then he said: "I'm glad Jane is so philosophical. I think she doesn't know just how dangerous her situation was. The 'hidden chamber' under the roof was nothing but a closely sealed box, without any possible ventilation. Nobody could have lived long shut up in that space, breathing the vitiated air. It was well we found her, and you must all thank God for a tragedy averted. Nor would I have thought of looking there for her if Jim hadn't remembered talking with her about the place and told Herbert just as we started. He'd inspected it himself, had read of it, yet even I who had visited that old mansion many times didn't know of its existence." "Oh! I wish you'd told us all, Jim Barlow, when we were there! I think it was selfish mean of you not to, when we were sight-seeing on purpose," pouted Jolly Molly. "Wish't I had, now, since you all seem to care. I didn't think then anybody--I mean--I didn't think at all, except for myself," frankly answered the lad, which made them laugh again and so restored their ordinary mood. "Well, it's about breaking up time. I move that Dorothy C. give us a bit of music from her violin," said the Master, smiling upon his beloved child. She smiled in return but it was such a wan little attempt that it pained more than pleased him. Something was sorely troubling sunshiny Dolly and he wondered what, not knowing the purport of her begging letter to Mrs. Calvert nor what the telegram had said. He feared she was still grieving about the lost one hundred dollars and could sympathize in that, for he also grieved and puzzled. He made up his mind to ask her about it at the first opportunity; meanwhile, there was the obliging girl already tuning her violin and asking from her place beside the mantel piece: "What shall it be--when I've done squeaking this way?" "Yankee Doodle!" "God Save the King!" cried Herbert and Melvin, together; and immediately she began, first a strain of one, then the other, till even the mischievous petitioners cried that they had had enough of that medley and would be glad of a change. One after another she played the selections asked, watching with curiosity which all the others shared, the strange effect her music had on Luna. The waif now seemed to consider herself entirely one of the Party--the "Silent Partner," Danny called her; for though she never spoke she had learned to keep close to some one or other of the young folks, and so to avoid that big room where Dinah had placed her earlier on her visit. She took no part in any of their games but watched them with that vacant smile upon her wrinkled face, keeping out of the way of being jostled by cuddling down in some corner just as the twins did. Indeed, there was a close intimacy between the three "uninvited"; the little ones promptly realizing that no matter how mischievous they had been and how much they deserved punishment, they would be unmolested in Luna's neighborhood. She paid scant attention to them, no more than she did to anything, except gay colors and music. She slept much of the time, and just as the twins did; cuddled upon the floor or lounge or wherever drowsiness had overcome her. Yet let even the faintest strain of music be heard and she would instantly arouse, her eyes wide open and her head bent forward as one intently listening; and the strangest part of this attraction was that she dumbly realized the sort of melody she heard. At the jumble of the two national airs she had smiled, then frowned, and finally looked distressed. It was this expression upon the dull face she watched that had made Dorothy give over that nonsense, even more than the protests of her mates; and now as Molly begged: "Something of your own making-up, Dolly Doodles!" she let her bow wander idly over the strings, until a sort of rhythmic measure came to her; fragments she knew of many compositions but bound into a sheaf, as it were, by a theme of her own. It was a minor, moving melody and slowly but effectually touched the heart of every listener. Melvin leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, picturing to his sometime homesick soul a far-away Yarmouth garden, with roses such as bloomed no other where and a sweet-faced, widowed mother gently tending them. Helena pondered if she did right to be in this house, a guest, with her own home so near and her parents thus deserted of both their children, and unconsciously she sighed. James Barlow and Jane Potter, after the habit of each, drifted into thought of the wide field of learning and the apparent hopelessness of ever crossing far beyond its boundaries. "The worst of studying is that it makes you see how little bit you can ever know;" considered the ambitious lad, while Jane regretted that she had not been left in peace in that old house from which she had been rescued and so have had the chance of her life to learn history on the spot. More or less, all within the sound of that violin grew thoughtful; but it was upon poor, "unfinished" Luna that the greatest stress was wrought. She did not rise to her feet but began to creep toward the player, inch by inch, almost imperceptibly advancing as if drawn forward by some invisible force. Presently they all became aware of her movement and of nothing else, save that low undercurrent of melody that wailed and sobbed from the delicate instrument, as the player's own emotions ruled her fingers. Even the Master sat erect, he who made a study of all mankind, touched and influenced beyond himself with speculations concerning this aged woman who was still a child. "Music! Who knows but that was the key to unlock her closed intelligence? Oh! what a pity that it came so late! But how sad is Dorothy's mood to evoke such almost unearthly strains! It's getting too much for her and for that helpless creature. I must stop it;" thought the farrier, but didn't put his thought into action. Just then he could not. "Makes me think of a snake charmer I saw once," whispered Monty Stark to Littlejohn. "Ssh! Luna's cryin'! Did you ever see the beat? Alfy Babcock, stop snivellin' as if you was at a first class funeral!" returned master Smith, himself swallowing rather hard as he happened to think of his mother bringing in her own firewood. Luna had reached the spot directly before Dorothy and was on her knees looking up with a timid, fascinated stare. Her small hands were so tightly clasped that their large veins seemed bursting, and great tears chased one another down her pink, wrinkled cheeks. Her close cropped head was thrown back and her back was toward the windows over which no curtains had been drawn. In her gay frock, which firelight and lamplight touched to a brilliant flame color, she must have appeared to one beyond the panes like a suppliant child begging pardon for some grave misdoing. Suddenly Alfaretta screamed, and Molly Breckenridge promptly echoed her; then bounded to Dorothy's side and snatched the violin from her hands. "Stop it, Dolly, stop it! I couldn't help doing that, for in another minute you'd have had me and--and everybody crazy! What made you----" "Why, Alfaretta! Whatever is the matter? Why do you stand like that, pointing out into the night as if you'd seen a ghost?" demanded Jane Potter, going to her schoolmate and shaking her vigorously. "Don't yell again. It's--it's more frightful to hear you than it was to be locked up in that hidden chamber, with a spring-locked trap shut between you and liberty." Which was the only admission this self-contained young person ever gave that she had once known fear. Alfy gulped, shivered, and slowly answered: "So I did. It--was a ghost. Or--or--just the same as one! A--lookin'--a lookin' right through the window--with his face--big and white--He--he wore a hat----" "Wise ghost! Not to cavort around bare-headed on a damp September night!" cried Monty, as much to reassure his own shaken nerves as those of the mountain girl. "Dorothy's music was so strange--weird you might say--that she's made us all feel spooky; but we have no apparitions at Deerhurst, let me tell you," said Herbert, consolingly. "Huh! You may say what you like, but that one apparited all right. I seen it with my very own eyes and nobody else's!" retorted Alfaretta, with such decision and twisting of good English that those who heard her laughed loudly. The laughter effectually banished "spookiness" and as now poor Luna sank down upon the floor in her accustomed drowsiness, her enwrapt mood already forgotten, the Master lifted her in his strong arms and carried her away to Dinah and to bed. But as he went he cast one keen glance toward the windows, where nothing could now be seen--if ever had been--save the dimly outlined trees beyond. Yet even he almost jumped when Jim, having followed him from the room, touched his arm and asked: "What do you s'pose sent old Oliver Sands to peekin' in our windows?" [Illustration: THE GHOST AT THE WINDOW. _Dorothy's House Party._] CHAPTER XI MORNING TALKS "Did anybody ever know such a succession of beautiful days?" asked Helena, next morning, stepping out into a world full of bird-song and sunshine. "And without doing anything extraordinary, nothing that anybody in the world couldn't have done, what a happy time we're having. Why, Dolly darling, you--what's wrong, honey? Are you in trouble? Can I help you?" Dorothy had been sitting on the broad piazza, waiting for her guests and breakfast, a very sober, worried girl. But she now sprang up to greet her friend and tossing back her dark curls seemed to toss away anxiety also. A smile rose the more readily, too, for at that moment there came around the corner Monty Stark and Danny Smith, kindred spirits, each singing at the top of his voice: "The elephant now goes round and round, The band begins to play, The little boys under the monkeys' cage Had better get out of the way-- Better get out of the wa-a-a-ay!" "Mornin' ladies! And let me assure you there'll be peanuts and pink lemonade enough to go around; for Daniel, my friend here, has just unearthed a quarter from one of his multitudinous pockets and I'll agree--to-lay-it-out-for-him-to-the-best-possible-advantage--Right this way, ladies and gentlemen, only ten cents to see the Double Headed Woman and to witness the astonishing feat of an Anaconda Swallowing his own Skin! Right this way, only ten----" "Monty Stark, behave yourself! The place for you, young sir, is in the monkeys' cage, not _under_ it! What have you horrid boys been doing out there in the barn so early, waking tired little girls out of their beauty-sleep?" demanded Molly B., appearing on the scene and interrupting the boy's harangue. "Oh! Just doing a few stunts. Practising, you know, against they call on us to take part in the 'ceremonies.' But it's a pity about that beauty-sleep. You needed it and I apologize! I mean I never saw you so charming! Hooray for the circus!" "Hooray!" answered Herbert, coming through the doorway, a twin on either arm. "Say it, 'Nias! Say it, 'Phira!" The youngsters squirmed to get away, to slide down out of the boy's grasp, but he held them securely till, at last grown desperate, one of them began gravely and distinctly to recite the doggerel which Monty and Daniel had just sung. The performance received great applause and amid the jests and laughter all turned to follow the summons to breakfast; Herbert restraining the little ones long enough to adjure them to: "Mind, you've promised! And you know what happened to some folks you're named for! No, I shouldn't have said that, poor innocents! I mean you must do what I told you or you'll lose what I promised." "Yep. We's do it, we's do it! I wants my brekkus!" answered one, while the other echoed: "Brekkus, brekkus!" Herbert placed them at a small low table in the corner where Dinah had decided they must eat, or "take deir meals; fo' as fo' eatins, dey's cwyin' fo' dem all de whole endu'in time! 'Peahs lak dem li'l ones nebah would get filled up an' nebah had ernough yet in dis yere world." Yet once at table nobody could find fault with their behavior, except for the extreme rapidity with which they stowed away their rations. They seemed afraid to drop a crumb or mess themselves in any way and the furtive looks they shot out from beneath their long lashes were pitiful, as if they feared their food would be snatched from them and themselves punished with blows. That many blows had been administered, Dinah had early found out, since when bathing them she saw the scars upon their poor little bodies. This had been sufficient to reconcile her to the extra care and labor their presence imposed upon her; for labor, indeed, they caused. For instance: stealing into the kitchen where Aunt Malinda had set upon the hearth a big pan of bread "sponge," to rise, they industriously dotted its top with lumps of coal from the hod, in imitation of a huckleberry pudding which had appeared at table. They even essayed to eat the mixture; but finding this impracticable set to work to force one another down into the pan of dough--with sufficient success to ruin the new suits they wore as well as Aunt Malinda's "risin'." Having discovered that sugar was sweet they emptied a jar of what looked like it into a fine "floating island" and turned the custard to brine. They hid Ephraim's glasses, and Dinah's bandana; they unloosed the dogs, let the chains be fastened ever so securely; they opened the gate to the "new meadow" and let the young cattle wander therein; and with the most innocent, even angelic expressions, they plotted mischief the livelong day. But they redeemed all their wickedness by their entire truthfulness. Despite their handicap of names, they acknowledged every misdemeanor and took every punishment without a whimper. "They're regular little imps! But, alanna, what'd this big house be widout 'em and their pranks?" cried poor Norah, laughing and frowning together, when called upon for the third time that morning to change the youngsters' clothes; the last necessity arising from the fact that they had filled the bathtub and taken a glorious dip without the formality of removing their garments. "You're the plague of my life, so you are; but poor motherless darlin's, I can't but love you! And sorra the day, when him 't you belongs to comes for you again!" When that morning's meal was over, the Master planned their day as had become his habit. Said he: "A circus day and the first day of the county fair, as this is, will crowd the streets of the city with all sorts of teams and people. I've decided not to risk Mrs. Calvert's horses in Newburgh to-day. We can all go up by train and have no anxiety about anything. It's but a down-hill walk, if a rather long one, from here to our own station, and in town there'll be plenty of stages to carry us to the grounds. Jim has consented to ride over on horseback early and secure our places on the front row of seats, if this is possible. I've seen no reserved seats advertised, but I don't like those insecure upper benches--or boards--of the tiers of scaffolding, where a fellow has to swing his feet in space or jab his toes into the back of the spectator below. Besides, I always did like to be close to the 'ring' when I go to the circus." "O, Teacher! As if you ever went!" cried Alfaretta, giggling. "Go? Of course I go every chance I get--to a real country circus--which isn't often. There's nothing so convinces me that I am still a little boy as the smell of tanbark and sawdust, and the sound of the clown's squeaking voice!" They laughed. It was so easy and so natural to laugh that morning. Even Helena, who had enjoyed many superior entertainments, felt her pulses thrill in anticipation of that day's amusement; and she meant to let herself "go" for all the fun there might be, with as full--if not as noisy an abandon--as any "mountain girl" among them. Continued Mr. Seth, closely observing Dorothy who, alone of all the company, was not smiling: "Now, for the morning. I suggest that you pass it quietly at home; tennis, reading, lounging in hammocks--any way to leave yourselves free from fatigue for the afternoon. Dinah says 'Y'arly dinnah'; because all the 'help' want to go to the circus and I want to have them. So we must get the dishes washed betimes, for the 'Greatest Show On Earth' opens its afternoon performance at two o'clock sharp precisely to the minute! and I, for one, cannot, positively cannot, miss the Grand Entrance! Umm. I see them now, in fancy's eye, the cream colored horses, the glittering spangles, the acrobats in tights, the monkeys, the--the----" "Oh! Don't say any more, dear Master, or I shall have to ride over with Jim this morning and see the street parade!" cried Molly Breckenridge clasping her plump hands in absurd entreaty, while every lad present looked enviously upon the thus honored James. "_I_ could buy circus tickets if I put my whole mind to it. How about you, Littlejohn Smith?" observed Monty. "Give me the cash and let me try!" Danny said nothing but his eyes were wistfully fixed upon vacancy, while Frazer Moore sadly stated: "All I ever did see about a circus--so far--was the parade. I run away to that--once." "And got a lickin' for it afterwards, I remember," commented Mike Martin. This was too much for the discipline of that dear old "boy," Seth Winters, and he cried: "See here, lads! I can't stand for that. Nor need I be afraid of fatigue for _you_. Nothing will tire a single boy of the lot, to-day, except missing some part of this delectable Show! Scamper! Scatter! Trot! Vamoose! In short, run to the stables and see if there are horses enough to go around, counting in the workers. There'll none of them be needed at Deerhurst to-day. Then you can all ride to town with our treasurer and put your horses up at the big livery on the High Street back of the town. See to it that they are made perfectly safe and comfortable for the day, and tell the proprietor that they are to be looked after for me. Here, Jamie lad, is an extra ten dollar bill. Use it judiciously, for anything needed, especially for luncheon for eight hungry boys. Better get that at some reputable restaurant and not on the grounds. Also, one of you meet the rest of us at the station at one o'clock with the tickets. Our whole big Party will make our own Grand Entrance!" "Oh! thank you, thank you!" With a simultaneous cry of rapture the lads sped stablewards, leaving some rather downcast girlish faces behind them. "I--I can ride horseback," said Molly B., with a sigh. "So can I; and 'tain't far to our house. I guess Pa Martin'd have let me have old Bess to ride on," responded the other Molly. "Shucks! Molly M. How'd you look, rockin' along on that old mare? Besides, you couldn't keep in sight, even, of the way them boys'll tear along. Another besides; you know, well's I do, that Mr. Martin wouldn't hold with no such nonsense as your trapesin' after a circus parade. Who wants to, anyway? We're born girls and we can't be boys, no matter how much we try. Since I ain't let to go I'd rather--I guess I'd rather stay to home and crochet some lace," said practical Alfaretta and pushed back from table. "Wait a minute, Alfy. There's something else I've got to say. It has been a secret between Dolly and me, but of course we can't keep it always and I can't a minute longer. It's this: We two girls have adopted for all their lives the two twins! We've adopted them with our pocket-money," proudly stated Molly B. "Molly! Molly!" cried Dorothy, her face aflame and her eyes swiftly filling. "Yes I shall tell, too. Secrets are the killingest things to bear. I expect Papa will scold and Auntie Lu make fun but I'm doing it for charity. I shall put away every bit of my allowance to educate my--my son--and I shall call him Augustus Algernon Breckenridge. I thought you might as well know," and with this startling statement the Judge's daughter threw back her head and eyed the company defiantly. The girls stared, all save Dorothy, and the Master laughed, while from their corners the twins echoed a shrill cackle; then immediately began to practice the somersaults which Herbert had been at such pains to teach them. Then Molly rose, with what she considered great dignity, and, forcing Ananias to stand upon his feet, said in a sweet maternal tone: "Come, my little boy. I want you to keep nice and rested till I take you to the circus." Then she led him away, Sapphira tugging at her skirts and Alfaretta remarking: "Guess you'll have to adopt the pair, Molly Breckenridge. Them two stick closer'n glue!" In another moment all but the Master and Dorothy had left the room, and seizing this opportunity he called her to him. "Dolly Doodles, I want to talk with you a little. Let's go out to the old barn--I mean the new one--and have a visit. We haven't had any cosy confidence talks, remember, since this House Party began." It was the very thing she craved. Frank and outspoken by nature, long used to telling everything to this wise old friend, they had no sooner settled themselves upon the straw divan, than out it came, with a burst of sobs: "Oh! dear Mr. Seth, I'm so unhappy!" "Yes, child. I've seen it. Such a pity, too, on a circus day!" "Please, please don't tease me now. Aunt Betty thinks--thinks--I hardly know--only--read that!" From the tiny pocket of her blouse she pulled the fateful telegram and thrust it into his hand. He had some ado to smooth it out and decipher the blurred writing, for it had been wet with many tears and frequently handled. "You have made me dangerously angry. You must find that money. Heretofore there has been no thievery in my house." Signed, "Mrs. Elisabeth Cecil Somerset-Calvert." The farrier whistled softly, and slowly refolded the document; then drew Dorothy's wet face to his shoulder and said: "Yes, little girl, we must find that money. We must. There is no other way." "But how can we? And why should she--she be so angry after having told me I was all the world to her and that all she had was mine, or would be." "Well, dearie, 'would be' and 'is' are two widely differing conditions. Besides, she is Betty Calvert and you are you." "That's no answer, as I can see." "It is all the answer there is. She is an old, old lady though she doesn't realize it herself. All her life long she has been accustomed to doing exactly what she wished and when she wished. She has idealized you and you have idealized her. Neither of you is at all perfect--though mighty nice, the pair of you!--and you've got to fit yourselves to one another. Naturally, most of the fitting must be on your part, since you're the younger. You will love each other dearly, you do now, despite this temporary cloud, but you, my child, will have to cultivate the grace of patience; cultivate it as if it were a cherished rose in your own old garden. It will all come right, don't fear." "How can it come right? How ever in this world? I've promised to adopt one of the twins and Molly trusts me in that and I haven't a cent. I'm poorer than I used to be before I was an heiress. Molly will never believe me again. Then there's all this expense you're paying--the circus tickets and railway fares and all. It was to be _my_ House Party, my very own, to celebrate my coming into my rightful name and home and it isn't at all. It's yours and--Oh! dear! Oh! dear! Nothing is right. I wish I could run away and hide somewhere before Aunt Betty comes home. I shall never dare to look at her again after I've made her 'dangerously angry.' What can that mean? I used to vex Mother Martha, often, but never like that. Oh! I wish I was _her_ little girl again and not this----" Seth laid his finger on her lip and the wish she might have uttered and bitterly regretted was never spoken. But the old man's face was grave as he said: "You did not know, but my Cousin Betty means that you have excited her beyond physical safety. She has a weak heart and has always been cautioned against undue agitation. It has been a sad business altogether and I wish you had had more confidence in me and come to me with that letter before you sent it. As for the 'expenses' of your Party--it is yours, dear, entirely--they are slight and my contribution to the general happiness. The only real thing that does matter, that will be most difficult to set straight is--your suspicion of old Ephraim. It was that I believe which angered Mrs. Calvert, far more than the money loss, although she is exact enough to keep a cent per cent account of all her own expenses--giving lavishly the meanwhile to any purpose she elects. Poor Ephraim! His heart is wellnigh broken, and old hearts are hard to mend!" Dorothy was aghast. "Does he know? Oh! has anybody told him that I suspected him?" "Not in words; and at first he didn't dream it possible that his honesty could be doubted. But--that's the horrible part of suspicion--once started it's incurable. Side glances, inuendoes, shrugged shoulders--Oh! by many a little channel the fact has come home to him that he is connected in all our minds with the loss of your one hundred dollars. Haven't you seen? How he goes about with bowed head, with none of his quaint jests and 'darkyisms,' a sober, astonished old man whose world is suddenly turned upside down. That's why he refused my money this morning which I offered him for his circus expenses. 'No, Massa Seth, I'se gwine bide ter home.' Yet of all the family of Deerhurst, before this happened, he would have been the most eager for the 'Show.' However, he refuses; and in a certain way maybe it is as well. Otherwise the place would be left unguarded. I should keep watch myself, if I didn't think my Dorothy and her mates were better worth protecting than all Deerhurst. "So now, shorten up that doleful countenance. The mischief that has been done must be undone. Aunt Betty must come home to a loving, forgiving child; old Ephraim must be reinstated in his own and everybody's respect; and to do this--that money must be found! Now, for our friends--and brighter thoughts!" "That money _shall_ be found! I don't know how, I cannot guess--but it shall!" answered Dorothy with great confidence, born of some sudden inspiration. The talk with the Master had lightened her heart and it was with a fine resolution to be everything that was dutiful and tender toward Aunt Betty that she left the barn and rejoined her mates. CHAPTER XII THE GREATEST SHOW ON EARTH Deerhurst was deserted. With a down-sinking heart old Ephraim had watched the last of the merry-makers vanish through the gateway, even gray haired Hans and Griselda joining their fellow employees on this trip to the circus. The watcher's disappointment was almost more than he could bear. His love of junketing was like a child's and for many days, as he drove his bays about the countryside, he had gloated over the brilliant posters which heralded the coming of "The Greatest Show on Earth." He had even invited Aunt Malinda to accompany him at his expense, and now she had gone but he was left. "Hmm. It do seem pow'ful ha'd on me, hit sutney do. But--if all dem folkses is suspicionin' 't ole Eph'aim is a t'ief--My lan', a T'IEF! Not a step Ah steps to no ca'yins' on, scusin dey fin's Ah isn't. If my Miss Betty was to home! Oh! fo' my Miss Betty! She's gwine tole dese yeah Pa'ty folks somepin' when she comes ma'chin' in de doah. Dey ain' no suspicions ertwixt my Miss Betty an' me." His thoughts having taken this course Ephraim found some comfort. Then the responsibility of his position forced itself to mind. No, he couldn't go stretch himself on the back porch in the September sunshine and sleep just yet. Though it was against all custom and tradition in that honest locality, he would lock up the whole house. He would begin at the front door and fasten every window and entrance even to the scullery. There should nothing more be missing, and no more suspicion fixed on a poor old man. He didn't yet know who had set the miserable idea afloat in the beginning, and he didn't dream of its being Dorothy. He had found himself strangely questioned by the other servants and had met curious glances from the visitors in the house. Finally, a stable lad had suddenly propounded the inquiry: "What did you do with that money, anyway, Ephy? If you don't hand it back pretty soon there'll be trouble for you, old man." He had returned indignant inquiries himself, at last worming the whole matter out; and then, with almost bursting heart, had gone to Seth Winters with his trouble. The farrier had comforted as best he could, had assured the old negro of his own utmost faith in him, but--he could not explain the absence of the money and his assurances had been of small avail. Whenever he was alone poor Ephraim brooded over the matter. He now avoided his fellow workers as much as he could. His appetite failed, his nights were sleepless, and Dinah impressively declared that: "He's yeitheh been hoodooed or he stole dat money." She was inclined to accept the first possibility, but with the superstition of her race felt that one was about as derogatory as the other. So nobody, except Mr. Winters, had been very sorry to have him stay behind on this occasion when jollity and not low spirits was desirable. At last when all was secure, the care-taker retired to his bench and his nap, and had been enjoying himself thus for an hour or so, when the sound of wheels and somebody's "Whooa-a!" aroused him. "Ah, friend! Can thee afford to waste time like this?" demanded a blandly reproving voice; and Ephraim opened his eyes to behold George Fox and his owner reined up before him. He knew that equipage and wondered to see it at Deerhurst, whose mistress, he knew, had scant liking for the miller. "Yes, sah. I'se reckon Ah c'n afford hit; bein' mo' inclined to take mah rest 'an to go rampagin' eroun' to circuses an' such. On yo' way dar, sah?" "I? _I!_ On my way to a circus? Thee must know little of a Friend's habits to accuse me of such frivolity. Where is that Seth Winters?" asked Oliver Sands, well knowing what the answer would be and having timed his visit with that knowledge. "He's done gone to de Show, sah. He natchally injoys a good time. Yes, sah, he's one mighty happy ole man, Massa Seth Winters is, sah." "One mighty----" began the miller then checked himself. "I came--but thee will answer just as well. I'd like to inspect that new barn Elisabeth Calvert has put up; and, if thee will, show me through her house as well. I've heard of its appointments and Dorcas, my wife, is anxious to learn of the range in the kitchen. Thee knows that women----" Again the visitor paused, suggestively, and Ephraim reflected for a moment. He knew that his Miss Betty was the soul of hospitality and might upbraid him if he refused to show a neighbor through the premises. Even strangers sometimes drove into the park and were permitted to inspect the greenhouses and even some of the mansion's lower rooms. He had heard such visitors rave over the "old Colonial" appointments and knew that Deerhurst's mistress had been secretly flattered by this admiration. Ah! but that was before this dreadful thing had happened! When--before somebody had stolen, some unknown thief had been within those walls! "Well, sah, Ah is sutney sorry but, sah, when I'se lef' to care-take, sah, I care-takes. Some uddah time, when Miss Betty done be yeah, sah, sutney, sah----" The negro's exaggerated courtesy affronted Oliver Sands. It was not his policy to contest the point, and if he had fancied he could persuade this loyal care-taker to admit him that he might search the house as he had searched many other houses of late, he silently admitted his own mistake and drove away with no further word than: "Gid-dap, George Fox!" But he drove home with head on breast and a keen disappointment in his heart; which expressed itself in a stern rebuke to his wife as he entered her kitchen and met her timid, inquiring glance: "Thee has maggots in thy head, Dorcas Sands. I advise thee to get rid of them." She might have retorted with equal truth: "So is thee maggotty, Oliver, else would thee do openly that which should bring thee peace." But being a dutiful wife she kept silence, though she brooded many things in her tender heart; and the incident passed without further comment than Seth Winters's ambiguous remark, when Ephraim told of the miller's call: "So the leaven is working, after all." But while this trivial affair was happening at Deerhurst, the train had swiftly carried the household to the hill-city a few miles up the river; and almost before they were comfortably settled in the crowded car, the conductor was announcing: "Newburgh next! All out for Newburgh!" "Here we are! And here's our stage! We've chartered a whole one to carry us up the hill. A hard climb and no time to lose!" called out a boyish voice and Herbert's tall shoulder shoved a path through the throng. "There's another empty over yonder, if the 'help' speak quick enough!" But Aunt Malinda standing bewildered and Dinah indignantly correcting somebody for jostling her, rather delayed this operation; so, at a nod from the Master, Jim Barlow made a bee line for the vehicle and stoutly held it as "engaged!" against all comers. "It's a case of every man for himself!" laughed Monty, squeezing his fat body toward the group of girls which was standing apart, amazed and somewhat dismayed by the press of people. "Oh! Don't get worried, Molly, by a little jam like this. Wait till you see the grounds. I declare it seems as if everybody between New York and Albany had come to the 'Show.' It is a big one, I guess, and the Parade was fine. Sorry we didn't bring all of you, pillion, old-style, so you could have seen it, too." "Monty, stop! It's cruelty to girls to harrow up their feelings that way! As if we didn't all _think_ 'pillion' and long to suggest it, only our diffidence prevailed. But come! Mr. Seth has piloted the servants to their stage and is waiting for us!" answered Molly Breckenridge and was the first to spring up the narrow steps at the rear of the rickety omnibus and run to its innermost corner, where she extended her arms to receive her "son" whom she had kept in charge during the ride in the car. The other Molly had passed him on to her, he submitting in wide-eyed astonishment at all the novelty of this trip. Helena held Sapphira as closely, and Dorothy's arm was tightly clasped about Luna's waist, who, oddly enough, was the least affrighted of them all. "Won't the horses be afraid? Supposin' they should run away!" cried Molly Martin, who had seldom been in the town and never on such an occasion as this. "Pooh! Them horses won't run 'less they're prodded into it. They look as if they'd been draggin' stages up and down these hills all their lives and never expected to do anything else," answered Alfaretta, quickly. "Don't you get scared, Molly, I ain't." Indeed, of all that happy party Alfaretta was, maybe, the happiest. Her face was one continual smile and her chatter touched upon everything they passed with such original remarks that she kept them all laughing. Seth beamed upon her from his place beside Luna, and was himself delighted to see that Dorothy was now as gay as any of the others. For the time being any worries she had had were forgotten; and it was she who exclaimed in astonishment, as they came to the grounds and climbed out of the stage: "'Do I wake or am I dreaming'! If there isn't Miss Penelope Rhinelander! and Miss Greatorex is with her! True, true! Who'd ever believe _they'd_ come to a circus!" "Reckon they'd say they did it to study natural history--elephants and things!" laughed Molly, waving her hand vigorously to attract the attention of her old teachers. But they did not see her, so occupied were they in endeavoring to be of a crowd and yet not in it. "Shucks! There's Dr. Sterling! That I worked for last year and went trampin' with last summer! Who'd ha' believed a _minister_ would go to a circus!" now almost shouted Jim Barlow. "Why, I would, laddie. I'll warrant you that every grown-up in the town who has a child friend he can make an excuse of to bring here has done it! Funny they should offer excuses, when there isn't a man or woman but, at sound of a circus band, remembers their childhood and longs to attend one once more. For myself, I prefer a good, old-fashioned 'show' to the finest opera going. The one touches my heart, the other my head. But here we are, and Miss Helena, I see you're beginning to perk up, now you find yourself in such good company." For he had overheard that young lady, despite her morning's resolution to "do just as the rest did and forget it was silly," remark to Mabel Bruce in confidence that: "If I'd known, even dreamed, that we should have to mix with such a rabble, I should have stayed at Deerhurst!" This was when they had had to scramble for their stage; and Mabel had affectedly replied: "Me too. My folks never do like to have me make myself common; and this organdie dress will be torn to ribbons." Seth had smiled then, overhearing, and bided his time. Well he understood how one emotion can sway an entire crowd, and he but waited till they should have arrived to see even these contemptuous lassies catch the "circus spirit." So he couldn't resist this little jest at Helena's expense, which she took now in great good nature; by then they had come to the entrance to the big tent where the chief performance would be given. This entrance was guarded by a wooden stile, from which a narrow canvas-covered passage led to the inner door. At the stile tickets were sold, and these were in turn taken up by the collector at the end of the passage which opened directly into the tent. "Speaking of crowds! Was ever such another one as this!" gasped Melvin Cook, as he found himself in the swirl of persons seeming to move in two directions, as, indeed, they were. Then he looked around for his friends and to his consternation saw Molly Breckenridge tossed to and fro in a hopeless effort to extricate herself, and that she held one of the twins by hand, till suddenly the child fell beneath the very feet of the crowding adults. "My baby! Oh! O-oh!" screamed Molly, and an instant's halt followed, but the jam was to be immediately resumed. Fortunately, however, that instant had been sufficient for tall Jim Barlow to stoop and lift the child on high. "Hang on to me, Molly! I'll kick and jam a way through. 'Twill be over in a minute, soon's we get to the inside and have--you--got--your ticket?" "Ye-e-es! But--but--I'll never come to a circus--again--never--never----" "You haven't got to this one yet," returned Jim, breathlessly. Then he discovered Mr. Winters standing inside the tent, and extending his arms to receive the uplifted little one which Jim at once tossed forward like a ball. At last they were all inside. The Master had been more fortunate in piloting his especial charges, Luna and Sapphira, through that struggling mob; but it was in a tone of deep disgust that he now exclaimed: "Oh! the selfishness of human nature! A moment's delay, a touch of courtesy, and such scenes would be avoided. The struggle for 'first place,' to better one's self at the expense of one's neighbor, is an ugly thing to witness." "But, Teacher, when you get in such a place you have to just do like the rest and act piggish, too," said Alfaretta. "I guess I know now how 't one them panics that you read about, sometimes, could happen. If one them jammers went crazy, or scared, all the rest would too, likely." "Exactly, Alfaretta. But, let's think of pleasanter things. Let's follow James." After all, though Mr. Winters had doubted there would be, the lad had secured reserved seats and on "the front row near the entrance," just as that gentleman had desired; so presently, they had arranged themselves upon the low-down bench where, at least, their feet could touch bottom; and where with a comical air the farrier immediately began to sniff the familiar odor of fresh turned sod covered with sawdust, and turning to his next neighbor remarked: "I think I'm nine years old, to-day, nine 'goin' on' ten." But his facetiousness was wasted upon sedate Jane Potter; who did not even smile but reflected: "If that old man's going to talk silly I'll change places with Alfaretta. And if the performance isn't to begin right away I'll just walk around and look at the animals' cages." She did this, laying her handkerchief and jacket on her vacated seat, though her host called after her: "You may not be able to get your place again, in such a crowd." However, if she heard she did not turn back and was presently out of sight in the line of promenaders continually passing. Also, his own face grew sober at the sound of thunder, and he clasped his arm more protectingly around Luna's waist, who sat on his other side, and counselled Dorothy, just beyond: "Do you and Molly keep close care of the twins. There's a storm brewing and timid people may stampede past us toward the door." "Why, would anybody be afraid in a big tent like this?" asked Dolly, surprised. "Some might. But--Hark! Hooray! Here we come!" The band which had been playing all the time now broke into a more blatant march, a gaily accoutred "herald" galloped forth from a wide opening at the rear of the tent, then turned his steed about to face that opening, waving his staff and curveting about in the most fantastic manner. Then the silence of expectation fell upon that mass of humanity, the promenaders settling into any seats available, warned by men in authority not to obstruct the view of those on the lower benches. As a cavalcade of horses appeared Mr. Winters looked anxiously down into Luna's face. To his surprise it showed no interest in the scene before her but was fast settling into its habitual drowsiness. "Well, after all, that's best. We could not leave her behind and I feared she would be frightened;" he observed to Dorothy. "Yes, I'm glad, too. Keep still, 'Phira! You must keep still, else you may be hurt. Wait. I'll take you on my lap, as Molly has 'Nias. Now--see the pretty horses?" answered Dorothy, and involuntarily shivered as a fresh thunderclap fell on her ears. Alfaretta leaned forward to remark: "It's begun to rain! But isn't it cute to be under a tent and just let it rain! Ah! My soul! Ain't they beautiful? Look, girls, look, them first ones is almost here! A-ah! them clowns! And monkeys--to the far end there's real monkeys ridin' on Shetland ponies! Oh! my heart and soul and body! I'm so glad I come!" She finished her comments, standing up and swaying wildly from side to side, till somebody from the rear jabbed her shoulders with an umbrella point, loudly commanding: "Down front! Down front!" She dropped into her seat with a shriek, which somebody somewhere promptly caught up and echoed, while at that same instant a flash of lightning illuminated even that interior which had grown so strangely dark, and on the instant came a terrific crash. Another woman screamed, and Seth Winters's face paled. He knew how very little it would now take to start a panic. But the band played the louder, the performers went round and round the great ring, the clowns frolicked and the monkeys pranked, and he inwardly blessed the discipline which kept every player to his post, as if such electric storms were every day incidents. "What are those men doing to the roof?" suddenly demanded Molly Martin of her neighbor, James, calling his attention to the sagging canvas and the employees hurrying hither and thither to lift it on the points of great poles. Then would follow a splash of water down the slope from the central supporting pole of that flimsy roof, dashing off at the scalloped edges upon the surrounding ground. "Water's heavy. I guess they're afraid it'll break and douse the people. Hi! But that was a teaser! It don't stop a minute and it's getting blacker'n ink. Never heard such a roar and it don't let up a second. They'll have to stop the performance till it slacks up, and--What fools these folks are that's hurrying out into that downpour!" "Maybe--maybe--they're safer outside. Rain won't hurt--much--but circus tents are sometimes blown down--I've read----" "Now come, Alfy Babcock, just hold your tongue! Rough way to speak but I mean it. Hear what the Master said? How it was mighty easy to start a panic but impossible to stop one, or nigh so? Everyone that keeps still and behaves helps to make somebody else do it. Here, boy, fetch them peanuts this way? Dip in, Alfy, I'll treat, and I see the lemonade feller's headed this way, too. Whilst we're waitin' we might as well----" Even Jim's philosophy was put to the test just then, for with a peanut half-way to his lips his hand was arrested by another terrific crash and the swishing tear of wet canvas. CHAPTER XIII IN THE GREAT KITCHEN Still the band played on. The cavalcade paced round and round the ring, while a hundred workmen--it seemed--swarmed to the repair of the torn tent. Fortunately, the injured portion was that occupied as dressing rooms and stables for the performers, so that few of the audience suffered more than fright. Indeed, most of the spectators realized as Mr. Winters had done, the danger of panic and the wisdom of composure, so remained in their places. Also, with the same suddenness that had marked its rising the storm ended and the sun shone out. One mighty sigh of relief swept over those crowded tiers of humanity, and the indefatigable band struck up a new and livelier note. The tight-rope dancer sprang lightly into the ring and went through her hazardous feats with smiling face and airy self-confidence; the elephants ascended absurdly small stools, and stood upon them, "lookin' terribly silly, as if they knew they were makin' guys of themselves," so Mike Martin exclaimed, though he still kept his fascinated eyes upon their every movement. There was the usual bareback riding and jumping through rings: the trapeze, and the pony quadrille; in short, all that could be expected of any well conducted "Show," while above all and below all sounded the clown's voice in a ceaseless clatter and cackle of nonsense. Laughter and badinage, peanuts and pink lemonade; men and women turned back to childhood, smiling at the foolishness enacted before them but more at their own in thus enjoying it; and the "Learned Blacksmith" who had pondered many books finding this company around him the most interesting study of them all. It was this that he loved about a circus; and, to-day, at their first one, the faces of Ananias and Sapphira held his gaze enthralled. "Dolly, Dolly Doodles! Do watch them!" he cried for sympathy in his delight. "Did ever you see eyes so bright? Mouths so wide agape? and happiness so intense! Ah! if those to whom they belong could see them now, all hardness would vanish in a flash!" Dorothy looked as he desired, but her glance was less of admiration than of anxiety. She had seen what he did not see and was hearing what he did not; a face and figure somberly different from the tri-colored one of the clown, and a voice more raucously insistent than his. All at once the twins also saw and heard. Their attention was clutched, as it were, from those adorable monkeys a-horseback, which had come once more to the very spot before where they stood, and whom in their baby-souls they envied frantically. "HIM!" shrieked Ananias. "H-I-M!" echoed Sapphira, all her pretty pink-and-whiteness turned the pallor of fear. There was a flash of bare feet and blue-denimed legs and the terrified twins had leaped the velvet-topped barrier bordering the ring and were scurrying heedlessly away, how and where they cared not except to be safe from that "Him" whose memory was a pain. "My soul! They'll be killed--the little rascals!" cried Jim, and leaped the barrier, in pursuit. "He can't catch 'em! I'll help!" and fat Monty rolled himself over the fence. "What's up, boys?" demanded Frazer Moore; and, perceiving, added himself to the rescuing party. Ditto, Mike; then Littlejohn and Danny. This was the chance of a lifetime! to be themselves "performers." Only Melvin and Herbert rose, hesitating, amazed--and, seeing the little ones, whom everybody tried to catch and who eluded every grasp, in such imminent peril of trampling horse-hoofs, they also followed the leader. Even Mr. Winters rose to his feet and watched in deep anxiety the outcome of this escapade, and the darting nimbleness of two small figures which everybody, from the ring-master down, was chasing like mad. Only the trained horsemen and their following troupe of monkeys kept on unmindful; while from the seats on every side ran shouts of laughter. To most of those onlookers this seemed a part, a delightfully arranged part, of the entertainment. Only those nearest, and the farrier was one of them, realized that the strange old man with the croaking voice was an alien to that scene. A half-crazed old man who felt called upon to deliver his "message" of warning to a sinful world, at all times, seasons, and places. He had stumbled upon this as a fine field and, unbalanced though his mind was, it had yet been clear enough for him to purchase a ticket and enter in the customary way. "Oh! will he take the twins away?" asked Dorothy, clasping her hands in dismay. "And will they--be--killed!" "I think not, to both questions. Evidently he has not perceived the children though they were quick enough to discover him. The pity! that one should inspire such fear in his own household! But, see! See!" Mr. Winters forgot the old exhorter for the moment and laughed aloud. In the ring the clown had, at first, pretended to join in the pursuit of the nimble runaways, but only pretended. Then he suddenly perceived that they were growing breathless and had almost fallen beneath the feet of a mighty Norman horse. The man beneath his motley uniform rose to the emergency. Catching the bridle of a near-by pony, he flung the monkey from its back, scooped the babies up from the ground, set them in the monkey's place and, mounting behind them, triumphantly fell into line. It was all so quickly done that its bravery was but half appreciated; and the absurdly grinning mask which he now waggled from side to side, as if bowing to an outburst of applause, roused a roar of laughter. As for Ananias and Sapphira--their felicity was complete. The stern grandparent was forgotten and the only fact they knew was this marvelous ride on a marvelous steed, and most marvelous of all, in the friendly grasp of the tri-colored person behind them. Mr. Winters turned from them for a moment, at the sound of a scuffle near by. An instant's glance showed him that the poor fanatic was being roughly handled by some employees of the circus, and he stepped forward protesting: "Don't do that! He'll go quietly enough if you just ask him. He's a feeble old man--be gentle!" "But we want no 'cranks' in here creating a disturbance! Enough has happened this performance, already!" [Illustration: THE TWINS AND CLOWN ON THE SHETLAND PONY. _Dorothy's House Party._] "Jim! James Barlow! Herbert Montaigne!" These two were the only ones left still in the ring of the lot who had pursued the runaway twins, the others having shamefacedly retreated as soon as they saw the children were safe. They looked toward the Master yet lingered to receive the twins whom their captor was now willing to resign; they struggling to remain and a mixed array of flying legs and arms resulting. However, neither screams nor obstreperous kicks availed to prolong that delectable ride, and presently the little ones found themselves back in the grasp of a bevy of girls who made a human fence about them, and so hedged them in to safety. "Lads, I must leave you to see our girls safe home. Do so immediately the performance is over and it must be nearly now. This poor old chap is ill and bemused by his rough handling. I'm going to take him to a hospital I know and have him cared for. I'll go down to Deerhurst as soon as I can but don't wait for me. Come, friend. Let us go;" and linking his strong arm within the weak one of the man, scarce older yet so much frailer than he, he walked quietly away, the fanatic unresisting and obedient. With the Master's departure the glamour faded from the "Show"; and at Helena's suggestion the whole party promptly made their exit. "It's a wise move, too, Helena. We can catch the five o'clock train down and it won't be crowded, as the later one will be. I fancy we've all had about all the circus we want--this time. Anybody got a rope?" said Herbert. "What in the world do you want of a rope?" asked his sister. "I think if we could tie these irrepressibles together we could better keep track of them." There were some regretful looks backward to that fascinating tent, when the older lads had marshalled their party outwards, with no difficulty now in passing the obstructing stile; but there were no objections raised, and the homeward trip began. But they had scarcely cleared the grounds when Molly Martin paused to ask: "Where's Jane Potter?" "Oh! hang Jane Potter! Is she lost again?" asked Danny Smith. Then with a happy thought, adding: "I'll go back and look for her!" In this way hoping for a second glimpse of the fairy-land he had been forced to leave. Whereupon, his brother reminded him that he had no ticket, and no fellow gets in twice on one. Besides, that girl isn't--Hmm. "She's probably lingered to study biology or--or something about animals," observed Monty. "Any way, we can afford to risk Jane Potter. Like enough we shall find her sitting on the piazza writing her impressions of a circus when we get home." They did. She had early tired of the entertainment and had been one of the first to leave the tent after the accident to it. Once outside, she had met a mountain neighbor and had begged a ride home in his wagon. Jane was one to be careful of Jane and rather thoughtless of others, yet in the main a very good and proper maiden. But if they did not delay on account of Jane they were compelled to do so by the twins. "These children are as slippery as eels," said Molly, who had never touched an eel. "I'll lend my 'son' to anybody wants him, for awhile. I'd--I'd as lief as not!" she finished, quoting an expression familiar to Alfy. "And I'll lend 'Phira!" added Dorothy. She had tried to lead the little one and still keep her arm about Luna, who by general consent was always left to her charge. "All right. Give her here!" said Frazer; while Herbert whistled for a waiting stage to approach. But as it drew near and the girls began to clamber in, preparatory to their ride stationwards, Ananias jerked himself free and springing to one side the road began a series of would-be somersaults. It was an effort on his part to follow Herbert's instructions--with doubtful success. Of course, what brother did sister must do, and Sapphira promptly emulated her twin. "Oh! the mud! Just look at them! How can we ever take them in that stage with us?" asked Mabel Bruce, in disgust. But the happy youngsters paid no attention to her. Having completed what Herbert had taught them to call their "stunt" they now approached their instructor and demanded: "Candy, what you promised!" "All right. Driver, we'll stop at the first confectioner's we pass and I'll fill them up." "But, Herbert, you should not. Don't you remember how ill they were from Molly's supply? And I do say, if you led them into this scrape, getting themselves in such a mess, you'll have to ride in front and keep them with you." Herbert made a wry face. He was always extremely careful in his dress and his sister's just suggestion wasn't pleasant. However, he made the best of it and no further untoward incident marked that day's outing. Arrived at home they found Jane calmly reading, as has been told, and no other one about except old Ephraim, who had not unfastened the doors for "jes one l'il gal," but now threw them wide for the "House Party." Then he retreated to the kitchen, where Dorothy found him stirring about in a vain attempt to get supper--a function out of his line. "Now, Ephy, dear, you can't do that, you know! You're a blessed old blunderer, but one doesn't boil water for tea in a leaky coffee-pot! Wait! I'll tell you! I'll call the girls and we'll make a 'bee' of it and get the supper ourselves, before Aunt Malinda and Dinah and the rest get back. They'll be sure to stay till the last----" "Till the 'last man is hung'!" finished Alfaretta, with prompt inelegance. "Oh! I'm just starving!" wailed a boyish voice, and Monty rushed in. "So are we all, so are we all!" cried others and the kitchen rang with the youthful, merry voices. Ephraim scratched his gray wool and tried to look stern, but Dorothy's "Ephy, dear!" had gone straight to his simple heart, so lately wounded and sorrowful. After all, the world wasn't such a dark place, even if he had missed the circus, now that all these chatterers were treating him just as of old. They were so happy, themselves, that their happiness overflowed upon him. Cried Jim Barlow, laying a friendly hand on the black man's shoulder: "Come on, Ephy, boy! If the girls are going to make a 'bee,' and get supper for all hands--including the cook--let's match them by doing the chores for the men. The 'help' have done a lot for us, these days, and it's fair we do a hand's-turn for them now! Come on, all! Monty, you shall throw down fodder for the cattle--it's all you're equal to. Some of us will milk, some take care of the horses, everybody must do something, and I appoint Danny Smith to be story-teller-in-chief, and describe that circus so plain that Ephraim can see it without the worry of going!" "Hip, hip, hooray! Let's make a lark of it!" echoed Herbert, now forgetful of his good clothes and eager only to bear his part with the rest. "Well, before we begin, let's get the twins each a bowl of bread and milk and tie them in their chairs, just as Dinah does when they bother. They mustn't touch that candy till afterward, though I don't know how Herbert ever kept it from them so long," said Molly Breckenridge, adjusting a kitchen apron to her short figure by tucking it into her belt. "I know! I sat on it!" called back the lad and disappeared barnwards. Luna was placed in her corner and given a bowl like the twins, and the girls set to work, even Jane Potter asking to help. "What all shall we cook? I can make fudges," said Molly. "Fudges are all right--you may make some, but I want something better than sweets. Helena, you're the oldest, you begin. Suggest--then follow your suggestions. Fortunately we've a pretty big range to work on and Ephraim can make a fire if he can't make tea. It's burning fine. Hurry up, Helena, and speak, else Alfaretta will explode. She's impatient enough," urged Dorothy. "Once--I made angel food," said Helena, rather timidly. "It didn't turn out a real success, but I think that was because I didn't use eggs enough." "How many did you use?" "A dozen." "Try a dozen and a half. There's a basket of them yonder in the storeroom and everybody must wait on everybody's self. Else we'll never get through. I'll light up, it's getting dark already," answered Dorothy who, as hostess, was naturally considered director of affairs. "Well, Alfy! What will you do?" "I can fry chicken to beat the Dutch!" "Hope you can," laughed Helena. "I'm not fond of Dutch cookery, I've tried it abroad. They put vinegar in everything." "But where will you get chicken to fry?" "There's a whole slew of them in the ice-box, all ready fixed to cook. I suppose Aunt Malinda won't like it, to have me take them, if she's planned them for some other time, but there's plenty more chickens in the world. Come along, Jane Potter, and get a pan of potatoes to peel. That's the sitting-downest job there is. Molly Martin, you can make nice raised--I mean bakin'-powder biscuit--there's the flour barrel. Don't waste any time. Everybody fly around sharp and do her level best!" After all it was Alfaretta who took charge, and under her capable direction every girl was presently busy at work. "I'm going to make pies. Two lemons, two punkins, two apples. That ought to be enough to go around; only they'll all want the lemon ones. 'Christ Church,' Teacher told me when I made him one once. Said 'twas the pastry cook at Christ Church College, in England, 't first thought them out. I can make 'em good, too. What you goin' to make, yourself, Dorothy Calvert?" "I reckon--pop-overs. Mother Martha used to make them lovely. They're nothing but eggs and flour and--and--I'll have to think. Oh! I know. There's an old recipe book in the cupboard, though I don't believe Malinda can read a word in it. She just spreads it out on the table, important like, and pretends she follows its rules, but often I've seen it was upside down. Do you know how she makes jelly?" "No, nor don't want to. We ain't makin' jelly to-night, and do for goodness' sake get to work!" cried Alfaretta, imparting energy to all by her own activity. "Ma says I'm a born cook and I'm going to prove it, to-night, though I don't expect to cook for a living. Jane Potter, you ought to know better than peel them 'tatoes so thick. 'Many littles make a mickle,' I mean a lot of potato skins make a potato--Oh! bother, do right, that's all. Just because Mrs. Calvert she's a rich 'ristocratic, 'tain't no reason we should waste her substance on the pigs." Jane did not retort, but it was noticeable that thereafter she kept her eyes more closely on her work and not dreamily upon the floor. Presently, from out that roomy kitchen rose a medley of odors that floated even to the workers out of doors; each odor most appetizing and distinct to the particular taste of one or another of the lads. "That's fried chicken! Glad they had sense enough to give us something hearty," said Monty, smacking his lips. Herbert sniffed, then advised: "I'll warrant you that Helena will try angel cake. If she does, don't any of you touch it; or if you think that isn't polite and will hurt her feelings, why take a piece and leave it lie beside your plate. Wonder if they'll ever get the supper ready, anyhow." "Afraid it'll be just 'anyhow,'" wailed Monty. "Those girls can't cook worth a cent." "Don't you think that, sir. Our up-mountain girls are no fools. I hope Alfaretta Babcock will make pies, I've et 'em to picnics and they're prime," said Mike Martin, loyally. "Well, I only hope they don't keep us too long. I begin to feel as if I could eat hay with the cattle." After all, the young cooks were fairly successful, and the delay not very great. Most of them were well trained helpers at home, even Dorothy had been such; but this time she had failed. "Three times I've made those things just exactly like the rule--only four times as much--and those miserable pop-overs just will not pop! We might as well call the boys and give them what there is. And----" At this moment Dorothy withdrew her head from a careful scrutiny of the oven, and--screamed! The next instant she had darted forward to the imposing figure framed in the doorway and thrown her arms about it, crying: "O, Aunt Betty, Aunt Betty! I'm a bad, careless girl, but I love you and I'm so glad, so glad you've come!" CHAPTER XIV AUNT BETTY TAKES A HAND That picnic-supper! The fun of it must be imagined, not described. Sufficient to say that it was the merriest meal yet served in that great mansion; that all, including Mrs. Calvert, brought to it appetites which did not hesitate at "failures," and found even Helena's angel cake palatable, though Herbert did remark to his next neighbor: "If they'd had that kind of leathery stuff instead of canvas to cover that circus tent it would never have broken through, never in the world!" Not the least delighted of that company were the servants, who returned late from their outing, and had had to walk up the mountain from the Landing; they having lingered in the hill-city till the last possible train, which there were no local stages to meet. "And to think that our Miss Dorothy had the kindness to get supper for us, too! Sure, she's the bonniest, dearest lass ever lived out of old Ireland. Hungry, say you? Sure I could have et the two shoes off my feet, I was that starved! And to think of her and them others just waitin' on us same's if we was the family! Bless her! And now I'm that filled I feel at peace with all the world and patience enough to chase them naughty spalpeens to their bed! See at 'em! As wide awake now as the morn and it past nine of the night!" cried Norah, coming into the room where the twins were having a delightful battle with the best sofa cushions; Mrs. Calvert looking on with much amusement and as yet not informed who they were and why so at home at Deerhurst. The chatter of tongues halted a little when, as the clock struck the half-hour, Mr. Seth came in. He looked very weary, but infinitely relieved at the unexpected return of the mistress of the house, and his greeting was most cordial. Indeed, there was something about it which suggested to the young guests that their elders might wish to be alone; so, one after another, they bade Mrs. Betty good-night and disappeared. Dorothy, also, was for slipping quietly away, but Aunt Betty bade her remain; saying gently: "We won't sleep, my child, till we have cleared away all the clouds between us. As for you, Cousin Seth, what has so wearied you? Something more than chaperoning a lot of young folks to a circus, I fancy." "You're right. The afternoon performance was a pleasure; the ride home a trial." "With whom did you ride?" "Oliver Sands." "Indeed? How came----" "It's a long story, Cousin Betty. Wouldn't we better wait till morning?" "Don't you know how much curiosity I have? Do you want to keep me awake all night?" demanded the lady. But she believed that her old friend had some deep perplexity on his mind and that it would be a comfort to him to share it with her. "Is it something Dorothy may hear?" "Certainly, if you wish. Already she knows part. Has she told you how the twins came here?" "Somebody told, I forget who. All of the young folks talked at once, but I learned that they had been dropped on our premises, like a couple of kittens somebody wished to lose." "Exactly; and though he did not personally 'drop' them, the man who most heartily wishes to lose them is miller Oliver Sands. They are his most unwelcome grandchildren." "Why, Cousin Seth!" "Why, Master!" cried the hearers, amazed. "True. Their mother was Rose Sands, whom her father always believed--or said--was ruined by the foolish name her mother gave her. His sons were like himself and are, I believe, good men enough, though tainted with their father's hardness." "Hardness. That suave old Quaker! But you're right, and I never liked him." "Nor I, I'm sorry to say, but I don't wish to let that fact stand in the way of fair judgment. The man is in trouble, deep trouble. I'm not the only one who has noticed it. His behavior for awhile back has been most peculiar. He neglects his business, leaves the fruit in his vineyards and orchards to go to waste, and to his workmen's question: 'What shall we do next,' returns no answer. He has taken to roaming about the country, calling at every house and inspecting each one and its surroundings as if he were looking for something he can't find. His face has lost its perpetual smile--or smirk--and betrays the fact that he is an old man and a most unhappy one." "Huh! I've no great sympathy for Oliver Sands. He has wronged too many people," said Mrs. Calvert, coldly. "But if those children are his grandchildren, what are they doing here?" "I'm coming to that. His daughter, Rose, 'married out of meeting,' and against her father's will. He turned her out of doors, forbade her mother ever to see or speak to her again, and though--being a Friend--he took no oath, his resolution to cast her off was equivalent to one. That part of my tale is common neighborhood gossip." "I never heard it," said Mrs. Betty. "No; such would scarcely be retailed to you. Well, Rose took refuge with her husband's people, and all misfortune followed her flight from her father's house. Her mother-in-law, her consumptive husband, and herself are dead; she passing away as the twins came into the world. The father-in-law, who was only a country-cobbler, but a profoundly religious man, became half-crazed by his troubles, and though I believe he honestly did his best by the babies left on his hands, they must have suffered much. They have never been so happy as now and I hope----" "Please, Mr. Seth, let me tell! Aunt Betty, if you'll let me, I want to adopt Sapphira!" "Adopt--Sapphira! You? A child yourself?" "Yes, please. I'll go without everything myself and I'd work, if I could, to earn money to do it. Molly is going to adopt Ananias. It will be lovely to have some object in life, and some the Seniors at the Rhinelander adopted some Chinese babies. True. They pay money each month, part of their allowance, to do it; so we thought----" But Aunt Betty was leaning back in her chair and laughing in a most disconcerting manner. It's not easy to be enthusiastic on a subject that is ridiculed and Dorothy said no more. But if she were hurt by having her unselfish project thus lightly treated, she was made instantly glad by the tender way her guardian drew her close, and the gentle pat of the soft old hand on her own cheek. "Oh! you child, you children! And I made the mistake of thinking you were as wise as a grown-up! We'll attend to the 'adoption' case, by and by. Let Cousin Seth say his say now." "Well, finally, the old man, Hiram Bowen, forsook his old home, sold his few belongings and came here to our mountain. He must have had some sense left, and realized that he was not long for this world, because though until lately he has been unforgiving to Oliver Sands for the treatment of Rose, he now sought to interest her father on the little ones' behalf. I've learned he made frequent visits to Heartsease, the Sands' farm, but only once saw its owner. But he often saw Dorcas, the wife, and found her powerless to help him; besides, he did not mend matters, even with her, by explaining that he had named the twins as he had--'_after her husband, and herself!_' He told her that she and Oliver were living liars, because the Scripture commanded Christians to look after their own households and they did not do so." "But how could her heart, the heart of any woman, remain hard against the sight of her orphan grandchildren?" demanded Mrs. Calvert, impatiently. "I've met that Dorcas Sands on the road, going to meeting with the miller, and she looked the very soul of meekness and gentleness." "So, I believe she is; but she never saw the children. I told you he was crazed, partially; and despite the fact that he felt their mother's family should care for the orphans he did not want to give them up, permanently. He felt that in doing so he would be consigning them to a life of deceit and unscrupulousness." "How strange! And, Seth, how strange that you should know all this. It's not many days since that old man 'passed them on' to us. You must have been busy gathering news," commented Mrs. Betty. "I have; but the most of it I learned this afternoon, when I was taking the fanatic to the Hospital. Dolly, you tell her about his harangue in the tent and what the twins did there. It will give a diversion to my thoughts, for it _was_ funny!" So Dolly told and they all laughed over the recital, and in the laughter both Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy lost the last bit of constraint that had remained in their manner whenever either chanced to remember the missing one hundred dollars and the sharpness of the telegram. Mrs. Calvert resumed: "You say, taking him to the Hospital. Have you done that, then? And how came you with Oliver Sands? The last man in the world to be drawn to Newburgh to see a circus." "Not the circus, of course, but the county fair. He got up enough interest in ordinary affairs to drive to the fair grounds to see his cattle safely housed. He will have, I presume, the finest exhibit of Holstein-Friesians on the grounds. He always has had, and has carried off many first premiums. He's on the board of managers, too, and they had a business meeting at the Chairman's, which is next door to St. Michael's--the semi-private establishment where I took Bowen. He was just unhitching George Fox, to come home, as I stepped out of the Hospital grounds and met him." "So you asked him for a lift down?" asked Aunt Betty, smiling. "No, I didn't ask. He was so preoccupied, and I so full of what poor old Hiram had told me, that I just 'natchally' stepped into the rear seat without the formality of a request. Truly, I don't think he even noticed me till we were well out of the city limits and on to the quiet back road. Then I asked: 'How much will you pay, Friend Oliver, toward the support of Hiram Bowen at St. Michael's Hospital?' "Then he heard and noticed. Also, he tried to get rid of his passenger; but I wouldn't be set down. He gave me a rather strong bit of his opinion on meddlers in general and myself in particular, and finding he had me on his hands for all the distance here he said not another word. It was 'Quaker Meeting' in good earnest; but I felt as if I were riding with a man of iron and--it tired me!" "Oh, you dear Master! Did you have any supper?" suddenly demanded Dorothy, with compunction that she hadn't thought of this earlier. "Oh! yes. Some little girls were holding a sidewalk 'fair' for the benefit of the children's ward and, while the authorities inside were arranging for Hiram's bestowal, I bought out their stock in trade and we ate it all together. I do love children!" Aunt Betty rose and turning to Dorothy, remarked: "That should be a much better use for your money when you find it than adopting the grandchildren of a rich old Hardheart! Come, child, we must to bed; and to-morrow, we'll take home the twins. 'Pass them on' to Heartsease." "Oh! must we? But, maybe, they won't keep them there. Then, course, you wouldn't leave them just anywhere, out of doors, would you? Besides, I don't know what Molly will say. She's perfectly devoted to her 'son,' 'Nias." "Do you not? Then I know very well what her Aunt Lucretia and his honor, the Judge, will say; I fancy that their remarks will have some weight! But I'm not hard-hearted, as you suggest, and we shall see what we shall see!" answered Aunt Betty, in her bright, whimsical way; adding as she bade Mr. Winters good-night and kissed Dorothy just as if no "cloud" had ever been between them: "I am glad to be at home. I am so glad to come, even thus late to the House Party." And though she had said the misunderstanding that had made both herself and Dolly so unhappy "should be set right that very night," maybe this was her way of "setting" it so. Thus ended another Day of that Wonderful Week, but the morning proved rainy and dark. "No day for going to the County Fair," remarked Mrs. Calvert as she appeared among the young folks, just as they came trooping in to breakfast. "We must think of something else. What shall it be? Since I've invited myself to your Party I want to get some fun out of it!" Helena thought she had never seen anything lovelier than this charming old lady, who moved as briskly as a girl and entered into their amusements like one; and when nobody answered her question she volunteered the suggestion: "Charades? Or a little play in the big barn?" "Just the thing; the charades, I mean. There would hardly be time for getting ready for a play, with parts to study and so on. We might plan that for Friday evening, our last one together. But do you, my dear, gather part of your friends about you and arrange the charades. Enough of us must be left for audience, you know. Well, Dorothy, what is it? You seem so anxious to speak?" "Why not 'character' studies and make everybody guess. There's that attic full of trunks I discovered one day. Surely they must be full of lovely things; and oh! it's so jolly to 'dress up'! Afterward, we might have a little dance in the barn--May we, may we?" "Surely, we may! Dinah has the keys to the trunks, only I warn you--no carelessness. It's one of my notions to preserve the costumes of the passing years and I wouldn't like them injured. You may use anything you find, on the condition of being careful." That rainy day promised to be the merriest of all; and Dorothy had quite forgotten some unpleasant things, till, breakfast being over and most of the company disappearing in pursuit of Dinah and her keys to the treasure-trunks, Aunt Betty laid a detaining touch upon her arm and said: "But you and I, my dear, will have a little talk in my room." Down went her happiness in a flash. The "misunderstanding" had not been passed by, then; and as yet there had been no "setting right." Mrs. Calvert's face was not stern, saying this, but the girl so thought. Indeed, had she known it, Aunt Betty shrank more from the interview and the reproof she must give than did the culprit herself. However, shrinking did no good, and immediately the Mistress had seated herself she began: "What grieved me most was your suspicion of Ephraim. Dorothy, that man's skin may be black but his soul is as white as a soul can be. He has served me ever since he was able to toddle and I have yet to find the first serious fault in him. The loss of the money was bad enough, and your scant value of it bad. Why, child, do you know whose money that was?" "I--I thought it was--mine." "It was--God's." "Aunt--Betty!" almost screamed Dorothy in the shock of this statement. "Yes, my dear, I mean it. He has given me a great deal of wealth but it was His gift, only. Or, His loan, I might better call it. I have to give an account of my stewardship, and as you will inherit after me, so have you." For a moment the girl could not reply, she was so amazed by what she heard. Then she ventured to urge: "You said you gave it to me for my House Party. How could it be like that, then?" "So I did. I 'passed it on,' as poor Hiram Bowen did the twins. Then it became your responsibility. It was a trust fund for the happiness of others, and for their benefit. Why, just think, if you hadn't been so careless of it, how much good it would have done even yesterday, for that very old man! Then dear Seth wouldn't have had to tax his small income to pay for a stranger's keep. Ah! believe me, my Cousin Seth spends money lavishly, but never unwisely, and always for others. When I said 'dangerously angry' I meant it. I am, in some respects, always in danger, physically. I shall pass out of your life quite suddenly, some day, my darling, but I do not wish to do so by your fault. "Now, enough of lectures. Kiss me and tell me that hereafter you will hold your inheritance as a 'trust,' and I shall trust you again to the uttermost. Next I want you to go over every incident of that night when you mislaid the money and maybe I can hit upon some clue to its recovery." It was a very sober Dorothy who complied. It didn't seem a very pleasant thing to be an heiress. She had found that out before, but this grave interview confirmed the knowledge; and though they discussed the subject long and critically, they were no nearer any solution of the mystery than when they began. "Well, it is a strange and most uncomfortable thing. However, we can do no more at present, and I'd like you to take a little drive with me." "This morning, Aunt Betty, in all this rain? Ought you? Won't you get that bronchitis again? Dinah----" "Dinah is an old fuss! She never has believed that I'm not soluble in water, like salt or sugar. Besides, I'm not going 'in the rain,' I'm going in the close carriage, along with you and the babies with the dreadful names. I'm going to have them renamed, if I can. Run along and put on your jacket. I think I've solved the riddle of my neighbor Oliver's unhappiness and I'll let no rain hinder me from making him glad again." "Dear Aunt Betty, will you do this for a man you do not like?" "Of course. I'd do it for my worst enemy, if I knew--and maybe this poor miller is that. What ails that man is--remorse. He hasn't done right but I'm going to give him the chance now, and see his round face fall into its old curves again." But good and unselfish as her mission was, for once the lady of Deerhurst's judgment was mistaken. CHAPTER XV A MARVELOUS TALE AND ITS ENDING Oliver Sands was shut up in his private office. It opened from another larger room that had once been tenanted but was now empty. The emptiness of the great chamber, with its small bed and simple furnishings, both attracted and repelled him, as was witnessed by the fact that he frequently rose and closed the door, only to rise again directly and open it again. Each time he did this he peered all about the big room, whose windows were screened by wire netting as well as by a row of spruce trees. These trees were trimmed in a peculiar manner and were often commented upon by passers along the road beyond. All the lower branches, to the height of the window-tops, were left to grow, luxuriantly, as nature had designed. But above that the tall trees were shaven almost bare, only sufficient branches being left to keep them alive. Also, beyond the trees and bordering the road was a high brick wall, presumably for the training of peach and other fruit trees, for such were carefully trained to it. But the same wondering eyes which had noticed the trees had observed the wall, where indeed the fruit grew lusciously after a custom common enough in England but almost unknown in this region. "Looks like both trees and wall were planned to let light into that side the house and keep eyes out. But, has been so ever since Heartsease was, and nothing different now." No, everything was outwardly unchanged, but his home was not like his home, that morning, when Mrs. Betty Calvert came to call. The rain that had kept him within had sent him to pass the hours of his imprisonment in his "den," or office, and to the congenial occupation of looking over the cash in his strong box. He was too wise to keep much there, but there had been a time when the occupation had served to amuse the inmate of the big room, and he was thinking of her now. Indeed, when there came a knock on the outer door he started, and quickly demanded: "Well?" "Oliver, Betty Calvert, from Deerhurst, has called to see thee," said the trembling voice of Dorcas. "Why? What does she want?" "To bring thee news. To bring thee a blessing, she says." "I will come." He rose and locked the strong box, inwardly resolving that its contents must be placed in the bank when next he drove to town, and he again carefully closed the door of the further room. But if there had been any to observe they would have seen his face grow eager with hope while his strong frame visibly trembled. He was not a superstitious man but he had dreamed of Deerhurst more than once of late and news from Deerhurst? A blessing, Dorcas said? He entered the living-room, cast one eager glance around, and sat down. He had offered no salutation whatever to Mrs. Calvert and the gloom had returned to his face even more deeply. Dorcas was standing wringing her hands, smiling and weeping by turns, and gazing in a perfect ecstasy of eagerness upon Ananias and Sapphira, huddled against Dorothy's knees. She held them close, as if fearing that cross old man would do them harm, but they were not at all abashed, either by him or by the novelty of the place. "Well, Oliver Sands, you like plain speech and use it. So do I--on occasion. I have brought home your grandchildren, Rose's children. Their grandfather on the other side has been committed to an institution and will give you no trouble. He 'passed them on' to my household and I, in turn, 'pass them on,' to yours, their rightful home. You will feel happier now. Good-morning." "What makes thee think he is unhappy?" ventured Dorcas, at last turning her eager gaze away from the twins. "All the world sees that. He's a changed man since last we met, and I suppose his conscience is troubling him on account of the way he treated Rose and her children. Their demented grandfather, on the other side, gave them horrible names. I'd change them if I were you. Good-morning." But if the miller had not sought to detain her nor responded to her farewell, Dorcas caught at her cloak and begged: "Wait, wait! Oliver, does thee hear? Elisabeth Calvert is going. She is leaving Rose's babies! What--what--shall I do? May I keep them here? Say it--Oliver speak, speak, quick! If thee does right in this thing mayhap the Lord will bless thee in the other! Oliver, Oliver!" He shook her frail hand from his sleeve but he spoke the word she longed to hear, though the shadow on his face seemed rather to deepen than to lighten and astute Betty Calvert was non-plussed. She had so fully counted upon the fact that it was remorse concerning his treatment of his daughter which burdened him that she could not understand his increased somberness. But he did speak, as he left the room, and the words his wife desired: "Thee may do as thee likes." Then Mrs. Calvert, too, went out and Dorothy with her; strangely enough the twins making no effort to follow; in fact no effort toward anything except a pan of fresh cookies which stood upon the table! and with their fists full of these they submitted indifferently not only to the desertion of their friends but to the yearning embraces of their grandmother. "Oh! what perfectly disgusting little creatures! Didn't mind our leaving them with a stranger nor anything! Weren't they horrid? And it didn't make him look any happier, either, their coming." "No, they were not disgusting, simply natural. They've been half-starved most of their lives and food seems to them, just now, the highest good;" said Aunt Betty, as the carriage door was shut upon them and they set out for home. "I cannot call it a wasted morning, since that timid little woman was made glad and two homeless ones have come into their own. But--my guess was wide of the mark. It isn't remorse ails my miller neighbor but some mystery still unsolved. Ah! me! And I thought I was beautifully helping Providence!" "So you have, Aunt Betty. Course. Only how we shall miss those twins! Seems if I couldn't bear to quite give 'Phira up. Deerhurst will be so lonesome!" "Lonesome, child! with all you young folks in it? Then just imagine for an instant what Heartsease must have been to that poor wife. Shut up alone with such a glum, indifferent husband, in that big house. I saw no other person anywhere about, did you?" "No, and, since you put it that way, of course I'm glad they're to be hers not Molly's and mine." "The queer thing is that he was so indifferent. I thought, I was prepared to have him rage and act--ugly, at my interference in his affairs; but he paid no more attention than if I had dropped a couple of puppies at his fireside. Hmm. Queer, queer! But if I'm not mistaken his young relatives will wake him up a bit before he's done with them." After all, though Dorothy had hated to leave the other young folks on such an errand, through such weather, and in some fear of further "lectures," the ride to Heartsease had proved delightful. She wouldn't have missed the rapture on lonely Dorcas Sands's pale face for the wildest frolic going and, after all, it was a relief to know the "twinses" could do no more mischief for which she might be blamed; and it remained now only to appease the wrath of Molly Breckenridge when she was told that her adopted "son" had been removed from her authority without so much as "By your leave." Naturally, Molly said nothing in Mrs. Calvert's presence, but vented her displeasure on Dorothy in private; until the latter exclaimed: "You would have been glad, just glad, Molly dear, to hear the way the poor old lady said over and over again: 'Rose's children! Rose's children!' Just that way she said it and she was a picture. I wish I was a Quaker and wore gray gowns and little, teeny-tiny white caps and white something folded around my shoulders. Oh! she was just too sweet for words! Besides--to come right to the bottom of things--neither of us _could_ adopt a child, yet. We haven't any money." "Pshaw! We could get it!" "I couldn't. Maybe you could; but--I'm glad they're gone. It's better for them and we shouldn't have been let anyway, and--where's Helena?" "Up garret, yet. They're all up there. Let's hurry. They'll have all the nicest things picked out, if we don't." They "hurried" and before they knew it the summons came for luncheon. After that was over Danny Smith and Alfaretta Babcock mysteriously disappeared for a time; returning to their mates with an I-know-something-you-don't sort of an air, which was tantalizing yet somehow suggested delighted possibilities. The afternoon passed with equal swiftness, and then came the costume parade in the barn; the charades; and, at last, that merry Roger de Coverly, with Mrs. Betty, herself, and Cousin Seth leading off, and doing their utmost to teach the mountain lads and lassies the figures. All the servants came out to sit around and enjoy the merry spectacle while old Ephraim, perched upon a hay-cutter plied his violin--his fiddle he called it--and another workman plunked away on his banjo till the rafters rang. "Oh, such a tangle! And it seems so easy!" cried Jane Potter, for once aroused to enthusiasm for something beside study. "Come on, Martin! Come half-way down and go round behind me--Oh! Pshaw! You stupid!" Yet uttered in that tone the reproof meant no offense and Jane was as awkward as her partner, but the dance proved a jolly ending for a very jolly day. Only, the day was not ended yet; for with a crisp command: "Every one of you get your places an' set round in a circle. It's Danny's and my turn now, and--Come on, Daniel!" Alfaretta vanished in the harness room. Danny followed, rather sheepishly, for despite his love of fun he didn't enjoy being forced into prominence; and from this odd retreat the pair presently emerged with great pans of snowy popped-corn, balanced on their heads by the aid of one hand, while in the other they carried each a basket of the biggest apples even Melvin had ever seen; yet the wonder of the Nova Scotian apples had been one of his proudest boasts. "Jump up, Jim, in your 'Uncle Sam' clothes and fetch the jugs out. Fresh sweet cider, made to farmer Smith's this very day! There's nuts in there all cracked, for some of you other fellows to bring and tumblers and plates 't Aunt Malinda let us take. We've had ice-cream and plum-puddin' and every kind of a thing under the sun and now we're going to have just plain up-mounting stuff, and you'll say it's prime! Danny and me done this. We planned it that night Monty got stuck--Oh! my soul, I forgot!" "Never mind. I don't care," said Monty; and, maybe to prevent another doing so, promptly related for Mrs. Calvert's benefit the tale of his misadventure. Indeed, he told it in such a funny way that it was plain he was no longer sensitive about it; and he finished with the remark that: "If Deerhurst folks don't stop feeding me so much I may even get stuck in that big door!" The quiet sitting and talking after so much hilarity was pleasant to all and tended to a more thoughtful mood; and finally clapping her hands to insure attention Molly Breckenridge demanded: "A story, a story! A composite story! Please begin, Mrs. Calvert: 'Once upon a time----' Then let Helena, my Lady of the Crinoline take it up and add a little, then the next one to her, and the next--and so on all around the ring. The most fun is to each say something that will fit--yet won't make sense--with what went just before. Please!" "Very well: 'Once upon a time and very good times they was, there was a Mouse and a Grouse and a Little Red Hen and they all lived in the one house together. So wan day, as she was swapin' the floor, they met a grain o' cor-run.' 'Now, who'll take that to the mill?' 'I won't,' says the Mouse. 'Nayther will I!' say the Grouse. 'Then I'll aven have to do it mesel,' says the Little Red--Next!" Irish Norah was in ecstasies of laughter over her mistress's imitation of her own brogue, and all the company was smiling, as Helena's serious voice took up the tale: "'Twas in the dead of darksome, dreadful, dreary night, when the Little Red Hen set forth on her long, lonely, unfrequented road to the Mill. The Banshees howled, the weird Sisters of the Night made desperate attempts to seize the Grain of Corn--Next!" "Which, for safe keeping the fearless Little Red Hen had already clapped into her own bill--just like this! So let the Banshees howl, the Weird Sisters Dree their Weird--for Only Three Grains of Corn, Alfy! Only Three Grains of Corn!" cried Monty, passing his empty plate; "and I'll grind them in a mill that'll beat the Hen's all hollow! while Jane Potter--next!" "For the prisoner was terrified by the sounds upon the roof and after brief deliberation and close investigation he came to the conclusion, 'twas a snare and a delusion to toy with imagination and fear assassination till the hallucination became habituation and his mental aberration get the better of his determination toward analyzation of the sound upon the roof. Of the pat, pat, patter and the clat, clat, clatter of small claws upon the roof! Then with loud cachinnation--Next!" "To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and--Next!" cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked: "How could you think of them all, Jane?" "Oh! easily enough. I'd rather read the dictionary than any other book. I've only a school one yet but I've most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then----" "Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid's brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen--Next!" put in Herbert, as his contribution. "The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that's the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped--Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen--Next!" continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that: "The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and--and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah--in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn't boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and--what's happening? 'Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring--staring--staring--Oh! My! What's happening to our own Little Red Hen!" What, indeed! CHAPTER XVI THE FINDING OF THE MONEY In this instance the Little Red Hen was Luna. As always when possible she had seated herself by Dorothy, who shared none of that repugnance which some of the others, especially Helena, felt toward the unfortunate. She had been cleanly if plainly clothed when she arrived at Deerhurst, but the changes which had been made in her attire pleased her by their bright colors and finer quality. The waif always rebelled when Dinah or Norah sought to dress her in the gray gown she had originally worn or to put her hair into a snug knot. She clung to the cardinal-hued frock that Dorothy had given her and pulled out the pins with which her attendants tried to confine her white curls. In this respect she was like a spoiled child and she always carried her point--as spoiled children usually do. Thus to-night: To the old nurse it had seemed wise that the witless one should go to her bed, instead of into that gay scene at the barn. Luna had decided otherwise. Commonly so drowsy and willing to sleep anywhere and anyhow, she was this night wide awake. Nothing could persuade her to stay indoors, nothing that is, short of actual force and, of course, such would never be tried. For there was infinite pity in the hearts of most at Deerhurst, and a general feeling that nothing they could do could possibly make up to her for the intelligence she had never possessed. Also, they were all sorry for her homelessness, as well as full of wonder concerning it. The indifferent manner in which she had been left uncalled for seemed to prove that she had been gotten rid of for a purpose. Those who had lost her evidently did not wish to find her again. Yet, there was still a mystery in the matter; and one which Mrs. Calvert, coming fresh upon it, was naturally resolved to discover. The poor thing was perfectly at home at Deerhurst now, and judging by her habitual smile, as happy as such an one could be. But though the mistress of the mansion felt that her household had done right in sheltering the wanderer and in allowing her to partake of all their festivities, she did not at all intend to give a permanent home to this stranger. She could not. Her own plans were for far different things; and since she had, at last, been so fortunate as to bestow the twins in their legitimate home, she meant to find the same for Luna. So the guest who was both child and woman had carried her point and was one in the ring of story-tellers. She paid no heed to what was going on but amused herself with folding and unfolding her red skirt; or in smoothing the fanciful silk in which Dorothy appeared as a belle of long ago. The pair were sitting on a pile of hay, leaning against a higher one, and Dorothy had been absorbed in listening to the composite story and wondering what she should add to it. Her head was bent toward Luna and she dreamily watched the movements of her neighbor's tiny wrinkled hands. Suddenly she became aware that there was a method in their action; that they were half-pulling out, half-thrusting back, something from the fastening of the scarlet blouse. This something was green; it was paper; it was prized by its possessor, for each time Dorothy moved, Luna thrust her treasures back out of sight and smiled her meaningless smile into the face above her. But Dorothy ceased to move at all, and the dreaminess left her gaze, which had now become breathlessly alert and strained. She watched her opportunity and when again Luna drew her plaything from her blouse, Dorothy snatched it from her and sprang to her feet, crying: "The money is found! The money is found! My lost one hundred dollars!" Strangely enough Luna neither protested nor noticed her loss. The drowsiness that often came upon her, like a flash, did so now and she sank back against her hay-support, sound asleep. All crowded about Dorothy, excited, incredulous, delighted, sorely puzzled. "Could Luna have stolen it, that foolish one?" "But she wasn't in the house the night it was lost. Don't you remember? It was then that Dolly found her out by the pond. It couldn't have been she!" "Do you suppose it blew out of the window and she picked it up?" "It couldn't. The window wasn't opened. It stormed, you know." Such were the questions and answering speculations that followed Dorothy's exclamation, as the lads and lassies found this real drama far more absorbing than the composite tale had been. Mrs. Calvert and Mr. Seth alone said nothing, but they watched with tender anxiety to see Dorothy's next action. That it satisfied them was evident, from the smiles of approval gathering on their faces and the joyous nodding of the gray heads. Their girl hadn't disappointed them--she was their precious Dorothy still. She had gone straight to where old Ephraim and his cronies now sat in a distant part of the barn, enjoying their share of the good things Alfy and Danny had provided, and kneeling down beside him had laid the roll of money on his knee. Then audibly enough for all to hear, she said: "Dear Ephraim, forgive me, if you can. This is the money I lost, the ten crisp ten-dollar bills. Count them and see." "No, no, li'l Missy! No, no. An' fo' de lan', doan you-all kneel to a pore ole niggah lak me! Fo' de lan', Missy, whe'-all's yo' pride an' mannehs?" Her posture so distressed him that she rose and said, turning to her friends that all might hear: "It was I, and I alone, who put that money out of sight. I remember now as clearly as if it were this minute. That red frock was the one I wore that night when Luna came. There is a rip in it, between the lining and the outside of the waist. It was an oversight of the maker's, I suppose, that left it so, but I never mended it, because it made such a handy pocket, and there was no other. I remember plain. When the crash came I gathered up the money and thrust it into that place. Instinct told me it was something to be cared for, I guess, because I'm sure I didn't stop to think. Then when I went to bed I must have been too excited to remember about it and left it there. The next day I gave that frock to Luna and she has worn it ever since. How long before she found the 'pocket' and what was in it, she can't tell us. We've heard the 'help' say how quickly she noticed when money was around and I suppose she's been afraid we'd take it from her; although she didn't resent it just now when I did. Oh! I am so ashamed of myself, so ashamed!" Nobody spoke for a moment, till Ephraim rose and taking his fiddle solemnly played the Doxology. That wasn't speaking, either, in a sense; but it told plainer than words the gratitude of the simple old man that the shadow on his character was banished forever. Seth Winters nodded his own gray head in understanding of the negro's sentiment, while Dorothy sped with the bills to lay them in her Aunt Betty's lap, and to hide her mortified countenance upon the lady's shoulder. Thence it was presently lifted, when Mrs. Calvert said: "Now the lost is found, I'd like to inquire what shall be done with it? It'll never seem just like other money to me or to my forgetful darling here. Let's put it to vote. Here's my notebook, Dolly; tear out a few leaves and give a scrap of the paper to each. Pass the pencil along with them and let each write what she or he thinks the most beneficent use for this restored one hundred dollars." So it was done; even those among the servants grouped inside the great doors, having their share of the evening's sport, even among these those who could write put down their wish. Then Jim Barlow collected the ballots and sorted them; and Seth Winters's face shone with delight when it proved the majority had voted: "For the old man at St. Michael's." So at once they made him take the money in charge; and it made all glad to hear him say: "That will keep the poor old chap in comfort for many a day," for he would not damp their joy by his own knowledge that Hiram Bowen's days could not be "many," though he meant that they should be the most comfortable of all that pain-tormented life. "Well, our rainy day has proved a blessed one! Also, the storm is over and to-morrow should bring us fair weather for--the County Fair! All in favor of going say Aye!" cried the Master. The rafters rang again and again, and they moved doorwards, regretful for the fun just past yet eager for that to come; while there was not a young heart there but inwardly resolved never again to harbor suspicion of evil in others, but to keep faith in the goodness of humanity. Meanwhile, what had this rainy day seen at Heartsease Farm? Where the twins of evil names had been left to their new life, and their maternal grandfather had so coolly turned his back upon them, while they satisfied their material little souls with such cookies as they had never tasted before. Dorcas let them alone till they had devoured more than she felt was good for them, and until Ananias turning from the table demanded: "Gimme a drink." "Gimme a drink!" echoed his mate; and the old lady thought it was wonderful to hear them speak so plainly, or even that they could speak at all. But she also felt that discipline should begin at once; and though not given to embellishment of language she realized that their "plain speech" was not exactly that of the Friends. "Thee tell me thy name, first. Then thee shall drink." "A-n an, a, ana, n-i ni, a-s as, Ananias." "S-a-p sap, p-h-i phi, r-a ra," glibly repeated the girl, almost tripping over her brother in her eagerness to outdo him. Dorcas Sands paled with horror. Such names as these! Forced upon the innocent babes of her Rose! It was incredible! Then, in an instant, the meekness, the downtroddenness of the woman vanished. Her mission in life was not finished! Her sons had gone out from her home and her daughter was dead, but here were those who were dearer than all because they were "brands" to be saved from the burning. "Hear me, Rose's Babies! Thee is Benjamin, and a truth-teller; and thee is Ruth. Let me never hear either say otherwise than as I said. Now come. There is the bench and there the basin. The first child that is clean shall have the first drink--but no quarreling. Birthright Friends are gentle and well mannered. Forget it not." The sternness of mild people is usually impressive. The twins found it so. For the rest of that day, either because of the novelty of their surroundings or their difficulty in mastering--without blows--the spelling of their new names, they behaved with exceptionable demureness; and when, in some fear their grandmother dispatched Benjamin to Oliver's office to announce dinner, the miller fairly stared to hear the midget say: "Thee is to come to dinner, Oliver. Dorcas says so. Thee is to make haste because there is lamb and it soon cools. Dorcas says the lamb had wool once and that thee has the wool. Give it to me; Oliver. B-e-n ben, j-a ja, m-i-n min, Benjamin. That's who I am now and I'm to have anything I want on this Heartsease Farm because I'm Rose's baby. The Dorcas woman says so. Oliver, _did thee know Rose?_" This was the "plain speech" with a vengeance! The miller could scarcely credit his own ears and doubting them used his eyes to the greater advantage. What he saw was a bonny little face, from which looked out a pair of fearless eyes; and a crown of yellow hair that made a touch of sunlight in that dark room. "Did he know Rose?" For the first time in many a day he remembered that he _had_ known Rose; not as a rebellious daughter gone astray from the safe fold of Quakerdom, but as a dutiful innocent little one whom he had loved. Rising at last after a prolonged inspection of his grandson, an inspection returned in kind with the unwinking stare of childhood, he took the boy's hand and said: "Very well, Benjamin, I will go with thee to dinner." "But the wool? Can I have that? If I had that I could wrap it around Sap--I mean R-u ru, t-h thuh, Ruth, when it's cold at night and Him's off messagin'." "Yes, yes. Thee can have anything if thee'll keep still while we ask blessing." The face of Dorcas glowed with a holy light. Never had that silent grace been more earnestly felt than on that dark day when the coming of "Rose's babies" had wrought such a happy effect on her husband's sorrowful mood. True she also was sorrowful, though in less degree than he; but now she believed with all her heart that this one righteous thing he had done--this allowing of the orphans to come home--would in some way heal that sorrow, or end it in happiness for all. All afternoon she busied herself in making ready for the permanent comfort of her new-found "blessings." She hunted up in the attic the long disused trundle-bed of her children; foraged in long-locked cupboards for the tiny sheets and quilts; dragged out of hiding a small chest of drawers and bestowed the twins' belongings therein, bemoaning meanwhile the worldliness that had selected such fanciful garments as a trio of young girls had done. However, there was plenty of good material somewhere about the house. A cast-off coat of Oliver's would make more than one suit for Benjamin; while for little Ruth, already the darling of her grandmother's soul, there were ample pieces of her own gowns to clothe her modestly and well. "To-morrow will be the Fifth day, and of course, though he seems so indifferent we shall all go to meeting. And when the neighbors ask: 'Whose children has thee found?' I shall just say 'Rosie's babies.' Then let them gaze and gossip as they will. I, Dorcas, will not heed. There will be peace at Heartsease now Rosie has come home--in the dear forms of her children." Thus thought the tender Friend, sitting and sewing diligently upon such little garments as her fingers had not touched for so long a time; but the "peace" upon which she counted seemed at that moment a doubtful thing. The day had worn itself out, and the miller had tired of indoors and his own thoughts. From the distant living-room he had been conscious of a strange sound--the prattle of childish voices and the gentle responses of his wife. His heart had been softened, all unknown to himself even, by a sorrow so recent it absorbed all his thought and kept him wakeful with anxiety; yet it was rather pleasant to reflect, in that gloomy afternoon, that he had given poor Dorcas her wish. Those twins would be a great trouble and little satisfaction. They were as much Bowen as Sands; still Dorcas had been good and patient, and he was glad he had let her have her wish. Ah! hum! The clouds were lifting. He wondered where those children were. He began to wonder with more interest than he had felt during all that endless week, what his workmen were doing. Maybe he would feel better, more like himself, if he went out to the barn and looked about. By this time the cows should be in the night-pasture, waiting to be milked, those which were not now in the stalls of the County Fair. That Fair! He would have hated it had he not been a Friend and known the sinfulness of hatred. But there were cattle lowing--it sounded as if something were wrong. Habit resumed its sway, and with anxiety over his cherished stock now re-awakened, he passed swiftly out. "Oliver, thee has forgotten thy goloshes!" called his thoughtful spouse, but he paid her no heed, though commonly most careful to guard against his rheumatism. "Who left that gate open? Who drove that cow--her calf--Child! is thee possessed?" Mrs. Betty Calvert was a true prophet--the twins had certainly waked their grandsire up a bit! The explanation was simple, the disaster great. They had tired of the quiet living-room and had also stolen out of doors. Animals never frightened them and they were immediately captivated by the goodly herd of cattle in the pasture. To open the gate was easy; easy, too, to let free from its small shed a crying calf. Between one cow and the calf there seemed a close interest. "We oughtn't ha' did that! That big cow'll eat that little cow up. See Sapphi--Ruth, see them stairs? Let's drive the little cow up the stair past the big wagons and keep it all safe and nice," suggested Benjamin. So they did; much to the surprise of the calf who bounded up the stairs readily enough, kicking its heels and cavorting in a most entrancing fashion; but when they tried to bar the big cow from following, she rushed past them and also ascended the stairs in a swift, lumbering manner. The relationship between the big and little cow now dawned even upon their limited intelligence, though there still remained the fear that the one would devour the other. Then the twins turned and gazed upon one another, anxiety upon their faces; till spying the master of the premises most rapidly approaching they rushed to meet him, exclaiming: "The little cow's all safe but how will we get the big cow down?" How, indeed! Oliver Sands was too angry to speak. For well he knew that it would require the efforts of all his force of helpers to drive that valuable Jersey down the stairs she had not hesitated to go up when driven by maternal love. With one majestic wave of his hand the miller dismissed his grandchildren to the house and Dorcas; but so long and so hard he labored to lure that imprisoned quadruped from his carriage-loft, that, weary, he went early to bed and slept as he had not for nights. So, in that it seemed his "waking up" had proved a blessing. CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF THE WORM THAT TURNED The morning proved fair and cool, ideal weather for their visit to the County Fair; but Mrs. Calvert decided that a whole day there would be both inconvenient and too fatiguing. Now that she was at home the management of the House Party had been turned over to her by tacit consent, and she had laughingly accepted the trust. "This was to be Dorothy's affair, but it's been more Mr. Winters's than hers and now more mine than his. Well, I like it. I like it so exceedingly that I propose to repeat the experiment some time. I love young people; and am I not quite a young person myself?" "Of course, you are, dear Aunt Betty! The youngest of us all in some things, Mr. Seth says!" "So the farrier has been talking, eh? Well, I want to talk a bit, too. In a multitude of counselors there is wisdom--as we have the highest authority to believe; and the case in question is: Shall we, or shall we not, take Luna to the Fair?" They were all grouped on the big piazza, after their early lunch, waiting for the wagons to come from the stables and carry them to the city beyond; and as Mrs. Betty asked this question a hush of surprise fell on them all. Finally, said Helena: "We have taken her, she has gone with us, on all our jaunts. Doesn't it seem too bad to leave her out of this?" One after another as the lady nodded to each to speak the answer was frankly given, and Dorothy remarked: "It's about half-and-half, I guess. Yes, I know she does go to sleep in all sorts of queer places and at the strangest times, but I hate to leave her." "Then if she goes she must wear her own clothes." "Why, Aunt Betty, please? Of course, I don't want to see her in that red frock again--I'd like to burn that up so nobody would ever see it and be reminded how careless and unjust I was. But there's a pretty blue one she could have." "That's not my reason, dearie. I think it has been a mistake, kindly meant, to dress her as you have; that is for longer than was necessary to freshen her own soiled things." She paused and Alfy remarked: "She's the proudest thing for them bright colors. Red, and green, and blue--ary one just sets her smilin'. Besides, once Dinah tried to put back her old brown dress and Luna wouldn't let her. Just folded her arms up tight and didn't--didn't look a mite pleasant." Those who had seen Luna on the rare occasions when she showed anger smiled at this mild description of her appearance then. "I don't know as Dinah would be bothered with her, Aunt Betty, and Norah has a sick headache. But--I'll stay and take care of her if you don't want her to go," said Dorothy. It was an effort to say this and dreading that her offer might be accepted the girl turned her face away to hide her disappointment; but whatever Mrs. Calvert's answer might have been she was not to hear it then. Because there was Jim Barlow beckoning to her in a mysterious manner from behind a great hydrangea bush and looking vastly excited over something. So it was a relief to murmur: "Excuse me a minute, Aunt Betty," and to respond to that summons. "Dolly, there's a man here wants to see you." "A man? To see me? and not Aunt Betty? Who is he?" Jim answered rather impatiently to this string of questions. "I said a man, didn't I. He said he'd rather see you because he knows you, that is you gave him a lift on the road once in your pony cart and talked real sensible----" "Couldn't have meant me, then, could he, Jim?" "Don't fool, Dorothy. He looks as if he was in some trouble. He's the head man from Oliver Sands's grist-mill. Some relation to the miller, I've heard, and lives with him. Hurry up and don't hender the raft of us any longer'n you can help. Tell him, whatever his business is, 'twill have to wait, 't we're going to the Fair and all the teams are ready----" "Yes, I'll hurry. Where is he?" "In that little summer-house beyond the lily pond. That's where he said he'd go. Get rid of him quick, for the horses don't like to stand after they're harnessed." "All right, I'll try!" Gayly waving her hand in the direction of the piazza, she sped across the lawn to a group of silver birches, and the spot in question. Solidly roofed, with vine covered sides, and good board floor, the out-of-door building was a pleasant place, and had been greatly enjoyed by all the House Party. It was well furnished with wicker tables, chairs, and lounges, and heavy matting covered the floor. It was empty now except for the old man awaiting Dorothy, and his first remark showed that he appreciated this bit of outdoor comfort. "It's real purty in here, ain't it? Anybody could spend a night here and take no hurt, couldn't she?" "Why, ye-es, I suppose so; if anybody wished. James told me you asked for me. What is it, please, for we're just on the point of starting for the County Fair, and I don't like to delay the others." "Hmm. Yes. I suppose so. Hmm. Yes. Thee is the little girl that's had such a story-paper kind of life, isn't thee? Don't remember me, but I do thee. Gave me a ride once after that little piebald nag thee swopped Oliver's calf for. Thee sees I know thee, if thee has forgot me and how my floury clothes hit the black jacket thee wore, that day, and dusted it well, 'Dusty miller' thee laughed and called me, sayin' that was some sort of plant grows in gardens. But I knew that. Dorcas has a whole bed of it under her kitchen window. Hmm. Yes." Dorothy tapped her foot impatiently, but did not sit down. Would the man never tell his errand? Finally, as he lapsed into a reverie she roused him, saying: "What is your errand, please?" "It's to help an old man in trouble. It--the--I don't find it so easy to begin. But--is there a little old woman here, no bigger than a child? Is she here? Is she safe?" This was a question so unexpected that Dorothy sat down the better to consider it; then greatly wondering, answered: "Yes, there is an afflicted little creature here. Why? What do you know about her?" "All there is to know, child! All there is to know. Thee sees a most unhappy man before thee, lass." "Who is Luna? How came she here? Tell me, quick, quick; and if you know her home?" "Verily, I know it, since it's my own, too. It's a long story, a long lane, but the worm turned. Ah! yes. It turned." Dolly began to think her visitor was crazy and springing up ran toward the house, saying: "I'm going for Aunt Betty. I'd rather you told your errand to her." The man did not object, and, greatly surprised by the imperative summons though smiling at her darling's excitement, Mrs. Calvert left her guests and followed the girl through the shrubbery to the arbor where the vines hid her from the curious glances of those she had left. "Something's up! I wonder what?" exclaimed Monty Stark. "Whatever it is, if it concerns us we shall be told in due time; and if it doesn't--Hmm," answered Helena. "Stand corrected, Miss Montaigne; but bet a cookie you're as curious as all the rest of us." "Well, yes, I am; though I never bet--even cookies. Now let's talk of something else till they come back. I know they'll not be long." Nor were they; for down in the summer-house, with Elisabeth Calvert's compelling gaze upon him, the visitor told his tale. "Thee can look upon me, lady, as the worm that turned. I am a poor relation of Oliver Sands and he felt he owned me." "That man? Are we never to hear the end of Oliver Sands? He's the 'Old Man of the Mountain', in truth, for his name is on everyone's lips," cried Mistress Betty, crisply, yet resigning herself to the chair Dorothy pushed her way. "Thee never said truer. He is the biggest man up-mounting in more ways'n one. I've not wasted more love on him than many another but I hadn't no call to break his heart. Hark, thee. I'll be as short as I can. "When Oliver's mother died he was a boy and I was. She----" "Beg pardon, please; but this afternoon I really have no time to learn the family history of my neighbor." "But I have to tell thee part, to make thee understand. When his mother died, a widow, she left them two children, Oliver and Leah. He was a big boy, smart and trustable, and Leah was almost a baby. Her mother knew then that the child wasn't like others, she'd talked it with me, I bein' older'n him; but he didn't know it and from the time she was born he'd just about worshiped that baby. When she was dying Mehitabel made him promise, and a Friend's promise is as good as another man's oath, 't he'd always take care of little Leah and love her better'n anybody in the world. That nobody, even if he should grow up and marry and have children of his own, should ever come betwixt her and him. Well, 'twas a good spell before he found out 't he was brother to a fool. That's plain speech but I'm a Quaker. When he did find out, 'twas a'most more'n he could bear. He give out to anybody that asked, how 't she was sickly and had to be kept private. "Elisabeth Calvert, she _has_ been kept private, all her life long, till I let out the secret. He and Dorcas and me, and the children while they lived at the farm, we was the only ones ever had to do with care of her or saw her even. I worked on for him, he makin' the money, I gettin' shorter wages each year, besides him investin' 'em for me as he pleased. "But I'm old. I want a home of my own; and lately I've been pestering him to let me go. He'd always make excuse and talk plausible how 't he couldn't spare me nohow. I knew he told the truth, since if I left he'd have to get in strange help and it might get out 't his sister's sickness was plain want of brains. That'd have nigh killed him, he's so proud; to be pointed at as 'Oliver Sands, that's brother to a fool'." "Well, well. This is exceedingly painful to hear, but to what does it tend?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "Just this, Elisabeth. One day I got nursin' my wrongs and forgettin' my blessings, and the devil was on hand to give me the chance. Dorcas was off nursing a sick neighbor, Oliver was to Newburgh on some Fair business, and there wasn't nobody in the house but me and Leah. I took an old horse and wagon, 't he'd been meaning to sell, to the sales-stable at the Landing; and I coaxed Leah to come take a ride. She come ready enough. She didn't have much fun, anyway, except sitting with him in the office such times as he was lookin' over his accounts and reckonin' his money. She liked that. She always liked to handle money. That proved her a Sands, even if she was imbecile! "Thinks I, I'll break his pride. I'll make him know 't he ain't no better than other folks, even if he does speak in meeting. I meant to carry her clear to the Landing and let things take their chance while I cleared out for good. But when I'd got as far as here I begun to get scared on her account. I'd set out to humble Oliver but I liked Leah, poor creatur'! and I'd forgot I might be hurtin' her the worst. She'd never been 'mongst folks and they might treat her rough. So then I remembered this little girl, and how there was talk 'round about her having a passel of young folks to visit her. So I thought Leah would have a chance amongst 'em and I fetched her in and laid her right in this summer-house, on that bench yonder and covered her with a shawl I saw. She was asleep as she is a lot of the time, and didn't notice. "Then I went on to the Landing, left the rig to the stable, and took the cars for York. I've been there ever since. I never meant to come back; but there's something about this mountain 't pulls wanderers' feet back to it, whether or no. And--is Leah here?" "Rather it was your own guilty conscience that brought you back. Yes, I suppose it is 'Leah'--the witless waif my Dorothy found. And now I understand my poor neighbor's trouble. I am proud myself. Ah! yes I can understand! After the silence of a lifetime, how he shrank from publishing what he seems to have considered a disgrace to a gossiping world. But he was wrong. Such pride is always wrong; and he has spent a most unhappy time, searching with his own eyes everywhere but never asking for his lost Leah! but he was cruel in that, as cruel as misguided; and as for you, sir, the sooner you get upon your wicked feet and travel to Heartsease and tell its master where the poor thing may be found--the better for yourself. I think such an act as you committed is punishable by the strictest rigor of the law; but whether it is or not your own conscience will punish you forever. Now----" Mrs. Calvert stopped speaking and rose. She had never been so stately nor so severe and Dorothy pitied the poor old man who cowered before her, even while she was herself fiercely indignant against him. By a clasp of Mrs. Betty's arm she stayed her leaving: "Wait a moment, Aunt Betty, please. It's just as bad as you say, he's just as bad; but--he's terrible tired and old. He looks sick, almost, and I've been thinking while he talked: You let me stay at home, take Portia and the pony cart and carry Luna--Leah--and him back to Heartsease right away. May I, please?" "But to miss the Fair? He should have the unpleasant task of confessing himself, and nobody else to shield him." "Please, Aunt Betty, please! I found her. Oh! let me be the one to give her back!" Mrs. Calvert looked keenly into her darling's eyes, and after a moment, answered: "I might be willing; but should you desert your guests? And if you do, what shall I say to them for you?" "Just this: that a messenger has come who knows where Luna belongs and that I'm going with him to take her home. That'll make it all right. You might tell Dinah to keep Luna--Leah--I came pretty near her name, didn't I?--to keep her contented somewhere till I come for her and to put on her own old clothes. I have a feeling that that proud old miller would like it better that way." There was a mist in Aunt Betty's eyes as she stooped and kissed the eager face of her unselfish child; but she went quietly away and did as she was asked. Left in the summer-house alone with Dorothy Eli Wroth relapsed into silence. He had had hard work to make himself unburden his guilt and having done so he felt exhausted; remarking once only: "Thee may be sure that the worm hurts itself too when it turns. Thee must never turn but kiss the cheek which smites thee." After which rather mixed advice he said no more; not even when all the other carriages having rolled out of the great gateway, Dorothy disappeared in search of Portia and the cart; nor did he cast more than one inquiring glance upon Leah, sitting on the front seat beside the girlish driver. As for the other, she paid him no more heed than she did to anything else. She might have been seeing him every day, for all surprise she evinced; and as for resentment against him she was too innocent to feel that. The ride was not a long one, but it seemed such to Dorothy. At times her thoughts would stray after her departed friends and a wish that she were with them, enjoying the novelties of the County Fair, disturb her. But she had only to glance at the little creature beside her to forget regret and be glad. Also, if her tongue was perforce silent, her brain was busy, and with something of her Aunt Betty's decision, she intended to have her say before that coming interview was finished. All was very quiet at Heartsease when she reached it. Even the twins were abnormally serious, sitting on the wide, flat doorstep of the kitchen entrance, and looking so comical that Dolly laughed. For the Fifth Day meeting Dorcas had clothed them properly. Her ransacking of old closets had resulted in her finding a small lad's suit, after the fashion of a generation before. A tight little waist with large sleeves, which hung over the child's hands, and a full skirt completed the main part of his costume; while his nimble feet were imprisoned in stout "copper-toes," and a high-crowned, narrow-brimmed hat covered his already shorn head. Such was Benjamin, in the attire of his uncle at his own age. As for Sapphira-Ruth,--a more bewitching small maiden could not be imagined. She wore her mother's own frock, when that mother was five. Its cut was that of Dorcas's own, even to the small cap and kerchief, while a stiff little bonnet of gray lay on the step beside her. Ruth's toes also shone coppery from under her long skirt; and the restraint of such foot gear upon usually bare feet may have been the reason why the little ones sat sedately where they had been placed without offering to run and meet their old friend. Eli Wroth started to get out of the cart, but Dorothy had a word to say about that. "No, sir, please! You sit still with Leah and hold the horse. I'm going in first to speak to Mr. Sands, but I'll come back." Tapping at the kitchen door, she stooped to kiss the twins, receiving no further response than to see Benjamin wipe her kiss away; Ruth, as a matter of course, immediately doing the same. Nor was there any answer to her knock, and since the door was ajar she pushed it wide and entered. Dorcas sat there asleep; her work-worn hands folded on her lap, her tired body enjoying its Fifth Day rest. Oliver was invisible but Dorothy softly crossed to a passage she saw and down that, stepping quietly, she came upon him alone in his office. The door to that inner, secluded room--Leah's room, she understood at a glance--this door was open, and the miller sat as if staring straight into it. So gently Dolly moved that he did not hear her, and she had gone around him to stand before his face ere he looked up and said: "Thee? thee?" "Yes, I. Mr. Sands, I know the whole story, and I'm sorry for you. I'm more sorry though for the little old woman who belongs in that room. It's pleasant enough but it has been her prison. It has deprived her of lots of fun. If I should bring her back to it, would you let her go out of it sometimes, into the world where she belongs? Would you let her come to visit me? Would you take her to meeting with you as is her birthright? Would you put your pride aside and--do right? If I would bring her back?" For a moment he stared at her as if he did not understand; then all that gloom which had so changed him vanished from his face and he answered with that promise which to a Quaker is better than an oath: "I would. I will! If thee can bring her!" A moment later Leah's hand was in her brother's and Dorothy had left them alone, and thus the House Party neared its end, to become but a happy memory to its soon to be homeward speeding guests. The thoughts of the young hostess were even now turning wholly to the future, her brain teeming with marvelous plans. What these were and how fulfilled in "Dorothy in California," to those interested, the story will be told. CHAPTER XVIII CONCLUSION "Friday! And to-morrow we part!" said Molly Breckenridge, with more of sadness on her sunny face than was often seen there. "It's been such a perfectly enchanting Week of Days, and this is the last one left! Oh! dear! Oh! I do hate good-bys. Saying that and packing one's trunk are two just unbearable things and make one wish, almost, that the nice times had never begun." "Yes, beginnings are grand; but endings--Hmm. I agree with you, Miss Molly," echoed a boyish voice so close to her elbow that the girl wheeled briskly about to see who spoke. "Why, Melvin Cook! Are you down in the dumps, too? I didn't know boys had--had feelings, don't you know." He ignored her mockery and answered gravely: "They do feel a deal more than they get credit for. A boy daren't cry and be silly like a girl----" "Thanks, awfully!" "He just has to keep everything bottled up. That's why he acts rude sometimes. I fancy that's what's amiss with the two Smiths yonder. They've been literally punching each other's heads because Danny happened to remark that Littlejohn would have to work the harder when he got home, to make up for this week's idleness. And----" "Here comes the Master and he doesn't look at all like crying! Why he's holding his hands above his head and--yes, he's clapping them! Call all the others with that new bugle of yours, and let's go meet him! Toot-te-toot-te-toot!" Melvin obediently raised the handsome instrument which Dorothy had given him the night before, and which Mrs. Calvert had bought for him in the hill-city. It had not come from the County Fair but from the best establishment for such ware and Melvin was delighted with it. There had been a "keepsake" for each and all. For Jane Potter her "unabridged"; for Alfaretta, who had never minded rain nor snow, a long desired umbrella; for Jim a Greek lexicon; for Mabel Bruce an exquisite fan; and after the tastes of all something they would always prize. In fact, Mrs. Calvert had early left the Fair and spent her time in shopping; and Seth knew, if the younger ones did not, that far more than the equivalent of the famous one hundred dollars had been expended to give these young folks pleasure. "Oh! what is it, Master! What is it? Have you settled on the play? Will you assign the characters and let us get to studying, so we can make a success of it to-night?" cried Helena, rather anxiously. "I have settled on the play. Rather it has been settled for me. As for characters they will need no study, since each and all are to appear in this most marvelous drama in their own original selves." "Why, Mr. Seth, what do you mean? You look so happy and yet as if something had made you feel bad, too;" said Dorothy, slipping her hand into his as he dropped it to his side. "Oh! I tell you I am happy! So will many another be, 'up-mounting' on this auspicious day. Talk about partings--there are going to be meetings, meetings galore. In short, I won't mystify you any longer though I am half-mystified myself. Attention! Leah Sands will give a House Party this afternoon at Heartsease Farm and we and all who'll accept are bidden to attend at three o'clock sharp." "Leah--that's Luna? How can she do a thing like that?" "Well, it can be done in her name, I reckon. Just as this was Dorothy's and somebody else managed it; eh, lassie? The Friends speak when the Spirit moves. At last, by the power of grief and remorse, by the power of Love, the Spirit of unselfishness and humility has moved upon the heart of Oliver Sands. One is never too old to learn; and, thank God, some are never too old to acknowledge their ignorance! He isn't, and to prove it he is doing this thing. His messengers are speeding everywhere. Caterers from Newburgh have had hurry-up orders to provide a bountiful feast and old Heartsease Farm is to be the scene of an 'Infair' that will beat Dorothy's to--smithereens! I mean, begging her ladyship's pardon, in point of size. Leah is to be the guest of honor, since she cannot preside; but be sure she'll not disgrace her proud brother since at Dorothy's Party she has learned how harmless are even strangers. Yes, I can safely say that Leah made her debut with us. Now, who'll accept? Don't all speak at once!" But they did. So joyfully, so earnestly, that the Master clapped hands over ears and, laughing, hurried away, while Mrs. Calvert beamed upon them all, the dearest hostess who had ever lived--so one and all declared. The scene at Heartsease? It is useless even to try to depict that. Sufficient to say it was a marvelous Party; and he who marveled most was the giver of the Party himself. Because where he might easily have expected absences and "regrets" came hastening guests to shake him by the hand, to forgive hard dealings, to rejoice with him that she who had been lost, in every sense, had been found. And when, at last, the young folks from Deerhurst tore themselves away and walked homeward over the moonlit road, it was with the feeling that this last outing of their Week of Days had been the dearest and the best. Partings? They had to come; but when on the Saturday morning the last guest had disappeared and Dorothy stood alone beside Aunt Betty on the broad piazza, there might be tears in her brown eyes, but there was no real heaviness in her heart. God had given her a home. He had given her this dear old lady to love and serve, and the girl had already learned that there is joy only in Loving Service. THE END [Illustration: DOROTHY AND AUNT BETTY, ALONE AT HOME. _Dorothy's House Party._] IDEAL BOOKS FOR GIRLS The latest and best works of Mrs. L. T. Meade. Very few authors have achieved a popularity equal to that of Mrs. Meade as a writer of stories for girls. Her characters are living beings of flesh and blood. Into the trials and crosses of these the reader enters at once with zest and hearty sympathy. Turquoise and Ruby. Ten full-page illustrations. The Girls of Mrs. Pritchard's School. Ten full-page illustrations by Lewis Baumer. A Madcap. Eight full-page illustrations by Harold Copping. The Manor School. Ten full-page illustrations. A Bevy of Girls. Ten full-page illustrations. Cloth, 12mo. Special decorated cover. Price, $1.00. CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK THE COMRADES SERIES By Ralph Victor. This writer of boys' books has shown by his magazine work and experience that this series will be without question the greatest seller of any books for boys yet published; full of action from start to finish. Cloth, 12mo. Finely illustrated; special cover design. Price, 60c. per volume. Comrades on the Farm, or the Mystery of Deep Gulch. Comrades in New York, or Snaring the Smugglers. Comrades on the Ranch, or Secret of the Lost River. Comrades in New Mexico, or the Round-up. Comrades on the Great Divide (in preparation). _Ralph Victor is probably the best equipped writer of up-to-date boy's stories of the present day. He has traveled or lived in every land, has shot big game with Sears in India, has voyaged with Jack London, and was a war correspondent in Natal and Japan. The lure of life in the open has always been his, and his experiences have been thrilling and many._ --_"Progress."_ CHATTERTON-PECK CO. NEW YORK _Specimen Chapter from_ COMRADES IN NEW MEXICO BY RALPH VICTOR. _Published by Chatterton Peck Co._ "We will ride part of the way with you," suggested Fleet, "and see you safe on the road." "If you are going," advised the major, "the sooner you get away the better." "Then I am going to get off at once," announced Chot. It was but a few moments before the horses were saddled and the little cavalcade started. After accompanying him for some half dozen miles the others bade Chot "adios" and returned to the ranch. It was still early evening for the days were now very long, when Chot arrived at El Perro Negro, but unlike the other to be remembered evening there were but few persons about and these few paid no attention to him. He attended to his horse and as the supper hour was already over he asked the landlord to get him something to eat. The inner man satisfied he was off early to bed. The night passed without any disturbance although he slept as Fleet would express it "with one eye awake" and with the coming of daylight he was astir. He fed his horse and gave him a rub down preparatory to an early start. On his way to the shed that morning, he noticed several men whom he had not before seen. Among them he observed the outlaws Jose and Miguel. He paid no attention to them however until they came up beside him. He was engaged in currying his horse. "That is a good beast you have there," said Miguel. "Cuanto? How much for him?" "Good morning," responded Chot, and continued, "He isn't for sale." "Your horse?" went on the man. "No," said Chot, shortly. "He isn't mine." "Where do you come from?" asked Miguel. "I came from Captain Benson's," said Chot, guardedly, thinking it wise not to speak of Rosado. "Isn't that Mr. Shelton's horse?" asked Jose. "Yes," said Chot. "Do you know the owner?" The man muttered something which Chot could not understand. "Then you come from Rosado?" questioned Jose. This after a pause during which he eyed Chot narrowly. "I have been stopping there," answered Chot. "Are you going back there?" asked Miguel. "I am going to meet Mr. and Mrs. Shelton," replied Chot, getting somewhat uneasy under the insistent questioning. "That is what I told you," remarked Jose to Miguel, as the men started back to the Inn. "I wonder what it was he told him?" mused Chot. "The best thing I can do is to get away from here as quickly as possible." As soon as Chot could get his breakfast he was off on his way, having seen nothing more of the bandits. From Estrada a good part of the journey was along the course of a stream that came down from the mountains and as the road was good Chot urged his horse on, but in spite of all his efforts the animal lagged; so that when at noon he stopped to rest in a small grove, he was much less than half way to Rosado. The presence of the bandits at the Inn had disquieted him and as soon as the worst of the heat was over he re-saddled his horse to resume his journey. As he was starting off, as a matter of precaution he glanced back over the road and was disturbed to see two horsemen rapidly approaching. "The quicker I can get away from here the better," he thought, and he urged his horse on as fast as he could. "They may be all right," he reflected, "but I don't like the looks of it and it will be just as well to keep out of their way." "I wonder what is the matter with Brownie," he cogitated after a bit, for in spite of all his efforts the horse's pace became more labored and slower. His pursuers, if such they were, were rapidly gaining on him. "They may be after me and they may be only traveling in this direction," he reasoned, "but I am going to find out. I will ride over to the woods, it is out of my way and off the trail, if they follow I'll know they are after me." Turning his horse's head in the direction of the forest he proceeded as fast as he could. Looking back after a few moments he saw that the men had changed their course and were plainly headed toward and rapidly gaining on him. His position was decidedly unpleasant. The outlaws he was sure, had recognized him as one of the comrades who were visiting at the hacienda, and of whom they had heard enough, through Took, to regard as dangerous enemies and to be gotten out of the way. Whether they knew that the comrades had discovered the secret of the lost river or not, they were evidently anxious to be rid of them. "I can't successfully resist them if they attack me," reasoned Chot, "I wish I had brought a gun of some kind. As it is the only thing I can do is to try and elude them." Chot thought quickly. "If I can jump from the saddle into one of the trees I won't leave any trail and they won't know where I have gone. I'll try it anyhow," he said to himself, "even if I fail I won't be any worse off, for my mount is laboring painfully." The wood which he was now approaching was of very heavy timber and little underbrush had grown up between the trees. The trees themselves were well scattered yet were so large, their wide spreading branches interlaced. Even the lower branches were so high that Chot could not reach them with his extended hand. Climbing now on to the saddle he got first on his knees, as he and his chums had practiced in their efforts to imitate the tricks of the cowboys at the hacienda, then on to his feet; here he balanced himself for an instant. While the horse was loping along under his persistent urging he came to a slightly sagging branch, grasping it he sprang into the tree. Quickly he drew himself up out of sight of any one below. He had scarcely succeeded in doing this when the bandits, who were only a short distance behind him when he entered the woods, were heard galloping below him. "We have got him now," he overheard Jose saying to his companion. "Don't be too sure of that," objected Miguel. "They are devils those Americans." "A fig for your devils," returned Jose. "If I can get my hands on him I will take care of him all right." "You want to pray the saints they don't get their claws on you," retorted Miguel. Further words he could not catch as they rode along. "I wonder what will be the next move," thought Chot as he made his way to better security farther up in the tree. "I think I will study up flying machines when I get out of this. A pair of wings would come in handy just now." Chot was not long left in doubt for in ten minutes the men came back through the woods, evidently in search of him. "What did I tell you," expostulated Miguel. "I knew he would get away somehow." "He hasn't got away yet," growled the other, stopping beneath the tree in which Chot had taken refuge. "He disappeared in the woods somewhere and I am going to find him. He is somewhere between this locality and the edge of the wood where we found his horse. Say but you did not give him a big enough dose. The animal ought to have played out hours ago." "So they tried to poison my horse," was Chot's thought. "I am going to find him," repeated Jose. "Quiza!" said Miguel, looking about him, "Maybe you will and maybe you won't. If he were human where could he go? There is no place here where he could hide." "He is here somewhere," retorted Jose, "and I am going to search him out. He knows too much and I am going to get rid of him. He must be up a tree and so he must come down." "Carambo! no," said Miguel. "Nothing but a cat could go up a tree so quick. We were just behind him. See there are the marks of his horse's hoofs, the animal never stopped in his stride. The boy went off just like that," and Miguel blew across his hand with an expressive little puff. "Same as they did in the cave. Better leave him alone. No good will come of it." Chot, who had climbed up into the tree as high as he dared, now drew himself close to the trunk and waited for the next move on the part of his pursuers which was not long in coming. He could not see the speakers below, but of a sudden his attention was attracted to an adjoining tree. Chot had noted that the branch upon which he was resting his hands for partial support, was of a remarkable length and stretched out till it met and overlapped a branch of the next nearest tree. Some motion upon the branch of the farther tree caught his eye. To his horror he made out some sort of a wild beast stealthily approaching. Its yellow eyes were on a level with his own. He gazed in fascinated terror. Truly his predicament was hopeless. There seemed no way for him to cope with one enemy or the other. To remain where he was, would be to become the sure prey of the wild beast. To make any move for defense would call to the attention of the outlaws his hiding place. * * * * * * WORLD-WIDE ADVENTURE SERIES _By Edward S. Ellis_ Cloth, 12mo., stamped in colors and gold. Handsomely illustrated. Price per volume, postpaid, 60 cents. The books written by Mr. Ellis are too well known to need a special introduction here. All are bright, breezy, and full of life, character, and adventure. They cover a wide field, and consequently appeal to all classes of young folks. The Telegraph Messenger Boy; Or, The Straight Road to Success In this tale life in a country town is well described. There is a mysterious bank robbery, which fills the community with excitement. There is likewise a flood on the river; and through all this whirl of events the young telegraph messenger exhibits a pluck and sagacity sure to win the admiration and approval of all wide-awake boys. Other Volumes in this Series: From the Throttle to the President's Chair Tad; or "Getting Even" with Him Through Jungle and Wilderness A Waif of the Mountains Down the Mississippi Life of Kit Carson Land of Wonders Lost in the Wilds Up the Tapajos Lost in Samoa Red Plume CHATTERTON-PECK COMPANY New York THE FRONTIER BOYS BY CAPT. WYN. ROOSEVELT. This noted scout and author, known to every plainsman, has lived a life of stirring adventure. In boyhood, in the early days, he traveled with comrades the overland route to the West,--a trip of thrilling experiences, unceasing hardships and trials that would have daunted a heart less brave. His life has been spent in the companionship of the typically brave adventurers, gold seekers, cowboys and ranchmen of our great West. He has lived with more than one Indian tribe, took part in a revolution at Hawaii and was captured in turn by pirates and cannibals. He writes in a way sure to win the heart of every boy. Frontier boys on the overland trail. Frontier boys in Colorado, or captured by Indians. Frontier boys in the Grand Canyon, or a search for treasure. Frontier boys in Mexico, or Mystery Mountain. Finely illustrated. Cloth, 12mo. Attractive cover design. Price 60c. per volume. CHATTERTON-PECK. CO. NEW YORK * * * * * * Transcriber�s Note: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters� errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author�s words and intent. 
44862	----	[Illustration: Both girls waved their arms and their coats in the air as signals of distress. (Page 214) ] LINDA CARLTON AIR PILOT By EDITH LAVELL [Illustration] THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Akron, Ohio New York Copyright MCMXXXI THE SAALFIELD PUBLISHING COMPANY Linda Carlton, Air Pilot _Made in the United States of America_ TO MY HUSBAND VICTOR LAMASURE LAVELL CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. A DANGEROUS RIDE 7 II. GRADUATION 14 III. HER FATHER'S GIFT 28 IV. SUMMER PLANS 43 V. THE FIRST LESSON IN FLYING 56 VI. WINNING HER LICENSE 69 VII. THE FLIGHT TO GREEN FALLS 81 VIII. THE ROBBERY 92 IX. SUSPICIONS 106 X. IN THE HOSPITAL 114 XI. AN ANXIOUS DAY FOR LINDA 126 XII. THE SEARCH FOR THE THIEF 139 XIII. THE MASQUE BALL 151 XIV. THE FLYING TRIP 160 XV. SUNNY HILLS 171 XVI. THE ACCIDENT 183 XVII. THE LOST NECKLACE 194 XVIII. IN PURSUIT OF THE "PURSUIT" 201 XIX. RESCUED 213 XX. THE RACE AGAINST DEATH 225 XXI. HONORS FOR LINDA 234 LINDA CARLTON, AIR PILOT CHAPTER I _A Dangerous Ride_ A blue sports roadster, driven by a girl in a lovely crêpe suit of the same color, threaded its way through the traffic of Spring City's streets to the concrete road that led to the aviation field on the outskirts. Passing the city's limits, the car sped along under the easy assurance of its competent driver, whose eyes were bluer than its paint, deeper than the dress that she was wearing. They were shining now with happiness, for the end of this ride promised the most thrilling experience of her life. That afternoon Linda Carlton was to have her first flight in an airplane! She parked her car outside of the field and locked it cautiously. Jumping out, she fairly skipped inside the boundary. A tall, good-looking young man in a flier's suit came from one of the hangars to meet her. "Miss Carlton?" he said, extending his hand. "Yes--Mr. Mackay. You see I'm here--a little early, I expect. You haven't forgotten your promise?" His pleasant face darkened, and he looked doubtfully at the sky. "I'm afraid it may rain, Miss Carlton. We've suspended pleasure trips for today. But perhaps tomorrow----" "Oh, no!" she cried in deep disappointment, and the young man believed that her eyes grew moist. "I can't get away tomorrow, or any other day this week. You see I'm a senior at school, and I'm just rushed to death." "Well, that's too bad," he said, looking again at the sky. "And of course it may not rain after all. But orders are orders, you know." The girl looked down at the ground, probably, he thought, to hide the tears that would come to her eyes. She was so pretty, so serious, so anxious to go up. It evidently wasn't only a whim with her; she really wanted to fly--like Amelia Earhart, and Elinor Smith. How he hated to deny her! "Isn't there something you could do?" she finally asked. "Take me up as one of your friends--not as a visitor to the aviation field.... Why, Mr. Mackay, suppose your sister came to see you today, wouldn't you be allowed to take her up?" "Yes," he replied, smiling. "But that would be on my responsibility, not the school's." "Then," she pleaded, and she was radiant again with enthusiasm, "couldn't _I_ be your responsibility?" He nodded, won over to her wishes. "If you put it that way, Miss Carlton, I can't refuse! But I'll have to take you in the plane I'm working on now--making some tests with--and it isn't the most reliable plane in the world. Not one we use to take visitors up in." "But if it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for me. I'm satisfied." "I'm afraid your parents wouldn't be," he objected. "There I think you're wrong," she asserted. "My father believes in taking chances. He has always let me do dangerous things--ride horseback, and drive a car and swim far out in the ocean.... And my mother is dead." "Very well, then," agreed Mackay. "Please come over here with me. I have been trying to fix up an old biplane, and I think I have her in shape now. But we'll both wear parachutes for precaution." Her heart fluttering wildly from happiness, but not at all from fear, Linda accompanied the young flier across the huge field to the runway, where a biplane was resting in readiness for its test. Mackay put her into the cockpit, examined the engine again, and the parachutes, helped her to fasten one of the latter on, in case of an accident, and started the motor. A minute later the plane taxied forward, faster and faster, until it rose from the ground. "Oh!" cried Linda, in a tone of deepest joy, although her companion could not hear her for the roar of the motor. "Oh, I'm so happy!" Up, up, up they went, until they reached the clouds, where the atmosphere seemed misty and foggy. But it did not matter to Linda that the sky was not blue; nothing could spoil the ecstasy she experienced in knowing that at last she was where she had always longed to be. Never for a moment was she the least bit dizzy. The sensation of floating through the air was more marvelous than anything she had ever dreamed of. For some minutes she just allowed herself to dream of the future when she herself would be in control of a plane, sailing thus through the skies. Then she remembered with a start that if she ever expected her ambitions to be fulfilled, it would be necessary to learn how flying was accomplished. She began to examine everything in the cockpit. It was too noisy to ask her companion any questions, but she watched him carefully and tried to figure out what she could for herself. She identified the joystick, which controlled the plane, and she recognized the compass and the altimeter, which registered the height--now sixteen hundred feet--to which they had climbed. All the while she made mental notes of questions she would ask her pilot when they reached the ground. Up, up they went until at last they were beyond the clouds, and saw the bright sunshine about them. It was symbolic to Linda; she resolved that in after life, whenever she was unhappy or distressed, she would fly on wings to the clear sunlight above. It was almost as if there she would actually find God. She was so happy that it was some time before she noticed the queer sound the motor was making. Then, glancing questioningly at her companion, she saw a tight, drawn look about his lips, a ghastly pallor in his face. Something was evidently wrong! The motor made an uneven sound, threatening to stall, and the plane went into a tail-spin. Mackay was frantically leaning forward, doing something she did not understand. "Motor's dying!" he cried, as he managed to right the plane. His voice shook with greater dread than he had ever before experienced. For, fearless though he was for himself, he was scared to death for the pretty girl at his side. What a fool he had been, he thought, to allow her to come! He would give his own chances of safety that minute if she could be sure of her life! So young, so sweet, so utterably lovely! A great lump rose in his throat, as he took another look at his engine. But he was helpless. Grim with terror, he pointed to her parachute. And then, to his amazement, he realized how perfectly calm she was! "You step off first," he said, thankful they both had their parachutes. "I'll stay with the plane as long as I can." Never in his life did Ted Mackay go through such a horrible moment as that instant when Linda Carlton, at a height of two thousand feet, stepped so bravely from the edge of the plane into the yawning space below. Even if he himself were killed, he could never know sharper agony. Yet the girl herself was gamely smiling! He managed to pilot the plane a little farther, in the hope that when it did crash, it would not come anywhere near her, and then, when he could no longer keep it from falling, he stepped off himself. Down he went, and his parachute opened with perfection, but he, in his tenseness, thought only of Linda, and of her luck with hers. And he prayed as he had never prayed before in his life, not even at his most perilous moments, where death seemed most certain. No descent ever seemed so slow, so prolonged, but at last he reached the ground. And there, still smiling at him, was lovely Linda Carlton! CHAPTER II _Graduation_ "Thank Heaven you're safe!" cried Ted Mackay, as he disentangled himself from his parachute. "You certainly are a game little sport, Miss Carlton!" "I don't see why," returned Linda. "People jump from planes with parachutes every day!" "I know. But it was all so sudden. And it is always a pity when anyone's first flight ends disastrously. It makes you feel that you never want to see an airplane again." "Well, it won't make me feel that way," replied the girl, lightly. "I'd go up again right away if you'd take me." "I'm afraid I can't. But I'm mighty glad to hear you talk that way. I think you're cut out for a flier. Now let's hunt the wreck." After they had located the damaged plane, and examined its shattered pieces, they hiked back to the aviation field together, talking all the while about flying. Linda asked Ted one question after another, which he answered as well as he could without having a plane to demonstrate, and he promised to lend her some books on the subject. "You must come over and take a course of instruction at our Flying School," he advised. "As soon as you can." "Oh, I hope to!" she assured him, eagerly. "Maybe after I graduate. Why, I'm almost eighteen! Most boys of my age who cared as much about it as I do would have been flying a couple of years. Because you can get a license when you're sixteen, can't you?" "Yes.... It's going to be fun to teach you," he added, as they approached the field, and Linda stopped beside her car. "Good-by! I'll expect to see you soon!" His hope, however, was not fulfilled until two weeks later, when Linda again slipped over to the field, between engagements, for another ride in the air. This time she was only one among a group of visitors, and she went up in a plane that was both new and trustworthy. Her time was so limited--it was a week before Commencement--that she had only chance for a few words with Ted Mackay. She told him that her class-day was the following Friday, and she timidly invited him to a dance which she was giving at her home the night before the event. "Thanks awfully," he said, more thrilled than he dared tell her at the invitation, "but I couldn't possibly come.... You see, Miss Carlton--I wouldn't fit in with your set." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Linda in disappointment, "We're not snobs, just because we go to Miss Graham's school!" "Well, then, put it this way," he added: "I'm absolutely on my own--and I don't even have evening clothes!" She smiled at his frankness, but she did not know that he told only part of his story--that he was supporting his mother and helping to put his younger sister through High School. "All right, then--have it your own way--Ted," she agreed, holding out her hand. "I'll hope to see you some time after class-day." From that hour on, it seemed as if every moment was filled with more things than she could possibly do. At last Friday came--as hot as any day in mid-summer, though it was still early June. Soon after two o'clock the audience began to arrive, and at half-past, the twenty-two graduates, in their white dresses, with their large bouquets or American Beauties or pink rose-buds, filed in to take their seats on the flower-decked platform in the garden of the school grounds. Fans waved, and the flowers wilted visibly, but nobody seemed to notice. For with the exercises the fun began, and everybody listened intently to the jokes and the compliments which came in turn to each and every member of Linda Carlton's class. After Louise Haydock, the president, made her brief speech of greeting, the presenter took charge, and her remarks and her presents were clever without being cruel. Most of the latter she had purchased from the five-and-ten, but they all carried a point. To Linda Carlton she gave a toy car, because she thought that was what the latter was most interested in, and then she asked her to wait a moment, that she had something else for her. Linda stood still, smiling shyly, and wondering whether her next gift would have anything to do with airplanes. "Linda," continued the presenter, "we have this bracelet for you--in token of our affection. You have been voted the most popular girl in the class." "Oh!" exclaimed Linda, and her eyelids fluttered in embarrassment. She was so surprised that she didn't know what to say. Some of the other girls, who had been secretly hoping for this honor, which was always kept as a surprise until class-day, had even prepared speeches. But Linda had never given the matter a thought. "I--I--thank you so much," she finally managed to stammer, as she stepped forward to receive the bracelet. The audience stirred and clapped, for the girl was a favorite with everybody in Spring City. "She certainly looks sweet today," whispered Mrs. Haydock, the mother of Linda's best friend. "There is nothing so becoming as white." "Yes," agreed her aunt, who had taken care of Linda ever since her own mother had died when she was only a baby, "but I do wish she hadn't worn those flowers. She had half a dozen bouquets of American Beauties, and she picked out those ordinary pink roses! Sometimes Linda is queer." "Yes, but who sent them?" inquired the other woman. "Probably the reason lies there! Ralph Clavering?" "Ralph Clavering wouldn't buy a cheap bouquet like that--with all his father's millions!" exclaimed Miss Carlton. "No; he did send flowers, but Linda didn't wear them. These had no card." Their conversation stopped abruptly, for the class prophet was being introduced. Twenty-one girls on the platform leaned forward expectantly, anxious to hear what the future held in store for them. Of course nobody actually believed that this girl could foretell their lives, but it was always fascinating to speculate about their fortunes. She began with the customary jokes. "Sara Wheeler" (the thinnest girl in the class), "is going into the food business, but will eat up the profits. However, she'll weigh two hundred pounds before she goes bankrupt.... "Sue Emery, on the contrary, will finally succeed in reducing her weight--when she gets away from these girls and stops talking about it, instead of doing it--until she becomes Hollywood's star dancer.... "Linda Carlton and Louise Haydock--the double l's, we call them, because they are always together--will both marry wealthy men and become the society leaders of Spring City...." At these words, Linda's Aunt Emily nudged Louise's mother, and smiled. "That would suit us, wouldn't it, Mrs. Haydock?" she asked. "Just what we want for our girls!" nodded her companion, in satisfaction. It was over at last, the fun and the excitement, the class-day that the girls would keep in their memories for the rest of their lives. Hot, but happy, the graduates came down from the platform to find their friends and their families. Some of them wanted to linger, to talk things over, but Linda Carlton was anxious to get away. It had been wonderful to receive that beautiful bracelet, but somehow it would spoil it to talk about it. And, in spite of all her happiness, there was a little hurt in her heart. Her father hadn't come home for his only child's graduation! She came to where her aunt was standing, and put her arm through hers. "Are you ready, Aunt Emily?" she asked. "Of course, dear--if you want to go so soon. But wouldn't you like to stay and see your friends, and thank them?" "Oh, I'll write notes," replied Linda. "There's Ralph Clavering over there," remarked Miss Carlton, nodding in the direction of a tall, well-dressed young man on the other side of the lawn. "You could thank him for his flowers. He'll probably think it queer if you don't, especially since you didn't wear them." Linda smiled carelessly. "Ralph Clavering probably sent roses to half a dozen girls today," she said lightly. "It's his boast that he's in love with the whole class!... No, I want to go home, Auntie. I'm tired." "Certainly, dear. We'll go right away." Nodding to friends as they walked across the beautiful garden where the out-door exercises had been held, they came to Linda's shining sports roadster, parked just outside the gate. It had been her father's present to her on the day that she was sixteen, and she had taken such care of it that even now, after a year and a half, it looked almost new. "I think it was wonderful for you to receive the bracelet as the most popular girl," Miss Carlton said, as she got into the car. "Everything was really perfect--even the prophecy about your future." Linda frowned at the recollection of those words; she hadn't liked that prophecy at all. As perhaps only Ted Mackay realized, her ambition was to fly, to fly so expertly that she could go to strange lands, do a man's work perhaps, carry out missions of importance. She wanted to be known as one of the best--if not _the_ best--aviatrix in America! Ever since she was a child she had had some such longing. Perhaps it was her father who had been responsible for it. Restless and unhappy after her mother's death, he had given his baby to his sister to take care of, and had wandered from one place to another, only coming home every year or so, to see how Linda was growing. As if to make up to her for his absences, he brought her marvelous presents--presents that were intended rather for a boy than for a girl. Early in life she had learned to shoot a gun, ride a horse, and drive a car. No wonder that she dreamed of airplanes! Her aunt, on the other hand, disapproved of this way of bringing up a girl. She wanted Linda to be just like the other fashionable wealthy young ladies in Spring City, to spend her time at parties and at the Country Club, and later to marry a rich man--like Ralph Clavering. Naturally the words of the class prophet pleased her. Nor had she any idea that Linda did not agree with her, for her niece had always kept her dreams to herself. There was no use talking about them, Linda thought, for her aunt would never understand. "And I guess the prophet was about right," continued Miss Carlton. "Any girl that gets seven bunches of flowers from seven different boys, won't have any difficulty getting married." "But I don't want to get married, Aunt Emily!" protested Linda. "Not yet, dear--of course. Why, you're only seventeen! I couldn't spare you now--just when you're free to be at home with me. Besides, I think every girl should have two years at least to do exactly as she pleases!" Exactly as she pleases! Why, that would mean learning to fly! Oh, if Aunt Emily could know the fierce longing in her heart to become a really fine pilot, to train herself to make her mark in the world! "So I want you to have a happy, care-free summer," continued the other, totally unaware of her niece's thoughts. "At first I thought we would go abroad, but on the whole that would be too strenuous, after this hectic year. The other girls' mothers agree with me. Mrs. Haydock and I were talking about it today, and we've practically decided to go to a charming resort on Lake Michigan that she says is most exclusive. There you can be with all your best friends." Linda said nothing; she just couldn't be enthusiastic about wasting three months in that fashion. When she had been hoping to stay at home and enroll for a course at the Spring City Flying School! "You'd like that, wouldn't you, dear?" persisted Miss Carlton, as Linda steered her car through the wide gates of their spacious estate. "You could swim and drive and play tennis and dance to your heart's content! With Louise--and--and--the Claverings! Mrs. Haydock told me they are going there too. Why, you'd meet all the right people!" Linda sighed. Aunt Emily's ideas of the right people were not exactly hers--particularly at the present time. She wanted to meet flyers, men and women noted in the field of aviation, not merely wealthy society folk. But she could not say that to her aunt; the latter was afraid of airplanes, and had only grudgingly given her consent that Linda go up in one. Naturally she had never mentioned her accident. "Well, we'll talk our plans over later," said Miss Carlton, when Linda failed to make a reply. "I guess you're too tired to think about anything now. And," she added as she stepped from the car, "don't you want to leave your car here, and let Thomas put it away?" "No, thank you, Auntie," she replied, for she did not like even so capable a chauffeur as Thomas to touch her precious roadster. "It'll only take a minute." As Linda walked slowly back to the house, she was thinking of Ted Mackay. For she believed those wilted flowers at her waist were his. There had been no card, but they had come from a small flower shop at the other end of Spring City--not the expensive shop that most of her friends patronized. She would go over to the school soon, and thank him. But she would have to tell him that she was obliged to give up her own plans for the summer! Tears of disappointment came into her eyes, and she wondered if there weren't some way it could be arranged. Maybe if she asked her father.... The thought of her father drove everything out of her mind. He hadn't even bothered to come home! Nothing else seemed to matter. As she entered the living-room, she found her aunt waiting for her. "Come in, dear--and get some rest," said Miss Carlton. "You look so tired that you actually seem unhappy." Linda forced a smile. "Is something worrying you, dear? Or is it just the heat and the rush?" "I don't know," answered the girl, sinking into a deep chair by the window. "I--I--guess I'm just foolish, Aunt Emily." There was a catch in her voice. "But I'm so disappointed that Daddy didn't come for my Commencement. And I wrote to the ranch three times to remind him!" Miss Carlton nodded; her brother's ways were past her understanding. How anybody could be so indifferent to such a lovely daughter as Linda! And yet when he was home, no father could be more affectionate. It was just that he was absent-minded, that he hated to be tied down to dates and places. He might be at his ranch in Texas now, or he might have wandered off to Egypt or to South America, without even telling his family. He had been like that, ever since Linda's mother had died. "I'm not so surprised at that as I am at his not sending you a present," commented Miss Carlton. "He may never have received your letters--or he may drop in a week late.... But you mustn't let that worry you, Linda--you have to take your father as he is.... And you must get some rest for tomorrow." "Tomorrow?" repeated the girl, vaguely. "Yes. The Junior League Picnic. You haven't told me whom you invited." "Why--I--a----" "You forgot to invite anybody!" laughed Miss Carlton. "I know you--why, you're something like your father about social engagements, my dear! And of course all the nicest boys will be asked already! I know that Louise is going with Ralph Clavering--Mrs. Haydock told me today." "That's fine," commented Linda, indifferently. "They're great pals." "But whom will you ask? At this late date?" "I really think I'd rather stay home, Auntie, if you don't mind. Because--well--Daddy might come--and I'd hate to be so far away. They're going all the way over to Grier's woods, I recall hearing Dot say, and you know that's at least fifteen miles." "Of course, dear--do just as you like," replied her aunt, putting her motherly arms around her. "Only don't count too much on your father's coming!" So Linda went to bed that night, little thinking that her plans would be changed the following morning, and that, in later years, she was to look back upon that day as one of the most wonderful of her whole life! CHAPTER III _Her Father's Gift_ As Linda had no plans for the day after her class exercises, she had intended to sleep late. But the arrival of her chum, Louise Haydock, accompanied by Ralph Clavering and his Harvard room-mate, Maurice Stetson, changed things for her. At half-past eight her aunt came into her bedroom, half apologetically, half smiling. "Linda dear, I want you to wake up," she said. "You have company." "Yes?" replied the girl sleepily. "You are rested, aren't you? And it's so much cooler. It's a real June day--the kind the poets write about!" Linda sat up in bed, and blinked her eyes. Then suddenly she thought of her father. Did Aunt Emily mean he had come? "Daddy?" she asked excitedly. "Do you mean he's here?" Miss Carlton's smile faded; she had not meant to mislead her niece. It was cruel to disappoint her. "No, dear. It's only Louise--with Ralph and another boy. They want you to wake up, and go on the picnic." "Oh, I see.... But you know I didn't invite anybody, Aunt Emily." "That's just it. You're to go with this other boy. He's Ralph's room-mate, and he's here on a visit. You will go, won't you, dear?" "Yes, of course, if Lou wants me to. I'll get dressed right away.... And Auntie, may I have some strawberries up here, to eat after I take my shower? That's all the breakfast I'll want." "Certainly, dear. I'll send Anna up right away. And how soon shall I tell Louise that you'll be ready?" "Ten minutes!" Linda jumped out of bed, and began to sing as she took her cold shower. It was a wonderful day--a good world after all! Of course the picnic would be fun; she was glad now that she wasn't going to miss it. Lou was a peach to arrange things for her in this way! And it would be exciting to meet a new man. She wondered what he would be like, and hoped she would find him nice. But, even if she didn't, it wouldn't be necessary to stay with him all day. There wasn't much "two's-ing" in their crowd. Ten minutes later she found her visitors on the porch, singing and amusing themselves, for Miss Carlton had gone to oversee the packing of Linda's lunch. Ralph introduced his friend, Maurice Stetson, a short, light-haired youth, who was utterly at ease with everybody, and who seemed to think that he was born to be funny. Indeed, he called himself "the prince of wise-crackers." Linda, who was both sensitive and shy, was afraid she would be made uncomfortable by his comments. "Miss _Linda_ Carlton," he repeated, solemnly shaking her hand. "The famous Lindy's namesake?... Let's see--what year was that when he flew the Atlantic? About twenty-seven? Why, you can't be more than three years old!" Linda smiled; she really couldn't laugh at the silly remark, though the others seemed to think him exceedingly witty. "And is your ambition flying?" he asked. Linda blushed; she had no desire to admit her dreams and ambitions to the general public. "Doesn't everybody want to fly now-a-days?" she countered. "Not your uncle Maurice!" replied the youth, gravely. "My dad gave me a plane, and I wrecked it. I'm through! My flying almost took me to the angels!" "What's this?" interrupted Miss Carlton, coming out on the porch with a hamper of lunch for the picnic. "You've been in an airplane accident?" "And how!" he replied, feelingly. "Now you see, Linda! You better not go over to that field again! I'm so afraid of planes!" "All right, Aunt Emily," replied the girl, graciously. "You needn't worry today, anyhow. We're going to the picnic in cars." But, had Miss Carlton seen Maurice Stetson behind the wheel of his yellow sports roadster, hitting seventy-five miles an hour, and all the while keeping up a conversation not only with Linda beside him, but with the couple in the rumble-seat as well, she would not have felt so satisfied. Nevertheless, nothing happened, and the picnic promised to be lots of fun. The girls had selected a beautiful wooded spot outside of the city, where a lovely stream widened into a small lake, deep enough for swimming. Most of the others had already arrived in their cars, when Louise's party drove up. Two large tents, on opposite sides of the lake, had been set up early in the morning for bath-houses. "Everybody into their suits!" cried Sara Wheeler, who seemed to be managing the picnic, because her mother was the chaperon. "First one into the water gets a prize!" "Then I get it, without even trying," remarked Harriman Smith, a nice boy, and a particular friend of Linda's, "because I have mine on now! I got dressed in it this morning, and carried my other clothing." "Lazy brute!" exclaimed Maurice, enviously, wishing that he had thought of such a labor-saving device. In fifteen minutes the whole crowd were in the water, diving and swimming, and ducking each other, and finally dividing off into sides for a game of water-polo. It was only when they actually smelled the steaks that Mrs. Wheeler's cooks were broiling, that they were finally induced to leave the lake and get dressed. A treasure-hunt through the woods was the program for the afternoon. Linda, who had expected to be coupled with Maurice Stetson for this event, was agreeably surprised to find herself with Ralph Clavering. Louise's doing, in all probability! No doubt she guessed that her chum did not care for Maurice. They walked along slowly, keeping their eyes on the ground for all possible clews, chatting at intervals about the class-day and the usual gossip, and now and then, when they met other couples, stopping to compare notes. Finally Ralph spoke about his plans for the summer months. "I'm hoping to persuade your aunt to go to Green Falls with us, Linda," he said. "There will be quite a bunch of us together. Dot Crowley, Sue, Sally Wheeler, and of course Lou and Kit--from your sorority, and some of the boys from our frat, besides several from Spring City. Harry Smith's going to get a job as a life-guard, and Maurice has promised to go. We ought to be able to make whoopee, all right!" "Sounds good," admitted Linda, absently. "Yes, and I really think we could pull off some serious work there." "Serious work?" repeated Linda. As far as she knew, Ralph had never done any real work in his life. "Yeah. In the competitions, I mean. I think if we go after it tooth and nail, you and I'd make a pretty good team to pull down the cup for the tennis doubles. They have a big meet at the end of the season that's the talk of the whole Great Lakes region.... And Sally swings a mean club in golf. And look at Louise's diving!" "Yes, that's true," agreed Linda. She had always liked golf and tennis and swimming, but somehow this year they had all lost their charm. It was different after you graduated, she decided. Then you wanted to make something out of your life--like Ted Mackay. There was no more time to be wasted. "Promise me you'll go," begged Ralph, leaning over eagerly and putting his hand on her arm. Instinctively she drew it away, but before she could answer, Louise and Maurice appeared from a cross-path that was hidden by tall bushes. "Why, there's my little Lindy!" cried Maurice, though Linda was several inches taller than he was. "Grieving for papa?" "Shedding tears," laughed Linda. But the words made her think of her own father, and she grew sober. Suppose he were home now--waiting for her! He never stayed more than a day; how she would hate to miss him! "Has anybody found the treasure yet?" she inquired. "I've found _two_ treasures," replied Maurice complacently, looking first at Louise and then at Linda. "Forget it!" commanded Louise, tersely, lifting her head. She, like Linda, was tall, but in that the resemblance ended. Her dark, sleek hair was short and almost straight, and she wore earrings--even in swimming. She said she felt undressed without them--"practically immodest," were her exact words. "No, but really--?" persisted Linda. A wild shout from Dot Crowley, followed by a chorus of "Whoopee!" from half a dozen others, answered Linda's question immediately. Dot always was lucky. The others ran to the spot where the crowd was gathered, and Dot, a tiny, vivacious blonde, who could take child's parts in the amateur plays, was holding two boxes of golf balls triumphantly up to view. "Do I have to give one box to that lazy kid?" she demanded, pointing scornfully at her long-legged partner, Jim Valier, who had been languidly following her around. At the time when she had discovered the prize, he was lolling under a tree, resting his "weary bones," as he said, smoking a cigarette. "Sure you do!" he drawled. "Didn't I supply the brains to our combine?" "Brains!" repeated Dot. "Where did you get 'em? I'll have to have you arrested for stealing 'em, if that's the case! But here--take your box!" "Couldn't possibly," he said, waving them aside with his cigarette holder. "Besides, I hardly ever play golf. Too fatiguing." "How about your school-girl figure?" asked Maurice. "Aren't you afraid if you don't exercise, you'll lose it?" Everybody, even Linda, laughed, for Jim Valier was about the world's thinnest youth. "He's really afraid somebody will mistake him for a golf-stick, and bang a ball with him," remarked Ralph. In groups, and some in pairs, the whole crowd went back to the lake. After all that exercise and excitement, everybody wanted another dip to cool off. It was six o'clock by the time they all piled into their cars, and half-past when Linda reached home. Hoping to find her father, as she had been hoping every day that week, she dashed up the steps quickly, merely waving good-by to her companions as the sports car shot from the driveway. And then, miraculously, she saw his beloved face at the door! "Daddy!" she cried rapturously, rushing breathlessly into his arms. He was taller than Linda, with a straight, lithe figure like that of a much younger man. His hair was dark, with just a little gray at the temples, and his skin deeply tanned from his out-door life. A sort of habitual smile played about his lips, as if he had made up his mind to find life pleasant, no matter what came. "My dear little girl!" he said, quietly, patting her hair. "Will you forgive me for coming a day too late? Your Aunt Emily tells me that both Commencement and class-day are over--and you are an old Grad now!" "Yes, but I don't mind, Daddy, so long as you came today!" she replied, squeezing his hand. "Maybe it's better this way, because I've been so rushed lately that I wouldn't have had much time to see you." "You must tell me all about everything," he said, drawing her arm through his, and leading her down the steps of the porch. Of course he thought he meant what he said, but Linda knew from experience that if she did tell him, he wouldn't be listening. A dreamy expression so often came into his eyes when she chattered, and she would wonder what he was thinking of. Strange lands--or his ranch out west--or perhaps her mother? "Where are we going?" she asked. "I really ought to dress for dinner, Daddy. You know what picnics are." "Yes, To be sure. But I want to show you your graduation present." "My present?" There was excitement in her tone; it was sure to be something wonderful--and unusual. All the girls were wild with envy when Kitty Clavering received a real pearl necklace from her father. All--except Linda. She had no desire for pearls, or for any jewelry, for that matter. She had known that her father's present would be much more thrilling. At least--if he didn't forget! "You didn't think your old Dad would forget you, did you, Honey?" he asked. "No--no--of course not.... But, Daddy, where is it? Why are we going out back of the house?" "We have to walk over to our big field across the creek," he explained, mysteriously. "The big field? Why?... That's a hot walk, Daddy. No shade at all! If you want a nice walk, we ought to go in the other direction, down towards the orchard, where there are some trees." "Trees are the one thing we don't want," he replied, solemnly. "You're going to hate trees, after you get my present, daughter." "Hate--trees?" Linda's eyes were traveling all over the landscape, scanning it in vain for a clew. And then, as they mounted a slight incline, the thing came into sight. The marvelous, wonderful present! Too good to be true! Her heart stopped beating, her legs shook. She clutched at her father for support. A beautiful, shining airplane! A superb Arrow Sport! The very kind she had been reading about, had been longing some day to possess! And even a hangar, to keep it in safety! "Daddy!" she gasped, hoarsely. He was watching her face, rapturously. "You like it?" "Oh!" she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck, and suddenly bursting into tears. "How could you know that I wanted it so much?" He patted her hair, a little embarrassed by her emotion. "I just tried to imagine what I would want most if I were your age.... You know, dear, you're your father's own girl! You look like your mother, but you're much more like me.... A strange mixture...." He was talking more to himself now, for Linda was almost running, pulling him along excitedly. "Feminine beauty--with masculine ambition...." But Linda was not listening. She had reached the plane now, and was walking around it, enthralled. Touching its smooth surface, to make sure that it was not only a dream. Dashing back to hug her father, and then climbing into the cockpit, to examine the controls, the instruments, the upholstery. If she lived to be a hundred years old, no other moment could hold greater happiness than this! Her father smiled softly in satisfaction. He wanted her to have all the happiness that he had somehow missed. Money couldn't buy it for him; but money spent for his daughter could bring it to him in the only possible way now. "You're not a bit afraid?" he asked, though he knew from her shining eyes that his question was unnecessary. "Dad!" "And now the question is, who can teach you to fly? Unfortunately, the man who brought it here for me couldn't stay, even to explain things to you--although of course there is a booklet. But I understand there's an air school here at Spring City...." "Yes! Yes!" she interrupted. "I've been there--been up with one of the instructors. Can we drive over for him tonight?" "My dear, you can't take a lesson at night," he reminded her. "You know that." "Oh, of course not!" she agreed, laughing at her own folly. "But tomorrow?" "Yes, certainly. At least we can see about it. You have to pass a physical examination first, I understand." "And I want to take the regular commercial pilot's course, Daddy! I want to go to the bottom, and learn all about planes, and flying. May I?" "I don't see why not.... You needn't stop for the expense." Linda blushed; she hadn't been thinking of the expense--she never did. But perhaps she ought to now, for the plane must have cost a lot of money. At the present, however, something else was worrying her. "It was the time I was thinking of," she admitted. "Aunt Emily wants to go away in a week or so. And oh, Dad, I just couldn't bear to leave this!" There were actually tears in her eyes. "Of course not, dear. Well, we'll see if we can't compromise with your aunt. Stay at home the rest of June and July, be content with a private pilot's license for the present, and then go away _in_ your plane in August. Wouldn't that suit you?" "To the ground--I mean to the skies!" corrected the happy girl. "And now we must get back to dinner," he reminded her. "Aunt Emily's waiting." Solemnly, tenderly, as a mother might kiss her baby, Linda leaned over and kissed the beautiful plane. Then giving her hand to her father, she walked back to the house with him in silence, knowing that now her greatest dream was fulfilled. CHAPTER IV _Summer Plans_ The news of Linda's magnificent present spread like wildfire. She never knew how it got about, for she didn't call anybody. In fact, she would have preferred to keep it a secret for that evening at least, and just spend her time over the booklet, talking things over with her father. But of course the rest of the crowd couldn't understand that. These young people, who saw their parents every day of their lives, just couldn't believe that a normal fun-loving girl like Linda would prefer a father's society to theirs. They didn't know that Linda had always longed to know him better, to understand him, to talk over with him her greatest dreams and ambitions. Because there had been nobody to talk to in that intimate fashion. Aunt Emily never had understood her, and never would. The kind-hearted woman saw, of course, that her niece was pleased with her graduation present, but she could not realize the girl's overwhelming joy in the possession of a plane. To her, even a string of imitation pearls would have been more desirable. They talked their plans over at dinner, Linda's father taking her side in urging that the vacation be postponed until August. "You don't mind, do you, Emily?" he asked his sister. "Well, I can't say I don't mind," she replied, a little sharply. "But of course I wouldn't spoil Linda's fun. But I am wondering whether you have been wise, Tom. Linda is tired out; instead of going to school and learning some more, she ought to be resting.... But your presents have never shown a great deal of wisdom, I fear." Her brother laughed. "Sometimes it's better to be foolish," he remarked. "Not if Linda breaks her neck!" "Which she isn't going to do!" contradicted Mr. Carlton, confidently. "Linda's careful--and she's thorough. I know that, from the way she drives her car--and takes care of it." "Cars and airplanes are different matters!" "Not so different as you might think. In some ways, cars are more dangerous, because you have to consider traffic--what the other fellow is going to do. And there's so much room in the skies!" "But if something goes wrong--there's nobody there to help her," objected Miss Carlton. "Well, Emily, you'd be amazed at the perfection of the airplanes they are putting out now-a-days. They're as different from the old-fashioned ones of the World War, as the first two-cylinder automobiles from the sixes and eights of today." "But there still are a lot of crashes--and deaths," insisted his sister. "That doesn't say Linda will crash! Linda is going to be a good pilot--learn it all thoroughly!... Why, Emily, you don't think I'd be willing to take any chances with my only child, do you--if I didn't consider it safe?" He smiled fondly at Linda, but his sister drew down the corners of her mouth a trifle scornfully. As if his affection could compare with hers, though Linda wasn't her own child! He saw the girl two or three times a year at the most, while Aunt Emily was with her every day of her life! "Well," she added, "I'm afraid you'll feel out of the crowd by the time August comes and they have been together all that time at Green Falls!" "Do you mind missing it, my dear?" her father asked, gently. "Not a bit!" replied Linda immediately, her eyes shining at the thought of what she was gaining. Miss Carlton abruptly changed the subject. "Do you remember a man named Clavering, Tom?" she asked. "I remember the name. Connected with oil, wasn't he? Very wealthy?" "A millionaire, I think," replied Miss Carlton, as if the news were the most important thing in the world. "Well, he has bought an estate just outside of Spring City, and his daughter has just graduated in Linda's class." "Yes?" remarked her brother, wondering what possible difference that could make to him. "Well, the Claverings are planning to spend the summer at Green Falls, on Lake Michigan--the resort that Mrs. Haydock and I have selected.... And there is a son in Harvard, who is going to be there." "Yes?" It still didn't dawn on the man what his sister meant. Perhaps that was because he was not worldly, and money and position didn't mean much to him. Or perhaps it was because it had never occurred to him that his little Linda was old enough to be thinking about getting married. "You certainly are slow at comprehension at times, Tom," she said, "for a smart man. Do I have to tell you in so many words that young Ralph Clavering is interested in Linda?" Linda blushed, and Mr. Carlton opened his eyes wide in amazement. "Well! Well! Well!" he exclaimed. "Dad!" protested Linda, nervously. "Don't be so serious! Aunt Emily thinks that because she loves me, everybody thinks I'm grand. But as a matter of fact, Ralph Clavering doesn't like me any better than half a dozen other girls. And I don't believe he likes me nearly so well as Louise--though I haven't given the matter any thought." "How any boy could fall for Louise Haydock is more than I can see!" put in Miss Carlton. "She is a nice girl, but she has ruined what looks she had by cutting her hair off so short, and wearing those dreadful earrings all the time----" "Aunt Emily!" interrupted Linda. "Please don't forget that Louise is my best friend!" "Even so, I don't have to admire her appearance, do I?" In a man's fashion, Mr. Carlton was getting very tired of this small talk. He stirred restlessly. "Well, it's settled then, about the summer, isn't it?" he asked. "I'd like to drive over early tomorrow morning to this Flying School, and make the arrangements about your course. Because tomorrow night I'm taking the sleeper back to the ranch." "Dad!" cried Linda, in disappointment. "You don't have to go that soon, do you? Oh, I wanted you to see me fly!" "I'll be back again, as soon as I can. But just now I'm having trouble with some Mexicans who came over the border and have been threatening us. I've got to be on the job. My help aren't any too reliable." "You won't be in any danger will you, Daddy?" He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Guess not," he replied. At the conclusion of the meal, Miss Carlton, who always liked to have Linda's young friends about, suggested that she call some of them on the telephone and give them her news, inviting them over to celebrate with her. But Linda shook her head. "There's only one person I'd like to tell about it," she said, "and I'm afraid I couldn't reach him by phone, for I don't know where he lives. That's a boy over at the school, who has taken me up a couple of times." But, as friends like this did not interest her, Miss Carlton dismissed the subject and went out to consult her cook. Linda's father, however, felt differently. "What's his name?" he asked, indulgently. "Maybe we could locate him, if we put in a call at the school. There would probably be somebody about who would know his address." "Ted Mackay," answered Linda. Mr. Carlton's eyes narrowed suspiciously, and the smile died from his lips. His daughter trembled. What could he possibly have against Ted? "What's the fellow look like?" "He's big--with red hair, and blue eyes, Why? Do you know him, Daddy?" "Think I know his father--to my sorrow. Same name--description fits, too. Likable chap, when you first meet him, isn't he? Looks honest and kind, and all that?" "Oh yes, Daddy! And he is so nice, too. And so clever!" "I don't doubt it. So is his father--in his own way. Well, if he's the son of the man I know, you're to keep away from him. Do you understand, daughter?" "Yes, but Daddy, don't you think it's only fair to give me a reason?" she pleaded. "I'd rather not. Can't you take my judgment as worth something, Linda?" He spoke sternly. The tears came to Linda's eyes, and she looked away. "Mayn't I even speak to him?" she asked, finally. "Oh, certainly. Never cut anybody--it's a sign of a little mind to stoop to such childishness. But don't be friendly with him. I dare say there are other instructors at the field, and I'll arrange for someone else to teach you." The door-bell rang three times, but before the maid could answer it, Louise Haydock dashed into the house, followed by Kitty and Ralph Clavering, and finally, Maurice Stetson. "Whoopee!" cried Ralph, almost running into Linda's father, who was standing in the dining-room doorway. "Darling!" exclaimed Louise, embracing her chum excitedly. "We heard the news! Congratulations!" "And naturally we couldn't wait to see your plane," added Kitty. "But are you sure you've finished dinner?" "Yes, indeed," replied Linda, introducing her father to everybody except Louise, who of course knew him. "If it only isn't too dark to see it!" exclaimed Louise. "We've all brought flashlights." "Then we better trail out immediately," laughed Linda. "And I'll get Aunt Emily. She has only seen it from a distance." "Better wait for the rest of the crowd," suggested Ralph. "I saw Dot trying to round up some more. They ought to be here any minute." "Then we might as well wait. Aunt Emily'll be here in a minute." "What kind of plane is it, Linda?" inquired Maurice. "You're 'Lindy' Junior now aren't you--just as I predicted," he added. "It's a 'Pursuit,'" answered Linda, ignoring his second remark. "An Arrow Sport." "Open cockpit?" asked Ralph. "Yes. See--here's its picture." She waved the folder towards the boys. "It's supposed to be a wonderful little plane for a beginner!" "From now on, Linda'll talk of nothing but joysticks and ailerons and--" began Maurice, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Dot Crowley and six other young people, all of whom had been packed in her small car. It was just as she liked it to be, Aunt Emily thought, as she joined the merry, singing group, and started out with them towards the field beyond the house. Mr. Carlton did not go with them this time, and later on, Linda had reason to be thankful for his absence. It was quite dark now, but both the moon and the stars shone brightly, and the plane was clearly visible. The exclamations of delight and praise from her guests were enthusiastic enough to satisfy any proud owner of such a glorious prize. Linda was happier than ever. The boys were naturally interested in the mechanics of the plane, the girls in the upholstery of the seats, the charming, deep cushions, which could be removed if it were necessary to use a parachute. They turned on their flashlights, and walked about the biplane, not a little in awe at the idea of Linda's piloting it through the skies. "It only holds two people," remarked Dot, regretfully. "I wonder if we could pile in extras, like I do with my car." "I'm afraid not," replied Linda. "But I can take everybody up in turn--after I get my license. I am hoping to bring it to Green Falls in August." Satisfied at last that they had seen as much as possible for the present, they started to turn back, when Maurice suddenly spied a lonely figure at the top of the incline, some fifty yards away. "What ho!" he exclaimed. "Who can that be? Yo-ho-ho!" he cried, making a funnel with his hands. "Not anybody in our crowd," replied Jim Valier, "or he would answer. Hope it isn't a thief--with designs on your new plane." "We better chase him!" said Jackson Stiles, who was always ready for adventure, "Come on, fellows, let's rush him!" The boys darted off, all except Jim Valier, who said gallantly that he had better stay as protection for the ladies, though of course everybody knew it was only because he was too lazy to run. The girls laughed and chattered while they were gone--all except Linda, who waited nervously to find out what success they had had. In less than three minutes, however, they had returned, shamefacedly admitting defeat. "Maybe the fellow couldn't sprint!" announced Ralph. "I'll bet he's a track-runner----" "Or a chicken thief!" suggested Maurice. "Do you think he is a tramp?" inquired Miss Carlton, relieved that the man had disappeared. Tramps were so dirty, so unpleasant! "Don't think so. Big fellow--not badly dressed, as far as we could see. Had red hair." "Too bad we couldn't catch him," remarked Maurice, always ready with his jokes, "for his hair was bright enough to light up the plane. We wouldn't have needed our flashes." "Might have set the 'Pursuit' on fire!" suggested Jim. Linda frowned uneasily. The description sounded like Ted Mackay. But how did he know that she had a plane, and if he had happened to see it, why didn't he come to the house, and ask her permission to examine it? After all, it was on their own property--nobody had any right to intrude. She thought darkly of what her father had said, and hoped that there wasn't anything crooked about Ted. Why, he seemed more of a friend to her than any of these people--except of course her Aunt Emily, and Louise! By the time they had reached the house, everybody had forgotten the incident, for Louise turned on the radio, and without consulting Linda, they all decided to dance. Ralph claimed the latter for the first waltz. "So this will make a change in your summer plans," he said, as if the idea were not wholly to his liking. "Yes. We're not going to Green Falls till August--maybe not then, if I don't succeed in getting a private pilot's license before that." "But what about me?" he inquired, and the admiring look he gave her would have pleased Miss Carlton, had she noticed it. Linda looked puzzled. "You? Why--you'll never miss me! With all your girl friends!" "No; I've decided I'm not going to miss you," he said, quietly. "Because I'm going to stay right here in Spring City, and learn to fly along with you!" "What?" "Yes. The thing fascinates me. I want a plane, too! I'm going to touch my Dad for one when I get home tonight!" "But you've promised everybody you'll go to Green Falls!" "So I will--August first!" And so, much to Miss Carlton's delight, when the rest of the crowd left Spring City the following week, Ralph Clavering stayed at home with a couple of the servants, and enrolled at the same time as Linda, at the Spring City Flying School. CHAPTER V _The First Lesson in Flying_ Early the next morning, Linda wakened her father and hurried him through his breakfast. There wasn't a moment to be lost, she told him excitedly, like a child waiting to open her Christmas stocking. She had her car under the portico before he had finished his second cup of coffee. "Don't drive so fast that you are killed on the way," cautioned her aunt. "Remember, dear, you have the rest of your life to fly that plane!" But the present moment is the only time of importance to young people, and Linda scarcely took in what she was saying. Besides, the caution was unnecessary; unlike Dot Crowley and Maurice Stetson, she had too much respect for her car to mistreat it by careless driving. Linda loved her roadster as a cavalry general loves his horse. "You want to do most of your learning on your own plane, don't you, daughter?" asked her father, as he sat down beside her. "I mean--you'd rather bring your instructor back with us, and fly it, wouldn't you?" "Of course, if that is possible. But don't you suppose I have to go in a class with others, Daddy?" "Probably not--for it is a small school. Besides, I can arrange for you to have private lessons. It will hurry things up for you." "Oh, thank you, Daddy!... But later, I want to go to a regular ground school, if you will let me." Her tone was as eager as any boy's, starting out on his life work. "And study airplane construction, and wireless--and--and----" He smiled at her approvingly. What a girl! "You are ambitious, my dear," he said, but there was pride in his words. "I don't see why not, though.... Only, not all at once. As your Aunt Emily reminded you, you have the rest of your life." "I can't bear to fool!" she exclaimed, impatiently. "Now that I have graduated, I want to get somewhere." "You're bound to--unless you fly in circles," he remarked, lightly. "I mean--oh, you know what I mean, Daddy! And you do understand, don't you?" "Well, not exactly. You don't expect to be one of those independent girls who insist upon earning their own living, do you, dear?" "I don't know...." Somehow, she couldn't explain. Nobody understood just what she wanted except Ted Mackay, and that was because he had the same sort of goal himself. Ted Mackay! The memory of her father's command hurt her. Must she really give up his friendship? But why? She wanted to ask her father, but he was looking off in the distance, apparently lost in his own thoughts. So she drove the remainder of the way in silence, absorbed by her own dreams. The field was outside of Spring City, covering an area of thirty acres, and surrounded by the white fence that was now being used so much by airports. Three large hangars, containing probably half a dozen planes, occupied one side of the field, and, near the entrance was a large building, evidently used as an office and school for the theoretical part of the courses. "You have been here before, Linda?" asked her father, as the girl locked her car. "Yes--a couple of times. I feel almost at home." Scarcely were they inside the grounds, when Ted Mackay, looking huge and handsome in his flyer's suit, came out of the office building. He recognized Linda at once, and his blue eyes lighted up in a smile of welcome. Since he wore his helmet, his red hair was not visible, and Linda, glancing apprehensively at her father, knew that the latter had no idea who Ted was. But, nervous as she was over the meeting that was about to take place, she could not help feeling proud of Ted, and warmed by the frankness of his happy smile. "Linda!" he cried. (She had called him Ted the second time she met him, so he reciprocated.) "I owe you an apology--and a confession!" "Yes?" replied Linda, glancing fearfully at her father, though she knew that he had not yet realized who the young man was, or his expression would not have been so beneficent. "But first I want you to meet my father," she said. "Dad--this is Ted Mackay." She was vexed at herself that she was actually stammering. Acting just like a child! Yet she couldn't forget how stern her father could be. She recalled the day that, as a child, she had sneaked off and played with Louise when her chum had whooping cough. Her father happened to come home--and announced that he would take care of her punishment. And what a punishment! For three whole weeks he made her stay in the house, without a single companion except her Aunt Emily! He said he'd teach her to obey. But he wasn't storming, or even frowning now. Merely looking politely indifferent, perhaps a trifle superior. He made no motion to shake hands with Ted. "How do you do?" he said. "Would you be kind enough to take us to the man in charge of this field?" "Certainly, sir," replied Ted. Immediately, as if he intended to give the young people no chance for personal conversation, Mr. Carlton began to ask about the courses that were offered. Ted answered his questions, explaining that Miss Carlton would probably want to become a private pilot at first. "You have to pass a physical examination," he said, "and get a permit from the Government. Then you must have at least eighteen hours of flying experience--ten with someone else with you, eight of solo flying. There is a written examination, too--all about the rules and regulations that make up the laws of the air. Of course there isn't a lot of traffic, like with the driving of cars," he explained, smilingly, "but you'd be surprised at how many rules there are!" They had been crossing the field while he talked, and they stopped now at the main building. With a nod of dismissal that was curt, and yet not quite rude, for a muttered, "Thank you," accompanied it, Mr. Carlton left Ted, and took his daughter inside. A middle-aged man, dressed in a khaki shirt and breeches, was seated at a desk. He looked up as they entered. "My name is Carlton," began Linda's father, "and this is my daughter. I have bought her a plane, and I have come over to arrange about some lessons in flying." Lieutenant Kingsberry, a former Army officer, asked them to be seated, and went over about the same explanation that Ted had given, saying that he would be delighted to register Linda, provided that she passed the physical examination. "I suppose it is not so unusual now to have girls as students?" inquired Mr. Carlton. "Not for many of the schools," replied the lieutenant. "But it just happens that we so far have not enrolled any of the fair sex. Your daughter will be the first. When does she wish to start?" "As soon as possible," replied Mr. Carlton. "Now!" Linda could not help adding. "Well, I don't see why not," agreed the lieutenant, leniently. "At least Miss Carlton could take the physical examination, because one of our doctors is here now. And if she passes that, Mackay can give her the first lesson." Linda's expression of delight suddenly died on her lips. For she glanced at her father, and saw the queer, drawn look about his mouth at the mention of Ted's name. "This--Mackay--" he said slowly, "he isn't your only instructor?" "He is our best." "I prefer someone else. Can you arrange it?" "Why--I suppose so. But if it is only personal reasons, I think you are making a mistake, Mr. Carlton. Mackay is our most reliable flyer--by far our best instructor. We don't expect to have him here more than a month or so. He's had a good offer from a big company." Linda was glancing shyly, pleadingly, at her father, but he did not even see her. "Unfortunately I found this young man's father to be most unreliable--untrustworthy--during the period that I employed him on my ranch. The fact is, we are not yet through with the trouble that he started. So you can understand why I should refuse to trust my daughter to his son. It is an unpleasant but true fact that children inherit their father's weaknesses. I should not have a comfortable minute, being miles away, and knowing that she was in his hands." "Of coarse I will accept your decision, Mr. Carlton," replied Lieutenant Kingsberry, "and see that your wishes are carried out. I will summon the second ranking instructor--H. B. Taylor." He called his office boy, a young man learning to fly, and working his way at the same time, and gave the necessary message. A couple of minutes later the man came in, dressed like Ted, but somehow he seemed insignificant to Linda--as if he were the one who was not reliable. She sighed. Her father remained with the lieutenant and the instructor while she went into the doctor's office for her physical examination. She knew that her eyesight was good, but she felt a little nervous when the doctor examined her heart. It was fluttering so! Suppose all the excitement had been too much for her--and she did not pass! What good would her lovely plane be to her, if she were never allowed to pilot it herself? But she need not have been alarmed, for she came through with flying colors. Then young Taylor took her over to one of the planes, and began to explain about the joystick, the rudder, the ailerons, and everything else he could think of, in words of one syllable. Linda glanced at him, frowning. Did he think she was a baby. Or was it because she was a girl that his manner seemed so superior, so condescending? Why, he was wasting a lot of time! Ted would have had her up in the air by this time, perhaps letting her guide the plane herself. "I am familiar with all these terms, Mr. Taylor," she interrupted. "You see I have been up twice--with Mr. Mackay. And I've read a couple of books." The young man regarded her haughtily. "It is necessary, Miss Carlton, that you go through the regular lessons, regardless of what you knew beforehand," he answered coldly. "And whatever Mr. Mackay may have shown you--as a friend--has nothing to do with these lessons, so long as I, not he, am your instructor." "But I want to go up today!" she protested, eagerly. "It is not our custom to take students up on the first day, Miss Carlton.... Now, have you a notebook and pencil?" "In my car." She tried to answer naturally, but she was keenly disappointed. "Then will you please go and get them," he said, seating himself in the cockpit of the plane which he had been using to illustrate his statements. Obediently, but half-heartedly, Linda started back for the road where her car was parked. She had gone about half-way when she came upon her father, accompanied by Ralph Clavering, dressed like herself, in his riding outfit. "Hello, Linda!" he cried. "Passed your physical exam, didn't you?" "Oh, yes," she answered. "So you're really going to learn, too?" "I most certainly am. And your father has consented to let us take our lessons together. Won't that be fun?" "Linda," interrupted her father, as he saw her start away, "where are you going? I want to tell you something." "Yes, Daddy?" A wild hope surged in her heart that perhaps he had changed his mind about Ted. It wasn't only that she had taken a dislike to H. B. Taylor--it was rather that she had not confidence in him as a teacher. He might be all right as a pilot, but instructing others was a different matter. And he would never really feel any personal interest in her progress, or understand her, like Ted. His attitude almost said that he thought it was silly of girls to want to fly! But she ought to have known her father better than to think he would change his mind. "I should like to take your car and go home now, if you don't mind," he said, "because I have some work to do today that is urgent--some people to see about business. And Mr. Clavering has very kindly offered to drive you home. Is that all right? I know you don't like other people to run your car----" "Oh, Daddy, you're different," she said, forcing a smile. "Of course I don't mind your driving it.... But I'm sorry you can't wait for us." Promising to meet Ralph in a couple of minutes, she walked out to the entrance of the field with her father. "I need not tell you, dear," he said, "that my decision about Mackay is final. And I want you to have as little to do with him as possible, while you are here. It's for your own good, daughter. I can see that girls might find the young man attractive. But it is well to steer clear of such people. Have all the fun you like with your own friends." "Yes, Daddy," she managed to reply. "I guess young Clavering will see to it that your time at home, after most of the others go away for the summer, is not dull. And if you pass your course and get your license, you can fly your plane to Green Falls. I will make arrangements about a place to keep it. I dare say they have maps at the school." "Yes--and thank you so much--for everything, Daddy," she said. She mustn't let him see that she was disappointed, after all he had done for her! He might be right about Ted--but she didn't think so. Whatever Ted's father might be, she felt sure that Ted was one of the finest young Americans that she had ever known. Securing her notebook, and handing over her keys to her father, she hurried back to the field, and finished her lesson with Ralph at her side. As they walked out together, she looked about shyly for Ted. It wouldn't do any harm for her just to speak to him; after all he did want to tell her something. At last she spotted him, across the field beside one of the planes--in overalls and jumper now, his red hair brilliant in the sunlight. "Do you know I believe that's the fellow we chased last night!" exclaimed Ralph. "Do you know him?" "Yes, I've met him. He took me up a couple of times." "You know him? Then why was he sneaking around so funny last night? Why didn't he come over and speak to you?" "He's shy," replied Linda, jumping to the only conclusion that seemed feasible, and her explanation must have been correct, for Ted never looked up from his work as the young couple passed. CHAPTER VI _Winning Her License_ The next few weeks were the most interesting, the most exciting, of Linda's whole life. Every day she drove over to the Flying School with Ralph, and gained first her theoretical, and then her practical knowledge. Both she and Ralph were surprised to find that it was so simple a matter to handle a plane. By the middle of July they were accustomed to stepping into the cockpits by themselves, nosing their planes into the wind, and rising to a height of fifteen hundred feet, without even a tremor. Anxiously they counted their hours of solo flying, not only that their licenses would be approved, but because they both wanted to try some stunts. They had studied the principles of loops, Immelman turns, barrel rolls, and falling leaves, and they were wild to try them out for themselves. Finally, after they had both passed their written examinations, and were only waiting for their licenses to come through, Mr. Taylor allowed them both to try an inside loop and an Immelman turn. Linda's happiness was so great that she felt she just had to tell somebody, so she went home and wrote to her father. Unfortunately, she thought it wiser to say nothing about stunts to her aunt. Miss Carlton still insisted that she would never get into a plane, not even Linda's. "It's too dangerous," she objected, when her niece was begging her to go for a ride. "I might be killed--and then who would take care of you? And besides, I don't see how anybody could learn to fly in the short time you've been at it." "But Aunt Emily," explained Linda patiently, "it really is easier than driving a car. Once you are off the ground, the plane practically flies itself. And the higher you are, the safer." Miss Carlton shuddered. "I can't believe that, dear. Because the higher you are, the farther you have to fall!" "But you have all that chance to regain control of your plane," insisted her niece. "Crashes practically always come on the ground--it's very rare indeed that two planes crash in the air, even when they are flying in Army formation." "How soon do you think you'll get your license?" inquired Miss Carlton, showing that Linda's words had made no impression at all upon her. She was anxious to get away now; Spring City was becoming very hot. "Any time now," replied the girl, her eyes shining with anticipation. "I have done all the required solo flying--and more too." "Solo flying? Do you mean you've been up alone? Without even Ralph?" "Yes, of course! And I love it, Aunt Emily! Oh, if you could just try it once, you'd never be afraid again. It is the most wonderful sensation--up in the skies, all alone! Free as a bird!" She paused abruptly, smiling at her own enthusiasm. She did not often talk like this to anybody, though there was a great deal of poetry in her make-up. "Well, dear, I'm glad you like it," said Miss Carlton, in a matter-of-fact tone. "But don't overdo it. And don't go in for any stunts." Ralph Clavering, who had been making it his habit to come over to see Linda every evening, now that all his other friends had gone away, arrived on the porch in time to hear Miss Carlton's admonition. He was about to say something, for he was very proud of his successful "acrobatic flying," when he caught Linda's frown of warning. Of course there was no use of worrying the timid woman, who was worried enough already. He sat on the railing, dangling his legs, and carelessly lighting a cigarette, as if he were very much at home. "Linda's little 'Pursuit' is a daisy, Miss Carlton," he said. "It really has a most marvelous motor--and all sorts of safety devices. There's not a thing for you to worry about.... I wish I had one like it!" Linda regarded him sympathetically. It was hard luck that his father, with all his money, refused to buy Ralph a plane! But he had been promised one the following year--if he graduated from college without any conditions. Evidently Mr. Clavering was using it as a spur to his son's ambition, for Ralph had never been keen about his studies. Good times came first with him; besides, he argued, what was the use of learning to make money, when his father already had more than they could spend? "What are you children going to do this evening?" asked Miss Carlton, though it was nine o'clock now, and there wouldn't be much evening left, for Linda insisted upon going to bed early. "I'd like to map out our trip to Green Falls," the latter replied. "And then we could show our plan to Lieutenant Kingsberry, and see where the airports are located along the way, in case we have to land." "Why not Taylor?" inquired Ralph, teasingly, for he knew that Linda did not care much about her instructor. She gave the boy a withering look. "Well, then--Redhead? He ought to know. By the way, I never see you talking to him, Linda!" "I never get a chance. He's always busy, and besides, you're usually with me. I guess he's too shy to intrude." Nevertheless, she decided that she must have one talk with Ted Mackay before she left the school, to clear up matters that had never been discussed. All during the next week she watched for her opportunity, but it did not come until her final day at the school--the day when she received her license as a private pilot. Wild with joy at her success, she asked where Ted was, and ran over to the hangar where he happened to be working. For once, Ralph was not with her; he had not yet landed the plane he had been flying. "Mr. Mackay!" she cried joyously--she was afraid to call him "Ted" now, for he seemed like such a stranger. "I'm a real pilot! I can fly my own plane now, wherever I want to go!" The young man came over solemnly and shook hands with her. "May I be the first to congratulate you?" he asked. "Not the first. Lieutenant Kingsberry has done so already. But, of course, in a way he doesn't count." "And this is only your beginning, I know!" he said, his blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "You're going to a ground school in the fall--as we used to talk about--aren't you?" "Yes, I hope so." She hesitated, and looked down at the ground, digging the toe of a dainty slipper--entirely feminine, in spite of her flyer's costume--into the dust. She felt shy, and embarrassed; it was so hard to hurt Ted, and yet she didn't dare disobey her father. "Ted," she said, finally, "could I have just one little talk with you, to clear things up--before I go away?" "I've been longing for it," he confessed, eagerly. "But I'd decided that you were through with me, on account of my actions that night you got your plane--when I sneaked over to see it. One of the boys heard it roaring over our heads, and ran out to see where it was landing. So, when he came back with the news that it was in your field, I knew it must be yours. When I went over to see it myself--I--I was hoping you'd come out alone--and we could gloat over it together! And then all that crowd showed up, and your aunt too--I was sure it was she--and I just lost my nerve and ran. It looked pretty queer, I guess." "No, only why didn't you come to the house first?" she inquired. "I was afraid the butler would say, 'Miss Carlton is not at home'--the way the rich young ladies' butlers always do in the novels." "Only we haven't any butler," laughed Linda. "Well, you have a strict aunt--and a father that's made of steel!" "Don't!" cried the girl, in an offended tone. "You mustn't say a word against my father, or I never will talk to you. But that brings me to what I wanted to say.... My father has no time for you, on account of your father. It seems that a man by the same name worked for him on the ranch in Texas--and was untrustworthy. Could that have been your father?" "I'm afraid it was," admitted Ted, sadly. "So you see why he selected Mr. Taylor to teach me to fly...." Tears almost came into her eyes, as she saw how sorrowful Ted was looking. "I think it's absurd, myself," she admitted. "But I suppose Daddy means it for the best.... I'm--not to be friends with you, Ted.... And, oh, I'm so sorry!" "I'm sorry too, Linda," the boy said slowly. "But somehow I never believed we could be real friends. I'm not like you--I don't believe in fairy stories." "What do you mean?" "I mean that the poor young man, who has a disgrace to live down, isn't likely to be friends with the rich, beautiful girl--in real life.... So I guess it's good-by...." He held out his hand. "Oh, but I'll at least see you again!" she protested. "Tomorrow I'm going to fly my plane over here and back--all by myself!" "That's wonderful--I wish I could be here to see you do it," he answered regretfully. "But unfortunately I am leaving myself tomorrow. I'm taking a job as salesman for a plane construction company in Kansas City." "Congratulations!" cried Linda, pleased at his advancement. "Well, good luck--and good-by!" "And, by the way," he added, "I want to thank you for wearing my poor little flowers at your class-day. I saw you--through the fence. I was so glad they held the affair out-of-doors!" "Then they were from you?" she asked, ashamed that she had forgotten to thank him. "I thought so, but I wasn't sure. I meant to ask you. They were lovely." "I am going to give you a card of my firm," said Ted, reaching into his pocket. "So that you will know where I am, in case you need any help with your Arrow.... You--you--don't mind?" "I'll be very thankful to have it," she reassured him. "You know, Ted, I have an awful lot of confidence in you!" And, with a final pressure of her hand, he turned to go, and she, looking about, saw Ralph Clavering walking towards her. "What's the big idea?" he asked her, when he reached her side, and Ted had disappeared. "Holding hands with Red?" His tone was irritable. "I was just saying good-by," she explained. "He's leaving tomorrow for a job in Kansas City." "Flying?" "Naturally." "Well, we'll be flying away soon, too," he added, more cheerfully. "I had a letter from Kit this morning, and she wants us surely at Green Falls for July thirty-first. It's the Midsummer Ball, and the big event of the season--socially. She told me to tell you and Miss Carlton to be sure not to miss it." "Oh, I'll be ready by Saturday," replied Linda. "Aunt Emily has been doing all the shopping, so I hardly need to do anything.... By the way, did Kit give you any gossip about the crowd?" "Let me see," muttered Ralph, as he took her arm possessively while they walked across the field, in the hope that Ted Mackay would see them. "She did have quite a bit to say--but it was mostly about Maurry." "Maurice Stetson? What's he been doing?" "Rushing Kit, evidently. And she seems to like it.... And she said Harry Smith has a life-guard's job, and is spending all his spare time with Lou." "I haven't heard from Lou in ages," remarked Linda. "But I guess it's partly my fault. I haven't had time to answer her letters." Then, changing the subject, as they came out to the road where Linda's car was parked, "You're going to fly up with me in the 'Pursuit,' aren't you, Ralph?" "Surest thing! We'll fly everywhere together--from now on. Just like Mr. and Mrs. Lindy!" "Only we won't!" she answered abruptly, laughing at him. As they stepped up to the roadster, they almost fell over a man who came out from a shabby coupé in front of theirs. He had evidently been leaning over, fixing something. "Want any help?" asked Ralph, though Linda knew he hadn't the slightest idea of giving any. "No, thanks," muttered the man, without looking up. "Engine trouble." "Engine trouble!" repeated Linda, sympathetically. Then, turning to Ralph. "Suppose something like that should happen to us--on the way to Green Falls!" "Well, it won't!" replied Ralph reassuringly. "The motor's just about perfect in that little plane of yours! No--but I tell you what, Linda, you better bring your gun along. That crazy sister of mine expects me to bring her pearls up for the Midsummer Ball!" "Real pearls--at a summer resort!" cried Linda, as she slipped the key into her lock, and started her engine. "She's taking an awful chance!" "That's what I think. But of course they're insured. And so long as she's succeeded in getting Dad's permission, it's not my business to stop her.... By the way, it's a fancy-dress affair. What sort of costume will you wear?" "I don't know. I guess I'll leave it to Aunt Emily." But when she got back home, she forgot all about pearls and dresses and mid-summer balls. Nothing mattered to her, but the glorious fact that at last she was a real flyer! CHAPTER VII _The Flight to Green Falls_ The first thing that Linda thought of when she opened her eyes the following morning was the glorious fact that she was now a real pilot. She could take her plane anywhere--to Green Falls, to her father's ranch in Texas, wherever she wanted to go--and nobody could stop her. The freedom of the world and of the skies was hers. But she had no intention of taking it any farther than the Spring City Flying School that day. She would spend the morning there, watching one of the licensed mechanics give it a thorough inspection, in readiness for the flight to Green Falls on the following day. She wished that it might be Ted Mackay who would go over the plane. She had such confidence in his knowledge, his thoroughness. Besides, it would be fun to spend the morning with him, asking him questions, and talking things over. Naturally, that was impossible. When Linda reached the field she found that Ted already had gone, and a number of changes had been made. H. B. Taylor was now first-ranking instructor, and the young man who had been acting as office boy, or orderly, or whatever they chose to call him, had passed his course and was promoted to the rank of instructor. Another man took his place--an older man this time, and Linda thought probably it was the poor fellow who had been having engine trouble with his shabby coupé the preceding day. Everything seemed different, and Linda was somehow glad that she was leaving. The place would never be the same to her without Ted Mackay. About noon she received the mechanic's O.K. upon her plane, and flew home in time for lunch. Her aunt had finished packing, and was as excited as a child about going to Green Falls, and again taking up their customary social life among their friends. "I have bought a new flying suit for you, dear," she said to her niece, as the girl entered the library. "Unwrap it and see how you like it." Linda eagerly unfastened the strings and lifted out a pair of white flannel knickers, with a jaunty blue sweater and helmet of knitted silk, just the color of her eyes. The whole costume was charming, and a lovely change from the dark riding breeches she had been using for flying. "It's perfect, Aunt Emily!" she cried, realizing for the first time that she had never cared for what she was now wearing. "And it was so sweet of you to think of getting it for me!" "I never could see why girls have to look masculine," replied her aunt. "Of course I can understand that skirts are impractical, but they make these suits so pretty now-a-days. And I want you to look nice the very first minute you arrive at Green Falls. First impressions are always so important and there is sure to be a crowd there to greet you." Linda was only too delighted to wear it the next day, which dawned clear and warm for her flight. Miss Carlton left early in the morning, by train, so that she would be at Green Falls in plenty of time to welcome the flyers. Ralph came over for Linda about half-past nine. Carrying their lunch, the young people started on their first real adventure in the air. The young man, too, wore a new suit of spotless white flannel, and, as they walked, tall and slender and straight, they made perhaps the best-looking pair of flyers in America. But neither was conscious of that; both were too much excited about their first trip in the air to give even a passing thought to their appearances. "Are you sure that you have the precious necklace?" asked Linda, as they made their way across the field in back of her house. "Yes, indeed," answered Ralph. "I went to the safe-deposit vault this morning to get it. That was one reason why I didn't want to start early. I had to wait for the bank to open." "Kit would be horribly disappointed if we didn't bring it," returned Linda. "I honestly think she loves those pearls as much as I do my 'Pursuit'!" "Queer taste," remarked the boy. "If I had them, I'd sell them and buy a biplane!" "Of course you would," said Linda approvingly. "Even if you do insist upon talking baby-talk!" "Baby-talk?" "Certainly. 'Buy a biplane'--sounds like 'Bye, Bye, Baby,' doesn't it?" Ralph smiled, but they both forgot immediately what they were saying, for they were beside the plane now, ready to start on their flight. Linda was not at all nervous about the journey, only thrilled and happy. She climbed into the cockpit with the same assurance that she entered her car, and her take-off was just as easy, just as natural. It seemed now as if she piloted the biplane by instinct; with the sureness of a bird it rose into the air to a gradual height of fifteen hundred feet. For she had been cautioned again and again that there was safety in height. They flew along without any attempt at conversation, for it was difficult to hear above the roar of the motor. But Linda was so happy that she hummed softly to herself, and most of the time she was smiling. Ralph, with a map in his lap, kept a close watch on the compass. For some time they did not see any other planes in the sky, and then at last one came into view. As it drew closer, it occurred to Linda to wonder whether she was being followed. "Who do you suppose that is?" shouted Ralph, above the noise of the motor. "I think it's somebody from our school--maybe Taylor," she replied. "Perhaps Dad ordered them to follow us--for safety--or maybe it was Ted Mackay's idea." As the plane drifted off to one side, they thought no more about the matter. But it was noon now; the sun stood high overhead, and both of the young people were astonished to find how hungry they were. "I want to try a couple of stunts before we eat," Linda told Ralph. "You're game, aren't you?" "Surest thing!" replied the boy, with delight. "We've got plenty of height--and a spectator too, for that matter." The other plane had just come back into sight. Linda's eyes were shining with excitement, yet inside she was perfectly cool. Hadn't she made inside loops and Immelman turns often at school, and didn't she know exactly what to do? With perfect poise, she swung the plane into a loop, and completed it without any difficulty. Pleased with her success, she tried it again and again. "You must think you're Laura Ingalls!" shouted Ralph, catching his breath. "Trying to beat her record?" "Hardly," smiled Linda, for the famous aviatrix he mentioned held the record at that time with nine hundred and eighty consecutive inside loops, at a speed of four and a half loops a minute. The plane was righted now, but Linda suddenly noticed that Ralph was acting awfully queer, hanging over the side, and hunting frantically in the pockets of the sweater which he had put over the seat. She believed he must be ill; certainly his face was ghastly white. "Ralph!" she cried, fearfully. "What's the matter?" "I've lost the necklace!" he screamed in terror. "Must have fallen out of my pocket!" "Oh!" wailed Linda, aghast at the meaning of his words. "Are you sure?" "Positive!" "Then we'll land immediately. We're over a field, so we ought to be able to find it. Now--keep your eye on the compass!" Gradually, and with easy skill, she turned the biplane into the wind and descended, finally coming down into a large flat field, evidently a pasture ground for some horses. Ralph was the first to jump out. "We went a little south to land," he said, "so it must have dropped up there." "Was it in a box?" questioned Linda. "Yes, fortunately. A white velvet box, inside a larger pasteboard one, with three rubber bands around it. That ought to make it easier to find." Linda, however, had her doubts; the field was so big! Besides, what proof had Ralph that he had lost it at that particular minute--when she was making her loops. She remembered that he had taken off his sweater an hour ago, when he felt too warm, and had carelessly hung it over the side, forgetful of the precious box in its pocket. That was the trouble with being so rich! Many times she had noticed how heedless both Kitty and Ralph were about valuables. They walked silently across the field, their eyes on the ground, their minds filled with remorse. Ten minutes passed, and they had not found it. "Let's go back and eat our lunch," suggested Ralph, consulting his watch. "It's almost one o'clock, and we'll feel better if we eat. After all, we have plenty of time--Green Falls is only about twenty miles farther. We could search all afternoon, if necessary." "Yes, only Aunt Emily would nearly die of anxiety. She'd be sure we had been killed, if we didn't arrive before supper." They went back to the plane and took out the dainty lunch which Miss Carlton's cook had packed that morning for them. But, hungry though they were, the meal was not the pleasant picnic they had been hoping for. Both were too unhappy to enjoy what they were eating. Presently the noise of a motor overhead attracted their attention, and, looking up, they saw a plane in descent. When it was low enough to identify, they knew that it was the one that had been following them. "It's the 'Waco' from our school!" cried Linda. "I recognize it now. He must think we're in trouble. I wonder who's piloting?" The plane made a rather poor landing at the far end of the field, perhaps half a mile away. They could distinguish a man getting out of the cockpit, but of course at that distance they could not identify him. However, he seemed to be coming slowly towards them. As he advanced nearer and nearer Linda noticed that he wore an ordinary suit of clothing--not a flyer's uniform, and he kept his hand in his pocket. But she still did not recognize him--unless he was that new man the school had taken on the preceding day. Once he stooped over, as if he were picking something up, and Linda's heart beat wildly with hope. Could it be that he had found the necklace? Apparently, though, it was only a plant that he had pulled up by the roots, for when he straightened himself, he seemed to be examining its leaves. "In trouble?" he shouted, as soon as he was within hearing distance. Ralph jumped up and ran towards him, shaking his head in the negative. "No trouble with the plane," he replied. "But we've lost a little box--with a necklace in it. You haven't seen it, have you?" "Why, yes," answered the man slowly, "I did pick up a box." And he put his other hand in his pocket, and drew out the very article. Fortunately it had not been broken; even the rubber bands were still tightly around it. He handed it to Ralph. "Oh, thank you a thousand times!" cried Linda, too relieved to believe her eyes. "The necklace was a graduation present to this man's sister, and she values it very highly!" "Well, if that's all, I'll be off," said the man, as he watched Ralph put the box into his pocket. "No, I must reward you," insisted the boy, taking out a twenty-dollar bill. "And by the way, you're from the Spring City Flying School, aren't you? We recognized the plane." The other nodded, and seemed in a hurry to be off. Already he was twenty feet away. "It was awfully nice of you to follow us, and look after us," called Linda, "but really we don't need protection. We're getting along finely!" But the man was running now, and could hardly have heard what Linda was saying. In a couple of minutes they heard the motor start, and with a clumsy take-off, the plane ascended. "A queer cuss," remarked Ralph. "And I can't see that he's much of a flyer. You and I are both better--by a long shot.... But anyhow, we've got the necklace!" He put his arms around Linda and hugged her, and she was too happy to protest. What a miracle it was to have found it! "That will teach me a lesson," said Ralph, as he helped Linda gather up the lunch. "I'm going to be more careful now. I've put the necklace in my most inside pocket!" "And I'm not going in for any more acrobatics for a while," added Linda. They climbed into the cockpit, and started the motor without wasting any more time. Half an hour later they made a graceful landing at Green Falls' Airport, for a group of a hundred spectators to witness and admire. CHAPTER VIII _The Robbery_ "Let's don't say anything about our little mishap," whispered Linda, as the flying couple got out of their plane. "For one thing, I'd just as soon not boast about stunts in front of Aunt Emily. She would be worried all the more." "And I'm not any too proud of the fact that I was so careless about a valuable necklace," returned Ralph. "So we'll keep it our secret." There was no time for further words. Everybody rushed at them, shouting joyous welcomes. Louise was the first to kiss Linda--then all the others, and finally her aunt. "Thank Heaven you're safe!" cried the latter. "I couldn't eat a bite of lunch, I was so uneasy." "Of course we're safe," assured Ralph. "And maybe if we'd come by motor, we should have had an accident. There was a big smash-up--two automobiles--outside of Spring City this morning." "Isn't the air up here wonderful!" exclaimed Miss Carlton. "After that stuffy town of ours!" "I think the _airport_ is wonderful," replied Linda, "for so small a place. But as for the air--well, don't forget Auntie dear, that Ralph and I have been having marvelous air--up in the skies!" "Hope you didn't give him the air," remarked Maurice Stetson, solemnly. Kitty Clavering gave the young man a withering look, and inquired of the flyers when they might hope for rides. "Oh, I don't mean today," she added, "for I know you must both be nearly dead." "Not a bit of it!" denied Linda, who still looked as fresh as a flower in her becoming blue and white suit. "But it's supposed to be wise to have a mechanic go over your plane each time you fly. Just a precaution, you see." "A very good rule to follow," commented Miss Carlton. "Now everybody get into their cars, and we'll go over to our bungalow for some ginger-ale and sandwiches." "Just a moment, please!" interrupted a voice at her elbow, and everyone turned to see a newspaper man with a camera. "Pictures, please!" Linda and Ralph smilingly agreed, and their friends stepped aside. Then they all piled into the three machines that were waiting for them; while the strangers who had been watching commented on the beautiful biplane, and the handsome couple who had been flying it, and wondered whether they were married. "Did you bring my necklace, Ralph?" asked Kitty Clavering, as he got into her roadster with her and Maurice. "Surest thing!" he replied, as if nothing at all had happened on the way. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the pasteboard box, with the French jeweler's name engraved on the lid. "Thanks a lot," she replied. "Maurry, you take care of it till we get home, so long as you're sitting in the middle. Mind you don't lose it! I think as much of that as Linda does of her plane." "But not as much of it as you do of me?" asked the youth, flippantly. "A thousand times more! Like the old question people always ask married men: 'If your mother and your wife were drowning, which one would you save?' Well, if you and the necklace were drowning, I'd go after my necklace!" "Righto. Necklaces, no matter how valuable, have never been known to swim. I do." It was only a five minute ride from the airport to Miss Carlton's bungalow, so Kitty waited until they had all gone inside the pleasant living-room to open her box, and gaze at her beloved treasure once more. "I'm dying to see it again," she said, as she took the box from Maurice's hand. "If I had my way, I wouldn't keep it in a safe-deposit vault. I like it where I can look at it." She took off the rubber bands and opened the box, displaying the velvet case inside. But when she unfastened the clasp, her expression of delight changed abruptly to one of horror. The case was empty! Her exclamation of distress was pitiful to hear. Her dearest possession--gone! "Ralph!" she cried with torturing accusation. "Ralph! Are you teasing me?" Her brother's face became ghastly white. "What--what's wrong--Kit?" he stammered. "My necklace! Oh, what has happened?" She burst out crying. Everybody crowded around and gazed in consternation at the empty box, looking questioningly at Ralph, to see whether it could possibly be intended as a joke. But he did not need to tell them of his innocence; he looked almost as stricken as his sister. He knew now that it had been stolen by the man who pretended to be a pilot! And he had actually made twenty dollars out of Ralph besides, for the transaction! What fools they had been, never to open the box! "It's all my fault!" cried Linda, contritely. "My silly, foolish, childishness, for wanting to show off!" Nobody of course had any idea what she was talking about--nobody except Ralph. "No! No! It was mine!" he protested. "My carelessness!" "Then you both knew!" exclaimed Kitty, raising her head, which she had buried on Linda's shoulder while she sobbed. "Oh, how cruel, not to prepare me!" "On my honor, we didn't!" averred Ralph, and from the look on his face, his sister knew that he was telling the truth. "Explain what you meant, then," she commanded. "Let me tell you," put in Linda. "But sit down, Kit dear. You're liable to faint.... You see, we were robbed, and too foolish to suspect it. We even paid the robber twenty dollars for doing the job." "So you said," Kitty remarked, impatiently. "Do you mean that you saw somebody take it--right under your eyes?" She had dropped down on the couch, and her pale little face was pitiful to see. The tears still ran down her cheeks, washing tiny rivers through the powder. Luckily she was not a girl who used rouge, or she would have looked ridiculous. As it was, she gave the appearance of a very unhappy child. "Exactly!" explained Linda. "Or rather, we might have, if we had had sense enough to realize it. I wanted to try a couple of loops, and we started quite high, but by the time we had finished, we were over an open field. It was then that Ralph suddenly realized that the box had dropped out of his pocket when the plane was on its side. So we decided to land, and search the field." "And somebody had already picked it up?" demanded Dot, excitedly. "No. Another airplane--I had noticed it before--landed soon after we came down. The pilot walked over and asked us if we were in trouble." "And you stupids told him all about the fifty-thousand-dollar necklace!" cried Louise, in disgust. "No, we didn't! We were smart enough to know that wouldn't be wise. We thought we knew him, though--we had seen him at the Spring City Flying School. But we did tell him we had lost a necklace, and he said he had picked something up. As a matter of fact, we had noticed him stoop over." "And you took it and thanked him, and never looked inside!" cried Kitty. "I'm afraid you're right," admitted Ralph. "We thought he was a friend, following us for our protection, at the orders of the school." "Well, then, why was he following you?" demanded Kitty, incredulously. "He must have overheard us talking about the necklace," answered Linda slowly, for she was trying to think the thing out. "Yes--that is what I believe he was doing all the time, Ralph. Now I remember--the day we got our licenses!" "You mean you went around the school shouting the news that you were carrying pearls to Green Falls in an airplane?" asked the unhappy girl. "Of course not! Only the men at the bank--the safe-deposit vault--really knew about it. And of course they're absolutely trustworthy! Except maybe this one man--who was fixing his car outside the aviation field. We never thought he was listening--why we couldn't even see him!" "Children," interrupted Miss Carlton, who had been patiently waiting to serve the refreshments, "wouldn't you all feel better if you ate something? Then we can discuss what are the best steps to take to capture the thief." They agreed, but Linda and Ralph and Kitty were all extremely nervous; they hated to lose any time. Ralph decided to telephone to a lawyer at once in Spring City, to put expert detectives on the job, and to get in touch with the Flying School. "Lucky the necklace was insured," remarked Maurice Stetson, as he drank his ginger-ale. "Yes, but Dad will never get me another!" moaned Kitty, disconsolately. "He'll say I was careless, and invest the insurance in bonds, to be kept in trust till I'm older--or something like that." She started to cry afresh. "And I only wore the necklace twice--at graduation and at the class dance!" Linda watched her sorrow with more than sympathy--with remorse. It was her fault, she was sure! Of course she couldn't imagine caring so much for a pearl necklace, when such lovely imitations were made, but it wasn't her place to judge. Kitty probably wouldn't understand why she loved her Arrow so much. Slowly, painfully, she came to her decision. She rose and went over to the couch where Kitty was sitting, and crowded in between the latter and Dot. "It's my fault, Kit," she said, "and of course I can't pay for it--but I can help. I'm--I'm--going to sell my airplane, and--give you the money. Then you can start buying a new one--a couple of pearls at a time." Kitty squeezed her hand affectionately. "You're a dear, Linda, but I couldn't possibly let you do that. Besides, it was really Ralph's fault." "Of course it was!" put in the young man, returning from making his telephone call. "But we're going to catch that thief!" he announced, with conviction. "I've just been talking with Lieutenant Kingsberry at the field, and he says that fellow didn't even have a license, that they only took him on temporarily, as sort of errand boy. And he deliberately stole that plane!" "I thought he was about the poorest pilot I ever saw!" cried Linda, jumping up excitedly at this piece of news. "He'll probably crash, sooner or later.... Ralph!" Her eyes were shining with inspiration.... "Let's go out after him--ourselves!" "Lieutenant Kingsberry is broadcasting the news all over--to all the airports," replied the young man. "Everybody will be watching for him. Do you think there would be any use in our going?" "Yes! Yes! We might be just the ones to spot him! Oh, come on!" "But haven't you had enough flying for today, Linda?" inquired Miss Carlton, anxiously. "We won't go far, Auntie dear," answered the girl. "Just around to the nearest airports, and see if anybody has any information. The practice of landing and taking-off again will be good for us both.... And you needn't worry one bit!... Now, who'll drive us over to our 'Pursuit'?" "'Pursuit' is right," remarked Maurice. "Your plane has the right name, Linda!" Louise immediately offered her services, and in less than five minutes the young pilots had washed their faces and were ready to start. Ten minutes later they climbed into the cockpit on the runway of the airport, and, this time with Ralph at the controls, they took off for the nearest airport. Ralph was delighted to be piloting a plane again, and in his enthusiasm he almost forgot the seriousness of his mission. A king of the air, he thought, and his lips were smiling. But Linda could not forget so easily. Like most young men, he loved going fast, and as soon as he was high enough, he let the plane out to her maximum speed. Over the clouds they sailed, at a rate of seventy miles an hour, yet they did not seem to be traveling fast. Linda had no sense of danger, yet it was the first flight she had ever made that she did not thoroughly enjoy, for, unlike Ralph, she could not for one moment forget Kitty's tragedy. Twenty minutes, however, was all that was needed to reach their first port, and Ralph, not quite so skilled or so careful as Linda, made, nevertheless a pretty landing. It was a large field, evidently designed for amateur sport flyers, and there were a number of licensed mechanics in readiness to greet new arrivals. Ralph lost no time in telling his story to the first man who came forward. Had they any information so far? he inquired. "Only of a wreck about fifteen miles away," replied the latter. "That may be your man--if, as you say, he is not an experienced pilot." "Can you give us directions?" put in Linda excitedly. "Certainly," replied the other, taking a map from his pocket, and indicating the position of the wreck. "We've already sent a doctor and a nurse--and telephoned for an ambulance." Marking the spot, he handed the map to Ralph. Jumping into the plane at once, Linda took control, for she felt surer of herself than of her companion in an emergency. The boy was so absent-minded, so likely to forget things in his excitement. Their destination was a field again, but not a large one, this time, and already a small crowd, gathered from passing automobiles, had collected. Here landing was not so easy as in the airports designed for that very purpose. But the girl knew just what she was doing, and she handled the situation with a dexterity that would have brought credit to a far more experienced pilot. Over against an embankment, its wings smashed to pieces, a plane was lying on its side, mutely testifying to the truth of the mechanic's statement. "There's the wreck!" cried Ralph, as he and Linda stepped on the ground. "Do you think it's the Waco?" Grabbing her companion's arm, Linda ran forward eagerly. When they were within fifty yards of it, she knew that it was the very plane they were seeking. "It is! Oh, Ralph! Even the license number--so I'm sure! Remember? Look! Do you suppose that man was killed?" "Would serve him right!" muttered the boy, resentfully. "Stealing a necklace, and crashing a plane that wasn't his! But let's go over and have a peep at him--there's the ambulance." The crowd, which was still gathering, although the field was in an isolated spot, was being held back by a policeman, for the ambulance was ready to start. Ralph dashed forward, anxious to get a look at the thief before it departed. "Not that we could claim the necklace now," he explained to Linda, whose arm he was holding, "for we haven't any proofs of our ownership. But at least we could warn the cop to look out for it." "Back! Back!" shouted the officer, for the driver was tooting his horn. "Oh, please wait a minute!" begged Linda. "Please let me see the man who is inside!" The policeman regarded the girl doubtfully, but she was so eager in her pleading that he thought perhaps she had a good reason. Perhaps the man inside the ambulance meant something to her; he decided to grant her request. "Take a look, miss," he agreed. "But be quick about it." Stepping ahead of Ralph, Linda climbed upon the back step of the car, and peered anxiously into it, past the white-clad interne, to the unconscious figure on the stretcher. Suddenly she started violently, and clung to the door of the ambulance for support. It was incredible, impossible! Her knees shook, her hands fell to her side, and she swayed backward in a faint. In an instant Ralph's arms were around her; he carried her out of the crowd. The unconscious man in the ambulance was none other than Ted Mackay! CHAPTER IX _Suspicions_ Someone from the crowd handed Ralph a cup filled with water, and before they had gone half a dozen steps, Linda had recovered consciousness. She dropped down to the ground and stared questioningly about her. "What was it, my dear?" asked Ralph gently, as he held the water to her lips. "Was the man hurt so horribly?" "No--it wasn't that," replied Linda slowly, remembering all that had happened. "It was just--oh, Ralph! I hate to tell you!" "Please tell me, Linda," he begged. She looked about her for a moment. The ambulance had gone, and the crowd, seeing that the girl was all right, began to withdraw, some to examine the shattered plane, others to go back to their cars parked along the roadside. There was nobody listening now, so she decided to answer Ralph's question. "It wasn't our thief at all," she said. "It was--Ted Mackay." "Ted Mackay?" he repeated, as if he could not believe his ears. "Yes." "Then how do you explain it? That couldn't have been Mackay we met on that field--Mackay disguised, or anything?" "No. He wasn't tall enough. And he had black hair. Oh, Ralph, I'm sure of that!" "Then how do you explain it?" "I don't explain it," she said weakly. He said nothing more, but he knew that she was not only terribly disappointed in not being able to trace the necklace, but that she was entertaining grave doubts about Mackay's part in the whole miserable affair. Were he and this thief in partnership, playing a wicked game, and had Ted hired the man because he would not let them know his part in the robbery? But there was no use talking about that now, for Ralph realized that Linda was almost ready to collapse. Drawing her arm through his, he led her silently back to the Pursuit, and put her into the cockpit, indicating that he would pilot them back to Green Falls. Not a word did she utter during the entire flight homeward; she drooped listlessly back in her seat, with an expression of disappointment and despair on her face. How she wished that she had not come! No one was waiting for them at the airport, so they took a taxi to Miss Carlton's bungalow. They found the latter on the porch, with only Kitty and Maurice beside her. "Any news?" demanded the girl, jumping out of the hammock, and rushing down the steps before the taxi had been stopped. "Some news, yes," replied Linda, while Ralph paid the driver. "But I'm afraid it doesn't mean much. Ralph will tell you all about it." But the young man was not willing to tell his story until he had asked Miss Carlton to take care of Linda. "She fainted at the field," he explained. "The hot sun and the crowd, I expect." He did not want to speak of Ted Mackay before her, while she felt so ill. "So if you'll take Linda up to her room, Miss Carlton, I'll tell Kitty what I know--and tell you later." The words aroused Linda's aunt immediately, and she lost interest in the necklace temporarily. What were a few pearls, anyway, in comparison to her precious girl? She hurried her off to bed, and Ralph turned to Kitty and Maurice. "You see it was this way," he began, and Kitty stamped her foot in exasperation. "Don't be so slow, Ralph!" she commanded. "Why, here comes Linda's father!" interrupted Maurice, as another taxi stopped at the bungalow. "What do you think of that?" Kitty looked vexed. Another interruption! But Ralph was already on his feet, greeting him, and explaining the absence of Linda and her aunt. "And I was just going to tell Kitty about our pursuit of the thief," he added, "so if you care to hear the story, Mr. Carlton, perhaps you will sit here with us?" The older man was glad to comply with the request. Naturally, anything that was connected with Linda's first flights was of paramount interest to him. So, in spite of Kitty's impatience, her brother began the story with the day that he and Linda received their licenses, and ended it with the latter's identification of Ted Mackay, unconscious on the stretcher in the ambulance. "Mackay!" repeated Mr. Carlton, shaking his head knowingly. "So he was the brains of the crime!" "I'm afraid so, sir. And I'm afraid that's what made Linda faint." "Of course it is! She believed in that fellow. But I warned her not to trust him. You see his father worked for me out in Texas and he's an unprincipled fellow. Stole from everybody--not only myself, but even the rest of the help. And got into a mix-up with some Mexicans, and turned them against me.... Yes, it must run in the family. The father may even be in on this necklace robbery. I don't know where he is now." "That explains a good deal," mused Ralph, who had been listening thoughtfully. "I never did like Ted Mackay." He would not admit even to himself that jealousy was the main reason for this dislike. "Besides, Linda probably told him about the Midsummer Ball, and our carrying Kit's necklace to Green Falls. I thought it was funny if that other chap caught on so quickly." "Did Linda see much of Mackay while she was at the school?" her father asked, sharply. "I can't say that, although I wasn't always with her. Towards the end of our time we did so much solo flying, that when I was up in the air I didn't know where she was, although she was usually up too--in another plane. But one time I did find her in a pretty intimate conversation--and that was right before we left. She probably told him then." "Too bad! Too bad!" muttered Mr. Carlton, regretfully. He was wishing now that he had sent Linda to some other flying school. At this moment, Miss Carlton, having left Linda asleep in her room, came out on the porch to see her young guests. She showed no surprise at finding her brother; for fifteen years she had been accustomed to having him drop in when least expected, without a moment's notice. "Well, Tom," was all that she said, as she presented her cheek for his brotherly kiss. "I suppose these children have told you the news." "Yes, and if you don't mind, Emily, I think I'll drive over with them to see Mr. Clavering," he added, for the young people had all risen, and were showing signs of departure. "I'd like to have a talk with him--at least if you'll excuse me." "Certainly," replied his sister. "And will you be back in time for dinner?" "I'll come home in half an hour," stated her brother, laughing, for he always teased her about her insistence upon his promptness. It was natural that he should want to meet Kitty's parents, that he might at least offer to do his part in trying to recover or make good the girl's loss. But Mr. Clavering seemed to take the matter almost lightly. "Of course it's too bad," he said, "but as long as it is only a theft, and not an injury to one of the children, I think it's foolish to worry. And, after all, we may get insurance." "_May_ get insurance?" repeated Mr. Carlton, frowning. "Why shouldn't you get it? I thought that was what insurance was for!" "I'm afraid ordinary insurance will not cover travel by air," explained the other man. At these words his daughter burst into tears. Her last hope was gone! "I never thought of that," said Mr. Carlton, gravely. "That makes a difference.... Well, Mr. Clavering, in that case, I guess we had better divide the obligation. I'll raise my twenty-five thousand--the necklace was worth fifty, I understand--as soon as I can." "You'll do nothing of the sort!" protested the other, firmly. "Your daughter was not the least bit at fault. It was natural for her to try her stunts--she wouldn't be human if she didn't! I put the whole blame upon Ralph." "No! No----" "Yes, yes! I won't hear anything else. But we'll wait and give the detectives time. If we have caught the leader, as you and Ralph think, it ought to be an easy matter to locate the accomplice. At least, provided Mackay doesn't die." "That's true!" exclaimed Ralph. "I never thought of that. We better get over to the hospital to see him as soon as possible." "How about tomorrow morning?" suggested Mr. Carlton. "I'd like to go with you, my boy--I've had some experience in dealing with criminals, ever since the episode with Mackay's father." "I'll be delighted to have you," replied Ralph. "And in the meantime, I'll call my detective and put him on the other man's trail." So while Linda slept peacefully at home, her father and her best boy friend made plans to verify their suspicions against Ted Mackay, lying helpless in the hospital, twenty-five miles from Green Falls. CHAPTER X _In the Hospital_ When Ted Mackay opened his eyes at the hospital the following morning, he did not know where he was. Although he had regained consciousness when the orderlies brought him in from the ambulance the day before, it had not lasted long. An anesthetic was immediately administered, for it was necessary to cut into his arm, and later a drug was given to make him sleep. So, for the moment, he could not understand why he was here--in a ward, undoubtedly, judging from the long row of cots against the wall. A dull aching pain in his arm and shoulder made him glance suspiciously at his left side. They were bandaged, of course. And then suddenly he remembered. He had been sent out with a new plane, from his company in Kansas City, to make delivery to a purchaser in Buffalo. Just before he left, a radio message had been received from the Spring City Flying School, asking all pilots and mechanics to look out for a stolen Waco. Naturally, Ted remembered the plane. He had been flying quite low, to make certain tests with the plane he was delivering, over the fields beyond Green Falls, when he suddenly noticed a wreck. Complying with the regulations of the Department of Commerce, he descended in order to report the casualty and to render assistance, if possible. Smashed as it was, he recognized it immediately as the old Waco, which he had so often piloted at Spring City. He looked about for the pilot, dreading to find his shattered body in the cockpit. He had been leaning over, peering into the bushes, when a gun went off at his back, hitting him on the left arm, near the shoulder. Reeling about sharply, he just had time to see a shabbily dressed man run for the new plane. And then everything went black; he couldn't recall what happened, or how he got to the hospital. "The company's new plane!" he suddenly exclaimed aloud, attempting to sit up in his cot. "It's gone!" He looked about helplessly for the nurse, for anybody, to verify his fears. But nobody came, although down the hall he could hear footsteps of people busy on their early morning duties. Warned by the pain in his shoulder, he sank back on his pillow to wait, and as he lay there quietly, he went back over the events of the past week that had been so eventful for him. He thought of Linda Carlton, of the pride and joy in her beautiful eyes when she had won her license. And of her farewell! A farewell that might easily be forever! Yet through no fault of his own, merely because his father had disgraced himself. It had always been like that with Ted; it seemed as if his father had tried to spoil his whole life. Just when the boy was ready to enter High School, Mr. Mackay had been dismissed from his job for stealing from the cash-drawer of the store where he was employed. The judge had let him off, for he knew what a splendid woman Mrs. Mackay was, and Ted and his older sister had gone to work to pay the debt. It was hard sledding after that; Mr. Mackay wandered off, working now in one place and now in another, and Ted put off his hopes of study for a while. Then, just as the family were getting ahead, and Ted had started in at an aviation school, the man came back for more money. The last they heard of him was a year ago, when he had written that he had a real job on a ranch in Texas. But evidently he had done something wrong there, or Mr. Carlton would not be so bitter against his son. Ted's shoulder was hurting him badly, and his thoughts were not pleasant, so he uttered a weary sigh. "Well! Well!" exclaimed a cheery voice at the door. "Is the world as sad as all that?" Ted's mouth relaxed into a smile, the smile that had won him so many friends at the Spring City Flying School. He had not heard the nurse, a pretty probationer, who just entered the ward. "How's the shoulder this morning?" she asked him brightly. "You're looking better, Mr. Mackay." "I'm all right," replied Ted, wondering how she knew his name. "But can you give me any news of my plane?" "Your plane was wrecked, wasn't it?" she inquired. "No--I hope not! That was the other fellow's plane. The fellow that shot me." "Oh, I see. Then there were two planes?" "Certainly. Didn't you know?... You seem to know my name----" "There were some letters in your pocket--don't you remember? And the address of a company in Kansas City.... But I don't think anybody realizes that there were _two_ planes--that you didn't wreck yours." "Oh, but I wouldn't wreck a plane in that way!" he protested. "I think too much of them!" His face lighted up with the enthusiasm he always showed when he talked about flying. "But I've got to get to a telephone!" he added. "I must notify my company immediately of the loss." "Probably your company knows all about it," she replied. "Anyway, you can't do anything now--except lie still while I take your temperature. And then eat your breakfast. After your wound is dressed--if the doctor agrees----" "But I've got to get dressed right away! I want to notify them so that they can catch that bandit!" "Yes, yes. In due time. You must be patient." "You say they didn't know about that other fellow!" he cried, excitedly. "I tell you----" He stopped suddenly, for he saw that his nurse had gone off to another cot. There was no use trying to argue with nurses, he learned, for they had to follow the rules laid down by the doctors and the hospital authorities. So, for the next two hours he did exactly as he was told, not even making an attempt to dress. For his nurse had informed him that he must stay there at least another day. He was dozing when a representative from his company called to see him. But the man urged the nurse not to disturb him, saying that he would come again the following morning. She told him what she knew of Ted's story, and of his anxiety over the stolen plane, and he promised to send out scouts in its pursuit. Ted's next two visitors were not so thoughtful of his welfare. Mr. Carlton and Ralph Clavering, who made the trip unknown to Linda, arrived about eleven o'clock, and asked that the young man be awakened at once. "I think you had better come back tomorrow, if you want to talk to Mr. Mackay," said the nurse, noticing that the two men were not any too friendly towards her patient, for they had not even inquired how he was. "He mustn't be disturbed." "Then we'll wait until he wakes up," replied Mr. Carlton, firmly. "It's very important that we speak with him as soon as possible." "You're from his company?" she asked. "No, we're not." "Just friends?" "No." "Then may I ask what reason you have for wishing to see Mr. Mackay at this particular time?" "Business. Very important business. We think he is involved in the theft of a very expensive necklace." "No!" cried the nurse, aghast. It couldn't be true! Why, she had never seen anybody with franker eyes or a more truthful, honest face than this young man with the wounded arm! There must be some mistake. "Did he act as if he wanted to get out of the hospital as quickly as possible?" asked Ralph, shrewdly. "Why, yes--but that was only natural. All men, especially young men, are impatient about staying here. Only last week, the day after a man was operated on for appendicitis, he said he had to get back to his office--he just had to! You should have heard him rave. We laughed at him." "Well, we'll sit down here in the reception room and read the magazines," announced Mr. Carlton. "And you send us word when he wakes up." There was nothing further she could do, but somehow she was against them. Already she was on Ted's side. She didn't believe he was one of those wicked gangsters you read about in the papers. Why, he was only a boy! A boy tremendously interested in aviation. She could see his eyes shine when he talked about flying, and the absolute tragedy he believed it to be because, a fine plane had been wrecked. It seemed worse to him than being shot. Poor fellow! He would get well, of course, but was this going to cripple him so he wouldn't be able to fly? About twelve o'clock, when it was time for the lunch trays to be brought in, he awakened. But the nurse had no intention of informing those two men in the waiting-room. However, they did not wait to be informed. Perhaps Mr. Carlton suspected that the nurse was against him, or perhaps it was merely that he knew that he hadn't much longer to stay--it was imperative that he return to his ranch that night. Anyway, he and Ralph strolled down the hall and found Ted eating his lunch. They walked right into the ward without asking the nurse's permission. "How d'do, Mackay," said Mr. Carlton, briefly. "How's your wound?" "Better, thank you, sir," replied Ted, smiling. He had recognized Linda's father instantly, and a feeling of joy surged through him. What a decent thing for the man to do! Probably Linda had heard of his accident, and asked him to come to inquire for him. Of course he was totally unaware of the loss of the pearls; he had no idea that the thief who had taken the two planes had done so for the sole purpose of stealing a necklace. Remembering Ralph, too, he managed to smile at him also. "You certainly managed to wreck your plane," remarked Mr. Carlton, not knowing exactly how to begin. "You're in luck that you weren't killed!" "I didn't wreck _my_ plane, sir," corrected Ted, quietly. "It was the fellow who shot me that wrecked his--or rather the school's, for he had stolen it from the Spring City Flying School, you know. Then he shot at me, and flew off in my plane." "Oh, is that so?" Mr. Carlton, raised his brows, and his eyes narrowed. He didn't believe a word of it. "And--er--how did you and this thief happen to be together?" he inquired. "I was taking a new plane to Buffalo, and flying low, making some tests, when I spotted the wreck. So I brought mine down." "You knew, then, that he had stolen Miss Clavering's pearls?" "What?" cried Ted, starting upright in bed, and then, shocked by the pain from his sudden movement, dropping back to his pillow. "You never heard of a valuable pearl necklace that this young man was carrying from Spring City to his sister, by my daughter's plane?" persisted Mr. Carlton. His tone was mocking, insulting. "On my honor, Mr. Carlton----" "Come now, Mackay," interrupted Ralph. "Why not make a clean breast of it? We know you--or this other fellow--heard Linda and me discussing it at the field, and we know you used him as an accomplice. We saw him hanging around outside----" "You are making a big mistake, Mackay," put in Mr. Carlton, "if you don't confess everything now. I'd be willing to give you another chance--if you tell us how you can get a hold of that fellow, and get the necklace back. I know you weren't brought up right--it's not exactly your fault if you don't know right from wrong----" But this was too much for Ted to bear. The man was insulting his mother! If he hadn't been Linda's father, Ted would have struck him, crippled though he was. Instead, overpowered by nervous exhaustion, he let out a terrific scream that at least stopped the abuse. "I do know right from wrong!" he cried. "My mother is the finest woman that ever lived, and she knew what to teach her children! What you say is a lie!" By this time everybody in the ward was looking and listening in breathless interest, and the head nurse, attracted by the noise, stopped in the corridor. "You men will leave at once," she commanded, from the doorway, and Mr. Carlton, who was so used to giving orders to others, found that for once he had to obey. He and Ralph picked up their hats and were gone without another word. After that, Ted was quite ill. His temperature went up, and he became delirious. The little nurse was both angry and remorseful. It was her fault, she thought, for not keeping those dreadful men out. Accusing an innocent boy like her patient! The visitors, however, went away dismayed. They hadn't proved a thing. "Unfortunately I have to leave tonight right after dinner," said Mr. Carlton, as Ralph drove him back to his sister's. "I guess we'll have to turn the whole thing over to the detectives." "Well, we'll see what Greer and his men can do," replied the other. "One good thing, Mackay can't get away from us, crippled as he is. And the other fellow is such a poor pilot that he'll crash sooner or later." "If he doesn't get out of the country first," muttered Mr. Carlton, dolefully. "What does Linda think about the affair?" inquired Ralph, for he had not seen the girl since her aunt helped her to go to bed the preceding afternoon. "I don't know. I haven't seen her. She was still asleep when I left this morning." "I imagine she believes Mackay guilty. That's what knocked her over so yesterday." "Well, she'll get over that," returned her father, briefly. And he invited Ralph to come into the house for luncheon. The young man, however, had the good taste to decline. It would be a ticklish situation at best--and besides, Linda ought to have some time to be alone with her father, if he were leaving so soon. "But tell Linda I'll be over after dinner," he added. "The bunch is planning a canoe party." CHAPTER XI _An Anxious Day for Linda_ Never in her life did Linda remember being so exhausted as she had been on the evening of her flight to Green Falls. With her Aunt Emily's help she had somehow gotten into bed, and eaten the supper of milk-toast which the maid had brought to her. Inside of an hour she was fast asleep, not to awaken until eleven o'clock the following morning, although her aunt, still a little worried about her fainting, was in and out of her room three times. It was upon the last occasion that she finally opened her eyes. "Oh, such a good sleep, Aunt Emily!" she murmured, contentedly. "Do you feel better, dear?" inquired the other. "Just fine, thanks. And hungry." "I'll have Anna bring you up some fruit, and then you can have lunch with us. Or would you rather have a regular breakfast in bed?" "Just the fruit, please, Aunt Emily," replied Linda. How kind, how thoughtful, her aunt always was! No real mother could ever be more so. "You are so good to me, Auntie!" she cried, impulsively catching the older woman's hand. "And you're always so appreciative, dear," responded her aunt, affectionately. "I don't think most young girls are like you. They just expect their parents to do everything. Older people like thanks." "I guess everybody likes to be thanked, when they deserve it...." She jumped out of bed, and slipped into a chiffon negligee that hung over the chair. "And now I'll hurry with my bath!" "Yes, dear--because your father arrived yesterday, after you had gone to bed. He'll be here for lunch, but he has to leave right after supper." "Is he downstairs now?" asked Linda, excitedly. "I don't know whether he has come in or not. He went somewhere with Ralph this morning." "With Ralph?" "Yes. Something about the theft, I believe.... Well, dear, I'll send up some raspberries--or would you rather have cantaloupe?" "Cantaloupe, I think, Aunt Emily," replied Linda, as Miss Carlton left the room. Some of the happiness with which Linda awoke seemed to vanish at her aunt's statement about her father and Ralph. She had forgotten for the moment about the necklace--that airplane accident, and the shock of finding Ted Mackay. What could it all mean? Was Ted really involved in the affair? By this time her father must know about him, since her Aunt Emily said he was with Ralph. What were they up to now? If Ted really were in league with the thief, would they put him in prison too? She hated the thought of such a thing--it did not seem possible. Surely, there must be some explanation. All of a sudden she longed fiercely to see the boy, to hear the story from his own lips. But he was in a hospital, unconscious--perhaps dying! Anna came in with the cantaloupe as Linda finished her bath, and she sat on the edge of the bed to eat it. She made a pretty picture, her soft curly hair damp from the water, her cheeks pink with color after the cold shower, her charming blue negligee wrapped about her slender figure. She looked like a lady of leisure enjoying her late breakfast as if it were a regular thing; not an aviation student who arose every morning at seven o'clock and put in a hard day's work at school. When she entered the living-room, she found her father there waiting for her. She was all in white now, white linen sports suit, and white shoes. He held out his arms invitingly, and she leaped gracefully into his lap. "Daddy dear!" "Linda!" "You didn't mind my not waking up for supper last night, did you?" she asked, after she had kissed him. "I would have been too tired to talk." "Of course not! It was the wisest thing to do. Sometimes when you force yourself to keep awake after a strain like that, you find you cannot go to sleep again. But you're rested now?" "Fresh as a freshman," she replied, laughing. "And I'm mighty proud of my little girl," he added, affectionately, "for passing your examination and flying all the way up here without any mishaps." Linda's face grew sober, and her eyelids fluttered. "But--I didn't, Daddy. You--you heard about the necklace?" "Yes. That was too bad, but I can't see that it was in any way your fault. You'd be a queer flyer if you didn't want to test your knowledge." "Then you don't really blame me?" she asked eagerly. Her father's approval had always meant so much to her. "Of course not. It was the boy's carelessness. He agrees with me, and so do his father and mother. I went over to see them last night." "Ralph hasn't heard anything more, has he?" she asked anxiously. How she longed for news of Ted! But she was afraid to mention his name to her father. Mr. Carlton, however, answered her unspoken wish. "No," he said. "We drove over to see Mackay at the hospital this morning, and tried to talk to him. But he wouldn't admit a thing. He became hysterical when we accused him, and the nurse had to ask us to go away. We're as much in the dark as ever." Linda got up quietly and went over to a chair. Somehow she wouldn't sit on her father's lap when he held such widely different opinions from her own. But Mr. Carlton did not seem to notice that she had gone. He sat perfectly still, thinking. "You really believe Ted--Mr. Mackay--had a part in the horrible thing?" she asked, dismally. "I don't think there is a doubt of it." "But how do you explain the fact that he was shot? Surely, if he and this thief were working together, one wouldn't shoot the other!" Her father shook his head, and smiled indulgently. What a child she was! What did she know about the wickedness of criminals? "I'm sorry to tell you, dear, that in spite of that old proverb about there being honor among thieves, there isn't much. They are so utterly selfish and unprincipled that if one finds that his pal is getting the better of him, he doesn't hesitate to wound--and oftentimes kill--the other. If Mackay was making off with the necklace, and this other fellow saw that all his work had been for nothing, one could hardly blame him for shooting.... No, I'm afraid that doesn't prove a thing." Linda sighed; everything seemed hopelessly black for Ted. "Will they put him in jail?" she asked. "Whom?" "Mr. Mackay." "Of course, when he is well enough. Our detectives will see to that. We can't actually convict him till we have more evidence. But we can force him to tell what he knows about this other thief." A lump came into Linda's throat, and she felt as if she couldn't talk any more. For the time being, even her interest in her plane was gone. It had brought so much unhappiness--first to Kitty, and now to Ted Mackay. She was thankful when her aunt came into the room, to take her mind from her morbid thoughts. At the same time, Anna announced luncheon. "What are you planning to do this afternoon, dear?" inquired her Aunt Emily, as she ate her iced fruit-cup. "Because I want part of your time." "Certainly, Aunt Emily. But tell me, have you decided you would like to go up in the Pursuit?" "No, no--nothing like that. I want to live a little while longer, dear--Green Falls is so pleasant! But, seriously," she added, "I do want you to do something for me. I want you to try on your costume for the Midsummer Ball. I had to order it without asking you, dear, for of course you were too busy learning to fly, and it hadn't come when we left Spring City. But I think it is very charming--and I hope you will like it." "I'm sure I shall. But, Aunt Emily, I could have worn my flyer's suit, and saved you all that trouble." "You're going to get tired enough of that suit, attractive though it is. Besides, everybody would know you. And I like you to look especially pretty--in fluffy, feminine things. I have chosen the costume of Queen Mab for you." "Oh, that will be adorable!" cried Linda, her eyes sparkling with pleasure, for she too loved dainty things. "And may I see you when you are trying it on?" put in Mr. Carlton "Your mother once wore something like that in a fairy play--and she was very beautiful. I'd like to see whether you remind me of her." "Certainly, Daddy. I'll put it on right after lunch. And then I'll do whatever you want. Take you up for a ride, if you would like it." "I think you're too tired for that," he replied. "No--I'll wait till the next time I come. Besides, the mechanics ought to have a chance to go over your motor before you fly it again. Don't forget the promises you made to me." "I won't forget, Daddy. I'll telephone over to the airport this afternoon." "By the way, daughter, have you ever tried jumping with a parachute? Did they make you do that at school?" At his question, Miss Carlton suddenly stopped eating and gazed at the girl in terror. Surely Linda would not do such a hazardous thing as that! "Yes, Daddy," replied Linda, blushing, for she did not want to say anything about her jump with Ted Mackay. "Lieutenant Kingsberry himself was with me. Mr. Taylor didn't want to let me try it--I don't think he has much use for girls who want to fly--so I went straight to the Lieutenant. He went up with me himself." "Wasn't it a dreadful experience?" asked her aunt, with a shudder. "No--not terrible at all. I felt a little queer before the parachute opened, but after that it was delightful. Just softly floating down from the skies. I loved it." "Well, I'm glad you did it," remarked her father. "Because now you won't be afraid if you ever have to." "I am hoping I won't have to--with my Pursuit. Not that I'd be afraid, but because it would be the end of my plane. Think of just leaving it alone, to crash!" "It would be too bad, of course--but I could buy you another plane. We couldn't buy another daughter, could we, Emily?" he asked his sister. "Don't talk about it!" begged Miss Carlton, miserably. "All right," agreed Linda. "Suppose Daddy tells me what he would like to do this afternoon--after I try on the costume." "Sure you don't want to be with your young friends?" he inquired. "I'll have all the rest of the summer for them." "Then let's go for a little drive in your roadster. Out to some pretty road. And come back in time to go swimming with your crowd." "I'd love that, Daddy!" she exclaimed. Then, turning to her aunt, "But is my car here, Aunt Emily? Did Thomas bring it up all right?" It was strange indeed, that she had forgotten to ask about it. Always before she had driven it herself, while Thomas, the chauffeur took charge of her aunt's limousine. This time he had hired a friend to drive the other, and brought hers himself. "Yes, he drove it up yesterday," replied her aunt. The hours that followed would have been very pleasant for Linda, had she not felt underneath her cheeriness, a growing anxiety about Ted Mackay. After their little outing, she and her father put on their bathing-suits and joined the group at the lake. In the diving, the racing, the polo game, Mr. Carlton proved a match for the young people; indeed he was the ringleader in suggesting tricks to the more daring members of the crowd. Even Louise, who had always stood somewhat in awe of him because he was sterner than her own parents, had to admit that he was a good sport. Ralph, who had not counted upon seeing Linda until evening, was delighted to find her at the lake, and tried immediately to date her as his partner for the canoe trip of the evening. But Linda shyly refused, telling him that her aunt was one of the chaperons, and the only partner she was willing to have. She shrank from the thought of talking to Ralph about Ted, or the robbery; she decided not to see him alone. Early after supper Mr. Carlton departed in a taxi, and Linda and her aunt drove over to Louise's bungalow to join the group for the canoe trip. There were a dozen young people besides themselves, and Mr. and Mrs. Haydock, too. Six canoes had been chartered. "Canoeing will seem kind of tame after flying, I guess," remarked Dot Crowley, as the young people walked over to the lake. "By the way, how soon will you take me for a fly?" "Anybody might take you for a fly," remarked Maurice Stetson. "You buzz around so!" Linda smiled, but she answered Dot's question immediately. Maybe the latter was as keen about airplanes as she was herself! You never could tell. "In a few days," she said. "For the time being I want to hold myself and my plane in readiness to chase that thief--if we ever get the chance!" "You still worrying about those pearls?" inquired Maurice, lightly. "Naturally," answered Linda. "Well, I command you to forget it. Kitty'll soon get over it. Anybody as beautiful as Kit is, doesn't need pearls. Besides, when she marries me, I'll buy her a bigger string!" "You mean _if_, not _when_, don't you?" countered Kitty. But she was evidently in high spirits again, thanks perhaps to the young man who made no secret of this adoration. There wasn't much opportunity for conversation, however. Jim Valier had brought his mandolin, and from the moment when the canoes pushed off until they were tied at the opposite side of the lake, where the young people made a fire and toasted marshmallows, everybody sang. Linda naturally joined in with the music, but only with her lips. Her heart was still heavy with the misfortune the preceding day had brought. On the way home she made up her mind to telephone the hospital the following morning. At least she could inquire about Ted--and maybe--oh, how she hoped it would be possible--she could speak with him, and hear from his own lips the explanation of his connection with the unfortunate robbery. CHAPTER XII _The Search for the Thief_ For the first time in her life, Linda Carlton was thankful that her father was not at home. He would object to her calling Ted at the hospital, but now it was impossible to ask his permission. Nevertheless, she was trembling when she took off the receiver and gave the hospital's number. "Mr. Mackay left last night," the attendant told her, "to go to his home. He was very much better." "Oh!" exclaimed Linda, hopefully. That was good news indeed. But she wanted to learn more. "Would it be possible for me to talk to his nurse?" she inquired. "I really have something important to ask." The attendant hesitated; it was not their custom to call nurses from their duties to answer inquiries about their patients. But Linda's voice was so eager that the man decided for once to waive the rule. "If you will hold the line a minute," he said, "I will see whether she is busy. You don't know which nurse it was?" "No. Probably one of the ward nurses." Linda was forced to wait several minutes, but in the end she was rewarded. A cheerful girl's voice informed her that its owner had taken charge of Ted Mackay while he was at the hospital. "But are you a friend or an enemy of Mr. Mackay, Miss----?" she inquired, cautiously. "Carlton is my name," answered Linda. "And I am a friend." "I'm glad to hear that. Mr. Mackay is such a nice boy that it is a shame he has to have enemies.... Now, what can I do for you?" "Tell me what you know of his story," replied Linda. "You see I only know that he was shot and that his enemies are trying to connect him with a thief who stole a valuable necklace. I know it can't be true. It just can't!" She was talking rapidly, excitedly. "I knew if I could see him he could explain everything. But he's gone!" "Yes, he went home last night. To his mother's. But I can tell you the facts, for he told me the whole story. He was piloting another plane--for his company--and spotted a wreck. It proved to be this thief, who evidently wasn't hurt by the crash, and so shot Mr. Mackay and made off in his new plane. It seems perfectly simple to me. I don't see how anybody could possibly accuse Mr. Mackay, when he was actually wounded himself." "How does his company feel about it?" asked Linda. "Same as we do. He is to go back to his job in a day or two, as soon as he feels rested." "Thank goodness!" cried Linda. "Then everything is O.K. Oh, you can't know how thankful I am! And so grateful to you!" "You're entirely welcome," concluded the young nurse, pleased to have been of some help. Linda began to sing as she replaced the receiver, and she went out on the porch in search of her aunt. She just had to tell somebody about Ted's innocence, and the weight which had been taken from her heart at the nurse's reassuring words. Miss Carlton had not heard any particulars about the story; indeed she scarcely knew who Ted Mackay was. So, omitting the parachute jump, Linda began at the beginning and related everything she knew about him, since that day last April when she had met him at the Red Cross Fair, and he had promised to take her up in an airplane. "And you don't think he's wicked, just because his father is, do you, Aunt Emily?" she asked, anxiously. "No, of course not, dear. It wouldn't be fair to jump to any such conclusion as that. Every human being has a right to be judged on his own merits--not his parents'." "That's what I think," agreed Linda. "But Daddy says----" "Hello, everybody!" interrupted a gay young voice from the hedge in front of the bungalow, and, turning about, Linda saw Ralph Clavering striding up the path. "Hello!" she answered, trying to make her voice cordial. Such a handsome boy, so charming--why did he have to be so unfair to Ted? Poor Ted, who had never had one-tenth of Ralph's advantages! "I've got news!" he cried, as he took the steps two at a time, and swung into a chair. "About the necklace?" demanded Miss Carlton, immediately. "Yes. From our detectives. They have spotted a gas-station that sold a can of gasoline to a red-headed fellow who said he wanted it for an airplane." "Really, Ralph!" exclaimed Linda, scornfully. "You don't call that news, do you? There must be plenty of red-haired pilots in our part of the country." "I know. But that isn't all. This agent carried the gas over in his car to a field where the plane was waiting, and he says there was another chap in it who answered the description of our thief." "Was the plane a Waco?" questioned Linda, keenly. "The fellow wasn't sure, but when Greer described it, he thought it was." "And is that all?" Miss Carlton's tone showed disappointment. "'Is that all?'" repeated Ralph, in amazement. "Why, that's plenty!" "I don't see how that will help you to catch your thief," remarked the woman. "But it will! Greer has telephoned the hospital, and located Mackay today. If he really has gone home, as he said, and hasn't run away, he'll be put through a third degree that'll make him tell where the thief is hiding. Because he must be hiding. He couldn't go very far on the gas in that plane, and all the airports and gasoline stations have been warned to watch out for him." Linda's eyes were blazing with anger. How could Ralph be so prejudiced, so cruel? "But Ted doesn't know any more about that thief than we do!" she protested, vehemently. "I talked with his nurse this morning--and she knew all about it. Ted met that thief by accident!" "By accident is right," remarked Ralph, with a scornful smile. "But never mind, Linda--don't you worry about it any more. Let's talk about the masque ball tonight. You're going with me, aren't you?" "I certainly am not!" announced the girl, haughtily. "I wouldn't go with anybody who could be so unfair----". "Children!" interrupted Miss Carlton, distressed at their inclination to quarrel. She had been so happy about the friendship between Ralph and Linda--it was eminently right! When her niece did decide to get married--though she hoped such an event was still far off--she couldn't imagine any young man who would suit her so well as Ralph Clavering. Such family! Such social position! And plenty of money! For Miss Carlton was always afraid that sometime her brother might lose his. He was so careless about it, he spent it so recklessly upon both his sister and his daughter. And, though the older woman had enough of her own securely invested in bonds to take care of her old age, she feared for Linda. Educated as she had been at that expensive private school, she was in no way trained to earn a living. She did not dream that Linda would be only too delighted to go into aviation as if she were a boy on her own responsibility--like Ted Mackay! "If I admit I'm jealous of Redhead, and say I'm sorry," conceded Ralph, "will you forgive me and go to the dance with me tonight?" His beautiful dark eyes were pleading, and for a moment Linda almost weakened, thinking of all their experiences together, and especially that moment when they both had thought they were so happy, in regaining the box that supposedly held the necklace. But she remembered Ted, and the cruel gruelling he would be subjected to very soon, because of Ralph's suspicions, and she closed her lips tightly. "Not unless you promise to call off your detectives from Ted Mackay," she pronounced, firmly. "But I can't do that--couldn't now, even if I wanted to. It's too late." "Then I'm not going to the party with you." "But Linda, dear," put in Miss Carlton, going towards the screen door in her embarrassment at being a witness to the quarrel, "it's too late to arrange to go with anybody else. All the other girls already have their partners!" "I'll go with you, Auntie!" replied the girl, complacently. "Lots of girls go with their parents." "Very well," agreed her aunt, disappearing into the living-room, with the unpleasant thought that it was only the unpopular girls who were forced into such a situation. As soon as she had gone, Ralph came over to Linda's chair. But he was afraid to touch even her hand--she looked so aloof and determined. "Linda--after all we've been to each other----" he began. She stood up, holding her head high. "I think you'll have to excuse me, Ralph," she said. "I'm very busy." "All right," he returned, sullenly. "Have it your own way, then! I'll get Louise to go with me." "Very well. Good-by." Her tone was icy; she did not even offer to shake hands with him. Ralph turned and hurried down the steps, angry at himself for pleading so hard, angrier at her for being so cold. No girl ever thought of treating him--Ralph Clavering--like that before! The very idea! Most young ladies would be only too delighted at his invitation! And all for the sake of a penniless, dishonest, red-headed pilot! For Ralph had not yet learned that there were some things which he could not buy with his father's millions. So he strode to the nearest telephone booth, and called Louise Haydock who, although she was flattered by the invitation, did not immediately accept. She had already promised Harriman Smith, and she so informed Ralph. "Well, there isn't any law that says a girl can't go with two men, is there?" he demanded. "If she happens to be popular enough! Can't we all three go together?" "Why aren't you going with Linda?" inquired Louise, shrewdly. "We've quarreled," he admitted. "Then make it up!" she advised. "Pull yourself together, Ralph--and apologize." "I tried to, but it was no good. No, we're off!" "Then Linda hasn't any partner?" "She says she's going with her aunt," muttered Ralph. "Oh, that won't do!" exclaimed Louise. "Wait, Ralph, I'll fix everything. I'll get Harry to take Linda--he's crazy about her anyhow--and then I'll go with you." "O.K., Lou. You're the little sport!" "And fixer," added the girl, to herself, as she bade Ralph good-by, and called first Harry and then Miss Carlton. Louise's suggestion seemed like an act of Providence to the older woman; it would have been mortifying indeed to her to have Linda appear at the ball without a masculine escort, as if the girl were a mere wallflower. Harriman Smith had been most agreeable about the whole arrangement; anything Louise decided suited him, he told her. And Linda, too, was delighted with the news. She came out of her bedroom while her aunt was talking on the telephone, dressed in her flyer's suit. "Where are you going dear?" inquired Miss Carlton, in anxious surprise. "I'm going scouting," explained Linda. "I think I'll fly around--pretty low--and look for wrecks. I have a hunch that that thief has smashed his plane by now. He was such a poor pilot, you know I told you." "Well, be careful," cautioned her aunt. "But so long as you fly low, I won't worry." Linda smiled to herself. If Aunt Emily only realized how infinitely more dangerous it was to fly low than high! She found her Pursuit in perfect condition, and had it taken to the runway, where she taxied off without the least difficulty. She climbed to about fifteen hundred feet, and flew over past the hospital and the field where the Waco had been smashed. Then she carefully came lower, using her glasses to watch the ground as she flew. The country was open--there were no buildings and few trees, so she felt safe in keeping within sight of the ground. She was flying along confidently, when suddenly a long pole seemed almost on top of her. Swerving sharply upward, she just avoided striking some wires that the pole was supporting. "Oh!" she gasped. "What a lucky break! Suppose I hadn't had a foolproof plane!" For she knew that her Arrow had been designed especially for amateurs like herself. "Crazy of me to fly so near to the ground!" she exclaimed, in self-contempt. "After all the warnings I've had! I deserve a crash!" And she continued to climb upward to safety. As she flew onward, steadying her thoughts, she decided that it was senseless to try to hunt the thief with a plane. If she wanted to look for him it would be much more reasonable to use her car--or to hike. So she abandoned that project entirely. But as she continued her flight towards Green Falls, it suddenly occurred to her that she might help Ted in another way. She could establish his alibi for him--by means of his company! That red-haired man that the agent claimed he saw with the thief couldn't have been Ted, and she would take means of proving it. Then, if Ralph's detectives insisted upon throwing him into prison, there would be a way to have him released. So she flew back to the airport, confident that her morning had not been entirely wasted, and, to her aunt's relief, she arrived home in time for lunch. CHAPTER XIII _The Masque Ball_ The gay young set at Green Falls to which Linda belonged had planned nothing for that afternoon except the regular swim, for the ball would be late, and the donning of their costumes would take a good deal of time. Linda, however, even passed up the swim in favor of a nap, for she was very tired. Besides, she had no desire to meet Ralph at the lake or anywhere else. Like all the social affairs at this charming resort, the masque ball--the greatest event of the season, with the possible exception of the field day at the close--began early. Dinner at the Carltons was over by half-past seven, and, after assuring herself that Linda's costume was to her satisfaction, Miss Carlton left the bungalow. She was a patroness, of course, and she wanted to get to the Casino early, to pass final judgment upon the decorations and the music. Harriman Smith arrived at half-past eight, in a taxi, for as one of the poorer members of the crowd, he did not possess a car of his own. Linda, in the filmy dress of the fairy queen, with a crown of golden stars about her hair, welcomed him into the bungalow. "Linda!" exclaimed the young man, in positive awe. "I never saw anyone so beautiful in my whole life!" She smiled shyly, pleased at the compliment. But of course as yet he had not seen the other girls in their costumes! "It's the dress," she explained modestly. "If there's any credit, it should go to Aunt Emily. She selected it.... I like your costume, too, Harry. You're Robin Hood, aren't you?" "Yes--I'm glad you can recognize me, anyway.... But Linda, seriously, I just know you'll take the prize for the most beautiful woman!" "I didn't know there was a prize." "Of course there is. And for the most handsome man. And the best dancers--and the funniest.... Probably some more I don't remember.... But I guess you never think much about prizes." "I do about some prizes," she admitted. "Cups for endurance flights, and high altitudes--and things like that!" "Naturally--trust you to be up on anything connected with airplanes. I suppose you'll be winning some of them yourself sometime. But when it comes to social events----" "Well, you're often the same way, Harry," she teased. "Look at the parties you passed up last winter, just because of your engineering course!" The boy smiled, not at all displeased by the observation, for he was a youth who took his studies seriously. Unlike Maurice Stetson and Ralph Clavering, who seemed interested only in the fraternities and the sports at college, he went there with the idea of working. And he liked Linda all the better for recognizing his ambition and understanding it. "But we oughtn't to stand here talking, forgetting all about your taxi," Linda reminded her companion. "Why don't you dismiss it, and take my car?" "A queen mustn't drive!" he protested. "And you wouldn't like me to run your car----" "I don't mind you, Harry. You're never careless. It's people like Maurice that I can't bear to see handle it." "I don't blame you one bit," he said, and realizing that she would really prefer to go in her own roadster, he did as she suggested. All the way to the Casino they both carefully avoided any mention of Kitty Clavering's loss, or, in fact, of anything distasteful--even the quarrel with Ralph and the change of plans which had thrown them together as partners. Linda asked him how the different members of the crowd had paired off, and Harry told her as much as he had happened to learn at the lake that afternoon. Kit and Maurice were of course going together, and Dot Crowley and Jim Valier--the smallest and the tallest members of their set. Sara Wheeler had promised Jackson Stiles, and Harry seemed to recall that Sue Emery was accompanying Joe Sinclair. He did not mention Louise and Ralph. It was just a little before nine when they reached the Casino, gayly lighted with Japanese lanterns, and decorated with flowers and streamers. The wide French windows of the dance hall were all thrown open, and the huge verandas were as beautifully lighted as the inside of the Casino. Strains of music floated out from the orchestra, which was already in place. Upstairs there would be bridge tables for the older members of the party and the supper would be served on the roof-garden. As the couple entered the wide doors of the Casino, a surging of pride swept through the young man because of the girl at his side. In spite of her mask, people must recognize Linda Carlton, so stately, so lovely, so charming! With what wisdom her aunt had chosen that costume! The girl was every inch a queen. In the dressing-room there was naturally a great deal of excitement, for the girls were all trying to identify each other. Linda spotted Louise immediately--dressed as an Egyptian Princess. Her costume was unusual, daring; she stood out among all the others as a sunflower might among a bunch of spring blossoms. And of course she wore huge, odd, earrings. "Linda, you're sweet!" she cried, starting forward to kiss her chum, and stopping just in time as she remembered the make-up on her lips, and the amount of time she had consumed putting it there. "Sh!" warned Linda. "Don't give me away!" "I won't, darling. But everybody will know you anyhow. Come on--you couldn't possibly improve yourself! And we must hurry. I hear them lining up now for the grand march." A laughing, happy group, the girls made their way back to the ballroom where their partners claimed them. It amused Linda--and yet it hurt her a little, too--to see Ralph Clavering lead Louise away without even seeming to notice her. But Harry Smith was right there too, as if to protect his partner from any unpleasantness. The music of the grand march rolled out triumphantly, and the couples fell into step, circling the big room, and walking past the committee on the raised platform, whose members were to pass judgment on the costumes for the awarding of the prizes. As Linda walked demurely at Harry's side, past this intent, solemn body of men and women, she never lifted her eyes. She was all the more amazed when, a couple of minutes later, she heard a childish voice cry out above the music. "Does 'ou fink me cute?" and, turning about, Linda recognized Dot Crowley, dressed as a little school-girl, and actually calling attention to herself. Of course everybody laughed; you just had to smile at Dot. And her long-legged partner, Jim Valier, dressed appropriately as Uncle Sam, looked so out-of-place at her side. The costumes were really marvelous; if Linda had not come for any other reason than to see them, it would have been worth while. There were several hundred people at the ball the proceeds of which were given entirely to charity, and though there were naturally many repetitions--numerous George and Martha Washingtons, Pierrots and Pierrettes, clowns and gypsies, there were also many unusual ones. But although she did not realize it, there was no one in that whole assembly so charmingly beautiful as Linda Carlton. The grand march consumed almost an hour, after which the judges withdrew to make their decisions, and then the dancing began. The floor was perfect and the music excellent; Linda fell into step with her partner and gave herself up to the enjoyment the pastime always afforded her. Whenever she had a good partner like Harry--or Ralph--she always experienced a marvelous sensation of floating along to the strains of the music, a sensation that somehow reminded her of flying. And then they passed Ralph and Louise, and Linda wondered whether the former would ask her to dance. After that she danced with all the boys she knew, in turn--all except Ralph. Even when Harry managed a dance with Louise, while Linda was dancing with a stag, Ralph did not cut in. But this did not spoil her good time, for she felt that she had been in the right, championing Ted, even though her father was on the other side. Ralph's avoidance of her niece had not escaped Miss Carlton's eyes, and she sighed. Why was there always some drawback to rich people, she wondered? But perhaps Ralph would get over his childishness when he grew older. And in the meantime Linda did not lack for attention. Just before the party went up to the roof for supper, the prizes were awarded. Linda Carlton won first prize for the women--and, ludicrous as it was, Ralph Clavering, as King Arthur, was selected first among the men. They walked across the floor together, Linda giving him a shy smile. To Louise and Harry, and Miss Carlton, who knew about the tiff, the coincidence was very amusing. Two other guests whom Linda did not know were awarded the prizes for the funniest costumes, and, to their own amazement, Louise and Ralph were called out as the couple who had given the best exhibition of dancing. There was no shyness as these two stepped forward. Ralph, looking roguish, held out his arms and whistled a tune, and as Louise slipped into them, they waltzed across the floor. The supper was gorgeous in every detail: the food was excellent, the service perfect. Linda felt that she had never been to quite so magnificent a party before. "You do like all this, don't you, Linda?" asked her partner, as they finished their ice-cream, molded in fancy forms, like small dolls or figurines, in pastel colors. "You really like parties? Because I sometimes wonder----" "I love them," replied the girl, her eyes shining. "That is, when they come once or twice a summer, like this. But I would get awfully tired of them if I had nothing else." "But next winter," he reminded her, "when you are a débutante----" "I'm going to try not to be," she interrupted. "If I can slide out of it, without hurting Aunt Emily's feelings. I want to go to a ground school, and study aviation seriously." "You mean make it your life work?" he asked, respectfully. "Yes--seriously." But it was no time to talk; the music had started again, and everybody wanted to make good use of the last, best hour of the party. And so for all that evening, Linda Carlton was the care-free, popular girl that her Aunt Emily loved her to be. CHAPTER XIV _The Flying Trip_ About eight o'clock the following morning while her friends were still sleeping, Linda Carlton, clad in a bathing-suit and a beach robe, dashed down to the lake. She thought an early morning swim before anyone was up would clear her brain and give her a chance to think over her plans and come to a decision. If possible, she meant to get in touch with Ted's company before the detectives arrived at his home to arrest him. She had thought, naturally, that she would find the lake deserted, for everybody ought to be tired out after last night's party. She was therefore amazed and a little annoyed to see some one else already in swimming. "I'll go in the other direction," she decided, but before she was even in the water she heard a familiar voice calling her. "Linda!" cried Louise Haydock, waving her arms, and starting to swim rapidly towards her. "Ho--Linda!" "Lou!" "Yes--me!" shouted the other girl. "But did you say 'Who' or 'You'?" "I said 'Lou'!" replied Linda, laughing good-naturedly. It was a relief to find the other bather was her chum. They were within talking distance now, and Louise hurried to the shore. They sat down together and gossiped about the party, Louise laughing over Ralph's childishness in trying to keep up the quarrel with Linda. "To tell you the truth, Linda," she added, "I'm bored with him. As a matter of fact, I'm fed up with most of the boys. Harry's all right, but he has so little time. All the others are so pleased with themselves. They think we can't get along without them!" "Well, can we?" teased Linda. "Why not? Except for dances----" Linda dug her toes into the sand and smiled. "That's the trouble with us. There's always some 'except.' We ought to make up our minds to stay away from dancing, if we really want them to get over their superiority complex." "It would be pretty dull in the evenings--we'd have to find something else to take its place...." Louise paused to watch an airplane that was flying overhead. "Linda!" she cried, abruptly, "I have it! Let's go off on a trip--just the two of us--in your plane! Be gone a week or two!" Linda grabbed her chum's hands in delight. What a marvelous idea! The freedom! The adventure of it! And she could link it up with her own errand to Kansas City. "Oh, I'd adore that, Lou!" she exclaimed. "Would you really trust yourself to me? Honestly? You wouldn't be afraid?" Louise put her arm about the other girl and hugged her tightly. "Of course I would! I have an awful lot of confidence in you. And I'd love it!" Linda's brow darkened suddenly. For as always, she had to think of others besides herself. "What's the matter?" demanded Louise, watching her companion's face. "I am thinking of Aunt Emily--and your mother," answered Linda. "Wondering whether they'd give their consent--and if they did, would they worry themselves to death?" "Mother would be all right--I can manage her, and Dad too," said Louise confidently. "And, after all, think of the flying that girls do now-a-days. A little picnic like this is tame, compared to flying from England to Australia." "Yes, I know--but Aunt Emily's so scary about planes." "Well, I tell you what we could do--we could map out our whole trip beforehand, and decide where we would land each night. We could probably get the names of the hotels where we would stay. And each evening after supper, we could telephone the people at home." "That's an idea!" agreed Linda, enthusiastically. "You wouldn't want to camp out, anyway, would you? They would be sure to object to that--just two girls alone." "No; we'd have to buy a lot of equipment, and I'd hate to load down the plane. But I'm afraid Aunt Emily would even object to our staying alone at hotels. You know how particular she is." Louise was silent a moment, thinking it was too pleasant an idea to give up at once. She'd have to devise a way out of their difficulty. "I'll tell you," she announced, finally. "We can plan to stop with people we know each night--or at a hotel where some friend is staying. We surely can round up some relatives and friends!" "That's it!" cried Linda, joyfully. "That ought to be easy! And we can send telegrams ahead. But the places will have to have some sort of airports." "Oh, most every town has some kind of landing place," said Louise. "I don't think that need worry us." "There's another thing," added Linda, slowly. "I'd want to start today. Because I must go to Kansas City as fast as I can." And she explained to Louise her plan about establishing Ted's alibi. Louise leaped into the air in her excitement and approval. "That's great! You know me, Linda--I always hate to wait about anything. We can pack our suit-cases and send our wires in an hour if we hustle. Hurry up! Hop in for a dip, and come right back!" Ten minutes later they dashed breathless and wet into the dining-room of the Carlton bungalow, where Miss Carlton was eating a leisurely breakfast. In their excitement over their idea they could scarcely explain it. But at last the older woman understood; she heard them out, and gave her rather reluctant consent. "If you don't make the trip too long," she added. "A week?" "Isn't four days enough? Then we would have to arrange only two stopping places--the same one coming back. And I am sure I could do that very easily." The girls agreed, delighted even with a compromise. Nothing they had ever done promised to be half so thrilling. They would fly southwest, making their first stop Kansas City, where Ted's firm was located. Searching through her address-book, Miss Carlton remembered that she had a cousin living in a hotel in that city and she wired her immediately to reserve a room for the girls for that night, and to chaperon their visit. "And then we'll fly to Sunny Hills--as our destination!" cried Louise, with happy inspiration. "It's in Colorado--where my Aunt Margaret and Uncle John live! Oh, we'll have no end of fun there!" "You're sure they won't mind?" asked Linda. "They'll be tickled to death. They have a huge place--sort of a farm--and six children. Of course they're not children now--several of them are married--but they always keep open house. We used to go there a lot when I was a kid." "All right--you send that wire," agreed Linda, as she hastily swallowed some food, "and I'll get ready and go down to my plane, and see that it's O.K." "How about some lunch?" suggested her Aunt Emily. "Oh, yes, please--if you don't mind!" In an incredibly short time the girls were dressed, their suit-cases packed, the wires sent, and the lunch in readiness. About half-past ten, without saying a word of good-by to anyone except Miss Carlton and Louise's parents, they took off. The sky was clear and blue, without even a cloud to threaten them with fog or storm. It was Louise's first ride in a plane, yet she was not a bit afraid. She said she had never been so thrilled before. "I'm getting the craze, Linda!" she shouted, above the noise of the motor. "If I only had a suit like yours!" She was wearing her riding-breeches and a tan sweater-blouse, with a close-fitting hat of the same color--a costume, which though neat and appropriate, had none of the style and charm of her companion's. "But you can't wear earrings!" teased Linda, pulling at Louise's ears to make sure that the other girl heard and understood what she was saying. "In the suit-case!" returned Louise, laughing and pointing towards the article she named. But neither of the girls wanted to try to talk. They were content to rise higher and higher into the air, to feel the glorious sensation of smooth flying, knowing that everything was just right. Both of them began to sing. On, on they went, over fields and towns, watching their map and their instruments, dipping now and then to catch a glimpse of the landscape below, climbing back to the heights for safety. As the clock on their plane neared twelve, they realized they were hungry, because breakfast had been such a sketchy affair for them both. Louise untied the box, and they ate joyously. Their first meal in the air! It was still early when they arrived at Kansas City, and Linda flew a straight, swift course to the large grounds that were occupied by the company for which Ted Mackay worked. Without the slightest mishap or difficulty Linda brought her plane to a perfect landing in the large area set aside for that purpose. A nice-looking young man in a flyer's uniform came to them in welcome. His face showed no surprise; it was evidently an every-day occurrence to meet feminine pilots. "I would like to speak to the sales-manager," said Linda, after she had answered his greeting, and made sure that this was the right place. "I want to make some inquiries about Ted Mackay." "All right," agreed the young man. "I'll take you to Mr. Jordan immediately." But when they were introduced, Linda felt suddenly shy. What right had she, she asked herself, to pry into Ted's affairs? She wasn't a relative--or even a friend, if she adhered to her father's command. So it was Louise who came to the rescue, as she always did in emergencies, and proceeded to take charge of the interview. "You see," she explained, "the people who had that valuable necklace stolen are pretty much perturbed over the whole affair--and naturally they hired detectives. Well, Mr. Jordan--you know what detectives are! They bungle everything." "Yes?" remarked the man, looking smilingly from one girl to the other, thinking that they, too, were rather excited. "And just because they found Mr. Mackay by the stolen plane, and because they located a gasoline agent who swears that he sold gas to a red-haired man for that same plane earlier in the day, they're sure Mr. Mackay is a thief." "And they're going to his home--to arrest him!" put in Linda, now more at ease. "But they can't prove anything," Mr. Jordan assured them, calmly. "Oh, but they say they'll put third degree on him, or whatever it is, and force him to a confession. And--and--think of his poor mother!" "But what do you girls want me to do?" he asked. "I don't see how I can stop them!" "We just want you to establish his alibi," explained Louise. "Write down everything Mr. Mackay did from early morning till the time he started off in that new plane." "O.K.!" exclaimed Mr. Jordan, a light breaking over his face. "That's easy! We had a salesmen's meeting at the Winton Hotel, and lunched together. I can swear Mackay was there--and so can half a dozen others. We came back here about three o'clock, and Mackay was looking over the plane and studying his maps for about half an hour. Then he took off--for Buffalo." "That's just what we want!" cried Linda, and Louise added, "wonderful!" and squeezed the elderly man's hand. He smiled at her as if she were his daughter. "And will you dictate that to a stenographer, and send a copy to Ted by air-mail?" urged Linda. "Certainly," he agreed. "And now," added Linda, "will one of your mechanics look over my plane and put it away till tomorrow? We want to get our suit-cases, and taxi to my cousin's hotel." So, half an hour later, when the girls were making themselves known to the elderly couple who were expecting them, they spoke joyously of the perfect success of their first day's adventure, but they did not mention their mission on Ted Mackay's behalf. CHAPTER XV _Sunny Hills_ The girls' visit with the elderly couple at the hotel at Kansas City was restful, but uneventful. As soon as they arrived, Linda telephoned to her aunt over long distance, and made a satisfactory report. Dinner and the movies occupied their evening. Early the next morning they bade their host and hostess a temporary farewell--for they were scheduled to return in a couple of days--and took a taxi to the airplane company where their Arrow was being kept. "It's a little cloudy, girls," observed Mr. Jordan as he came over to meet them. "But I don't think it will actually storm before night. Are you going far?" "To a place called 'Sunny Hills'," replied Louise, producing her map. "In Colorado." The man studied it for a few minutes, and then pointed out their best course. "And your plane's O.K.," he added. "She certainly is a neat little boat." "I'm fond of her myself!" replied Linda, her eyes shining as they always did when she spoke of her most precious possession. "And have you had any word from Mr. Mackay?" asked Louise. "Yes. He's coming back today," answered Mr. Jordan. "I sent a plane for him, with the letter you suggested. The pilot wired last night that he arrived safely, and both men would be back on the job tomorrow." "He didn't say anything about the detectives?" "Not a word." "Then everything must be all right!" breathed Linda, with a sigh of relief. "Well, good-by," concluded Mr. Jordan, as the girls stepped into their plane. "And fly carefully. That's rather lonely country you're passing over." "But the skies are safe!" returned Linda, as she started her motor. It was indeed a more desolate stretch of land than any they had flown over before. The girls noticed this as they sped on, the miles piling up in rapid succession. This time they carried no lunch, for they had hesitated to ask at the hotel, and as the hours passed, they grew very hungry. Moreover, the sky was so cloudy that the sun was totally obscured, and they had to be guided entirely by instruments. Two or three times they seemed to get off their course, and it was almost five o'clock when they finally landed at an airport and inquired their way to Sunny Hills. "It's about five miles north," they were told. "But wouldn't you rather leave your plane and taxi over?" their informer suggested. "No, thanks," replied Linda. "Because we want to have our plane there, to use it if we need it, and to show to our friends. But we would love to have something to eat, if you can tell us where there is a stand for refreshments." While the man was leading them to a sandwich booth, a mechanic came up and filled the plane with gas, and at Linda's request, looked it over hastily. Fifteen minutes later the girls took off again, having been assured that there was a field for landing at Sunny Hills, because, it seemed, the owner--or possibly the owner's son--had a plane. As they descended over the field in back of the huge country house that was the home of the Stillmans the girls observed numerous people running out of the doors and from the porches to be on hand to welcome them. By the time they had landed, Louise counted seventeen. "Hello, everybody!" she shouted, as the noise of the motor died. "Get our wire?" "Surest thing!" answered a man of about thirty, tall and heavily-built, and smiling. An elderly woman was pressing through the throng, holding out her arms to Louise. "Aunt Margaret!" cried the girl, rapturously. "I'm so glad to see you! And I want to introduce my chum--Linda Carlton." "I am more than delighted to meet you, my dear," said Mrs. Stillman, pressing Linda's hand--"I am _proud_ to meet you!" "Thank you," murmured the girl, her eyelids fluttering in embarrassment, for she felt that as yet she had done nothing to merit praise. "And now I'll tell you everybody's name," continued the older woman. "Though I know you can't possibly remember them." She proceeded to introduce her friends and her children--the latter all younger than Roger, the man who had first spoken to them, and evidently her oldest son. There were four small children among the group, two of them grandchildren of Mrs. Stillman. "I want you girls to use my hangar," offered Roger, immediately. "My plane's away getting repaired. So shall I put yours away for you?" "Oh, thanks!" replied Linda, gratefully. "It's so nice to find another pilot--to do the honors, and the work!" As the happy, noisy group walked with the two girls back to the house, they asked all sorts of questions at once, about the trip, the plane, the relatives back home. Louise and Linda answered as fast as they could, but finally gave up, laughing in their confusion. "Now everybody stop talking!" commanded Mrs. Stillman, and though her tone was jovial, Linda could see at once that she meant what she said, and that she was used to being obeyed. "Our brave flyers must be awfully tired, and this is no way to treat them, before they have even had a drink of water. Elsie," she nodded to a girl about Linda's age, "I want you to take the girls to their room, and I'll send up their suit-cases and some iced tea. And then they are going to have peace until dinner-time!" "Oh, Aunt Margaret, we're not so tired," protested Louise. Still, the thought of a cool shower, iced tea, and a few minutes for a nap was very pleasant. Elsie and Louise, who had been great friends when they were younger, spending several long, happy summers together, were both delighted at the chance of renewing their friendship. Linda, too, found Elsie charming, and the three girls were soon chatting merrily over their iced tea. "I want you to tell me the news of your family first," said Louise. "And begin in order, so Linda can get them straightened out. I mean--which ones are married, and which have children, and all that sort of thing." "Yes, do," urged Linda. "I only know Roger--because he is a pilot--and you, by name." A knock at the door interrupted them, and when Elsie answered it, two young men brought in the girls' suit-cases. "The twins," explained their sister. "Dan and David. It really isn't hard to tell them apart, if you look closely." "I remember!" cried Louise. "Your hair is curlier, isn't it, Dan? And David has a broken finger." "Righto," agreed the latter, holding up his finger for inspection, and keeping his eyes on Linda. He had fallen for her charms already. "You're excused," said Elsie, tersely. "With many thanks," added Linda, graciously. "Now begin over again," urged Louise, when the boys had gone. She began to open the suit-cases and to pull out the negligees, so that they could be perfectly comfortable. "Well," continued Elsie, settling back in the pretty cretonne-covered chair that matched all the furnishings of the lovely, yet simple bedroom, "you know Aunt Margaret, of course. Those other two elderly women are friends--no need for you to learn their names. "Of us, Roger is the oldest--he's thirty-one--and he isn't married. He's had dozens of girls, but I think he loves being a bachelor. He goes in for all kinds of racing--motorboat, automobile, and now airplane. And he adores young girls. You want to watch your step, Linda, for we're always expecting him to marry all of a sudden sometime. To somebody a whole lot younger!" Linda smiled, and Louise shook her head knowingly. "Linda's wise," she remarked. "And Anita's the next oldest," went on Elsie. "I guess you didn't recognize her, did you, Louise? The stout woman, with those two children clinging to her." "No, I didn't!" exclaimed her cousin. "But remember, it's been ten years since our family were here. I do recall her now--she was a High School graduate that summer. And so thin!" "Well, she's fat now, and so is her husband. You'll see him tonight--they're spending the summer here. They have two kids.... The twins come next--they're twenty-three, and then my other married sister Jennie. You remember Jen?" "Naturally!" "And I'm the baby!" concluded Elsie, cheerfully. "But does that account for that whole crowd?" asked Linda. "Lou said she counted seventeen." "Oh, the others were gardeners, and gardeners' children, and servants. There are twelve of us at dinner every night, with father and Anita's husband. And you girls will make fourteen." "I always thought it would be wonderful to have a big family," sighed Linda. "My aunt and I live all alone, except once in a while when my father comes home." "All the more reason why you should spend a couple of weeks with us!" urged Elsie, cordially. "We'd love to, but we can't," answered Louise. "But we'll promise to come oftener, now that Linda has her Arrow." "And that reminds me," put in Linda, "that we must call our folks." Elsie handed her a telephone, which was on a little table beside the bed, and made her excuses and left them alone. It was almost time to dress for dinner. Before the girls had answered the summons of the gong, the rain, which had been threatening all day long, came in torrents. But it did not dampen the spirits of the happy group that was gathered about the long table. David Stillman, a starry-eyed young man with a serious expression, had managed to persuade his mother to let him sit next to Linda on her left, while Roger, the eldest, had naturally preëmpted the place on her right. The younger man, it seemed, believed her to be the ideal girl he had always dreamed of. He tried almost immediately to make her promise to play tennis with him, to go canoeing and swimming. Roger, on the other hand, saw two days' fun ahead of him, playing with the girls and the plane, and he made up his mind not to give his younger brother a chance. Sizing up Linda immediately as a girl seriously interested in aviation, he began to talk on that subject, shutting out poor David completely. He told her about his plane, and the trips he had made, and the races he had won. "But you are a new pilot, aren't you?" he asked her. "Yes, why?" she asked. "Did I do anything wrong?" "No, indeed! You fly like an old-timer. But what I mean is, you haven't gone in for any competitions yet, have you? Air-derbys, endurance flights--height records?" "No, I haven't had time." "But you will?" "I don't know. I want to do something. But just what...." "You have a wonderful opportunity," continued Roger. "Because you have ambition, and time, and youth--and enough money to back you." He paused to eat a generous slice of roast-beef. Unlike David, who was staring moodily at his plate and playing with his food, Roger ate with enormous appetite. "You see, the trouble with most of us is, that we haven't the time and the money. And the very rich are seldom ambitious." "I am hoping to do something next year," Linda announced, slowly. "But not until I study some more." "Wise girl!" was his comment. "I wish my kid brother--Dan--were of the same opinion. I can hardly keep him out of my plane--and he hasn't even a license. He's a perfect pest." "Won't you please talk to me?" entreated a voice on the other side, and turning her head, Linda realized for the first time how she had been neglecting David. "I'll give you all the rest of the dinner-time!" she said, laughingly. But the conversation at once became so general that she did not have a chance to keep her promise. After dinner the rain abated, but nobody went out except Dan, who said he was always looking for adventure. But in such a crowd, they did not miss him; the young people danced and sang and played pool and ping-pong in the game-room. They were just finishing some lemonade and cake which Mrs. Stillman had brought out for their refreshment, when a telegram arrived for Linda. Her mind flew instantly to Ted Mackay, wondering whether he had been arrested in spite of all her efforts to help him. But the news proved worse than anything she had expected. It was from her aunt. "Your father seriously hurt. Fly to ranch at once." Helplessly, she handed the telegram to Mrs. Stillman, who read it aloud to the others. Heroically, Linda managed to keep from crying. "Thank Heaven for the Pursuit!" cried Louise, who had her arms about her chum. "We'll get there in no time." "Let me go with you," suggested Roger. "No--thank you," stammered Linda, clinging to Louise. "I need Lou--more than anybody." "Well, then, I'll map out your course for you," offered the young man. "It's strange country to you?" "Yes. I've never been to this ranch before. Dad had another one that I used to visit, when I was a child." And she gave Roger the exact location. Ten minutes later, with their arms still entwined, Linda and Louise went up to their room, having exacted a promise from Mrs. Stillman to waken them at five o'clock the following morning. CHAPTER XVI _The Accident_ At seven o'clock the following morning, after eating the hearty breakfast upon which Mrs. Stillman insisted, the girls entered the Pursuit, and taxied off, waving farewell to Elsie, Roger, and their hostess. Of the large family, only these three--and the cook--had risen in time to say good-by. Even David had overslept; but his eldest brother was on hand to help the girls get their start. Fortunately, the rain was over, and both Linda and Roger believed that, barring mishaps, the flyers should reach their destination early in the afternoon. With this hope, both girls kept their spirits high; they refused to worry about Linda's father until they saw for themselves. For Miss Carlton was likely to look upon the dark side of things, and it was probable too that the help at the ranch were frightened by the accident to their employer. Tears of gratitude came to Linda's eyes when she saw the enormous lunch which Mrs. Stillman had been able to provide at such short notice, and she did not know how to thank the kind woman or her son. So she merely smiled gratefully, and waved good-by. Louise kept the map of their course in her lap, and for two hours they flew on, making no attempt to talk, but every once in a while pressing each other's hand in sympathy and affection. As the sun was growing hotter and higher in the sky, Linda was beginning to wonder whether they were not somewhat off their course. She examined the map. "We ought to be nearing that town!" she shouted, pointing to a spot which Roger indicated by a large dot on the map. "And I don't believe that we are." "Fly lower!" suggested Louise. "Let's see!" Cautiously the young pilot descended, but though both girls looked eagerly, there were no roofs or other evidences of a town. An almost continuous expanse of shrubbery seemed to cover the ground, and Linda did not care to land. So she went higher again, and pointed her plane south, trusting that they were right. For two hours more they continued to fly without seeing any of the landmarks for which they were so eagerly watching. Afterwards Linda remarked that she believed they had been going in a circle. The sun was almost directly overhead now, and both girls were feeling hungry, for their breakfast, though substantial, had been an early one. They were just considering opening their box to eat, when Linda noticed a queer noise in the motor. "Something's wrong, Lou!" she shouted, trying to smile as if she were not worried. "We'll have to land." "Here?" gasped Louise, in horror. "Yes. Watch the ground! We must find a good place." Louise was gazing about at the sky and the horizon, when, turning around, she happened to glance at her companion's face. A set look had come into Linda's eyes, her lips were rigid. Uneven, yet deafening, was the threatening sound of the motor. Suddenly it let off a terrific explosion. "Will we be killed?" screamed Louise, hoarsely. Linda did not try to answer. She needed every ounce of brain power, of energy for the test that was ahead of her. She was working frantically with the joystick. So Louise too, kept quiet, and looked over the side of the plane--and prayed. At first it seemed they were dropping terrifically; but gradually, frightened though she was, she could feel that some safety device was taking hold. The speed was lessening. Down, down they went, but more gradually now. And then they were close enough to the ground to see it. A woods of stumpy trees stretched under them, but over to the right was a field. Would Linda be able to guide the plane there, or must they be dashed against the tree-tops, to meet a sickening death? How would it feel to be dead, Louise wondered. And oh, her poor mother and father! Even in those few seconds, it seemed as if her whole life flashed before her, and although she was really a very sweet girl, she believed herself a monster of ingratitude. Not a bit like Linda--who was always thinking of her Aunt Emily and her father! Linda, on the other hand, had no time for any such thoughts. She was working as she had never worked before, guiding her stricken plane. And--miracle of miracles--they were passing the tree-tops! They were over a field of weeds. "Thank God!" cried Louise, reverently. "Wait!" whispered Linda, not sure yet that they were safe. The landing was not easy. The plane came down and hit the ground and bounced up again. Suppose it should pancake? Linda held her breath, suffering greater agony than Louise, who knew less of the dangers. But in a moment the valiant little Arrow came to a stop, in the shrubbery. In a rapture of relief and thanksgiving, Louise grasped Linda and kissed her, while the tears ran down the young pilot's face. For a moment the girls sat thus in silent embrace, each too filled with emotion to speak. "Come, let's get out, Lou," said Linda, finally, and shakily they both stepped from the plane. "I wonder where we are," remarked Louise, trying to make her voice sound natural. "We'll get out our maps and study the situation. But first let's eat. I'm simply famished. It must be noon at least." They found upon consulting Louise's wrist-watch that it was ten minutes of one. Resolutely deciding to be cheerful, they opened the hamper which Louise's Aunt Margaret had packed. What a delicious lunch! There was a whole roast chicken, and tiny dainty lettuce sandwiches--at least a dozen of them. Pears and cherries, and lemonade in a thermos bottle. And a beautiful little layer cake evidently baked just especially for them, though how the cook had managed it, they had no idea. They spread out the paper cloth and attacked the food ravenously. "It looks pretty desolate around here," remarked Louise, as she nibbled at a chicken leg. "I don't see a house in sight." "Or a road either, for that matter," returned Linda. "I wish we could get to a telephone--and send a call for assistance." They ate silently for a while. How good the food tasted! In spite of their distress and worry, both girls enjoyed that lunch. "Have you any idea what is wrong with the plane?" asked Louise, as she broke off a piece of chocolate cake. "It was all right yesterday." "Yes. That mechanic at the airport gave it a hasty examination. Funny he didn't notice anything so serious as this.... Louise, do you suppose that Roger could have done anything to it?" "No," answered Louise, thoughtfully. "No; I think Roger knows what he's about. But I have an idea, Linda." "What?" "Do you remember hearing a plane very close to the house when we were playing ping-pong last night?" "Yes. I thought it was the air-mail." "So did I. But I believe now it was the Pursuit--with Dan piloting!" "Dan Stillman?" "Yes. He's a regular daredevil. And you know Roger won't let him fly his plane." A pained look came into Linda's eyes, as if she herself had been mistreated. "Oh, Lou, that seems awful," she said. "He wouldn't do a thing like that, would he?" "He must have. Remember, he went out right after supper. And he's so conceited. He wouldn't think he could hurt it. But I'll tell you how to find out--look at the gas. You remember you had her filled at that airport." Holding their cake in their hands, both girls dashed excitedly back to the plane and looked at the dial which indicated how much gasoline was left. And, sure enough, the supply was running low! Too low to be accounted for by the flying they had done that morning. In fact, it was almost gone. "You're right!" cried Linda. "Oh, Lou, now we're in a worse pickle than ever. We'll never get to Daddy!" The tears ran down her cheeks. "Don't!" urged her chum, putting her arms around the other girl. "Don't give up yet! We'll find somebody--on some road--who will send a mechanic to us. And we'll be at the ranch before night!" "I hope so!" replied Linda, bravely trying to keep up her courage. They went back to the spot where their lunch was spread--luckily there was plenty left for supper, in case they needed it--and packed the remainder again. Then, arm in arm, they set out in quest of a road. They walked in an easterly direction; that much they knew from the sun. What they saw appeared to be a flat country, without even any fences or signs of cultivation. Gazing off in the distance, they could faintly distinguish the outline of a house--but it might be five miles away, or it might be fifteen. Or it might not be a house at all; perhaps just some abandoned building or mill. For half an hour they walked aimlessly onward, till they finally reached a dirt road. "This is encouraging," said Louise, hopefully. "Let's drop down and wait here till something passes. We don't want to get too far from the plane--if we get out of sight, we might not be able to find our way back." They sat down on some moss by a small tree and consulted the time. It was half-past two. Everything was extremely still. No noise of motor or traffic anywhere. No voices. So strange after the places they were used to, for even Green Falls was noisy. And the birds were quiet, too--or perhaps there weren't many, for there were no big trees. Linda yawned. "I'm so sleepy." "Take a nap," suggested Louise. "You deserve one!" "Hardly fair," returned the other. "Aren't you sleepy too?" "Not so sleepy as you are. Go ahead! I'll wake you if anything comes along." "And suppose nothing does?" "Then I'll wake you anyway at three o'clock. We'll have to strike out in some other direction." So Linda curled up and went to sleep, and Louise, yawning, wondered how she could possibly manage to keep awake. The whole atmosphere was so drowsy--and there was nothing to do. "If only there were a place to swim," she thought, regretfully. "Cold water would make me a different girl!" But there wasn't any water at all, as far as she knew; indeed, she and Linda didn't dare wash in the small supply they carried with them. For they might need it for drinking. She never knew how it happened, but soon she too was peacefully asleep. For two whole hours both girls slept the dreamless sleep of fatigue. Then, at a quarter of five they were suddenly awakened by the rattle of an old, tumble-down cart, pulled by a haggard horse. The girls sat up with a start, and looked at each other and laughed. Jumping to her feet in an instant, Louise ran hastily towards the driver. He was staring at them with great curiosity. "We have been in an airplane accident, and we want to get to a telephone--" began Louise. But the man only shook his head and grinned. "Nicht versteh'," he replied, helplessly. "He's a foreigner," said Louise, turning back to where Linda was standing. "A German, who doesn't understand English." "I can speak German," said Linda. "At least, I had some, Freshman year. Let me try him!" But already he was driving away. "Wo ghen Sie?" called Linda. "Warte!" He stopped driving, evidently amazed at her words, and pointed to the road ahead of him. Encouraged by this display of intelligence, Louise jumped up on the cart, and waved her arms in the direction of the airplane, in the field half a mile away. "We want _help_!" she cried. Then, turning to Linda, "What's the German word for help?" "I don't know," answered the other girl. "But I think he understands. If he does meet anybody, I think he'd send them to us." So Louise climbed down again, and waved good-by to the man as he continued on with his cart, and, faintly encouraged, the girls went back to the plane to eat their supper. CHAPTER XVII _The Lost Necklace_ Many thoughts raced through Linda's mind, as she and Louise sat beside the airplane, nibbling at their frugal supper. For this time, they had decided to eat sparingly; nobody knew how long they might have to stay there, without any more food. But all of Linda's thoughts were regrets. Regret that her father had met with an accident, regret that Dan Stillman had borrowed her Arrow, regret that she was unable to locate the trouble herself and repair it. Louise, with her usual practical cheerfulness, interrupted these gloomy meditations. "We have three good hours of daylight left, Linda," she announced, glancing at her watch. "To try another direction. There must be a real road around here somewhere--where automobiles go. Texas isn't the end of the world." "If we're actually in Texas!" returned Linda. "It may be Oklahoma, for all we know." "But Oklahoma has roads, too. Come on, finish your cake! We must hurry." Taking their coats along, for the night gave promise of being cooler, the girls set off in the opposite direction from the one they had taken that afternoon. This time they had to go right through the shrubbery--the dangerous shrubbery which had threatened disaster to their landing. "This is awful!" exclaimed Louise, pausing to pull a brier from her sweater. "There can't be any road here." "On the contrary, I think we'll be more likely to find one, once we get through this. The very fact that we can't see beyond is hopeful." "That's true," admitted Louise, starting on again. They walked for some time, carefully picking their way through the undergrowth, thankful that they were wearing breeches. At last they came to a more open space, and stopped to look about them. "No road!" exclaimed Louise, in disappointment. "But that looks like a stream over there, Lou--between those two banks!" cried Linda. "Oh, if it only is! Then we could have a swim!" "If we ought to take the time." "I think we might as well, Linda, because it's going to get too dark for us to take a chance getting lost tonight. Let's have our swim and go back to the plane to sleep. Then tomorrow morning we'll start to hike--if we have to go all the way to the ranch on foot!" "We won't have to do that, because we have plenty of money," Linda reminded her. "Once we get back to civilization, our dollars will be some good. And, even if we have to leave the Pursuit, and never see her again, it would be worth it to get to Daddy!" Having come to this decision, the girls hurried rapidly towards the stream, and then, taking off their flyers' suits carefully, under cover of their coats, in case there should be some human being around, they both plunged in. The water felt cold, and oh, so refreshing! They swam happily for some minutes, forgetful of all their worries, in the joy of the invigorating pastime. When they had gone some distance, Linda suddenly realized how swift the current was, out in the middle of the creek. Already they were several hundred yards downstream. "Lou!" she called. "We must be careful of this current!" Her chum did not answer, and Linda suddenly experienced another sickening moment of dread. Suppose Louise were unconscious! She turned around, but she could not see the other girl. However, the creek turned sharply at this point, and Linda reassured herself with the hope that Louise was beyond the bend. She swam in to where it was shallow enough for her to stand up, and cupped her hands and called. "Lou! Oh, Lou!" "Yes!" came the instant reply. "Around the bend." Linda hurried around the cliff which separated her chum from sight, and there, to her amazement, she beheld a shattered airplane. The wings and the propeller were gone--had evidently been floated out on the stream and swept away on the current, and the plane itself was smashed to pieces. Louise was standing beside it, holding a man's coat in her hand. "Ye gods!" cried Linda, shocked by the horror of such a wreck. "How terrible!" But Louise was searching the pockets of the coat madly, excitedly, as if she had no thought for the man who had been killed. "Look, Linda!" she cried triumphantly. "I had an inspiration it might be your thief! I've got it!" "What?" demanded the other. "The necklace!" Both girls held their breath while Louise steadied her nervous fingers and opened the box--a cheap pasteboard affair, totally unlike the original one in which Kitty Clavering's pearls had been sold. To Linda's unbelieving eyes, she held up the costly jewels. Louise dropped down on the ground, absolutely overcome with emotion, and Linda sat beside her, examining the necklace for herself, as if she could not believe her eyes. But there was no doubt about it; it was the real thing this time. "That man didn't know much about flying," remarked Linda, finally. "I suppose, though, he realized that his only chance of escape lay in getting over the border.... But Lou, if his coat is here, why isn't he?" "He probably took off his coat before anything happened. But his body may be somewhere in the wreckage. I--I'd just as soon not see it, wouldn't you, Linda?" "Of course not," replied the other, with a shudder of repulsion. "Come on, Lou, let's go. But don't let's try to swim with that necklace. I'd rather walk." "So would I." Both girls scrambled to their feet, and started back towards their coats. Suddenly Linda stopped, horrified by what she saw. Over in a little cove, away from the main stream, were not one, but two bodies, half floating, half caught on the shore by the weeds and underbrush. "It's the thief, all right," she managed to say. "And I wonder who the other man was." Louise squinted her eyes; she had no desire to go any closer, and in the fading light it was hard to see clearly. "He looks--as--if--he had red hair," she announced, slowly. "That would explain about the gasoline agent, who tried to put the blame on Ted Mackay." "Of course!" cried Linda. "Isn't it all horrible? As if any necklace could be worth this! I wonder when it happened." "Probably last night, during the storm. That would be too much for an inexperienced flyer." "Of course." The girls picked up their clothing and dressed hurriedly, reaching the plane just as it was beginning to get dark. "Let's make a fire," suggested Linda, "and tell each other stories till we get sleepy. We mustn't try to go to sleep too early on this hard ground, especially after having had naps." "Are you scared at all, Linda?" asked Louise. "No. What of? Ghosts--or tramps?" "Both." "Well, I'm not afraid of tramps or robbers because I have my pistol--Daddy made me promise to take it with me on all my flights--and I'm just not going to let myself be worried about ghosts. After all, those two dead men deserved their fate, didn't they? And I mean to forget them. Now, tell me a story!" "What about?" "Some nice new novel you've read that I haven't." So Louise began the story of "Father Means Well"--a very amusing book she had just finished, and the girls kept their camp-fire going until eleven o'clock. Then, when both were certain that they were sleepy, they spread out Louise's raincoat on the ground, and, crawling close together, put Linda's on top of them. Almost instantly they were asleep, forgetful of accidents and thieves, not to waken until the sun was brightly shining again. CHAPTER XVIII _In Pursuit of the "Pursuit"_ From the moment that Ted Mackay had been shot by the thief who stole Kitty Clavering's necklace, everything had gone wrong for him. Not only had he been wounded and forced to lose time from work, but the new plane, which was worth thousands of dollars to his company, had been stolen. And, in view of the fact that the robber was not a licensed pilot, it was very unlikely that the plane would stand the test, even if it were ever recovered. Then, added to his other troubles, Ted had been accused of being in league with the thief! Ralph Clavering believed he was guilty, and so did Mr. Carlton. But what worried him most was whether Linda thought so too. The little nurse at the hospital had been a great comfort, believing in Ted as she did, implicitly, from the first. But when he had gone home, he said nothing to his mother of the suspicions aroused against him. The good woman had enough to worry about, with the unhappy life she led, and the constant menace of his father's returning in trouble or in need of money. But Ted's conscience was clear; all the detective's in the world could not make him a criminal when he knew that he was innocent. He wasn't surprised, however, when two men arrived at his home the day after he had reached it. Two plainclothes men, with warrants for his arrest. His first anxiety was of course for his mother. If she should believe that he was following in his father's footsteps! Why, at her age, and after all she had been through, the shock might kill her! Her one comfort in life had always been that her three children were fine, honest citizens, that her teaching and training had been rewarded. Fortunately when the detectives arrived, she was out in the back yard, working in her little garden. But what could Ted do? To argue with these men would only arouse her attention, bring her hurrying to the front porch to see what was the matter. For she seemed to live in daily fear of trouble between her husband and the law. "But you have no evidence to arrest me," Ted objected, quietly, in answer to the man's brusque statement. "You are wrong there! We have evidence. The gasoline agent, who sold you gas for the plane. The description fits you perfectly--a great big fellow, with red hair. Besides, you were caught in the very place where the other thief escaped." "But I had nothing to do with it! I can prove it!" "How?" "By other men in the company----" "Are they here?" interrupted the detective, with a hard, sneering look. "No--but----" "Then you will come with us until such time as you prove your innocence. One of us will go inside with you while you get whatever things you want." Ted looked about him helplessly. Oh, how could he keep the news from his mother? It would break her heart! And his career! What would this sort of thing do to that? Did it mean that, just as he was hoping to make his mark in the world, and rendering valuable assistance to his family, all must stop? With a gesture of utter despair he gazed up into the skies, where he heard the noise of an airplane, coming nearer and lower. For a moment the other men forgot their duties, and likewise looked up into the air. For the plane was certainly flying very low indeed, actually circling over their heads. And its roar was insistent; it would not be ignored. At last it became plain to Ted that the pilot wanted to land. So the young man held up his arm and pointed to field on the right of his house. Wondering what its business could be, and interested in the plane as everybody is, although it is a common sight, the detectives waited to find out what would happen. What they actually saw was certainly worth looking at. The pilot was an experienced flyer, and his landing, in the small area of this field, was as neat as anything they had ever witnessed. Both men watched with admiration and awe. When the motor had been turned off, and the pilot stepped from the plane, Ted recognized him instantly. Sam Hunter--the best salesman, the most experienced flyer of their company! "Sam!" he exclaimed with genuine pleasure, for although Ted had been with his firm only a short time, this man was an old friend. "Ted! Old boy! How are you?" cried the other, clasping his hand in a hearty handshake. "How's the shoulder?" "Pretty good," replied Ted. "I'm ready to go back to work, if I take it a little easy. But--" he paused and glanced at the two men beside him--"these fellows don't want to let me." "Doctors?" inquired Sam, though Ted's manner of referring to them seemed queer--almost rude. He hadn't introduced them--a courtesy due them if they were doctors, or men in any way worthy of respect. "They're detectives," explained Ted. "Sorry I can't introduce you, Sam, but they did not favor me with their names. They've come here with a warrant for my arrest." "By heck!" ejaculated Sam. "Then the little lady was right! The pretty aviatrix who was so worried about you! And I'm just in time!" "I don't know what you mean." Sam put his hand into his pocket, and produced the paper which Mr. Jordan had dictated and three of the men had signed. He handed it to the detectives, both of whom read it at once. "All right," said one of them, briefly, as he handed it back to Sam. "Good-by." Without another word they turned and fled to their automobile and immediately drove away. Ted stood gazing at Sam in amazement, unable to understand what his friend had done, how he had been able to accomplish what seemed like a miracle. In a few words the latter told him of Linda's visit, and her insistence upon the written alibi. He finished his explanation and Ted had just time to warn Sam not to mention the matter to his mother, when the latter appeared, dressed in a clean linen, beaming at both the boys. "Are you willing to have me take Ted back again?" asked Sam, after he had been introduced. "Because we need him, if he's well enough to go." "I'll be sorry to lose him, of course," she answered with a motherly smile. "But I always want Ted to do his duty. And I think he'll be all right if he is careful. But first let me give you an early supper, so that you can do most of your flying by daylight." Sam accepted the invitation with pleasure, and as the boys sat down at five o'clock to that splendid home-cooked meal, it seemed to Ted that he was perfectly happy again. He knew now that his company believed in his innocence; best of all, he had the reassurance that Linda Carlton shared that opinion! It was good to be in a plane again, he thought, as they took off, half an hour later. Good to be up in the skies, with Sam--who was a friend indeed! The whole trip was pleasant, and Mr. Jordan's greeting was just as cordial as Sam's. When the former heard what a life-saver his message had been, he was more impressed than ever with the cleverness of the two girls who had visited him. "And if you'd like to see them and thank them yourself," he continued, "I'll arrange for you to combine it with a visit to our Denver field. The girls are out there in Colorado, they said--'Sunny Hills', I believe the name of the village is." "Thank you, sir!" cried Ted, in delight and gratitude. "I don't deserve that--after letting that other plane get away from me!" "Not your fault a bit!" protested the older man. "We've got insurance. Still--if you could happen to sell one on your trip, it would be a big help to us." "I'll do my best, Mr. Jordan. Now--when do I start?" "Tomorrow morning. At dawn, if you like." So it happened that when Linda and Louise were taking off for their trip to Texas, that was halted so sadly, Ted Mackay, at the very same hour, was flying to Denver. He reached his destination without mishap, and went back to Sunny Hills that night. He had some difficulty in finding the place, stopping as the girls had, at the airport to inquire, and reaching the Stillman estate about ten o'clock that night. Thinking naturally that the airplane was Linda's, and that the girls were back again for some reason, Roger and his brothers went out to welcome them. Ted explained quickly that he was a friend of Miss Carlton--it was the first time he had ever made such a statement, and there was pride in his tone--and that, as he had just been to Denver, he wanted to stop over here and see her for a few minutes. "Shucks! That's too bad!" exclaimed Roger with regret. "Miss Carlton left this morning for her father's ranch in Texas." Ted's smile faded; the ranch was the one place where he could not visit Linda. "But you must come in and make yourself at home. Stay all night--you won't want to fly any more tonight. Why!" he cried, noticing Ted's bandage, "you've been hurt!" "Last week," replied the other. "It's almost well now. But--really, Mr. Stillman, though I thank you, I have no right to impose on your hospitality!" "It's a pleasure, I'm sure. Besides, I want to look at your plane by daylight. I'm in the market for a new airplane. My old one's being repaired now, but it's so hopelessly out of date I thought I'd try to trade it in." Instantly Ted became the business man, the salesman, and while he accepted Roger's invitation to put his plane into the other's hangar, he told of all its merits. So interested were they that they talked for an hour before they went into the house. Then Roger was all apologies, for he knew Ted had had no supper. He hunted his mother, who was sitting disconsolately at the telephone. "I'm worried about the girls," she told them. "They didn't phone from the ranch, as they promised, and I have just finished calling it, by long distance. They haven't arrived." "But they had plenty of time!" insisted Roger. "They started at seven o'clock this morning!" "Something must have happened," said Mrs. Stillman, anxiously. "Airplanes are so dangerous!" "I think I know why--if anything did happen," explained Roger, slowly. "It isn't airplanes that are so dangerous as inexperienced pilots. I found out that Dan had Linda's plane out last night, alone." "Dan?" Mrs. Stillman was horrified. "But he never flew alone in his life!" "No, because I saw to it that he didn't. But he admitted that he borrowed the Arrow last night." "This is serious," put in Ted. "We ought to do something--right away!" "What can we do? I made the girls a map, but they may be off their course. I have no plane--and your time's not your own, Mr. Mackay." "But I'll have to do something!" cried Ted, excitedly. "Even if I lose my job on account of it! It may be a question of life or death!" "I'll tell you what I'll do," decided Roger. "I'll buy that plane of yours. I want it anyhow. And tomorrow morning at dawn we'll go on a search.... Now, mother, can you give Mr. Mackay something to eat--and a room?" Gratefully the young man accepted the hospitable offers of his new friends and, pleased with the sale he had put through, he fell instantly asleep, not to awaken until Roger both knocked at his door and threw pillows at him the next morning. He dressed and they left in short order, after a hearty breakfast, however, and armed with a lunch perhaps not so dainty as that provided for the girls, but at least as satisfying. Roger reconstructed the map, like the one he had made for Linda, and they flew straight for the nearest airport. Unfortunately, however, they got no information there, no news of a wreck, or of two girls flying in a biplane. But their time was not wasted, for they took the opportunity to question one of the flyers who seemed familiar with the territory around him. They asked particularly about the more lonely, desolate parts of the near-by country, where an airplane accident would not quickly be discovered. "There's a stretch about ten miles south of here," the man informed them, indicating a spot on Roger's rough map. "Not a farm or a village, as far as I know, except one old shack where a German lives. He hid there during the War, because he didn't want to be sent home, and he has continued to live on there ever since. He has a sort of garden, I believe--just enough to keep him alive--with the fish he catches. And a few apple trees. Once in a while he drives in here with his apples. I could tell you pretty near where he lives, because I was stranded there once myself. You could drop down and ask him if he heard any planes." Eagerly the two young men marked the spot and set off once more in their plane, flying in the direction indicated. Before nine o'clock they came to the shack, which was the building that Linda and Louise had spied at a distance. They found the man frying fish on a fire in front of his tumble-down house. Their landing had been of sufficient distance to avoid frightening him, but near enough for him to hear them. They hurried towards him, Roger almost shouting the question about the girls, before he actually reached him. But, like Linda and Louise, when they tried to talk to this man, Roger received a shrug of his shoulders in reply, and a muttered, "Nicht versteh." Unlike the girls, however, Roger commanded a good knowledge of German, and he translated the question with ease into the foreign language. To both flyers' unbounded delight, they were rewarded with the information that they so longed to hear. The girls were safe--and not far away! CHAPTER XIX _Rescued_ When the girls awakened at practically the same time--for Louise, in stirring, moved against Linda--they were horrified to see that it was half past eight by their wrist watches. "Two hours wasted!" groaned Louise. "And it's going to be hot today! Oh, Linda, why didn't we wake up at six?" "Next time I'll bring an alarm clock," laughed her companion. "Come on, let's straighten ourselves up. I--I--believe I'd rather not swim!" "No, indeed!" agreed Louise, recalling the horror they had witnessed the night before. "We'll use what water we have--we can't carry much on our hike anyway.... Now, let's see what we have for breakfast." "There's some fruit left, and a little bit of chicken. With water to drink we'll have a fine meal." They sat down beside the plane to eat, and both girls seemed to enjoy their breakfast, meager as it was. For each had resolutely made up her mind to be cheerful. "Are the pearls safe?" asked Linda, as she gathered up the chicken bones. "In my pocket!" replied Louise, taking them out for examination. "How about your pistol?" "O.K.... Lou! Look! A plane!" Both girls jumped instantly to their feet and waved their arms and their coats in the air as signals of distress. If only the pilot would look down and see them! He was flying low enough to make this perfectly possible, but a moment later his ascent sent a sickening disappointment into their hearts. He was going away without even seeing them! Useless to yell; no one could possibly hear above the deafening noise. To be so near to a rescue, and then to have it fail them in the end! It was Linda, with her knowledge of flying, who was the first to realize that the aviator wasn't really going away, that he was only retreating farther into the field to make a safe landing, clear of them and their plane. In her ecstasy she hugged Louise tightly. "He's coming down, Lou! To rescue us!" "How do you know?" demanded the other, incredulously. "He seems to be going farther away to me!" "No, he isn't! It's only to land clear of us. Lou, it must be Roger!" "Roger? Why? How!" "Because he would investigate, when we failed to telephone!" "But suppose it's another bandit--like--you know! Get your revolver!" "It's right here. But don't worry, Lou. Look! He's on the ground!" The pilot brought the beautiful new cabin monoplane expertly to a stop and shut off the engine. To the girls' amazement two men, not one, stepped out. Both of them were old friends! "Roger! Ted!" cried both the girls at once, in their delight in recognizing them. They felt as if they had been rescued from a desert island. "You're both safe? Unhurt?" cried Roger, excitedly. "Thank God!" murmured Ted, reverently. "Yes--safe, but stranded," replied Louise. "We've only seen one person since noon yesterday--and he couldn't speak English!" "Nevertheless, he's the one you owe the rescue to!" replied Roger. "You saw him?" demanded Linda, incredulously. "But you must have been out hunting for us, first, Roger. Oh, I think you're just wonderful!" "No--the credit goes to Mr. Mackay," returned Roger, modestly. "And the German fellow, with his apple-cart." And he proceeded to relate in detail everything that had led to their pursuit and discovery. "Your shoulder is all right, Ted?" inquired Linda, after she heard that he was back at his job. "Yes, fine, thank you. And I can never thank you enough for what you did for me, Linda! I'll tell you all about it later." "Oh, that was nothing!" protested the girl lightly. Then, turning anxiously to Roger, "Have you any news of my father?" "He is alive, but that is all my mother could learn last night from the housekeeper over the telephone. But don't worry--you'll be there yourself in a few hours!" "How?" she asked, glancing helplessly at her plane. "There's something wrong with my motor. It may take a long time to fix--and--if I go by train--Daddy might--" she stopped; she just couldn't say "die." "You're flying in my new plane!" Roger informed her. "Which I have just purchased from Mr. Mackay. We'll leave right away, or as soon as he examines yours, so he can tell me what to send out to him here. We'll stop somewhere and phone for help." "Roger, would you really do that?" cried Linda, in relief. "That would be wonderful!" "A pleasure!" he said. "Now--tell us what happened to you." "I really don't know, except that the motor acted awfully queer. But I was lucky enough to make a safe landing." "It was just dreadful," put in Louise. "I was absolutely certain we were going to be killed. Linda was wonderful." "She's a fine little pilot," said Ted, admiringly. "Shows she can keep her head in an emergency--and that's one of the most important things for an aviator.... Now, let's have a look at the plane." They all went with him while he examined it. "I'm afraid I can't fix it without some new parts, and some special tools," he said, making notes as he spoke. "But it's nothing that can't be repaired quickly. If you'll telephone our Denver field, Mr. Stillman, and read this note to the mechanic, they'll send a man out. And as soon as it's fixed, I'll pilot it to you at the ranch, Linda.... Be sure to give me the directions.... Now, have you girls had anything to eat?" "Oh, yes, we had supper last night," answered Louise, "left over from our picnic lunch, and we even saved some fruit and some chicken for breakfast." "Then you people might as well start," urged Ted. "No use wasting time." "One thing more," added Louise, while Linda busied herself writing the directions for Ted, "we almost forgot! We found a wrecked plane last night--two men dead--and recovered the necklace!" "What?" demanded Ted, in consternation. Roger, however, did not know what they were talking about, and no one had time to explain. "The wreck's over by a stream--about half a mile beyond those bushes," Louise informed Ted. "You can explore it while you're waiting." "And maybe salvage some of it!" added Ted, hopefully. Five minutes later the other three took off in the new plane, Louise somehow sitting on Linda's lap. It wasn't very comfortable, but it would not be for far. They would descend at the nearest landing place, Roger getting in touch with Denver, while Louise called Miss Carlton, Mrs. Stillman, and her parents, and then summoned a taxicab, to take her to a railroad station. The rest of the trip was smooth and uneventful. Once only did they make a stop after Louise left--that time to get some lunch at a hotel in Fort Worth. In another hour they reached the ranch and landed right on Mr. Carlton's field, for Linda knew from former directions just where the best spot would be. "Come in with me, Roger," she invited, trying to keep her voice steady. They approached the house, an old-fashioned, rambling affair, and knocked at the screen door. A middle-aged woman, neatly dressed, came through the hall. "How do you do, Mrs. Cates," said Linda. "I am Mr. Carlton's daughter, and this is Mr. Stillman, who has brought me in his plane." "Good afternoon," replied the older woman. "Come right in, my dear. I've been expecting you." Linda had been watching her face, to try to ascertain from her expression whether the news of her father was bad. "How--how--is Daddy?" she asked, with trembling lips, as she and Roger followed Mrs. Cates into the big room where her father evidently spent most of his indoor hours. A huge fireplace occupied most of one wall, and there were many book-shelves. A table, a few chairs, and an old couch were all the other furnishings, so that the great room looked almost empty and desolate without its master. "He is still alive--but unconscious," sighed Mrs. Cates, shaking her head mournfully. Her expression was one of resignation; she felt sure that Mr. Carlton could not get better. "Unconscious!" repeated Linda. "Has he been so, long?" "Ever since his fall. He was riding a new horse--that he never should have bought--and was thrown down a steep bank. His leg is broken, but worse than that, he suffered severe internal injuries. Dr. Winston is afraid there ain't much hope." The words were the cruelest Linda had ever heard; she burst out crying, and hid her face on Mrs. Cates' motherly shoulder. Roger Stillman remained standing, embarrassed. He did not know what to do. He coughed slightly, and Linda looked up, ashamed of herself for breaking down. "Is there anything at all, Linda, that I can do for you?" he asked. "Or for you, Mrs. Cates?" "I'm afraid not, thank you, Roger," replied the girl. "But don't you want something to eat before you start back?" "No, thanks. I ought to be home early this evening, and I'll get supper then. I'm not a bit hungry now." And with a sympathetic handshake, he left her. "Would you like to go to your room, my dear--or do you want to see your father first?" asked the housekeeper. "I have him here on the ground floor." "I want to see Daddy!" replied Linda, wiping the tears from her eyes. The older woman led her across the hall to a room where the door was open, and she caught sight of her father, lying almost lifeless upon the bed. Impulsively Linda rushed in to him. It just didn't seem possible that he wouldn't recognize her, and hold out his arms to receive her! But he continued to lie death-like upon the bed, his head motionless upon the pillow. His eyes were closed. "Daddy! Daddy darling!" she cried, in a voice that shook with pain. Dropping to her knees, she knelt beside his bed, and covered his limp hand with kisses. But there was no response whatever to her greeting! For some time she stayed there, praying that he would get better. Mrs. Cates had left them alone, but in half an hour she came back. "Come, my dear, you must get some rest. Take off your clothing, and wash your face and hands and lie down for a while. Then perhaps you will be able to eat some supper." Obediently Linda did as she was told, for she realized that the housekeeper was only trying to be kind. And, after a short nap, she had to admit that she felt better. "Any change, Mrs. Cates?" was her first question, when she sat down to supper with the woman and her husband. The rest of the help ate in the kitchen, but Mrs. Cates realized that this was no time for the girl to be alone. "No. Not a bit." "Oughtn't there to be a trained nurse?" "Dr. Winston didn't think so. I'm doing what needs to be done." "When will the doctor be back?" "Tonight, after supper." Somehow Linda felt dissatisfied, as if enough were not being done. Another doctor should have been called in--a surgeon, perhaps. And surely a trained nurse. She spoke of these things to Dr. Winston when he came over about eight o'clock that evening. But he shook his head. "I'm afraid nothing can save your father, my child," he said. "There's only one chance in a thousand he might get well, if we operated. And there's only one surgeon in the United States who ever had any success with that sort of operation." "But if there is _one_!" cried Linda, eagerly jumping to the tiny hope his words suggested. "We must get that surgeon! Who is he? Where is he?" She was talking rapidly, excitedly, almost incoherently. "He is a Dr. Lineaweaver. A marvelous man. But I happen to know he is away on his vacation now." "Where does he go?" "That I don't know." "But you know where he lives?" "Yes. St. Louis." "Then won't you please call his home and find out where he is, and I'll go for him as soon as I get my plane back." The doctor shook his head sorrowfully. "I'm afraid it's too late, my child. I--I--doubt if your father will live through the night. And you couldn't fly at night--even if your plane were here." "I can--and will! And I think I hear my plane now--yes, I'm sure that's it. Get me the address--quick--and you put in the call while I run out and see my plane! And try to get a trained nurse immediately. I'll be back before dawn--unless the surgeon's in Europe or Canada!" And, dashing in to give her father one kiss, she hurried out to find faithful Ted Mackay, alighting from her beloved Arrow. CHAPTER XX _The Race against Death_ "Ted!" "Linda!" "You can't know how thankful I am to see you!" cried the girl. "It--it--may mean that I can save my father's life!" And she told him of her plans. "If I could only go with you!" sighed the young man. "I hate to think of you flying alone at night!" "But you do believe I'm capable, don't you, Ted?" Linda's eyes searched his for the truth; she was not asking for flattery, she really wanted his opinion. "Yes indeed I do!" Ted answered, with assurance. "But it's always safer for two pilots to go together. However, the Pursuit is in fine shape now--and filled up with gas.... Linda, I have something to tell you." "Yes?" "About the wreck--and--those thieves.... The other dead man was my father." "Your father! Ted!" Every bit of color left the girl's face. What a dreadful, ghastly thing to happen to anybody, and especially to a fine boy like Ted! To come upon his father, dead, in that abrupt fashion, and to know, worst of all, that he had died in disgrace! Finding no words to express her sympathy, she pressed his hand tightly in silence. "So you see how much I have to do--why I can't go with you," he continued. "I have reported the wreck to my company, and made arrangements about my father's body. But I must go right home to my mother." "But how do you explain it all, Ted?" Linda asked. "I think my father was paying one of his regular visits to the Spring City Flying School--he came there once in so often to get money from me--and he was disappointed to find I had gone. Whether he knew that other man before, I don't know, but it would seem probable that he did. Together they must have cooked up the scheme to follow your plane and get the necklace.... That is why it is really fortunate the man got the necklace by a ruse. You see he was armed with a gun--as I later found out, and if he had had to fight for the jewels, I'm sure he wouldn't have hesitated to fire on you!" "And I suppose your father's being involved would explain why you were suspected," added Linda. "You look like him, I believe." "Yes. To my regret." "But perhaps it's better as it is," concluded Linda. "Don't you feel so, Ted?" "Yes, I do. It--will be so much easier for my mother.... But Linda, we mustn't stand here talking. Every minute is precious to you." "No. I can't go till Dr. Winston comes out with the surgeon's address. He's putting in a long distance call. However, I will go in and change into my flyer's suit, if you don't mind," she added. Five minutes later she reappeared with the information that Dr. Lineaweaver was in Louisiana--at a small seaport town which Ted instantly located on a map that he gave to Linda. "I won't even start off with you," the young man said, "because that would mean an extra stop for you. Now--are you sure you are all right--and that you can stay awake?" "Yes, I'm sure," replied the girl, forcing a smile. "Mrs. Cates has just given me a thermos bottle full of coffee, and a sandwich, to help me!" A moment later she climbed into the cockpit and started the motor. The Pursuit, whose engine purred with the smooth even whir of one in perfect order, gained speed until it rose into the air. It was Linda's first flight at night. Darkness was all around her, but overhead the stars shone brightly, and the moon came from behind a cloud to light her way. Strange, lonely, mysterious, it seemed to her, as she flew through the night, but nevertheless thrilling. Gradually a sense of peace settled over her, as if a Divine Providence was surely guiding her, and she experienced the firm conviction that everything was right, that she was going to be successful in her mission to save her father's life. For the first time she realized how much her confidence had to do with Ted Mackay. Because he had repaired and inspected the motor, she felt certain there would be no accident, and a successful flight was a good omen for the operation. Moreover, she had great faith in Dr. Lineaweaver. If he would only promise to come! The hours passed, the moon set, the night grew darker. But the solitary girl flew on, swift and straight to her course, steadfast in her undertaking. About two o'clock she arrived at the little seaport, found a landing place back of the one big hotel, and went inside. Fortunately a night clerk was on duty, and he rose immediately to greet her. The flyer's costume identified her so that he had no need to ask what a girl of her age was doing alone at this early hour of the morning. "Can you tell me where Dr. Lineaweaver, the surgeon, can be located?" she inquired. "I want him immediately--it is a question of my father's life." Her voice was steady now; there was no danger of tears. She seemed almost mature as she spoke the words. "Yes," replied the clerk. "He is staying at Dr. Grayson's bungalow--a couple of blocks away. They come over here for their meals." "Could you get him on the telephone for me?" "Certainly. I'll let you talk with him." Although the clerk put in the call immediately, there was no answer for several minutes. A fishing trip had tired both doctors, and they were sleeping soundly. At last, however, there came a reply, and Linda took the telephone. In a few words the unhappy girl apologized for the call at that hour, and during the surgeon's holiday, and briefly told her story. Eagerly she pleaded with him to dress and come immediately, informing him that she had her plane waiting. "You mean you flew from Texas alone--at this hour of the night!" exclaimed the surgeon. "Yes. But you needn't be afraid, Doctor, to go with me. I'm quite experienced. Oh please, please, say yes!" "I'll be at the hotel in ten minutes," replied the great man. "And meanwhile, you get something to eat." Linda sank gratefully into a chair, thinking that the hardest part of her task was over--the winning of Dr. Lineaweaver's consent to break into his vacation and go back with her. Now, if her father only lived until they returned, all would surely be well! Still keeping herself in control, she ate her sandwich and drank her coffee, while she waited for the doctor to come. True to his word, he appeared in exactly ten minutes. The flight back to the ranch was much pleasanter than the one to the seaport. No longer was Linda alone; it was a comfort to have the great surgeon with her, to know that he would do all in his power to save her father. The darkness gradually faded, giving place to a faint gray, and finally to a beautiful, inspiring sunrise. A dawn that perhaps meant new life to her father! It did not take Dr. Lineaweaver long to realize that Linda was an accomplished pilot, and he settled back into his seat in full enjoyment of the ride. His surprise at her youth--she was much younger than he had supposed from the telephone conversation--gradually gave way to admiration of her skill and her poise. He had no fear for his own safety; he was confident that she would make the journey without a mishap. About seven o'clock she brought the Pursuit to a stop on the field that belonged to her father's ranch. Cates was already there to greet them. "Is my father still alive?" she demanded, with the first indication of any strain in her voice. "Yes," came the reassuring reply. "He is just the same." "And did you succeed in getting a nurse?" "Yes. Dr. Winston's here too.... Now, the Mrs. said to bring you both in for a hot breakfast." Linda was so excited that she did not see how she could possibly eat, but when she realized that the surgeon must take time for something, she finally agreed. But first she tiptoed in for a look at her father, and gave him a kiss that was really a prayer. A white-clad nurse smiled at her, and she believed hopefully that all was well. The inaction, the weary, tense waiting of the next two hours was more difficult for Linda than her flight to Louisiana, alone in the darkness. She had nothing to do. Sleep was out of the question, yet she was terribly tired. But she could not sit still; aimlessly she followed Mrs. Cates around, begging for work. At last the good woman, realizing that the girl could not rest, set her to washing dishes and preparing vegetables for the noon-day meal. But finally the operation was over, and Linda's heart stood still as she heard Dr. Winston coming out of her father's room. Suppose it had all been in vain! She covered her face with her hands, she dared not trust herself to look into his eyes, that would tell her, before he could utter the words, whether her father had lived. And then came the glorious news that set her heart to singing as if the whole world had been recreated in joy and happiness: "Your father is doing nicely, Miss Carlton.... Dr. Lineaweaver believes that he will get well." Now the tears came in floods, tears of thankfulness and gladness, and she hugged Mrs. Cates in her ecstasy. "It was a wonderful operation," continued Dr. Winston. "Dr. Lineaweaver is the greatest surgeon I have ever had the honor to watch." "Thank God! Thank God!" murmured Mrs. Cates, reverently.... "And now, honey, you must go and get some sleep!" "Not till I've thanked Dr. Lineaweaver!" protested Linda, and she ran off like a happy child, unmindful of the terrible strain she had just been through. CHAPTER XXI _Honors for Linda_ When Linda was permitted, the following day, to go in to see her father, she found him conscious, but she knew from his expression that he was suffering severe pain. However, he managed a feeble smile as she entered, that sent a surge of joy to her heart. "Daddy!" she exclaimed, her voice choked with thankfulness, "you are going to get well!" He gave an almost imperceptible nod. "Yes, dear, thanks to you," he managed to murmur. "You mean thanks to the Pursuit--and to Dr. Lineaweaver," she corrected. She wanted to add Ted Mackay's name to the list, but she felt it would not be wise. Her father smiled; it was like Linda to disclaim any credit for herself. "I phoned Aunt Emily last night," she added, "and she is coming out in a couple of days." "Well, don't let her make a fuss over me," was his unexpected reply. Linda squeezed his hand jubilantly; he was talking like himself again! She did not stay with him long--the nurse thought fifteen minutes was enough--but she was satisfied. Now that she felt sure he was getting better, time no longer hung heavy on her hands. There was so much to do at the ranch--so many activities that she enjoyed. Hiking, fishing, riding horseback, even helping Cates with the kitchen garden or driving the battered Ford into Fort Worth on errands. Her aunt arrived a few days later, bringing a trunk as usual. Linda laughed at the idea of carrying so many clothes to a ranch--she practically lived in her old riding-breeches and khaki shirt-waists--but Miss Carlton could not be comfortable unless she was perfectly dressed. "Linda, my darling!" exclaimed the older woman, as they kissed each other. "Think how near I came to losing you!" "Oh, no, Aunt Emily, you mustn't say that! Even though Lou and I were stranded, there was no danger of our dying. We could have hiked the whole way home, if it had been necessary." "But you _almost_ had a serious accident!" "Well, we didn't. And since my plane saved Daddy's life, you're converted to them now, aren't you?" pleaded the girl. "I do think they're useful," admitted the other. "And I really believe that you are an exceptionally fine pilot, my dear." "It's awfully sweet of you to say that, Aunt Emily.... But don't let's talk about it any more. Come in and see Daddy. He's expecting you." Miss Carlton was amazed and delighted to find that her brother's progress had been so rapid, and she began to talk immediately about taking him back to Green Falls with her, in a week or so. He could bring his nurse with him, perhaps charter a private car. "Must we go back so soon, Aunt Emily?" asked Linda. "I love it here!" "It's too wild for me," replied Miss Carlton. "And too lonely. Besides, we have to be on hand for Field Day. It's the biggest event of the summer at Green Falls." "All right," agreed Linda pleasantly. "Whatever you say." "By the way, did you tell your father about finding the necklace? When Louise came home with it, I thought Kitty Clavering'd go crazy! Such a queer circumstance, too--you girls finding it the way you did!" "No, I didn't tell Daddy yet," replied Linda, blushing. She had been afraid to bring Ted's name, or his father's, into the conversation with her father, when he was still so ill. "You see, Daddy," she explained, turning to him, as he lay there quietly on his bed, "Lou and I were taking a trip in the Pursuit, and something went wrong with the motor, forcing us to land in a desolate spot. After our picnic supper, while Lou and I went swimming, we--we--came upon a wrecked plane, and--and--two dead men. The two thieves!" She paused, but suddenly remembered that her aunt did not know that one of the men was Ted's father, for that fact had been ascertained after Louise left. "And we got the necklace!" "Whew!" exclaimed Mr. Carlton, in amazement at their luck, and horror at the experience. "Pretty sickening for you two girls! But, by the way, did the other fellow have red hair?" "Yes, he did. Though Lou and I only saw him from a distance. We didn't want to go too near, for luckily the necklace was in the man's coat beside the wreck, and the bodies were some distance away." Seeing that the subject was unpleasant to Linda, Mr. Carlton never mentioned it to her again during her entire visit. Three weeks passed happily, and her father was sitting up in his chair, when her aunt's restlessness became so apparent that Linda was willing to go back to Green Falls. "You see I'm on the committee for Field Day, my dear," explained Miss Carlton, apologetically. "Besides, I hope you can take part in the events." "How could I, Aunt Emily? I'm not in practice for golf or tennis, or any of the contests. I'm afraid I'd be a joke." "I thought perhaps you might enter the airplane competitions," suggested her aunt, to Linda's consternation. "Do you really mean it, Aunt Emily?" cried the girl, in delight. "Why, I'd adore that!" "Well, we'll see what the program calls for. If it isn't anything too dangerous, like parachute jumping.... And another thing--it is very important for you to be on hand, because Louise is planning a surprise that you don't want to miss." "Is she going to announce her engagement to Ralph Clavering, or Harriman Smith?" "Not that I know of! She isn't engaged to Ralph, is she?" "She wasn't when I last saw her. But absence often lends enchantment, you know!" Miss Carlton looked searchingly into her niece's eyes, but she could see only laughter in them. "Wouldn't you mind a bit, Linda, if Louise married Ralph?" she inquired. "Yes, certainly I'd mind," replied the girl seriously, "I don't think Ralph--or any other boy we know--is good enough for Lou!" "Oh, is that all?" "Yes, that's all. Marriage is too serious for either of us--yet.... Now tell me, Auntie, what you meant by that surprise!" "You wait and see! It's something you'll like." Linda thought perhaps it was the delightful party that greeted her when she landed, three days later, at Green Falls. All of the old crowd were there to welcome her--Louise and Dot Crowley, the two Claverings, Jim Valier and Harriman Smith, Sara Wheeler, Sue Emery, Maurice Stetson, and Joe Sinclair. They presented her with a beautiful little silver airplane, a model for her desk, which served a useful purpose as a stamp-box. Miss Carlton, who had arrived the day before by train, had arranged an elaborate dinner for the whole party. There was so much to talk about--the championships the young people were hoping to win, the airplane stunts for which two noted flyers had been engaged, the contests in flying that anyone with a private pilot's license might enter. In this last event they were all hoping to star Linda. "Even a race, Linda," said Ralph, who seemed to have forgotten all about their quarrel. "You'll enter, won't you?" "Yes, indeed!" replied the girl, her eyes shining with anticipation. "Aunt Emily has already given her consent." Thinking there had been enough talking and too little dancing, Kitty Clavering suggested that they turn on the radio. She was wearing her pearl necklace, and rushing over every few minutes to kiss Linda or Louise, in appreciation of their having recovered it. "This is to be our last party, for almost a week," she said. "Ralph says we all have to go in training--though I'd never win anything if I trained for years. But I can't do much, with all the rest of you practicing tennis and golf and swimming every minute, and going to bed at ten o'clock! So let's make this party good!" The evening passed happily, and no one but Kitty seemed to resent the fact that they gave up social activities and late hours for a few days. They all worked seriously at their own particular sports, and Linda practiced loops and speeding with her plane. Labor Day dawned, hot but clear--splendid weather for the out-door event of the season. The Casino and the grounds around it were gayly decorated for the fête; a band supplied music whenever there was a lull, and refreshment-booths everywhere offered an opportunity for the guests to eat outside, if they did not prefer the more formal luncheon and dinner served at the restaurant. Golf tournaments, swimming races and diving contests were on the program for the morning, and the finals in tennis were to be played off soon after lunch. Then came archery and quoits, drills by the Boy Scouts and a pageant by the Girl Scouts. The last thing before supper was the exhibition of flying. Linda had decided not to go to the grounds in the morning, for she wanted to have a mechanic inspect her plane, to ascertain that everything was just right before her participation in the most spectacular event of the day. She arrived soon after luncheon in the Pursuit, leaving it at the runway behind the grounds, and strolling over to the tennis matches, watched Ralph capture the men's singles' cup, and Dot Crowley take the women's. She found the archery contest interesting, and almost wished she had entered, for her father had taught her the art of the bow. However, on the whole she was satisfied to concentrate all her energy upon flying. The acrobatics came first on the program; two aviators of considerable repute in their profession had been advertised, although their names had not yet been divulged. What was Linda's amazement, when she heard Edward Mackay and Sam Hunter being introduced by the chairman! This had been her aunt's doing, no doubt, for the latter was on the committee. Was this the surprise she had so mysteriously mentioned, and if so, what was Louise's part in it? A hush fell over the huge throng as they watched the two flyers ascend into the air and demonstrate all sorts of stunts for their amusement. The falling leaf, the Immelman turn, the inside loop, and the much more difficult outside loop--and a number of others to which even Linda could not give a name. Then finally, from a height of five thousand feet, Ted Mackay stepped off in a parachute and came safely to the ground. While she had been watching these skillful yet dangerous performances, Linda's heart beat fast with excitement, her breath came in little gasps of fear or relief, as the stunt began fearfully or ended in safety. But now that her own turn was coming, she was surprisingly calm and self-possessed. With five other amateur flyers, all of whom were young men, she taxied along the runway and took off into the air, mounting to fifteen hundred feet, carefully keeping clear of her opponents. The looping began; she completed one inside loop after another, until she had scored six. Then she realized that she was too near the ground to take a chance with another, and it was too late to ascend again. With the wisdom of an Earhart or a Lindbergh, who never sacrifices safety for the sake of foolish publicity, she cautiously landed. A few minutes later the other planes all came down. Only one pilot, a college boy whom she had just met, scored over her by completing ten loops. After a short interval of rest, the signal that was to start the race was given, and a moment later the gun went off, and six planes ascended again, this time aiming for speed. As the Pursuit soared smoothly upward and then straight ahead, Linda experienced a great surge of pride--not for herself, but for her wonderful little plane. It was almost as if it were a living thing, like a beloved horse. So light, so easy to guide, so sure of its power! On and on it sped, forging its way ahead, passing now one plane and then another until it came abreast of the leader. The thrill, the intoxication of the race took possession of the young aviatrix, and she urged it on to its fullest speed. Now she was passing the one that had looked like the winner from the first! The shouts of her friends below were inaudible to her, but she could feel their applause in her heart. In another second the gun went off with a loud explosion which even the pilots could hear. The race was over; Linda Carlton, the only feminine entry, had won! Her friends, even acquaintances and strangers, almost mobbed her when she finally landed. And the college boy who had come in second was nicest of all. He and Ralph, forming a seat with their hands, carried her high above their shoulders, through the crowd to the Casino where the prizes were to be awarded. Two cups had been provided as a reward for the looping and the racing, and, amid the applause of hundreds, Linda and her new friend received them. But that was not all; the chairman held up his arm for silence. "I have another privilege!" he shouted, and the people suddenly became quiet. "Our club, which among other things fosters aviation for useful purposes, and is always on the lookout for deeds of courage which result in the saving of life, wishes to make an award for such an action. We have discovered, entirely unknown to her, that Miss Carlton made a record flight to bring a noted surgeon to her dying father, in time to perform the operation that saved his life. I therefore take great pleasure in awarding this medal to Miss Linda Carlton, of Green Falls!" A deep wave of color surged over the girl's face as she listened to her own name in connection with the speaker's words. Was it possible that this great honor should come to her, when she had merely performed her duty, and been thankful to be able to do it? Her knees shook, her eyelids fluttered, as she blushingly stepped forward again. But she caught sight of Louise among the crowd--Lou, who had arranged this as her surprise--and then she saw her aunt, with Ted beside her, and she suddenly felt at ease, and smiled. It was over at last, the applause and the congratulations, and Linda was walking with these three back to her plane when she noticed a wheelchair, pushed by a white-clad nurse. It must be--it was--her father! "Daddy!" she cried, pushing her way through the crowd to him. "You are here! How wonderful!" "It is you who are wonderful, my dear girl!" he returned. "I am prouder than I have ever been in my life!" "Daddy--" she lowered her voice--"you don't mind my being with Ted Mackay? Because Aunt Emily----" "Of course not!" he interrupted. "I know all about the boy's part in saving you--your aunt told me. I--I--am ready to admit I was wrong. You will forgive me?" "Why, of course!" She smiled joyfully; there was so much to be happy about now. "And may I have him for a friend?" she asked, timidly. "So long as you don't marry him--or anybody else--for a long time!" Her reply was reassuring: "I won't, Daddy dear! My career as a flyer has only just begun!" THE END 
30881	----	Two Little Women Carolyn Wells BY THE SAME AUTHOR * * * * * PATTY SERIES PATTY FAIRFIELD PATTY AT HOME PATTY IN THE CITY PATTY'S SUMMER DAYS PATTY IN PARIS PATTY'S FRIENDS PATTY'S PLEASURE TRIP PATTY'S SUCCESS PATTY'S MOTOR CAR PATTY'S BUTTERFLY DAYS PATTY'S SOCIAL SEASON PATTY'S SUITORS PATTY'S ROMANCE MARJORIE SERIES MARJORIE'S VACATION MARJORIE'S BUSY DAYS MARJORIE'S NEW FRIEND MARJORIE IN COMMAND MARJORIE'S MAYTIME MARJORIE AT SEACOTE * * * * * [Illustration: IT TOOK A LONG TIME TO SATISFY THE BOYS' APPETITES.--_Page_ 199] TWO LITTLE WOMEN BY CAROLYN WELLS AUTHOR OF THE PATTY BOOKS, THE MARJORIE BOOKS, ETC. ILLUSTRATIONS BY E. C. CASWELL GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1915 BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE GIRL NEXT DOOR 1 II DOTTY ROSE AND DOLLY FAYRE 15 III THE NEW ROOMS 29 IV THE BIRTHDAY MORNING 43 V THE DOUBLE PARTY 57 VI ROLLER SKATING 71 VII TWO BIG BROTHERS 87 VIII CROSSTREES CAMP 103 IX DOLLY'S ESCAPE 118 X HIDDEN TREASURE 133 XI A THRILLING EXPERIENCE 150 XII WHO WAS THE TALL PHANTOM? 167 XIII THAT LUNCHEON 186 XIV THE CAKE CONTEST 201 XV WHO WON THE PRIZE? 215 XVI A WALK IN THE WOODS 231 XVII SURFWOOD 250 XVIII DOLL OVERBOARD! 260 XIX SPENDING THE PRIZE MONEY 276 XX GOOD-BYE, SUMMER! 288 CHAPTER I THE GIRL NEXT DOOR Summit Avenue was the prettiest street in Berwick. Spacious and comfortable-looking homes stood on either side of it, each in its setting of lawn and shade trees. Most of these showed no dividing fences or hedges, and boundaries were indiscernible in the green velvety sward that swept in a gentle slope to the sidewalk. Of two neighbouring houses, the side windows faced each other across two hundred feet of intervening turf. The windows of one house were duly fitted with window-screens, holland shades and clean, fresh white curtains; for it was May, and Berwick ladies were rarely dilatory with their "Spring-cleaning." But the other house showed no window dressings, and the sashes were flung open to the sunny breeze, which, entering, found rugless floors and pictureless walls. But at the open front doors other things were entering; beds, chairs, tables, boxes and barrels, all the contents of the great moving vans that stood out at the curb. Strong men carried incredibly heavy burdens of furniture, or carefully manoeuvred glass cabinets or potted palms. From behind the lace curtains of the other house people were watching. This was in no way a breach of good manners, for in Berwick the unwritten law of neighbours' rights freely permitted the inspection of the arriving household gods of a new family. But etiquette demanded that the observers discreetly veil themselves behind the sheltering films of their own curtains. And so the Fayres, mother and two daughters, watched with interest the coming of the Roses. "Rose! what a funny name," commented Dolly Fayre, the younger of the sisters; "do you s'pose they name the children Moss, and Tea and things like that?" "Yes, and Killarney and Sunburst and Prince Camille de Rohan," said Trudy, who had been studying Florists' catalogues of late. "Their library furniture is mission; there goes the table," and Mrs. Fayre noted details with a housekeeper's eye. "And here comes the piano. I can't bear to see men move a piano; I always think it's going to fall on them." "I'm tired of seeing furniture go in, anyway," and Dolly jumped up from her kneeling position. "I'd rather see the people. Do you s'pose there's anybody 'bout my age, Mums?" "I don't know, Dolly. Your father only said their name was Rose, and not another word about them." "There's a little girl, anyway," asserted Trudy; "they took in a big doll's carriage some time ago." Trudy was nineteen and Dolly not quite fifteen, so the girls, while chummy as sisters, had few interests in common. Dolly wandered away, leaving the other two to continue their appraisal of the new neighbours. She went to her own room, which also looked out toward the Roses' house. Idly glancing that way from her window, she saw a girl's face in a window next door. She seemed about Dolly's age, and she had a pretty bright face with a mop of curly black hair. She wore a red dress and a red hair-ribbon, and she made a vivid picture, framed in the open window. Dolly looked through the scrim of her bedroom curtain, and then to see better, moved the curtain aside, and watched the black-haired girl. Dolly, herself, could not be seen, because of the dark wire window screen, and she looked at the stranger with increasing interest. At last the new girl put one foot over the window sill and then the other, and sat with her feet crossed and kicking against the side of the house. It was a first floor window, and there was little danger of her falling out, but she stretched out her arms and held the window frame on either side. Dolly judged the girl must be about her own age, for she looked so, and too, her dress came nearly but not quite to her shoetops, which was the prescribed length of Dolly's own. It was a pleasant outlook. If this new neighbour should be a nice girl, Dolly foresaw lots of good times. For most of her girl friends lived at some distance; the nearest, several blocks away. And to have a chum next door would be fine! But was she a nice girl? Dolly had been punctiliously brought up, and a girl who sat in a window, and swung her feet over the sill, was a bit unconventional in Berwick. Dolly was seized with a strong desire to meet this girl, to see her nearer by and to talk with her. But Dolly was timid. Beside her careful education in deportment, she was naturally shy and reticent. She was sure she never could make any advances to become acquainted with this new girl, and yet, she did want to know her. She went back to her mother and sister. "There's an awful big picture," Trudy was saying; "it's all burlapped up, so you can't tell what it is. It's easy to judge people from their pictures." Trudy had graduated the year before from a large and fine girls' school and she knew all about pictures. "I think you can tell more by chairs," Mrs. Fayre said; "their easy chairs are very good ones. I think they're very nice people." "Have you seen the girl in the window?" asked Dolly. "She's just about my size." "So she is," said Mrs. Fayre, glancing at Dolly, and then returning to her study of the chairs. "When can I go to see her, Mother?" "Oh, Trudy and I will call there in a fortnight or so, and after that you can go to see the little girl or I'll ask her mother to bring her over here. You children needn't be formal." "But can't I go over there to-day?" "Mercy, no, child! Not the day they arrive! They'd think we were crazy!" Dolly went out on the side verandah. The black-haired girl still sat in the window. She was frankly staring, and so, every time Dolly caught her eye, the straightforward gaze was so disconcerting that Dolly looked away quickly and pretended to be engrossed in something else. But at last with a determined effort to overcome her timidity, she concluded she would look over at the girl and smile. It couldn't be wrong merely to smile at a new girl, if it was the very day she arrived. They couldn't think her "crazy" for that. But to conclude to do this and to do it, were two very different matters for Dolly Fayre. Half a dozen times she almost raised her eyes, her smile all ready to break out, and then, it would seem too much to dare, and with a deep blush, she would turn again toward her own house. But it was nearing luncheon time, and Dolly made a last desperate effort to screw her courage to the sticking point. With a determined jerk she wheeled around and smiled broadly at the new girl. To her amazement, the pretty face scowled at her! Definitely and distinctly scowled! Dolly could scarcely believe her eyes. Why should this stranger scowl at her, when she didn't know her at all? Dolly quickly looked away, and pondered over the matter. She felt less shy now, because she was angry. Then the bell rang for luncheon. Dolly started for the house, but unable to resist a final impulse, she glanced again at the girl in the window. The girl shook her head at her! It was a quick, saucy, sideways shake, as if Dolly had asked her something and she had refused. The pretty face looked pettish, and the black eyes snapped as she vigorously shook her curly head. "Pooh!" said Dolly to herself; "wait till you're asked, miss! I don't want anything of you!" Dolly went into the house and at the lunch table, she told her mother and Trudy of the girl's actions. "I thought she looked saucy," said Trudy, and the subject was dropped. * * * * * In the meantime the girl next door had drawn in her feet and jumped down from the window. "What a funny lunch!" she exclaimed, as she ran into the dining-room. "Looks good, though," and she sat down on a packing-box, and took the plate her mother offered. "Yes, it's a sort of picnic," said Mrs. Rose; "everything's cold, but it does taste good!" The dining-room was unfurnished; though the table and chairs were in it, they were still burlapped, and the barrels of dishes were not yet unpacked. Mrs. Rose and her sister, Mrs. Bayliss, sat on packing-boxes too, and made merry at their own discomfort. "Seems 'sif we'd never get straightened out," said Mrs. Rose, taking another sandwich on her plate, "but I s'pose we will. It's always like this when you move. Thank goodness, George is coming home early,--he's such a help." "Yes, he is," agreed Mrs. Bayliss; "what lovely fresh radishes! I'll take some more. Do you know any one at all in Berwick, Molly?" "No one at all. George liked the place, and he bought this house from an agent. But I shan't hasten to make acquaintances. I believe in going slow in such matters. The neighbours will probably call after a few weeks, and then we'll see what they're like. The people next door have lovely curtains. I think you can judge a lot by curtains. And their whole place has a well-kept air. Perhaps they'll prove pleasant neighbours. Their name is Fayre." "I saw the little girl out on the verandah," said Dotty Rose, between two bites of her sandwich. "She has yellow hair and blue eyes. But I don't like her." "Why, Dotty, how you talk!" exclaimed her aunt; "how can you like her or dislike her, when you don't know her?" "She's a prig; I can see that, Aunt Clara. I can tell by the way she walks and moves around. She hasn't any _go_ to her." "Well, you've go enough for the whole neighbourhood! Probably you'll find she's a nice, well-behaved little girl." "All right, have it just as you like, Aunt Clara. When are you going to fix my room, Mother?" "As soon as your things come; not till to-morrow, most likely. If we can get beds to sleep on to-night, that's all I'll ask." "I think it's fun," and Dotty danced around on one toe; "I'd like to live this way, always,--nothing in its place and all higgledy-piggledy!" "I believe you would," returned her mother, laughing. "Now, if you've finished your lunch, dearie, run away and play, for you only bother around here." Dotty ran away but she didn't play. She went from one room to another, trying to learn the details of her new home; but ever and anon her glance would stray to the house next door, and she would wonder what the yellow-haired girl was doing. Dotty had been allowed to choose her own room from two that her mother designated. One was on the side of the house that faced the Fayres', the other wasn't. Dotty hesitated between them. She went in one and then the other. "If I _should_ like that prim-faced thing," she said to her Aunt Clara, "I'd rather have this room, that looks toward their house. But if I _don't_ like her,--and I'm just about sure I _won't_,--I'd rather have my room on the other side." "Oh, you'll like her, after you know her," said Aunt Clara, carelessly. "But don't mind that, take the room you think pleasanter." So Dotty considered them both again. The room not facing the Fayres' was without doubt the more attractive of the two, though not much so. It had a large bay window, which was delightful; but then on the other hand the other room had an open fireplace, and Dotty loved a wood fire. She stood in the room with the fireplace, looking toward the next house. It was Saturday afternoon, and as she watched she saw the yellow-haired girl and two ladies come out and get in a motor car. "I don't like her!" Dotty declared again, though as there was no one else present, she talked to herself. "She walks like a prig, she gets in the car like a prig and she sits down on the seat like a prig! I don't like her, and I'm going to take the other room!" So, when her own furniture arrived it was put in the room with the bay window and which did not overlook the Fayre house. The house that she could see from her newly chosen room, was so hemmed in by trees as to be almost invisible. Dotty spent a pleasant afternoon, after her furniture was in place, arranging her little trinkets and pictures, and putting away things in her cupboards and bureau drawers. But every little while some errand seemed to call her across the hall, and she couldn't help looking out to see if "that girl" had returned yet. The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Rose was at home. "Well, Chick-a-dotty, you'll have a nice playmate in that little girl next door," he said, as his daughter followed him round the house looking after various matters. "'Deed I won't, Daddy; she's horrid!" "Why, why! what sort of talk is this? Do you know her?" "No, but I've seen her, and she isn't nice a bit." "Oh, I guess she is. I came out in the train last night with a man I know, and he knows the Fayres and he says they're about the nicest people in Berwick." "Pooh! I don't think so. She's a prim old thing, and doesn't know B from broomstick." "There, there, Dotty Doodle, don't be hasty in your judgment. Give the little lady a chance." Later, Dotty and her father walked round the outdoors part of their new domain. "Isn't it pretty, Daddy!" exclaimed Dotty; "I'm so glad there are a lot of flower-beds and nice big shrubs, and lovely blue spruce trees and lots of things that look like a farm." The Roses had always lived in the city, and to Dotty's eyes the two acres of ground seemed like a large estate. It was attractively laid out and in good cultivation, and Mr. Rose looked forward with pleasure to the restful life of a suburban town after his city habits. "There's that girl now!" and Dotty suddenly spied her neighbour walking with _her_ father around _their_ lawn. "So it is. I shall speak to him; it's only right, as we are next-door neighbours, and we men needn't be so formal as the ladies of the houses." "I don't want to speak to her," and Dotty drew back. "_Don't_ do it, Daddy, _please_ don't!" "Nonsense, child! of course I shall. Don't be so foolish." "But I don't want to; she'll think I'm crazy to meet her, and I'm not! I don't want to, Father." "What a silly! Well, if you don't want to see the girl now, run away. I'm certainly going to chat with Mr. Fayre, and get acquainted." * * * * * Now the other pair of neighbours had, not unnaturally, been talking about the newcomers. "You see, Father," said Dolly as she took her usual Sunday morning stroll around the place with him, "that new girl isn't nice at all. When I smiled at her, she scowled and shook her head at me." "Oh, Dolly, I imagine she's all right. Mr. Forrest told me about them. He knows them and he says they're charming people." "Well, they may be, but I don't want to meet her. Don't walk over that way." "Yes, I shall. Mr. Rose seems to be coming this way, and I shall do the neighbourly thing and have a chat with him." "Why, Father, you don't know him." "That doesn't matter between next-door neighbours, at least between the men of the houses. Come along, and scrape acquaintance with the little girl. I think she looks pretty." Dolly started, then a sudden fit of shyness seized her, and she stood stock-still. "I can't," she murmured; "oh, Father, please don't ask me to!" "All right, dear; don't if you don't want to. Run back to the house. I'm going to speak to Mr. Rose." And that's how it happened that as the two men neared each other, with greeting smiles, the two girls, started simultaneously, and ran like frightened rabbits away from each other, and to their respective homes. CHAPTER II DOTTY ROSE AND DOLLY FAYRE A few days passed without communication between the two houses. Mr. Fayre expressed a decided approval of his new neighbour, and advised his wife to call on Mrs. Rose. Mrs. Fayre said she would do so as soon as the proper time came. "I'm not going," said Dolly. "I don't like that girl, and I never shall." "Why, Dorinda," said her father, who only used her full name when he was serious, "I've never known you to act so before. I've thought you were a nice, sweet-tempered little girl, and here you are acting like a cantankerous catamaran!" "What is the matter with you, Doll?" asked Trudy; "you are unreasonable about the little Rose girl." "Let her alone," said Dolly's mother; "she'll get over it." "I'll never get over it," declared Dolly; "I don't want to know a girl as big as I am, who plays with dolls." "How do you know she plays with dolls?" "Well, a dolls' carriage went in there the day they moved in." "Perhaps it's one she used to have, and she has kept it, for old associations." "Maybe. Anyhow, I don't like her. She made faces at me." "Really?" and her mother smiled. "Well, she scowled at me, and shook her head like a--like a--" "Like a little girl shaking her head," said Mr. Fayre, to help her out. But Dolly didn't smile. She was a queer nature, was Dolly. Usually sunny and happy-hearted, she liked almost everything and everybody, but if she did take a dislike, it became a prejudice, and very hard to remove. Dolly was pretty, with the bluest of blue eyes and the pinkest of pink cheeks and the yellowest of yellow hair. She was inclined to be plump, and Trudy was always beseeching her not to eat so much candy and sweet desserts. But Dolly loved these things and had small concern about her increasing weight. She didn't care much for outdoor play, and would rather sit in the hammock and read a story-book than run after tennis balls. Her mother called her a dreamer, and often came upon her, sitting in the twilight, her thoughts far away in a fairyland of her own imagination, enjoying wonderful adventures and thrilling scenes. Dolly was in the grammar school and next year would be in the high school. She didn't like study, particularly, except history and literature, but she studied conscientiously and always knew her lessons. This morning, she kissed her mother good-bye, and started off for school. She wore a blue and white gingham, and a fawn-coloured coat. Swinging her bag of books, she marched past the Rose house, and though she didn't look at her, she could see the Rose girl on the front steps. "I wonder if she'll go to our school," thought Dolly; and for a moment the impulse seized her to stop and "scrape acquaintance." Then she remembered that shaking head, and fearing a rebuff, she walked on by. "Do you know that new girl next door to you?" Celia Ferris asked her as she entered the school yard. "No; do you?" and Dolly looked indifferent. "No, I don't; but my mother knows a lady, who knows them and she says Dorothy,--that's her name,--is a wonder." "A wonder! How?" "Oh, she's so smart and so clever, and she can do everything so well." This was enough for Dolly Fayre. To think that disagreeable new neighbour of hers, must be a paragon of all the virtues! But Dolly was never unjust. She knew she had no real reason to dislike Dorothy Rose, so she only said, "I haven't met her yet. My mother is going to call there this week, and then I s'pose I'll get acquainted with her." "How funny," said Celia, who was chummy by nature. "I should think you'd go in and play with her without waiting for your mother to call,--and all that. Anybody'd think you were as old as Trudy." "Oh, I could do that if I wanted to, but I don't want to." "Well, I think I'll go to see her, anyway. If she's so smart it would be nice to have her in the Closing Day exercises. I s'pose she'll come to school here." "Of course, you can do as you like, Celia, but I think it's too late to get any new girls in now." Dolly went on to the schoolroom, her heart full of resentment at this "smart" interloper. It was a little bit a feeling of jealousy, for Dolly Fayre was head and front of everything that went on at the Berwick Grammar School, and it jarred a little to think of having a wonder-girl come in with a lot of new ideas and plans and mix everything all up at the last minute. But don't get any mistaken idea that Dolly Fayre was a mean-minded or small-natured girl. On the contrary, she was generosity itself in all her dealings with her schoolmates. Every one liked her, and with good reason, for she never quarrelled, and was always happy and smiling. But the Rose girl had acted queer from the first, and Dolly couldn't admit the desirability of bringing her into their already arranged "Closing Exercises." These were so important as to be almost sacred rites, and as usual Dolly was at the head of all the committees, and her word was law. She went home from school that afternoon, thinking about it, and her pretty face looked very sober as she went in the house and put her school-books neatly away in their place. "There's some lemonade and cookies on the sideboard," said her mother as Dolly went through the hall. "All right, Mumsie," and somehow, after these refreshments had been absorbed, Dolly felt better, and life seemed to have a brighter outlook. She took an unfinished story-book and picked up her white kitten, and went out to the side verandah, her favourite spot of a warm afternoon. "You see, Flossy," she whispered, addressing the kitten, "I want you with me, 'cause I'm buffled to-day." Dolly was in the habit of making up words, if she couldn't think of any to suit her, and just at the moment _buffled_ seemed to her to mean a general state of being ruffled, and buffeted and rebuffed and generally huffy. "And you well know, Floss, that when I feel mixy-up, there's nothing so comforting and soothing as a nice little, soft little, cuddly little kitty-cat." Flossy blinked her eyes, and purred gently, and was just as comforting as she could be, which is saying a good deal. There was a big, wide swing on the side verandah, one of those cushioned settee affairs that are so cosy to snuggle into, and read. And it was without a glance at the house next door, that Dolly snuggled herself in among the red cushions and opened her book, while Flossy cuddled in the hollow of her arm; and concluding that she would be quite as comforting asleep as awake, the kitten promptly fell into a doze. Meantime there were arrivals at the Rose house. Eugenia, the eleven year old girl, had been staying with a cousin until the house should be put in order, and now she had come to the new home. She was a black-haired witch, and of exceeding vivacious and volatile disposition. "OO!--ee!" she exclaimed; "isn't it great! Take me everywhere, Dot! Show me all the rooms and all the outdoorses and everything! I didn't know it was such a big house. Which is my room?" Even as she talked, Eugenia was flying upstairs, only to turn right around and fly down again. She danced from room to room, sometimes followed or preceded by Dotty and sometimes not. Her own room delighted her. It faced the Fayres' house, being the one Dorothy had rejected in favour of the other. "Where's Blot?" asked Dotty; "didn't you bring him?" "Oh, yes; he's down with Thomas. He's crazy. He barked all the way here." But Dotty was already flying down stairs to find her beloved puppy. "Here he is, Miss Dorothy," and the chauffeur, Thomas, gave the black poodle into her arms. "Oh, you blessed Blotty-boy! Oh, you cunnin' Blotsy-wotsy! Does him love hims Dotty?" The love was manifested by some moist caresses and then Blot was all for a scamper. Dotty took him out on the lawn and set him down, herself all ready for a romp. Now only a minute before, Flossy, the white kitten, had waked from her nap, and seeing that Dolly was absorbed in her story-book, inferred that kitten comfort was not at the moment needed, and decided to go after a very yellow butterfly out on the Fayre lawn. Stealthily across the grass, Flossy went butterflywards, on tippy-toe. Each white paw was daintily lifted and softly set down on the thick turf, as her progress continued. From the Rose lawn Blot spied the advancing Flossy. He didn't then know her name, but he had liberal ideas on the subject of introductions, and he made a wild dash toward the oncoming kitten. When Floss saw the small black whirlwind hurling itself at her, she was either too brave or too frightened to retreat, so she put her white back up as high as possible and stood her ground. She expressed her opinion of the performance in a series of sputtering yowls that drew Dolly's attention from her book to the impending battle. She sprang out of the swing, and rushed toward Flossy just as the two belligerents met in the grassy arena. Dorothy Rose, on her side of the lawn was shaking with laughter, and this sight was the last straw to Dorinda Fayre's overburdened soul. "Don't you let your dog eat up my cat!" she cried out, angrily, to the black-haired girl opposite. "Don't you let your cat eat up my dog, then!" was the immediate response, delivered with enthusiasm equalling Dolly's own. "Cats don't eat dogs!" "Neither do dogs eat cats!" "Well, these will eat each other! Oh! look, we _must_ get them apart!" The battle was of the pitched variety, whatever that may mean. But it is a phrase used to describe the most intense and desperate battles of history, and surely this was one of them. Dolly Fayre had no idea that gentle little Flossy had so much fight in her small white body, and Dotty Rose never dreamed that Blot was such a fire-eater under his curly black coat. Really alarmed for their pets, the two girls went nearer to the agile warriors, who now looked like an indistinct moving-picture film that was going too fast. "Come here, Blot!" Dotty cried, in most commanding tones. "Come here, Flossy!" Dolly called, in coaxing accents. Insubordination ensued on both sides. "We'll have to grab them!" declared Dotty Rose; dancing about the war zone. "We can't!" wailed Dolly Fayre, wringing her hands as she edged away from the seat of battle. "Well, I just guess we will!" and Dotty Rose seized Blot by the scruff of his black neck and shook him loose from the white kitten. With a little cry of rejoicing, Dolly Fayre picked up Flossy and plumped herself down on the grass to make sure the kitten was intact. Dotty sat down too, and felt of Blot's small and well-hidden bones. As neither animal gave any cry of pain and as each glared at its late opponent, the respective owners of the combatants drew sighs of relief and held on tightly to their pets, lest a fresh attack should begin. Now it stands to reason that after a scene like that just described, the two girls couldn't get up and walk off home without a word. So they sat on the grass and looked at each other. And when the troubled blue eyes of Dolly Fayre saw the big brown eyes of Dotty Rose twinkle and saw her red lips smile, she discovered that the scowl she had objected to was not permanent, and she smiled back. But somehow, they could think of nothing to say. The smile broke the ice a little, but Dolly Fayre was timid, and Dotty Rose was absorbed in looking at the other's blue eyes and yellow hair. But it was Dotty who spoke first. "Well," she said, "how do you like me?" It was an unfortunate question. For Dolly Fayre hadn't a single definite notion regarding Dotty Rose except that she didn't like her. However, it would hardly do to tell her that, so she said, slowly: "I don't know yet; how do you like me?" "Well, I think you're awfully pretty, to begin with." "So do I you," put in Dolly, glad to find a favourable report that she could make truthfully. "Aren't we different," went on the other thoughtfully; "you're so blonde and I'm so dark." "Yes; I just hate my hair,--towhead, Bert calls me." "Who's Bert?" "He's my brother; he's away at school. He's seventeen years old." Dolly spoke proudly, as if she had said, "he's captain of the Fleet." "Why, I've got a brother away at school, too." "Have you? What's his name?" "Bob; of course it's Robert, but we always call him Bob. He's eighteen." "What else have you got?" Dotty knew the question referred to family connections, and answered: "A little sister, Genie, 'leven years old." "That all?" "Yep. 'Cept Aunt Clara, who lives with us, she's a widow. And of course, Mother and Dad." "I've got a grown-up sister, Trudy. She's in s'ciety now, and she's awful pretty." "Look like you?" "Some. But she's all fluffy-haired and dimply-smiled, you know." "What funny words you use." "Do I? Well, I only do when I can't think of the real ones. Are you going to the Grammar School?" "Mother says it's too late to begin this year. Here it is May,--and it closes in June. So she says for me to wait till next year." This was comforting. If the girl didn't go to school this year she couldn't make any bother with the Closing Exercises. Beside, maybe she was not such a dislikable girl as she had seemed at first. Dolly sat and regarded her. At last she said: "Then the doll-carriage belongs to your little sister." "To Genie, yes. How did you know she had one?" "Saw it come with your things, the day you moved in." "How old are you?" "Fourteen, but I'll be fifteen next month,--June." "Why, so will I! Isn't that funny! What day is your birthday?" "The tenth." "Mine's the twentieth. We're almost twins. And our names are quite alike, too. Mine's Dorothy, really, but they all call me Dotty." "And mine's Dorinda, but I'm called Dolly." "And we both have brothers at school, and we each have a sister." "But mine is a big sister and yours is a little sister." "Yes, but we have as many differences as we have likenesses. You're so fair, and--why, your name is Fayre!" Dolly laughed. "Yes, and you're so rosy and your name is Rose!" "Dotty Rose and Dolly Fayre! We ought to be friends. Shall we?" Dolly hesitated. She was too honest to pretend to a liking she didn't quite feel. She looked squarely at Dotty Rose, and said, straightforwardly, "What made you scowl at me that first day you came?" "I didn't!" and Dotty Rose opened her brown eyes in astonishment. "Yes, you did; and you shook your head at me when I smiled to you. You were sitting in a window, with your legs hanging out." "Sitting where! Oh, I remember! Why, I didn't scowl at _you_, it was because Aunt Clara called me to come in out of that window. And I didn't want to, so I scowled. I've a fearful temper. And then, she told me again to come in, and I shook my head. I wasn't shaking it at _you_! Why, I didn't know you then!" Dolly drew a long breath. "Then that's all right! I thought you scowled because I smiled at you, and it made me mad. All right, I'll be friends with you. I'd like to. I think you're real nice." "So do I you!" CHAPTER III THE NEW ROOMS In the cushioned swing on the Fayres' verandah the two girls sat. An artist would have stopped to admire the picture. Dorinda, her pink and white face framed in its golden halo of curlilocks, her light blue frock, neat and smooth, was calmly and daintily nibbling at a piece of cake, catching the crumbs carefully as they fell. Beside her, Dorothy was rapidly munching her cake as she talked, and letting the crumbs fall where they might. Her black hair framed her rosy cheeks and her eyes snapped and sparkled as she gesticulated with both hands. It was Dorothy's habit to emphasise her remarks with expressive little motions, and her father often said that if her hands were tied behind her, she couldn't say a word! Her pink lawn dress was rather tumbled by reason of her wriggling and jumping about, but Dorothy's frocks were rarely unrumpled after she had had them on ten minutes. "We've been friends more than a week now," she said, as she finished her cake in one large bite and brushed a few stray bits out of her lap. "And I think you're just fine! I'm _so_ glad we came to live in Berwick. I like you better than any girl I ever knew." Dotty spread her hands wide as if embracing all the girls who had figured in her previous existence. "Do you like me as much as that?" As she spoke, she touched her toes to the floor and sent the swing up in the air with a mad jump. "Oh!" gasped Dolly, as her cake flew out of her hand; "how--how sudden you are!" "Never mind! _Do_ you like me as much as I like you?" "I don't know," and Dolly looked thoughtful; "I like you, of course, but I wish you'd sit stiller." "Can't; I'm always jumpy. But you _do_ like me, don't you, Dollyrinda?" "Yes, but I can't hop into a liking the way you do. We're awfully different, you know." "'Course we are! That's what makes us like each other. Just think, Dolly, we'll be fifteen soon. Don't you think we ought to be called by our full names and not Dolly and Dotty any more?" "I don't know. Why?" "Oh, 'cause we're too big for baby names. I'm going to stop wearing hair-ribbons." "You are! How ever will you keep your hair back? And you've such a lot of it." "I know. So've you. Why, I'll just braid it, and let the end flutter. But Mother says she won't let me till I'm sixteen. Well, we'll see. Do you want to grow up, Doll?" "I don't know." "You don't know anything! I never saw such a girl! Well, what are you going to do when you're fifteen?" "I haven't thought about it. Do I have to do anything different from when I'm fourteen?" "You don't _have_ to! But don't you _want_ to? What do you want to be when you're grown up?" "Oh, _then_! Why, then I'm going to be an opera singer." "Can you sing?" "Not much yet. But Trudy says I have a nice voice and I'm going to learn." "Pooh! I don't believe you'll ever sing in opera. I'm going to be an actress." "Huh! Can you act?" "Not yet; but I'm going to learn." Dotty smiled as she realised that their ambitions were at least equally promising. "Wouldn't it be fun if we did both get to be famous! Me an actress and you a singeress. But I may change my mind about mine. I do sometimes. Last winter I was crazy to be a trained nurse; but Mother wouldn't let me." "Will she let you be an actress?" "I haven't asked her yet. There's no hurry. I couldn't begin to study for it till I'm out of school. What are you going to get for your birthday?" "I haven't decided yet. Mother said I could have my bedroom all done over or have a gold watch." "Oh, have the room things. And I'll do the same! Do you know, when we moved into our house, I took a room on the other side, but I'm going to move across so I can be on this side toward you. And Mother is going to have the room done up for me, and I'm to choose the things. So you do that too, and we'll have 'em alike!" Dotty had jumped out of the swing in her excitement, and stood at one side, her foot on the step, pushing it sideways. "Don't do that, Dot, you'll break the swing." "Well, will you? Will you choose the room fixings 'stead of the watch?" "I don't know; I'll have to think." "Fiddlesticks! Don't think! Jump at it, and say yes!" "I believe I'd rather, anyway; it would be fun to have our things alike. I'll ask Mother." "But she said you could have your choice." "Yes, but of course, I'll talk it over with her. And Dotty, we don't want the same coloured things, you know." "Why don't we?" "Why, because we're so different. What colour do you want?" "Oh, I've got it all picked out. I'm going to have rose and grey. It's all the rage. Rose pink, you know, and French grey." "Well, I don't want that. I want pale green and white." "You do! Why rose and grey is ever so much more fashionable." "I don't care. I know what I want. Now, see here,-- But do come and sit down! Don't climb over the back of the swing!" Dotty jumped down from the back of the swing, and came around and seated herself beside Dolly. For nearly five minutes she sat quietly while they discussed the colours. "But, don't you see," said Dolly at last, "it will be nicer for us to have our own colours and have the things alike. We can have just the same shape furniture and everything, only each stick to our own colour." Dotty was persuaded, and they agreed that the two mothers could easily be brought to see the beauty of their plans. And so it was. A neighbourly friendliness already existed between the households, and as the two birthdays fell so near together, it seemed fitting that the girls should have their gifts alike. So the paperhanger was visited and Dolly chose a lovely paper of striped pattern, but all white; to be crowned with a border design of hanging vines and leaves in shades of green. Dotty's paper was the same stripe, in soft greys; and her border was a design of pink roses and rosebuds. Dolly's woodwork was to be painted white and Dotty's light grey. The two sets of furniture were exactly alike, except that one was enamelled grey and one white. Each room had a bay window, and the window seats were cushioned in green or rose, and the numerous pillows that graced them were of harmonious colouring. The parents of the girls agreed that a fifteenth birthday was a memorable occasion, and one not likely to occur again, so they made the furnishings of the two rooms complete to the smallest detail. Each had a large rug of plain velvet carpeting; Dotty's rose pink and Dolly's moss green. Window curtains of Rajah silk fell over dainty white ones, and pretty light-shades of green and pink, respectively, gave the rooms a soft glow at night. Trudy contributed wonderful _filet_ embroidered covers for dressing-tables and stands, and dainty white couch pillows, with monograms and ruffles. Dotty's Aunt Clara gave each of the girls a picture, which they were allowed to choose for themselves. They took a whole afternoon for this, and at last Dolly made up her mind to take "Sir Galahad," and Dotty chose, after long deliberation, a stunning photograph of the "Winged Victory." These, framed alike in dark, polished wood, were hung in similar positions in the two rooms. Altogether, the rooms were delightful. It was hard to say which was prettier, but each best suited its happy owner. There was quite a discussion as to when they would take possession, for everything was in readiness by Dolly's birthday, which was on the tenth. "I'll tell you!" cried Dotty, with a sudden inspiration; "let's average up! Dolly's birthday is the tenth and mine the twentieth. Let's celebrate both on the fifteenth, that's half way between, and as we're fifteen anyway, it makes it just right!" This was agreed to as a fine scheme, and then Mrs. Fayre electrified the girls by proposing that they have a little party by way of further celebration. "Together, of course," she said, smiling; "not in either house, but an outdoor party, on the lawn, half-way between." "Oh, Mumsie!" and Dolly clasped her hands in ecstatic joy at the prospect. "Oh, Mrs. Fayre!" and Dotty flung her hands above her head, and danced up and down the room where these plans were being talked over. They were in the Fayre house, having just come down from an inspection of Dolly's room, and these inspections were of almost daily occurrence and usually participated in by several members of both families. "Good idea!" said Mrs. Rose. "It will let Dotty get acquainted with the young people here, and that's what I want. But let me make the party, Mrs. Fayre, and you and Dolly invite the guests as we know so few people as yet." "No; the party must be half and half as to responsibility and expense. If our two D's are to be so friendly, we must share and share alike in their doings." So it was agreed, and as there was but a week in which to get ready, plans were hurried through. They decided to ask thirty of the Berwick young people, fifteen girls and fifteen boys. "I wish Bob could be home!" sighed Dotty; and Dolly echoed the wish for her own brother. But the boys of the two families were deep in school exams and could not think of coming home for a party. Of course the Fayres decided on the invitation list, but everything else was mutually arranged. It was to be entirely a lawn party; first because that seemed pleasanter, and too, because then, it could take place on the adjoining lawns and so be the party of both. "Only,--if it rains!" said Dolly, with an anxious face. "It won't rain!" declared Dotty; "it _can't_ rain on our double birthday! It will be the beautifullest, clearest, sunshiniest day in the world! I know it will!" The girls decided to sleep in their new rooms for the first time the night before the party. "For," said Dolly, shaking her head sagely, "the night after the party, we'll be so tired and thinky about it, that we can't enjoy our rooms so much." "All right," agreed Dotty, "I don't care. I'm crazy to get into mine; the sooner the better, I say." The two girls had a birthday present for each other, and though they didn't know it, the two mothers had planned these so they should be alike. But they did know that the mothers had these gifts in readiness, and that they would see them when they awoke on the birthday morning. By common consent the real birthdays were ignored, and the fifteenth of June accepted as the right anniversary for both. Very formal were the rites preparatory to the occupancy of the new rooms. Dotty had planned them and after some discussion Dolly had agreed. "You come over and wish me good-night in my room," Dotty said, "and then I'll go over and wish you good-night in yours. And then, I'll go home again, and when we're all ready for bed, we'll put out our lights and stick our heads out of our windows and holler good-night across." "Somebody might hear us," objected Dolly. "Pooh! they won't. And what if they did? Neighbours have got a right to say good-night to each other, I guess." "But that's disturbing the peace, or something like that." "Huh! the Peace must be awful easy disturbed! Well, you've got to do it, anyhow." "I haven't got to, either! Not just 'cause _you_ say so!" Dotty was beginning to learn that mild-mannered Dolly had a will of her own, and she said, placatingly: "Well, what do you want to do, then?" "Let's do something like this. When we're all ready to hop into bed, let's turn our lights up and down three times in succession; that'll mean good-night." "Oh, yes, I see; now, listen! we'll do it separately. You flash first and then I will; and after three flashes, we'll leave the lights out and jump into bed at the same minute!" So it was settled, and the eventful occasion duly arrived. The girls' bedtime hour was nine o'clock, but some time before that they were in their new rooms, enjoying their beauty and freshness. At quarter before nine, Dolly appeared at the Rose house, and said solemnly, "I've come over to wish Dorothy good-night." "Come in," said Mrs. Rose, trying not to smile at the ceremonial visit. "You'll find her in her room; go right up." Dolly went up, and found Dotty waiting for her. "_Isn't_ it pretty!" Dolly exclaimed, seeing, as if for the first time the beauties of the room. The bed was turned down, and a lovely new nightdress, with a rose-coloured ribbon run through its lace edge, lay in readiness for the sleeper. "Oh, it's _lovely_!" returned Dotty; "I can hardly wait to go to bed! Go on, say your piece." Dolly stood a minute, her hands clasped, her eyes wandering about with a thoughtful far away gaze. "It's all gone," she said at last; "I can't remember it, only a line: "Sleep sweetly in this quiet room, oh, thou, whoe'er thou art; Nor let a troublous something or other disturb thy peaceful heart. "Honest, that's all I can remember." "Well, that's enough. Thank you, sweet friend and playmate, now go I with thee!" Grabbing Dolly by the arm, Dotty flew downstairs and across the lawn to the other house; Dolly running by her side. Up to Dolly's new room they went. "Lovely!" exclaimed Dotty, as she saw almost the counterpart of her own room, even to the new nightdress,--only Dolly's had a white ribbon. "You might have had green," said Dotty, doubtfully. "No, I don't like coloured ribbons in my underclothes. They're all right for you," Dolly added politely, "but I never did like them." "Now I'll say _my_ piece;" and Dotty bowed to her audience of one. "I haven't forgotten it, but it's very short. "Early to bed and early to rise Makes a girl healthy and wealthy and wise. "Thank you, sweet friend and playmate, now go I with thee." "No; _you_ don't say that! You've _been_ with me. Now, I go home and we both get ready for bed. When you're all ready, put out your light and--" "Yes, I know." Dotty scampered downstairs and over home, and fairly flew up to her room. In less than twenty minutes Dotty was all ready for bed; she put out her light, and throwing a dressing-gown over her nightdress, she sat in the window, watching the light in Dolly's room. She waited and waited, but the light behind the pulled-down shade remained. "H'm!" said Dotty to herself, yawning, "she is the _slowest_ thing! I could have undressed twice in this time!" But at last, Dolly's light went out, and her shade was slowly raised. Then, according to their plan, Dotty flashed her light on and off again. Dolly's light repeated this manoeuvre. Then Dotty did it again, and then Dolly did. The third time the flashes came and went, and then all ceremonies over, the two girls went to their new pretty, inviting beds, and were very soon asleep. CHAPTER IV THE BIRTHDAY MORNING Dotty Rose woke early next morning, and, wide-awake on the instant, sprang from her bed and flew to the window. But she could see nothing of Dolly. The white shades were down and there was no sign of any one stirring. Dotty turned back and began anew to look at her pretty belongings. On the dressing-table she spied something she had not seen there the night before. It was a lovely picture of Dolly in a beautiful silver frame. Dotty laughed outright, for that was exactly what she had given Dolly! A silver frame with her own picture in it. The two mothers had been in the secret, and had seen to it that the frames were alike, but neither of the girls knew that her gift was to be duplicated. It was a perfect likeness, showing Dolly at her best; a dreamy expression on her sweet face, and her soft hair in little waves at her temples, and drawn back by an enormous ribbon bow. It was almost too early to get dressed, so Dotty slipped on a dressing-gown and bedroom slippers and dawdled about, keeping a watch on the Fayre house, in hopes Dolly's shades would fly up. Soon her little sister Eugenia came bounding in. She, too, was in a kimono and she gave a jump and landed with a spring in the middle of Dotty's carefully arranged couch pillows. "Genie!" cried her sister, "get off of there!" "Won't!" and Genie bounced up and down on the springs of the couch. "Get off, I tell you!" "Won't, I tell you!" It _was_ trying, for the pretty pillows with their snowy white embroidered covers were rumpled and tossed by Genie's mischievous play. "Genie Rose! You go right straight out of my room! You're a naughty little girl and you're spoiling my birthday things!" "Dorothy Rose, With a pug nose!" chanted Genie, with the amiable intention of teasing her sister beyond endurance. And she did, for Dotty flung back: "Genie, Genie, You're a meany!" and then she grabbed her and pulled her off the pillows and pushed her out of the room and locked the door. "It's a shame!" and poor Dotty nearly cried to see the havoc naughty little Genie had wrought. One pillow cover was torn and another had a black mark from the sole of Genie's slipper. She heard a tap at the door, and her mother's voice said, "Let me in, Dotty, dear." Dotty opened the door, and exclaimed: "Mother! Isn't Genie the bad little thing! Look at my pretty pillows!" "Oh, what a shame! Why _do_ you two children quarrel so?" "We didn't quarrel. Genie did it on purpose." "But why can't you be loving, kind little sisters? You're always teasing each other." "But I didn't tease her, Mother." "Well, you usually do. Now, Dotty, can't you make a birthday resolution to be more patient with Genie? Remember she's only a little girl, while you're getting grown up. Fifteen is almost a young lady, and you should be kind and gentle with everybody." "I s'pose I ought," and Dorothy sighed; "but it's hard to have my birthday things upset. Aren't you going to punish her, Mother?" "Oh, no; she didn't mean to be naughty. She was only mischievous. I'll mend your pillow, and the soiled one can be laundered." Dotty's anger was always quick to come and quick to go, and she smiled brightly, as she said, "all right. I'll forgive her this time, but she's got to stop that kind of teasing." "I'll speak to her," said easy-going Mrs. Rose; "how do you like Dolly's picture?" "Lovely, isn't it? Did you and Mrs. Fayre know about the frames?" "Yes; and we wanted them to be alike; but I had to urge you to take this instead of that other pattern. Remember?" "Yes, indeed," and Dotty smiled to think how determined she had been in the matter, but had at last yielded to her mother's judgment. "Oh, there's Dolly!" she cried, as she saw the shade go up in the opposite window. "Hello. Happy Birthday!" she called out. Dolly returned the greeting, and the two girls waved their respective photographs at each other, and then both began to get dressed. Dolly, too, had a morning visit from her sister. Trudy looked in on her way down to breakfast. "Happy Birthday, Doll!" she said; "shall I tie your hair-ribbon?" She stepped into the new room, and while tying the big bow, looked around admiringly. "You're a lucky little kiddy to have such a lovely room. It's prettier than mine." "I know it is, Trudy," and Dolly looked regretful. "I'll change with you, if you like. I think as you're the oldest you ought to have the prettiest room." "Not at all, you little goosy!" and Trudy kissed the troubled face. "This is your fifteenth birthday, and I'm glad you have such a beautiful gift to remember it by." With their arms around each other, the two girls went downstairs. "Whoop-de-doo! Dollykins," cried her father, throwing down his paper; "why, you don't look a bit different from when you were fourteen! I thought you'd be a foot taller, at least!" "I don't feel any taller or any older, Father; and I don't s'pose I'll act so. But Mumsie, mayn't I stop wearing hair-ribbons? Dotty's going to." "Are you sure?" and Mrs. Fayre looked quizzical, for she had discussed this weighty matter with Mrs. Rose. "No, not sure; but Dotty's going to ask her mother and she thinks she can make her say yes." "Well, let's wait and see what Mrs. Rose does say," and Mrs. Fayre took her place at the breakfast table. "It seems funny not to have a lot of presents at your place, Doll," said Trudy, smiling. "That's all right," and Dolly returned the smile; "I agreed that my room fixings were to take the place of all other presents." "And then you have the party, you know," said her father. "Mr. Rose has a delightful surprise for it, and when I come home this afternoon I'll bring something to add to the gaiety of nations." "Oh, Father, what?" "Never you mind, curiosity-box! You'll see soon enough." "Will you come home early, Father?" "As early as I can. By five, surely." After breakfast, the two heroines of the occasion went out to their respective side verandahs, and the usual morning programme was carried out. Each frantically waved her hand to the other, calling, "Come over!" Then each vigorously shook her head, shouting: "No, you come over here!" "No, you!" "No, you!" Then Dolly, coaxingly, "Aw, come on,--come on over." Then Dotty, positively, "No, sir! it's your turn. Come on over here." With slight variations this dialogue was repeated every morning. Not that either cared much which went to the other's house, but it was one of their habits. Perhaps Dolly oftenest gave in, and on this birthday morning, the colloquy was short before she ran across the grass and the two friends sat in the Roses' hammock, swinging vigorously as they talked. "How'd you like my present to you?" asked Dotty, with twinkling eyes. "Lovely!" and Dolly smiled back. "How'd you like mine to you?" "Beautiful! Truly, Dollyrinda, I'm awful glad to have that picture of you." "So am I of you. Did you get any plate presents?" "No; I didn't expect any. All the family gave me things for my room, you know. Bob sent me a dear little clock." "How nice; Bert sent me a pair of candlesticks,--glass ones,--they're awfully pretty." "Isn't it funny we don't know each other's brothers." "We will soon, though. Bert is coming home in about two weeks." "Yes, so is Bob. As soon as school closes. Oh, here come the men to put up the tent! Let's go and watch them." Dolly had been allowed to stay at home from school for the day, and the two girls, followed by Genie, ran out on the lawn to see what was going on. In order to make the party a truly joint affair, it had been decided to set up a tent on the lawn exactly midway between the two houses, for the party supper. It was a large tent, and gay with red trimmings and flags. Inside, tables were set up, and the maids from both houses brought out plates and glasses in abundance. "Oh, isn't it just _grand_!" exclaimed Dotty, seizing Dolly round the waist and making her dance about the lawn. "Lovely; but don't rumple me so, Dotty! This is a clean frock." "Oh, what an old fuss you are! Always thinking about your clothes!" "I am not, any such thing! But what's the use of spoiling a clean dress the minute you put it on?" "All right, I'll keep away from you, if you're so afraid I'll muss you up! Proudy!" For some unknown reason, this epithet was the most scathing in the girls' vocabulary, and either was quick to resent it. "I am not a Proudy! And you'd look nicer if you took a little better care of your own clothes,--so there now!" "My clothes are all right! They're as good as yours! I wish we didn't have a birthday together!" Dotty flounced away, and Dolly walked home with an exaggerated dignity. These little quarrels were very silly; but they often occurred between these two who were really good friends, but who sometimes acted very foolishly. Dolly went in her own house, and as she ran upstairs, she sang so very gaily, that Mrs. Fayre looked at Trudy, and said, "Another fuss!" "Yes," and Trudy sighed. "I don't know as Dotty Rose is a very good friend for Dolly; they quarrel a lot." "Oh, well, they get over it right away. I think it is good for Dolly to have some one to stir her up now and then. She's naturally so meek and mild." "Well, Dotty Rose stirs her up, all right!" and Trudy laughed. It was about half an hour later, that Genie Rose appeared before Mrs. Fayre. "Where's Dolly?" she demanded. "Can't you speak a little more politely, Genie?" and Mrs. Fayre smiled pleasantly at the child. "You ain't my mother to tell me what to say!" "No; but this is my house and I like to have little girls act nicely here, especially as I know that you have better manners if you choose to use them." Genie thought a moment, digging her toe into the rug, and at last said: "Good-morning, Mrs. Fayre. Please may I see Dolly?" "Why, what a little lady! Yes, indeed; you will find her in her room. Go right up, Genie, dear." The child trudged upstairs, and entered Dolly's room. "What do you want?" and Dolly, with suspiciously bright eyes, looked up from the book she was pretending to read. "You're not so awful polite, either," and Genie's big, black eyes looked sharply at Dolly. "But never mind. I've come over to tell you that Dot's cryin' about you." "Did she tell you to come?" "Nope. She don't know I'm here. But I think you're two sillies to spoil your nice birthday by crying about each other." "I'm not crying!" "Well, you have been. I can see the cry-marks in your eyes. Nice blue eyes. C'mon over and make up." "Get Dotty to come over here and make up." "She won't come." "Have you asked her?" "No, but I just know she won't. So let's don't ask her, and you come over there." "You're a funny little thing, Genie! You know a lot, don't you?" "'Course I do. Come on, Dolly," and the child pulled at Doily's sleeve. "All right, I will," and the two went together over to the Rose house. Dotty in her room, heard Dolly's voice below stairs and came running down. Her anger was all past, and she was more than ready to be friends again. "Let's go out and see the tent," said Dolly, as the two met in the hall. "All right, let's," and out they went. "Did you fix it up, Genie?" said her mother, who had pretty much known what was going on. "Yes'm, I fixed it up," and Genie ran after the black puppy, who with judicial foresight was running away from her. "Tell me about the people who are coming, Dolly," said Dotty. "Who are the nicest ones?" "You may not like the same ones I do; but Clara Ferris is my most intimate friend of the lot." "As intimate as I am?" "Well, of course, I've known her so much longer, you see, she seems more intimate." "But we're sort of twins, you know." "Only sort of; we're not really. Well, anyway, there's Celia and then there's Maisie May." "Maisie May! What a funny name!" "Well, it's her name all the same. And the two Rawlins girls, Grace and Ethel." "Are they nice?" "Lovely. They live on the next block below us. Their brother is coming, too. Clayton, his name is." "What other boys?" "Oh, Reggie Stuart and Lollie Henry--" "Lollie! What a ridiculous name for a boy!" "His real name is Lorillard. He's an awfully nice boy. He plays the cornet in school sometimes for us to march by. Then there's Joe Collins. He's the funniest thing! Makes you laugh all the time. And a lot of others; I can't tell you about all of them." "Never mind; I'll catch onto them as they come. Do you think they'll like me, Dolly?" "Of course they will; why wouldn't they?" "I don't know; but with such a lot of them, I feel kind of shy." "Pooh; Dot Rose, you couldn't be shy if you tried!" "It isn't shy, exactly; but I'm afraid they won't think I'm nice." "Oh, yes, they will; don't be silly. Anyway, some of them will. And maybe you won't like all of them. Everybody can't like everybody,--you know." "No, I s'pose not. What do we do? Stand up to receive them?" "Of course! Did you think we sat down? Haven't you ever had a party?" "Not such a big one." "Well, I've had lots of 'em. We stand side by side, and I'll introduce everybody to you. Of course, Mumsie and Trude will be around, and your mother and your aunt,--won't they? Don't try to remember all their names, 'cause you can't, and you can pick them up later." "What a lot you know!" and Dotty looked at Dolly with a thoughtful admiration. "I know why," said Dolly, with a sudden flash of enlightenment; "it's 'cause I have an older sister. Trudy is 'out,' you know, and I'm sort of accustomed to comp'ny; but you have a _little_ sister, so you haven't had so much experience." "Yes, that's it," and Dotty comprehended. "All right, you can show me, and I'll do whatever you say." CHAPTER V THE DOUBLE PARTY The party was from four to seven. Before the hour the girls were in readiness and waiting on the lawn, midway between the two houses, to receive their guests. Dolly Fayre wore a white organdie, all lacy with little ruffles and a light blue sash with blue silk stockings and white slippers. Dotty Rose had on a lovely white voile with pink ribbons and pink stockings. Both girls wore their hair in a long loose braid, with a big ribbon at the top of the braid. "Didn't leave off hair-ribbons, did you?" said Dolly, smiling. "No, Mother wouldn't hear of it. She says we ought to wear them until we're sixteen, anyway." "I don't care much, do you?" "No; only I'd rather leave them off. It didn't rain, you see." "I should say not! It's a perfect day. Did you put a pink ribbon on Blot?" "Yes, he looks lovely! Oh, here's Flossy, in her blue bow. If they'll only behave themselves!" The puppy and the kitten had become fairly good friends, by reason of their two young mistresses' training; and frequently met without fighting, though this was not to be depended on. "Oh, here comes somebody, Dolly! I feel as if I should run away!" "Nonsense, Dot! don't be silly! It's only Joe Collins. Hello, Joe; this is my new friend, Dorothy Rose. It's her party, same as mine." Joe was far from bashful. "Hay-o, Dorothy," he said, gaily. "Aren't you afraid you'll get off the line? My, but you girls are particular to stand just so!" Dorothy flashed a smile at him. Somehow her shyness vanished, and she replied, "Oh, we only stood that way, waiting for somebody to come. Now, we can move around," and she took a few jumpy skips around the lawn. "Do you live near here?" she went on, by way of conversation. "Couple o' blocks away. Hope we'll be friends." "'Course we will. And I've got a brother about your size; you'll like him." "Is he here?" "No; he's away at school. Be home in about two weeks. Come and see him then." "I will. Here come the Brown twins. Know 'em?" "No, I don't know anybody. My! Aren't they alike?" They certainly were, and when Dolly introduced Tod and Tad Brown, Dotty frankly stared at them. "I never saw such twinsy twins before," she said; "do you know yourselves apart?" "Not always," replied one of them. "But I think I'm Tod, and my brother is Tad. Of course our Sunday names are Todhunter and Tadema, but Tod and Tad are much better for every day use." Then some girls came; Clara Ferris was among the first; and then Grace and Ethel Rawlins, and Maisie May. Dotty took a quick liking to the last named, for she was a bright, pretty girl who seemed eager to be friends. Clayton Rawlins came too, and Lollie Henry, and then they came in such numbers that Dotty couldn't catch all the names nor remember those she did catch. The girls had laid off their hats and wraps in the Fayre house, and the boys in the Rose house, as every means was used to have the party equally divided. At first they played games. The Fayres had a tennis court, and the Roses a croquet ground. Also, Mr. Rose had contributed as his "surprise" to the party a set of Lawn Bowls. This was a new sport to many of them and all liked it, and took turns at the bowling. Others wandered about the grounds or sat in the swings and hammocks, and at five o'clock they were called to supper. Little tables had been placed on the lawn and four or six young people were seated at each. Then the good things were brought to them. Bouillon and tiny sandwiches, ices, cakes, jellies, bon-bons, everything that goes to make a delightful party supper. The two hostesses did not sit together, and Dotty found herself with Clara Ferris, Joe Collins and one of the Brown twins. "How do you like Berwick?" asked Tad Brown, as he finished his bouillon. "Ever so much!" returned Dotty enthusiastically; "and now I'm acquainted with so many people I shall like it better than ever." "Aren't you coming to school?" "Not this term. It's so near closing, and Mother says next year I can go right into High School with Dolly Fayre." "We'll all be in High next year," said Clara. "We're all in the same grade, you know. But I wish you would come to school now, and be in the Closing Exercises. We need more girls." "What for?" "Oh, for the tableaux and things. We have a splendid program. Haven't we, Tad?" "How do you know he's Tad?" asked Dotty, laughing. "I asked him," returned Clara. "It's the only way. Nobody can tell 'em apart." "'Cept Mother," said Tad, grinning. "She never makes a mistake. But the teachers can't tell. I get kept in if Tod misses his lessons, and he gets marked if I'm late." "Don't you mind?" "No; 'cause it evens up in the long run. Tod's better-natured than I am, but I'm prettier." "Why, how can you be?" cried Dotty; "you're exactly alike." "Oh, _I_ can see it! I'm _much_ better-looking." Tad's honest, round, freckled face was winsome but not handsome, and the girls laughed at this make-believe vanity. Dolly was at a table with the other Brown boy and Grace Rawlins and Lollie Henry. "Dotty Rose is pretty, isn't she?" said Grace. "Awfully pretty," agreed Dolly, "and a nice girl, too. I like her lots." "Some looker!" declared Lollie Henry, gazing with admiration over at Dotty, who was laughing merrily. "She's my sister," put in Genie, who was a restless spirit, and having finished her supper, was roaming around among the tables talking to different ones. "So she is," and Dolly patted the glossy, black curls. "Looks like a spitfire, though, if she should get mad," commented Tod Brown, who was an outspoken boy. "Oh, I don't think so," returned Dolly; and then she remembered the few trifling quarrels they had already had. "No," she went on, "Dotty isn't a spitfire; but when she gets mad she just flounces off and gets over it." "Just like a girl!" said Tod; "why don't you have it out, and done with it?" "That's what Bert always says," and Dolly laughed. "I guess girls and boys are different about such things." "I guess they are," said Grace, looking rueful. "Maisie May and I have been 'mad' for two weeks now." "Oh, how silly!" exclaimed Lollie Henry. "I'm going to get you two girls together and make you make up!" "Yes, let's," said Tad; "come on now; I've finished my ice cream, haven't you, Dolly?" They all had, and they followed Tad, who was ringleader in this game. The others had mostly risen from the tables, and Tad told Dolly to get Maisie and bring her over to their group. Grace Rawlins looked a little uncertain. She honestly wanted to be friends with Maisie but she was not sure she liked the way it was being brought about. Dolly came back, arm in arm with Maisie. The two boys stood in front of Grace until the girls came up, and then Tad, whisking aside, said, with a low bow: "Miss Maisie May, I want to make you acquainted with Miss Grace Rawlins, the nicest girl in Berwick, except the rest of them." Maisie coloured and looked half-angry, half-amused, and Tad went on: "I see by the papers that you two girls don't know each other to speak to, so Dolly Fayre and us two boys are a committee of three to see that you become acquainted immediately if not sooner. You two will therefore now greet each other with a nice, sweet kiss." Tad's manner was so funny and so like a kindly old gentleman, that the girls had to laugh. But though Grace looked willing to obey the order, Maisie did not. "Don't be silly, Tad," she said; "I guess you don't know what Grace said about me, or you wouldn't ask me to kiss her!" "Tell me," said Tad, with the air of an impartial judge, "and I and my wise colleague, Mr. Lorillard Henry, will size up the case and pronounce judgment." "Why, she said I was the meanest girl in Berwick, because I wouldn't tell her the answer to an algebra example. And I couldn't, because Miss Haskell had made us all promise not to tell the answers to anybody--she wanted everybody to do them without help." "Seems to me you did the right thing," and Tad looked at Grace. "I didn't know that," said Grace. "I wasn't at school the day Miss Haskell said that." "Then you couldn't be expected to know," said Tad; "now, it's just as I said, a boy would fight it out with another boy, and he might punch his head, but the matter would be understood and straightened out, and not sulk for two weeks over it." "I didn't sulk," said Grace. "Well, you two sillies didn't speak to each other,--it's about the same thing. _Now_ will you be good! Will you kiss and make up?" "I will," said Maisie May, heartily, and she flung her arms round Grace, and gave her a most friendly kiss, which was as heartily returned. "Bless you, my children!" said Tad, dramatically. "Now don't let me hear of your quarrelling again! Are you mad at anybody, Dolly?" "No, sir, thank you; but if I am, at any time, I'll come to you for a peacemaker." "Oh, _look_ who's here!" cried Lollie, spying a strange figure walking across the lawn. The group joined the others and found themselves invited to take a seat in the rows of chairs which were lined up in front of an interesting-looking table. They did so, and soon all present were seated in breathless anticipation of what might happen. The tea tables had been whisked away, and at the door of the tent the stranger stood,--a table in front of him. He was a magician, and the tricks he did held his young auditors spellbound. Turning back his coat sleeves to prove he was concealing nothing, he would take a large sheet of white paper, and with a swift movement twirl it round into a cornucopia. This was, of course, empty, and shaking it about to prove its emptiness, he then held it upright, and invited Dolly to look into it. But he held it so high, that she had to stand on tiptoe to peep in. However, she caught a glimpse, and it seemed to her there were pink flowers in it. Then the magician asked Dotty to peep in. She peered over the edge, and just as she exclaimed, "Why, it's full of flowers!" he overturned it on her head, and she was showered with lovely pink rosebuds made of tissue paper! "Where did they come from?" cried everybody, as they scrambled to pick them up. "The cone was empty! Where did he get them?" But the magician only smiled, and went on with his other tricks. "Has any one a gold watch?" he asked. Not many of the boys had gold watches, but Lollie Henry exhibited with pride one that his grandfather had given him on his birthday. "May I borrow it?" said the magician; "ah, thank you," and he took it before Lollie had really consented. "Now, a silk hat. Much obliged, sir," as Mr. Fayre provided the hat. "Now, my young friends, we'll make an omelet. Two eggs, somebody,--please?" Nobody had any eggs, and the magician seemed nonplussed. "What, no eggs in all this well-dressed crowd? Incredible! Ah, come here, little girl!" He caught Genie, who was running about. "Why, here is an egg in the big bow of your hair-ribbon! And here is another in the other bow! What a strange place to carry eggs! Did Mother send you to the store for them?" "No, sir," said Genie, looking in amazement at the unmistakable eggs the man had evidently found in her ribbon. "I should think they would have dropped out sooner!" "I should think so too," returned the magician; "lucky for me they didn't, or I could not have made the nice omelet I'm about to concoct." He set the silk hat on the table, laid the watch and eggs beside it, and then called for a cup of milk. Somehow or other Mrs. Fayre had that all ready and handed it to him with a smile. "Good!" said the magician; "now we'll to work! I suppose many of you girls know how to make an omelet, so you must look sharp and see that I do it right. First, we'll break the eggs and whisk them up." He broke the eggs right into the silk hat, and stirred them with a fork and then poured in the milk slowly, stirring all the time. "Something else goes to an omelet," he said, trying to think; "ah, yes, some sort of an herb. Ah, I have it! Thyme! Well, well, Mr. Fayre, do you raise thyme in your kitchen garden? No? What a pity! But, luckily, I have time right here!" He took up Lollie's watch. "Ah, just, the thing!" He threw the watch in the hat, and began to beat it with his heavy fork. He looked anxiously in the hat. "Wants to be crushed," he said; "can't get the flavour of time unless it's crushed. Ah, here we are!" and he picked up a kitchen poker that had appeared from nowhere in particular. With that he beat and pounded and banged the watch, and then with a big spoon, he dipped up spoonfuls of the mixture and let it run back into the hat. The children could distinctly see the bits of brass or steel wheels and springs, and even fragments of the gold case. Lollie looked a little sober, but said no word of fear for his watch's safety. "Now, we'll cook it," said the magician, and he poured the "omelet" into a bright, clean frying-pan. "Where's the fire?" he asked, holding the pan high aloft, and looking all about. "There isn't any," said Mr. Fayre; "you didn't tell me to provide a fire." "You should have known enough for that!" shouted the magician, as if in anger. "Well, as we have no fire, of course, we can't make our omelet. So take back your things." From the frying-pan he poured a cup of clear milk, which he gave to Mrs. Fayre. Then he took out of the same pan two eggs, which he handed to Genie, intact and unbroken. Then he hesitated, saying, "What else did I borrow?" "A watch!" "A gold watch!" cried a dozen voices. "Oh, yes, to be sure!" and the magician, smiling, passed the pan to Lollie, and there on its clean, shining surface, lay the gold watch, absolutely unharmed. Such a clapping of applause! for many of the young audience had been forced to believe that the watch was utterly ruined. That closed the entertainment, and soon after that the young guests went home. "How do you s'pose he did it?" Dolly asked of Dotty, as they sat in the swing, talking over the party. "Oh, it's easy enough," returned Dotty. "They don't really break up the watch, you know." "Of course I know that! But how _do_ they do it? What becomes of the broken eggs and all?" "I don't know, but I've seen magic tricks before and they always bring everything out right somehow!" CHAPTER VI ROLLER SKATING The day after the party the two girls sat as usual in the big swing talking things over. "I like that boy with the funny name," said Dotty; "the one they call Lollie. Such a silly name for a boy!" "Yes; such a dignified name as Lorillard ought not to have such a silly nickname. But he's always called Lollie. He is a nice boy, but I like Joe Collins better." "Yes, he's funny and makes you laugh all the time. But those twin boys are the nicest of all. What funny names they all have. Tod and Tad!" "How do you like the girls?" "The Rawlins girls are nice and Celia Ferris. But I like you best, Dolly, and except for parties I don't care so much about a crowd. Let's go roller skating." "Oh, no; let's sit here and swing; it's too hot to skate." "Pshaw! come on. You're too lazy for anything. You just sit around and do nothing and that's what makes you so fat. Get your skates and I'll race you around the block. Really, Doll, you ought to take more exercise or you'll get terribly fat." "Well, you'd better not take so much then, for you're as thin as a ping-wing now!" "What's a ping-wing?" "I don't know, but it's the thinnest thing there is. All right, I'll skate around the block once or twice, and then we'll go and see if there are any little cakes left over from yesterday." In a short time the two girls had their skates on and started to roll along the smooth, wide pavements of Summit Avenue. "Let's do this," proposed Dotty. "Start right here in front of our house; you go one way and I the other round the whole block and see if we can come back and meet right straight here." "All right, but I know I can't go as fast as you do. You skate like a streak of lightning." "Well, I'll go sort of slow for me, and you go as swift as you can, and let's try to come together right here." The two girls started in opposite directions, and turned their respective corners on their way around the block. In due time they passed each other in the street back of their own, and Dotty nodded approval as she saw they were about half way round. They didn't pause to exchange any words but, waving their hands, went on their way and rounded again on Summit Avenue. As they saw each other approach, they regulated their speed in a careful attempt to meet exactly where they had started. Dotty had to curb her speed and go a little more slowly or she would be ahead of time. But Dolly saw that it would take a pretty strong spurt for her to reach the goal, so when they were about ten feet apart Dolly made a special effort and put all her strength into a last grand dash. Dotty hadn't looked for this and as she rolled rather slowly to the appointed place Dolly came along and with a fell swoop, unable to control her direction, she crashed right into Dotty and the two girls went down in a heap. The impact was so sudden and unexpected that neither had a chance to save herself in any way and there was a tangle of waving arms and legs, and skate-rollers as the crash occurred. "I've broken myself," Dolly announced calmly, though her voice sounded dazed and queer. Dotty opened her mouth to speak but changed her mind and gave voice to the wildest kind of a shriek. She followed this up with several others of increasing force and volume and looked at Dolly, wondering why she didn't yell too. But the reason was that Dolly had fainted and the white face and closed eyes of her friend made Dotty scream louder than ever. Various members of the two families ran to the scene, as well as several neighbours. Mrs. Fayre and Mrs. Rose looked on somewhat helplessly at the two girls, but Aunt Clara went at once at the rescue. She and Trudy lifted Dotty to her feet and found she could stand. "Try to stop screaming, dearie," said Aunt Clara, "and tell me where you're hurt." "I don't know," cried Dotty; "I don't know and I don't care! But Dolly is dead! My Dolly, my own Dollyrinda is dead! And it's all my fault 'cause I made her go skating, and my arm hurts awful! Ow!" "Her arm is broken," said Mrs. Bayliss, gently lifting Dotty's right hand, which caused more piercing shrieks. "What shall we do? Somebody call a doctor quick!" Meanwhile the strong arms of a neighbour's gardener had lifted Dolly and was carrying her toward her own home. "It's her leg that's bruk," he said, holding her as gently as possible. "It's good luck she fainted; she'll come round all right, but she's bruk a bone, the poor dear." It seemed ages to the anxious mothers and friends, but it was really only a short time before doctors arrived and the two little sufferers were put to bed and their injuries attended to. Sure enough Dolly's leg was broken, and Dotty had a fractured arm. Both houses were in a tumult of confusion as surgeons and nurses took possession and bones were set and splints and bandages applied. Dolly Fayre took it quietly and seemed almost awestricken, when at last she realised that she was in her bed to stay for several weeks. "But it doesn't hurt much," she said wonderingly to Trudy. "Why does it take so long to get well?" "Because the bone has to knit, dear, and that is a slow process. I'm glad it doesn't hurt, but it may at times. The worst, though, is that you will get very tired lying still so long. But I know what a brave little girl you are, and we will all do all we can to help and amuse you." "Did Dotty break anything?" "Yes, she broke her left arm. That is not as bad as your breaking your leg, for she can walk about sooner than you can. But hers is more painful, so there's small choice in the two accidents." "Is she yelling like fury?" inquired Dolly, who herself lay placid and white-faced, though her blue eyes showed the strain she had undergone. "Yes, she is," and Trudy smiled a little. "You two children are so different. I wish you would yell a little and not look so patiently miserable." "What's Dolly yelling about? Because she hurts so?" "Partly that; and partly because she's blaming herself for the whole thing." "How ridiculous! She isn't a bit more to blame than I am. She proposed skating, but it was because I ran into her that we fell down. I tried to steer out but I couldn't." "Don't think about who is to blame; that doesn't matter. The only thing to think about is to get well as quick as you can." "But we can't do anything to help that along; the doctors have to do that." "Indeed you can help a lot. If you're patient and quiet and cheerful you will get well sooner than if you fuss and fret and cry. That might cause fever and inflammation and all sorts of things." Trudy was sitting on the edge of Dolly's bed and she smiled lovingly down at her little sister. "I'm going to take care of you," she went on; "Mother wants to have a trained nurse, but I think you would like it better to have me for a nurse, wouldn't you?" "I'd like it better," and Dolly looked up wistfully, "but I don't want to bother you too much, Trudy." "Oh, it isn't any bother, and besides, Mother will do a great deal of the nursing. Here she comes now with your luncheon." Mrs. Fayre came in, bringing a dainty tray on which was a small bowl of broth and some crackers. "The nurse has gone," she announced, "and I'm glad of it. It was necessary to have her here while the doctors set the broken bones, and she will come in every morning as long as may be necessary. But it's much nicer to be in charge of this case myself and have full jurisdiction over my patient." "Oh, ever so much nicer, Mother," and Dolly raised affectionate blue eyes to her mother's face. "Can I sit up to eat?" "No, honey; you'll have to learn to eat lying down. But Mother will feed you and we'll pretend you're one of those grand Roman ladies who always ate their meals reclining on a couch." So, although not altogether a comfortable procedure, Dolly took her first lesson in swallowing without raising her head. Meantime somewhat different scenes were being enacted next door. Dotty's more excitable nature had been thoroughly upset by the shock of the accident, the pain of her injury and the remorse that she felt at feeling herself responsible for the tragedy. Her screams were hysterical and the efforts of her mother, her aunt and the nurse to quiet her were alike unavailing. "I've killed my Dolly! I've killed my Dolly!" she would cry over and over, and though they told her that Dolly Fayre was resting quietly and suffering very little pain, she would not believe it and insisted they were deceiving her. "You only say that to quiet me!" she cried. "I know it isn't true. I know Dolly has broken most all her bones and I know she'll never walk again. Why, I saw her myself, all limp and dead-looking. If she lives she'll be a cripple. Oh, my arm! my arm! I wish they'd cut it off! I'd rather not have it at all than have it hurt like this." Impulsive Dotty tried to move her injured arm and then shrieked with the pain it caused her. "You mustn't do that!" said Nurse Johnson somewhat severely; "if you try to move that arm it won't heal right and you'll have to have it broken over again and re-set." Dotty glared at the nurse and then screamed: "I hate you! You go right straight out of this house! My mother can take care of me good enough and I don't want you around." "There, there, Dotty dear," said Mrs. Rose; "don't talk to nurse like that. She has been very kind to you; and it's true if you move your arm around like that or try to do so, you'll make your injury far worse." "I don't care! I want to make it worse! I want to have it cut off! I won't have a broken arm,-- I won't-- I won't!" "Don't mind her, nurse; she's beside herself with pain and fright." "Oh, that's all right, Mrs. Rose," and the white-capped nurse smiled; "I don't blame little girls for being cantankerous when they're laid up like this. It's awful hard on them and nobody knows it better than I do. And I'm not going to stay long, Miss Dotty. Only a day or two till your mother and aunt get the knack of taking care of you." "I shall be head nurse," said Mrs. Bayliss, smiling at Dotty, "and your mother shall be my assistant." "I don't want you for my nurse, Aunt Clara, and I don't want Miss Johnson, I just want Mother all the time." "Yes, Dotty, dear, Mother will be here all the time," and Mrs. Rose gently stroked the moist dark curls back from the little brow. For a few moments Dotty was quieter, and then she screamed out again, "Tell me about Dolly, tell me the truth about Dolly. Did she break both her legs?" "No, dear, only one. It has been set and she is doing nicely, although she will be in bed for a long time. You will probably get up and go to see her long before she can come in here." "I want to go now!" and Dotty tried to rise; "I want to see Dolly! I must see Dolly!" Gently but firmly the nurse held Dotty down on the pillows. "Lie still," she commanded, for she saw that stern measures were necessary. "I can't lie still, when I don't know how Dolly is! I don't believe what you tell me about her. But I'll believe Genie. She always tells me the truth. Come here, Genie!" Dotty screamed her sister's name in a loud voice, and the little girl came running into the sick room. Genie looked scared and white-faced as she saw Dotty in splints and bandages. "Genie," said Dotty, and her black eyes burned like coals, "you go straight over to Fayres and see Dolly. See for yourself and see just how she is and come straight back and tell me." "Let her go," said the nurse; "that's a good idea." So Genie ran over to the next house and found Mrs. Fayre. "Please let me see Dolly," she said earnestly, "'cause if I don't Dotty thinks she's dead, and then Dotty will die too, so please let me see her, Mrs. Fayre. Can't I?" After some consideration Mrs. Fayre said Genie might go to Dolly's room for a few moments. "How are you, Dolly?" said the child, marching in and standing by the bedside with the air of a Royal Messenger. "I'm pretty good," and Dolly smiled wanly at her little visitor. "How's Dotty?" "Dotty's awful. But she'll be better when she knows how you are. So tell me zactly." "Well, tell Dotty my right leg is broken. One of the bones just above the ankle. But tell her except for that, I'm all right and for her not to worry about me and we'll see who can get well first. And give her my love and--and--oh, that's all, good-bye, Genie!" The little girl ran out of the room and as soon as she disappeared Dolly burst into floods of weeping. That was her way of relieving her overburdened nerves instead of screaming hysterically like Dotty. Trudy tried to soothe her, but there was no staying the torrent of tears, until at last they stopped because Dolly was exhausted. "There," said Mrs. Fayre brightly as she wiped Dolly's eyes, "I'm just glad you did that! There's nothing like a good cry to straighten things out. Now I shouldn't be one bit surprised if you could take a nice little nap." And Dolly did so. Meantime Genie trotted home with her comforting news for Dotty. "Dolly's all right," she announced. "'Cept one leg is broked. But that's all. Only just one bone of one leg. And she says to see who'll get well first." "How did she look?" asked Dotty eagerly. "Like a angel," replied Genie, enthusiastically. "Her face was all white and her eyes were so blue and her hair was all goldy and braided in two curly braids tickling around her ears. Oh, she looked lovely! Heaps better than you do, Dot. Your face is all red and splotchy, and your eyes are as big as saucers and your hair looks like the dickens." "I don't care," said Dotty, crossly; "I don't care how I look." "But I care how you feel," said her mother, "and now you know that Dolly is very much alive, I'm sure you'll let nurse bathe your face and brush your hair and then I'm going to sing you to sleep." * * * * * As is usual in case of broken bones the first night proved a very trying time for all concerned. Dolly Fayre, though an unusually patient child, felt as if she could not bear the pain and discomfort of her strapped and splinted leg. Her mother and Trudy, and her father too, did all they could to alleviate her sufferings, but the uncontrollable tears welled up in the blue eyes and rolled over the fevered cheeks of the little sufferer. "I try to be good, Father," she said, as Mr. Fayre bent over her, "but it does hurt so awful." "Does it, you dear blessed baby? Let Daddy cuddle your head in his arm, so, and sing to you, maybe that will help." But when Mr. Fayre gently put his arm under the golden head on the pillow Dolly cried out that his coat sleeve was too scratchy. "Well, now, we'll just fix that! Give me one of your dressing gowns, Mother." Dolly had to laugh a little when Mrs. Fayre brought a silk kimono of her own and managed to get its loose folds draped around her stalwart husband. "_Now_ I rather guess we won't scratch our poor little fevery cheeks," and Mr. Fayre so deftly slipped his silk clad arm under Dolly's head, that she rested in his strong clasp with a feeling of security and comfort. "That's lovely, Daddy; it just seems as if I had some of your big strong strength and my pain doesn't hurt so much." Then Mr. Fayre sang in soft low tones which greatly soothed the little patient. But not for long. All through the night the paroxysms of agony would recur and poor little Dolly cried like a baby, because she couldn't possibly help it. But the Rose family had even worse times to take care of Dotty. She, too, suffered intensely and even made it worse because she wouldn't stay still. With a sudden jerk she would sit up in bed and then scream with the pain occasioned by wrenching her injured arm. "You mustn't do that, dear," said Mr. Rose, who usually could calm Dotty in her most wilful moments. "I have to!" cried the little girl; "you would, too, if your arm was all on fire, and shooting needles into you and not set right and has to be broken over again and all twisted up and hanging by a thread, anyway! Ow!--ow!--OW!!" Her voice rose in a shrill screech and she rocked back and forth in her pain and anger. "Now, Dotty dear," said her father, "you must realise that you make matters a great deal worse by jumping around and moving your arm--" "But I can't help it! I'm going to shake it till I shake it off!" and Dotty gave a violent shake of her shoulders and then screamed with the added pain she brought on herself. She so disarranged the bandages that it was necessary to telephone for the doctor at once to readjust them. "This won't do, young lady," said Dr. Milton as he looked at the havoc she had wrought in his careful work; "if you keep up these performances you'll have to be strapped to the bed so tightly that you can't move either arm. How would you like that?" "I'd break loose somehow! you shan't strap me down!" Dotty's eyes blazed and her black curls bobbed as she shook her head angrily at the doctor. But Dr. Milton paid little heed to her words. He redressed her arm and then said in his firm yet pleasant way: "I don't know you very well, Miss Dotty, but I perceive you have a strong will of your own. Now are you going to use it rightly to help yourself get well, or wrongly to make all the trouble possible for yourself and every one else?" Dotty looked at him. She was not accustomed to this kind of talk, for her parents were inclined to be over indulgent with her tantrums and her temper. "I do want to get well as soon as I can," she said, "and I will try to be good,--but you don't know how it hurts." "Yes, I do know," and the good doctor smiled down at her; "I know it hurts like fury! like the very dickens and all! and I know it's just all you can do to bear it. But if you can get through to-night, I'll promise you it'll feel better to-morrow." He went away and Dotty did try to be as good as she could, but the awful twinges of pain frequently made her forget her resolutions and to herself and the whole household it seemed as if the night would never end. CHAPTER VII TWO BIG BROTHERS "Whoop-oo! Whoop-ee! Hoo-ray!! Where are you? Hey! Hi!!" With half a dozen steps, Bob Rose ran up the staircase of his new home in Berwick, to Dotty's room. As he had been at school when the family moved he had never seen the house before, and now, the school term over, he had come home for vacation and his first thought was for his broken-armed sister. It was two weeks since the accident, but Dotty was still in bed. Her arm was doing nicely, but she was such a nervous and excitable child that it was thought best to keep her as quiet as possible. She was sitting up in a nest of pillows and a rose coloured kimono was draped round her bound-up arm. But she waved the other hand gaily as Bob dashed into the room. "Well, old girl," he cried, "this is the limit! The idea of your smashing yourself like this! Here I've played every old kind of ball and everything else and never broke one of my two hundred and eight blessed bones! And you just go out on lady-like roller skates and come a cropper. Fie upon you! does it hurt much?" "You bet it hurts, Bob! Nothing like it did at first, but it hurts a good deal, and it's awful uncomfortable. I can't move it, you know, and I can't do hardly anything for myself." "Pooh! pshaw! of course you can do things for yourself. What a chump you are, Dot. Why it's your left arm, you ought to be able to do everything in creation with your right arm alone, except maybe play the piano or clap your hands. I'll show you how to do things. Is your right arm all right?" "Yes, I s'pose so, but I haven't used it any." "Jiminy crickets, isn't that just like a girl! Honest, Dot, I thought you'd have more spunk. But I'll put you through, with bells on!" Bob Rose, just turned eighteen, was a boyish duplicate of Dotty. He had the same snapping black eyes and his hair though short had a curly twist to it which, though he hated it himself made a becoming frame for his handsome face. He was overflowing with mischief and life and was devoted to athletic or outdoor sports of all kinds. He was very fond of his sister and the two had always been great chums, though frequently indulging in spirited quarrels. "What's this place like, anyway?" he inquired, as he sat on the edge of Dotty's bed and draped his long arm over the footboard. "You've got a jolly room all right," and he looked round admiringly at the pretty rose and grey effects. "Yes, isn't it lovely! It was my birthday present,--the furnishings, I mean. I wrote you about it, you know. We were going to fix up a lovely room for you, too, but after I broke my arm, Mother and Aunt Clara didn't have time to do anything but tend to me." "Well, they'll catch time now. I want a room fixed up for me as good as yours,--but not so dinky-fussy. I'll pick out the things myself. You needn't think you own the whole shooting-match, Miss Dotty-Doodles! I just guess Brother Bob home on his vacation will come in for his share of attention! You won't be neglected, I'll look out for that, but just remember that I'm here, too. What's the town like?" "I don't know myself much. You see we had our party and I met a lot of the boys and girls and then the very next day I smashed myself and of course I haven't seen any of them since." "But you can pretty soon now. Why, it's only your arm, your legs are all right, you can walk, can't you? Why don't you go downstairs and have people come to see you?" "I couldn't see people in a dressing-gown!" "Well, Mother can rig you up a basque or a polonaise or something. Or put on a raincoat or an Indian blanket,--but for goodness' sake get out and around. I'll stir you up--" "Here, here, what's going on?" and Mrs. Rose came in just in time to hear Bob's last words. "You're not to stir Dotty up, Bob, we want to keep her quiet." "Quiet nothing! She'll dry up and blow away if she doesn't get a move on! You're going to rig her up some sort of civilian dress Mother and get her downstairs this very day. She's not sick or going into a decline, is she?" The influence of Bob's breezy chatter had wrought a change in Dotty. During the two weeks that had just passed she had become peevish and fretful from enforced inactivity and now the thought of getting up and going downstairs had brought the smiles to her face and the light to her eyes. Moreover, Mrs. Rose was impressed also by the determination of her big young son and began to think that perhaps his way might be right after all. "Now you've got to tend to me, Mumsie," Bob said in his wheedlesome way, as he caressed his mother in a big bearish fashion. "You've got to fix up a room for me, all just as I want it, and you've got to make me chocolate cakes and all sorts of good things to eat, and you've got to do lots of things for your prodigal son. Dotty has had her turn and now it's mine, but while you're busy about me, I'll look after Dot, bless her old heart!" And Bob blew a kiss from his finger tips to his pretty sister who had already begun to take a new interest in life. "Hello, Aunt Clara," Bob called out as Mrs. Bayliss passed through the hall, "come in here and help us dressmakers. Can't you rig up a costume for Dot that will be presentable to wear downstairs?" "Downstairs!" exclaimed Aunt Clara; "did the doctor say she could go down?" "Dr. Bob said so!" and the boy laughed. "I know all about broken arms, and there's no use giving in to them too much. The more you do for them, the more you may. Now Dotty is going to forget hers and have just as good a time as if she never broke it. I say, Dot, how's that chum of yours, you wrote me about? Is this her picture? Wow! Ain't she the peach!" Bob picked up the picture of Dolly from Dotty's dressing-table and admired it openly. "Does she really look like that?" "Yes," and Dotty waxed enthusiastic; "she's beautiful. Just like a pinky rose with blue eyes." "She broke her leg didn't she, in your all-comers' scrap?" "Yes; she can't move for six weeks." "Well, two weeks are gone now, that's something. Can't I see her? I'd like to sympathise." "Oh, yes, Bob, of course you must see her, but I don't want you to go over there till I can go with you." "Oh, I'm not going to wait for that. I must have a peep at this blue-eyed fairy for myself. Any go to her?" "Not much," and Dotty smiled. "Dolly's a perfect dear, but she's slow." "All right, we'll have to hurry her along a little. When does her brother come home? Have you ever seen him? What's he like?" "He's coming day after to-morrow. No, I've never seen him, but Dolly thinks he just about made the world." "Well, I'll reserve my opinion till I see the bunch. Honest, old girl, I'm glad you're getting along as well as you are, but I'm going to do wonders for you. It's going to be lucky for you that you've got Brother on the job. Why, Dot, we were all going camping this summer, you know, what about that?" "We haven't planned for the summer yet, Bobs," said his mother. "Perhaps by August, if Dotty is all right, we can go somewhere for awhile." "You bet we will!" returned Bob. "Dotty will be all right!" * * * * * The next day but one Mrs. Rose took her big boy over to call on Dolly Fayre. Though unable to leave her bed, Dolly could sit up and was allowed to see a few visitors each day. It was her nature to be quiet, so she was a much more tractable patient than Dotty and her broken bone had already begun to knit and was getting along nicely. It was very monotonous to sit or lie there day after day, but Dolly was patient and always took things placidly. Her parents and Trudy read to her and played games with her and entertained her in various ways and Dolly was as cheerful as any little girl could be in such circumstances. It was a bitter disappointment to her that she could not take part in the Closing Exercises of her class. But she was reconciled to her fate and made no complaints, though deeply regretting her enforced absence from school. Her classmates came to see her occasionally, but they were so busy preparing for the celebration that they had little time for social calls. Dotty looked forward eagerly to the homecoming of her brother Bert and she also awaited with some curiosity the meeting with Bob Rose. However, she had heard so much about Bob from Dotty, that she was not surprised when the merry-faced boy appeared at her bedside with a gay and cheery greeting. "I'm Bob," he said, holding out his hand, and not waiting for his mother's more formal introduction. "I'm Dolly," and the blue eyes smiled at him as a little white hand clasped his own. "By Jove, you do look like your picture, only you're prettier!" exclaimed Bob as he took the chair Mrs. Fayre offered him. "It's my new cap," and Dolly smiled from beneath the lacy frills and rosebud decorations of a dainty new cap that Trudy had just made for her. She wore a Japanese kimono of pale green silk embroidered with white cherry blossoms, and as she sat surrounded by embroidered pillows and lace coverlets, Bob thought he had never seen a prettier picture. "You look like a princess," he said. "Princess Dolly." "I _am_ a princess," she smiled back; "Mother and Trudy are my ladies in waiting and do just as I bid them. How much you look like Dotty." "Glad you think so; I think Dot's a raving beauty. But I say, it's a shame you two girls had to go and break each other up just when we were going to have a perfectly good old summer time." "I know it; isn't it a shame. But we'll have to wait till next summer and have the fun then." "'Deed we won't! You'll be outdoors by the first of August, won't you?" "Yes," and Dolly made a wry face, "but that's about the same as saying the first of Eternity!" "Oh, not so bad as that. And anyhow I'm an inventive genius, and I'll bet we can have some fun even before August." A bustle and commotion was heard downstairs just then and Dolly's face lighted up as she heard a familiar voice. "Oh," she cried; "there's Bert! Come on up, Bert." "Sure thing!" came the reply, and in another minute Bert Fayre stood in the doorway. He was a tall, slender boy of seventeen with brown hair and eyes and he looked at Dolly with a pained expression. "Poor old Doll!" he said softly; "I'm _so_ sorry for you!" "Oh, it isn't very bad now, Bert," and Dolly smiled cheerfully. "Come on in and meet Mrs. Rose and Bob. They're our next door neighbours." Bert came in and greeted the visitors with an easy grace. Then going over to Dolly he kissed her affectionately and sat down beside her. The two boys silently sized each other up and each concluded that the other seemed to be "A little bit of all right." They attended different schools, and soon were deep in a discussion of their school doings. Dolly lay back among her pillows and looked at them. She adored her brother and she decided that Dotty's brother was also worthy of consideration. She liked Bob's breezy offhand way which was not at all like Bert's gentle, kindly manner. But they were two awfully nice boys and she felt sure they were going to be friends. If only she could be up and around and have good times with them! A slight pang of envy swept over her, as she heard Bob enthusiastically declare that he was going to have Dot out of bed and downstairs in short order. For no amount of enthusiasm or energy could work that miracle for Dolly, in less than a month. But she did not show this disappointment and chatted gaily with the boys and with Mrs. Rose and her own mother. * * * * * As the days went by the four young people became good friends. The boys were chummy from the first and nearly every day they carried messages back and forth for the girls. But there were long hours when the girls were alone, and both patient Dolly and impatient Dotty deeply wished they had never tried that roller-skate race. "There's no use celebrating the Fourth of July," said Bert disconsolately, a few days before the Fourth. "We don't want a celebration that the girls can't see." "Then let's have one that they can see," said Bob; "I'll tell you what we'll do,--I've a brilliant idea." His idea was a brilliant one, so much so that it required the co-operation of both families with the exception of the two girls, from whom it was kept a secret. But the two D's were told that the evening of the Fourth would be a red letter day for them and they looked forward eagerly to whatever it might be. About seven o'clock on Fourth of July evening, Mrs. Fayre came into Dolly's room with her arms full of red, white and blue material. This proved to be a voluminous robe-like drapery which transformed Dolly into a goddess of liberty. A liberty cap was put upon her golden head and a silk flag was presented to her. "Stunning!" exclaimed Bert, who came in to view the effect. "Just you wait, old girl, and we'll bring you something you'll like better yet!" So Dolly waited and in a few moments she could hear out in the hall much giggling and many footsteps. Then Trudy came in and arranged a screen so that the doorway from the hall was hidden. Dolly watched breathlessly and soon heard people coming in behind the screen and recognised the boys' voices as well as those of her father and Mr. Rose. "I know you're there, Bob and Bert," she called out. "Come here Bob and see the goddess of liberty." "Wait a minute," said Bert, and there was more giggling and whispering. "Now!" said somebody and then the screen was whisked away and Dolly saw standing before her,--Dotty! It really was Dotty, smiling with eagerness and dressed like Dolly in red, white and blue. "Oh, Dotty!" and "Oh, Dolly!" rang out at the same moment and the two girls stared hard at each other, for they had not seen one another's faces since that fatal moment when they came together on their roller skates. "I'm just crazy to run over there and grab you!" cried Dotty, "but I promised I wouldn't touch you, or I might break us up all over again." "Well, do come over here and sit beside me, so I can be sure it's really you. How is your arm? Does it hurt you now? Oh, what a beautiful sling!" Dotty's left arm was in a large sling made of dark blue studded with silver stars and her whole dress was of red and white stripe. Her liberty cap was just like Dolly's own, and she wore white stockings and red slippers. "You poor dear," she said as she came over and sat down by Dolly's side; "to think I can dress and go outdoors while you're still tied to your bed." "But I can wave both arms about, and you can't," said Dolly as she waved her flag above her head. "I think you're six of one and half a dozen of the other," said Bert. "Now look here, Doll, we're going to push your bed up to the window so you can see out." "Why?" asked Dolly; "it's almost dark now." "Never you mind. Little girls shouldn't ask questions. Grab that other bed-post, Bob. Here, Dad, take hold of the head-board." Propelled by willing arms the bed was rolled over to the big bay window and arranged so that Dolly had full view of the lawn between the houses. Then a big easy chair was arranged for Dotty and the two girls were advised that if they would stay there they would see something worth while. "Oh, it's so good to see you again," said Dotty, as the others all left the room; "do you hurt terribly?" "Not so much now, but it was awful at first. Wasn't yours?" "Oh, terrible. Let's not talk about it. How do you like Bob?" "He's splendid. How do you like Bert?" "I think he's great. Oh, Dolly, what fun we could have if we were only well." "You are. You can go outdoors." "Not much. This is a special dispensation to-night. And I have to have my arm in a sling four weeks longer. It's in splints you know. I can't do hardly anything with one hand. Bob tries to teach me, but I'm as awkward as a cow. I'm so used to flying at everything with both hands that I can't seem to manage." "It must be awful. Oh, Dot, there's a sky rocket!" Dotty turned quickly and looked out of the window. The skyrocket was only the beginning of a fine display of fireworks. Mr. Rose and Mr. Fayre had concluded that was the only sort of celebration the girls could enjoy, so they had bought far more than their usual supply and they made a fine showing. Bob had asked a number of the young people to come and see them and Dolly and Dotty recognised many from their post of observation in the window. But the mothers of the two girls would not let any of the young people go up to Dotty's room lest the excitement be too much for her. After the usual quota of rockets and Roman candles there were more elaborate pieces which flamed into fire pictures against the summer sky. When the fireworks were all over and the young people gone away the girls were told that there was a little more celebration yet to come. Dolly's bed was pushed back to its place and Dotty was enthroned beside it in her easy chair, when the two boys appeared, each bearing a tray of good things. "This is your Fourth of July party," said Trudy, who followed. "No one can come to it except the three Roses and the three Fayres." Genie came in then, and the six brothers and sisters of the two families had a merry feast while their elders remained downstairs. "It's been a beautiful holiday," said Dolly, leaning back into her pillows as she finished her ice cream. "I never dreamed I'd have any Fourth of July celebration. The fireworks were beautiful and the party things were lovely, but best of all is seeing Dotty again." "Yes," said Dotty, "I don't know how I've managed to live through the last three weeks. But I expect I can come over to see you every day now." "We'll see about that," said Mrs. Rose, coming in. "But this party must break up now, and if it doesn't do any harm to our wounded soldiers we may allow more of them. So say good-night, you two D's, and I'll take _my_ little goddess of liberty home." CHAPTER VIII CROSSTREES CAMP The summer plans of the two families were decidedly changed by the accidents to the two little girls. It was the custom of the Fayres to spend the summer at a hotel in the mountains or at the seashore, for Mrs. Fayre declared she needed a yearly rest from housekeeping duties. The Rose family, preferring a different sort of enjoyment, spent their summers at their camp in the Adirondacks, for they loved the informal out of door life and the freedom from all conventionalities. The doctor had said that the two girls would be entirely restored to health and strength and quite ready to go anywhere by the first of August, but not much before that date. So during July the question was discussed frequently and at length as to where Dotty and Dolly would go, for they begged and besought their parents that they might be together. Now Mrs. Rose was more than willing to take Dolly to camp with her family, and Mrs. Fayre would have been very glad to have Dotty with them at the hotel, but neither mother wanted her own little girl to go away from her. The question seemed very difficult of decision, for the two families could not agree upon a summer resort that would please them both. But after many long talks and various suggested plans it was finally decided that Dolly Fayre should go with the Roses for the first two weeks of August and that Dotty Rose should spend the last two weeks of the month with the Fayre family. "It is the best plan," said Mrs. Rose, "for a fortnight in camp will do the girls lots of good and make them strong and rosy again. Then they will better enjoy a fortnight at a big hotel." The two D's were enchanted at the prospect. "You'll just love it!" said Dotty, enthusiastically; "we'll just wear short skirts and middy blouses, and spend all our time in the woods or on the lake." Dolly wanted to go to the camp, but she had never before been away from her mother for more than a day or two at a time, and she felt some misgivings about being homesick. "Nonsense!" said Bert. "A great big girl like you homesick! Why, Towhead, you're too big for such things. You'll have a gorgeous time in the camp, there's more fun in a camp than in any other place on earth. I wish they had asked me." "Of course they wouldn't ask you," said Dolly, "because Bob Rose won't be there. Not at first, anyway; he's going to visit some school friend. He's going to the camp later. But Bob, what's a camp like? Don't you have to sleep on old dry twigs and things? I want to be with Dotty, but I don't believe I'll like sleeping in a tent or whatever they have." "Ah, be a sport, Towhead. You're altogether too finicky about your foolish comforts. Learn to rough it,--it'll be good for you. You're as white as a sheet, and you ought to be all brown and red and freckled and look like a real live girl instead of a wax doll. I'm going to coax Dad to go camping next year. It's loads of fun. Maybe if Bob Rose gets up there before you leave they'd ask me up for a couple of days." "Or they might ask you after I've left," said Dolly; "you boys could have a lot of fun even if we girls weren't there." "You bet we could! Girls are not a necessity to a fellow's pleasure if he has fishing and boating and swimming and such things to do." "Well, I can't swim and I hate to fish,--but I do like boating. What kind of boats will they have, Bob?" "Oh, motor boats and canoes and rowboats and sail boats and every old kind. Don't get drowned, Dolly, and don't break any more of your bones, but I guess there's nothing much else that can happen to you, if you behave yourself. But don't try to do everything Dotty suggests. She's a hummer, that girl, and I'll bet you in camp she'll run wild. You'll have to hold her back a little." Dolly's parents gave her practically the same advice. But they felt little fear of Dolly's likelihood of rushing into madcap adventures even if Dotty urged it. For Dolly was slow of movement and slower still in making up her mind; while Dotty was quick as a flash in thought and action. Mrs. Fayre sighed a little as she selected Dolly's wardrobe. She dearly loved to array her pretty daughter in muslins and organdies with dainty laces and ribbons; but camp life called for stout frocks of tweed or gingham, heavy walking boots and no fripperies. "I shall put in one or two pretty dresses," Mrs. Fayre said, "in case you are invited to a party or any such affair. And the rest of your summer things I will have ready for you, when you come back and join us at the seashore." * * * * * And so the first of August, Mr. and Mrs. Rose and their two daughters with Dolly as the guest started for the Crosstrees Camp. It was a sad parting between Dolly and her mother and at the last Dolly declared flatly she would not go, and throwing herself in her mother's arms burst into tears. "Rubbish!" cried Rob, who was dancing about in his efforts to get Dolly started. "I'm ashamed of you, Towhead! Brace up now, and have a nerve. One final wrench and off you go!" The boy literally tore Dolly from Mrs. Fayre's arms and boosted her in to the Roses' motor car which was waiting to take them to the station. "All aboard! Go ahead!" Bob called out, waving his hand to the chauffeur and the car started off at a brisk rate. "You know you needn't go, Dolly, even yet, if you don't want to," and Mrs. Rose smiled kindly at the little girl, as they flew down the avenue. "I do want to go, Mrs. Rose, and I am ashamed of myself for acting so bad, but I will brace up now. It was just saying good-bye to Mother that somehow sort of seemed to shake my heart." Dolly smiled through her tears and determinedly began to chatter gaily. "That's the ticket!" said Mr. Rose, smiling approval at her. "That's the brave little girl. Now when you get to Crosstrees you'll be so delighted and interested, that you won't think of home and Mother for two weeks, except to write a postcard now and then." "You won't hardly have time for that!" cried Dotty, "there's so much to do from morning till night, and that makes you so tired that you sleep from night till morning. Oh, Dollyrinda, we will have the most gorgeousest times ever!" "It's beautiful to have Dolly with us," said Genie, her big black eyes dancing with anticipation; "we can show her all our fav'rite places, and all the islands and woodses and everything! But two weeks is an awful short time." "We'll make it longer next year," said Mr. Rose. "If our two wounded soldiers hadn't been wounded, we would have started a month ago." "Why do you call it Crosstrees camp?" asked Dolly. "You'll see when you get there," and Mr. Rose smiled at his little visitor. * * * * * Sure enough when they arrived, Dolly discovered the meaning of the strange name. The gateway was formed by two trees which had started to grow parallel, but in some way had been bent toward one another until their trunks crossed about ten feet above ground. The trees had gone on growing this way, and formed an "N," covered with branches and foliage. The party had landed from their train at a small station near one end of a long lake. They had traversed this lake in a swift motor boat, for their camp was at the other end. It was nearly dark when they reached their own pier and all clambered out and climbed a flight of narrow wet steps. "Hang on to the railing, Doll," said Dotty; "the steps are slippery, a little." Passing under the crosstrees, to which Mr. Rose drew Dolly's attention as the name of the camp, they came to a sort of bungalow or long, low house. "Is this the camp?" said Dolly, in surprise. "I thought it was tents. You said so, Dot." "There are tents, too. Only on stormy nights we sleep inside. Come on in, Doll. Isn't it fine?" Dolly Fayre looked around at the bare boarded rooms, the scant furniture and rough walls of the cabin, for it was little more than that. She was cold and rather hungry, but underneath these discomforts was a far more troublesome one which she tried not to think about, but which she felt sure was going to develop into an acute case of homesickness. "Run up to your rooms, girlies, and take off your things," said Mrs. Rose, cheerily. "We'll eat inside to-night, and Maria will make us some of her good flap-jacks for supper." Maria was an old coloured servant and the only one who accompanied the Rose family to camp. Other help that might be needed they procured from some of the natives who were glad to do odd jobs for the summer people. Dolly followed Dotty and Genie upstairs where there was a long row of tiny bedrooms opening onto a narrow hall. These bedrooms had ceilings which slanted right down to the floor, so one could not stand upright after advancing a few feet into the room. "Aren't they funny rooms?" said Dotty, laughing with glee at Dolly's blank-looking countenance. "But you'll get used to them soon. Of course you have to bend double, except just here by the door, but that's nothing. This one is yours, Dolly, and mine is right next and then Genie's. Mother and Father have a room downstairs. But we won't sleep here, we'll sleep in the open tent to-night, it's plenty warm enough. Oh, it's _such_ fun!" Dolly didn't know what sleeping in an open tent meant, but she smiled in response and soon the three girls went downstairs together. Mr. and Mrs. Rose were bustling around, happily engaged in unpacking and arranging books and pictures and various trifles to make the big living-room more homelike. "Looks a little bare now," said Mr. Rose, as he placed his smoking set in position near his own particular easy chair, "but in a day or two we'll have it looking like a little Paradise on earth. Just you wait, Miss Dolly, till you see this desert blossom like a rose,--like a whole Rose family, in fact!" "These things help a lot," and Mrs. Rose deftly arranged half a dozen sofa pillows on a big inviting-looking couch. "And to-morrow we'll put up a swing, and the hammocks, won't you, Daddy?" said Genie. "Course I will, chickabiddy," and Mr. Rose whistled in gay contentment as he took books from their boxes and arranged them on the table. When supper was announced, Maria informed the family that she hadn't been able to manage the flap-jacks that night. "But you-all sho'ly will hab 'em for breakfast, dat you will,--you suttinly will. But you see huccum I jes' didn't hab de proper contraptions unpacked for 'em to-night." "That's all right, Maria," said Mr. Rose, good-naturedly; "we don't mind what we have to-night. To-morrow we'll get a good fair start. Sit down, children, we'll manage to make out a supper." The supper was sort of a makeshift of sardines and herring and crackers, with coffee for the older people. Dolly had no wish to be critical, but the viands were not tempting and she ate very little, being conscious all the time of an ever-growing lump in her throat. She tried hard to be merry and gay, but she couldn't feel the enthusiasm with which the others overflowed. "Shall we have a fire to-night, Daddy?" asked Dotty as they left the table. "Oh, not to-night. It's pretty late, and we're all tired out. We'll leave that for to-morrow night. You see, Dolly Fayre, the curtain doesn't really rise on the glories of Camp Crosstrees until to-morrow. Can you wait?" "Yes, indeed, Mr. Rose," and Dolly smiled bravely. "Where is it that we're going to sleep?" "I'll show you," said Mrs. Rose, and amid shouts of glee and peals of laughter, Dotty and Genie ran upstairs, and returned with their arms full of blankets and other things. "Grab a pillow and come on," shouted Dotty as she herself picked up a pillow from the couch. Genie took one, too, and Dolly did also and then the whole tribe left the house. They walked across some very uneven ground and Dolly would have stumbled in the darkness had not Mrs. Rose clasped her arm firmly. "Here we are!" she said, and Dolly saw a large tent, but it wasn't exactly a tent. It was a platform of boards raised not more than a foot above the ground. It had a roof and three sides of canvas, but the front was entirely open. On the floor were piles of balsam boughs and on these the Roses arranged the blankets they had brought. "I envy you girls," said Mrs. Rose, as she tucked up the impromptu beds. "It is Heavenly to sleep out here, but we older people dare not risk rheumatism. You'll love it, Dolly. Perhaps you'll hear an owl or two hooting you a lullaby." In less than half an hour the three girls were put to bed and Mrs. Rose had said good-night and left them. Dotty and Genie had murmured sleepy good-nights and had snuggled down into their spicy-smelling nests of branches. Dolly lay with wide open eyes staring out at the stars. She had never experienced this sort of thing before, and she was frightened and uncomfortable. Although mid-summer, the air was chilly, and she did not like the feeling of the rather coarse blankets. Moreover she was wearing a thick, clumsy, flannel nightgown, and the bed of branches seemed to be full of knots and lumps. She longed for her own pretty room with its dainty appointments and soft bed clothing. She looked across at Dotty and Genie. She could see them but dimly, but she knew they were sound asleep. She felt alone, utterly alone in that dreadful place, with the forest trees making a sad murmur and the silent stars winking solemnly at her. She thought of her mother and father and Trudy and Bert and she had the most dreadful wave of homesickness roll over her. Then the tears came, hot, scalding tears that rolled down her cheeks in ever increasing number. She made no noise, lest she waken the other girls but the effort to stifle her sobs made her cry harder, and she buried her face in the rough worsted of the sofa pillow and wiped her eyes with the harsh blanket. "Oh, Mother," she said, to herself, "I _can't_ stay here. This is a dreadful place. Why did you let me come? I knew I would hate a camp. How can anybody like these awful beds? And I'm cold,--and I'm not cold either, but I'm all shivery and I feel horrid! I'm--I'm--oh, I'm just lonesome and homesick and I want Mother!" After a time Dolly stopped crying from sheer exhaustion and spent with her sobs, she lay there gazing at the stars. She felt sure there were bears and wolves among the trees, and soon they would come out and attack the camp. Moreover, she was dreadfully hungry. She had a box of candy in her suitcase, but that was upstairs in the bungalow. She could not get it without disturbing Mr. and Mrs. Rose and that was not to be thought of. The poor child lay for a time in her misery, every moment getting more and more homesick and with a deeper longing to get back to her mother and never leave home again. At last a spirit of desperation took hold upon her. It was characteristic of Dolly Fayre to endure patiently and bravely the greatest trials that might come to her, but when the strain became too great it was in her nature to rebel, suddenly and decidedly. And now, when it seemed that she simply could not stand the dreadfulness another moment, she sat straight up in bed, and said clearly, "I'm going home." The sound of her own voice startled her and she looked round quickly to see if the other girls had heard her. She fully expected to see one or both heads pop up in amazement at her speech. But neither dark head moved, and listening to their regular breathing, she knew the two Rose girls were still sound asleep. With her white face set and a desperate look in her wide open blue eyes, she put one foot out of bed and then the other. She had on her stockings, as Mrs. Rose had advised her to wear them all night. Silently and swiftly she discarded the flannel nightgown, which was one of Dotty's, and with flying fingers, which trembled with a nervous chill, she rapidly dressed herself in the garments she had worn when she arrived. Her hat and coat were at the bungalow, but she did not stop for them. She was determined to go home that very minute, and she would let nothing interfere. Fully dressed she went over and looked down at the sleeping Dotty. It seemed awful to go away and leave her like that, but Dolly knew if she waited till morning the Roses would not let her go. And yet she must leave word of some sort or they would think her very rude and ungrateful. She had with her a little shopping bag, which, as it contained some money, she had put under her pillow. Luckily there was paper and pencil in this on which she had planned to write a letter to her mother. So with an uncertain hand, in the dim light, she traced the words: "Dear Dotty, I can't stay here, I've got to go back to Mother. Good-bye. Dolly." This she slipped gently beneath Dotty's pillow, and then stepping softly to the open edge of the tent she stepped down to the ground and walked swiftly toward the lake. CHAPTER IX DOLLY'S ESCAPE Dolly had learned as they came up the lake in the motor boat that there was a footpath along the lake shore which led directly from the camp to the railroad station. It was about a mile long and passed several other camps, but Dolly felt sure that she could walk the distance, and allowing time to rest now and then could reach the station before six o'clock, when the first morning train went through. The dim starlight just enabled her to make out by her little watch that it was two o'clock when she started. She felt no fear of bears or wolves now, for her whole mind and soul were filled with the one idea of going home. She would have started, had the road been lined with hot ploughshares, so indomitable was her will and so strong her resolution. She gave no thought or heed to possible difficulties or dangers. She knew the way, there was no chance of getting lost, and she had in her bag money enough to buy a ticket home. She felt guilty and even ashamed at leaving her kind friends in this manner, but that thought was swallowed up and lost sight of in the terrible gnawing agony of her longing for home. So she set forth along the path at a swift, steady gait which promised fair for the accomplishment of her design. As she walked along the stars seemed brighter and seemed to wink at her more kindly, as if willing to do all they could to help along a poor little homesick, mother-lonely child. Though without hat or coat, her swift pace kept her warm enough for a time, but at last poor little Dolly grew very weary. She had not walked much since her illness and her newly mended leg felt the strain and began to ache terribly. She sat down to rest on a flat stone and was surprised to find that her leg ached worse sitting down than it had walking. Moreover, when she stopped exercising, she became very chilly and in addition to this she realised afresh that she was exceedingly hungry. Poor little Dolly! She could scarcely have been more physically miserable, and yet her material discomfort was as nothing to her pangs of homesickness. She felt she could not pursue her journey, and yet it made her shudder to think of returning to that awful camp. So after a time, hoping she had rested enough, she rose and plodded on again. She kept up this means of procedure, walking until utterly exhausted and then stopping to rest, until somehow she managed to cover the distance to the station. It was half-past four when she reached the forlorn little building and found it closed and deserted. But there was a bench outside and Dolly sank upon this in a state bordering upon utter collapse. She fell asleep there and was only awakened when, shortly before six, the station agent came to unlock his office. "Bless my soul! who are you?" he exclaimed, and Dolly sat up blinking in the early sunlight. "I'm a passenger," she said; "I want to take the early train." "Humph! a pretty looking passenger you are! Where's your hat?" "I don't always wear a hat in summer," and Dolly tossed back her golden curls and looked at the man steadily. Her sleep had refreshed her somewhat, and she had recovered her poise. Her determination was still unshaken and she had every intention of going on that six o'clock train. But the station master was a knowing sort of man and he had before this seen campers afflicted with a desperate desire to go back to civilisation. "Didn't you come up here last night with the Roses?" he inquired affably. "Yes," replied Dolly, "but I'm going back to town to-day." "Pshaw, now, is that so? Don't like it, hey?" The station master had a kindly way with him, and as he threw open the door he invited Dolly to enter the little waiting-room. "You stay here a spell," he said, "that train ain't due for fifteen minutes." He disappeared into the ticket office and closed the door. Then he called up Mr. Rose on the telephone. "Hello! what is it?" responded that gentleman sleepily, for he had been roused from a sound slumber. "I'm Briggs, the station agent. That little yellow-haired girl you brought with you last night is here in the station. Says she's goin' home." "Dolly Fayre! At the station? Impossible!" "Yep. She's here. And she's just about all in. You don't want I should let her go on the train, do you?" "Good gracious, no! Keep her there somehow till I can get there." "I'll try, but she's terrible set on goin'." "Keep her somehow, Briggs, if you have to lock her in. I'll be down there inside of half an hour." "All right, Mr. Rose. Good-bye." Briggs hung up the receiver and sauntered back to the waiting-room. "Best come over home with me, little Miss and get a bite of breakfast. How about it? My home's just across the street and my wife'll be glad to give you a snack." "Thank you," said Dolly, doubtfully, "but I don't want to miss that train." "Oh, land! she's likely to be half an hour late! Come along, I'll keep my eye out for the train." Dolly hesitated. She was awfully hungry, but it was five minutes of six and the train might not be late after all. Moreover, it seemed to her that the station man was a little too anxious. Perhaps he wished to detain her, though she could see no reason why he should interfere with her plans. Unless it might be because she had no hat on. Still it was not a crime to go hatless in the summer time, though it might be unconventional when travelling. "Pretty good breakfast my wife cooks," said Briggs, temptingly. "Perhaps I would have time just for a glass of milk," said Dolly, "but no, I hear a locomotive whistle now!" "Aw, she's way up round the bend. Sound carries awful far 'mong these hills. She won't be here for ten minutes yet. Come on." "What are you talking about? There's the train now!" And from the window Dolly saw the smoke of the approaching engine. "Why, so 'tis!" and with a strange smile on his face, Briggs whisked the door open, flew out and slammed it behind him and turned the big key, making Dolly a prisoner in the little waiting-room. For a moment she was too amazed to do or say anything. She stood watching the train draw nearer and stop at the little station. Then she realised what had happened and she flew to the door and pounded on it with her little fists, crying, "Let me out! you awful, dreadful man, let me out!" But the door did not open, and after a couple of minutes the train went on its way. Then Briggs unlocked the door and came in. "Bless my soul!" he said, "if I didn't forget you wanted to go by that train! Well, it's too late now, so you might as well come on over to breakfast." "You didn't forget it, any such thing! You locked me in here on purpose! You had no right to do it, and my father will pers--persecute you,--or whatever you call it!" "Well, anyhow the train's gone, and you can't get it back, so make the best of things and smile and come along." From sheer lack of anything better to do, Dolly rose and walked with Briggs across the street to his little cottage. "Hello, Mother," he called out, as they entered, "I've brought a visitor to breakfast. Got enough to go round?" "Yes, indeedy!" and a fat, comfortable looking woman smiled pleasantly at Dolly; "why, you poor baby, you're all tuckered out. Here sit right down and drink this fresh milk, it's a little warm yet. Take slow sips, now, don't swallow it all at once. Here's a nice piece of toast." Dolly eagerly accepted the fresh milk and the golden-brown buttered toast, and was glad to follow Mrs. Briggs' advice and partake slowly. The warm, pleasant room and the appetising food made Dolly feel decidedly better. A poached egg came next and more toast and milk and as both Mr. and Mrs. Briggs were kind and cheery, Dolly's spirits rose accordingly. No reference was made as to why she wanted to take the train, in fact the subject was not touched on, and Mr. Briggs was entertaining her with a funny story when the door opened and Mr. Rose walked in. "Hello, Dolly-Polly," he said, cheerily; "had your breakfast? Good for you, Mrs. Briggs, glad you gave the little lady a bite. Come along now, Dolly, we must be on the move." Mr. Rose's face was so smiling and his manner so pleasant, that Dolly jumped up from her chair and ran to his side. He put his arm round her and kissed her cheek and then with brisk good-byes and thanks to the hospitable Briggs, he whisked Dolly away. "Skip it!" he said, and taking her hand they skipped across the road and down the long length of the pier. There was Mr. Rose's motor-boat waiting, with Long Sam at the wheel. "Mornin' folkses," he said, unfolding his ungainly length as he rose to help them in. Long Sam, it was generally agreed, had the longest length for the narrowest width of any man in the county. He grinned at Dolly and taking her hands helped her into the boat, while Mr. Rose followed. In a moment they were off, and the little boat scooted up the lake in a hurry. The sun was well up now and it was a warm day, so the lake breeze was most refreshing and the swift motion very exhilarating. Mr. Rose said no word whatever concerning Dolly's informal departure from his camp, but he was so gay and entertaining that Dolly herself forgot it. He pointed out various houses and camps along the shore, often telling funny stories of the people who lived there. He showed her the club house and the casino and the picnic grounds and lots of interesting places, which had passed unnoticed on their trip up the lake the night before. Sometimes Long Sam put in a few words in his dry, comical way, and Dolly found herself enjoying the morning lake ride immensely. Mr. Rose was in the midst of a funny story at which Dolly was shaking with laughter as they reached the pier which belonged to Crosstrees camp. "Out you hop!" exclaimed Mr. Rose, jumping out himself and in a moment Dolly was beside him on the pier. Mrs. Rose and the two girls stood there smiling, their arms full of bathing suits. "Hurry up, Doll," cried Dotty, grabbing her arm. "This is your bathhouse right next to mine and here's your suit. Scrabble into it, quick's you can." And so almost before she knew it, Dolly was shut in to her little bath house and was hastily changing from her street suit to her bathing-dress. Just as she finished arraying herself, Dotty was pounding on the door and she immediately opened it. Mrs. Rose put a bathing cap on Dolly's head and tied a gay kerchief over that. The rest were all in bathing suits and with gay laughter they all joined hands and ran down the sloping shore and into the lake. Dolly loved bathing and she pranced round with the rest, enjoying the delightful feel of the cool ripples of the lake as they dashed against her. The young people were not allowed to go out very far alone, but Mr. Rose would swim out with them, one at a time, for a short distance and return them safely to shallower water. "Do teach me to swim," pleaded Dolly, who took to water like a duck. So Mr. Rose gave her her first lesson and she was so promising a pupil that he declared she would soon learn to become expert. The bath over, they returned to the bath houses to dress and Dolly found in hers, instead of her travelling suit, a serge skirt and middy blouse. She put these on, and when she went out she found Dotty similarly arrayed. Mrs. Rose braided the two girls' hair in long pig-tails and tied their ribbons for them. "Now for a camp breakfast!" exclaimed Mr. Rose, as the group reunited. "I've had my breakfast," began Dolly, but Mr. Rose interrupted her, saying, "indeed you haven't! Just wait till you see." In a little clearing not far from the bungalow, Dolly saw a table of boards with seats each side and here the family gathered. Such a breakfast as it was! Maria's flap-jacks had materialised and of all light, puffy, golden delicacies they were the best. Then there was brook trout, fresh and delicious; a tempting omelet; and as a great treat the girls were each allowed a cup of coffee. The trip up the lake and the invigorating bath had given Dolly a ravenous appetite and never had food tasted so good. She didn't quite understand why nothing was said about her running away in the night, but it was a great relief that the subject was not touched upon, and in the gay laughter and chatter of the Rose family, she finally forgot all about it. "Now, who's for a tramp in the woods?" and Mr. Rose lighted a cigar as he left the table. "Me!" cried Dolly, dancing up to her host; "when can we start?" "Right away quick," and Mr. Rose smiled down at her; "have you good stout shoes?" "Yes, indeed," and Dolly showed her little tan boots. The whole family started off, each with a stout stick to help their steps in climbing, and each with a little basket, because, as Mr. Rose said, "you never can tell what you'll find to bring home." They started off briskly, Dolly and Dotty on either side of Mr. Rose and Genie and her mother following close behind. "Guess we'll try the Rocky Chasm path this morning," said Mr. Rose, who acted as guide. Away they went, walking briskly, but not too rapidly. Though it was a warm day the path through the woods was cool and pleasant and occasionally they paused to rest for a time. Presently the climbing began and this they took by easy stages, so that when at last they reached their goal, Dolly was not at all tired. "What a beautiful place!" she cried, as they found themselves on top of a high hill looking down into a rocky chasm. "Don't go too near the edge," warned Mrs. Rose as her husband and the two girls went to peer over the edge of the precipice. "No, indeed!" he returned, "but Dolly must see down in the chasm. Here, Dot, you show her how." So Dotty lay down flat on the rocks and wriggled along until she could see over the very edge while her father held tightly to her feet. "It's wonderful!" she exclaimed; "now you try it, Dolly." Somewhat timidly, but with full faith in Mr. Rose, Dolly lay down prone, and cautiously edged along till she could see over the shelving rock. She felt Mr. Rose's firm grip on her ankles, and she looked down with wonder at the sheer straight descent of rock and down at the very bottom of the chasm she saw a tiny brook tossing and foaming along. "Not yet!" she called as Mr. Rose advised her to come back. "Let me see it a moment longer!" "Don't get dizzy!" called out Mrs. Rose. "No, indeed!" said Dolly, as at last Mr. Rose pulled her in; "I wasn't dizzy a bit! I never saw anything so wonderful. That beautiful little brook way down there a thousand miles below!" "Oh, not quite so far as that," said Mr. Rose, laughing. "Come on; let's go down and see it from below." They picked up their baskets and following Mr. Rose's direction they climbed down a rocky ravine and, sure enough, found themselves right beside the little tumbling brook. Dolly sat on a rock and gazed upward at the precipice, looking at the very spot where she had poked her head over. "Were we really up there looking down?" she exclaimed. "I can hardly believe it. Oh, what a lovely place this is!" "Yes, isn't it!" cried Dotty; "let's dig something, Daddy." "What can we find?" And Mr. Rose looked around. "Why, my goodness, my basket is full already!" "What's in it?" cried Genie, scampering around to see. "Oh, goody! cookies and lemonade!" Though Dolly had really had two breakfasts, the mountain climb had made her ready to welcome a little light refreshment and the bottles of lemonade and the box of cookies were rapidly disposed of by the party. "I see Indian Pipes," remarked Mr. Rose, and Dotty cried, "Where? Where?" "Those who seek will find," said Mr. Rose, smiling, and the girls set to work hunting. Dotty was the first to spy some of the graceful white blossoms under some concealing green leaves, but a moment later Dolly found some too. With their trowels they carefully dug up the plants and put them in their baskets to take home. Genie collected some odd stones, and Mrs. Rose found a particular bit of Eglantine that she wanted and soon the baskets were filled and the party took up their homeward way. Mostly of a down-hill trend, the way home was easy, and as the baskets were not heavy the girls danced gaily along singing songs as they went. "Why, goodness, gracious sakes; it's nearly two o'clock!" cried Dolly as they entered the big living room of the bungalow and set down their burdens. "It sho'ly is!" and Maria's black face appeared in the doorway. "I suttinly thought you-all was never comin' home to dinner! I'se been waitin' and waitin' till everything is jes' 'bout spoilt!" "Oh, I guess not as bad as that, Maria," and Mr. Rose smiled pleasantly at her. "We're not much behind time, and we won't grumble if things are cold." "Laws' sakes! they ain't cold! I'se dun looked out for dat. Yo' better wash that mud off your hands and come along. Doan' waste no time now." The Roses were accustomed to Maria's good-natured scoldings and they ran away to follow her advice. CHAPTER X HIDDEN TREASURE "Take time to tidy up and put on clean blouses," called out Mrs. Rose as the girls went to their rooms. But they made quick work of it, and helped each other in the matter of hair ribbons and soon three very trim and tidy young persons in clean white linen presented themselves, hungry for their dinner. Maria had a steaming chicken stew for them, with fluffy white dumplings that showed no sign of being "spoilt"; in fact, she had not cooked them until after the family's return. "Was there ever anything so good!" exclaimed Dolly as she received a second portion of the fricassee. "Everything tastes good up here," said Dotty, "but Maria sure is a dandy on stewed chicken. But go easy, Doll, for I happen to know there's an Apple Betty to follow and just you wait till you see that!" But Dolly's camp appetite was quite equal to the Apple Betty also, which was, as Dolly had predicted, a triumph in the matter of desserts. "I feel as if I had been to a party," Dolly said as they left the table. "I believe I've eaten more to-day than I do in a week at home." "It's the air," said Mr. Rose. "Crosstrees' air is the greatest appetiser known to man. If I could bottle it and sell it, I'd make my everlasting fortune. Now, may I ask what you young ladies have on hand for this afternoon?" "Nothing particular," said Dotty. "Why?" "Because I asked a few young people from the neighbouring camps to come over here for awhile." "A party?" cried Genie. "Oh, Daddy, a party?" "Not exactly a party; only half a dozen of the Norrises and Holmeses." "Lovely!" cried Dotty. "I haven't seen the Norrises since last year, and I don't know the Holmeses. Who are they?" "Mr. Holmes is a friend of mine and his daughter Edith is about the age of you girls, and they have two or three guests." "And the Norrises, Maisie and Jack, are awfully nice," said Dotty. "You'll like them, Doll; Maisie is something like you." "She isn't a bit like Dolly," put in Genie, "'cept she's fat and yellow headed and blue eyed. But she isn't half as pretty as Dolly, so don't you mind, Dollyrinda." "Oh, I don't mind," and Dolly laughed. "I don't think a blue-eyed Towhead can be pretty anyway. I like dark eyes and dark curls best." "Thank you, ma'am," and Dotty dropped a curtsey. "Shall we dress up, Mother?" "No; those clean blouses are all right. It's just a camp frolic, not a formal party." "It's a Kidd party," observed Mr. Rose, looking mysterious. "A kid party?" echoed Dotty; "of course. I didn't s'pose it was a grown-up party, Daddy, for us children." Mr. Rose only laughed and turned away, and the girls wandered out toward the open tent where Dolly had gone to bed the night before. The hemlock-bough beds were covered now with big spreads of gay cretonne and many cretonne pillows, and served as day couches. The sight of the tent recalled to Dolly's mind the events of the night before, and she suddenly experienced a wave of embarrassment and remorse at the way she had acted. She felt, too, that an apology was due to her hosts and somehow it didn't seem right to talk about it to the girls for she felt that it was to Mr. and Mrs. Rose she owed an explanation. "Wait here for me a minute," she said suddenly to Dolly and Genie, and turning, she ran back to the bungalow. She found Mr. and Mrs. Rose in the living room, and going straight to them she said impulsively, "I was very naughty to run away last night and I want to apologise. You see I got homesick--" "Bless your heart; don't say a word about it," said Mr. Rose, in the kindest tones; "that's part of the performance, child. Everybody gets homesick the first night in camp. It's to be expected. Then, you see, the next day they begin to like it and the third day you couldn't drive them home." "But I was very impolite to go away like that--" "Never mind, Dollikins," and Mrs. Rose put her arm around her little visitor; "it's all right, dearie; don't think of it again. I know perfectly well how forlorn you felt and how you wanted your mother. And I know, too, you were chilly and you felt strange and lonesome and couldn't sleep. But that's all over now and we won't even think of it again. If you don't sleep all right to-night and if you want to go home to-morrow, I'll take you down myself, right straight to where your mother is. Now put it all out of your mind and scamper back to Dotty. The party will be coming pretty soon now." "Run along," and Mr. Rose patted the golden head. "You wouldn't have been the right kind of a guest at all if you hadn't been homesick the first night. But I'll bet you a ripe red apple that you won't want to go home to-morrow, but if you do want to you shall. Now skip along, for if I'm not mistaken I hear a motor boat and like as not it's that bunch from the Holmes'." Dolly ran away, her heart greatly lightened by the kind attitude of her hosts, and though she felt sorry she had run away the night before, she did not feel so ashamed since they had so pleasantly made light of it. Sure enough, the party of young people were just coming along the pier, and Edith Holmes, a bright girl of about Dolly's age, was introducing herself and her friends. "I'm Edith Holmes," she said, laughing, "and these are my cousins, Guy and Elmer. They're nice enough boys, but here's their sister Josie who is nicer yet." Josie was a shy little thing, who blushed and cast down her eyes at Edith's praise. "I thought the Norrises would be here," went on Edith, "and as they know us and know you they could introduce us better. But we'll just scrape acquaintance." "Oh, that's all right," said Dotty. "I'm Dotty Rose and this is my chum, Dolly Fayre, and my little sister, Genie. I have a brother but he isn't here." She smiled at the boys as she said this and Elmer Holmes said, "That doesn't matter; we just love to play with girls. And anyhow here comes Jack Norris to keep us in countenance." Jack and Maisie Norris came along, having walked over from the next camp. They were acquainted with the Holmes' young people as both families had been there all summer. Introductions over, they all sat along the edge of the open tent. The floor of this, being only about a foot above ground, made a convenient seat and those who wished had cushions to sit on or lean against. "Awful glad you people got up here at last," said Maisie Norris as she twisted one of Dotty's curls round her finger. "Is your arm all well, Dot?" "Yes, though it isn't awfully strong yet. I have to be a little careful. But it was my left one, you know, so I can play croquet and tennis and do most everything." "You had a gay old mixup, didn't you?" said Jack Norris, smiling at Dolly. "You broke yourself, too, didn't you?" "Oh, yes; you know Dotty and I are next-door neighbours this year, and whatever one of us does the other has to. But we're both mended now and ready for any sort of fun." Then Mr. Rose came along, bringing about a dozen spades. They were small ones, such as come with children's gardening tools, and he gave one to each of the young people present. "What for?" asked Elmer Holmes, as he looked at the shining new tool. "I told my girls that this was to be a Kidd party," said Mr. Rose, "but they didn't quite understand what I meant. Now I'll explain. Has each one a spade?" "Yes," and the nine boys and girls held them up. "All right then. Now, what you want to do is to dig for Captain Kidd's buried treasure. You have all heard that old Captain Kidd buried a lot of treasure somewhere, but I doubt if you were aware that he buried it in Crosstrees Camp. However, there is a tradition to that effect and so I would like you to do your best to find it. Tradition says that the treasure was buried somewhere near the spot where we are now. It is hidden, I believe, not farther than fifty feet away in any direction from this open tent, so everybody may dig wherever he chooses within that radius, and see if he can unearth the treasure." "But, Daddy," said Genie, "how do we know where to dig?" "That you must decide for yourselves. Dig any place you like; turn up the whole area if you choose; or, if you see a place that seems especially hopeful, dig there. I feel sure the treasure is really buried somewhere around and it's up to you young people to discover where it may be." "We'll find it!" and Jack Norris brandished his spade in the air. "Come on, girls and boys; let's dig down to China if necessary, but let's get Kidd's old treasure chest." The young people scattered, looking about for probable places to dig. Dolly, a little unused to digging, began rather aimlessly to toss up the soil near by where she stood. "Oh, I say," said Jack Norris, "don't start in that way. Come along with me and let's find a place that looks promising." They walked away, looking eagerly at the ground about them, when Dolly spied something white under the leaves of a vine. "Oh, look here!" she cried, and Jack stooped down to see what it was. They saw a grinning skull and cross bones made of white plaster and partly sunken in the earth. "Geewhillikens! we've struck it!" cried Jack, "or rather you have! I felt sure from that twinkle in Mr. Rose's eye that there was some way of knowing where to dig. This is it, of course. The treasure is buried here! Let's dig for it!" Carefully setting aside the little skull, which was only a papier-maché toy, they both began to dig desperately. "The ground is soft! It has lately been dug, you see, to plant the box here. How lucky you saw that white thing under the leaves." "You would have seen it if I hadn't," said Dolly, not wanting to take all the credit to herself. "It's buried pretty deep, isn't it?" "Yes, sort of. Don't you dig any more, if you're tired; I'll dig the rest of the way." Dolly paused a few moments, and Jack went on digging. At last he said, as he straightened himself up and wiped his brow with his handkerchief, "Do you know, I believe we're hoaxed! I believe that skull was there to fool us!" "Oh, I'll bet it was!" and Dolly's eyes danced as she realised the situation. "Maybe there are other skulls in other places!" "I shouldn't wonder. Let's go and see." "Let's fill up this hole first and put the skull back to fool somebody else." "All right," and Jack hastily tossed the dirt back into the hole, and replaced the little white skull. "Somebody is coming this way! Let's hide," and Dolly and Jack quickly whisked themselves behind a clump of trees. Guy Holmes and Maisie Norris came along and they spied the white skull which Jack had left placed rather more conspicuously than he had found it. "Oh, look at that!" cried Guy, and Maisie exclaimed, "This is the right place, of course! We've struck it at last! That pirate flag was just to fool us. Hooray! let's dig!" Dolly and Jack could scarcely keep from laughing aloud as they saw the newcomers digging desperately in the very spot they had dug themselves. At last Jack beckoned to Dolly and they softly glided away without letting the others know of their presence. "Now we want to find where it really is," whispered Jack as soon as they were out of hearing of the others. "I say, this is a great game! and we've learned something from those people. The spot marked with a pirate flag is not the right one! When we find that, there is no use of digging." The pair went on, prospecting for a likely place to dig. There were so many trees and shrubs, that often there would be no view of any of the other seekers. And then again they would come across groups of two or three, or perhaps one alone digging desperately or looking disappointed at a failure. Gay greetings were exchanged or words of sympathy and commiseration and each went on his chosen way. "Do you know," said Jack at last, "I shouldn't be surprised if the real place isn't marked at all. Hullo, what's this?" Right at his feet lay a toy bowie-knife. Though made of pasteboard, it was a ferocious-looking affair and the spot where it was had not been disturbed. "I don't believe that's the right place," said Jack, who had grown suspicious of misleading clues. "Anyway, Dolly, let's leave that, and come back to it if we don't find anything more hopeful." So they wandered on and next they came to the pirate flag. This black and white emblem was planted above a much dug up space and they laughed as they concluded that several trials had been made there. Soon they came upon Dotty and Josie Holmes who were hastily digging at a spot which had been marked by two stakes. They had pulled up the stakes, but as yet had not found any treasure. "Bet it isn't there," said Jack, looking closely at the two stakes. "Why?" demanded Dotty. "Dunno. Somehow it doesn't seem 'sif it is. Come on, Dolly, let's try again." "Go on," said Dotty; "I think this is the place. Josie and I feel certain of it. Go on, you two, and good luck to you." Shouldering their spades, Jack and Dolly trudged on. "Let's think it out," said Jack, seating himself on a flat rock, while Dolly did likewise. "I believe we can think out where Mr. Rose would have been likely to put the thing. Now I don't believe it would be very close to where he started us. These nearby digging places are all frauds. Let's go to the limit of the space he said, and try all 'round the edge." "How can you tell?" And Dolly looked at him with a puzzled expression. "Why, he said fifty feet, you know, and I can pace off what ought to be about fifty feet and then we'll walk all the way round." They did this, and as they walked round the circle which Jack declared was about the boundary of the fifty-foot radius, they soon came upon a good-sized iron key. "This is it!" cried Jack; "we've struck it! This is the key to the chest, and the chest is buried here!" "Good work!" and Guy Holmes and Maisie Norris appeared just in time to hear Jack's exclamation. "Come on, let's all dig!" "No," said Dolly, sitting down on the ground; "I can't dig any more; I'm too tired. Maisie and I will sit here while you boys do the digging." "All right," the boys agreed, and they fell to work with a will. They had thrown out but a few spadefulls of dirt, when they struck something hard. "Hooray! hurroo!" cried Guy; "we've got it! We've struck the treasure!" "Sure we have!" and Jack flung out the dirt excitedly. "Easy there now, old fellow! Look out! It's the chest, sure enough!" The two girls jumped up and ran to look, as the boys uncovered one corner of what seemed to be an old brass-bound chest. "It is; it is!" cried Dolly. "We've found it. Hooray, everybody! We've found the treasure!" As her voice rang out the others left their digging and all congregated about the lucky finders. Other spades were set to work and in a short time willing hands lifted the old chest from the hole and set it up on the solid earth. "It's locked!" cried somebody, as several tried to open it at once. "Of course it is," said Dolly; "don't you remember, Jack, it was the key that first showed us where it was. What did you do with that key?" "I don't know," and Jack Norris began looking around. "I know," said Dolly, laughing; "you left it on the ground and you spaded out the dirt all over it. Now you'll have to dig for the key!" "That's just what I did do! If I'm not the chump!" and Jack began to dig in the heap of dirt they had thrown up out of the hole. "Toss it back in the hole," cried Guy, and in a jiffy the dirt was flung back where it came from and the key was discovered. "Don't let's open the box here," said Dolly; "I think we ought to take it to Mr. Rose first." "I think so, too," agreed Jack Norris, and the boys carried the big box, while Dolly and the girls followed with the key. "Here you are, Captain Kidd," cried Jack as they met Mr. Rose already coming to meet them. "Found it, did you?" said that gentleman, smiling at the band of treasure seekers. "Bring it along and we'll open it." They all followed him to the bungalow veranda, and there the treasure chest was unlocked. It contained a little souvenir for everybody present and there were exclamations of delight over the pretty trinkets that were found tied up in dainty tissue paper parcels that did not look at all as if they had been prepared by Captain Kidd or his pirate crew! Dolly's gift was a pretty writing tablet, well furnished, and upon which, she declared, she should write a long letter home telling of the treasure hunt and its success. Later on a jolly picnic supper was served to the young people and before this was finished the sun had set and the stars were beginning to show above the tall trees. "Now for a real camp-fire," said Mr. Rose, leading the way to the open tent. "Come on, boys, and help me fetch wood." The boys followed their host and under direction of Mrs. Rose and Dotty the open tent was transformed into a cosy and inviting place. Hemlock and spruce boughs were thrown about and partly covered with Indian blankets and many cushions and pillows and mats of woven rattan. Mrs. Rose and the girls arranged themselves comfortably in this spicy nest and when the boys returned with arms full of fagots and brush, Mr. Rose superintended the building of a glorious fire right in front of the open tent. Then the party all gathered together and sang songs and told stories and cracked jokes in merry mood. The blazing fire cast grotesque shadows all about and the merry crackling blaze was a joy of itself. Boxes of marshmallows made their appearance and faces took on a rosy glow as the young people toasted the white lumps of delight on the ends of long forks provided by Maria. "I never had such a good time in my life," exclaimed Dolly, her eyes dancing and her cheeks rosy as she scampered around the fire. "Do you like camping?" asked Jack Norris, looking admiringly at the pretty laughing face. "I just love it!" Dolly cried, and everybody wondered why all the Rose family chuckled with glee. "Haven't you ever been up here before?" asked Jack. "No; I never saw a camp-fire before. I had no idea these things were such fun. This has been the most beautiful day in my life!" And Dolly looked roguishly up into the face of Mr. Rose who chanced to be passing by. "And I thank you for it," she added, slipping her hand into his. Mr. Rose gave her little hand a warm welcoming grasp as he answered, "I'm awfully glad you're enjoying it and you are very welcome to Camp Crosstrees!" CHAPTER XI A THRILLING EXPERIENCE After that the days just fairly flew. Dolly changed her mind completely and concluded that camp life was one of the jolliest things in the world. Talking things over with Dotty, she explained her lonesomeness and homesickness that first night. "Yes, I understand," and Dotty wagged her head sagaciously. "Most everybody doesn't like camp at first and we didn't have any fun that first night, but, you see, we all knew the fun was coming next days and you didn't." "It was partly that," said Dolly, honestly, "and partly 'cause I felt that I _must_ see Mother. You see, I've never been away from her all night before, and it was so queer sleeping outdoors, and I was sort of cold, and--" "I know! You were hungry! There's nothing makes anybody as homesick as being hungry. Supper was skinny that night, I remember, and I was hungry too, only I went to sleep and forgot all about it. Come on, Doll, let's go over to the Norrises." "All right," and having informed Mrs. Rose of their intention the two girls set off for the Norris camp, which was but a short distance away. To their disappointment, when they reached there, they learned that Mrs. Norris had taken both Maisie and Jack to town with her to do some shopping, and they would not be back before six o'clock. It was Sarah, the nurse girl, who told them this, as she sat on the verandah taking care of Gladys, the two-year-old Norris baby. "Let's stay a few minutes and play with the kiddy," said Dolly, patting the little fat hand of the smiling child. "All right," agreed Dotty; "let's take her in the swing." The two girls with Gladys between them sat in the wide porch swing and Sarah said diffidently, "Would you two young ladies mind keeping the baby for half an hour, while I run down the road a piece to see my sister? She's awful sick." "Go ahead, Sarah," said Dolly, good-naturedly. "We'll take care of Gladys. She won't cry, will she?" "That she won't. She's the best baby in the world. There's a couple of crackers you can give her if she's hungry, or the cook will give you a cup of milk for her. I won't be gone long." "Don't stay more than half an hour, Sarah," said Dotty; "I'd just as lieve keep the baby but I don't know as Mrs. Norris would like it to have you go away from the child." "Oh, pshaw!" said Dolly; "the baby is all right with us. Stay as long as you want to, Sarah; I just love to take care of babies." So Sarah went away and the two girls proceeded to give Gladys the time of her life. They soon tired of the swing and took the baby out into the woods, where they crowned her with leaves and called her Queen of the May. The child laughed and crowed, and as her language was limited she called both the girls Doddy, and beamed on them both impartially. Herself she called Daddy, being unable to achieve her own name. "Two Doddies take Daddy saily-bye!" she cried, waving her fat hands toward the lake. "Oh, no," said Dolly; "Daddy go saily-bye when Jack comes home." "No! no wait for Dak! Daddy 'ant to go saily _now_! Daddy go in boat! Two Doddy go in boat and sail Daddy far, far away!" The two little arms waved as if indicating a journey round the world, and the baby face beamed so coaxingly that Dolly couldn't resist it. "We'll go down to the shore," she said, "and Gladys can paddle her hands in the water; that will be nice." "Ess!" and the baby danced with glee as the three went down to the lake. There was a short bit of fairly good beach at the Norrises' place, and here the children sat down to play. A sail boat, a row boat and a canoe were tied there and soon Gladys renewed her plea to go sailing. The girls tried to divert her mind, for they were not willing to take the responsibility of taking the little girl out on the water. "Maybe we might take her out in the row boat," suggested Dotty, but Dolly said, "No, I'd rather not. I can row well enough, but you can't do much with your weak arm and suppose anything should happen to this blessed child! No, siree, Dot; I'm not going to take any such risk." "I think you're silly. We could row around near shore and it would please the baby a heap. She's going to cry if you don't." Dotty's prediction seemed in imminent danger of being fulfilled, but Dolly sprang up and began a frolicking song and dance intended to divert the baby's attention. But for a few moments only Gladys was pleased with this entertainment. With the persistency of her kind, she returned again and again to the subject of her greatly desired water trip. Still being denied, she set up a first class crying act. It scarcely seemed possible that so many tears could come from those two blue eyes! She didn't scream or howl, but she cried desperately, continuously, and with heartbroken sobs until the two caretakers were filled with consternation. No effort to divert her was successful. In no game or play would she show any interest, and as the little face grew red from the continued sobbing, Dotty exclaimed, "That child will have a fit, if she doesn't get what she wants! Now look here, Doll; we won't go in a boat, but let's put the baby in the canoe and just pull her back and forth gently by the rope. It's tied fast to the post." Dolly looked doubtful, but as the baby sensed Dotty's words a heavenly smile broke over her face and she exclaimed, "Ess, ess! Daddy go saily-bye all aloney!" Dolly still hesitated, but Dotty picked up the eager child and plumped her down in the middle of the canoe, which was partly drawn up on the shelving beach. A little push set it afloat and grasping the rope firmly, Dotty gently pushed and pulled the canoe back and forth, while the baby squealed with delight. "That can't do any harm," said Dotty, pleased with the success of her scheme, and Dolly agreed that Gladys was safe enough as long as she sat still. "Even if she should spill out, she'd only get wet," said Dotty; "the water isn't six inches deep where she is. And you _will_ sit still, won't you, baby?" "Ess, Daddy sit still," and the baby folded her hands and sat motionless in the canoe, only swaying slightly with the motion as Dotty slowly pulled her in shore and then let her drift back again. "It's like a new-fashioned cradle," said Dolly; "I'll hold the rope for awhile, Dot." "All right, take it; it hurts your hand a little after awhile." So Dolly pulled the rope and the two girls sitting on the beach chatted away while the baby floated back and forth. "Let me take it now," said Dotty after a time; "you must be tired." "No, I'm not a bit tired, and I can use two hands while you can use only one. You oughtn't to use that left flapper of yours much while it's weak, Dot." "Pooh, it isn't weak! It's as strong as anything. Give me that rope!" "No, sir, I won't do it," and there was a good-natured scuffle for the possession of the rope as the four hands grabbed at it and each pair tried to get the other pair off. "Let go, you!" cried Dotty, pulling at Dolly's hands. "Let go yourself!" Dolly replied, laughingly, and then,--they never knew quite how it happened, but somehow their scramble had pulled the rope loose from the post, and as they twisted each other's hands, the rope slipped away from them and slid away under the water. The lake was full of cross currents and even before they realised what had happened the canoe was several feet from shore. To Gladys it seemed like some new game and she clapped her hands and shouted in glee, "Daddy saily all aloney,--far, far away!" She waved her baby arms and rocked back and forth in joy. Dotty and Dolly were for a moment paralysed with fright. Then Dotty, grabbing Dolly's arm, said, "_Don't_ stand there like that! We must _do_ something! That baby will drown! Let's holler for help." Dotty tried to scream, but her heart was beating so wildly and her nerves pulsing so rapidly she could make scarcely any sound, and her wail of agony died away in a whisper. "I can't yell, either," said Dolly, hoarsely, as she trembled like a leaf. "But we must _do_ something! _Don't_ go to pieces, Dotty--" "Go to pieces nothing! You're going to faint yourself. Now stop it, Dollyrinda," and Dotty gave her a shake. "We've got to save that child, no matter how we do it!-- Sit still, baby, won't you?" she called to Gladys. But the child bounced about in her new-found freedom and grasping each side of the canoe with her little hands began to rock it as hard as her baby strength would allow. "Oh!" breathed Dolly, who was watching with staring eyes; "sit still, little Gladys; don't rock the boat, dearie." "Ess; rock-a-by-baby, in a saily boat!" and again Gladys swayed the little craft from side to side. "We must make her stop that first of all," and Dotty wrung her hands as she stepped down to the water's edge and even into the water as she called to the baby. "Gladys, sit very still, and Doddy come out there in another boat. Sit _very_ still." Gladys did sit still, and the canoe floated steadily on the smooth lake. But it drifted farther and farther from land and now about twenty feet of water separated the baby from the shore. "We've got to get in the row boat and go out there," said Dotty, who was already untying the rope. "Yes, it's the only thing to do," agreed Dolly; "but you can't row, Dot, and I can. So I'll take the boat, and you run for help. I don't know whether you'd better go to the Norrises; I don't think there's anybody there but the cook, or whether you'd better make straight for home and get your father to come." "I'll do both! I can run, if I can't row!" and Dotty flew off like a deer up the hill toward the Norris camp. Dolly stepped into the boat and shipped the oars. It was a large flat-bottomed boat and the oars were heavy. Dolly knew how to row but she was not expert at it, and, too, she dreaded to turn around with her back to the baby. "Though," she thought to herself, in an agony of conflicting ideas, "I've got to row out there, and I can't do it and keep watch of Gladys both." She pulled a few strokes, twisting her head between each to get a glimpse of the baby who was now sitting quietly in the canoe, drifting out toward the middle of the lake. Not a motor boat or craft of any kind that might lend assistance was in sight. They were at the extreme upper end of the lake and most of the camps were farther down. Vainly Dolly scanned the water for a boat of any kind, but saw none. Bravely she pulled at the big oars, but she was not an athletic girl, and having been laid up so long with a broken leg her muscles were weak. She pulled as hard as she could, in a straight line toward the canoe, but though she succeeded in lessening the distance between them she could not get very near the baby, for the canoe drifted steadily away. At last, by almost superhuman efforts, she came within a few feet of the child, and then fearing to bump into the canoe and upset it, she turned around and tried to back water gently. But the big oars were ungainly and the task was not easy. Moreover, Gladys was overjoyed at seeing Dolly in the other boat and she expressed her joy by leaning over the side of the canoe. Dolly's heart seemed to stop beating as she saw the wobbly little boat careen with the laughing baby leaning far over the edge. She knew she must not alarm the child and so in a desperate endeavour to speak naturally, she called out, "Sit up straight, baby; see how straight you can sit!" "So straight!" and Gladys emphasised her straightness by putting both arms up in the air. "Yes, dear. Now fold your arms and sit straight." Gladys obeyed and folded her chubby arms and sat motionless right in the middle of the canoe. Dolly's heart bounded with thankfulness as with aching arms she pushed her way nearer the drifting canoe. She was moving stern first and tried to manoeuvre to try to come up sideways against the canoe. Then if she could lift the baby safely into her own flat-bottomed boat she would be content to drift about until help came. How many times she tried! But just as her boat would near the other, a chance current or a puff of wind would take the canoe just out of her reach. Paddling now with one oar she came very near the unsteady little craft, so near that Gladys suddenly decided to jump into Dolly's boat. The child scrambled to her knees and leaned over the side of the canoe till she was almost in the water. "Sit down!" screamed Dolly frantically, forgetting the danger of suddenness. Gladys was startled and instead of sitting down leaned farther over the edge, and the canoe capsized! Dolly's face blanched, her oars dropped from her hands and every muscle in her body went limp. Then the impulse came to jump in the water after the child. Seizing the row-lock, she was about to plunge, blindly, heedlessly, but obeying the irresistible impulse, when something white appeared on the water, right at her very side. It was Gladys's white dress, and Dolly made a grab for it just as it was again about to sink from sight. She held on firmly, though it seemed as if her strength was ebbing rapidly away. She strove with all her might to pull the baby into her own boat, but she could not lift the heavy child over the edge. How glad she was now that she was in the big flat-bottomed boat, which was in little if any danger of upsetting. Not knowing whether the baby was dead or alive, she hung on to the precious burden, still trying to lift her over the edge, but unable to do so. It was all she could do to keep her grasp on the wet clothing and keep the child's head above water as the eddies tossed her boat around on the rough surface of the lake. The waves were choppy and every time she would nearly succeed in lifting the baby in, a sudden lurch would almost make her lose her grip. It was when at last she almost felt the little form slipping from her grasp that she heard the chug-chug of a motor boat and a cheery, loud voice sang out, "Hang on, Dolly; hang on! All right, we're coming!" Dolly didn't dare look up, but with her last ounce of strength she hung on to the baby's white dress, which she had already torn to ribbons in her clutches. She heard the swift oncoming of the motor boat and feared lest its waves might even yet wash the little form away that she held so insecurely. She refused to lift her eyes as the sound of the engine grew louder and she felt a sickening fear of the first waves that might reach her from the motor boat. To her dismay she felt her hold loosening. Her muscles were powerless longer to stand the strain of the baby's weight. She heard the motor and she felt, or imagined she did, the first of the rhythmic waves that would, she felt certain, as they grew stronger, tear the child from her grasp. In desperation she bunched up a portion of the little white dress and leaning her head down clinched it firmly in her teeth. But even as she did so, she knew she could not hold it there. The wet cloth choked her, and the water dashed in her face and blinded her. A sickening conviction came to her that it was all over and in another instant little Gladys would fall away from her helpless hands, and drown. But to her ears there came a sound of a human voice. Not a shout, not even a loud call, but a calm, pleasant voice close to her, that said: "All right Dolly! Let go. You have saved Gladys!" Mechanically obeying, though scarcely knowing what she did, Dolly opened her teeth and as the baby slid from her numbed fingers the child was grasped by strong arms, and Mr. Rose's face appeared to Dolly's view. He had swum from the motor boat, and now holding Gladys in one arm he hung on to the row boat with the other. "Take her in," he said, as he lifted the child over the edge into the boat. The reaction brought back Dolly's lost nerve. Gladly she received the little form in her arms and in another moment Mr. Rose had himself scrambled, big and dripping, into the boat also. "You little trump!" he exclaimed; "you brick! you heroine! Let me take the baby. Why, she's all right!" Gladys, though she had been partly unconscious, while in the water, was really unharmed and as Mr. Rose held her to him she opened her eyes and smiled. Swiftly the motor boat came and took the three on board, and dragging the row boat behind them, they made quickly for the shore. "Well, I swan!" exclaimed Long Sam, who was at the wheel, "if you Dolly ain't the rippenest little mortal! However you managed to keep a grip on that there kid is more'n I can tell!" "I'm sure I can't tell you," and Dolly smiled, out of sheer happiness at Gladys' safety. They reached the shore in a few moments and Mrs. Rose was there with a big blanket in which to wrap the baby while they carried her up to the house. Sarah the nurse was there, and soon Gladys, warmed and fed and arrayed in dry clothes, was pronounced by all to be none the worse for her thrilling experience. Dolly, however, was exhausted. Mrs. Rose, after leaving the baby to the nurse, hurried Dolly home and put her to bed. "Yes, my dear," she said as Dolly objected; "you have an ordeal to go through with as heroine of this occasion. When Mrs. Norris comes home, she will come over here to give you a medal for bravery and heroism and general life-saving attributes. So you must go to bed now and get rested up to receive her thanks. You're going to have a cup of hot broth and a good rest and perhaps a nap, and you'll wake up just as bright and happy as ever." And Mrs. Rose's treatment was just what Dolly needed. She slept an hour or more and then awoke to find Dotty's black eyes gazing into her own. "You beautiful, splendid Dollyrinda!" she exclaimed. "You're a Red Cross heroine and a Legion of Honour Girl and I don't know what all!" "Nonsense, Dot; I didn't do any more than you did. If you hadn't had the gumption to run and get your father, Gladys would--well,--things would have been different." "It was all my fault, though," and the tears came into Dotty's eyes. "I did the wrong in putting the baby in the canoe in the first place." "I did that just as much as you did. We both did wrong there, I expect. And we both did wrong in scrabbling over the rope. Oh, we did wrong all right, but neither of us was worse than the other. What will Mrs. Norris say to us?" "She's here now," said Dotty, "waiting for you to come down. She doesn't blame us, she blames Sarah for going away and leaving the baby." "That isn't fair!" and Dolly sprang out of bed; "we told Sarah she could go. Tie up my hair, please, Dotty, I want to go down and tell Mrs. Norris all about it." But as it turned out, Mrs. Norris was so glad and happy that little Gladys was safe, that she wouldn't allow the two D's to be blamed at all. And as the girls besought her not to blame the nurse, for what had really been their doing, they all agreed to ignore the question of blame and dwell only on their gladness and happiness at the safety of everybody concerned. CHAPTER XII WHO WAS THE TALL PHANTOM? "What _is_ a phantom party?" asked Dolly. "Oh, it's lots of fun," Dotty replied; "everybody is rigged up in sheets, with a head-thing made of a pillow-case, and a little white mask over your face, so nobody knows you." "Can I go?" asked Genie, her black eyes dancing. "No," said her mother, "you're too young, dearie, this party of Edith Holmes' is an evening party; it begins at seven o'clock and only the big girls can go to it." "Oh, dear, will I ever get grown up!" and Genie sighed with envy of her sister and Dolly. "But how do you know who anybody is?" went on Dolly, who had never heard of this game before. "You don't! that's the fun of it. You can't tell the girls from the boys, and you must try to make your voice different, so nobody will know who you are. Have you plenty of sheets, Mother, to fix us up?" "Yes, indeed; one apiece will do you I think, if they are wide ones." "We'll make our own masks," said Dotty, who had attended parties of this sort before. So they cut masks from white muslin, with a little frill across the bottom and holes to fit their eyes. "Now we must put a piece of gauze or net behind these eye-holes," said Dotty, out of her full experience, "for if we don't, they'd know your eyes and mine in a minute, Dollyrinda." "Then how can we see where we're going?" "Oh, we can see through the thin stuff easily enough, but our eyes don't show plainly to other people." So insets of fine white net were put in the eye-holes and the dainty white masks were really pretty affairs. They had made them not exactly alike, lest duplicates should lead to suspicion of their identity. When it was time to get ready for the party Mrs. Rose pinned the girls into their sheet draperies. "Make us as different as possible, Mother," advised Dotty, "so they'll never think we're us." Mrs. Rose pinned Dolly's sheet into the semblance of a Japanese kimono, while she arranged Dotty's in full folds round the neck and let it hang in a Mother Hubbard effect. Dolly's pillow-case headdress was bunched on either side of her head, like rosettes over her ears, and Dotty's hung in a plain flat fold down her back like an Italian girl's. The masks were adjusted and the girls were ready to start. They wore white gloves and white shoes and looked like a pair of very lively ghosts. Mr. Rose escorted them over to the Holmes Camp, or nearly there,--for it was the plan that each phantom must sneak in as stealthily as possible, in order to remain unknown. So sometime before they reached their destination, Dotty ran on ahead, and with great manoeuvring, managed to slip in unseen and saunter among the crowd already gathered. Silently, among the trees, Mr. Rose led Dolly until he saw a good opportunity and then with a whispered "Scoot in there!" he indicated a chance for her to make her entrance, and he himself went back home. It was dusk, not dark, but the light of the big camp fire made convenient shadows to screen the entrance of the guests. It seemed a weird sight to Dolly as she somewhat timidly made her way in. Twenty or thirty white-robed figures were bowing and scraping or dancing wildly about or talking to each other in high squeaky voices and short sentences. "Know me?" somebody said, stopping in front of Dolly. The voice seemed a little familiar, and yet Dolly couldn't quite place it. It might be Jack Norris, or it might be one of the Holmes boys. But in a spirit of fun she nodded her head affirmatively, with great vigour, as if to declare that she knew the speaker perfectly well, but she would not speak herself. "Who?" squeaked the high voice, hoping Dolly would speak and thus reveal her own identity. But Dolly was too canny for this. Instead she joined together her thumb and forefinger of each hand and held them up to her eyes, making circles like eye-glass rims. Now, in sunny weather, Guy Holmes wore big glasses with shell rims, and as this described him fairly well, it was a stroke of triumph on Dolly's part. For it was Guy Holmes himself, and he doubled up with laughter at the clever identification. But he shook his head as if Dolly were greatly mistaken in her guess, and so she didn't know whether she had been right or not. When all had arrived, they danced in a circle round the fire, chanting wild sounds that had no meaning or rhythm but were supposed to be ghostlike wails and groans. Then a game was played, under the direction of Mr. Holmes, by which it was endeavoured to learn who the different phantoms were. Their host led them to what was really the drying-ground for the family laundry. A clothesline stretched on four posts formed a square, and from the clothesline depended brown paper bags of varying sizes, from large to tiny, each held by a slender string. "One at a time," Mr. Holmes explained, "our ghostly friends will go into the square, and being blindfolded, will endeavour to hit a bag with a stick. If the attempt is successful the ghost may return unchallenged, but if he fail to hit a bag the others may guess from his gestures who it is." The bags were not very near together, there being only three or four on each side of the clothesline square. Mr. Holmes selected one of the phantoms and escorted it to the middle of the square, placed a stick in the outstretched hand, blindfolded the motionless figure, turned it round with a whirl and said, "Step forward, and hit where you choose, and see if you can bring down a bag." The ghost was very evidently a boy, for two vigorous arms grasped the stick and with a couple of long strides the white figure stalked forward. A vigorous blow ensued, but the stick came down between two of the bags and made no hit. "Now you may guess who it is," said Mr. Holmes, "as our friend ghost did not strike anything. If you guess right, he must take off his mask, but if not he may retain it. Only one guess allowed." Somebody sung out the name of Jack Norris, as the ghost was about his height, but the white figure shook its head vigorously and glided back among the crowd. The game went on. Sometimes a ghost would hit a bag and the flimsy paper would burst and a quantity of peanuts or popcorn would scatter on the grass, to be scrabbled for by the rollicking phantoms. One bag held confetti which scattered through the air in a gay shower of colour. When it was Dolly's turn, she was determined that she would act as differently as possible from her usual manner and so fool everybody. After she was blindfolded and turned round, she took the stick and with little mincing steps, imitated exactly the gait of Josie Holmes. She made a wild dash with the stick, but failed to hit a bag and Maisie Norris called out at once, "You're Josie Holmes! I know that walk!" Dolly shook her head vigorously and ran back to the crowd. She chanced to stand next to a very tall ghost who gravely patted her cheek as she stood beside him. Dolly looked up quickly, for she did not like this familiarity from a stranger, and she was sure the phantom was too tall to be any of the boys she knew. Of course, as the party was large, there were many of the guests whom Dolly had never met, and she resented the act of the stranger and drawing herself up with great dignity turned her back upon him. But the tall ghost jumped around in front of her and patted her other cheek, the while he gave a cackling, rattling, ghostly chuckle. To be sure Dolly's cheek was covered by her mask and the ghost wore white cotton gloves, but she did not at all like his familiar manner and she walked quickly away from him. A few moments later the tall ghost himself went to take his turn with the stick. Blindfolded and whirled about, he went with short, steady steps straight forward, and with a big whack he chanced to bring down a good sized bag. It was filled with the feathers of a whole pillow, and great laughter ensued as, like snowflakes, the feathers flew through the air. His heavy stroke had sent the bag flying upward and as it burst the feathers descended in a shower. Since he had broken a bag, the identity of the tall ghost was not even guessed at, so Dolly had no chance to learn his name. However, everybody was laughing and sneezing, as the feathers drifted down and flew into their mouths or tickled their ears. Only a few of the ghosts' names were guessed correctly, as many of them had carefully disguised their shapes and sizes. Thin people had put on sweaters or bulky coats to make themselves appear stout, and short people had built up high headdresses in an effort to seem taller. By the time the game was over every one was in most hilarious mood, and the few who had been guessed and so had removed their masks, were teasing the others in efforts to make them talk. "I know you," said Elmer Holmes, pausing in front of Dolly. "You're Dotty Rose!" "How do you know?" And Dolly spoke in low, guttural tones, way down in her throat. "Oh, you needn't growl like a little bear cub! I know you, because you're so careful of that left wing of yours. You thought nobody would notice it, did you? But I spied it, and I _know_ you're Dot! You've got on a couple of coats or something to make you look fatter, but you're Dotty, all right." Dolly shook with laughter, for she had pretended to shield her left arm with a gesture that was purposely copied from Dotty. Just then the tall ghost appeared again at Dolly's side. He laid his hand on her shoulder and bent down a little to look in her eyes. Dolly drew away from him and turned to Elmer Holmes. "Who?" she said, in a hoarse whisper, pointing to the tall phantom. "That's telling," said Elmer, laughing. "Ask him yourself who he is." "Who?" grunted Dolly again, addressing herself to the tall one. "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater!" and the tall ghost grunted out the words from one corner of his mouth and Dolly could not recognise the voice. As the ghost spoke he patted Dolly on the head. Dolly disliked his manner, for none of the other boys were other than correctly formal and polite, so she turned away from him, making a gesture of dismissal with her hand. Apparently "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater" was desolated, for he put his hands to his eyes and rocked himself back and forth with wailing groans of despair. He was funny, and Dolly had a great desire to know who he might be, but she did not like the familiarity of his manner, and she turned away to speak to some one else. "Take partners for a Virginia reel," called out Mr. Holmes, "and after that, we will unmask for supper." The next moment Dolly found the tall ghost bowing before her and evidently asking her to dance with him. But instinctively she felt that she preferred not to dance with a partner who was what she called "fresh" in his manner and she shook her head in refusal. "Peter" urged and begged her, in dumb show, to consent. Dolly was tempted to do so, for his gestures were pleasantly wheedlesome, but as she held out her hand in half consent, Peter grasped it and falling on one knee kissed it with his hand on his heart with all the effect of a most devoted cavalier. "He's too silly!" Dolly thought to herself; "I won't dance with him, for I don't know how he would carry on. But I wonder who he is." So Dolly turned decidedly away from the tall suitor and found two other ghosts bowing before her and evidently requesting her to dance. She looked at the two figures and having no idea who they might be, she hesitated which to choose. Finally, with a white-gloved finger, she touched each in turn, "counting out." "My--mother--told--me--to--take--this--one!" She mumbled, in a monotonous singsong tone. And then as her final choice rested on one of the ghosts, she went away with him to take her place in the lines that were forming for the dance. Dolly was at the end of the line of girls and opposite her, of course, was her partner. Next to Dolly's partner stood the tall ghost and as Dolly looked at him, he waved his hand at her and then lightly blew her a kiss from the tips of his white-gloved fingers. "Freshy!" said Dolly to herself. "I think he's horrid! to act like that, when he doesn't know me at all, for I know I've not met any boy up here as tall as he is." The dance began and there was much gay laughter as the phantoms advanced and retreated in their respective turns. The boys pranced awkwardly in their unaccustomed draperies, while the girls minced around prettily and flung their sheets in graceful whirls. When it came Dolly's turn, she suddenly realised that as the tall ghost stood next to her own partner it was the obnoxious Peter with whom she would have to go through the figures of the old-fashioned dance. With a very stately air she went forward as the tall ghost came to meet her half-way. They bowed with great dignity and turned to their places while the other couple did their part. Next they must join right hands and swing around and this time the tall ghost whirled Dolly around so vigorously that he almost swung her off her feet. Dolly began to be really annoyed, but she determined not to show it and stepped gracefully up for the next figure. This was the left hand twirl, and Peter turned her around more gently this time, but the next, when they joined both hands, Peter swung her swiftly round twice instead of once, his own feet clumping as if in a clog dance. The next time the pair merely walked round each other back to back, and Dolly was very careful to keep as far distant as possible from the obnoxious Peter. The dance would soon be over, she knew, and then he would have to unmask and she could see who this unpleasantly forward youth might be. It was during the last of the grand march when it came Dolly's turn to dance gaily down the line with her own partner, whom she did not yet know by name, that Peter unceremoniously pushed Dolly's partner aside, and himself taking Dolly's hand, whirled her down the long aisle between the two lines of ghosts who clapped their hands and chanted or whistled in time to the music. So rapidly did Peter whirl Dolly around that she had no choice but to follow, and she realised suddenly that the tall ghost was a most awkward dancer, and that unless she was very nimble herself he would tread on her toes. Too angry now to think of disguising her voice, Dolly whispered to Peter as they danced along. "You are most rude and unmannerly! I have never met a boy so fresh and horrid! As soon as we reach the other end of the line I command you to let me go and I wish you never to speak to me again!" Dolly was thoroughly angry, but as she preferred not to let the others know of her annoyance, she danced on with Peter toward the end of the line, though she suddenly realised that he was guiding her so as to make their progress as slow as possible. "Oh, now,--oh, now, don't get mad!" and the squeaky voiced, choked with laughter, was almost inaudible. "I _am_ mad! I _hate_ you! you're not a nice boy at all, and I wonder Edith Holmes invited you!" "She didn't!" was squeaked into Dolly's ear, and then, as they reached the end of the line the audacious Peter lifted the frill of Dolly's mask and kissed her cheek. Then with a bow, he released her and turned away to his place in the line. But as Peter had taken the place of Dolly's partner, and as her partner had apparently not resented this act, Dolly had no choice but to join hands with Peter and march back under an arch-way formed by the clasped hands of the other ghosts. Rather than make an unpleasant scene by refusing, Dolly thought better to do this, as it would end the dance. So giving her finger-tips to the horrid Peter she bent to go under the raised hands. Tall Peter had to bend a great deal, and as for some reason or other he was decidedly clumsy with his feet and forever tripping on his trailing robe, the pair could think of nothing but their progress along the line, and as they reached the end, the dance was over and the music stopped. "Now," thought Dolly to herself, "I'll see who that horrid boy is, though of course it's no one I know, and as he said Edith didn't invite him, he must be some intruder who hasn't any business here. But I can't see why he picked _me_ out to annoy with his bad manners. I hope nobody saw him." "Masks off!" sang out Mr. Holmes, and each ghost began to untie the strings of his concealing disguise. It was not always easy and many had to ask help from their neighbours before they could release themselves. Dolly untied her mask quickly and stood with angry eyes awaiting a revelation of Peter's identity. With one hand behind his head, as he loosened his mask, the tall ghost stepped to Dolly's side and said in a squeaky whisper, "Won't you forgive me?" "No," said Dolly sternly, as she frowned at him. "You have been unpardonable, and I have no wish to know you." "Aw, now, Dollydoodle," and the mask was whisked off and smiling down at her stood--Dolly's brother, Bert! Dolly stared at him in utter amazement and then burst into laughter as she realised what it all meant. "You goose!" she exclaimed, as the brother and sister stood choking with laughter at the situation. "But how _could_ I know you?" said Dolly, "What makes you so tall?" "I have big blocks of wood fastened to my shoe soles," explained Bert, "and, my, but it makes me clumsy-footed!" "I should think so! I don't see how you danced at all! Where _did_ you come from? How did you get here? Oh, Bert, I'm so glad it was _you_, for I was so mad when I thought some stranger was acting up like that." "It was a shame, Dollypops, to tease you, but I just couldn't help it. I had no intention of acting up like that, but when I just patted your hand you got so mad, that I thought it would be fun to go on. I'm glad you _are_ such a little touch-me-not." "Well, I should hope I _wouldn't_ want strange boys patting me like that! And when you kissed me, Bert, I thought I should scream, I was so mad, but honestly I was ashamed to make a scene and let people know what you had done." "You'll forgive me, sister, won't you?" and Bert's big blue eyes looked into Dolly's, as for a moment he did feel ashamed of himself for teasing her so. But his love of a joke was so great, that he had thoroughly enjoyed fooling Dolly and his affectionate sister willingly forgave him. "Don't know yet who was your partner, do you, Dolly?" said a voice near her, and turning, Dolly saw Bob Rose. "Oh, were _you_?" and Dolly turned to him, laughing. "I sure was! I resigned in favour of Bert at the last, because he commanded me to." "When did you come up here?" and the amazed Dolly began to realise how matters stood. "To-night," said Bert. "We were at Crosstrees before you girls left, but Mrs. Rose kept us hidden and after you were gone, she togged us up in sheets, and here we are." "But why did you make yourself tall, Bert? Nobody up here would know you anyhow, except Dot and me." "Oh, just did it for fun. Thought I'd make an impression as the tallest ghost in captivity. Where's Dotty? And I want to meet a few of these other ghost girls. I'll shake you now, Dollikins, and you can have your own partner back." Bert went away leaving Bob with Dolly, who escorted her to supper. The supper was served in true camp-fire fashion. There was no table, the ghosts, all unmasked now, sat round the big fire on camp stools or cushions, and the boys waited on the girls in true picnic style. There were substantial viands, as the evening air caused hearty appetites, and Dolly settled herself comfortably on a divan improvised of evergreen boughs and gratefully accepted a cup of hot bouillon and some sandwiches that Bob brought. Edith Holmes was sitting by Dolly, and she was chuckling with laughter as Bert told her the joke he had played on his sister. After supper the merry young people sang songs and glees round the fire until it was time to go home. "Daddy said he'd come for us," said Dotty laughingly to Dolly, "but of course he didn't mean it for he knew the boys would be here to take us home." "I'll just remove these blocks of wood before I start," said Bert, as he quickly tore off the clumsy and cumbersome things. "Now I can walk better," and he stood on his own shoe soles and at his own height. "I'm awfully glad you're here again, Bob," said Edith Holmes, as they said good-night, "and I'm glad you're here too," she added to Bert Fayre. "Our camps are so near that we must play together a lot." "Nice girl," commented Bert, as the quartette walked away. "Lots of nice people at that party." "Yes," agreed Bob, "girls are nice at parties, but sometimes we don't want them around. Be sure to be up, old man, by sunrise to-morrow morning, for we're going fishing early." "Can't we go?" asked Dotty. "No, ma'am! No girls need apply. A real fishing trip is a serious matter and we can't be bothered with girls. When we come home to-morrow night, if Mother says you've been good children all day, you can have some of our fish." CHAPTER XIII THAT LUNCHEON To Dolly's surprise she discovered that Bob and Bert were in earnest regarding their preference for expeditions that did not include girls. Nearly every day the two boys went off fishing or motor boating with a lot of their cronies, but the girls were seldom asked. "They're always like that," said Dotty, carelessly. "They like to ramble through the woods or cruise around the lake by themselves. They wear old flannel shirts and disreputable hats, and they eat their lunch any old way, without any frills or fuss. I don't like that sort of picnicking myself, I like pretty table fixings even if they're only paper napkins and pasteboard dishes. But the boys like tin pails and old frying pans and they catch their fish and cook 'em and eat 'em like a horde of savages." "All right," agreed Dolly, "we can have fun enough without them; but I think they might take us along sometimes. Let's get up a rival picnic some day, and see if they won't come to it." "They won't," said Dotty, "but we can try it, if you like. And anyway we can have our own fun." So one day when all the boys of the neighbouring camps were going on a fishing trip, the girls arranged a picnic of their own. The two Holmes girls, Maisie Norris, Dolly and Dotty, and three or four others, were in the crowd and they were to go in two motor boats to Bramble Brook, the very spot where the boys were trout fishing that day. Long Sam navigated one boat and the Norris's man engineered the other. Dolly had evolved a plan for a great joke on the boys, which, she flattered herself, would even up with Bert for the joke he had played on her. In pursuance of their plan, the girls were taking with them a most marvellous luncheon. There were boxes of devilled eggs, each gold and white confection in a case of fringed white paper. Sandwiches in tiny rolls and fancy shapes. Dishes of salad that were pictures in themselves, and platters of cold meats cut in appetising slices and garnished with aspic jelly in quivering translucence. Platters of cold chicken, delicately browned and garnished with parsley and lemon slices. Dainty baskets of little frosted cakes and tartlets filled with tempting jam covered with frosting. Oh, Dolly had planned well for her little joke, and if successful, it would be rare sport. The boys had been gone for hours when the girls started, and in their fresh linen dresses and bright hair-ribbons they were a jolly looking crowd who filled the two motor boats as they left the Crosstrees pier. Mrs. Rose waved a good-bye, knowing the young people were safe, in charge of Long Sam and old Ephraim, the tried and trusted factotum of the Norris family. "In you go!" cried Long Sam as he deftly handed the girls into the boats, and the laughing crowd settled themselves to enjoy the trip. It was a beautiful mid-summer day, and the heat sufficiently tempered by the cool breezes that swept across the lake. The girls chattered and sang and called to each other as the two boats kept close together on their way. When they reached Bramble Brook they did not go to the regular landing place, but Long Sam cleverly found a concealed nook where they could land without danger of being seen by the boys who were already there. The trout stream was a long one, but all of its meanderings were well known to Sam and Ephraim, who were old residents of the locality. The girls waited while the two men went to reconnoitre. After a time the scouts returned. "They're away up the brook," said Long Sam, "but all their grub and things is stacked in the clearing, and I reckon they'll be coming along back in about an hour to feed. They started pretty early and I reckon they can't hold out much longer 'thout their grub. What next, ladies?" "You, Sam, help us unpack our hampers," said Dolly, who was directing affairs, "and you, Ephraim, go and gather up all their foodstuff and either hide it around there or bring it back here." "Yes'm," and old Ephraim trudged away, intent only on obeying orders to the letter. He returned with a big basket on either arm. "Thought I'd better fetch it along," he said; "them chaps would hunt it out wherever I hid it. I left 'em all their cooking things, pots and pans, but poor fellers, they won't have nothin' to cook!" "Here's their coffee," cried Edith Holmes, who was peering into the baskets. "And here's bacon and eggs, oh, what horrid looking stuff! And loaves of dry bread! Guy and Elmer just hate plain bread. _May be_ they won't care for our sandwiches!" "Let's make coffee!" said Dotty; "there's nothing so good at a camp feast as coffee. Don't you love it, Edith?" "Mother doesn't let me have it, but make it all the same, the boys adore it." "We can have one cup," said Dotty; "Mother allows that. But I'm going to make it, the boys will be crazy about it. You scoot back and get the coffee pot, Ephraim, and the big long spoon, they'll probably have one." Back went Ephraim on his errand, and when he returned his eyes were greeted by the sight of the daintily spread luncheon. Heavy brown papers had been spread on the ground, and these were covered with a tablecloth of white crepe paper with a design of green ferns for a border. Real ferns were laid here and there under the dishes of good things, and piles of white pasteboard plates and paper napkins were in readiness. "What about coffee cups?" exclaimed Maisie. "I know they only have horrid old tin things." "Oh, we've lots of paper drinking cups," said Dotty, "those pretty pleated ones, they'll be lovely for coffee. Say, Sam, I want this coffee to be just right, and I wish you'd make it. I know how, but I'm sure yours will be better." Long Sam was greatly flattered at this compliment, and he proceeded to build a fire and make the coffee with a practised hand that betokened long experience in these arts. "Isn't the table lovely!" exclaimed Josie Holmes, as she brought a few wild flowers she had found, and placed them gracefully among the ferns that decorated the feast. "And thank goodness I haven't seen a spider nor an ant!" cried Nellie North, who had been, with another girl, told off to keep the table free of any such marauders. One venturesome grasshopper had made a spring toward the food, but had been caught and had his energies turned in a far different direction. "S'pose we have to wait an awful long time," said Edith, as she looked longingly at the tempting dishes. "Never mind if we do!" said Dotty; "there's nothing that can take any hurt. There's nothing to get cold except the coffee, and Sam will attend to that. The glass fruit jars full of lemonade are in the brook, so that will be lovely and cool when we want it. Oh, everything is all right; and we've only just got to wait. So you girls may as well make up your mind to it." Although the wait seemed long, after a time, Long Sam, scouting about, heard the boys' voices in the distance. He warned the girls and they were all quiet as mice, awaiting developments. The crowd of boys came nearer, laughing and shouting, as they reached their own headquarters. Sam beckoned to the girls to come and peep through the bushes at the amazed group, who had suddenly discovered that their food was missing. "Somebody has swiped it!" cried Elmer Holmes, angrily. "All our grub is gone! I say, fellows, what shall we do?" "Do! Go after them and get it back!" cried Jack Norris, and then a chorus of shouts went up; "the coffee pot's gone!" "All the bacon and eggs are gone!" "And the bread, too!" "They sure made a clean sweep," said Bert Fayre. "Who do you s'pose did it?" "Some other crowd of fishing chaps," said Bob Rose, confidently, "but it doesn't often happen,--a thing like that. No decent fellows would do it." The girls, only a few rods distant, were peeping through the bushes and shaking with silent laughter at the discomfited boys. Such looks of chagrin and dismay as they showed! and such belligerent determination to hunt the marauders and duly punish them. "Just you wait till I get hold of the thieves!" cried Elmer Holmes, "I'll give them what for!" "You won't catch them," said Bert; "they're probably miles away by this time, and they've probably eaten up all our snacks. Wow, but I'm hungry!" "So say we all of us!" chorused the boys, as they flung themselves around in disconsolate attitudes. "Not a snip-jack of anything," Jack went on, peering vainly into a few empty baskets that Sam had left behind him. "The nerve of them, to steal our coffee and then take our coffee pot to make it in! Honest, fellows, I never knew such a thing to happen before. I've been up here a lot of summers and I never struck a crowd that would do such a thing as this." "That's so," agreed Bob Rose, "why, often a lot of strange chaps will share their grub with you, but I never knew 'em to hook it! Must be an awful mean crowd." "Well, all the same," said Bert, "what are we going to do for lunch? I rousted out at sunup, and to be sure, I had my breakfast, but it's forgotten in the dim past." "We can cook our fish," said one of the boys "but we'll miss the coffee and potatoes and bread and such various staffs of life. We haven't such a lot of fish anyhow." "No; we depended on bacon and eggs for our mainstay. I move we go home." "S'pose we'll have to," and Bob looked rueful, "We can't put in a whole afternoon on empty stomachs. What do you say, shall we cook the fish, or light right out for home?" "Here's a cracker they dropped," cried Bert, who spied a soda biscuit on the ground and brushing it off, began to eat it. "Aw, give a starving comrade a bite," and Guy held out his hand eagerly. "By jiminy, here's another!" and Jack found another cracker farther along. Now this was part of the plan, and it was at Dolly's directions that Long Sam had carefully planted a few crackers at intervals to lure the unsuspecting boys to the surprise that awaited them. Dolly and Dotty, with their arms around each other, were peeping through the trees, and they shook with glee as they saw the boys eagerly hunting for the stray crackers. "Funny how they came to drop 'em along," said Guy and Elmer responded, "Must have been eating them on their way. But say, they've left a trail; let's follow it." The group of boys--there were eight of them--moved slowly along toward where the girls were hidden. The trail of crackers had been adroitly arranged to bring them finally within sight of the appetising luncheon so daintily set forth. As the boys came nearer to the little clearing, and as the sight of the feast must in a moment burst upon their eyes, the girls scampered to hide behind trees to watch the astonished faces. Nor were they disappointed. In a moment more the boys came in sight of the luncheon and stopped suddenly. "By gum!" "Well, what do you know about that!" "Jiminy crickets!" "Ah there, my size!" And various other boyish exclamations gave voice to surprise and delight on the part of the onlookers. But they paused several steps away from the feast. "That's a girls' layout," said Bert Fayre, nodding his head sagaciously; "no fellows ever set up that dinky business! But it looks good to me!" "Good!" exclaimed Jack; "I'd face a term in State's prison to nab that loot! Wonder who owns it!" "Certainly not the people who stole our grub; so we can't claim this in return. Oh, I smell coffee! 'M-mm!" Unwilling to intrude further on what was so evidently a girls' picnic, and yet equally unable to tear themselves away from the enticing scene, the boys stood, a comically eager crowd, looking vainly about for signs of the picnic party. "Seems 'sif I must grab one sandwich," said Bob, rolling his eyes comically toward the piled-up dishes. "Well, you won't," said Bert, who had no fear that Bob would be guilty of such a thing, but he wasn't quite so sure of some of the other boys, and so they stood like a lot of hungry tramps, a little bewildered at the situation and greatly tantalised by the sight of the feast and the odour of steaming coffee. "Nothing doing," said Bob, at last. "We can't touch other people's property, and we might as well go on home. But if the ladies belonging to this church sociable would show themselves, I'd sit up and beg for a bone of that fried chicken over there." "Maybe we all wouldn't!" commented several, and then, at a signal from Dolly, the girls sprang from their hiding-places and stood laughing at the crowd of hungry boys. "Oh, you Dotty Rose!" cried Jack Norris, as he caught Dotty's dancing black eyes, "I might have known you were at the head of this!" "No more than Dolly Fayre," cried Dotty, "and all the rest of us. Are you hungry, boys?" "Are we hungry? We should smile! We've been hungry all the while!" came in chorus from the famished tramps. "_Would_ you care to come to lunch with us?" said Dolly, her blue eyes dancing as she put the question. "Would we care to!" and Jack grinned at her. "We're hungry enough to eat you girls; but, alas! kind ladies, we're obliged to regret your invitation as we're not in proper society garb." Suddenly the boys became aware of their flannel shirts and old hats and general fishermanlike appearance. "We'll forgive that for once," cried Dotty; "we'll pretend we're a rescue party and you're a lot of starving soldiers, so we won't mind your tattered uniforms." "Rescue party!" cried Bob; "I like that! Aren't you the sly ones who raided our commissariat department? Own up, now!" "What makes you think so?" And Edith Holmes looked the picture of injured innocence. "Oh, yes! 'What makes us think so!' What makes us think that's our coffee boiling in our coffee pot! Fair ladies, we invite you to lunch with us, on our coffee and our bacon and eggs. And if you'll wait a few minutes, we'll cook our trout for you." "Well, I'll tell you what," and golden-haired Dolly settled the question; "we'll eat our luncheon now, as it's all ready, and then, if you like, you can cook your fish afterward." "That suits me," said Bob, "and I'm free to confess that I can't wait another minute to attack this Ladies'-Own-Cooking-School Lay Out! Take seats, everybody-- I mean you girls sit down, and us chaps will wait on you." "All right," laughed Dolly; "we resign in your favour. I can tell you girls get hungry, too." So the girls sat around, and the boys quickly passed plates and napkins and then the dishes of delicious food. Then they served themselves, and sitting down by the girls, rapidly demolished the contents of their well-filled plates. "I'm not going to rub it in," said Dolly, dimpling with smiles, "but for boys who don't want girls along on their picnics you seem to enjoy our society fairly well." "It isn't our society they're enjoying," said Nellie North; "it's our stuffed eggs and cold chicken." "It's both, adorable damsels," declared Bob. "Just let us appease our hunger, and goodness knows you've enough stuff here for a regiment, and then we'll show you how we appreciate the blessing of your society. We'll entertain you any way you choose." "That we will," agreed Guy. "We'll give you a circus performance, a concert, lecture, or song and dance, as you decree." But it took a long time to satisfy the boys' appetites. It seemed as if they could never get enough of the various delicacies, and though they pretended to make fun of what they called the fiddly-faddly frills, they thoroughly relished the good things. "These eggs ought to be shaved," said Bob, as he picked the little fringes of white tissue paper from a devilled egg. "No critical remarks, please," said Dolly, offering him a rolled up sandwich tied with a narrow white ribbon. "Oh, my goodness! do I eat ribbon and all? I can do magical stunts for you afterward, like the chap who pulls yards of ribbon out of his mouth, on the stage." "Anybody who makes fun of our things can't have any," declared Josie. "Oh, I'm not making fun," and Bob took half a dozen of the tiny sandwiches. "Why, I always have my meals tied up in ribbons. I have sashes on my griddle-cakes and neckties on my eggs, always." "I like these orange-peel baskets filled with fruit salad," said Bert, as he helped himself to another; "I think food in baskets is the only real proper way." But at last, even the hungry fishermen declared they couldn't eat another bite, and the young people left the feast and sat on the rocks and tree stumps near by, while Long Sam and Ephraim cleared away and packed up the things to take home. The boys were as good as their word, and entertained the girls by singing college songs and giving gay imitations and stunts, and everybody declared, as the picnic finally broke up, that it had been the very best one of the season. CHAPTER XIV THE CAKE CONTEST "Oh, _do_ go in for it!" Edith Holmes was saying, as she and Maisie Norris sat on the edge of the Rose's shack and tried to persuade Dotty and Dolly to agree to their plan. "But I never made a cake in my life," Dolly objected. "Nor I, either," said Dotty; "I don't see how we can, Edith. You're a regular born cook, and that's different." "But maybe you're a regular born cook, too," argued Edith; "you can't tell if you never have tried." "Anyway, enter the contest just for fun," urged Maisie. "Everybody will help with the bazaar, and of course you want to be in it; and I want you to be in this contest, because all us girls are." "I'd just as lieve," said Dolly, "only there's no chance of our winning the prize." "Well, never mind if you don't. You'll have a lot of fun, and besides it will teach you to make cake, and that's a good thing to know. That funny old Maria of yours will help you." "But would it be fair to have her help us?" "Oh, of course not _make_ the cake; you must do that yourselves. But she can tell you how, or show you how, and you can practise all you like beforehand, of course. And you might win the prize, after all." "What is the prize?" "A twenty dollar gold piece!" "What a grand prize! I didn't know it was such a big one." "Well, you see, old Mrs. Van Zandt gives it. She's a crank on Domestic Science and girls knowing how to cook and all that. And besides there'll be lots of entries. All the girls all round the lake will send cakes." "Can anybody send?" "Any girl under sixteen. They call it the Sweet Sixteen Cake Prize." "All right, let's do it," said Dotty, and Dolly said, "I'm willing, but it seems nonsensical when we don't know a thing about making cake, and less than a week to learn in. But we can have a try at it, anyway, and we'll be in the fun. Hey, Dotsy?" "All right, then," said Maisie, delightedly; "I'll tell Miss Travers that you two girls will join the contest. She'll be delighted. She's at the head of that committee." Later the two D's conferred with Mrs. Rose about the matter. "I'll be glad to have you do it," that lady said. "I always like to have you learn anything domestic. Of course you can learn to make cake in a week, if you have any knack at all. Go down to the kitchen now, and Maria will give you your first lessons. Ask her to show you how to make plain cup-cake first, and if you make a little more elaborate kind every day, by the end of the week you ought to be able to concoct almost anything. I don't want to be discouraging, but I can hardly think you'll take the prize, for I remember last year the cakes were really most astonishing affairs." "No, we won't catch any prize," Dotty agreed; "but we want to be in the bazaar, and the cake department is about as much fun as any. You see, even if we don't take the prize, we sell our cakes for the biggest price possible and that helps the bazaar along." "Is it for charity?" asked Dolly. "Yes; they hold it every year in the hotel, and all the camp people take part. Oh, it's lots of fun; I'm so glad it's going to be while you're here." The two girls ran down to the kitchen, and informed Maria of their immediate desire to learn to make cake. "Bress gracious, chillun," said the surprised old coloured woman, "I'll make all de cakes you all can eat. Don't you bodder 'bout makin' cakes yo'self. Jes' leab dat to ole Maria." "But you don't understand, Cookie," said Dotty. "We want to learn, because we're going to make a cake to send to the fair, for the prize contest." "Prize contes'! What's dat?" "Why, they give a prize for the best cake sent in." "All right, den. Leab it all to me. I'll sho'ly make a cake what'll catch dat prize. You all shoo out ob here now." "No, no, Maria, you don't understand," and Dolly began to explain. "We must make the cakes ourselves. You can't do it, because you're not under sixteen--are you?" And the laughing blue eyes looked quizzically at the old darky. "Sixteen! Laws, chile, I's a mudder in Israel. I got chilluns and grandchilluns. I ain't been sixteen since I can 'member. But, lawsy,--a young un of sixteen can't make no cake worth eatin'!" "But we can, if _you_ teach us, Maria," said Dotty, with tactful flattery. "Well, mebbe dat's so, if I do the most of it, and you jes' bring me the things." "No, that won't do; we must do it ourselves, but you must show us how." At last they convinced Maria of her part in the undertaking, and with more or less good-natured grumbling, she proceeded to enlighten the girls in the mysteries of cake making. The old cook was not trammelled by definite recipes and her rules seemed to be "a little of dis," and "a right smart lot of dat." But, even so, she was a good teacher, and at the end of the first lesson, the girls had each a round cake, plain, but light and wholesome, well-baked and delicately browned. These were proudly exhibited at the family luncheon, and were at once appropriated by Bob and Bert, who immediately constituted themselves a Court of Final Judgment, and declared their intention of eating all the preliminary cakes that would be made during the week's lessons. So interested did the girls become, that every morning they spent in the kitchen. Mr. Rose expressed a mock terror lest his bills for butter and eggs should land him in the poor-house, but the cake-making went on, and more and more elaborate confections were turned out by the rapidly progressing cooks. Mrs. Rose declared that it was her opinion that doctors' bills were imminent, if indeed the whole family would not soon be in the hospital; but though the boys and Genie ate a fair portion of the cakes, much more was consumed by the neighbouring young people, who formed a habit of drifting in to Crosstrees camp afternoons to sample the morning's work. The days brought plum cakes and marble cakes; chocolate, cocoanut, custard and jelly cakes. Once having achieved the knack of making the cake itself, the fillings or elaborations were not difficult. The girls took the matter rather seriously, but as the great day drew nearer, they began to have a glimmering hope that they might achieve the prize after all. "But, oh, Dollyrinda," exclaimed Dotty, impulsively, "if my cake should take the prize ahead of yours, I'd cry my eyes out, and if your cake took the prize ahead of mine, I'd never speak to you again!" Dolly laughed. "I've been thinking about that, too, Dot, and do you know, I think it would be nicest for us to make only one cake, and make it together, and enter it under both our names, and then if it takes the prize we can divide the twenty dollars." Dotty drew a long sigh of relief. "That is the best way, Doll; I never thought of that. To be sure we run a double chance with two cakes, but it would be horrid for one of them to take the prize. So let's devote all our energies to one beautiful, splendiferous cake that will be so perfect nobody else will have any chance at all." "Yes, that's what I think. Now, what kind shall it be?" This was the great question. The girls had proved apt pupils, for they had a housewifely knack, and Maria was really a superior teacher. They had learned the art of pound cake, the trick of sponge cake and had even penetrated the mysteries of fruit cake. They had learned to make raisin cake without having all the raisins sink to a thick mat at the bottom; they had learned ginger-bread in all its forms, from the puffy golden sort to the most dark spicy variety. Angel food and sunshine cake presented no difficulties to them and layer cakes were their happy hunting ground. Also they were Past Grand Masters in the matter of icing. They could boil sugar through its seven stages of spun thread, and they even experimented with a few confectioners' implements in the matter of fancy decoration and borders. "It seems to me," said Dotty, as they held solemn conclave over the great question, "that our trick is to invent an absolutely new combination of flavours or ingredients. Say, cocoanut stirred into chocolate icing, or something that's different from the regulation 'White mountain cake' or 'Variety cake.' I'm sure we can think of some new idea that will be perfectly stunning." "I don't agree with you, Dot," and Dolly looked solemnly thoughtful, as her blue eyes stared into Dotty's black ones. "Now, I think this way. A more simple cake, but of perfect quality and with a plain but beautiful icing, that will charm by its very simplicity." "That's a fine line of talk, Doll, and sounds well," put in Bert, who was present with Bob as Advisory Board; "but I doubt if 'twill go down with the Powers that Be. You see, after all, they're on the lookout for novelty and elaborate messes." "I'm not so sure of that," and Bob shook his head. "Perhaps Dolliwop's idea isn't so worse! It's like a beautiful big white monument being more impressive than a lot of ginger-bread architecture." "Oh, we wouldn't make ginger-bread!" cried Dotty, laughing; "but I can't see a plain cake taking a prize. I tell you, it's got to have an unusual combination of materials. I can't get away from the idea that a novel mixture of just the right kind of flavouring would turn the trick." "And I'm positive that simplicity is the note to strike for." Dolly said this with a faraway look in her eyes, as if she saw the vision of the beautiful cake she was planning. "Stick to it, Doll," cried Bob. "You've got the right idea or I'm a loser!" "You boys go away, now," and Dolly's brows wrinkled in serious thought. "This is no time for fooling and Dot and I have to decide this thing to-day." Realising the gravity of the occasion, the boys went off, and the two girls settled down to a desperate confab. Neither of them was insistent merely because she wanted her own way, but each was eager for success, and quite ready to settle their controversy by careful weighing of each other's arguments. At last, after a long discussion, they reached their conclusions and went down to the kitchen to construct what they had finally decided would be the best plan for their masterpiece. Very carefully they worked, Dolly, slow, sure and very particular as to measurements and combinations; Dotty, quick, beating the batter like mad, whisking eggs and sifting sugar in a whirl of excitement. And when the great work was accomplished, and the marvellous result set on the dining-room table for exhibition, the family came in to gaze in an awed silence on the beautiful cake. No one was allowed to see it but the household, for of course it was kept secret from the other contestants. The cake was a marvel of beauty, and it combined the best ideas of the plans of the two girls. It was square in shape, instead of round, as that gave a touch of novelty. It was only two layers, but the layers were of the most exquisitely textured angel food, which had, after three attempts, graciously consented to turn out "just right." Between the layers was a filling, which followed in a measure Dotty's idea of novelty. It was a combination of confectioners' icing, whipped cream, pineapple juice and a few delicate feathery flakes of freshly grated cocoanut. This delectable mixture was novel and of charming delicacy. But the icing was Dolly's triumph. The square cake, large and high, was covered so smoothly with white icing that not a lump or a crack marred the perfect surface of its top and sides. There were no decorations save three lines of icing that delicately outlined the square top. The trueness of these lines was a wonder, and only Dolly's steady hand as she traced them with a paper cornucopia of icing could have resulted in such an effective scheme. "It is perfectly wonderful!" said Mr. Rose, looking at it as an artist. "It's like the Taj Mahal or some such World Wonder." "It's perfectly exquisite!" said Mrs. Rose, as she bent over to examine it and then walked away to view it from a distance. "I never saw such icing! How did you do it, girlies?" "Dolly did that," said Dotty. "Only because you were so excited your hand wiggled," said Dolly, who was always placid, whatever happened. "But the filling is Dot's invention, and it's just fine. We put some of it on another cake and I want you all to taste it." So they all sampled the other cake, and tested the flavour like connoisseurs. "Ripping!" exclaimed Bob. "Out of sight!" remarked Bert, suiting the action to the word. The boys were vociferous, the older people were enthusiastic; but one and all agreed that there had never been such a cake built before and that it would surely win the prize. "Are you going to send it over now?" asked Mr. Rose. "No," said Dotty; "we're going to take it with us when we go ourselves. I wouldn't trust it to anybody, for it might get joggled and crack the icing. Put it in the pantry, Dolly; I daren't touch it myself." Dotty was quivering with excitement, but Dolly's steady hand carefully lifted the precious cake and carried it safely to the pantry. Later in the afternoon, the girls made ready to go to the bazaar. They were to serve as assistants in the cake department, for the majority of the cakes were to be sold. The prize cake, and those having honourable mention would be exhibited, and later sold at auction, but much cake would be disposed of at the regular sale. They wore white dresses, with pale green ribbons, which was the costume of all connected with that department of the bazaar. Very pretty they looked, as they came dancing downstairs for Mrs. Rose's inspection. "You'll do, girlies," she commented; "your frocks are all right. We'll be over later. I hate to have you carry that big cake, Dolly." "Oh, I must, Mrs. Rose; I wouldn't trust it to any one else. Bert offered to take it, and Bob did, too. But if they should drop it or anything, I'd never get over the disappointment. We worked so hard on it, and it is _so_ lovely, and if we can just get it there safely, I'm sure it will get honourable mention at least." "It ought to take the prize," said Mrs. Rose, enthusiastically; "but don't get your hopes up too high, for there's nothing surer than disappointment. Be very careful as you get in the boat, Dolly." "Indeed, yes, but Long Sam is such a kind old thing, I know he'll do all he can not to joggle, but to run very steadily all the way." The bazaar was held in a hotel which was some distance down the lake. But Dolly did not fear any accident while on the motor boat; she was only apprehensive lest some one push against her as she made her way into the building or into the cake booth. For one little crumb of broken icing or one dent on its perfect surface would spoil, to Dolly's anxious eye, the perfection of their cake. CHAPTER XV WHO WON THE PRIZE? "We'd better take our sweaters," said Dolly, as she handed the two white, fleecy garments to Dotty. "You carry them, Dot, and I'll carry the cake; you'd be sure to drop it." Dotty took the two sweaters and flung them over her arm, well knowing the precious cake would be safer in Dolly's steady hand. "Now we're all ready," Dolly said, as she tucked a handkerchief into her sash folds. "Wait for me here, Dot, and I'll get the cake." Dolly went to the kitchen and on through to the pantry, where she had left the cake on a shelf by the window. But it was not there. "Maria," she called, wondering what the old darky had done with it. There was no reply and Dolly called again louder. "Yas'm, I'se comin'," and the old cook came in at the back door of the kitchen. "What yo' want, honey? I spec' I jes' done drapped asleep fer a minute, settin' out dere in de sun. What is it, honey chile?" "Where's the cake, Maria?" "On de pantry shelf, whar yo' done left it. I ain't teched it, dat I ain't." "But it isn't there. You must have put it someplace else." "No, Miss Dolly, I nebber laid a hand on dat cake. I know jes' how choice you was of it, an' I lef it jes' whar yo' put it." "But it isn't there, and who would disturb it?" "Tain't dar! Land o' goodness! Den whar is it?" Maria's black eyes rolled in dismay. "Somebody's done stole it!" "Stole it? Nonsense! Nobody would do that. Dot--_ty_!" and Dolly's loud call brought Dotty flying. Mrs. Rose followed, and both stood aghast with consternation when Dolly announced, "The cake is gone!" "Gone! What do you mean?" and Dotty looked around the shelves in a dazed sort of way. "I mean what I say," cried Dolly impatiently. "Our cake is gone, and, as Maria says, somebody must have stolen it." "Stolen it! Our cake!" and Dotty gave a wild shriek. "It can't be stolen," said Mrs. Rose, looking puzzled; "we've never had anything stolen all the years we've been here." "Then where is it?" demanded Dolly. "Where can it be?" "Didn't you take it into the dining-room?" suggested Mrs. Rose, unable to think of any other solution of the mystery. "No, indeed; I left it right here till we were ready to start. I had it in the open window, because the kitchen was so hot, and of course some tramp has come along and stolen it. Oh, Dotty, what shall we do?" But Dotty was beyond speech. Her staring eyes gazed at the table where the cake had been. Vaguely she glanced round the pantry shelves, and then flew through the kitchen to the dining-room and looked all around there. But of course she saw no cake, for Dolly had left it in the pantry. "Where are the boys?" asked Dolly, suddenly. "Gone to a motor boat race," said Mrs. Rose. "They went off half an hour ago. But they wouldn't steal your cake." "They might do it for a joke," said Dolly. "No," said Mrs. Rose, decidedly; "they wouldn't do that. They were too interested in the success of you girls, and they felt about that cake just as we all did. No, Bob and Bert never stole the cake! Where's Genie?" "Upstairs, I think," said Dotty, and going to the foot of the staircase she called her sister. Genie came running down and was as greatly disturbed as the other girls at the disappearance of the cake. "Of course I never touched it!" she said indignantly. "I wanted my Dotty and my Dolly to take the prize. Do you s'pose I'd steal their lovely cake?" There was no mistaking the little girl's honesty and good faith, and Mrs. Rose said finally: "Then it _must_ have been stolen by some one passing by, but I can't understand it. There are no tramps around here, Long Sam is as honest as the day, and nobody else would be passing by this window. I wish your father were here, Dotty." "So do I, but he couldn't do anything. The cake's gone, and it must have been taken by somebody. What do you say if we make another, Dolly?" Dolly looked blank. "Make another!" she said slowly; "why it's three o'clock now, and the fair begins at four. We couldn't do it, Dot, and anyway we couldn't make a prize one. I wouldn't have the heart to try again as hard as I did for that one. Would you?" "Yes, I would! I'd just like to fly at it and make one as good as that or better! I know who stole that cake, Dorinda Fayre! It was some girl who had made a cake herself and who was afraid ours would take the prize, and so she came and stole it!" "Oh, Dorothy Rose! aren't you ashamed to think such a thing! And anyway, how could any girl do that even if she was mean enough?" "Of course she could!" and Dotty's eyes flashed; "everybody knew about our cake, and they knew it would take the prize, and so of course they wanted it out of the way! Now that's just what happened, because it's the only thing that can have happened. As Mother says, there aren't any tramps around here. We always set cakes or pies on that window shelf and they've never been stolen. Come on, I say, let's make another; I hate to have any girl get ahead of me like that!" "Oh, Dotty, it just seems as if I couldn't make another. Why we were three hours on that one this morning. It would be after six o'clock before we could get another done. And I know it wouldn't be any good, I'm too upset to make it properly. I'm all of a quiver. And besides we haven't all the things in the house." "No, we've no pineapple. But let's make some other kind of a cake, chocolate, or something." "Yes! I think I see a chocolate cake taking the prize! Why don't you make ginger-bread and be done with it? That prize won't go to any common kind of cake, like chocolate." "It might if it was awful good chocolate. Oh, Dolly, our cake was so beautiful!" And Dotty's overwrought nerves gave way and she burst into violent sobbing. "Well, crying won't do any good, Dot," and Dolly drew a long sigh; "I don't blame you for crying, 'cause I know you can't help it. But I can't seem to cry, I'm too--too flattened out." Dolly looked the picture of disheartened woe, but it was not her nature to give way to tears. She felt absolutely dismayed and utterly cast down, as if under a depression that would not lift, but she gave no physical sign of this except by her tense, drawn face and her frequent despairing sighs. "It's just awful, girlies," said Mrs. Rose, full of helpless sympathy; "but I can't think of anything to do. I don't believe you could make another cake successfully, you're too nervous and upset, both of you." Maria, however, did not take it so calmly. Her grief was more boisterous even than Dolly's. She ran round the kitchen, throwing her apron over her head, and wailing and moaning like a crazy woman. "Oh, dat cake! dat cake!" she groaned, dropping into a chair and rocking back and forth in ecstasies of woe. "Dat hebenly cake! Sho'ly Miss Dotty and Miss Dolly yo' could make anudder. I kin help yo', and we'll whisk it up in a jiffy. Do make some kind, oh do, now!" "No, Maria," and Dolly looked positive; "we can't make another cake. It's out of the question. Shall we go to the fair at all, Dot?" "Yes, of course we will! I want to find out what girl was mean enough and smart enough to cut up this trick!" "Come on then. You'd better wash your face, you're all teary looking. I s'pose we might as well go, but I don't feel a bit like it. All the fun's gone out of it." Dotty ran away to bathe her reddened eyes, and Dolly gravely walked round the kitchen, looking here and there as if the cake might have voluntarily hidden itself somewhere. "It's most mysterious," said Mrs. Rose. "I never heard of anything being stolen up in this region before. I wish Mr. Rose were here, but of course he couldn't do anything, and I think we may feel sure that he didn't steal the cake." "Where is he?" asked Dolly, smiling a little at the jest. "Gone over to the Norris camp, I think. I wish the boys were here; of course they couldn't do anything, but they could help us express our indignation." "Yes, they could do that, but it wouldn't do any real good. Hello, Dot, ready?" The two girls started off down the path and Mrs. Rose watched them go with a sad heart. She knew how disappointed they were, after all their trouble to make the cake, and she couldn't imagine what had become of it. "I can't believe any of the girls came and took it," she said to Maria. "No, ma'am, dat dey didn't! dat cake was sperrited away by ghos'es. Dat's what it was!" And the big black eyes rolled in terrified apprehension. "Yas'm, sho'ly fer certain, dat's what happened. It's de work of dem sperrits!" Mrs. Rose went on into the house unwilling to subscribe to Maria's theory, but equally unable to propound any of her own. * * * * * The girls reached the hotel where the fair was held and joined the gay throngs of people that were entering. "Hello," said Maisie Norris as she met them. "Where's your cake?" Now Dolly and Dotty had made up their minds not to tell of the catastrophe, until they could make some endeavour to find out if there were any suspicious looks or hints to be noticed among the other young cake makers. "Where's yours?" Dotty said to Maisie. "Oh, I left mine in the committee room. You know the committee take all the cakes, and then those that haven't any chance at all, they send out to the cake table to be sold. But the ones that have a chance at the prize they keep for final decision. They've kept mine so far, but Edith Holmes' was just sent out. It's too bad, it's a lovely chocolate cake." "It is too bad," agreed Dotty, "but I don't believe a chocolate cake will take the prize, do you?" "No, probably not," said Maisie. "Mine's a variety cake. What sort is yours?" Dotty hesitated, for she well knew they had no cake in the committee room, but Dolly said: "We made up ours. We mixed things together that we never heard of combining before. It was mostly Dot's invention." "But Dolly made the layers and did the icing," put in Dotty, unwilling to take all the credit. "Sounds lovely," said Maisie, and then her attention was diverted elsewhere and she ran away. No more embarrassing questions were asked, for every one assumed that Dotty and Dolly had given their cake to the committee when they arrived. A dozen times during the afternoon they were asked, "Has your cake been sent out yet?" And they truthfully answered no. But no hint could they glean from the words or looks of any girl to make them suspect wrong-doing. "I can't keep it up any longer, Dot," said Dolly at last, in an undertone. "I feel as if I'm telling a lie, when I let them all think we have a cake with the committee." "Fiddlesticks! it's none of their business. And anyway they have just that much more chance at the prize. Don't tell anybody, Doll, it can't do any harm to keep it to ourselves, and if one certain person takes the prize, I just want to see how she looks or what she says when I tell her our cake was stolen." "Why, Dotty Rose! Do you mean to say you suspect anybody?" "I don't say that; and I won't mention any name, even to you, but just you wait and see. They'll announce the prize winner at six o'clock and it's after five now." So Dolly deferred to Dotty's wishes in the matter, and as there was much going on and plenty of diverting incidents, the hour slipped away and soon a whisper was passed around that the committee had made their choice. Mrs. Van Zandt, the aristocratic and somewhat eccentric old lady who had offered the prize, came over to the cake table and smiled as she began her speech. "It has been rather difficult," she said; "to decide among the beautiful and delicious cakes selected by the committee, for my final test. There were half a dozen at the last judging, that seemed equally well made and delightful of taste. Of course, I did not know who made the various entries, and so I decided, entirely on the merits of the cake itself. And considering everything, the method, the execution and the delicacy of flavours, I adjudge the best cake submitted in this contest to be the one that represents the joint work of Miss Dorothy Rose and Miss Dorinda Fayre. And I'm greatly pleased to present these two young ladies with the golden double eagle I offered as a prize, and I consider it well earned and honestly won." If Dolly and Dotty had been amazed when they missed the cake from the pantry window, they were ten times more amazed now. What could it mean? There must be some mistake. Dotty's quick thought was that somehow their names had been connected with some other girl's cake, but in a moment that illusion was dispelled by the sight of their own beautiful white cake being brought in and placed in the very centre of the cake table. It was positively their own cake, although a portion had been cut from one corner for the members of the committee to taste. Realising that by some miracle their cake had been submitted, and had won the prize, Dolly and Dotty suddenly became aware that they must do their part, and together they stepped forward to receive the prize from Mrs. Van Zandt. "I'm sorry it is not in two ten dollar gold pieces," she said, as she smilingly held it out to the blushing girls; "but you must divide it between you." Smiling, Dolly and Dotty held out their hands together, and together received the gold piece, holding it between them as they bowed their thanks. Then there was a hubbub of congratulations and laughter and chatter from the girls. It seemed unnecessary to say anything about the cake having been stolen, so the two D's smiled and beamed as they listened to flattering words about their prize winning cake. Soon they were flying homeward to tell the family all about it. "Our cake was there, and we took the prize!" cried Dotty, as they rushed into the living-room of the Rose bungalow. "How did it get there?" cried Mrs. Rose, and Mr. Rose and Genie exclaimed in surprise, while Maria appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding up her hands and crying out: "Dem sperrits jes' nachelley wafted dat cake right ober to de fair place!" "We don't know," Dolly went on, taking up the tale. "I asked two or three ladies of the committee, and they didn't seem to know anything about it--about how it got there. They just said it was there, entered in our names, and it sounded so silly to ask them to find out who brought it, that I just didn't." "It _was_ our cake," declared Dotty; "and it took the prize. So that's all right. But, however did it get there, unless it walked over itself. You didn't take it, did you, Daddy?" "No," said Mr. Rose; "I did not. I would willingly have done so, but you girls insisted on taking it yourselves." Just then the boys rushed in. "Great sport!" cried Bob, flinging his cap and sweater on a chair; "Norris's boat is the swiftest thing ever!" "You bet it is! Wow, but it was a great race!" And Bert Fayre waved his hands in enthusiasm; "Hello, girls, did your dinky white cake catch the gold piece? Did you bamboozle the judges into thinking it was fit to eat?" "Yes, we did!" cried Dolly, her blue eyes sparkling with delight; "but, oh, Bert, what do you think! We don't know how the cake got there!" "Got there? Why, Bob and I took it over. We knew you girls never could transport that masterpiece of modern architecture all that way in safety." "You boys took it over?" and Dotty looked dumfounded. "Sure we did," said Bob; "weren't you glad?" "But why didn't you tell us? we almost went crazy!" "Crazy nothing! We left a note on the pantry shelf saying we took it. We called to you girls but you were primping in your room and didn't answer. Maria wasn't on deck, so I just scribbled on a paper that we'd taken the cake and left the paper in its place." Bob looked injured at the thought that their kindness was not appreciated. "We didn't see any note," said Dolly; "where did you leave it?" "Right on the pantry shelf, where we took the cake away from. You don't seem awful grateful, for what we thought would be a boon and a blessing to you. I can tell you we had to work pretty hard to get the old thing over there without a smooch on it, and I didn't dare put anything over it for fear it would stick to the icing." While he was talking, Dotty had flown out to the pantry and returned with the bit of scribbled paper. "Here it is!" she cried; "it was on the floor under the shelf!" "Must have blown off," said Bert, carelessly; "well, no harm done; cake got there all right. Took prize all right. Everybody happy." "Yes, we are now," and Dolly grinned contentedly; "but we had a pretty miserable afternoon." "Oh, pshaw, now," and Bob tweaked the black curls that clustered round her temple; "you must have known we took it, even without the note. Where else _could_ it have gone to?" "That's so," agreed Dotty; "and it's all right now. But next time you leave an important document for me, don't leave it in an open window on a breezy afternoon." CHAPTER XVI A WALK IN THE WOODS "Only three days left of Camp Crosstrees," said Dolly, as the girls sat in the shack one summer afternoon. "I never knew two weeks to slip away so quickly." "Don't you love it?" said Dotty, looking around at the various delights of camp life, the wooded hills and the distant mountains. "There's nothing like it, Doll; I wish we didn't ever have to go back to town." "You'll have your visit with me, before we go back to Berwick. I wonder if you will like Surfwood, Dotty?" "I'll love the seashore, I know; but I don't know about liking the big hotel. Don't you have to keep dressed up all the time and all that?" "Why, we don't wear party clothes all the time. Of course we can't go around in an old serge skirt and middy blouse as we do here. But mornings we'll wear ginghams or linen frocks and late in the afternoon dress up nice." "Awful bother, fixing up so. I like to go round as we do here. Nobody cares what they wear in camp." "Of course it's awfully different at the hotel, but you'll like it after you get there. I don't see why you object to dressing decently. It's only a habit, going around in these old regimentals!" Dolly looked with distaste at her brown serge skirt, and her tan stockings and shoes, the latter decidedly the worse for wear and scarred and scratched by stones and brambles. "Oh, I've got plenty of good clothes; Mother's been fixing them all in order. And I know I'll like it to be down there two weeks with you. But I mean for a whole summer, I'd rather be up here, tramping around the woods and dressing like Sam Scratch, than to fuss up fancy every day." "I wouldn't. I've had an awful good time up here on this visit, but for a whole summer, I'd rather be at the seashore, and at a hotel where I wear pretty white dresses and silk stockings and slippers." "Aren't we different!" and Dotty laughed as she looked at her golden haired friend. "Sometimes I wonder, Doll, that we're such good friends, when we're so awfully different. Everything I like you hate and everything you like I hate." "Oh, not quite that. In lots of ways, we like the same things." "No, we don't. I like to go off in the woods on long tramps, and you'd rather lie around here on a lot of balsam pillows and read a story book or do nothing at all." "I expect I'm lazy." "No, you're not, not a bit of it. You're ready enough to work if it's anything you like to do. Why, at a picnic, you'll do more than all the rest put together. We're just different, that's all. You're easy-going and good natured, and I'm a spitfire." "Well, I guess it's good for us to be different, and so we influence each other, and that's good for both of us." "Well, I'll influence you right now to go for a ramble in the woods. It's lovely to-day. Just the kind of a day when the breeze sings in the trees and the birds flutter low and you can watch them." "All right, I'll go, if you don't go too far, nor walk too fast. We've only three days more up here, and we won't have many more chances to go woodsing, so come on." "All right, we've a good long afternoon. You go ask Maria for some cookies and fruit, and I'll go tell Mother we're going. But don't let Genie know. We don't want her along to-day, for she gets tired in about an hour." Dolly went in search of Maria, half sorry that Genie was excluded from the party, for unhampered by the child, Dotty was apt to walk fast and far in her untiring energy. But Dolly could always make her stop and rest by a reference to the weak muscles that still troubled her a little on a long walk. The girls had entirely recovered from their broken bones, but Dolly's was an indolent nature and disinclined to great exertion at any time. Carrying their sweaters and a box of food they started off for their tramp in the woods. "I want to get a whole lot of birch bark," Dolly said, as they walked along; "let's look for particularly nice pieces and get a whole lot to take with us down to the seashore." "What for?" "Oh, to make fancy work out of. Everybody does fancy work and they have bazaars, something like the one where we took the cake prize. And we can make lovely things out of birch bark for the bazaar tables." "All right, we'll gather a heap. What shall we do with our cake prize, Doll, save it or spend it?" "I'd rather spend it. I think it would be nice if we bought something special with it. Two things you know, just alike, to remember our first cake by." "Something to wear?" "Maybe. A ring or a pin or something." "Couldn't get much of a ring for ten dollars. And we've got a lot of little fancy pins, both of us. What do you say to a gold pencil for each?" "Only they never write very well; the leads are so hard." "That's so. Well maybe beads, or how about a lace collar?" "Let's wait till we get down to Surfwood and ask Trudy. She'll tell us something nice, and maybe we'll buy something there, or else in New York as we go through on the way down." "All right. Here's some good birch bark, only it's yellowish. Let's keep on till we find some whiter." The pair rambled on, happily chatting and laughing and now and then sitting down to rest or to refresh themselves from the box of lunch which was rapidly growing lighter. "We have an awful lot of bark," said Dotty, looking at the big bundles they had collected. "Yes, too much. Let's chuck out the worst pieces and just keep the best. And I'd like some more of that silvery kind. It's awful pretty combined with this dark yellow to make things." "We want to get some big pieces. A portfolio of the silvery kind lined with yellow is lovely." "Yes, with one corner turned back and a ribbon bow on it." "Yes, or tied with sweet grass. There's a big tree on ahead. We can get some there, I'm sure." "All right and there's another tree out there,--that's a dandy." Eagerly they went on, absorbed in their fascinating quest. For the hunting of birch bark is ever enticing and lures one on to further treasures like a mirage. "We can't carry another scrap," said Dolly, at last, laughing to see Dotty with her arms full of rolls of bark and more pieces gathered up in her skirt. "No; we'll sit down and straighten this out and roll it up and finish the cookies and throw away the box and then we'll go home." It was hard to throw away any of the beautiful bark, for they had gathered only fine specimens, and the quantity they finally selected to keep was a goodly load. "We'll put on our sweaters," said Dolly; "so we can carry it all. It's no heavier than that lunch box was." "No heavier," agreed Dotty; "but a good deal more bunglesome and awkward to carry." Each girl had a big fat roll under each arm and turning they started gaily along in single file. "You go first," said Dolly, stepping back; "I'm not sure I know the way. I declare to goodness, Dot, I don't see how you remember the way yourself. You've got a regular guide's brain under that black mop of yours! How do you know which way to go, when you can't see anything but trees?" "Easy as pie!" Dotty called back over her shoulder. "Just follow the nose of Dorothy Rose and away she goes!" And Dotty hopped over a big stone, while Dolly walked around it. On they went, Dotty leading the way and Dolly following. "It's getting awfully late, I believe the sun has set," said Dolly, shivering a little under her woollen sweater. "Oh, no, the sun hasn't set, but you can't see it in these thick woods. We'll soon be out of this thick part now. We came quite a way in, Dollypops." "A million miles, I should say! That's the worst of you, Dot, you never realise that all the walk you take has got to be walked back again!" "'I took a walk around the block, to get some exercise,'" Dotty chanted, imitating a popular song which was a favourite with the boys. "Exercise! I've had enough to last me the rest of the summer! Honest, Dot, I've got to rest a few minutes; I can't walk another step." "Dollyrinda Fayre, you do give out the easiest of anybody I ever saw! Sit down on that stone and rest, do. But you mustn't wait long, for I guess it _is_ about sunset. I feel sort of chilly, and I don't hear the birds much." "All right, Dotsy, I'm rested now," and Dolly jumped up and walked on. She tired easily, but also a rest of a very few minutes made her ready to walk on again. She followed Dotty in silence for some distance and then said; "you're sure you _do_ know the way, aren't you?" "M--hmm," Dotty flung back over her shoulder and trudged on. But Dolly noticed a difference in Dotty's attitude. She walked as quickly as before but she was not quite so alert. Also, she kept turning her head suddenly from side to side with a gesture of an inquisitive bird, a little uncertain which way to fly. "You do know the way, don't you, Dotty?" "'Course I do, Doll, don't be silly." "How do you know it?" "Just by instinct. I've been around these woods so much, I just kind of know the way home, even if I can't see out. Don't you see this kind of a trail? We just follow this and it brings us out right by our own camp." "Are you sure?" "Yes, I'm sure! What's the matter with you, Dolly?" "Nothing; only it seems as if we'd walked as far since we've started for home as we did when we were going." "So we have, nearly. Just a little farther now and we come into that clump of beech woods, don't you know? Where there aren't any birch trees, hardly." "Yes, I know where you mean; but this doesn't look like it." "'Cause we haven't got there yet, that's why. You wouldn't think birch bark would be so heavy; would you?" "I don't mind it. Here give me one of your bundles; I'd just as lieve carry it as not. Give me the one out of your left wing. I know that one must be tired." "'Deed I won't. You've got enough to carry. I'll throw my left hand bundle away before I let you lug it." "Oh, don't throw it away! It's a shame, after we've taken such trouble to gather it. Do let me carry it, Dotty." "No, sir, I won't do it! I don't mind it, anyway. Come on, Doll, let's hurry a little. Don't you think it's getting sort of dark?" "Not dark, exactly, but dusky here under the trees." "It isn't dusk, Dolly, it's dark! I mean, it's after sunset, and the real dark will settle down on us in a few minutes. I know more about these woods than you do, and I know we want to get along faster. We mustn't be in here when it gets really dark." "But you said you knew the way, Dot," and Dolly's tone was anxious. "I do, most always, but if we'd been on the right track we ought to have been out of the woods before this. I must have got turned around somehow." Dotty stopped still and turned a despairing face toward Dolly. "Good gracious, Dot, you don't mean we're lost!" "I hope not that, but honest, I don't know which way to go." "Why not go straight on?" "I'm not sure, but I think that leads us deeper into the woods." "Why, Dorothy Rose! You _said_ that was the way home!" "I know I did, and I thought it was; but don't you see, Dolly, if it _had_ been the right way, we would be home by now?" "Oh, Dotty, what are we going to do?" Dolly's face took on a woe-begone expression, and her big blue eyes stared at the white face of her friend. "I'm frightened, Dolly, I-- I never was lost in the woods before." "Nor I, either. I've often heard of people being lost in these woods, when they were really quite near their homes. One man was lost for three days before they found him." "Oh, don't say such dreadful things! It's getting awful dark, and I'm cold, and--and I'm scared!" "I'm all those things, too! oh, Dolly, I'm awfully frightened!" and Dotty dropped her bundles of birch bark and sitting down on a stone began to cry hysterically. Now Dolly Fayre was the sort to rise to an emergency, where Dotty Rose would lose her head completely. So Dolly, though terribly frightened, controlled herself, and sitting down, put her arm around Dotty and tried to cheer her. "Brace up, Dot, it can't do a bit of good to cry you know. Now you know more about this sort of thing than I do, what do people do when they're lost in the woods?" "Hol--holler," said Dotty, weakly, between her sobs, "holler like fury, and m-maybe somebody hears them and maybe they d-don't." "All right, let's holler," and Dolly gave a yell, that sounded about as loud and carrying as the pipe or a bulfinch. "Who do you s'pose'll hear that?" and Dotty almost smiled through her tears; "this is the way to holler." Dotty gave a loud scream, a long halloo, tapping her fingers against her mouth as she did so, making a peculiar mountain cry, known to campers. "All right, I'll do that, too," and Dolly set up a rival yell. But though both girls did their best, their screams were not very loud and they were followed by a silence, so intense, that they shivered and clung together in fear. The dark had fallen suddenly, and though only about seven o'clock, in the thick woods, they could scarcely see each other's faces. Appalled by the awfulness of the situation, Dolly burst into tears, and though not as violent as Dotty's, her sobs were deep and racking ones. "Oh, don't, Dollyrinda, _don't_ cry so! I'll never forgive myself for losing you in these awful woods!" "You didn't lose me, any more than I lost you. We both lost each other; I mean-- I guess I mean we're both lost!" and Dolly's tears fell afresh. Then both girls gave way and cried desperately, till they could cry no more, and with their stayed tears, they seemed to take a brighter outlook. "If we're lost," said Dolly, philosophically; "we must make the best of it. Are there any wild animals, that would eat us up?" "No, nothing of that sort. Nothing but squirrels and birds, and they can't hurt us." "Then there's nothing really to be afraid of--" "No, I s'pose not. Only starving to death, and catching pneumonia and a few little things like that." "We won't starve right off, that's certain," said Dolly, practically; "at least I won't, I'm so fat. But you poor little picked chicken, you may!" And Dolly patted the thin little shivering shoulders that snuggled up against her. "I'm hungry now; I wish we'd saved the cookies." "You can't be hungry, Dot, not _really_ hungry. Now, let's plan what to do. Shall we walk on and take our chances or shall we camp here for the night. It isn't so very different being here under the trees or under our own trees in camp." "'Tisn't very different, hey? Well I think there's all the difference in the world! What are you going to sleep on? What are you going to cover yourself with? Oh, you know we couldn't sleep anyway, when we're lost!" and Dotty suddenly gave a vigorous yell which startled Dolly nearly out of her wits. But realising what it was for, she quickly joined in, and the two shrieked and shouted until it seemed to them that all the camps in that region must hear them. But only those who have tried it, know how thoroughly one may get lost in the Adirondack woods in a very short time, or how loudly one may scream without being heard even by the friends who are searching for them. And they were searching for the lost girls. When the two failed to appear by half-past six, Mr. and Mrs. Rose became apprehensive for their safety. They knew the girls had gone for a long ramble in the woods, but it was the rule of the camp to be back for six o'clock supper, unless due notice had been given. "They're lost in the woods," Mrs. Rose declared, and though hoping the contrary, Mr. Rose agreed with her. They had telephoned to all the neighbouring camps and as no one had seen the girls that afternoon they felt sure of what had happened. "We must make search parties," said Bob, while Bert looked thoroughly scared at the thought of his sister's danger. "It isn't so awfully unusual, Bert. People get lost in the woods often, don't they, Dad?" "Yes," replied Mr. Rose; "but it isn't often our little girls! Call up Long Sam, Bob; tell him to bring lanterns." Many of the neighbours volunteered assistance and inside of an hour there were various search parties beating the woods for the missing girls. But Dotty, when thinking she was walking toward home had really been walking in the opposite direction and the two girls were much farther away from camp than their rescuers thought for. "Nothing doing," said Jack Norris, despondently, as he met Bob and Bert in the woods. "Then we must keep at it," said Bert; "anything is better than giving up." The various searchers separated and came together again. They screamed and shouted; they whistled and blew horns; their dogs barked, and it seemed as if some of these noises must reach the girls' ears and bring response calls. But there was no success, and one by one the neighbours gave up and went home. But Mr. Rose and the two boys, with Long Sam, kept up the search all through the night. They built fires occasionally, but dared not leave them, and put them out as they went on. At last, Long Sam seated himself dejectedly on a fallen log, his extraordinary length of limb doubling up like a jacknife. "'Tain't no use," he declared. "They ain't no livin' use o' trackin' these woods any longer. We mought strike them girls in a minute and then again we moughtn't run across 'em in a thousand years. Lord knows I'm willin' to keep on, but I'm jest about tuckered out. And I put it to you Mr. Rose, wouldn't it be better to rest a bit, and then push on?" "Perhaps it would, Sam," and Mr. Rose's fingers worked nervously; "but I couldn't stay still, I'd go crazy. I think I'll push on and take my chances." "Yes, and get yourself lost," grumbled Sam; "so's we'd have three to hunt 'stidden o' two!" "You are done up, Sam," said Bert Fayre, kindly. "You stay here, and we three will drive ahead a little." "Wal, I'll jest give one more howl, and see if that ketches anythin'." Long Sam stood up on a log and gave a high pitched, long drawn out shout, that seemed as if it must penetrate the farthest depths of the forest. "Now one, all together, like that," he said, and the four voices, joined in a mighty shout and then waited in breathless silence. "I heard 'em!" Sam cried out; "I heard 'em! Now all you keep quiet!" And then Sam's voice rang out once more in a sharp short shriek. He listened and then exclaimed; "Yep! I heard 'em! Come on!" And with long strides he started anew into the blackness of the woods. The others eagerly followed. They had heard no sound, but their ears had not the marvellous acuteness of the Adirondack guide, and without a word they hastened to keep up with Long Sam's pace. "Sing out again!" Sam cried, several times, and at last the others could hear the faint high shrieks of Dotty and Dolly. It seemed an endless journey, but at last the search party came upon the two girls. "Oh, Father!" and Dotty threw herself into his arms, while Bert made a grab for Dolly and Bob danced around the group in glee. "You're a nice pair!" observed Long Sam, who was no respecter of persons, when acting in his capacity of guide. "What d'you cut up such a trick as this for? You might 'a'knowed you'd get lost!" "Now Sam, don't scold," said Dolly, well knowing that the bluff chap was really talking roughly to hide his glad emotion at the rescue. "You ought to be scolded all the same, but I s'pose your folks is so glad to get you back that they'll just make the world and all of you." And Sam's prognostication was verified. Following Sam's lead the party trudged through the woods, all so jubilant at the happy ending to their search, that scolding was not even thought of. And indeed why should it be? The girls had done nothing wrong, unless perhaps they had wandered a little deeper into the forest than it was advisable to go without a guide. But Dotty was positive it would never happen again. And when they reached camp and found Mrs. Rose and Genie waiting for them and a most appetising supper spread out by Maria, the two refugees found themselves looked down upon as heroines and were quite willing to accept the rôle. CHAPTER XVII SURFWOOD A couple of days after their forest experience the two girls made ready to go to the seashore. Secretly, Dolly was glad. She had enjoyed much of her stay at Camp Crosstrees, but she had about concluded that "roughing it" was not altogether to her taste. She had liked the gay parties round the camp fires, the swift motor-boat trips and the jolly picnic feasts, but she was not enthusiastically fond of long tramps up and down mountains and the deprivation of many home comforts and luxuries. She said no word of this to her kind hosts, but she welcomed the day that would take her back to her own people and their usual summer abode. Also there had been really unpleasant experiences, from her lonely first night to that last awful night in the woods, and though these things were nobody's fault, they remained in Dolly's memory as decidedly undesirable pictures of her mountain trip. Dotty Rose, all unconscious of Dolly's secret feelings, realised only that they had had lots of gay times together and many occasions of rollicking camp-life fun. Having spent many summers at Camp Crosstrees, the Rose family had become attached to the place, and always looked forward with eager anticipation to each successive trip. Unlike Dolly, Bert Fayre loved it all. To him, roughing it was fun, and he cared nothing at all for the city comforts that were missing. He tramped the woods and went fishing, swimming and boating with the same enjoyment of these sports that Bob Rose felt, and he was more than delighted when Mrs. Rose invited him to spend the rest of August at the camp while the girls went for their two weeks at the seashore. So on the day of departure Dotty and Dolly bade good-bye to their brothers and to Mrs. Rose and Genie, and in care of Mr. Rose started for New York and thence down to Surfwood, a resort on the New Jersey coast, where the Fayre family were staying at a hotel. "Oh, don't you just hate to leave it?" exclaimed Dotty as the motor-boat took them swiftly down the lake. "Good-bye, you dear old woods; good-bye, you lovely lake. I shan't see you again till next summer." For, as the children must begin school early in September, both families would return to Berwick in about a fortnight. Dolly did not entirely share Dotty's enthusiasm, but she realised the wonderful beauty of the scene as she looked back at the lake with its wooded shores and hills rising to the high mountains. "It _is_ splendid!" she said, very honestly, as she gazed at the beautiful landscape. "I'm afraid, Dot, that you won't have a good time down at Surfwood. It's awfully different, you know." "'Course I'll have a good time, if I'm visiting you. But, you see, we were a whole month later than usual coming up here this summer, and now to cut two weeks off the other end makes an awfully short season for dear old Crosstrees. Why do they call it Surfwood, Dolly; are there any woods there?" "Yes, indeed; not far back from the beach there are lots of woods. But all flat, of course; no hills like these." "Well, you couldn't expect mountains and seashore together. I know we'll have lovely times there, anyway I'd rather be with you than to stay up here." The girls had become inseparable friends and their stay in camp together had strengthened the bonds and made them even more fond of each other than they had been as neighbours. They were very different, but they were learning to accept each other's differences, and in some ways they frequently influenced one another's tastes or opinions. "Good-bye, old lake!" Dolly called out again, as the motor-boat neared its dock. "We'll see you next summer,--you will come up here again next summer, won't you, Dolly?" "We'll see when next summer comes," returned Dolly, laughing. "Perhaps you won't like Surfwood a bit, and you won't want to go there next summer, and if you don't, of course I won't come up here. You look awfully well in that new suit, Dotty." "Hope I do, for it doesn't feel very good. Collar's too stiff." Dotty wriggled with a feeling of discomfort that the first wearing of a new garment often brings. The girls both wore suits of blue serge, made similarly, but not exactly alike; Dotty's being trimmed with black satin and collar and cuffs of fine white embroidery, while Dotty's was enlivened by accessories of bright plaid silk and tiny gilt buttons. The trip was a pleasant one, and they reached New York next morning in time for luncheon. This Mr. Rose gave them at an attractive restaurant and the girls greatly enjoyed the novel scenes of the Metropolis. "I just love to eat in a restaurant, don't you?" said Dolly, as she lingered over her elaborate and complicated dessert. "Yes, indeed; I love to look around and wonder who the people are. Only they're all grownups. You don't see hardly any children or girls our age." "No," said Mr. Rose, "a public restaurant is no place for kiddies, except on such an occasion as this, when I have to feed you somewhere. But since you're here, you may as well enjoy yourselves. Do you want some more little cakes?" After due reflection, the girls concluded that they did, and the fascinating tray of French confections was again offered for their selection. At the station where they were to take the train for Surfwood, Mr. Fayre met them. "Well," he exclaimed. "So I am to take the responsibility of these two beautiful young ladies." "Yes," rejoined Mr. Rose; "but I'm glad to tell you that they are not really difficult to manage. They have behaved most properly all day and honestly I hate to give them up. I know Camp Crosstrees will seem deserted and desolate without these two little rays of sunshine." After affectionate leavetakings, Mr. Rose departed and the two girls went on with Mr. Fayre. He was not of such a jolly nature as Mr. Rose, nor so inclined to talk with the children. He placed them in adjoining chairs in the parlour car, and after supplying them with picture papers and candies, he seemed to consider his responsibilities at an end, and taking his own seat, immediately buried himself in his newspaper. "Not much like the Adirondacks, is it?" said Dolly, as they whirled along through the flat landscapes of New Jersey. "No, of course not; you wouldn't expect it. How soon do we see the ocean?" "Very soon, now. We'll get to Surfwood about six, but we'll see the ocean long before then, there are so many beach stations." As they neared Surfwood, Mr. Fayre threw aside his papers and looked out for the girls again. He was a most courteous man and politely assisted them with their various belongings, treating them more as grown ladies than as children. "There they are!" he cried, as the train stopped at the picturesque little station and they spied a big motor car in which Mrs. Fayre and Trudy were sitting. Trudy was looking lovely in her light summer costume and she warmly welcomed the travellers as they got into the motor. "How brown you both are," said Mrs. Fayre, kissing the girls; "a nice healthy tan, and very becoming! Did you hate to leave your camp, Dotty? and I suppose you, too, Dolly, became a devotee of mountain life." "We did have lovely times, Mother, and I expect Dot was sorry to give it up, but I persuaded her." "You'll have lovely times here, too," promised Trudy, smiling at them; "I'll see to that." The car stopped at the entrance to a very large hotel. The broad verandas were filled with people, gaily dressed, and gathered in laughing, chatting groups. Between them and the ocean was a broad boardwalk also filled with people. "Come along, girls," said Mrs. Fayre, and Dotty and Dolly followed her across the veranda and into a large entrance hall. It was very beautiful, with glistening white and gold decorations, a thick moss-green velvet carpet and tall palms round the walls. Then followed a bewildering succession of gorgeous rooms, and finally they went up in an elevator. "Here we are," and Mrs. Fayre led the two girls into a large and handsomely furnished suite. "This is our general sitting room," she went on, "and this is your bedroom, right next to Trudy's." They entered a large room, with two brass beds and attractive appointments of all sorts. The chairs and lounges were covered with gay chintz and there was a long deep window seat from which, across a balcony filled with flowers, they could see the ocean. "How perfectly lovely!" cried Dotty; "not much like our little rooms at camp, Doll. Oh, I'm sure I shall be very happy here. It's awfully kind of you, Mrs. Fayre, to invite me." "I'm very glad to have you, dear, and I only hope you'll enjoy it as much as Dolly did her stay with you. We can't give you the wild, free life of a mountain camp, but we're going to do all we can to interest and amuse you. But I'm not sure that you will like the plan for this evening. As your things aren't unpacked, I thought you two wouldn't dine downstairs with us to-night, but would have a nice little dinner sent up here and served in the sitting-room." "Oh, goody!" cried Dolly; "that's a lot more fun. I don't feel like dressing up for dinner to-night and I think that's a lovely plan. Don't you, Dot?" As a matter of fact, Dotty would have preferred to go downstairs, for she was impatient to see more of the big hotel and the gay people. But she politely acquiesced, and Mrs. Fayre bustled away, saying she would see them again after dinner. "Now we'll have a lovely time, Dotsy, all to ourselves," Dolly said, as she flew around the room arranging things to suit herself. A trim maid appeared to assist in any way needed, and the girls were glad to change their travelling clothes, and, after a refreshing bath, to don their pretty kimonos and boudoir caps, that Trudy had left in readiness for them. "Trudy's a trump!" cried Dolly. "See these heavenly things she has laid out for us! A pink silk room-gown for you and a blue one for me, with caps to match. We share Trudy's bathroom, you see, so you can have this glass shelf for your things and I'll take this one for mine. I guess that's the dinner coming now, and then our trunks will come, and we can put our things away." A very attractive little dinner was served in the sitting-room and the two girls sat down to it with a feeling as if they were "Playing house." "We're to dine with the grownups after to-night," said Dolly; "new thing for me, 'cause always before I've had my supper in the children's dining-room. But Mother says, now I'm fifteen, I can always dine with them, unless they have special company and then we'll have ours up here like this. Isn't this salad good?" "Perfectly lovely. But, somehow, I feel so queer. It's such a sudden change from the camp table and Maria's flap-jacks." Dolly laughed. "Yes, it is different. But I like that, Dot, the sudden change I mean. Crosstrees was just right in every way for mountain and camp doings. Now this seashore stunt is altogether different, but I like this, too. And I think it's nice for us to have both kinds, one right after the other." "So do I," said Dotty, as she contentedly ate her frozen pudding. CHAPTER XVIII DOLL OVERBOARD! The next morning Dotty and Dolly went with the Fayre family to breakfast in the hotel dining-room. Very fresh and pretty the girls looked, Dolly in a pale blue linen and Dotty in pink linen with a black velvet belt. The great dining-room was large and airy, and the sunshine and sea breeze came in at the open windows. The Fayres' table was pleasantly placed overlooking the ocean, and Dotty's black eyes roved round the room in delighted appreciation of the surroundings. "Oh!" she exclaimed suddenly, "there are the twin Browns! Did you know they were here, Dolly?" "I thought they would be; they come here 'most every summer." And Dolly smiled across the room at Tod and Tad, who bobbed their heads and grinned in response. "I'm glad they're here," Dolly went on; "it's so nice to have some one you know to start you getting acquainted." "It won't take you long to get acquainted," said Trudy, smiling, "for all the children of your age who are here are waiting for you. I've told several that you were coming, and I expect the Brown boys have made all sorts of plans for your entertainment. We won't bathe to-day until after luncheon; you can spend the morning on the beach or go for a motor ride with me, whichever you like." As the girls hesitated over their decision, the Brown twins came over to their table and greeted them gaily. "Thought you girls would never get here," said Tod, though really it mattered little which of them spoke, for they were so precisely alike it was impossible to tell them apart. "Jolly to see you again," said Tad; "do come out on the beach with us as soon as you finish your breakfast, won't you?" "Yes," said Dolly; "I guess we won't go with you, Trude, this morning; I want Dotty to get acquainted with the ocean." And so when the girls left the dining-room, they found not only the Browns, but several other young people waiting on the veranda to escort them down to the beach. There were general introductions, and as they went down the long flight of the hotel steps, Dolly found herself walking beside a girl named Pauline Clifton. Pauline was rather tall and seemed to have an air of authority. Though not exactly pretty, she was striking-looking, with brown eyes and hair and a complexion of rosy tan. She wore a white dress and a red sweater and white stockings with red shoes, and she put her hand through Dolly's arm with a decided air of possession. "I like you already," she said, "and I'm sure we're going to be chums. Are you rich?" The question struck Dolly as funny, and she turned to look into Pauline's face. But the brown eyes were serious, and evidently the Clifton girl wished an answer and was prepared to rate her new friend accordingly. "No," said Dolly, returning the frank gaze; "we're not rich. We live in a small town, and we have about everything we want, but I'm sure we're not what you'd call rich. Are you?" It would never have occurred to Dolly to ask this question, but it seemed to follow naturally after the other's. "Oh, yes," Pauline said, "we're awfully rich. We live in New York, and my father has a yacht and lots of motor cars and everything." "I should think you'd have your own summer home, then, and not come to a hotel." "We have; two of them. One on Long Island and one up in the mountains. But Father takes freaks. I haven't any mother, and he jumps around wherever he feels like it. So he picked this place for August and here we are. There's only me and Carroll, that's my brother. He's that boy on ahead, with his cap on the back of his head." "Who looks after you; your father?" "Yes; but he isn't here much. We have a kind of a nurse-governess; that is, she used to be our nurse when we were little and she has always stayed with us. She's a funny old thing, Liza her name is, but she can manage us better than anybody else. Father tried a French governess for me and a German Fraülein, and Carroll has a different tutor about every month, but Liza just stays on through it all. I know all about you from the Brown boys. Aren't they ducks! They told us about you before you came, and about Dotty Rose. Isn't she pretty? You're awfully pretty, too, and you two look lovely together." Pauline rattled on, scarcely giving Dolly a chance to reply to her observations. Meantime the group had come to a standstill and were selecting a nice place on the beach to spend the morning hours. Dotty was enchanted with her first real experience of the seashore. She sat down in the sand with the rest, but quickly made her way to the front of the group and as near as possible to the edge of the waves in her effort to get an unobstructed view of the ocean. The surf was rolling in and the great breakers filled her with awe and delight. "Come farther back, Dotty," Tad Brown called out, "or you'll get caught by some of those swells." Dotty drew back just in time to escape a wetting from a big wave whose white foam rolled up the sands to her very feet. "Isn't it wonderful!" she cried; "I could sit right here all day and never take my eyes off those waves!" But the sight was not so novel to the others, and they talked and laughed and threw sand at each other and built forts and watched for passing steamers and made plans for future amusements. "That's the worst of the seashore," said Pauline, discontentedly; "there's so little to do. Just walk the boardwalk or sit on the sand or bathe; that's about all." "Nonsense, Polly," said her brother Carroll; "there's lots else to do. Going motoring or walking in the woods, and there's a bowling alley at the hotel and tennis courts--there's millions of things to do, only you're such an old grouch you never see the fun of anything." Pauline paid no attention to this brotherly remark, but said to Dotty, "Come on, let's go for a walk; I want to get acquainted with you." "Get acquainted here," said Dotty, laughing. "I'm too comfortable to move." The Brown boys had banked up a big hill of sand behind Dotty, and she leaned back against it, still fascinated by the wonderful blue of the distant ocean sparkling in the sunlight and the mad onrush of the great breakers as they dashed on the shore. "Then you come," said Pauline to Dolly; "let's go off by ourselves and walk along toward the casino and the shops. "All right," said Dolly, who was tired of sitting on the sand and quite ready for a walk. Moreover, she was curious to know more of Pauline. She wasn't sure she should like a girl who asked her point blank if she were rich, and yet Pauline didn't seem ostentatious or vulgar, but was quick-witted and full of fun. The two walked away, leaving the rest of the crowd, some six or eight of them, on the beach. As the morning passed, others joined the group and some went away, but Dotty remained, still unable to tear herself away from the glorious sea. "I say, Dot Rose," Tod Brown exclaimed, "you _are_ stuck on that big pond, aren't you? But there are other days coming when you can gaze at it. Come on, now, and let's do something. I'll race you to the end of boardwalk." "What's there, when you get to the end?" demanded Dotty. "Nothing much, but some fishermen's shacks and nets and things. Come on and see it. The fishermen are a queer-looking bunch and not very good-natured, but it's fun to tease them. Come on, anyhow." Dotty got up, somewhat cramped by long sitting, and was glad after all for a brisk walk in the sunshine. They didn't race, but swung along at a good pace, Dotty with her eyes still seaward. Nearly at the end of the boardwalk, on a bench, was a large and handsome French doll. It was dressed as a baby, with a long white frock, a lacy cap and a knitted pink sacque. "Oh, look at that!" cried Dotty. "I know whose it is; it belongs to that little golden-haired child at the hotel." "That's so," said Tod. "The kiddy must have left it here. I saw her lugging it around this morning, and it was about all she could do to carry it. Shall we take it back to her?" "Yes," said Dotty; "I'd just as lieve carry it." "You bet you'll carry it, if either of us does. Do you s'pose I'd go round lugging a wax infant?" "It isn't wax," said Dotty, picking it up; "it's light as a feather. It's one of those celluloid things, but I never saw such a big one before. Yes, I'll take it back to little Yellowtop. If it's left here somebody will steal it. Shall we turn back now?" "No; come on to the end of the walk and let's have a look at the fishermen." They went on and soon reached their destination. It was a picturesque place, but the cabins were deserted and only a few empty boats were in sight. The beach was littered with old fish nets and various sorts of rubbish, while a few piers ran out into the sea. "Everybody's gone fishing," said Tod. "Nothing much to see here; let's go back." "Let's go out to the end of that pier," said Dotty. "There's no danger, is there?" "Danger? No! But nothing to see out there. Come along, though, if you like." Good-naturedly, Tod went with Dotty along the old pier. Reaching the very end, they sat down for a few moments, their feet hanging over the edge while they clung to the uprights. "Oh, isn't it grand!" cried Dotty, looking down into the blue water as it rippled against the piles at some distance below. "Don't fall in," warned Tod. "Never fear, I'm not that kind of a goose! I love it, but I'm scared to death all the time, and I keep a good grip on this rope." "That's right. Oh, here comes a fishing-boat; see, 'way out there in the distance. We'll wait for that to get in, and then we'll go." The two stood up, and hanging onto the ropes, leaned far over to see the boat as it came in. A sudden breeze made Dotty cling closer to the upright she was leaning against, and as Tod put out his hand to steady her, somehow or other the big doll dropped into the water. "Oh, my goodness!" exclaimed Dotty in dismay, "there goes the baby's doll! What a pity. Can we get it, Tod?" "I don't know. If it doesn't drift the wrong way, maybe the fishermen will pick it up as they come in. If I had a hook and line I could hook it up." "Don't lean over so far, Tod; you'll fall in," and Dotty tried to hold back the boy as he leaned over the edge of the pier. "Oh, see, there's a fisherman or somebody, coming out of that cabin. Maybe he'll bring a pole or something and help us get the doll. Ask him to." Tod shouted at the man, who had just appeared in the cabin door. It was some distance and the boy's voice did not carry well over the breakers between them, but finally Tod succeeded in attracting the man's attention. "Bring a pole!" Tod shouted, "or fish line. Help us!" "Hey?" shouted the man, his hand to his ear. "What's the matter?" "Doll overboard!" Tod yelled back, but the breeze was off shore and the man could not get the words. But he saw the two children as they pointed out on the water, and then, as he saw the big doll, he very naturally thought it was a live baby and immediately he became excited. He ran back into the cabin and returned with a boat-hook. He jumped into a boat and endeavoured to put out to sea through the breakers. But at every attempt, the waves dashed him back on the shore. Determinedly, he tried again and again, and finally succeeded in getting beyond the surf, though he was now at some distance from the pier. He began to row desperately, but made little headway toward the floating doll. "He thinks it's a live baby!" cried Tod, roaring with laughter. "Oh, Dotty, what a joke! Keep it up! Pretend it is." Willingly enough, Dotty caught at the idea and began wringing her hands and screaming frantically. "Oh, save her, save her!" she yelled, tearing around the pier like a mad person, while Tod, hanging on to a post, leaned far over the water and waved his hand frantically to the boatman. The fisherman redoubled his efforts and slowly drew nearer the floating doll, whose long white dress was whirled and tossed about in the eddy. The boatload of fishermen which they had seen in the distance drew nearer, and the man in the row-boat communicated to them by shouts and signs and made them aware of the catastrophe. The incoming fishermen saw the baby in the water, and saw the two children screaming and wailing on the pier, and they put forward with all speed to make a rescue. Tod and Dotty were really doubled up with laughter, but pretended they were in agonies of grief as the two boats made desperate attempts to reach the drowning child. "The old idiots!" exclaimed Tod; "they might know that a live baby wouldn't float around like that. It would have sunk long ago." "Of course it would," agreed Dotty. "Won't they be mad when they get it!" The fishermen, having had little experience with French dolls the size of live babies, assumed, of course, that it was a real child in the water, and they wasted no time in marvelling as to why it should continue to ride blithely on top of the waves. They simply put forth every effort to reach the white object, whatever it might be, but the perversity of wind and wave continued to thwart them. At last, however, very near shore, the fishermen drew near enough to grab the doll and draw it into their boat, just as they rowed in on top of a huge breaker and beached near the pier. Tod and Dotty ran swiftly to them, eager to see their chagrin and dismay at having rescued the doll. The men were all out on the beach and they showed a belligerent demeanour as the children appeared. "Ye little wretches," cried one big rawboned man, "what d'ye mean by foolin' us like that?" His manner even more than his words were distinctly threatening, and Dotty was scared, but Tod answered him directly. "We didn't fool you! We dropped the doll in the water by accident, and we sung out there was a doll overboard and we asked a man on shore to help us get it. If you people thought it was a live baby, that isn't our fault!" "That don't go down!" and another man stepped forward and shook his fist at the children. "Ye know right well ye fooled us a-purpose." "We did not!" and Dotty, her temper now aroused, stamped her foot at him. "We told the man it was a doll, but if he couldn't hear us, we couldn't help that." "Now, now, little lady, ye know better." The big brawny fisherman came nearer to Dotty and scowled at her. "I seen you jumping around there and play-actin' like you was wild with grief! Don't deny it, now! Ye know well enough I say true!" He glowered at Dotty, and as he came nearer to her his big fierce eyes frightened her and she quickly stepped behind Tod. "Don't you speak to the lady like that!" the boy cried. "If you've anything to say, say it to me. I called to the man for help to get that doll out of the water. It belongs to a little friend of ours and we want to take it to her." "Well, ye'll never take it!" and the fierce-eyed man picked up the wet and dripping doll, and with a mighty sweep of his long arm, he flung it far out to sea. The deed was merely an impulse of his angry wrath at having been fooled by the children, and he faced them with a defiant air. "You had no right to do that!" cried Tod; "go right out in your boat and get it." "Ha! ha!" laughed the man with a loud, boisterous chuckle. "Go out and get it, is it? Not much I'll not go out and get it! And, what's more, I'll report you two to the life-saving station people, and I'll have you arrested for false pretences." Tod was pretty sure that this was all a bluff, but the other men gathered about and promised the same thing. So threatening were they, that Dotty was thoroughly scared, and Tod, though not really afraid of arrest, began to think that these men could make things very unpleasant for them. He knew by hearsay of the rough manners and ugly tempers of this particular lot of fishermen. He had heard stories of their dislike for the summer guests, who sometimes visited them out of curiosity and looked upon them patronisingly. Tod realised that nothing incensed their rough natures like being made the subject of a practical joke and this, though unpremeditatedly, he and Dotty had done. He thought best to drop his indignant air and try to propitiate them. "Oh, come now," he said; "honest Injun, as man to man, I didn't mean to fool you. We dropped the doll in the water and I yelled for help. Now, I'll own up that when you fellows seemed to think it was a live baby, we did kind of help along a little but we didn't mean any harm. S'pose I give you a dollar to forget it." Tod spoke in a frank and manly way, and his good-natured face ought to have evoked a pleasant response. And it did from most of the men, but the fierce black-eyed one, who seemed to be the leader, was possessed of a sense of greed, and his one idea regarding the "stuck-up summer people" was to extract money from them whenever possible. "A dollar," he said, with an unpleasant sneer; "not enough, young sir! Show us ten dollars, and we'll try to forget the insult you offered us." "I didn't offer you an insult, and I haven't ten dollars with me, and I wouldn't pay it to you if I had!" Tod was angry now, and his eyes blazed at the rude injustice of the demand. But the fierce-browed man was not abashed. "You gimme ten dollars or I'll make trouble for you! If you haven't got it, you can get it. Gimme your word of honour--you look like a gentleman--to bring me that ten, and I'll promise to make no trouble." Tod hesitated. Had he been alone, he would have refused them at once, but he felt that he had the responsibility of Dotty's welfare, and he paused to reflect. The men were very rude and uncontrolled, and Tod didn't know what further menace they might offer. As he hesitated, the big man spoke more threateningly. "Be quick, young man; give us your word, or we'll put you under lock and key for awhile to think it over." This speech was accompanied by growls of assent from other members of the group, and one or two stepped forward as if to carry out the suggestion. CHAPTER XIX SPENDING THE PRIZE MONEY "Hoo--hoo!" called a gay voice, and Tod and Dotty turned to see Dolly Fayre flying toward them. She was alone and out of breath from running, but laughing gaily as she joined them. "I ran away from Tad," she cried. "He went to get some candy, and just for fun, I scooted off. And somebody had said you came this way, Dot, so I followed just for fun. Why, what's the matter?" Dolly looked in amazement at the group of angry men and at the half-frightened, half-indignant faces of Dotty and Tod. "Matter enough," Tod said; "you keep out of it, Dolly. In fact, you girls go back to the hotel and leave me to fix things up with these men." Then he suddenly remembered his desire for an amicable settlement, and he said pleasantly, "I guess we can come to terms after the ladies have gone." "I guess we can't!" said the black-browed man, in a surly tone. "You go back to the hotel, young man, and get that ten dollars, and I'll keep the young ladies here safe until you come back." "Not much I won't!" cried Tod angrily. "Run on back, girls. Go on--beat it!" "No, you don't!" and the big man stepped forward and laid his hand on Dotty's shoulder. "Take your hand off that lady! Don't you dare to touch her," and Tod's eyes blazed as he flung himself toward the big man. "What is it all about? What is the matter?" exclaimed Dolly, who couldn't understand what she had supposed was a good-natured chat with the fishermen. "They want us to pay ten dollars," said Dotty, indignantly, "and unless we do, they're going to lock us up." "Lock us up nothing!" shouted Tod, who was unable to decide himself what was the best thing to do. The arrival of Dolly had complicated his dilemma, for now he had two girls to protect instead of one. He wished Tad had come with her, for the twins were big and brawny for their years and could have made a fair showing of rebellion against the injustice of the fishermen. Dolly considered the matter gravely. She looked from Dotty and Tod to the rude, unkempt men, and after a few moments' thought she made up her mind. Deliberately she opened a little chatelaine bag that hung at her belt and took from it a ten dollar gold piece. It was her share of the cake prize, for Mr. Rose had changed the twenty dollar gold piece into two tens for the girls. She looked at the big man with scorn, and holding out the gold piece, she said in cool, haughty tones, "Here is your money; please do not detain my friends any longer." "Don't you do it, Dolly," cried Tod; "it's an outrage!" "I know it's an outrage," Dolly said, calmly, "but I prefer to pay the money rather than parley with these people." Dolly's air of superiority would have been funny, had not all concerned been so deeply in earnest. "Hoity-Toity!" said the big, ugly man, "you're a fine young miss, you are! You treat us like the dirt under your feet, do you? Well, if so be's you pay our claim, we ain't objectin' to your manner. Be as high and mighty as you like, but give us that there coin." Without a further word, Dolly dropped the gold piece into the man's grimy, outstretched hand, and the three turned and walked away back to civilisation. "I'm up and down sorry that I couldn't get you out of that mess better," said Tod, as they went along the boardwalk. "Of course, I'll pay you back the money, Dolly, only I felt mighty cheap to have you advance it. But I had only three or four dollars with me, not expecting a hold-up this morning." "I don't think you ought to have paid it, Doll," said Dotty. "'Tisn't a question of ought to," said Tod, seriously. "That's a rough, bad gang. I've heard of them before. I don't know what's the matter with them, but they're grouchy. All the other fishermen around here are fairly good-natured, but this lot is noted for ugly temper and they especially dislike and resent the summer people. I forgot all this, and of course Dotty didn't know it. But I didn't think, and when they supposed the baby was alive, I went ahead with the game without realising it meant trouble." "Well, it's all right now," said Dolly, "and I was glad enough to give up my ten to ransom you two captives. Of course you won't pay it back to me, Tod, but you can each pay me a third of it and that'll square us all up." "We'll each pay half," said Dotty, "there's no reason you should pay anything, Doll. You weren't in on this game. And here's another thing, I'm going to buy a new doll for that little girl. You see it's the same as if I stole hers." "Not at all," said Tod. "She had lost her doll, anyhow. She must have left it there on the bench, and if we hadn't picked it up, somebody would have stolen it sooner or later." "We can't be sure of that," said Dotty. "And anyway I took her doll, and I lost it for her, and it's up to me to get her another. And that's all there is about that. I've got my gold piece with me, too, and I'm going straight down to the shop and get the doll now." Dotty was determined, and so the three went to the shop. There was only one place in Surfwood where toys and fancy goods were sold. But this shop was stocked with a high grade of goods and Dotty had no trouble in finding a doll nearly like the one which was now doubtless afloat on the wide ocean. The doll cost five dollars, but Dotty persisted in buying it, as she declared her conscience would never be easy unless she did. "Now let's settle this thing up," said Tod, as they emerged from the store. "I find I have as much as five dollars with me, counting chicken feed, and I'll pay this to you, Dolly, as my half of the ransom you put up." "And here's my five," said Dotty, handing over the bill she had received in change for the doll. Dolly looked dismayed. "Why, good gracious, Dot, then here am I with ten dollars, and you with nothing of our prize money! I won't stand that for a minute, you take this five back, and then we'll be even all round. I rather guess if you get in a scrape like that, I've got a right to help you out." "Well, I rather guess," said Tod, "that when we tell our folks about this matter there'll be something doing. I think those men ought to be shown up and punished." "Oh, no," said Dolly. "They're an awful gang. I've heard Father say so, and I'm sure it's better to let them alone than to stir up any further trouble." And as it turned out the elders concerned in the matter shared Dolly's opinion. The story was told and Mr. Fayre and Mr. Brown talked over the matter and said they would take it in charge and the children need think no more about it, but they were directed to keep away from that locality in the future and confine their escapades to such portions of the beach and the boardwalk as were inhabited by civilised crowds. Money matters were straightened out in a way acceptable to all concerned, by the simple method of the two fathers' remuneration of all that had been paid out, and so Dolly, Dotty and Tod found themselves possessed of the same finances they had before the unfortunate episode occurred. "Dat not my dolly," declared the Chrysanthemum-headed baby, shaking her yellow curls as Dotty offered her the new doll. "I know it," Dotty said, smiling as she knelt beside the child; "but let me tell you. I found your dolly sitting all alone on a bench, and I was going to bring her home to you. And then,--well, and then, do you know that dolly went out to sea, way out to sea--and I think she's going to Europe as fast as she can get there. And so, I've brought you this other dolly, which is just as pretty." Goldenhead looked up into the smiling black eyes, and after a moment's hesitation agreed that the new dolly was just as pretty as the departed one, and graciously accepted it. Goldenhead's mother demurred at the whole transaction, but Mrs. Fayre insisted that the child accept the new dolly and so the matter was settled. "Tell me everything all about it!" cried Pauline Clifton, rushing to meet the two D's on the hotel veranda. "Wasn't it thrilling? Such an experience! My, I wish I had been with you! And Tod Brown was perfectly fine, a real hero!" "Didn't do a thing," growled Tod, and Tad who was beside him, said, "Wish I'd been there! then we could have sent the girls flying home and stood up to those toughs!" "Aren't you splendid!" cried Pauline, but Dolly said, in her practical way, "It wouldn't have been splendid at all, it would have been very foolish for you two boys to think of fighting that crowd of great ugly men! It was a case, where the only thing to do, was to submit to their demand and come away. My father says we did just right." "Of course, it was the only thing to do," said Tod, "but to me it seemed awful galling." "Well, we'll never go there again," said Dotty; "and it ought to be a lesson to us not to play jokes on people." "A lesson that _you'll_ never learn," said Dolly, laughing; "you'll have to have worse experiences than that, Dotty Rose, before you stop playing jokes on people." "Is that so?" cried Carroll Clifton; "then you're a girl after my own heart. I love to play jokes. Let's put our heads together and work up a good one on somebody." "Well, this joke isn't on us, anyway," said Dotty, laughing. "We have our ten dollars back again, Dolly, and I say we spend them before we get a chance to lose them again." "But we're going to spend those for something special. You know they are our cake prizes." "Oho!" cried Carroll, "did you girls take a prize at a cake walk?" "Not a cake walk, but we took a prize for making cake," Dotty exclaimed; "and I say, Dolly, let's buy something in that shop where we bought the doll. They have beautiful things there of all sorts." "Come on," said Pauline, "let's all go, and we'll help you pick out things." So the two Cliftons and the two Browns and the two D's all started for the shop. It was that sort of summer resort bazaar that holds all kinds of fancy knick-knacks for frivolous purchasers. "Going to get things alike or different?" asked Tod Brown, as they went in. "Different, of course," said Tad, "Dot and Dolly never like things alike." "Don't you really?" said Pauline; "how funny! I thought you were such great friends you always had everything just alike." "No," said Dolly, "we have everything just different. You see our tastes are just about opposite, I expect that's why we're such friends." Dotty and Carroll were already studying the things at the jewellery counter, while Dolly was slowly but surely making toward the book department. "Get a picture," suggested Tad, "here are some good water colours of the sea." "And here's a coloured photograph of that very fishing place where you were at," said Pauline. All sorts of ridiculous suggestions were made, and the boys offered jumping-jacks and comical toys to the two spenders. "Why don't you get a lot of little things, instead of one big thing?" said Pauline; "here are some darling slipper buckles, and I think these little flower vases are lovely." "No," said Dotty, decidedly, "we're each going to get one thing and spend the whole ten dollars for it. And it must be something that we can keep and use." "I've made up my mind," said Dolly, calmly; "I'm just looking around for fun, but I know perfectly well what I'm going to get. Do you, Dotty?" "Yes, of course. I decided before I was in the store a minute." "What?" chorused the others. "This is mine," and Dotty went back to the jewellery counter and pointed out a silver-gilt vanity-case. "Well, of all ridiculous things!" cried Tod; "you might as well have let the fishermen keep your money!" "'Tisn't ridiculous at all!" Dotty retorted. "Mother told me I could get exactly what I wanted, and I want this dreadfully. I've wanted one for a long time. Don't you think it's pretty, Pauline?" "Yes," returned Pauline, carelessly. "I have two of them, one real gold and one silver. But I hardly ever carry them." "Oh, well, you can have whatever you want," said Dotty, good-naturedly; "but this is a treat to me, and I think it's lovely, though of course not grand like yours." So Dotty bought the vanity-case, and then the crowd followed Dolly to see what might be her choice. Straight to the bookshelves she went, and pointed to a set of fairy stories. They were half a dozen or more volumes bound in various colours and the set was ten dollars. "I've been just crazy for these books," she said, with a sigh of satisfaction. "I would have had them for my birthday, only we had our rooms fixed up; and the minute I spotted them I knew I should buy them." "What a foolishness!" exclaimed Carroll; "how can you read fairy tales?" "She loves them," said Dotty; "she'd rather read a fairy story than go to a party, any day." Dolly laughed and dimpled, but stuck to her decision and soon the crowd left the shop, carrying the important purchases with them. Back at the hotel, they were exhibited, and Mrs. Fayre and Trudy smiled a little at the selection, but said they were glad that the girls had bought what they wanted. CHAPTER XX GOOD-BYE, SUMMER! Days at Surfwood passed happily and swiftly. Dolly and Dotty often discussed the matter and always agreed that camp life and hotel life were equally pleasant, though in opposite ways. And if Dotty sometimes sighed for the careless freedom of the life in the woods or if Dolly felt in her secret heart that she preferred the more formal conventions of the big hotel, they soon forgot such thoughts in the joys of the moment. There was seabathing every day and automobile trips and all sorts of beach fun and frolic. The time was drawing near for them to go back to Berwick and settle down again to the routine of home life. Among the last of the season's gaieties there was to be a children's dance in the big ball-room. This was a regular summer feature and all the guests of the hotel did their best to make the occasion attractive. All under sixteen were considered children, and even some of the little tots were allowed to attend the festival. Fancy dress was not obligatory, but many of the young people chose to wear gay costumes. The two Cliftons, the Brown twins and Dolly and Dotty had come to be a clique by themselves, and were always together. "Let's dress alike for the silly party," said Clifford, who liked to appear scornful of such amusements, but who was really very fond of them. "All right; how shall we dress?" said Dotty, who was always ready for dressing up. "A shepherdess costume is the prettiest thing you can wear," said Pauline. "I have one with me, and it's lovely. S'pose you two girls copy that, and then have the boys rig up something like it." "Mother will make us any old togs we want," said Tad, "It isn't a masquerade, is it?" "Oh, no," said Dolly; "just fancy dress, you know, if you choose, and lots of them just wear regular party clothes." "I'd like to be a shepherdess, all right," said Tad with a comical simpering smile. "Now don't you make fun of my plan!" said Pauline; "we three girls can be shepherdesses, and you three boys can be shepherds. Shepherd lads are lovely, with pipes and things." "Clay pipes?" asked Tod. "No, goosy; pipes to play on. Long ones with ribbons; oh, 'twill be lovely!" and Pauline clapped her hands. "Liza will make you a suit, Carroll, and then the other boys can have it copied." There was much further discussion and the elders were called into consultation, but finally Pauline's plan was adopted. Her shepherdess' frock was dainty and beautiful. The Dresden flowered overdress was of silk, looped above a quilted satin petticoat, and a black velvet bodice laced up over a fine white muslin chemisette. A broad brimmed hat with roses and a be-ribboned shepherdess' crook completed the picture. "It's perfectly lovely, Pauline," said Trudy, when she saw the dress, "but we'll copy it for the girls in less expensive materials. Flowered organdy will be very pretty for the panniers, and sateen or silkoline will do for the skirts. The hats can be easily managed, and I'm sure we can get the crooks down at the shop; if not, Dad will bring them from New York." "You're a brick, Trudy," and Dotty flung her arms around the kind-hearted girl. "It's awful good of you to do mine as well as Dolly's." "Oh, Mother will help me, and it'll be easy as anything. I love to do it." Long suffering Liza was accustomed to do as she was told, so she set to work to evolve a shepherd costume for Carroll. She was skilful with her needle and out of sateen and some gay ribbons she constructed a suit that was picturesque and jaunty even if not entirely the sort a shepherd lad might choose for daily wear. A soft white silk shirt with a broad open collar and a soft silk tie was very becoming to good-looking Carroll, and the pipes, so necessary to the character, were bought in New York by Carroll's father. Mrs. Brown was quite willing to have this suit copied for her twins, and Tod and Tad, though growling at the idea of being "dressed up like Jack Puddings," were secretly rather pleased with the becoming garb. "Suppose we make the caps for the boys," said Pauline, "I know just how and I think 'twill be fun." The others agreed, and the day before the dance, the three girls pre-empted a cosy corner of the big veranda and sat down to work. Copying a picture, it was not difficult to make the type of cap that would harmonise with the shepherds' suits. Pauline cut them out and each of the girls sewed one. "You haven't made the head-bands big enough, Pauline," said Dolly, as she tried an unfinished cap on her own curly head. "They're plenty big enough," Pauline retorted, "the boys haven't such a mop of hair as you have." "I know that; but even allowing for that I don't think they could ever get their heads into these small bands. Where are they, let's fit them on them." "They've gone off for the morning. I tell you, Dolly, these bands are all right. Don't you s'pose I know anything? Of course I measured them before I began. Some people think they know it all!" Pauline was quick-tempered and Dolly was not, so the latter made no response to the somewhat rude speech, and the girls sewed a few moments in silence. Then as Dotty began to sew her cap to its band, she echoed Dolly's words: "Why, Polly, these bands aren't big enough, that's so!" and Dotty tried to put the cap on her own head. "How silly you are!" exclaimed Pauline, angrily. "Do you suppose your head with all that hair isn't bigger than the boys' heads without any hair to speak of? I tell you I measured these bands and they're plenty big enough. If you girls want to be so disagreeable about it, you can make the caps yourselves." "It's no use finishing these things," declared Dotty, "for the boys can't get their heads into them! Why they're hardly big enough for a six year old kid!" "I tell you they are. I guess I know. I measured one on my own brother and his head is just as big as the Browns' heads are." "You've got the big-head yourself!" Dotty flashed back at her, "you think you know everything, Pauline Clifton! I'm just _sure_ the boys can't wear these caps, but we'll go on and finish them, since you say they're big enough." "They _are_ big enough! there's no reason why we shouldn't finish them!" and Pauline's cheeks grew red as she sewed hurriedly on the cap she held. "Well, don't let's quarrel about it," said Dolly, who had not changed her opinion, but who wanted to make peace. "If Pauline says they're all right, Dotty, let's go on and sew them. She must know, if she measured Carroll's head." "Of course I know!" and Pauline scowled at the other two girls. "If you'd sew instead of fussing and finding fault, we could get the things done before luncheon." "All right," and Dolly smiled pleasantly, shaking her head at Dotty, who was just about to make an angry speech. "If Polly takes the responsibility, I'm satisfied to go on, but it certainly doesn't seem to me that any boy could get his head into that thing!" And she held up a cap whose head band certainly did seem small. "I'll take the responsibility all right," and Pauline shook her head angrily. "And when you see the boys with these caps on, you'll realise how silly you've acted." The girls stitched on for a few minutes without speaking and then Dolly's gentle voice broke the silence with some comment on some other subject and peace was restored outwardly, though each of the three was conscious of an angry undercurrent to their conversation. The caps finished, Pauline took the three of them and said she would give them to Liza, who had the ribbon streamers for them. So the trio separated and as the Fayres had an engagement for that afternoon the three girls were not together again until the next day. The next day was the day of the dance, but there was a tennis tournament in the afternoon, in which all the young people took part, and so interested were they in the games that no reference was made to the quarrel of the day before. The dance was in the evening, and at dinner time Dolly and Dotty passed the Cliftons' table on their way to their own. "Get dressed early and come down to the ball-room as soon as you can," Carroll said to them as they went by. "The party is a short one, anyway." The children's dance was only from eight till ten as the more grown-up young people claimed the floor later. Trudy helped Dolly and Dotty into their pretty dresses and both she and Mrs. Fayre exclaimed with admiration. The costumes of organdy and sateen were quite as pretty as the model of silk and satin. Both girls wore their hair hanging in loose curls and their broad rose-trimmed hats had long streamers of blue and pink ribbon which tied under the chin with a bow at one side. Their long white crooks bore bunches of ribbon and each carried a little basket of flowers to add to the dainty effect. They found the others awaiting them in the ball-room, and indeed the dancing was just about to begin as they arrived. It was a pretty sight. The long handsome room was specially decorated with flowers and banners, and the gaily dressed children were laughing and running about in glee. Many of eight or nine, were dancing in pretty fashion, and indeed all ages under sixteen were represented. This frolic was an annual affair and the majority of the children staying at the hotel were allowed to attend. Perhaps half of them were in fancy costume and fairies and Red Ridinghoods flitted about with Bobby Shaftos or miniature cavaliers. "Isn't it beautiful!" cried Dotty, at the threshold of the ball-room. She had never seen a party just like this before and the gay sight entranced her. "We can't go in," laughed Trudy, as she and her parents looked in at the door. "The room is reserved for you kiddies, and we can only peep in at the windows." Dolly and Dotty soon found their friends and crossed the room to join the Shepherd Clan. Pauline looked very lovely in her elaborate costume, and the boys were really fine as shepherd lads. As the two girls approached, Pauline whispered to them, with an air of triumph, "You see the caps are plenty big enough!" and sure enough the three boys wore their caps, set jauntily on the side of their heads; but without a doubt the bands were amply large. "So you see, I _did_ know something after all," Pauline went on, and Dolly said frankly, "You did, Polly; you were right and we were wrong." Dotty was not quite so smilingly gracious, but she had a strong sense of justice and she said, "They _are_ big enough, Pauline, I was mistaken," and then the dancing began. There were only simple dances as the children had not mastered the intricacies of modern steps, and there was much fun and gay good-natured banter. The Shepherds and Shepherdesses danced first with each other, but later others joined them and the clan separated. But the last dance before supper Dolly danced with Carroll Clifton. At the finish they sat for a moment under some palms to rest, and Carroll took off his cap and held it in his hand. As a matter of fact, Dolly had forgotten all about the cap discussion, but suddenly her eyes fell on the inside of the cap, as Carroll held it carelessly upside down on his knee. She could hardly believe her eyes, but she looked again and sure enough, she was right! A full inch of material had been let into the band at the back to make it larger. Dolly stared at it, and then taking the cap, as if to admire it, she said, "I wonder if this is the one I made. You know we girls made the shepherd caps, and I hope you're duly grateful." "Yes, nice cap-makers you are!" said Carroll, banteringly. "They were so little we couldn't get them on. I told Polly and she gathered them in last night and took them up to her room and made them bigger. I guess she spent half the night doing it, for her light was burning pretty late." Dolly said nothing, but a wave of indignation swept over her to think Pauline should so deceive her. To think she should be so small and petty as when she found herself in the wrong to secretly rectify her own mistake and then triumphantly announce to the girls that the caps were big enough after all! Of course they were big enough, after she had set a piece in each one! Dolly smiled to herself to think what an undertaking it must have been, for that alteration, and it was done neatly, meant a troublesome bit of ripping and sewing. Carroll looked at her inquiringly. "Well," he said, "_is_ it the one you made? You seem desperately interested in it!" "I don't know whether it's the one or not. But it doesn't matter, they're all alike. Put it on, Carroll, they're all going out to supper now, and it spoils your costume not to wear it." Supper was a gay feast. It was the one occasion of the year when the children were allowed in the dining-room at night, and there were snapping-crackers and especial varieties of cakes and ices and jellies suited to juvenile tastes. After supper the young guests were supposed to say good-night and the party was over. As they went upstairs, Dolly pulled Dotty back beside her, and at the same moment whispered to Tod to let her take his cap. Unnoticed by any one else, Dolly showed Dotty the piecing inside, and putting her finger on her lip, shook her head as an admonition to be silent. Then she returned the cap to Tod, who hadn't noticed the incident especially, and on the upper landing of the great staircase, the children said their gay good-nights and went off to their various apartments. "Now, what do you think of that?" said the fair-haired Shepherdess, not waiting to take off her fancy costume, but pulling the black-haired Shepherdess down to the window-seat beside her. This was the spot where the girls sat nearly every night to talk over the events of the day. The wide velvet-cushioned seat with its many pillows, was cosy and comfortable, and the view of the ocean and the sound of the rolling waves made these evening chats very happy and confidential. "But I don't understand," said Dotty, looking puzzled. "You motioned for me not to speak a word, so I didn't. But what does it mean? Who put that piece in Tod's cap, his mother?" "No; Pauline did it! She sneaked those caps away to her room last night, and sat up till all hours piecing those pieces in. And a sweet job she must have had of it! Why, it's about as much trouble to piece a thing like that, as to make a whole cap!" "Pauline did it?" still Dotty couldn't understand. "Why, she said this evening that the caps were all right and big enough." "Of course they were, after she pieced the bands out longer! She did it herself, Dotty, and then pretended to us that they were just as we had left them. At least she meant us to think that, for she said, 'Now don't you see they're all right?' and she didn't tell us she had fixed them." "How do you know she did it? Maybe Mrs. Brown or Liza did it." "Carroll told me Polly did it herself. After she went to her room last night. He says her light was burning awful late because she had to fix the three caps." "The deceitful girl! If that isn't the limit! Just wait till I see her, I'll tell her what I think of her!" "Now, Dotty, that's just what I don't want you to do. I knew how you'd feel about this thing, and honest, at first I thought I wouldn't tell you, 'cause if I hadn't, you never would have known. But we never do have secrets from each other, and so when I found it out, I thought I ought to tell you. But I don't want you to quarrel with Pauline about it. Won't you let it go, Dot, and never say anything to her on the subject?" "No, I won't, Dolly. She told a story, or if she didn't tell it right out, she made us think what wasn't true, and it's just the same. She ought to be shown up. Tod and Tad and her own brother, too, ought to know what a mean thing she did. It's only justice, Dolly, that they should. You're so easy-going you'd forgive anything and forget it, too! But I can't. I've got to tell that Clifton girl what I think of her. Oh, I never heard of such meanness! Why Dollyrinda Fayre,--you or I would scorn to do such a thing!" "Of course we would, Dot, but I don't know as it's up to us to tell Pauline Clifton what she ought to do." "It isn't that, Dolly; we're not her teachers, and I don't care what she does,--to other people. But she needn't think she can do a thing like that, and act as if we didn't know anything, when we told her she was wrong, and then when she finds she is wrong to go and fix it up on the sly and pretend she was right all along! No-sir-ee! I won't stand for it. I'll show her up in all her meanness and deceit and I'll do it before the boys, too. She ought to be made to feel cheap! The idea!" Dolly waited in silence until Dotty's wrath had spent itself. She had known Dotty would act like this, but she hoped to calm her justifiable anger. "Well, all right, Dot," she said at last; "then if you still persist in quarrelling with Pauline about this thing, and if you won't agree not to say anything to her about it, then I'm going to ask you not to, just for my sake. I don't often ask you a favour seriously, Dotty Rose, but I do now. If you're a friend of mine and if you really care anything about me, won't you promise, just because _I_ ask it, not to say anything to Pauline about those caps?" The two Shepherdesses faced each other in silence. Both were sitting cross-legged in Turkish fashion on the wide divan, and as they had not turned on their room lights, only the moonlight that streamed across the ocean illumined the two earnest faces. Fair-haired Dolly was pale in her earnestness and her blue eyes looked beseechingly at her friend. The black-haired Shepherdess was flushed with anger. Her crook had fallen to the floor and she had tossed her hat beside it. Her black eyes snapped and her curly head shook as she refused Dolly's request. But the pleading voice kept on, until at last kindness conquered, and Dotty Rose gave in. "All right, you dear old thing," she cried, as she grabbed Dolly round the neck, "you've a Heavenly disposition, and I'm a horrid, ugly thing, but I'll do as you say, _because_ you ask me to." "You're not ugly, Dotty, a bit; only you have a high temper, and your sense of justice makes you feel like getting even with people. And I don't say you're not right. Why, of course there is such a thing as righteous indignation, and this may be the place for it. Only, I _do_ want to have my way this time. You see, we're going home day after to-morrow, and very likely we'll never see the Cliftons again, after we leave here. They don't come here every summer like we do. And I hate to spoil these two last days with a horrid squabble, when we six have been so nice and chummy and pleasant all the time we've been here. You needn't have much to do with Pauline, if you don't want to, but just for two days, can't you just be decently polite to her, and not say anything about this business?" "I can and I will," said Dotty, heartily; "but you needn't think, old lady, that it's because I'm a meek and mild little lamb, and don't feel like telling that girl what I think of her! No, sir! It's because,--well first because you ask me to; and second, because I'm the guest of you and your people, and it wouldn't be a bit nice of me to stir up an unpleasantness that probably everybody would know about. So, unless Miss Pauline Clifton refers to it herself, she'll never hear of that cap subject from me!" "You're an old trump, Dotty, and I love you a million bushels! And I'm glad we're going home so soon, and oh, just think! we'll start off to school together, and we'll both go to High School, and we'll have just the same lessons, and we'll be together every day. Dotty Rose, I'm _glad_ I've got you for a friend!" "You're not half as glad as _I_ am, Dolly Fayre!" "We'll always be friends, whatever happens, won't we?" said Dolly; "and we'll always tell each other everything." "Always and always!" said the other Shepherdess, and they sealed their compact with a kiss. And the big, round-faced moon smiled at them across the night-blue ocean, and tried to make up his mind which of the two D's he was more fond of. THE END "_The Books you like to read at the price you like to pay._" * * * * * This Isn't All! * * * * * Look on the following pages and you will find listed a few of the outstanding boys' and girls' books published by Grosset and Dunlap. All are written by well known authors and cover a wide variety of subjects--aviation, stories of sport and adventure, tales of humor and mystery--books for every mood and every taste and every pocketbook. * * * * * _There is a Grosset & Dunlap book for every member of your family._ * * * * * CAROLYN WELLS BOOKS * * * * * Attractively Bound. Illustrated. Colored Wrappers. * * * * * THE PATTY BOOKS Patty is a lovable girl whose frank good nature and beauty lend charm to her varied adventures. These stories are packed with excitement and interest for girls. PATTY FAIRFIELD PATTY AT HOME PATTY IN THE CITY PATTY'S SUMMER DAYS PATTY IN PARIS PATTY'S FRIENDS PATTY'S PLEASURE TRIP PATTY'S SUCCESS PATTY'S MOTOR CAR PATTY'S BUTTERFLY DAYS * * * * * THE MARJORIE BOOKS Marjorie is a happy little girl of twelve, up to mischief, but full of goodness and sincerity. In her and her friends every girl reader will see much of her own love of fun, play and adventure. MARJORIE'S VACATION MARJORIE'S BUSY DAYS MARJORIE'S NEW FRIEND MARJORIE IN COMMAND MARJORIE'S MAYTIME MARJORIE AT SEACOTE * * * * * THE TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES Introducing Dorinda Fayre--a pretty blonde, sweet, serious, timid and a little slow, and Dorothy Rose--a sparkling brunette, quick, elf-like, high tempered, full of mischief and always getting into scrapes. TWO LITTLE WOMEN TWO LITTLE WOMEN AND TREASURE HOUSE TWO LITTLE WOMEN ON A HOLIDAY * * * * * THE DICK AND DOLLY BOOKS Dick and Dolly are brother and sister, and their games, their pranks, their joys and sorrows, are told in a manner which makes the stories "really true" to young readers. DICK AND DOLLY DICK AND DOLLY'S ADVENTURES * * * * * FOR HER MAJESTY--THE GIRL OF TODAY * * * * * THE POLLY BREWSTER BOOKS By Lillian Elizabeth Roy Polly and Eleanor have many interesting adventures on their travels which take them to all corners of the globe. POLLY OF PEBBLY PIT POLLY AND ELEANOR POLLY IN NEW YORK POLLY AND HER FRIENDS ABROAD POLLY'S BUSINESS VENTURE POLLY'S SOUTHERN CRUISE POLLY IN SOUTH AMERICA POLLY IN THE SOUTHWEST POLLY IN ALASKA POLLY IN THE ORIENT POLLY IN EGYPT POLLY'S NEW FRIEND POLLY AND CAROLA POLLY AND CAROLA AT RAVENSWOOD POLLY LEARNS TO FLY * * * * * THE BLYTHE GIRLS BOOKS By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of The Outdoor Girls Series * * * * * Illustrated by Thelma Gooch * * * * * The Blythe Girls, three in number, were left alone in New York City. Helen, who went in for art and music, kept the little flat uptown, while Margy, just out of business school, obtained a position as secretary and Rose, plain-spoken and business like, took what she called a "job" in a department store. The experiences of these girls make fascinating reading--life in the great metropolis is thrilling and full of strange adventures and surprises. THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN, MARGY AND ROSE THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY'S QUEER INHERITANCE THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE'S GREAT PROBLEM THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN'S STRANGE BOARDER THE BLYTHE GIRLS: THREE ON A VACATION THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY'S SECRET MISSION THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE'S ODD DISCOVERY THE BLYTHE GIRLS: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF HELEN THE BLYTHE GIRLS: SNOWBOUND IN CAMP THE BLYTHE GIRLS: MARGY'S MYSTERIOUS VISITOR THE BLYTHE GIRLS: ROSE'S HIDDEN TALENT THE BLYTHE GIRLS: HELEN'S WONDERFUL MISTAKE * * * * * THE POLLY SERIES By DOROTHY WHITEHILL * * * * * This lively series for girls is about the adventures of pretty, resourceful Polly Pendleton, a wide awake American girl who goes to boarding school on the Hudson River, several miles above New York. By her pluck and genial smile she soon makes a name for herself and becomes a leader in girl activities. Besides relating Polly's adventures at school these books tell of her summer vacations and her experiences in many different scenes. Every girl who loves action and excitement will want to follow Polly on her many adventures. POLLY'S FIRST YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL POLLY'S SUMMER VACATION POLLY'S SENIOR YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL POLLY SEES THE WORLD AT WAR POLLY AND LOIS POLLY AND BOB POLLY'S REUNION POLLY'S POLLY POLLY AT PIXIE'S HAUNT POLLY'S HOUSE PARTY POLLY'S POLLY AT BOARDING SCHOOL JOYFUL ADVENTURES OF POLLY * * * * * THE OUTDOOR GIRLS SERIES By LAURA LEE HOPE Author of "The Blythe Girls Books." * * * * * Every Volume Complete in Itself. * * * * * These are the adventures of a group of bright, fun-loving, up-to-date girls who have a common bond in their fondness for outdoor life, camping, travel and adventure. There is excitement and humor in these stories and girls will find in them the kind of pleasant associations that they seek to create among their own friends and chums. THE OUTDOOR GIRLS OF DEEPDALE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT RAINBOW LAKE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A MOTOR CAR THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN A WINTER CAMP THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN FLORIDA THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT OCEAN VIEW THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN ARMY SERVICE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON PINE ISLAND THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT THE HOSTESS HOUSE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT BLUFF POINT THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT WILD ROSE LODGE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN THE SADDLE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AROUND THE CAMPFIRE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON CAPE COD THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT FOAMING FALLS THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ALONG THE COAST THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT SPRING HILL FARM THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT NEW MOON RANCH THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON A HIKE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS ON A CANOE TRIP THE OUTDOOR GIRLS AT CEDAR RIDGE THE OUTDOOR GIRLS IN THE AIR * * * * * THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SERIES By GRACE BROOKS HILL * * * * * These splendid stories of the adventures of four young girls who occupy the old corner house left to them by a rich bachelor uncle will appeal to all young girls. They contain all the elements which delight youthful readers--action, mystery, humor and excitement. These girls have become the best friends of many children throughout the country. THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON PALM ISLAND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS FACING THE WORLD * * * * * GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK * * * * * 
5893	----	TWO LITTLE WOMEN ON A HOLIDAY BY CAROLYN WELLS Author Of The Patty Books, The Marjorie Books, Two Little Women Series, Etc. FRONTISPIECE BY E. C. CASWELL Made in the United States of America 1917 TO MY VERY DEAR CHILD FRIEND FRANCES ALTHEA SPRAGUE CONTENTS CHAPTER I A WONDERFUL PLAN II A FAVOURABLE DECISION III THE ARRIVAL IV A MERRY QUARTETTE V GOING ABOUT VI A MATINEE IDOL VII GREAT PREPARATIONS VIII THE CALLER IX FINE FEATHERS X A SKATING PARTY XI THE COLLECTIONS XII THE LOST JEWEL XIII SUSPICIONS XIV AT THE TEA ROOM XV DOLLY'S RIDE XVI WAS IT ALICIA? XVII A CLEVER IDEA XVIII FOUR CELEBRATIONS XIX ALICIA'S SECRET XX UNCLE JEFF'S FOUR FRIENDS CHAPTER I A WONDERFUL PLAN "Hello, Dolly," said Dotty Rose, over the telephone. "Hello, Dot," responded Dolly Fayre. "What you want?" "Oh! I can't tell you this way. Come on over, just as quick as you can." "But I haven't finished my Algebra, and it's nearly dinner time, anyway." "No it isn't,--and no matter if it is. Come on, I tell you! You'd come fast enough if you knew what it's about!" "Tell me, then." "I say I can't,--over the telephone. Oh, Dolly, come on, and stop fussing!" The telephone receiver at Dotty's end of the wire was hung up with a click, and Dolly began to waggle her receiver hook in hope of getting Dotty back. But there was no response, so Dolly rose and went for her coat. Flinging it round her, and not stopping to get a hat, she ran next door to Dotty Rose's house. It was mid January, and the six o'clock darkness was lighted only by the street lights. Flying across the two lawns that divided the houses, Dolly found Dotty awaiting her at the side door. "Hurry up in, Doll," she cried, eagerly, "the greatest thing you ever heard! Oh, the very greatest! If you only CAN! Oh, if you ONLY can!" "Can what? Do tell me what you're talking about." Dolly tossed her coat on the hall rack, and followed Dotty into the Roses' living-room. There she found Dotty's parents and also Bernice Forbes and her father. What could such a gathering mean? Dolly began to think of school happenings; had she cut up any mischievous pranks or inadvertently done anything wrong? What else could bring Mr. Forbes to the Roses' on what was very evidently an important errand? For all present were eagerly interested,--that much was clear. Mr. and Mrs. Rose were smiling, yet shaking their heads in uncertainty; Bernice was flushed and excited; and Mr. Forbes himself was apparently trying to persuade them to something he was proposing. This much Dolly gathered before she heard a word of the discussion. Then Mrs. Rose said, "Here's Dolly Fayre. You tell her about it, Mr. Forbes." "Oh, let me tell her," cried Bernice. "No," said Mr. Rose, "let her hear it first from your father. You girls can chatter afterward." So Mr. Forbes spoke. "My dear child," he said to Dolly, "my Bernice is invited to spend a week with her uncle, in New York City. She is privileged to ask you two girls to accompany her if you care to." Dolly listened, without quite grasping the idea. She was slow of thought, though far from stupid. And this was such a sudden and startling suggestion that she couldn't quite take it in. "Go to New York, for a week. Oh, I couldn't. I have to go to school." Mrs. Rose smiled. "That's just the trouble, Dolly. Dot has to go to school, too,--at least, she ought to. Bernice, likewise. But this invitation is so delightful and so unusual, that I'm thinking you three girls ought to take advantage of it. The question is, what will your parents say?" "Oh, they'll never let me go!" exclaimed Dolly, decidedly. "They don't want anything to interfere with my lessons." "No, and we feel the same way about Dotty. But an exceptional case must be considered in an exceptional manner. I think your people might be persuaded if we go about it in the right way." "I don't believe so," and Dolly looked very dubious. "Tell me more about it." "Oh, Doll, it's just gorgeous!" broke in Bernice. "Uncle Jeff,--he's father's brother,--wants me to spend a week with him. And he's going to have my cousin, Alicia, there at the same time. And he wants us to bring two other girls, and Alicia can't bring one, 'cause she's at boarding school, and none of the girls can get leave,--that is, none that she wants. So Uncle said for me to get two, if I could,--and I want you and Dot." "A whole week in New York! Visiting!" Dolly's eyes sparkled as the truth began to dawn on her. "Oh, I WISH I could coax Mother into it. I've never been to New York to stay any time. Only just for the day. How lovely of you, Bernie, to ask us!" "There's no one else I'd rather have, but if you can't go, I'll have to ask Maisie May. I must get two." "Are you going anyway, Dots?" "I don't know. I want to go terribly, but I don't want to go without you, Dolly. Oh, WON'T your mother let you?" "The only way to find out is to ask her," said Mr. Forbes, smiling. "Suppose I go over there now and ask. Shall I go alone, or take you three chatterboxes along?" "Oh, let us go," and Dotty sprang up; "we can coax and you can tell about the arrangements." "Very well," agreed Mr. Forbes, "come along, then." So the four went across to the Fayre house, and found the rest of Dolly's family gathered in the library. "Here is Mr. Forbes, Daddy," said Dolly, as they entered. Mr. and Mrs. Fayre and Trudy, Dolly's older sister, greeted the visitor cordially, and looked with smiling inquiry at the eager faces of the three girls. Dolly went and sat on the arm of her mother's chair, and, putting an arm around her, whispered, "Oh, Mumsie, please, PLEASE do say yes! Oh, please do!" "Yes to what?" returned Mrs. Fayre, patting her daughter's shoulder. "Mr. Forbes will tell you. Listen." "It's this way, my dear people," began Mr. Forbes. He was a man with an impressive manner, and it seemed as if he were about to make a speech of grave importance, as, indeed, from the girls' point of view, he was. "My brother Jefferson, who lives in New York, has invited my daughter to spend a week in his home there. He has asked also another niece, Miss Alicia Steele. He wants these girl visitors to bring with them two friends, and as Alicia does not wish to avail herself of that privilege, Bernice may take two with her. She wants to take Dotty and Dolly. There, that's the whole story in a nutshell. The question is, may Dolly go?" "When is this visit to be made?" asked Mrs. Fayre. "As soon as convenient for all concerned. My brother would like the girls to come some day next week, and remain one week." "What about school?" and Mrs. Fayre looked decidedly disapproving of the plan. "That's just it!" exclaimed Dotty. "We knew you'd say that! But, Mrs. Fayre, my mother says this is the chance of a lifetime,--almost,--and we ought, we really OUGHT to take advantage of it." "But to be out of school for a whole week,--and what with getting ready and getting home and settled again, it would mean more than a week--" "But, mother, we could make up our lessons," pleaded Dolly, "and I DO want to go! oh, I do want to go, just AWFULLY!" "I should think you would," put in Trudy. "Let her go, mother, it'll be an education in itself,--the visit will. Why, the girls can go to the museums and art galleries and see all sorts of things." "Of course we can," said Bernice, "and my uncle has a beautiful house and motor cars and everything!" "That's another point," said Mr. Fayre, gravely. "You must realise, Mr. Forbes, that my little girl is not accustomed to grandeur and wealth. I don't want her to enjoy it so much that she will come back discontented with her own plain home." "Oh, nonsense, my dear sir! A glimpse of city life and a taste of frivolity will do your girl good. Dolly is too sensible a sort to be a prey to envy or discontent. I know Dolly fairly well, and I can vouch for her common sense!" "So can I," said Bernice. "Doll will enjoy everything to the limit, but it won't hurt her disposition or upset her happiness to see the sights of the city for a short time. Oh, please, Mr. Fayre, do let her go." "Just as her mother thinks," and Mr. Fayre smiled at the insistent Bernice. "Tell me of the household," said Mrs. Fayre. "Is your brother's wife living?" "Jeff has never been married," replied Mr. Forbes. "He is an elderly bachelor, and, I think is a bit lonely, now and then. But he is also a little eccentric. He desires no company, usually. It is most extraordinary that he should ask these girls. But I think he wants to see his two nieces, and he fears he cannot entertain them pleasantly unless they have other companions of their own age." "And who would look after the girls?" "Mrs. Berry, my brother's housekeeper. She is a fine noble-hearted and competent woman, who has kept his house for years. I know her, and I am perfectly willing to trust Bernice to her care. She will chaperon the young people, for I doubt if my brother will go to many places with them. But he will want them to have the best possible time, and will give them all the pleasure possible." "That part of it is all right, then," smiled Mrs. Fayre; "it is, to my mind, only the loss of more than a week of the school work that presents the insuperable objection." "Oh, don't say insuperable," urged Mr. Forbes. "Can't you bring yourself to permit that loss? As Dolly says, the girls can make up their lessons." "They can--but will they?" "I will, mother," cried Dolly; "I promise you I will study each day while I'm in New York. Then I can recite out of school hours after I get back, and I'll get my marks all the same." "But, Dolly dear, you can't study while you are in New York. There would be too much to distract you and occupy your time." "Oh, no, Mrs. Fayre," observed Bernice, "we couldn't be all the time sightseeing. I think it would be fine for all us girls to study every day, and keep up our lessons that way." "It sounds well, my dear child," and Mrs. Fayre looked doubtfully at Bernice, "and I daresay you mean to do it, but I can't think you could keep it up. The very spirit of your life there would be all against study." "I agree with that," said Mr. Forbes, decidedly. "I vote for the girls having an entire holiday. Lessons each day would spoil all their fun." "They couldn't do it," Trudy said. "I know, however much they tried, they just COULDN'T study in that atmosphere." "Why not?" asked Bernice. "We're not young ladies, like you, Trudy. We won't be going to parties, and such things. We can only go to the shops and the exhibitions and for motor rides in the park and such things. We could study evenings, I'm sure." "It isn't only the lessons," Mrs. Fayre said; "but I can't feel quite willing to let my little girl go away for a week without me." Her pleasant smile at Mr. Forbes robbed the words of any reflection they might seem to cast on his brother's invitation. "I'm sure Mrs. Berry would do all that is necessary in the way of a chaperon's duties, but these girls are pretty young even for that. They need a parent's oversight." Mrs. Fayre was about to say a mother's oversight, when she remembered that Bernice had no mother, and changed the words accordingly. There was some further discussion, and then Mrs. Fayre said she must have a little time alone to make up her mind. She knew that if Dolly did not go, Maisie May would be asked in her place, but she still felt undecided. She asked for only an hour or two to think it over, and promised to telephone directly after dinner, and tell Mr. Forbes her final decision. This was the only concession she would make. If not acceptable then her answer must be no. "Please do not judge my wife too harshly," said Mr. Fayre as he accompanied Mr. Forbes and Bernice to the door. "She still looks upon Dolly as her baby, and scarcely lets her out of her sight." "That's all right," returned Mr. Forbes. "She's the right sort of a mother for the girl. I hope she will decide to let Dolly go, but if not, I quite understand her hesitancy, and I respect and admire her for it. Bernice can take somebody else, and I trust you will not try over hard to influence Mrs. Fayre in Dolly's favour. If anything untoward should happen, I should never forgive myself. I would far rather the children were disappointed than to have Mrs. Fayre persuaded against her better judgment." The Forbeses departed, and then Dotty Rose went home, too. "Oh, Dollyrinda," she whispered as they stood in the hall, "do you s'pose your mother'll EVER say yes?" "I don't believe so," replied Dolly mournfully. "But, oh, Dot, how I do want to go! Seems 'sif I never wanted anything so much in all my life!" "You don't want to go a bit more than I want to have you. Why, Dollops, I shan't go, if you don't." "Oh, yes, you will, Dotty. You must. It would be silly not to." "But I couldn't! I just COULDN'T. Do you s'pose I could have one single bit of fun going to places without you? And knowing you were here at home, longing to be with us! No-sir-ee! I just couldn't pos-SIB-ly! So just you remember that, old girl; no Dolly,--no Dotty! And that's SURE!" There was a ring in Dotty's voice that proclaimed an unshakable determination, and Dolly knew it. She knew that no coaxing of Bernice or even of Dolly herself, could make Dotty go without her chum. For chums these two were, in the deepest sense of the word. They were together all that was possible during their waking hours. They studied together, worked and played together, and occupied together their little house, built for them, and called Treasure House. Dolly knew she couldn't enjoy going anywhere without Dotty, and she knew Dot felt the same way about her. But this was such a big, splendid opportunity, that she hated to have Dotty miss it, even if she couldn't go herself. The two girls said good-night, and Dolly went back to her family in the library. "I hate terribly to disappoint you, Dolly darling," began her mother, and the tears welled up in Dolly's blue eyes. This beginning meant a negative decision, that was self evident, but Dolly Fayre was plucky by nature and she was not the sort that whines at disappointment. "All right," she said, striving to be cheerful, and blinking her eyes quickly to keep those tears back. "Now, look here, Edith," said Mr. Fayre, "I don't believe I can stand this. I don't differ with you regarding the children, but I do think you might let Dolly go on this party. Even if it does take a week out of school, she'll get enough general information and experience from a week in the city to make up." "That's just it, Will. But the experiences she gets there may not be the best possible for a little girl of fifteen." "Oh, fifteen isn't an absolute baby. Remember, dear, Dolly is going to grow up some day, and she's getting started." "And another thing. I asked Mr. Forbes a few questions while you were talking to Bernice, and it seems this other girl, the niece, Alicia, is attending a very fashionable girls' boarding school." "Well, what of that? You speak as if she were attending a lunatic asylum!" "No; but can't you see if Dolly goes to stay a week with wealthy Bernice Forbes and this fashionable Alicia, she'll get her head full of all sorts of notions that don't belong there?" "No, I won't, mother," murmured Dolly, who, again on her mother's arm chair, was looking earnestly into the maternal blue eyes, so like her own. And very lovingly Mrs. Fayre returned the gaze, for she adored her little daughter and was actuated only by the best motives in making her decisions. "And, here's another thing," said Dolly, "Dot won't go, if I don't. It seems too bad to spoil HER fun." "Oh, yes, she will," said Mrs. Fayre, smiling. "She would be foolish to give up her pleasure just because you can't share it." "Foolish or not, she won't go," repeated Dolly. "I know my Dot, and when she says she won't do a thing, she just simply doesn't do it!" "I'd be sorry to be the means of keeping Dotty at home," and Mrs. Fayre sighed deeply. CHAPTER II A FAVOURABLE DECISION All through dinner time, Mrs. Fayre was somewhat silent, her eyes resting on Dolly with a wistful, uncertain expression. She wanted to give the child the pleasure she craved, but she had hard work to bring herself to the point of overcoming her own objections. At last, however, when the meal was nearly over, she smiled at her little daughter, and said, "All right, Dolly, you may go." "Oh, mother!" Dolly cried, overwhelmed with sudden delight. "Really? Oh, I am so glad! Are you sure you're willing?" "I've persuaded myself to be willing, against my will," returned Mrs. Fayre, whimsically. "I confess I just hate to have you go, but I can't bear to deprive you of the pleasure trip. And, as you say, it would also keep Dotty at home, and so, altogether, I think I shall have to give in." "Oh, you angel mother! You blessed lady! How good you are!" And Dolly flew around the table and gave her mother a hug that nearly suffocated her. "There, there, Dollygirl," said her father, "go back and finish your pudding while we talk this over a bit. Are you sure, Edith, you are willing? I don't want you to feel miserable and anxious all the week Dolly is cut loose from your apron string." "No, Will; it's all right. If you and the Roses and Trudy, here, all agree it's best for Dolly to go, it seems foolish for me to object. And it may be for her good, after all." "That's what I say, mother," put in Trudy. "Doll isn't a child, exactly. She's fifteen and a half, and it will be a fine experience for her to see a little bit of the great world. And she couldn't do it under better conditions than at Mr. Forbes' brother's. The Forbes' are a fine family, and you know, perfectly well, there'll be nothing there that isn't just exactly right." "It isn't that, Trudy. But,--oh, I don't know; I daresay I'm a foolish mother bird, afraid of her littlest fledgling." "You're a lovely mother-bird!" cried Dolly, "and not foolish a bit! but, oh, do decide positively, for I can't wait another minute to tell Dot, if I'm going." "Very well," said Mrs. Fayre, "run along and tell Dotty, and Bernice, too." Dolly made a jump and two hops for the telephone, and soon the wires must have bent under the weight of joyous exclamations. "Oh, Dolly, isn't it fine!" "Oh, Dotty, it's splendid! I can hardly believe it!" "Have you told Bernice?" "Not yet. Had to tell you first. When do we go?" "Next Tuesday, I think. Now, you tell Bernie, so she can write to her uncle that we accept." And then there was another jubilation over the telephone. "Fine!" cried Bernice, as she heard the news. "Lovely! I'd so much rather have you two girls than any others. I'll write Uncle Jeff to-night that I'll bring you. And I'll come over to-morrow, and we'll decide what clothes to take, and all that." Mrs. Fayre sighed, as Dolly reported this conversation. "You girls can't do a bit of serious study all the rest of the time before you go," she said. "Now, Dolly, I'll have to ask you to do your lessons every day, before you plan or talk over the trip at all." "Yes, mother, I will," and Dolly started at once for her schoolbooks. It was hard work to put her mind on her studies, with the wonderful possibilities that lay ahead of her. But she was exceedingly conscientious, was Dolly Fayre, and she resolutely put the subject of the New York visit out of her mind, and did her algebra examples with diligence. Not so, Dotty Rose. After Dolly's telephone message, she flung her schoolbooks aside, with a shout of joy, and declared she couldn't study that night. "I don't wonder," laughed her father. "Why, Dot, you're going on a veritable Fairy-tale visit. You are quite justified in being excited over it." "I thought you and Dolly didn't like Bernice Forbes very much," said Mrs. Rose. "We didn't use to, mother. But lately, she's been a whole lot nicer. You know Doll made her sort of popular, and after that, she helped along, herself, by being ever so much more pleasant and chummy with us all. She used to be stuck up and disagreeable; ostentatious about being rich, and all that. But nowadays, she's more simple, and more agreeable every way." "That's nice," observed Mr. Rose. "Forbes is not a popular man, nor a very good citizen; I mean he isn't public-spirited or generous. But he's a fine business man and a man of sound judgment and integrity. I'm glad you're chums with his daughter, Dotty. And you ought to have a perfectly gorgeous time on the New York visit." "Oh, we will, Daddy; I'm sure of that. What about clothes, Mumsie?" "I'll have to see about that. You'll need a few new frocks, I suppose, but we can get them ready made, or get Miss Felton to come for a few days. There's nearly a week before you start." "I want some nice things," declared Dotty. "You know Bernice has wonderful clothes, and I suppose her cousin has, too." "Maybe your wardrobe can't be as fine as a rich man's daughter," said her father smiling at her, "but I hope mother will fix you up so you won't feel ashamed of your clothes." "I think they'll be all right," and Mrs. Rose nodded her head. "I'll see Mrs. Fayre to-morrow, and we'll find out what Bernice is going to take with her. You children can't need elaborate things, but they must be right." The Rose family spent the entire evening talking over the coming trip, and when Dotty went to bed she set an alarm clock, that she might rise early in the morning to do her lessons for the day before breakfast. She did them, too, and came to the table, smiling in triumph. "Did all my examples and learned my history perfectly," she exulted. "So you see, mother, my trip won't interfere with my education!" "Oh, you can make up your lessons," said her father, carelessly. "I wouldn't give much for a girl who couldn't do a few extra tasks to make up for a grand outing such as you're to have." "I either!" agreed Dotty. "But the Fayres are worried to death for fear Doll will miss a lesson somewhere." "Dolly learns more slowly than you," remarked her mother. "You have a gift for grasping facts quickly, and a good memory to retain them." "You ought to be grateful for that," said Mr. Rose. "I am," returned Dotty. "When I see Dolly grubbing over her history, I can't understand how she can be so long over it." "But she's better in mathematics than you are." "Yes, she is. She helps me a lot with the old puzzlers. She thinks we'll study in New York. But somehow, I don't believe we will." "Of course, you won't," laughed Mr. Rose. "Why, you'd be foolish to do that. A fine opportunity has come to you girls, and I advise you to make the most of it. See all the sights you can; go to all the pleasant places you can; and have all the fun you can cram into your days. Then go to sleep and rest up for the next day." "Good, sound advice, Dads," said Dotty; "you're a gentleman and a scholar to look at it like that! But I don't know as we can go about much; I believe Mr. Forbes is quite an old man, and who will take us about?" "I thought the housekeeper would," said Mrs. Rose. "I don't know at all, mother. It seems Bernie has never visited there before, though she has been to the house. Her uncle is queer, and why he wants his two nieces all of a sudden, and his two nieces' friends, nobody knows. It's sort of mysterious, I think." "Well, it's all right, as long as you're properly invited. It seems strange Bernie's cousin didn't care to take a friend." "Yes; I wonder what she's like. Bernice hasn't seen her since they were little girls. She lives out in Iowa, I think. She's at school in Connecticut somewhere. It's all sort of unknown. But I like that part of it. I love new experiences." "I always do too, Dot," said her father. "I reckon when you come home, you'll have lots to tell us." "New York isn't so strange to me," said Dotty. "I've been there a lot of times, you know. But to go and stay in a house there,--that's the fun. It's so different from going in for a day's shopping with mother. Or the day we all went to the Hippodrome." "You'll probably go to the Hippodrome again, or some such entertainment," suggested Mrs. Rose. "I dunno. I imagine the old gentleman doesn't favour such gaiety. And the housekeeper lady will likely be too busy to do much for us. We can't go anywhere alone, can we?" "I don't know," replied Mrs. Rose. "You must be guided by circumstances, Dotty. Whatever Mr. Forbes and Mrs. Berry say for you to do, will be all right. Make as little trouble as you can, and do as you're told. You'll have fun enough, just being with the girls." "Indeed I will! Oh, I'm so glad Dolly can go. I wouldn't have stirred a step without her!" "No, I know you wouldn't," agreed her mother. Next day at school recess, Bernice showed the girls a letter she had received from Alicia. "You know I haven't seen her in years," Bernice said; "I think she must be more grown up than we are, though she's only just sixteen." "Dearest Bernice:" the letter ran. "Isn't it simply screaming that we're to camp out at Uncle Jeff's! I'm wildly excited over it! Do you know why he has asked us? I'm not sure, myself, but I know there's a reason, and it's a secret. I heard aunt and father talking about it when I was home at Christmas time, but when I drifted into the room, they shut up like clams. However, we'll have one gay old time! Think of being in New York a whole week! I don't want to take any of the girls from here, for fear they'd bring back tales. Don't you bring anybody you can't trust. Oh, I've laid lots of plans, but I won't tell you about them till I see you. Bring all your best clothes, and ask your father for quite a lot of money, though I suppose Uncle Jeff will give us some. I can scarcely wait for the time to come! "Devotedly yours, "ALICIA." "What does she mean by a secret reason for your going?" asked Dolly. "I haven't an idea," replied Bernice. "My father knows, though, I'm quite sure, 'cause he smiled at that part of Alicia's letter. But he wouldn't tell me. He only said, 'Oh, pshaw, nothing of any consequence. It's very natural that a lonely old bachelor uncle should want to see his little girl nieces, and it's very kind and thoughtful of him to ask you to bring friends.' He says Uncle Jeff is not fond of company, and spends all his time by himself. He's a scientist or naturalist or something, and works in his study all day. So, dad says, it'll be fine for us girls to have four of us to be company for each other." "It's gorgeous!" sighed Dotty, in an ecstasy of anticipation. "But what does your cousin mean by bringing a lot of money? We can't do that,--and our parents don't let us spend much money ourselves, anyway." "Oh, that'll be all right," said Bernice, carelessly. "We won't need much money. And if we go to matinees, or anything like that, of course, I'll pay, if Uncle Jeff doesn't. You two girls are my guests, you know. You needn't take any money at all." "All right," said Dolly, and dismissed the subject. Money did not figure very largely in her affairs, as, except for a small allowance for trifles, she never handled any. Nor did Dotty, as these two were still looked upon as children by their parents. But motherless Bernice bought her own clothes and paid her own bills; and so generous was her father, that there was no stint, and as a consequence, she too, cared and thought little about money as a consideration. "I'm a little scared of that Alicia person," said Dolly to Dotty as they walked home from school. "Pooh! I'm not. She's no richer than Bernie." "It isn't that. I'm not afraid of rich people. But she seems so grown up and--well, experienced." "Well, sixteen is grown up. And we're getting there, Dolly. I shall put up my hair while I'm in New York." "Why, Dot Rose! Really?" "Yes, that is if Alicia does. Bernice often does, you know." "I know it. I'll ask mother if I may." "Goodness, Dolly, can't you decide a thing like that for yourself? What would your mother care?" "I'd rather ask her," returned the conscientious Dolly. Mrs. Fayre smiled when Dolly put the question. "I've been expecting that," she said. "You'd better do as the others do, dear. If they twist up their pigtails, you do the same." "I'll show you how," offered Trudy. "If you're going to do it, you may as well learn a becoming fashion." So Trudy taught her little sister how to coil up her yellow, curly mop in a correct fashion, and very becoming it was to Dolly. But it made her look a year or two older than she was. "Oh!" exclaimed her mother, when she saw her, "Where's my baby? I've lost my little girl!" "Just as well," said Dolly, delighted at her achievement and pirouetting before a mirror. "It's time I began to be a little grown up, mother." "Yes, I suppose it is. I felt just the same when Trudy put up her curls for the first time. I am a foolish old thing!" "Now, don't you talk like that," cried Dolly, "or I'll pull down my hair and wear it in tails till I'm fifty!" "No, dear; do as you like about it. And, if you want to wear it that way while you're in New York, do. It's all right." More discussions came with the new dresses. Mrs. Fayre was for keeping to the more youthful models, but Mrs. Hose felt that the girls should have slightly older styles. Bernice's frocks were almost young ladyish, but those were not copied. Dotty and Dolly always had their things similar, different in colouring but alike in style. So their respective mothers had many confabs before the grave questions were settled. And the result was two very attractive wardrobes that were really right for fifteen-year-old girls. Afternoon dresses of voile or thin silk, and one pretty party dress for each of dainty chiffon and lace. Morning frocks of linen and a tailored street suit seemed to be ample in amount and variety. Bernice had more and grander ones, but the two D's were entirely satisfied, and watched the packing of their small trunks with joyful contentment. Dolly put in her diary, declaring she should write a full account of each day's happenings. "Then that'll do for me," said Dotty. "I hate to keep a diary, and what would be the use? It would be exactly like yours, Doll, and I can borrow yours to read to my people after you've read it to your family." "All right," agreed Dolly, good-naturedly, for what pleased one girl usually suited the other. They didn't take their schoolbooks, for it made a heavy load, and too, all agreed that it would spoil the pleasant vacation. The girls promised to make up the lessons on their return, and so it seemed as if nothing marred the anticipation of their splendid holiday. CHAPTER III THE ARRIVAL The girls were put on the train at Berwick and as Mrs. Berry was to meet them at the station in New York, they were allowed to make the trip alone. "I think this train ride the best part of the whole thing," said Dolly, as she took off her coat and hung it up beside her chair. "I do love to ride in a parlour car; I wish we were to travel in it for a week." "I like it, too," agreed Bernice. "Oh, girls, what fun we're going to have! You won't like Uncle Jeff at first, he's awful queer; but there's one thing sure, he'll let us do just as we like. He's very good-natured." "What's Mrs. Berry like?" asked Dotty. "I suppose we'll obey her?" "Yes, but she's good-natured, too. I can twist her round my finger. Oh, we'll have a high old time." "S'pose Mrs. Berry shouldn't be there to meet us when we get in," suggested Dolly. "What then?" "She will, of course," said Bernice. "But if she shouldn't, if the car broke down or anything like that, we'd take a taxicab right to the house." This sounded very grown-up and grand to the two D's, who had had little experience with taxicabs, and Dotty exclaimed with glee, "I'd rather do that than go in Mr. Forbes' car! What a lark it would be! Oh, Bernice, can we go somewhere in a taxicab while we're there?" "I don't know, Dotty,--I s'pose so. But why should we? Uncle Jeff has two cars, and the chauffeur will take us wherever we want to go." "But I've never been in a taxicab,--without older people, I mean, and I'd love to try it." "Well, I expect you can," returned Bernice, carelessly. "I dare say you can do pretty much anything you want to." "But do behave yourself, Dot," cautioned Dolly; "you're so daring and venturesome, I don't know what mischief you'll get into!" "Oh, we won't get into mischief," laughed Bernice. "There'll be enough fun, without doing anything we oughtn't to." "Of course, I won't do anything wrong," declared Dotty, indignantly. "But there are so many things to do, it sets me crazy to think of it!" "I'm going to buy things," announced Bernice. "There aren't any decent shops in Berwick, and I'm going to get lots of things in the city stores." "We can't do that," said Dolly, decidedly. "We haven't lots of money like you have, Bernie; I'm going to see things. I want to see all the pictures I possibly can. I love to look at pictures." "I want to go to the theatre," and Dotty looked at Bernice inquiringly. "Will we, do you s'pose?" "Oh, yes, Mrs. Berry will take us. Perhaps we can go to matinees, alone." "I don't think we ought to do that," and Dolly looked distinctly disapproving. "Oh, come now, old priggy-wig," said Dotty, "don't be too awfully 'fraidcat!" "It will be just as Mrs. Berry says," Bernice informed them. "Father said I must obey her in everything. Uncle Jeff won't pay much attention to what we do, but Mrs. Berry will. I wonder if Alicia will be there when we get there." But Alicia wasn't. As the girls came up the stairs into the great station, they saw a smiling, motherly-looking lady waiting to welcome them. "Here you are!" she cried, and it wasn't necessary for Bernice to introduce her friends, except to tell which was which. "I feel as if I knew you," Mrs. Berry said, and her kindly grey eyes beamed at them both. "Now I must learn to tell you apart. Dolly with golden hair,--Dotty with black. Is that it?" "Is Alicia here?" asked Bernice, eagerly. "No; she's coming in at the other station. She won't arrive for an hour or more. Where are your checks? Let George take them." The footman took the checks and looked after them, while Mrs. Berry piloted the girls to the waiting motor-car. It was a large and very beautiful limousine, and they all got in, and were soon rolling up Fifth Avenue. "How splendid it all is!" exclaimed Dolly, looking out at the crowds. "It seems as if we must get all snarled up in the traffic, but we don't." "Kirke is a very careful driver," said Mrs. Berry, "and he understands just where to go. How you've grown, Bernice. I haven't seen you for two years, you know." "Yes, I have. We're all getting to be grown-ups, Mrs. Berry. Isn't Alicia?" "I don't know. I haven't seen her for a long time. But she's at a very fashionable school, so I suppose she is full of notions." "What are notions?" asked Dolly, smiling up into the speaker's eyes. "Oh, notions," and Mrs. Berry laughed, "well, it's thinking you know it all yourself, and not being willing to listen to advice. I don't believe you have notions, Dolly." "No, she hasn't," said Bernice. "But Dotty and I have! However, I promised Dad I'd obey you, Mrs. Berry, in everything you say, so I don't believe you'll have any trouble with us." "Land, no! I don't expect any. Now, let me see; I've two big rooms for you all, with two beds in each. I suppose you'll room with your cousin, Bernice, and these other two girls together?" "Yes, indeed," said Dolly, quickly, for she had no idea of rooming with any one but Dotty. "That settles itself, then." "But suppose I don't like Alicia," said Bernice, doubtfully. "Suppose we quarrel." "All right," and Mrs. Berry nodded her head, "there are other rooms. I don't want you to be uncomfortable in any particular. I thought you'd like it better that way. The two rooms I've fixed for you, are two big ones on the second floor. Mine is on the same floor, in the rear. Your uncle's rooms are upon the third floor." "I think it sounds fine," declared Bernice, "and I'm sure I'll get on with Alicia, if she does have 'notions.'" And then they reached the big house on upper Fifth Avenue, and as they entered, Dolly felt a little appalled at the grandeur everywhere about her. Not so Dotty. She loved elegance, and as her feet sank into the deep soft rugs, she laughed out in sheer delight of being in such beautiful surroundings. Mrs. Berry took the girls at once to their rooms, and sent the car for Alicia. "I'll give the front room to Dotty and Dolly," she said to Bernice; "and you can have the other. It's quite as nice, only it looks out on the side street, not on the Avenue." "That's right, Mrs. Berry. Dot and Dolly are more company than Alicia and I are. We're really members of the family. I was so surprised at Uncle Jeff's inviting us. Why did he do it, anyway?" "Why, indeed!" said Mrs. Berry, but her expression was quizzical. "No one can tell why Mr. Forbes does things! He is a law unto himself. Now, girls, your trunks are coming up. And here are two maids to unpack for you and put your things away. You can direct them." Mrs. Berry bustled away, and two neat-looking maids appeared, one of whom entered Bernice's room and the other attended on Dot and Dolly. "Which frocks shall I leave out for dinner?" the maid asked, as she shook out and hung up the dresses in the wardrobe. "The blue voile for me," replied Dolly, "and--er--what is your name?" "Foster, miss," and she smiled at Dolly's gentle face. "And the rose-coloured voile for me," directed Dotty. "You'll find, Foster, that our frocks are pretty much alike except as to colour." "Yes, ma'am. And these patent leather pumps, I daresay?" "Yes, that's right," and Dotty flung herself into a big easy-chair and sighed in an ecstasy of delight that she really had a ladies' maid to wait on her. Dolly didn't take it so easily. She wanted to look after her own things, as she did at home. But Dotty motioned to her not to do so, lest Foster should think them inexperienced or countrified. Their simple belongings were soon in place, and the two D's wandered into Bernice's room. Here everything was helter-skelter. Finery was piled on beds and chairs, and hats were flung on top of one another, while shoes and veils, gloves and hair-brushes were scattered on the floor. "It's my fault," laughed Bernice, "don't blame Perkins for it! I'm hunting for a bracelet, that has slipped out of my jewel case, somehow. It must be in this lot of stockings!" It wasn't, but it turned up at last, inside of a hat, and Bernice gave a little squeal of relief. "That's all right, then!" she cried; "I wouldn't lose that for worlds! It's a bangle father gave me for Christmas, and it has a diamond in the pendant. All right, Perkins, put the things away any place you like. But save hooks and shelves enough for my cousin Alicia. She'll be in this room with me." Each large room had what seemed to the two little women ample room for clothes. But Bernice had brought so much more than they did, that her things overflowed the space provided. "I'll wear this to-night, for dinner," she said, pulling out a light green silk from a pile of frocks. "Oh, Bernie!" exclaimed Dotty; "not that! That's a party dress, isn't it?" "Not exactly. I've more dressy ones. But it is a little fussy for a quiet evening at home, I suppose. Well, what shall I wear?" "This?" and Dotty picked out a simple challie. "Oh, gracious, no! That's a morning frock. I guess I'll stick to the green. Don't you think so, Perkins?" "Yes, miss. It's a lovely gown." The maid was interested in the girls, her life in the quiet house being usually most uneventful. This sudden invasion of young people was welcomed by all the servants, and there were many in Jefferson Forbes' palatial home. Mrs. Berry had engaged several extra ones to help with the increased work, but the two maids assigned to the girls were trusted and tried retainers. And then, there was a bustle heard downstairs, a peal of laughter and a perfect flood of chatter in a high, shrill voice, and with a bounding run up the staircase, Alicia burst into the room where the three girls were. "Hello, Bernice, old girl!" she shouted, and flung her arms around her cousin's neck, giving her resounding smacks on her cheek. "Golly! Molly! Polly! but I'm glad to see you again! Forgotten me, have you? Take a good look! Your long lost Alicia! 'Tis really she! And look who's here! I'll bet a pig these two stammering, blushing young misses are the far-famed Dolly and Dotty, but which is which?" "Guess!" said Dotty, laughing, as Dolly stood dismayed, and half frightened at this whirlwind of a girl. "All right, I'll guess. Lemmesee! Dolly Fayre and Dotty Rose;--you see I know your names. Why, the fair one is Dolly of course, and that leaves Dotty to be you!" "Right!" cried Dotty, and Alicia flew to her and grabbed her as enthusiastically as she had Bernice. "Oh, you chickabiddy!" she cried. "I foresee we shall be chums! I love Towhead, too, but I'm a little afraid of her. See her steely blue eyes, even now, fixed on me in utter disapprobation!" "Not at all," said Dolly, politely, "I think you're very nice." The calm demureness of this speech was too much for Alicia, and she went off in peals of laughter. "Oh, you're rich!" she cried; "simpully rich! WON'T we have fun! I'm 'most afraid I'll love you more'n the other one--the black haired witch." And then Dolly was treated to an embrace that ruffled her hair and collar and came near ruffling her temper. For Dolly didn't like such sudden familiarity, but her good manners kept her from showing her annoyance. "Oh, you don't fool me!" cried Alicia; "I know you think I'm awful! Too rambunctious and all that! But I'm used to it! At school they call me That Awful Alicia! How's that?" "Fine, if you like it--and I believe you do!" laughed Dolly. "Mind reader! I say, Bernice, where am I to put my togs! You've squatted on every available foot of property in this room! I thought it was to be ours together! But every single bed in the room is covered with your rags. I've two trunks of duds, myself." "Two trunks! Why did you bring so much?" "Had to have it. There's lots of things I carry around with me beside clothes. Why, I've brought a whole chafing-dish outfit." "Goodness, Alicia," exclaimed Bernice, "do you think Uncle Jeff won't give us enough to eat?" "I take no chances. But it isn't that. It's thusly. Say we're out of an evening, and on returning, are sent straight to beddy-by. How comforting to have the necessary for a little spread of our own! Oh, I've tried it out at school, and I can tell you there's something in it. But, where, ladies and gentlemen, WHERE I ask you, can I put it? Bernice has all the places full." "Leave it in your trunk," suggested Dolly, "until you want to use it." "Angel child!" cried Alicia. "I knew you had some brain concealed among that mop of yellow silk floss! I'll do that same, and be thankful if my voracious cousin leaves me enough room for a few scant and skimpy clodings!" And then, as Perkins unpacked Alicia's trunks and Foster came in to help, the room really seemed incapable of holding all. "We'd better get out, Doll," said Dotty, laughing, as Alicia deposited an armful of petticoats and dressing jackets in her lap. "Oh, don't go! I want you to hold things till I find a place for them. And, say, are your own wardrobes full?" "No!" cried Dolly. "Just the thing! Put your overflow in our room, we've less than a dozen dresses between us." "Goodness gracious me! Oh, you're going to buy a lot in the city,--I see!" "No, we're not," said Dolly, who never sailed under false colours; "we brought all we had, all our best ones. I mean. But we don't have things like you and Bernice." "You frank little bunch of honesty! Isn't she the darling! All right, neighbours, since you insist, I'll put some seventeen or twenty-four of my Paris confections in your empty cupboards." Of course, Alicia was exaggerating, but she really did take half a dozen frocks into the two D's room, and hung them in outspread fashion right over their best costumes. "And, now, since one good turn deserves another," she rattled on, "I'll just toss my extra shoes and slippers into your lowest bureau drawer, and my stockings into the next one. There's plenty of room." So there was, by crowding the contents already there. But Alicia was so quick of motion, and so gay of speech that they couldn't refuse to let her have her way. And, too, it seemed inevitable, for there wasn't room for Alicia's things and Bernie's in the same room, and the D's shelves and bureau drawers showed much vacancy. "Now, what do we wear this evening?" Alicia asked, tossing over her dresses. "This, let us say?" She held up a low--necked evening gown of silk tissue. "No, you goose," said Bernice, decidedly. "Your respected uncle would think you were crazy! Here, wear this." Bernice picked out one of the least ornate, a pretty Dresden silk, and then the girls all began to dress for dinner. CHAPTER IV A MERRY QUARTETTE "Ready for dinner, girls?" sounded a cheery voice, and Mrs. Berry came bustling in. "Almost, aren't you? Try to remember that Mr. Forbes doesn't like to be kept waiting." "I'm scared to death," said Bernice, frankly. "I never know what to say to Uncle Jeff, anyway, and being a guest makes it all the harder." "Pooh! I'm not afraid," exclaimed Alicia. "Leave it to me. I'll engineer the conversation and all you girls need to do is to chip in now and then." Alicia was a tall, fair girl, larger than any of the others. She was plump and jolly-looking, and had a breezy manner that was attractive because of her smiling good-natured face. She laughed a great deal, and seemed to have no lack of self-confidence and self-assurance. Her dress had many fluttering ribbons of vivid pink, and frills of lace of an inexpensive variety. She led the way downstairs, calling out, "March on, march on to victory!" and the others followed. The four entered the drawing-room, and found there a tall, dignified gentleman, in full evening dress. He had a handsome face, though a trifle stern and forbidding of expression, and his closely trimmed white beard was short and pointed. He had large, dark eyes, which darted from one girl to the other as the quartette appeared. "H'm," he said, "this is Bernice; how do you do, my dear? How do you do?" "I'm Alicia," announced that spry damsel, gaily, and she caught him by the hand. "Yes, and very like your mother, my dear sister. Well, Alicia, if you possess half her fine traits, you'll make a splendid woman. But I doubt if you are very much like her except in appearance. You look to me like a flibbertigibbet,--if you know what that is." "Yes, and I am one, thank you, Uncle Jeff," and Alicia laughed gaily, not at all abashed at her uncle's remark. "These are my two friends from Berwick, uncle," said Bernice, introducing them. "Dolly Fayre and Dotty Rose." "You are welcome, my dears," and the courteous old gentleman bowed to them with great dignity. "I trust you can find amusement and enjoy your visit here. Now, let us dine." Dolly looked curiously at her host, as he stood back, and bowed the girls out of the room, before he followed them, but Dotty was so interested in the surroundings that she gave no second thought to Mr. Forbes, as she passed him. The dining-room was a marvel of old time grandeur. Nothing was modern, but the heavy black walnut sideboard and chairs spoke of long usage and old time ways. Mrs. Berry did not appear at the table, and evidently was not expected, as no place was set for her. Mr. Forbes sat at the head, and two girls at either side. A grave-faced, important looking butler directed the service, and two footmen assisted. Everything was of the best, and wonderfully cooked and served, but Dolly and Dotty could scarcely eat for the novelty and interest of the scene. "Come, come, Miss Fayre, eat your terrapin," counselled Mr. Forbes, "it is not so good cold." "Oh, gracious, Uncle Jeff," exclaimed the volatile Alicia, "don't call those kids Miss! Call 'em Dotty and Dolly, do." "Can't remember which is which," declared her uncle, looking at the two D's. "I can remember the last names, because the Fayre girl is fair, and the Rose girl is rosy. I shall call them Rosy and Fairy, I think." "All right, Mr. Forbes," and Dolly smiled and dimpled at the pretty conceit. "And you two must call me something less formal," he said. "Suppose you call me Uncle Forbes, as you are not really my nieces." This seemed a fine plan and was readily adopted. "And now," Mr. Forbes went on, "I don't mind confessing that I've no idea what to do with you girls. By way of entertainment, I mean." "Oh, Uncle Jeff," said Bernice, "it's enough entertainment just to be here in New York for a week. Why, we will have all we can do to see the shops and the sights--I suppose we can go around sight-seeing?" "Bless my soul, yes. Of course you can. Go where you like. Order the motors whenever you choose. Mrs. Berry will do all you want her to; just tell her your plans. All I ask is that I shan't be troubled with you during the day." "Why, uncle," cried Alicia, "won't we see you at all in the daytime?" "No. I am a very busy man. I cannot have my work interrupted by a pack of foolish chatterers." "Whatever did you ask us for?" Alicia's round face wore a look of surprised inquiry. "Never you mind, miss. I had a very good reason for asking you, but one doesn't always tell his reasons. However, I expect to see you every night at the dinner table, and for an hour or so afterward in the drawing room. The rest of the time you must amuse yourselves. Have you any friends in New York, any of you?" "I have a few," said Dotty, as the inquiring glance turned in her direction. "Invite them to the house when you choose," said Mr. Forbes, hospitably, if curtly. "Oh, no, sir," said Dotty, quickly. "They wouldn't fit in." Mr. Forbes chuckled. "You have a sense of the fitness of things, Miss Rosy. Why wouldn't they fit in?" "Why, they're plain people. Not grand and elegant like you." "Oho! So I'm grand and elegant, am I? And are you grand and elegant, too?" Dotty considered. "Yes," she said, finally, "I am, while I'm here. I'm very adaptable, and while I'm in New York, I mean to be just as grand and elegant as the house itself." Mr. Forbes burst into hearty laughter. "Good for you!" he cried. "When you're in Rome do as the Romans do. And you, Fairy of the golden curls. Are you going to be grand, also?" "I can't," returned Dolly, simply. "I can only be myself, wherever I am. But I shall enjoy all the beautiful things as much as Dotty." Again Mr. Forbes laughed. "You're a great pair," he said. "I'm glad I discovered you. And now, Bernice and Alicia, haven't you any young friends in town you'd like to invite to see you here? Remember the house is yours." "Oh, Uncle Jeff," cried Alicia, "you are too good! Do you mean it? Can we do just as we like? Invite parties, and all that?" "Yes, indeed. Why not? Have the best time possible, and see to it that those two little friends of yours have a good time, too." "But won't you go with us anywhere?" asked Bernice; "I thought you'd take us to see places where we can't go alone." "Bless my soul! Take a lot of chattering magpies sightseeing! No, not if I know it! Mrs. Berry will take you; and on a pinch, I might let my secretary accompany you, say to see the downtown big buildings or the bright lights at night." "Oh, do you have a secretary?" asked Alicia. "What's he like?" "Fenn? Oh, he's a good sort. Very dependable and really accommodating. He'll be of great help to you, I'm sure." "What is your business, Mr. Forbes?" asked Dolly, who was much interested in this strange type of man. She had never seen any one like him, and he seemed to her a sort of fairy godfather, who waved his wand and gave them all sorts of wonderful gifts. "I haven't any business, my dear. My occupation and amusement is collecting specimens for my collection. I am an entomologist and ornithologist, if you know what those big words mean." "Yes, sir, I do." And Dolly smiled back at him. "Mayn't we see your collection?" "I'm not sure about that, I don't show it to everybody. It is up on the fourth floor of this house, and no one is allowed up there unless accompanied by myself or Mr. Fenn. By the way, remember that, all of you. On no account go up to the fourth floor. Not that you'd be likely to, for you have no call above the second floor, where your rooms are. But this is a special command. The house is yours, as I said, but that means only this first floor and the one above it." "Goodness me, Uncle Jeff!" said Alicia, "you needn't lay down the law so hard! We're not absolute babes, to be so strictly cautioned and forbidden! If you desire us not to go up the second flight of stairs, of course we won't." "That's right, my dear, don't. But I do lay it down as a law, and it is the only law I shall impose on you. Except for that you can follow out your own sweet wills." "But," said Dotty, her dark eyes brilliant with the excitement of the occasion, "I'm not always sure as to what is proper. I want to do just what is right. Is it correct for us to go about alone, in your big motor, with your chauffeur? Can we go to the art galleries and the shops alone?" "Bless my soul! I don't know." The big man looked absolutely helpless. "Surely you must know such things yourselves. What do your mothers let you do at home? Oh, well, if you're uncertain, ask Mrs. Berry, she'll know. She's an all-round capable person, and she'll know all the unwritten laws about chaperonage and such things. Do as she bids you." This was satisfactory, and Dotty began at once to make plans for the next day. "Let's go to the Metropolitan Museum first," she said. "All right," chimed in Alicia, "we'll go there in the morning, then. But to-morrow is Wednesday, and I want to go to a matinee in the afternoon. Can't we, Uncle Jeff?" "Of course you can. Tell Fenn, he'll see about tickets for you. Just tell Mrs. Berry to see Fenn about it." "Oh," sighed the outspoken Dotty, "it is just like Fairyland! Tell Fenn! Just as if Fenn were a magician!" "He is," said Mr. Forbes, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I couldn't keep house without Fenn. He's my right hand man for everything. You girls mustn't claim too much of his time and attention, for I keep him on the jump most of the time myself." "Does your collection keep you so busy?" asked Dolly, whose secret longing was to see that same collection, which greatly interested her. "Yes, indeed. There's always work to be done in connection with it. I've a lot of new specimens just arrived to-day, awaiting classification and tabulation." After dinner they all returned to the drawing-room. Mr. Forbes seemed desirous of keeping up a general conversation, but it was hard to find a subject to interest him. He would talk a few moments, and then lapse into absent-mindedness and almost forget the girls' presence. At times, he would get up from his chair, and stalk up and down the room, perhaps suddenly pausing in front of one of them, and asking a direct question. "How old are you?" he asked abruptly of Alicia. "Sixteen," she replied. "I was sixteen last October." "You look like your mother at that age. She was my only sister. She has now been dead--" "Ten years," prompted Alicia. "I was a little child when she died." "And who looks after you now? Your father's sister, isn't it?" "Yes, Uncle Jeff. My Aunt Nellie. But I'm at school, you know. I shall be there the next four years, I suppose." "Yes, yes, to be sure. Yes, yes, of course. And you, Bernice? You have no mother, either. But who looks after you?" "I look after myself, Uncle. Father thinks there's no necessity for me to have a chaperon in our little home town." "Not a chaperon, child, but you ought to have some one to guide and teach you." "Dad doesn't think so. He says an American girl can take care of herself." "Maybe so, maybe so. It might be a good thing for you to go to school with Alicia." "It might be. But I like our High School at home, and we learn a lot there." "But not the same kind of learning. Do they teach you manners and general society instruction?" "No," said Bernice, smiling at thought of such things in connection with the Berwick school. "But my father thinks those things come naturally to girls of good families." "Maybe so, maybe so." And then Mr. Forbes again walked up and down the long room, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. Dolly and Dotty felt a little uncomfortable. They wanted to make themselves agreeable and entertaining, but their host seemed interested exclusively in his young relatives, and they hesitated lest they intrude. As it neared ten o'clock, Mr. Forbes paused in his pacing of the room, bowed to each of the four in turn, and then saying, courteously, "I bid you goodnight," he vanished into the hall. Immediately Mrs. Berry entered. It seemed a relief to see her kind, smiling face after the uncertain phases of their eccentric host. "Now you young people must go to bed," the housekeeper said; "you're tired,--or ought to be. Come along." Not at all unwillingly they followed her upstairs, and she looked after their comfort in most solicitous fashion. After she had shown them how to ring the various bells to call the maids or to call her, in emergency, and had drawn their attention to the ice water in thermos bottles, and told them how to adjust the ventilators, she bade them good-night and went away. The rooms had a communicating door, and this Alicia promptly threw open and came through into the two D's room. "Oh, isn't it all the greatest fun! And did you EVER see anything so crazy as Uncle Jeff? What he wants us here for, _I_ don't know! But it's something,--and something especial. He never asked us here to amuse him! Of that I'm certain." "Not much he didn't!" and Bernice followed Alicia, and perched on the edge of Dolly's bed. "Isn't he queer? I didn't know he was so funny as he is. Did you, Alicia?" "No; I haven't seen him since I was a tiny mite. But he's all right. He knows what he's about and I don't wonder he doesn't want us bothering around if he's busy." "I'd love to see his collection," said Dolly. "I'm awfully interested in such things." "Oh, well, you'll probably have a chance to see it while we're here," and Alicia began taking down her hair. "Now, girls, let's get to bed, for I'm jolly well tired out. But I foresee these poky evenings right along, don't you? We'll have to cram a lot of fun into our days, if the evenings are to be spent watching an elderly gentleman stalking around thus." And then Alicia gave a very good imitation of the way Mr. Forbes walked around. She didn't ridicule him; she merely burlesqued his manner as he paused to speak to them in his funny, abrupt way. "What are you, my dear?" she said, looking at Dolly. "Are you a specimen I can use in my collection? No? Are you a fashionable butterfly? I say, Bernice," she suddenly broke off, "why was he so curious about the way we live at home, and who brings us up?" "I don't know; and anyway, he knew how long our mothers have been dead and who takes care of us. Why did he ask those things over and over?" "I think he's a bit absent-minded. Half the time he was thinking of matters far removed from this charming quartette of bewitching beauties. Well, it's up to us to make our own good time. I move we corral the big limousine for to-morrow morning and go in search of adventure." "To the Metropolitan?" suggested Dolly. "Yes, if you like, though I'd rather go to the shops," and Alicia gathered up her hairpins to depart. Her long light hair hung round her shoulders, and she pushed it back as she affectionately kissed Dolly and Dotty good-night. "You are sure two darlings!" she said emphatically. CHAPTER V GOING ABOUT Four smiling, eager girls trooped down to breakfast the next morning, and found Mrs. Berry awaiting them. She presided at the table, and they learned that she would always do so at breakfast and luncheon, though she did not dine with them. "Uncle Jeff says we may go to a matinee to-day," said Alicia, delightedly. "Will you see about the tickets, Mrs. Berry? Uncle said Mr. Fenn would get them if you asked him to." "Yes, my dear. And what are your plans for the morning? Do you want the car?" "Yes, indeed," said Bernice. "We're going to the Museum and I don't know where else." "To the Library, if we have time," suggested Dolly. "I want to see all the places of interest." "Places of interest never interest me," declared Alicia. "I think they're poky." "All right," returned Dolly, good-naturedly, "I'll go wherever you like." "Now, don't be so ready to give in, Doll," cautioned Bernice. "You have as much right to your way as Alicia has to hers." "No, I haven't," and Dolly smiled brightly; "this is the house of Alicia's uncle, and not mine." "Well, he's my uncle, too, and what I say goes, as much as Alicia's commands." "There, there, girls, don't quarrel," said Mrs. Berry, in her amiable way. "Surely you can all be suited. There are two cars, you know, and if you each want to go in a different direction, I'll call taxi-cabs for you." Dolly and Dotty stared at this new lavishness, and Dotty said, quickly, "Oh, no, don't do that! We all want to be together, wherever we go. And I think, as Dolly does, that Bernice and Alicia must choose, for they belong here and we're guests." "You're two mighty well-behaved little guests," and Mrs. Berry beamed at them. "Well, settle it among yourselves. Now, what matinee do you want to go to? I'll order tickets for you." "Will you go with us, Mrs. Berry?" asked Dolly. "No, child. I hope you'll let me off. You girls are old enough to go alone in the daytime, and Kirke will take you and come to fetch you home. Now, what play?" "I want to see 'The Lass and the Lascar'; that's a jolly thing, I hear," said Alicia, as no one else suggested anything. "Musical?" asked Bernice. "Yes," said Mrs. Berry, "it's a comic opera, and a very good one. I've seen it, and I'm sure you girls will enjoy it. I'll order seats for that. Be sure to be home for luncheon promptly at one, so you can get ready for the theatre." "I can't believe it all," whispered Dotty, pinching Dolly's arm, as they ran upstairs to prepare for their morning's trip. "Think of our going to all these places in one day!" "And six days more to come!" added Dolly. "Oh, it is too gorgeous!" Arrayed in warm coats and furs, the laughing quartette got into the big car, and George, the polite footman, adjusted the robes, and asked their destination. "To the Metropolitan Museum, first," said Alicia, unselfishly. "Oh," cried Dolly, with sparkling eyes, "are we really going there first! How good of you, Alicia!" And from the moment they entered the vestibule of the great museum, Dolly was enthralled with what she saw. Like one in a trance, she walked from room to room, drinking in the beauty or strangeness of the exhibits. She ignored the catalogues, merely gazing at the pictures or curios with an absorbed attention that made her oblivious to all else. "Watch her," said Alicia, nudging Dotty. "She doesn't even know where she is! Just now, she's back in Assyria with the people that wore that old jewellery!" Sure enough Dolly was staring into a case of antique bracelets and earrings of gold and jewels. She moved along the length of the case, noting each piece, and fairly sighing with admiration and wonder. "My gracious! isn't she the antiquarian!" exclaimed Alicia. "Look here, old Professor Wiseacre, what dynasty does this junk belong to?" Dolly looked up with a vacant stare. "Come back to earth!" cried Alicia, shaking with laughter. "Come back to the twentieth century! We mourn our loss!" "Yes, come back, Dollums," said Dotty. "There are other rooms full of stuff awaiting your approval." Dolly laughed. "Oh, you girls don't appreciate What you're seeing. Just think! Women wore these very things! Real, live women!" "Well, they're not alive now," said Bernice, "and we are. So give us the pleasure of your company. Say, Dolly, some day you come up here all alone by yourself, and prowl around--" "Oh, I'd love to! I'll do just that. And then I won't feel that I'm delaying you girls. Where do you want to go now?" "Anywhere out of this old museum," said Alicia, a little pettishly. "You've had your way, Dotty, now it's only fair I should have mine. We've about an hour left; let's go to the shops." "Yes, indeed," and Dolly spoke emphatically. "I didn't realise that I was being a selfish old piggy-wig!" "And you're not," defended Bernice. "We all wanted to come here, but, well, you see, Dolly, you do dawdle." "But it's such a wonder-place!" and Dolly gazed longingly backward as they left the antiquities. "And there are rooms we haven't even looked into yet." "Dozens of 'em," assented Alicia. "But not this morning, my chickabiddy! I must flee to the busy marts and see what's doing in the way of tempting bargains." "All right," and Dolly put her arm through Alicia's. "What are you going to buy?" "Dunno, till I see something that strikes my fancy. But in the paper this morning, I noticed a special sale of 'Pastime Toggery' at Follansbee's. Let's go there." "Never heard of the place," said Dolly. "But let's go." "Never heard of Follansbee's! Why, it's the smartest shop in New York for sport clothes." "Is it? We never get sport clothes. Unless you mean middies and sweaters. My mother buys those at the department stores." "Oh, you can't get exclusive models there!" and Alicia's face wore a reproving expression. "No," said outspoken Dolly, "but we don't wear exclusive models. We're rather inclusive, I expect." "You're a duck!" cried Alicia, who, though ultra-fashionable herself, liked the honesty and frankness of the two D's. They reached the shop in question, and the four girls went in. The Berwick girls were a little awed at the atmosphere of the place, but Alicia was entirely mistress of the situation. She had many costumes and accessories shown to her, and soon became as deeply absorbed in their contemplation as Dolly had been in the Museum exhibits. "Why, for goodness' sake!" cried Bernice, at last. "Are you going to buy out the whole shop, Alicia?" "Why, I'm not going to buy any," returned Alicia, looking surprised; "I'm just shopping, you know." "Oh, is that it? Well, let me tell you it isn't any particular fun for us to look on while you 'shop'! And, anyway, it's time to be going home, or we'll be late for the luncheon and for the matinee." "All right, I'll go now. But wait. I want to buy some little thing for you girls,--sort of a souvenir, you know." "Good for you!" said Bernice, but Dolly demurred. "I don't think you ought to, Alicia," she said. "I don't believe my mother would like me to take it." "Nonsense, Towhead! I'm just going to get trifles. Nobody could object to my giving you a tiny token of my regard and esteem. Let me see,--how about silk sweaters? They're always handy to have in the house." Unheeding the girls' protestations, Alicia selected four lovely colours, and asked the saleswoman to get the right sizes. Dolly's was robin's egg blue; Dotty's salmon pink; Bernice's, a deep orange, and Alicia's own was white, as she declared she already had every colour of the rainbow. Then she selected an old rose one for Mrs. Berry, getting permission to exchange it if it should be a misfit. Alicia ordered the sweaters sent to her uncle's house, and the bill sent to her father. This arrangement seemed perfectly satisfactory to the shop people, and the girls set off for home. "I feel uncomfortable about that sweater," announced Dolly, as they were on their way. "That doesn't matter," laughed Alicia, "so long as you don't feel uncomfortable in it! Remove that anxious scowl, my little Towhead; I love to give things to my friends, and you must learn to accept trifles gracefully." "But it isn't a trifle, Alicia. I know mother won't like it." "Won't like that blue sweater! Why, it's a beauty!" "I don't mean that. I mean she won't like for me to take it,--to accept it from you." "All right; tell her you bought it yourself." "Tell a story about it! No, thank you." Dolly's blue eyes fairly flashed at the thought. "Well, my stars! Dolly, don't make such a fuss about it! Throw it away, or give it to the scullery maid! You don't have to keep it!" Clearly, Alicia was annoyed. Dolly was far from ungrateful, and she didn't know quite what to do. "Of course, she'll keep it," Dotty broke in, anxious to straighten matters out. "She adores it, Alicia; but we girls aren't accustomed to making each other gifts,--at least, not expensive ones." "Well, you needn't make a habit of it. One sweater doesn't make a summer! I hope Mrs. Berry won't be so squeamish! If I thought she would, I'd throw hers in the ash barrel before I'd give it to her!" "I s'pose I was horrid about it, Alicia," said Dolly, contritely; "I do love it, really, you know I do; but, as Dotty says, we never give such gifts. Why, I can't give you anything to make up for it--" "And I don't want you to! You little goose! But like as not, you can sometime do something for me worth more than a dozen sweaters." "I hope so, I'm sure. Will you tell me if I can?" "Yes, baby-face! I declare, Dolly, it's hard to realise you're fifteen years old! You act about twelve,--and look ten!" "Oh, not so bad as that!" and Dolly laughed gaily. "I s'pose I do seem younger than I am, because I've always lived in a small town. We don't do things like city girls." "'Deed we don't!" exclaimed Dotty. "I used to live in the city, and when I went to Berwick it was like a different world. But I've come to like it now." "I like it," said Bernice, decidedly. "I think we have a lot more fun in Berwick than we could in New York. To live, I mean. Of course, this visit here is lovely, but it's the novelty and the strange sights that make it so. I wouldn't want to live in New York." "Neither would I," and Dolly shook her head very positively. "I would," said Alicia. "I'd just love to live here, in a house like Uncle Jeff's, and have all these cars and servants and everything fine." "No, thank you," Dolly rejoined. "It's beautiful for a week, but it makes my head go round to think of living like this always." "Your head is not very securely fastened on, anyway," and Alicia grinned at her. "You'll lose it some day!" "Maybe so," smiled Dolly, affably, and then they suddenly found they were back home. "Good time, girlies?" called out Mrs. Berry, as they entered. "Lunch is all ready; sit down and eat it, and get dressed for the matinee afterward, Mr. Fenn got fine seats for you,--near the front. You'll like the play, I know." And like the play they did. It was a light opera, of the prettiest type, full of lovely scenery, gay costumes and bright, catchy music. "The Lass and the Lascar" was its name, and the lass in question was a charming little girl who seemed no older than the quartette themselves. The Lascar was a tall, handsome man, whose swarthy East Indian effects were picturesque and attractive. He had a magnificent baritone voice, and the girls sat breathless when he sang his splendid numbers. All four were fond of music and even more than the gay splendour of the show they enjoyed the voices and orchestra. "Isn't he wonderful!" exclaimed Alicia, as the curtain fell on the first act. "Oh, girls, isn't he SUPERB! I'm MADLY in love with him!" "He has a beautiful voice," agreed Dolly, "but I couldn't be in love with him! He's too,--too ferocious!" "But that's his charm," declared Alicia, rolling her eyes in ecstasy. "Oh, he is ideal! He's fascinating!" The curtain rose again, and the Lascar proved even more fascinating. He was a daredevil type, as Lascars have the reputation of being, but he was gentle and affectionate toward the Lass, who, for some inexplicable reason, scorned his advances. "What a FOOL she is! WHAT a fool!" Alicia whispered, as the coquettish heroine laughed at the impassioned love songs of her suitor. "I should fall into his arms at once!" "Then there wouldn't be any more opera," laughed Bernice. "That fall into his arms is always the last episode on the stage." "That's so," agreed Alicia, "but how can she flout him so? Oh, girls, isn't he the grandest man? I never saw such a handsome chap! What a lovely name he has, too: Bayne Coriell! A beautiful name." "Good gracious, Alicia! don't rave over him like that! Somebody will hear you!" "I don't care. I never saw any one so wonderful! I'm going to get his picture when we go out. I suppose it's for sale in the lobby. They usually are." "Are they?" asked Dolly. "Then I want to get one of the Lass. Marie Desmond, her name is. Can I, do you think?" "Yes, of course, Dollykins. You get that and I'll get my hero, my idol, Bayne Coriell!" As it chanced the photographs were not on sale at the theatre, but an usher told Alicia where they could be bought, and she directed Kirke to stop there on the way home. She bought several different portraits of the man who had so infatuated her and Dolly bought two photographs of Miss Desmond. The other girls said they didn't care for any pictures, and laughed at the enthusiasm of Alicia and Dolly. "I want this," Dolly defended herself, "because sometime I'm going to be an opera singer. I did mean to sing in Grand Opera, and maybe I will, but if I can't do that, I'll sing in light opera, and I like to have this picture to remind me how sweet Miss Desmond looks in this play." "Pooh," said Alicia, "that's all very well. But I want these pictures of Bayne Coriell because he's such a glorious man! Why, he's as handsome as Apollo. And, girls, I don't believe he's hardly any older than we are." "Oh, he must be," returned Dotty. "Why, he's twenty-two or more, I'm sure." "Maybe he is twenty, but not more than that. Oh, how I wish I could meet him! Think of the joy of talking to a man like that!" "Well, it's not likely you'll ever meet Bayne Coriell," said Bernice, laughing at the idea; "so you needn't hope for that!" CHAPTER VI A MATINEE IDOL "Oh, Uncle Jeff," Alicia cried, as they gathered round the dinner-table that same night, "we went to the splendidest play! It was a light opera, 'The Lass and the Lascar.' Have you seen it?" "No, my dear, I rarely go to the theatre; never to foolish pieces like that! But it's all right for you young people. So you enjoyed it, did you? How did you like--" But Alicia's babble interrupted him. "Oh, Uncle, it was simply out of sight! And the hero! Ah-h-h!" Alicia leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes as if the memory of the hero was overwhelming. "Took your fancy, did he?" asked her uncle, with a twinkle in his eye. "Good-looking chap?" "Good-looking faintly expresses it!" and Alicia returned to consciousness. "He was like a Greek god! And his CHARM! Oh, Uncle Jeff, he is just indescribable! I wish you could SEE him." "Must be a paragon! What did the rest of you girls think! Were you hit so hard?" Dotty laughed. "He was splendid, Uncle Forbes," she said, "but we didn't fall so head over heels in love with him as Alicia did. He has a stunning voice and he's a fine actor." "Oh, more than that!" raved Alicia. "He's a DARLING! a man of a THOUSAND!" "A young man?" asked Mr. Forbes. "Yes," replied Bernice. "Alicia thinks he isn't twenty, but he can't be much more. He looked a mere boy." "Wasn't that because he was made up as a young character in the play?" "Partly," admitted Alicia. "But he's a very young man, anyway. Oh, Uncle Jeff, I'm just CRAZY over him! I think I shall go to see that play every chance I can possibly get. Could we go to an evening performance?" "Speak for yourself, John!" cried Bernice. "I don't want to see that play again! I enjoyed it heaps, and I think Mr. Coriell was fine, but next time we go I'd rather see something else." "So would I," said the two D's together. "How can you say so!" and Alicia looked at the others in scorn. "You'll never find any actor who can hold a candle to Coriell! I have his picture, Uncle," and, excusing herself, she left the table to get them. "H'm, yes, a good-looking man," agreed Mr. Forbes, as he scrutinised the photographs. "But, Alicia, you mustn't fall in love with every operatic tenor you see. I believe this Coriell is a 'matinee idol,' but don't allow him to engage your young affections." "Too late with your advice, Uncle Jeff!" and Alicia gazed raptly at the pictures. "I ADORE him! and the fact that my adoration is hopeless makes it all the more interesting. Oh, isn't he a WONDER!" Gaily she set the pictures up in front of her, propping them on glasses or salt cellars, and continued to make mock worship at his shrine. "Don't be silly, Alicia," commented her uncle, but she only shook her head at him, and gave a mournful sigh. The girls spent the evening much the same as they had done the night before. They all sat in the stately drawing-room, and endeavoured to make conversation. But Uncle Jeff was hard to talk to, for he rarely stuck to one subject for more than five minutes at a time, and abruptly interrupted the girls when they were trying their best to be entertaining. Alicia continued to chatter about her new-found enthusiasm, until her uncle commanded her to desist. "May I beg of you, Alicia," he said, sternly, "to cease raving over that man? He's doubtless old enough to be your father, and would be bored to death could he hear your nonsense about him!" Alicia looked put out, but a glance at her uncle's face proved his seriousness, and she said no more about the actor. The evening wore away, but it seemed to the girls as if it never would be ten o'clock. And it was greatly to their relief, when, at about half-past nine, Mr. Forbes bade them good-night and went off upstairs. "It is all the queerest performance," said Bernice. "What in the world does Uncle Jeff want of us,--I can't make out. The outlook seems to be that we can have all the fun we want daytimes, and pay for it by these ghastly evening sessions." "There's something back of it all," said Alicia, astutely. "This revered uncle of ours, Bernie, has something up his sleeve." "I think so, too," said Dotty. "He scrutinises us all so closely, when he thinks we're not looking. But I, for one, am quite willing to put up with these evenings for the sake of the fun we have in the daytime." "I should say so!" agreed Dolly. "We never can thank you enough, Bern, for bringing us." "And I'm glad to have you here," said Mrs. Berry, entering the room. "You're like a ray of sunshine in this dull house,--like four rays of sunshine." "But WHY are we here?" insisted Alicia. "You must know why, Mrs. Berry. Do tell us." "You're here, my dears, because Mr. Forbes invited you. There is no other reason,--no other explanation. And now, tell me, did you like the play?" "Did we LIKE it!" exclaimed the volatile Alicia, "we're just crazy over it. Why, the chief actor--" "Now, 'Licia," protested Dolly, "if you're going to begin raving over that man again!" "Well, I am!" declared Alicia. "I just can't help it!" Nor did she seem able to curb her enthusiasm, for after the girls went to their rooms, she kept on extolling Mr. Coriell until the others were tired of the subject. And even when the D's were nearly ready for bed, and, in kimonos, were brushing their hair, Alicia burst into their room, exclaiming, "I've the grandest plan! I'm going to invite Mr. Coriell to come here and call on me!" "Alicia Steele!" Dotty cried, "you're not going to do any such thing!" "Yes, I am. Uncle Jeff said we could invite anybody we wanted to,--that's permission enough for me." "But he didn't mean some one you don't know at all,--and an actor at that!" "I don't care. He didn't make any exceptions, and I'm going to do it. I'm going to write the note." She went back to her own room, and sat down at the pretty little escritoire that was there. "How shall I address him?" she asked, but more of herself than the others. "Not at all!" said Dolly, and she took the pen from Alicia's fingers. "You must be crazy to think of such a thing!" "Don't do it, Alicia," begged Dotty; "tell her not to, Bernice." "I don't care what she does," and Bernice laughed. "It's none of my affair. I think it would be rather good fun, only I know he wouldn't come." "I think he would," said Alicia. "Anyway, I'm going to tell him how I adored his acting and his singing, and I guess he'll be glad to come to call at Jefferson Forbes' house! I think I'll ask him to afternoon tea. Why, it isn't such a terrible thing, as you seem to think, Dolly. Anybody has a right to write to an actor,--they expect it. He probably gets hundreds of notes every day." "Then he won't notice yours. He can't possibly accept a hundred invitations." "Oh, they don't all invite him. Any way, I'm going to write." Alicia found another pen, and soon produced this effusion: "My dear Mr. Coriell. "I'm just simply crazy over your performance in 'The Lass and the Lascar' and I feel that I MUST meet you. I shall DIE if I don't! Please, oh, PLEASE give me an opportunity. Will you come to see me at my uncle's house, Mr. Jefferson Forbes? Can you come to-morrow or Friday? I can't EXIST if you say No! So grant the plea of "Your devoted admirer, "ALICIA STEELE." "It's perfectly horrid!" and Dolly's fair face grew flushed with anger. "You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Alicia." "Now, look here, Dolly Fayre," and Alicia's eyes flashed, "I won't be dictated to by a little country ignoramus! I've had experience in the ways of the world, and you haven't. Now suppose you let me alone. It's none of your business, as you very well know." "Dolly was only advising you for your own good!" Dotty flashed out, indignant at the rebuff to her chum; "but, truly, Doll, it isn't up to you to tell Alicia what to do. This is her uncle's house, not yours, and you're in no way responsible for her doings." "I know it," and Dolly looked serious, "but I know, too, Alicia will be sorry and ashamed if she sends that silly letter!" "Let her be, then," counselled Bernice. "If Uncle Jeff doesn't like it, that's Alicia's affair, not ours. Leave her alone, Dolly." But Dolly made one more effort. "Listen, Alicia," she said, pleadingly; "at least, ask Mrs. Berry's advice. She's awfully indulgent, you know, and if she says all right,--then go ahead." Alicia looked at Dolly. To tell the truth, she had misgivings herself about the plan, but she was too proud to be advised. "I'll tell you what," she decided, at last; "you said, only to-day, Dolly, that you'd be glad to do something for me. Now, prove that you meant it. You go and ask Mrs. Berry if we can do this. She's awfully fond of you, and she'd say yes to you quicker'n she would to me. So, if you're so anxious for her consent, go and ask her. She's in her room,--I just heard her go in." "But, Alicia," and Dolly looked dismayed, "_I_ don't want to do this thing! Why should I ask Mrs. Berry for what YOU want?" "Because you said you'd be glad to do me a favour. I knew you didn't mean it! I knew you'd fizzle out when the time came!" "She hasn't fizzled out!" exclaimed Dotty. "Doll never breaks a promise. But, say, Alicia, I'll go and ask Mrs. Berry. How's that?" "No, Dolly's got to go, if any one does. She said she'd love to do me a favour, now let her do it." It was evidently a test case with Alicia, and one glance at her determined face convinced Dolly, that she would never be forgiven if she failed to do this thing. "All right," she said, slowly, "I'll go and ask Mrs. Berry. But I shall tell her it's for you, Alicia. I shan't let her think I want to ask that man here!" "Hold on, Dolly. Don't you think it would be nice if he should come, with Mrs. Berry's permission?" "Yes, I think that would be lots of fun; but she won't give permission, Alicia. I know that as well as I know my own name!" "Of course, she won't, if you go about it that way! I depend on you to coax her or get around her some way to MAKE her say yes. See? Don't think that you can go in there and say 'May we?' and have her say 'No,' and let that end it! I tell you you've got to get her consent. You've got to do this for me, because you said you'd do whatever I asked you." "Oh, Alicia!" and Dotty shook her head vigorously, "Doll never said THAT!" "Well, she meant that. And what's the use of her doing anything I can do for myself? But you all know she's Mrs. Berry's pet of the four of us--" "No, I'm not," and Dolly looked deeply troubled. "Yes, you are, and it's just because you're so mild and meek. Now, will you go and ask her? You'll have to be quick or she'll have gone to bed." "Yes, I'll go," and Dolly showed sudden determination. "And will you promise to do all you can to make her say yes--" "I'll do that, Alicia, but I can't promise to make her say yes." "You can if you coax her. And don't let her think it's all for my benefit. Because it isn't. You girls will have just as much fun as I will, if he comes." Dolly twisted up her golden curls in a loose knot, and still in her trailing dressing-gown, she went down the hall to Mrs. Berry's room and tapped gently at the door. It was opened at once, and Dolly was glad to see Mrs. Berry had not yet begun her preparations for the night, so she was not disturbing her. "What is it, dearie?" asked the kind-hearted lady; "come in. Sit down." Dolly sat down in a little rocker, and was suddenly seized with a fit of shyness. The request she had come to make seemed so impossible, that she couldn't put it into words. Mrs. Berry saw her embarrassment, and kindly strove to put her at ease. "How do you like my room?" she said, cordially; "you've never been in here before." "It's lovely," said Dolly, looking about at the pretty furnishings; "it's in a sort of back extension, isn't it?" "Yes, this a narrower part of the house, and gives me an outlook on our tiny yard as well as on the side street. It's a very satisfactory room, except for my neighbour," and she laughed. "Who is the unsatisfactory neighbour?" asked Dolly, smiling in response. "Not the people next door, they're quiet enough; but they have a parrot, and he's in the room just across from this, and he chatters so often that it is sometimes very annoying. Look over, you can see him now." Sure enough, as Dolly looked from the window, she saw a big Polly in a cage at the opposite casement. Only thin lace curtains were between, and Dolly could clearly see the beautiful bird. "It's a lovely parrot," she said, "but I suppose his chatter is just as bothersome as if he were a homelier bird. Well, Mrs. Berry," and she turned from the window, "I've come to ask you something." "And something that you hesitate to ask,--I can see that. But don't be afraid, dear. Tell me what it is, and if I have to refuse you, at least I won't do it harshly." "I know you won't!" and Dolly felt ashamed of her fears. "Well, it's just this. Alicia,--that is, we're all of us just crazy over the hero in the play we saw this afternoon, and we--that is, we think it would be nice if we could--if we could ask him to--to call here, on us." The dreaded speech was made, and though Mrs. Berry looked surprised, she didn't exclaim in horror at the idea. "Whose plan is this?" she asked, quietly. "Why,--well,--we all want it." "Yes, but who first thought of it?" "Alicia spoke of it, and--the others agreed,--we all agreed,--that it would be lots of fun,--if you approved of it." Now Mrs. Berry could see a hole through a millstone, and she knew as well as if she had been told, that the others had planned this thing,--probably Alicia or Bernice,--and had made Dolly their spokesman, because of her good-natured acquiescence. "What do YOU think of the idea?" she said smiling. "At first it seemed to me a very forward thing to do," Dolly replied, looking very sober; "but if you think it's all right, I'd like to meet Mr. Coriell. You see, I'm going to be an opera singer myself, some day, and there are a few questions I'd like to ask him." Mrs. Berry gasped. "You do beat the dickens!" she exclaimed. "So you're going on the stage, are you?" "Yes, I think so." "Then of course you ought to meet an actor. Tell Alicia to go ahead and ask this man. Tell her to invite him to tea on Friday. I'll arrange a pretty tea-party for you." "Oh, I'll tell her! She'll be SO glad!" and Dolly departed, quite unconscious that she had unwittingly betrayed Alicia's principal part in the scheme. CHAPTER VII GREAT PREPARATIONS Demurely Dolly went back to her room. The other girls were breathlessly awaiting her return, and pounced on her for the news. "At least you got back alive!" cried Dotty as she grabbed Dolly by the arms and danced her up and down the room. "But what did she say?" demanded Alicia, in fiery impatience. "Don't you wish you knew!" and Dolly fell into a teasing mood, and when Dolly Fayre felt like teasing, she was adept at it! "Tell us! Tell us!" cried Bernice. "Oh, Dolly, tell us!" "Tell you what?" asked Dolly, with an innocent stare. "Tell us what Mrs. Berry said." "Oh, she asked me how I liked her room, and she showed me the parrot next door. It's a beautiful bird--" "Never mind a bird! What did she say about Mr. Coriell?" "Why, we talked about the parrot first. You see, his cage hangs in a window right across from hers, not ten feet away--" "Nonsense!" cried Alicia, "who cares about the parrot! Tell us about my hero!" "She says he has a dreadful voice, and squawks like fury--" "Oh, he HASN'T! He's a wonderful singer!" "I mean the parrot," said Dolly, mischievously enjoying Alicia's disgusted look. "And she says we can ask him to tea." "Who? the parrot?" This from Dotty. "No, you silly! Mr. Coriell. But, of course, if you'd rather have the parrot--" "Oh, Dolly, do be sensible!" and Bernice looked exasperated; "are you going to tell us all about it or not?" "Not if you're so rude to me! Certainly not! You are dismissed, you two. Dot and I are going to bed." "Not much you're not!" declared Alicia. "Not till you tell us what Mrs. Berry said." "Then you must ask me with due politeness and proper courtesy. I can't report to a lot of cackling geese! You're worse than parrots!" "Please, dear, sweet Dollyrinda, what DID the lady say?" begged Dotty, in wheedling tones. "Ah, yes, tell us," and Alicia took the cue. "Angel child! Beautiful blonde Towhead! what,--oh, vouchsafe to deign to tell us, WHAT did she say?" "Whoop it up, Dollums," said Bernice, laughing, "out with it, you little rascal. Did she hold up her hands in horror?" "She did NOT," said Dolly, with dignity. "She said, that if Alicia chose, she might invite the gentleman to tea on Friday, and that she would see to it that there was a nice tea-party prepared for his benefit. There, WHO'S a good ambassador?" "You are! you blessed angel!" cried Alicia, warmly; "you're a wonder! a marvel! a peach! a pippin! Oh, you're just all there is of it! Did she REALLY say that?" "Oh, you want to know what she REALLY said," and Dolly's head went on one side, as she began to tease again. "Of course, that's what she really said," interposed Dotty, who didn't want any more high words. "'Licia, be satisfied with that, and scoot to bed." "Nothing of the sort. We're going to make fudge to celebrate! I told you I had my chafing-dish; don't you girls feel fudgy?" "I could nibble a morsel," Bernice said, "and not half try. How about you, Dot?" "I'm right there--with bells on!" "Isn't it too late?" objected Dolly. "Now, look here, priggy-wig," and Alicia shook a finger at her, "if you don't quit that spoilsporting of yours, there'll be trouble in camp! The truth is, there's not much fun in making fudge, just 'cause there's nobody to forbid it! At school, we have to do it on the sly. Here, if Mrs. Berry or Uncle Jeff knew we thought of it, they'd send forty 'leven footmen and maids to help us!" "That's so," laughed Dolly; "I wasn't thinking of them. But isn't it time we all went to bed?" "Of course it is, young hayseed. That's why we're staying up. Also, it makes you so delightfully sleepy next morning! Now, do you come to this fudge party or do you go to bed?" "Do I come to it!" cried Dolly, in disdain. "Well, I like that! Why, your old fudge party is FOR me! I'm the heroine of the hour! Who went on your desperate and dangerous errand, I'd like to know! Who got permission to invite your old Coriell man to tea? Come, now, declare the fudge party a feast in my honour, or call it off!" "It is! it is!" laughed Alicia. "To the victor belong the spoils. The party is ALL for you, and if you will accept our humble invitation come right into our room and make yourself at home." So the two D's went into the other girls' room, and Alicia got out her chafing-dish set and prepared for the feast. "How are you going to make fudge with nothing but chocolate?" laughed Dotty. "That's so," said Alicia, looking blank. "I forgot I had to have milk and butter and sugar and a lot of things. Guess we can't do it." "Guess we can!" retorted Bernice, and she pushed a bell button. "Oh, Bernie!" exclaimed Dotty, "you oughtn't to call the maid so late! She'll be in bed." "Then she won't answer," said Bernice, calmly. But in a moment a maid did come, and smilingly listened to their requests. "Some milk, please," said Alicia, "and sugar, and butter,--" "All the things for fudge, miss?" asked the girl, her eyes taking in the chafing-dish. "Certainly. In a moment." She disappeared and the girls burst into peals of laughter. "It's impossible to do anything frisky here," said Alicia, "because everything we want to do, is looked on as all right!" "Well, it isn't a dreadful thing to make fudge of an evening," put in Bernice. "No," agreed Dolly, "but I wouldn't think of doing it at my house. After I'd gone to my room for the night, I mean." "It's a funny thing," said Alicia, "but all the fun of it's gone now. I don't care two cents for the fudge, it's the excitement of doing it secretly, that appeals to me. We do it at school, and we have to be so fearfully careful lest the teachers hear us." "I know what you mean," said Dolly, "but I don't believe I feel that way. I love fudge, but I'd a whole lot rather have people know we're making it than to do it on the sly." "You're a little puritan," and Alicia flew over and kissed her. "No wonder Mrs. Berry said yes to you, you probably made her think it was a duty to humanity!" When the maid returned with the trayful of things they had asked for, there was also a goodly plate of frosted cakes and a dish of fruit. "In case you might feel hungry," she explained. "Mrs. Berry was saying the other day, how hungry young folks do be gettin'. Shall I return for the tray, miss?" "No," said Dolly, kindly. "You go to bed. We'll set the things out in the hall, when we're finished, and you can take them away in the morning." "Thank you, miss," and the maid went away, leaving the girls to their spread. "I'm not going to make fudge," said Alicia, "there's enough here to eat, without it." "I'll do it, then," said Dolly. "I'm not going to make all this trouble and then not seem to appreciate it." She began to cut the chocolate, and Dotty helped her. Alicia made the chafing-dish ready, and Bernice set out a table for them. "This is splendid fudge," Alicia remarked, as at last they sat enjoying the feast. "You must give me your recipe." "Probably just like yours," smiled Dolly; "but it always tastes better if somebody else makes it." "Not always! It depends on WHO makes it. This is fine!" "Even if we are not doing it on the sly? I declare, Alicia, I can't understand that feeling of yours. I s'pose you don't care so much about Mr. Coriell, since Mrs. Berry is willing." "It does take the snap out of it," Alicia admitted. "But I couldn't do that on the sly, anyway. I mean if I had him HERE. I wish I could meet him somewhere else,--at some tearoom, or somewhere." "Oh, Alicia, I think you're horrid! Nice girls don't do things like that!" Dolly's big blue eyes expressed such amazement that Alicia laughed outright. "You little innocent!" she cried. "I'd rather be innocent than ill-bred," Dolly flashed back. "Well, wait till you go to boarding-school and you'll get some of those strait-laced notions knocked out of you." "I don't ever expect to go. I wouldn't like to leave home. And that reminds me, girls, I must skip. I've got to write up my diary before I go to bed. You do my share of the clearing up, won't you, Dot?" "'Course I will," and Dolly ran off to the other room while the three cleared away the party and set the tray out in the hall. "Is Dolly always so goody-goody?" asked Alicia. Dotty took the question seriously. "I shouldn't call her that," she said; "but she isn't very mischievous, and she's as honest as the day is long. She positively abhors deceit. And, somehow, Alicia, all the things that you think are fun, are the sort of things she doesn't stand for. That's all. Doll isn't a prig,--is she, Bernice?" "No; she's as fond of fun as anybody. But Alicia rubs her the wrong way." "I don't mean to. Only I don't see any harm in pranks that SHE thinks are fearful." "Well, you ought to bless her for getting the Coriell matter fixed up. I don't believe Mrs. Berry would have done it for any of us. But when Dolly asked her, I s'pose she made it seem all right." "It IS all right," defended Alicia. "Oh, I don't know," and Bernice looked doubtful, "I don't think the Fayres or Roses would like it much; I doubt if my dad would approve. But what Mrs. Berry says, goes." "It does SO!" assented Alicia, and then they all said good-night. Alicia's letter was mailed next morning and to her surprise a reply arrived about noon, brought by a messenger. It said: My dear Miss Steele: Your welcome invitation is here. I cannot accept for to-morrow as I have an important engagement then, but I will do myself the pleasure of calling upon you TO-DAY at four o'clock, and trust I may find you at home. Sincerely yours, BAYNE CORIELL. "Oh, isn't it wonderful!" sighed Alicia. "A letter from HIM! Oh, girls, I'm so happy! How CAN I wait for four o'clock!" She ran away to tell Mrs. Berry of the letter. "Very well," said the kind-hearted woman, "it's just as well to have him come to-day. Suppose we have tea in the small reception room, it's cosier than the drawing-room." "All right," said Alicia. "Will Uncle Jeff come down, do you think?" "I doubt it. However, I'll tell him you expect Mr. Coriell, and he can do as he likes." Mrs. Berry had a peculiar twinkle in her eye, and Alicia noted it, and wondered what it meant. The whole affair seemed mysterious, for she had not supposed Mrs. Berry would be so ready to receive this strange young man. "You think it's all right for us to receive him, don't you, Mrs. Berry?" she asked, for she began to fear lest she had been too unconventional. "I daresay it's all right, my dear. Of course, such things weren't done in my day, but young folks are different now. And Mr. Forbes said you girls were to do pretty much as you like." "Were you surprised at our asking for this?" Alicia persisted. "Well, yes, since you ask me, I must say I was surprised. Especially when I found Dolly Fayre was the ringleader." "Oh,--well,--she DID ask you, didn't she? Maybe Dolly isn't such a quiet little mouse as she seems." "Dolly's all right," and Mrs. Berry spoke with some asperity. "Now, I'll send tea in at quarter past four, is that your idea?" "Oh, Mrs. Berry, won't you be present?" "No; I have my duties, and I observe them properly, but to preside at tea is not one of them. Your uncle expressly ordered that." "Do you mean Uncle Jeff ordered that we should receive Mr. Coriell alone?" "Well, he didn't direct that _I_ should be there. If he wants to come down, he will." "Very well," and Alicia suddenly became dignified, "we can manage. I suppose it will be proper to dress up a good deal?" Again that amused smile flitted over Mrs. Berry's face. "As you like," she said, indifferently. "All your frocks are pretty." Alicia returned to the others, and told them all the conversation. "I hope Uncle Forbes does come down," said Dolly, "I think it would be nicer to have him there." "Come, now, old mother Prim, don't throw cold water on our little party," said Alicia. "You know how the conversation would run, with uncle at the helm!" "It wouldn't run at all," laughed Bernice, "it would stagnate!" When the girls began to dress for the tea, there was a wide diversity of opinion as to appropriate costumes. "Our very best," said Alicia decidedly. "Nothing's too good for Bayne!" "You'd better be careful," warned Dotty, "you'll call him Bayne to his face! You use it so much!" "Don't care if I do!" returned Alicia, pertly. "I say, Doll, is THAT your best frock?" "Yes, except an evening one." "Let's see your evening one. I'll bet it's just about right for this afternoon." Dolly produced a pretty light blue affair of chiffon, and Alicia exclaimed, "Wear that, of course. It's really no evening dress at all, but it's a very nice afternoon thing." Dolly looked dubious. "What are you going to wear, Dots?" she said. "Oh, I s'pose we might as well wear our best ones. As Alicia says, they're all right for afternoon here, though they wouldn't be in Berwick." "All right," and Dolly put on her pretty fluffy dress. Very lovely she looked, her golden curls twisted up high on her head, and held by a bandeau of blue ribbon. Dotty's dress was yellow, and very becoming. She wore a black velvet headband, and Alicia cried out in approval when she saw the two D's ready for inspection. "My!" she said, "you look better than I do! Now, I am mad!" But her rage was only simulated, and she didn't really think what she said. She herself wore a most elaborate embroidered dress of rich pink silk. It was trimmed, too, with pearl bead fringe, and to Dolly's simple taste it was too fussy. But Dotty admired it, and Bernice thought it wonderful. "It IS a good thing," said Alicia, carelessly. "It's imported. I've never had it on before." Bernice had a lovely dress of white tulle, with white satin ribbons;--lovely, that is, for evening, but too dressy for daytime. However, as the winter dusk fell early, the lights were on, and it seemed almost like evening. CHAPTER VIII THE CALLER The four girls, in the reception room, waited the coming of their guest. To their surprise, Mr. Forbes came in, and looked them over with a chuckle. "Well, you ARE ready for the fray, aren't you?" he said, taking in their dressy finery and their important, self-conscious airs. "Yes, Uncle Jeff," responded Alicia; "will you stay and see our young man?" For some unexplained reason, Uncle Jeff laughed heartily. But he checked his merriment, and said, "No, Alicia, I fear I might intrude; I know you want to flirt with this young actor, and I'd be a spoilsport. But let me warn you to be very gentle with him. You see, he may be so overcome by this galaxy of youth and beauty that he'll be embarrassed and run away!" "Nonsense, uncle," said Bernice, "actors are not easily embarrassed. More likely we girls will be struck dumb at his splendour and importance." "Well, tell me all about it afterward," and still chuckling, Mr. Forbes went off. "What ails Uncle?" said Alicia, pettishly. "Anybody'd think he had a joke on us." "No," Dotty rejoined, "only he's sort of old, you know, and he doesn't see the fun in this, as we do." "Well, I wish the fun would hurry up! It's after four now." "Such people are never on time," said Alicia, with a great air of experience. "He's sure to be late. Oh, there's the bell now!" The girls, with hearts beating high, grouped themselves in a picturesque pose, which they had practised beforehand, and breathlessly watched the doorway. Through it came, in a moment, a jolly-faced man, with an informal manner and pleasant smile. "Hullo, girlies," he said, "what's up? Expecting a party? Well, I won't keep you a minute. Where's Mr. Forbes?" "Why, you're the party, Mr. Coriell," said Alicia, stepping forward to greet him, and looking very coquettish as she smiled up into his face. "Oh, am I! all right, have it your own way, kiddies. But I can't give you more than ten minutes of my valuable time. What do you want? Autographs? Or tickets for a box? Speak up, now." "Oh, no!" exclaimed Bernice, for Alicia was speechless with disappointment at this prosaic attitude on the part of the visitor. "We just want to--to talk to you." "You see," said Dolly, frankly, "we thought you'd be--different." "Oh, of course you did! They always do! You wanted to see the Lascar, not plain James Brown!" "What!" cried Alicia, hope rising in her breast that this was not the great actor after all, "aren't you Bayne Coriell?" "Sure! That's my stage name, but in private life I'm James Brown, at your service." "You don't even look like the Lascar!" wailed Dotty, dismayed at the turn things had taken. "Of course, I don't, little one. Actors on and off, are two different persons. Oh, I begin to see through this performance. Your uncle didn't tell you anything about me! Eh?" "No, sir," said Dolly, as the others were silent. "We saw you in your play, and we admired your work so much, that we--we--" "Oh, the matinee idol business! Well, well! I didn't expect that. Why, kiddies, outside the theatre, I'm just a plain United States citizen. I have a daughter about the age of you girls. My Muriel is fourteen, nearly fifteen, but she's taller than any of you. Your uncle is a great friend of mine. He was my father's chum, and he has been more than kind to me all my life. I supposed he knew all about the letter from Miss Alicia, and ran around here expecting to see you and him both." "That's why he chuckled at us!" and Dolly's eyes twinkled at the joke. Somehow, she seemed more at ease with the actor than the other girls. "You see, Mr. Brown, we thought you'd be more like you are on the stage. Of course we didn't expect you'd be dressed like the Lascar, or--or--made up,--isn't that what you call it? but we thought you'd be stagy and actory--" James Brown laughed. "Everybody thinks that, or something like it," he said. "Few people realise that an actor's profession is MERELY a profession,--a business; and that we discard it out of business hours." "But don't you get lots of notes from--from your audiences?" asked Dotty. "Indeed I do. My wife looks after 'em, and most of 'em go into the trash basket. But of course a note from Jefferson Forbes' home was welcome, and I was glad to call on his nieces. Are you all his nieces?" "No," said Alicia, who had recovered her poise, and she introduced the other girls by name. "I wrote the note, because I thought you were--" "Because you thought I was a gay young sport," laughed James Brown; "well, I'm sorry, for your sake, that I'm merely an uninteresting, middle-aged man, but, I doubt if your uncle would have let you send that note, if I had been a stranger to him. Take my advice, girls, for I know what I'm talking about, never write to an actor with whom you are not acquainted. It can never lead to any good result and might lead to great harm." "Are they all bad?" asked Dolly, innocently. "No, indeed, far from it. But many of them are thoughtless; and, too, if a girl so far forgets the conventions as to write to a stranger, an actor often thinks he is justified in meeting her half way. And nice girls don't write to men they don't know. The fact that a man is an actor, is no more reason to treat him informally than if he were a broker or a merchant. It is the glamour of the stage that blinds you to the proprieties. That's only natural, I know, and that's why I'm presuming to give you this little talk for your own good. If ever you feel moved to make advances to a matinee idol,--don't do it!" Alicia looked decidedly chagrined and a little angry, but Mr. Brown proceeded to talk of other matters, and though it was plain to be seen he meant the advice he had given them, all unpleasant effect was forgotten as he began to tell them some funny anecdotes. And then tea was brought in, and they all grouped round the teatable, still listening to his entertaining chat. The actor was a good-looking man, but far from being as handsome as he appeared on the stage. His fascination and charm were evidently as much put on as his swarthy complexion and long black hair, which so became him as an East Indian. Really, his hair was ash-coloured, and he was rather bald. "I expect to go on the stage," observed Dolly, as they ate the cakes and bon-bons that accompanied the elaborate tea service. "You do!" exclaimed the guest. "Why?" "Because I feel I have talent for it. Not so much as an actress, perhaps, but as a singer. What shall I do first, Mr. Brown, to prepare for the light opera stage?" James Brown looked at her kindly. "I see you are in earnest," he said, in a serious tone, "and so, I will treat your question practically. The first thing to do, is to finish your education, and then start on a course of voice training. By the time you have done these things, come to me again, and I will advise you further. Do you think me flippant?" he continued, as Dolly looked decidedly disappointed. "I am telling you just the line to follow that I expect my own daughter to pursue. Muriel has promise of a good singing voice. I assume you have that hope also, otherwise you wouldn't think of a stage career. Tell your parents what I have told you, and if they care to consult me on the subject I shall be more than glad to meet them." "Good gracious! What a come down!" cried Dotty. "We thought of course Doll could start in in the chorus at most any time, and work up." "That has been done successfully," and Mr. Brown smiled, "about one time in ten thousand. My plan is surer and better in every way." "Is that the way Miss Marie Desmond learned?" asked Dolly, wistfully. "Yes, my child. Miss Desmond worked long and faithfully before she attained her present position. If you'd care to meet her and have a little talk with her, I can arrange it. Suppose you all come to my house some afternoon, and Muriel will make a little party for you, and I'm sure I can persuade Miss Desmond to meet you for a few minutes at least. She is not a lady easy of access, I can tell you, but she will meet friends of mine." "Well, well, Jim, hobnobbing with young people, are you?" sang out a hearty voice from the hall, and Uncle Jeff came stalking into the room. "Glad to see you, my boy. You seem to be getting on famously." "Yes, indeed. Your nieces and their friends are the most charming bunch of young people I've seen in a long time. We're discussing all sorts of matters of interest. Join us in a cup of tea, won't you?" "That's what I'm here for," and Uncle Jeff took a seat among the group. "Yes, thank you, Alicia, fix me up a cup. Sugar, please, but no lemon. How's your wife, Jim? Muriel all right?" "Yes, thank you. I'm just asking these girls to come round, say to-morrow, for a little party. Or would you rather have a box party at the theatre?" The girls decided in favour of the afternoon party at Mr. Brown's home, and the matter was settled. And then, somehow, the two men fell into conversation, which in no way interested the girls, being about political matters and business affairs. Indeed, their very presence seemed to be forgotten by the gentlemen. Absent-mindedly Uncle Jeff accepted a second cup of tea, and then a third, still arguing a point of finance with his guest. Alicia, in high dudgeon, made a motion to the others that they leave the room, and Dolly nodded assent. So, noiselessly, the four rose from their seats, and stole out into the hall. Mr. Brown looked up, saw them go, and waved his hand with a smile of farewell, but Uncle Jeff paid no attention, if indeed, he noticed their departure. "Well! of all things!" exclaimed Alicia, as they sought refuge in the library, which was in the rear of the house. "I call that positively insulting!" "Now, 'Licia," and Dotty laughed, "you know the man said he could only give us ten minutes of his time, and he gave us more than a half hour. I don't think we've any reason to complain." "Well, I do! It was a perfect fizzle, the whole thing! I'm utterly disgusted! Matinee idol! Pooh, he's just an every-day man!" "Well, that's just what he said he was," rejoined Bernice, who was almost as much disappointed as Alicia. "But he was very kind and pleasant, I think." "Oh, kind enough," and Alicia still pouted; "but I thought he would be young and--and sporty, you know." "He certainly isn't sporty! whatever he is," said Dolly. "I think he's awfully nice. I'm glad we're going to his daughter's party. It's fine to go to a place like that." "She's just a little girl," complained Alicia. "Fourteen years old! I don't want to go to an infant class!" "All right," put in Bernice, "you can stay home, then. I'm delighted to go. To think of telling the girls at home that we went to Bayne Coriell's daughter's party! My, won't they think we're grand!" "That's so," agreed Alicia. "Not everybody could get such an invitation. We couldn't, only that he's Uncle Jeff's friend. But I can tell you, girls, if I hadn't got up this whole scheme we wouldn't have been asked there. You can thank me for it." "Dolly, too," said Dotty. "If she hadn't asked Mrs. Berry, he wouldn't have come at all." "Yes, he would; why wouldn't he?" "Oh, pshaw! It was all made up by Uncle Jeff. You could see that. Mrs. Berry told him, and he let us go ahead, just to have a joke on us. Mr. Brown came mostly to see Mr. Forbes,--not us." "You're right, you little smarty-cat," and Alicia smiled at the astute Dotty. "And I do believe Uncle Jeff meant to give us a lesson about writing to actors. I thought it was queer he took it so easily,--and Mrs. Berry too. They played right into our hands. They wouldn't have done that if the actor person had been a stranger." "Of course they wouldn't," and Dotty wagged her head. "I felt sure there was some reason why Mrs. Berry said yes to Doll so easily. But I didn't think Coriell Bayne, or whatever his name is, was old enough to be Uncle Forbes' chum." "He isn't exactly," said Dolly; "that is, he said his father and Mr. Forbes were friends. I suppose the son carried on the friendship." "He looks as old as my father,--off the stage," said Bernice; "but on it, he might be my father's son!" "You can't tell a thing about actors!" declared Alicia. "If ever I think another one is handsome and fascinating, I'll remember James Bayne, and know he's nothing but an old fogy!" "Oh, I don't call Mr. Brown an old fogy," defended Dotty. "I think he's interesting and pleasant; just about like my father, or yours, Doll." "He's not a bit like our fathers, though he doesn't look much younger. Anyway, I'm glad I've met him, but he did give me a setback about my career." "Is that a real stunt, Dolly?" and Alicia looked at her curiously. "Do you really want to go on the stage? It doesn't seem like you." "Yes, I do, or at least, I did, until Mr. Brown said what he did. I don't know as I want to devote my whole life to getting ready for a stage career. I'm going to think it over and see about it." "You funny little thing! I hope you'll decide to do it, and in about ten or twenty years, when I'm an old married woman, I'll come to your first performance." "Whose performance? Who's stage struck?" asked Uncle Jeff, walking in at the door. He had a way of appearing unexpectedly. "Dolly," answered Alicia. "She wants to be a prima donna." "Bless my soul!" exclaimed the old man, "why, one reason I had Jim Brown here to-day, was to knock such foolishness out of your heads." "And he did his part all right, Uncle Forbes," said Dolly, looking serious, "but I don't quite take the knocking. At least, I haven't decided what I'll do about it." "Oho, you haven't, haven't you?" and the old man raised his shaggy eyebrows. "Well, Alicia, how did you like your handsome, fascinating, young man?" Alicia had quite recovered her good humour, and she replied, laughingly, "Oh, except that he isn't very young or handsome or fascinating, I liked him pretty well." "You're a good girl," pronounced her uncle. "I thought maybe you'd resent the little trick I played on you. But when you raved over the handsome hero, and the Greek god effects of him, I couldn't refrain from showing you how deceitful appearances may be. Jim's a fine chap, not at all a silly flirt, and his daughter is a lovely young girl, a little older than you girls--" "Why, Uncle Jeff, Mr. Brown says she's younger, he said Muriel is not yet fifteen." "Bless me! is that so? Well, he must know. But I can tell you, she seems as old or older than any of you. I suppose because she's been brought up among stage people. But a mighty nice girl, all the same. And Mrs. Brown is a delightful woman. All nice people. I'm glad he asked you to his home. It'll be a rare treat for you." "When is it to be, to-morrow?" asked Dotty. "We don't know yet. When Brown went away he said he'd consult his wife and daughter and telephone us about it. I fancy they'll make quite an affair of it. See here, have you all proper frocks to wear? I don't want my girls less well dressed than the others there. And I have a sneaking notion these are your best clothes." Uncle Jeff's eyes twinkled as he glanced at their dresses. "Anyway, I'd like to give each of you a new frock. Go to-morrow morning and get them." And having given the order, Uncle Jeff stalked away. CHAPTER IX FINE FEATHERS "Isn't he the funniest and the very dearest old thing in the world!" said Alicia, in a whisper, as Mr. Forbes disappeared. "I've got loads of clothes, but I'm glad to have him give me a dress, for I'll warrant it'll be about the best money can buy." "Let's get the best New York can show us," chimed in Bernice. "I can't do it," said Dolly, decidedly. "My mother wouldn't like me to accept a dress from Mr. Forbes." "Oh, fiddlesticks, Dollyrinda!" said Dotty, "it's not charity. My mother wouldn't let me either, ordinarily speaking, but this is different." "How is it different?" "Why, Mr. Forbes doesn't look on it as giving as clothes because we're poor--" "He does so, Dot! You can't fool me! He knows that Alicia and Bernie can afford grand clothes and we can't, and so he gives us each a dress to make it easy for us to take them." Now, Alicia privately thought this was just about the truth, but Bernice thought differently; "Rubbish!" she cried. "Uncle Jeff doesn't think anything of the sort! He's so kind-hearted, he wants us all to have things nice, and he doesn't even think about whether it would hurt our feelings or not. Why, Dolly, the price of a dress is no more to him, than a glass of soda water would be to us." "I know that's so," and Dolly's blue eyes looked very troubled, "but it isn't nice to take clothing from anybody but your own people." "But Dolly," argued Alicia, "if you kick up a bobbery, and refuse to take this kind offer, then we'll all have to do the same, and you deprive us all of the pretty presents." "Oh, Alicia, I'd be sorry to do that!" "Well, that's what it would amount to. Now, be sensible, and go with us to-morrow, and we'll all get lovely dresses, and it will please Uncle Jeff. I know he'd be hurt and offended, if you refused, Dolly." "I'll see about it; I'll think it over," and that was all Dolly would say about it then. But next morning, Mrs. Berry informed them that they were asked to an At Home at Mrs. Brown's that afternoon, from four till seven, and she further said that of her knowledge, it would be an occasion where the nicest possible apparel would be required. "Gorgeous!" cried Alicia; "Uncle Jeff told us yesterday, we could get new frocks as presents from him. We can get them at Follansbee's, and if they need alteration, they'll do it for us at once, as the case is so especial." Dolly's objections were overruled, even Mrs. Berry siding with the other girls. "Yes, indeed, Dolly," she said; "you will spoil the pleasure of the others if you refuse to do as they do. And it would grieve Mr. Forbes if he thought you didn't appreciate or accept his kind offer. Run along, girls, all of you, and get your hats and coats, the car will be here in a few minutes." "Won't you go with us, Mrs. Berry," asked Dolly, "to help pick them out? We don't know about these things as well as some one who lives in the city." "No, dearies. But you won't have any trouble Just ask for Mrs. Baxter at Follansbee's and her judgment will be the right thing. Be sure to take what she advises. She'll know." In gay spirits the quartette started off, Dolly joining in the general enthusiasm, for having decided to do as the others did, she had no wish to hesitate further. Mrs. Baxter was more than pleased to advise and suggest to Jefferson Forbes' relatives, and she had her assistants bring out dozens of frocks for inspection. At last, after much discussion and trying on, the four were selected and were promised for two o'clock that afternoon. What slight alterations were necessary could be done in that time, and there would be no doubt of prompt delivery. The dresses were absolutely unlike any the girls had ever owned before. They were all imported models, and though of finest materials, were simple in fabric and design. Yet they had an air and an effect never achieved by a village dressmaker or a department store. Dolly's was of fine white net, frilled with delicate lace, and adorned with tiny rosebud garlands, and knots of pale blue velvet. Dotty's, of apricot pink crepe, with hints of silver lace peeping through its chiffon draperies. Alicia's was corn-coloured crepe de chine with cherry velvet decorations, and Bernice rejoiced in a white embroidered net, made up over green silk. All had that indefinable charm which betokens the genius of a great modiste, and the girls were enchanted with the wonderful robes. "But what awful prices!" said Dolly, as they drove away from the shop. "I'm sure mother will be displeased. I feel awfully about it." "Now, Doll," said Dotty, sensibly, "you can't help it now. So don't let it spoil your pleasure and ours too. When we get home you can tell your mother just how it was. I'll tell her too, and I'm sure she'll see that you couldn't do anything else than get the frock, or kick up a terrible bobbery!" This was common sense, as Dotty's remarks often were, so Dolly accepted the situation, and made the best of it. And that afternoon, when they were all arrayed in the new frocks, and presented themselves to Uncle Jeff for inspection, his approval was so hearty, that Dolly was very glad she hadn't put a damper on the whole thing by remaining obstinate. "You are visions of beauty," he declared, as he looked at each in turn. "Madame Who-ever-it-was, turned you out remarkably well. I don't know much about feminine millinery, but I've a general idea of the fitness of things. And I'll bet a thousand dollars that these affairs are in better taste than the rigs you had on yesterday, though those were far gayer." "You do know a lot about it, Uncle," said Bernice. "These are way ahead of our best dresses, but it's because they came from a high class shop. And when you get the bill you'll open your eyes!" "That's all right, Bernie. I'm an old bachelor, you know, and never before have I had the privilege of buying dresses for anybody. I'm downright glad if you girls are pleased with these, and I'm downright proud of the little cavalcade setting forth from my house." The courteous old gentleman made a profound bow and the girls curtseyed in response. Then off they went to the party. As Mrs. Berry had foretold, fine clothes were the order of the day at the Brown house. Everything was as formal as a grown-up affair. The girls were ushered to a dressing-room to take off their wraps, and then at the drawing-room door, their names were announced by an imposing-looking personage in livery, and they were swept along into the room, by the crush of others behind them. Mrs. Brown and her daughter were receiving, and they greeted each arrival with gay banter and smiles. "Ah, my dears, how do you do?" said Mrs. Brown to our girls. "I am so glad to welcome Mr. Forbes' young people. Muriel, dear, these are the girls daddy told you about last night. 'Member?" "'Course I do. Aw'fly jolly to have you here. Sweet of you to come. Wish I could chin-chin more, but I'll see you after the rush is over." They passed in line, saying scarce a word beyond a mere greeting, and following the example of their predecessors they took seats in what seemed to be a large auditorium. A curtained stage faced them, and they looked about at the fast gathering audience. It was a merry crowd of young people all laughing and chattering, and all arrayed in beautiful clothes after the order of those the girls wore themselves. There were many boys present, too, and they moved easily about, joking with their friends here and there. Presently two boys drifted toward our quartette, and one of them said, "What'll be the show, do you know?" "No," said Dotty, her black eyes dancing with the excitement of the scene; "what do you guess?" "Dunno. Last time they had minstrels, and the time before, a magicker." "Legerdemain?" "Yes; rabbits out of hats, and that sort. Can't we sit here? Engaged?" "No," and Dotty smiled as she looked toward the other girls for their consent. "Oh, let us stay," said the other boy, in a wheedling voice. "We'll be awfully good,--so good you won't know us." "We don't know you, anyway," laughed Alicia, and the first boy responded, "Sure enough. Roof's the introduction, you know, but I'll add that this marvellously handsome companion of mine is one Geordie Knapp, and I'm Ted Hosmer, very much at your service." "Well," said Alicia, "we're Miss Forbes, Miss Fayre, Miss Rose and Miss Steele. Shall I tell you which is which, or let you guess?" "Let us Sherlock it out!" exclaimed Geordie Knapp. "I know you're Miss Steele because you mentioned yourself last.'" "Right!" and Dotty clapped her hands in admiration of his quickness. "Now, which am I?" "Rosy Posy!" declared Ted Hosmer, little thinking he had guessed correctly, but saying so because of Dotty's pink cheeks. "Yes, sir! you ARE a Sherlock Holmes. Now which is Miss Forbes?" "I'm not going to guess any more, I'll spoil my record," and Ted looked uncertainly from Dolly to Bernice. "But as you two are named Forbes and Fayre, I'll call you both Miss F., and so be sure of you." And then the curtain began to rise, and the young people became silent. The entertainment was very amusing, being entirely in pantomime, and performed by exceedingly clever actors. The story depicted was funny, and the antics of the performers were novel and humorous, and the room resounded with laughter from the appreciative audience. There were about a hundred young people present yet the large room was only partly filled. Dolly concluded, as she looked about, that it was a sort of small theatre where Mr. Brown rehearsed his own plays. In this she was partly right, although it had been built more for entertainment of the actor's guests. James Brown, or Bayne Coriell, as he was more often called, stood very high in his profession, and had hosts of friends and acquaintances. His wife was popular, too, and Muriel was just beginning to take her place in society. After the pantomime was over, two celebrated dancers gave an exhibition of their skill, and then Miss Marie Desmond appeared and sang two of her songs from "The Lass and the Lascar." Dolly was enthralled. She sat, listening to every note, and admiring the graceful manner and deportment of Miss Desmond as well as enjoying her music. "Well, you seemed to care for that, Miss F.," said Ted Hosmer. "You didn't move an eyelash while Marie was on!" "Oh, I did enjoy it!" and Dolly's eyes shone with delight. "Isn't she a splendid singer!" "Top notch! I like her lots. Hello, here's our charming hostess." The programme was over now, and Muriel Brown sought out the Forbes party to invite them to the refreshment room. "I feel that I know you," she laughed, "from Dad's description. He says the fair girl is Miss Fayre, and the rosy girl, Miss Rose." "Oh, that's it, is it?" cried Ted; "then this is Miss Forbes, and now all the problems are solved!" He looked at Bernice, who acknowledged the fact, and then Muriel was pounced upon by a rush of young people, and literally carried away. "Great girl, Muriel," said young Hosmer. "Never saw such a favourite. I say, mayn't we take you girls to the supper room? Or don't you eat?" "Indeed we do," said Alicia, laughing, "but I may as well own up I'm so interested in looking about me, I'm not conscious of hunger." "Well, come ahead to the dining-room, and you can eat and look about at the same time. I'll corral a couple more henchmen to help in your services and we'll flock by ourselves." Geordie whistled to a couple of his chums, whom he presented as Marly Turner and Sam Graves. "Now," went on Geordie, who was a born manager, "we're eight of us,--that's enough for a table to our own selves. Nail one, Samivel." The way to the dining-room lay through a crush of guests, every one, it seemed, headed in a different direction. "Why don't they all go one way?" asked Dotty, "Few of 'em eat," replied Ted. "Most of 'em going on. But the food's always fine here, and anyway you girls want to see the dining-room if you've never been here before. It's a whole show." It was. The splendid great room, with vaulted ceiling, represented an old English hall. There was a raised platform across the end and a gallery on either side. Fine paintings and tapestries adorned the walls, and a multitude of small tables offered places for all who chose to sit at them. "Here we are," and the boys decided on a table in a desirable position, from which the girls could see the gay scene. "Now for some supper." Obsequious waiters appeared and soon the party was served with viands fit for a king. "Told you so," said Ted. "Trust the Coriell bunch to give you eats worth-while. Oh, I guess yes!" "But it's getting so late," sighed Dolly, as she caught sight of an old English clock that hung near by. "And Mr. Brown promised me I could speak to Miss Desmond. I'm afraid she'll be gone." "'Fraid she's gone now," said Ted. "But I'll flee and discover." He left them and threaded his way among the crowd. "Here we are!" he cried gaily, as he returned, bringing the lady in question. "Just caught her on the fly. Trust little Teddums to get you what you want, Miss Fair Dolly." Marie Desmond greeted the girls as Ted named them. "You lovely kiddies!" she cried. "What a delectable bunch! I could eat you all up. And your frocks! Paris! I know; you needn't tell ME! Are you all sisters? Oh, no, I remember now; you have variegated names. Which one of you wanted to talk to me? I've a whole minute to spare! Never say I'M not a lady of leisure!" "I'm the one," said Dolly, her eyes fixed on the lovely, laughing face of the actress. "But a minute is no good, thank you. I want to talk to you about a whole day!" "Oh, I DO wish we could manage it," and Miss Desmond appeared to think that was the one thing on earth she desired. But Dolly noted her wandering attention, and was not surprised when she left them as suddenly as she had come, and with a fleeting, smiling good-bye. "Oh, isn't she exquisite!" breathed Dolly, her eyes on the disappearing figure. "You bet she is!" assented Marly Turner. "And it's a wonder she took a step out of her way to speak to us kids. But friends of Coriell,--of course." "Is she so very busy?" asked Dolly her eyes wide with interest. "Well, she's a society belle as well as a popular actress. So, I s'pose, she has more or less on all the time. There's no time for much of anything in New York. I say, can't us fellows come to see you girls? When? Where?" "I don't know," said Dolly, mindful of the Coriell episode. "I'm not going to say yes till I know what's right. I'll ask Uncle Forbes." "Do. Here's a telephone call that'll reach us. Let us come soon." And then Mrs. Brown appeared, spoke a few words to the girls, and the hoys with them, and in a moment everybody was going home. Our girls followed the example set them, said their good-byes, went to the cloak-room for their wraps, and bade the footman at the door call the Forbes car. CHAPTER X A SKATING PARTY That evening, in the drawing-room, Mr. Forbes questioned the girls rather closely as to their enjoyment of the party at the Browns'. "I liked it," said Dolly, "but it was queer,--that's what it was,--queer. The idea of just seeing a performance on the stage, and then rushing through a very fancy supper, and then scooting for home as if the house was on fire!--that's not my idea of a party!" Uncle Jeff laughed. "And you, Dotty," he said, "how did it strike you?" "I adored it! Everybody was so gay and smartly dressed and quick-spoken,--I do like to hear people say things fast." "How queer you are!" exclaimed Bernice; "why do you like to hear people talk fast?" "Not talk fast exactly, but say things suddenly, funny things, I mean." "I understand," said Mr. Forbes; "you mean bright at repartee and quick-witted." "Yes, sir, that's just what I do mean. And everything was so well planned and well arranged,--oh, I enjoyed every minute of it." "Well, I didn't," said Bernice. "I'd rather go to a regular party, where they play games and dance and act sociable." "Why, the people were sociable enough," put in Alicia. "I'm like Dot, I thought it was lovely! Muriel is as pretty as a picture--" "She scarcely said three words to us!" complained Bernice. "She couldn't help that. There were so many guests, that she hadn't time to more than speak a minute or two with each one of them." "I like Berwick parties better," persisted Bernice. "There we all know each other--" "But, Bernie," said Dolly, laughing, "all the people at this party knew each other,--nearly. We were strangers, of course, but the rest seemed to be well acquainted with Muriel." "And I thought the party was to be for us," went on Bernice, "and I thought we'd be introduced to everybody, and be--well, be SOMEBODY, you know." "Oho! you wanted to be honoured and lionised!" and Uncle Jeff's eyes twinkled. "Not exactly. But I understood from Mr. Brown that the whole affair was gotten up for us, and so I think we ought to have been noticed more. Why, the boys just scraped acquaintance with us, and even had to ask our names!" "That's the way they do at large parties, Bernie," said her uncle. "You are supposed to talk to any of the other guests without introduction." "Well, it's no sort of a way! They were awfully nice boys, but I don't suppose we'll ever see them again." "Oh, yes, we will," said Dolly. "They asked to call on us, and I said I'd ask you, Uncle Forbes. Would it be all right?" "Bless my soul, Dolly! I don't know. I've so little knowledge of etiquette for young people. Ask Mrs. Berry, whatever she says, you may do. Who are the boys? Hosmer? Knapp? Oh, they're all right. I know the families. But as to their calling, put it up to Mrs. Berry. And, by the way, how'd you girls like to have a party, a real one?" "Like the one we went to to-day?" asked Bernice, doubtfully. "I don't care much about it." "Well, have some other kind. There must be other ways of entertaining. What would you like, Bernice?" "I'd like a little party,--but I suppose that would have to be formal, too." "Oh, gracious, you old hayseed!" exclaimed Alicia. "You go back to the country! I'd love to have a party, Uncle, the biggest and grandest there is! Muriel Brown would invite the people for us, I'm sure. Oh, it would be just heavenly! We'd have an orchestra, and a midnight supper, and--oh, and everything!" "Hold on, my child, don't go too fast! We'll only have what you all agree on. Come, two D's, what do you say?" "We oughtn't to say," laughed Dolly. "It's for your nieces to choose. And anyway, Dot and I like everything, and we'd enjoy any kind of a party--or no party at all." "You've a nice disposition," said Mr. Forbes, looking at her. "Don't you ever lose your temper?" "She hasn't any to lose!" Dotty answered for her. "In fact, she's too awfully good-natured for any use! But she has other faults. She's as stubborn as a perfectly good mule! Aren't you, Dollums?" "I s'pect I am," and the golden head nodded. "But only when I care enough to be stubborn. As to this party, I don't care what sort it is, 'cause I know it will be lovely, anyway. That is, if we have it. But seems to me invitations for a big affair ought to be sent out several days in advance, and we'll be going home the middle of next week." "Why, you've only just got here!" said Mr. Forbes. "Well, it's Friday night now, and we came last Wednesday for a week. So, if we go home next Wednesday, that party would have to be in three or four days, and that's a short time." "Of course," agreed Alicia. "We couldn't give a big party on such short notice." "That's easily arranged," and Mr. Forbes laughed; "stay another week." "Oh, I couldn't," cried Dolly. "My mother wouldn't hear of such a thing. The other girls can, though." "I wouldn't if Doll didn't," declared Dotty. "But Bernie and Alicia could stay." "So we could," said Bernice. "My father will let me stay as long as Uncle Jeff wants me." "I can stay, too," said Alicia, "But it's lots more fun to have you other girls with us." "We'll see about all that," and Mr. Forbes dismissed the subject. A footman came in to say that Miss Fayre was wanted on the telephone. "Oh!" cried Dolly, her face turning white, "do you suppose any thing's wrong at home? Mother had a cold; maybe it's developed into pneumonia!" "Nonsense, child; don't borrow trouble. Probably it's nothing of the sort." "Isn't that Dolly all over?" said Alicia, after Dolly had left the room. "She always thinks the worst there is to think!" "Maybe she's right," said Dotty. "Mrs. Fayre does have awful colds,--hark, I hear Dolly laughing! It's all right!" They all listened, and they heard Dolly say, "Oh, perfectly splendid! I'd just love it!--Thank you!--Yes, indeed!--I'm 'most sure--oh, delightful!--Well, I'll ask her--Fine!--Yes, yes,--just wait a minute,--I'll ask her now--hold the wire." Followed a whispered conversation, and the girls caught the sound of Mrs. Berry's voice. Unable to restrain their curiosity longer, the three rushed out to the hall and saw Dolly, her hand over the transmitter, talking to Mrs. Berry. "What is it? Tell us all!" cried Bernice, and Alicia crowded close to listen. "Oh, girls," and Dolly beamed at them, "it's the loveliest invitation! Marly Turner wants us to go, to a skating party to-morrow afternoon at St. Valentine's rink! And Mrs. Berry says it will be all right for us to go. Yes," she continued, speaking into the telephone. "Yes, we can go. And we're all most happy to accept. What time?" "Four o'clock," came the answer. "Meet our crowd at the rink. So glad you can come." "So are we," returned Dolly, "and thank you, ever so much. Good-bye." "Good-bye," said Turner, and Dolly hung up the receiver. "Tell us more," cried Alicia. "What did you hang up so soon for? Why didn't you let US talk to him? What an old selfish you are!" "I couldn't, Alicia," and Dolly looked hurt. "I knew from his manner and speech that he only; wanted a reply to his invitation, and I wasn't expected to say more." "But why did he ask for you?" grumbled Alicia; "why not for me?" "I don't know, I'm sure," and Dolly laughed; "he did, that's all. Let's go and tell Uncle Forbes about it." "All right, girls; all right. Glad you're going. Have a good time. Marly Turner? Yes, yes, son of the Bayard Turners. Nice boy. His crowd will be all right. Can you all skate? Did you bring your skates? If not, get some. Get whatever you want. Look as good as the rest. Good-night now. Good-night, all." Abruptly, as usual, Mr. Forbes left the room, and as the girls were getting accustomed to his eccentricities they nodded their good-nights, and then began to plan for the skating party. Mrs. Berry appeared and helped them decide on certain details of costume and accessories. The two D's had brought the pretty skating costumes they had worn at the Berwick carnival, but as Bernice had been the queen that night, her white velvet gown was out of the question. Alicia, too, had no appropriate garb, so these two bought new dresses. The final result was four very becomingly attired girls who started merrily off on Saturday afternoon for the party at the rink. Four bunches of violets, with Marly Turner's card, had come to the house, and each fair damsel wore one at her corsage. Dolly's suit was of light blue cloth trimmed with silver fox, and Dotty's was red cloth with dark fur. Bernice looked very handsome in white cloth, and Alicia had chosen emerald green. They were met at the rink by Marly and his chums, and at once introduced to the chaperon of the affair, who was Marly's married sister. She didn't look much older than the boy himself, but she greeted the girls with a charming hospitality and declared herself delighted to take them in charge. The other boys whom they had met at Muriel's party were there, and Muriel was, too. She welcomed the four warmly, but as she was constantly in demand by other gay young friends, they had no chance for connected conversation with her. Indeed, connected conversation was not thought of, unless with one's skating partner. "You're all right on runners," commented Geordie Knapp, as he skated with Dotty. "You must be fond of it." "Oh, I am. I skate a lot at home; that is, when there's ice. We're dependent on that, you see, as we haven't an ice rink in Berwick." "Berwick? Small town?" "Yes. 'Bout as big as a minute," and Dotty laughed good-naturedly. "That's why you're so up to the minute, then," Geordie laughed back. "Want to sit down and rest a bit?" "All right. Let's," and they sat down for a few moments. "There goes your chum,--with Ted Hosmer. She is your chum, isn't she? The Fair Dolly?" "Dolly Fayre? Yes, indeed; we're super-inseparable." "That's the way with Ted and me. We're always together. Funny, isn't it, how you like one person better'n anybody else?" "Yes; I couldn't keep house without Dolly. And we do keep house!" and Dotty told her companion all about Treasure House and its delights. "Wow! That's some stunt! A house like that I I'd like to see it." "Do. Some day next summer come out to Berwick and I'll show it to you. We've great little old brothers, too. One apiece." "Have you? I s'pose you can cut up larks in the country that you couldn't here?" "It's awfully different." Dotty sighed. "I like the city better in lots of ways, but, altogether, I guess I'd rather live in Berwick." "What are you two confabbing about?" sang out a voice, and Dolly, with Ted Hosmer, came gliding up and stopped in front of Dot and young Knapp. "Settling the affairs of the nation," said Geordie; "also, it's a case of 'change partners.'" He jumped up, took Dolly's hands in his, and they swayed off across the ice, leaving Dotty and Ted together. "Don't mind him; he's crazy," said Ted, as he dropped onto the seat beside Dotty. "And anyway, we're such chums we share our best friends with each other!" "Glad you do! I like to talk to different people--" "I'm a different people; oh, I assure you I am. Please like to talk to me!" "I do. Or, at least, I'm sure I shall. What shall we talk about?" "Sports in general. What do you like best, next to skating?" "Tennis, don't you?" "Sure, if you do. But that's mostly for summer. Come on, let's skate round a couple of times, and then go for the tea place." It was good fun skating with Ted, and, as Dolly told him, he reminded her a little of her friend, Tad Brown. "Any kin of Muriel's?" "No, a boy in Berwick. He has a twin brother, Tod." "Great names! Tadpole and Toddlekins, in full, I suppose." "They are called those sometimes. Oh, Mrs. Graham is beckoning to us. We must go." They joined Mrs. Graham, who was their chaperon, and she marshalled her crowd of young people to the tea room. At last Muriel Brown found a chance to talk to our girls. "We seem like old friends," she said, gaily. "Isn't the ice fine to-day? Are you going to the dance to-night? What? Not invited? That can easily be remedied. I say, Sam, don't you want these four angel children at your party?" "'Deed I do!" and Sam Graves beamed broadly, "I didn't dare ask them myself,--meant to get you to do it. Coax 'em, Muriel. Make 'em say yes." Alicia took it upon herself to accept this invitation, though Dolly insisted it would depend on Mrs. Berry's sanction. "Who's Mrs. Berry?" asked Muriel. "Is she a dragon?" "No, indeed," smiled Dotty; "she's the dearest old yes-sayer in the world!" "Oh, she'll let you come then. Tell the girls all about it, Sam," and Muriel moved away. "She went off and left her ice cream untouched!" exclaimed Dotty. "She's always on the hop,--Muriel is," said Sam. "Now you girls come to-night, won't you? It's a small and early at my house. Mr. Forbes knows me, and I know your Mrs. Berry, too. Just tell her it's little Sammy's party, and she'll send you flying over." "Tell us something about it," said Dolly. "Is it to be very grand? We're hazy on the subject of New York dances." "Can you dance?" "Yes, though maybe not the very latest steps." "That's all right, then. Put on a clean sash and come along. You won't be wall flowers!" "What time shall we come?" asked Bernice. "Tell me about the details; I'm Mr. Forbe's niece." Bernice was always a little jealous if the D's seemed to be consulted rather than herself or Alicia. "Oh, no details specially. All informal, you know. Come when you like,--nine, maybe, or half past. If you're feeling conventional about it, my mother will call on you--by telephone--and ask you proper." "Oh, no, she needn't do that," and Bernice laughed at the idea. "We're only little girls. If Mrs. Berry says we can go, your invitation is enough." "Good work! Be sure to come. Crazy to have you. 'Scuse me a minute,--there's a girl I want to speak to." Sam darted off, and another boy dropped into his vacated seat. It was this touch and go effect that Dotty liked, but to Dolly it seemed a whirling maze. And, indeed, almost before they knew it they were all whirled off home. CHAPTER XI THE COLLECTIONS On Sunday, dinner was in the middle of the day, and directly after it was over Mr. Forbes led the four to the drawing-room, as was usual in the evening, and asked an account of the dance. "It was lovely!" vouchsafed Dotty. "Gorgeous!" agreed Bernice. "Perfectly all right," Alicia averred. "Nice enough, but very grown uppish," was Dolly's verdict. "You stick to your taste for simpler parties?" said Mr. Forbes, looking kindly at Dolly. "Yes, sir; I guess I'm a country girl." "Well, I'm not," and Dotty's black eyes flashed. "I'd just as lief live in Berwick, to be sure; but I do love to visit in New York and see all the grand doings." "And was the party grand?" "Oh, it was, uncle," said Alicia. "It was small and it was early." "Pooh!" cried Dolly. "We came home at half past eleven. I don't call that early!" "Early for a city party," insisted Alicia, "but it was an elaborate affair, after all, and what do you s'pose, Uncle Jeff? We had invitations to a lot of things, next week and the week after, too." "Well, you girls are real belles!" "They do seem to like us," and Alicia looked very well self-satisfied. "Which one of you do they like the best?" teased Uncle Jeff. "Dotty," said Alicia and Bernice together. "Nothing of the sort!" declared Dotty, blushing rosy red. "Who, then?" and Mr. Forbes turned to her. "Why, I don't know," said Dotty, still embarrassed. "Dolly, I guess." "You know better, Dot," and Dolly laughed at her. "I think, Uncle Forbes, the most citified boys and girls like Bernie and Alicia best, and some of the others take to Dot and me." Her honest blue eyes proved this was her true opinion, whatever the facts might be. "Well, look here," and Mr. Forbes' eyes twinkled "I ask you two, Dotty and Dolly, which of my two nieces is a greater favourite?" "Why, how can we tell that, right before them both?" cried Dolly, taking it as a joke. "Yes, I want you to tell me,--right before them." "I don't think there's a bit of difference," Dotty said, speaking seriously, and looking at the two girls. "You see, everybody likes Bernie--and--they all like Alicia." "You're a diplomat!" laughed the old man, "Now, Dolly, see if you can beat that?" Dolly liked being put on her mettle, and after a moment's thought, when she pretended to study the girls, she said, "They are both liked tremendously for themselves,--but more, because they are your nieces." "Capital!" and Mr. Forbes rubbed his hands in glee. "You're a tactful young person, I do avow. Now, just for that you may ask anything of me you like, to the half of my kingdom." "I'll ask," said Dolly, quickly, "before you have a chance to repent of that offer. This is what I want: Let us go up and see your collections. May we?" "I s'pose so. Will you be good little girls, and not finger the exhibits, except such as I say you may?" "Of course we will. We're not mischievous little kiddies! Oh, are you really going to let us see it! When?" "Now. May as well get it over, I suppose. March!" He led the way, and the girls trooped after him, up to the fourth floor of the house. The rooms corresponded to those below stairs, but all were arranged as a museum. There were enormous cases filled with specimens of every sort of bird, butterfly or insect. Or, if not every kind was represented, surely they were nearly all there, so multitudinous were the exhibits. "What a lot!" exclaimed Dolly, "I had no idea it was such an enormous collection." "Yes," said Mr. Forbes, with justifiable pride, "it Is the largest private collection that I know of. Come, let me show you the birds first." Obediently the girls followed his directions, and with ever growing interest they saw the rows and rows of stuffed birds, of all sizes and of all varieties of plumage. Then came great cabinets filled with shallow drawers, each of which, when opened, displayed tiny moths, queer flies, and microscopic insects, each daintily mounted on its own pin and all standing in trim rows. The butterflies were the prettiest exhibit of all. These showed rare varieties and well-known ones; specimens from far distant countries and from their own state. All the girls were interested, but Dolly was absorbed. She walked from case to case, asking intelligent questions, that Mr. Forbes was glad to answer. "You ought to make natural history a special study," he said to her. "You seem so fond of it." "Oh, I am!" responded Dolly. "I shall try to get mother to let me take it up specially next year. And here are the beetles! How wonderfully they are arranged, and what beautiful colours!" "Yes, see the iridescent wings of this chap," and Uncle Jeff pointed to a fine specimen. "I don't wonder the old Egyptians loved this creature and carved their scarabs in its likeness, do you?" "No indeed," responded Dolly. "And do you like old Egyptian things, too? So do I. I saw wonders in the Museum." "I have quite an antique collection, if you're interested." "If I'm interested! Well, I just guess I AM!" The other girls enjoyed the exhibition, too, but not so much as Dolly, who was enthusiastic over it all. They had so far seen only the front rooms, but now Uncle Jeff conducted them to the room in the rear extension of the house, and as he unlocked the door he said, "Here are my greatest treasures of all." The girls went in, and Mr. Forbes rolled up the shades and let in the sunlight. "My, but it's close and stuffy!" exclaimed Bernice; "mayn't we have a window open, uncle?" "Yes, indeed; I believe in fresh air, but I keep this room closed so much of the time it does get stale." Mr. Forbes threw open a window that faced the south, and as there was no wind blowing, the fresh winter air was balmy and pleasant. "That's better," said Bernice, and she began to look at the treasures all about her. There were many tall cases, like book-cases, and on their shelves were ranged curios and valuables of all sorts. These proved more interesting to Dotty than the birds and butterflies. "Oh, look at the old jewellery!" she cried. "Just like what we saw in the museum, Doll." "Yes, here are old Egyptian trinkets,--aren't they, Uncle Forbes?" "Yes, those are Egyptian and Abyssinian. This nose ring was worn by a lady in India some centuries before you girls were born." "What is the oldest thing you have, Uncle?" asked Alicia. "This jewellery?" "No; this is my oldest piece," and Mr. Forbes took from a shelf an image of a cat. It was of dark brown material, and was dingy and roughened, as if by fire. "This came from an old Egyptian tomb," he said. "You know they put all sorts of idols and charms in the tombs of their dead. Then once in a while these things are exhumed, and in some instances sold by the Egyptian Museum authorities. I buy only what is guaranteed by them to be genuine. I have an agent, who has travelled in many countries to collect authentic antiquities for me. This cat dates from about 2000 B. C." "Gracious!" cried Dotty, "and there's been nearly two thousand years since B. C. That makes Mr. Cat about four thousand years old! Some cat!" "Well, a cat has nine lives anyway," laughed Alicia, "so it ought to be a long time dead." "That never was a live cat, was it?" asked Dolly. "Oh, no. This was a bronze image, but fire and age have turned it to a mere brittle shell. If it were dropped to the floor it would break into a thousand pieces." "Oh, my! take it!" exclaimed Dolly, who was holding the precious relic. "I didn't know it was so fragile." Mr. Forbes took it carefully. "That's why I don't often bring young people up here. They're too heedless to appreciate the value of these old things. Yes, two centuries before the Christian Era, this piece of bric-a-brac, as we would call it, adorned the tomb of some Egyptian citizen. I have the guarantee, signed by the Egyptian Museum. And here is a fine specimen. This is in a better state of preservation. See, you can read the date on it clearly, 537 B. C." Mr. Forbes took from a cabinet a small image of a mummy. It was of blue stone, somewhat chipped and worn, but preserving its shape and colour. On the back, in rude figures, but clearly discernible was the date to which he called their attention. "Wonderful!" said Alicia. "Their figures are much like ours, aren't they?" "Yes, my child, the Arabic numerals are of ancient usage. Think of the old hand that carved that date! Long since mouldered to dust!" "It gives me the creeps!" declared Bernice, "and yet it fascinates me, too. Was this found in a tomb?" "Yes, or in a temple. Excavations in Egypt, latterly, produce so many of these things that it is not difficult to get them. But that's pretty old, you see,--half a century before Christ." "I wonder who was King of Egypt then," said Dotty. "I wish I could remember my history better. I learned about the Ptolemies and the other dynasties, but I get 'em all mixed up." Although the others were eagerly examining the old mummy relic, Dolly stood looking at it thoughtfully. "May I take it?" she said, after the others had scrutinised it. Dolly handled it carefully, as she minutely observed it on every side. It was about six inches long and was a perfect little model of an Egyptian mummy. She gazed at the date deeply graven on the back, and then with a slight smile she handed it back to Mr. Forbes, saying, "Very good, Eddie!" "What! What do you mean?" cried the old gentleman, glaring at her, and Alicia exclaimed, "Why, Dolly Fayre! You rude little thing!" "But what do you mean?" persisted Mr. Forbes. "Why do you call me Eddie?" "Oh," and Dolly laughed, "that's a slang phrase that people say when they see through a joke." "Joke, miss! Are you making fun of my antiques? Explain yourself!" "Yes, what DO you mean, Dolly?" said Dotty, anxiously; "you can't mean to insult Mr. Forbes." "You goosies!" cried Dolly, "he's fooling you. It's a joke on us." "What is? What's a joke?" "This mummy," and now Mr. Forbes had joined in Dolly's laughter. "You're a cute one!" he said. "Not one person in a dozen catches on to that. Tell 'em, my dear. Oh, you are a smart one!" Mr. Forbes shook with glee, and Dolly held up the image to the mystified girls. "Don't you see, you blindies, the date 537 B. C. couldn't have been put on in the year 537 B. C.?" "Why not?" asked Alicia, looking blank. "Why, at that time they didn't know how many years it would be before Christ's birth. Nobody dated anything B. C. until after the Christian Era had begun." "But why didn't they?" and Bernice also looked bewildered. "Think a minute, you sillies. Nobody knew the exact date of the year one until after the year one was here. In fact, I don't think they began to count right away, anyhow. But certainly they didn't know five hundred and thirty-seven years before!" "Oh, I see!" cried Bernice. "All the B. C. years have been computed or dated since the A. D. years began." "Of course they have, and Mr. Forbes had the date carved on this mummy on purpose to fool people. Didn't you?" "Yes," chuckled Mr. Forbes, "and it has fooled lots of people older and wiser than you, little Dolly Fayre! I think you're pretty smart to notice the fraud!" "Oh, no. But it just happened to occur to me that I'd never seen a B. C. date marked before, and then I thought at once that it couldn't be." "Pretty cute, all the same. You other girls didn't see it." "No, we didn't," admitted Dotty. "I own up I was fooled. I never thought of the absurdity of the thing. Did you make up the joke?" "No, I bought the mummy from a dealer who sold a few of them for the purpose of fun-making. It's a pretty good joke." It was, and though the girls felt a little chagrined at being taken in, they were generous enough to appreciate Dolly's cleverness and be glad of it. A case of antique jewellery proved interesting to all. The queer ornaments worn by the ancients were admired and studied by the girls, and Mr. Forbes enjoyed telling of their histories. "This earring," he said, "is perhaps the gem of the whole collection. It is Byzantine, and is of wonderfully delicate workmanship." The filigree gold ornament, was a long and slender pendant, of intricate gold work and studded with tiny jewels. It was one of a pair of earrings, and they wondered where its mate might be, if indeed, it was yet in existence. "It would make a fine lavalliere," said Dolly, holding it up against her chest, and glancing in a nearby mirror. "See!" and she hooked the trinket into the lace at her throat, "isn't it becoming?" "Very," laughed Bernice, and turned to see what Dotty was now exclaiming over. It proved to be a bracelet, that legend said had been worn by Cleopatra, though Mr. Forbes frankly acknowledged he didn't believe this. "Let me take it by the light," said Alicia, "it's getting dusk in here." She took the bracelet to the open window, and admired the beauty of its wrought gold. "Here, take it, Uncle Jeff," she said; "I declare I'm almost afraid to handle these valuable things for fear I should suddenly become a klep-what-do-you-call-it?" "Kleptomaniac?" said her uncle, laughing, "I'm not afraid, or I shouldn't have brought you girls up here. I don't mind admitting I have one friend, a wise old octogenarian, rich as Croesus, whom I wouldn't trust up here alone! He'd steal a gem as quickly as a highway robber would!" "How awful!" said Bernice. "Just because of his craze for antiques?" "Yes. You know some people are carried quite out of themselves by a pet hobby. Well, girls, it is getting dusk. Let's go downstairs, and have a little chat over what you've seen. I'd like to see how much you remember of what I've told you." "Shall I shut the window, Uncle Jeff?" asked Bernice. "No, leave it open. A little air will do the room good. I'll see to it later." The girls left the room, Mr. Forbes followed, and locking the door, pocketed the key, and they all went downstairs. CHAPTER XII THE LOST JEWEL A pleasant hour was spent in the library as Mr. Forbes told the girls anecdotes connected with his treasures, and also catechised them on what they had learned from their afternoon in his museum. Dolly had taken the greatest interest in it, though Bernice soon proved that she had the best memory of them all, for she could tell dates and data that her uncle had informed them, and which the others more often forgot. "I haven't any memory," sighed Dolly. "But I do love to see these things and hear about them. It's lots of work, isn't it, to get them all properly catalogued and labelled?" "Yes, it keeps Fenn pretty busy, and often I bring in an assistant for him. But Fenn is a clever chap, and a quick worker." Their chat was interrupted by Geordie Knapp and Ted Hosmer, who came over to call on the girls. "Come right in, boys, glad to see you," was Mr. Forbes' hearty greeting. "I shouldn't wonder if our young friends here would be glad too. They've spent the whole afternoon with my old fogy talk and I'll warrant they'll be glad of a change." "You, stay with us, Uncle, and enjoy the change, too," laughed Alicia, as Mr. Forbes was leaving the room. "No, no; it doesn't seem to occur to you that I'd like a rest from a crowd of chatter-boxes!" His merry smile belied his words, and he went off leaving the young people together. Mrs. Berry looked in, and hospitably invited the boys to stay to supper, which they willingly agreed to do. Also, they stayed an hour or more after supper, and when at last they departed, the four girls remained in the library talking things over. To their surprise, Mr. Forbes came to the room, and without a word sat down facing the group. Something in his expression caused the girls to stop their laughter and chatter, for the old gentleman looked decidedly serious. "Well, my dears," and he looked from one to another, "have you had a pleasant day?" "Yes, indeed," spoke up Alicia, and they all added words of assent. "Well, I haven't," said Mr. Forbes, and they looked up at him with a startled air. "That is, I have just made a discovery that makes to-day one of the most unfortunate of my life." "What is it, Uncle? What is the matter?" Alicia spoke solicitously, as if she feared her uncle had become suddenly ill. "I have met with a loss." "A loss?" queried Bernice. "What have you lost?" "One of my dearest possessions. I went to my museum just now, to that rear room which we were in last, and I discovered that one of my valuable pieces of jewellery is gone." The girls stared at him blankly, and at last, Bernice said, "Which one?" "The Byzantine earring, the gold filigree piece." "Oh," cried Alicia, "that lovely piece! Why, where can it be?" "I don't know," replied her uncle, slowly. "I searched everywhere, and as I couldn't find it, I came down here to ask if you girls had taken it as--as a joke on me." "No, indeed!" exclaimed Alicia. "I'd scorn to do such a mean trick! None of us would think of such a thing, would we, girls?" "No, indeed," said they all, and then a silence fell. Where could the jewel be? As always, in moments of excitement, Dolly turned very pale while Dotty flushed furiously red. Alicia, sat, her big eyes staring with dismay and Bernice nervously picked at her handkerchief. "Come now," said Mr. Forbes, "if any of you girls did take it, in jest, give it up, for it isn't a funny joke at all." "Oh, we didn't! I'm sure none of us did!" and Dolly almost wailed in her earnest denial. "Of course, we didn't!" declared Dotty, angrily. "You ought to know we're not that sort of girls! It must have been mislaid, or pushed behind something that conceals it from view." "Probably you're right," and Mr. Forbes looked at her intently. "That's probably the solution of its disappearance. I'll have Fenn make search to-morrow. I'm sorry I bothered you about it. Good-night." With his funny abruptness he left the room, and the girls sat looking at each other in amazement. "Did you ever hear anything like that!" demanded Dotty, furiously. "The idea of thinking we would do such a thing! I hate practical jokes, unless among a lot of school chums. I wouldn't think of playing a joke on a grown-up!" "Uncle Jeff hasn't had much experience with young folks," put in Alicia, by way of excuse for their host. "You know he always lives alone, and he doesn't know what girls would or wouldn't do." "But how awful for that thing to be lost," mused Bernice. "Suppose it fell down behind a case, or somewhere, and he NEVER finds it!" "Oh, his secretary will find it," said Dolly, hopefully. "It MUST be somewhere around. Don't let's talk about it. If we do, I shan't sleep a wink all night! I never do, if I worry." "I think it's something to worry about," said Alicia. "It's the worst blow Uncle Jeff could have. You know how he adores his treasures. Why, he'd rather lose everything from these downstairs than one specimen out of those fourth story rooms. And that gold earring, of all things!" "I tell you stop talking about it!" and Dolly clapped her hands over her ears. "Please, humour me in this," she added, smiling a little, "truly, it will keep me awake, if I get to worrying over it." "All right, girls, let's drop the subject. Also, let's go to bed." It was Alicia who spoke, and she seemed under great excitement. Her eyes were unnaturally bright, and her cheeks were pink, and she moved jerkily, as if nervous. So the four went up to their rooms, and saying good-night, they closed the door of communication between. "What's the matter, Dollums?" asked Dotty, as she saw tears in the blue eyes. "Nothing, Dot, only don't talk about that gold thing, will you? I just simply can't stand it if you do!" "'Course I won't if you don't want me to, only what DO you s'pose DID become of it?" "There you go! I think you're too mean for anything!" "Oh, pshaw, I didn't mean to. I forgot. All right, no more talk 'bout that old rubbish. What shall us talk about?" "Don't talk at all. I'd rather go to sleep." "Go, then, old crossy! But I s'pose you don't mean to sleep in your clothes!" "No," and Dolly laughed a little. "I know I'm an old bear, and a crosspatch, and everything horrid,--but I'm nervous, Dotty, I AM." "I know it, old girl, but you'll get over it. I believe this city life is wearing you out! I believe it's time you went home." "Oh, I think so, too. I wish we could go tomorrow!" "Well, we can't. What has got into you, Dollyrinda? I believe you're homesick!" "I am, Dotty! I'd give anything to see mother now.--I wish I was home in my own room." "You'll be there soon enough. I s'pose we'll go Wednesday." "Wednesday! that seems ages off!" "Why, Dollums, to-morrow, you can say Wednesday is day after to-morrow! That's what I always do if I want to hurry up the days. But I don't want to hurry up our days in New York! No sir-ee! I love every one of 'em! _I_ wish we could stay a month!" "I don't!" and then there were few more words said between the two that night. Soon they were in bed, and if Dolly lay awake, Dotty didn't know it, for she fell asleep almost as soon as her dark curly head touched its pillow. Meantime in the next room, the other two were talking. "I do hope Uncle Jeff will find his old jewel," Bernice said, pettishly. "We won't have a bit more fun, if he doesn't." "That's so," agreed Alicia, "but he won't find it." "How do you know?" "Oh, 'cause. It's very likely fallen down some crack or somewhere that nobody'd think of looking. Why, once, a photograph was on our mantel, and it disappeared most mysteriously. And we never could find it. And after years, there was a new mantelpiece put in, and there was the picture! It had slipped down a narrow mite of a crack between the mantel-shelf and the wall back of it." "Tell Uncle Jeff that to-morrow. Maybe it will help him to find the thing." "All right, I will. But of course, Mr. Fenn will look everywhere possible. I don't believe anybody'll ever find it." "Then Uncle will be cast down and upset all the rest of the time we're here." "Well, I can't help that. What do you suppose, Bernice, he asked us here for, anyway?" "You ask me that a hundred dozen times a day, 'Licia! I tell you I don't know, but I think it was only a whim. You know how queer he is. He forgets we're in this house from one evening to the next. If to-day hadn't been Sunday, we wouldn't have seen him this afternoon. I wish we were going to stay another week." "So do I. But I don't like to ask him outright, and he hasn't said anything about it lately. The others couldn't stay, anyway." "Oh, I don't know. I think if they were invited their mothers would let them. And anyway, I'd rather stay without them, than to go home." "Yes, I would, too. Dot likes it better than Dolly." "Yes, Dolly's homesick. Anybody can see that. But they like it when we go to places, and see sights." "Who wouldn't? We're really having fairy-tale times, you know." "I know it. I shall hate to go back to school." "Well, I don't hate to go home. I have good enough times in Berwick; but I'd like to stay here one week more. I think I'll ask Uncle Jeff to let us, if he doesn't ask us himself." "Wait till he finds his lost treasure. He'll be pretty blue if he doesn't get that back." "Yes, indeed he will. Let's hope the Fenn man will spy it out. It must be in that room somewhere, you know." "Of course it must. The secretary will find it. That's what secretaries are for." And then silence and sleep descended on that room also. Next morning, Mr. Forbes appeared at the breakfast table. This was the first time they had ever seen him in the morning and the girls greeted him cheerily. "Very nice," he said, affably, "to come down and breakfast with a flock of fresh young rosebuds like you," and he seemed so good-natured, that Alicia decided he had taken his loss more easily than she had feared. But toward the end of the meal, Mr. Forbes made known the reason of his early appearance. "We can't find that earring," he said, suddenly. "Mr. Fenn and I have been looking since six o'clock this morning. Now I'm going to ask you girls to help me. Will you all come up to the museum and hunt? Your young eyes may discern it, where we older seekers have failed. At any rate, I'd like you to try." The four expressed ready willingness, and they rose from the table and followed Uncle Jeff up the stairs to the rear room where the loss had occurred. The sun shone in at the southern windows, and flooded the room with brightness. It seemed impossible to overlook the treasure, and surely it must be found at once. A youngish man was there before them, and he was introduced as the secretary. Lewis Fenn was a grave looking, solemn-faced chap, who, it was evident took seriously the responsibility of his position as tabulator and in part, custodian of valuable treasures. He bowed to the girls, but said nothing beyond a word of greeting to each. "You see," said Mr. Forbes, "I locked this room myself, after you girls last evening, and nobody could get in to take the earring. Consequently, it would seem that a close search MUST be efficacious. So, let us all set to, and see what we can do in the way of discovery." "Let's divide the room in four," suggested Mr. Fenn, "and one of you young ladies take each quarter." "Good idea!" commented Uncle Jeff, "and we'll do just that. Alicia, you take this west end, next the door; Bernice, the east end, opposite; Dotty, the north side, and Dolly, the south side. There, that fixes it. Now, to work, all of you. I've exhausted my powers of search, and so has Fenn." The two men sat down in the middle of the room, while the girls eagerly began to search. They were told not to look in the cases, but merely on tables or any place around the room where the jewel might have fallen or been laid. "Who had it last?" asked Mr. Fenn, as the girls searched here and there. Nobody seemed to know, exactly, and then Alicia said, suddenly, "Why, don't you know, Dolly hooked it onto the front of her dress, and said it would make a lovely pendant." "But I took it off," said Dolly, turning white. "Where did you put it then?" asked Mr. Fenn, not unkindly, but curiously. "Let me see," faltered Dolly, "I don't quite remember. I guess I laid it on this table." "If so, it must be there now, my dear," said Mr. Forbes, suavely. "Look thoroughly." Dolly did look thoroughly, and Dotty came over to help her, but the earring was not on the table. Nor was it on other tables that were about the room; nor on any chair or shelf or settee or window-sill. "Where CAN it be?" said Dotty, greatly alarmed, lest Dolly's having fastened it to her dress should have been the means of losing it. "Are you sure you removed it from your frock, Miss Fayre?" asked Fenn, and at that moment Dolly took a dislike to the man. His voice was low and pleasant, but the inflection was meaning, and he seemed to imply that Dolly might have worn it from the room. "Of course, I am," Dolly replied, in a scared, low voice, which trembled as she spoke. "There's an idea," said Mr. Forbes. "Mightn't you have left it hooked into your lace, Dolly, and it's there still? Run and look, my dear." "I'll go with you," said Dotty, but Fenn said, "No, Miss Rose, you'd better stay here." Dotty was so astonished at his dictum that she stood still and stared at him. Dolly ran off to her room on the second floor and carefully examined the dress she had worn the day before. "No," she said, on her return, "it isn't on my dress. I knew it couldn't be,--I should have seen it when I undressed. Besides, I know I took it off here, only a moment after I tried it on. I merely looked at it an instant, and then I unhooked it and laid it on this table." "But at first, you weren't sure that you did place it on that table, Miss Fayre," came the insinuating voice of Fenn once more. "Yes, I did, I'm sure of it now," and Dolly's white face was drawn with anxiety. "Think again." counselled the secretary. "Maybe you took it off, and absent-mindedly slipped it in your pocket." CHAPTER XIII SUSPICIONS Dotty turned on Fenn like a little fury. "What do you mean?" she cried. "Are you accusing Dolly of stealing that thing?" "There, there," said Mr. Forbes, placatingly, "Of course, Fenn didn't mean that. Not intentionally, that is. But without thinking, couldn't--" "No, she couldn't!" stormed Dotty. "Dolly Fayre doesn't go around pocketing people's jewels unconsciously! She isn't a kleptomaniac, or whatever you call it! She did exactly as she says she did. She laid that earring on that table." "Then why isn't it there now?" asked Fenn. "Because somebody else moved it. Oh, don't ask me who. I don't KNOW who! And I don't CARE who! But Dolly put it there, and whoever took it away from there can find it! Perhaps YOU, can, Mr. Fenn!" The secretary looked at the angry girl with an irritating smile. "I wish I might, Miss Rose. But I've searched the room thoroughly, as you all have, too. It can't be HERE, you know." "I'll tell you," said Alicia, eagerly, and then she described how in her home a photograph had slipped down behind the mantel and had been lost for years. "Let us see," and Mr. Forbes went to the mantel in the room. But there was not the least mite of a crack between the shelf and the wall. Alicia's suggestion was useless. "But," she said, "there might be that sort of a hiding-place somewhere else. Let's look all over." The girls tried hard to find some crack or crevice in any piece of furniture, into which the trinket might have slipped, but there was none. They felt down between backs and seats of chairs, looked behind cases of treasures, moved every book and paper that lay on the tables, even turned up the edges of rugs, and peeped under. "It doesn't make any difference how much we look," Dotty declared, "we've just got to look more,--that's all. Why, that earring is in this room, and that's all there is about that! Now, it's up to us to find it. You know, after you search all the possible places, you have to search the impossible ones." "I admire your perseverance," said Mr. Forbes, "but I can't hope it will be rewarded. It isn't as if we were hunting for a thing that somebody had purposely concealed, that would mean an exhaustive search. But we're looking for something merely mislaid or tossed aside, and if we find it, it will be in some exposed place, not cleverly hidden." "Oh, I don't know, Uncle Jeff," said Bernice, "you know when Alicia's photograph slipped behind the mantel, that was deeply hidden, although not purposely." "Yes, that's so," and Uncle Jeff looked questioningly from one girl to another. It was impossible to ignore the fact that he deemed one of them responsible for the disappearance of the jewel, and until the matter was cleared up, all felt under suspicion. Fenn, too, was studying the four young faces, as if to detect signs of guilt in one of them. At last he said, "Let us get at this systematically. Who took the earring first, when Mr. Forbes handed it out from the case?" "I did," said Dotty, promptly. "I stood nearest to Mr. Forbes and he handed it to me. After I looked at it, I passed it to Alicia." "No, you didn't," contradicted Alicia. "I didn't touch it." "Why, yes, 'Licia," Dotty persisted, "you took it and said--" "I tell you I didn't! I never handled the things at all! It was Bernice." "I did have it in my hands," said Bernice, reflectively, "but I can't remember whether I took it from Dot or Alicia." "I didn't touch it, I tell you!" and Alicia frowned angrily. "Oh, yes, you did," said Dolly, "it was you, Alicia, who passed it on to me. And I took it--" "You didn't take it from me, Dolly," and Alicia grew red with passion. "I vow I never touched it! You took it from Bernice." "No," said Dolly, trying to think. "I took it from you, and I held it up and asked you how it looked." "No, Doll, you asked me that," said Bernice, "and I said it was very becoming." "You girls seem decidedly mixed as to what you did," said Mr. Fenn, with a slight laugh. "I think you're not trying to remember very clearly." "Hold on, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes, reprovingly. "It's in the girls' favour that they don't remember clearly. If they tossed the thing aside carelessly, they naturally wouldn't remember." "But, Mr. Forbes," and the secretary spoke earnestly, "would these young ladies toss a valuable gem away carelessly? They are not ignorant children. They all knew that the earring is a choice possession. I'm sure not one of them would toss it aside, unheeding where it might fall!" This was perfectly true. None of the four girls could have been so heedless as that! They had carefully handled every gem or curio shown them, and then returned it to Mr. Forbes as a matter of course. Fenn's speech was rather a facer. All had to admit its truth, and the four girls looked from one to another and then at Mr. Forbes. He was studying them intently. Bernice and Dolly were crying. Alicia and Dotty were dry-eyed and angry-faced. If one of the four had a secret sense of guilt, it was difficult to guess which one it might be, for all were in a state of excitement and were well-nigh hysterical. "Much as I regret it," Mr. Forbes began, "I am forced to the conclusion that one or more of you girls knows something of the present whereabouts of my lost jewel. I do not say I suspect any of you of wilful wrong-doing, it might be you had accidentally carried it off, and now feel embarrassed about returning it. I can't--I won't believe, that any of you deliberately took it with intent to keep it." "We thank you for that, Mr. Forbes," and Dotty's tone and the expression of her face denoted deepest sarcasm. "It is a comfort to know that you do not call us thieves! But, for my part, I think it is about as bad to accuse us of concealing knowledge of the matter. I think you'd better search our trunks and suitcases! And then, if you please, I should like to go home--" "No doubt you would, Miss Rose!" broke in Fenn's cold voice. "A search of your belongings would be useless. If one of you is concealing the jewel, it would not be found in any available place of search. You would have put it some place in the house, not easy of discovery. That would not be difficult." "Be quiet, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes. "Girls, I'm not prepared to say I think one of you has hidden the jewel, but I do think that some of you must know something about it. How can I think otherwise? Now, tell me if it is so. I will not scold,--I will not even blame you, if you have been tempted, or if having accidentally carried it off, you are ashamed to own up. I'm not a harsh man. I only want the truth. You can't be surprised at my conviction that you DO know something of it. Why, here's the case in a nutshell. I handed that earring to you, and I never received it back. What can I think but that you have it yet? It is valuable, to be sure, but the money worth of it is as nothing to the awfulness of the feeling that we have an untrustworthy person among us. Can it be either of my two nieces who has done this wrong? Can it be either of their two young friends? I don't want to think so, but what alternative have I? And I MUST know! For reasons which I do not care to tell you, it is imperative that I shall discover who is at fault. I could let the whole matter drop, but there is a very strong cause why I should not do so. I beg of you, my dear nieces,--my dear young friends,--I beseech you, tell me the truth, won't you?" Mr. Forbes spoke persuasively, and kindly. Alicia burst into a storm of tears and sobbed wildly. Bernice, her face hidden in her handkerchief, was crying too. Dotty sat stiffly erect in her chair, her little hands clenched, her big, black eyes staring at Mr. Forbes in a very concentration of wrath. Dolly was limp and exhausted from weeping. With quivering lips and in a shaking voice, she said: "Maybe one of us is a kleptomaniac, then, after all." "Ah, a confession!" said Mr. Fenn, with his cynical little smile. "Go on, Miss Fayre. Which one has the accumulating tendency?" "You do make me so mad!" exclaimed Dotty, glaring at him. "Uncle Forbes, can't we talk with you alone?" "Oh, no, little miss," said Fenn, "Mr. Forbes is far too easy-going to look after this affair by himself! He'd swallow all the stories you girls would tell him! I'll remain, if you please. Unless you have something to conceal, you can't object to my presence at this interesting confab." Dolly came to Dotty's aid. She looked at the secretary with a glance of supreme contempt. "It is of no consequence, Mr. Fenn," she said, haughtily, "whether you are present or not. Uncle Forbes, I agree with Dotty. You said yourself, you have an acquaintance who can't help taking treasures that are not his own. It may be that one of us has done this. But, even so, the jewel must be in the house. None of us has been out of the house since we were in this room yesterday afternoon. So, if it is in the house, it must be found." "Ha! You HAVE hidden it securely, to be willing to have a thorough search of the house made!" and Fenn looked unpleasantly at her. "Own up, Miss Fayre; it will save a lot of trouble for the rest of us." Dolly tried to look at the man with scorn, but her nerves gave way, and again she broke down and cried softly, but with great, convulsive sobs. Dotty was furious but she said nothing to Fenn for she knew she would only get the worst of it. "Come now, Dolly," said Mr. Forbes, in a gentle way, "stop crying, my dear, and let's talk this over. Where did you lay the earring when you took it from your dress?" "On--on--the t-table," stammered Dolly, trying to stop crying. But, as every one knows, it is not an easy thing to stem a flood of tears, and Dolly couldn't speak clearly. "Yes; what table?" "This one," and Dotty spoke for her, and indicated the table by the south window. "Where,--on the table?" persisted Uncle Jeff. Dolly got up and walked over to the light stand in question. "About here, I think," and she indicated a spot on the surface of the dull finished wood. "Why didn't you hand it back to me?" queried Mr. Forbes, in a kind tone. "I d-don't know, sir," Dolly sobbed again. "I'm sure I don't know why I didn't." "I know," put in Dotty. "Because just then, Mr. Forbes showed us a bracelet that had belonged to Cleopatra, and we all crowded round to look at that, and Doll laid down the earring to take up the bracelet. We didn't suppose we were going to be accused of stealing!" "Tut, tut," said Mr. Forbes. "Nobody has used that word! I don't accuse you of anything,--except carelessness." "But when it comes to valuable antiques," interrupted Fenn, "it is what is called criminal carelessness." "It WAS careless of Dolly to lay the earring down," said Mr. Forbes, "but that is not the real point. After she laid it down, just where she showed us, on that small table, somebody must have picked it up. Her carelessness in laying it there might have resulted in its being brushed off on the floor, but not in its utter disappearance." "Maybe it fell out of the window," suggested Bernice, suddenly, "that window was open then, you know." Mr. Forbes waited over to the table. "No," he said, "this stand is fully a foot from the window sill. It couldn't have been unknowingly brushed as far as that." "Of course, it couldn't," said Fenn, impatiently. "You're making no progress at all, Mr. Forbes." "Propose some plan, yourself, then," said Dotty, shortly; "you're so smart, suppose you point your finger to the thief!" "I hope to do so, Miss Rose," and Fenn smirked in a most aggravating way. "But I hesitate to accuse anyone before I am quite sure." "A wise hesitation!" retorted Dotty. "Stick to that, Mr. Fenn!" She turned her back on him, and putting her arm round Dolly, sat in silent sympathy. Suddenly Bernice spoke. She was not crying now, on the contrary, she was composed and quiet. "Uncle Jeff," she said, "this is a horrid thing that has happened. I feel awfully sorry about it all, but especially because it is making so much trouble for Dolly and Dotty, the two friends that I brought here. Alicia and I belong here, in a way, but the others are our guests, as well as your guests. It is up to us, to free them from all suspicion in this thing and that can only be done by finding the earring. I don't believe for one minute that any one of us four girls had a hand, knowingly, in its disappearance, but if one of us did, she must be shown up. I believe in fairness all round, and while I'm sure the jewel slipped into some place, or under or behind something, yet if it DIDN'T,--if somebody did,--well,--steal it! we must find out who. I wouldn't be willing, even if you were, Uncle, to let the matter drop. I want to know the solution of the mystery, and I'm going to find it!" "Bravo! Bernie, girl," cried her uncle, "that's the talk! As I told you I must know the truth of this thing,--never mind why, I MUST find it out. But how?" "First," said Bernice, speaking very decidedly, but not looking toward the other girls, "I think all our things ought to be searched." "Oh, pshaw, Bernie," said Alicia, "that would be silly! You know if any of us wanted to hide that earring we wouldn't put it in among our clothes." "Why not?" demanded Bernice. "I can't imagine any of us having it, but if we have, it's by accident. Why, it might have caught in any of our dresses or sashes, and be tucked away there yet." "That's so," and Dotty looked hopeful. "It could be, that as one of us passed by the table, it got caught in our clothing. Anyway, we'll all look." "But don't look in your own boxes," objected Fenn. "Every girl must search another's belongings." "I wonder you'd trust us to do THAT!" snapped Dotty, and Fenn immediately replied: "You're right! It wouldn't be safe! I propose that Mrs. Berry search all your rooms." "Look here, Fenn, you are unduly suspicious," Mr. Forbes remonstrated, mildly. "But, sir, do you want to get back your gem, or not? You asked for my advice and help in this matter, now I must beg to be allowed to carry out my plans of procedure." It was plain to be seen that Mr. Forbes was under the thumb of his secretary. And this was true. Lewis Fenn had held his position for a long time, and his services were invaluable to Jefferson Forbes. It was necessary that the collector should have a reliable, responsible and capable man to attend to the duties he required of a secretary, and these attributes Fenn fully possessed. But he was of a small, suspicious nature, and having decided on what course to pursue regarding the lost curio, he was not to be swerved from his path. "Well, well, we will see," Mr. Forbes said, an anxious look wrinkling his forehead as he looked at the girls. "Run away now, it's nearly luncheon time. Don't worry over the thing. Each one of you knows her own heart. If you are innocent, you've no call to worry. If you are implicated, even in a small degree in the loss of my property, come to me and tell me so. See me alone, if you like. I will hear your confession, and if it seems wise, I will keep it confidential. I can't promise this, for as I hinted, I have a very strong reason for probing this affair to the very core. It is a mystery that MUST be cleared up!" CHAPTER XIV AT THE TEA ROOM The girls went to their rooms to tidy up for luncheon, though there was some time before the meal would be announced. By common consent the door was closed between the rooms, and on one side of it the two D's faced each other. "Did you ever see such a perfectly horrid, hateful, contemptible old thing as that Fenn person?" exclaimed Dotty, her voice fairly shaken with wrath. "I can't see how Mr. Forbes can bear to have him around! He ought to be excommunicated, or whatever they do to terrible people!" "He IS awful, Dotty, I don't wonder you gave it to him! But you mustn't do it. He's Mr. Forbes' right hand man, and whatever Uncle Jeff tells him to do, he'll do it. The idea of searching our trunks! I won't allow them to touch mine, I can tell you that!" "Oh, Dolly, now don't be stubborn. Why, for you to refuse to let them look over your things would be the same as saying you had the thing hidden." "Dorothy Rose! What a thing to say to me!" "I'm not saying it to you! I mean, I am saying it to you, just to show you what other people would say! You know it, Dolly. You know Fenn would say you had the earring." "But, Dotty, it must be somewhere." "Of course, it must be somewhere,--look here, Dollyrinda, you don't know anything about it, do you? Honest Injun?" "How you talk, Dot. How should I know anything about it?" "But do you?" "Don't be silly." "But, DO you?" "Dotty, I'll get mad at you, if you just sit there saying, 'But do you?' like a talking machine! Are you going to change your dress for luncheon?" "No, I'm not. These frocks are good enough. But, Dolly, DO you? do you know anything, ANYTHING at all, about the earring?" Dolly was sitting on the edge of her little white bed. At Dotty's reiteration of her query, Dolly threw her head down on the pillow and hid her face. "Do you?" repeated Dotty, her voice now tinged with fear. Dolly sat upright and looked at her. "Don't ask me, Dotty," she said, "I can't tell you." "Can't tell me," cried Dotty, in bewilderment, "then who on earth COULD you tell, I'd like to know!" "I could tell mother! Oh, Dotty, I want to go home!" "Well, you can't go home, not till day after to-morrow, anyway. What's the matter with you, Dolly, why can't you tell me what you know? How can I find the thing, and clear you from suspicion if you have secrets from me?" "You can't, Dotty. Don't try." Dolly spoke in a tense, strained way, as if trying to preserve her calm. She sat down at their little dressing-table and began to brush her hair. A tap came at the door, and in a moment, Bernice came in. "Let me come in and talk to you girls," she begged. "Alicia is in a temper, and won't say anything except to snap out something quarrelsome. What are we going to do?" "I don't know, Bernie," and Dotty looked as if at her wits' end. "It's bad enough to put up with that old Fenn's hateful talk, but now Dolly's gone queer, and you say Alicia has,--what ARE we to do?" "Let's talk it all over with Mrs. Berry at lunch, she's real sensible and she's very kind-hearted." "Yes, she is. And there's the gong now. Come on, let's go down. Come on, Dollikins, brace up, and look pretty! Heigho! come on, Alicia!" Alicia appeared, looking sullen rather than sad, and the quartette went downstairs. Mrs. Berry listened with interest to their story. Interest that quickly turned to deep concern as the story went on. "I don't like it," she said, as the girls paused to hear her comments. "No carelessness or thoughtlessness could make that valuable earring disappear off the face of the earth! I mean, it couldn't get LOST, it must have been taken." "By us?" flared out Alicia. "Maybe not meaningly, maybe for a joke, maybe unconsciously; but it was carried out of that room by some one, of that I'm certain." "The idea of thinking we'd do it as a joke!" cried Bernice. "But you told me about the joke Mr. Forbes played on you about the B. C. image, why mightn't one of you have taken this to tease him? Oh, girls, if any of you did,--give it back, I beg of you! Mr. Forbes is a kind man, but a very just one. If you give it back at once, and explain, he will forgive you, fully and freely. But if you delay too long he will lose patience. And, too, you must know he wants to--" "Wants to what, Mrs. Berry?" asked Dotty, for the lady had stopped speaking very suddenly. "Never mind. I forgot myself. But Mr. Forbes has a very strong reason for wishing to sift this matter to the bottom. Don't, girls,--oh, DON'T deceive him!" "What makes you think we're deceiving him?" cried Dotty. "That's the way old Fenn talks! Isn't he a disagreeable man, Mrs. Berry?" "Mr. Fenn is peculiar," she admitted, "but it isn't nice for you to criticise Mr. Forbes' secretary. He is a trusted employee, and of great use in his various capacities." "But he was very rude to us," complained Alicia. "He was positively insulting to Dolly and me." "Don't remember it," counselled Mrs. Berry. "The least you have to do with him the better. Forget anything he may have said, and keep out of his way all you can." Mr. Forbes' housekeeper was a tactful and peaceable woman, and she well knew the temperament and disposition of the secretary. She herself disliked him exceedingly, but it was part of her diplomacy to avoid open encounter with him. And she deemed it best for the girls to follow her course. "I think," she said finally, "the best thing for you to do, is to go for a nice motor ride in the park. It is a lovely day, and the ride will do you good and make you feel a heap better. Then on your return, stop at a pretty tearoom, and have some cakes and chocolate, or ices; and while you're gone, I'll have a little talk with Mr. Forbes, and, who knows, maybe we might find the earring!" "You're going to search our boxes!" cried Alicia. "Well, I won't submit to such an insult! I shall lock mine before I go out." "So shall I," declared Dolly. "I think we all ought to. Really, Mrs. Berry, it's awful for you to do a thing like that!" "Mercy me! girls, how you do jump at conclusions! I never said a word about searching your rooms. I had no thought of such a thing! You mustn't condemn me unheard! You wouldn't like that, yourselves!" "Indeed, we wouldn't, Mrs. Berry," cried Dolly, smiling at her. "I apologise for my burst of temper, I'm sure. But I hate to be suspected." "Be careful, Dolly, not to be selfish. Others hate to be suspected too--" "Yes, but _I_'m innocent!" cried Dolly, and as soon as she had spoken she blushed fiery red, and her sweet face was covered with confusion. "Meaning somebody else ISN'T innocent!" spoke up Alicia; "who, please?" "Me, probably," said Dotty, striving to turn the matter off with a laugh. "Dolly and I always suspect each other on principle--" "Oh, pooh! This is no time to be funny!" and Alicia looked daggers at the smiling Dotty. "You're right, Alicia, it isn't!" she flashed back, and then Mrs. Berry's calm voice interrupted again. "Now, girlies, don't quarrel among yourselves. There's trouble enough afoot, without your adding to it. Take my advice. Go and put on some pretty dresses and then go for a ride, as I told you, and get your tea at the 'Queen Titania' tearoom. It's just lately been opened, and it's a most attractive place. But promise not to squabble. Indeed, I wish you'd promise not to discuss this matter of the earring. But I suppose that's too much to ask!" "Yes, indeed, Mrs. Berry," and Bernice smiled at her. "I'm sure we couldn't keep that promise if we made it!" "Well, don't quarrel. It can't do any good. Run along now, and dress." The cheery good-nature of the housekeeper helped to raise the girls' depressed spirits, and after they had changed into pretty afternoon costumes and donned their coats and furs, they had at least, partially forgotten their troubles of the morning. But not for long. As they sped along in the great, comfortable car, each found her thoughts reverting to the sad episode, and oh, with what varied feelings! Suddenly, Bernice broke out with a new theory. "I'll tell you what!" she exclaimed; "Uncle Jeff hid that thing himself, to see how we would act! Then he pretended to suspect us! That man is studying us! Oh, you needn't tell ME! I've noticed it ever since we came. He watches everything we do, and when he says anything especial, he looks closely, to see how we're going to take it." "I've noticed that, too," agreed Dolly. "But it's silly, Bernie, to think he took his own jewel." "Just to test us, you know. I can't make out WHY he wants to study us so, but maybe he's writing a book or something like that. Else why did he want not only Alicia and me but two of our friends to come for this visit? He studies us, not only as to our own characters, but the effect we have on each other." Dotty looked at Bernice with interest. "You clever thing!" she cried; "I do believe you're right! I've caught Uncle Forbes frequently looking at one or another of us with the most quizzical expression and listening intently for our answers to some question of right or wrong or our opinions about something." "I've noticed it," said Dolly, though in an indifferent tone, "but I don't think he's studying us. I think he's so unused to young people that everything we do seems strange to him. Why any of our fathers would know what we're going to say before we say it. Mine would anyhow and so would Dot's. But Mr. Forbes is surprised at anything we say or do because he never saw girls at close range before. I think we interest him just like his specimens do." "That's it," cried Dotty, "you've struck it, Doll. We're just specimens to him. He's studying a new kind of creature! And, maybe he did want to see what we'd do in given circumstances,--like an unjust accusation, and so he arranged this tragic situation." "No," said Dolly, still in that unnerved, listless way, "no, that won't do, Dotty. If it were true, he'd never let Mr. Fenn be so rude to us. Why, this morning, I'm sure,--I KNOW,--Mr. Forbes was just as uncertain of what had become of that earring as--as any of us were." "Well, have it your own way," and Dotty smiled good-naturedly at her chum, "but here's my decision. That thing is lost. Somehow or other, for some ridiculous reason, blame seems to be attached to my Dollyrinda. I won't stand it! I hereby announce that I'm going to find that missing gimcrack before I go back to my native heath,--if I have to take all summer!" "Aren't you going home on Wednesday?" cried Dolly, looking aghast at the idea. "Not unless that old thing is found! I'll telephone my dear parents not to look for me until they see me. I'll hunt every nook and cranny of Mr. Forbes' house, and when I get through, I'll hunt over again. But find the thing, I will! So there, now!" "Why do you say Dolly is suspected?" asked Alicia. "Oh, you all know she is, just because she hooked the foolish thing into her lace. She put it on the table after that, and every one of us probably handled it, but no, it is laid to Dolly! Just because she's the only one of us incapable of such a thing,--I guess!" "Why, Dot Rose, what a speech!" and Dolly almost laughed at the belligerent Dotty. "None of us would take it wrongly, I'm sure--but--" "Well, but what?" demanded Alicia, as Dolly paused. "Oh, nothing, Alicia, but the same old arguments. Mistake,--unintentional,--caught in our dresses,--and all that." Dolly spoke wearily, as if worn out with the subject. "Well, I've a new theory," said Dotty, "I believe that Fenn man stole it!" The other three laughed, but Dotty went on. "Yes, I do. You see, he's never had a chance to take any of the treasures before, 'cause Uncle Forbes would know he was the thief. But now he has all us four to lay it on, so he made the most of his chance." "Oh, Dotty, I can't believe it!" said Bernice. "He didn't act like a thief this morning. He was more like an avenging justice." "That's just his smartness! Make it seem as if we did it, you know." "Nothing in it," and Dolly smiled at Dotty's theory. "He wasn't here yesterday, at all. He didn't know that I hooked the old thing on my waist,--oh, I WISH I hadn't done that!" "Never you mind, Dollums," Dotty said, endearingly. "If he did do it, we'll track him down. Because, girls, I tell you I'm going to find that earring. And what Dorothy Rose says, goes! See?" Dotty's brightness cheered up the others, and as they drove through the park, there were many sights of interest, and after a time the talk drifted from the subject that had so engrossed them. And when at last they stopped at the new tea room and went in, the beauty and gaiety of the place made them almost forget their trouble. "I'll have cafe parfait," said Dotty, "with heaps of little fancy cakes. We can't get real FANCY cakes in Berwick, and I do love 'em!" The others were of a like mind, and soon they were feasting on the rich and delicate confections that the modern tea room delights to provide. While they sat there, Muriel Brown came in, accompanied by two of her girl friends. "Oh, mayn't we chum with you?" Muriel cried, and our four girls said yes, delightedly. "How strange we should meet," said Dolly, but Muriel laughed and responded, "Not so very, as I'm here about four or five days out of the seven. I just simply love the waffles here, don't you?" And then the girls all laughed and chattered and the New Yorkers invited the other four to several parties and small affairs. "New York is the most hospitable place I ever saw!" declared Dotty. "We seem to be asked somewhere every day for a week." "Everybody's that," laughed Muriel. "But you must come to these things we're asking you for, won't you?" "I don't believe we can promise," said Bernice, suddenly growing serious. "You see, we may go home on Wednesday." "Day after to-morrow? Oh, impossible! Don't say the word!" And with a laugh, Muriel dashed away the unwelcome thought. "I shall depend upon you," she went on, "especially for the Friday party. That's one of the best of all! You just MUST be at it!" "If we're here, we will," declared Alicia, carried away by the gay insistence. "And I'm 'most sure Bernice and I will be here, even if the others aren't." "I want you all," laughed Muriel, "but I'll take as many as I can get." Then into the limousine again, and off for home. "Oh," cried Dolly, "that horrid business! I had almost forgotten it!" "We can't forget it till it's settled," said Dotty, and her lips came tightly together with a grim expression that she showed only when desperately in earnest. CHAPTER XV DOLLY'S RIDE It was Tuesday morning that Lewis Fenn came to Dolly and asked her to give him a few moments' chat. A little bewildered, Dolly followed Fenn into the reception room, and they sat down, Fenn closing the door after them. "It's this way, Miss Fayre," he began. "I know you took the gold earring. It's useless for you to deny it. It speaks for itself. You are the only one of you girls especially interested in antiques, and moreover, you are the one who handled the jewel last. Now, I don't for a moment hold you guilty of stealing. I know that you thought the thing of no very great intrinsic value, and as Mr. Forbes has so many such things in his possession you thought one more or less couldn't matter to him. So, overcome by your desire to keep it as a souvenir, and because of its antique interest you involuntarily took it away with you. Of course, searching your boxes is useless, for you have concealed it some place in the house where no one would think of looking. Now, I come to you as a friend, and advise you to own up. I assure you, Mr. Forbes will forgive you and he will do so much more readily if you go to him at once and confess." Dolly sat rigidly, through this long citation, her face growing whiter, her eyes more and more frightened, as she listened. When Fenn paused, she struggled to speak but couldn't utter a sound. She was speechless with mingled emotions. She was angry, primarily, but other thoughts rushed through her brain and she hesitated what attitude to assume. The secretary looked at her curiously. "Well?" he said, and there was a threatening tone in his voice. Dolly looked at him, looked straight into his accusing eyes, began to speak, and then, in a burst of tears, she cried out, "Oh, how I HATE you!" Dotty flung open the door and walked in. "I've been listening," she announced, "listening at the keyhole, to hear what you said to my friend! I heard, and I will answer you. Dolly Fayre no more took that earring, than you did, Mr. Fenn, and I'm inclined to think from your manner, that you stole it yourself!" "What!" shouted Fenn, surprised out of his usual calm. "What do you mean, you little minx?" "Just what I say," repeated Dotty, but Dolly had already fled from the room. She went in search of Mrs. Berry, and found her in her own bedroom. "Please, Mrs. Berry," said Dolly, controlling her sob-shaken voice, "I want to go out, all by myself, a little while. May I?" "Goodness, child, what do you mean? Where? I'll go with you." "No; I want to go alone. I have to think something out all by myself. Nobody can help me, and if I'm here, all the girls will butt in and bother me." "Where are you going? For a walk?" "No, please. I want to ride on the top of a Fifth Avenue stage. I want to go alone, and then, sitting up there, with the fresh air blowing around me, I can think something out. I may go, mayn't I, Mrs. Berry? I know all about the stages." "Why, yes, child, of course, you can go, if you really want to. You can't come to any harm just riding on top of a bus. Run along. But I'd rather you'd let me help you. Or go with you." "No, please; I must be alone. I don't want even Dotty. I have something very serious to decide. No one can help me. My mother could, but she isn't here." "I wish you'd try me," and the kind lady smiled endearingly. "I would if I could, and you're a dear to ask me. But this is a special matter, and it troubles me awfully. So, I'll go off by myself for an hour or so, and when I come back, I'll be all decided about it." Dolly got her hat and coat, without seeing the other girls at all. She went out at the front door of the big Fifth Avenue house, and walked a few blocks before she stopped to wait for a stage. "I don't care which way I go," she thought to herself, "I'll take the first bus that comes along." The first one chanced to be going down-town, and signalling the conductor, Dolly climbed the little winding stairs to the top. There were only half a dozen passengers up there, and Dolly sat down near the front. It was a clear, crisp morning. The air was full of ozone, and no sooner had Dolly settled herself into her seat, than she began to feel better. Her mind cleared and she could combat the problems that were troubling her. But she was in a dilemma. Should she go to Mr. Forbes and tell him where the jewel was,--or, should she not? She wanted to be honest, she wanted to do right, but it would be a hard task. The more she thought it over, the more she was perplexed, and though her spirits were cheered by the pleasant ride, her troubles were as far as ever from a solution. Down she went, down the beautiful Avenue, past the Sherman statue and the Plaza fountain. On, past the Library, down through the shopping district, and then Dolly concluded she would go on down to the Washington Arch, and stay in the same bus for the return trip. But, before she realised it, she found the bus she was in had turned East on Thirty-second Street, and was headed for the Railroad Station. She started up, to get off the stage, but sat down again. "What's the use?" she thought. "I can just as well go on to the station, and come back again. I only want the ride." So she went on, and at the station, she was asked to take another stage. Down the stairs she climbed, and as she glanced at the great colonnade of the building she realised that from there trains went home! Home,--where mother was! Unable to resist, Dolly obeyed an impulse to enter the station. The warm, pleasant atmosphere of the arcade, soothed her nerves, and she walked along, thinking deeply. She came to the stairs that led down to the waiting rooms, and a great wave of homesickness came over her. She would go home! She had money with her, she would buy a ticket, and go straight to Berwick! She couldn't, she simply COULD NOT face Uncle Jeff and the girls, with her secret untold, and she would not tell it! Anyway, she couldn't go back to the house where that horrid Fenn was! That was certain. She looked in her pocket-book, and tucked away in its folds was the return half of her Berwick ticket! She had forgotten that she had it with her. It seemed a finger of Fate pointing the way. "I will," she decided. "I will go back to Berwick. I'll ask about the trains." Inquiry at the Information Department told her that there would be a train for Berwick in half an hour, and Dolly went in and sat down in the waiting room. Suddenly it struck her that the people at Mr. Forbes' would be alarmed at her non-appearance, and would be very anxious for her safety. That would never do. She had no wish to disturb kind Mrs. Berry or to scare Dotty half to death. She saw the telephone booths near by, and realised how easy it would be to communicate with the house. She asked the operator for the number of Jefferson Forbes' residence and in a moment was in the booth. The butler responded to her call, and Dolly did not ask for any one else. "That you, McPherson?" she said, speaking as casually as she could. "Yes, Miss Fayre. Will you speak with Mrs. Berry?" "No; I'll give you a message. Please say to Miss Rose that I have gone to Berwick." "To Berwick, miss?" "Yes; and tell Mrs. Berry the same. That's all, McPherson; no message for any one else." "Yes, Miss Fayre. When will you be back, Miss Fayre?" "Not at all. Or, that is,--never mind that. Just say I have gone to Berwick. I'll write to Miss Rose as soon as I get there." "Yes, Miss Fayre," and the butler hung up his receiver. It was not his business if the ladies came or went. In obedience to orders, McPherson went to Mrs. Berry and delivered the message. "The dear child," said the housekeeper, and the tears came to her eyes. Of course, she knew about the earring episode, and until now she hadn't suspected that Dolly really took it. But to run away practically proved her guilt. So she had meant to go when she asked permission to go on the bus! Mrs. Berry's heart was torn, for she loved Dolly best of the four, and it was a blow to be thus forced to believe her guilty. She quizzed the butler, but he had no further information to give. "She only said she was going, ma'am, and said for me to tell you and Miss Rose. That's all." "I will tell Miss Rose," said Mrs. Berry, and dismissed the man. She thought deeply before going to find Dotty. She wondered if she might yet stay Dolly's flight and persuade her to return. She looked up a timetable, and found that the train for Berwick would leave in ten minutes. Doubtless Dolly was already in the car. However, being a woman of energetic nature, Mrs. Berry telephoned to the Railroad Station. She asked for a porter, and begged him to try to find Dolly, whom she described, and ask her to come to the telephone. "I remember seeing that girl," said the negro porter. "She was walking around sort of sad-like, and sort of uncertain. But I don't see her now." "Look on the Berwick train," commanded Mrs. Berry, "and do it quickly. If she's on the train, ask her to get off and answer my call. I think she'll do it. Go quickly! I'll hold the wire." But it was within a few minutes of starting time; the train was crowded, and after a short search the porter came back with the word that he couldn't find her. "I could of," he said, "if I'd 'a' had a minute more. But the Train Despatcher put me off, and they started. Sorry, ma'am." "I'm sorry, too," and Mrs. Berry sighed as she realised how near she had come to success, only to fail. She thought a few moments longer, then she went to find Dotty. That young person, she discovered, to her astonishment, was up in Mr. Forbes' own study, on the fourth floor. Dotty had insisted on an interview with her host after the stormy time she had with his secretary. Mr. Forbes had received her, not at all unwillingly, for he wanted to get at the truth of the unpleasant matter. "Dolly never took it!" Mrs. Berry heard Dotty, declare, as she approached the door. "Either it's just lost, or else Mr. Fenn stole it,--or else--" "Or else what?" asked Mr. Forbes, as Dotty paused. "I don't like to say," and Dotty twisted her finger nervously; "I do suspect somebody,--at least, I fear maybe I do, a little bit, but I won't say anything about it, unless you keep on blaming Dolly. Then I will!" "I have something to tell you," said Mrs. Berry, entering. "Dolly has gone home." "What!" cried Mr. Forbes and Dotty simultaneously. Lewis Fenn smiled. "Yes," continued Mrs. Berry, "she has gone home to Berwick. She came to me and asked if she might go for a ride on top of a Fifth Avenue stage, to think things out by herself,--she said. Then, a little later, she telephoned from the Pennsylvania Station that she was just taking the train for Berwick." "I don't believe it!" cried Dotty. "Who told you?" "McPherson. He took the message. Dolly said to tell you, Dotty, and to tell me, but she sent no word to any one else." "Looks bad," said Mr. Forbes, shaking his head. "I told you so!" said Lewis Fenn, nodding his. "I knew when I flatly accused Miss Fayre this morning of taking the earring, that she was the guilty one. Understand me, she didn't mean to steal. She didn't look upon it as theft. She only took a fancy to the bauble, and appropriated it without really thinking it wrong. As a child would take a worthless little trinket, you know." Dotty looked stunned. She paid no attention to Fenn's talk; she stared at Mrs. Berry, saying, "Has she really gone?" "Yes, dear," answered the sympathetic lady, "she has. Perhaps it's the best thing. She'll tell her mother all about it, and then we'll know the truth." "Yes, she'll confess to her mother," said Fenn, and he grinned in satisfaction. "Shut up, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes. "I'm not at all sure Dolly is the culprit. If I know that girl, she wouldn't run away if she were guilty,--but she might if she were unjustly accused." "That's generous of you, sir," said the secretary, "but you know yourself that when I taxed Miss Fayre definitely with the deed, she immediately went off, pretending that she was just going for a ride, and would return. That piece of deception doesn't look like innocence, I think you must admit!" "No, no, it doesn't. Dotty, did you say you had some other suspicion? What is it?" "I can't tell it now. I can't understand Dolly. I know, oh, I KNOW she never took the earring, but I can't understand her going off like that. She never pretends. She's never deceitful--" "She surely was this time," and Fenn seemed to exult in the fact. "Maybe she changed her plan after she started," suggested Dotty delorously. "Not likely," mused Mr. Forbes. "It was unprecedented for her to go alone for a bus ride, but if it was because she wanted to get off home secretly, it is, of course, very plausible. She didn't want any of you girls to know she was going, lest you persuade her not to. She didn't want to go in my car alone, as that would seem strange. But to take a bus, that was really a clever way to escape unnoticed!" "I'm surprised that she telephoned back at all," said Mr. Fenn. "Of course, she would!" said Dotty, indignantly. "She didn't want us to think she was lost or worry about her safety." "She was most considerate," said Fenn, sarcastically. "Oh, stop!" cried Dotty, at the very end of her patience with the man. "You're enough to drive any one distracted!" "Let the child alone, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes; "your manner IS irritating." "The whole affair is irritating," returned the secretary, "but it is now in a way to be cleared up, I think. We shall hear from Miss Fayre's parents, I'm sure." "What IS going on?" spoke up Alicia from the doorway, and she and Bernice came into the room. "I know we're forbidden up here, but Dotty's here, so we came, too. What's the matter?" "Dolly's gone home," said Mr. Forbes, looking at his nieces. "Dolly has!" exclaimed Bernice. "What for?" "Because she was persecuted!" Dotty replied, "and unjustly accused, and suspected, and her life made generally miserable! I don't blame her for going home! I'm going, too." "When did she go? Who took her?" Alicia asked. "She went alone," said Mrs. Berry, and she gave them the details of Dolly's departure. "Well, I am surprised," said Bernice, but Alicia began to cry softly. "Yes, cry, Alicia!" said Dotty, turning on her. "I should think you WOULD! YOU made Dolly go! YOU know where that earring thing is!" "I do not!" and Alicia stared at Dotty. "Well, you know something more than you've told!" CHAPTER XVI WAS IT ALICIA? "What do you mean by that speech Dotty?" asked Bernice, as Alicia kept on crying. "I mean just what I say. Alicia knows where the earring is, or, if she doesn't know that, she knows something about it that she won't tell us." "What is it, Alicia?" said her uncle, kindly. "If you know anything at all, tell us, won't you?" "I don't, Uncle. I don't know ANYTHING about it!" and Alicia wept more than ever. "Well, the thing to do is to find it," said Fenn gazing closely at Alicia. "Where we find it will disclose who took it." "I agree with you, Mr. Fenn," said a voice from the doorway, and there stood Dolly Fayre! "Oh," cried Dotty, "I knew you wouldn't run away!" "I did," returned Dolly, looking very sober. "I couldn't stand things here, and I was tempted to go home." "Did you start out with that idea?" asked Dotty. "No; never thought of such a thing when I went out. But I took a bus that turned around and went to the station, so that made me think of Berwick and I got homesick for mother, and I just couldn't help wanting to go to her. And I telephoned back here that I was going. Then, I had no sooner done that, than it seemed to me a cowardly thing to do, after all, and I changed my mind quick and came right back here. I rode up on top of a stage, and the trip in this lovely bright air made me feel a heap better. Now then, I want to say, once for all, that I didn't take that earring, but I'm going to find out who DID, and also I'm going to find the jewel. I don't know which I'll find first, but one means the other." "Just what I said, Miss Fayre," exclaimed Fenn. "I'll join forces with you, and we'll see about this thing. We'll find the missing jewel and we'll find out who took it, but we'll have to put up a search." "All my things are at your disposal," said Dolly; "look through all my cupboards and bureau drawers as you like. I'm not afraid." "Of course not," said Fenn, "after your absence this morning! You had a fine opportunity to dispose of the jewel!" "How dare you!" cried Dolly, turning white with rage. "I have told you truthfully where I went and why." "Let her alone, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes, sharply. "You talk too much. Run along now, girls; we'll let the matter rest for to-day. I'll consult with Mr. Fenn, and I don't think we'll search your belongings. I can't think any one of you has intentionally concealed the jewel. It's lost but not stolen, that's what I think." "You dear old thing!" and Bernice impulsively threw her arms around her uncle's neck. "I think you're right. But it must be found!" "It must be found!" repeated Dolly. "Otherwise suspicion will always rest on me." "Not on you any more than the rest of us," declared Dotty, "but there's no use in hunting any more in this room. It simply isn't here." They had searched the room in which the jewel had been kept, thoroughly and repeatedly. So the girls went off to their own rooms to talk it all over again. "You're too hard on them, Fenn," said Mr. Forbes to his secretary, when they were alone. "But it's a clear case, sir. That Fayre girl took it. She got scared and tried to run home, then decided it would be better to face the music, so she returned. She's the one, of course. She adores those old trinkets; the others don't care two cents for them. She put it on her dress,--probably she took it off again, but after that the temptation to possess the thing was too strong for her. She thought you'd not miss it, and she carried it off. Then, when she was out this morning, she either threw it away, or secreted it somewhere. Perhaps she took it to some friend for safe keeping." "I don't believe it, Fenn. I've studied the four girls pretty closely and Dolly Fayre is, I think, the most frank and honest and conscientious of them all. Why, I'd suspect either of my own nieces before I Would Dolly." "You're generous, sir. But you're mistaken. Miss Fayre is the culprit, and we'll fasten the theft on her yet." "I hope not,--I sincerely hope not. But it's a queer business, Fenn, a very queer business." "It's all of that, Mr. Forbes, but we'll get at the truth of it yet." Meantime the four girls were talking over the matter. But not all together. The two D's, in their own room, and the other two girls in theirs were having separate confabs. "Now, Dolly Fayre," Dotty was saying, "you tell me EVERYTHING you know about this thing! I don't want any holding back or concealing of any suspicions or doubts you may have." "It isn't really a suspicion, Dotty, but I--will tell you. It's only that just as we left the room, the museum room I call it, yesterday afternoon, we were all out, and Alicia ran back. She said she had left her handkerchief on the table. And she went straight to that very table where I had laid the earring. Now, I can't suspect Alicia, but that's what she did." "Well, Dolly," and Dotty looked thoughtful, "that's enough to cast suspicion on her. She went to that very table?" "Yes. Of course, I didn't think anything about it at the time, but now I remember it distinctly. That's why I wanted to go home and tell Mother all about it, and ask her if I ought to tell Mr. Forbes about Alicia." "I see. I don't know myself what you ought to do. I've been thinking it might be Alicia all the time. I hate to suspect her, as much as you do. But if she ran back, and went to that table, and then the jewel that laid there was gone, it certainly looks queer. Decidedly queer." "Well, what shall I do?" "I suppose you'll have to keep still, unless you're actually accused of taking it. You can't very well tell on Alicia." "That's what I think." "But if they really accuse you,--and Mr. Fenn has already done so." "Oh, Fenn! I don't care what he says. If Mr. Forbes doesn't think I took it, I don't want to say anything about Alicia." "Well, let's wait and see. After what you've just told me, I think she did take it. But I don't WANT to think that." Now, in the next room, Alicia and Bernice were talking confidentially and in low tones. "Of course, Dolly must have taken it," Alicia said, slowly. "I can't believe that," said Bernice. "I know Dolly Fayre awfully well, and I just about 'most KNOW she couldn't do such a thing." "I daresay she never was tempted before. You can't tell what you may do until there's a sudden temptation. She might have thought it was no harm, when Uncle Jeff has so many of such trinkets. She might have thought he'd never miss it--" "No," dissented Bernice. "Dolly never thought out those things. If she did take it, it was just on the spur of the moment, and, as you say, because of a sudden irresistible temptation. And the minute after she was doubtless sorry, but then she was ashamed to confess or return it." It was luncheon time then, and the girls went downstairs together, with no disclosures of their suspicions of each other. At the luncheon table the subject was freely discussed. Dolly explained to Mrs. Berry that, after she had telephoned she was going home, she felt that it was a cowardly thing to do, and that she ought to remain and see the matter through. "You see," Dolly said, smiling, "it was a sudden temptation, when I got to the station, to go home. Just the sight of the ticket office, and the train gates, gave me a wave of homesickness and I wanted to see Mother so terribly, that I thought I'd just go. But as soon as I'd telephoned, I realised that I oughtn't to do it, so I came right back here. I didn't telephone I'd changed my mind, for I thought I'd be here so soon. Mrs. Berry, what do you think became of the earring?" "I don't know, I'm sure, my dear. I don't think I could ever believe that any one of you girls took it with any wrong intent. Did one of you just borrow it? To study it as a curio or anything like that?" "No!" cried Bernice. "That's absurd. If I'd wanted to do that I should have asked Uncle's permission." "Of course you would," and good Mrs. Berry sighed at the undoubted fallacy of her theory. It was during luncheon that the telephone bell rang, and Geordie Knapp invited the girls to a matinee at the Hippodrome. "They must come," he said to Mrs. Berry, who had answered his call. "Please let them. It's a big party. We've three boxes; my mother is going with us, and all the rest are young people. I know your girls will like it." "Of course they will," Mrs. Berry replied. "I'll be glad to have them go. Wait; I'll ask them." The invitation was heard with delight, and Bernice answered Geordie for the others that they'd all be glad to go. "Good!" cried Geordie. "We'll call for you in our big car. Be ready on time." They promised and hastened through luncheon to go to dress. "I'm glad you're going," kind Mrs. Berry said; "it'll take your minds off this old earring business. Have a real good time, and don't even think of anything unpleasant." So the girls started off in gay spirits, resolved not to worry over the lost jewel. During the intermission at the matinee Dotty chanced to be talking to Geordie alone, and she told him about the mystery, and asked him what he thought. The boy was greatly interested, and asked for all the details. So Dotty told him all, even of Dolly's seeing Alicia return to the room and go to the table by the window. "Jiminy crickets!" said Geordie, "that looks bad! But I can't believe Alicia would take it, nor any of you others. Let me talk to Alicia; I won't accuse her, you know, but maybe I can gather something from the way she talks." So by changing of seats Geordie found opportunity to talk to Alicia about the matter. To his surprise, she willingly discussed it, and, moreover, she made no secret of the fact that she suspected Dolly of taking it. She said she felt sure that Dolly did it, meaning no great harm, but probably being over-tempted. "Why," said Alicia, "she said only at luncheon that when she was at the Railroad Station she was so tempted to go home to her mother that she very nearly went. So, you see, she is given to sudden temptations and I suppose she can't always resist them." Geordie considered. "I don't believe she took it, Alicia," he said; "either it's slipped behind something, or else somebody else got in and took it. It never was one of you four girls! I'm SURE it wasn't If I could be over there for an hour or so, I'll bet I could find it. I'm pretty good at such things. S'pose I go home with you after the show; may I?" "Oh, I wish you would! If you could find that thing, you would be a joy and a blessing!" And so, after the performance was over, Geordie Knapp and Ted Hosmer both went to Mr. Forbes' house with the four girls. Alicia asked her uncle's permission for them all to go up to the museum rooms, and he gave it. He was not entirely willing, for he rarely allowed visitors to his collections, but Alicia coaxed until he gave in. "It can't be that Alicia took it," Dotty whispered to Dolly, "for she is so willing to have Geordie investigate." Ted Hosmer was as anxious as Geordie to hunt for the earring, but when he reached the rooms of the collections he was so interested in looking at the specimens that he nearly forgot what they came for. "Look at the birds!" he cried, as they passed through the Natural History room on the way to the antiques. "You like birds?" asked Dolly, as she saw his eyes brighten at the sights all round him. "Yes, indeed! I've a small collection myself, but nothing like this! I study about birds every chance I get. Oh, see the humming birds! Aren't they beautiful?" But Dolly persuaded him to leave the birds and butterflies and go on to the antique room. Here the girls told their two visitors all about the earring and its disappearance. Mr. Fenn was not present, for which Dolly was deeply grateful. Mr. Forbes watched the two boys quizzically. Then he said, "Go to it, Geordie. Do a little detective work. If any of my four visitors took it, make them own up. I won't scold them; I'm anxious only to know which one it was." "You don't really think it was any of them, I know, Mr. Forbes, or you wouldn't speak like that," said Ted. "I know you think as I do, that some queer mischance or accident is responsible for the disappearance. But WHAT was that accident, and WHERE is the jewel?" The two boys searched methodically. They did not look into cupboards or drawers; they asked questions and tried to think out some theory. "Could any one have come in at the window?" asked Ted. "No chance of that," said Mr. Forbes, "considering the window is in the fourth story, and no balcony, or any way of reaching it from the ground." Geordie stuck his head out of the window in question. "Who lives next door?" he said, looking across the narrow yard to the next house. "People named Mortimer," replied Mr. Forbes. "But they're all away from home. They're somewhere down South." "There's somebody over there. I see a light in one of the rooms." "A caretaker, maybe. But don't be absurd. It's all of ten or twelve feet across to that house from our back extension to theirs. Are you thinking somebody could spring across, take the jewel and spring back again?" "That ISN'T very likely, is it?" Ted laughed, "but there's some explanation, somewhere," and the boy shook his head. "You see, Mr. Forbes, somebody might have made entrance to this room after the girls left it Sunday afternoon, and before you discovered your loss." "Somebody might," agreed Mr. Forbes, "but I can't quite see how. Surely no intruder came up by way of the stairs; I can't believe any one came in by the window, and what other way is there?" "Suppose," said Geordie, earnestly, "suppose the caretaker, or whoever is next door, saw you people examining the earring by the light from the window,--you were by the window, weren't you?" "Yes," said Dolly, to whom he had put the question. "Yes, it was growing dusk, and I stepped to the window to look at the gold work." "Well, suppose this caretaker person saw you, and realised the jewel was valuable. Then suppose after you all went out and left the earring on this little table, which is only ten or twelve inches from the window, suppose the caretaker leaned out of his window, and, with a long pole, with a hook on the end, fished the thing over to himself." "Ridiculous!" cried Mr. Forbes. "Nobody could do such a thing as that! Absurd, my boy! Why, even a long fishpole would scarcely be long enough, and he couldn't get purchase enough on the end--" "I admit it sounds difficult, sir, but they do pretty clever things that way." "And, too, I can't suspect my neighbour's servants! Why, I've not the slightest cause for such suspicion!" "Oh, no, I can't think it's that way, either," said Dolly. "Why, that caretaker is a nice old man. I've heard Mrs. Berry tell about him. His room is just opposite hers, two floors beneath this very room we're in now. He has a parrot that chatters and annoys Mrs. Berry, but the old man is honest, I'm sure. And he's too old to be agile enough to do such an acrobatic thing as you suggest." CHAPTER XVII A CLEVER IDEA Ted Hosmer looked at Dolly as she spoke, and a sudden light came into his eyes. "By Jiminy!" he said, and he drew a sharp little whistle. "I say, Dolly, where is your Mrs. Berry?" "Oh, no, Ted," Dolly laughed, "you can't connect Mrs. Berry with this matter any more than you can the Mortimers' servants. Mrs. Berry didn't do it." "I didn't say she did," returned Ted, smiling at her. "But where is she, that's all." "I don't know. Probably in her room." "Take me there, will you? I must see her at once. Why, I've got an idea!" "Goodness, Ted!" exclaimed Geordie. "What a strange piece of news!" "Don't be funny!" said Ted; "I say, Dolly, take me to speak to Mrs. Berry, won't you?" "Why, of course, if you like,--come on." Dolly led the way and Ted followed. The others paid little attention, for Geordie was thinking out a new theory of how somebody could get across from the next house, by means of scuttles to the roofs on the front part of the houses. Of course, in front the houses were attached, but the back extensions were only one room wide, thus giving ground space for tiny back yards. A tap on Mrs. Berry's door was answered, and the two were admitted. "What is it?" and the housekeeper looked a little surprised at her visitors. "May we look out of your window?" asked Ted, politely. "Surely," was the reply. "But what for?" Ted, however, already had raised the window and was looking out. It was dark, or nearly, and the house next door showed a dim light in the room opposite the one they were in. The shade was down at the window, so they saw nothing of the room but a few indistinct shadows. "Tell us something about the old caretaker next door, won't you?" begged Ted, and Mrs. Berry responded: "Now, don't suspect him! Why, old Joe is the most honest man in the city! I've known him for years, and I'm sure he wouldn't steal a pin! Mr. Mortimer trusts him absolutely." "But tell us a little about him." "There's nothing to tell, only that he stays there alone when the family go away. He lives, practically, in the two rooms; that room opposite and the kitchen. He has no company but his parrot; he makes a great pet of that." "A nice Polly?" "A handsome bird, yes. But a nuisance with its continual squawking and chattering." "Thank you, Mrs. Berry; I believe that's all. Pardon our intrusion. We'll go now. Come along, Dolly." Dolly followed Ted from the room, and he said, "Don't go back upstairs yet. Come along with me." "Where?" "Never mind. Come on," and, making a gesture for her to be silent, Ted piloted her down the main staircase and out of the front door. "Gracious! I won't go another step till you tell me where we're going!" "Of course I'll tell you. We're going next door. Come on; you don't need wraps; it's just a step." Taking her hand, Ted led her down the Forbes' steps and up those of the house next door. He rang the bell and they waited. In a moment, shuffling steps were heard and an old man opened the door. "That you, Joe?" said Ted, pleasantly. "Let us come in for a moment, please." "I don't know you, young sir, but if I'm not mistaken, this is one of the little ladies from next door." "Quite right. We intend no harm, I assure you. Let us come in for a minute or two." The old man let them enter and closed the door behind them. "How's your parrot?" asked Ted, conversationally. Old Joe looked surprised, but he answered courteously, "Polly is well, as usual." "What kind of a bird is he?" "A parrot, sir." "I don't mean that. Is he honest or--or gives to thievery?" "Oh, sir, he's the thievingest beast in the world, that he is! I don't dare leave a thing around I'm not willing for him to take if he wants it." "Yes, just so. And does he ever go out of this house?" "No,--oh, no." Ted's face fell. Dolly's, too, for she began to see what Ted had in mind. But if Polly never left the Mortimer house, surely he didn't fly over and steal the earring. "Could I go up to the room where the bird is?" said Ted, trying to conceal his disappointment at the collapse of his theory. "Yes, sir, if you like, or I'll bring the bird down here." "We'll go up, please," and Dolly and Ted followed the old man to the room on the second floor, which was opposite Mrs. Berry's. They looked in and saw the bird in his cage, hanging from a bracket near the window. "Pretty Polly," said Ted, walking toward the cage. "Nice Polly. Polly want a cracker?" The bird cocked his head on one side, but said nothing. "And you're sure he never leaves his cage?" said Ted, examining the fastening on the cage door. "Well, sir, he does leave his cage. I said he doesn't leave this house. That is,--not often. So seldom as to call it never." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, a few days ago,--I'm thinking it was Sunday,--the bird let himself out of his cage. The latch broke, do you see, and he could push the door open with his claw. I came into the room, and there he was stalking up and down the floor with a knowing look. I soon found how he got out of the cage and I fixed the latch so he can't do it again. I let him out often, but I'm not going to have him letting himself out." "Sunday, was it?" and Dolly's eyes brightened as Ted went on with his questions. "And you weren't here when he got out of his cage?" "No, sir. But I came in soon and he was marching along the floor, winking at me." "And was the window open?" Old Joe stopped to think. "No," he said, finally, and Dolly gave a sigh of despair. If the window had been open, there was a possibility that Polly had been the thief. "Can he fly?" she put in. "Fly? Yes, that he can. That's why I'm careful to keep him shut up here. I wouldn't like him to fly over and annoy Mrs. Berry. He did that once a year ago, and the lady was right down mad about it." "Think again, Joe. Couldn't this window have been open Sunday, when Polly got out of his cage?" "Well, now, I do believe it was! Wasn't Sunday that warm, pleasant day? Yes? Well, then, come to think of it, this here window WAS open! My! it was a good thing Mr. Polly didn't walk out of it!" "But that's just what he did do,--I believe!" "What, sir? What do you mean?" "Well, I'll tell you. A small article has disappeared from the house next door, from a room on this side, just above Mrs. Berry's room. It's a hard matter to find out what became of the thing, a small trinket of jewellery, and I'm in hopes that your bird flew over and took it, because that will let out certain very much worried human beings!" "Oh, I can't think Polly did that!" "Can he fly as far as to go up to that window two stories higher than this? You say he can fly, but would he be likely to fly UP?" "If so be that window was open he might. He's a born thief, that bird is. But in that case, what did he do with it? A jewel, you say?" "Yes, an old, very old earring." "Ah!" and Joe started; "of fine work, but all broken and bent?" "I don't know. How about that, Dolly?" "It was old, and it was fine gold work. But it wasn't bent or broken." "Then it's not the same," said Joe. "Polly has a lot of playthings, and some old imitation jewellery that Mrs. Mortimer lets him have because he loves such things. And it was Monday, yes, yesterday, he had an old piece of stuff that I didn't remember seeing before, but I paid little attention to it. And it was that bent and twisted it can't have been the thing you're searching for. No, that it couldn't." "I suppose not," said Ted, but Dolly said, "Let us see it, anyway, can't you? Maybe Polly bent it up himself." Old Joe went and searched through a lot of broken bits of metal tilings in a box on the table. "Here it is," he said. "You see how it's worn out!" "That's it!" cried Dolly. "Oh, Ted, THAT'S the earring! Hooray!" "Is it? Hooray!" shouted Ted. "REALLY, oh, it's too good to be true! Polly MUST have taken it, Joe." "Yes, he must have done so, if Miss, here, says it's the one. But let me figger it out. I s'pose when Polly opened his cage door, the open window attracted him, and he flew out. Then as the other windows in the Forbes house were closed, he made for that one that was open. Was nobody in the room?" "No," said Dolly, "not when the jewel was taken. I left it on a table, near the window, and--" "Yes, Miss, I see! Polly was tempted by the glittering thing; he loves glitter, and he snatched it up and flew right back home with it. He hid it somewhere; that's his thievish nature, and when I came in here he was walking up and down the floor as innocent appearin' as a lamb! Oh, you wicked Polly!" "Wick-ed Polly!" screeched the bird. "Naughty Polly!" "Yes, very naughty Polly!" said Ted. "But a good Polly, after all, to get us out of our troubles!" "Then, you see," continued Old Joe, "that villainous bird, he hid his treasure, and when I let him out yesterday, just to fly around the room, he found it out again, and he hent and broke it all up." "Well, never mind!" Dolly cried, "as long as we have it! Oh, Ted, how clever of you to think of it! I'm so glad! Come, let's hurry home and tell about it! My, won't they all rejoice!" "Shall I go over and make my apologies to Mr. Forbes?" asked Joe, anxiously. "No; at least, not now. Mr. Forbes won't hold you at all to blame. It was merely coincidence that the bird happened to get out of his cage, just when the jewel lay there unprotected," said Ted. "And, he'd taken something else if he hadn't found that. Anything glittering or sparkling catches his eye, and he steals it. But 'tis seldom he gets a chance outside the house." "Why do you keep such a bird?" asked Dolly. "He isn't mine. I wouldn't care to have him. He belongs to Mrs. Mortimer, and she only laughs at his thievin' traits. She thinks they're cunning. So, I must needs take good care of him. 'Twas careless of me to leave the window open, and him here alone. But I didn't think he could break loose from his cage. I'm thinkin' the door was ajar." "Well, we're much obliged to you and to Polly. Oh, just think if you hadn't reasoned it out, Ted, we never would have known the truth! You see, Joe thought the earring was one of Polly's own belongings, so, of course, he never would have paid any attention to it." "That I wouldn't, Miss. I supposed it was some of the trinkets the missus gave him. She buys 'em for him at the five-and-ten. He breaks 'em as fast as he gets 'em!" "I hope this can be straightened out, and I think it can," said Dolly, as she looked at the bent gold work. "I'm sure it can," agreed Ted, "but anyway, it solves the mystery and clears you girls! Hooray! Hurroo!! Come on, let's go and tell them all." The two dashed into the Forbes house next door, and found the rest of them down in the drawing room, wondering what had become of Dolly and Ted. With a beaming face and dancing eyes, Dolly went straight to Mr. Forbes and dangled the bent and twisted earring before his surprised countenance. "Bless my soul!" he cried, as he saw it. "Did you--where did you find it?" Dolly realised that he had been about to say, "Did you decide to own up?" or something like that, and she was glad that he changed his sentence. "Next door!" she exclaimed, for Ted stood back and let her have the pleasure of telling. "That old parrot came and stole it!" "Oh! the parrot!" cried Mr. Forbes. "Why, of course! I see it all! Why didn't _I_ think of that? Once before, I saw that bird light on my window sill and I shooed him off. Strange I didn't think of that solution!" "Tell us more!" cried Dotty; "who thought of a parrot? Whose parrot is it? How did he get in? When?" "Wait a minute, Dot," said Dolly, laughing, "and I'll tell you all about it. You tell some, Ted, I'm all out of breath!" So Ted told the whole story of their visit to the next house. "And I thought it was n. g. when the old chap said the window in his room wasn't open. Also, when he said the bird never left that house, I thought again we were off the track. But when we went on to discuss the matter, and he said the bird was a born thief, and also he finally remembered that his window was open on Sunday afternoon, why I felt sure we had found the culprit. Then, the old fellow produced the earring, which he had seen, but had scarcely noticed, thinking it was some of the bird's own junk. It seems Polly also collects antiques!" "Well, well, Hosmer, my boy, you did well to think of such a solution to our mystery! What put you on the track in the first place?" "I think it was the birds of your collection, sir. I'm very fond of birds and bird study, and I know a lot about parrots, and their ways. Well, seeing all your stuffed birds, put birds in my head, I suppose; any way, when Dolly spoke of a parrot next door that annoyed Mrs. Berry, I thought right away of how that Polly bird would like to grab a gold trinket if he had a good chance. So I looked up his chances, and I began to realise that if your window was open, the one in the other house might have been too. Sunday was such a warm, pleasant day. So, I looked into matters a little, and concluded we'd better go over there. I didn't say what we were going for, because it might easily have turned out a wild goose chase--" "Instead of a wild parrot chase!" said Alicia. "Oh, isn't it just fine that it's found!" "I guess old Fenn will be surprised," said Dotty, with an angry shake of her dark head. "He tried his best to fasten it on Dolly--" "Fasten the earring on?" asked Geordie Knapp, laughing. "No; I did that myself," rejoined Dolly. "Oh, Uncle Forbes, you didn't think I took it, did you?" "I didn't know what to think. No thought of that bird came into my mind. And so I had to cudgel my brain to think how it did disappear. For I HAD to know! Yes, I positively HAD to know!" "Of course," agreed Bernice. "You didn't want to lose that jewel." "It wasn't only that, there was another reason, a reason that I'll tell you some day." CHAPTER XVIII FOUR CELEBRATIONS Next morning at breakfast, each of the four girls found a note at her plate. The notes were all alike, and they read: Mr. Jefferson Forbes, because of his great delight over the discovery of his lost piece of property, invites you to a celebration occasion, to-morrow, Thursday evening. Mr. Forbes would say, also, that he has obtained the consent of all interested parents, that you may stay till Saturday. Mr. Jefferson Forbes will be glad of suggestions as to what form said celebration shall assume. They all laughed at the formal style and stilted language of the notes, and were amazed at the information that they were to make a longer visit than they had thought. Mrs. Berry smiled at the shower of questions that followed the reading of the notes, but she only said, "Don't ask me, my dears. After breakfast, Mr. Forbes will meet you in the reception room and discuss it." So a merry group of four awaited the coming of their host in the pretty little reception room. "Good morning," he said, cheerily, as he entered, "What an attractive bunch of humanity! Four smiling faces and eight bright eyes! I greet you all." With an old-fashioned bow, he took a seat near them, and asked, "Did you receive certain important documents?" "We did," replied Bernice. "May we have further enlightenment?" "You may, and first I will remove that anxious look from Dolly's face, by saying that her mother is perfectly willing that she should stay here the rest of the week." "Oh, goody!" cried Dolly. "How did you ask her? By telephone?" "Yes. So pleased was I over the developments of last evening, that I telephoned all the powers that be, and arranged for an extension to our house party. Are you glad?" "Indeed we are," chorused the girls, and Uncle Jeff went on. "Now, our celebration is to be just whatever you want. And if you don't all want the same thing, you can all have different things. So just state your preferences." "I know mine," said Alicia, "it is to go to Muriel Brown's party on Friday night. She asked us, and I'd love to go." "That's one," said her uncle. "Of course you can all go to the party. Now, Bernice, what do you choose?" "I'd like to go to the opera," said Bernice. "Grand opera, I mean. I've never been but once, and I'd love to go." "Good! We'll go to-night. If you all agree?" They certainly did agree to that, and then Mr. Forbes asked the two D's to choose. "I want to go to the Metropolitan Museum,--with you!" said Dolly, half afraid to ask such a boon. But Mr. Forbes seemed pleased, and declared he would be delighted to go with her, and explain the exhibits and the others could go or not, as they liked. All decided in favour of going, and then Dotty was asked to choose. "Don't laugh at me," said Dotty, "but I'd like to have a party. Only, not a big one. Just us four girls, and the four boys, that we know the best; Geordie, Ted, Marly Turner and Sam Graves. I like that sort of a party better than the big, dressy ones." "Why, Dot Rose!" exclaimed Alicia, "I thought you liked the big dances." "So I do, if I knew the people. But I think it would be lots of fun to have a few, and have a less formal party. I'd like to ask Muriel Brown, and two or three of those girls we met with her, the other day, and then, have a few more boys; but not a hundred, like Muriel had." "A good plan," said Mr. Forbes, "because you couldn't invite a large party on such short notice. So, make out your list, Dotty, and invite them by telephone at once. Mrs. Berry will help you, and will arrange all details. Let me see, you can have that party to-morrow night; go to the opera to-night; go to Muriel's party on Friday night, and go home on Saturday. The museum we can visit any afternoon. I thank you for your kind attention." "Oh, Uncle Jeff, we thank YOU for your kindness, all of it," cried Alicia. "You have been so very good to us, and now you are doing a lot more for our pleasure." "Have you enjoyed it all, so far, Alicia?" and her uncle looked at her inquiringly. "Oh, yes, sir, indeed I have! I was troubled about the lost earring, but that was not your fault." "Nor the fault of any of you girls," said Mr. Forbes. "As I have hinted to you, I have a reason for this visit you are making me, beside a desire to give you pleasure. I am considering a serious matter and this stay of yours in my house is helping me to a decision." "What can it be, Uncle?" cried Bernice. "Tell us, so we can help you more, and more intelligently." "I will tell you Saturday morning," he returned with a smile. "Perhaps in that time other developments may occur that will alter my final decision in the matter." "It sounds most mysterious," laughed Dolly, "can't we guess what it's all about?" "You may guess, if you like, but I don't promise to tell you if you guess correctly. And I don't mind adding, that I feel pretty sure you couldn't guess correctly, if you tried!" "No use trying, then!" said Alicia, gaily. "Oh, I'm so glad we're going to stay longer. I want to do a lot of things beside the celebrations we've just planned. I do think you're the best and kindest uncle in the whole world! I've got a secret, too, and some day I'm going to tell it to you all." "Secrets seem to be the order of the day," laughed Dolly; "we'll have to scrape up one, Dot." "Well, it's no secret that we're having one grand, glorious, good time!" said Dotty. "What's on for this morning?" Mr. Forbes went off to his own room then, and the girls planned out all they should do for the rest of their stay in the city. There was some shopping, some sight-seeing and some errands yet undone but they at last agreed on a programme that would suit everybody. Dotty's party, as they called it, took place on Thursday night, and she had her way about having it a small gathering. There were about twenty in all, and according to Dotty's wishes it was not only a dancing party. There were games as well as dances, for Dotty loved games. Some of the city young people were at first inclined to laugh at the idea of games, but when they began to take part in these that Dotty had planned they became exceedingly interested. One was an "Observation Test," up in Mr. Forbes' museum. At Dotty's request, he had allowed the collection rooms to be opened to the guests, and this very special dispensation was so appreciated by all that they were most exceedingly careful not to handle the rare specimens or touch the exhibits. This state of things lent itself beautifully to the game. Each player was asked to walk about for half an hour and look at the curios and treasures, and at the expiration of the time, to return to the drawing room, and spend ten minutes writing down the names of such objects as could be remembered. This game, most of them had played before, with a table full of less interesting exhibits. But in the wonderful museum rooms of Mr. Forbes it was quite another story. So eagerly did the young people observe and examine the things, that the half hour allotted for that purpose slipped away all too soon. And then they sat down to write their lists, and that too proved an absorbing occupation. Our four girls wrote lists, just for fun, but did not compete for the prizes, as, knowing the exhibit so well, that would not have been fair. Muriel Brown took the first prize, and the hostesses were glad of it for it was pleasant to have Muriel so honoured. The prize was a gold penholder, and the boys' prize, which Marly Turner won, was a similar gift. After it was over, another game was played. This was ribbon cutting. Girls and boys, stood at either end of the long drawing-room. To each girl was given the end of a piece of long, narrow ribbon, and a pair of scissors. The other end of each ribbon was held by a boy, who likewise had a pair of scissors. At a signal, each player started cutting the ribbon straight through the middle. If the scissors slipped and cut through the selvage, the player was out of the game. It was not easy, for the ribbon was narrow, and there was a strong impulse to hurry, which made for crooked cutting. The middle of each piece of ribbon was marked by a knot, and whoever reached the knot first, was the winner of that pair. The one who finished first of all, received a special prize. The game caused great laughter and sport, and the city young people declared they enjoyed it quite as much as dancing. Then the feast was served, and very beautiful and elaborate it was. The celebration, Mr. Forbes had said, was to be especially for the two D's, as it was Dotty's choice, and Dolly's choice of a visit to the museum provided little opportunity for gaiety. The table showed two great floral D's, one at either end. Dotty's was made of red roses, and Dolly's of pink roses. Every guest had as a souvenir, some pretty and valuable little trinket, and at every place was a small D made of flowers. Cakes, ices, jellies, and all such things as could be so shaped, were cut in the form of D's, and our two girls felt greatly honoured to see their initial so prominently and beautifully displayed. In the centre of the table was a huge French Doll, of the finest type. It was dressed in silk covered with polka dots, and its hat and parasol were of silk to match. Everybody laughed when Mr. Forbes pointed out that it was Dotty Dolly! And all agreed it was a most clever and appropriate symbol. After supper there was dancing, and a fine orchestra furnished the music. Our girls liked dancing pretty well, but often they sat out a dance talking to one or another of their guests. Once, as Dolly passed along the hall, chatting with Geordie Knapp, they heard rather loud voices behind the closed door of the little reception room. Rather surprised that the door should be shut at all, that evening, Dolly paused involuntarily, and Geordie stood by her side. They had no intention of eavesdropping; indeed, Geordie thought perhaps some new game was about to be announced. But to Dolly's amazement, she heard Alicia's voice saying, "Oh, I cannot! I dare not!" The tones were quivering with emotion, and Dolly couldn't help listening for the next words. She feared Alicia was troubled about something; indeed, she didn't know what she feared. And, next came a voice that was unmistakably; Marly Turner's, saying, "Do, dear! Oh, TRUST me,--_I_ will take care of you!" "But it is a desperate step!" exclaimed Alicia, "if I should ever regret it!" "You will not regret it, dearest," Marly said, "I will never LET you regret it! Your own mother eloped; it is fitting you should do so, too." Dolly looked at Geordie, her face white with horror. Alicia, planning an elopement! And with Marly Turner! She laid her hand on the knob of the door. "Don't!" said Geordie, "don't you get mixed up in a thing like that! Is Alicia Steele that sort of a girl?" "I don't know," faltered Dolly. "I heard Bernice hint once that Alicia's mother did elope with her father,--but, Alicia! Why, she isn't seventeen, yet!" "Well, that's old enough to know what she's about. I advise you, Dolly, not to go in there. Tell Mr. Forbes, if you like." "Oh, I couldn't tell on Alicia!" And, then, as they still stood there, too fascinated to move away, Alicia said, "Yes, to-morrow night. I will steal out after the house is quiet,--oh, my hero! my idol!" "My angel!" exclaimed Marly, in a deep, thrilled voice, and Dolly turned away, sick at heart. "I don't know what to do!" she said to Geordie, as they went on to the drawing room, where the dancers were. "Don't do anything," he advised. "It's none of your business. That Steele girl isn't like you, she's a different type. If she wants to cut up such didoes, don't you mix in it. Let her alone. I knew Marly liked her,--he said so,--but I didn't suppose he'd do such a thing as that! But I shan't say a word to him. We're good friends, but not chums. Marly's a good chap, but he's awfully anxious to act grown up, and my stars! he's doing so! Elope with the Steele girl! Jiminy!" "I can't bear to tell on Alicia," said Dolly, "and yet, I can't think I ought to let her go ahead and do this thing. She's so fond of romance, and excitement, she doesn't realise what she's doing." Later on, Dolly saw Alicia and young Turner emerge from the reception room, and saunter toward the drawing room. They were talking earnestly, in whispers. Alicia's cheeks were pink, and her manner a little excited. Marly looked important, and bore himself with a more grown up air than usual. Dolly and Geordie looked at each other, and shook their heads. It was only too evident that the two were planning some secret doings. They went off by themselves and sat on a davenport in a corner of the room, and continued to converse in whispers, oblivious to all about them. Dolly and Geordie purposely walked past the other pair, and distinctly heard Marly say something about a rope ladder. "It's part of the performance," he urged, as Alicia seemed to demur. Then she smiled sweetly at him, and said, "All right, then, just as you say." "It's perfectly awful!" said Dolly, as they walked on. "I've simply got to tell Dotty, anyway." "Oh, I wouldn't," expostulated Geordie; "I don't believe they'll pull it off. Somebody will catch on and put a stop to it." "Maybe and maybe not," said Dolly, dubiously. "Alicia is awfully clever, and if she sets out to do a thing, she generally carries it through. And her head is full of crazy, romantic thoughts. She'd rather elope than to go back to school, I know she would. She told me she'd do anything to get out of going back to school." "That makes it look serious," agreed Geordie. "Still I don't think you ought to mix yourself up in it, unless you just tell the whole story to Mr. Forbes." "I hate to be a tattle-tale," and Dolly looked scornful. "But if it's for Alicia's good, maybe I ought to." "Look at them now! Their heads close together, and whispering like everything!" "Yes, they're planning for their getaway!" During the rest of the evening, Dolly watched Alicia, feeling mean to do it, and yet unable to keep herself from it. At last the guests went home, one and all exclaiming at the good time they had had. Marly Turner bade Dolly good night, with a smiling face. "I've had the time of my life!" he declared. "I've not seen much of you," said Dolly, pointedly. "I know it. Too bad! I wanted to dance with you oftener, but the time was so short." "And you found another charmer?" "Well, Alicia sure is a wonder, isn't she? You know she is!" "Yes, she is," said Dolly, and for the life of her, she couldn't frown on the happy-hearted youth. Marly went off, and the others followed. "I'm not going to talk things over to-night," said Dolly, when the four were alone. "I'm tired, and I'm going straight to bed." CHAPTER XIX ALICIA'S SECRET The time seemed fairly to fly. Each of the four girls had some last few errands to do, each wanted some little souvenirs for herself, or for her people at home, and so busy were they that there was not so much mutual conversation among them as usual. They were to go home on Saturday. And already it was Friday afternoon. They had finished luncheon, Alicia and Bernice had gone to their room, and Dolly was about to go upstairs, when she remembered that she had planned to run in and say good-bye to old Joe and his parrot. Dolly felt she owed a debt of gratitude to Polly, and she had bought a little toy for him. "I'm going to run in next door a minute," she said to Mrs. Berry. "Very well, my dear. Here's a cracker for Polly." Dolly took it laughingly, and went out to the hall. "Put your coat round you," called out Mrs. Berry. "It's only a step, I know, but it's a very cold day." "Oh, Dot just took my coat upstairs, with her own. Well, here's Alicia's hanging on the hall rack. I'll throw this round me." She did so, and ran out of the front door and up the steps of the next house. Old Joe answered her ring at the bell. "Just ran over to say good-bye," laughed Dolly, "and to bring a cracker and a toy for Polly." "Thank you, Miss," and Joe smiled at her. "I'll bring the bird down to you, Ma'am, to save your going upstairs." "All right," said Dolly, a little absent-mindedly, for she was thinking of a lot of things at once. Still absentmindedly, she put her hand in her coat pocket for a handkerchief. There was none there, and she drew out a letter instead. Then she suddenly remembered she had on Alicia's coat, and with a glance at the envelope, she thrust the letter back in the pocket. But that one glance sufficed to show her it was in Marly Turner's handwriting. She had had a note from him a day or two ago, inviting her to some party or other, and his striking, sprawling penmanship was unmistakable. The letter had been opened, and Dolly remembered that Alicia had had several letters in the mail that morning. It all recalled to her the talk she had overheard the night before. All that morning Alicia had seemed preoccupied, and twice she had gone off by herself to telephone in a booth, which the girls rarely used, for they had no secrets from one another. Dolly thought over the situation between Alicia and young Turner. She had not told Dotty yet. She had two minds about doing so. It seemed to her one minute that she had no right to interfere in Alicia's affairs and then again, it seemed as if she ought to tell Mr. Forbes what was going on. She had heard Alicia say to Marly that they would elope that very night, and she felt sure they meant to do so. They were all going to Muriel Brown's party, that being Alicia's own choice of the "celebrations." Would she elope from the party, or return home first? The latter, probably, for they had mentioned a rope ladder, and that seemed as if Alicia meant to go late at night when all the others were asleep. If she ran away from the party there would be no need of a rope ladder. Dolly had asked Bernice if Alicia's mother had eloped, and Bernice had said she thought she had, though she had never heard any of the particulars. And then Joe came down with the parrot, and Dolly forgot Alicia and her elopement for the moment. Polly showed great delight over his gifts, and after a few words of good-bye to the bird and to old Joe, Dolly ran back again. In the hall she took off Alicia's coat and hung it on the rack just as Alicia herself appeared on the stairs. "Where you been?" she called out gaily. "Next door," said Dolly, "to say a fond farewell to Polly Mortimer. And as my coat was upstairs, I took the liberty of wearing yours." "That's all right," laughed Alicia, "you're welcome to it, I'm sure. Oh, I say, Dolly, there's a letter in the pocket of it! I hope you didn't read it!" "Alicia Steele! You ought to be ashamed of yourself to hint at such a thing!" "There, there, don't flare up over nothing! I only said I hoped you didn't. Did you?" "I consider that question insulting!" "Yes, people often get out of answering, that way! Now, you haven't answered me yet. Did you or did you NOT read that letter that's in the pocket of my coat?" "I did NOT! But I've my opinion of a girl who could even think I'd do such a thing!" "Well, you had plenty of time, and when you were in next door, would have been a good opportunity. I'm not sure I believe you even yet. You're blushing like fury!" "Who wouldn't, at being insulted like that! I don't think you can have much sense of honour yourself, to think anybody decent would read another person's letter!" "Now, don't get huffy, little goldilocks!" and Alicia laughed at her. "I had to be sure, you see, because it's a most important matter, and I wouldn't have anybody know for the world,--until I get ready to tell, myself." "And when will you be ready to tell?" Dolly tried to speak lightly, but the words nearly choked her. "I dunno. Maybe you'll know about it to-morrow." "Oh, Alicia--" Dolly meant to speak a word of warning or of pleading, indeed she didn't quite know what she WAS going to say, but just then, Dotty and Bernice came down stairs, and proposed they all go for a motor ride, and a last visit to the pretty tearoom. Dolly agreed, but Alicia didn't seem quite willing. "I'm expecting a telephone message," she said, at last. "You girls go on, and leave me at home. I shan't mind." "Oh, no," said Dotty, "we four can't be together after to-day. We mustn't be separated this last day of all. Come on, 'Licia." "But it's an important message," and Alicia looked anxious. "Can I be of help?" said Mrs. Berry, coming toward them. "Yes," cried Dotty, "let Mrs. Berry take the message, and tell her what answer to make." "No answer," said Alicia, slowly, and a pink flush rose to her cheeks. "But just take the message, if you please, dear Mrs. Berry. It will be short, I know. Jot it down, lest you forget the exact wording." Mrs. Berry promised and the four ran away to get ready for their last afternoon together. "Dress up pretty, girls," Alicia called from her room. "No telling whom we might meet at the tearoom." "That's so," said Dotty; "put on your Dresden silk, Doll." Dolly laughingly agreed, and the four dressed-up young ladies started off. A few calls at various shops, a few stops to look once more at certain points of interest they admired, and then for a long drive through the parks, and finally to the tearoom. "How short the time has been," said Bernice, as they flew along. "Yes," assented Alicia, "it doesn't seem possible we've been here as long as we have. Oh, I don't want to go home. I wish I could live in New York, I just love it!" "I like it," said Dolly, "but I don't want to live here. I'd LIKE to come here oftener than I do, though." At the tearoom they found Janet Knapp and Corinne Bell, two girls whom they had come to know very pleasantly. "Sit here with us," called out Janet, as they entered. "We haven't ordered yet,--what do you girls want?" "Cafe frappe for me," said Dotty, "and waffles." "Thick chocolate and whipped cream for mine," said Alicia. "Oh, when shall I ever get these lovely things again? Think of going back to boarding-school diet!" "Don't you have good things to eat at that nice school?" asked Dolly. "Oh, good enough, but not lovely, fancy things like these." "I'd like to go to boarding-school," said Janet, "but mother doesn't want me away from home. She thinks girls get no home training at those fashionable schools." "We don't, and that's a fact," admitted Alicia. "We're taught manners and, oh, well, I s'pose it's up to the girl herself, as to what she learns. Maybe I won't go back to school, after all." "Oh, Alicia," cried Bernice, "what do you mean?" "Oh, nothing," and Alicia smiled as she tossed her head. "I've got a secret. I can't tell you now. Maybe you'll know soon." Dolly looked at Alicia, in bewilderment. Could she be referring to her intended elopement with Marly Turner? "Good gracious! What do you mean?" and Janet laughed. "Never mind," returned Alicia, airily, "don't ask me any questions. You know they call me 'that awful Alicia!' So be prepared for anything." Dolly grew thoughtful. Only she and Geordie Knapp held the secret of Alicia's strange remarks, and she couldn't decide whether it was her duty to tell anyone of her knowledge or not. She made up her mind to tell Mrs. Berry, as soon as she went home, and then she had compunctions about that, for Dolly was very conscientious and she really didn't know what was right to do. "I go to an awfully nice school," Corinne Bell said. "It's quite near my house and I can go alone every day. We have such interesting teachers, and such a jolly lot of girls. You'd love it, Alicia." "Yes, I'd love it, but how could I go there? It isn't a boarding school, is it?" "No; but couldn't you board somewhere in New York?" "Alone! No, I should say not! You know I live out in the western wilds, at least the middle western wilds, and I think they're wilder than the far west. This little New York visit is all poor Alicia will see of the glittering metropolis for,--oh, well, it may be for years and it may be forever!" "What do you do in vacation time?" asked Janet. "Oh, Dad and I go to summery places. Couldn't come to New York then, you know. But when I get married, I'm going to live in New York, you can bet on that!" "You're not thinking of marrying soon, I hope," and Janet laughed. "Never can tell!" said Alicia, smiling saucily. "I have all sorts of wonderful schemes in my noodle. Some of 'em materialise,--some don't. But trust little Alicia to do something big! Oh, girls, my secret is just TOO splendid!" "Is it--is it all right?" and Dolly stammered, as she looked at Alicia with a doubtful glance. "Is it all right! You little sanctimonious-eyed prude! You bet it's all right! Maybe we'll meet again, Janet. You can't 'most always sometimes tell." "I hope you'll come to Berwick to visit me, Alicia," said Bernice; "I think as we're cousins we ought to see more of each other." "I'd love to, Bernie. Maybe I'll come this summer." "We could have a sort of reunion at our house," went on Bernice; "Muriel and you girls could come for a few days, and the two D's and I would be there, and we'd scare up a lot of fun." "'Deed we would! I'll surely come if it can be arranged. But I never know Dad's plans from one day to the next," Alicia said. "Hello, girls," sang out a boyish voice, and in came Geordie Knapp with half a dozen comrades. "We just sorter, kinder thought we'd see a bunch of peaches here about this time o' day! Hello, everybody!" Marly Turner was not among the group, and Dolly looked anxiously at Geordie, as if to ask him what he knew concerning him. "What is it, Dolly?" asked Geordie, with a blank look. "Secret!" laughed Dolly, "come over here and whisper to me." "Oh, how rude!" cried Alicia; "even out West we don't whisper in polite society!" "But this is a special case," and Dolly smiled and dimpled, as if about to discuss the most trivial subject with Geordie. The boy looked surprised when Dolly spoke to him about what they had overheard the night before. "Why," he said, "I never gave it another thought! I don't believe they really meant what we thought they did." "Yes, they did," asserted Dolly. "All day, Alicia has been keyed up to some great excitement. She had a letter from Marly this morning, and she expects a telephone from him. Also, she said things that could only mean that they really are going to elope to-night." "Such as what?" "She said maybe she'd live in New York soon, and said she had a big, wonderful secret and we'd know it to-morrow,--why, she even said she expects to live in New York after she's married!" "Whew! that's going some! Still, Dolly, I don't just see what we can do." "I think I ought to tell Mr. Forbes, don't you?" "I don't know. I do hate tell other people's secrets." "Yes; so do I. Perhaps I'll just tell Mrs. Berry." "I say, I've an idea! Suppose I get hold of Turner, and get him to go home and spend the evening with me. I'll insist upon it, you know, and if he objects, I'll ask him what's up." "Oh, yes, Geordie, that will be fine! You do that, will you?" "Yes; suppose I telephone him now, and ask him." "Go ahead, and then tell me what he says." Geordie excused himself and went off to the telephone booth. "You seem to have a lot of secrets, too, Dolly," said Alicia. "Yes, I have," and Dolly looked demure. "Can't let you have all the fun, 'Licia." "Nothing doing," Geordie reported to Dolly, as he came back, and his face looked more serious. He made an opportunity to speak to her alone again, and he said, "I got him all right, and he said he couldn't see me this evening, for he's awful busy. Said he was busy with his father." "His father! Why, Mr. Turner is an actor, isn't he?" "Sure he is, one of the best." "Then how can Marly be with him? Isn't Mr. Turner acting?" "Not just now. He's rehearsing, I think." "Well, I believe Marly made that up. He's planning the elopement." "I'm afraid he is. He was sort of queer and didn't answer as straightforwardly as he usually does. Oh, what a silly performance to cut up! Why, they're just a couple of kids!" "I know it. I never was mixed up in a thing like this before." "You're not mixed up in this." "No; not unless I mix in purposely. And I believe I shall have to. You see, I'm only a country girl, and I don't know what's right to do in this case. But I'm going to follow my instinct, and tell either Mr. Forbes or Mrs. Berry. I don't think I'll tell Dot or Bernice, for they'd have no more knowledge of what's right to do, than I have myself." "You're a good deal of a trump, Dolly Fayre. But I think you're in a hard place. I wish I could help you, and I'll do anything you say." "Couldn't you go to Mr. Turner?" "I'd hate to. Yer see, us fellows don't tell on each other,--it isn't done--" "I know. Well, let's hope we're mistaken." "But I don't see how we can be,---after what we heard." "Neither do I. I've a mind to speak straight out to Alicia about it." "Do, if you think best." "Well, I'll see." CHAPTER XX UNCLE JEFF'S FOUR FRIENDS Still uncertain what she'd do, Dolly went home with the rest of the quartette. Alicia was in high spirits, constantly exclaiming, "Oh, if you only knew what I know!" or "I'm terribly excited over my secret! Just you wait till to-morrow!" or some such speech. And as they entered the Forbes house she flew to Mrs. Berry demanding to know if a telephone message had arrived for her. "Yes," replied the good-natured housekeeper. "Marly Turner called up, and he asked me to tell you that everything was all right, and he'd pull it off to-night, sure." "Oh, goody!" cried Alicia, "are you sure that's just what he said?" "Yes," asseverated Mrs. Berry, "see, I wrote it down, so I shouldn't forget." Dolly had to eavesdrop a little to overhear this conversation, as Alicia had drawn Mrs. Berry aside, to make her inquiries. And it was with a heavy heart that Dolly went upstairs to lay off her wraps. "Oh, girls, I'm so happy!" cried Alicia, as she flung herself into a chair. "But don't ask me why, for I refuse to tell you. Now, do we dress for to-night's party before dinner or after?" "Before, please," said Mrs. Berry, who had followed the girls to their rooms. "Mr. Forbes asked me to tell you that he wants an interview in the drawing-room before you go to Muriel's, and so you'd better be dressed." "Ah, those drawing-room interviews!" exclaimed Bernice. "How they frightened me at first; then they rather bored me; but in the last few days I've come to like them!" "So have I," said Dotty. "I like Mr. Forbes himself a whole lot better than I did at first. He's so much more get-at-able." "He ought to be," laughed Alicia, "with four girls to train him up in the way he should go! What frocks, ladies? Our very bestest?" "Yes, indeed," said Bernice. "This is our last night, and we must 'go out in a blaze of glory'! And scoot, you two D's. We've none too much time to dress." Dolly and Dotty went to their room, and it was rather a silent Dolly who sat down to the dressing-table to brush her golden locks. "Whatamatter, Dollums?" said her chum. "Sad at thoughts of going home?" "Oh, no; really, Dot, I'm glad to go home. We've had a magnificent time here, but I'm--well, I s'pect I'm homesick." "So'm I, a little, now that you mention it. But we've enough to remember and think over for a long time, haven't we?" "Of course. My but I'm glad that earring was found! Oh, Dot, wouldn't it have been awful if we had gone home with that doubt hanging over us?" "It would, indeed, old girl. And, now if you'll proceed to do up that taffy-coloured mass on top of your head, I'll accept the dressing mirror for a while." Dolly twisted up her golden mop, and decorated it with a ribbon band, and then gave over her place to Dotty. And, shortly, four very much dressed-up girls went down to the extra elaborate dinner that was served in honour of the last night of their visit. The chat at table was far more gay and spontaneous than it had been on the night of their arrival, for all had become used to each other's ways, and had grown to like each other very much. Mr. Forbes, too, had changed from a stiff, somewhat embarrassed host to a genial, even gay comrade. He asked all about their doings of the day, and they told him, with gay stories of funny episodes. Dolly watched Alicia, but except that her eyes were unusually bright and her laughter very frequent, the Western girl showed no especial excitement. After dinner they all went to the drawing-room, and it was with a feeling of real sadness that Dolly realised it was for the last time. Mr. Forbes walked up and down the room as he often did, and then paused in front of the group of girls who were standing by the piano. "Sit down, girlies," he said; "Alicia and Bernice, sit on that sofa, please,--you two D's on that one." Uncle Jeff was smiling, but still, there seemed to be an undercurrent of seriousness in his tone, that implied a special talk. "Did it ever occur to any of you," he began, "that I invited you here for something beside a mere desire to give you young people some pleasure?" "Why, you've practically said so to us, Uncle Jeff," laughed Alicia; "are you going to tell us your reason?" "Yes, I am. And I'm going to tell you now." Mr. Forbes sat down in an easy chair, in such a position that he could look straight at all the girls, but his gaze rested on his two nieces. "My reason," he said, slowly, "is, I admit, a selfish one. If you girls have enjoyed your visit, I'm very glad, but what I wanted, was to study you." "I knew it!" exclaimed Bernice. "I thought you were studying us--our characters." "Yes, just that. And I wanted to study the characters of my two nieces. Now you know you can't judge much of girls, unless you see them with their comrades, their chums; or at least with other girls of their own age. So I asked you each to bring a girl friend with you. As it happened, Bernie brought two, and Alicia none, but that didn't matter. And I'm exceedingly glad to have met and known the two D's." The courteous old gentleman bowed to Dotty and Dolly who smiled and bowed in return. "Well," Uncle Jeff went on, "here's the reason I wanted to study my two nieces. Because I want to take one of them to live with me, and to inherit, eventually, my house and the greater part of my fortune." There was a silence, as each of his hearers thought over what this would mean. Either Bernice or Alicia was to be chosen to live in that big city house, practically to be mistress of it, to have a life of wealth and luxury and at last to inherit Mr. Forbes' great fortune, and all his valuable collections and belongings. Dotty broke the silence. "It's great!" she exclaimed, "just great! And which one are you going to choose?" "I have chosen," said Mr. Forbes, slowly, "it remains to be seen whether the one I have selected will accept. But now, you all can see why I was so alarmed and anxious over the episode of the lost earring. I HAD to find out if any of you girls had yielded to temptation. And if so, if it was one of my nieces, or one of their friends." "And if it had been one of your nieces, you would have chosen the other!" cried Bernice. "No, my child," returned her uncle. "Quite the contrary. If either you or Alicia had taken that gem, with a wrong intent, I should have asked the wrong-doer to come and live with me, hoping I could teach her the error of her ways. But that's neither here nor there. For none of you DID take the jewel, nor indeed, ever thought of such a thing. But my decision, which I have made, is not entirely based on worthiness, or even on desirability. And I'll tell you frankly, had I tried to choose my favourite between Bernie and 'Licia, I should have had a hard time! For I have come to love both girls very dearly, and would have not the slightest objection to adopting them both." "And us two also?" asked Dotty, mischievously. "Yes, and you two also! Bless my soul! From a lonely, somewhat misanthropic old man, you young people have turned me into a real human being! I like young voices round me, and young folks's pleasures going on in my house. Well, my dears, are you interested to know my choice?" "ARE we?" cried Dotty, while Dolly fairly held her breath. "I have chosen Alicia," Mr. Forbes announced, and there was a deep silence. Bernice looked a little bewildered, but not at all disappointed. Alicia looked simply stunned, and the two D's just listened for further developments. "But don't you for one minute think," said Mr. Forbes, "that I consider Alicia in any way superior to Bernice; nor, on the other hand, do I think Bernie better than Alicia. I love my nieces equally, and the thing that settled the question in my mind was a letter I received to-day from Alicia's father." "I know!" cried Alicia, "I had one, too. I didn't say anything about it, because Dad asked me not to. You tell, Uncle Jeff." "It's this," said Mr. Forbes. "Alicia's father is to be married soon. As you know, Alicia's mother, my dear sister died many years ago, and I know Mr. Steele but slightly. However, now that he is about to remarry, I hope that it will please both him and his new wife if Alicia comes to live with me. Also, I hope it will please Alicia." "Oh, Uncle Jeff!" and Alicia flew over to him, and flung her arms round his neck, "indeed it does please me! Why, only to-day I was saying how I'd LOVE to live in New York, and how I HATED to go back to that old school! But I never dreamed of such a thing as this!" "Oh, it's just fine!" exclaimed Bernice. "I couldn't think of leaving father, and I'd rather live in the country anyhow--" "I discovered that, Bernie, girl," said her uncle, seriously. "That's why I had you girls here, so I could see for myself what your tastes and traits really are. I've learned that Bernice prefers her own home and too that she doesn't want to leave her father alone though my plan would have been if I asked Bernice to come here to have her father live here, too. However, I also discovered that Alicia is unhappy in her school life, that she does not care much about returning to her Western home to live with a stepmother, and that she adores New York City! So, I wrote to her father asking his opinion, and he leaves the settlement of the question to Alicia, herself." "And I settle it! Yes! oh, I certainly DO!" and the girl gave her kind uncle another big embrace. "Isn't it funny you should have been saying to-day that perhaps you might live in New York?" said Bernice. "Yes," replied Alicia, and her face changed, "but I didn't mean THIS!" Dolly spoke impulsively. In fact, it seemed as if she couldn't keep still. "Suppose you tell your uncle just what you DID mean," she said, looking straight at Alicia with an unmistakably meaning gaze. Alicia turned on her with a sudden expression of anger. "You DID read that note in my coat pocket!" she cried, "you DID read it, Dolly Fayre! and you pretended you were too honourable to do such a thing!" "Why, Alicia, I did not! You take that back!" "Bless my soul! Are you two quarrelling? What IS the matter?" "Dolly read my note!" cried Alicia, "she--" "I did not!" interrupted Dolly, her blue eyes blazing. "Alicia has a secret, and I think she ought to tell it!" "I've got a right to have a secret if I like,--Dolly Fayre!" "But it isn't a nice secret! You wouldn't want Uncle Forbes to know it! It's--it's shocking!" "How do YOU know?" "I know all about it,--at least I know something about it. I heard you and Marly Turner--" "Oh, pshaw! you little blue-eyed goose! You only think it's shocking, because you're so prim and straight-laced! I'll tell Uncle Jeff, myself, and I'll tell him right now!" "All right, Alicia," and Dolly drew a big sigh of relief. If Alicia would tell her own secret, it would take all responsibility from her shoulders. But Alicia hesitated. She began to speak once or twice, and stammered and paused. At last she said, "I hate to tell, it sounds so--so grown-up and ambitious." "I should think it DID!" cried Dolly, who began to wonder if Alicia were crazy. "You tell him, Dolly," and Alicia suddenly looked very shy and embarrassed. "Do you MEAN it? Do you want ME to tell him?" "Yes, I honestly wish you would. Though how you found out about it, I don't see!" "We weren't intending to listen, Alicia, but Geordie Knapp and I heard you and Marly Turner, in the little reception-room last night." "Oh, that explains it! Yes, we did talk pretty loud. Well, what did you think of it, Dolly?" "If you say so, I'll tell the rest, and see what they think of it." "All right, go ahead! Spare my blushes, good people, but I am fearfully embarrassed!" Everybody looked uncomprehending, and Dolly began. She couldn't see how Alicia could treat the matter so lightly, but was fervently thankful that she did so. "It's this," said Dolly, solemnly, "Alicia is planning to elope with Marly Turner." There were four astonished faces that greeted this announcement, but none showed such blank amazement as Alicia's own. "Oh, Dolly!" she cried. "Oh, Dolly Fayre! You will be the death of me yet! Go on, tell them more!" "That's about all I know. They planned it last night and it just happened that Geordie and I heard them. Marly coaxed her, and Alicia hesitated and then consented. She said her mother eloped, and she would do the same. They were going to have a rope ladder." "Oh, Dolly! Oh, Uncle Jeff! Oh, Dollyrinda!" "Well, Alicia, suppose you stop yelling, oh, and tell me about this interesting performance," Mr. Forbes spoke, severely. But Alicia had thrown herself into a big chair and was screaming with laughter. Every time she essayed to speak, she went off in uncontrollable spasms of mirth and when she wiped her eyes and endeavoured to speak, she giggled again. Dolly realised there was some misunderstanding somewhere and waited for the explanation. At last it came. "No, Uncle Jeff," and Alicia managed to speak intelligibly, "I'm not going to elope with Marly or anybody else. I'm going to live here with you." "But you were!" said Dolly. "You planned to!" "No, my child," and Alicia laughed again. "I'll have to tell my story myself. I've written a play, Uncle, and in it, the heroine elopes with the handsome hero. I was awfully shy about showing it to anybody, but Marly said he'd try to persuade his father to read it over and see if it showed any promise. You know it's a great thing to have Mr. Turner read your play, and I was delighted. Well, last night, Marly and I went over the elopement scene, that's the strong act of the play, and that's what Dolly heard, and she thought we were talking ourselves! Oh, Dolly, if people plan to elope they don't do it at the top of their lungs! Marly and I read the various character parts to see how it would sound in different voices. Well, then, he said he'd try to get his father to read it to-night, so I'd know before I went away to-morrow. And he telephoned that he'd pull it off,--he meant he'd get his father to read it. That's my secret. And, you know, Uncle Jeff, my mother DID elope, because her father didn't want her to marry Jim Steele. And I'd heard the story of her elopement so often, and it was so dramatic, that I put it in my play. Oh, Dolly, what a little innocent you are!" "I don't care if I am," returned Dolly, and her pretty face beamed with smiles. "I think your secret is lovely, Alicia, and I think Uncle Forbes' secret is too." "So do I," said Dotty, "and I'm glad and proud that Dollyrinda and I are chums of two such talented and distinguished girls." "And _I_'m glad, Alicia," said her uncle, "that you have a taste for writing. I shall be glad to help you cultivate it and I've no doubt that Mr. Turner can give you valuable advice. Of course your early efforts can't amount to much, but if you care to keep at it, you may yet do good work. Well, then, do I understand, that you accept my invitation to live with me?" "Yes, indeed, you dear, darling old uncle! I'll live with thee, and be thy love! as the poet sings." "Then run away to your party now, and we'll settle all further details to-morrow." "And you'll forgive me, Alicia, for misjudging you?" said Dolly, still smiling at her funny mistake. "Yes, indeed, you blue-eyed angel! And you'll forgive me for thinking you read my note. In it, Marly said he thought he could get his father to read my manuscript and I was SO excited over it. But of course I know you wouldn't touch my letter only I was so upset over it, I hardly knew what I said." "Oh, that's all right. And, girls, won't we have the great times having Alicia come to Berwick to see us all?" "Yes, and having you all come here to visit me!" returned Alicia. "We'll always be chums," said Dotty. "These days together have made us inseparable friends." "The Forbes quartette," said Dolly. "Only Bernice is named Forbes, but I mean Uncle Forbes' quartette." "Yes," said Jefferson Forbes, "my four friends, my Rosebud Garland of Girls." THE END 
41524	----	MARION BERKLEY A STORY FOR GIRLS BY ELIZABETH B. COMINS PHILADELPHIA HENRY T. COATES & CO Copyright, 1870, by A. K. Loring. TO MY TWIN SISTERS THIS BOOK IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY _DEDICATED_. [Illustration: THE TWO BOUQUETS.] MARION BERKLEY. CHAPTER I. EN ROUTE FOR SCHOOL. "Come on, Mab! the carriage is round; only fifteen minutes to get to the depot." "Yes, I am coming. O mamma! do fasten this carpet-bag for me. Dear me! there goes the button off my gloves. Was there ever any one in such a flutter?" "Never mind, dear; it is too late to sew it on now. Here is your bag; come, we must not stop another moment; there is Fred calling again." "I say, Mab," shouted the first speaker from the bottom of the stairs, "if you're coming, why don't you come? I shan't leave until you bid me good-by, and I know I shall lose the ball-match. You do keep a fellow waiting so eternally long!" His sister was downstairs, and had her arms around his neck before he had finished speaking, and said to him, in a tone of mock gravity, "Now, Frederic, don't get excited; always follow my good example, and keep cool. There now!" she exclaimed, as she gave him a hearty kiss; "be off. I forgot all about your ball-match, and all the amends I can make is to hope the Isthmians will beat the Olympics all to pieces." "Come, come," called Mrs. Berkley from the inside of the carriage, "we have not a moment to lose." "Good-by, Hannah. One more kiss for Mab, Charlie. Good-by, all;" then to the coachman, as she whisked into the carriage, "Drive on, John, just as fast as you can." The carriage-door was shut with a snap; off went the horses, and Mrs. Berkley and her daughter were soon at the Western depot, where the latter was to take the cars for B----, a little New England town, where she attended boarding-school. They were very late at the depot, and Mrs. Berkley had only time for a fond kiss and a "Write often, darling," when the bell rung, and she was forced to leave the car, feeling a little uneasy that her daughter was obliged to take her journey alone. Just as the cars were starting, Marion put her head out of a window, and called to her mother, "O mamma! Flo is here; isn't that jolly? No fear now of--" The last part of the sentence was unintelligible, and all Mrs. Berkley got was a bright smile, and a wave of the hand, as the train moved out of the depot. "Now, Flo, I call this providential," exclaimed Marion; "for, I can tell you, I did not relish the prospect of my solitary ride. Just hand me your bag, and I'll put it in the rack with my budgets. This seat is empty; suppose we turn it over, and then we shall be perfectly comfortable. Now I say this is decidedly scrumptious;" and she settled herself back, with a sigh of satisfaction. "Why, Mab, what made you so late? I had been here fifteen minutes before you came, all on the _qui vive_, hoping to see some one I knew; but I never dreamed you would be here. I thought you were going up yesterday with the Thayers." "I did intend to; but Fred had a sort of spread last night for the Isthmians, so I stayed over. I expect Miss Stiefbach will give me one of her annihilators, but I guess I can stand it. I've been withered so many times, that the glances of those 'eagle eyes' have rather lost their effect." "Well, I only wish I had a little more of your spirit of resistance. What a lovely hat you have! Just suits your style. Where did you get it?" "Why, it's only my old sun-down dyed and pressed over, and bound with the velvet off my old brown rep. I trimmed it myself, and feel mighty proud of it." "Trimmed it yourself!--really? Well, I never saw such a girl; you can do anything! I couldn't have done it to save my life. I only wish to gracious I could; it would be very convenient sometimes." And so the two girls rattled on for some time, in true school-girl fashion; but at last they each took a book, and settled back into their respective corners. Before very long, however, Marion tossed her book on to the opposite seat; for they were coming to Lake Cochituate, and nothing could be lovelier than the view which was stretching itself before them. I do not think that half the people of Massachusetts realize how beautiful this piece of water is; but I believe, if they had seen it then, they surely must have appreciated its charms. It was about the middle of September, and the leaves were just beginning to turn; indeed, some of them were already quite brilliant. The day was soft and hazy,--just such a one as we often have in early autumn, and the slight mist of the atmosphere served to soften and harmonize the various colors of the landscape. The lake itself was as clear and smooth as polished glass, and every tree on the borders was distinctly reflected on its clear bosom; while the delicate blue sky, with the few feathery clouds floating across it seemed to be far beneath the surface of the water. Marion was at heart a true artist, and had all a true artist's intense love of nature; she now sat at the window, completely absorbed in the scene before her, her eye and mind taking in all the beauties of form, color, and reflection; and as the cars bore her too swiftly by she uttered a sigh of real regret. Perhaps there will be no better time than the present for giving my young readers a description of my heroine. My tale will contain no thrilling incidents, no hairbreadth escapes, or any of those startling events with which ideas of heroism are generally associated. It will be a simple story of a school-girl's life; its fun and frolic; its temptations, trials, and victories. Marion Berkley was a remarkably beautiful girl; but she owed her beauty chiefly to the singular contrast of her hair and eyes. The former was a beautiful golden color, while her eyes, eyebrows, and lashes were very dark. Her nose and mouth, though well formed, could not be considered in any way remarkable. When in conversation her face became animated, the expression changed with each inward emotion, and her eyes sparkled brilliantly; but when in repose they assumed a softer, dreamier look, which seemed to hint of a deeper nature beneath this gay and often frivolous exterior. Mr. Berkley was very fond of his daughter. He had a large circle of acquaintances, many of whom were in the habit of dining, or passing the evening, at his house, and it pleased him very much to have them notice her. Marion was by no means a vain girl; yet these attentions from those so much older than herself were rather inclined to turn her head. Fortunately, her mother was a very lovely and sensible woman, whose good example and sound advice served to counteract those influences which might otherwise have proved very injurious. And now that I have introduced my friends to Marion, it is no more than fair that I should present them to her companion. Florence Stevenson was a bright, pretty brunette, of sixteen. She and Marion had been friends ever since they made "mud pies" together in the Berkleys' back yard. They shared the same room at school, got into the same scrapes, kept each other's secrets, and were, in short, almost inseparable. Florence had lost her mother when she was very young, and her father's house was ruled over by a well-meaning, but disagreeable maiden-aunt, who, by her constant and oftentimes unnecessary fault-finding, made Florence so unhappy, that she had hailed with delight her father's proposition of going away to school. For three years Florence and Marion had been almost daily together, being only separated during vacations, when, as Florence lived five miles from Boston, it was impossible that they should see as much of each other as they would have liked. About four in the afternoon, the girls reached their destination; rather tired out by their long ride, but, nevertheless, in excellent spirits. Miss Stiefbach, after a few remarks as to the propriety of being a day before, rather than an hour behind time, dismissed them to their rooms to prepare for supper, where for the present we will leave them. CHAPTER II. SCHOOL. Miss Stiefbach and her sister Christine, were two excellent German ladies who, owing to a sudden reverse of fortune, were obliged to leave their mother-country, hoping to find means of supporting themselves in America. They were most kindly received by the gentlemen to whom they brought letters of introduction, and with their assistance they had been able to open a school for young ladies; and now, at the end of seven years, they found themselves free from debt, and at the head of one of the best boarding-schools in the United States. Miss Stiefbach, the head and director of the establishment, was a stern, cold, forbidding woman; acting on what she considered to be the most strictly conscientious principles, but never unbending in the slightest degree her frigid, repelling manner. To look at her was enough to have told you her character at once. She was above the medium height, excessively thin and angular in her figure, and was always dressed in some stiff material, which, as Marion Berkley expressed it, "looked as if it had been starched and frozen, and had never been thawed out." Miss Christine was fifteen years her junior, and her exact opposite in appearance as well as in disposition: she was short and stout, and rosy-cheeked, not at all pretty; but having such a kind smile, such a thoroughly good-natured face, that the girls all thought she was really beautiful, and would feel more repentance at one of her grieved looks, than they would for forty of Miss Stiefbach's frigid reprimands. And well they might love her, for she certainly was a kind friend to them. Many a school-girl trick or frolic had she concealed, which, if it had come under the searching eyes of her sister, would have secured the perpetrators as stern a rebuke, and perhaps as severe a punishment, as if they had committed some great wrong. Miss Stiefbach's school was by no means what is generally called a "fashionable school." The parents of the young girls who went there wished that their daughters should receive not only a sound education, but that they should be taught many useful things not always included in the list of a young lady's accomplishments. There were thirty scholars, ranging from the ages of seventeen to ten; two in each room. They were obliged to make their own beds, and take all the care of their rooms, except the sweeping. Every Saturday morning they all assembled in the school-room to darn their stockings, and do whatever other mending might be necessary. Formerly Miss Stiefbach herself had superintended their work, but for the last year she had put it under the charge of Miss Christine; an arrangement which was extremely pleasing to the girls, making for them a pleasant pastime of what had always been an irksome duty. After their mending was done, and their Bible lesson for the following Sabbath learned, the rest of the day was at their own disposal. Those who had friends in the neighborhood generally went to visit them; while the others took long walks, or occupied themselves in doing whatever best pleased them. There were of course some restrictions; but these were so slight, and so reasonable, that no one ever thought of complaining, and the day was almost always one of real enjoyment. Miss Stiefbach herself was an Episcopalian, and always required that every one, unless prevented by illness, should attend that church in the morning; but, in the afternoon, any girl who wished might go to any other church, first signifying her intention to one or the other of the sisters. Some of Miss Stiefbach's ancestors had suffered from religious persecutions in Germany, and, although she felt it her duty to have her scholars attend what she considered to be the "true church," she could not have it on her conscience to be the means of preventing any one from worshipping God in whatever manner their hearts dictated. CHAPTER III. MONSIEUR BÉRANGER. It was the half-hour intermission at school; and Marion and Florence had taken Julia Thayer up into their room to give her a taste of some of the goodies they had brought from home with them. Their room was one of the largest in the house, having two deep windows; one in front, the other on the side. The side window faced the west, and in it the girls had placed a very pretty flower-stand filled with plants; an ivy was trained against the side, and a lovely mirandia hung from the top. The front window had a long seat fitted into it, and as it overlooked the street it was here that the girls almost always sat at their work or studies. "Now, Julie," began Marion, "which will you have, sponge or currant?" "Why, you are getting awfully stingy!" exclaimed Flo; "give her some of both." "No, she can't have both; it is altogether too extravagant. This is my treat, and you need not make any comments." "Well, if I can't have but one, I think I'll try sponge." "Sensible girl! you knew it would not keep long. There, you shall have an Havana orange to pay you for your consideration." "Please, ma'am," said Flo, in a voice of mock humility, "may I give her some of my French candies?" "Yes, if you'll be a very good girl, and never interfere again when I am 'head-cook and bottle-washer.'" The girls sat round the room chatting and eating; Flora and Julia were on the bed, when Marion, who was at the front window, jumped up on the seat, and called out: "O Flo! Julie! do come here! Just look at this man coming down the street. Such a swell!" The two girls rushed precipitately to the window, and they all stood looking out with intense interest. "I do declare, he is coming in here! Who in the world can he be? How he struts!" said Marion. "What a startling mustache! I do wonder who in the world he is." "Allow me to see, young ladies; perhaps I can inform you," said a calm voice directly in their ears; and, turning, they beheld Miss Stiefbach. She had entered the room just as they began their comments, and now stood directly behind them. Florence and Julia fell back in dismay, and for a second a look of amazement passed over Marion's face; but it was only a second, for she instantly replied to Miss Stiefbach, in the same eager tone she had used when speaking to her companions: "Jump right up here; you can see him better, for he is underneath on the steps." Miss Stiefbach looked at her aghast, and for once she was overpowered. She, the calm, the dignified, the stately Miss Stiefbach--jump! It was too much. If a glance could have transfixed her, Marion would have been immovable for life. Miss Stiefbach's usually pale face was flushed to a burning red, and her voice was choked with suppressed excitement, as she said, "Young ladies, you will go at once to the school-room. Miss Berkley, report to me in my study, immediately after the close of school;" and she sailed out of the room. When she was gone, the girls stood and looked at each other, not exactly knowing whether to laugh or cry; but Marion decided for herself, by sitting down on the floor, and bursting into a fit of uncontrollable laughter. Florence held up her finger warningly, "Hush-sh-sh! Mab, she'll hop out from under the bed, like as not; do come downstairs." "O girls! girls! that look!" shouted Marion. "Oh, I shall die! She was furious. Won't I catch it?" "O Mab, how did you dare? It was awfully impudent." "I know it, and I'm sure I don't know what made me say it. I never stopped to think; it just popped out, and I would not have lost that scene for anything;" and Marion went off again into one of her laughing-fits. "O Mab, do stop!" said Julia, rather impatiently; "you'll get us into a pretty scrape." "Well, I won't laugh another bit, if I can help it; come on!" and, jumping up, Marion ran downstairs, the others following her, into the school-room; when, what was their astonishment to see before them "the swell," who had been the cause of all their trouble, standing talking to Miss Stiefbach. They went quietly to their seats, wondering what would happen next. Marion whispered to Flo, "The new French teacher; a man, as I live, and not very old either. Won't we have fun?" "Young ladies of the first class in French go into the anteroom, where M. Béranger will examine you. Miss Christine, accompany them, and preserve order." As Miss Stiefbach said this in her usual calm tones, Marion's recollections were almost too much for her; but she had a little laugh all to herself, behind the cover of her desk, as she took out her books. The former French teacher had been a little, quiet woman, who had allowed herself to be ruled over by her pupils; but she had gone back to France, and Miss Stiefbach had secured the services of M. Béranger, who was recommended to her, both for his complete knowledge of his own language, and for his high moral character. The latter was indeed to be considered, for many foreigners, calling themselves professors, often prove to be mere worthless adventurers, knowing very little themselves of what they attempt to teach others, and being in other respects unfit for respectable society. The young ladies were in quite a little flutter of expectation, as they took their seats, for Mr. Stein, their old music-teacher, was the only gentleman teacher of the establishment, and he was decidedly different from this rather elegant-looking Frenchman. M. Béranger came in, bowed in a dignified manner, took his chair, and at once began questioning the girls as to what they had studied, how far they were advanced, etc. Marion, who was ready for anything, and thought she might as well have a little more fun for the scolding that she knew was in store for her, tried hard to get up a little excitement; pretending not to understand when M. Béranger spoke to her; replying to all his questions in English, notwithstanding his repeated ejaculations of "Mademoiselle, je ne vous comprends pas du tout; parlez Français." But Marion would not "parlez Français," disregarding the beseeching looks of Miss Christine, and either made no reply, or obstinately spoke in English. For some time M. Béranger took no notice of her conduct, but went on questioning the rest of the class; assuring the timid by his polite, considerate patience, and quietly correcting the mistakes of the more confident. At last, however, as Marion asked him some trifling question, he looked her directly in the face, and simply replied, "M'lle Berkley, si vous parlez l'Anglais, il faut que je vous mette dans la classe des petites filles." Marion looked at him a moment, in doubt whether he could be in earnest; but there was no mistaking that calm, determined look. Two things were before her: to rebel, and go down to the lower class in disgrace, or to yield gracefully to what she knew to be right. She chose the latter, and replied, "Monsieur, je pense que je resterai ici." As she said this, there was a slight flush of shame on her cheeks, and she bent her head with a little gesture, which seemed to beg pardon for her rudeness. At any rate, M. Béranger so understood it, and he ever afterwards entertained a secret respect and admiration for M'lle Berkley. That night, in her own room, Marion thus explained her singular conduct: "You see, Flo, I wanted to find out, in the first place, what sort of stuff he was made of; whether he was to rule us, or we him, as we did poor little mademoiselle; and I found out pretty quickly. He came here to teach, not to be made game of. In two weeks, I expect to have the true Parisian accent, and to have entirely forgotten all the English I ever knew. Bonne nuit, ma chère;" and Marion turned over, and was asleep in five minutes. CHAPTER IV. MARION'S SENTENCE. Immediately after the close of school Marion betook herself to the private study of Miss Stiefbach. This was a small room back of the drawing-room, fitted up very cosily and comfortably, and which no one but the sisters ever entered, except on state occasions, or under circumstances like the present. It must be confessed that Marion did not feel very comfortable as the door closed behind her, and Miss Stiefbach, who was sitting at her desk, turned round, motioning her to be seated. Marion knew she had done very wrong, and was really sorry for it, for, although none of the scholars could be said to have much affection for Miss Stiefbach, they all held her in the most profound respect, and no such direct attack upon her dignity had ever been made within the memory of any of the present pupils. Miss Stiefbach cleared her throat, and commenced speaking in her most impressive and awful voice. "Miss Berkley" (the fact that she addressed Marion in this very distant manner proved at once that she was very angry), "your conduct to me this day has been such as I have never seen in any young lady since I became the head of this establishment, and I consider it deserves a severe punishment. The remarks which I overheard this morning, as I entered your room, were enough in themselves to have merited a stern rebuke, even if they had not been followed by a direct insult to myself. I am surprised indeed, that any young ladies brought up in refined society should have made use of such expressions as '_swell_' and--and--other words of a like nature." It was evidently so hard for Miss Stiefbach to pronounce the word, even in a tone of intense disapproval, that Marion, despite her uneasiness, could not help being amused; but no trace of her feelings could be seen in her face; she sat before her teacher perfectly quiet,--so quiet, that Miss Stiefbach could not tell whether she was deeply repentant or supremely indifferent. "I have decided," resumed Miss Stiefbach, "that as M. Béranger was indirectly connected with the affair, you shall apologize to me before the whole school, and in his presence, on the next French day, which will be Friday. I should not have subjected you to this mortification, if you had shown any willingness to apologize to me here; but as you seem entirely insensible of the impropriety of your conduct, I consider that the punishment is perfectly just." Marion rose; for one second her eyes had flashed ominously when her sentence was delivered, but it was the only sign she gave of being surprised or otherwise moved. Perceiving that Miss Stiefbach had nothing more to say, she left the room as quietly as she had entered it. Several of the girls were standing at the study door waiting for her to come out, for the whole story had by this time become pretty freely circulated, and every one was impatient to know the result of the interview. Marion passed them without a glance, and without speaking, but with the most perfect _sang froid_, and went directly upstairs to her room. But once there her forced composure gave way, and, throwing herself on the bed, she burst into a passion of tears. Florence, who had been anxiously waiting for Marion to come up, knelt down beside her, smoothing her hair, calling her by all their fond, pet names, and doing everything she could to soothe and quiet her, but never once asking the questions that were uppermost in her own mind, for she knew that, as soon as this first hysterical fit of weeping was over, her friend would tell her all. She waited some time, until she became almost frightened, for Marion's sobs shook her from head to foot, and she seemed unable to control herself. Suddenly Marion sprang up, and exclaimed in the most excited, passionate tones, "Florence! Florence! what do you think she is going to make me do? Think of the most humiliating thing you can!" "Indeed, my darling, I cannot guess," replied Flo, while she had hard work to restrain her own tears. "I have got to apologize to her before the whole school, and before M. Béranger next Friday. Oh! I think it is abominable. She wouldn't have made any other girl do it, but she knows how proud I am, and she thinks now she'll humble me. Oh, it is too hard, too hard to bear!" and Marion threw herself back on the pillow, and sobbed aloud. Poor Florence was completely overpowered. Distressed as she was for her friend, and furiously indignant with Miss Stiefbach, she hardly dared to comfort and sympathize with her, except by caresses, for fear of increasing her excitement, and she could only throw her arms round Marion's neck, kissing her repeatedly, and exclaiming again and again, "I wish I could help you!--I wish I could help you!" But after a while the violence of Marion's grief and anger subsided, but left its traces in a severe headache; her temples throbbed fearfully, and her face and hands were burning hot. Florence wet a cloth in cold water, and laid it on her head, and, knowing that Marion would prefer to be alone, she kissed her quietly, and as her eyes were closed was about to leave the room without speaking, when Marion called her back, exclaiming, "Don't tell the girls anything about it; they'll find it out soon enough." "No, dear, I won't mention it, if I can help it. You lie still and try to get to sleep. Don't come downstairs to supper. I will excuse you to Miss Christine, and bring you up a cup of tea." "No! no! no!" excitedly repeated Marion; "do no such thing. I wouldn't stay up from supper, if it killed me to go down; it would only prove to old Stiffback how deep she has cut, and I mean she shall find it will take more than _she_ can do to humble me. Be sure and let me know when the bell rings. I don't think there is much danger of my going to sleep; but for fear I should, you come up before tea,--won't you?" Flo promised, and giving her another kiss, and advising her again to lie still and go to sleep,--a thing which she knew it was impossible for Marion to do,--she left the room. Left to herself Marion became a prey to her own varying emotions. Pride, anger, and mortification were rankling in her breast. When she thought of the coming disgrace which she was to endure, she sobbed and wept as if her heart would break; and then the image of Miss Stiefbach, with her calm, cool face, and deliberate manner, seeming so much as if she enjoyed giving such pain, rose before her mind, and she clenched her hands, and shut her teeth together, looking as she felt, willing to do almost anything to revenge herself. In her inmost heart she had been truly sorry for having spoken so impertinently to her teacher, and she had gone to the study fully prepared to acknowledge that she had done wrong, and to ask pardon for her fault. But Miss Stiefbach, by presupposing that she felt no regret for her conduct, or any desire to apologize, had frozen all such feelings, and roused all the rebellious part of the girl's nature. For some time Marion tossed restlessly from side to side; but at last, finding it impossible to quiet herself, much less to sleep, she got up, bathed her face, and prepared to arrange her disordered hair. To her excited imagination, it seemed almost as if she could hear the girls downstairs discussing the whole matter. Every laugh she heard she believed to be at her expense, and she dreaded meeting her companions, knowing full well that her looks and actions would be the subject of general comment. Throughout the school Marion was not a general favorite; almost all the girls admired her, but there were few who felt that they really knew her. She was acknowledged by almost all her companions to be the brightest and prettiest girl in the school, and was apparently on good terms with all of them; but that was all. Many who would have liked to know her better, and who would have been glad to make advances of intimate friendship, felt themselves held back from doing so, by a certain haughty, reserved manner, which she at times assumed, and by her own evident disinclination for anything more than an amicable school-girl acquaintance. Marion was quick to perceive the petty weaknesses and follies of these around her, and her keen sense of the ludicrous, combined with a habit of saying sharp, sarcastic things, often led her to draw out these foibles, and show them up in their most absurd light. No one knew her faults better than Marion herself, and she was constantly struggling to overcome them; but her pride and strong will led her to conceal her real feelings, and often when she was at heart angry with herself, and ashamed of her wilful, perhaps unkind, behavior, she would assume an aspect of supreme indifference, effectually deceiving every one as to what was really passing in her mind. She kept her struggles to herself. No one but her friend Florence and Miss Christine knew how sincerely she longed to conquer her faults, and how severe these struggles were. The knowledge of them had come to Miss Christine by accident. One day Marion had said something unusually sharp and cutting to one of her companions, but had appeared perfectly unconscious of having done anything unkind, and had gone to her own room humming a tune, with the most perfect nonchalance. Miss Christine shortly after followed her, wishing to talk with her, and show her the folly and wickedness of persisting in such conduct. She had found her door closed, and, knocking softly and receiving no answer, she gently opened it, when what was her astonishment to find Marion stretched upon the floor, weeping violently. She went to her, and, kneeling down beside her, called her by name. Marion, thus surprised, could not conceal her grief, or summon her cold, indifferent manner, and, leaning her head on Miss Christine's shoulder, she sobbed out her sorrow, shame, and repentance. Never since had Miss Christine in any way alluded to the event, or by any means tried to force herself into Marion's confidence; but this glimpse into her heart had showed her what she might otherwise never have known, that Marion saw and regretted her own faults and failings, and was resolved to conquer them. From that time a secret bond of sympathy was established between pupil and scholar, and though no word was spoken, a mild, reproachful glance from Miss Christine, or her hand laid gently on Marion's shoulder, had often checked a rising exclamation, or cutting sarcasm, which, no matter how sharply it might have struck its victim, would have rebounded with greater and deeper pain to the very heart of Marion. At home Marion had little or nothing to call forth the disagreeable qualities of her disposition. Surrounded by love and admiration on every side, the darling of her mother, and the pride and glory of her father, to whom she appeared almost faultless, it was no wonder that she found it hard to get on smoothly when thrown among a number of girls her own age, many of whom, jealous of her superior beauty and intelligence, would have been glad of any opportunity of getting her into trouble. Then it was that the worst side of her nature showed itself; and she was shocked when she discovered how many faults she had which she had never thought of before. Her sharp, sarcastic speeches gave her father infinite amusement when she was at home; but there her remarks rarely wounded any one; but at school she made her words tell, and she knew that her tongue was her greatest enemy. But towards the younger girls Marion was always kind and good-natured. No one ever told such delightful stories, or made such pretty paper-dolls, or drew them such lovely pictures as Marion Berkley, and it was always a mystery to them why the "big girls" did not all love her. * * * * * Downstairs poor Florence had been having a hard time. When she first made her appearance in the library there had been a general rush towards her, and she was greeted with a perfect volley of questions, which it needed her utmost ingenuity to parry. She knew Julia Thayer had a right to know all, for she had been personally concerned in the matter, besides being, next to Flo, Marion's dearest friend; but she saw that she could not tell her without further exciting the curiosity of the other girls, and she was forced to take her book, and appear to be deeply interested in her studies. But, although her lips monotonously whispered page after page of history, she knew no more about her lesson than if she had been reading Hindoostanee. What was her astonishment when she heard close beside her Marion's voice, asking, in a perfectly natural tone, "Did Miss Christine say six pages of English History, or seven?" Florence gave a quick glance at Marion's face, and saw that, although she was a little pale, she showed no signs of the storm that had so lately disturbed her. Neither did she throughout the evening appear other than bright and cheerful, effectually silencing by her own apparent ease any surmises or questions in which her companions might have indulged, and they all supposed that she had received a severe reprimand, and that there the matter would end. But all agreed with Sarah Brown, who exclaimed, "How Miss Stiefbach had ever swallowed that pill so easily was a perfect mystery!" CHAPTER V. THE APOLOGY. "Well, Flo, I've hit it!" exclaimed Marion to Florence, as they were sitting together in their room Thursday afternoon. "What do you mean?--hit what?" "Why, I mean I've hit upon a plan; no, not exactly a plan;--I have decided what my apology shall be." "Oh!" said Florence, "do you know just what you are going to say?" "No, not precisely; that is, I have not yet settled upon any exact form of words, but I have got my ideas together, and I really think it will be something quite out of the common line." Florence looked up inquisitively, for Marion's face or voice by no means expressed the repugnance which she had heretofore shown whenever she had spoken of the coming apology. In fact she looked rather triumphant, and a little, amused smile played about the corners of her mouth, as she bent over her work. "Now, Mab," exclaimed Florence, "I know you are up to something! Do tell me what it is that evidently amuses you so much?" "Oh, nothing particular," replied Marion; but in a tone which said plainly enough that there was something very particular indeed. "Now, Mab, you needn't tell me!" "That is exactly what I don't mean to do," provokingly replied Marion. "Oh, don't be disagreeable! You know I am positively dying with curiosity; so out with it!" and Florence tossed her own work on to the bed, and, catching hold of Marion's canvas, threw it behind her, as she established herself on her friend's lap. "Well, I'm sorry, my dear; but if your life depends on my telling you anything particular to-day, I am afraid you will come to an early grave." Florence laid her hands on Marion's shoulders, and looked steadily into her eyes. Marion met the look with a confident, amused smile, and exclaimed, "Well, Flo, you look as sober as a judge. I really believe you think I meditate murder; but I assure you Miss Stiefbach's life is in no danger from my hands." "I'll tell you just what I do think, Marion. I believe you are going to refuse to apologize, and if you do, you will be worse off than you've been yet;" and Florence really looked as serious as if she were trying a case in court. "No, Flo, you needn't trouble yourself on that score. I mean to apologize before the whole school, and M. Béranger to boot,--just as old Stiffy ordered." "Well, I am glad of it! Not glad that it _must_ be done, you know; but I was afraid you would try to get rid of it in some way; and I know that would make matters worse." "No, I don't mean to get rid of it; I shall do it in the most approved style. Come, get up, miss; you're awfully heavy!" Florence jumped up, considerably relieved, but still a little suspicious of her friend's intentions. At that moment Julia Thayer came into the room. "O girls! you here?" she exclaimed. "I've been hunting for you everywhere." "Well, I don't think you hunted much; we've been here ever since lessons were done," replied Marion. "Take a seat, Miss Thayer, and make yourself at home," said Florence. "Thank you, I was only waiting to be asked. Now, Marion, do tell me; have you decided what you are going to say to-morrow?" "It is no use asking her; you can't get anything out of her. I've just tried my best." "What! don't you mean to tell us, beforehand?" "No." "Not a word? not a syllable? Well, I do declare! I tell you what it is, Flo, she means to astonish us all by some wonderful production." "I suppose most of the girls _will_ be astonished, for I don't believe they know there is to be any apology at all." "No, I don't think they suspect it," said Julia. "So much for knowing how to hold one's tongue." "Well, Julia, I guess this is the first time you could be accused of that," laughingly replied Flo. "That is a libel! Who held their tongue about Aunt Bettie's doughnuts, I should like to know?" "Another rare instance," mischievously put in Marion; "put it down, Julia, you'll never have another chance." "But, girls, what do you mean?" cried Julia, in a deprecating tone. "Do you think I run and tell everything I know?" "No, dear, not a bit of it," replied Flo; "you are not quite so reserved as Marion, but I never heard any one accuse you of telling what you ought to keep to yourself, or, as the boys say, of 'peaching.'" "There, Julia, don't look so forlorn, for mercy's sake!" exclaimed Marion. "You are so delightfully easy to tease; but I confess it was a very poor reward for your silence of the past two days, which (she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes) I know must have almost killed you." Julia and Florence both laughed outright at this rather equivocal consolation, and at that moment the supper-bell rang. Friday morning every girl was in her seat precisely as the clock struck nine; for it was French day, and consequently only the second appearance of M. Béranger, and the novelty of having him there at all had by no means worn off. He entered the room, shortly after, and, having politely wished Miss Stiefbach and her sister good-morning, was about to pass into the anteroom, when Miss Stiefbach detained him. "Excuse me, M. Béranger, but I must trouble you to remain here a few moments." M. Béranger bowed with his usual grace, and Miss Stiefbach continued:-- "I regret to say (she did not look as if she regretted it at all) that a circumstance of a most painful nature has lately taken place in this school. One of my young ladies has done that which makes me deem it necessary to exact a public apology from her. As you were indirectly concerned in the matter, I think it proper that the apology should be made before you. Miss--" "But, madame," hastily interrupted the astonished Frenchman, "I cannot imagine; there must be a meestake--I am a perfect stranger; if you will have the goodness to excuse me, I shall be one tousand times obliged;" and the poor man looked as if he himself was the culprit. "It is impossible, monsieur," decidedly replied Miss Stiefbach; "one particular clause of her punishment was, that it should be made in your presence. Miss Berkley, you will please come forward." During the above conversation a most profound silence had reigned throughout the room; the girls, with the exception of the initiated three, had looked from one to another, and then at the group on the platform, with faces expressive of the most intense astonishment, proving how wholly unsuspicious they had been; but as Marion's name was pronounced a light broke in upon every one, and all eyes were turned upon her as she left her seat. Miss Stiefbach stood with her hands folded over each other in her usual stately attitude. M. Béranger looked infinitely annoyed and distressed, and twirled his watch-chain in a very nervous manner. Miss Christine had retired to the extreme end of the platform, and was trying to appear interested in a book; but her face had a sad, pained look, which showed how fully her sympathies were with her pupil. Florence Stevenson buried her face in her hands; she could not bear to witness her friend's disgrace. Marion advanced quietly up between the rows of desks, and as she stepped upon the platform turned so as to face the school. She never looked lovelier in her life; a bright color burned in her cheeks, and her eyes, always wonderfully beautiful, glowed with a strange light; but the expression of her face would have baffled the most scrutinizing observer. Calm, quiet, perfectly self-possessed, but without a particle of self-assurance, she stood, the centre of general observation. Presently she spoke in a full, clear voice: "Miss Stiefbach, as M. Béranger evidently does not know how he is concerned in this matter, perhaps I had better explain the circumstances to him." Miss Stiefbach bowed her consent, and Marion, turning towards the bewildered Frenchman, thus addressed him:-- "M. Béranger, last Wednesday morning, as I, with two of my companions, was in my room, which is in the front of the house, my attention was attracted towards a gentleman who was coming down the street, and I immediately called my two friends to the window that they might get a good view of him. Our interest was of course doubly increased when we saw the gentleman enter this garden. His whole appearance was so decidedly elegant (here M. Béranger, who began to see that he was the subject of her remarks, colored up to the roots of his hair) that we could not help giving our opinions of him, and _I_ applied to him the word 'swell,' which in itself I acknowledge to be very inelegant; but my only excuse for using it is, that in this case it was so very expressive." M. Béranger, despite his embarassment, could hardly conceal a smile, while a suppressed murmur of amusement ran round the room. Miss Stiefbach looked hard at Marion, but her face was composed, and her manner quietly polite; she was apparently perfectly unconscious of having said anything to cause this diversion. "While we were talking of him, Miss Stiefbach entered the room, and must have, unintentionally of course, overheard our comments, for the first intimation we had of her presence was this remark, which she made standing directly behind us: 'Young ladies, allow me to see; perhaps I can inform you.' And now occurred the remark which it was so exceedingly improper in me to make, and which justly gave so much offence to Miss Stiefbach." (Here Marion turned towards her teacher, who, as if to encourage her to proceed, bowed quite graciously.) "I was standing on the seat in the window, and consequently had the best view of the gentleman. In the excitement of the moment, regardless of the difference in our ages, and only remembering that we were impelled by one common object, I asked her to _jump_ on to the seat beside me. Miss Stiefbach, for that rudeness I most sincerely ask your pardon. It was wrong, very wrong of me; I should have stepped aside, thus giving you an excellent opportunity of gratifying your desire to look at what is rarely seen here,--a handsome man." The perfect absurdity of Miss Stiefbach's jumping up in a window with a party of wild school-girls, for the sake of looking at a handsome man, or indeed for her to look at a man at any time with any degree of interest, could only be appreciated by those who were daily witnesses of her prim, stately ways. It certainly was too much for the gravity of the inhabitants of that school-room. [Illustration: MARION APOLOGIZES.] M. Béranger bit his lip fiercely under his mustache; Miss Christine became suddenly very much interested in something out in the back yard; and the school-girls were obliged to resort to open books and desk-covers to conceal their amusement. Marion alone remained cool and collected, looking at Miss Stiefbach as if to ask if she had said enough. Miss Stiefbach's face was scarlet, and she shut her teeth tightly together, striving for her usual composure. The sudden turn of Marion's apology, which placed her in such a ridiculous light, had completely disconcerted her, and she knew not what to do or say. If Marion's eyes had twinkled with mischief; if there had been the slightest tinge of sarcasm in her tone, or of triumph in her manner, Miss Stiefbach would have thought she intended a fresh insult; but throughout the whole her bearing had been unusually quiet, ladylike, and polite. There was no tangible point for her teacher to fasten on, and, commanding herself sufficiently to speak, Miss Stiefbach merely said, "It is enough; you may go to your seat." Even then, if Marion's self-possession had given way, she would have been called back and severely reprimanded. But it did not; she passed all her school-mates, whose faces were turned towards her brimming with laughter and a keen appreciation of the affair, with a sort of preoccupied air, and, taking her books from her desk, followed M. Béranger into the anteroom. At recess the girls with one impulse flocked round her, exclaiming, "Oh! it was too good; just the richest scene I ever saw." "What do you mean?" coolly replied Marion. "Why!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, an unencouraged admirer of Marion's, "the way you turned the tables on Miss Stiefbach." "Indeed, Sarah, you are very much mistaken; I simply apologized to her for a great piece of rudeness." And Marion turned away and ran upstairs to her own room, where Florence and Julia were already giving vent to their long pent-up feelings in only half-suppressed bursts of laughter. As Marion made her appearance it was the signal for another shout; but she only replied by a quiet smile, which caused Julia to ejaculate in her most earnest manner, "I declare, Marion, you don't look a bit elated! If I had done such a bright thing as you have, I should be beaming with satisfaction." "Well, Julia, I don't think I _have_ done anything so very smart. To be sure I have had my revenge, and the only satisfaction I've got out of it is to feel thoroughly and heartily ashamed of myself." "Marion Berkley, you certainly _are_ the queerest girl I ever did see," exclaimed Julia. But Florence, who knew her friend best, said nothing, for she understood her feelings, and admired her the more for them. Marion had been determined to make her apology such as would reflect more absurdity on her teacher than on herself, and in that way to have her revenge for what she rightly considered her very unjust punishment. She had succeeded; but now that her momentary triumph was over, she sincerely wished that it had never occurred. The next day she went to Miss Christine, and told her just how she felt about it, and that, if she advised her to do so, she would go to Miss Stiefbach and ask her forgiveness. But Miss Christine told her, that, although she heartily disapproved of her conduct, she thought nothing more had better be said about it, for Miss Stiefbach had only been half inclined to believe that Marion could _intend_ a fresh impertinence. And so there the matter ended; but Marion could never fully satisfy her own conscience on the subject. She wrote a long letter to her mother, telling her the whole thing from beginning to end; and received one in reply, gently, but firmly, rebuking her for her conduct. But the next day came four pages from her father, full of his amusement and enjoyment of the whole matter, and highly complimenting her on what he called "her brilliant coup d'état." No wonder Marion's better nature was sometimes crushed, when the inward fires which she longed to extinguish were kindled by a father's hand. CHAPTER VI. THE NEW SCHOLAR "O girls, the new scholar has come!" shouted little Fannie Thayer, as she bounced into the library one afternoon, where some of the older girls were studying. "Do hush, Fannie!" exclaimed her sister Julia; "you do make such an awful noise! Of course you've left the door open, and it's cold enough to freeze one. Run away, child." "But, Julia," remonstrated Fannie, as her sister went on reading without taking any notice of her communication, "you didn't hear what I said,--the new scholar has come." "What new scholar?" inquired Florence Stevenson, looking up from her book. "This is the first I have heard of any." "Why, don't you know?" answered little Fannie, glad to have a listener. "Her name is--is--Well, I can't remember what it is,--something odd; but she comes from ever so far off, and she's real pretty, kind of sad-looking, you know." "What in the world is the child talking about?" broke in Marion. "Who ever heard of Miss Stiefbach's taking a scholar after the term had begun?" "I remember hearing something about it, now," said Julia. "The girl was to have come at the beginning of the quarter; but she has been sick, or something or other happened to prevent. I believe she comes from St. Louis." "I wonder who she'll room with; she can't come in with us, that's certain," said Marion, with a very decided air. "Why, of course she won't," replied Florence; "we never have but two girls in a room. Oh! I know, she will go in with little Rose May; see if she doesn't!" "Well, I tell you, I am sorry she's come!" ejaculated Marion. "I hate new scholars; they always put on airs, and consider themselves sort of privileged characters. I for one shall not take much notice of her." "Why, Marion," exclaimed Grace Minton, "I should think you would be ashamed to talk so! She may be a very nice girl indeed. You don't know anything about her." "I don't care if she is a nice girl. She ought to have come before. It will just upset all our plans; the classes are all arranged, and everything is going on nicely. There are just enough of us, and I say it is a perfect bother!" "I really don't see why you need trouble yourself so much," broke in Georgie Graham, who was always jealous of Marion, and never lost an opportunity of differing with her, though in a quiet way that was terribly aggravating. "I don't believe you will be called upon to make any arrangements, and I don't see how one, more or less, can make much difference any way." The entrance of Miss Christine prevented Marion's reply, and she immediately took up her book and became apparently absorbed in her studies. "O Miss Christine," they all exclaimed at once, "do tell us about the new scholar." "Is she pretty?" "Will she be kind to us little girls?" "How old is she?" and many other questions of a like nature, all asked in nearly the same breath. "If you will be quiet, and not all speak at once, I will try and tell you all you want to know. The name of the new scholar is Rachel Drayton. She is about sixteen, and I think she is very pretty, although I do not know as you will agree with me. She seems to have a very lovely disposition, and I should think that after a while she might be very lively, and a pleasant companion for you all; but at present she is very delicate, as she has just recovered from a very severe illness brought on by her great grief at the death of her father. They were all the world to each other, and she was perfectly devoted to him. She cannot yet reconcile herself to her loss. He has been dead about eight weeks. Her mother died when she was a baby, and the nearest relation she has is her father's brother, who is now in Europe. Poor child! she is all alone in the world; my heart aches for her." Miss Christine's usually cheery voice was very low and sad, and the tear that glistened in her eye proved that her expressions of sympathy were perfectly sincere; if, indeed, any one could have doubted that kind, loving face. As she ceased speaking, there was a perfect silence throughout the room, and those who had felt somewhat inclined to side with Marion felt very much conscience-stricken. Marion, however, continued studying, not showing the slightest signs of having had her sympathies aroused. Miss Christine continued: "I hope, girls, you will be particularly kind to Miss Drayton. She must naturally feel lonely, and perhaps diffident, among so many strangers, and I want you all to do everything in your power to make it pleasant for her. You in particular, Marion, having been here longer than any of the others, will be able to make her feel quite at home." "Indeed, Miss Christine, you must excuse me. You know taking up new friends at a moment's notice, and becoming desperately intimate with them, is not my forte." "Marion," replied Miss Christine, in a quiet, but reproving tone, "I do not ask you to become desperately intimate with her, as you call it, or anything of the kind. I merely wish you to show her that courtesy which is certainly due from one school-girl to another." Marion made no reply, and Miss Christine sat down and commenced talking to the girls in her usual pleasant manner. It was her evident interest in everything which concerned them, that made her so beloved by her pupils. They all knew that they could find in her a patient listener, and a willing helper, whenever they chose to seek her advice; whether it was about an important, or a very trifling matter. There was some little bustle and confusion as the girls laid aside their books, and clustered round Miss Christine with their fancy-work, or leaned back in their chairs, glad to have nothing in particular to do. "Miss Christine!" exclaimed little Rose May, "I do wish you would show me how to 'bind off.' I keep putting my thread over and over, and, instead of taking off stitches, it makes more every time. I think these sleeves are a perfect nuisance. I wish I hadn't begun 'em!" "Why, you poor child," laughingly replied her teacher, "what are you doing? You might knit forever and your sleeves would not be 'bound off,' if you do nothing but put your worsted over. Who told you to do that?" "Julia Thayer did; she said knit two and then put over, and knit two and then put over, all the time, and it would come all right." "Now, Rose, I didn't!" exclaimed Julia. "I said put your stitch over, you silly child! I should think you might have known that putting your worsted over would widen it." "I know you _didn't_ say put your stitch over," retorted Rose; "you just said put over, and how was I going to know by that? I think you're real mean; you never take any pains with us little ones; I don't--" "Hush, hush, Rose! You must not speak so," said Miss Christine, laying her hands on the child's lips; then, turning to Julia, she said, "If you had taken more pains with Rose, and tried to explain to her how she ought to have done her work, it would have been much better for both of you." "Well, Miss Christine, she came just as I was thinking up for my composition, and I didn't want to be bothered by any one. As it was, she put all my ideas out of my head." Miss Christine's only reply was a shake of the head and an incredulous smile, which made Julia wish she had shown a little more patience with the child. "There, Rose," said Miss Christine, as the little girl put the finishing touch to her sleeves, "next time you will not have to ask any one to show you how to 'bind off.' Your sleeves are very pretty, and I know your mother will be glad her daughter took so much pains to please her." Rose glanced up at her teacher with a bright smile, and went skipping off, ready for fun and frolic, now that those troublesome sleeves were finished. But she had hardly reached the hall when she came running back, saying, in a most mysterious sort of stage-whisper, "She's coming! she's coming downstairs with Miss Stiefbach! Rebecca what's-her-name; you know!" The girls looked up as Miss Stiefbach entered the room, and, although they were too well-bred to actually stare at her companion, it must be confessed that their faces betrayed considerable interest. Rachel Drayton, the "new scholar," was between sixteen and seventeen; tall and very slight; her eyes were very dark; her face intensely pale, but one saw at once it was the pallor of recent illness, or acute mental suffering, not of continued ill-health. She was dressed in the deepest mourning, in a style somewhat older than that generally worn by girls of her age. Her jet-black hair, which grew very low on her forehead, was brushed loosely back, and gathered into a rough knot behind, as if the owner was too indifferent to her personal appearance to try to arrange it carefully. As she stood now, fully conscious of the glances that were surreptitiously cast upon her, she appeared frightened and bewildered. Her eyes were cast down, but if any one had looked under their long lashes, they would have seen them dimmed with tears. Accustomed all her life to the society of older persons, no one who has not experienced the same feeling can imagine how great an ordeal it was for her to enter that room full of girls of her own age. To notice the sudden hush that fell upon all as she came in; to feel that each one was mentally making comments upon her, was almost more than she could bear. If they had been persons many years older than herself, she would have gone in perfectly at her ease; chatted first with this one, then with that, and would have made herself at home immediately. Unfortunately the only young persons in whose society she had been thrown were some young ladies she had met while travelling through the West with her father. They had been coarse, foolish creatures, making flippant remarks upon all whom they saw, in a rude, unladylike manner, and from whom she had shrunk with an irresistible feeling of repugnance. No wonder her heart had sunk within her when she thought that perhaps her future companions might be of the same stamp. Miss Christine noticed her embarrassment at once, and kindly went forward to meet her, saying as she did so, "Well, my dear, I am glad to see you down here; I am not going to introduce you to your companions now, you will get acquainted with them all in time; first I want you to come into the school-room with me and see how you like it." And she took her hand and led her through the open door into the school-room beyond; talking pleasantly all the time, calling her attention to the view from the windows, the arrangement of the desks, and various other things, until at last she saw her face light up with something like interest, and the timid, frightened look almost entirely disappear; then she took her back into the library. As they went in, Florence Stevenson, who stood near the fireplace, made room for them, remarking as she did so, "It is very chilly; you must be cold; come here and warm yourself. How do you like our school-room?" "Very much; that is, I think I shall. It seems very pleasant." "Yes, it is pleasant. It's so much nicer for being papered with that pretty paper than if it had had dark, horrid walls like some I've seen. What sort of a school did you use to go to?" "I never went to school before; I always studied at home;" and poor Rachel's voice trembled as she thought of the one who had always directed her studies; but Florence went bravely on, determined to do her part towards making the new scholar feel at home. "Well, I'm afraid you will find it hard to get used to us, if you have never been thrown with girls before. I don't believe but what you thought we were almost savages; now honestly, didn't you feel afraid to meet us?" "It was hard," replied Rachel; but as she glanced up at the bright, animated face before her, she thought that if all her future companions were like this one she should have no great fears for the future. Most of the scholars had left the room; the few who remained were chatting together apparently unconscious of the stranger's presence, and as Rachel stood before the fire, with her back to the rest of the room, and Florence beside her talking animatedly, she was surprised to find herself becoming interested and at ease, and before Miss Christine left them the two girls were comparing notes on their studies, and gave promise of soon becoming very good friends. When Marion left the library, she went directly to her room, locked the door, and threw herself on the seat in the window in a tumult of emotion. Paramount over all other feelings stood shame. She could not excuse herself for her strange behavior, and she felt unhappy; almost miserable. "Why did I speak so?" she asked herself. "Why should I feel such an unaccountable prejudice against a person I never even heard of before? I thought I had conquered all these old, hateful feelings, and here they are all coming back again. I don't know what is the matter with me. It is not jealousy; for how can I be jealous of a person I never saw or heard of before in my life? I don't know what it is, and I don't much care; there aren't four girls in the school that like me, and only one _I_ really love, and that's dear old Flo. She's as good as gold, and if any one should ever come between us I pity her! I'll bet anything though, that she is downstairs making friends with that girl this minute." This thought was not calculated to calm Marion's ruffled feelings, and she sat brooding by the window in anything but an enviable mood. She was still in this state of mind when the tea-bell rang, and hastily smoothing her hair she went downstairs. It chanced that just as she entered the dining-room Rachel Drayton and Florence came in by the opposite door. Florence was evidently giving Rachel an account of some of their school frolics, though in an undertone, so that Marion could not catch the words, and her companion was listening, her face beaming with interest. No circumstance could have occurred which would have been more unfavorable for changing Marion's wayward mood. Coming downstairs she had been picturing to herself the unhappiness and loneliness of the poor orphan, and she had almost made up her mind to go forward, introduce herself, and try by being kind and agreeable to make amends for her former injustice; for although she knew Miss Drayton must be entirely unconscious of it, she could not in her own heart feel at rest until she had made some atonement. No one could have presented themselves to a perfect stranger,--a thing which it is not easy for most persons to do,--with more grace and loveliness than Marion, if she had been so inclined, for there was at times a certain fascination about her voice and manner that few could resist. She had expected to see a pale, sickly, utterly miserable-looking girl, towards whom she felt it would be impossible to steel her heart; and she saw one, who, although she was certainly pale enough, seemed to be anything but miserable, and above all was evidently fast becoming on intimate terms with her own dear friend Florence. That was enough; resolutely crushing down all kindly feelings that were struggling for utterance, she took her seat at the table as if unconscious of the stranger's existence. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head of one very long table, and Miss Christine at another, having most of the little girls at her end; while Marion sat directly opposite with Florence on her right. Without changing this long-established order of things, Miss Christine could not make room for Rachel by the side of Florence as she would have liked, and the only place for her seemed to be on Marion's left, as there were not so many girls on that side of the table. Hoping that such close proximity would force Marion to unbend the reserved manner which she saw she was fast assuming, Miss Christine, before taking her own seat, went to that end of the table and introduced Marion to Rachel, laughingly remarking that as they were the oldest young ladies there, they would have to sustain the dignity of the table. This jesting command was certainly carried out to the very letter of the law by Marion. She was intensely polite throughout the meal, but perfectly frigid in the dignity of her manner, which so acted upon poor Rachel, that the bright smiles which Florence had called forth were effectually dispelled, and throughout the rest of the evening she was the same sad, frightened girl who had first made her appearance in the library. When Marion knelt that night to pray, her lips refused to utter her accustomed prayers. It seemed hypocrisy for her, who had so resolutely made another unhappy, to ask God's blessings on her head, and she remained kneeling long after Florence had got into bed, communing with herself, her only inward cry being, "God forgive me!" But how could she expect God would forgive her, when day after day she knowingly committed the same faults? Sick at heart, she rose from her knees, turned out the gas, and went to bed, but not to sleep; far into the night she lay awake viewing her past conduct. She did not try to excuse herself, or to look at her faults in any other than their true light; but, repentant and sorrowful though she might be, she could not as yet sufficiently conquer her pride to ask pardon of those she had openly wounded, or to contradict an expressed opinion even after she regretted ever having formed it. Poor child! she thought she had struggled long and fiercely with herself; she had yet to learn that the battle was but just begun. CHAPTER VII. AUNT BETTIE. "Oh, dear!" yawned Grace Minton, "how I do hate stormy Saturdays!" "So do I!" exclaimed Georgie Graham; "they are a perfect nuisance, and we were going up to Aunt Bettie's this afternoon." "Who's we?" "Oh, 'her royal highness' for one, and your humble servant for another; Sarah Brown, Flo Stevenson, and Rachel Drayton, _of_ course. By the way, how terribly intimate those two have grown! I don't believe 'her highness' relishes their being so dreadfully thick." "What in the world makes you call Marion 'her highness'?" said Grace. "Oh, because she _is_ so high and mighty; she walks round here sometimes as if she were queen and we her subjects." "No such thing, Georgie Graham!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, who came in just as the last remark was made, and knew very well to whom it alluded; "she doesn't trouble herself about us at all." "That's just it; she thinks herself superior to us poor _plebeians_." "Stuff and nonsense! You know you're jealous of her, and always have been." "Oh, no!" replied Georgie, who, no matter how much she might be provoked, always spoke _to_ any one in a soft purring voice. "Oh, no! I'm not jealous of her; there is no reason why I should be. But really, Sarah, I don't see why you need take up the cudgel for her so fiercely; she always snubs you every chance she gets." Sarah tossed her head, blushing scarlet; for the remark certainly had a good deal of truth in it, and was none the less cutting for being made in a particularly mild tone. "Well, at any rate," said Grace Minton, for the sake of changing the subject, "I think Rachel Drayton is lovely." "Lovely!" exclaimed Georgie, "she's a perfect stick! I don't see what there is lovely about her, and for my part I wish she had never come here." "Seems to me the tune has changed," broke in Sarah. "I thought you were one of the ones who were so down on Marion Berkley for saying the same thing." "Oh, that was before I had seen her," replied Georgie, not at all disconcerted. "In other words, you said it just so as to have an opportunity to differ with Marion," retorted Sarah. "I really believe you hate her!" "Sarah, how can you get so excited? it is so very unbecoming, you know," purred Georgie. Sarah flounced out of the room too indignant for speech, and just as she was going through the hall met Marion, who was in an unusually pleasant mood. "See, Sarah, it is clearing off; we shall have a chance for our walk, I guess, after all." "Do you think so? It will be awful sloppy though, won't it?" "No, I don't believe it will; besides who cares for that? We are not made of sugar or salt." "How many are going?" asked Sarah. "I don't know exactly; let me see." And Marion counted off on her fingers. "You for one, and I for another; that's two. Miss Drayton and Florence are four. Grace Minton, if she wants to go, five; and Georgie Graham six." At the mention of the last name, Sarah gave her head a toss, which was so very expressive that Marion could not help laughing, and exclaimed, "Oh, yes! you know 'her royal highness' must allow some of the _plebeians_ among her subjects to follow in her train." Sarah laughed softly. "Did you hear?" she whispered. Marion nodded, and just at that moment Georgie came out of the room where she had been sitting. "What was that you said, Marion, about 'her highness'?" she asked. "Did you think that the title applied to yourself?" "I shouldn't have thought of such a thing, Georgie, if I hadn't overheard your remarks, and of course I could not but feel gratified at the honorable distinction." "How do you know it was meant for an honorable distinction?" "How can I doubt it, Georgie, when it was bestowed upon me by such an amiable young lady as yourself? Now if it had been Sarah, I might have thought _she_ said it out of spite; but of course when Georgie Graham said it, I knew it was intended as a tribute to my superiority;" and Marion made a provokingly graceful courtesy. "There is nothing like having a good opinion of one's self," replied Georgie. "But you see you are mistaken there, Georgie; it was you who seemed to have such a high opinion of me. You know I didn't claim the greatness,--it was 'thrust upon me;'" and Marion, satisfied with that shaft, turned on her heel, and opening the front door went out on to the piazza, followed by Sarah, who had been a silent but appreciative witness of the scene. Georgie Graham shut her teeth, muttering in anything but her usual soft tones, and with an expression in her eyes which was anything but pleasant to see, "Oh, how I hate you! But I'll be even with you yet!" The shower which had so disconcerted the whole school was evidently clearing off, and there was every prospect that the proposed plan of walking to Aunt Bettie's directly after dinner might be carried into execution. Aunt Bettie, as all the school-girls called her, was a farmer's wife, who supplied the school with eggs, butter, and cheese, and during the summer with fresh vegetables and berries. She lived about two or three miles from the school, on the same road, and the girls often went to see her. She was fond of them all, although she had her favorites, among whom was Marion; and she always kept a good supply of doughnuts, for which she was quite famous, on hand for them whenever they might come. The sun kept his promise, and before dinner-time the girls were all out on the piazza, getting up an appetite they said, although that was not often wanting with any of them. The party for Aunt Bettie's numbered eight,--Rose May and Fannie Thayer having begged Marion to ask permission for them to go,--and they all set out for their walk in high spirits. Although Marion treated Rachel with a certain degree of politeness, she never spoke to her unless it was absolutely necessary, and then always addressed her as Miss Drayton, although every other girl in school had, by this time, become accustomed to familiarly call her Rachel. Florence had done everything in her power to draw Marion into their conversation at table, but seeing that she was determined not to change her manner, she thought it best to take no more notice of it, as by doing so it only made it the more apparent to Rachel that Marion had no intention of becoming better acquainted with her. Rachel had been there but a short time, and already Marion began to feel that Florence was turning from her for a new friend. This was not really the case, and Florence, who knew Marion's feelings, was secretly very much troubled. She loved Marion as deeply and truly as ever; but she could not turn away from that motherless girl, between whom and herself an instinctive sympathy seem to have been established, arising from the loss which they had each felt, and which naturally drew them closer to each other. Florence had never known her mother, but the loss was none the less great to her; she felt that there was a place in the heart that none but a mother's love could ever have filled, and no matter how bright and happy she might feel, there was at times a sense of utter loneliness about her which she found hard to dispel. Rachel seemed to turn to her as her only friend among that crowd of strangers, and she could not refuse to give her her friendship in return, even at the risk of seeing Marion for a time estranged from her; for she trusted to Marion's better nature, hoping that in the future she would not be misjudged, and that all might be made pleasant and happy again. And so to-day for the first time since they had been to school together, Florence and Marion were taking their Saturday afternoon walk with separate companions. Marion had Rose May by the hand, while she told Sarah Brown to take care of little Fannie. Florence and Rachel were directly in front of her, and she knew that they would have been happy to have had her join in their conversation. In fact, they spoke so that she could hear every word they said; but she occupied herself by telling Rose a story of such remarkable length and interest as to perfectly enchant the child, who exclaimed as they reached the farm-house, "O Marion, you do tell the best stories; I really think you _ought_ to write a book!" Marion laughed, but had no chance to answer, for at that moment the door opened and Aunt Bettie appeared upon the threshold. "Wall, gals, I be glad to see ye; this is a sight good for old eyes!" "Did you expect us, auntie?" asked Marion. "Spect yer, child! why, I been a-lookin' for yer these three Saturdays past! What you been a-doin' that's kept yer so long?" "Well, nothing in particular; but you see the term has only just begun, and we've hardly got settled." "Oh, yes, honey, I know; I haint laid it up agin yer. But who's this new one?--yer haint introduced me." As Marion showed no inclination to perform the ceremony Florence presented Rachel, remarking that she was a new scholar from the West. But Aunt Bettie's keen eyes took in at a glance the deep mourning apparel, and her kind heart at once divined its cause; and she exclaimed with great heartiness as she took Rachel's hands in her own rough palms, "Wall, child, you couldn't 'a come to a better place than Miss Stiffback's, and you couldn't 'a got in with a better lot o' girls; take em as they come, they're about as good a set as I knows on!" "O Aunt Bettie!" exclaimed Florence; "flattering, as I live! I wouldn't have believed it of you." "Not a bit of it, child; just plain speakin', a thing that never hurt anybody yet, according to my notion. But come in, gals; come in, you must be tired after your long walk, and the tin box is most a-bustin' its sides, I crammed it so full." The girls laughed, for they all knew what the tin box contained, and were only too ready to be called upon to empty it. They all seated themselves in the large, old-fashioned kitchen, with its low ceiling and tremendous open fireplace, surmounted by a narrow shelf, on which was displayed a huge Bible, and a china shepherdess in a green skirt and pink bodice, smiling tenderly over two glass lamps and a Britannia teapot, at a china shepherd in a yellow jacket and sky-blue smalls; being, I suppose, exact representations of the sheep-tenders of that part of the country. Aunt Bettie bustled in and out of the huge pantry, bringing out a large tin box filled to the top with delicious brown, spicy doughnuts, and a large earthen pitcher of new milk. "There, gals," as she put a tray of tumblers on the table, "jest help yerselves, and the more yer eat, why the better I shall be suited." "Suppose we should go through the box and not leave any for Jabe; what should you say to that?" asked Marion. "Never you mind Jabe; trust him for getting his fill. Eat all yer want, and then stuff the rest in yer pockets." "Oh, that wouldn't do at all!" exclaimed Marion; "you don't know what a fuss we had about those Julia Thayer carried home last year! Miss Stiefbach didn't like it at all; she said it was bad enough bringing boxes from home, but going round the neighborhood picking up cake was disgraceful. She never knew exactly who took them to school, for Julia kept mum; but I don't think it would do to try it again." "Wall, I think that was too bad of Miss Stiffback; she knows nothin' pleases me so much as to have you come here and eat my doughnuts, and if you choose to carry some on 'em to school, what harm did it do? She ought to remember that she was a gal once herself." "Oh, mercy! auntie, I don't believe she ever was," ejaculated Marion. "She was born Miss Stiefbach, and I wouldn't be at all surprised if she wore the same stiff dresses, and had the same I'm-a-little-better-than-any-body-else look when she was a baby." "Wall, child, she's a good woman after all. You know there aint any of us perfect; we all hev our faults; if it aint one thing it's another; it's pretty much the same the world over." "You do make the best doughnuts, Aunt Bettie, _I_ ever eat," declared Fannie Thayer, who was leaning with both elbows on the table, a piece of a doughnut in one hand, and a whole one in the other as a reserve force. "Wall, child, I ginerally kalkerlate I ken match any one going on doughnuts; but 't seemed to me these weren't 's good as common. I had something on my mind that worrited me when I was mixin' 'em, and I 'spose I wasn't quite as keerful as usual." "If _you_ don't call these good, _I_ do!" ejaculated Miss Fannie. "Why, I just wish you could have seen some Julia made last summer. She took a cooking-fit, and tried most everything; mother said she wasted more eggs and butter than she was worth, and her _doughnuts_!--Ugh! heavy, greasy things!" "She must 'a let 'em soak fat!" exclaimed Aunt Bettie, who was always interested in the cookery question; "that's the great trouble with doughnuts; some folks think everything's in the mixin', but I say more'n half depends on the fryin'. You must hev yer fat hot, and stand over 'em all the time. I allers watch mine pretty close and turn 'em offen with a fork, and then I hev a cullender ready to put 'em right in so't the fat ken dreen off. I find it pays t' be pertickeler;" and Aunt Bettie smoothed her apron, and leaned back in her chair with the air of one who had said something of benefit to mankind in general. "But where is Julia?" she asked after a short pause. "Why didn't she come?" "Oh, I forgot!" exclaimed Fannie; "she sent her love to you, and told me to tell you not to let us eat up all your doughnuts this time, because she'll be up before long and want some. She had a sore throat, and Miss Stiefbach thought she had better not go out." "I'm sorry for that," replied Aunt Bettie; "I hope she aint a-goin' to be sick." "Oh, no, it aint very bad. Julia thinks it's nothing but cankers; she often has them." "Wall, it's always best to be on the safe side, any way," said Aunt Bettie; "you tell her she needn't be afraid about the doughnuts; I'll have a fresh batch ready agin the time she comes." The business of eating and drinking so occupied the girls' attention, that they did not enter into conversation as readily as usual; and after the first flush of excitement at meeting her young friends and dispensing her hospitality was over, Aunt Bettie, too, subsided into a quiet, subdued manner, which was quite foreign to her usual brisk talkativeness. She sat in her high-backed rocking-chair, looking at the girls over her silver-bowed spectacles, with a sad, musing expression, as if the sight of them called up some unhappy thought. This unusual restraint on the part of their hostess communicated itself in a certain degree to her visitors, though they did not themselves remark the cause of their silence, and their visit was made shorter than usual. It was Marion who first made the move to go; and although Aunt Bettie pressed them to remain she did not urge it with her accustomed eagerness. They had got just beyond the bend of the road which hid the old farm-house from view, when Marion exclaimed, "You run on, Rose, with the others; I believe I left my gloves on the table; don't wait for me, I'll catch up with you;" and before Rose could beg to go back with her, she had turned round and ran off up the road. She ran quickly, but noiselessly along, and was back to the farm-house in a few moments, and was surprised to find Aunt Bettie sitting on the door-step with her head buried in her hands. Going up to her, she found her weeping as if her heart would break. "Aunt Bettie!" she said, in her gentlest tones, "Aunt Bettie! It's only Marion. What is the matter? I thought you seemed worried about something, and came back to see if I couldn't help you; can't I?" "Oh, dear!" sobbed the poor woman. "It may be dreadful wicked of me, but the sight of you young things, all lookin' so bright and happy, did make me feel awful bad, for I couldn't help thinking o' my own darter Jemimy." "Why, what is the matter with her, auntie? Where is she?" "The Lord knows, dear, I don't. Not a blessed word hev I heerd from her it's going on eight weeks. I've writ, and Jabe he's writ, but we haint had a sign of an answer, and I'm afraid she's dead, or perhaps wus;" and the poor woman rocked herself back and forth, completely overcome by her grief. "But, auntie," said Marion, laying her hand gently on the good woman's shoulder, "don't you see there are forty things that might have happened to prevent your hearing from her? You know a girl that lives out can't always find time to write as often as she would like. Besides, she may have got a new place, and in that case might not have received your letters." "I thought o' that, child, and the last letter Jabe writ he directed to the care of Miss Benson, the woman that keeps the intelligence office; but that's two weeks an' more ago, and I haven't heerd a word. You see, Miss Marion, there aint a better-hearted gal livin' than my Jemimy, but she got kinder lonesome and discontented-like a livin' way off here, and took it into her head she'd like the city better. She allus was a high-sperrited gal, and 'twas dull for her here, that's a fact; but I wish to the Lord I'd held my own and hadn't let her gone; for there's awful places in them big cities, and my gal's pretty enough to make any one look at her. I dunno, child, but I can't help feelin' somethin' dreadful's happened to her." "O auntie, you must not get discouraged so easily. I thought you were one of the kind who always looked on the bright side of things," said Marion in a cheerful tone. "Wall, dear, I do ginerally; but this has just keeled me right over, and I don't seem to know where I be. You see I haint got any one in the city as I ken call upon to help me. I don't know a soul in the place I could get to hunt her up. Sometimes I think I'll go down there; but where's the use? I should be like a hen with her head cut off in such a great, strange place as Boston." "Well, auntie, I'll try my best to help you. I tell you what I'll do: you give me Jemima's address, and I'll write to my mother, and get her to look her up. She has to go to those offices very often after servants, and like as not she might stumble right on her. Now cheer up, auntie, for I feel just as if we should find her;" and Marion passed her hand over Aunt Bettie's wrinkled forehead and gray hair as tenderly as if she were her own mother. Aunt Bettie looked at Marion with the tears still glistening in her eyes, and a sad smile on her face, as she said:-- "Marion Berkley it aint every gal as would take so much trouble for an old creetur like me, even if she noticed I was sad and worried. You've comforted a poor, old woman who was most broken-hearted. May the Lord bless you for it, an' I know he will." Marion smiled up at the tender, old face that looked down at her, while her own flushed with pleasure at the words of commendation. It was a pity that there were no unobserved witnesses of the scene; for Marion Berkley, cold and haughty, apparently indifferent alike to the praise or blame of those around her, was a very different person from this gentle girl. Her whole soul was shining through her eyes; all her haughtiness, pride, and coldness had fallen from her, and she stood almost like one transfigured, her face beaming with the light which makes the plainest face seem almost divine,--that of pure, disinterested sympathy for the sufferings and troubles of a fellow-being. For a moment there was silence between the two, while the tears rolled down both of their cheeks; but Marion dashed hers away, as she exclaimed in a cheery voice:-- "Come, auntie, it is getting late, and I must be off; so get me the address, please." "To be sure, child! How thoughtless I be! I'll get it for yer right away;" and Aunt Bettie went into the house with something of her usual briskness, and returning, brought out a scrap of paper, on which was written in a stiff, cramped, school-boy hand this direction:-- "MISS JEMIMA DOBBS, _In Kare of Mis Benson_, Number 22 Eest Crorfud Street, Boston." Marion could hardly repress a smile of amusement at the remarkable orthography; but remembering that in Aunt Bettie's eyes it was a perfect monument to the glory of her son Jabe, she made no comments, and folding it up, tucked it carefully away in her purse. Then, with a bright, encouraging smile, she said good-by to Aunt Bettie, and hurried off down the road. It was much later than she thought, and as the days were rapidly growing shorter, it was quite dusk, and the girls were entirely out of sight and hearing. But her thoughts kept her company on her long walk, and all the way home she was turning over in her mind the probabilities and improbabilities of her mother's being able to find the young, unknown country girl in a large city like Boston. Miss Christine had begun to feel quite anxious about her by the time she arrived, and Florence met her in the hall with a hearty caress, to which she responded with her old warmth. "Why, you dear, old thing!" exclaimed Florence; "what has kept you so long? It must have been forlorn walking home at this hour." "Oh, I did not mind it; I had something to think of," replied Marion, as she pulled off her muddy rubbers before going upstairs. "I'll tell you by and by; I must run up and get ready for supper." That night, after they got to bed, Marion gave Florence a synopsis of her conversation with Aunt Bettie, and told her of her plan of writing to her mother for assistance. "Well," said Florence, "I think it was real good of you to think of it. What a queer girl you are! I knew we didn't have quite as jolly a time as usual up there, but I never noticed there was anything the matter with Aunt Bettie; and if I had I don't believe it would have occurred to me to go back and comfort her. O Marion!"--and she threw her arm over her friend's shoulder,--"how much good there is in you! Why won't you let it all come out?" "I don't think there was anything particularly good in that. You see there was no virtue in my being kind to the poor, old thing, because I could not help it. If there had been any hateful feelings to overcome, or any wounded pride to interfere, I probably should not have done it." "I'm not so sure of that, Marion. You do conquer yourself sometimes." "Not often, dear," Marion replied, with a little, nervous, forced laugh. "It is too much trouble. Good-night, I must go to sleep." But it was long before sleep came to Marion. She laid perfectly still, so as not to disturb Florence, but the small hours found her still awake. She had been for some time thoroughly dissatisfied with herself, and the thought that she had been of some comfort to any one was indeed pleasant to her; but she would not attribute to herself credit that did not belong to her. It was just as she had said to Florence; she could not help being kind to the poor old woman in her trouble; she had obeyed the promptings of her naturally warm heart. It had been an impulsive action, not one in which a disagreeable duty had been plainly pointed out for her to follow; and she determinedly put aside all feeling of self-satisfaction. She knew that if Rachel Drayton had made a similar appeal to her kindness and sympathy, her heart would have been resolutely closed against her, and she would not have spoken a single encouraging word. This thought thrust itself upon her again and again. She tried to put it from her, but it was no use; she could not evade it. She told herself that she was ridiculously conscientious; that this girl had no claims upon her; and that she had done all that Miss Christine asked of her; treated Rachel politely and courteously; but she knew that her politeness had been cold and formal, and her courtesy less kindly than she would bestow upon a beggar at the door. But she said to herself, Florence makes up for all my deficiencies. This bitter thought, in various forms, had rankled in her breast day and night. She had often said that nothing could ever make her jealous of Florence; their affection had been too lasting, too much a part of themselves, for either to suspect the other of inconstancy; and now she was the first to doubt. But the last words of Florence, as they talked that night, came back to her, and she remembered the fond embrace and the earnestness of her voice as she besought her to act her real self. Should she doubt that generous heart, that had shown its love for her in a thousand ways, because, when it was appealed to by a fatherless, motherless girl, it had responded with all the warmth of its true, generous nature? No, she could not do it; she felt that it was only another reason for loving her more, and tears of shame and sorrow filled her eyes, as, bending over in the darkness, she pressed a kiss upon the lips of her sleeping companion. Her unjust suspicion of her friend vanquished and conquered forever, her thoughts gradually wandered back to Aunt Bettie, and with her mind full of plans and projects in her behalf, she at last fell asleep. CHAPTER VIII. AT CHURCH. Sunday morning came bright and clear, but very cold, and many of the girls made their appearance in the library, shaking and shivering, as if they had never before experienced a northern winter. "Gracious me!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "I'm almost frozen. My room is as cold as a barn! My cheeks are as blue as a razor, and my nose looks like a great cranberry. Do let me get near the fire, Georgie; you're keeping the heat off of every one." Georgie made way for her, quietly remarking, as she did so:-- "Well, Sarah, I must say the cold is not very becoming to your style of beauty; your nose and hair together ought to heat this room." "You needn't say anything, Miss Graham; you're not so killing handsome yourself that you can afford to make fun of others!" hotly retorted Sarah. It was a notable fact that these two could never come together without a passage-at-arms. Grace's quietly hateful remarks always excited Sarah to a most unmitigated degree, and she could not seem to learn by experience that the only way to silence her was to take no notice of them; and their disputes were often great sources of amusement to the other girls. Georgie, tall and rather distingué-looking, although not pretty, with her quietly assured manner even when she knew herself beaten, and her hypocritically soft tones, was almost always more than a match for Sarah, who never could hide her feelings no matter what they were and who always retorted as sharply and spitefully as she could. She was a warm-hearted little thing, as honest and true as she was impulsive, and Georgie's quiet, deliberate hatefulness was more than she could bear. If there was one subject on which Sarah was more sensitive than another it was her hair. It was a rich, reddish-yellow; very thick, long and curling, and any artist would have looked upon it with admiration; but it was the bane of Sarah's existence. When she was a little girl it had been really red, but time had softened its shade, and many a Parisian belle might have envied Sarah its possession. Sarah could see no beauty in it, for at home she was often greeted by the name of "carrot-top," and "little red hen;" and once when she got into a very excited argument with her brother, and stood shaking her head at him with the long curls which she then wore, flying about her shoulders, he had run out of the room, shouting as he got well out of reach:-- "I say, Sal! how much would you charge to stand on Boston common nights, and light the city? Your head would save all the expense of gas!" You may be pretty sure it did not take Georgie Graham long to find out Sarah's weakness, and so the poor child's bane was still kept before her even at school, where there were no troublesome brothers. She resolutely brushed out her long curls, and braided them into soft, heavy braids, winding them round and round at the back of her head until it looked like a great golden bee-hive; but she could not keep the front from rippling into soft, delicate waves; or the short hairs from twisting themselves into numberless little curls, which all the crimping-pins and hot slate-pencils in the world could not imitate. This hair which Georgie Graham so affected to despise was in reality a great object of her admiration, and she would have gladly exchanged it, with its usual accompaniments of glowing cheeks and scarlet lips, for her own sallow skin and scanty, drabbish-brown locks. But I have made a digression; let us return to our group in the library. "What are you two quarrelling about this lovely Sunday morning?" asked Florence Stevenson as she and Marion came into the room together. "Oh, we were not quarrelling," replied Georgie. "Sarah was only remarking that her cheeks were as blue as razors and her nose like a cranberry, and I agreed with her,--that was all." "Yes," exclaimed Sarah, "and I told you you weren't killing handsome, and I dare say you agreed with me, though you didn't say so. But there is one thing certain, if the cold makes frights of both of us, it makes Marion look like a beauty!" and Sarah's eyes sparkled mischievously. Georgie only shrugged her shoulders and elevated her eyebrows, as she replied, "Chacun à son gout." "But it doesn't happen to be your "gout," does it, Georgie?" good-naturedly replied Marion, who knew very well that Sarah's admiration of herself was thus publicly exhibited solely for the sake of annoying Georgie. "Come, girls, let's declare peace, or at least a 'cessation of hostilities;' it's a shame to commence the day with quarrels;" and Florence knelt down on the rug between the two girls, looking up at them with a smile that it would have been hard for any one to have resisted. Directly after this Miss Stiefbach entered, and all were quiet as she read the morning prayers, and they joined in the responses. By ten o'clock the girls, with the exception of Julia Thayer, whose throat was still troubling her, and Grace Minton, who was suffering from a sick headache, were on their way to church. They did not walk in a regular procession like so many convicts on their way to prison, but each chose her own companion, and the walk was enlivened with pleasant conversation. It so chanced that Marion and Georgie Graham were together, not by choice of either party, but because they both happened to come downstairs a little late, and the others had already got into the street as they came out the front door. Florence Stevenson, Miss Christine, and Rachel Drayton were all walking together, and Georgie, observing this, thought it would be an excellent opportunity for making Marion thoroughly uncomfortable. "It seems to me," she began, "you and Florence are not quite so fond of each other as you used to be; or is it that she is not so fond of you?" "I don't think there is any difference on either side," quietly replied Marion, determined not to lose her temper, or be led into saying cutting things of which she would have to repent. "Oh, if you think so, I suppose it is all right; but I don't believe there's a girl in the school who hasn't noticed how Florence has left you to run after Rachel Drayton." Marion resolutely kept silence, and Georgie, thinking that her shots had not taken effect, continued: "I don't see what there is about that girl, I'm sure, to make Flo fancy her so much; she certainly isn't pretty, and she's awfully lackadaisical." "I think she is very pretty," replied Marion; "and the reason she seems lackadaisical is because she is not strong." "I thought you did not like her," said Georgie, "you certainly have not troubled yourself much to entertain her." "I do not see as that is any reason why I should not think her pretty, or why I should not see that she is quiet, because she is not only weak, but very homesick and sad." "Why, really, Marion, I had not any idea you had taken enough notice of her to see all that. What a farce you must have been acting all this time, to seem so indifferent when you were _really_ so deeply interested!" "If that is so, Georgie," replied Marion, as she looked her companion steadily in the face, "I have been a better actress than you, for you play your part so badly that the little boys in the amphitheatre might see into the plot in the first act. I advise you to try another rôle." Georgie opened her eyes in pretended astonishment; but she knew very well what Marion meant, and that her intentions of tormenting her companion were fully understood. But that fact did not prevent her from saying in a gently insinuating tone: "Now, Marion, don't be provoked, but _don't_ you think that Florence is rather turning the cold shoulder on you?" "No, Miss Graham, I do not," emphatically replied Marion, and for at least five minutes Georgie said nothing. "I wonder!" she at last exclaimed, "if Rachel Drayton is rich. I think she must be, for although there is no style to her clothes, and she is of course very dowdy-looking, still everything she has is made of the most expensive material, and you know nice mourning costs awfully. Just look at her vail now; see how long it is, and of the heaviest crépe; but she looks like a ghost under it! I don't believe but what she is rich." "Well, Georgie," replied Marion, with the slightest possible curve of her lip, "I can satisfy you on that point. She _is quite_ well off; her father left about two millions, and with the exception of a few legacies of two or three hundred thousand or so, mere trifles to her, she will have it all; you see she is pretty well provided for." "Two millions!" exclaimed Georgie, startled out of her usual composure; "two millions! why, I hadn't any idea of it." "No, I thought not," dryly replied Marion. "But, Marion, are you sure? How did you know it?" "I heard Miss Stiefbach tell Miss Christine so the day Miss Drayton came here." "And you've known it all this time!" ejaculated Georgie, who could not get over her astonishment. "Yes," replied Marion, "I've known it all this time, and actually haven't toadied her yet; aren't you surprised?" and Marion's voice had, by this time, assumed its most coolly sarcastic tones, and her eyes flashed scorn and indignation upon her bewildered companion. "I wonder if Florence Stevenson knew it. I suppose of course she did," musingly remarked Georgie. "No, she did not," sharply retorted Marion; "and she doesn't know it now, I'm sure." "Well, I don't know what to make of it!" replied Georgie in an annoyed tone; "an heiress in school and no one to know it!" "Don't you think her prettier than when you first saw her?" exclaimed Marion, in such cutting, sarcastic tones that even Georgie winced; "and her pale face, I'm sure you think there is something very distingué about that, set off by her 'heavy, expensive crépe;' and then I know you must think that there is something decidedly aristocratic about her 'lackadaisical' manner;" and Marion gave a little bitter laugh, expressing quite as much scorn as her words. At that moment, they entered the church porch, and Georgie made no reply, only too glad of an excuse for silence. Miss Stiefbach's scholars occupied the first six pews from the front; three on each side of the broad aisle. Miss Stiefbach sat at the head of one, with five of the youngest girls, and Miss Christine, on the opposite side, also had some of the smaller girls with her, while the rest of the scholars occupied the pews in front of their teachers. As Marion entered the church, and the girls quietly took their places and knelt in prayer, the solemn stillness of the place struck painfully upon her. She could not so soon shake off all outward impressions, and the cutting words which had passed her lips, just as she entered that holy place, were still ringing in her ears. She had risen that morning, her mind still filled with the pleasant thoughts which had lulled her to sleep, and with good resolutions for the future. She felt glad that it was Sunday, for she thought she was in the mood to be benefited by the sacred influences of the day. But where now were her good resolutions? She had yielded to the first temptation; she had broken the vows made on her knees that morning, and she was utterly disheartened and discouraged. She knelt with the rest, her head bowed as if in prayer, but her mind in a wild confusion of anger, shame, and remorse; but the anger died, leaving nothing but the saddest, most wretched thoughts of all; the sense of utter failure; of continued shortcomings, of broken resolutions and disregarded vows, made sacred by the time and place of their utterance. She thought she was wicked because she could not pray, because her thoughts would not become composed, quiet, and peaceful, like the place and hour, and she knelt on, her hands clasped tightly together, and her head pressed down into them, the only cry that could silently shape itself into words, breaking from her heart in very agony of doubt and despair: "O God, help me! O God, save me from myself!" And who shall say that it was not enough? That that cry, coming from the depths of a heart distressed, remorseful and repentant for errors that to many would seem but trifles, did not reach the ear of Him who, bending in mercy and love, sees into the hearts of all; reads the very secrets of their souls; and to all who sincerely put their faith in Him surely, sooner or later, sends them His consolation and peace? As the others rose from their knees Marion was recalled to herself, and rising with the rest, she opened her prayer-book and joined in the service, which had just then commenced. Mrs. Berkley had requested, when Marion entered Miss Stiefbach's school, that no sectarian influences should be brought to bear upon her daughter's mind. She wished that her child should follow her own inclinations and the dictates of her own conscience in religious matters, for she understood her well enough to know that she would not blindly follow any faith without first feeling sure that she clearly comprehended and sincerely believed all that its doctrines taught. The influences which of course continually surrounded, although in a quiet, unobtrusive way, were not without their effect. She loved the service of Miss Stiefbach's church, and joined in it heartily. It seemed to her that it brought her nearer to God if she knelt the first thing when she entered the church and asked his blessing on her head. Not that silent, heartfelt prayers could not be uttered anywhere and in any position; but it seemed to her as if there, on her knees, in the place sacredly dedicated to his worship. God did not seem so far off--as if she could more earnestly and fervently supplicate him. There was much in the service which she could not believe and accept as it was intended it should be accepted; but she interpreted it as her own heart dictated. The greater part, however, she believed and repeated with reverence, and a feeling which could never come to her in her own church; for there the intense simplicity and almost business-like manner of conducting the service, struck harshly upon her sensibilities; and she missed the participation in the prayers and responses which seemed to draw her out of herself, and raise her thoughts above their common level, even into the presence of the most High. But to-day the holy words, the prayers and selections had no power to calm her troubled spirit; she tried to fix her thoughts upon the sermon, and not let them wander to dwell upon her own troubles; but it was no use; her mind was still in bitter confusion when she left the church. As she went down the path, Georgie, who seemed to have forgotten her previous discomfiture, if not the subject of their conversation, joined her and began plying her with fresh questions about Rachel Drayton. Marion did her best to evade her remarks, but Georgie would not let her alone, until, thoroughly exasperated and provoked beyond endurance, she exclaimed shortly:-- "Georgie, I do wish you'd hold your tongue! I'm sick of your questions; do let me alone!" "Dear me!" replied Miss Georgie, "you were very communicative this morning; but it's not very strange that you should be rather annoyed, considering Rachel has taken your best friend away." An angry retort rose to Marion's lips, but she controlled herself sufficiently to keep from uttering it; although the expression of her face warned Georgie that she had said quite enough, and the two continued their walk in silence. Having received permission from Miss Stiefbach, Marion set off immediately after dinner for the All Saints' church, and as the services began a half hour before St. Mark's she had her walk all to herself; nor was she sorry for this, for she did not feel like talking to any one. She was early; hardly any one was in the church, and without waiting for the sexton to show her into a pew, she took the very front one, knowing that it was almost always unoccupied. The hymns were read by the clergyman of the parish; a good, earnest man, and one who in the homes of the poor, and by the bedsides of the suffering and dying was often seen, and most sincerely loved; but he had not the gift of preaching; he rarely made his sermons go home to the hearts of his hearers, and Marion felt disappointed when she saw him; she had hoped to hear some one else. Her surprise and pleasure was great, when Mr. More stepped forward and announced that Mr. B., who had been pastor of that church fifteen years before, would preach for them that day. The minister came forward, and bowing his head, remained for a moment in silent prayer; when he lifted it again Marion felt as if she had seen the face of an angel, so holy, peaceful, and patient was its expression. He was a very old man; his hair hung long and white about his shoulders; and as the beams of the afternoon's sun fell upon it, it gleamed with a light which was almost unearthly, spiritualizing and sanctifying that beautiful old face, until it seemed to many as if he were speaking to them from the very gates of heaven. His sermon was short but impressive; the gentle pathos of his voice, and the earnestness of his manner, were felt by all who heard him. Bending over the pulpit as he closed his discourse, his voice fell into a soft, musical cadence, which though very low reached the most remote recesses of the church, and stretching out his arms as if he would have taken each one by the hand and led them to the haven where he had found rest and peace, he exclaimed, or rather entreated:-- "O my friends! look down into your own hearts, and read each one of you what is written there; pride, wilfulness, sin in many forms. Man's greatest enemy is self. But who has said, 'He that conquereth himself is greater than he that taketh a city'?--Jesus! Jesus the Saviour, who came to wash out all our sins; to give us strength for the struggles and trials which come to us all; to teach us patience, humility, and charity. "Each one in this world, young or old, has his sorrows to bear; his temptations to resist; his victories to gain; and to each one it seems sometimes as if everything was darkness and desolation; the blackness of night surrounds them on every side; darkness! darkness everywhere! no light, no hope, no guide. Look up, my friends! look up! not to the darkness; but above it, beyond it, to where Christ stands, ready, ay, more than ready. He comes to meet you, his eyes beaming with compassionate love, his hands outstretched. Grasp those hands, hold fast and firm; they, and they alone, can lead you through storm and darkness, through sorrow and fear; until kneeling at last in perfect peace and happiness you shall behold the face of your Father in heaven." Then followed the Lord's Prayer; but Marion could not take her eyes from that holy face. It seemed to her as if every word had been uttered for her alone; as if the speaker had looked down into the secrets of her heart and had tried to give her comfort and consolation. And this was partly true. As Mr. B. leaned forward and cast his eyes over the congregation they fell upon the face of that young girl, looking up at him with a longing, wistful, tearful glance that startled him. For many years he had been settled over a fashionable society in New York, where he often felt that the words he uttered were but as "seed sown by the wayside" or "on stony ground;" but there was no mistaking the earnestness of that face, over which was spread an expression which it pained him to see in one so young; for he knew that her trials, whatever they were, were but just begun, and thinking of the years of struggling that would probably come to her, his heart yearned over her in deepest sympathy. With the thought of her uppermost in his mind he gave out the closing hymn; two verses only. Marion had heard them often before, but their depth and meaning never came to her so fully as now:-- "Give to the winds thy fears; Hope and be undismayed; God hears thy sighs, and counts thy tears; He shall lift up thy head. "Through waves, through clouds and storms, He gently clears thy way; Wait thou his time, so shall the night Soon end in glorious day." As the last notes of the choir died away, and Marion bowed her head to receive the benediction, she felt strengthened and encouraged; and a peace such as she had not known for months fell upon her heart. As she passed out of church she avoided meeting any one whom she knew, and hurried out of hearing of the remarks of various members of the congregation, who were commenting on the sermon in very much the same manner as if it had been a theatrical performance. Such expressions as, "Very fine sermon, wasn't it?--hit some of us pretty hard;" or "What a charming voice and manner! why, he really quite touched me!" made by different persons in a flippant, off-hand tone, jarred upon her ears, and she was thankful to leave them all behind. As she was about to cross the street, preparatory to turning off into the road which led to school, she stopped to allow a carriage to pass; as it reached her a gentleman leaned towards her, and looking up she met the eyes of the minister bent down upon her with an expression of the deepest interest. She never saw that face again; but the remembrance of it went with her through her whole life. CHAPTER IX. THE LETTER-BAG. Monday morning Marion sent a long letter to her mother, in which she gave a full account of her interview with Aunt Bettie; sent the address, and gave as accurate a description as she was able of Miss Jemima Dobbs herself. She waited anxiously for some days for an answer to her letter, and could hardly keep the thought of Aunt Bettie out of her head. Friday afternoon, when the postman came, she was the first to get to the door and take the bag from him. As she went with it into the library, the girls all crowded round her in eager expectation, while she stifled her own impatience and slowly unstrapped the bag, looking provokingly unconcerned, and quite regardless of the smiling, eager faces that were bent over her. "O Marion!" exclaimed Sarah Brown, "don't you see I'm dying to know if there's a letter for me? Do hurry up." "She doesn't expect a letter herself, so she doesn't care how long she keeps us waiting," sullenly remarked Mattie Denton; "she likes to torment us." "You're mistaken there, Mattie," replied Marion, with a teasing twinkle in her eyes, "for I do expect a letter; but I like 'linked sweetness, long drawn out,' you know. Hands off, girls!" as she slowly opened the mouth of the bag, and two or three arms were stretched out for the letters that filled it to the top; "hands off, I'm postman to-day, and I won't have my rights interfered with. Let me see,--number one; that's for Julia Thayer. Julia! where are you? Here, Fan, run upstairs and take it to her. Number two, Grace Minton. Here, Grace, virtue recognized and patience rewarded; you held your tongue, and see how well I've served you;" and Marion rattled on a string of nonsense as she took out the letters and handed them to their various owners. "Two letters and a pamphlet for Miss Stiefbach; one for Miss Christine; and whose is this great, fat one, I wonder, with a foreign stamp? Rachel Drayton, I do declare!" and she was about to add, "I'm glad she's got it;" but her habit of always treating Rachel with supreme indifference was too strong upon her, and she only remarked, "Here, who will take this letter up to Miss Drayton's room?" Georgie Graham came forward and offered her services. "I am going upstairs," she said; "I'll take it up to her." Marion handed it to her without speaking, but elevated her eyebrows in a very expressive way; but at that moment Rachel herself came into the room, and Georgie stepped forward and gave her the letter, saying in her sweetest tones:-- "Ah, Rachel! are you here? Here is a letter for you, and I could not resist giving myself the pleasure of delivering it." Rachel took the letter with a delighted smile, and, thanking Georgie, ran upstairs that she might read it undisturbed; in the surprise and pleasure of receiving it she did not notice Georgie's unusually affable manner, or the astonished glances and expressive looks which passed between the other girls. Marion mentally remarked, "The two millions are taking effect; Georgie has begun to toady already." "Well, Marion, haven't you got a letter for me?" asked little Rose May, who had stood patiently by Marion's side, saying nothing, but looking longingly into the bag, the bottom of which was fast becoming visible. "You poor little thing, how good you have been!" and Marion bent down and kissed the expectant, little face. "I'll look over these in a jiffy, and we'll see if there isn't one for you. Susie Brastow, May Fowler, _Marion Berkley_, and--yes, here is yours, Rose,--Miss Rose May in great black letters." "Oh, it's from father! I'm so glad!" and Rose seated herself on the floor in the bow-window, and was soon oblivious to everything but the contents of her letter. "Here, Grace!" exclaimed Marion, as Grace Minton passed on her way into the drawing-room, "just take this and hang it on the nail; that's a good girl;" and she held the letter-bag towards her. "No, I thank you," laughingly replied Grace; "you're very anxious to be postmaster when it comes to taking out the letters, but the rest of the duties you want to shirk on to some one else; but I won't submit, I'm going to do my practising." "Oh, you unnatural, ungrateful girl!" replied Marion; "you have read your letter, and are not even thankful to me for giving it to you, almost the first one; and here I am perfectly wild to read mine. However," she exclaimed with martyr-like air, "it's only another proof of the total depravity of the human race." "No ingratitude, Marion; but you _know_ you always get some one to hang the bag up for you after _you_ have had the fun of taking out the letters, and I don't think it is fair." "Perfectly," replied Marion, as she hung the bag up in the vestibule, ready for the girls to make their various deposits, "perfectly; equal distribution of labor you know." "Equal humbug!" replied Grace, who could not help laughing. "O Grace!" called out Marion over the banisters, as Grace was about to turn into the drawing-room, "couldn't you find out what Georgie Graham is going to practise, for when she is in the school-room, playing Chopin's Polonaise, and you are in the drawing-room running the scales,--at least, to one who is not especially fond of 'close harmony,'--the effect is not so charming as it might be." Grace, whose musical powers were not very extensive, made up a face, and slammed the drawing-room door, and Marion rushed precipitately into her own room. "Don't sit down on that bed!" cried Florence; "don't you see I've got on the ruffled tidies?" "O you old maid!" retorted Marion; "you know there's no place I enjoy sitting to read my letters so much as on the bed. What possessed you to put on those tidies to-day?" "Why, Marion, we have been back more than seven weeks, and have not had them on yet. Now just see how nice they look." "They do look lovely, that's a fact;" replied Marion. "There's one thing your respected aunt knows how to do to perfection, and that is to quill ruffles. On the whole I'm glad you put them on; it will cure me of my horrible habit of bouncing down on the bed; consequently save me an innumerable amount of lectures, besides making our room look very distingué; three excellent reasons for keeping them on, so I'll content myself with our old seat." "Well, Mab, do tell me what your mother writes." "Why, I actually haven't had time to read it yet; there were crowds of letters, and I, like a little goose, took the bag. I do hope she has some good news of Jemima;" and Marion opened the letter and read it aloud:-- "BOSTON, Nov. 16th. "MY DEAR MARION:--I was delighted to receive your letter, but particularly so when I read it and found how much my dear daughter was interesting herself for the good of others. "I have just been obliged to change our parlor girl, Mary having gone home to be with her invalid mother, and was preparing myself for going the usual round of the intelligence offices, when your letter came. The address which you sent (I presume it was not a specimen of Miss Stiefbach's instruction) I took with me, for I had never heard of Mrs. Benson's office, and doubted very much if I should be able to find it. "As events proved, I was right, for after having crossed the city in every direction,--in cars, coaches and on foot,--I found that the place must be in Crawford Street, East Boston, instead of East Crawford Street, Boston; so I went to the East Boston ferry, and as good luck would have it, there was a directory in the office, which I looked over, and discovered that there was such a street, but could find no Mrs. Benson; however, as the directory was an old one, I did not trust to it, but crossed the ferry. I found the street without any difficulty; but when I came to No. 22, behold, it was occupied by a barber! I must say, I was discouraged; but upon going in and making inquiries, I found that Mrs. Benson had formerly occupied the store, but, as the colored gentleman informed me, 'she had removed to Boston, thinking that the crowded metropolis would afford her a better opportunity of carrying on her business, so as to render it more lucrative.' He was so extremely affable and polite, that I almost felt it my duty to sit down and have all my hair cut off; but I contented myself with buying a new kind of crimping-pin, which he assured me was the same as those used by Her Royal Highness the Empress Eugénie. Of course I believed him, and the crimping-pins will be ready for you when you come home at Christmas. But to return to my story; Mr. Ambrose St. Leger (don't be frightened, Marion, that is only the barber) gave me minute directions how to find Mrs. Benson's office, and I came back to the city, thankful to have some clue, however indirect it might be. I found the office without any difficulty, and Mrs. Benson, being of course very anxious to work herself into the good graces of a Boston lady, was extremely loquacious and obliging, notwithstanding I was unable to suit myself there with a servant. To make a long story short, she told me that she had received several letters for a Jemima Dobbs, but as she had never had any such girl in her office, after keeping them some time, she had burned them up. "I must say I felt extremely disheartened, for I thought that if I found the right woman she would certainly be able to tell me something about Jemima Dobbs. She produced her books, and upon looking over them I found the name of Arabella Dobbs. It seemed ridiculous to think that could be the same person I wanted, but I had an inward conviction that it was, and I have still; though don't get elated yet. Mrs. Benson, who relies more upon her memory than her book-keeping, says she is sure she got Arabella Dobbs a place in East Boston several weeks ago, and she is going to write to the lady, to find out if she is still there, and if she ever had the name Jemima. I thanked her for the interest she had taken in the case, and gave her my address, as she promised to send me word the instant she received an answer to her letter. "And now, my dear, that is all I have to tell you. Very unsatisfactory I know it is; but I feel quite sure that Arabella Dobbs and Jemima Dobbs are one and the same person, for it is very seldom that one comes across a Yankee girl in these offices, and Dobbs is a name one would not be likely to find there twice. "You will be the best judge of what it is best to do about telling Mrs. Dobbs what I have written to you; perhaps it will be better to wait until you hear something more conclusive; but the suspense must be terrible for her to bear, and it may be some consolation for her to know there is some one interesting herself for her here. "I will write just as soon as I hear from Mrs. Benson; and now, my darling, I really have not another moment to spare you. "Your father sends his usual stock of love, and ever so many messages, which I could not remember if I tried; but they were all very affectionate and so complimentary, that perhaps it is just as well you should not hear them. "Charlie is asleep, and Fred has not yet come in from baseball; so you must content yourself with a whole heart-full of love from your fond "MAMMA." "Now, Flo, was there ever such a darling mamma as mine? I do think she is just perfection,--going all over Boston, and East Boston too, and never saying she was tired, or anything of the sort. I don't think there are many women that would do that; do you, Flo?" "No, I don't believe there are many like her; I think she is the loveliest woman I ever knew. But, Marion, I don't see as you have found out much about poor Jemima after all." "No, there is not much real, satisfactory information, that's a fact; but I _feel_ just as if that girl was the right one, and I know mamma must feel pretty sure of it too, or she would have waited for the answer to that letter before she wrote me. I shall go up to auntie's as soon as I can; but I'm afraid it won't be before Saturday, for you know to-morrow is English composition day, and next day French abstract, and I was so careless about mine last time that I really think I ought to lay myself out this week." "Indeed you ought, Marion," exclaimed Florence; "it's a shame that a girl who can write such compositions as you can, when you have a mind to, should hand in such a flat, silly thing as your last one was. I'm not complimentary, I know, but it's the truth; you know yourself it was horrible." "Yes, I know it was; and that is why I'm particularly anxious to have a good one this time; don't you see?" "But don't you think you will be able to get up to Aunt Bettie's before Saturday?" asked Florence; "it seems hard to keep her in suspense." "I really don't see how I can find time, and then I'm in hopes that if I wait, by that time the answer to that woman's letter will have come, and I shall hear something decisive from mamma." "Well, I think after all perhaps it will be better for you to wait until then. But do you know it is after four o'clock, and the girls have all got through practising? We ought to go down and try our duet." "Sure enough!" exclaimed Marion, springing up. "I don't know my part at all; haven't looked at the last two pages, and Mr. Stein comes to-morrow." "Oh, you read music so quickly, that you'll play your part better at sight than I shall after I've practised it a week. I wish I could read faster." "Don't wish it, Flo; it is very nice sometimes, but I don't think people who read easily ever play readily without their notes. Now for you to know a piece once is to know it always, with or without your notes, while I have to fairly pound it into my head." "There is more truth than poetry in that, I know," replied Florence, as the two went downstairs together, "for I have heard Aunt Sue complain of the same thing; nevertheless I wish I wasn't so awfully slow." But we will leave them to their music, and musical discussions, and hurry on with our story. CHAPTER X. MARION'S RIDE. Marion had no other letter from her mother during the week, and she was so busy the whole time with her studies, music, etc., that it was not until Saturday afternoon that she started on her errand. The weather had been unusually cold, and the previous night there had been quite a heavy fall of snow, which, notwithstanding it was now only the middle of November, still remained on the ground, and the thick, gray sky gave promise that there was yet more to come; indeed before Marion was fairly ready the flakes began to make their appearance, and came lazily down, as if they did not all relish being called out so early. But Marion did not mind wind or weather, and with her water-proof over her thick sack, the hood drawn up over her head, and her feet encased in rubbers, she set out for her long walk in the most excellent spirits. Florence went to the door with her and urged her to take an umbrella, but Marion laughed at the idea, saying, "It was only a little flurry and would be over in a minute;" but before she had reached Aunt Bettie's she wished she had taken Florence's advice, for the snow came down thicker and faster, beating against her face, and almost blinding her, so that it was with great difficulty that she could see her way, and it was at least an hour before she arrived at the farm-house. She went round to the back of the house, and without knocking lifted the latch of the door, and entered a sort of shed or unplastered room, which in summer was used as a kitchen, but which now served as a wood-shed. "Aunt Bettie," cried Marion, "are you there?" and she stamped her feet, and shook her clothes to get rid of the snow which covered her from head to foot. "For the goodness' sakes, who's that?" exclaimed Aunt Bettie as she jumped up from her seat by the kitchen fire, where she had fallen asleep over her knitting, and hurried into the outer room. "Why, it's only me, auntie, to be sure," said Marion. "Marion Berkley! well, did I ever! but massy me," as she took hold of Marion's water-proof, "you're as wet as a drownded rat; I'd no idee it snowed so hard!" "Oh, it's only wet on the outside; _I'm_ not wet a bit;" and Marion took off her water-proof and hung it over a chair to dry, pulling off her rubbers and placing them on the floor beside it; "but why don't you ask me what I came for, auntie?" "Wall, child, to tell the truth, I was so s'prised to see yer that I didn't think anything 'bout what yer come for, and I aint going to ask nuther, 'till you jist seat yourself in front o' that fire and toast them feet o' yourn. I never see sich a child! To think o' your startin' out sich weather's this to come and see me!" "It didn't snow much when I left school, and I hadn't the least idea it would be such a storm; it's so early, you know. Florence wanted me to bring an umbrella, but I wouldn't; I never will carry one if I can help it." "Wall, it is a reg'lar out-and-outer," exclaimed Aunt Bettie, as she stood peering through the window at the storm; "winter's sot in airly this time, an' no mistake. I tell you what," as she came back to the fire and seated herself beside Marion, "if you've come for anything pertickler, I guess you better tell it right away, fur it won't do fur you to stop long, it gathers so." "Well, I did come for something particular, auntie, but you must not expect too much;" and Marion, who saw that Aunt Bettie was unusually excited, notwithstanding she tried to appear composed, laid her hand on her arm in a soothing, caressing way. "It is only a little bit of comfort for you, not any real hope, except that you will perhaps feel encouraged to know that you have friends in the city looking for your daughter, and although I do not know anything certain about her, I think mamma has got hold of some clue. But I'll read you what she says; you know I promised to write her, and I did, and this is her answer." Aunt Bettie signed for Marion to go on; she was too much moved to speak, although her emotion was caused quite as much by gratitude as anxiety, for she had waited so long, and up to this time in such perfect silence, that hope had almost died out within her, and she really did not expect any joyful tidings. At the conclusion of the letter Marion looked up, almost dreading to meet Aunt Bettie's glance, feeling sure that it must be one of disappointment; but, contrary to her expectations, the good woman's face was positively beaming through her tears, as she exclaimed in an almost joyful tone:-- "The Lord bless you, Miss Marion, and your mother too, for you're a pair of Christians if there ever was one! I'm jist sure that that Arabella Dobbs is my Jemimy; an' I'll tell yer why I think so. Yer see the gal that set my darter up to goin' to Boston used to visit some o' her kinfolk down in the village, an' that's how she and Jemimy got acquainted; she put it into my gal's head that _Jemimy_ was an awful country kind of a name,--her own was Belindy,--and she always called her Arabella, an' jist as like as not Jemimy was fool enough to go an' give _that_ as her name. I declare she orter been ashamed of herself!" and Mrs. Dobbs' indignation so far got the better of her grief, that if Miss Jemimy had been there in the flesh it is quite probable she would have received at least a good scolding. "Why, auntie, if that is so," replied Marion, "I've no doubt it's the same girl; but how do you suppose she happened to go to East Boston instead of Boston?" "Oh, like's not that Belindy Beers lived in East Boston, and jist said Boston 'cause she thought 'twas smarter. I never could bear that gal anyhow, an' if it hadn't been for her my darter'd been here now." "Well, you know I haven't really found her yet," said Marion, who was afraid that Aunt Bettie's ire had caused her to lose sight of that fact; "we only have some _probability_ of finding out where she is." "I know, dear, I know all that, but I do feel better; it does seem as if there couldn't be two sich good creeturs as you an' your mother doin' your best to help me, and no good to come of it. 'T any rate I aint goin' to despond any more; it's like flyin' in the face o' Providence, and until I hear wus news I shall jist hope for the best." "Aunt Bettie, I'm glad enough to hear you say so; I _can't_ help feeling very hopeful myself, and I'm glad you can feel the same." "Well, child, I think it's the right way arter all; 'taint my nater usually to be very despondent, but somehow I got entirely discouraged; but _I should_ be an ungrateful woman enough if I didn't thank you over and over again. I can't speak it all, but I feel it jist the same." "Indeed, auntie, it is not me, but mamma, that you must thank. I have done nothing but write to her, and she has done all the work." "Yes, and how would she have known it, if it hadn't been for you? I thank her, the Lord knows I do, from the bottom of my heart, but it's all owin' to you, child, nevertheless. If you hadn't had quick eyes to see into my troubles, and a warm heart to put you up to helpin' me, what would she a' known about it? No, no, dear, you're the fust one I owe my thanks to, and whether I ever find Jemimy again or not, I shall always love you, and bless you for what you've done for me so long's I live." And Marion knew that Aunt Bettie meant every word she said, and she did not again try to alter her opinion. It was pleasant indeed to know that there was any one who could have such a high regard for her; and with a warmth about her heart which it was pleasant to feel, and a light in her eyes which it would certainly have done any one good to see, she sat talking with Mrs. Dobbs, both of them oblivious to the fact that time was fast slipping away, until, upon looking up, Marion was astonished to see that it was long after four o'clock. "Why, auntie!" she exclaimed, "see how dark it is growing; we've been talking nearly an hour. I must hurry off this minute, or I shall be frightened to death before I get home." "Why, sure enough, it's most five o'clock! I'd no idee of it. But massy sakes!" cried Aunt Bettie as she went to the window, "jest come here and look out! Why, you can't walk home in this snow nohow; why, it's up to your ankles! I never see snow gather so quick in my life." Marion went to the window, and took a survey of the scene. It certainly did not look very promising. The snow had gathered so rapidly that the roads were covered several inches deep, and darkness appeared to be fast approaching. Marion looked decidedly troubled; but there was no help for it; go she must; for she knew that Miss Stiefbach would be very much worried about her; so putting on as good a face as possible she said:-- "Well, auntie, I haven't a moment to spare; it is really quite dark, and it will take me longer to go than it did to come;" and Marion was hurrying out of the room to get her water-proof when Aunt Bettie caught hold of her:-- "You jest set down in that cheer, and don't you stir out of it till I tell yer you may! Do you s'pose I'm goin' to send you home afoot when it's sich walkin's this? No; not if my name's Sarey Ann Dobbs. You jest wait, and you shall have one sleigh-ride this year if you don't ever get another." "Aunt Bettie, what do you mean?" exclaimed Marion. "You jest wait, and you'll see what I mean." Auntie went into the outer room, and opening the door shouted at the very top of her lungs in a shrill, high key: "Jabe! Jabe Dobbs, be you there?" but Jabe did not respond to the maternal call. "Jabe! Ja-a-a-be!" Then in an undertone, "Plague take that boy! he's the laziest creetur I ever did see!" Presently there came a reply from one of the outside sheds in a slow, drawling voice; very much as if the owner of it had heard the first summons, but was not in a great hurry to heed it:-- "H-e-r-e!" "Wall, come in this minit, and don't keep me standin' here holdin' this door open any longer!" In a few moments, but in what seemed to Marion almost an eternity, heavy steps were heard on the flagstone, and directly after, a youth of about sixteen made his appearance in the door-way, and slowly knocking the snow off his boots, asked in the same drawling tone:-- "What do yer want?" "You come inside, and I'll tell yer," replied his mother. "Well, yer might o'--" but catching sight of Marion his head went down, and Jabe stood sheepishly twirling his hat in his hands, shuffling from one foot to the other, apparently too bashful for speech. "Don't stan' there twirlin' yer hat, and lookin' like a great idiot, but jest step round and be spry. Did you get down the big sleigh t'other day when I told yer to?" Jabe nodded assent. "Well, it's a wonder! Now you go out and tackle up Shadrack as quick as ever you can, and hev him round to the door, less'n no time; no shillyshallyin!" "What shall I put him into arter I get him tackled?" asked the hopeful youth, with a momentary glance at Marion from under his shaggy eyebrows. "Why, put him into the sleigh, to be sure; what'd you s'pose?" "Well, you didn't tell me, an' I didn't know but p'r'aps she was goin' to ride him," replied Jabe, with another glance at Marion, which almost upset her gravity. "You didn't think any such a thing, and you know you didn't! You're to drive Miss Marion back to school, and you jest hurry out; and don't let the grass grow under yer feet either!" "Aint much danger," replied Jabe, as he shuffled off; "it's most through sproutin' fur this year, and 'taint quite ready fur next." "Now, Miss Marion, did you _ever_ see sech a boy as that?" exclaimed Aunt Bettie in righteous indignation; "he worries my life out of me!" "What is the matter with him?" asked Marion, who was intensely amused at the ridiculous-looking object she had just seen, and his comical, awkward ways; "there doesn't seem to be anything very bad about him." "Bad! of course there isn't, but he _is_ so powerful slow! There's no doin' nothin' with him; he's too lazy to work, and he's too lazy to study. But there's one thing, he's honest as he ken be, and I rally do think he does set consid'rable store by me; though he _does_ try my patience awfully." "Of course he thinks a great deal of you," replied Marion; "he's just at a lazy age now. I dare say he'll get over it, and prove a great comfort to you one of these days." "Oh, he's a comfort now, in a sort of a way. He's stiddy enough; but laws! he's too lazy to be anything else." "He'll wake up yet, auntie, see if he doesn't. There's a twinkle in his eyes that shows he's nobody's fool." "Oh, I never supposed he was quite as bad's that; but he haint found his niche yet; when he does I s'pose he'll fit into it as tight as a pertater does its skin." In much shorter time than Marion had expected, judging from what she had seen of Jabe's activity, the jingle of bells was heard, and directly after, the musical voice of Mrs. Dobbs' young hopeful called out:-- "I'm ready if you be!" Aunt Bettie opened the door, her face positively radiant with smiles and the pleasure she felt at being able to give Marion a ride. As Marion's eyes beheld the equipage that stood ready for her use, it must be confessed that her first sensation was anything but agreeable. In common with most girls of her age, and I might say with girls considerably older than herself, she had a great admiration for handsome horses, elegant carriages, and a driver in keeping with the rest of the establishment. Certainly no one could say, however, that her driver was not perfectly in keeping with the establishment of which he evidently felt extremely proud; for he sat on the front seat, holding the reins in both hands, as if poor Shadrack was a four-in-hand team, or at least a tandem with a very refractory leader. The sleigh itself was of such peculiar structure, that it would have been almost impossible to have decided at what ancient period it must have been made. In shape, it most resembled that elegant vehicle commonly known as a "pung," excepting that it boasted of two seats, and a back that nearly reached the top of Marion's head. Its color was a beautiful pea-green, ornamented with various scrolls and devices in bright yellow, which might have been a combination of the paternal and maternal crests of Jabe's ancestors, but looked wonderfully like squash-vines. Around old Shadrack's neck was hung a string of iron bells about the size of small cannon-balls, which jingled most melodiously every time he moved. But Marion's good sense would not allow her to yield to any feeling of mortification which she might feel at the idea of appearing at school in such a turn-out. She only thought of Aunt Bettie's kindness in ordering out her old horse on such an unprecedented occasion; and thanking her warmly and sincerely for her thoughtfulness, she stepped into the sleigh and was driven off by Jabe, who flourished the whip over Shadrack's ears, quite regardless of his mother's warning, "not to let the critter trot fast, 'cause 'twas heavy haulin'; the snow was so soggy." For some time they jogged along, the silence only broken by the monotonous jingle of the bells. It had stopped snowing, and the sky was quite bright in the west, making it much lighter than it was earlier in the afternoon; touching up the trees with a rosy light, and casting a soft glow on the fields, as they passed along. Marion forgot everything else in the pleasure of watching the fading light, and was quite oblivious to the existence of Jabe, until she was roused from her silent observations by a mild "ger-lang!" which reminded her that it certainly was her duty to make herself agreeable to her escort. She hardly knew what to say to him, but she ventured to remark "that the horse did not look as if he was worked very hard." "Worked hard!" exclaimed Jabe. "Lord, he don't know what work is! I just wish I had as easy a time as Shadrack." "What in the world did you name him Shadrack for?" exclaimed Marion. "Me!" replied Jabe, turning round slowly and looking at Marion out of the corner of his eye, "'twant none o' my doin's, 'twas father's; he allus liked something different from anybody else, and that time I think he hit it." "Yes, I think he did," replied Marion, smiling in spite of herself; then in a soberer tone she asked, "Do you remember your father, Jabe?" "No, he died 'fore I was two years old." "Don't you wish he could have lived?" "Well now, that depends on circumstances," replied Jabe in a deliberating tone; "if he was such a fellow for work as the marm, I can't say as I _should_ be very particular 'bout havin' him round." "Why, Jabe Dobbs!" exclaimed Marion, striving to conceal her laughter, "aren't you ashamed of yourself? I dare say it would be better for you, if your mother made you work a great deal harder than she does." "O Lord! Miss Marion!" cried Jabe, in the most horrified tone, but with a twinkle in his eyes which Marion fully appreciated; "if she did I couldn't live nohow. You see, work and I don't hitch hosses; we weren't meant to go 'longside the same pole; and if one of us has got to stan' still, I think it might's well be me, and let _work_ go." At this Marion laughed outright, but not a muscle of his face did Jabe move, and if it had not been for that sly twinkle in his eye when he lifted it to Marion's face one would have thought he was solving some weighty problem. He sat round sideways, one leg on the seat, and the reins now hanging loosely in his hands, as Shadrack jogged lazily on, while he was evidently highly pleased and flattered by Marion's attention. "Well, Jabe," continued Marion, "perhaps, if you don't like to work, you like to study. Do you ever go to school?" "I went last winter by spells, an' I s'pose I shall go this winter too." "Do you like it?" asked Marion; "what do you like best,--spelling?" "Spelling," repeated Jabe, in a ruminating tone,--"spelling, no, I don't like it much, that is, I don't like it the way they larn you down there. I think p'r'aps if they'd let a feller follow his own fashion I might like it; but they put in so many letters that there aint no kind o' sense in havin', that it jest confuses me, an' so I ginerally spells accordin' to fancy." "O Jabe!" replied Marion, "that will never do in the world; but perhaps you like arithmetic better." "'Rithmetic!" and Jabe fairly dropped the reins and struck an emphatic blow on his knee, as he exclaimed again: "'rithmetic! I tell you _there_ you got me. If there is anything I do hate on the face o' this airth, it's 'rithmetic! Spellin's bad enough, but 'rithmetic's wus. When you set me to doin' a sum it's jest like the feller that had to go through the drill for the whole regiment; he got on fust-rate till they told him to go form a holler-square; but he said _that_ 'wrenched him awfully.'" "O Jabe! Jabe!" cried Marion, now fairly convulsed with laughter, "I am afraid you will never make much of a scholar anyway. But, indeed, you ought to try and do better; just think what a comfort you might be to your mother, if you would only----But stop the horse, stop the horse a minute; I've got an idea!" Jabe drew up the reins with a sudden jerk, and looked at Marion as if she had scattered every idea he ever possessed. "You jump out!" she exclaimed; "no, you needn't do that; just help me over on to the front seat, and then you climb on to the back. I'm going to drive up to school in style." Jabe dropped the reins, and did as he was told, with a very bewildered expression on his great, round face, as he looked at Marion very much as if he doubted her sanity; but she went on talking very fast as she tucked in the almost worn-out robe, and took the reins in her hands. "Don't you see, we're almost to the school, and everybody will be on the lookout for me; so I want to dash up to the door in very stunning fashion. Now sit up straight; fold your arms; hold your head up;--so,--that's it; you're my tiger; that means the groom, boy, you know, who sits behind when the gentleman drives. Now, when I stop the horse, you jump out just as quick as ever you can and rush to his head, as if you thought he wouldn't stand still long enough for me to get out. Do you understand?" "Yes," replied Jabe, who sat as straight as a ramrod, his eyes twinkling under his bushy, fur cap, and his mouth stretched from ear to ear. If he didn't love work, he certainly did a good joke, and he entered fully into the spirit of the thing. "Well, now, keep sober, and don't forget what I told you." Marion braced her feet against the dasher; threw back her shoulders; extended her arms at full length, and gave poor old Shadrack such a tremendous "cut" with the whip that he sprang forward as if forty fiends were after him; but Marion was used to driving, and only flourished the old wooden-handled ox-whip, and urged him on the faster. Everything happened precisely as Marion wished. Of course Miss Stiefbach had become considerably alarmed at her long absence, and every one had come into the front of the house, and all were looking out for her, their faces pressed up against the window-panes as they crowded together. Just as Marion came in sight some one opened the front door; this was what she wanted. Giving the whip an extra flourish, and saying in an undertone to Jabe, "Be ready," she dashed up to the gate, and suddenly drew the reins up short. Poor Shadrack, being thus brought to a very unexpected stand-still, threw his head up in the air, and planted his fore feet straight out in front of him, in a most warlike attitude. Almost before they stopped Jabe sprang out and grasped the poor panting beast by the head, as Marion threw the reins down, and stepping to the ground exclaimed in a pompous tone, loud enough to be heard by those standing in the door-way, "Rub him down well, Thomas, and give him an extra measure of oats;" then, as she turned into the gate, "and Thomas, have the tandem at the door in the cutter, to-morrow-morning at ten." Jabe, not to be outdone, touched his hat, sprang on to the seat, and whisked Shadrack round and up the road, at a pace that would have made his mother hold up her hands in holy horror. "Why, Marion Berkley, where _have_ you been?" exclaimed a chorus of voices, Miss Stiefbach's actually among the number. "I've been taking an airing on the Western Avenue. How do you like my turn-out? Neat but not gaudy, isn't it?" "Well, Marion, I don't know what you will do next," said Miss Christine; "but where have you really been?" "Marion, I must ask you to give a strict account of yourself," said Miss Stiefbach, who, now that she had recovered from her unusual surprise and alarm, was her own stately self again. Whereupon Marion gave a brief and satisfactory history of her afternoon's expedition, embellishing it with sundry remarks and expressions of her own, which rendered it highly entertaining to her younger hearers; and I might say to all but Miss Stiefbach, for Miss Christine joined heartily in the general laugh at Marion's first sleigh-ride of the season. CHAPTER XI. LA SOIRÉE MUSICALE. "Girls! what do you think's up?" exclaimed Sarah Brown, as she bounced into the library one afternoon. "Miss Stiefbach and Mr. Stein have just been having a long confab in the 'secret-chamber,' and they came out just as I passed the door, and I heard Miss 'Stiffy' say, 'Yes, I knew you would prefer Friday, so I ventured to invite them without seeing you again; as yet the young ladies know nothing about it!' Now _I_ should like to knew what in the world _it_ is." "Well, so should I!" exclaimed Julia Thayer. "What can she mean; 'invited them,' and 'the young ladies know nothing about it.' She must be going to give a party." "Yes, that's it, you may be sure," said Marion; "she's going to give a party, and she and Mr. Stein are going to lead the German. Won't they look well dancing the 'deux-temps' together?" "O Marion, how perfectly ridiculous!" laughed Florence. "You know she can't be going to have a party; but what can it mean?" "Are you sure you heard right, Sallie?" asked Grace Minton. "Why didn't you break your shoe-string and stop to tie it up; or do something or other to keep you there long enough to get something a little more satisfactory?" "Why, I couldn't hang round the hall listening to what they said, could I? But I know there is to be something going on here Friday; see if there isn't." "Yes, and Miss Stiefbach isn't going to say anything about it to us until the last moment, because she thinks our heads will be full of it," ejaculated Marion. "I've a great mind to ask her myself." "If I was in the habit of betting, I would bet you anything that I know all about it," remarked Georgie Graham, who had kept silent while the other girls were making their comments. "Oh, what is it?" asked Marion; "my principles and my purse too will stand a pound of candy." "And I another," cried Sarah. "Not so fast," replied Georgie. "I said _if_ I was in the habit of betting, but I never bet; it is very unladylike." "Granted!" cried Marion; "but please reserve your lecture for another time, and out with your secret." "I really don't know as I _ought_ to tell," said Georgie, as she counted the stitches on her canvas in a provokingly cool way. "I knew it by accident, and that is the reason I haven't spoken of it before." "Oh, if you got possession of it in the same way you have of several other secrets here, I don't blame you for not wanting to tell of it," retorted Sarah. "I don't know what you mean to insinuate, Sarah; but I heard of this entirely by accident two weeks ago to-morrow," replied Georgie in the same unmoved tone. "I was in the anteroom looking over an exercise which monsieur wanted me to correct, when I heard Mr. Stein and Miss Stiefbach talking together in very low tones in the school-room. Of course it did not occur to me that there could be anything private in what they were saying, or I should have let them know I was there"--("Of course," laconically remarked Marion)--"but when they had got through their conversation Miss Stiefbach said, 'We will say nothing about it to any one, as I wish it should remain a secret for the present;'--so I said nothing." "Well, don't you _intend_ to say anything?" cried Sarah Brown; "now that we know there is something going on, don't you intend to tell us what it is?" "I really don't think it would be very honorable in me," rejoined Georgie, thoroughly enjoying her important position. "Don't trouble her, Sarah; we all know what her conscientious scruples are. It would be a pity to have them disturbed," remarked Marion in a cutting, sarcastic tone. "I can tell you what it all means in five seconds." "What is it?--tell us, do!" cried all, with the exception of Georgie. "Miss Stiefbach intends to have some sort of a musical spread next Friday, and we girls have got to play." "How did you know it?" exclaimed Georgie, thoroughly off her guard. "I didn't take your method of finding it out, you may be sure," replied Marion. "I never heard a word about it before this afternoon; but if you put two and two together they generally make four, that's all." "What do you mean by putting 'two and two together'?" impatiently asked Julia Thayer. "Why, just this!" replied Marion. "Does Mr. Stein have an earthly thing to do with this school except to give us music-lessons? and is there anything that Miss Stiefbach could be getting up with him, that concerned the 'young ladies' that didn't have something to do with our music? and would she be inviting people here when it was convenient to _him_ if it wasn't that they are going to give a musicale, and he is going to make us play? So there you've got the whole matter; I don't think it required much brilliancy to see that." "Well, I _never_ should have thought of it!" exclaimed Sarah. "Nor I either," said Florence. "But don't you think it is awfully mean not to have let us known anything about it beforehand, so that we might have had time to practise?" "I presume Mr. Stein has been secretly drilling us for it this long time, though we poor, unconscious victims didn't suspect it," replied Marion. "But there's Georgie, she has the advantage of us; she has probably decided what she is going to play, and has learned it perfectly." But there was no reply from Georgie as she had discreetly left the room. "Oh, isn't she sly?" exclaimed Grace Minton. "Sly! sly isn't the word for it," put in Sarah Brown in her most energetic tones; "she ought to have been named Foxy Graham!" "Well, there's one thing certain," said Grace Minton, "I shan't have to play; I thank my stars for that!" "I wonder who will play," said Florence. "Georgie Graham of course; Julia; and you Mab; and I rather guess I shall have to. Well, I don't much care, I don't believe there will be many here, and I think it's time I learned to play before strangers." "I don't know how I shall ever get on in the world," cried Marion in a despairing tone; "that is about the only thing I never could do." "And I think it is so strange," remarked Julia Thayer; "for you see so much company at home, and always seem so self-possessed wherever you are, that it does seem queer that you are afraid to play before people." "I know it. I dare say every one thinks it is all affectation," replied Marion, "for I know you all think I've got assurance enough to do most anything; but it is the honest truth, that I'm frightened half to death whenever I sit down to play to any one; and if I get along well at this affair of Miss Stiefbach's, it will be nothing but my _will_ that carries me through." "So you mean to play, do you?" asked Georgie Graham, who at this juncture suddenly made her appearance in the room. "Yes, I mean to play if I'm asked, and I suppose I shall be, because I think I ought. I am determined to overcome this ridiculous nervousness, even if it is at the expense of fifty mortifying failures before I do it; so, girls, look out and prepare yourselves for a public disgrace; for of _course_ there is not one of you who would not take it quite to heart if I should break down." "Well," replied Sarah Brown in the most energetic tone (Sarah almost always spoke in italics), "I know I for one should feel dreadfully; though of _course_ I can't answer for some of the rest of us;" and she cast a meaning glance at Georgie. "I'm sure, Marion, I _hope_ you won't fail," said Georgie as she picked up her work, her ostensible reason for coming back, and left the room. "I know one thing," exclaimed Sarah; "if that girl kept a list of all the lies she tells in a week, white and black; she'd use up all the letter-paper there is in the town." "O Sallie!" laughed Florence, "you're too severe. I'm afraid you don't entertain a Christian spirit towards Georgie." "I don't, and I don't pretend to!" answered Sarah. "I never did like her, and I never shall; she's always saying something to aggravate me." "But she didn't say anything to you then," said Julia Thayer, with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes; "she was only _hoping_ that Marion would not break down." "Yes, and a lot she hoped it!" excitedly replied Sarah; "there's nothing would suit her better than to have Mab make a regular failure of it; and I just wanted to let her know I thought so." "Now, Sarah," said Marion, in a half-laughing, half-serious tone, "don't you trouble yourself to fight my battles. I think I am quite equal to it myself; besides, you'll have your hands full to look after your own squabbles." "There's ingratitude for you!" said Grace Minton. "If I were you, Sallie, I never would trouble myself about her again; she doesn't deserve such a champion." "Oh, I don't mind what she says," replied Sarah, good-naturedly; "she can't make me hold my tongue, and I shall say just what I've a mind to, to that Georgie Graham, so long as she keeps on tormenting me." That evening the whole school was informed that on the following Friday Miss Stiefbach was to give a soirée musicale, at which ten of the scholars were to perform. These were Marion Berkley, Florence Stevenson, Alice Howard, Mattie Denton, Julia Thayer, Georgie Graham, Susie Snelling, Kate Brastow, and, to the surprise of every one, little Rose May and Fannie Thayer. Of course nothing was talked of that week out of study hours, but the soirée, and great indignation was expressed by most of the performers that they had not been allowed more time to prepare themselves. But Mr. Stein knew what he was about; he wished the musicale to be as much as was possible an impromptu affair, as it was not his idea to make an exhibition of the skill of his pupils, but to accustom them to play with ease and self-possession before strangers. He gave his pupils a list of their names in the order in which they were to play, selected from the music belonging to each girl several pieces, from which she was to choose one, exercising her own taste and judgment; decided himself upon the duets he wished performed, and then informed them that his part in the matter was ended; from that moment he was to be nothing but a spectator. "But, Mr. Stein," exclaimed one, "just _please_ tell me, can I play this well enough?" and then from a second, "O Mr. Stein, _would_ you play this?" and "Oh, I never can play _any_ of these before any one!" from a third, and many other exclamations and lamentations were poured upon him; but he only held up his hands in a deprecating way. "Now, young ladies, do not, do not, I beg of you, ask me another question! I consider that you know any one of the pieces which I have laid aside for you to choose from sufficiently well to play anywhere; it only remains for you to decide which one you will play. Now, good-by until Friday; you will not see me until then, when I shall not come as your teacher, but as an invited guest, to have my ears delighted with the sweet sounds which I shall expect to hear from that instrument;" and with a profound bow the old German made his exit. But, notwithstanding his apparent unconcern as to the result of this new whim of his, Mr. Stein was really quite excited about it; several of his pupils at Miss Stiefbach's he considered were quite remarkable for their age, and he looked forward to the coming musicale with a feeling of pride not unmixed with fear, lest some of his favorites should fail to do themselves credit. Marion had noticed that for two weeks before the secret was generally known Georgie Graham had practised Chopin's Polonaise in A, every day, but since the whole school had been informed of the musicale she had only heard her play it twice. This induced her to think that Georgie, taking advantage of the knowledge which she had surreptitiously gained, had chosen that piece for Friday night, and having nearly perfected herself in it, was avoiding practising it, so that none of the girls might suspect what she intended to play. Marion would not have been likely to have thought of this, if she had not taken the Polonaise about the same time that Georgie had, and had often remarked that she thought Georgie played it better than anything else, and very much better than she did herself. Remembering this, and knowing that Georgie would be particularly anxious to excel her in the eyes of the whole school, and before invited guests, she felt perfectly confident that Chopin's Polonaise was the piece she had chosen. Now Georgie had certainly done everything she could to make Marion thoroughly uncomfortable ever since they had been back at school, and Marion had been actually longing for an opportunity to revenge herself. Here was the opportunity. The soirée was to open with a duet by Mattie Denton and Julia Thayer; then a solo by Florence, followed by a song from Alice Howard; then a piano solo from Marion, and after her Georgie Graham. This precedence over Georgie gave Marion the opportunity which she could not resist. She would play the Polonaise herself, thus forcing Georgie to choose another piece almost without a moment's notice. Do not despise her, my friends; she was very much like other girls, and had a natural desire to punish Georgie for all the mean, petty annoyances to which she had been subjected at her hands. A very wrong desire, I grant you, and one for which she blamed herself very much; but she had it, and consequently as a faithful chronicler I must write it. But do not for a moment suppose that she intended publicly to disgrace her school-mate; nothing of the kind; she knew that Georgie was perfectly capable, and perfectly willing to play any of her music before no matter how many strangers. She only wanted to provoke her, and spoil her nicely arranged plan of playing a very difficult and very brilliant piece of music, better than any of the other girls would be able to play, as they had not had the advantages of practising expressly for the occasion which she had taken. She was not at all jealous of Georgie, for although they were generally considered the rival pianists of the establishment, the rivalry was entirely on Georgie's side. Many might say that they played equally well, but the few who truly loved music for its own sake missed something in Georgie's playing which they found in Marion's. The secret was this: Georgie played from a love of the admiration and praise she received, and from an ambitious resolution she had made when a little child, that no one she knew should play better than she did herself. Consequently every one was struck with the accuracy and rapidity of her execution, and the brilliancy of her touch in all difficult music; but in more quiet pieces,--pieces that required that the soul of the performer should thrill through every chord, and vibrate with every touch of the piano, that the full depth and beauty of their perfect harmony might be conveyed to the listener's ear,--then it was that Georgie's playing seemed cold and mechanical, while that of Marion seemed an interpretation of the purest ideas of the composer. Friday afternoon came at last. Throughout the house the two pianos had been going at almost every hour in the day; early and late, before breakfast and after supper, might be heard duets, solos, and songs, until those scholars who were not to perform at the musical soirée declared themselves thoroughly disgusted with the whole affair, and hoped Miss Stiefbach would never have another. This afternoon, however, no one was allowed to go near the piano, and every girl was obliged to learn her lessons for Monday, and take her usual amount of exercise, notwithstanding that they had all begged and entreated to be permitted to give their last moments to music. Miss Stiefbach was obdurate and held her ground, for she knew the girls were all very much excited, and that nothing but a strict attention to other things would sufficiently calm them to enable them to play at all, that night. But just before tea excitement reigned supreme. To be sure it was divided and subdivided by being confined to the various rooms where the scholars were dressing themselves for the evening; still, if an entire stranger had walked through the lower part of the house where everything was quiet, and no one was to be seen except Miss Christine, who was arranging some beautiful flowers that had mysteriously made their appearance that afternoon, he would have felt perfectly sure that some event of an unusual and highly interesting nature was about to take place. As a rule all the scholars dressed very plainly, for Miss Stiefbach's motto regarding dress which she endeavored to instill into the youthful minds about her was, "Neatness, not display." But notwithstanding the fact that ordinarily all finery was eschewed, almost every girl had stowed away in her trunk at least one dress a little more elaborate than the rest of her wardrobe; a set of pretty jewelry, or handsome ribbons, "in case anything should happen;" and now something was actually going to happen; the dull routine of school-life was to be broken in upon, and consequently the little vanities of this world would have a chance to air themselves. "To friz, or not to friz! that is the question!" exclaimed Marion, as she turned from her looking-glass and appealed to Florence, who was buttoning her best-fitting cloth boots. "Why, friz of course; you know it's the most becoming." "Oh, I know that well enough; but you see I was too sleepy to put it up last night, and now I shall have to do it with hot slate-pencil, and it's the ruination of the hair." "I guess it won't hurt it for just this once, and this is certainly a great occasion," answered Florence; "what are you going to wear on it,--cherry?" "Oh, no! that lovely gold band you gave me; it just suits my dress, and lights up beautifully. I like to wear only one color when I can." "That is all very well for you to say (these boots are _rayther_ snug), because you're a blonde, and look well in plain colors; but I'm such a darkey that nothing but red and yellow suits me," said Florence. "So much the better. I don't think there is anything handsomer than a rich orange or a bright scarlet, and sometimes a little of both is just the thing. There! how does that look?" continued Marion, as she put the last hair-pin in her back braids, gave an extra touch to the gleaming waves of her front hair, and straightened the narrow gold satin band which ran through them. "Perfectly lovely!" enthusiastically cried Florence; "you've got it just high enough without being a bit too high, and those crimps are heavenly! Now put on your dress; I want to see the whole effect before I get myself up." "I don't think it is quite long enough, do you?" asked Marion, in a doubtful tone, as she shook out the folds of a rich Irish poplin, and threw it over her head; "it is so awfully hard to get a dress just the right length, when you are not old enough for a train, and too old to have it up to your knees! But there! how's that?" and she turned for her friend's final verdict. "Lovely! just lovely! That is the prettiest shade of green I _ever_ saw; and _such_ a poplin! Where did you get it?" "Uncle George brought it to me from Ireland; wasn't it good of him? But come, Florence, you really must hurry; I expect the tea-bell will ring any minute; it's a blessed thing Miss Stiefbach put tea off half an hour, or we should never have been dressed beforehand. O Flo! what a stunning dress! I never saw it before." "_Do_ you like it? I didn't show it to you, for I was afraid you would think it was terribly niggery; but I saw it in Chandler's window, and just walked in and bought it without saying boo to auntie, and it really is quite becoming to me, I'm so black." "Becoming! I should think it was; I never saw you look so well in anything in your life. If the thing had been made for you it couldn't have suited your style better, and that Roman-gold jewelry is just right for it; in fact, as mademoiselle used to say, you are decidedly 'comme il faut.'" The two girls certainly made a charming picture as they stood together, each interested and eager that the other should look her best. Marion's beautiful hair fell slightly over her forehead in soft, curling waves, seeming even lighter and brighter than ever, and making the contrast with her dark eyes and eyebrows all the more marked. Her fair skin and glowing cheeks were set off to advantage by the rich green dress she wore, which, though simply trimmed and in keeping with her years, was very handsome. It would have been hard to choose between the two, for each in her own style was certainly very lovely. Florence's hair was drawn off from her low, broad forehead, as she always wore it, and she had nothing on it but a tiny gilt band, like a golden thread encircling her head; which, though she did not know it, was a perfect Clytie in contour. Her dress was a French poplin, the ground a rich blue, while all over it, at regular intervals, were embroidered singularly odd-shaped figures in the brightest-colored silks, giving it a peculiar, piquante appearance, and perfectly suiting the wearer's brunette beauty. Perhaps I have given too much time and space to dress; but parents and guardians may skip the above passage, as it is written expressly for young girls, who, I know from personal experience, are very naturally interested in such matters. The hour at last arrived. The grand-piano stood between the folding-doors which separated the two large parlors; in the back room was Miss Christine, surrounded by all the school, and in the front sat Miss Stiefbach and the invited guests, about twenty in number, all of them refined, cultivated persons, many of them quite severe musical critics. Mr. Stein fluttered from one room to the other, trying hard to appear unconcerned; but I doubt if any of his pupils were in a greater state of excitement than he. It had been an undecided question whether or no he should stand by the piano and turn over the music; but the majority concluded that he would only make them more nervous, so he retired to the back of the front parlor, in a position where he could command a view of every note in the key-board. M. Béranger made his appearance at an early hour, and declared his intention of sitting with Miss Christine, to help her preserve order. She remonstrated with him, telling him he could hear the music to much better advantage in the other room; but nevertheless, when the company was all seated, and silence reigned supreme preparatory to the opening duet, M. Béranger quietly ensconced himself in the back parlor. The fatal moment had at last arrived; the musicale was about to commence. Marion sat through the first duet, trying hard not to think of herself, and to listen to the music; but she heard nothing but a confusion of sounds, the beating of her own heart sounding loudest of all. Florence's piece she did enjoy, and joined heartily in the applause which followed its 'finale,' and gave her friend's hand a congratulatory squeeze, as she came back to the seat beside her. But in a very few moments Alice Howard's song was ended, and as the murmurs of approbation died away, Marion took her seat at the piano. To all outward appearance she was calm and self-possessed, and with a strong effort she summoned her almost indomitable will to her aid and struck the first chords clearly and decisively. Through the first two pages everything went well; but just as she was about to turn over her music, she missed one or two notes with her left hand. No one who was not perfectly familiar with every bar of the music would have noticed the omission; but to Marion it seemed as if she had made a terrible discord. Her forced composure left her, and all her nervousness came back again; she turned over hastily; the music slipped from her fingers and fell to the keys; she grasped it blindly with both hands, but the loose sheets fluttered to the floor, and confused, embarrassed, and mortified almost beyond endurance; she stooped to pick them up, amid a silence which was unbroken, save by Miss Stiefbach, who said in cold, hard tones:-- "Miss Berkley, do not attempt to repeat your piece; such carelessness is unpardonable." The hot blood rushed to Marion's face; then as suddenly receded, leaving it deathly white. She rose from the piano, and with a firm step and untrembling lips walked quietly to her seat. But although externally she was so calm as to appear almost indifferent, her mind was in a state of the wildest excitement. The air immediately about her seemed filled with a confusion of sounds, rushing, whirring, whirling about her; while the dead silence of the room seemed to take palpable shape and weight, crushing upon her, until she felt as if she must rush from the room to break through the unbearable stillness, or scream aloud to silence the imaginary sounds that were ringing in her ears. But she did neither; she sat quietly in her seat, the object of stealthy but almost general scrutiny. Some of the girls looked at her with pitying, sympathizing eyes; those who did not like her exchanged glances of satisfaction; but all refrained from speaking to her, or otherwise showing their sympathy,--all but Florence; she slipped her hand into her friend's, and there it remained for the rest of the evening. When Marion first struck the piano, and Georgie Graham saw what she was about to play, her rage and indignation knew no bounds; but when the music fell, and Marion stood mortified, and, as she thought, disgraced in the eyes of every one, her spirits rose to a most unparalleled height, and elated and radiant with satisfaction she took her seat at the piano, and played the Polonaise almost faultlessly; better than she had ever played it before. With the exception of Marion, all the pupils acquitted themselves with a great deal of credit; but for a while her failure seemed to cast a slight shadow over the evening's enjoyment; for her beauty, and the heroic manner with which she had borne her disgrace, aggravated as it was by Miss Stiefbach's very unnecessary rebuke, had won for her the admiration of all the guests, most of whom were entire strangers to her. After the close of the musicale, as pupils and guests were mingling together, and the room was noisy with animated conversation, Miss Christine went up to Marion, who was standing in a retired corner of the room talking to M. Béranger, and taking her hand said:-- "Marion, now that we are apparently unobserved I must tell you how sorry I was that Miss Stiefbach should have spoken so severely to you. I am sure she was not aware how unkind it seemed; she did not intend to hurt your feelings, and probably thought from your apparent calmness that you were really not at all nervous, and that dropping your music was nothing but carelessness and want of interest." Marion made no reply, her lips seemed glued together, and Miss Christine continued:-- "I was surprised that Georgie should have played the Polonaise. I rarely speak of the faults of one girl to another, and perhaps I ought not now, but I must say, I did not think I had a scholar who would be so unkind as to choose a piece she knew one of her companions had chosen." The rebuke intended for Georgie struck directly home to Marion. She had been struggling with herself ever since Miss Christine had stood there, knowing that she ought, before the evening was over, to tell her teacher the unworthy part she had acted; now every sense of honor and justice compelled her to do so. But directly beside her stood M. Béranger, and her pride rebelled at being again disgraced in his eyes, for his kindness and forbearance, ever since their first lesson, had won for him her sincere esteem and regard. The struggle was severe, but momentary, for raising her eyes to Miss Christine, she said:-- "It was a very contemptible thing, Miss Christine; nothing but an intense desire for revenge could have induced me to select a piece I knew Georgie had previously chosen." "You, Marion!" exclaimed Miss Christine; nothing else, just that exclamation; but the tone of her voice cut Marion more deeply than any harsh rebuke could have done. "Yes, Miss Christine, I chose it, knowing that Georgie had practised it on purpose to play it to-night. I thought as I was to play first I should be able to disconcert her. I am heartily ashamed of myself; my disgrace was nothing but what I deserved." For a moment there was silence. Miss Christine was shocked to find Marion could have done such a thing. Sarcastic, haughty, disagreeable to her companions in many ways, she had known her to be, but mean never; she could not understand it. If she had known the disgraceful part Georgie had really taken in the affair; if she had heard of the eaves-dropping of which she had been guilty in the school-room, to punish which had been quite as great an inducement for Marion's conduct as a desire for revenge, she would have felt very differently; but of that Marion said nothing. But Miss Christine was too kind-hearted, and understood her pupil too well to speak sternly to her; besides, she knew it must have cost Marion a severe struggle to exonerate Georgie at the expense of herself, and doubly so in the presence of M. Béranger. In fact, when the first shock of surprise had passed off, she felt that the nobleness of Marion's expiation had atoned for her fault, and she could not help thinking that there were many girls in the school who would have held their tongues, and been only too glad to thrust the blame on to one who was so intensely disagreeable to them. These thoughts flashed through Miss Christine's mind in a moment, and holding out her hand, she said in her kindest tones;-- "My dear Marion, I am sure this is the last time you will ever do anything so unworthy of yourself." Marion's only reply was a warm pressure of that dear hand, as she turned and left the room. "Do you not judge Mlle. Berkley too hasteelie?" whispered M. Béranger. "There is something behind all this, which you do not yet perceive. I feel verie sure that Mees Georgie do know more tan she do tell." CHAPTER XII. SARAH BROWN SPEAKS HER MIND. "Now where do you suppose they came from, Marion? I don't know of any one round here who has a conservatory; they must have come from Springfield. Who could have sent them?" asked Sarah Brown. "I'm sure I don't know; aren't they lovely?" replied Marion; "but here comes Miss Christine,--let's ask her. Miss Christine," she said, turning round quickly as her teacher entered the room, "who sent you these lovely flowers yesterday?" Miss Christine started at the abrupt, point-blank question, and looked a trifle confused:-- "Why, really, Marion, I--that is,--M. Béranger sent them here; but, as the box had no address, I presume they were for the benefit of the whole school. I certainly did not intend to monopolize them." "No, of course you didn't, you dear old Christian!" exclaimed Marion with the affectionate familiarity she often used towards her teacher; "of course you didn't; and as they were meant for all of us, you won't mind it a bit if I appropriate this little sprig of geranium, and do just as I've a mind to with it, now will you?" "No, I don't think I could refuse that, although it does seem a pity to take it out of water. Why, Marion, what are you going to do with it?--put it in my hair! No, no, it's too pretty, and it will wither in such a little while; do take it out!" "No, I shan't do any such a thing. You gave it to me to do just what I chose with it, and I _choose_ to have it in your hair; so you must not take it out." "No, Miss Christine, don't!" exclaimed Sarah Brown. "You ought to keep it in, even if it's only to please Marion, for most girls would have stuck it in their own heads; but she never _says_ anything or _does_ anything like most girls." "Hold your tongue, Sarah!" peremptorily replied Marion; "you don't know what you're talking about." "Yes, I do," replied Sarah, emphasizing every word with a shake of the head. "I know perfectly well what I am talking about, and you know I know it, and _I_ know I shan't know it much longer without letting somebody else know it; so there!" "Well, Sarah," said Miss Christine, who could not resist joining Marion in a hearty laugh at Sarah's excited and rather incoherent sentence, "if you and Marion know what you are talking about, that is certainly more than I can say, and as it is never polite to allude to a secret in the presence of a third party. I think I ought to be that somebody else, whom you are 'to let know it;'" and Miss Christine shook her head in laughing imitation of Sarah. "Well, I'll tell you one thing, Miss Christine; it's about Marion's--" "Sarah Brown, hold your tongue!" cried Marion, at the same time clapping her hand over Sarah's mouth. "Marion Berkley, I shan't!" cried Sarah, struggling to free herself, and gasping out at intervals broken sentences perfectly unintelligible to Miss Christine; then, as Marion loosed her hold, she shouted: "It's about Marion's break-down! there!" "Sarah Brown, you'll be sorry for this!" cried Marion, her eyes flashing with indignation. "Sarah! Marion!" exclaimed Miss Christine, looking from one to the other in utter amazement. "I don't understand you at all; what is this all about?" "She doesn't know what she is talking about, and I think she had better mind her own business!" exclaimed Marion. "I do know what I'm talking about, and it's just as much my business as it is any one else's; if it isn't, I'll make it so." "Girls! girls! you cannot think how you grieve and astonish me. Do you know how you are talking? Your language is unladylike in the extreme. But"--turning to Sarah--"even that is not so unpardonable as the thoughtlessness which could lead you to speak of Marion's failure last night, when you know it must be extremely unpleasant for her to have it alluded to in any way." "Miss Christine, it's too bad for you to speak so to me," cried Sarah, the tears now streaming down her cheeks, and her voice pitched to its most excited tones. "You know I just worship Marion, only she won't let me show it, and I never did an unkind thing to her in my life; but I told her I should tell about the Polonaise, and so I will; no one shall stop me!" "Sarah, you forget to whom you are speaking," quietly replied Miss Christine, adding as she glanced at Marion, and noticed that she stood with her lips tightly compressed, "If you have the affection for Marion which you profess, you will cease to speak of a subject which evidently annoys her." "Well, it has no business to annoy her, and I mean to tell every girl in the school," retorted Sarah, now fairly beside herself; and raising her voice until she fairly shouted, she called to the girls who were passing the door, on the way to the library, "Come in here, girls! come in here, every one of you! Yes, Georgie Graham, you too, I want you all. Now listen to what I've got to say. You all thought Marion Berkley ought to have been ashamed of herself to play the Polonaise when she knew Georgie was going to play it; and you were all glad she broke down, because almost all of you hate her, and are jealous of her because she's the handsomest, and the smartest, and the very best girl in the school every way; and because she doesn't say one thing to your back and another to your face, the way most of you do; but I'll tell you why she played it. She played it because that creature there--" pointing her finger at Georgie, who happened to be the central figure in the group of astonished listeners--"because that girl was in the anteroom _listening_, _eaves-dropping_, as she always is, and knew all about the musicale two weeks before any of us, and practised, and practised, by stealth, just for no other reason than to show off before company, and put Marion in the shade; and Marion played it just to punish Georgie for that and fifty other mean things she's done. I suppose you think it was hateful in Marion; but _I_ don't; I only just wish that for once she'd had a little of Georgie's _brass_,--for _she's_ got enough for every girl in the school,--and then she wouldn't have broken down. But I haven't done yet," exclaimed the excited girl, after stopping to take breath, "I haven't done yet; when Miss Christine told Marion how sorry she was that Georgie should have played the piece she had chosen, Marion told her the whole truth up and down. No, not the whole truth. She never told about Georgie's listening to Miss Stiefbach; no, not a word! She just told her she deserved to break down herself for having treated Georgie so unkindly; and there aren't a dozen girls in the school but what would have told on another to save herself. Now, who do you think was the mean one, I should like to know?" and Sarah glanced round the room with an air of triumph; then as suddenly changing her expression to one of contempt, she exclaimed, "You needn't say anything. I know you think just as Marion does, that I've been meddling in business that does not concern me; but I don't care _that_ for one of you;" and, snapping her fingers in the air, Sarah sat down in the nearest chair, completely exhausted by her harangue. "Young ladies! young ladies! what is the meaning of this noise?" exclaimed Miss Stiefbach, in utter amazement, as she entered the room by another door from that around which almost all the scholars were crowded. "Why are you not at work in the library? Miss Christine, explain the cause of this excitement." Miss Christine, who had heretofore been completely overpowered by the suddenness and volubility of Sarah's outbreak, saw at a glance that something must be done at once to prevent her from going through the whole again to Miss Stiefbach; for she dreaded the effect it might have upon her sister, knowing that she would look upon the matter from her cold, calculating point of view, and probably punish Sarah severely for her disrespectful conduct, utterly ignoring the generous impulses which had led to it. As for Georgie, when she hastily glanced at her, and saw her usually haughty head hanging in shame and confusion, she felt that for the present at least her punishment was sufficiently severe. So stepping forward and laying her hand on Sarah's shoulder, at the same time placing herself almost directly in front of her, she turned to Miss Stiefbach and said:-- "Sarah has been rather disrespectful to me; but I do not think she was intentionally rude. I shall have to send her to her own room to do her mending by herself. The rest of the young ladies must go at once to the library, and I will be with them, directly." Miss Stiefbach made no reply, although it did not escape her keen eye that more had been going on than she was made aware of; but she knew by previous experience that there were times when Miss Christine's judgment was wiser than her own. She turned towards the door, and with a commanding gesture waved the girls out. Marion hesitated, and would have held back, but Miss Stiefbach coldly remarked:-- "Marion, unless you, too, are in disgrace, you will please leave the room;" and motioning her to lead the way sailed out of the parlor. The instant they were gone Sarah threw her arms around her teacher's neck and sobbed aloud. "I could not help it, Sarah; indeed I could not," said Miss Christine with a troubled voice as she stroked her pupil's hair; "it certainly was very wrong of you to behave so, and if I had not sent you to your room I should have had to tell Miss Stiefbach all about it, and I am afraid she would have punished you more severely than I have." "It isn't that, Miss Christine, it isn't that," sobbed Sarah. "I'd a great deal rather go to my room; and you knew it when you sent me there. It's about Marion; she said she'd never speak to me again if I told; she didn't know I knew about it until this morning." "Well, how did you know it, dear; did any one tell you?" "No, and I wasn't listening either," exclaimed Sarah, raising her flushed face; "but several of us knew how Georgie found out about the musicale, and I noticed, just as Marion did, how much she had practised the Polonaise, and last night I heard her tell one of the girls she was glad Marion broke down, it just _did her good_; and I determined then I'd pay her for it. I was standing very near you, though you did not know it, when Marion told you all about it last night, and I thought it was outrageous that she should bear all the blame; and before M. Béranger too! It was a shame! But oh, dear, Miss Christine, it hasn't done a bit of good! She'll just hate me now, I know she will, for she almost made me promise not to tell." "I cannot say I quite approve of your method of doing Marion justice, but I hardly think she will be very severe to such a disinterested little champion," said Miss Christine, who could not help smiling at the utter wretchedness of Sarah's tone; "however, here she comes to speak for herself." "O Miss Christine, do come in there! I made an excuse to get me some darning-cotton; but Miss Stiefbach's reading the most stupid book of sermons; do come in and take her place! What!" as she caught sight of Sarah, "is she here yet?" "Yes, Marion, she is here, and is making herself perfectly miserable, because she believes she has made you an enemy for life. Don't you think you can convince her of the contrary?" "O Marion!" sobbed Sarah, "please don't be mad with me, for I really could not help it. I thought I was doing it all for your good, and when I got started I _could_ not stop till I had it all out." "You little bit of a goose! did you really think I was going to be angry with you after making such a thrilling stump-speech in my favor?" and throwing herself on her knees beside Sarah's chair, Marion looked up at her with a smiling face, but with eyes not undimmed by tears. "And you really think I did it from kindness?" "Yes, I certainly do!" "And you won't snub me any more?" cried Sarah, giving Marion a passionate kiss. "Oh, I can't promise you that," laughed Marion; "a little, healthy snub, now and then, does you good, and I shouldn't be doing my duty if I didn't give it to you, but"--and her voice assumed the tender, affectionate tone so rarely heard by her school-mates, and which touched Sarah even more than her words--"I shall never be really unkind to you again, and I promise to love you as much as you wish." "You really mean it, Marion? You really mean that you will love me?" "Yes, I really mean it. Miss Christine shall be my witness that I have this day gained a friend." "Yes, my dear," answered Miss Christine, who had been a silent but interested observer of this little scene: "and a truer one I do not think you could have." CHAPTER XIII. THE WANDERER RETURNS. For several days the musicale, and the events connected with it, formed the subjects of general conversation. At first Sarah's remarkable address to her school-mates appeared likely to have a contrary effect from that which she desired, being calculated to make Marion more disliked than ever by those to whom she had been held up by her zealous little champion as superior to themselves in every way. But Sarah, despite her quick temper, was a great favorite in the school, for her warm heart and generous nature made her as ready to do any one a kindness as she was to fly into a passion. She always spoke the truth, and if she unintentionally wounded or even annoyed one of her companions she was ever ready to make reparation. Perhaps many of them felt the truth of her remarks, and thought that in this case silence was their only safeguard. Miss Christine had spoken privately to the older scholars, entreating them not to harbor any ill-will towards either of the three immediately concerned, and so the matter was passed quietly over, and that which in many instances could have had nothing but evil results seemed likely in this one to be productive of good; for Marion, fearing that she had been the means of depriving Sarah of some of her warmest friends, almost unconsciously assumed a different bearing towards all her companions, and for her new friend's sake exhibited an interest in persons and things about her which she had heretofore treated with supreme indifference. And so the days wore on, and Thanksgiving was rapidly approaching. None of the girls who lived at a distance were going home this year, and the house was filled with lamentations, and half-stifled fears lest certain boxes should fail to make their appearance. Marion had as yet received no definite news from her mother regarding Jemima Dobbs, and her heart was filled with disappointment when she thought of the lonely Thanksgiving they were likely to have at the farm-house in place of the bright and happy one she had pictured to herself. She was sitting in her window one morning thinking of Aunt Bettie, when her door suddenly opened, a voice cried, "Look out for your head!" and a thick letter was shot into her lap. She caught it eagerly, not stopping to think whose was the unerring hand that had so accurately hit its mark, and tearing off the envelope in true school-girl fashion, she glanced rapidly along the pages, when her eyes were caught with the words: "Jemima will be at the B---- station Wednesday, when the seven o'clock train arrives; be sure and have some one there to meet her." With a cry of delight Marion ran to the door to call Florence, and was met by that young woman at the head of the stairs. She received the happy tidings as enthusiastically as Marion could possibly wish, and going back to their room, and seating themselves in their usual window, Marion read the letter aloud:-- "BOSTON, Nov. 24th. "MY DEAR DAUGHTER:--Papa has just gone down town; Fred is at school; and Charley radiantly happy in the possession of a new mechanical toy, which I expect will be demolished in a few moments, as that young gentleman is developing a surprising fancy for inquiring into the 'why and wherefore' of everything he takes hold of. As everything seems to promise a quiet time for me, I think I will devote myself to you, as I have quite a long story to tell you. "I know you have been very much disappointed that my recent letters have contained no news of your protégé; but I am in hopes that this one will put all your anxiety to rest, and quite equal your most ardent expectations. "After waiting some time, Mrs. Benson received a letter from the lady in Charlestown, with whom the girl calling herself Arabella Dobbs has gone to live, in which she wrote that Arabella had stayed with her three weeks, but had left, thinking she could find work in some wholesale clothing establishment, that would prove more profitable than living out. "The lady also voluntarily wrote, that she had every reason to think the girl was living under an assumed name, as she had repeatedly answered questions directed to the cook, whose name was Jemima, and seemed very much confused, when after doing so several times, remarks were made, and excused herself by saying that her mother used to call her Jemima 'just for fun.' "Of course we were not much longer in doubt as to the identity of Miss Arabella, but we were, if possible, wider from the mark than ever, for we had not the most remote idea to what clothing establishment she had gone, and there being several in the city, it did not seem very probable that without much difficulty we should be able to find the right one. While I stood talking with Mrs. Benson, as she was looking over the directory, a girl came up to the desk. I moved aside that she might more easily speak to Mrs. Benson, and she asked in a weak, tired voice, 'Any letters for me, ma'am?'--'What name?' demanded Mrs. Benson, running her finger down the column of the book, and not raising her eyes. 'Arabella Dobbs,' replied the servant-girl. "Up jumped Mrs. Benson, slamming the covers of the directory together with a report like a pistol, while I turned, equally unable to conceal my astonishment, and looked at the girl as if she had been a ghost. As you may imagine, such a proceeding could not be very agreeable to the poor thing, and she looked from one to the other with a bewildered, half-frightened expression. "I must say at my first glance I was not favorably impressed with her. I had looked for a round-faced, good-natured-looking country girl; perhaps a trifle 'airy' after her short experience of city life; but I saw a thin, angular face and figure, the hair drawn tightly off her forehead up to the very top of her head, and done in an immense waterfall; a little, round hat tipped forward, the brim just reaching her forehead, across which lay a row of corkscrew curls; her dress, which had originally been a good, serviceable delaine, but was now so soiled as to almost defy description, was looped up and puckered into a great bunch behind, in imitation of the panniers worn by the fashionable young ladies of the day. All this I took in at a glance, and confess to being rather disgusted with the young woman; but when I looked carefully at her face all such uncharitable feelings vanished, for it bore the marks of recent illness and real distress. "Do not think, my dear Mab, that I kept the poor creature standing as long as it has taken me to write all this; my thoughts flew much faster than my pen ever can. I went up to her, and putting out my hand said, before Mrs. Benson could recover from her surprise, "Jemima, I believe there are no letters for you now, but I can tell you about your dear mother, who is very, very lonely without her daughter." "It is useless to give you an account of our conversation, for I cannot remember it myself; the poor girl was so overcome by my unexpected kindness, and her own joy at finding a hand held out to her when she most needed help, that she opened her heart to me at once. The person who influenced her to come to Boston proved to be anything but a friend, and Jemima has paid heavily for following her advice; it was through her, as Mrs. Dobbs supposed, that she was induced to give her name as Arabella, and that act was the key-note to all her misfortune. She succeeded in getting work at a clothing establishment, at what seemed to her country ears most liberal terms; but work as hard as she could, she could earn but little more than enough to pay her board. Crowded into a room with more than twenty other girls, bending over her work in the stifled atmosphere from morning until night, soon told upon her health, accustomed as she had always been to pure country air and bodily exercise, and she had hardly been at the place three weeks when she was taken ill with a violent fever. The woman with whom she boarded, although a cold, grasping creature, was prevented from sending her away by the entreaties of the other boarders, who, as the fever was not of a malignant nature, insisted upon having her kept in the house. Some of the girls were very kind to her; but they could give her but little attention, as their time was mostly passed in the workroom. After the first severity of the fever passed, and the tiresome days of convalescence were reached, the poor thing yearned for home and dear, familiar faces; she had sent her friends to Mrs. Benson's several times to inquire for letters, but with most incredible short-sightedness had always told them to give the name Arabella Dobbs, entirely forgetting that her mother did not know she had thrown aside the countrified Jemima. "The day I saw her was the first day she had walked out, and she had literally dragged herself along the street, and up the two long flights leading to the office. She had given all her dresses, with the exception of the one she had on, to her landlady, and the woman had threatened to turn her out if she did not pay her five dollars that night. I fortunately had the carriage with me, and drove with Jemima to her boarding-place. The woman was all smiles and blandishments when she saw me, and quite overpowered Jemima with her tender inquiries as to how she felt after her walk; but I cut her short by telling her I had come to take Jemima home with me, and paid the five dollars she owed her. I think the woman would have asked more if she had not seen I was pretty determined; and so promising to send for Jemima's trunk, which was now almost entirely empty, I brought the exhausted girl here, that she might rest a few days and gain strength for her journey. She evidently is longing for home, and I do not believe she will feel like herself until she gets there. I am having her a good, warm dress made, and shall give her my plain gray silk bonnet, that her mother's good sense need not be shocked at sight of her hat, which is about the size of a small saucer. I think she is very much humbled; she shows it in many ways; most of all in her dress, and I am happy to say the corkscrew ringlets no longer adorn her brow. Jemima will be at the B---- station when the seven o'clock train arrives; be sure and have some one there to meet her. "And now, my dear, I have only time to say that we are all well, and hoping to hear from you soon. I know this letter will be more interesting to you than if it contained pages of spicy news. I seem to see you and Florence enjoying its contents. Give my love to her, and accept more than ever a letter carried before for yourself, from your fond "MAMMA." "She'll be here to-morrow, as true as you live!" exclaimed Marion. "Oh, I am so glad! for now Aunt Bettie will have a Thanksgiving after all, and I was afraid it would be anything but that." "Of course you'll go up there with her." "No, I shan't. I shall go this afternoon, if Miss Christine will let me, and of course she will, and tell auntie that Jemima is found, and will probably be with her by Saturday; then you see Jemima will surprise her by getting there to-morrow, for I must have a surprise about it somewhere. I shall tell auntie how sick Jemima has been, and that she must not be the least bit harsh with her." "But I should think you would want to go too, so as to see the fun," said Florence. "Fun! I don't think there'll be much fun in it. I believe it will be rather a _teary_ time at first, and I prefer to be out of the way." "In other words, you think it would be a little easier for them to be by themselves; so you give up seeing the 'grand tableau' at the close of the play, which never would have happened but for you." "Don't be a goose, Flo!" laughed Marion, who, although radiant with delight, and a secret sort of satisfaction, tried to remain cool, for fear she should appear too much pleased with the part she had played in the affair. "Who are you going to send to the station?" asked Florence. "I'm going myself." "Do you suppose Miss Stiffy's going to let you march off by yourself two days in succession?" "Not a bit of it," replied Marion. "I'm going to get up a party to go to the farm this afternoon, and I'll manage it so that I can hang back, and tell the good news after you have all gone out." "And then rush off and not give her a chance to thank you." "I dare say," replied Marion; "but I mustn't stop here; it's time we went down, for the clock struck five minutes ago." Marion was as good as her word, and arranged a party for Aunt Bettie's that afternoon, taking care, however, to have Florence gain the required permission, as she knew she should want the same favor the next day. She managed to make Aunt Bettie understand in a few words all that was necessary of her daughter's story, leaving it for Jemima to make up deficiencies, and hurried off, overtaking her companions before they had missed her. The next day, finding out at what hour the train in which Jemima was coming would arrive, she walked to the village, made arrangements with a man who was in the habit of doing errands for Miss Stiefbach, to have a comfortable covered wagon ready to take Jemima and her trunk to the farm, and then went to the station to await the arrival of the cars. As she sat waiting, the station-master came into the room, and planting himself in front of her, with both hands in his pockets, and chewing a toothpick suddenly accosted her with:-- "Goin' deown?" "Going where?" asked Marion, not overpleased at his advances. "Deown--deown to Boston;" jerking his thumb over his shoulder, as if that city was situated in the room directly behind him. "No, sir." "No? 'spectin' someun p'raps." Marion made no reply. "S'pose you're one o' them gals up t'the schule?" Marion still observed a dignified silence. "Spectin' one o' the gals?" queried the man, who, being a true Yankee, was not at all abashed by the coldness with which his questions, or rather comments, were received. "No, sir," replied Marion. "You ben't?--_not_ one o' the gals; you're marm, p'raps?" "No, sir." "Did you say as how you b'longed up t'the schule?" "No, I did not say so," replied Marion, too irritated to be amused at his persistency. "Oh, you didn't; wall, I didn't know but p'raps you did, an' ef so, I hed somethin' to tell yer, that's all;" and whistling a tune he was about to walk off, when Marion exclaimed:-- "I didn't say whether I belonged to the school or not, because you didn't ask me." "Didn't I jest say I s'posed you was one o' them gals up t'the schule?" demanded the man, still chewing his toothpick, and looking at her as if his last remark was a poser. "So you did," replied Marion; "you stated the fact, and as I didn't say anything took it for granted I was one of the scholars. When you ask a direct question perhaps I'll answer it." "Aint you a smart un?" exclaimed the man. "Wall now, that's what I call right deown smart; jest answer to the pint, an' then yer don't git cornered;" and he nodded his head at her in real admiration. "Wall, I s'pose I must put it pretty sharp ef I expect to git an answer. Neow," taking his hat off and rubbing his hands through his hair as if to collect his ideas, "be you one o' them gals as goes t'the schule jest abeout tew miles from here?" "Yes, I am," replied Marion, who, now that she saw the man had some motive besides idle curiosity, descended from her loftiness. "Wall, I've got a box in here that came deown in the express train, an' I didn't kneow but what you'd come to see 'bout it. It's fur one o' them gals, an' 's I haint bin here long I haint much used to the business, an' I didn't know heow to git it up there." "Who is it for?" asked Marion. "I don't remember; one o' yer highfalutin sort o' names. But you jest come and see it;" and he led the way into the "gentleman's room," and pointed to a large box standing in the corner. Marion walked up to it, and glancing at the address exclaimed: "Why, it is for me!" "Wall, neow du tell!" exclaimed the station-master; "neow I call that quite a coincydance, I du!" "Well, I call it a very nice box," laughed Marion; "and there comes a man I've engaged to do a job for me, and he can take it in his wagon, and leave it at the school." "You're a smart un, I tell you," remarked the man as he lifted the box and carried it to the door; "you know how to do the bisness, an' no mistake." Before Marion could reply, or take any notice of his remark, the whistle of an engine was heard, and as she went out on to the platform the train whizzed up and stopped If it had not have been for her mother's preparation, she would never have recognized in the thin, subdued, pale young woman who stepped from the cars, the bright, rosy country girl she had seen so many times at Aunt Bettie's. She welcomed Jemima most cordially, making no allusions that could embarrass the poor girl, and rattled on a string of good-natured nothings, as she delivered the little hair trunk into the hands of her charioteer, and then placed Jemima on the back seat. "Aint you goin', miss?" asked the driver. "Oh, no! I prefer to walk. Good-by, Jemima. Give my love to your mother, and tell her I wish her a happy thanksgiving." Jemima grasped the hand Marion held out to her, and exclaimed under her breath, just loud enough for Marion to catch the words, "God bless you, miss!" It was the first time she had spoken since she arrived; but I think Marion was satisfied. As Marion turned away from the wagon, her eyes fell upon the station-master, who, with his legs planted at a most respectful distance from each other, his hands still in the depths of his pockets, and his head cocked on one side, had been watching all the proceedings with the deepest interest. As she passed him he nodded his head slowly three times in the most serious manner, and remarked, with even more than his former emphasis, "You're a smart un!" CHAPTER XIV. MARION'S THANKSGIVING PARTY. "Where have you been?" exclaimed half-a-dozen girls as Marion entered the gate; "here's a splendid great box just come for you." "And who do you think was with the man that brought it?" asked one. "Why, Mimy Dobbs, as sure as you're born; you know she's been away ever so long, and the cook told me people thought she'd run away, and was never coming back at all, because she hated living with her mother up at that poky old farm." "Stuff and nonsense!" exclaimed Marion. "I advise cook to pay more attention to our dinners, and let other people's affairs alone. But that is a box worth having, if the inside prove as good as the out. Come, lend a hand, girls, and help me carry it upstairs, for if Miss Stiffy sees it I shall have to open it down here, and she'll _advise_ me to put most of the things in the larder, and that won't suit me at all." "Hush!" said Florence, as she took hold of one of the rope-handles with which the box was provided; "don't make a noise. Miss Stiefbach is in the secret-chamber; she passed through here a minute ago, and we girls all hustled round the box, and covered it up with our skirts; for it's such a bouncer we knew she'd make a fuss about it." "Come, ready now! You go first, and don't step on the back of your dress and stumble," whispered Marion. "Isn't it heavy though? Sarah Brown, do put your hands under, and give it a boost;--softly now!" Amid considerable pulling and tugging, accompanied with half-suppressed screams, as the corners of the box came in dangerous proximity to the wall, the two girls managed to get as far as the bend in the stairs, when, alas! notwithstanding Marion's warning, Florence made a misstep, and trod on her dress, which threw her violently back on to the stairs, bringing the box down with full force upon one of her feet. "Oh, it's half killing me! it's half killing me! take it up quick, or I shall scream right out!" exclaimed the poor girl, in low but agonized tones, which ought to have roused the sympathies of the hardest heart; but Marion and Sarah, notwithstanding they pitied Florence from the bottom of their hearts, were so full of laughter that, although they exerted to the utmost the little strength they had left, they could not move the box an inch. Poor Florence writhed and moaned in perfect torture, and not being a saint, but a very human girl, exclaimed, in tones of unmistakable anger, "I wish the old box was where it came from. If you don't stop laughing, and take it off my foot I'll yell at the top of my lungs!" Happily for all parties, Grace Minton and Julia Thayer, who had been watching them from below, sprang up the stairs, and, lifting the box, carried it into Marion's room. Florence could hardly move, and now that their laughter had subsided, Marion and Sarah helped her up to her room, making up by their devotion for their apparent thoughtlessness. "Oh, do be careful, Mab; it's almost killing me!" cried Florence, as she sat down on the edge of the bed, and Marion proceeded to take off her boot. "Oh! oh! just wait one minute till I brace myself,--there! Now give one awful pull, and have it over with." Marion did as she was told; the boot came off, but poor Florence, notwithstanding she shut her teeth tight, and clenched the coverlid with both hands, could not suppress a groan as she threw herself back on the bed. "Quick! quick! some camphor! cologne! rum! anything! she's going to faint!" cried Sarah Brown, clasping her hands, and jumping straight up and down, without offering to get either herself. "No, I'm not," said Florence, with considerable more energy than is generally shown by fainting persons; "but it did hurt terribly! Now pull off my stocking, please, and see if I've made a fuss about nothing. I shall be provoked if it isn't black and blue!" "I know just how you feel," said Marion, as she carefully pulled off the stocking; "it is a perfect satisfaction when one is hurt to have something to show for it; but mercy! I never saw such a looking foot; you'll be laid up for a week!" And there certainly seemed every reason to think Marion's prediction likely to prove true, for the edge of the box had made a deep, red groove across the instep, and the whole of the upper part of the foot was rapidly turning black and blue. "Bring the wash-basin full of water, and some towels, and bathe her foot very gently. I'll get some arnica and a roll of linen mother always has me bring in case I get hurt. What a lucky thing I happened to have it! Sarah, hand me a tumbler half full of water, and I'll put some arnica in it; it won't do for her to have it on clear." "Marion is right in her element," remarked Florence; "there's nothing she likes better than fussing over _wounds_." "Yes, particularly when they're of such a dangerous nature as this one," laughed Marion, as she knelt down to apply the arnica. After some time had been spent in sympathy and bathing, the injured foot was nicely bound up, and laid tenderly on the bed, but what to do for a stocking and shoe was the next question, for the foot was so much swollen that Florence could not possibly get on her own. "I tell you what I'll do," said Sarah Brown, who, now that there seemed no danger that Florence would faint, had become as cool as it was possible for her to be; "I'll just steal into Miss Stiffy's room, and get a pair of stockings out of her drawer, and a slipper too; she's got about forty pairs of creepers, and she won't miss 'em for a little while." "But suppose you should get caught?" exclaimed Florence; "then it would all come out, and we had better have told in the first place." "Not a bit of it! If we did it would spoil all our fun with Marion's box, for of course she intends to give us a treat." "Of course," replied Marion; "but why don't you go down into the laundry, and get Biddy to give you a pair? There are some there, I know, and she'll never tell of us." "Why, don't you see, Miss Stiefbach knows exactly how many pairs she puts into the wash, and if they didn't all come up she'd know it; but she won't miss 'em if I take them out of the drawer." "Well, if you really aren't afraid to risk it; and do be quick about it; don't make a bit of noise, for if Miss Stiefbach should catch you you'd never hear the last of it, and I should be to blame," said Florence. Sarah hurried along the entry until she reached Miss Stiefbach's room, which was directly over the private study, and then it occurred to her that Miss Christine might be in there; so she spoke and called her by name. Marion and Grace, who stood at the other door, exchanged glances with Florence, who was still on the bed, and all three looked like detected culprits. Sarah spoke again; but receiving no answer gently pushed the door open. She nodded her head to the girls to let them know that the coast was clear, and stealthily entered the room. Marion and Grace heard her as she crossed the room; then followed a moment of terrible silence; then they heard the creaking of the bureau-drawer as she slowly opened it. "Oh!" whispered Marion, "if she _should_ pull it out too far, and the whole thing come down on the floor with a bang! Miss Stiefbach would certainly hear it, and know some one was in there." "Hush!" answered Grace, "don't suggest anything go horrible! There, she's shutting it; so far so good; now for the slippers,--they're in the closet." "I know it, and that closet-door creaks awfully!" The closet-door did "creak awfully" and no mistake, and it seemed to the two girls, listening in almost breathless silence, that the noise was loud enough to be heard all over the house. In a moment they heard Sarah fumbling over the slippers, of which Miss Stiefbach always kept several pairs on hand, as she never wore anything else in the house. They felt comparatively safe now, for no sound was heard from below, except once in a while a laugh from the girls in the library, and Miss Stiefbach would not probably leave her study until supper time. They were just about to turn back into the room to go to Florence, when they heard the study-door open, and Miss Stiefbach's voice from below, saying, "In one moment, I am going upstairs to my room." What if she had heard the noise and was coming up to ascertain the cause! Marion rushed along the entry, reaching her teacher's room just as Sarah was carefully closing and latching the closet-door. "O Sarah, hurry! hurry! she's coming upstairs; she's at the foot of the stairs! Give me that slipper, and hide the stockings under your apron. Run for your life! No, no, it's no use, she'll meet us; we must face it out; don't look conscious." Sarah tucked the stockings under her apron, Marion slipped her arm through her friend's, and hiding the slipper between them, with beating hearts, and almost sure of detection, they walked slowly down the long entry, directly in the face and eyes of Miss Stiefbach. As they approached her she stopped, and with more than her usual mildness remarked:-- "Ah! young ladies, thinking of home, I dare say; but I trust you will have as pleasant a Thanksgiving here as there, although I am happy to say there has not been the usual influx of boxes." The girls laughed slightly in reply, nudging each other quietly as she passed on, restraining their desire to rush for Marion's room, and not until the door was fairly closed behind them did their pent-up feelings find vent, when Marion, tossing the slipper till it hit the ceiling, shouted:-- "Victory! three cheers for General Brown, the Stonewall Jackson of Massachusetts!" "But what in the world should I have done if you hadn't rushed in, and told me she was coming?" exclaimed Sarah. "Why, I should have run right into her!" "Lucky for you you didn't," remarked Grace; "she'd have given you Jessie; if you know what that is." "Well, Marion and Sarah," said Florence, "I think you're both perfect angels!" "Yes, dear, 'angels in disguise,'" remarked Marion. "Well, this angel will proceed to put your foot into Miss Stiffy's delicate, little stocking; the slipper will be a perfect fit, I know; you'll have the most stylish foot in town. There! now see if you can step on it." "Take hold of me, please, for I know I shan't be able to bear my whole weight on it!" "Don't be in a hurry; lean on my shoulder; put your well foot on the floor, and set the other down very carefully." "O Mab, it hurts awfully! I don't see how I can ever get down to tea in the world; but I shall have to grin and bear it, or else Miss Stiefbach will find it out." "Suppose you go down now," suggested Sarah, "and we can help you into the dining-room before the bell rings, and if we all crowd round you Miss Stiefbach won't notice the slipper." "That's a capital plan," said Marion; "now put your arm way over my shoulder, Flo. Grace, take hold of her that side, and Sallie go in front as a spy. I think this is growing interesting." "Very--for you," remarked Florence. "You poor child! does it hurt terribly? Don't step on it, hobble along as well as you can, and lean all your weight on us." With much hopping and halting, and little starts and agitated whispers, as they thought they heard Miss Stiefbach or Miss Christine behind them, they proceeded on their way, and after some little time reached the dining-room in safety, and as the tea-bell rang immediately after, and the scholars all came in together, nothing unusual was noticed; but they dreaded the moment when they should have to leave the dining-room on their way to the study, where Miss Stiefbach always read history aloud for an hour after supper. Marion had been turning it over in her own mind during the meal, and decided to make an attempt to get rid of the reading that night. "Miss Stiefbach," she asked, as supper was almost over, "didn't you say you hoped we should all have as pleasant a Thanksgiving as if we were at home?" "I believe I said so, Marion. I certainly meant it." "Well, do you know, when I'm at home, our Thanksgiving begins the night before, and we _never_ spend the evening reading history." Miss Stiefbach could not help joining in the general laugh, only her laugh was a dignified smile, and replied, "I suppose that means that you would like to give up our history to-night." "I don't think we should any of us weep if that should be the case." "No, I suppose not; and for fear you might if the reverse order of things was to take place, I will dispense with the reading to-night, and Miss Christine and myself will withdraw from the room, leaving you young ladies to chat over your supper for a while longer." "Oh, splendid!" "Thank you, Miss Stiefbach." "Just what we wanted!" etc., resounded from all sides, as, with a most unusually gracious bow, Miss Stiefbach left the room with Miss Christine, who nodded and smiled back at the girls, fully appreciating the pleasure they experienced at being released from all restraint. The closing of the door was a signal for a general hubbub; every tongue was unloosed, and the spirit of mischief reigned supreme. One girl drank her tea to find it strongly flavored with salt; another raised her goblet of water to her lips just as a piece of biscuit went splash to the bottom of the glass, dashing the contents into her face; a third turned suddenly on hearing her name called from the other side of the table, only to be hit plump on the nose with a hard cracker; and so it went on, a perfect Babel of shouts and cries; for the younger girls, following the example of the older ones, went in for a regular train, and pieces of bread and broken crackers were soon flying in every direction. Marion and Sarah took advantage of the confusion to get Florence up to her room; having succeeded in doing so, Marion produced a hammer, and getting down on her knees prepared to open that wonderful Thanksgiving box. "I mean to see what there is in it," she said, "and then if I can manage it, I'll get some of the girls up here, and we'll have a jolly time." With much hammering, pulling, and chattering, the cover of the box was at last removed, and Marion proceeded to display its contents to the eager eyes of her companions. "First of all, here's a note from mamma; now curb your impatience while I skim it over." Marion seated herself on the floor and having glanced down the page commenced reading it aloud:-- "BOSTON, Nov. 21st. "DEAR MARION:--I have only a moment to spare, for I have been so busy getting the box ready, that I have not had time to-day to write you a long letter, and only scratch off this bit of a note to let you know we are all well, and almost dreading to-morrow, because you will not be with us. "I hope you will enjoy the contents of your box. I think it would be an excellent plan for you to hand over some of the most substantial articles to Miss Stiefbach for the use of the community; but mind, I only make the suggestion, you can do as you please about following it; only don't go too far with your frolic, for I am perfectly sure you will have one. "Papa has made an addition to the bill of fare, which I submitted to him for inspection, of which I am supposed to be entirely ignorant; for, as he said, he was not entirely sure I would approve if I knew the contents of the brown-paper box, which you will find surrounded by your other goodies. As papa superintended the packing of it himself, and seemed particularly anxious lest it should not be sufficiently wrapped up, I cannot help suspecting that it has breakable qualities; whatever it is, my dear daughter, be judicious in your use of it. "My note has stretched into quite a letter. I am expecting the express-man any moment, so must close now with a thousand loving good-bys, "From your fond "MAMMA." "I wonder what it can be that papa has sent; something nice, I know! He doesn't think there is anything in the world too good for me,--an idea which I don't hesitate to encourage him in. Now, Sarah, just clear off that table, please, and pull it out into the middle of the room, so I can have a place to put all these things; toss the books and table-cover on to the bed there, beside of Florence. "First and foremost here are two loaves of cake, and such cake! Flo, do look at this one! That is some of Biddy's doings, I know; frosted elegantly, and 'Marion' in the centre all in quirlyqus; that's just like Bid! she's about as ridiculous over me as father is. What is the reason, girls,"--and Marion stopped short with the cake in both hands, and a change in her bright, joyous manner, "--that they all think so much of me at home, and hardly any one likes me here?" "Because you don't--" "There, Sarah Brown, that will do; I don't want to hear the rest," exclaimed Marion, putting up her hand with an impatient gesture. "I asked a question hastily, without thinking of the consequences. I'll take your answer for granted, and I know just as well what it would be as if you'd spoken; so you'll oblige me by keeping quiet." "Of course when 'Her Royal Highness' commands, her loyal subjects can have no choice but to obey," replied Sarah, with an air of mock humility and submission. "Well, see that you do," laughed Marion, "and put this great turkey on the table. I guess it will be policy for me to follow mamma's advice, and that gobbler will be handed over to Miss Stiffy. But see here, as true as you live, mamma has sent me a pair of cold ducks, and here's a glass of currant jelly; she knows I must have jell with my ducks. Here is a bundle of something, I'm sure I don't know what--oh, nuts! ever so many kinds, all cracked; that's splendid! And here is another of raisins, and a bundle of candy; take some, girls; hand it to Flo, Sarah, she can open it. Take some of these cookies, do; they're delicious, and lots of 'em, put in all round everywhere to fill up the cracks. I wish I could get out papa's box, but all these things are wedged in round it; besides, I must be careful not to break it, whatever _it_ is. Here's the last thing,--a bundle of prunes and dates, and from Fred; he knows I've a weakness for dates. And _now_ for papa's box; help me lift it out, Sarah, and take it over to the bed. Oh! oh! it's champagne! it's champagne, as sure as I'm a sinner; who would have believed it? Here's a card: 'Miss Marion Berkley, with the compliments of her totally depraved father.' That is papa right over! We always have a great joke about champagne, because I never drink it, except a glass with him Thanksgiving and Christmas day; you know I've always been home before, and he didn't mean I should be cheated out of it this year. Here it is, two bottles and a half-a-dozen glasses; we'll have a party to-night, a regular goose party, and drink the health of the dear, old darling." "What _would_ Miss Stiefbach say," exclaimed Florence, "if she knew you were going to have a regular Thanksgiving supper?" "Hold up her hands in holy horror; and of course it's a dreadful thing. I haven't the least doubt but what mamma thought it was cider." "Whom are you going to invite?" asked Sarah. "Only three besides ourselves; that will be six--a good number. Whom shall I ask, Flo?" "That's for you to say, I should think." "Well, you know it doesn't make much difference to me. I'll ask Grace, of course; she helped get the box up here." "And Georgie Graham," dryly suggested Sarah. "I rather think not," replied Marion. "Grace Minton, Julia Thayer, and who shall be the third? Come, say some one, Flo." "I wish you'd ask Rachel Drayton," said Florence, in the tone of one pleading for a great favor. "I don't believe she'd come if I asked her." "Well, you might try it," said Sarah; "she can't do anything more than refuse." "She won't refuse if Marion asks her cordially." "Well, Flo, I'll do it, considering you've been laid up in the cause." And Marion ran out of the room, and downstairs, to hunt up the three girls, and let them know, in as quiet a way as possible, that she wanted them up in her room in about fifteen minutes. In her inmost heart she had wanted to ask Rachel Drayton, but did not like to mention her herself, and she gave the invitation with so much warmth, despite the necessity of a mysterious whisper, that Rachel accepted at once with a nod, and a bright smile, such as Marion had never before called up on that usually serious face. When Marion got back to her room, Sarah had arranged the various articles on the table in something like order, although the variety and quantity prevented them from making a very elegant appearance. "There! how does that look?" she asked as Marion made her appearance. "Well, I must say it does not exactly suit me; there's too much on the table. We couldn't eat it half to-night, if we try; so what's the use of such a spread? That turkey I'm going to present to Miss Stiefbach; so that can go into the empty box. Flo, I'm going to appropriate your fancy basket for the nuts and raisins; it will give a distingué air to the table, you know. Now what shall we do for plates?" "Oh, never mind about plates," said Florence; "you can carve the ducks, and put a bit of jelly on each piece, and we can eat with our fingers; you mustn't be so particular." "But I've no idea of putting ducks and cakes, and cookies and dates, all higgledy-piggledy on to the table together! Sarah, you're such a good forager you won't mind running down the back way, and getting three or four plates, now will you?" "I just as lief as not, and I'll bring some knives and forks, and a spoon too, for the jelly." "You're a jewel! and be quick, or I'm afraid the girls will be here before you get back." Marion fluttered about, putting such things as she wished to keep for a future occasion on a shelf in the closet, chattering to Flo all the time. "Now isn't this jolly, Florence? I mean to have a magnificent time to-night, no matter what happens. Those bottles give quite a regal air to the table, don't they? And your basket is equal to the greatest achievement of the renowned Smith. I must say our supply of china doesn't look very promising; however, we'll have all the more fun." "Are they here?" asked Sarah, coming in. "No? Well, I thought I was pretty quick; here's one of the kitchen platters for the ducks, four plates, two knives and forks and a spoon; that's the best I could do for you." "Capital! Now I believe everything is ready;" and Marion stood back, and surveyed the scene with perfect satisfaction. "There they are!" she exclaimed, as a knock was heard at the door. "Stand in front of the table, Sallie, so that the full splendors of the scene won't burst on them at once, and I'll let them in,--that's it." "Hollo, girls! Come in quick; don't make a bit of noise, for fear Miss Stiefbach should hear you." "O Mab, how splendid! elegant! what a treat!" exclaimed the girls, as the full magnificence of the entertainment was revealed to them. "What a box that was!" said Grace Minton; "no wonder it half killed you, Flo." "And how are you now?" asked Rachel Drayton, who naturally felt a little out of place, for she had never been in the room before. Flo was rarely if ever there without Marion, and had never invited her there, not feeling sure of the reception she might meet with from her room-mate. "I'm feeling nicely now," she answered. "In fact, I've been so interested in watching Marion, that I've hardly thought of myself. I wonder if I couldn't get up, and stand by the table." "No, indeed!" exclaimed Marion; "you mustn't think of such a thing. You are to be the belle of the party; Miss Drayton comes next on the list of distinguished guests, and she must sit there;" placing a chair at the foot of the bed, where Rachel could have a good view of Florence; "the rest of you may sit where you've a mind to, and I'll do the honors." "I'll keep Florence company," said Julia Thayer, as she seated herself on the foot of the bed. "Now, Miss Brown, you can help Miss Berkley open the champagne." "Will it pop?" asked Sarah, clapping her hands over her ears. "Of course it will, if it's worth anything," replied Marion. "But you needn't be frightened; I'm only going to loosen the wires a little; we don't want to commence with champagne." "Wouldn't it be a joke," said Grace Minton, "if Miss Stiefbach should walk in on us just as you got the cork out?" But hardly were the words spoken, when the door, which all supposed locked, suddenly opened, and Miss Stiefbach appeared upon the threshold. Oh! horror of horrors! Marion's experience in opening wines had not been sufficient to teach her the force of champagne. As the door opened, she was standing in the middle of the room, holding the bottle at arms' length, fumbling at the wires; in her surprise and amazement at the apparition before her, she gave an extra tug, when pop went the cork, and with it half the contents of the bottle in Miss Stiefbach's face. Miss Stiefbach stood with uplifted hands, perfectly electrified with astonishment at the sight before her. As for the six girls, each in her turn was a perfect picture of horror; visions of fearful lectures, perhaps expulsion from school, rising in the minds of all. But before Miss Stiefbach could collect her scattered senses, and wrap herself in her mantle of frigid dignity, Marion set the bottle on the table, and, springing forward, caught up a towel, and with profuse lamentations and regrets for the accident, commenced wiping the stains from her teacher's dress. "O Miss Stiefbach, what did you come so soon for? It was too bad of you; it has just upset all our plans. We had only this moment got the table set, and I had not had time to go down and invite you and Miss Christine. I had no idea that horrid champagne would go off like that; it frightened us half to death.--Sarah, put your hand over that bottle, or we shall lose it all.--Now, Miss Stiefbach, _do_ sit down, and I'll go right off and get Miss Christine." "Marion Berkley, do you mean to say that you expect me and Miss Christine to sit down to a supper which you young ladies have secretly prepared?" "Why, of course I do!" replied Marion, with an air of perfect simplicity and confidence, which perfectly amazed her companions, who were breathlessly awaiting the issue of the conversation; "of course I do! Why, what did I ask you to give up the history for if it wasn't that I might have time for my supper? I knew it would never do to have it down in the dining-room, for then all the little girls would want to come, and of course we couldn't have them; and I don't care to invite all the old girls, only just those who would make a pleasant party. Now, Miss Stiefbach, it would be positively cruel for you to refuse to join us!" and Marion looked as if her whole future happiness depended on her teacher's answer. Miss Stiefbach was in a dilemma; she could hardly bring herself to believe that the supper was intended as a compliment to herself; but nevertheless Marion's invitation was given with such apparent sincerity, and without even a hint of a doubt as to the propriety of the affair, that she was put quite off her guard, and hardly knew what to say. To sit down with a parcel of school-girls to a table heaped with good things, and crowned with champagne, was altogether too much for her dignity, and a compromise suggested itself to her. "I thank you, Marion, for your implied compliment," she said with her usual stately, polite manner, "but I really think it would be unbecoming in me to enter into any festivities with a part of my scholars, from which the rest were excluded; but I will send Miss Christine to keep you company, as I could not think of leaving you alone." "Of course not," said Marion; "we never thought you would; but please before you go let us drink your health in a glass of champagne?" "Might I ask where this champagne came from?" asked Miss Stiefbach, glancing round the room at the other girls, who still maintained a discreet silence. "Oh, papa sent it to me," replied Marion. "I presume mamma thought it was cider; but papa always has me drink champagne with him Thanksgiving day, and as I could not be home, the next best thing was to send it, so I could drink it here. You don't think it was _very_ dreadful in him, do you?" "I cannot say that I wholly approve of it; but perhaps under the circumstances I must waive my objections." "Oh, please do, Miss Stiefbach, just this once; and oh, I forgot all about it, here's a great turkey, and a loaf of cake for you; shall I take it down?" "Thank you, you are very kind," replied Miss Stiefbach. "You may take it down after you have finished your supper; but I will go now, and send Miss Christine." "No! no! Miss Stiefbach, not yet. Papa would feel dreadfully if he knew you refused his champagne; it never would do in the world. Here, Sarah, hand these round to the girls;" and Marion filled the six glasses. "I shall have to take a tumbler myself, but never mind; now are you all ready? Well, here's to the health of Miss Stiefbach; may she live many years at the head of this school, and may every Thanksgiving eve see her as she is now, smiling encouragement upon the innocent pleasure of her pupils." The toast was drank with smiles and bows, and Miss Stiefbach retired from the room with a bland "Good-evening, young ladies, and a happy Thanksgiving to you all." Poor woman! with all her learning, and the terrible dignity with which she thought it necessary to enshroud herself, as a part of her position as head of a large school, she was at heart as simple-minded as a child. "Girls!" exclaimed Marion, as she turned to her companions, and the door closed after Miss Stiefbach, "you've been taught that there are seven wonders in the world; after this I think you can add an eighth." "Indeed we can!" exclaimed Sarah Brown; "and that eighth will be Marion Berkley!" "I don't mean myself at all, but the whole thing. Imagine Miss Stiffy smiling benignly on an affair like this! But keep quiet, Miss Christine will be here in a minute. She'll see through the whole thing, you may be sure; but nevertheless we must carry it out just the same. Don't you betray me; we'll have just as good a time, and better too, if she's here; besides, no matter what happens now, Miss Stiefbach has countenanced us. Don't stir off that bed, Julia, and keep your skirts well over Flo's foot. How do you feel now, dear?" "All right; in fact, I had forgotten all about it; but here's Miss Christine." Miss Christine came in with a comical smile on her face; but whatever may have been her opinion of the affair, she said nothing, and took everything just as it came. She was not so old but that she could enter heartily into the girls' fun and nonsense, and yet her presence was a restraint upon them, which, although unfelt, kept them from carrying their hilarity too far. Mr. Berkley's contribution to the box was certainly a very injudicious one, which the majority of parents would heartily condemn; and, as Marion had conjectured, his wife had supposed the bottles contained nothing more exciting than sweet cider. Fortunately, the unskilful manner in which they were opened sent more of their contents round the room than all that went into the glasses; so the amount consumed was really very small. At ten o'clock the party broke up, and I am inclined to think that for the rest of their lives those girls never forgot Marion's Thanksgiving party. CHAPTER XV. MISS CHRISTINE GOES TO A PARTY. Thanksgiving day passed off very quietly, but nevertheless very pleasantly, at school. The little dissipation of the night previous had given such perfect satisfaction to all those who participated in it, and they were the scholars who were generally the ringleaders in every scheme for fun and frolic, that they were all willing to maintain a most discreet behavior throughout the day. To be sure they entered into all the lively conversation of the dinner-table, and amused some of the younger ones afterwards with games and stories; but there was none of that general uproar and confusion that one would expect to see in a school full of all ages, when the whole day was fully understood to be at their disposal and they were released from any apparent restraint. The quiet behavior of Marion and her set might have been readily attributed to the fact of Florence's lameness, had that fact been known; it took the united energies and tact of the six to get her up and down stairs, and in and out of rooms so that her limping would not be noticed, or attention attracted to the sudden growth of one of her feet. She bore the pain like a martyr, and managed to conceal her sufferings from the public, only giving vent to her feelings when she was perfectly sure of not being observed. Of course Marion's supper could not remain a secret, and she and the five whom she had honored with invitations were made to feel the scorn of some of the older scholars, who were not of the favored few. Mutterings of discontent, contemptuous shrugs of the shoulders, and glances which were intended to be withering in the extreme, were levelled at the obnoxious six, who were highly entertained at the remarks and actions of some of the girls, and in various little ways added fuel to the flame. Georgie Graham felt herself especially insulted, and did everything in her power to rouse her companions to a realizing sense of their injured dignity. "Why, really, Georgie," said Mattie Denton, "I don't see as there was anything so very dreadful in Marion's asking the girls into her room. She probably had those she wanted, and I don't blame her. I'm sure you couldn't expect she would invite _you_!" "Expect she'd invite me!" retorted Georgie, with a scornful toss of her head; "she knew very well I wouldn't have gone if she had." "Oh, well," quietly replied Mattie, "I suppose, of course, that was the only reason she didn't ask you." "The idea of her having Rachel Drayton," continued Georgie, ignoring Mattie's remark; "she has hardly treated her decently since she's been here, and to start out all of a sudden, and be so _dreadfully_ intimate as to invite her into her room with a _select_ party of friends, is really too absurd--or would be if it wasn't so easy to see what she is after!" "See what she is after! Why, what in the world do you mean?" asked Mattie. "I don't imagine she's after anything." "Oh, no! I suppose not," scornfully laughed Georgie, tossing her head still higher. "Of course not! you know the old saying, Mattie, 'None so blind as those that won't see.'" "What in the world do you mean, Georgie Graham? I don't believe you know yourself!" "Don't I, though? Well, now, do you suppose that Marion Berkley, who holds her head so high, and doesn't condescend to take any notice of us girls, would have whisked round all of a sudden, and been so very sweet on Rachel Drayton, if she hadn't an object in view?" "You certainly are the strangest creature I ever saw," indignantly replied Mattie. "As if Marion ever had been sweet on Rachel! No one but you would ever have thought of such a thing! I presume she invited her, because she is a friend of Flo's." "No such thing," replied Georgie, leaning across the table and speaking every word slowly and distinctly. "She invited her because she is an heiress, and Marion intends to toady round her until she gets into her good graces." "I don't believe it," flatly declared Mattie. "She told me so herself." "What! told you she meant to toady Rachel!--a likely story!" "No, told me Rachel was an heiress." "Well, suppose she is an heiress, what of that? You know perfectly well that Marion Berkley is not a girl to _toady_ any one, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for saying so. I'm sure every one could see that she has not treated Rachel very cordially, and if she invited her into her room it was on Flo's account, and I'm glad for one she showed her some kindness. No one but _you_ would ever have put a bad motive on such a simple action." "Thank you, Mattie, for defending me," quietly remarked Marion herself, as she passed through the library where the two girls were sitting, and went upstairs. "There, Miss Graham, I hope you feel better now!" exclaimed Mattie, who was now thoroughly roused. "Pooh! I don't care; 'listeners never hear any good of themselves;' she shouldn't have been eaves-dropping." "That sounds well, Georgie, I must say, coming from you," replied Mattie. "She was in the school-room, and goodness knows we talked loud enough. Next time you have any such agreeable insinuations to make against one of your school-mates, you'll be kind enough to go to some one else;" and Mattie turned away indignantly, and left Georgie to her own reflections. Finding that she had not been able to rouse any ill-will towards Marion in Mattie's breast, and inwardly provoked with herself for having proclaimed Rachel to be an heiress,--a fact which for reasons of her own she would have preferred to have remain a secret,--she left the hall, and entered the drawing-room, where most of the girls were congregated, thinking perhaps that there would be a better field for her operations. Poor Marion had been cut to the quick by Georgie's remark; not on account of the source from which it came, but because she feared, that, through Georgie's manoeuvring, it would become the general opinion of the scholars, and in her inmost heart Marion had hoped that she might not leave the school at the end of the year, without leaving behind her a better reputation than she had borne before. She said nothing of this hope to any one, not even Florence, but had tried in many little things, principally in her manner, to be more kind to those of her school-mates who were not in any way attractive to her. Forgetful of the feelings of others as she so often appeared, she was herself extremely sensitive, and nothing could have annoyed her more than to be accused of toadying any one. She could not bear the idea of having such an imputation fastened upon her, and she secretly resolved that in the future she would treat Rachel Drayton with the same coldness and hauteur she had shown in the past. If she had only known that that was the very object at which Georgie was aiming! She had been thinking all day of Aunt Bettie's happiness, and the thought of it had greatly contributed to her own; but now all her peace of mind was quite destroyed. She knew the resolution she had made was unworthy of herself; but every time she tried to reason against it, the thought of how her conduct would be misrepresented if she should treat Rachel with kindness and consideration, as she had made up her mind the previous night she would do, proved too much for her sensitive pride, and she determined to hold firmly to her first resolution. She knew it was miserably weak in her, to allow herself to be governed by fear of the misrepresentation of any one whom she held in such utter contempt as she did Georgie Graham; but she knew that the girl's influence over some of the scholars was great, and though outwardly she appeared indifferent to whatever they might think of her, at heart she really longed for their good opinion. A still, small voice whispered in her ear, that if she would only follow the dictates of her better nature she would certainly be worthy of their good opinion, and in the sight of One who not only sees, but understands, everything that passes in our minds, she would be doing right. But she was not in a mood to listen to any such voice; she left the room, and running down to the parlor, seated herself at the piano, and for an hour played for the girls to dance, trying in that way to get rid of the unpleasant thoughts that would force themselves upon her. "What do you think?" exclaimed Mattie Denton, going up to her almost out of breath, after a furious gallop; "Miss Christine is going to a party." "A party!" exclaimed Marion; "when and where?" "To-night, at Mrs. Dickenson's; she has a family dinner-party, and a few friends are invited in the evening; of course I don't suppose it's a regular _party_, but quite an event for our Miss Christine." "I should think as much," replied Marion. "I am so glad she's going! Wasn't Miss Stiefbach invited?" "Oh, yes, of course; but she declined. I suppose she thought it would never do to leave us alone." "No, 'while the cat's away the mice _will_ play,' you know." "Yes, I should think the mice played a little last night," laughed Mattie. "So they did; but then the cat was round. Come, I've played enough for these girls. I mean to ask Miss Christine to let me do her hair. You come with me, and I'll give you some of the good things the mice _didn't_ play with." "O Marion!" wailed half-a-dozen girls; "aren't you going to play any more?" "No, I can't. I've most banged my fingers off; ask Fannie." "But she doesn't play half as well as you do." "Much obliged for your flattery; but it's all wasted this time," answered Marion, as she and Mattie left the room to hunt up Miss Christine. "Sallie, do you know where Miss Christine is?" asked Marion, as they met Sarah Brown on the stairs. "Yes, she's just gone to her room. Do you know she's going to a party!" "1 know it; isn't it splendid? I'm going up to ask her to let me do her hair." "I don't believe she'll let you." "Yes, she will; I'll coax her into it, see if I don't." "Where are you going to do it? Do let me see you." "In my room, I guess, so that Flo can see me; but not until after tea." After depositing Mattie in her room with a plateful of goodies, Marion proceeded to that of Miss Christine, which was directly opposite that of Miss Stiefbach, and upon knocking was immediately told to "Come in" by Miss Christine, who at that moment was shaking out the folds of a plain, but handsome black silk. "O Miss Christine, isn't it splendid?" cried Marion, clasping her hands; "you're going to a party!" Miss Christine laughed her dear, little, good-natured laugh. "Why, it seems to be considered a most wonderful event. Sarah has just been up here, and appears almost as pleased as if she were going herself." "Of course she is, and so am I; and I'm going to do your hair." "My dear," replied Miss Christine, "it will be too much trouble." "Trouble! why, I admire to do it. I always do mamma's when I'm home, and she wants to look _very_ fine." "But you see I don't want to look very fine." "Oh, yes, you do; or if you don't I want you to; besides, I promise not to do it any _fixy_ way,--braid the back _some_thing as you do, only put it up with a little more style." Miss Christine laughed. "Well, as you are so very kind as to offer, I'll let you; but when will you do it?" "Directly after supper, please; that will be time enough. Will you be kind enough to bring your brushes into my room? I think the light is better." "Very well, it does not make any difference to me. You run out now, and I will be all ready but putting on my dress, before tea." Marion ran back to Mattie, and then went down to communicate the success of her errand to Sarah and Florence. Immediately after supper they helped Flo upstairs, and had just got her comfortably settled in the only easy-chair in the room, with her foot on a cricket, and a shawl thrown carelessly over it, as Miss Christine came in, brushes in hand. Marion seated her with her back to the glass, saying as she did so, "I don't want you to see yourself until it is all done." "Don't make me look too fine," said Miss Christine. "No fear of that," replied Marion, as she rapidly undid the massive braids, and brushed them until they shone like burnished gold. "There is some pleasure in doing such hair as yours," said Marion, with all the enthusiasm of an Auguste; "no need of rats or yarn here." For a few moments she worked in silence, as her fingers flew in and out, until two long shining braids were made; these she twisted gracefully round at the back of Miss Christine's head, exclaiming as she put in the last hair-pin:-- "There! who would ever suppose she had as much hair as that? Just look at it, girls; isn't it lovely?" "Perfectly lovely!" cried Florence. "Why, Miss Christine, you don't make any show of it at all." "I braid it up as tight as possible, and don't care for anything but to have it stay firm and smooth." "Now, Miss Christine," said Marion, in a tone which seemed to imply that she expected opposition, but meant to conquer it, "I'm going to crimp the front." "My dear child, are you crazy? Why, I should not think of doing such a thing!" "Of course you wouldn't, because you don't know how; but I'll do it now, and teach you some other time." "Yes, yes," put in both Florence and Mattie; "your hair will be lovely crimped, and _so_ becoming; do let her!" "But I am afraid you'll make me look ridiculous, Marion," said Miss Christine, in a deprecating tone; "and perhaps you will burn it." "Indeed I won't; _your_ hair shan't suffer the way poor Meg's did in 'Little Women,' for I'll do it over a hot slate-pencil, and that _never_ burnt mine." "You don't mean to say you want to friz my hair up the way yours is!" "No, indeed; I'll take more hair, and that will do it in large, soft waves. Now you'll see how lovely I'll make it look;" and Marion already had the pencil in the gas, and in a moment more was twisting over it a lock of Miss Christine's hair. "Now for the other side; then I'll comb it out, and it will be perfectly stunning!" "Marion, what an expression!" said Miss Christine, as she sat in momentary expectation of having her hair singed off her head, or her forehead blistered. "I wish you would correct yourself of the habit of using slang words." "_Slang!_ why, that's not slang!" "Yes, my dear; I think it is." "Well, it is certainly a very mild form." "Mild or not, it is extremely unladylike, and I hope you will get over the habit soon, or it will become fixed upon you." "Well, I'll try," said Marion, taking a hair-pin out of her mouth; "but it will almost kill me. Stunning, and scrumptious, and jolly, and lots of those things, express so much more than any old, prim, stuck-up words. There! I suppose that's slang too! Well, never mind now, Miss Christine; when I come back after Christmas vacation, I'm going to be 'Miss Piety promoted;' see if I'm not! Now look at yourself." "Why, Marion, haven't you crimped my hair a _little_ too much?" "No, indeed!" cried the three girls. "You look just as sweet as you can look," said Florence; "it's not a bit too much, it's only lovely waves." "Now I'm to get your dress, and you must put it on in here," said Marion; and before Miss Christine could utter a word of remonstrance she was off, and in a moment came back with the dress over her arm, and a lace collar in her hand. "I wish the skirt was a trifle longer," said Marion, as she stooped, and pulled it down behind. "It's long enough for such a plain body as myself; you want to make a fashionable lady of me." "I wouldn't have you a fashionable lady for the world! but I do want you to look your very bestest." "You have forgotten my pin, dear; it was on the bureau beside my collar." "No I haven't forgotten it," said Marion, who was opening and shutting various boxes in her upper drawer. "Where in the world is that ribbon? Here it is. Now, Miss Christine, I don't want you to wear the pin; it's the same you wear every day, and you ought to have some color about you somewhere; so I want you to wear this knot of blue satin, and I've got a band to match. Please do, just for my sake!" "Why, Marion, you will make me absurd; you forget what an old maid I am." "Old maid! I should think as much," replied Marion, pinning on the bow in spite of all remonstrance,--"old maid indeed! You're nothing of the sort, and what's more you know you never will be;" and Marion gave a mischievous glance at her teacher. "Don't be impertinent, Marion," replied Miss Christine; but "old maid" as she called herself, she could not keep a very girlish blush from glowing on her cheeks at her pupil's words. "I think you are just as lovely as you can be!" exclaimed Marion. "Oh! I forgot; the band for your hair;--there! now you're complete." "Why, Miss Christine, you'll hardly know yourself," said Florence; "just look in the glass. Those crimps make you look five years younger." "I'm going down to get Sallie," said Marion. "Don't put your things on yet, please; she wants to see you." Marion ran off, returning in a few moments with Sarah Brown, who, the moment she saw her teacher, threw open her arms, and gave her a most emphatic hug. "Now you look just as you ought. I'm perfectly delighted you're going, and your hair is beautiful,--that band is so becoming." "That is all Marion's doings; in fact, I owe all my 'fine feathers' to her, and without them I should not be such a 'fine bird' as you seem to think me;" and Miss Christine laughed her dear, little laugh, that her scholars loved so well, and glanced affectionately at the group of admiring girls about her. "You are not a 'fine bird' at all," exclaimed Sarah, in her most enthusiastic way; "you are just a dear, white dove." "O Sarah! a white dove in black silk and blue satin--rather incongruous," said Miss Christine. The girls all joined Miss Christine in her laugh; but nevertheless protested that Sarah's simile was not a bit exaggerated. "Well now, Miss Christine," said Marion, "if you are ready, I'll go down and tell Biddy to put her things on." "Biddy isn't going with me," replied Miss Christine, who seemed very busily engaged enveloping her head in a cloud, bringing it so far over her face that not a vestige of her hair was visible. "Why, you're not going alone?" "No; M. Béranger was invited, and kindly offered to escort me," said Miss Christine, bending her head to fasten her glove. "Oh!" said Marion; but she gave a sly glance at her companions, which was not observed by Miss Christine, whose glove-buttons seemed to be giving her a great deal of trouble. "Now, good-night, girls. I thank you a thousand times for all you have done for me, Marion;" then, as she kissed them all, "I don't believe there ever was a teacher had such affectionate scholars." "You mean there never were scholars that had such a perfectly lovely teacher!" cried Sarah Brown, loud enough to be heard in the hall below. "'Sh!" said Miss Christine. "Monsieur is down there; he will hear you." "I guess it won't be any news to him," whispered Marion, as they hung over the banisters watching the proceedings below. "Do you know, Sallie, I believe she pulled that cloud over her head on purpose so that Miss Stiefbach wouldn't see she had her hair crimped. I dare say if she had, she'd have given her a lecture, when she got back, on the follies and vanities of this world." "I dare say," replied Sarah. "She'd like to make Miss Christine just such a stiff old maid as she is herself; but she won't succeed." "Not a bit of it," replied Marion. When Miss Christine came home from the party, and stood before her glass preparatory to undressing, if she had been one of her own scholars she would have said she had a "splendid time." Evening companies, even as small as the one she had just attended, were something in which she rarely indulged; in fact, she had often remained at home from preference, sending her sister in her place, thinking she was much more likely to shine in society than herself. But this night she had really enjoyed herself. It certainly was very pleasant to know she looked better than usual; and if the evidence of her own eyes, and the admiration of her scholars, had not proved that, there had been some one else who testified to the fact in a few respectful, but very earnest words. As she unpinned the blue ribbons, she wondered if it had been foolish and undignified in her to wear them; but the recollection of the loving girls who had urged her to do so filled her heart with delight, and she went to bed feeling that the affection of those young hearts was worth more than all the elegance of manner, and extreme dignity, for which her sister was noticeable, which, however it might inspire the awe and respect of her pupils, never won their love. The next morning the girls noticed that Miss Christine's crimps were not entirely "out." When she brushed her hair that morning, her first impulse had been to straighten out the pretty waves with a dash of cold water; then she thought, to please Marion, she would leave it as it was. I wonder if it occurred to her that the only lesson for the day was French? CHAPTER XVI. THE HOLIDAYS. The days and weeks at Miss Stiefbach's school quickly succeeded each other, all passing very much as those I have already described, and the Christmas holidays were close at hand. Shortly after Thanksgiving there had been another musicale, at which Marion played without dropping her music, or making any mistakes, and won universal admiration for the delicacy of her touch, and above all for the depth and beauty of her expression. Not that so-called expression which has lately become the fashion, which seems to consist in playing half the piece in pp., rushing from that to ff., with a rapidity which certainly astonishes the hearer, if it does nothing more; but carefully noting the crescendos and diminuendos, which are to music what the lights and shadows are to painting, and rendering the whole in a manner that appealed to the heart rather than the senses. Marion was gradually, and without any noticeable effort on her part, obtaining a different footing in the school. The girls who had admired but feared her might now be said to only admire; for the cutting sarcasms, the withering scorn, which had formerly led them to fear her, were now very rarely observable in either her conversation or her manners. Once or twice some of the scholars had spoken of the difference in Marion's behavior, and, as one of them expressed it, "wondered what had come over the spirit of her dreams;" but the answer to the query was generally accepted as a fact, "that it was only one of her odd freaks, and very likely would not last long." But it was not one of her freaks; far from it. A change was coming over her whole character; slowly but surely it was approaching; manifesting itself at present in certain ways, or perhaps not so much in certain ways as in the absence of certain other ways, which had before been the dark spots in a nature which God had intended to make broad, intense, and noble. God had intended?--no, not that; for what could God intend and not perform? The nature was there, heart and soul bearing the impress of the Maker's hand; but like a beautiful garden having within its borders flowers of surpassing beauty and luxurious growth, but twined and intertwined with rank weeds and choking briers, which the gardener must clear away,--not tearing them apart with rough and ruthless hands, and by so doing killing the tender plant; but delicately, carefully, as a mother would tend her babe; untwining tendril after tendril, leaf after leaf, propping and sustaining the flowers as he works, until at last the weeds lay withered and broken, but a few moments trailing their useless branches on the ground, ere the gardener with a firm grasp wrenches them from the soil. His hands may be scratched and bleeding from contact with the briers; but what of that? If the plants are rescued; if they raise up their drooping heads, and gladden his eyes with the sight of their buds and blossoms, do you suppose he will murmur or complain for any wounds he may have received? Not he! The weeds and briers are gone, the blooming plants are saved,--that is enough. Such a garden was Marion's heart, and she had already commenced the work of the gardener; but so slowly did she proceed that sometimes she was almost willing to let the work go, so hopeless did it seem to her; only a few tendrils untwined, only a few leaves saved from the briers whose roots as yet remained untouched. But such moments of discouragement did not come to her often, or if they did, she tried not to yield to them. The great trouble with her was the determination with which she held to her resolution in regard to Rachel; she still treated her with the same coldness, the same formal politeness, which she had shown her on her first arrival; she had not succeeded in quieting the still, small voice, which persisted in whispering in her ear; but though she could not help hearing it, she resolutely forbore to heed it. Poor Florence had built high hopes on the easy, friendly manner with which Marion had treated Rachel the night of the famous Thanksgiving party, and had thought the pain she suffered with her foot but a small price to pay for the bringing together of her old friend and her new; but she had seen those hopes vanish one by one. As the friendship between herself and Rachel increased, Marion's coldness became the more distressing to both parties; for although Marion had never abated one jot of her affection for Florence, there was a certain barrier between them, which each from her heart deplored, but which seemed destined for the present to remain uncrossed. But, my dear reader, I'm afraid you think I am growing fearfully prosy, and if you don't I am sure I do; so I will hurry on with my story. It was the 23d of December, and the young ladies of Miss Stiefbach's school were starting off en masse for their various homes; indeed, some living at the West had already gone, having been called for by parents or friends, and not a few by their older brothers on their way home from college, who were not at all averse to spending one night in "that stupid old town," for the sake of a peep at the pretty girls of the school. Marion Berkley, Mattie Denton, the two Thayers, Florence Stevenson, and Rachel Drayton, all went by the Boston train, and I don't believe a merrier party ever started on a journey together. Florence, finding that Rachel was intending to spend the holidays at the school, had written to her father, and obtained his permission to take her new friend home with her. Rachel had at first demurred, dreading to again encounter strangers; but Florence had plead so earnestly, representing to her how forlorn and stupid it would be for her at the school, at the same time promising that she should not see any company, or participate in any gayety,--"they would just have a quiet time at home and enjoy each other,"--that she had at last yielded. It was a most excellent thought of Florence, for anniversaries of any kind were likely to prove very trying to Rachel; making her realize more forcibly than ever the loss of her father,--a loss to which she had tried to reconcile herself; but, strive hard as she would, it was ever present in her mind, and if she had been left in that great house, with none of the pupils with whose laughter, fun, and frolic the walls had so often resounded, it is probable that the melancholy which had at first seemed fixed upon her, but which the presence of so many bright young lives around her had done much towards dispelling, would have returned to her with double force, and taken a stronger hold upon her than ever. When Florence had communicated her intention to Marion, she answered not a word; but no one knew what a hard struggle it was for her to keep silent. Christmas vacation was always looked forward to by them both, with greater anticipations of pleasure than any other, for Florence always spent several days in the city with Marion in a round of pleasure. Not balls and parties, but theatres, concerts, picture-galleries, etc., were visited; in fact, every new thing that came to the city that week, and was worth seeing, Mr. Berkley always made it a point to take the girls to see, and those good times were talked over for weeks and weeks after they were back at school. Marion had been looking forward to the holidays with more than her usual eagerness, for then she thought she and Florence would be together just as they used to be, without any barrier whatever between them; but when she heard that Rachel would spend the vacation with Florence, she knew, of course, that there would be an end to all the merry-makings; for even if she and Rachel had been on good terms, the latter would not of course have participated in such gayety. The girls were all met at the depot by their respective papas, mammas or "big brothers," and after great demonstrations of delight at meeting, and good-byes, and "Come round soon," etc., from the girls as they parted, they all separated on their way to their various homes. "Marion," asked Mr. Berkley at the breakfast-table the next morning, as he helped his daughter to the best chop on the platter, "who was that young lady with Florence last night?" "Miss Drayton," replied Marion, with the slightest possible change of manner,--"Rachel Drayton." "Rachel Drayton. That's rather an uncommon name. I don't think I ever heard of a real bona fide Rachel before; handsome, isn't she?" "No, not exactly; perhaps she would be if she were well." "She's uncommon-looking," continued Mr. Berkley, as he helped himself to another slice of toast; "didn't you notice her, Margaret?--tall, with jet-black hair and eyes. Rachel is just the name for her." "I noticed her; in fact, Florence introduced her, but I was attracted towards her first by the unusually sad expression of her face. I never saw it so noticeable in one so young; and I suppose she is young, though she looks much older than you or Florence." "She is only seventeen," replied Marion, busily engaged in giving Charley sips of her coffee. "Oh, well," said Mr. Berkley in his hearty way, "we'll soon get rid of that sad look; we'll have her in with Flo, and I guess after she's seen Warren once or twice she'll learn how to laugh. What do you think, Marion?" "It won't be any use for you to invite her, papa. She wouldn't come; she's in deep mourning,--she lost her father just before she came to school." "Poor child!" said Mrs. Berkley, whose heart always warmed towards any one in trouble; "poor child! Where does her mother live?" "She has no mother either; she died when Rachel was a baby. In fact, she has no relations at all except an uncle, who has been abroad for ten years, and will not be at home until school closes next spring." "Well, I do pity the poor thing!" said Mr. Berkley, who, although death had never robbed him of his own dear ones, felt the deepest sympathy for all those who had been so stricken. "I think it is one of the saddest cases I ever knew. I suppose Flo--bless her heart!--could sympathize with her even more than the rest of you, having lost her mother too." "She and Rachel are great friends," replied Marion, wishing the subject would ever be changed. "Is she well provided for?" asked Mr. Berkley. "She is immensely wealthy," replied Marion; "will have two or three millions in her own right, when she is twenty-one." "Whew!" exclaimed Mr. Berkley; "pretty well provided for, I should think. Well, I'm glad of it; she has had trouble enough already, without having to worry about money matters. Marion, have another chop?" "No, I thank you, papa, I've had quite enough," replied Marion, rousing herself, and speaking with her usual energy, the absence of which had not escaped her mother's ear. "How soon will Fred be home? I'm crazy to see him." "In about an hour, I expect," replied Mrs. Berkley; "he is quite as anxious to see you as you are to see him." "I tell you what, Mab," said Mr. Berkley, "Fred is a pretty important member of society since he got into college; you ought to hear him talk about 'the men of our class;' it makes me feel old." "Oh! he'll get over that," laughed Marion. "I suppose he feels particularly grand, because he's younger than most of his class." "Yes, I dare say," said Mrs. Berkley, with a little motherly anxiety in her voice. "I wish he had waited a year; it would have been much better for him." "Oh, nonsense!" answered Mr. Berkley, as he pushed his chair back from the table; "the sooner he sows his 'wild oats' the better; besides, he's sound enough, never fear. But I forgot, Marion; I'm getting to be almost too old a beau for you; so I told Fred to bring some one home from college to pass the vacation. He has invited a Mr. Thornton; he took a great fancy to Fred, though _he is_ a junior; so you can't turn up your nose at him." "I don't want to turn up my nose at him; but junior or not, he will not be my escort. I'll hand him over to mamma; but wherever I go, you'll have to take me, do you understand?" "Oh, yes, I understand perfectly. That all sounds very pretty, no doubt; but you wait till you see Arthur Thornton. Such _heavenly_ eyes!" exclaimed Mr. Berkley, disengaging himself from Marion, and clasping his hands in the most enthusiastic manner, "and such a _magnificent_ figure! and such a _stunning_ mustache, and such--such a--such a surprising appetite!" "Now, papa," said Marion, laughing at her father's romantic gestures, and the very unromantic conclusion of his sentence, "you know I never rave so over young men; it's so silly!" "Now, mamma, just hear her," said Mr. Berkley, turning to his wife; "she never raves over young men; oh, no! Wasn't little Bob Jones the _loveliest_ dancer she ever saw? and didn't Walter Hargate sing the 'rainy day' so as to make one weep _oceans_ of tears? and wasn't Jack Richards' profile 'enough to make one _wild_'? and wasn't--" "Stop! stop!" cried Marion, jumping up and putting her hand over her father's mouth; "you shan't say another word; it isn't fair. That was nearly two years ago, when I was young and foolish; now I am almost eighteen, and, as Fred says, 'I'm going to come the heavy dignity.'" "All right," replied her father, as he gave her a kiss; "only don't come it over me, that's all. Here they are now! Marion! Marion!" he cried, as she broke from him, and made a rush for the front door, "that's very undignified, very undignified indeed; you should receive them in the parlor." But Marion paid no heed to his admonition, and in a moment more had her arms round Fred's neck, utterly oblivious to the fact that a young six-footer stood behind him. "Come in, Marion; what do you mean by keeping Mr. Thornton standing out there in the cold?" said Mr. Berkley, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I'm surprised at you! Come in, Mr. Thornton; glad to see you; my daughter, _Miss_ Berkley." Mr. Thornton raised his hat, and bent that "magnificent figure" in the most profound salutation, while Marion responded with a bow, which, as her father whispered to her, "was dignity itself." After the usual bustle accompanying an arrival was over, and some little time had been spent in chatting, Mr. Berkley said:-- "Come, Fred, you and Mr. Thornton must be hungry; go out and get some breakfast; we have had ours, but Marion will do the honors." "We breakfasted before we left," answered Fred. "I knew we should be late; but we'll do double duty at dinner." "I'm sorry for that," whispered Mr. Berkley to Marion, as he handed her his meerschaum to fill, "for I wanted to prove the last part of my description. I know you've accepted the first part already as perfect." "Hush, papa! don't be silly," answered Marion, as she dipped her fingers into the tobacco-box. "Miss Berkley, can you fill a pipe?" asked Mr. Thornton. "Why, of course she can," said her father; "she's filled mine ever since she was so high. I should have given up smoking long ago if it hadn't been for her." "That's all nonsense, papa; you'll never stop smoking till the day of your death; so I suppose I shall always fill your pipe." "Miss Berkley," said Mr. Thornton, with a graceful little bow, "I wish while I am here I might be allowed the pleasure of having _my_ pipe filled by those fair fingers." "I beg your pardon, Mr. Thornton," said Marion, with the least possible toss of her head; "but I never fill any one's but papa's." Mr. Thornton bowed, flushing slightly as he rose to follow Fred to his room, mentally resolving never to waste pretty speeches again on that girl; and Mr. Berkley observed as he left the room, "A perfect scorcher, Marion! If you keep that dignity up for the rest of his visit, there won't be a piece of him left as big as a chicken's wing." The following morning was as bright and beautiful as ever a Christmas morning could be, and indoors the merry party at Mr. Berkley's was quite in keeping with the weather; such strife as to who could wish "Merry Christmas" first, such an exhibition of presents, and such general jollification, could only be found where every one was in the best of spirits, and all determined to enjoy themselves to the utmost. The Christmas gifts had been arranged by Mr. and Mrs. Berkley the previous night in the parlor, where the door was kept fastened until directly after breakfast, when Mr. Berkley unlocked it, and let in the whole family. Marion was in a perfect state of excitement over her presents, quite forgetting the talked-of dignity in her admiration of them; and the charming way in which she thanked Mr. Thornton for a bouquet, bearing his card, quite did away with the effect of her hauteur of the previous day. From her father and mother she received what she had long expressed a wish for,--"Goethe's Female Characters illustrated by Kaulbach," a book which her intense love for art enabled her to fully appreciate; from Fred a beautiful amethyst ring; a pretty necktie from Charley, which, as he said, "he choosed hisself;" a bust of Clytie from her Uncle George; besides gloves, bows, embroidered handkerchiefs, etc., too numerous to mention, from various aunts and cousins. "But, Marion, there is something else," said her mother; "lift up that handkerchief and see what is under it." "Oh, is that for me? I didn't understand," said Marion, as she took up the handkerchief that hid something from view. "O mamma, how perfect! Isn't it lovely? She couldn't have given me anything I would have liked half so well;" and the tears started to her eyes, for the present was from Florence, and Marion had thought she had nothing from her, and was cut to the quick; for they had always exchanged Christmas gifts ever since they were children. This one was an exquisitely colored photograph of Florence herself, beautifully framed in blue velvet and gilt. "She had it taken just before she went back to school," said Mrs. Berkley, "and I colored it for her; isn't the frame lovely? She had it made to order. I never saw one like it." "It is lovely; just exactly like her;" and Marion looked fondly at the eyes that smiled into hers with such a sweet, affectionate expression, and as she did so thoughts of the past and present flitted quickly through her mind, and further speech just then was quite impossible. But it is useless to attempt a description of each of those many merry days; they all passed only too quickly. Mr. Thornton proved himself to be a very valuable addition to the home circle, as well as a most hearty participator in all their schemes for going about here, there, and everywhere. During the holidays Mr. and Mrs. Berkley received several invitations to large parties, in which 'Miss Berkley' was included; but all were declined, for Mrs. Berkley had no idea of having Marion go into society for more than a year yet. Her father had said, in his jolly, easy way, "Oh, let her go, it won't hurt her; why, you and I did most of our courting before you were as old as she is." "I can't help it, my dear; because you and I were foolish is no reason we should let her be," replied her mother. "I have no objections to her going to the little 'Germans' given by girls of her age; but regular balls and parties I can't allow." But Marion was not at all disturbed about the party question; she was enjoying her vacation to the utmost. At first she missed Florence very much. She had been out to see her once or twice. The first time she saw her alone for a few moments, and thanked her warmly for her photograph, receiving Florence's thanks in return for her present of a lovely locket, and promising to have her own picture taken to put in it. "Marion," said Mrs. Berkley one day, "don't you intend to invite Florence and Miss Drayton in here to spend the night?" "I don't think Rachel would come, if I asked her, mamma. You know we are pretty gay now that Mr. Thornton is here." "But you need not ask any one else, and I don't believe she would mind him;--he seems like one of the family." "I don't think she would come, mamma." "Very well, my dear, you know best;" and Mrs. Berkley did not again refer to the subject. She felt instinctively that Marion did not entertain the same friendship for Rachel that Florence did; but she said nothing about it, never wishing to force herself into her daughter's confidence, knowing well enough that, if she waited, that confidence would come of its own accord. Everything must come to an end at last, and so did those Christmas holidays, and Marion went back to school, and Fred and Mr. Thornton to college; the latter young gentleman, if we might judge from a little scrap of conversation he had with his chum on his return, not quite heart-whole. "You see, Sam, I went home with Berkley more to please him than myself. To be sure I knew I should have a stupid time loafing round here, and I had no idea of going home; for the house is all shut up while the old gentleman and mother are in Europe. So I thought, as Berk really seemed to want me, I'd go, and I tell you I never had a jollier time in my life;" and Arthur Thornton watched the wreaths of smoke as they curled about his head, quite lost in recollections of the past two weeks. "What did you do?" asked his companion, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. "Oh! went to the theatre, museum, concerts,--everything! Stayed at home once or twice, and had a 'candy-scrape.' It's the best place in the world to visit, and the most delightful family." "All of whom unite, I suppose, in worshipping Master Freddy." "Not by a long shot!" replied Arthur Thornton, energetically; "_he_ unites with the rest of the family in worshipping at quite another shrine." "And that is--" "His sister Marion; the most perfectly bewitching girl I ever saw in my life!" "Arty, my boy, has it come to that?" solemnly asked his companion, as he removed his pipe from his mouth, and looked at his friend with a face expressive of the deepest dejection; "do you mean to say that you've surrendered, and gone over to the enemy?" "I haven't gone over at all; but she certainly is the best specimen of a girl I ever saw! None of your sentimental, simpering kind! I just wish you'd seen her when I tried to make a pretty speech to her; didn't she toss her head up, and flash those eyes at me? By Jove! I never felt so small in my life!" "If she has the power of producing that effect upon you, she must be something fearful," replied his friend, coolly surveying the six feet of human frame which lay stretched on the sofa before him. "She flashes her eyes, does she?" "Doesn't she? and such eyes!--great, dark-brown eyes with long black lashes; and such hair!--golden hair! Do you hear? golden hair and dark eyes, and--" "My dear fellow," replied Sam, languidly waving his hand before him, "forbear! I entreat you to forbear; half of that description is enough to do away with the quieting influences of this pipe; if you should continue, I don't know what would become of me, to say nothing of yourself. I see that you are lost to me forever. Farewell, my once loved, never-to-be-forgotten friend; I see that you are--in for it." "Don't be a fool, Sam, and just wait till you've seen her yourself." "Until that blissful time arrives," replied his friend, rising to leave the room, "I will occupy all my spare hours in hunting up an armor that will be proof against the 'flashes' of those eyes." "You're an old idiot!" shouted Arthur; but Sam had dodged back, and slammed the door, just in time to escape being hit by a boot-jack, which his friend threw at him. To tell the truth, Mr. Thornton was just the least bit in the world touched. Marion had done her best to entertain her brother's friend, and indeed that was not a very severe task, when the individual in question was a handsome young fellow, intelligent and agreeable, and not possessing quite the usual amount of conceit that young men of his age are troubled with. In fact, she succeeded so well in making herself agreeable to him, that Fred told his mother in confidence, that "it was easy enough to see Thornton was dead smashed with Mab, and 'twouldn't be a bad thing for her if she should fancy him, for he was a 'regular brick,' and hadn't he got the rocks!" For which inelegant expressions his mother most seriously reproved him, at the same time saying that she thought Marion had taken a fancy to Mr. Thornton, and that was all she ever would care for him; and it was very silly to be talking about anything serious now, when she was nothing but a child. Of course when the scholars all met again at school nothing was talked of but the vacation; presents were shown and admired, and for days and days after their return, as soon as study hours were over, little knots of girls might be seen scattered all over the house, chattering away as fast as their tongues could go, rehearsing again and again the delights of the holidays. The first thing Marion did was to make a visit to Aunt Bettie's to thank the good woman for her present of a barrel of as rosy-cheeked apples as ever grew. She found the old lady well and happy, rocking away in the sunshine, while Jemima made bread in the pantry, singing in a clear, bright voice, which gave excellent proof of her recovered health and contentment. She carried Jemima a couple of bright ribbons, and a pretty embroidered linen collar, and Aunt Bettie a neat lace cap, which unexpected gifts quite overpowered them, and caused Aunt Bettie to remark, "Seemed as how some folks was a-doin' and a-doin' all the time, and could never do enuff;" which remark, Marion declared, as she ran out of the house, certainly did not apply to her. CHAPTER XVII. MARION'S MIDNIGHT WALK. It was a clear, cold day, in the latter part of February; the ground had been covered with snow ever since Christmas week, and seemed likely to be so for some time yet; even quite a heavy rain had failed to melt away King Winter's snowy mantle, for being followed by a freezing night it had only served to crust everything with a thin coating of ice, and set upon the old fellow's head a crown, which glittered and sparkled in the sunlight rivalling in beauty that of many a lesser monarch. A sleigh was standing at the gate of the school, and Martin, the Irishman who sawed the wood, built the fires, and did all the little odd jobs generally of the establishment, stood with the reins in his hands; evidently very much pleased with his new position as coachman. Miss Stiefbach was going away, fifteen miles into the country, to see a friend who was very ill, and had sent her a very pressing letter, asking her to come to her as soon as possible; and the most feasible way for her to get there and back seemed to be, to hire a horse and sleigh in the village, take Martin as driver, and return the next day. Nothing but the very urgent request of a sick friend would have called Miss Stiefbach away from school just at this time; for the cook was sick abed with a terribly sore throat; the laundress could hardly speak, on account of a bad cold, and Bridget, the housemaid, was almost worn out with doing a part of everybody's work, for the last three days. But Miss Christine begged her sister to go; she would get the older girls to help her with the extra work, and as it was only for one night, there certainly seemed no danger but what they could get along without her; so at two o'clock Miss Stiefbach started. Marion, Julia, and Sarah offered their services to wash the dinner-dishes, and with sleeves rolled up, and long aprons on, went into the business in earnest, laughing and chattering like magpies. While they were at work Rachel Drayton came into the room for a glass of water, and Sarah Brown, looking up, exclaimed:-- "Why, Rachel, what in the world is the matter with you? You look like a ghost!" "Only one of my headaches," said Rachel, making a feeble attempt to smile. "I've had it all day." "But you are hoarse; you can hardly speak," said Julia. "Don't say anything about it; but my throat is terribly sore. Please don't tell Miss Christine; there are enough sick in the house already without me." "But you ought to do something for it, indeed you ought," said Sarah. "I wish I could tell you of something; don't you know of anything for a sore throat, Marion?" "I always gargle mine with salt and water," answered Marion indifferently, without looking up from the buffet-drawer, where she was arranging the silver. "Well, do try it, Rachel," said Julia; "it can't hurt you certainly; here's some salt. How much do you put in a tumbler of water, Marion?" "I really don't know," replied Marion, still busy with the silver; "I never measured it." "Well, can't you give me any idea?" asked Julia, rather impatiently. "Don't trouble Miss Berkley," said Rachel, in a voice which she tried in vain to render steady, for, sick and suffering as she was, Marion's indifference cut her to the heart. She turned away to leave the room, the blinding tears rushed to her eyes, her head swam, and she staggered forward, as Sarah cried: "Quick, Julia! catch her; she's fainting!" Marion started up in time to see Rachel, with a deathly white face and closed eyes, stretch out her hands helplessly before her, as Julia and Sarah caught her in their arms, and saved her from falling. The sight of that white face struck Marion with horror; but still she did not move from the spot where she had stood ever since Rachel entered the room; it seemed as if she _could_ not move, until Sarah exclaimed:-- "Marion, hand me a glass of water, for Heaven's sake; she'll faint away." "No, I shan't," said Rachel, in a feeble voice, trying to raise her head; "it was only a sudden dizziness. I often have it when my head aches, only to-day it was worse than usual." "Lie still there," said Julia, as they led her to the sofa, "and keep perfectly quiet; I'll go call Miss Christine." "No! no!" cried Rachel, jumping up, but sinking back again as the sudden movement sent her head whizzing round; "please don't; she has gone up to give cook her medicine, and indeed I shall be better soon." "I won't call her, if you'll promise to go to bed as soon as you are able to walk." "Well, I will," answered Rachel. "I can go in a few minutes; would you mind asking Florence to come here?" Sarah ran off to get Florence, and Julia sat down by Rachel, bathing her head with cold water. Marion went on quietly putting away the dishes; only now and then glancing at the white face in such fearful contrast with its surroundings of black hair and dress. Florence came in, and, as soon as Rachel was able, helped her up to her room, where she laid down on the bed without undressing, hoping to feel well enough to go down to tea; but that was out of the question; her head grew worse instead of better, and at last Florence insisted upon calling Miss Christine. When Miss Christine came up, she told Marion to take Rachel into Miss Stiefbach's room, and help her to undress at once, while she went to get some hot water in which to bathe her feet. Very soon Rachel was in bed, and begged Miss Christine to "go away and not mind her, for she knew she should feel all right in the morning." But of this Miss Christine did not feel at all sure; the deadly pallor of Rachel's face had been succeeded by a bright red spot in each cheek, and the palms of her hands were burning hot. Leaving Florence to sit with her friend, she went down to attend to her other duties. She went into the dining-room to set the tea-table; but Marion and Sarah were there before her. "How is Rachel?" asked Sarah; "do you think she is going to be ill?" "I hope not; indeed I think not, for you know she often has these dreadful headaches; still she has a bad sore throat, and seems feverish. I almost wish Miss Stiefbach had not gone." "It was too bad," said Sarah; "just now when everybody is sick! I don't see why that lady had to send for her!" "Well, my dear, she could not possibly know that it was not convenient for us to have Miss Stiefbach away, and she wanted to see her about something very important; it could not be helped. I dare say everything will come out right in the end. I must go now and help Bridget, or she will get discouraged. O Marion," she said, as she was about to leave the room, "will you please sleep with Rose? She'll be afraid to sleep alone, and I have put Rachel into Miss Stiefbach's room, where I can be near her if she should want anything in the night." "Oh, I don't want to," replied Marion, much to Miss Christine's surprise. "Rose kicks awfully. Ask Florence." "Will she be any less likely to kick Florence than you?" asked Miss Christine, quietly. "No, I suppose not; but you know Florence won't mind, as long as it's for Rachel." "And you would, I am sorry to say." "I suppose it's no use for me to offer," said Sarah, "for that would leave Jennie all alone, and she's an awful coward." "No, I thank you," said Miss Christine, as she left the room; "I will ask Florence." Marion said nothing; she went on setting the table and talking to Sarah, never in any way alluding to Rachel, and doing her best not to think of her, or reproach herself for having treated her so unkindly; but no matter what she did, she could not stifle the voice of conscience, and its whisperings were far from pleasant to hear. That night, as she went up to bed, her better nature prompted her to step into Rachel's room, and ask her if she felt any better; but "No," she said to herself, "she will think it's all hypocrisy, and I won't do it." She hurried and undressed herself as quickly as possible, so that she was already in bed when Florence came in to get her night-clothes to carry into Rose's room; but she did not speak or open her eyes. Florence moved round as quietly as possible, getting her things together, and then stepping to the bedside stooped down and kissed her friend; but Marion did not speak or move; so Florence, thinking she was asleep, turned out the gas, and left the room. When she was gone Marion buried her head in the pillow, and wept bitter, bitter tears. It was a long time before she went to sleep, and then her rest was disturbed by frightful dreams; she thought the house was on fire; that she was safe, but Rachel and Florence were in the attic, where no one could reach them, and they must burn to death while she stood looking on. She awoke with a start, to see a bright light in the entry; springing out of bed, she ran to the door just as Miss Christine, with a candle in her hand, and a wrapper over her night-dress was passing by. "O Miss Christine," she cried, in an excited whisper, "is the house on fire?" "No, indeed, dear, nothing of the sort; but Rachel is very ill, and I am going down to make her some lemonade. Won't you please put something on, and go in and sit with her? I cannot bear to leave her alone." Marion did not stop to answer; but running back into her room, threw a shawl over her shoulders, and hastily thrusting her feet into her slippers, hurried into Miss Stiefbach's room. There was only a dim light in the chamber. Marion went up to the bed, and, leaning over, called Rachel by name; but she made no answer, only moaned feebly, and tossed her arms over her head, rolling her great black eyes from side to side. "Rachel," said Marion, thoroughly frightened, "don't you know me?" The voice seemed to rouse her, for she started up, and looked fixedly at Marion; then putting her hands before her eyes, as if to shut out some horrible sight, she cried, in a hoarse voice, "Go away! go away! you hate me! you hate me! you're going to kill me!" Marion shuddered, for she knew Rachel must be delirious; she tried to soothe her, but the sound of her voice only seemed to make her more excited. She seemed to have a vague idea who she was, and that she was there to do her harm. Once she sat up in bed, and, laying her hand on Marion's arm, said in the most grieved, beseeching tone, "What makes you hate me so? I never did you any harm." Marion, with tears in her eyes was about to speak, when suddenly the tender, supplicating expression left Rachel's face, and one of intense horror and grief took its place, as she grasped Marion's arm tightly with one hand, stretching out her other arm, and pointing into a dark corner of the room, exclaiming, in a voice that made her companion shudder from head to foot: "See! see! you see they're taking it off! they're taking it off! don't you see? It's my father! O father! father!" she wailed, stretching out her arm as if entreating some person seen only by herself, "don't leave me; for there'll be no one to love me then. I'm all alone! all alone! all alone!" Marion's tears fell thick and fast, as the exhausted girl threw herself back on the pillow and sobbed aloud; every unkind thought, every cold glance, and every act of neglect which she had shown the poor, desolate creature beside her pictured itself before her. Remorse was doing its work, and her greatest fear was that Rachel would die while yet delirious, and before she had an opportunity to ask her forgiveness, and atone by her kindness in the future for her neglect of the past. But although these thoughts passed rapidly through her mind, they were but as the undercurrent of her immediate anxiety; it seemed as if Miss Christine would never come, and Rachel still moaned and sobbed in a heart-rending manner. When Miss Christine did at last enter the room, bringing the lemonade, Marion hurried towards her, and whispered:-- "Oh, do you think she's going to die? Can't we do anything for her? Can't _I_ do anything?" "I think she seems very ill indeed," replied Miss Christine, going to the bedside, and laying a cloth wet in cold water on Rachel's head; then coming back to Marion, "Will you stay with her while I go for the doctor?" "Can't you send Bridget?" "No, the poor thing is half worn out with all she has had to do this week. I would not call her up for anything. If you will stay with Rachel, and keep changing the cloth on her head, I will go, for I dare not wait until morning." "O Miss Christine!" exclaimed Marion, in a trembling whisper, "I can't stay; indeed I can't, and hear her rave about her father; it is dreadful! it goes right through me; you stay and _I'll_ go." "Marion, do you know it is almost midnight? You will be afraid." "You were not." "No, because I'm not nervous." "Well, I won't be nervous; if there's no danger for you, there is none for me. I shall go." "Any _real_ danger I do not think there is, but of imaginary danger a plenty, and if you should get seriously frightened I never should forgive myself." "But I won't be frightened or nervous," said Marion, resolutely. "Here, feel my hand; when Rachel was raving a moment ago, I _could_ not keep it still; now it is as steady as yours. O Miss Christine, if you only _knew_, you would let me go." "My dear child," said Miss Christine, laying her hand tenderly on Marion's cheek, "I _do_ know, and if you really are courageous enough, you may go. It is no use for me to wake up any of the girls; there is not one of them that would dare go with you, I know." "I'll go alone, Miss Christine, and I know nothing will happen to me." Marion hurried back into her room, and dressed herself as quickly as possible, putting on her thickest cloak, furs, and a warm hood. Miss Christine stepped into the entry, and kissed her good-by, saying:-- "Don't be afraid, darling; you know nothing ever happens round here, and if you bring the doctor back with you it may be the means of saving Rachel's life." Marion made no reply, except by a glance full of meaning, and went quietly downstairs, looking back as she reached the door, and nodding at Miss Christine, who stood at the head of the stairs, holding a candle; then she opened the door, and went out into the night alone. There were two roads which led to the village. By the road proper, on which several residences bordered, the distance was about two miles; but there was a shorter one, called the bridge road, which led through several open fields, and crossed the B---- River, which was rarely frequented except by the school-girls and farmers on their way to and from market. This road kept a perfectly straight course to the village, and although far more lonely than the other, on that account Marion chose it. It was a perfect night; clear and cold, very cold; but of that Marion thought nothing; she had braved New England winters all her life, and was almost as hardy as a backwoodsman. The moon was full, and shone down on as lovely a scene as one would wish to see; the trees with their delicate coating of ice glistened and gleamed in its beams, as though covered with myriads of jewels, and threw their fantastic shadows on the shining snow. Marion hurried along the road, not giving herself time for fear, until she had left the school-house some distance behind her. At any other time she would have been wildly enthusiastic over the beauty of the night; but looking at the moon from a comfortable sleigh, snugly tucked up in buffalo robes, the stillness of the night broken by the jolly jingling of bells and the laughter of merry friends, is a very different thing from contemplating it on a lonely country road, no house in sight, with your loudly beating heart for your only companion, and the hour near midnight. At least Marion found it so; and, brave as she was, she could not keep her heart from thumping against her side, or her hands from trembling nervously, as she clasped them inside of her muff. Every bush she passed took some fantastic shape, and as she strained her eyes before her to make it assume some rational form, it seemed to move stealthily as if about to spring upon her; the trees appeared to be stretching out their naked branches, like long arms with ghostly fingers to clutch her as she passed; now and then a twig, too heavily freighted with ice, would snap off and come crackling to the ground, the sudden noise making her heart stand still for an instant, only to start on again, beating more violently than before. But still she pressed on, and soon the river, which was on the very verge of the town, gleamed before her, and she quickened her pace, thankful that so much of her journey was past; but who can describe the horror and dismay she felt, when, upon reaching its banks, she found the bridge was gone! The little river wound in and out for several miles, doubling and redoubling itself, as it flowed among the woods and fields, and was as quiet and placid a little river as ever could be, with the exception of a number of rods above and below the bridge; here its bed was filled with a quantity of rocks and stones, and the water, rushing over and between them, formed innumerable cascades and whirlpools, never freezing in the coldest weather. For some time the bridge had been considered rather unsafe, and that afternoon the workmen had taken away the floor, leaving the stays and beams still standing. Marion looked at the skeleton frame in utter despair. There lay the town directly before her, the doctor's house being one of the first, and the only means of getting to it were gone. To go up the bank of the river and cross on the ice seemed out of the question, for there it was bordered by thick woods, in which she could easily lose her way, and to go back, and round by the regular road would take at least an hour longer. Meanwhile Rachel might be dying, for aught she knew. She went nearer the bridge, and inspected it more closely; the railings were perfectly secure, and built upon two broad, solid beams which spanned the river; the idea came into her head to cross the river on one of the beams, holding firmly to the railing with both hands. She tied her muff by the tassels round her neck, tightened the strings of her hood, and stepped cautiously on to the beam. It seemed a fearful undertaking; her heart almost misgave her; but the delirious cries of Rachel rang in her ears and spurred her on. Step by step, slowly and carefully, as a little child feels its way along a fence, she crept along; gaining confidence with every movement, until she reached the middle of the bridge; then she happened to look down. The black water seethed and foamed beneath her, touched into brightness here and there by the moonlight. For an instant her brain whirled, and she almost lost her balance. She shut her eyes, and with a tremendous effort of her will was herself again. Looking up to heaven, and inwardly beseeching God to sustain her, she kept on, slowly and carefully as ever, moving first one foot then the other, with both hands still firmly clasping the railing, until at last the opposite side was reached, and she stepped upon the snow. Her first impulse was to throw herself upon the nearest rock, for now that she had fairly crossed in safety, the extreme tension to which her nerves had been subjected relaxed itself, and she was more inclined to be alarmed at the loneliness of her situation than before. When on the bridge all her thoughts had been concentrated upon getting over safely; by force of will she had conquered her nervous fear, calling up all sorts of imaginary dangers, which disappeared before the actual danger which assailed her, and which, by presence of mind, she had been able to overcome. But she would not indulge any of her wild fancies, though they crowded themselves upon her against her will. She felt herself growing weaker and weaker as she approached the end of her walk. The shadows made by the trees and houses seemed even more gloomy than those of the open road. Once a dog, chained in the neighborhood, broke the stillness of the night by a long, mournful howl, which echoed through the air, making Marion shudder as she heard it. At last the house was reached; running up the steps she gave the bell a tremendous pull. She could hear it ring through the house; then all was still again. She waited, what seemed to her, standing there alone on the door-step, which did not even offer the friendly shadow of a porch, a very long time; then rang again, even more violently than before. In a moment she heard a window opened above, and looking up beheld a night-capped head, and the doctor's voice asked, "What's the row down there? Seems to me you're in a terrible hurry." "Some one's sick, do let me in quick, Dr. Brown!--it's Marion Berkley." "Marion Berkley!" exclaimed the doctor, in astonishment. "Here, catch this key; it's got a long string tied to it, and let yourself in; I'll be down directly." Marion caught the key, and in a moment unlocked the door; once inside, her strength forsook her, and she sank on the door-mat in total darkness, perfectly thankful to be in a place of safety. Pretty soon she heard a movement above, a light gleamed down the stairway, and she heard the doctor's voice calling to some one in the back of the house to have the horse harnessed, and brought round to the door immediately. In a few moments the doctor himself appeared, bearing a light in his hand, and exclaiming, as he made his way downstairs, "How, in the name of sense, did you come here at this time of night?" "I walked by the road," answered Marion, her teeth chattering with nervousness. "By the town road," said the doctor; "and who came with you?" "I came alone, by the bridge road." "By the bridge road!" exclaimed the doctor, stopping short, as he was putting on his great-coat. "Why, the bridge is down!" "I didn't know until I got to it," said Marion, wishing he would hurry, and not stop to question her; "then it was too late to go back; so I crossed on the beam." "The devil you did!" exclaimed the doctor; then catching up the candle in one hand, he led her by the other into the dining-room. "There! just sit down there! Your hands are shaking like old Deacon Grump's, and your teeth chatter as if they were going to drop out. Now drink every drop of that, while I go and wrap up." While he had been talking, the doctor had gone to the sideboard, and poured out a generous glass of sherry, which he handed to Marion; she took it and drank it all. It sent a genial warmth through her trembling frame, and by the time the doctor called out to her that he was ready, she felt quite like herself. After they were seated in the sleigh, and well tucked up with robes, the doctor said, "Well now, young lady, if it's agreeable to you, I should like to know who is sick enough to send you chasing over country roads, across broken bridges, to rout up an old fellow like me." "Rachel Drayton, sir," said Marion; "she's had a bad cold for some time; this afternoon she went to bed with a terrible headache and sore throat, and now she's in a high fever, and out of her head." "Rachel Drayton; that's the one with the great black eyes, isn't it?" said the doctor. "H'm! I remember her; very nervous sort of girl, isn't she?" "No, I shouldn't think she was," replied Marion; "she has always seemed very calm and quiet; you know she's an orphan." "Yes, I remember her. I saw her the last time I was there. She's just the one to be delirious with even a very slight illness." "Then you don't think she's going to be very sick?" asked Marion, eagerly. "My dear child," said the doctor, looking down at Marion, "how can I tell until I've seen her? But good heavens! what's the matter with you?" Marion had burst into a fit of laughter, and the doctor sat and looked at her in perfect amazement. "What _is_ the matter, child? What are you laughing at?" But Marion laughed and laughed; throwing her head down into her muff as if to control herself, and then looking up at the doctor, and laughing harder than before. "What's the matter with you, child?" cried the poor man, really growing uneasy. "Have you gone crazy, or was the wine too much for you?" "It isn't that, doctor, but you--you--" "What in the devil's the matter with me, I should like to know!" "You've--you've--got on your nightcap!" cried Marion, as well as she could speak. The doctor dropped the reins, and put both hands to his head. Sure enough, in the hurry of dressing he had forgotten to take off the immense bandanna handkerchief he wore tied round his head every night; and over it he had put his cloth cap, which, fitting tight to his head, left the ends of the handkerchief sticking out each side like great horns, giving an indescribably funny appearance to the doctor's jolly round face. Now Dr. Brown, although he always considered himself privileged to say and do anything he had a mind to, was excessively particular about his toilet, and to take a moonlight drive with a young lady, with his nightcap on, was quite contrary to his usual habits. However, it was altogether too ridiculous a situation to do anything but laugh, and the doctor could enjoy a joke even against himself. "Laugh on, Marion; I don't blame you a bit," he said. "I must cut a pretty figure." "Just look at your shadow; then you'll see for yourself." The doctor looked over his shoulder. "The devil!" he exclaimed. "Why, I look just like him, don't I? Depend upon it, that's what it is; I've called upon his Satanic majesty so often, that now he's after me in good earnest. Well, old fellow, I'll deprive you of your horns at any rate;" and the doctor brought the ends of the handkerchief down, and tucked them under his chin. "Marion, don't let me go into the house with this thing on. I won't take it off now, as long as you've seen it, for it's very comfortable this cold night; but I shouldn't like to shock Miss Stiefbach's dignity by appearing before her in such a rig." "Miss Stiefbach is away," replied Marion. "You don't say so! And the cook sick abed too. Well, Miss Christine has her hands full." "And both the other servants are half sick, and Martin went with Miss Stiefbach." "And that accounts for your coming out on such a wild-goose chase." "I was chasing after you, sir," answered Marion, mischievously. "No insinuations, miss! There's the school-house; get up, Beauty; you're growing lazy." Marion found the door unlocked, and entering the house quietly, only stopping long enough for the doctor to divest himself of his fantastic head-dress, she led the way upstairs. "How is she?" anxiously asked Marion of Miss Christine, who met them at the chamber-door. "She is more quiet, but I am _very_ glad the doctor is here." The doctor took off his gloves, rubbed his hands together two or three times, then went to the bedside. Rachel looked at him; but seemed to pay no attention to him or any one else. He felt of her head and pulse, then asked Miss Christine if she had ever seen her in a fever before. "No," replied Miss Christine; "but she often has severe headaches; she has a sore throat now." "Bring the light nearer," said the doctor. "Now, my dear young lady, will you please open your mouth?" But Rachel only moved her head, and showed signs of becoming restless. The doctor stooped down, opened her mouth himself, and tried to look down her throat; but she resisted him, and commenced sobbing and muttering incoherently. The doctor soothed her as he would a little child, and she became quiet. "Has she complained of pain in her back and limbs?" "None at all," replied Miss Christine. "I asked her particularly." "Give her a teaspoonful of this mixture every half hour until the fever abates," handing a glass to Miss Christine, "I will come again to-morrow morning." "O doctor," whispered Marion, who had silently watched every movement, "is it scarlet fever?" Miss Christine said nothing, but her eyes asked the same question. "Of course I cannot tell yet," said the doctor, rising and drawing on his gloves, "but I hardly think it is. I noticed her the other day, when I was here, and remember thinking at the time that even a slight illness would seem more severe with her than with most persons. She looks like a person who had suffered and endured without complaint. I don't like to see that sort of look on a young face. When she is ill this unnatural self-control gives way, and she's out of her head, when any other person would be all straight. However, I advise you to keep all the scholars away from her for the present. As for this young lady," taking hold of Marion's hand, "the best place for such adventurous young females, who go about crossing broken bridges at midnight, is bed." "What do you mean by broken bridges, doctor?" asked Miss Christine. "Only that the bridge was down, and she crossed on the beams, that's all. My prescription for her is a glass of hot lemonade with a drop of something in it to keep it; you understand, Miss Christine;" and the doctor nodded his head significantly as he left the room. "My dear Marion," whispered Miss Christine, as she threw her arms around her, "you are the bravest girl I ever knew!" "Nonsense!" replied Marion, "and please don't say anything about it downstairs in the morning; I won't be talked about." "I understand," said Miss Christine; "but now you must go straight to bed. I'll heat the lemonade over the gas, and bring it in to you." "Miss Christine, you go and lie down yourself, and I'll sit up; indeed, I couldn't sleep if I went to bed." "Yes, you will, and don't talk of sitting up, for I won't allow it; go right away." Marion obeyed; in a very few moments she was in bed, had drank the lemonade, and, before she knew she was even drowsy, was fast asleep. CHAPTER XVIII. THE VICTORY. The next day the scholars were all very much astonished to find Rachel was really ill, so much so that the doctor had been sent for in the night; but none were aware of Marion's midnight adventure, for Miss Christine had kept her promise to say nothing about it. Recitations were given up until Miss Stiefbach should return, and the scholars were all requested to keep as quiet as possible. Every one went about with noiseless steps and hushed voices; some learning that Rachel had been delirious, and had a fever, were seriously frightened lest it should prove to be contagious, and it was as much as the older girls could do to keep the little ones in order. About ten o'clock the doctor came, and the scholars all collected in the school-room and library, waiting to hear his verdict. Marion and Florence went to their own room, leaving the door ajar, that they might hear the doctor when he went down, and learn from his own lips his opinion of the case. He came at last, and Florence beckoned him into the room; she tried to ask the question uppermost in her mind, but could not. The doctor knew what she wanted, and said:-- "She is not so bad as I feared; the fever is not so high, and she is not at all delirious." "Then you don't think it's scarlet fever?" anxiously asked Marion. "No, nor typhoid; I feared one or the other, but now I am confident it is nothing contagious. She is pretty sick, but not dangerously so; but how are you, Miss Marion? Walking over broken bridges at twelve o'clock at night isn't a very good thing for red cheeks, is it?" "What did he mean?" asked Florence, as he left the room. "Some of his nonsense," replied Marion, from whose heart a great weight had been lifted. "Marion, you don't put me off in that way," said Florence, laying her hands on Marion's shoulders, and looking straight into her eyes. Suddenly an idea seemed to flash into her head: "Did you go for the doctor?" Marion nodded assent. "Tell me about it." "There is nothing to tell. I woke up in the night, and saw Miss Christine, with a light in her hand, going downstairs. She told me Rachel seemed very ill, and I went in and stayed with her while Miss Christine was gone. Then she wanted to go for the doctor, for she would not call Biddy; but I preferred going to being left with Rachel; so I went; that's all." "But what about the broken bridge?" asked Florence. "The bridge was half down, and I crossed on the beams." "Marion, how could you? How did you dare?" said Florence, throwing her arms round Marion, as if to shield her from present danger; "if your feet had slipped you would certainly have fallen in, and there would not have been a soul there to save you." "But my feet did not slip," said Marion. "I was frightened; I don't pretend to say I wasn't; and once when I got to the middle of the bridge I came near falling; but I shut my eyes, and the thought of Rachel gave me strength and courage. O Florence! if you had heard her raving, and talking about her father as I did, you would not wonder I went;" and Marion bowed her head on her friend's shoulder, and gave vent to the tears which she had been struggling to keep back. Florence held her close in her arms, saying nothing, but bending her own head until it rested against Marion's cheek, and lightly passing her hand over her hair until the violence of her emotion had passed away, and she looked up, with a faint smile, saying, "Don't think me a baby, Flo, but I haven't had a good cry with you for ever so long, and I believe I needed it." "Think you a baby, darling! Indeed I don't; I think you're the noblest girl I ever knew." "Yes, very noble, I should think!" exclaimed Marion, bitterly; "the way I have treated Rachel has been nobleness itself!" "But, my dear Marion, you have been acting against your better nature all the time. I knew you would come out all right." For a moment Marion was silent, then looking up suddenly, she said, "Flo, I've been awfully wicked; I might as well have it all out now, and done with it. When I heard Rachel was coming here I was provoked, because I didn't like the idea of having a new scholar, that was all; but when Miss Christine came in, and told us she was an orphan, it flashed into my head, like a presentiment, that your heart would warm towards her; that you would make her your friend; and from that moment I determined to hate her. Don't look so shocked, dear, or I can't go on, and I want to say it all now. It wasn't a very easy thing, you may be sure, after I saw her; but I would not listen to my conscience, and only steeled myself against her all the more, when I saw she had every quality that would make her lovable, and many that were particularly attractive to me. It was hard, you can't tell how hard, to see her day by day taking the place with you that had always been mine. I knew it was my own fault, because, if I had treated her as I ought, as I really wanted to, we might all three have been warm friends; but I wanted you all to myself. I was jealous, and I might as well say so! However, the night before Thanksgiving I determined to overcome my wicked feelings, and yield to my better nature. You know how I treated her that night, and I should have done the same ever since if I hadn't been a contemptible coward! I heard Georgie Graham tell Mattie Denton that I was _toadying_ Rachel, because she was an heiress; and I was afraid if I began to treat her kindly the whole school would think the same thing. There! it is all out now; do you think I am a perfect wretch?" At first Florence made no answer; then she said very gently, "'He that conquereth himself is greater than he that taketh a city.'" "I know it, Flo," answered Marion, with tears in her eyes; "I've thought of that so many times. But this is such a _little_ victory, and there really ought not to have been anything to conquer." "But there was, and you conquered it; if it were possible I should say I love you more than ever." "Then Rachel has never taken my place entirely away?" "No, darling, never! I love Rachel very much, very much indeed; but still it is not exactly as I love you. I can't explain the difference, but I know it is there." "I am satisfied," said Marion, kissing her friend softly. "Do you think Rachel will ever learn to love me?" "I know she will," replied Florence; "only act your own self; _follow_ your good impulses instead of driving them away from you, and you will make her love you whether she wants to or not." * * * * * For many days Rachel was very ill, and Miss Stiefbach and Miss Christine were very anxious about her; still the doctor assured them there was no cause for alarm; her illness would be likely to prove a tedious one, but after she was fairly recovered she would be much stronger than she had been for a long time. It seemed very sad to think of the poor girl, so ill, without a relative near her, for Miss Stiefbach knew there was no one for whom she could send, who would seem any nearer to Rachel, if as near, as herself and Miss Christine. They procured an excellent nurse to assist in taking care of her, but nevertheless devoted themselves to her as much as it was possible to do, without neglecting their other duties. It was a pity Miss Stiefbach's scholars could not have entered that sick-room, and seen their teacher as she appeared there; they would have learned to love her then as Rachel did. No one would have recognized, in the gentle-voiced, tender-hearted woman who bent over the orphan girl with almost a mother's watchful care, the cold, dignified superintendent of the school. After a while the fever subsided, but Rachel was still very weak, and the doctor's prediction, that her convalescence would be very slow, soon proved itself true. She was very patient, yielding herself entirely to those who so kindly watched over her. As soon as the fever was past, Florence had begged permission to sit with her, promising not to talk, as perfect rest and silence were most especially enjoined by the doctor. One day when the nurse had gone to lie down, and Miss Stiefbach and Miss Christine both had something which needed their immediate attention, Marion offered to sit with her. She had not been in the room since the first night of Rachel's illness, and was not prepared for the change which had taken place in her: then a bright color burned in her cheeks; now her face was so thin and pale as to be pitiable to look at. She was sleeping quietly; so Marion seated herself at the foot of the bed, not going any nearer for fear of disturbing her. She sat there some time, her thoughts busy with the past, when she was very much startled at hearing Rachel say, in a weak voice:-- "Miss Christine, is that you?" "No," answered Marion, rising, and going quickly to the bedside; "it's Marion; can I do anything for you?" "You, Marion!" said Rachel, holding out her hand. "I'm so glad!" "Why?" asked Marion, kneeling by the bed, and taking Rachel's hand in both of hers. "Because I wanted to see you so much. Miss Christine told me who went for the doctor for me that night. I want to thank you." "Don't Rachel! don't!" said Marion, her voice trembling despite her efforts to keep it steady. "Forgive me for all the unkind things I have done; that is what I want." "Forgive you, Marion! As if after that night there could be anything to forgive! I'll do better than that; I'll love you." Marion could not speak, but she bent forward and pressed a kiss upon Rachel's lips. That kiss was the seal upon a bond of friendship which was never broken by either. And so a few words, a silent action, cleared away all the unkindness and doubt of the past. Why is it, that so often, in the lives of all of us, such words are left unspoken, such actions go undone, the want of which clouds not only our own happiness, but that of others? Soon after this, Rachel was able to be moved on to a lounge, and every spare hour that Marion and Florence could get from their studies was devoted to her. Marion would seat herself on the floor by the couch, and Florence lean over the back as they talked of everything that was going on downstairs, or made plans for their summer vacation. Sometimes their conversation drifted on to quieter and graver subjects; then, as the twilight gathered round them, they would draw nearer together, and hand in hand sit in silence until Marion, fearing lest too much thinking would have a bad effect upon Rachel, with some jesting remarks, would jump up and light the gas. Lying there, in the daily companionship of her two friends, Rachel regained her health and strength, and passed happier hours than she had known since her father's death. CHAPTER XIX. THE WEDDING. "I've got the greatest piece of news for you, you ever heard!" cried Marion, bursting into the room where Florence, Rachel, Mattie, and Sarah were sitting one morning in the early part of June. "Guess who's engaged?" "Engaged!" echoed Sarah; "I'm sure I don't know." "Yourself," said Mattie. "Oh, pshaw! don't be ridiculous!" said Marion. "Come now, girls, guess somebody rational." "Well, aren't you rational, I should like to know?" asked Rachel. "I shouldn't be if I were engaged," retorted Marion; "but guess now; every one but Florence, for I think she would guess right." "Oh, tell us, Flo, do," urged Sarah; "Marion will keep it all night." "No, I won't," cried Marion; "it's _Miss Christine_." "Miss Christine!" shouted every girl, jumping to her feet in astonishment,--"to whom?" "Why, M. Béranger, of course," said Florence; "who else could it be?" "Why, I never thought of such a thing," said Rachel. "Well, I don't know where your eyes have been," said Marion; "for I've suspected it a long time, and so has Florence." "Oh, I thought he liked her, and she him; but I never thought of _that_." "Well, I think it is perfectly horrid!" declared Sarah. "Why, Sallie, what do you mean?" said Marion; "I think it's splendid." "Oh, of course, it's all very nice for you girls who are going away at the end of the term; but here I've got to stay another year, and I shall _die_ without Miss Christine!" "But you'll have her just the same," said Marion; "they're going to live here for a year at least; it almost makes me want to come back again." "Going to live here?" cried Sarah, clasping her hands with delight; "then I _do_ think it's perfectly magnificent!" "Tell us all about it, Marion," asked Mattie; "how did you know it?" "Miss Christine told me herself. You ought to have seen how pretty she looked! She blushed like any girl, and I just threw my arms round her and gave her a good hug. She told me I might tell the girls who were going to leave this term; but she didn't want the others to know it at present, and here I've been, and let the cat out of the bag; for I didn't see Sallie when I came in, and never dreamed she was here. Sallie, if you lisp a word of it, I'll have you shut up, and kept on bread and water for a week, and you shan't go to the wedding." "Is she going to be married during school?" "I shouldn't wonder; but I couldn't get it out of her when. Now, girls, we must give her a handsome present." "It ought to be from the whole school," suggested Florence. "Yes, so I think; but don't you think it would be nice if we six girls, who have been here four years together, should all work her something? My idea is to make an ottoman: one work the middle, four the corners, and the other fill it up; what do you say?" "A capital idea!" said Mattie; "and I choose the filling up, for that's the only part I like to do." "You're welcome to it," said Marion, "for we all hate it." "Mab, couldn't you design it yourself?" asked Florence; "it would be so much handsomer, and Miss Christine would think all the more of it." "Nothing I should like better, if you'll all trust me." "Of course we will," said Mattie; "you designed your carpet-bag, didn't you? It is a perfect beauty!" "Let me see it," said Sarah. "It's a new one, isn't it?" "Oh, what handsome letters!" said Rachel. "There, now I see for the first time why the girls call you Mab. I always thought it was such a queer nickname for Marion." "Why, didn't you know?" answered Marion. "M. A. B., Marion Ascott Berkley; but I never write my whole name; I like just the two, Marion Berkley, a great deal better." "Do you know," said Sarah, in the most serious way, "I don't think 'Mab' seems to suit you so well as it used to? then you were sort of--well--but now you're kind of--I don't exactly know what, but different from the other." "Sallie, you are a goose!" laughed Marion, as Sarah's lucid description of the change in her character produced a shout from the girls. "I shall have to muzzle you until you manage your tongue better;" and quick as a flash Marion seized her satchel, and clapped it over Sarah's head, who resisted violently; "will you be a good girl if I let you out?" "Yes! yes!" cried Sallie, from the inside of the bag, her voice almost drowned by the laughter of the girls. "Well now, behave yourself," said Marion, as she released her prisoner, "and next time don't talk of what you know nothing about." "Well, you are, any way!" cried Sarah, brushing the hair out of her eyes. "Take care!" laughed Marion, shaking the satchel at Sarah; "you know what you have to expect." "Come, girls, let's go downstairs and tell the others," said Rachel. "So we will," said Marion; "they ought to have known it as soon as we did;" and down they all went. Miss Christine's engagement did not long remain a secret, and when the knowledge became general, the little woman was fairly showered with kisses and caresses. Her scholars had almost worshipped her before, but now she seemed invested with a new importance, and was quite enveloped in a perpetual incense of love and admiration. M. Béranger, in the comparatively short time he had been with them, had won the respect of all his pupils; but now that he was going to marry their Miss Christine they made a perfect hero of him. It came out, at last, that the marriage was to take place the last day of June, two days later than the usual one for closing school. Miss Christine's first idea had been to be married very quietly in church, inviting any of the scholars who chose to do so to remain over; but the girls all begged her to have a "regular wedding," as they called it, and she had consented. Every one of the scholars was perfectly delighted at the idea of staying over to the wedding, and all were anxiously looking forward to the important day. Invitations were sent to those of the parents with whom Miss Christine was personally acquainted, and the girls had great fun planning and replanning how all the guests were to be accommodated for the night, as they would have to come the night previous. Great was the delight of Marion, when Miss Christine told her that she wanted the six graduates to be her bridesmaids, and she immediately ran off to find the girls and plan their dresses. They had been as busy as bees ever since they knew of the engagement; there were but a few stitches more to set in the ottoman, and it was to be sent the next day to Mrs. Berkley, who was to get it mounted, and bring it up when she came. As many of the scholars were very wealthy, while the parents of others were in moderate circumstances, Marion had suggested that all contributions for the present, from the whole school, should be put into a closed box, through a hole in the cover, thus preventing any one from having an uncomfortable consciousness that she had not been able to give as much as another. When the box was opened, it was found to contain a very large sum. This was forwarded by Marion, who seemed by general consent to be considered chief of the committee of arrangements, to her mother, with directions to use it in the purchase of a plain, but handsome, gold watch and chain. There proved to be a surplus fund, with which Mrs. Berkley bought a large album, in which were placed photographs of all the girls in the school. Miss Stiefbach had so much to occupy her mind, that several times during the week of the wedding she was actually seen to hurry through the hall, quite forgetful of her usual dignified glide. In fact, she seemed quite another person; the prospect of her sister's happiness had wrought a great change in her, and made her quite unbend to those around her. Aunt Bettie came down several times with butter and eggs, never going away without getting a glimpse of Marion, and for three or four days before _the_ day, Jemima was at the house all the time, stoning raisins, beating eggs, and making herself generally useful. At last the wedding-day actually arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Berkley, with several other fathers and mothers, had arrived the night previous, and every nook and corner of the house was filled to overflowing. Some of the scholars slept three in a bed, others on mattresses laid on the floor; but no one thought of complaining, and the more inconvenience they had to put up with, the better they seemed to like it; for wasn't it all for their Miss Christine? The six bridesmaids, with the other older girls, had been busy every moment of the day before, making wreaths of wild flowers and roses; these they hung early in the morning all over the lower part of the house. The folding-doors were festooned, and trimmed with an arch of flowers, and the walls of the little room back of them, in which Miss Christine was to stand to receive her friends, were perfectly covered with wreaths, garlands, and bouquets; so that it looked like a fairy bower. They had also decorated the church, although of that neither Miss Stiefbach nor Miss Christine was as yet aware. The chancel-rail was trimmed with garlands of white flowers; down the aisle were four arches, the one at the door being of bright, glowing colors, and each one growing paler, until the one in front of the altar was of pure, bridal white, and over that hung a "marriage bell" of marguerites. The girls had had to work hard, and had scoured the country far and near for flowers; but they had done everything themselves, and not a bud was twined in those decorations that did not take with it a loving thought of the dear little woman in whose honor they were made. At last everything was completed; the bridesmaids were all dressed, and collected in Marion's room, putting on their gloves, and Marion had gone to put on the bridal veil,--a favor which she had begged, and which had been most readily granted; in a few moments that was done and the party started for the church, where Miss Stiefbach and her guests were already arrived. I doubt if it would be possible to find a prettier bridal party in all the world, than entered that little church that glorious June morning. First came Mattie Denton and Grace Minton; then Julia Thayer and Alice Howard; then Marion and Florence, and directly behind them M. Béranger and Miss Christine. The bridesmaids wore simple white muslins, short, the upper skirts looped with clematis and rose-buds, and delicate wreaths of the same in their hair. The bride also wore white muslin, over which hung the bridal veil of tulle, put on with a wreath of natural orange-blossoms and myrtle, the work of Marion's hands. M. Béranger looked, and acted like a prince about to take possession of his kingdom, and his clear "I vill" could be heard in every part of the church. But the ceremony was soon over; the bridal party turned and faced the eager, happy faces before them, and passed slowly down under the arches of lovely flowers, out into the sunlight, the organ pealing forth the glorious old wedding-march. Such a wedding-reception was never seen before! There were no dignified ushers to lead you decorously up to the bride, and whisk you off again before you got an idea into your head; and if there had been, they would have been tremendously snubbed by that throng of impetuous girls, who all crowded round Miss Christine, or rather Madame Béranger, each one eager for the first kiss. All formality was set aside; every one was radiantly happy, and, literally, everything went merry as a marriage bell. It would be useless to attempt to describe Miss Christine's delight at her many presents; for, in addition to those I have already mentioned, almost every girl in the school gave her some little thing she had made herself. M. Béranger also received many proofs of their regard. But the time soon arrived when the bride and bridesmaids, who were to leave in the Boston train that afternoon, had to go and change their dresses. The girls' trunks were all packed, and there was little enough time for the adieus which naturally accompanied a final departure from school. The carriage for the bride was at the door, and behind it several wagons, of various descriptions, for the bridesmaids and their friends. Miss Christine came down, looking so lovely, in her gray travelling-suit, that there was a perfect rush at her for the final good-by; but the last one was said, and in a moment she and her husband were in the carriage and off. Sarah Brown threw an old shoe after them for good luck, the wagons followed on, and the whole party started down the road, amid the shouts and cheers of the girls, who crowded on to the piazza, almost hiding poor Miss Stiefbach, as they waved their handkerchiefs, and threw their farewell kisses in the air. CHAPTER XX. THE JOURNEY. Rachel's intention had been to stay with Miss Stiefbach until the return of her uncle, whom she expected during the month of October; but Marion had urged her to go home with her, and join their family party in their summer trip. Mrs. Berkley seconded the invitation so warmly that Rachel had accepted with great pleasure. Finding that Mr. Stevenson's means were not sufficient to enable him to allow Florence to join the party, Rachel, with the utmost delicacy and tact, had invited her to go with them,--an arrangement which proved more than satisfactory to all. I fear some of my readers have thought that Rachel's uncle must be a cold, hard-hearted man to leave his orphan niece so long to the care of strangers, and in justice to that gentleman I must give some explanation of his seeming neglect. Although a man of great wealth, he had devoted himself to the study of surgery, throwing into the pursuit as much energy as if he depended on his skill for his daily bread. Having become quite famous as a surgeon, he had for several years given his services to a charity hospital in Berlin; but having been away from his native land for ten years, he notified the directors of the hospital, a month previous to his brother's death, that at the end of a year from that time he must leave them. He signified his intention of donating to the hospital a sum of money, the income of which would be sufficient to pay a handsome salary to any one whom they might find competent to take his place. When the news of his brother's death reached him, his first impulse had been to start at once for America, and make a home for the orphan girl so suddenly bereft of a father's care; but the same steamer brought him letters from his lawyer and business agent, stating that, according to a wish expressed in the will of his deceased brother, his niece had been placed at an excellent boarding-school, where she would remain for a year, unless other directions were received from him; so he deferred leaving until the time Rachel's school would close; but as she wrote him that she was well and happy, and had made such pleasant plans for the summer, he postponed his return still later, finding that until that time no surgeon could be procured whom he felt capable of filling his responsible position. Mr. and Mrs. Berkley, Marion, Florence, and Rachel, with Fred and Mr. Thornton, made up the travelling party. Mr. Berkley secured a drawing-room car for their exclusive use, and in the best possible spirits they set out for New York. The day after arriving there they went up the Hudson to West Point, spending a week at that delightful place, made up of enchanting scenery and still more enchanting cadets. It would be useless to say the girls did not enjoy the latter quite as much as the former, for what girl of eighteen ever could resist brass buttons? For a day or two, Mr. Thornton and Fred escorted them about town, took them to the review, and everywhere else that there was anything worth seeing, but never introducing one of their military acquaintances, notwithstanding said acquaintances gave them plenty of opportunities for doing so. But such a state of things was not likely to last long; for the young women, although apparently unconscious of the admiring glances with which they were favored, in their secret hearts knew perfectly well that those spruce cadets never met them whenever they went out, or passed in front of their hotel-windows so many times a day, for the sole purpose of getting a bow from Fred or Mr. Thornton. "The idea," exclaimed Marion, as the three girls were putting on their hats for their usual walk, "of our going away from West Point without having been introduced to a single cadet! I think it's outrageous!" "But, Marion," said Rachel, "don't you suppose if they wanted to know us very much, they'd find a way to get introduced?" "How can they, when Fred and Arthur Thornton mount guard over us every time we go out? Papa doesn't know any one but the old officers. Arthur Thornton knows ever so many cadets, and I think it's _very_ strange he doesn't bring them to call on us." "I'm sure," said Florence, "Mr. Thornton is very polite and attentive himself; I think he's very nice." "Oh, so do I," replied Marion; "he's nice enough, but aren't we going to have _him_ all summer? I tell you just how it is; he doesn't intend to introduce any one, because he feels so grand taking us everywhere himself!" "O Marion," laughed Rachel, "I'm afraid you're growing conceited." "No, I'm not, but what I say is true. If we didn't dress in the fashion, and look pretty nice all the time, he'd be only too glad to get us off his hands." "Seems to me you're rather hard on Mr. Thornton," said Florence, smoothing the feather in her hat. "Why is he any more to blame than Fred?" "Of course he is! Fred doesn't know any one, but some of the little fellows, that Arthur Thornton hasn't introduced to him; besides, he's just the age when it makes him feel important to have three young females under his charge. But I tell you I'm going to put a stop to this; I know there are plenty of young men here actually dying to be presented to us. I think it is positively cruel to let them languish any longer, and if there isn't more than one cadet introduced to us before night, then my name is not Marion Berkley." That morning the whole party went to the armory with an old officer, who was at West Point making a visit to his son, a member of the graduating class. When they started from the hotel, Marion took her father's arm, and joined with him in his conversation with the officer. Before they reached the armory Col. Stranburg was perfectly delighted with her, and the interest she evinced for his profession, and quite devoted himself to her during the morning. "My dear young lady," he said as they were returning to the hotel, "I should like to call on you and your friends this evening, and bring my son with me." "I should be delighted," replied Marion, who had been wondering how she should ask him to do that very thing without appearing too eager; "for as yet we do not any of us know a single cadet." "What!" exclaimed the old gentleman, in unfeigned astonishment; "you don't mean to say you've been at West Point three days, and don't know a cadet! Why, I supposed that by this time you had a whole necklace of brass buttons." "I haven't," laughed Marion, "and I don't think I care for one; but I should like to know some one here." "Of course you would; and I don't understand it at all. Ah! now I see!" he exclaimed, with a meaning glance at the two young men who were walking in front with Florence and Rachel; "you have been monopolized, but we'll alter the state of things." Col. Stranburg was as good as his word, and called that evening, bringing with him, not only his son, but two other cadets, who proved to be the very young gentlemen the girls had so often noticed. The next day the young men called again, each bringing a friend, and so it went on; every evening their parlor was crowded, and the girls were showered with attentions and bouquets till the end of the week, when Mr. Berkley carried them off, declaring that their heads would be completely turned if they remained any longer. From West Point they went to the Catskills, spending several weeks there. Marion, who had never travelled to any extent, was perfectly delighted with everything she saw, but above all with the exquisite beauty of the scenery. She would often wander away from the others, find some unfrequented spot, and sit for hours drinking in the loveliness about her, her whole nature expanding under its influence. From the Catskills they went to Saratoga, giving only one day and night to that abode of fashion; from there to Montreal; then down the St. Lawrence to Niagara, and from there home, arriving in Boston about the last of September. It would be useless for me to attempt to give an account of all they saw and did that summer; it would fill at least one small volume. Suffice it to say, that every one enjoyed themselves to the utmost; that Rachel could never thank Mrs. Berkley half enough for inviting her to join their party; and Florence could never express half her gratitude to Rachel for inviting her to go with her. I think I conveyed to my readers the idea that Mr. Thornton was somewhat in love with Marion the first time he saw her; and the more he saw her the better he liked her. Every one knows how easily people get acquainted who are thrown together as they were, and before the summer was half over, they felt as if they had known each other for years. Marion liked Mr. Thornton very much; in fact, once or twice she had been guilty of indulging in certain little day-dreams, in which that young gentleman figured quite extensively; but she had been heartily ashamed of herself afterwards, and resolved in the future not to let her imagination take such ridiculous flights. But she could not help noticing, that, polite as he was to her friends, he was still more so to her. There was a difference in the very way he spoke to her; not that he was ever sentimental or tender; Marion would have had too much good sense to allow anything of the kind, even if he had been inclined to be so foolish, which I am happy to say he was not. But she remembered, that throughout their whole journey she had never expressed a wish to go to any particular place, or see any lovely view which the rest of the party considered rather unattainable, but what, somehow or other, Mr. Thornton cleared away all difficulties, and almost before she was aware of it the wish was gratified. She would have been something more than human, if such very chivalrous attentions had not been agreeable to her. CHAPTER XXI. RACHEL'S UNCLE RETURNS. "There, Rachel, I flatter myself that hangs just about right," said Marion, walking across the room to display the train of her new black silk. "And so it does," replied Rachel, turning away from the glass where she had been putting on her fall hat; "the slope is quite perfect. Why, you look positively queenly!" "Don't I though?" laughed Marion, only glancing now and then with an air of great satisfaction at the folds of her train as it swept gracefully beside her chair. "I've held out all summer, and would not put on a long dress until I could have a train, and now I've got one." "I should certainly say you had," said her mother, entering at that moment with her bonnet and shawl on. "Come Rachel, are you ready? The carriage is at the door. I suppose Marion will spend her time, while we are out, walking up and down the room, learning how to manage her train, so as not to stumble over it the first time she goes downstairs." "You horrible mamma!" laughed Marion; "as if I could be so clumsy! Besides, you know I am staying home on purpose to finish papa's slippers in time for his birthday." "Oh, yes, we know," said Rachel, "I don't suppose there's any danger of your having a caller while we are out." "No, I don't suppose there is," retorted Marion, knowing well the meaning of Rachel's mischievous glance, "unless your uncle should happen to come; if he does, I'll entertain him until you get back." "Oh, there's no danger of his interrupting the tête-à-tête," laughed Rachel, as she ran downstairs; "your father said the steamer would not be in until to-morrow morning." "O mamma," called out Marion, "won't you please stop on your way back, and get me a cherry ribbon? I haven't a bright bow to my name, and papa will have a fit to see me all in black." "I'll get you one," replied Mrs. Berkley, as she was closing the front door; "but there's one in my upper drawer you can wear until I get back." "It's not worth while," said Marion to herself, as she fastened her sleeve-buttons; "I'll just put in this jet pin, for I know there won't be any one here, and I haven't got time to prink." She seated herself at her work, and sewed away very industriously, only glancing now and then at the folds of her alpaca, as they swept out so gracefully beside her chair, looking "almost like a black silk." Her mother and Rachel had not been gone very long, when Bridget, the cook, came up, and said there was a gentleman downstairs. "Who is it, Biddy? didn't he send his name?" "Indade an' he didn't, miss. Ellen is out, and Sarey's just afther changin' her dress, an' it's meself as had to go to the door, an' I always gits so flustered that I laves me wits in the kitchen." "I should think you did," replied Marion, as she brushed the bits of worsted off her dress. "Do you think it's Mr. Thornton?" "Misther Thorington! An' haven't I sane the likes o' him too many times not to know him? Indade an' it aint, miss; it's a much oulder man than him." "Oh, I know who it is!" exclaimed Marion. "I'll go right down;" and she ran downstairs, not stopping to give a glance at the glass as she certainly would have done if it had been Mr. Thornton, and thinking to herself, "It must be Rachel's uncle. I am so glad the old gentleman has got here at last; I do hope he will be like her father." She entered the parlor hastily, but before she had a chance to speak, or even see who was there, she found herself encircled by a pair of strong arms; a bearded face bent over her, kissing her repeatedly, and a manly voice exclaimed: "My darling! have I got you at last?" Marion disengaged herself as quickly as possible, and sprang back, looking at the stranger with an expression in which astonishment and indignation were equally blended. He was a very handsome man, apparently about thirty-five; tall, and of a commanding figure. His features were fine, that is, his nose and eyes; the latter, when one could get a good look under the long black lashes which shaded them, showed themselves to be clear, blue-gray; but the lower part of his face was concealed by a soft, wavy beard and mustache of rich, chestnut-brown. There was an air of dignity about him which did not seem to be assumed for the occasion, and altogether he was the last man to suspect as an impostor, although such Marion had mentally styled him, deciding at the first glance that he could not be Rachel's uncle. Before she could collect her bewildered ideas sufficiently to speak, he again stretched out his arms as if to embrace her, saying in a reproachful tone:-- "What! your astonishment at seeing me is greater than your joy? I assure you, my dear, that is not the case with me." "Can you wonder at my astonishment, sir?" exclaimed Marion, retreating as he came near her, and motioning him back with a haughty gesture; "explain your singular conduct." "Have not I explained it sufficiently?" he asked. "You are a little unreasonable, I think, although that queenly manner sets well upon you, I must confess." "Sir!" exclaimed Marion, with flashing eyes, "if you do not instantly leave this house, I will find means to compel you to do so." "Come, come, my darling," he answered, stepping forward and taking possession of her hand, "your joke has gone quite far enough. I acknowledge you're as perfect a little actress as I ever saw; but I want something more than acting;" and he attempted to kiss her. But Marion sprang from him, throwing her head up, and looking at him with a face expressive of the utmost scorn, as she exclaimed, "Sir, you have the appearance of a gentleman, and for such I first took you, but I find I was mistaken; if you do not instantly leave the house I will call a policeman to put you out!" and Marion pointed to the door with a gesture that would have done honor to a queen, as she stood waiting to see him obey her command. But the stranger only looked at her a moment in silence, then said in an injured, reproachful tone, "I expected to find you changed; a young lady in fact; but that you should have chosen our first meeting for an exhibition of what seems to be your favorite accomplishment is more than I expected. I entreat you to drop this haughty indifference, which I sincerely hope is assumed for this occasion only, and be once more the little Rachel I left ten years ago." At the mention of the word Rachel, Marion's arm dropped to her side; her haughty bearing gave place to an air of confusion, and she exclaimed:-- "Rachel! Can it be that you thought I was Rachel Drayton?" For the first time it occurred to the stranger that he too might be laboring under a mistake, and he bowed slightly, as he said:-- "I certainly took you for my niece, Rachel Drayton; but I see by your face I am wrong. I most sincerely beg your pardon for what must have seemed an act of unparalleled impudence." Marion bowed, flushing crimson at the recollection of the very affectionate greeting he had given her; but she said in a charmingly frank way:-- "No apology is necessary, sir; it was a mistake all round,--you took me for Rachel, and I took you for an impostor, which certainly was not so complimentary; but now I know you must be Dr. Robert Drayton." Dr. Drayton smiled, as he said, "And you are Miss Marion Berkley, I presume?" "Yes," replied Marion, offering him a chair, and seating herself at the same time. "Rachel is staying with me; she has gone out riding with mamma. She did not expect you until to-morrow morning; but when the servant told me a gentleman was down here, I thought it must be you, but was sure I was mistaken when I saw you." "And why, may I ask?" inquired Dr. Drayton. "Oh!" laughed Marion, a trifle confused, "because I thought you were quite an old gentleman; at least old enough to be my father." "And so I am, almost," replied Dr. Drayton, smiling; "but tell me, does Rachel want to see me?" "Indeed she does; she has talked about you every day this summer, and has hardly been able to wait for you to get here. But how did you mistake me for her? We are not in the least alike." "You must remember it is ten years since I saw her; then she was a little, dark-eyed thing with golden hair, something like yours; your black dress, too, misled me." "Golden hair!" exclaimed Marion, wishing she had put on her mother's bright bow, thus saving herself all her embarrassment,--"golden hair, I can't imagine such a thing; she has jet-black now." "I dare say I don't remember it very correctly; has she grown much?" "She is very tall; much taller than I am." "I thought you were very tall just now when you ordered me out of the house," said Dr. Drayton, with an amused smile. "I beg you will never allude to the subject again," said Marion, raising her head involuntarily, with a slightly haughty gesture, as she invariably did when she was annoyed, but did not wish to appear so; "it was a mistake for which I sincerely beg your pardon." "As you said to me," replied Dr. Drayton, "no apology is needed. I promise never to allude to the subject again without your permission." "Which I certainly shall never grant," laughed Marion, ashamed of her unnecessary hauteur. "Now I shall be able to apply to you my one great test of the worth of humanity, that is, try your powers of keeping a secret." "I am willing to stand the test," laughed Dr. Drayton, "and feel sure that before morning I shall have no secret to keep, for by that time you will have told Rachel all about it." "I shall do no such thing," replied Marion, warmly; "but there is the carriage. Excuse me, Dr. Drayton, and I will tell Rachel you are here." The meeting between Dr. Drayton and Rachel was far different from his interview with Marion. Rachel had longed for his coming, for although she could not remember him very distinctly, she could not feel him to be a stranger to her; her father was very fond of his younger brother, and had always been in the habit of talking with his daughter a great deal about her Uncle Robert, until he had become almost a hero in her eyes. She had been in the habit of associating him in her mind with her father, so that she had quite forgotten he was many years his junior, and was not prepared to find so young a man; in fact, only thirty-two, although his beard gave him the appearance of being a few years older. There was a certain sense of strength and power about him, which led her to look upon him with the same feelings of deference and respect with which she would look upon an older man, while at the same time, the fact of his being younger put her upon an easier, more familiar footing with him; in short, Rachel was delighted with him, and felt she would receive from him all the affection and watchful care of a father, combined with the more demonstrative attentions of an elder brother. CHAPTER XXII. DR. DRAYTON'S HOUSE-KEEPER. "Mrs. Berkley, I'm in a dilemma," said Dr. Drayton, as he entered the library one morning where that lady was sitting, and took a chair near her. "Can I help you out of it?" "If you can't, I don't know of any one else to go to," said Dr. Drayton, who had become a daily visitor at the Berkleys'. "I have bought a house, and now I want a house-keeper. Even if I felt inclined to brave the opinion of Mrs. Grundy, and settle down with Rachel at the head of my establishment, I would not do it; she is too young to have so much care on her shoulders; I want the rest of her life to be as bright and happy as it is possible for me to make it. My idea is to get some cultivated, refined, middle-aged lady to come and take the care of the house-keeping, and be a person who would make it pleasant for Rachel, and any young friends she might wish to have with her. But how can I get such a person? I answered two advertisements last week, and had interviews with the females themselves at the Tremont House. One of them was old and thin, and had a sharp voice that sent a chill through me every time she spoke,--would be about as cheerful a member of society as an animated skeleton; the other fair, fat, and forty, but an incessant talker, and looked as if she had not brushed her hair for a week. Now, Mrs. Berkley, what shall I do? Here I am, a poor, forlorn bachelor, who throws himself on your hands. You must help me somehow or other." "Well, the best thing I can advise," replied Mrs. Berkley, with an amused smile, "is for you to cease to be a bachelor." Dr. Drayton shrugged his shoulders. "Impossible, madame!" "And why, I should like to know? You certainly are not bad-looking; your name is quite surrounded by a fast-increasing halo of fame,--something which is always attractive to the young ladies, you know,--and, what would be above all to many, you have money." "Exactly," replied Dr. Drayton, with considerable energy. "When I first settled down in Berlin, through some very influential friends the very first society of the place was open to me, and I found myself the recipient of marked attention from the heads of several families. I was delighted with them. Such cordiality! such hospitality! I really felt proud of myself for calling it forth, for then I was young, and the little halo which you speak of had not shed its benign influence over me; of course it was to my personal attractions, and nothing else, I owed my popularity. I happened to speak to a young American friend of mine, of the attentions I was constantly receiving,--invitations to this, that, and the other house, and wondered why it was he was not equally fortunate. 'My dear fellow,' said he, 'don't you know I haven't got any money?' His answer was certainly a damper to my feelings; but it was a good thing for me. I gave less time to balls and parties, and more to my profession; gradually, as I showed myself less and less in society, I received fewer invitations, and those from gentlemen all having marriageable daughters. No, Mrs. Berkley, don't ask me to get married; at least not at present. I don't know anything about American girls; but I suppose they are all very much the same as other young ladies, and not until I can find one who will love me for myself, and not my money, will there ever be a Mrs. Drayton at the head of my table." "That is certainly a good resolution," replied Mrs. Berkley, laughing; "but I am afraid I could find you a wife much easier than a house-keeper, such as you want. Of course you will want to put your house in order, and furnish it; meanwhile we are delighted to keep Rachel with us." "You are very kind, very kind indeed, and I certainly shall benefit myself by your offer, for I don't like the idea of taking her to a hotel. But you haven't asked me where my house is." "Sure enough," replied Mrs. Berkley; "but my mind has been too full of your house-keeper to think of your house. Where is it?" "That house on the corner of Beacon Street and the street just below here, I can't recall the name." "The free-stone house we noticed for sale the other day?" inquired Mrs. Berkley. "Yes, that is the one. It is larger than I really need; but the arrangement of the ground-floor suits me admirably, for I must have an office." "Then you intend to practise?" "Certainly, I should be ashamed of myself if I gave up my profession; but I do not intend to do anything out of office-hours, so it will not confine me at all. I intend to take the entire charge of Rachel's property until she is of age; meanwhile I want to give her a clear idea of the value of money, so that she may be able to make a good use of her immense fortune." "I will look about me," said Mrs. Berkley, "and if I hear of any lady that I think will suit you in every way, I will let you know; but here come the girls; they have been out to see Florence Stevenson." Rachel was delighted with the house her uncle had bought, for it was only a few moments' walk from Mr. Berkley's, and she would be able to be with Marion every day. The two girls commenced making plans for the winter, Rachel deciding that the first thing she would do, when they got into their new house, would be to have Florence in for a long visit. A few days after the conversation between Mrs. Berkley and Dr. Drayton, Mr. Berkley received a letter from a distant cousin of his, a lonely widow, who having lost her property, had written to him to see if he could get her a situation as house-keeper in some refined family. Upon showing this letter to his wife, she at once exclaimed that the lady was the very person for Dr. Drayton. The necessary arrangements were soon made; the house was put in perfect order, and elegantly furnished; and Dr. Drayton took his niece to as delightful a home as one could wish to have, for Mrs. Marston proved to be all that he desired. Cultivated and agreeable, she soon won his heartfelt esteem, and Rachel loved her from their very first meeting. After the new household had got fairly settled, Dr. Drayton proposed to Rachel that she should continue her German and French under his direction. He spoke both languages as fluently as he did English, and suggested that the lessons should consist entirely of conversation, and reading aloud from some of the best French and German authors. Rachel was very much pleased at his proposition, and asked if Marion might not join with them. "Yes, if she likes," replied Dr. Drayton, in answer to her request; "but I'm afraid her head will be too full of balls and parties, for her to ever keep up a regular course of studies." "Why, Uncle Robert!" indignantly cried Rachel; "you don't know Marion at all, or you would not say that!" "I don't pretend to," quietly replied the doctor; "but I suppose she is very much like all other young ladies." "Indeed she is not," replied Rachel, energetically. "I don't know of a girl that has as much strength of character as Marion." "Not even excepting Miss Florence?" "No, not even excepting her. I love Florence dearly; she is a lovely girl, but there is something about Marion which _she_ has not got." "I should say so, decidedly," replied Dr. Drayton, with provoking coolness. "Why, Uncle Robert, I never dreamed you didn't like Marion!" "Did I say I did not?" asked her uncle, as he unfolded the newspaper, and glanced down its columns. "No, you didn't say exactly those words, but you implied it." "I was not aware of the fact," said the doctor, as he lighted his cigar. "You said there was something about her different from Florence, and I agreed with you. I suppose, with feminine perversity, you would have preferred that I should have disagreed, thus giving you an opportunity to make an argument in favor of your side of the question; next time I'll remember." "Uncle Robert, you are perfectly provoking!" exclaimed Rachel, jumping up, and taking the paper away from him; "there!--you shan't have it until you've said something in Marion's favor." "Very well," replied her uncle, slightly raising his eyebrows; "you enumerate the catalogue of her virtues, and I'll subscribe to all I can." "In the first place, she's very handsome," commenced Rachel. "Well, no, not exactly what I call handsome," said the doctor in a deliberating tone; "she's not large enough for that." "Beautiful then; that's better still." "Well, yes,--I suppose you think so." "But it isn't to be what I think," impatiently replied Rachel. "You certainly _must_ acknowledge she has beautiful eyes; true as steel; the kind of eyes you could trust!" "I'll examine them the next time I see her," replied Dr. Drayton, as he laid back in his chair, and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air. "Excellence No. 3, if you please, Rachel." "She's very intelligent, and an excellent scholar," replied Rachel, tapping the floor with her foot, and trying not to get provoked. "As yet I have never had any conversation with her of any deeper import than the shade of your window-curtains; but I've no doubt she's at home with any subject, and is a perfect walking 'Encyclopædia Americana.'" "Uncle Robert, you are incorrigible! you are determined _not_ to see any good in her." "Not at all, my dear; the difficulty is, that after a six weeks' acquaintance, you expect me to be as enthusiastic over her as you are after a lengthy _school-girl_ intimacy." "I know what you mean to insinuate by a 'school-girl intimacy,' and I agree with you that as a general thing they don't amount to anything; but just let me tell you what Marion did for me, and then see if you'll wonder that I'm '_enthusiastic_' over her." "Go on; I am prepared for anything. I suppose she rescued you from a 'watery grave' in true novel fashion." "She did more than that; she risked finding one herself. She walked all alone, at midnight, from our school to the doctor's house, which is at least a mile and a half, and crossed the river on a bridge _that the flooring was taken off, and nothing for her to walk on but the beam where the railing was_!" "A heroine, as I live!" cried the doctor, holding up both hands; "something of which I've always had an innate horror." "Uncle Robert," said Rachel, really hurt, "I thought after that you'd at least show some regard for her, if only for my sake." "My dear girl," he replied, drawing her towards him, "I certainly will acknowledge that it was very brave in her; now give me my newspaper." "You don't deserve it, but you shall have it, if you will let Marion join our lessons." "I should be delighted to have her; and Miss Florence too." "Florence won't be able to give her time to it, I know. She can't come to make me a visit until spring, for she was away all summer, and her father can't spare her yet." "Very well; you arrange everything with Mrs. Berkley; only the time must not interfere with office-hours; before or after that I am at your service." "You're the dearest uncle in the world!" exclaimed Rachel, kissing him. "Even if I don't worship your heroine." "Oh, don't call her a _heroine_, for mercy's sake! and above all don't ever let her know that I told you." "My lips shall be sealed on the subject. Now run off, and let me read my paper in peace." Marion was very much pleased with the plan for the French and German lessons, and it was arranged that they should devote two hours, twice a week, to each language, meeting alternately at Marion's and Rachel's houses. Marion was a very good French scholar, and could manage to make herself understood in German; but she was really afraid of Dr. Drayton, and never did herself justice at the lessons. He was very patient and kind, but nevertheless very critical, and corrected the pronunciation of their German so many times, that Marion at last declared she never would say another word, for she knew she never could suit him; but she found him even more determined than M. Béranger, and soon learned, that if the lessons went on at all, his directions must be strictly attended to; and after a while the girls never thought of speaking English, during their French and German hours. Mr. Berkley, who happened to look in upon them one day when they were carrying on quite an excited argument, declared they were all jabbering just to hear themselves talk, for he knew perfectly well they couldn't any one of them understand a word the others were saying. * * * * * The intimacy between the two families increased daily, and the Berkleys welcomed Dr. Drayton most cordially to their family circle, finding him in every way a most delightful companion. Intelligent, cultivated, and refined, and having travelled over almost every country in Europe, he had the rare gift of describing everything he had seen in such a manner as to bring it vividly before the minds of his hearers, without incessantly introducing the personal pronoun, which, as a general thing, finds its way so often into a traveller's account of his journeyings. He became a general favorite with the family. Charley always ran to meet him, and commenced a raid upon his pockets, sure of finding something stowed away there for his especial benefit; the baby crowed with delight whenever he came near him; and Fred bestowed upon him, after their first meeting, the highest compliment he could pay a man,--"he was a regular brick!" But Marion declared "she thought they made altogether too much fuss over him, and she did not intend to join with the family in setting him up as a perfect hero; she must say she thought he was rather conceited, for he never paid her any attention, and when young people were there, and they were all having a nice time in the parlor, he always sat off with papa and mamma, in the library, as if he thought himself above such childish follies." CHAPTER XXIII. THE DÉBUT INTO SOCIETY. "And so it is to be a regular 'come-out party,'" said Dr. Drayton one evening as he sat smoking with Mr. Berkley in the library, the rest of the family being in the parlor. "Yes, a regular 'come-out party,'" repeated Mr. Berkley; "but I don't intend to dash out, and make a great spread; hire Papanti's hall, etc. I don't like that sort of thing. I shall invite enough to fill the house, and yet not have it a perfect jam; have half-a-dozen pieces of music, and a good supper; that's my idea of a party." "And a very correct idea, I should say," said the doctor. "Mrs. Berkley rather objected to giving it at all this winter. Marion is still so young, she wanted me to wait another year; but you see, doctor, I'm pretty proud of my only daughter, and I want her to go about in society, before I get too old to go with her." "How old is Miss Marion?" asked Dr. Drayton. "Eighteen last May." "Older than Rachel; I thought her younger." "She looks younger, I think myself, and sometimes seems younger still; but there's good stuff there. She's like her mother, and if I do say it, she'll make a noble woman." "If she proves to be like her mother, she certainly will," replied Dr. Drayton. "Mrs. Berkley is just my idea of what a wife and mother ought to be." "That remark proves you a man of sense and discernment," said Mr. Berkley, highly gratified, both by Dr. Drayton's words, and the warmth of his tone. "But about this party; of course you will come, and dance the 'German.'" "I certainly agree to come. It will be my first real entrance into Boston society; but as for dancing, that's quite another thing; I gave that up years ago." "Why, man alive!" exclaimed Mr. Berkley; "any one would think, to hear you talk sometimes, you were a perfect Methuselah! Here, Marion!" he cried, calling her in from the other room, "I want you to give Dr. Drayton private lessons in dancing, so that he will be able to get through the 'German' at your party." "I am much obliged to Miss Marion," said Dr. Drayton, quietly; "but it is too late for me to begin now; I must decline her services." "Perhaps it would be as well if you waited until I offered them," replied Marion, haughtily, piqued at the coolness of his manner. "I certainly had no intentions of becoming a dancing-mistress for you or any one else!" The doctor made no reply, but Mr. Berkley laughed aloud, as he exclaimed: "Look here, Marion, that Thornton has spoiled you! You are so used to having him consider it an honor to be allowed to pick up your handkerchief, that you begin to think that every one else must do the same." "Papa, how unkind!" said Marion, flushing to the roots of her hair; "I don't know as Mr. Thornton ever picked up my handkerchief in his life, and he wouldn't be so foolish as to consider it an honor if he had." "No?" replied her father, in the most provoking way; "but there,--you shan't be teased any more! Just turn round, and smile sweetly on the doctor, and tell him you don't think he's too old to come to your party, and you'll let him, if he'll promise to be a good boy." "I don't care whether he comes or not," cried Marion, struggling to get away from her father. "If that is the case," said Dr. Drayton, "I shall certainly come, simply for my own amusement. I didn't know but my presence might be particularly disagreeable to you; but as you seem so thoroughly indifferent, I shall come, and look on with the other old folks." Marion bit her lips, and said nothing; but as her father still held her hand, so that she could not get away, she seated herself on the arm of his chair with her face turned towards the fire. "Doctor," said Mr. Berkley, "why don't you shave off that beard? It makes you look five years older than you are." "That is my mask," replied the doctor, stroking his beard with his right hand; "I could not part with it." "What, in the name of sense, do you want of a mask?" "Unluckily for me, my mouth is the telltale feature of my face. I found, when I first became a surgeon, that my patients could tell by its expression whether they were to live or die; so I covered it up with this beard. After I had been at the hospital several years, and had seen sights that the very telling of them would make you shudder; when I performed operation after operation without flinching, or even having the slightest feeling of repugnance, I thought I must have got my mouth under perfect control, and so ventured to trim my mustache and shave my beard. That very morning I had to attend a poor fellow who had had his leg amputated the day before; during the examination I never looked at him, for I felt his eyes were fixed on my face. Suddenly he exclaimed: 'It's no use, doctor; you can keep your eyes down, but you can't hide your mouth,--that says death.' It was the truth; mortification had set in, and he died the next morning. After that I let my beard grow, and so long as I remain a surgeon, which I shall so long as my hand is steady enough to guide the knife, it will stay as it is." "Well, I think you are right," said Mr. Berkley; "but by and by, when you get a wife, perhaps she will think differently, and the beard, and the profession too, may have to go. The last, I hear, pays you nothing." "If ever I get a wife," replied Dr. Drayton, "she will probably think as I do,--that, as I have been blessed with more than an ample fortune, I should be a heartless wretch, if I did not devote my skill to the relief of the suffering poor." Marion, who had listened silently to the above conversation, finding her father had released his hold of her hand, slipped quietly away. The weeks flew past, and the eventful day, when Marion was to make her dêbut into fashionable society, at last arrived. Rachel, of course, would not go to the party, as she was still in deep mourning; but Florence was to stay all night with Marion, and Rachel went round early with her uncle, that she might see her two friends in the full splendor of their first ball-dresses. She went directly to the drawing-room, where she heard the voices of the girls, leaving her uncle to find his way to the dressing-room. "Hands off these two pieces of dry-goods!" cried Fred, who was capering round his sister and Florence, in a perfect state of delight, and all the glories of his first dress-coat, when Rachel entered the room. "You may admire as much as you please; but you can't touch 'em with a ten-foot pole." "Get out of the way, Fred," said Marion, putting him aside as she went forward to meet Rachel; "she shall touch me as much as she pleases. How do you like it, Rachel? Is it just the thing?" "I should say it certainly was!" exclaimed Rachel, enthusiastically. "I never saw anything so lovely in my life; and you two look so pretty together!" "You see our dresses are made just alike," said Florence, buttoning her gloves; "only my flowers are pink, and hers white." The two girls certainly did look lovely. Their dresses were of white tarlatan, puffed and ruffled sufficiently to be quite à la mode, but still so light and delicate as to give them a floating, airy appearance, and not make them look like exaggerated fashion-plates. Marion's was caught, here and there, with white daisies and delicate grasses, a wreath of the same in her hair; while Florence's was trimmed with pink roses and buds. "May I be allowed to come in at this early hour?" inquired Dr. Drayton, as he appeared on the threshold. "Yes, indeed," laughed Marion, advancing to meet him, and stopping in the centre of the room, to drop him a profound courtesy; "you are my first arrival." "And as such claim your acceptance of this bouquet, which I hope you will honor me by carrying during the evening." Marion looked up very much surprised, as he held towards her an exquisite bouquet. He was the last man from whom she would have expected such an attention. "I am very sorry, Dr. Drayton, but you see Fred has one in his hand which I promised a week ago I would carry to-night; but I am just as much obliged, and will set it on the stand close to where I sit in the 'German.'" "No, indeed," replied the doctor, without the slightest appearance of annoyance; "my poor bouquet shall not be so set aside. Mrs. Berkley, will you honor me?" "I say, Marion," exclaimed Fred, as Marion took her bouquet from his hand, "what a pity you promised Thornton you'd carry his! The doctor's is twice as handsome!" "So it's Mr. Thornton who has got ahead of me?" said the doctor. "Miss Florence, I hope I am not to be equally unfortunate with you;" and he presented her with a beautiful bouquet, which he had until that moment held behind him. "Oh, thank you!" cried Florence, perfectly delighted; "you know it's not my dêbut, and no one else has thought of honoring me; it was very kind of you. See, Marion, isn't it lovely?" "Yes, very," replied Marion, as she bent over it, inwardly provoked with herself for being annoyed because the doctor had not only handed over her bouquet to her mother with such perfect nonchalance, but had also brought one for Florence. * * * * * But guests were soon seen passing through the hall on their way to the dressing-rooms, and Rachel was obliged to hurry off; soon the rooms began to fill, and before long the wonderful "German" was at its height. The doctor felt himself a stranger in a strange land; he had been introduced to, and conversed with, several young ladies, but now all conversation was broken up by the "German," and he stood leaning against the door-way, and watched the dance as it proceeded. He noticed several men, much older than himself, dancing with fair young girls; and he wondered within himself if they were really enjoying themselves, and why it was that he stood like one shut out from all the pleasures of youth, young in years but old in feelings; in fact, he was getting a trifle misanthropical, when Marion floated slowly past him, waltzing with Arthur Thornton. As they passed, so near that her draperies touched him, he heard Mr. Thornton say, in a low tone full of meaning, "Marion you are enough to make a man mad, to-night! You are almost too lovely!" "So," thought the doctor, as he turned away, "it is all settled. Well, I supposed as much." He did not see Marion as she abruptly stopped dancing, and looked at poor, infatuated Arthur with a frigid glance, which made his heart leap to his throat, as she said, "Mr. Thornton, you forget yourself; will you lead me to my seat?" Poor Arthur! it was his first rash act; he had loved Marion so well, and tried so hard to conceal it until he was sure of her feelings; but to-night as he said, she was almost too lovely, and before he had thought of the consequences he had called her by name and told her so. It was his first act of tenderness and his last, for now he knew as well that to her he could never be anything more than a friend, as if she had refused him point-blank. Poor fellow! it was a hard blow, but he did not stagger under it; he danced the "German" with as much apparent gayety, and hid his grief under as bright a smile as ever graced a ball-room. But though he flattered himself that no one knew the pain he suffered, there was one, who, although she neither heard his remark, nor Marion's answer, witnessed the little scene between them, saw the frigid look in Marion's eyes, and the light die out of his, and her heart ached for the poor fellow, as only the heart of a young girl can ache, over the sorrows of a man whose happiness is dearer to her than her own. * * * * * The next morning Rachel was in the dining-room, waiting for her uncle to come to breakfast. She had watered and arranged the plants, and now stood tapping impatiently on the window-pane, and wondering why he was so late; but he soon made his appearance, coming in with Mrs. Marston. "O Uncle Robert!" she exclaimed, "I began to think you were never coming; don't you know I'm dying to hear about the party?" "My dear, if I had known you were in such a terrible state of mind and body," replied her uncle, as he seated himself at the table, "I would have come down at six; but if you will take the trouble to look at the clock, you will see it is you who are early, not I who am late." "Well, never mind that," impatiently replied Rachel; "how did Marion look?" "Didn't you see for yourself?" "Oh! that was before any one had got there, and she was not at all excited; she's always lovelier then, she has such a beautiful color, and it makes her eyes handsomer than ever." "I don't think it's necessary for me to say anything, do you, Mrs. Marston?" said the doctor, as he calmly stirred his coffee; "just imagine her as you saw her, only a little excited, and you'll know exactly how she looked." "Did she have much attention?" "You could hardly expect anything else, as the party was at her house." "Oh! of course people would be polite; but wasn't there anybody particularly attentive? Didn't she get 'taken out' a great deal?" "'Taken out?'" repeated the doctor, with a puzzled expression. "Mrs. Marston, can you enlighten me?" "Oh, yes!" laughed Mrs. Marston; "that is only one of the mysterious phrases of the 'German,' which being interpreted means, did a great many gentlemen ask her to dance?" "Oh, thank you," replied the doctor. "Yes, Rachel, she got 'taken out' a great deal; in fact she seemed to be out all the time." "There! _that's_ what I wanted to know," said Rachel, in a tone of satisfaction; "now tell me about Florence." "I'll try to answer you in the most approved style. She looked very charming indeed; seemed to have plenty of admirers, for I noticed that Miss Marion managed to have her share her honors, and made her the guest of the evening; she was 'taken out' a great deal, and above all, continued to carry my bouquet the whole evening without dropping it." "I'm so glad," cried Rachel, "but wasn't it a shame that Arthur Thornton should have sent his bouquet to Marion first?" "A shame? Why, no indeed," answered her uncle, with the utmost composure; "for if he had not, she would have been obliged to carry mine, and I know she preferred Mr. Thornton's." "I don't believe it; yours was a great deal handsomer." "Oh! that's not the point! Of course you must see that Mr. Thornton is to be _the_ man." "Uncle Robert, how absurd! I don't believe Marion would ever have him in the world!" "And why not, I should like to know? He is handsome, intelligent,--in fact, a very good fellow every way, and has plenty of money." "But Marion never will marry for money!" cried Rachel. "I don't say she will; but what is your objection to Mr. Thornton?" "I haven't any at all; I like him very much, but he would never do for Marion. She wants a much stronger man than he." "Well, perhaps he will develop his muscle," replied Dr. Drayton, coolly. "Uncle Robert! you know I don't mean that kind of strength!--mental strength; some one in every way superior to herself; in fact, some one that she could feel was her master." "Master! I can't imagine Miss Marion yielding her own sweet will to any one." "Rachel is right," said Mrs. Marston; "when Marion marries she will choose a man much older than herself." "Well, time will show," said Dr. Drayton; "but Rachel, if Marion Berkley is not engaged to Mr. Thornton at the end of six months, I'll give you the handsomest diamond ring I can buy at Bigelow's." CHAPTER XXIV. CONCLUSION. The days and weeks flew by like hours, and Marion found herself surrounded by a crowd of admirers, and one of the acknowledged belles of the season. Balls, parties, receptions, matinées, and formal calls took up all her time, and what with lying abed in the morning to make up for her late hours, the days were fairly turned into night, and night into day. Mrs. Berkley remonstrated as she saw her daughter drifting farther and farther out on the sea of fashionable society, but it was now too late; she could not refuse all the invitations that were showered upon her, and those that she would have been glad to decline, her father would not allow her to, for fear of giving offence. She had at first made a struggle to keep up her French and German, but at last gave it up as useless, for if she had no engagement for those hours, she was too tired and worn out by her dissipation to attend to them properly. Rachel felt extremely sorry to be obliged to tell her uncle that his prediction had proved true; that Marion's time was too much occupied with balls and parties for her to attend the lessons; but she added a saving clause, to the effect that when Lent put an end to the extreme gayeties of the season, Marion would be glad to join them. "If she wishes to join us then, well and good," said Dr. Drayton; "but Rachel, I want you to fully understand, that you must never ask her to do so; she must come back to us as she left us, of her own free will." Marion felt far from satisfied with the life she was leading. At first it was very delightful to find herself so much admired; to know that the honor of her hand for the "German" was sought days in advance by the men who were considered the bright, particular stars of the fashionable world; to have hardly a day go by that did not bring her an exquisite bouquet, or basket of flowers; never go to the theatre or opera that several young exquisites did not come to her seat for a chat between the acts! Oh, it was very delightful indeed; and for a while she thought she had never been so happy in her life. But only for a while; she grew tired at last of hearing the same things said to her night after night, over and over again; she knew she was wasting her life; the precious moments and hours that would never come again. Her health, too, began to give way under this constant dissipation. She had frequent dull headaches, and could not keep herself from being irritated at trifles that she would never have noticed before. Even her father began to complain that "she was going out almost too much; he never had a quiet evening at home, and as for her music he had not heard her touch the piano for weeks." Just about this time she received a letter from Mme. Béranger. She wrote in a bright, happy strain, giving an account of what was going on at the school, alluding with a little conjugal pride to the beneficial influence which M. Béranger exerted over the scholars, and the respect which he inspired, not only from them, but from Miss Stiefbach also. She concluded by saying:-- "And now, my dear Marion, I am going to speak of yourself, a subject about which I know very well you do not care to have much said; but you will bear it patiently I feel sure from your old teacher, who says with truth, that, dear as all her scholars have been to her, none ever came so near, so completely won her love, as you have done. "I wanted to tell you, before the close of school last autumn, how much I rejoiced in the victories which I saw you were daily gaining over yourself; but the opportunity never seemed to arrive when I could do so without appearing to force myself upon you. "It would make you happy, I know, if you could hear yourself spoken of as I am almost daily in the habit of hearing your name mentioned by one or more of the scholars, in the kindest, most affectionate terms. "It is a good thing when a girl leaves school carrying with her the love and admiration of her school-mates, and leaving behind her nothing but regret that she is no longer there to join in their studies, or lead them in their fun and frolic. "Now you have done with school-days, and it is very probable that many of your school-mates you may never meet again; you will form new friends wherever you go, and to a certain extent owe some duties to society; but I cannot imagine you as among the class of young ladies, who, the moment the doors of the school-room close behind them, consider their education finished, and so straightway give up all sensible occupations, and fritter away their time in fashionable dissipation. I have seen too much of you, understand your nature too well, to believe you capable of such folly; but temptations of various kinds will come to you in the future, as they have come in the past, and the same sense of right, the same determination to conquer yourself, which helped you to overcome the faults of your girlhood, will strengthen and sustain you in your endeavors to attain a pure, noble womanhood. "But I fear you will think I am writing you a sermon, and that I have forgotten that you have passed from under my authority, but 'the spirit moved me,' and so I have spoken; if I have said more than I ought, forgive me, and take it kindly from your old Miss Christine. "My sister wished to be kindly remembered to you, and my husband says: Faites mes amitiés à Mlle. Berkley. Good-by, my dear, "From your true friend, "CHRISTINE BÉRANGER." Marion's conscience smote her as she read the letter, and thought how far short of all Mme. Béranger had hoped she would be, of all she had determined for herself, was the life she was now leading. Day by day she became more and more discontented with herself, as she saw how completely she had given her time to what her teacher had rightly called, "fashionable dissipation." Lent at last arrived, and Marion, although not an Episcopalian, welcomed it with delight, for now there would be few if any, large parties, and she would have a chance to rest. She was determined to commence a course of history; practise at least two hours a day, and, if Rachel proposed it, commence again her French and German, in which her friend had made such astonishing progress as to make Marion thoroughly ashamed of herself. But, much to Marion's surprise, Rachel did not propose it, neither did Dr. Drayton, before whom she had mentioned several times how sorry she was to find herself so far behind Rachel. She thought it very strange that the doctor did not again offer to teach her with his niece, and resolved, if she could ever manage to humble herself sufficiently to ask a favor of him, she would tell him herself she wanted to rejoin the class. An opportunity offered itself sooner than she had expected. The doctor had a fine baritone voice, and was extremely fond of music. Rachel, as a general thing, was able to play his accompaniments for him, but now and then he bought a new song too difficult for her to manage, and he often brought them, at Mr. Berkley's suggestion, for Marion to play for him. One evening he made his appearance with a piece of music in his hand, and said, as he shook hands with her:-- "Miss Marion, I have a song here that is most too much for Rachel: will you do me the favor of playing the accompaniment?" "Yes," replied Marion, as she took the music, and glanced over it; "on one condition." "And that is?" said the doctor. "That you will let me come back to the French and German readings." "Are you quite sure you want to come?" asked the doctor, looking down upon her, and speaking very much as he would have done to a naughty child. "Very sure," replied Marion, almost provoked with herself for not being able to say the contrary. "Very well then, come," said the doctor, in a lower tone, as he arranged the music for her. "You must want to very much, if you would be willing to ask it as a favor from me." Marion bit her lips and said nothing. She had intended to make it appear that she was granting the favor; but the doctor had reversed the order of things. The next day the old studies were commenced, and Marion took hold with a will, determined to conquer all difficulties and put herself by the side of Rachel. She was at first extremely mortified to find how many mistakes she made, and how much she had forgotten; but the doctor was more patient than ever before, and she soon made great improvement. Of late Marion had seen very little of Mr. Thornton, and now that she was not going about so much, she began to miss his bright, pleasant face, and many little attentions: and as Saturday after Saturday went by, and he did not make his appearance with Fred, as he had formerly been so often in the habit of doing, she asked her brother what had become of him. Fred's answer was, that "Thornton was cramming like blazes; he meant to leave college with flying colors." At first Marion felt a little chagrined that he could so soon have forgotten her, and had half a mind to write him a charming little note, inviting him over to spend Sunday; but she knew it would only be holding out a prospect of encouragement which she never really meant to give him, and so she refrained. Summer at last arrived, and the Berkleys and Draytons were making preparations for spending it among the White Mountains. Fred had urged them to stay for "Class-day," as Arthur Thornton graduated this year; but Marion's unusually pale cheeks told too plainly that either the dissipations of the winter, or some other unexplainable cause, had made a deep inroad on her health, and her parents were glad to get her away from the city. Florence's father had married again, and had taken a cottage at the beach for the summer; so she had declined Rachel's invitation to again make one of their party. They travelled slowly through the mountains, stopping for days at a time at whatever place seemed to them as particularly pleasant. It was too early for the great rush of fashionable visitors, and they enjoyed themselves the more on that account. After having spent several weeks in this manner, they settled down for the rest of the summer at a little hotel unknown to fame, and rarely visited except by pedestrians and artists wandering about in search of the most beautiful views. Marion had by this time entirely regained her strength, and could climb about the mountains, and take as long walks as any of the party; but still she did not seem the same as in former days. Her father and mother did not notice the change, for with them she was always as gay as ever, and they were perfectly happy to see her so well,--slightly tanned with the summer's sun, and a bright color always glowing in her cheeks. But Rachel wondered what had come over her, for when they were alone she seemed so much more quiet and preoccupied, that her friend could hardly realize it was the same Marion Berkley she had known at school. The doctor, too, silently noticed her altered manner, and had his own opinion as to the cause. One day towards the close of summer, Marion was sitting on a little piazza, which belonged exclusively to the private parlor used by their party. A book was in her lap, but her hands lay idly on its open pages, as she sat lost in a reverie, from which she was roused by Dr. Drayton as he came round the house, and stood holding a letter over her head, exclaiming, "See what I have for you, Miss Marion! Can you tell the writing from here?" "Oh, yes!" exclaimed Marion, in a delighted tone, reaching up her hand to take it; "it's from Florence. Do let me have it." "Not until you promise me," said the doctor, holding the letter out of her reach, "that you will tell me how you honestly feel about the most important piece of news this letter contains." "I promise," said Marion, smiling. "It will probably be that her new mamma has given her a lovely picture, and she is the dearest mamma in the world." "Never mind what it is," said the doctor; "you have promised;" and he leaned against the pillar opposite Marion, apparently engaged in reading a letter which he had held open in his hand during their conversation, but in reality furtively watching the expression of her face, for he knew what news the letter contained, and wanted to judge of its effect upon her. She read on, smiling to herself as Florence went into ecstasies over the kindness of her new, darling mamma. Then suddenly an expression of intense surprise passed over her face, which was succeeded by one which it would be difficult to define, as the letter dropped into her lap, and she sat looking straight before her, but evidently seeing nothing, and entirely forgetful of the doctor's presence. "Poor child!" he thought, as he watched the tears slowly gathering in her eyes; "it has come at last, and she so young! It is cruel in me to watch her; but I _must_ know how deeply it affects her." Suddenly Marion sprang up with the letter in her hand, and was running through the long parlor-window, when the doctor called to her:-- "Miss Marion, have you forgotten your promise?" "No, indeed!" answered Marion, without looking round. "Stay there; I'll be back in a moment." Dr. Drayton put his letter in his pocket, and folded his arms across his breast as he leaned against the pillar, like Marion looking straight before him, but seeing nothing. "If she can hide her wounds so bravely, cannot I do the same?" thought he; "it would be too cruel for me to make her tell me herself; I can at least spare her that." He was so lost in thought, that Marion had again stepped on to the piazza, and stood beside him before he was aware of her presence. "Now, doctor," she said, startling him by the brightness of her tone, "I'm ready to be questioned. There _was_ quite an important piece of news in the letter." "You need not tell me," he said very gently, "I know it already." "And how did you know it?" asked Marion, in a disappointed tone of voice. "I was to be the first one told, and then _I_ was to tell Rachel." "Your letter was delayed probably, and mine from Fred, written the next day, when every one knew it, came in the same mail." "But you don't seem a bit glad," said Marion. "_I_ am perfectly delighted." He looked down at her silently for a few moments. Could she be acting? He would put her to the test. "Miss Marion, I _will_ hold you to your promise; you said you would tell me honestly how you felt about this piece of news." "And so I will," replied Marion, surprised at his serious manner. "Mr. Thornton is as fine a young man as I know, and has always been a good friend of mine. When I tell you that I think him in every way worthy of Florence, you may know that is the highest compliment I can pay him; and I am perfectly delighted they are engaged." "And this is on your honor?" "On my honor," answered Marion, looking up at him with her clear, truthful eyes. "I believe you," he said; "but forgive me if I ask why, feeling so, the tears should have come into your eyes when you read the letter?" "Dr. Drayton," cried Marion, her face flushing, "it was too bad of you to watch me! It is cruel in you to ask me." "I know it is cruel," he answered; "but nevertheless I _must_ ask you." "I will tell you," replied Marion, hurriedly, "or you will misunderstand me. Florence and I have been very, very dear friends; we have loved each other all our lives, as I think few girls rarely do love; there has never been a cloud between us that was not soon cleared away; and when I first read that she was engaged to Arthur Thornton, I could not help feeling a little bit of sorrow, in spite of my greater joy, to think that now she would have some one to take my place away from me. But that feeling is all gone now--or will be soon," she added, choking down a sob, that would come in spite of her. "Marion," he almost whispered, as he bent over her, "are you sure you never loved Arthur Thornton?" "Very sure," answered Marion, not daring to raise her eyes, and blushing crimson as he for the first time called her by name. He bent lower still, and was about to lay his hand upon her arm, when Rachel rushed through the parlor-window, exclaiming, "Uncle Robert, Marion can't marry Mr. Thornton, if she wants to ever so much, and I want my diamond ring!" "The six months are past," replied her uncle. "I don't think that's fair, do you, Marion?" But Marion had slipped away, and was nowhere to be seen. A few evenings later the three were sitting on the piazza, enjoying their last night at the mountains. Mr. and Mrs. Berkley had retired early, so as to feel bright and fresh for their homeward journey the next day, but the rest had declared their intention of sitting up to watch the moon, as it went slowly down behind the distant hills. "Rachel," said Dr. Drayton, as he threw away his cigar, "how should you like to go to Europe next spring?" "Like it!" exclaimed Rachel, clasping her hands with delight. "I should be perfectly happy!" "Well, I thought so," replied her uncle, "and I am going to take you." "O Uncle Robert! you are too good! Marion, isn't that splendid?" But before Marion could answer, Dr. Drayton went on, as if he had not heard Rachel's remark. "Of course, it will not do for you to go travelling over Europe with only me." "Take Mrs. Marston!" exclaimed Rachel, determined to surmount all difficulties; "take Mrs. Marston; she's just the one!" "Oh, no!" replied her uncle, in a very decided tone; "she wouldn't do at all; she's too old. I've been thinking about it for some time; you want a young person, and so I am going to get married." "O Uncle Robert!" cried Rachel, jumping up, and taking hold of his arm; "don't get married! please don't! I'd rather never go to Europe as long as I live, than to have you do that!" "I am sure you are very kind indeed," replied her uncle, "to give up your pleasure on my account; but really I don't see as I can very well help being married now, for I've asked the lady, and she said yes." "O uncle! uncle! to think of your getting married just for the sake of having some one to go to Europe with me! It's dreadful!" "Yes, dear, I think it would be, if that were the case; but to tell you the truth I am very much in love with the lady myself." "Then I shall hate her!" exclaimed Rachel, dropping her uncle's arm,--"I know I shall hate her!" Marion had been sitting perfectly quiet during this conversation, with her back turned towards the speaker; she now rose, and attempted to pass by Dr. Drayton into the parlor; but he caught her with both hands, and turned her round towards his niece, saying, as he did so, "Allow me, Rachel, to introduce you to your future aunt; if you don't love her for my sake, try to for her own; she's worth it." Rachel stood in speechless astonishment, and Marion, also, could not utter a word. "This is a pretty state of things, I must say," said the doctor. "Rachel, won't you kiss your Aunt Marion?" "Kiss her!" exclaimed Rachel, finding her voice, and throwing her arms round Marion's neck; "I thought I loved her before, but _now_ I shall fairly worship her! I never was so happy in my life!" "Nor I either," whispered Marion, very softly. "But I don't understand it," cried Rachel, still in a state of bewilderment. "I never thought of such a thing. I thought you didn't like Marion at all, Uncle Robert." "I know it, my dear, and she thought the same; but I have satisfied her to the contrary, and I guess I can you." "Ah! Uncle Robert," said Rachel, archly, "I guess I _shan't_ have the handsomest diamond-ring at Bigelow's; I suppose Marion has that." "No, she has not," replied the doctor, lifting Marion's left hand, on which Rachel could see in the moonlight a heavy, plain, gold ring. "What!--not diamonds?" "No," replied the doctor, as he held the hand in both his own; "my wife shall have all the diamonds she wants, but this ring must be plain gold." "Are you satisfied, Marion?" asked Rachel. Marion gave a quick glance up at the doctor, then looked at Rachel, as she answered, "Perfectly."