15660	----	LITTLE EVE EDGARTON BY ELEANOR HALLOWELL ABBOTT Author of "Molly Make Believe," "The White Linen Nurse," etc. With Illustrations by R.M. CROSBY NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1914 _Published, September, 1914_ [Illustration: "Music! Flowers! Palms! Catering! Everything!"] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "Music! Flowers! Palms! Catering! Everything!" "I am riding," she murmured almost inaudibly "I would therefore respectfully suggest as a special topic of conversation the consummate cheek of--yours truly, Paul Reymouth Edgarton!" "Your PAPER-DOLL BOOK?" stammered Barton "Don't delay me!" she said, "I've got to make four hundred muffins!" Suddenly full comprehension broke upon him and he fairly blurted out his astonishing information "You're nice," he said. "I like you!" "Any time that you people want me," suggested Edgarton's icy voice, "I am standing here--in about the middle of the floor!" LITTLE EVE EDGARTON CHAPTER I "But you live like such a fool--of course you're bored!" drawled the Older Man, rummaging listlessly through his pockets for the ever-elusive match. "Well, I like your nerve!" protested the Younger Man with unmistakable asperity. "Do you--really?" mocked the Older Man, still smiling very faintly. For a few minutes then both men resumed their cigars, staring blinkishly out all the while from their dark green piazza corner into the dazzling white tennis courts that gleamed like so many slippery pine planks in the afternoon glare and heat. The month was August, the day typically handsome, typically vivid, typically caloric. It was the Younger Man who recovered his conversational interest first. "So you think I'm a fool?" he resumed at last quite abruptly. "Oh, no--no! Not for a minute!" denied the Older Man. "Why, my dear sir, I never even implied that you were a fool! All I said was that you--lived like a fool!" Starting to be angry, the Younger Man laughed instead. "You're certainly rather an amusing sort of chap," he acknowledged reluctantly. A gleam of real pride quickened most ingenuously in the Older Man's pale blue eyes. "Why, that's just the whole point of my argument," he beamed. "Now--you look interesting. But you aren't! And I--don't look interesting. But it seems that I am!" "You--you've got a nerve!" reverted the Younger Man. Altogether serenely the Older Man began to rummage again through all his pockets. "Thank you for your continuous compliments," he mused. "Thank you, I say. Thank you--very much. Now for the very first time, sir, it's beginning to dawn on me just why you have honored me with so much of your company--the past three or four days. I truly believe that you like me! Eh? But up to last Monday, if I remember correctly," he added drily, "it was that showy young Philadelphia crowd that was absorbing the larger part of your--valuable attention? Eh? Wasn't it?" "What in thunder are you driving at?" snapped the Younger Man. "What are you trying to string me about, anyway? What's the harm if I did say that I wished to glory I'd never come to this blasted hotel? Of all the stupid people! Of all the stupid places! Of all the stupid--everything!" "The mountains here are considered quite remarkable by some," suggested the Older Man blandly. "Mountains?" snarled the Younger Man. "Mountains? Do you think for a moment that a fellow like me comes to a God-forsaken spot like this for the sake of mountains?" A trifle noisily the Older Man jerked his chair around and, slouching down into his shabby gray clothes, with his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his feet shoved out before him, sat staring at his companion. Furrowed abruptly from brow to chin with myriad infinitesimal wrinkles of perplexity, his lean, droll face looked suddenly almost monkeyish in its intentness. "What does a fellow like you come to a place like this for?" he asked bluntly. "Why--tennis," conceded the Younger Man. "A little tennis. And golf--a little golf. And--and--" "And--girls," asserted the Older Man with precipitous conviction. Across the Younger Man's splendidly tailored shoulders a little flicker of self-consciousness went crinkling. "Oh, of course," he grinned. "Oh, of course I've got a vacationist's usual partiality for pretty girls. But Great Heavens!" he began, all over again. "Of all the stupid--!" "But you live like such a fool--of course you're bored," resumed the Older Man. "There you are at it again!" stormed the Younger Man with tempestuous resentment. "Why shouldn't I be 'at it again'?" argued the Older Man mildly. "Always and forever picking out the showiest people that you can find--and always and forever being bored to death with them eventually, but never learning anything from it--that's you! Now wouldn't that just naturally suggest to any observing stranger that there was something radically idiotic about your method of life?" "But that Miss Von Eaton looked like such a peach!" protested the Younger Man worriedly. "That's exactly what I say," droned the Older Man. "Why, she's the handsomest girl here!" insisted the Younger Man arrogantly. "That's exactly what I say," droned the Older Man. "And the best dresser!" boasted the Younger Man stubbornly. "That's exactly what I say," droned the Older Man. "Why, just that pink paradise hat alone would have knocked almost any chap silly," grinned the Younger Man a bit sheepishly. "Humph!" mused the Older Man still droningly. "Humph! When a chap falls in love with a girl's hat at a summer resort, what he ought to do is to hike back to town on the first train he can catch--and go find the milliner who made the hat!" "Hike back to--town?" gibed the Younger Man. "Ha!" he sneered. "A chap would have to hike back a good deal farther than 'town' these days to find a girl that was worth hiking back for! What in thunder's the matter with all the girls?" he queried petulantly. "They get stupider and stupider every summer! Why, the peachiest débutante you meet the whole season can't hold your interest much beyond the stage where you once begin to call her by her first name!" Irritably, as he spoke, he reached out for a bright-covered magazine from the great pile of books and papers that sprawled on the wicker table close at his elbow. "Where in blazes do the story-book writers find their girls?" he demanded. Noisily with his knuckles he began to knock through page after page of the magazine's big-typed advertisements concerning the year's most popular story-book heroines. "Why--here are no end of story-book girls," he complained, "that could keep a fellow guessing till his hair was nine shades of white! Look at the corking things they say! But what earthly good are any of 'em to you? They're not real! Why, there was a little girl in a magazine story last month--! Why, I could have died for her! But confound it, I say, what's the use? They're none of 'em real! Nothing but moonshine! Nothing in the world, I tell you, but just plain made-up moonshine! Absolutely improbable!" Slowly the Older Man drew in his long, rambling legs and crossed one knee adroitly over the other. "Improbable--your grandmother!" said the Older Man. "If there's--one person on the face of this earth who makes me sick it's the ninny who calls a thing 'improbable' because it happens to be outside his own special, puny experience of life." Tempestuously the Younger Man slammed down his magazine to the floor. "Great Heavens, man!" he demanded. "Where in thunder would a fellow like me start out to find a story-book girl? A real girl, I mean!" "Almost anywhere--outside yourself," murmured the Older Man blandly. "Eh?" jerked the Younger Man. "That's what I said," drawled the Older Man with unruffled suavity. "But what's the use?" he added a trifle more briskly. "Though you searched a thousand years! A 'real girl'? Bah! You wouldn't know a 'real girl' if you saw her!" "I tell you I would!" snapped the Younger Man. "I tell you--you wouldn't!" said the Older Man. "Prove it!" challenged the Younger Man. "It's already proved!" confided the Older Man. "Ha! I know your type!" he persisted frankly. "You're the sort of fellow, at a party, who just out of sheer fool-instinct will go trampling down every other man in sight just for the sheer fool-joy of trying to get the first dance with the most conspicuously showy-looking, most conspicuously artificial-looking girl in the room--who always and invariably 'bores you to death' before the evening is over! And while you and the rest of your kind are battling together--year after year--for this special privilege of being 'bored to death,' the 'real girl' that you're asking about, the marvelous girl, the girl with the big, beautiful, unspoken thoughts in her head, the girl with the big, brave, undone deeds in her heart, the girl that stories are made of, the girl whom you call 'improbable'--is moping off alone in some dark, cold corner--or sitting forlornly partnerless against the bleak wall of the ballroom--or hiding shyly up in the dressing-room--waiting to be discovered! Little Miss Still-Waters, deeper than ten thousand seas! Little Miss Gunpowder, milder than the dusk before the moon ignites it! Little Miss Sleeping-Beauty, waiting for her Prince!" "Oh, yes--I suppose so," conceded the Younger Man impatiently. "But that Miss Von Eaton--" "Oh, it isn't that I don't know a pretty face--or hat, when I see it," interrupted the Older Man nonchalantly. "It's only that I don't put my trust in 'em." With a quick gesture, half audacious, half apologetic, he reached forward suddenly and tapped the Younger Man's coat sleeve. "Oh, I knew just as well as you," he affirmed, "oh, I knew just as well as you--at my first glance--that your gorgeous young Miss Von Eaton was excellingly handsome. But I also knew--not later certainly than my second glance--that she was presumably rather stupid. You can't be interesting, you know, my young friend, unless you do interesting things--and handsome creatures are proverbially lazy. Humph! If Beauty is excuse enough for Being, it sure takes Plainness then to feel the real necessity for--Doing. "So, speaking of hats, if it's stimulating conversation that you're after, if you're looking for something unique, something significant, something really worth while--what you want to do, my young friend, is to find a girl with a hat you'd be ashamed to go out with--and stay home with her! That's where you'll find the brains, the originality, the vivacity, the sagacity, the real ideas!" With his first sign of genuine amusement the Younger Man tipped back his head and laughed right up into the green-lined roof of the piazza. "Now just whom would you specially recommend for me?" he demanded mirthfully. "Among all the feminine galaxy of bores and frumps that seem to be congregated at this particular hotel--just whom would you specially recommend for me? The stoop-shouldered, school-marmy Botany dame with her incessant garden gloves? Or?--Or--?" His whole face brightened suddenly with a rather extraordinary amount of humorous malice: "Or how about that duddy-looking little Edgarton girl that I saw you talking with this morning?" he asked delightedly. "Heaven knows she's colorless enough to suit even you--with her winter-before-spring-before-summer-before-last clothes and her voice so meek you'd have to hold her in your lap to hear it. And her--" "That 'duddy-looking' little Miss Edgarton--meek?" mused the Older Man in sincere astonishment. "Meek? Why, man alive, she was born in a snow-shack on the Yukon River! She was at Pekin in the Boxer Rebellion! She's roped steers in Oklahoma! She's matched her embroidery silks to all the sunrise tints on the Himalayas! Just why in creation should she seem meek--do you suppose--to a--to a--twenty-five-dollar-a-week clerk like yourself?" "'A twenty-five-dollar-a-week clerk like myself?'" the Younger Man fairly gasped. "Why--why--I'm the junior partner of the firm of Barton & Barton, stock-brokers! Why, we're the biggest--" "Is that so?" quizzed the Older Man with feigned surprise. "Well--well--well! I beg your pardon. But now doesn't it all go to prove just exactly what I said in the beginning--that it doesn't behoove a single one of us to judge too hastily by appearances?" As if fairly overwhelmed with embarrassment he sat staring silently off into space for several seconds. Then--"Speaking of this Miss Edgarton," he resumed genially, "have you ever exactly sought her out--as it were--and actually tried to get acquainted with her?" "No," said Barton shortly. "Why, the girl must be thirty years old!" "S--o?" mused the Older Man. "Just about your age?" "I'm thirty-two," growled the Younger Man. "I'm sixty-two, thank God!" acknowledged the Older Man. "And your gorgeous Miss Von Eaton--who bores you so--all of a sudden--is about--?" "Twenty," prompted the Younger Man. "Poor--senile--babe," ruminated the Older Man soberly. "Eh?" gasped the Younger Man, edging forward in his chair. "Eh? 'Senile'? Twenty?" "Sure!" grinned the Older Man. "Twenty is nothing but the 'sere and yellow leaf' of infantile caprice! But thirty is the jocund youth of character! On land or sea the Lord Almighty never made anything as radiantly, divinely young as--thirty! Oh, but thirty's the darling age in a woman!" he added with sudden exultant positiveness. "Thirty's the birth of individuality! Thirty's the--" "Twenty has got quite enough individuality for me, thank you!" asserted Barton with some curtness. "But it hasn't!" cried the Older Man hotly. "You've just confessed that it hasn't!" In an amazing impulse of protest he reached out and shook his freckled fist right under the Younger Man's nose. "Twenty, I tell you, hasn't got any individuality at all!" he persisted vehemently. "Twenty isn't anything at all except the threadbare cloak of her father's idiosyncrasies, lined with her mother's made-over tact, trimmed with her great-aunt somebody's short-lipped smile, shrouding a brand-new frame of--God knows what!" "Eh? What?" questioned the Younger Man uneasily. "When a girl is twenty, I tell you," persisted the Older Man--"there's not one marrying man among us--Heaven help us!--who can swear whether her charm is Love's own permanent food or just Nature's temporary bait! At twenty, I tell you, there's not one man among us who can prove whether vivacity is temperament or just plain kiddishness; whether sweetness is real disposition or just coquetry; whether tenderness is personal discrimination or just sex; whether dumbness is stupidity or just brain hoarding its immature treasure; whether indeed coldness is prudery or just conscious passion banking its fires! The dear daredevil sweetheart whom you worship at eighteen will evolve, likelier than not, into a mighty sour prig at forty; and the dove-gray lass who led you to church with her prayer-book ribbons twice every Sunday will very probably decide to go on the vaudeville stage--when her children are just in the high school; and the dull-eyed wallflower whom you dodged at all your college dances will turn out, ten chances to one, the only really wonderful woman you know! But at thirty! Oh, ye gods, Barton! If a girl interests you at thirty you'll be utterly mad about her when she's forty--fifty--sixty! If she's merry at thirty, if she's ardent, if she's tender, it's her own established merriment, it's her own irreducible ardor, it's her--Why, man alive! Why--why--" "Oh, for Heaven's sake!" gasped Barton. "Whoa there! Go slow! How in creation do you expect anybody to follow you?" "Follow me? Follow me?" mused the Older Man perplexedly. Staring very hard at Barton, he took the opportunity to swallow rather loudly once or twice. "Now speaking of Miss Edgarton," he resumed persistently, "now, speaking of this Miss Edgarton, I don't presume for an instant that you're looking for a wife on this trip, but are merely hankering a bit now and then for something rather specially diverting in the line of feminine companionship?" "Well, what of it?" conceded the Younger Man. "This of it," argued the Older Man. "If you are really craving the interesting why don't you go out and rummage around for it? Rummage around was what I said! Yes! The real hundred-cent-to-the-dollar treasures of Life, you know, aren't apt to be found labeled as such and lying round very loose on the smugly paved general highway! And astonishingly good looks and astonishingly good clothes are pretty nearly always equivalent to a sign saying, 'I've already been discovered, thank you!' But the really big sport of existence, young man, is to strike out somewhere and discover things for yourself!" "Is--it?" scoffed Barton. "It is!" asserted the Older Man. "The woman, I tell you, who fathoms heroism in the fellow that every one else thought was a knave--she's got something to brag about! The fellow who's shrewd enough to spy unutterable lovableness in the woman that no man yet has ever even remotely suspected of being lovable at all--God! It's like being Adam with the whole world virgin!" "Oh, that may be all right in theory," acknowledged the Younger Man, with some reluctance. "But--" "Now, speaking of Miss Edgarton," resumed the Older Man monotonously. "Oh, hang Miss Edgarton!" snapped the Younger Man. "I wouldn't be seen talking to her! She hasn't any looks! She hasn't any style! She hasn't any--anything! Of all the hopelessly plain girls! Of all the--!" "Now see here, my young friend," begged the Older Man blandly. "The fellow who goes about the world judging women by the sparkle of their eyes or the pink of their cheeks or the sheen of their hair--runs a mighty big risk of being rated as just one of two things, a sensualist or a fool." "Are you trying to insult me?" demanded the Younger Man furiously. Freakishly the Older Man twisted his thin-lipped mouth and one glowering eyebrow into a surprisingly sudden and irresistible smile. "Why--no," he drawled. "Under all existing circumstances I should think I was complimenting you pretty considerably by rating you only as a fool." "Eh?" jumped Barton again. "U-m-m," mused the Older Man thoughtfully. "Now believe me, Barton, once and for all, there 's no such thing as a 'hopelessly plain woman'! Every woman, I tell you, is beautiful concerning the thing that she's most interested in! And a man's an everlasting dullard who can't ferret out what that interest is and summon its illuminating miracle into an otherwise indifferent face--" "Is that so?" sniffed Barton. Lazily the Older Man struggled to his feet and stretched his arms till his bones began to crack. "Bah! What's beauty, anyway," he complained, "except just a question of where Nature has concentrated her supreme forces--in outgrowing energy, which is beauty; or ingrowing energy, which is brains! Now I like a little good looks as well as anybody," he confided, still yawning, "but when I see a woman living altogether on the outside of her face I don't reckon too positively on there being anything very exciting going on inside that face. So by the same token, when I see a woman who isn't squandering any centric fires at all on the contour of her nose or the arch of her eyebrows or the flesh-tints of her cheeks, it surely does pique my curiosity to know just what wonderful consuming energy she is busy about. "A face isn't meant to be a living-room, anyway, Barton, but just a piazza where the seething, preoccupied soul can dash out now and then to bask in the breeze and refreshment of sympathy and appreciation. Surely then--it's no particular personal glory to you that your friend Miss Von Eaton's energy cavorts perpetually in the gold of her hair or the blue of her eyes, because rain or shine, congeniality or noncongeniality, her energy hasn't any other place to go. But I tell you it means some compliment to a man when in a bleak, dour, work-worn personality like the old Botany dame's for instance he finds himself able to lure out into occasional facial ecstasy the _amazing_ vitality which has been slaving for Science alone these past fifty years. Mushrooms are what the old Botany dame is interested in, Barton. Really, Barton, I think you'd be surprised to see how extraordinarily beautiful the old Botany dame can be about mushrooms! Gleam of the first faint streak of dawn, freshness of the wildest woodland dell, verve of the long day's strenuous effort, flush of sunset and triumph, zeal of the student's evening lamp, puckering, daredevil smile of reckless experiment--" "Say! Are you a preacher?" mocked the Younger Man sarcastically. "No more than any old man," conceded the Older Man with unruffled good-nature. "Old man?" repeated Barton, skeptically. In honest if reluctant admiration for an instant, he sat appraising his companion's extraordinary litheness and agility. "Ha!" he laughed. "It would take a good deal older head than yours to discover what that Miss Edgarton's beauty is!" "Or a good deal younger one, perhaps," suggested the Older Man judicially. "But--but speaking of Miss Edgarton--" he began all over again. "Oh--drat Miss Edgarton!" snarled the Younger Man viciously. "You've got Miss Edgarton on the brain! Miss Edgarton this! Miss Edgarton that! Miss Edgarton! Who in blazes is Miss Edgarton, anyway?" "Miss Edgarton? Miss Edgarton?" mused the Older Man thoughtfully. "Who is she? Miss Edgarton? Why--no one special--except--just my daughter." Like a fly plunged all unwittingly upon a sheet of sticky paper the Younger Man's hands and feet seemed to shoot out suddenly in every direction. "Good Heavens!" he gasped. "Your daughter?" he mumbled. "Your daughter?" Every other word or phrase in the English language seemed to be stricken suddenly from his lips. "Your--your--daughter?" he began all over again. "Why--I--I--didn't know your name was Edgarton!" he managed finally to articulate. An expression of ineffable triumph, and of triumph only, flickered in the Older Man's face. "Why, that's just what I've been saying," he reiterated amiably. "You don't know anything!" Fatuously the Younger Man rose to his feet, still struggling for speech--any old speech--a sentence, a word, a cough, anything, in fact, that would make a noise. "Well, if little Miss Edgarton is--little Miss Edgarton," he babbled idiotically, "who in creation--are you?" "Who am I?" stammered the Older Man perplexedly. As if the question really worried him, he sagged back a trifle against the sustaining wall of the house, and stood with his hands thrust deep in his pockets once more. "Who am I?" he repeated blandly. Again one eyebrow lifted. Again one side of his thin-lipped mouth twitched ever so slightly to the right. "Why, I'm just a man, Mr. Barton," he grinned very faintly, "who travels all over the world for the sake of whatever amusement he can get out of it. And some afternoons, of course, I get a good deal more amusement out of it--than I do others. Eh?" Furiously the red blood mounted into the Young Man's cheeks. "Oh, I say, Edgarton!" he pleaded. Mirthlessly, wretchedly, a grin began to spread over his face. "Oh, I say!" he faltered. "I _am_ a fool!" The Older Man threw back his head and started to laugh. [Illustration: 'I am riding,' she murmured almost inaudibly] At the first cackling syllable of the laugh, with appalling fatefulness Eve Edgarton herself loomed suddenly on the scene, in her old slouch hat, her gray flannel shirt, her weather-beaten khaki Norfolk and riding-breeches, looking for all the world like an extraordinarily slim, extraordinarily shabby little boy just starting out to play. Up from the top of one riding-boot the butt of a revolver protruded slightly. With her heavy black eyelashes shadowing somberly down across her olive-tinted cheeks, she passed Barton as if she did not even see him and went directly to her father. "I am riding," she murmured almost inaudibly. "In this heat?" groaned her father. "In this heat," echoed Eve Edgarton. "There will surely be a thunder-storm," protested her father. "There will surely be a thunder-storm," acquiesced Eve Edgarton. Without further parleying she turned and strolled off again. Just for an instant the Older Man's glance followed her. Just for an instant with quizzically twisted eyebrows his glance flashed back sardonically to Barton's suffering face. Then very leisurely he began to laugh again. But right in the middle of the laugh--as if something infinitely funnier than a joke had smitten him suddenly--he stopped short, with one eyebrow stranded half-way up his forehead. "Eve!" he called sharply. "Eve! Come back here a minute!" Very laggingly from around the piazza corner the girl reappeared. "Eve," said her father quite abruptly, "this is Mr. Barton! Mr. Barton, this is my daughter!" Listlessly the girl came forward and proffered her hand to the Younger Man. It was a very little hand. More than that, it was an exceedingly cold little hand. "How do you do, sir?" she murmured almost inaudibly. With an expression of ineffable joy the Older Man reached out and tapped his daughter on the shoulder. "It has just transpired, my dear Eve," he beamed, "that you can do this young man here an inestimable service--tell him something--teach him something, I mean--that he very specially needs to know!" As one fairly teeming with benevolence he stood there smiling blandly into Barton's astonished face. "Next to the pleasure of bringing together two people who like each other," he persisted, "I know of nothing more poignantly diverting than the bringing together of people who--who--" Mockingly across his daughter's unconscious head, malevolently through his mask of utter guilelessness and peace, he challenged Barton's staring helplessness. "So--taken all in all," he drawled still beamingly, "there's nothing in the world--at this particular moment, Mr. Barton--that could amuse me more than to have you join my daughter in her ride this afternoon!" "Ride with me?" gasped little Eve Edgarton. "This afternoon?" floundered Barton. "Oh--why--yes--of course! I'd be delighted! I'd be--be! Only--! Only I'm afraid that--!" Deprecatingly with uplifted hand the Older Man refuted every protest. "No, indeed, Mr. Barton," he insisted. "Oh, no--no indeed--I assure you it won't inconvenience my daughter in the slightest! My daughter is very obliging! My daughter, indeed--if I may say so in all modesty--my daughter indeed is always a good deal of a--philanthropist!" Then very grandiloquently, like a man in an old-fashioned picture, he began to back away from them, bowing low all the time, very, very low, first to Barton, then to his daughter, then to Barton again. "I wish you both a very good afternoon!" he said. "Really, I see no reason why either of you should expect a single dull moment!" [Illustration: "I would therefore respectfully suggest as a special topic of conversation the consummate cheek of--yours truly, Paul Reymouth Edgarton"] Before the sickly grin on Barton's face his own smile deepened into actual unctuousness. But before the sudden woodeny set of his daughter's placid mouth his unctuousness twisted just a little bit wryly on his lips. "After all, my dear young people," he asserted hurriedly, "there's just one thing in the world, you know, that makes two people congenial, and that is--that they both shall have arrived at exactly the same conclusion--by two totally different routes. It's got to be exactly the same conclusion, else there isn't any sympathy in it. But it's got to be by two totally different routes, you understand, else there isn't any talky-talk to it!" Laboriously one eyebrow began to jerk its way up his forehead, and with a purely mechanical instinct he reached up drolly and pulled it down again. "So--as the initial test of your mutual congeniality this afternoon," he resumed, "I would therefore respectfully suggest as a special topic of conversation the consummate cheek of--yours truly, Paul Reymouth Edgarton!" Starting to bow once more, he backed instead into the screen of the office window. Without even an expletive he turned, pushed in the screen, clambered adroitly through the aperture, and disappeared almost instantly from sight. Very faintly from some far up-stairs region the thin, faint, single syllable of a laugh came floating down into the piazza corner. Then just as precipitous as a man steps into any other hole, Barton stepped into the conversational topic that had just been so aptly provided for him. "Is your father something of a--of a practical joker, Miss Edgarton?" he demanded with the slightest possible tinge of shrillness. For the first time in Barton's knowledge of little Eve Edgarton she lifted her eyes to him--great hazel eyes, great bored, dreary, hazel eyes set broadly in a too narrow olive face. "My father is generally conceded to be something of a joker, I believe," she said dully. "But it would never have occurred to me to call him a particularly practical one. I don't like him," she added without a flicker of expression. "I don't either!" snapped Barton. A trifle uneasily little Eve Edgarton went on. "Why--once when I was a tiny child--" she droned. "I don't know anything about when you were a tiny child," affirmed Barton with some vehemence. "But just this afternoon--!" In striking contrast to the cool placidity of her face one of Eve Edgarton's boot-toes began to tap-tap-tap against the piazza floor. When she lifted her eyes again to Barton their sleepy sullenness was shot through suddenly with an unmistakable flash of temper. "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Mr. Barton!" she cried out. "If you insist upon riding with me, couldn't you please hurry? The afternoons are so short!" "If I 'insist' upon riding with you?" gasped Barton. Disconcertingly from an upper window the Older Man's face beamed suddenly down upon him. "Oh, don't mind anything she says," drawled the Older Man. "It's just her cunning, 'meek' little ways." Precipitately Barton bolted for his room. Once safely ensconced behind his closed door a dozen different decisions, a dozen different indecisions, rioted tempestuously through his mind. To go was just as awkward as not to go! Not to go was just as awkward as to go! Over and over and over one silly alternative chased the other through his addled senses. Then just as precipitately as he had bolted to his room he began suddenly to hurl himself into his riding-clothes, yanking out a bureau drawer here, slamming back a closet door there, rummaging through a box, tipping over a trunk, yet in all his fuming haste, his raging irritability, showing the same fastidious choice of shirt, tie, collar, that characterized his every public appearance. Immaculate at last as a tailor's equestrian advertisement he came striding down again into the hotel office, only to plunge most inopportunely into Miss Von Eaton's languorous presence. "Why, Jim!" gasped Miss Von Eaton. Exquisitely white and cool and fluffy and dainty, she glanced up perplexedly at him from her lazy, deep-seated chair. "Why, Jim!" she repeated, just a little bit edgily. "Riding? Riding? Well, of all things! You who wouldn't even play bridge with us this afternoon on account of the heat! Well, who in the world--who can it be that has cut us all out?" Teasingly she jumped up and walked to the door with him, and stood there peering out beyond the cool shadow of his dark-blue shoulder into the dazzling road where, like so many figures thrust forth all unwittingly into the merciless flare of a spot-light, little shabby Eve Edgarton and three sweating horses waited squintingly in the dust. "Oh!" cried Miss Von Eaton. "W-hy!" stammered Miss Von Eaton. "Good gracious!" giggled Miss Von Eaton. Then hysterically, with her hand clapped over her mouth, she turned and fled up the stairs to confide the absurd news to her mates. With a face like a graven image Barton went on down the steps into the road. In one of his thirty-dollar riding-boots a disconcerting two-cent sort of squeak merely intensified his unhappy sensation of being motivated purely mechanically like a doll. Two of the horses that whinnied cordially at his approach were rusty roans. The third was a chunky gray. Already on one of the roans Eve Edgarton sat perched with her bridle-rein oddly slashed in two, and knotted, each raw end to a stirrup, leaving her hands and arms still perfectly free to hug her mysterious books and papers to her breast. "Good afternoon again, Miss Edgarton," smiled Barton conscientiously. "Good afternoon again, Mr. Barton," echoed Eve Edgarton listlessly. With frank curiosity he nodded toward her armful of papers. "Surely you're not going to carry--all that stuff with you?" he questioned. "Yes, I am, Mr. Barton," drawled Eve Edgarton, scarcely above a whisper. Worriedly he pointed to her stirrups. "But Great Scott, Miss Edgarton!" he protested. "Surely you're not reckless enough to ride like that? Just guiding with your feet?" "I always--do, Mr. Barton," singsonged the girl monotonously. "But the extra horse?" cried Barton. With a sudden little chuckle of relief he pointed to the chunky gray. There was a side-saddle on the chunky gray. "Who's going with us?" Almost insolently little Eve Edgarton narrowed her sleepy eyes. "I always taken an extra horse with me, Mr. Barton--Thank you!" she yawned, with the very faintest possible tinge of asperity. "Oh!" stammered Barton quite helplessly. "O--h!" Heavily, as he spoke, he lifted one foot to his stirrup and swung up into his saddle. Through all his mental misery, through all his physical discomfort, a single lovely thought sustained him. There was only one really good riding road in that vicinity! And it was shady! And, thank Heaven, it was most inordinately short! But Eve Edgarton falsified the thought before he was half through thinking it. She swung her horse around, reared him to almost a perpendicular height, merged herself like so much fluid khaki into his great, towering, threatening neck, reacted almost instantly to her own balance again, and went plunging off toward the wild, rough, untraveled foot-hills and--certain destruction, any unbiased onlooker would have been free to affirm! Snortingly the chunky gray went tearing after her. A trifle sulkily Barton's roan took up the chase. Shade? Oh, ye gods! If Eve Edgarton knew shade when she saw it she certainly gave no possible sign of such intelligence. Wherever the galloping, grass-grown road hesitated between green-roofed forest and devastated wood-lot, she chose the devastated wood-lot! Wherever the trotting, treacherous pasture faltered between hobbly, rock-strewn glare and soft, lush-carpeted spots of shade, she chose the hobbly, rock-strewn glare! On and on and on! Till dust turned sweat! And sweat turned dust again! On and on and on! With the riderless gray thudding madly after her! And Barton's sulky roan balking frenziedly at each new swerve and turn! It must have been almost three miles before Barton quite overtook her. Then in the scudding, transitory shadow of a growly thunder-cloud she reined in suddenly, waited patiently till Barton's panting horse was nose and nose with hers, and then, pushing her slouch hat back from her low, curl-fringed forehead, jogged listlessly along beside him with her pale olive face turned inquiringly to his drenched, beet-colored visage. "What was it that you wanted me to do for you, Mr. Barton?" she asked with a laborious sort of courtesy. "Are you writing a book or something that you wanted me to help you about? Is that it? Is that what Father meant?" "Am I writing a--book?" gasped Barton. Desperately he began to mop his forehead. "Writing a book? Am--I--writing--a--book? Heaven forbid!" "What are you doing?" persisted the girl bluntly. "What am I doing?" repeated Barton. "Why, riding with you! Trying to ride with you!" he called out grimly as, taking the lead impetuously again, Eve Edgarton's horse shied off at a rabbit and went sidling down a sand-bank into a brand-new area of rocks and stubble and breast-high blueberry bushes. Barton liked to ride and he rode fairly well, but he was by no means an equestrian acrobat, and, quite apart from the girl's unquestionably disconcerting mannerisms, the foolish floppity presence of the riderless gray rattled him more than he could possibly account for. Yet to save his life he could not have told which would seem more childish--to turn back in temper, or to follow on--in the same. More in helplessness than anything else he decided to follow on. "On and on and on," would have described it more adequately. Blacker and blacker the huddling thunder-caps spotted across the brilliant, sunny sky. Gaspier and gaspier in each lulling tree-top, in each hushing bird-song, in each drooping grass-blade, the whole torrid earth seemed to be sucking in its breath as if it meant never, never to exhale it again. Once more in the midst of a particularly hideous glare the girl took occasion to rein in and wait for him, turning once more to his flushed, miserable countenance a little face inordinately pale and serene. "If you're not writing a book, what would you like to talk about, Mr. Barton?" she asked conscientiously. "Would you like to talk about peat-bog fossils?" "What?" gasped Barton. "Peat-bog fossils," repeated the mild little voice. "Are you interested in peat-bog fossils? Or would you rather talk about the Mississippi River pearl fisheries? Or do you care more perhaps for politics? Would you like to discuss the relative financial conditions of the South American republics?" Before the expression of blank despair in Barton's face, her own face fell a trifle. "No?" she ventured worriedly. "No? Oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Barton, but you see--you see--I've never been out before with anybody--my own age. So I don't know at all what you would be interested in!" "Never been out before with any one her own age?" gasped Barton to himself. Merciful Heavens! what was her "own age"? There in her little khaki Norfolk and old slouch hat she looked about fifteen years old--and a boy, at that. Altogether wretchedly he turned and grinned at her. "Miss Edgarton," he said, "believe me, there's not one thing to-day under God's heaven that does interest me--except the weather!" "The weather?" mused little Eve Edgarton thoughtfully. Casually, as she spoke, she glanced down across the horses' lathered sides and up into Barton's crimson face. "The weather? Oh!" she hastened anxiously to affirm. "Oh, yes! The meteorological conditions certainly are interesting this summer. Do you yourself think that it's a shifting of the Gulf Stream? Or just a--just a change in the paths of the cyclonic areas of low pressure?" she persisted drearily. "Eh?" gasped Barton. "The weather? Heat was what I meant, Miss Edgarton! Just plain heat!--DAMNED HEAT--was what I meant--if I may be so explicit, Miss Edgarton." "It is hot," conceded Eve apologetically. "In fact," snapped Barton, "I think it's the hottest day I ever knew!" "Really?" droned Eve Edgarton. "Really!" snapped Barton. It must have been almost half an hour before anybody spoke again. Then, "Pretty hot, isn't it?" Barton began all over again. "Yes," said Eve Edgarton. "In fact," hissed Barton through clenched teeth, "in fact I know it's the hottest day I ever knew!" "Really?" droned Eve Edgarton. "Really!" choked Barton. Creakily under their hot, chafing saddles the sweltering roans lurched off suddenly through a great snarl of bushes into a fern-shaded spring-hole and stood ankle-deep in the boggy grass, guzzling noisily at food and drink, with the chunky gray crowding greedily against first one rider and then the other. Quite against all intention Barton groaned aloud. His sun-scorched eyes seemed fairly shriveling with the glare. His wilted linen collar slopped like a stale poultice around his tortured neck. In his sticky fingers the bridle-rein itched like so much poisoned ribbon. Reaching up one small hand to drag the soft flannel collar of her shirt a little farther down from her slim throat, Eve Edgarton rested her chin on her knuckles for an instant and surveyed him plaintively. "Aren't--we--having--an--awful time?" she whispered. Even then if she had looked woman-y, girl-y, even remotely, affectedly feminine, Barton would doubtless have floundered heroically through some protesting lie. But to the frank, blunt, little-boyishness of her he succumbed suddenly with a beatific grin of relief. "Yes, we certainly are!" he acknowledged ruthlessly. "And what good is it?" questioned the girl most unexpectedly. "Not any good!" grunted Barton. "To any one?" persisted the girl. "Not to any one!" exploded Barton. With an odd little gasp of joy the girl reached out dartingly and touched Barton on his sleeve. Her face was suddenly eager, active, transcendently vital. "Then oh--won't you please--please--turn round--and go home--and leave me alone?" she pleaded astonishingly. "Turn round and go home?" stammered Barton. The touch on his sleeve quickened a little. "Oh, yes--please, Mr. Barton!" insisted the tremulous voice. "You--you mean I'm in your way?" stammered Barton. Very gravely the girl nodded her head. "Oh, yes, Mr. Barton--you're terribly in my way," she acknowledged quite frankly. "Good Heavens," thought Barton, "is there a man in this? Is it a tryst? Well, of all things!" Jerkily he began to back his horse out of the spring-hole, back--back--back through the intricate, overgrown pathway of flapping leaves and sharp, scratchy twigs. "I am very sorry, Miss Edgarton, to have forced my presence on you so!" he murmured ironically. "Oh, it isn't just you!" said little Eve Edgarton quite frankly. "It's all Father's friends." Almost threateningly as she spoke she jerked up her own horse's drizzling mouth and rode right at Barton as if to force him back even faster through the great snarl of underbrush. "I hate clever people!" she asserted passionately. "I hate them--hate them--hate them! I hate all Father's clever friends! I hate--" "But you see I'm not clever," grinned Barton in spite of himself. "Oh, not clever at all," he reiterated with some grimness as an alder branch slapped him stingingly across one eye. "Indeed--" he dodged and ducked and floundered, still backing, backing, everlastingly backing--"indeed, your father has spent quite a lot of his valuable time this afternoon assuring me--and reassuring me--that--that I'm altogether a fool!" Unrelentingly little Eve Edgarton's horse kept right on forcing him back--back--back. "But if you're not one of Father's clever friends--who are you?" she demanded perplexedly. "And why did you insist so on riding with me this afternoon?" she cried accusingly. "I didn't exactly--insist," grinned Barton with a flush of guilt. The flush of guilt added to the flush of heat made him look suddenly very confused. Across Eve Edgarton's thin little face the flash of temper faded instantly into mere sulky ennui again. "Oh, dear--oh, dear," she droned. "You--you didn't want to marry me, did you?" Just for one mad, panic-stricken second the whole world seemed to turn black before Barton's eyes. His heart stopped beating. His ear-drums cracked. Then suddenly, astonishingly, he found himself grinning into that honest little face, and answering comfortably: "Why, no, Miss Edgarton, I hadn't the slightest idea in the world of wanting to marry you." "Thank God for that!" gasped little Eve Edgarton. "So many of Father's friends do want to marry me," she confided plaintively, still driving Barton back through that horrid scratchy thicket. "I'm so rich, you see," she confided with equal simplicity, "and I know so much--there's almost always somebody in Petrozavodsk or Broken Hill or Bashukulumbwe who wants to marry me." "In--where?" stammered Barton. "Why--in Russia!" said little Eve Edgarton with some surprise. "And Australia! And Africa! Were you never there?" "I've been in Jersey City," babbled Barton with a desperate attempt at facetiousness. "I was never there!" admitted little Eve Edgarton regretfully. Vehemently with one hand she lunged forward and tried with her tiny open palm to push Barton's horse a trifle faster back through the intricate thicket. Then once in the open again she drew herself up with an absurd air of dignity and finality and bowed him from her presence. "Good-by, Mr. Barton," she said. "Good-by, Mr. Barton." "But Miss Edgarton--" stammered Barton perplexedly. Whatever his own personal joy and relief might be, the surrounding country nevertheless was exceedingly wild, and the girl an extravagantly long distance from home. "But Miss Edgarton--" he began all over again. "Good-by, Mr. Barton! And thank you for going home!" she added conscientiously. "But what will I tell your father?" worried Barton. "Oh--hang Father," drawled the indifferent little voice. "But the extra horse?" argued Barton with increasing perplexity. "The gray? If you've got some date up your sleeve, don't you want me to take the gray home with me, and get him out of your way?" With sluggish resentment little Eve Edgarton lifted her eyes to his. "What would the gray go home with you for?" she asked tersely. "Why, how silly! Why, it's my--mother's horse! That is, we call it my mother's horse," she hastened to explain. "My mother's dead, you know. She's almost always been dead, I mean. So Father always makes me buy an extra place for my mother. It's just a trick of ours, a sort of a custom. I play around alone so much you know. And we live in such wild places!" Casually she bent over and pushed the protruding butt of her revolver a trifle farther down into her riding boot. "S'long--Mr. Barton!" she called listlessly over the other, and started on, stumblingly, clatteringly, up the abruptly steep and precipitous mountain trail--a little dust-colored gnome on a dust-colored horse, with the dutiful gray pinking cautiously along behind her. By some odd twist of his bridle-rein the gray's chunky neck arched slightly askew, and he pranced now and then from side to side of the trail as if guided thus by an invisible hand. With an uncanny pucker along his spine as if he found himself suddenly deserting two women instead of one, Barton went fumbling and squinting out through the dusty green shade into the expected glare of the open pasture, and discovered, to his further disconcerting, that there was no glare left. Before his astonished eyes he saw sun-scorched mountain-top, sun-scorched granite, sun-scorched field stubble turned suddenly to shade--no cool, translucent miracle of fluctuant greens, but a horrid, plushy, purple dusk under a horrid, plushy, purple sky, with a rip of lightning along the horizon, a galloping gasp of furiously oncoming wind, an almost strangling stench of dust-scented rain. But before he could whirl his horse about, the storm broke! Heaven fell! Hell rose! The sides of the earth caved in! Chaos unspeakable tore north, east, south, west! Snortingly for one single instant the roan's panic-stricken nostrils went blooming up into the cloud-burst like two parched scarlet poinsettias. Then man and beast as one flesh, as one mind, went bolting back through the rain-drenched, wind-ravished thicket to find their mates. Up, up, up, everlastingly up, the mountain trail twisted and scrambled through the unholy darkness. Now and again a slippery stone tripped the roan's fumbling feet. Now and again a swaying branch slapped Barton stingingly across his straining eyes. All around and about them tortured forest trees moaned and writhed in the gale. Through every cavernous vista gray sheets of rain went flapping madly by them. The lightning was incredible. The thunder like the snarl of a glass sky shivering into inestimable fragments. With every gasping breath beginning to rip from his poor lungs like a knifed stitch, the roan still faltered on each new ledge to whinny desperately to his mate. Equally futilely from time to time, Barton, with his hands cupped to his mouth, holloed--holloed--holloed--into the thunderous darkness. Then at a sharp turn in the trail, magically, in a pale, transient flicker of light, loomed little Eve Edgarton's boyish figure, drenched to the skin apparently, wind-driven, rain-battered, but with hands in her pockets, slouch hat rakishly askew, strolling as nonchalantly down that ghastly trail as a child might come strolling down a stained-glassed, Persian-carpeted stairway to meet an expected guest. In vaguely silhouetted greeting for one fleet instant a little khaki arm lifted itself full length into the air. Then more precipitately than any rational thing could happen, more precipitately than any rational thing could even begin to happen, could even begin to begin to happen, without shock, without noise, without pain, without terror or turmoil, or any time at all to fight or pray--a slice of living flame came scaling through the darkness--and cut Barton's consciousness clean in two! CHAPTER II When Barton recovered the severed parts of his consciousness again and tried to pull them together, he found that the Present was strangely missing. The Past and the Future, however, were perfectly plain to him. He was a young stock-broker. He remembered that quite distinctly! And just as soon as the immediate dizzy mystery had been cleared up he would, of course, be a young stock-broker again! But between this snug conviction as to the Past, this smug assurance as to the Future, his mind lay tugging and shivering like a man under a split blanket. Where in creation was the Present? Alternately he tried to yank both Past and Future across the chilly interim. "There was--a--green and white piazza corner," vaguely his memory reminded him. "Never again!" some latent determination leaped to mock him. And there had been--some sort of an argument--with a drollish old man--concerning all homely girls in general and one very specially homely little girl in particular. And the--very specially homely little girl in particular had turned out to be the old man's--daughter!--"Never again!" his original impulse hastened to reassure him. And there had been a horseback ride--with the girl. Oh, yes--out of some strained sense of--of parental humor--there had been a forced horseback ride. And the weather hadbeen--hot--and black--and then suddenly very yellow. Yellow? Yellow? Dizzily the world began to whir through his senses--a prism of light, a fume of sulphur! Yellow? Yellow? What was yellow? What was anything? What was anything? Yes! That was just it! Where was anything? Whimperingly, like a dream-dazed dog, the soul of him began to shiver with fear. Oh, ye gods! If returning consciousness would only manifest itself first by some one indisputable proof of a still undisintegrated body, some crisp, reassuring method of outlining one's corporeal edges, some sensory roll-call, as it were of--head, hands, feet, sides! But out of oblivion, out of space abysmal, out of sensory annihilation, to come vaporing back, back, back,--headless, armless, legless, trunkless, conscious only of consciousness, uncertain yet whether the full awakening prove itself--this world or the next! As sacred of Heaven--as--of hell! As--! Then very, very slowly, with no realization of eyelids, with no realization of lifting his eyelids, Barton began to see things. And he thought he was lying on the soft outer edges of a gigantic black pansy, staring blankly through its glowing golden center into the droll, sketchy little face of the pansy. And then suddenly, with a jerk that seemed almost to crack his spine, he sensed that the blackness wasn't a pansy at all, but just a round, earthy sort of blackness in which he himself lay mysteriously prone. And he heard the wind still roaring furiously away off somewhere. And he heard the rain still drenching and sousing away off somewhere. But no wind seemed to be tugging directly at him, and no rain seemed to be splashing directly on him. And instead of the cavernous golden crater of a supernatural pansy there was just a perfectly tame yellow farm-lantern balanced adroitly on a low stone in the middle of the mysterious round blackness. And in the sallow glow of that pleasant lantern-light little Eve Edgarton sat cross-legged on the ground with a great pulpy clutter of rain-soaked magazines spread out all around her like a giant's pack of cards. And diagonally across her breast from shoulder to waistline her little gray flannel shirt hung gashed into innumerable ribbons. To Barton's blinking eyes she looked exceedingly strange and untidy. But nothing seemed to concern little Eve Edgarton except that spreading circle of half-drowned papers. "For Heaven's sake--wha--ght are you--do'?" mumbled Barton. Out from her flickering aura of yellow lantern-light little Eve Edgarton peered forth quizzically into Barton's darkness. "Why--I'm trying to save--my poor dear--books," she drawled. "Wha--ght?" struggled Barton. The word dragged on his tongue like a weight of lead. "Wha--ght?" he persisted desperately. "Wh--ere?--For--Heaven's sake--wha--ght's the matter--with us?" Solicitously little Eve Edgarton lifted a soggy magazine-page to the lantern's warm, curving cheek. "Why--we're in my cave," she confided. "In my very own--cave--you know--that I was headed for--all the time. We got--sort of--struck by lightning," she started to explain. "We--" "Struck by--lightning?" gasped Barton. Mentally he started to jump up. But physically nothing moved. "My God! I'm paralyzed!" he screamed. "Oh, no--really--I don't think so," crooned little Eve Edgarton. With the faintest possible tinge of reluctance she put down her papers, picked up the lantern, and, crawling over to where Barton lay, sat down cross-legged again on the ground beside him, and began with mechanically alternate fist and palm to rubadubdub and thump-thump-thump and stroke-stroke-stroke his utterly helpless body. "Oh--of--course--you've had--an awfully close call!" she drummed resonantly upon his apathetic chest. "But I've seen--three lightning people--a lot worse off than you!" she kneaded reassuringly into his insensate neck-muscles. "And--they--came out of it--all right--after a few days!" she slapped mercilessly into his faintly conscious sides. Very slowly, very sluggishly, as his circulation quickened again, a horrid suspicion began to stir in Barton's mind; but it took him a long time to voice the suspicion in anything as loud and public as words. "Miss--Edgarton!" he plunged at last quite precipitately. "Miss Edgarton! Do I seem to have--any shirt on?" "No, you don't seem to, exactly, Mr. Barton," conceded little Eve Edgarton. "And your skin--" From head to foot Barton's whole body strained and twisted in a futile effort to raise himself to at least one elbow. "Why, I'm stripped to my waist!" he stammered in real horror. "Why, yes--of course," drawled little Eve Edgarton. "And your skin--" Imperturbably as she spoke she pushed him down flat on the ground again and began, with her hands edged vertically like two slim boards, to slash little blissful gashes of consciousness and pain into his frigid right arm. "You see--I had to take both your shirts," she explained, "and what was left of your coat--and all of my coat--to make a soft, strong rope to tie round under your arms so the horse could drag you." "Did the roan drag me--'way up here?" groaned Barton a bit hazily. With the faintest possible gasp of surprise little Eve Edgarton stopped slashing his arm and, picking up the lantern, flashed it disconcertingly across his blinking eyes and naked shoulders. "The roans are in heaven," she said quite simply. "It was Mother's horse that dragged you up here." As casually as if he had been a big doll she reached out one slim brown finger and drew his under lip a little bit down from his teeth. "My! But you're still blue!" she confided frankly. "I guess perhaps you'd better have a little more vodka." Again Barton struggled vainly to raise himself on one elbow. "Vodka?" he stammered. Again the lifted lantern light flashed disconcertingly across his face and shoulders. "Why, don't you remember--anything?" drawled little Eve Edgarton. "Not anything at all? Why, I must have worked over you two hours--artificial respiration, you know, and all that sort of thing--before I even got you up here! My! But you're heavy!" she reproached him frowningly. "Men ought to stay just as light as they possibly can, so when they get into trouble and things--it would be easier for women to help them. Why, last year in the China Sea--with Father and five of his friends--!" A trifle shiveringly she shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, well, never mind about Father and the China Sea," she retracted soberly. "It's only that I'm so small, you see, and so flexible--I can crawl 'round most anywhere through port-holes and things--even if they're capsized. So we only lost one of them--one of Father's friends, I mean; and I never would have lost him if he hadn't been so heavy." "Hours?" gasped Barton irrelevantly. With a wry twist of his neck he peered out through the darkness to where the freshening air, the steady, monotonous slosh-slosh-slosh of rain, the pale intermittent flare of stale lightning, proclaimed the opening of the cave. "For Heaven's sake, wh-at--what time is it?" he faltered. "Why, I'm sure I don't know," said little Eve Edgarton. "But I should guess it might be about eight or nine o'clock. Are you hungry?" With infinite agility she scrambled to her knees and went darting off on all fours like a squirrel into some mysterious, clattery corner of the darkness from which she emerged at last with one little gray flannel arm crooked inclusively around a whole elbowful of treasure. "There," she drawled. "There. There. There." Only the soft earthy thud that accompanied each "There" pointed the slightest significance to the word. The first thud was a slim, queer, stone flagon of vodka. Wanly, like some far pinnacle on some far Russian fortress, its grim shape loomed in the sallow lantern light. The second thud was a dust-colored basket of dates from some green-spotted Arabian desert. Vaguely its soft curving outline merged into shadow and turf. The third thud was a battered old drinking-cup--dully silver, mysteriously Chinese. The fourth thud was a big glass jar of frankly American beef. Familiarly, reassuringly, its sleek sides glinted in the flickering flame. "Supper," announced little Eve Edgarton. As tomboyishly as a miniature brigand she crawled forward again into the meager square of lantern-tinted earth and, yanking a revolver out of one boot-leg and a pair of scissors from the other, settled herself with unassailable girlishness to jab the delicate scissors-points into the stubborn tin top of the meat jar. As though the tin had been his own flesh the act goaded Barton half upright into the light--a brightly naked young Viking to the waist, a vaguely shadowed equestrian Fashion Plate to the feet. "Well--I certainly never saw anybody like you before!" he glowered at her. With equal gravity but infinitely more deliberation little Eve Edgarton returned the stare. "I never saw anybody like you before, either," she said enigmatically. Barton winced back into the darkness. "Oh, I say," he stammered. "I wish I had a coat! I feel like a--like a--" "Why--why?" droned little Eve Edgarton perplexedly. Out from the yellow heart of the pansy-blackness her small, grave, gnomish face peered after him with pristine frankness. "Why--why--I think you look--nice," said little Eve Edgarton. With a really desperate effort Barton tried to clothe himself in facetiousness, if in nothing else. "Oh, very well," he grinned feebly. "If you don't mind--there's no special reason, I suppose, why I should." Vaguely, blurrishly, like a figure on the wrong side of a stained-glass window, he began to loom up again into the lantern light. There was no embarrassment certainly about his hunger, nor any affectation at all connected with his thirst. Chokingly from the battered silver cup he gulped down the scorching vodka. Ravenously he attacked the salty meat, the sweet, cloying dates. Watching him solemn-eyed above her own intermittent nibbles, the girl spoke out quite simply the thought that was uppermost in her mind. "This supper'll come in mighty handy, won't it, if we have to be out here all night, Mr. Barton?" "If we have to be out here--all night?" faltered Barton. Oh, ye gods! If just their afternoon ride together had been hotel talk--as of course it was within five minutes after their departure--what would their midnight return be? Or rather their non-return? Already through his addled brain he heard the monotonous creak-creak of rocking-chair gossip, the sly jest of the smoking-room, the whispered excitement of the kitchen--all the sophisticated old worldlings hoping indifferently for the best, all the unsophisticated old prudes yearning ecstatically for the worst! "If we have to stay out here all night?" he repeated wildly. "Oh, what--oh, what will your father say, Miss Edgarton?" "What will Father say?" drawled little Eve Edgarton. Thuddingly she set down the empty beef-jar. "Oh, Father'll say: What in creation is Eve out trying to save to-night? A dog? A cat? A three-legged deer?" "Well, what do you expect to save?" quizzed Barton a bit tartly. "Just--you," acknowledged little Eve Edgarton without enthusiasm. "And isn't it funny," she confided placidly, "that I've never yet succeeded in saving anything that I could take home with me--and keep! That's the trouble with boarding!" In a vague, gold-colored flicker of appeal her lifted face flared out again into Barton's darkness. Too fugitive to be called a smile, a tremor of reminiscence went scudding across her mouth before the brooding shadow of her old slouch hat blotted out her features again. "In India once," persisted the dreary little voice, "in India once, when Father and I were going into the mountains for the summer, there was a--there was a sort of fakir at one of the railway stations doing tricks with a crippled tiger-cub--a tiger-cub with a shot-off paw. And when Father wasn't looking I got off the train and went back--and I followed that fakir two days till he just naturally had to sell me the tiger-cub; he couldn't exactly have an Englishwoman following him indefinitely, you know. And I took the tiger-cub back with me to Father and he was very cunning--but--" Languorously the speech trailed off into indistinctness. "But the people at the hotel were--were indifferent to him," she rallied whisperingly. "And I had to let him go." "You got off a train? In India? Alone?" snapped Barton. "And went following a dirty, sneaking fakir for two days? Well, of all the crazy--indiscreet--" "Indiscreet?" mused little Eve Edgarton. Again out of the murky blackness her tilted chin caught up the flare of yellow lantern-light. "Indiscreet?" she repeated monotonously. "Who? I?" "Yes--you," grunted Barton. "Traipsing 'round all alone--after--" "But I never am alone, Mr. Barton," protested the mild little voice. "You see I always have the extra saddle, the extra railway ticket, the extra what-ever-it-is. And--and--" Caressingly a little gold-tipped hand reached out through the shadows and patted something indistinctly metallic. "My mother's memory? My father's revolver?" she drawled. "Why, what better company could any girl have? Indiscreet?" Slowly the tip of her little nose tilted up into the light. "Why, down in the Transvaal--two years ago," she explained painstakingly, "why, down in the Transvaal--two years ago--they called me the best-chaperoned girl in Africa. Indiscreet? Why, Mr. Barton, I never even saw an indiscreet woman in all my life. Men, of course, are indiscreet sometimes," she conceded conscientiously. "Down in the Transvaal two years ago, I had to shoot up a couple of men for being a little bit indiscreet, but--" In one jerk Barton raised himself to a sitting posture. "You 'shot up' a couple of men?" he demanded peremptorily. Through the crook of a mud-smeared elbow shoving back the sodden brim of her hat, the girl glanced toward him like a vaguely perplexed little ragamuffin. "It was--messy," she admitted softly. Out from her snarl of storm-blown hair, tattered, battered by wind and rain, she peered up suddenly with her first frowning sign of self-consciousness. "If there's one thing in the world that I regret," she faltered deprecatingly, "it's a--it's--an untidy fight." Altogether violently Barton burst out laughing. There was no mirth in the laugh, but just noise. "Oh, let's go home!" he suggested hysterically. "Home?" faltered little Eve Edgarton. With a sluggish sort of defiance she reached out and gathered the big wet scrap-book to her breast. "Why, Mr. Barton," she said, "we couldn't get home now in all this storm and darkness and wash-out--to save our lives. But even if it were moonlight," she singsonged, "and starlight--and high-noon; even if there were--chariots--at the door, I'm not going home--now--till I've finished my scrap-book--if it takes a week." "Eh?" jerked Barton. "What?" Laboriously he edged himself forward. For five hours now of reckless riding, of storm and privation, through death and disaster, the girl had clung tenaciously to her books and papers. What in creation was in them? "For Heaven's sake--Miss Edgarton--" he began. "Oh, don't fuss--so," said little Eve Edgarton. "It's nothing but my paper-doll book." "Your PAPER-DOLL BOOK?" stammered Barton. With another racking effort he edged himself even farther forward. "Miss Edgarton!" he asked quite frankly, "are you--crazy?" [Illustration: "Your PAPER-DOLL BOOK?" stammered Barton] "N--o! But--very determined," drawled little Eve Edgarton. With unruffled serenity she picked up a pulpy magazine-page from the ground in front of her and handed it to him. "And it--would greatly facilitate matters, Mr. Barton," she confided, "if you would kindly begin drying out some papers against your side of the lantern." "What?" gasped Barton. Very gingerly he took the pulpy sheet between his thumb and forefinger. It was a full-page picture of a big gas-range, and slowly, as he scanned it for some hidden charm or value, it split in two and fell soggily back to its mates. Once again for sheer nervous relief he burst out laughing. Out of her diminutiveness, out of her leanness, out of her extraordinary litheness, little Eve Edgarton stared up speculatively at Barton's great hulking helplessness. Her hat looked humorous. Her hair looked humorous. Her tattered flannel shirt was distinctly humorous. But there was nothing humorous about her set little mouth. "If you--laugh," she threatened, "I'll tip you over backward again--and--trample on you." "I believe you would!" said Barton with a sudden sobriety more packed with mirth than any laugh he had ever laughed. "Well, I don't care," conceded the girl a bit sheepishly. "Everybody laughs at my paper-doll book! Father does! Everybody does! When I'm rearranging their old mummy collections--and cataloguing their old South American birds--or shining up their old geological specimens--they think I'm wonderful. But when I try to do the teeniest--tiniest thing that happens to interest me--they call me 'crazy'! So that's why I come 'way out here to this cave--to play," she whispered with a flicker of real shyness. "In all the world," she confided, "this cave is the only place I've ever found where there wasn't anybody to laugh at me." Between her placid brows a vindictive little frown blackened suddenly. "That's why it wasn't specially convenient, Mr. Barton--to have you ride with me this afternoon," she affirmed. "That's why it wasn't specially convenient to--to have you struck by lightning this afternoon!" Tragically, with one small brown hand, she pointed toward the great water-soaked mess of magazines that surrounded her. "You see," she mourned, "I've been saving them up all summer--to cut out--to-day! And now?--Now--? We're sailing for Melbourne Saturday!" she added conclusively. "Well--really!" stammered Barton. "Well--truly!--Well, of all--damned things! Why--what do you want me to do? Apologize to you for having been struck by lightning?" His voice was fairly riotous with astonishment and indignation. Then quite unexpectedly one side of his mouth began to twist upward in the faintest perceptible sort of a real grin. "When you smile like that you're--quite pleasant," murmured little Eve Edgarton. "Is that so?" grinned Barton. "Well, it wouldn't hurt you to smile just a tiny bit now and then!" "Wouldn't it?" said little Eve Edgarton. Thoughtfully for a moment, with her scissors poised high in the air, she seemed to be considering the suggestion. Then quite abruptly again she resumed her task of prying some pasted object out of her scrap-book. "Oh, no, thank you, Mr. Barton," she decided. "I'm much too bored--all the while--to do any smiling." "Bored?" snapped Barton. Staring perplexedly into her dreary, meek little face, something deeper, something infinitely subtler than mere curiosity, wakened precipitately in his consciousness. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Edgarton!" he stammered. "From the Arctic Ocean to the South Seas, if you've seen all the things that you must have seen, if you've done all the things that you must have done--WHY SHOULD YOU LOOK SO BORED?" Flutteringly the girl's eyes lifted and fell. "Why, I'm bored, Mr. Barton," drawled little Eve Edgarton, "I'm bored because--I'm sick to death--of seeing all the things I've seen. I'm sick to death of--doing all the things I've done." With little metallic snips of sound she concentrated herself and her scissors suddenly upon the mahogany-colored picture of a pianola. "Well, what do you want?" quizzed Barton. In a sullen, turgid sort of defiance the girl lifted her somber eyes to his. "I want to stay home--like other people--and have a house," she wailed. "I want a house--and--the things that go with a house: a cat, and the things that go with a cat; kittens, and the things that go with kittens; saucers of cream, and the things that go with saucers of cream; ice-chests, and--and--" Surprisingly into her languid, sing-song tone broke a sudden note of passion. "Bah!" she snapped. "Think of going all the way to India just to plunge your arms into the spooky, foamy Ganges and 'make a wish'! 'What do you wish?' asks Father, pleased-as a Chessy-puss. Humph! I wish it was the soap-suds in my own wash-tub!--Or gallivanting down to British Guiana just to smell the great blowsy water-lilies in the canals! I'd rather smell burned crackers in my own cook stove!" "But you'll surely have a house--some time," argued Barton with real sympathy. Quite against all intention the girl's unexpected emotion disturbed him a little. "Every girl gets a house--some time!" he insisted resolutely. "N--o, I don't--think so," mused Eve Edgarton judicially. "You see," she explained with soft, slow deliberation, "you see, Mr. Barton, only people who live in houses know people who live in houses! If you're a nomad you meet--only nomads! Campers mate just naturally with campers, and ocean-travelers with ocean-travelers--and red-velvet hotel-dwellers with red-velvet hotel-dwellers. Oh, of course, if Mother had lived it might have been different," she added a trifle more cheerfully. "For, of course, if Mother had lived I should have been--pretty," she asserted calmly, "or interesting-looking, anyway. Mother would surely have managed it--somehow; and I should have had a lot of beaux--young men beaux I mean, like you. Father's friends are all so gray!--Oh, of course, I shall marry--some time," she continued evenly. "Probably I'm going to marry the British consul at Nunko-Nono. He's a great friend of Father's--and he wants me to help him write a book on 'The Geologic Relationship of Melanesia to the Australian Continent'!" Dully her voice rose to its monotone: "But I don't suppose--we shall live in a--house," she moaned apathetically. "At the best it will probably be only a musty room or two up over the consulate--and more likely than not it won't be anything at all except a nipa hut and a typewriter-table." As if some mote of dust disturbed her, suddenly she rubbed the knuckles of one hand across her eyes. "But maybe we'll have--daughters," she persisted undauntedly. "And maybe they'll have houses!" "Oh, shucks!" said Barton uneasily. "A--a house isn't so much!" "It--isn't?" asked little Eve Edgarton incredulously. "Why--why--you don't mean--" "Don't mean--what?" puzzled Barton. "Do--you--live--in--a--house?" asked little Eve Edgarton abruptly. Her hands were suddenly quiet in her lap, her tousled head cocked ever so slightly to one side, her sluggish eyes incredibly dilated. "Why, of course I live in a house," laughed Barton. "O--h," breathed little Eve Edgarton. "Re--ally? It must be wonderful." Wiltingly her eyes, her hands, drooped back to her scrap-book again. "In--all--my--life," she resumed monotonously, "I've never spent a single night--in a real house." "What?" questioned Barton. "Oh, of course," explained the girl dully, "of course I've spent no end of nights in hotels and camps and huts and trains and steamers and--But--What color is your house?" she asked casually. "Why, brown, I guess," said Barton. "Brown, you 'guess'?" whispered the girl pitifully. "Don't you--know?" "No, I wouldn't exactly like to swear to it," grinned Barton a bit sheepishly. Again the girl's eyes lifted just a bit over-intently from the work in her lap. "What color is the wall-paper--in your own room?" she asked casually. "Is it--is it a--dear pinkie-posie sort of effect? Or just plain--shaded stripes?" "Why, I'm sure I don't remember," acknowledged Barton worriedly. "Why, it's just paper, you know--paper," he floundered helplessly. "Red, green, brown, white--maybe it's white," he asserted experimentally. "Oh, for goodness' sake--how should I know!" he collapsed at last. "When my sisters were home from Europe last year, they fixed the whole blooming place over for--some kind of a party. But I don't know that I ever specially noticed just what it was that they did to it. Oh, it's all right, you know!" he attested with some emphasis. "Oh, it's all right enough--early Jacobean, or something like that--'perfectly corking,' everybody calls it! But it's so everlasting big, and it costs so much to run it, and I've lost such a wicked lot of money this year, that I'm not going to keep it after this autumn--if my sisters ever send me their Paris address so I'll know what to do with their things." Frowningly little Eve Edgarton bent forward. "'Some kind of a party?'" she repeated in unconscious mimicry. "You mean you gave a party? A real Christian party? As recently as last winter? And you can't even remember what kind of a party it was?" Something in her slender brown throat fluttered ever so slightly. "Why, I've never even been to a Christian party--in all my life!" she said. "Though I can dance in every language of Asia! "And you've got sisters?" she stammered. "Live silk-and-muslin sisters? And you don't even know where they are? Why, I've never even had a girl friend in all my life!" Incredulously she lifted her puzzled eyes to his. "And you've got a house?" she faltered. "And you're not going to keep it? A real--truly house? And you don't even know what color it is? You don't even know what color your own room is? And I know the name of every house-paint there is in the world," she muttered, "and the name of every wall-paper there is in the world, and the name of every carpet, and the name of every curtain, and the name of--everything. And I haven't got any house at all--" Then startlingly, without the slightest warning, she pitched forward suddenly on her face and lay clutching into the turf--a little dust-colored wisp of a boyish figure sobbing its starved heart out against a dust-colored earth. "Why--what's the matter!" gasped Barton. "Why!--Why--Kid!" Very laboriously with his numbed hands, with his strange, unresponsive legs, he edged himself forward a little till he could just reach her shoulder. "Why--Kid!" he patted her rather clumsily. "Why, Kid--do you mean--" Slowly through the darkness Eve Edgarton came crawling to his side. Solemnly she lifted her eyes to Barton's. "I'll tell you something that Mother told me," she murmured. "This is it: 'Your father is the most wonderful man that ever lived,' my mother whispered to me quite distinctly. 'But he'll never make any home for you--except in his arms; and that is plenty Home-Enough for a wife--but not nearly Home-Enough for a daughter! And--and--" "Why, you say it as if you knew it by heart," interrupted Barton. "Why, of course I know it by heart!" cried little Eve Edgarton almost eagerly. "My mother whispered it to me, I tell you! The things that people shout at you--you forget in half a night. But the things that people whisper to you, you remember to your dying day!" "If I whisper something to you," said Barton quite impulsively, "will you promise to remember it to your dying day?" "Oh, yes, Mr. Barton," droned little Eve Edgarton. Abruptly Barton reached out and tilted her chin up whitely toward him. "In this light," he whispered, "with your hat pushed back like--that!--and your hair fluffed up like--that!--and the little laugh in your eyes!--and the flush!--and the quiver!--you look like an--elf! A bronze and gold elf! You're wonderful! You're magical! You ought always to dress like that! Somebody ought to tell you about it! Woodsy, storm-colored clothes with little quick glints of light in them! Paquin or some of those people could make you famous!" As spontaneously as he had touched her he jerked his hand away, and, snatching up the lantern, flashed it bluntly on her astonished face. For one brief instant her hand went creeping up to the tip of her chin. Then very soberly, like a child with a lesson, she began to repeat Barton's impulsive phrases. "'In this light,'" she droned, "'with your hat pushed back like that--and your hair fluffed up like that--and the--the--'" More unexpectedly then than anything that could possibly have happened she burst out laughing--a little low, giggly, school-girlish sort of laugh. "Oh, that's easy to remember!" she announced. Then, all one narrow black silhouette again, she crouched down into the semi-darkness. "For a lady," she resumed listlessly, "who rode side-saddle and really enjoyed hiking 'round all over the sticky face of the globe, my mother certainly did guess pretty keenly just how things were going to be with me. I'll tell you what she said to sustain me," she repeated dreamily, "'Any foolish woman can keep house, but the woman who travels with your father has got to be able to keep the whole wide world for him! It's nations that you'll have to put to bed! And suns and moons and stars that you'll have to keep scoured and bright! But with the whole green earth for your carpet, and shining heaven for your roof-tree, and God Himself for your landlord, now wouldn't you be a fool, if you weren't quite satisfied?'" "'If--you--weren't--quite satisfied,'" finished Barton mumblingly. Little Eve Edgarton lifted her great eyes, soft with sorrow, sharp with tears, almost defiantly to Barton's. "That's--what--Mother said," she faltered. "But all the same--I'd RATHER HAVE A HOUSE!" "Why, you poor kid!" said Barton. "You ought to have a house! It's a shame! It's a beastly shame! It's a--" Very softly in the darkness his hand grazed hers. "Did you touch my hand on purpose, or just accidentally?" asked Eve Edgarton, without a flicker of expression on her upturned, gold-colored face. "Why, I'm sure I don't know," laughed Barton. "Maybe--maybe it was a little of each." With absolute gravity little Eve Edgarton kept right on staring at him. "I don't know whether I should ever specially like you--or not, Mr. Barton," she drawled. "But you are certainly very beautiful!" "Oh, I say!" cried Barton wretchedly. With a really desperate effort he struggled almost to his feet, tottered for an instant, and then came sagging down to the soft earth again--a great, sprawling, spineless heap, at little Eve Edgarton's feet. Unflinchingly, as if her wrists were built of steel wires, the girl jumped up and pulled and tugged and yanked his almost dead weight into a sitting posture again. "My! But you're chock-full of lightning!" she commiserated with him. Out of the utter rage and mortification of his helplessness Barton could almost have cursed her for her sympathy. Then suddenly, without warning, a little gasp of sheer tenderness escaped him. "Eve Edgarton," he stammered, "you're--a--brick! You--you must have been invented just for the sole purpose of saving people's lives. Oh, you've saved mine all right!" he acknowledged soberly. "And all this black, blasted night you've nursed me--and fed me--and jollied me--without a whimper about yourself--without--a--" Impulsively he reached out his numb-palmed hand to her, and her own hand came so cold to it that it might have been the caress of one ghost to another. "Eve Edgarton," he reiterated, "I tell you--you're a brick! And I'm a fool--and a slob--and a mutt-head--even when I'm not chock-full of lightning, as you call it! But if there's ever anything I can do for you!" "What did you say?" muttered little Eve Edgarton. "I said you were a brick!" repeated Barton a bit irritably. "Oh, no, I didn't mean--that," mused the girl. "But what was the--last thing you said?" "Oh!" grinned Barton more cheerfully. "I said--if there was ever anything that I could do for you, anything--" "Would you rent me your attic?" asked little Eve Edgarton. "Would I rent you my attic?" stammered Barton. "Why in the world should you want to hire my attic?" "So I could buy pretty things in Siam--or Ceylon--or any other queer country--and have some place to send them," said little Eve Edgarton. "Oh, I'd pay the express, Mr. Barton," she hastened to assure him. "Oh, I promise you there never would be any trouble about the express! Or about the rent!" Expeditiously as she spoke she reached for her hip pocket and brought out a roll of bills that fairly took Barton's breath away. "If there's one thing in the world, you know, that I've got, it's money," she confided perfectly simply. "So you see, Mr. Barton," she added with sudden wistfulness, "there's almost nothing on the face of the globe that I couldn't have--if I only had some place to put it." Without further parleying she proffered the roll of bills to him. "Miss Edgarton! Are you crazy?" Barton asked again quite precipitously. Again the girl answered his question equally frankly, and without offense. "Oh, no," she said. "Only very determined." "Determined about what?" grinned Barton in spite of himself. "Determined about an attic," drawled little Eve Edgarton. With an unwonted touch of vivacity she threw out one hand in a little, sharp gesture of appeal; but not a tone of her voice either quickened or deepened. "Why, Mr. Barton," she droned, "I'm thirty years old--and ever since I was born I've been traveling all over the world--in a steamer trunk. In a steamer trunk, mind you. With Father always standing over every packing to make sure that we never carry anything that--isn't necessary. With Father, I said," she re-emphasized by a sudden distinctness. "You know Father!" she added significantly. "Yes--I know 'Father,'" assented Barton with astonishing glibness. Once again the girl threw out her hand in an incongruous gesture of appeal. "The things that Father thinks are necessary!" she exclaimed softly. Noiselessly as a shadow she edged herself forward into the light till she faced Barton almost squarely. "Maybe you think it's fun, Mr. Barton," she whispered. "Maybe you think it's fun--at thirty years of age--with all your faculties intact--to own nothing in the world except--except a steamer trunkful of the things that Father thinks are necessary!" Very painstakingly on the fingers of one hand she began to enumerate the articles in question. "Just your riding togs," she said, "and six suits of underwear--and all the United States consular reports--and two or three wash dresses and two 'good enough' dresses--and a lot of quinine--and--a squashed hat--and--and--" Very faintly the ghost of a smile went flickering over her lips--"and whatever microscopes and specimen-cases get crowded out of Father's trunk. What's the use, Mr. Barton," she questioned, "of spending a whole year investigating the silk industry of China--if you can't take any of the silks home? What's the use, Mr. Barton, of rolling up your sleeves and working six months in a heathen porcelain factory--just to study glaze--if you don't own a china-closet in any city on the face of the earth? Why--sometimes, Mr. Barton," she confided, "it seems as if I'd die a horrible death if I couldn't buy things the way other people do--and send them somewhere--even if it wasn't 'home'! The world is so full of beautiful things," she mused. "White enamel bath-tubs--and Persian rugs--and the most ingenious little egg-beaters--and--" "Eh?" stammered Barton. Quite desperately he rummaged his brain for some sane-sounding expression of understanding and sympathy. "You could, I suppose," he ventured, not too intelligently, "buy the things and give them to other people." "Oh, yes, of course," conceded little Eve Edgarton without enthusiasm. "Oh, yes, of course, you can always buy people the things they want. But understand," she said, "there's very little satisfaction in buying the things you want to give to people who don't want them. I tried it once," she confided, "and it didn't work. "The winter we were in Paraguay," she went on, "in some stale old English newspaper I saw an advertisement of a white bedroom set. There were eleven pieces, and it was adorable, and it cost eighty-two pounds--and I thought after I'd had the fun of unpacking it, I could give it to a woman I knew who had a tea plantation. But the instant she got it--she painted it--green! Now when you send to England for eleven pieces of furniture because they are white," sighed little Eve Edgarton, "and have them crated--because they're white--and sent to sea because they're white--and then carried overland--miles and miles and miles--on Indians' heads--because they're white, you sort of want 'em to stay white. Oh, of course it's all right," she acknowledged patiently. "The Tea Woman was nice, and the green paint by no means--altogether bad. Only, looking back now on our winter in Paraguay, I seem to have missed somehow the particular thrill that I paid eighty-two pounds and all that freightage for." "Yes, of course," agreed Barton. He could see that. "So if you could rent me your attic--" she resumed almost blithely. "But my dear child," interrupted Barton, "what possible--" "Why--I'd have a place then to send things to," argued little Eve Edgarton. "But you're off on the high seas Saturday, you say," laughed Barton. "Yes, I know," explained little Eve Edgarton just a bit impatiently. "But the high seas are so dull, Mr. Barton. And then we sail so long!" she complained. "And so far!--via this, via that, via every other stupid old port in the world! Why, it will be months and months before we ever reach Melbourne! And of course on every steamer," she began to monotone, "of course on every steamer there'll be some one with a mixed-up collection of shells or coins--and that will take all my mornings. And of course on every steamer there'll be somebody struggling with the Chinese alphabet or the Burmese accents--and that will take all my afternoons. But in the evenings when people are just having fun," she kindled again, "and nobody wants me for anything, why, then you see I could steal 'way up in the bow--where you're not allowed to go--and think about my beautiful attic. It's pretty lonesome," she whispered, "all snuggled up there alone with the night, and the spray and the sailors' shouts, if you haven't got anything at all to think about except just 'What's ahead?--What's ahead?--What's ahead?' And even that belongs to God," she sighed a bit ruefully. With a quick jerk she edged herself even closer to Barton and sat staring up at him with her tousled head cocked on one side like an eager terrier. "So if you just--could, Mr. Barton!" she began all over again. "And oh, I know it couldn't be any real bother to you!" she hastened to reassure him. "Because after Saturday, you know, I'll probably never--never be in America again!" "Then what satisfaction," laughed Barton, "could you possibly get in filling up an attic with things that you will never see again?" "What satisfaction?" repeated little Eve Edgarton perplexedly. "What satisfaction?" Between her placid brows a very black frown deepened. "Why, just the satisfaction," she said, "of knowing before you die, that you had definitely diverted to your own personality that much specific treasure out of the--out of the--world's chaotic maelstrom of generalities." "Eh?" said Barton. "What? For Heaven's sake say it again!" "Why--just the satisfaction--" began Eve Edgarton. Then abruptly the sullen lines grayed down again around her mouth. "It seems funny to me, Mr. Barton," she almost whined, "that anybody as big as you are--shouldn't be able to understand anybody as little as--I am. But if I only had an attic!" she cried out with apparent irrelevance. "Oh, if just once in my whole life I could have even so much as an atticful of home! Oh, please--please--please, Mr. Barton!" she pleaded. "Oh, please!" Precipitously she lifted her small brown face to his, and in her eyes he saw the strangest little unfinished expression flame up suddenly and go out again, a little fleeting expression so sweet, so shy, so transcendently lovely, that if it had ever lived to reach her frowning brow, her sulky little mouth, her--! Then startlingly into his stare, into his amazement, broke a great white glare through the opening of the cave. "My God!" he winced, with his elbow across his eyes. "Why, it isn't lightning!" laughed little Eve Edgarton. "It's the moon!" Quick as a sprite she flashed to her feet and ran out into the moonlight. "We can go home now!" she called back triumphantly over her shoulder. "Oh, we can, can we?" snapped Barton. His nerves were strangely raw. He struggled to his knees, and tottered there watching the cheeky little moonbeams lap up the mystery of the cave, and scare the yellow lantern-flame into a mere sallow glow. Poignantly from the forest he heard Eve Edgarton's voice calling out into the night. "Come--Mother's--horse! Come--Mother's--horse H--o--o, hoo! Come--come--come!" Softly above the crackle of twigs, the thud of a hoof, the creak of a saddle, he sensed the long, tremulous, answering whinny. Then almost like a silver apparition the girl's figure and the horse's seemed to merge together before him in the moonlight. "Well--of--all--things!" stammered Barton. "Oh, the horse is all right. I thought he'd stay 'round," called the girl. "But he's wild as a hawk--and it's going to be the dickens of a job, I'm afraid, to get you up." Half walking, half crawling, Barton emerged from the cave. "To get me up?" he scoffed. "Well, what do you think you're going to do?" Limply as he asked he sank back against the support of a tree. "Why, I think," drawled Eve Edgarton, "I think--very naturally--that you're going to ride--and I'm going to walk--back to the hotel." "Well, I am not!" snapped Barton. "Well, you are not!" he protested vehemently. "For Heaven's sake, Miss Edgarton, why don't you go scooting back on the gray and send a wagon or something for me?" "Why, because it would make--such a fuss," droned little Eve Edgarton drearily. "Doors would bang--and lights would blaze--and somebody'd scream--and--and--you make so much fuss when you're born," she said, "and so much fuss when you die--don't you think it's sort of nice to keep things as quietly to yourself as you can all the rest of your days?" "Yes, of course," acknowledged Barton. "But--" "But NOTHING!" stamped little Eve Edgarton with sudden passion. "Oh, Mr. Barton--won't you please hurry! It's almost dawn now! And the nice hotel cook is very sick in a cot bed. And I promised her faithfully this noon that I'd make four hundred muffins for breakfast!" "Oh, confound it!" said Barton. Stumblingly he reached the big gray's side. "But it's miles!" he protested in common decency. "Miles!--and miles! Rough walking, too, darned rough! And your poor little feet--" "I don't walk particularly with my 'poor little feet,'" gibed Eve Edgarton. "Most especially, thank you, Mr. Barton, I walk with my big wanting-to-walk!" "Oh," said Barton. "O--h." The bones in his knees began suddenly to slump like so many knots of tissue-paper. "Oh--all right--Eve!" he called out a bit hazily. Then slowly and laboriously, with a very good imitation of meekness, he allowed himself to be pulled and pushed and jerked to the top of an old tree-stump, and from there at last, with many tricks and tugs and subterfuges, to the cramping side-saddle of the restive, rearing gray. Helplessly in the clear white moonlight he watched the girl's neck muscles cord and strain. Helplessly in the clear white moonlight he heard the girl's breath rip and tear like a dry sob out of her gasping lungs. And then at last, blinded with sweat, dizzy with weakness, as breathless as herself, as wrenched, as triumphant, he found himself clinging fast to a worn suede pommel, jogging jerkily down the mountainside with Eve Edgarton's doll-sized hand dragging hard on the big gray's curb and her whole tiny weight shoved back aslant and astrain against the big gray's too eager shoulder--little droll, colorless, "meek" Eve Edgarton, after her night of stress and terror, with her precious scrap-book still hugged tight under one arm striding stanchly home through the rough-footed, woodsy night to "make four hundred muffins for breakfast!" At the first crook in the trail she glanced back hastily over her shoulder into the rustling shadows. "Good-by, Cave!" she called softly. "Good-by, Cave!" And once when some tiny woods-animal scuttled out from under her feet she smiled up a bit appealingly at Barton. Several times they stopped for water at some sudden noisy brook. And once, or twice, or even three times perhaps, when some blinding daze of dizziness overwhelmed him, she climbed up with one foot into the roomy stirrup and steadied his swaying, unfeeling body against her own little harsh, reassuring, flannel-shirted breast. Mile after mile through the jet-black lattice-work of the tree-tops the August moon spotted brightly down on them. Mile after mile through rolling pastures the moon-plaited stubble crackled and sucked like a sheet of wet ice under their feet, then roads began--mere molten bogs of mud and moonlight; and little frail roadside bushes drunk with rain lay wallowing helplessly in every hollow. Out of this pristine, uninhabited wilderness the hotel buildings loomed at last with startling conventionality. Even before their discreetly shuttered windows Barton winced back again with a sudden horrid new realization of his half-nakedness. "For Heaven's sake!" he cried, "let's sneak in the back way somewhere! Oh Lordy!--what a sight I am to meet your father!" "What a sight you are to--meet my father?" repeated Eve Edgarton with astonishment. "Oh, please don't insist on waking up Father," she begged. "He hates so to be waked up. Oh, of course if I'd been hurt it would have been courteous of you to tell him," she explained seriously. "But, oh, I'm sure he wouldn't like your waking him up just to tell him that you got hurt!" Softly under her breath she began to whistle toward a shadow in the stable-yard. "Usually," she whispered, "there's a sleepy stable-boy lying round here somewhere. Oh--Bob!" she summoned. Rollingly the shadow named "Bob" struggled to its very real feet. "Here, Bob!" she ordered. "Come help Mr. Barton. He's pretty badly off. We got sort of struck by lightning. And two of us--got killed. Go help him up-stairs. Do anything he wants. But don't make any fuss. He'll be all right in the morning." Gravely she put out her hand to Barton, and nodded to the boy. "Good night!" she said. "And good night, Bob!" Shrewdly for a moment she stood watching them out of sight, shivered a little at the clatter of a box kicked over in some remote shed, and then swinging round quickly, ripped the hot saddle from the big gray's back, slipped the bit from his tortured tongue, and, turning him loose with one sharp slap on his gleaming flank, yanked off her own riding-boots and went scudding off in her stocking-feet through innumerable doors and else till, reaching the great empty office, she caromed off suddenly up three flights of stairs to her own apartment. Once in her room her little traveling-clock told her it was a quarter of three. "Whew!" she said. Just "Whew!" Very furiously at the big porcelain washbowl she began to splash and splash and splash. "If I've got to make four hundred muffins," she said, "I surely have got to be whiter than snow!" Roused by the racket, her father came irritably and stood in the doorway. "Oh, my dear Eve!" he complained, "didn't you get wet enough in the storm? And for mercy's sake where have you been?" Out of the depths of her dripping hair and her big plushy bath-towel little Eve Edgarton considered her father only casually. [Illustration: "Don't delay me!" she said, "I've got to make four hundred muffins."] "Don't delay me!" she said, "I've got to make four hundred muffins! And I'm so late I haven't even time to change my clothes! We got struck by lightning," she added purely incidentally. "That is--sort of struck by lightning. That is, Mr. Barton got sort of struck by lightning. And oh, glory, Father!" her voice kindled a little. "And, oh, glory, Father, I thought he was gone! Twice in the hours I was working over him he stopped breathing altogether!" Palpably the vigor died out of her voice again. "Father," she drawled mumblingly through intermittent flops of bath-towel; "Father--you said I could keep the next thing I--saved. Do you think I could--keep him?" CHAPTER III "What?" demanded her father. Altogether unexpectedly little Eve Edgarton threw back her tousled head and burst out laughing. "Oh, Father!" she jeered. "Can't you take a joke?" "I don't know as you ever offered me one before," growled her father a bit ungraciously. "All the same," asserted little Eve Edgarton with sudden seriousness--"all the same, Father, he did stop breathing twice. And I worked and I worked and I worked over him!" Slowly her great eyes widened. "And oh, Father, his skin!" she whispered simply. "Hush!" snapped her father with a great gust of resentment that he took to be a gust of propriety. "Hush, I say! I tell you it isn't delicate for a--for a girl to talk about a man's skin!" "Oh--but his skin was very delicate," mused little Eve Edgarton persistently. "There in the lantern light--" "What lantern light?" demanded her father. "And the moonlight," murmured little Eve Edgarton. "What moonlight?" demanded her father. A trifle quizzically he stepped forward and peered into his daughter's face. "Personally, Eve," he said, "I don't care for the young man. And I certainly don't wish to hear anything about his skin. Not anything! Do you understand? I'm very glad you saved his life," he hastened to affirm. "It was very commendable of you, I'm sure, and some one, doubtless, will be very much relieved. But for me personally the incident is closed! Closed, I said. Do you understand?" Bruskly he turned back toward his own room, and then swung around again suddenly in the doorway. "Eve," he frowned. "That was a joke--wasn't it?--what you said about wanting to keep that young man?" "Why, of course!" said little Eve Edgarton. "Well, I must say--it was an exceedingly clumsy one!" growled her father irritably. "Maybe so," droned little Eve Edgarton with unruffled serenity. "It was the first joke, you see, that I ever made." Slowly again her eyes began to widen. "All the same, Father," she said, "his--" "Hush!" he ordered, and slammed the door conclusively behind him. Very thoughtfully for a moment little Eve Edgarton kept right on standing there in the middle of the room. In her eyes was just the faintest possible suggestion of a smile. But there was no smile whatsoever about her lips. Her lips indeed were quite drawn and most flagrantly set with the expression of one who, having something determinate to say, will--yet--say it, somewhere, sometime, somehow, though the skies fall and all the waters of the earth dry up. Then like the dart of a bird, she flashed to her father's door and opened it. "Father!" she whispered. "Father!" "Yes," answered the half-muffled, pillowy voice. "What is it?" "Oh, I forgot to tell you something that happened once--down in Indo-China," whispered little Eve Edgarton. "Once when you were away," she confided breathlessly, "I pulled a half-drowned coolie out of a canal." "Well, what of it?" asked her father a bit tartly. "Oh, nothing special," said little Eve Edgarton, "except that his skin was like yellow parchment! And sand-paper! And old plaster!" Without further ado then, she turned away, and, except for the single ecstatic episode of making the four hundred muffins for breakfast, resumed her pulseless role of being just--little Eve Edgarton. As for Barton, the subsequent morning hours brought sleep and sleep only--the sort of sleep that fairly souses the senses in oblivion, weighing the limbs with lead, the brain with stupor, till the sleeper rolls out from under the load at last like one half paralyzed with cramp and helplessness. Certainly it was long after noon-time before Barton actually rallied his aching bones, his dizzy head, his refractory inclinations, to meet the fluctuant sympathy and chaff that awaited him down-stairs in every nook and corner of the great, idle-minded hotel. Conscientiously, but without enthusiasm, from the temporary retreat of the men's writing-room, he sent up his card at last to Mr. Edgarton, and was duly informed that that gentleman and his daughter were mountain-climbing. In an absurd flare of disappointment then, he edged his way out through the prattling piazza groups to the shouting tennis players, and on from the shouting tennis players to the teasing golfers, and back from the teasing golfers to the peaceful writing-room, where in a great, lazy chair by the open window he settled down once more with unwonted morbidness to brood over the grimly bizarre happenings of the previous night. In a soft blur of sound and sense the names of other people came wafting to him from time to time, and once or twice at least the word "Barton" shrilled out at him with astonishing poignancy. Still like a man half drugged he dozed again--and woke in a vague, sweating terror--and dozed again--and dreamed again--and roused himself at last with the one violent determination to hook his slipping consciousness, whether or no, into the nearest conversation that he could reach. The conversation going on at the moment just outside his window was not a particularly interesting one to hook one's attention into, but at least it was fairly distinct. In blissfully rational human voices two unknown men were discussing the non-domesticity of the modern woman. It was not an erudite discussion, but just a mere personal complaint. "I had a house," wailed one, "the nicest, coziest house you ever saw. We were two years building it. And there was a garden--a real jim-dandy flower and vegetable garden--and there were twenty-seven fruit-trees. But my wife--" the wail deepened--"my wife--she just would live in a hotel! Couldn't stand the 'strain,' she said, of 'planning food three times a day'! Not--'couldn't stand the strain of earning meals three times a day'--you understand," the wailing voice added significantly, "but couldn't stand the strain of ordering 'em. People all around you, you know, starving to death for just--bread; but she couldn't stand the strain of having to decide between squab and tenderloin! Eh?" "Oh, Lordy! You can't tell me anything!" snapped the other voice more incisively. "Houses? I've had four! First it was the cellar my wife wanted to eliminate! Then it was the attic! Then it was--We're living in an apartment now!" he finished abruptly. "An apartment, mind you! One of those blankety--blank--blank--blank apartments!" "Humph!" wailed the first voice again. "There's hardly a woman you meet these days who hasn't got rouge on her cheeks, but a man's got to go back--two generations, I guess, if he wants to find one that's got any flour on her nose!" "Flour on her nose?" interrupted the sharper voice. "Flour on her nose? Oh, ye gods! I don't believe there's a woman in this whole hotel who'd know flour if she saw it! Women don't care any more, I tell you! They don't care!" Just as a mere bit of physical stimulus the crescendoish stridency of the speech roused Barton to a lazy smile. Then, altogether unexpectedly, across indifference, across drowsiness, across absolute physical and mental non-concern, the idea behind the speech came hurtling to him and started him bolt upright in his chair. "Ha!" he thought. "I know a girl that cares!" From head to foot a sudden warm sense of satisfaction glowed through him, a throb of pride, a puffiness of the chest. "Ha!" he gloated. "H--" Then interruptingly from outside the window he heard the click of chairs hitching a bit nearer together. "Sst!" whispered one voice. "Who's the freak in the 1830 clothes?" "Why, that? Why, that's the little Edgarton girl," piped the other voice cautiously. "It isn't so much the '1830 clothes' as the 1830 expression that gets me! Where in creation--" "Oh, upon my soul," groaned the man whose wife "would live in a hotel." "Oh, upon my soul--if there's one thing that I can't stand it's a woman who hasn't any style! If I had my way," he threatened with hissing emphasis, "if I had my way, I tell you, I'd have every homely looking woman in the world put out of her misery! Put out of my misery--is what I mean!" "Ha! Ha! Ha!" chuckled the other voice. "Ha! Ha! Ha!" gibed both voices ecstatically together. With quite unnecessary haste Barton sprang to the window and looked out. It was Eve Edgarton! And she did look funny! Not especially funny, but just plain, every-day little-Eve-Edgarton funny, in a shabby old English tramping suit, with a knapsack slung askew across one shoulder, a faded Alpine hat yanked down across her eyes, and one steel-wristed little hand dragging a mountain laurel bush almost as big as herself. Close behind her followed her father, equally shabby, his shapeless pockets fairly bulging with rocks, a battered tin botany kit in one hand, a dingy black camera-box in the other. Impulsively Barton started out to meet them, but just a step from the threshold of the piazza door he sensed for the first time the long line of smokers watching the two figures grinningly above their puffy brown pipes and cigars. "What is it?" called one smoker to another. "Moving Day in Jungle Town?" "Ha! Ha! Ha!" tittered the whole line of smokers. "Ha!--Ha! Ha! Ha!--Ha!" So, because he belonged, not so much to the type of person that can't stand having its friends laughed at, as to the type that can't stand having friends who are liable to be laughed at, Barton changed his mind quite precipitately about identifying himself at that particular moment with the Edgarton family, and whirled back instead to the writing-room. There, by the aid of the hotel clerk, and two bell-boys, and three new blotters, and a different pen, and an entirely fresh bottle of ink, and just exactly the right-sized, the right-tinted sort of letter paper, he concocted a perfectly charming note to little Eve Edgarton--a note full of compliment, of gratitude, of sincere appreciation, a note reiterating even once more his persistent intention of rendering her somewhere, sometime, a really significant service! Whereupon, thus duly relieved of his truly honest effort at self-expression, he went back again to his own kind--to the prattling, the well-groomed, the ultra-fashionables of both mind and body. And there on the shining tennis-courts and the soft golf greens, through the late yellow afternoon and the first gray threat of twilight, the old sickening ennui came creeping back to his senses, warring chaotically there with the natural nervous reaction of his recent adventure, till just out of sheer morbid unrest, as soon as the flower-scented, candle-lighted dinner hour was over, he went stalking round and round the interminable piazzas, hunting in every dark corner for Mr. Edgarton and his daughter. Meeting them abruptly at last in the full glare of the office, he clutched fatuously at Mr. Edgarton's reluctant attention with some quick question about the extraordinary moonlight, and stood by, grinning like any bashful schoolboy, while Mr. Edgarton explained to him severely, as if it were his fault, just why and to what extent the radii of mountain moonlight differed from the radii of any other kind of moonlight, and Eve herself, in absolute spiritual remoteness, stood patiently shifting her weight from one foot to the other, staring abstractedly all the time at the floor under her feet. Right into the midst of this instructive discourse broke one of Barton's men friends with a sharp jog of his elbow, and a brief, apologetic nod to the Edgartons. "Oh, I say, Barton!" cried the newcomer, breathlessly. "That wedding, you know, over across at the Kentons' to-night, with the Viennese orchestra--and Heaven knows what from New York? Well, we've shanghaied the whole business for a dance here to-morrow night! Music! Flowers! Palms! Catering! Everything! It's going to be the biggest little dancing party that this slice of North American scenery ever saw! And--" Slowly little Eve Edgarton lifted her great solemn eyes to the newcomer's face. "A party?" she drawled. "A--a--dancing party--you mean? A real--Christian--dancing party?" Dully the big eyes drooped again, and as if in mere casual mannerism her little brown hands went creeping up to the white breast of her gown. Then just as startling, just-as unprovable as the flash of a shooting star, her glance flashed up at Barton. "O--h!" gasped little Eve Edgarton. "O--h!" said Barton. Astoundingly in his ears bells seemed suddenly to be ringing. His head was awhirl, his pulses fairly pounding with the weird, quixotic purport of his impulse. "Miss Edgarton," he began. "Miss--" Then right behind him two older men joggled him awkwardly in passing. "--and that Miss Von Eaton," chuckled one man to another. "Lordy! There'll be more than forty men after her for to-morrow night! Smith! Arnold! Hudson! Hazeltine! Who are you betting will get her?" "I'M BETTING THAT I WILL!" crashed every brutally competitive male instinct in Barton's body. Impetuously he broke away from the Edgartons and darted off to find Miss Von Eaton before "Smith--Arnold--Hudson--Hazeltine"--or any other man should find her! So he sent little Eve Edgarton a great, gorgeous box of candy instead, wonderful candy, pounds and pounds of it, fine, fluted chocolates, and rose-pink bonbons, and fat, sugared violets, and all sorts of tin-foiled mysteries of fruit and spice. And when the night of the party came he strutted triumphantly to it with Helene Von Eaton, who already at twenty was beginning to be just a little bit bored with parties; and together through all that riot of music and flowers and rainbow colors and dazzling lights they trotted and tangoed with monotonous perfection--the envied and admired of all beholders; two superbly physical young specimens of manhood and womanhood, desperately condoning each other's dullnesses for the sake of each other's good looks. And while Youth and its Laughter--a chaos of color and shrill crescendos--was surging back and forth across the flower-wreathed piazzas, and violins were wheedling, and Japanese lanterns drunk with candle light were bobbing gaily in the balsam-scented breeze, little Eve Edgarton, up-stairs in her own room, was kneeling crampishly on the floor by the open window, with her chin on the window-sill, staring quizzically down--down--down on all that joy and novelty, till her father called her a trifle impatiently at last from his microscope table on the other side of the room. "Eve!" summoned her father. "What an idler you are! Can't you see how worried I am over this specimen here? My eyes, I tell you, aren't what they used to be." Then, patiently, little Eve Edgarton scrambled to her feet and, crossing over to her father's table, pushed his head mechanically aside and, bending down, squinted her own eye close to his magnifying glass. "Bell-shaped calyx?" she began. "Five petals of the corollary partly united? Why, it must be some relation to the Mexican rain-tree," she mumbled without enthusiasm. "Leaves--alternate, bi-pinnate, very typically--few foliate," she continued. "Why, it's a--a Pithecolobium." "Sure enough," said Edgarton. "That's what I thought all the time." As one eminently relieved of all future worry in the matter, he jumped up, pushed away his microscopic work, and, grabbing up the biggest book on the table, bolted unceremoniously for an easy chair. Indifferently for a moment little Eve Edgarton stood watching him. Then heavily, like a sleepy, insistent puppy dog, she shambled across the room and, climbing up into her father's lap, shoved aside her father's book, and burrowed her head triumphantly back into the lean, bony curve of his shoulder, her whole yawning interest centered apparently in the toes of her father's slippers. Then so quietly that it scarcely seemed abrupt, "Father," she asked, "was my mother--beautiful?" "What?" gasped Edgarton. "What?" Bristling with a grave sort of astonishment he reached up nervously and stroked his daughter's hair. "Your mother," he winced. "Your mother was--to me--the most beautiful woman that ever lived! Such expression!" he glowed. "Such fire! But of such a spiritual modesty! Of such a physical delicacy! Like a rose," he mused, "like a rose--that should refuse to bloom for any but the hand that gathered it." Languorously from some good practical pocket little Eve Edgarton extracted a much be-frilled chocolate bonbon and sat there munching it with extreme thoughtfulness. Then, "Father," she whispered, "I wish I was like--Mother." "Why?" asked Edgarton, wincing. "Because Mother's--dead," she answered simply. Noisily, like an over conscious throat, the tiny traveling-clock on the mantelpiece began to swallow its moments. One moment--two moments--three--four--five--six moments--seven moments--on, on, on, gutturally, laboriously--thirteen--fourteen--fifteen--even twenty; with the girl still nibbling at her chocolate, and the man still staring off into space with that strange little whimper of pain between his pale, shrewd eyes. It was the man who broke the silence first. Precipitately he shifted his knees and jostled his daughter to her feet. "Eve," he said, "you're awfully spleeny to-night! I'm going to bed." And he stalked off into his own room, slamming the door behind him. Once again from the middle of the floor little Eve Edgarton stood staring blankly after her father. Then she dawdled across the room and opened his door just wide enough to compass the corners of her mouth. "Father," she whispered, "did Mother know that she was a rose--before you were clever enough to find her?" "N--o," faltered her father's husky voice. "That was the miracle of it. She never even dreamed--that she was a rose--until I found her." Very quietly little Eve Edgarton shut the door again and came back into the middle of her room and stood there hesitatingly for an instant. Then quite abruptly she crossed to her bureau and pushing aside the old ivory toilet articles, began to jerk her tously hair first one way and then another across her worried forehead. "But if you knew you were a rose?" she mused perplexedly to herself. "That is--if you felt almost sure that you were," she added with sudden humility. "That is--" she corrected herself--"that is--if you felt almost sure that you could be a rose--if anybody wanted you to be one?" In impulsive experimentation she gave another tweak to her hair, and pinched a poor bruised-looking little blush into the hollow of one thin little cheek. "But suppose it was the--the people--going by," she faltered, "who never even dreamed that you were a rose? Suppose it was the--Suppose it was--Suppose--" Dejection unspeakable settled suddenly upon her--an agonizing sense of youth's futility. Rackingly above the crash and lilt of music, the quick, wild thud of dancing feet, the sharp, staccato notes of laughter--she heard the dull, heavy, unrhythmical tread of the oncoming years--gray years, limping eternally from to-morrow on, through unloved lands, on unloved errands. "This is the end of youth. It is--it is--it is," whimpered her heart. "It ISN'T!" something suddenly poignant and determinate shrilled startlingly in her brain. "I'll have one more peep at youth, anyway!" threatened the brain. "If we only could!" yearned the discouraged heart. Speculatively for one brief instant the girl stood cocking her head toward the door of her father's room. Then, expeditiously, if not fashionably, she began at once to rearrange her tousled hair, and after one single pat to her gown--surely the quickest toilet-making of that festive evening--snatched up a slipper in each hand, crept safely past her father's door, crept safely out at last through her own door into the hall, and still carrying a slipper in each hand, had reached the head of the stairs before a new complexity assailed her. "Why--why, I've never yet--been anywhere--alone--without my mother's memory!" she faltered, aghast. Then impetuously, with a little frown of material inconvenience, but no flicker whatsoever in the fixed spiritual habit of her life, she dropped her slippers on the floor, sped back to her room, hesitated on the threshold a moment with real perplexity, darted softly to her trunk, rummaged as noiselessly through it as a kitten's paws, discovered at last the special object of her quest--a filmy square of old linen and lace--thrust it into her belt with her own handkerchief, and went creeping back again to her slippers at the head of the stairs. As if to add fresh nervousness to the situation, one of the slippers lay pointing quite boldly down-stairs. But the other slipper--true as a compass to the north--toed with unmistakable severity toward the bedroom. Tentatively little Eve Edgarton inserted one foot in the timid slipper. The path back to her room was certainly the simplest path that she knew--and the dullest. Equally tentatively she withdrew from the timid slipper and tried the adventurous one. "O-u-c-h!" she cried out loud. The sole of the second slipper seemed fairly sizzling with excitement. With a slight gasp of impatience, then, she reached out and pulled the timid slipper back into line, stepped firmly into it, pointed both slipper-toes unswervingly southward, and proceeded on down-stairs to investigate the "Christian Dance." At the first turn of the lower landing she stopped short, with every ennui-darkened sense in her body "jacked" like a wild deer's senses before the sudden dazzle of sight, sound, scent that awaited her below. Before her blinking eyes she saw even the empty, humdrum hotel office turned into a blazing bower of palms and roses and electric lights. Beyond this bower a corridor opened out--more dense, more sweet, more sparkling. And across this corridor the echo of the unseen ball came diffusing through the palms--the plaintive cry of a violin, the rippling laugh of a piano, the swarming hum of human voices, the swish of skirts, the agitant thud-thud-thud of dancing feet, the throb, almost, of young hearts--a thousand commonplace, every-day sounds merged here and now into one magic harmony that thrilled little Eve Edgarton as nothing on God's big earth had ever thrilled her before. Hurriedly she darted down the last flight of steps and sped across the bright office to the dark veranda, consumed by one fuming, passionate, utterly uncontrollable curiosity to see with her own eyes just what all that wonderful sound looked like! Once outside in the darkness her confusion cleared a little. It was late, she reasoned--very, very late, long after midnight probably; for of all the shadowy, flickering line of evening smokers that usually crowded that particular stretch of veranda only a single distant glow or two remained. Yet even now in the almost complete isolation of her surroundings the old inherent bashfulness swept over her again and warred chaotically with her insistent purpose. As stealthily as possible she crept along the dark wall to the one bright spot that flared forth like a lantern lens from the gay ballroom--crept along--crept along--a plain little girl in a plain little dress, yearning like all the other plain little girls of the world, in all the other plain little dresses of the world, to press her wistful little nose just once against some dazzling toy-shop window. With her fingers groping at last into the actual shutters of that coveted ballroom window, she scrunched her eyes up perfectly tight for an instant and then opened them, staring wide at the entrancing scene before her. "O--h!" said little Eve Edgarton. "O--h!" The scene was certainly the scene of a most madcap summer carnival. Palms of the far December desert were there! And roses from the near, familiar August gardens! The swirl of chiffon and lace and silk was like a rainbow-tinted breeze! The music crashed on the senses like blows that wasted no breath in subtler argument! Naked shoulders gleamed at every turn beneath their diamonds! Silk stockings bared their sheen at each new rompish step! And through the dizzy mystery of it all--the haze, the maze, the vague, audacious unreality,--grimly conventional, blatantly tangible white shirt-fronts surrounded by great black blots of men went slapping by--each with its share of fairyland in its arms! "Why! They're not dancing!" gasped little Eve Edgarton. "They're just prancing!" Even so, her own feet began to prance. And very faintly across her cheek-bones a little flicker of pink began to glow. Then very startlingly behind her a man's shadow darkened suddenly, and, sensing instantly that this newcomer also was interested in the view through the window, she drew aside courteously to give him his share of the pleasure. In her briefest glance she saw that he was no one whom she knew, but in the throbbing witchery of the moment he seemed to her suddenly like her only friend in the world. "It's pretty, isn't it?" she nodded toward the ballroom. Casually the man bent down to look until his smoke-scented cheek almost grazed hers. "It certainly is!" he conceded amiably. Without further speech for a moment they both stood there peering into the wonderful picture. Then altogether abruptly, and with no excuse whatsoever, little Eve Edgarton's heart gave a great, big lurch, and, wringing her small brown hands together so that by no grave mischance should she reach out and touch the stranger's sleeve as she peered up at him, "I--can dance," drawled little Eve Edgarton. Shrewdly the man's glance flashed down at her. Quite plainly he recognized her now. She was that "funny little Edgarton girl." That's exactly who she was! In the simple, old-fashioned arrangement of her hair, in the personal neatness but total indifference to fashion of her prim, high-throated gown, she represented--frankly--everything that he thought he most approved in woman. But nothing under the starry heavens at that moment could have forced him to lead her as a partner into that dazzling maelstrom of Mode and Modernity, because she looked "so horridly eccentric and conspicuous"--compared to the girls that he thought he didn't approve of at all! "Why, of course you can dance! I only wish I could!" he lied gallantly. And stole away as soon as he reasonably could to find another partner, trusting devoutly that the darkness had not divulged his actual features. Five minutes later, through the window-frame of her magic picture, little Eve Edgarton saw him pass, swinging his share of fairyland in his arms. And close behind him followed Barton, swinging his share of fairyland in his arms! Barton the wonderful--at his best! Barton the wonderful--with his best, the blonde, blonde girl of the marvelous gowns and hats. There was absolutely no doubt whatsoever about them. They were the handsomest couple in the room! Furtively from her hidden corner little Eve Edgarton stood and watched them. To her appraising eyes there were at least two other girls almost as beautiful as Barton's partner. But no other man in the room compared with Barton. Of that she was perfectly sure! His brow, his eyes, his chin, the way he held his head upon his wonderful shoulders, the way he stood upon his feet, his smile, his laugh, the very gesture of his hands! Over and over again as she watched, these two perfect partners came circling through her vision, solemnly graceful or rhythmically hoydenish--two fortune-favored youngsters born into exactly the same sphere, trained to do exactly the same things in exactly the same way, so that even now, with twelve years' difference in age between them, every conscious vibration of their beings seemed to be tuned instinctively to the same key. Bluntly little Eve Edgarton looked back upon the odd, haphazard training of her own life. Was there any one in this world whose training had been exactly like hers? Then suddenly her elbow went crooking up across her eyes to remember how Barton had looked in the stormy woods that night--lying half naked--and almost wholly dead--at her feet. Except for her odd, haphazard training, he would have been dead! Barton, the beautiful--dead? And worse than dead--buried? And worse than-- Out of her lips a little gasp of sound rang agonizingly. And in that instant, by some trick-fashion of the dance, the rollicking music stopped right off short in the middle of a note, the lights went out, the dancers fled precipitously to their seats, and out of the arbored gallery of the orchestra a single swarthy-faced male singer stepped forth into the wan wake of an artificial moon, and lifted up a marvelous tenor voice in one of those weird folk-songs of the far-away that fairly tear the listener's heart out of his body--a song as sinisterly metallic as the hum of hate along a dagger-blade; a song as rapturously surprised at its own divinity as the first trill of a nightingale; a song of purling brooks and grim, gray mountain fortresses; a song of quick, sharp lights and long, low, lazy cadences; a song of love and hate; a song of all joys and all sorrows--and then death; the song of Sex as Nature sings it--the plaintive, wheedling, passionate song of Sex as Nature sings it yet--in the far-away places of the earth. To no one else in that company probably did a single word penetrate. Merely stricken dumb by the vibrant power of the voice, vaguely uneasy, vaguely saddened, group after group of hoydenish youngsters huddled in speechless fascination around the dark edges of the hall. But to little Eve Edgarton's cosmopolitan ears each familiar gipsyish word thus strangely transplanted into that alien room was like a call to the wild--from the wild. So--as to all repressed natures the moment of full self-expression comes once, without warning, without preparation, without even conscious acquiescence sometimes--the moment came to little Eve Edgarton. Impishly first, more as a dare to herself than as anything else, she began to hum the melody and sway her body softly to and fro to the rhythm. Then suddenly her breath began to quicken, and as one half hypnotized she went clambering through the window into the ballroom, stood for an instant like a gray-white phantom in the outer shadows, then, with a laugh as foreign to her own ears as to another's, snatched up a great, square, shimmering silver scarf that gleamed across a deserted chair, stretched it taut by its corners across her hair and eyes, and with a queer little cry--half defiance, half appeal--a quick dart, a long, undulating glide--merged herself into the dagger-blade, the nightingale, the grim mountain fortress, the gay mocking brook, all the love, all the rapture, all the ghastly fatalism of that heartbreaking song. Bent as a bow her lithe figure curved now right, now left, to the lilting cadence. Supple as a silken tube her slender body seemed to drink up the fluid sound. No one could have sworn in that vague light that her feet even so much as touched the ground. She was a wraith! A phantasy! A fluctuant miracle of sound and sense! Tremulously the singer's voice faltered in his throat to watch his song come gray-ghost-true before his staring eyes. With scant restraint the crowd along the walls pressed forward, half pleasure-mad, to solve the mystery of the apparition. Abruptly the song stopped! The dancer faltered! Lights blazed! A veritable shriek of applause went roaring to the roof-tops! And little Eve Edgarton in one wild panic-stricken surge of terror went tearing off through a blind alley of palms, dodging a cafe table, jumping an improvised trellis--a hundred pursuing voices yelling: "Where is she? Where is she?"--the telltale tinsel scarf flapping frenziedly behind her, flapping--flapping--till at last, between one high, garnished shelf and another it twined its vampirish chiffon around the delicate fronds of a huge potted fern! There was a jerk,--a blur,--a blow, the sickening crash of fallen pottery--And little Eve Edgarton crumpled up on the floor, no longer "colorless" among the pale, dry, rainbow tints and shrill metallic glints of that most wondrous scene. Under her crimson mask, when the rescuers finally reached her, she lay as perfectly disguised as even her most bashful mood could have wished. All around her--kneeling, crowding, meddling, interfering--frightened people queried: "Who is she? Who is she?" Now and again from out of the medley some one offered a half-articulate suggestion. It was the hotel proprietor who moved first. Clumsily but kindly, with a fat hand thrust under her shoulders, he tried to raise her head from the floor. Barton himself, as the most recently returned from the "Dark Valley," moved next. Futilely, with a tiny wisp of linen and lace that he found at the girl's belt, he tried to wipe the blood from her lips. "Who is she? Who is she?" the conglomerate hum of inquiry rose and fell like a moan. Beneath the crimson stain on the little lace handkerchief a trace of indelible ink showed faintly. Scowlingly Barton bent to decipher it. "Mother's Little Handkerchief," the marking read. "'Mother's?'" Barton repeated blankly. Then suddenly full comprehension broke upon him, and, horridly startled and shocked with a brand-new realization of the tragedy, he fairly blurted out his astonishing information. "Why--why, it's the--little Edgarton girl!" he hurled like a bombshell into the surrounding company. Instantly, with the mystery once removed, a dozen hysterical people seemed startled into normal activity. No one knew exactly what to do, but some ran for water and towels, and some ran for the doctor, and one young woman with astonishing acumen slipped out of her white silk petticoat and bound it, blue ribbons and all, as best she could, around Eve Edgarton's poor little gashed head. [Illustration: Suddenly full comprehension broke upon him and he fairly blurted out his astonishing information] "We must carry her up-stairs!" asserted the hotel proprietor. "I'll carry her!" said Barton quite definitely. Fantastically the procession started upward--little Eve Edgarton white as a ghost now in Barton's arms, except for that one persistent trickle of red from under the loosening edge of her huge Oriental-like turban of ribbon and petticoat; the hotel proprietor still worrying eternally how to explain everything; two or three well-intentioned women babbling inconsequently of other broken heads. In astonishingly slow response to as violent a knock as they thought they gave, Eve Edgarton's father came shuffling at last to the door to greet them. Like one half paralyzed with sleep and perplexity, he stood staring blankly at them as they filed into his rooms with their burden. "Your daughter seems to have bumped her head!" the hotel proprietor began with professional tact. In one gasping breath the women started to explain their version of the accident. Barton, as dumb as the father, carried the girl directly to the bed and put her down softly, half lying, half sitting, among the great pile of night-crumpled pillows. Some one threw a blanket over her. And above the top edge of that blanket nothing of her showed except the grotesquely twisted turban, the whole of one white eyelid, the half of the other, and just that single persistent trickle of red. Raspishly at that moment the clock on the mantelpiece choked out the hour of three. Already Dawn was more than half a hint in the sky, and in the ghastly mixture of real and artificial light the girl's doom looked already sealed. Then very suddenly she opened her eyes and stared around. "Eve!" gasped her father, "what have you been doing?" Vaguely the troubled eyes closed, and then opened again. "I was--trying--to show people--that I was a--rose," mumbled little Eve Edgarton. Swiftly her father came running to her side. He thought it was her deathbed statement. "But Eve?" he pleaded. "Why, my own little girl. Why, my--" Laboriously the big eyes lifted to his. "Mother was a rose," persisted the stricken lips desperately. "Yes, I know," sobbed her father. "But--but--" "But--nothing," mumbled little Eve Edgarton. With an almost superhuman effort she pushed her sharp little chin across the confining edge of the blanket. Vaguely, unrecognizingly then, for the first time, her heavy eyes sensed the hotel proprietor's presence and worried their way across the tearful ladies to Barton's harrowed face. "Mother--was a rose," she began all over again. "Mother--was a rose. Mother--was--a rose," she persisted babblingly. "And Father--g-guessed it--from the very first! But as for me--?" Weakly she began to claw at her incongruous bandage. "But--as--for me," she gasped, "the way I'm fixed!--I have to--announce it!" CHAPTER IV The Edgartons did not start for Melbourne the following day! Nor the next--nor the next--nor even the next. In a head-bandage much more scientific than a blue-ribboned petticoat, but infinitely less decorative, little Eve Edgarton lay imprisoned among her hotel pillows. Twice a day, and oftener if he could justify it, the village doctor came to investigate pulse and temperature. Never before in all his humdrum winter experience, or occasional summer-tourist vagary, had he ever met any people who prated of camels instead of motor-cars, or deprecated the dust of Abyssinia on their Piccadilly shoes, or sighed indiscriminately for the snow-tinted breezes of the Klondike and Ceylon. Never, either, in all his full round of experience had the village doctor had a surgical patient as serenely complacent as little Eve Edgarton, or any anxious relative as madly restive as little Eve Edgarton's father. For the first twenty-four hours, of course, Mr. Edgarton was much too worried over the accident to his daughter to think for a moment of the accident to his railway and steamship tickets. For the second twenty-four hours he was very naturally so much concerned with the readjustment of his railway and steamship tickets that he never concerned himself at all with the accident to his plans. But by the end of the third twenty-four hours, with his first two worries reasonably eliminated, it was the accident to his plans that smote upon him with the fiercest poignancy. Let a man's clothes and togs vacillate as they will between his trunk and his bureau--once that man's spirit is packed for a journey nothing but journey's end can ever unpack it again! With his own heart tuned already to the heart-throb of an engine, his pale eyes focused squintingly toward expected novelties, his thin nostrils half a-sniff with the first salty scent of the Far-Away, Mr. Edgarton, whatever his intentions, was not the most ideal of sick-room companions. Too conscientious to leave his daughter, too unhappy to stay with her, he spent the larger part of his days and nights pacing up and down like a caged beast between the two bedrooms. It was not till the fifth day, however, that his impatience actually burst the bounds he had set for it. Somewhere between his maple bureau and Eve's mahogany bed the actual explosion took place, and in that explosion every single infinitesimal wrinkle of brow, cheek, chin, nose, was called into play, as if here at last was a man who intended once and for all time to wring his face perfectly dry of all human expression. "Eve!" hissed her father. "I hate this place! I loathe this place! I abominate it! I despise it! The flora is--execrable! The fauna? Nil! And as to the coffee--the breakfast coffee? Oh, ye gods! Eve, if we're delayed here another week--I shall die! Die, mind you, at sixty-two! With my life-work just begun, Eve! I hate this place! I abominate it! I de--" "Really?" mused little Eve Edgarton from her white pillows. "Why--I think it's lovely." "Eh?" demanded her father. "What? Eh?" "It's so social," said little Eve Edgarton. "Social?" choked her father. As bereft of expression as if robbed of both inner and outer vision, little Eve Edgarton lifted her eyes to his. "Why--two of the hotel ladies have almost been to see me," she confided listlessly. "And the chambermaid brought me the picture of her beau. And the hotel proprietor lent me a story-book. And Mr.--" "Social?" snapped her father. "Oh, of course--if you got killed in a fire or anything, saving people's lives, you'd sort of expect them to--send you candy--or make you some sort of a memorial," conceded little Eve Edgarton unemotionally. "But when you break your head--just amusing yourself? Why, I thought it was nice for the hotel ladies to almost come to see me," she finished, without even so much as a flicker of the eyelids. Disgustedly her father started for his own room, then whirled abruptly in his tracks and glanced back at that imperturbable little figure in the big white bed. Except for the scarcely perceptible hound-like flicker of his nostrils, his own face held not a whit more expression than the girl's. "Eve," he asked casually, "Eve, you're not changing your mind, are you, about Nunko-Nono? And John Ellbertson? Good old John Ellbertson," he repeated feelingly. "Eve!" he quickened with sudden sharpness. "Surely nothing has happened to make you change your mind about Nunko-Nono? And good old John Ellbertson?" "Oh--no--Father," said little Eve Edgarton. Indolently she withdrew her eyes from her father's and stared off Nunko-Nonoward--in a hazy, geographical sort of a dream. "Good old John Ellbertson--good old John Ellbertson," she began to croon very softly to herself. "Good old John Ellbertson. How I do love his kind brown eyes--how I do--" "Brown eyes?" snapped her father. "Brown? John Ellbertson's got the grayest eyes that I ever saw in my life!" Without the slightest ruffle of composure little Eve Edgarton accepted the correction. "Oh, has he?" she conceded amiably. "Well, then, good old John Ellbertson--good old John Ellbertson--how I do love his kind--gray eyes," she began all over again. Palpably Edgarton shifted his standing weight from one foot to the other. "I understood--your mother," he asserted a bit defiantly. "Did you, dear? I wonder?" mused little Eve Edgarton. "Eh?" jerked her father. Still with the vague geographical dream in her eyes, little Eve Edgarton pointed off suddenly toward the open lid of her steamer trunk. "Oh--my manuscript notes, Father, please!" she ordered almost peremptorily, "John's notes, you know? I might as well be working on them while I'm lying here." Obediently from the tousled top of the steamer trunk her father returned with the great batch of rough manuscript. "And my pencil, please," persisted little Eve Edgarton. "And my eraser. And my writing-board. And my ruler. And my--" Absent-mindedly, one by one, Edgarton handed the articles to her, and then sank down on the foot of her bed with his thin-lipped mouth contorted into a rather mirthless grin. "Don't care much for your old father, do you?" he asked trenchantly. Gravely for a moment the girl sat studying her father's weather-beaten features, the thin hair, the pale, shrewd eyes, the gaunt cheeks, the indomitable old-young mouth. Then a little shy smile flickered across her face and was gone again. "As a parent, dear," she drawled, "I love you to distraction! But as a daily companion?" Vaguely her eyebrows lifted. "As a real playmate?" Against the starch-white of her pillows the sudden flutter of her small brown throat showed with almost startling distinctness. "But as a real playmate," she persisted evenly, "you are so--intelligent--and you travel so fast--it tires me." "Whom do you like?" asked her father sharply. The girl's eyes were suddenly sullen again--bored, distrait, inestimably dreary. "That's the whole trouble," she said. "You've never given me time--to like anybody." "Oh, but--Eve," pleaded her father. Awkward as any schoolboy, he sat there, fuming and twisting before this absurd little bunch of nerve and nerves that he himself had begotten. "Oh, but Eve," he deprecated helplessly, "it's the deuce of a job for a--for a man to be left all alone in the world with a--with a daughter! Really it is!" Already the sweat had started on his forehead, and across one cheek the old gray fretwork of wrinkles began to shadow suddenly. "I've done my best!" he pleaded. "I swear I have! Only I've never known how! With a mother, now," he stammered, "with a wife, with a sister, with your best friend's sister, you know just what to do! It's a definite relation! Prescribed by a definite emotion! But a daughter? Oh, ye gods! Your whole sexual angle of vision changed! A creature neither fish, flesh, nor fowl! Non-superior, non-contemporaneous, non-subservient! Just a lady! A strange lady! Yes, that's exactly it, Eve--a strange lady--growing eternally just a little bit more strange--just a little bit more remote--every minute of her life! Yet it's so--damned intimate all the time!" he blurted out passionately. "All the time she's rowing you about your manners and your morals, all the time she's laying down the law to you about the tariff or the turnips, you're remembering--how you used to--scrub her--in her first little blue-lined tin bath-tub!" Once again the flickering smile flared up in little Eve Edgarton's eyes and was gone again. A trifle self-consciously she burrowed back into her pillows. When she spoke her voice was scarcely audible. "Oh, I know I'm funny," she admitted conscientiously. "You're not funny!" snapped her father. "Yes, I am," whispered the girl. "No, you're not!" reasserted her father with increasing vehemence. "You're not! It's I who am funny! It's I who--" In a chaos of emotion he slid along the edge of the bed and clasped her in his arms. Just for an instant his wet cheek grazed hers, then: "All the same, you know," he insisted awkwardly, "I hate this place!" Surprisingly little Eve Edgarton reached up and kissed him full on the mouth. They were both very much embarrassed. "Why--why, Eve!" stammered her father. "Why, my little--little girl! Why, you haven't kissed me--before--since you were a baby!" "Yes, I have!" nodded little Eve Edgarton. "No, you haven't!" snapped her father. "Yes, I have!" insisted Eve. Tighter and tighter their arms clasped round each other. "You're all I've got," faltered the man brokenly. "You're all I've ever had," whispered little Eve Edgarton. Silently for a moment each according to his thoughts sat staring off into far places. Then without any warning whatsoever, the man reached out suddenly and tipped his daughter's face up abruptly into the light. "Eve!" he demanded. "Surely you're not blaming me any in your heart because I want to see you safely married and settled with--with John Ellbertson?" Vaguely, like a child repeating a dimly understood lesson, little Eve Edgarton repeated the phrases after him. "Oh, no, Father," she said, "I surely am not blaming you--in my heart--for wanting to see me married and settled with--John Ellbertson. Good old John Ellbertson," she corrected painstakingly. With his hand still holding her little chin like a vise, the man's eyes narrowed to his further probing. "Eve," he frowned, "I'm not as well as I used to be! I've got pains in my arms! And they're not good pains! I shall live to be a thousand! But I--I might not! It's a--rotten world, Eve," he brooded, "and quite unnecessarily crowded--it seems to me--with essentially rotten people. Toward the starving and the crippled and the hideously distorted, the world, having no envy of them, shows always an amazing mercy; and Beauty, whatever its sorrows, can always retreat to the thick protecting wall of its own conceit. But as for the rest of us?" he grinned with a sudden convulsive twist of the eyebrow, "God help the unduly prosperous--and the merely plain! From the former--always, Envy, like a wolf, shall tear down every fresh talent, every fresh treasure, they lift to their aching backs. And from the latter--Brutal Neglect shall ravage away even the charm that they thought they had! "It's a--a rotten world, Eve, I tell you," he began all over again, a bit plaintively. "A rotten world! And the pains in my arms, I tell you, are not--nice! Distinctly not nice! Sometimes, Eve, you think I'm making faces at you! But, believe me, it isn't faces that I'm making! It's my--heart that I'm making at you! And believe me, the pain is not--nice!" Before the sudden wince in his daughter's eyes he reverted instantly to an air of semi-jocosity. "So, under all existing circumstances, little girl," he hastened to affirm, "you can hardly blame a crusty old codger of a father for preferring to leave his daughter in the hands of a man whom he positively knows to be good, than in the hands of some casual stranger who, just in a negative way, he merely can't prove isn't good? Oh, Eve--Eve," he pleaded sharply, "you'll be so much better off--out of the world! You've got infinitely too much money and infinitely too little--self-conceit--to be happy here! They would break your heart in a year! But at Nunko-Nono!" he cried eagerly. "Oh, Eve! Think of the peace of it! Just white beach, and a blue sea, and the long, low, endless horizon. And John will make you a garden! And women--I have often heard--are very happy in a garden! And--" Slowly little Eve Edgarton lifted her eyes again to his. "Has John got a beard?" she asked. "Why--why, I'm sure I don't remember," stammered her father. "Why, yes, I think so--why, yes, indeed--I dare say!" "Is it a grayish beard?" asked little Eve Edgarton. "Why--why, yes--I shouldn't wonder," admitted her father. "And reddish?" persisted little Eve Edgarton. "And longish? As long as--?" Illustratively with her hands she stretched to her full arm's length. "Yes, I think perhaps it is reddish," conceded her father. "But why?" "Oh--nothing," mused little Eve Edgarton. "Only sometimes at night I dream about you and me landing at Nunko-Nono. And John in a great big, long, reddish-gray beard always comes crunching down at full speed across the hermit-crabs to meet us. And always just before he reaches us, he--he trips on his beard--and falls headlong into the ocean--and is--drowned." "Why--what an awful dream!" deprecated her father. "Awful?" queried little Eve Edgarton. "Ha! It makes me--laugh. All the same," she affirmed definitely, "good old John Ellbertson will have to have his beard cut." Quizzically for an instant she stared off into space, then quite abruptly she gave a quick, funny little sniff. "Anyway, I'll have a garden, won't I?" she said. "And always, of course, there will be--Henrietta." "Henrietta?" frowned her father. "My daughter!" explained little Eve Edgarton with dignity. "Your daughter?" snapped Edgarton. "Oh, of course there may be several," conceded little Eve Edgarton. "But Henrietta, I'm almost positive, will be the best one!" So jerkily she thrust her slender throat forward with the speech, her whole facial expression seemed suddenly to have undercut and stunned her father's. "Always, Father," she attested grimly, "with your horrid old books and specimens you have crowded my dolls out of my steamer trunk. But never once--" her tightening lips hastened to assure him, "have you ever succeeded in crowding--Henrietta--and the others out of my mind!" Quite incongruously, then, with a soft little hand in which there lurked no animosity whatsoever, she reached up suddenly and smoothed the astonishment out of her father's mouth-lines. "After all, Father," she asked, "now that we're really talking so intimately, after all--there isn't so specially much to life anyway, is there, except just the satisfaction of making the complete round of human experience--once for yourself--and then once again--to show another person? Just that double chance, Father, of getting two original glimpses at happiness? One through your own eyes, and one--just a little bit dimmer--through the eyes of another?" With mercilessly appraising vision the starving Youth that was in her glared up at the satiate Age in him. "You've had your complete round of human experience, Father!" she cried. "Your first--full--untrammeled glimpse of all your Heart's Desires. More of a glimpse, perhaps, than most people get. From your tiniest boyhood, Father, everything just as you wanted it! Just the tutors you chose in just the subjects you chose! Everything then that American colleges could give you! Everything later that European universities could offer you! And then Travel! And more Travel! And more! And more! And then--Love! And then Fame! 'Love, Fame, and Far Lands!' Yes, that's it exactly! Everything just as you chose it! So your only tragedy, Father, lies--as far as I can see--in just little--me! Because I don't happen to like the things that you like, the things that you already have had the first full joy of liking,--you've got to miss altogether your dimmer, second-hand glimpse of happiness! Oh, I'm sorry, Father! Truly I am! Already I sense the hurt of these latter years--the shattered expectations, the incessant disappointments! You who have stared unblinkingly into the face of the sun, robbed in your twilight of even a candle-flame. But, Father?" Grimly, despairingly, but with unfaltering persistence--Youth fighting with its last gasp for the rights of its Youth--she lifted her haggard little face to his. "But, Father!--my tragedy lies in the fact--that at thirty--I've never yet had even my first-hand glimpse of happiness! And now apparently, unless I'm willing to relinquish all hope of ever having it, and consent to 'settle down,' as you call it, with 'good old John Ellbertson'--I'll never even get a gamble--probably--at sighting Happiness second-hand through another person's eyes!" "Oh, but Eve!" protested her father. Nervously he jumped up and began to pace the room. One side of his face was quite grotesquely distorted, and his lean fingers, thrust precipitously into his pockets, were digging frenziedly into their own palms. "Oh, but Eve!" he reiterated sharply, "you will be happy with John! I know you will! John is a--John is a--Underneath all that slowness, that ponderous slowness--that--that--Underneath that--" "That longish--reddish--grayish beard?" interpolated little Eve Edgarton. Glaringly for an instant the old eyes and the young eyes challenged each other, and then the dark eyes retreated suddenly before--not the strength but the weakness of their opponents. "Oh, very well, Father," assented little Eve Edgarton. "Only--" ruggedly the soft little chin thrust itself forth into stubborn outline again. "Only, Father," she articulated with inordinate distinctness, "you might just as well understand here and now, I won't budge one inch toward Nunko-Nono--not one single solitary little inch toward Nunko-Nono--unless at London, or Lisbon, or Odessa, or somewhere, you let me fill up all the trunks I want to--with just plain pretties--to take to Nunko-Nono! It isn't exactly, you know, like a bride moving fifty miles out from town somewhere," she explained painstakingly. "When a bride goes out to a place like Nunko-Nono, it isn't enough, you understand, that she takes just the things she needs. What she's got to take, you see, is everything under the sun--that she ever may need!" With a little soft sigh of finality she sank back into her pillows, and then struggled up for one brief instant again to add a postscript, as it were, to her ultimatum. "If my day is over--without ever having been begun," she said, "why, it's over--without ever having been begun! And that's all there is to it! But when it comes to Henrietta," she mused, "Henrietta's going to have five-inch hair-ribbons--and everything else--from the very start!" "Eh?" frowned Edgarton, and started for the door. "And oh, Father!" called Eve, just as his hand touched the door-knob. "There's something I want to ask you for Henrietta's sake. It's rather a delicate question, but after I'm married I suppose I shall have to save all my delicate questions to--ask John; and John, somehow, has never seemed to me particularly canny about anything except--geology. Father!" she asked, "just what is it--that you consider so particularly obnoxious in--in--young men? Is it their sins?" "Sins!" jerked her father. "Bah! It's their traits!" "So?" questioned little Eve Edgarton from her pillows. "So? Such as--what?" "Such as the pursuit of woman!" snapped her father. "The love--not of woman, but of the pursuit of woman! On all sides you see it to-day! On all sides you hear it--sense it--suffer it! The young man's eternally jocose sexual appraisement of woman! 'Is she young? Is she pretty?' And always, eternally, 'Is there any one younger? Is there any one prettier?' Sins, you ask?" Suddenly now he seemed perfectly willing, even anxious, to linger and talk. "A sin is nothing, oftener than not, but a mere accidental, non-considered act! A yellow streak quite as exterior as the scorch of a sunbeam. And there is no sin existent that a man may not repent of! And there is no honest repentance, Eve, that a wise woman cannot make over into a basic foundation for happiness! But a trait? A congenital tendency? A yellow streak bred in the bone? Why, Eve! If a man loves, I tell you, not woman, but the pursuit of woman? So that--wherever he wins--he wastes again? So that indeed at last, he wins only to waste? Moving eternally--on--on--on from one ravaged lure to another? Eve! Would I deliver over you--your mother's reincarnated body--to--to such as that?" "O--h," said little Eve Edgarton. Her eyes were quite wide with horror. "How careful I shall have to be with Henrietta." "Eh?" snapped her father. Ting-a-ling--ling--ling--ling! trilled the telephone from the farther side of the room. Impatiently Edgarton came back and lifted the receiver from its hook. "Hello?" he growled. "Who? What? Eh?" With quite unnecessary vehemence he rammed the palm of his hand against the mouth-piece and glared back over his shoulder at his daughter. "It's that--that Barton!" he said. "The impudence of him! He wants to know if you are receiving visitors to-day! He wants to know if he can come up! The--" "Yes--isn't it--awful?" stammered little Eve Edgarton. Imperiously her father turned back to the telephone. Ting-a-ling--ling--ling--ling, chirped the bell right in his face. As if he were fairly trying to bite the transmitter, he thrust his lips and teeth into the mouth-piece. "My daughter," he enunciated with extreme distinctness, "is feeling quite exhausted--exhausted--this afternoon. We appreciate, of course Mr. Barton, your--What? Hello there!" he interrupted himself sharply. "Mr. Barton? Barton? Now what in the deuce?" he called back appealingly toward the bed. "Why, he's rung off! The fool!" Quite accidentally then his glance lighted on his daughter. "Why, what are you smoothing your hair for?" he called out accusingly. "Oh, just to put it on," acknowledged little Eve Edgarton. "But what in creation are you putting on your coat for?" he demanded tartly. "Oh, just to smooth it," acknowledged little Eve Edgarton. With a sniff of disgust Edgarton turned on his heel and strode off into his own room. For five minutes by the little traveling-clock, she heard him pacing monotonously up and down--up and down. Then very softly at last she summoned him back to her. "Father," she whispered, "I think there's some one knocking at the outside door." "What?" called Edgarton. Incredulously he came back through his daughter's room and, crossing over to the hall door, yanked it open abruptly on the intruder. "Why--good afternoon!" grinned Barton above the extravagantly large and languorous bunch of pale lavender orchids that he clutched in his hand. "Good afternoon!" said Edgarton without enthusiasm. "Er--orchids!" persisted Barton still grinningly. Across the unfriendly hunch of the older man's shoulder he caught a disquieting glimpse of a girl's unduly speculative eyes. In sudden impulsive league with her against this, their apparent common enemy, Age, he thrust the orchids into the older man's astonished hands. "For me?" questioned Edgarton icily. "Why, yes--certainly!" beamed Barton. "Orchids, you know! Hothouse orchids!" he explained painstakingly. "So I--judged," admitted Edgarton. With extreme distaste he began to untie the soft flimsy lavender ribbon that encompassed them. "In their native state, you know," he confided, "one very seldom finds them growing with--sashes on them." From her nest of cushions across the room little Eve Edgarton loomed up suddenly into definite prominence. "What did you bring me, Mr. Barton?" she asked. "Why, Eve!" cried her father. "Why, Eve, you astonish me! Why, I'm surprised at you! Why--what do you mean?" The girl sagged back into her cushions. "Oh, Father," she faltered, "don't you know--anything? That was just 'small talk.'" With perfunctory courtesy Edgarton turned to young Barton. "Pray be seated," he said; "take--take a chair." It was the chair closest to little Eve Edgarton that Barton took. "How do you do, Miss Edgarton?" he ventured. "How do you do, Mr. Barton?" said little Eve Edgarton. From the splashy wash-stand somewhere beyond them, they heard Edgarton fussing with the orchids and mumbling vague Latin imprecations--or endearments--over them. A trifle surreptitiously Barton smiled at Eve. A trifle surreptitiously Eve smiled back at Barton. In this perfectly amiable exchange of smiles the girl reached up suddenly to the sides of her head. "Is my--is my bandage on straight?" she asked worriedly. "Why, no," admitted Barton; "it ought not to be, ought it?" Again for no special reason whatsoever they both smiled. "Oh, I say," stammered Barton. "How you can dance!" Across the girl's olive cheeks her heavy eyelashes shadowed down like a fringe of black ferns. "Yes--how I can dance," she murmured almost inaudibly. "Why didn't you let anybody know?" demanded Barton. "Yes--why didn't I let anybody know?" repeated the girl in an utter panic of bashfulness. "Oh, I say," whispered Barton, "won't you even look at me?" Mechanically the girl opened her eyes and stared at him fixedly until his own eyes fell. "Eve!" called her father sharply from the next room, "where in creation is my data concerning North American orchids?" "In my steamer-trunk," began the girl. "On the left hand side. Tucked in between your riding-boots and my best hat." "O--h," called her father. Barton edged forward in his chair and touched the girl's brown, boyish little hand. "Really, Miss Eve," he stammered, "I'm awfully sorry you got hurt! Truly I am! Truly it made me feel awfully squeamish! Really I've been thinking a lot about you these last few days! Honestly I have! Never in all my life did I ever carry any one as little and hurt as you were! It sort of haunts me, I tell you. Isn't there something I could do for you?" "Something you could do for me?" said little Eve Edgarton, staring. Then again the heavy lashes came shadowing down across her cheeks. "I haven't had any very great luck," she said, "in finding you ready to do things for me." "What?" gasped Barton. The big eyes lifted and fell again. "There was the attic," she whispered a bit huskily. "You wouldn't rent me your attic!" "Oh, but--I say!" grinned Barton. "Some real thing, I mean! Couldn't I--couldn't I--read aloud to you?" he articulated quite distinctly, as Edgarton came rustling back into the room with his arms full of papers. "Read aloud?" gibed Edgarton across the top of his spectacles. "It's a daring man, in this unexpurgated day and generation, who offers to read aloud to a lady." "He might read me my geology notes," suggested little Eve Edgarton blandly. "Your geology notes?" hooted her father. "What's this? Some more of your new-fangled 'small talk'? Your geology notes?" Still chuckling mirthlessly, he strode over to the big table by the window and, spreading out his orchid data over every conceivable inch of space, settled himself down serenely to compare one "flower of mystery" with another. Furtively for a moment Barton sat studying the gaunt, graceful figure. Then quite impulsively he turned back to little Eve Edgarton's scowling face. "Nevertheless, Miss Eve," he grinned, "I should be perfectly delighted to read your geology notes to you. Where are they?" "Here," droned little Eve Edgarton, slapping listlessly at the loose pile of pages beside her. Conscientiously Barton reached out and gathered the flimsy papers into one trim handful. "Where shall I begin?" he asked. "It doesn't matter," murmured little Eve Edgarton. "What?" said Barton. Nervously he began to fumble through the pages. "Isn't there any beginning?" he demanded. "No," moped little Eve Edgarton. "Nor any end?" he insisted. "Nor any middle?" "N--o," sighed little Eve Edgarton. Helplessly Barton plunged into the unhappy task before him. On page nine there were perhaps the fewest blots. He decided to begin there. "Paleontologically," the first sentence smote him-- "Paleontologically the periods are characterized by absence of the large marine saurians, Dinosaurs and Pterosaurs--" "eh?" gasped Barton. "Why, of course!" called Edgarton, a bit impatiently, from the window. Laboriously Barton went back and reread the phrase to himself. "Oh--oh, yes," he conceded lamely. "Paleontologically," he began all over again. "Oh, dear, no!" he interrupted himself. "I was farther along than that!--Absence of marine saurians? Oh, yes! "Absence of marine saurians," he resumed glibly, "Dinosaurs and Pterosaurs--so abundant in the--in the Cretaceous--of Ammonites and Belemnites," he persisted--heroically. Hesitatingly, stumblingly, without a glimmer of understanding, his bewildered mind worried on and on, its entire mental energy concentrated on the single purpose of trying to pronounce the awful words. "Of Rudistes, Inocerami--Tri--Trigonias," the horrible paragraph tortured on ... "By the marked reduction in the--Brachiopods compared with the now richly developed Gasteropods and--and sinupalliate--Lamellibranchs,"-- it writhed and twisted before his dizzy eyes. Every sentence was a struggle; more than one of the words he was forced to spell aloud just out of sheer self-defense; and always against Eve Edgarton's little intermittent nod of encouragement was balanced that hateful sniffing sound of surprise and contempt from the orchid table in the window. Despairingly he skipped a few lines to the next unfamiliar words that met his eye. "The Neozoic flora," he read, "consists mainly of--of Angio--Angiosper--" Still smiling, but distinctly wan around the edges of the smile, he slammed the handful of papers down on his knee. "If it really doesn't make any difference where we begin, Miss Eve," he said, "for Heaven's sake--let's begin somewhere else!" "Oh--all right," crooned little Eve Edgarton. Expeditiously Barton turned to another page, and another, and another. Wryly he tasted strange sentence after strange sentence. Then suddenly his whole wonderful face wreathed itself in smiles again. "Three superfamilies of turtles," he began joyously. "Turtles! Ha!--I know turtles!" he proceeded with real triumph. "Why, that's the first word I've recognized in all this--this--er--this what I've been reading! Sure I know turtles!" he reiterated with increasing conviction. "Why, sure! Those--those slow-crawling, box-like affairs that--live in the mud and are used for soup and--er--combs," he continued blithely. "The--very--same," nodded little Eve Edgarton soberly. "Oh--Lordy!" groaned her father from the window. "Oh, this is going to be lots better!" beamed Barton. "Now that I know what it's all about--" "For goodness' sake," growled Edgarton from his table, "how do you people think I'm going to do any work with all this jabbering going on!" Hesitatingly for a moment Barton glanced back over his shoulder at Edgarton, and then turned round again to probe Eve's preferences in the matter. As sluggishly determinate as two black turtles trailing along a white sand beach, her great dark eyes in her little pale face seemed headed suddenly toward some Far-Away Idea. "Oh--go right on reading, Mr. Barton," nodded little Eve Edgarton. "Three superfamilies of turtles," began Barton all over again. "Three superfamilies of turtles--the--the Amphichelydia, the Cryptodira, and the Tri--the--Tri--the T-r-i-o-n-y-c-h-o-i-d-e-a," he spelled out laboriously. With a vicious jerk of his chair Edgarton snatched up his papers and his orchids and started for the door. [Illustration: "You're nice," he said. "I like you!"] "When you people get all through this nonsense," he announced, "maybe you'll be kind enough to let me know! I shall be in the writing-room!" With satirical courtesy he bowed first to Eve, then to Barton, dallied an instant on the threshold to repeat both bows, and went out, slamming the door behind him. "A nervous man, isn't he?" suggested Barton. Gravely little Eve Edgarton considered the thought. "Trionychoidea," she prompted quite irrelevantly. "Oh, yes--of course," conceded Barton. "But do you mind if I smoke?" "No, I don't mind if you smoke," singsonged the girl. With a palpable sigh of relief Barton lighted a cigarette. "You're nice," he said. "I like you!" Conscientiously then he resumed his reading. "No--Pleurodira--have yet been found," he began. "Yes--isn't that too bad?" sighed little Eve Edgarton. "It doesn't matter personally to me," admitted Barton. Hastily he moved on to the next sentence. "The Amphichelydia--are known there by only the genus Baena," he read. "Two described species: B. undata and B. arenosa, to which was added B. hebraica and B. ponderosa--" Petulantly he slammed the whole handful of papers to the floor. "Eve!" he stammered. "I can't stand it! I tell you--I just can't stand it! Take my attic if you want to! Or my cellar! Or my garage! Or anything else of mine in the world that you have any fancy for! But for Heaven's sake--" With extraordinarily dilated eyes Eve Edgarton stared out at him from her white pillows. "Why--why, if it makes you feel like that--just to read it," she reproached him mournfully, "how do you suppose it makes me feel to have to write it? All you have to do--is to read it," she said. "But I? I have to write it!" "But--why do you have to write it?" gasped Barton. Languidly her heavy lashes shadowed down across her cheeks again. "It's for the British consul at Nunko-Nono," she said. "It's some notes he asked me to make for him in London this last spring." "But for mercy's sake--do you like to write things like that?" insisted Barton. "Oh, no," drawled little Eve Edgarton. "But of course--if I marry him," she confided without the slightest flicker of emotion, "it's what I'll have to write--all the rest of my life." "But--" stammered Barton. "For mercy's sake, do you want to marry him?" he asked quite bluntly. "Oh, no," drawled little Eve Edgarton. Impatiently Barton threw away his half-smoked cigarette and lighted a fresh one. "Then why?" he demanded. "Oh, it's something Father invented," said little Eve Edgarton. Altogether emphatically Barton pushed back his chair. "Well, I call it a shame!" he said. "For a nice live little girl like you to be packed off like so much baggage--to marry some great gray-bearded clout who hasn't got an idea in his head except--except--" squintingly he stared down at the scattered sheets on the floor--"except--'Amphichelydia,'" he asserted with some feeling. "Yes--isn't it?" sighed little Eve Edgarton. "For Heaven's sake!" said Barton. "Where is Nunko-Nono?" "Nunko-Nono?" whispered little Eve Edgarton. "Where is it? Why, it's an island! In an ocean, you know! Rather a hot--green island! In rather a hot--blue-green ocean! Lots of green palms, you know, and rank, rough, green grass--and green bugs--and green butterflies--and green snakes. And a great crawling, crunching collar of white sand and hermit-crabs all around it. And then just a long, unbroken line of turquoise-colored waves. And then more turquoise-colored waves. And then more turquoise-colored waves. And then more turquoise-colored waves. And then--and then--" "And then what?" worried Barton. With a vaguely astonished lift of the eyebrows little Eve Edgarton met both question and questioner perfectly squarely. "Why--then--more turquoise-colored waves, of course," chanted little Eve Edgarton. "It sounds rotten to me," confided Barton. "It is," said little Eve Edgarton. "And, oh, I forgot to tell you: John Ellbertson is--sort of green, too. Geologists are apt to be, don't you think so?" "I never saw one," admitted Barton without shame. "If you'd like me to," said Eve, "I'll show you how the turquoise-colored waves sound--when they strike the hermit-crabs." "Do!" urged Barton. Listlessly the girl pushed back into her pillows, slid down a little farther into her blankets, and closed her eyes. "Mmmmmmmmm," she began, "Mmm-mmmmmmm--Mmmmm--Mmmmmmm, W-h-i-s-h-h-h! Mmmmmmmmm--Mmmmmmmm--Mmmmmmmm--Mmmmmm--W-h-i-s-h-h-h!--Mmmmmmmm--Mmmmmmm--" "After a while, of course, I think you might stop," suggested Barton a bit creepishly. Again the big eyes opened at him with distinct surprise. "Why--why?" said Eve Edgarton. "It--never stops!" "Oh, I say," frowned Barton, "I do feel awfully badly about your going away off to a place like that to live! Really!" he stammered. "We're going--Thursday," said little Eve Edgarton. "THURSDAY?" cried Barton. For some inexplainable reason the whole idea struck him suddenly as offensive, distinctly offensive, as if Fate, the impatient waiter, had snatched away a yet untasted plate. "Why--why, Eve!" he protested, "why, we're only just beginning to get acquainted." "Yes, I know it," mused little Eve Edgarton. "Why--if we'd have had half a chance--" began Barton, and then didn't know at all how to finish it. "Why, you're so plucky--and so odd--and so interesting!" he began all over again. "Oh, of course, I'm an awful duffer and all that! But if we'd had half a chance, I say, you and I would have been great pals in another fortnight!" "Even so," murmured little Eve Edgarton, "there are yet--fifty-two hours before I go." "What are fifty-two hours?" laughed Barton. Listlessly like a wilting flower little Eve Edgarton slid down a trifle farther into her pillows. "If you'd have an early supper," she whispered, "and then come right up here afterward, why, there would be two or three hours. And then to-morrow if you got up quite early, there would be a long, long morning, and--we--could get acquainted--some," she insisted. "Why, Eve!" said Barton, "do you really mean that you would like to be friends with me?" "Yes--I do," nodded the crown of the white-bandaged head. "But I'm so stupid," confided Barton, with astonishing humility. "All these botany things--and geology--and--" "Yes, I know it," mumbled little Eve Edgarton. "That's what makes you so restful." "What?" queried Barton a bit sharply. Then very absent-mindedly for a moment he sat staring off into space through a gray, pungent haze of cigarette smoke. "Eve," he ventured at last. "What?" mumbled little Eve Edgarton. "Nothing," said Barton. "Mr. Jim Barton," ventured Eve. "What?" asked Barton. "Nothing," mumbled little Eve Edgarton. Out of some emotional or purely social tensities of life it seems rather that Time strikes the clock than that anything so small as a clock should dare strike the Time. One--two--three--four--five! winced the poor little frightened traveling-clock on the mantelpiece. Then quite abruptly little Eve Edgarton emerged from her cozy cushions, sitting bolt upright like a doughty little warrior. "Mr. Jim Barton!" said little Eve Edgarton. "If I stayed here two weeks longer--I know you'd like me! I know it! I just know it!" Quizzically for an instant, as if to accumulate further courage, she cocked her little head on one side and stared blankly into Barton's astonished eyes. "But you see I'm not going to be here two weeks!" she resumed hurriedly. Again the little head cocked appealingly to one side. "You--you wouldn't be willing to take my word for it, would you? And like me--now?" "Why--why, what do you mean?" stammered Barton. "What do I mean?" quizzed little Eve Edgarton. "Why, I mean--that just once before I go off to Nunko-Nono--I'd like to be--attractive!" "Attractive?" stammered Barton helplessly. With all the desperate, indomitable frankness of a child, the girl's chin thrust itself forward. "I could be attractive!" she said. "I could! I know I could! If I'd ever let go just the teeniest--tiniest bit--I could have--beaux!" she asserted triumphantly. "A thousand beaux!" she added more explicitly. "Only--" "Only what?" laughed Barton. "Only one doesn't let go," said little Eve Edgarton. "Why not?" persisted Barton. "Why, you just--couldn't--with strangers," said little Eve Edgarton. "That's the bewitchment of it." "The bewitchment?" puzzled Barton. Nervously the girl crossed her hands in her lap. She suddenly didn't look like a doughty little soldier any more, but just like a worried little girl. "Did you ever read any fairy stories?" she asked with apparent irrelevance. "Why, of course," said Barton. "Millions of them when I was a kid." "I read one--once," said little Eve Edgarton. "It was about a person, a sleeping person, a lady, I mean, who couldn't wake up until a prince kissed her. Well, that was all right, of course," conceded little Eve Edgarton, "because, of course, any prince would have been willing to kiss the lady just as a mere matter of accommodation. But suppose," fretted little Eve Edgarton, "suppose the bewitchment also ran that no prince would kiss the lady until she had waked up? Now there!" said little Eve Edgarton, "is a situation that I should call completely stalled." "But what's all this got to do with you?" grinned Barton. "Nothing at all to do with me!" said little Eve Edgarton. "It is me! That's just exactly the way I'm fixed. I can't be attractive--out loud--until some one likes me! But no one, of course, will ever like me until I am already attractive--out loud! So that's why I wondered," she said, "if just as a mere matter of accommodation, you wouldn't be willing to be friends with me now? So that for at least the fifty-two hours that remain, I could be released--from my most unhappy enchantment." Astonishingly across that frank, perfectly outspoken little face, the frightened eyelashes came flickering suddenly down. "Because," whispered little Eve Edgarton, "because--you see--I happen to like you already." "Oh, fine!" smiled Barton. "Fine! Fine! Fi--" Abruptly the word broke in his throat. "What?" he cried. His hand--the steadiest hand among all his chums--began to shake like an aspen. "WHAT?" he cried. His heart, the steadiest heart among all his chums, began to pitch and lurch in his breast. "Why, Eve! Eve!" he stammered. "You don't mean you like me--like that?" "Yes--I do," nodded the little white-capped head. There was much shyness of flesh in the statement, but not a flicker of spiritual self-consciousness or fear. "But--Eve!" protested Barton. Already he felt the goose-flesh rising on his arms. Once before a girl had told him that she--liked him. In the middle of a silly summer flirtation it had been, and the scene had been mawkish, awful, a mess of tears and kisses and endless recriminations. But this girl? Before the utter simplicity of this girl's statement, the unruffled dignity, the mere acknowledgment, as it were, of an interesting historical fact, all his trifling, preconceived ideas went tumbling down before his eyes like a flimsy house of cards. Pang after pang of regret for the girl, of regret for himself, went surging hotly through him. "Oh, but--Eve!" he began all over again. His voice was raw with misery. "Why, there's nothing to make a fuss about," drawled little Eve Edgarton. "You've probably liked a thousand people, but I--you see?--I've never had the fun of liking--any one--before!" "Fun?" tortured Barton. "Yes, that's just it! If you'd ever had the fun of liking anything it wouldn't seem half so brutal--now!" "Brutal?" mused little Eve Edgarton. "Oh, really, Mr. Jim Barton, I assure you," she said, "there's nothing brutal at all in my liking--for you." With a gasp of despair Barton stumbled across the rug to the bed, and with a shaky hand thrust under Eve Edgarton's chin, turned her little face bluntly up to him to tell her--how proud he felt, but--to tell her how sorry he was, but-- [Illustration: "Any time that you people want me," suggested Edgarton's icy voice, "I am standing here--in about the middle of the floor!"] And as he turned that little face up to his,--inconceivably--incomprehensively--to his utter consternation and rout--he saw that it was a stranger's little face that he held. Gone was the sullen frown, the indifferent glance, the bitter smile, and in that sudden, amazing, wild, sweet transfiguration of brow, eyes, mouth, that met his astonished eyes, he felt his whole mean, supercilious world slip out from under his feet! And just as precipitously, just as inexplainably, as ten days before he had seen a Great Light that had knocked all consciousness out of him, he experienced now a second Great Light that knocked him back into the first full consciousness that he had ever known! "Why, Eve!" he stammered. "Why, you--mischief! Why, you little--cheeky darling! Why, my own--darned little Story Book Girl!" And gathered her into his arms. From the farther side of the room the sound of a creaking board smote almost instantly upon their ears. "Any time that you people want me," suggested Edgarton's icy voice, "I am standing here--in about the middle of the floor!" With a jerk of dismay Barton wheeled around to face him. But it was little Eve Edgarton herself who found her tongue first. "Oh, Father dear--I have been perfectly wise!" she hastened to assure him. "Almost at once, Father, I told him that I liked him, so that if he really were the dreadful kind of young man you were warning me about, he would eliminate himself from my horizon--immediately--in his wicked pursuit of--some other lady! Oh, he did run, Father!" she confessed in the first red blush of her life. "Oh, he did--run, Father, but it was--almost directly--toward me!" "Eh?" snapped Edgarton. Then in a divine effrontery, half impudence and half humility, Barton stepped out into the middle of the room, and proffered his strong, firm young hand to the older man. "You told me," he grinned, "to rummage around until I discovered a Real Treasure? Well, I didn't have to do it! It was the Treasure, it seems, who discovered me!" Then suddenly into his fine young eyes flared up the first glint of his new-born soul. "Your daughter, sir," said Barton, "is the most beautiful woman in the world! As you suggested to me, I have found out what she is interested in--She is interested in--ME!" 
30914	----	scanned images of public domain material from The Internet Archive. THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP [Illustration] GRACE BROOKS HILL [Illustration: "Ruth sprang forward and seized the old gentleman's coat" (_See Page_ 25)] THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP WHAT HAPPENED FIRST WHAT CAME NEXT AND HOW IT ENDED BY GRACE BROOKS HILL AUTHOR OF "THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS," "THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS," ETC. _ILLUSTRATED BY_ _R. EMMETT OWEN_ BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS NEWARK, N. J. NEW YORK, N. Y. BOOKS FOR GIRLS By Grace Brooks Hill * * * * * The Corner House Girls Series _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated._ THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP BARSE & HOPKINS PUBLISHERS NEW YORK * * * * * Copyright, 1918, by Barse & Hopkins * * * * * _The Corner House Girls Growing Up_ CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. ALL UP IN THE AIR 9 II. THE OLD GENTLEMAN WITH THE GREEN UMBRELLA 19 III. THE AERIAL TRAMWAY 29 IV. SCHOOL IN THE OFFING 42 V. THE SHEPARDS 49 VI. NAMING THE NEW BABY 57 VII. A FELINE FUROR 65 VIII. NEIGHBOR 75 IX. EVERYTHING AT SIXES AND AT SEVENS 84 X. ABOARD THE NANCY HANKS 93 XI. AFLOAT ON THE CANAL 105 XII. MISSING 114 XIII. THE HUE AND CRY 122 XIV. AN UNEXPECTED DELIGHT 130 XV. THE PURSUIT 140 XVI. THE RINGMASTER 152 XVII. SCALAWAG GETS A NEW HOME 161 XVIII. A LONG LOOK AHEAD 173 XIX. SCHOOL BEINGS 182 XX. BEARDING THE LION 191 XXI. ADVENTURES WITH SCALAWAG 199 XXII. THE GREEN UMBRELLA AGAIN 211 XXIII. THE MAD DOG SCARE 222 XXIV. IT ENGAGES AUNT SARAH'S ATTENTION 232 XXV. LOOKING AHEAD 246 ILLUSTRATIONS "Ruth sprang forward and seized the old gentleman's coat" _Frontispiece_ "Neale reached up with a rake and unhooked the hanging basket" 74 "'I shall begin to believe you are a man-hater,' laughed Luke" 116 "There was a rush for the open hatchway and a chorus of excited voices" 164 CHAPTER I ALL UP IN THE AIR It all began because Tess Kenway became suddenly and deeply interested in aeroplanes, airships and "all sort of flying things," as Dot, the smallest Corner House girl, declared. Perhaps one should modify that "suddenly"; for Tess had begun to think about flying--as a profession--as long ago as the winter before (and that was really a long time for a little girl of her age) when she had acted as Swiftwing the Hummingbird in the children's play of _The Carnation Countess_. At any rate she said to Sammy Pinkney, who was almost their next door neighbor, only he lived "scatecornered" across Willow Street, that she wished she had an airship. And there! "Scatecornered" must be explained too; it was an expression of Uncle Rufus' who was the Corner House girls' chief factotum and almost an heirloom in the family, for he had long served Uncle Peter Stower, who in dying had willed the beautiful old homestead in Milton to his four grand-nieces. "Just what does 'scatecornered' mean, Uncle Rufus?" asked Dot, who delighted in polysyllables. "Why, chile, 'scatecornered' am a pufficly good word, fo' I has used it all ma life. It's--er--well, it's sort of a short-cut for de meanin' of slantindicular an crisscrosswise; w'ich means dat it ain't straight an' ain't crooked, but sort o'--er--scatecornered. Dere, chile, now you knows." "Yes, Uncle Rufus; thank you," said Dot, polite if she did feel rather dizzy after his explanation. But it was with Tess, who was nearly two years older than Dot and thought herself vastly more grown up, and with Sammy Pinkney this story was begun, and one should stick to one's text. "Yes," murmured Tess, "I wish I had an airship." Sammy looked at her, rather awed. Lately he was beginning to feel a mite awed in Tess Kenway's company, anyway. She had always been a thoughtful child. Aunt Sarah Maltby declared she was uncanny and gave her the fidgets. Of late even the boy who desired to be a pirate found Tess puzzling. "Huh! An airship? What would you do with it? Where would you keep it?" he finally demanded, his queries being nothing if not practical. Really Tess had not addressed him directly. She had just audibly expressed a thought, and one that had long been in her mind in embryo. So she did not answer the neighbor boy, who was sitting beside her on the side stoop of the Corner House, rigging a self-whittled ship to sail in the horse-trough. "You know very well it wouldn't go in the garage; and the toolshed and the henhouse--even Tom Jonah's house--are all too small. Huh! that's like a girl! Never look ahead to see what they'd do with an airship if somebody gave 'em one." "Well, I don't s'pose anybody will," admitted Tess, with a sigh, having heard at least the last part of Sammy's speech. "Anybody will _what_?" demanded Sammy, beginning to be somewhat confused, partly from not knowing what he himself had been saying. "Give us an airship." "I should say not!" ejaculated Sammy. "Why, Tess Kenway, an airship would cost 'most a million dollars!" "Is that so?" she said, accepting Sammy's slight overestimate of the price of a flying machine quite placidly. "And folks don't give away such presents. I should say not!" with scorn. "Why, Neale O'Neil's Uncle Bill Sorber wants to give Dot and me a calico pony, and that must be worth a lot of money." "Huh! What's a calico pony? Like one of these Teddy bears?" sniffed Sammy. "Stuffed with cotton?" "No it isn't, Mr. Saucebox!" broke in Agnes Kenway, the second and prettiest of the Corner House girls, who had just come out on the porch to brush her sport coat and had overheard the boy's observation. "That calico pony is well stuffed with good oats and hay if it belongs to Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. Neale's Uncle Bill feeds his horses till they are as fat as butter." "Oh!" murmured Sammy. "A _real_ pony?" and his eyes began to shine. He had owned a goat (it was now Tess' property) and he now possessed a bulldog. But he foresaw "larks" if the two smaller Corner House girls got a pony. The older ones often went out in the motor-car without Tess and Dot, and the suggestion of the pony may have been a roundabout way of appeasing the youngsters. "But say!" the boy added, "why did you call it calico? That's what they make kids' dresses out of, isn't it?" "Mine's gingham and I'm not a kid," declared Tess both promptly and with warmth. "Aw, well, I didn't mean _you_," explained Sammy. "And why do they call a pony 'calico'?" This was too much for Tess and she put it up to Agnes. "Why--now," began the older sister, "you--you know what a calico cat is, Sammy Pinkney?" "Ye-es," Sammy said it rather doubtfully, however. "That's like Miss Pettingill's got down the street, ain't it?" "O-o!" cried Tess. "That's _all_ colors, that old cat is!" "It's sort of mottled and patchy. That's it--patchy!" declared Agnes, seizing the suggestion of "calico" and "patchwork" to make out her case. "But," complained Tess, "I didn't think the pony would be as many colors as Miss Pettingill's cat. You know she calls _him_ Rainbow." "Why, the pony is only brown and white--or cream color," Agnes said with more confidence. "And maybe a little pink." "Ho! ho!" snorted Sammy. "Now you are stringin' us. Who ever heard of a pink horse?" Agnes went in without hearing this remark, and perhaps it was as well for Sammy Pinkney. Tess said severely: "Our Agnes does not string people, Sammy. If she says the pony is pink, it is pink, you may be certain sure." "And chocolate and cream color, too?" sniffed the boy. "Hum! I guess a pony as funny as that would be, could fly too. So you'll be fixed up all right, Tess Kenway." "Dear me," sighed the little girl, coming back to their original topic of conversation. "I wish we _did_ have something that would fly." Now, secretly, Sammy was very fond of Tess. When he had had the scarlet fever that spring and early summer, his little neighbor with the serious face and dreamy look had been the most attentive friend one could ever expect to have. She had called morning and night at his house to get the "bulletin" of his condition; and when he was up again and the house was what Dot Kenway had mentioned as "fumigrated," Tess had spent long hours amusing the boy until he could play out of doors again. Besides, she had much to do with his accompanying the Corner House girls on their recent motoring trip, and Sammy's own mother said that that vacation journey had "made a new boy of Sammy." This new boy, therefore, did not scorn to put his mind to the problem of Tess Kenway's distress. But an airship! "I say, Tess," he said at last with some eagerness, "how'd one of them airmajigs be that father brought me home from the city once--only a bigger one?" "What is an airmajig?" demanded Tess, her curiosity aroused if nothing more. "Well, it's a dinky thing--pshaw! you remember. You stretched a wire, and then wound it up--" "Wound up the wire?" "Naw! Oh, jingo! The ship, I mean. It was run by a clock. And you hung it on the wire when it was wound." "The clock?" asked Tess, still absent-mindedly. "Oh! Je-ru-sa-_lem_! Girls don't know nothin' about mechanics," snarled Sammy. "What's the use!" Tess asked in an apologetic voice, after a moment of silence: "What happened, Sammy?" "What happened to _what_?" "The airmajig?" "Why, it traveled right along the wire--hanging to it, you know," explained the little boy with more enthusiasm. "It would go as far as the wire was long. Why, I bet, Tess Kenway, that it would run from your house to mine. And it wiggled its wings just like a bird. And there was a tin man in it. But pshaw! that was just for kids. It was a toy. But a bigger one--" "Oh, Sammy! big enough to carry us?" gasped Tess, clasping her hands. "Er--well--now," hesitated Sammy, whose own imagination was hampered by a very practical streak in his character. "That would be some airship, wouldn't it? To carry us. It would have to be pretty big, and the wire'd have to be awful strong." "Oh, it wouldn't be flying, then," sighed Tess. "But say!" he exclaimed more eagerly, "couldn't we fly your dolls in it--yours and Dot's?" "Oh!" "That would be great!" The screen door slammed behind them. "No," declared a serious and very decisive voice. "You sha'n't fly my Alice-doll like a kite, Sammy Pinkney. So there!" They turned to the dark, fairy-like little girl who had appeared fresh from her afternoon toilet at the hands of Mrs. MacCall, the old Scotch housekeeper who loved the Corner House girls as though they were her own. Dot, as usual, clung tightly to the pink-faced, fair-haired doll which of all her "children" was her favorite. The Alice-doll had been through so many adventures, and suffered such peril and disaster, that Dot could scarcely bear that she should be out of her sight for fear some new calamity would happen to her. Therefore Dot said quite firmly: "No, Sammy Pinkney. You're not going to fly my Alice-doll. And I should think you'd be 'shamed, Tessie Kenway, to let him even talk about it." "Aw, who's goin' to hurt your old doll?" growled Sammy. "She's _not_ an old doll, I'd have you know, Sammy Pinkney!" responded Dot, ready to argue the point with anybody. "She's just been made over. Didn't Neale O'Neil have her taken to the hospital? And didn't they make over her face just like society ladies get _theirs_ done by a der--der-ma-olywog?" "Mercy, child!" gasped Tess. "'Dermatologist' the word is. Ruth told us." "And they bleached her hair," concluded the excited Dot. "So there! Lots of ladies have their hair bleached. It's quite fashioningble." "Dot! Dot!" begged the purist, Tess, "do get your words right if you will use such long ones." Dot haughtily overlooked any such interruptions. "So," said she, "you sha'n't make a kite out of my Alice-doll," and she hugged the child to her bosom with emphasis. "It isn't a kite," explained Tess, indulgently. "Sammy was talking about airships. He had one that had a clock in it and it flew on a wire--" "Oo-ee!" squealed Dot suddenly. "I 'member about that, Sammy Pinkney. And your mother said you shouldn't _ever_ have such a contraption in the house again. It busted the parlor lamp." "Oh, dear! I wish you'd say 'bursted,'" sighed her sister. "But if it had been out of doors," Sammy grumbled, "where there weren't any lamps and things, it would have worked fine. I tell you, Tess, we could string it from your house to mine, and the carrier could be loaded up at one station and unloaded and loaded again at the other. Crickey, it would be fun!" "But maybe Ruthie wouldn't let us do it," suggested Tess, beginning to be enamored of the boy's idea, yet having her doubts about the feasibility of the plan. "It would knock people's hats off." "What would!" gasped Sammy. "The wire--or the airship traveling back and forth." "Oh, Je-ru-sa-_lem_,'" again exploded Sammy. "You wanted an airship, didn't you? 'Way up in the air--not so's you can reach it from the ground. Why, we'll string the wire from my bedroom window to one of the windows of the room you and Dot sleep in." "Oh!" cried Dot, beginning to visualize the scheme now. "Just like the cash-carriers in the Five and Ten Cent Store." "But Ruthie wouldn't let us, I'm afraid," murmured Tess, still doubtful. "Let's ask her," said Sammy. "Oh, let's!" cried Dot. But when they hunted for Ruth, the eldest of the four Corner House girls, she was not to be found on the premises; and if the children had but known it just at that time Ruth Kenway was having an adventure of her own which was, later, to prove of immense interest to all the Corner House family. CHAPTER II THE OLD GENTLEMAN WITH THE GREEN UMBRELLA Nobody had ever called Ruth Kenway pretty. That was, perhaps, because her next youngest sister, Agnes, was an acknowledged beauty. Everything is comparative. Mrs. MacCall said that "handsome is as handsome does." Then, of course, in the minds of the other members of the Corner House family, Ruth was very beautiful indeed. She had a lovely smile, and a low sweet, "mother" voice. She was, indeed, all the mother Dot had ever known; nor could Tess remember their "really-truly" mother very clearly. Ruth had been calling on the other side of town. She went once a week without fail to have afternoon tea with Mr. Howbridge, their guardian and the administrator of the Stower estate, and this was the afternoon for that pleasant duty. If there was anything of a serious nature to be talked over between the lawyer and the oldest Corner House girl, it was done in his pleasant library over the old silver tea service, where there were no "small pitchers with big ears." "And so our moneys are growing, Ruth," Mr. Howbridge said thoughtfully, having ended the discussion of some minor point of business. He admired Ruth's good sense as well as her character, and so frequently discussed matters of business with her that he was not obliged by his oath of office to do. "In a few months we shall have considerable cash on hand in the bank; and three and a half per cent. is small interest on a large sum of money. Somehow we must invest it." Ruth's eyes twinkled. "I suppose you really _need_ our advice, Mr. Howbridge? Of course, if you left it to the Corner House girls to invest it would probably bring in only a high percentage of enjoyment. "Agnes would have a flock of automobiles. Tessie would spend it all on making other people happy. Dot would have an entire sanitarium devoted to the treatment of dolls." "And you, my dear?" asked the lawyer, smiling. "Ah, if you want my advice, Mr. Howbridge, you must do as all _your_ clients have to do. You must give me a retainer," and she rose, laughing, to don her light coat. "But I will keep my mind on it," she added. "Who knows? Perhaps some wise thought may fly my way. And all that money! It will really make a fine investment." "Remember, you girls will expect your 'dots' out of the estate some day," chuckled Mr. Howbridge. "Your own dowry will come first, I presume, Ruth." "Me? Get married? With the children so dependent upon me?" gasped the eldest Corner House girl. But she blushed warmly and averted her eyes from the shrewd gaze of the lawyer. "Now you are talking nonsense, Mr. Howbridge." He let her go without comment. But to himself he murmured: "I never knew it to fail. These girls who are determined to be spinsters are always the first to be caught in the coil of matrimony." If Ruth's thoughts lingered upon such a ridiculous suggestion (ridiculous from her standpoint) after she left the lawyer's house, her expression of countenance did not show it. She walked cheerfully along the shaded street toward Milton's railroad station, for the old Corner House stood upon the corner of Willow and Main Streets, opposite the Parade Ground, quite on the other side of town. She crossed the canal and was almost in sight of the station when she saw a tall figure ahead of her whose singular gait and old-fashioned manner of dress would have caused comment anywhere. To wear a "stove-pipe" hat on a hot day like this, with a heavy, dark frock-coat and gray trousers, with his feet encased in overshoes, seemed to the casual observer rather ridiculous. "Why," thought Ruth, "he looks as Seneca Sprague might if he were dressed up and going to his own wedding," and she laughed to think of that ridiculous possibility regarding one of the well-known characters of Milton. This old gentleman was a stranger to her, Ruth was sure. Milton being a junction point of two railroads, there were often strangers about the railroad station waiting for connections on one or the other of the roads. This man must be, the girl thought, such a marooned passenger. As he reached the edge of the shade cast by the trees on Pleasant Street and stepped into the glare of the open square about the railway station, he unfurled a huge umbrella and raised it to shield himself from the sun's glare. It was a most astonishing umbrella. The upper side was a faded green; the under side an age-yellowed white. "Why," thought Ruth, "it must be an heirloom in his family." Amused, she continued directly behind the old gentleman as he started to cross the four tracks which blotted the center of Milton. Accidents had happened more than once at this grade crossing, and the town councilmen had been in hot water with the taxpayers for some years regarding the changing of the railroad's level. There were drop gates, but only one decrepit watchman here at Pleasant Street. Ruth always looked both ways when she started to cross the tracks. And at this time--or about this time--in the afternoon the so-called Cannon-Ball Express went through. That train did not even hesitate at Milton. Quite as a matter of course, the girl halted when she came to the tracks and looked both east and west. A freight train was backing down past the station on the third track. The second track was open for passenger traffic. There was a growing roar from the west. The old gentleman stopped and peered in that direction. He could easily have crossed ahead of the slow freight, but like Ruth he was doubtful regarding the growing clamor of the approaching express, although that fast-flier was not yet in sight at the curve. "But it's coming!" murmured Ruth. "He mustn't cross!" The old gentleman with the green umbrella had no intention of crossing ahead of the express; but Ruth heard him utter an impatient exclamation as he stepped back a little from proximity to the second track, the first track being merely a siding for shunted freight cars. He was so close to the oldest Corner House girl now that she could view his countenance easily without appearing to be curious. But she was curious about the old gentleman. However, being Ruth Kenway, she would not have shown this in any way to ruffle his feelings; for, despite her own youth, Ruth had mothered her three orphaned sisters for so long that she was more sedate and thoughtful than most girls of her age. Just at this moment the Cannon-Ball Express came tearing into view, shrieking its warning for the Pleasant Street crossing. The old gentleman was standing too near the rails, in Ruth's opinion. She involuntarily put forth her hand and seized hold of his coat. He turned to glare upon the freshly dressed, sweet-looking girl beside him with what would have been an audible grunt of disapproval had the oncoming train not made such a noise and with a look that caused her to drop her hand immediately. His face was a marvelous network of wrinkles; he wore amber dust-goggles; his mouth was a grim slit in his brown face, like the trap of a letter-box. It did not seem possible that any one could look on Ruth Kenway's sweet face with such a grim and unkind expression on the countenance. But the man turned from her with no softening in his look. The express was now fairly upon them. The suction of such a rapidly flying train is considerable. And that huge umbrella made the accident unescapable. The train shrieked by. Ruth herself felt the wind of it, and her skirts blew around her body tightly. The blast got beneath the big umbrella, and Ruth saw the old gentleman seize hold upon the handle with both hands. The umbrella bellied and creaked. The last car whisked past, and within the cyclone of flying sand and gravel which followed it the unfortunate old gentleman was caught. Clinging to his umbrella, which was really the cause of all his trouble, he whirled like a dervish across the second track in the wake of the express, and stumbling, went to his knees between that set of rails and the third track, on which the freight train was backing slowly toward them. Had he put the umbrella down he would have been all right. But his stubborn character was displayed to the full by his still gripping the unwieldy thing and, like "Old Grindstone George," hanging on to the handle. He staggered to his feet, the umbrella quite hiding the coming freight train from his view, and stumbled a pace forward, directly toward the third track. Ruth, with a startled scream, forgetting self, ignoring the man's former scowls and harshness, sprang forward and again seized the old gentleman's coat, this time with firmness and a determination not to allow herself to be repulsed. While Ruth Kenway is struggling to save this stranger from accident and probable death, it is a good time to turn back and give those readers who are making the acquaintance of the Corner House girls for the first time in this present volume a little sketch of who these girls are and of their adventures and pleasures as set forth in the previous volumes of this series. In the first book of the series, entitled "The Corner House Girls," the sisters are introduced as living in a larger city and in very poor circumstances. Their father and mother being dead, Ruth had to manage for the family on a very small pension from the Government. Aunt Sarah Maltby, who was peculiar in more ways than one, was a liability instead of an asset to the family. This queer old woman was always expecting that a large fortune would be left to her when Mr. Peter Stower, of Milton, should die. Mr. Stower had quarreled with all his relatives. Especially had he quarreled with his half-sister Sarah. Nevertheless, Aunt Sarah believed his money and the old homestead would come to her. Instead, Mr. Stower willed it all to the four Kenway girls, making Mr. Howbridge the administrator of the estate and the guardian of the girls. Therefore, Miss Sarah Maltby was still a pensioner on the bounty of the Corner House girls, and the fact perhaps made her more crabbed of temper than she otherwise might have been. Having settled down in the old Corner House to live, with Mrs. MacCall as housekeeper and Uncle Rufus as man of all work, the girls next took up the matter of education, as related in "The Corner House Girls at School." The four sisters got acquainted with their new environment and made new friends and a few enemies. Particularly they became chummy with Neale O'Neil, the boy who had run away from a circus to get an education. Neale became a fixture in the neighborhood, living with Mr. Con Murphy, the cobbler, on the street back of the Corner House. He became Agnes Kenway's particular and continual boy chum. During the summer vacation Ruth and her sisters went to Pleasant Cove where they thoroughly enjoyed themselves and had adventures galore, as told in the third volume, entitled "The Corner House Girls Under Canvas." As has been already mentioned, the sisters had parts in the school play _The Carnation Countess_, the following winter. Tess was Swiftwing, the Hummingbird, and Dot, a busy, busy bee, a part that the smallest Corner House girl acted to perfection. Agnes, who had a bent for theatricals, was immensely successful as Innocent Delight, and Ruth, of course, did her part well. In "The Corner House Girls in a Play," the fourth volume, these adventures and incidents are detailed. "The Corner House Girls' Odd Find" made two of their very dearest friends wealthy, and incidentally brought to the sister what Agnes had longed for more than "anything else in the whole world"--a touring car. In that they took a long trip, as related in "The Corner House Girls on a Tour." On that journey, but recently completed, Neale O'Neil had accompanied the sisters to drive the car. Mrs. Heard, a good friend, had been their chaperon, and Sammy Pinkney, the boy who was determined to be a pirate, was what Neale termed "an excrescence on the touring party" during the exciting trip. Ruth Kenway had been thinking of something that had occurred during their automobile trip just before spying the old gentleman with the green umbrella. She had that very day received a letter from Cecile Shepard, whom, with her brother Luke, the Corner House girls had met during their tour. And Ruth hoped that Cecile would spend a week at the old Corner House before going back in September to the preparatory school which she attended. But now the old man's peril, her own alarm and her desire to save the stranger's life, drove all other thoughts out of the girl's mind. CHAPTER III THE AERIAL TRAMWAY He might have gone right under the wheels of the backing freight train--that queer looking old gentleman--umbrella and all! Ruth Kenway dragged him back, and the train rumbled past them so near that the umbrella scraped along the sides of the box-cars. "What under the sun's the matter with you, girl?" snapped the old man. He turned on her so angrily, and furled the huge umbrella with such emphasis, that Ruth was quite startled, although she had thought that this time she would be prepared for any outbreak of irritation or displeasure on his part. She backed away from him, and as other people who had seen the incident came crowding about, the girl slipped away and crossed the tracks hurriedly when the freight train had gone by. But the one-armed flagman and other railroad employees let the old gentleman understand beyond peradventure that he had barely escaped a dreadful accident. He had been about to step directly in the path of the backing freight train. "My, my, my!" he exclaimed at last, "'tisn't possible!" "It just is possible!" retorted the one-armed flagman. "One minute more and you'd've been ground to powder like as not if it hadn't been for that there girl. Some spunk, she's got." "Some quick thinkin' she done!" exclaimed another of the employees. "Man alive, you wouldn't have no head on your shoulders right now if she hadn't knowed what to do at once and done it instanter. No siree!" "My! my! my!" said the old gentleman again. "That girl then saved my life! Possibly saved me from a worse fate--to live on through the years maimed and mutilated." Just then the train for which the old gentleman was waiting came in sight and soon drew up at the Milton station. "Then I really owe that girl an apology," he went on. "Who is she? Does she live here!" he asked one of the bystanders. "Sure she lives here." "Well, I can't stop to-day. I've got to hurry. But I shall look her up the next time I come this way. Oh, yes indeed, I shall look her up! For a girl she certainly showed good sense." "I don't know whether she did or not," scoffed the man to whom he spoke, but under his breath. "You don't look as though you were such a lot of use in the world, if you ask me. I bet you're a Tartar!" Ruth Kenway, however, did not expect to be thanked. The old gentleman with the green umbrella passed out of her mind for the time being before she reached home. And there she found the assembled young folks in the throes of a discussion regarding Tess and Sammy's proposed aerial tramway. "_Do_ call it 'tramway,'" begged Agnes. "It sounds so awfully English, don't you know!" "It sounds so awfully foolish, don't you know," said Neale O'Neil, who had come over the fence from Mr. Con Murphy's yard and sat on the stoop regaling himself upon a summer apple he had picked on his way. "Have a summer sweetnin', Ag?" "I do wish you would call her by her right name, Neale," said Ruth, sharply, for she did not approve of Neale's slang. "Dear me! 'What's in a name?' to quote the Immortal Bard," drawled the youth. "A good deal sometimes," chuckled Agnes, who did not much mind having her name shortened. "Wait till I look up in my scrap book the name of that special cheese which is made by the Swiss for use in Passion Play week. It's got all the letters of the alphabet in it _twice_." "Never mind looking it up," advised Ruth, quickly. "No," said Neale. "We'll take your word for there being something in it. An odoriferous odor, I bet, if it's like most of those fancy cheeses." "Why," said Tess, reprovingly, "I thought we were talking about my airship line." "'Back to the mines, men! there'll be no strike to-day!'" quoted Agnes. "It's up to you, Neale. Sammy and Tess have originated the idea. All you have to do is to find the materials and do the work." "If Ruth says we may," added Tess, without at all appreciating her sister's sarcasm. "Why, there's no harm, I suppose. A basket to pull across the street? Does your mother say you may, Sammy?" "Oh, yes, Ruth," declared the boy. "I just ran and asked her." "What did she say?" "We-ell," Sammy admitted slowly, "she was busy cutting out something on the dining-room table and her mouth was full of pins. I had to ask her two or three times before she seemed to hear me." "And then what did she say?" insisted Ruth, with suspicion, knowing both Sammy and his mother pretty well. "Why, she said: 'If you will only go out and stop bothering me for an hour I don't care _what_ you do.' So, ain't that saying I can?" demanded Sammy. "I should say she had given you _carte blanche_," chuckled Neale, while the older Corner House girls laughed. "I think you may go as far as to get the wire, pulleys, and other things needed," Ruth said. "I will ask Sammy's mother myself when she is not so strenuously engaged." Dot listened to this and gazed after the departing older sister in something like awe. "What is it, Dottums?" asked Agnes, chucking the little fairy-like child under her soft chin. "Oh, our Ruth does talk so beautifully," sighed the smallest Corner House girl. "What does 'strain--strain-u-ous-ly' mean, Aggie?" "Exactly that," laughed her sister. "Mrs. Pinkney certainly was working under a 'strain.' You have hit the meaning of 'strenuously' better even than Mr. Dick." "Who is Mr. Dick?" demanded Dot, the unappeasable. "The man who knows everything," said Neale, throwing away the core of his apple and strolling to the gate on his way to the hardware store to purchase the materials for the Aeriel tramway. "The dictionary, goosey," said Tess in explanation to Dot. "Don't you know yet what they mean when they are joking us?" "I only wanted to _know_," said Dot rather grieved. "Never mind," said Sammy, being left alone with the two smaller girls. "Let 'em laugh. We won't get mad at 'em till that wire's up and the car is running all right." Oh, Sammy Pinkney was a practical lad. Dot, unable long to keep any exciting happening or interest to herself, was disseminating the news of the proposed "airship line" throughout the Corner House household. Uncle Rufus, the brown black-man, who was working just then in the garden, was vastly astonished. "Ma 'Lantic Ocean!" he gasped. "What will dese yere chillun be doin' next, I want to know! Puttin' up a trolley line, is they, fo' airships? Who ever heard de like?" "Oh, air-re-ro-planes!" said Dot, having heard a new word and rather liking the rolling syllables of it. "Air-re-ro-planes are getting very common, so Aggie says. There is going to be one at the County Fair. Why, people will be riding in them just like trolley cars, pretty soon!" "Ma goodness! No!" ejaculated the old man. "I don't want to wake up on dat day when dat dere comes to pass. Lookut, chile! If de airships was a steamin' around over our haids, we'd nebber be sure of our lives. Why, dey'd be throwin' over ashes, and de cooks would be emptyin' garbage pails over de rails like dey does aboard steamships. Wouldn't be no sharks dere to gobble down de leavin's--no, ma'am! On'y birds. And folks aboard would be droppin' t'ings out'n de airship. An' w'en a man fell overboard--ma mercy, chile! he'd come down plump on you' haid, mebbe! No, ma'am, dey won't never 'low it," and the old negro shook his head seriously. These perfectly good objections to the practicability of airship flying impressed the smallest Corner House girl deeply. She intended to return to talk to Sammy and Tess about it; but on her way, as she came along the path next to the Willow Street fence, she suddenly saw Sammy's bandy-legged bulldog charging across the street, probably in search of his young master. The dog had slipped his chain in some way and being a ferocious-looking beast at best, it was no wonder that pedestrians gave him a wide berth. Suddenly Dot, inside the fence, heard a stifled cry of fear outside the fence. Looking up from her Alice-doll she saw a woman clinging to the fence pickets as though she contemplated climbing the barrier to escape the dog; and the dog was standing before her wagging his stump of a tail slightly and showing two formidable rows of teeth while he "laughed" at her perturbation. "Oh, don't be afraid of Sammy's dog," advised Dot. "He won't bite you." "He won't bite?" demanded the woman, who was evidently of a nervous disposition. "What's he got all those teeth for? He doesn't bite?" "Oh--oh, no, ma'am. He only nibbles." Then she called the dog and the woman went on, relieved. But when her fright was past she probably confessed to herself that the smallest Corner House girl certainly had originality of ideas. Dot would not let the bulldog into the yard, for he would have at once sought out Billy Bumps, the goat, to tease him. He and Billy were sworn and deadly enemies. Sammy and Tess had disappeared. So, still feeling the necessity for discussing the airship matter with somebody, Dot went upstairs to Aunt Sarah's room. Aunt Sarah Maltby was forever engaged in sewing or in fancy work; and, to tell the truth, Dot was not much interested in needlework. She was often seized upon by Aunt Sarah, however, and made to sit down to sew patchwork. "Every little girl, when I was a little girl, had to learn to use her needle," declared the spinster. "When I was your age, Dorothy Kenway, I had pieced half a block bedquilt and was learning to do feather-stitching." "Yes ma'am," said Dot, politely. "It must have been very int'resting." But she did not care for such amusement herself. On this occasion, before she could even broach the airship matter, Aunt Sarah seized upon a fault that Dot had not even noticed before. "Look here!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah. "What have you done to your stocking?" "I--I--I'm wearing it," confessed Dot, startled, but looking down at her neat little shins in their white hose. "Wearing them! You're wearing them _out_!" ejaculated Aunt Sarah, pointing to a hole that Dot could not possibly see, for it was behind her. "And those stockings were put on fresh this afternoon." "Yes, ma'am," admitted Dot, for it was of no use to argue with Aunt Sarah. "When I was your age," (a favorite expression of Aunt Sarah's) "I darned my own stockings. And you don't even know what needles are for!" "Oh, yes I do, please, Auntie. They're to make the talking machine play!" declared Dot, frightened by Aunt Sarah's manner into most unusual perversity. She was usually a gentle, obedient child. Aunt Sarah was in no mood to listen to anything about airships after that; and Dot took her first lesson in darning, there and then. The old lady and the little girl came down to dinner that evening in a rather sober frame of mind, for the occasion had been wearing upon both of them. The evening meal at the old Corner House was usually, however, a cheering event. Mrs. MacCall held sway at one end of the long table in the huge dining-room, while Aunt Sarah sat at the foot. The girls held places on either side, and if they had guests the latter were scattered between the Corner House girls and made to feel at home. The table here was, in the truest sense, an "extension table." Uncle Rufus who, in a bobtail coat, white vest and spats, acted as butler, lengthened the table or shortened it, according to the number to be served. Damask and bright silver and glass made the board attractive. The old-fashioned furniture as well as the table service were the special care of the old negro. His pride and his delight were in the years he had served at the old Stower table. When the family was alone it is a fact that Uncle Rufus considered himself privileged to join in the children's conversation. And this made the meal no less enjoyable, for Uncle Rufus added nothing, if he did not add joy, to the occasion. "I never lets ma feelin's flow, as some folks does," he chanced to observe. "Tears don't wash a body's face nowhar's near as good as soap an' watah--no, ma'am! "Now, dere's ma daughter, Pechunia: She'd ruther cry dan eat and at _dat_ you kin see by her size she don't starb herself. She suttenly does love to attend fun'rals an' sech social gadderin's whar dey kin sit down an' tell 'bout haw good de remains was 'fore de Grim Reaper come an' reaped 'em." Uncle Rufus sniffed. "Dat foolish brack woman! She b'longs right now to so many buryin' sassieties dat if she done gits buried by all of 'em when she dies, 'twill take more'n _one_ day to hol' her fun'ral, an' dat's a fac'! "Ya-as! Pechunia does love to mo'n. She'd a made a moughty good wife fo' Jeremiah. 'Twas so when her mammy died. I done suffered as much as any widder-man ought to t'rough her mammy dyin'. Ya-as, ma'am. But I tell you what 'tis, honey; 'tain't no use to keep worritin' and worritin' about anyt'ing dat's done an' gone--not fo'ever. "Her mammy was dead, an' if I'd been let, ma mind would ha' kinda chirked up a bit after a w'ile. But dat brack gal would jes' as soon break down right in de middle of dinner--ef she'd et 'nuff herse'f--an' bust out sobbin' 'bout her mammy. It got so I was prospectin' 'round fo' sumpin to t'row at her haid! I sure was. "An' de fussin', and de mo'nin' dresses and bunnits, an' de circus-shows she had to hab to show she was properly sorry 'cause her mammy had gone. Ma soul!" Suddenly Uncle Rufus began to chuckle his mellow chuckle and they knew the point of his story was at hand. "She done want to write to all de rel'tives an' friends scattered about de fo'ty p'ints of the compass 'bout her mammy's bein' tuk away. Dis was a mighty fur time back, chillen; but Pechunia was jes as foolish den as she is now." But Uncle Rufus by no means monopolized the conversation at dinner that evening. Tess was so full of the aerial tramway that she would have built it and rebuilt it forty times, so Agnes said, if they had not begged her to stop. Dot was too depressed to think of much but darning. Ruth, however, had an amusing tale to tell. She described the queer looking old gentleman with the green umbrella and told quite energetically of the adventure at the railroad crossing. "My dear!" exclaimed Mrs. MacCall, "you might have been hurt yourself. What a start I'd have had had I seen you. And no man would be worth your getting hurt, ma lassie." "Quite right," croaked Aunt Sarah from the other end of the table. Her opinion of men in general coincided with Mrs. MacCall's remark. The old Corner House was a good deal of an Adamless Eden. But now Agnes suggested something that was quite sure to break up the usual order of the household arrangements. "If you and Aunt Sarah dislike men so," she asked Mrs. MacCall, laughing, "what are you going to do when Cecile Shepard and her brother come? When will they arrive, Ruth!" "On Monday, I expect," said the older sister. "But I am sure Aunt Sarah won't mind Luke Shepard any more than she does Neale--or Sammy." "Who says I don't mind that Neale O'Neil?" snapped the old woman. "All boys are a nuisance. And this Shepard is nothing more than a boy, is he?" "Oh, he's quite grown up," said Agnes. "He's entering his junior year at college." "And he owns a tin-peddler's wagon," added Dot, as though that fact surely added to Luke Shepard's dignity and importance. "Hoh!" sniffed Aunt Sarah, "you girls do mix up with the strangest people! I never see your beat! A tin peddler and his sister." "But Mrs. Heard, who went with us on our motor trip, liked and approved of the Shepards," Ruth said quietly. "I think they are very plucky, too--orphans, with a very small income, and helping to pay for their education by traveling with a peddler's outfit in summer and letting the team and route out to another peddler during the winter. And Cecile is lovely." "How about Luke?" asked Agnes slyly, and had the satisfaction of seeing her older sister blush. Just then there was a crash on the side porch and in a moment Neale's glowing face was thrust through the pantry door. "Eating, folks? I'll have to hustle or Mr. Con Murphy will eat my share and his own, too. There! I've brought all the hardware for that aerial tramway. It's on the porch. Let Tom Jonah watch it to-night, and we'll rig it in the morning." CHAPTER IV SCHOOL IN THE OFFING Neale O 'Neil, trained as an acrobat, had never lost his suppleness and skill in trapeze work and other gymnastics since leaving Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. There was a fine gymnasium at the Milton high school which he attended, and Neale had made his mark in the gymnasium work as well as in the studies he loved. It was no trick at all for him to put up the wire attachments to make the aerial tramway altogether to the satisfaction of Tess and Dot and Sammy Pinkney. Before evening the following day the wire was stretched and in place, the pulleys rigged, and the wire basket, which was used as the car, was traveling back and forth briskly from the window of Sammy's bedroom to one of the windows of the large room in the east ell of the old Corner House where Tess and Dot slept and had their dolls and playthings. With lengths of clothesline to pull the wire car back and forth, it was easy for the children to manipulate it. And the car was roomy enough and strong enough to hold almost anything they might wish to send between the two houses. Of course, it was not exactly an airship of any kind. But for the time Tess Kenway, who was usually modestly satisfied with what was done for her, was perfectly delighted with the arrangement. As for Dot, she was so pleased, that she felt compelled to sit right down in the middle of the drying green beneath the wire, clasping the Alice-doll close to her breast, and gaze up at the car going back and forth as Sammy and Tess manipulated it. "Oh! it's delightsome!" gasped the little girl, quoting one of Agnes' favorite expressions. When Sammy came down and looked over the fence at her he said: "Say, Dot, let's give your dolls a ride." "Sam-my Pink-ney!" shrilled Dot vigorously. "If you ever try to ride my Alice-doll or any of her sisters in that car up there I'll-- I'll never speak to you again!" And she was so much in earnest and seemed so near to tears that Sammy hastily gave his word of honor--as a man and a pirate--never to treat the dolls to such an aerial trip. Mabel Creamer, who lived next door on Main Street, wheeled her little brother over to Willow Street to view the wonder of the aerial tramway. When she heard that Dot and Tess would not allow their dolls to be used as passengers in the aerial car, she offered to put Bubby up there. "Why, Mabel!" gasped Tess. "S'pose he should fall out?" "Oh," Mabel replied coolly, "he wouldn't hurt himself. He rolled all the way down the cellar stairs yesterday and didn't do a thing to himself--only broke the cat's dish, 'cause he landed on it." "That's some tough baby," pronounced Neale; but after Mabel had wheeled Bubby away Tess confided to Neale that she knew why the Creamer's youngest was so "tough." "Why, you know," Tess said earnestly, "almost everything that could happen to a baby has happened to him. Mabel hates to take care of him, and she is always forgetting and leaving him to tumble out of the carriage, or into something babies aren't supposed to get into." "And 'member when he got carried away in the hamper by the laundryman?" broke in Dot. "If it hadn't been for our Agnes following in Joe Eldred's motor car, Bubby might have been washed and ironed and brought back to Mrs. Creamer just as flat as a pancake!" "That's the capsheaf," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "Bubby Creamer is certainly a wonderful kid. What do you say, Aggie?" for the older girl had just appeared, ready dressed for a shopping excursion. "Silk-wool to mend my sweater; pins--two kinds; pearl buttons for Dot's waists; a celluloid thimble for Linda; a pair of hose for Mrs. Mac--extra tops; Aunt Sarah's peppermints for Sunday service; lace for Ruthie's collar; hair ribbons for Tessie; a _love_ of a waist I saw at Blackstein & Mape's! and----" "Help! Help!" cried Neale, breaking in at last. "And you expect _me_ to accompany you on a shopping trip, Aggie, when you've all those feminine folderols to buy?" "Why not?" demanded Agnes, making innocent eyes. "I want you to carry my packages." "All right. But you'll hitch me out in front of the store to a hitching post like any other beast of burden," returned Neale, following in her footsteps out of the side gate. This was a Saturday. Ruth had said that if they were to have company all the following week and school was to open a week from Monday, they had all better get out their school books on this evening and begin to get familiar with the studies they were to go back to so soon. "At least, we would better see if we all remember our A B C's," she said dryly. "You, Sammy, after being out so long last term because of the scarlet fever, will have to make up some studies if you wish to keep up with your class." "Don't care whether I keep up or not," growled Sammy. "I just hate school. Every time I think of it I feel like going right off and being a pirate, without waiting to learn navigation." For Mr. Pinkney, who was a very wise man, had explained to Sammy that there was scarcely any use in his thinking of being a pirate if he could not navigate a ship. And navigation, he further explained, was a form of mathematics that could only be studied after one had graduated from high school and knew all about algebra. Nevertheless, Sammy appreciated the fact that he was included in Ruth's invitation and could bring his books over to the Corner House sitting-room where the girls and Neale O'Neil were wont to study almost every week-day night during the school year. Neale usually took supper at the Corner House on Saturday evenings and, considering the way he came back from the shopping expedition laden with bundles, he certainly deserved something for "the inner man," as he himself expressed it. A truly New England Saturday night supper was almost always served by Mrs. MacCall--baked beans, brown bread and codfish cakes. And pudding! Mrs. MacCall was famous for her "whangdoodle pudding and lallygag sauce"--a title she had given once to cottage pudding and its accompanying dressing to satisfy little folks' teasing questions as to "what is _that_?" Neale O'Neil was very fond of this delicacy. As he passed his plate for a second helping on this occasion he quoted with becoming reverence: "The woman that maketh a good pudding is better than a tart reply." "But Mrs. Adams made a tart once," observed Dot seriously, "and instead of sifting powdered sugar on it she got hold of her sand-shaker, and when she gave Margaret Pease and me each a piece it gritted our teeth so we couldn't eat it. So then," concluded Dot, "she found out what she had done." "If she'd given it to Sammy Pinkney," Tess said morosely, "I guess he'd have eaten it right down and never said a word. I saw him drop his bread and butter and 'lasses on the ground once, and he picked it right up and ate it. He said the ground was clean!" "No wonder Sammy's such a gritty little chap," chuckled Neale. "Well," Mrs. MacCall said cheerfully, and with her usual optimism, "it's an old saying that everybody has to eat a peck of dirt before he dies." "So 'tis, Mrs. MacCall," Aunt Sarah rejoined from her end of the table, and with a scornful sniff. "But I want to know whose dirt I'm eating. That Sammy Pinkney is nothing but a little animal." This puzzled Dot somewhat, and she whispered to Ruth: "Ruthie, are _good_ little boys, then, vegetables!" "No, dear," the elder sister said, smiling while the others laughed. "Both bad little boys and good little boys, as well as girls, are human beings." "And," said Tess soberly, trying to recall something she had learned in the past, "there isn't any difference between bad girls and bad boys, only the boys are of the male sex and the girls are of the feline sex." At that statement there was a burst of laughter. "You certainly said something that time, Tess," declared Neale. "For if there is anything more feline than a girl that's mad--" "Nothing like that, Neale O'Neil," interrupted Agnes quickly. "You would better sing pretty small, young man. Remember you are outnumbered." "Yes," said Tess sedately, "you haven't even Sammy here now to take your part, you know, Neale." "True for you, Tessie," agreed Neale. "I am in an infinitesimal minority." Dot's eyes opened wide as these long words sounded from the boy's lips, and she gulped just as though she were swallowing them down for digestion. Agnes' eyes twinkled as she asked the smallest girl: "Did you get those two, honey?" "Don't make fun of her," admonished Ruth, aside. "Well," sighed Dot, soberly, "I do hope I'll get into big words in the reading book this next term. I love 'em. Why! Tess is awfully far ahead of me; she can spell words in four cylinders!" And that closed the evening meal with a round of laughter that Dot did not understand. CHAPTER V THE SHEPARDS "Just think!" Agnes said to Ruth. "For the first time since we came to live at the old Corner House and call it our owniest own, we are going to have real visitors. Oh, dear, me, Ruth, I wish we could have week-end parties, and dances, and all sorts of society things. I do!" "Mercy, Agnes! And you with your hair in plaits?" "Whose fault is that, I'd like to know," responded the beauty a bit sharply. "I'm the only girl in my set who doesn't put her hair up. Myra Stetson has worn hers up for a year--" "She keeps house for her father and has not attended school for six months," Ruth reminded her. "Well, Eva Larry puts hers up when her mother has company. And Pearl Howard--" "Never mind the catalog of your friends, dear," put in Ruth, quietly. "We know you are a much abused little girl. But your hair in plaits you'd better wear for a while yet. "As for week-end parties and the like, I will speak to Mr. Howbridge and perhaps we can give some parties this winter." "With the kids in them!" grumbled Agnes. "I want real grown-up parties." "Let us wait till we are really grown up for them," and the elder sister laughed. "Goodness! you are grown up enough, Ruth Kenway," Agnes declared. "You might be married at your age. Mrs. Mac says she was." "Hush!" exclaimed Ruth, almost shocked by such a suggestion. "You do get the most peculiar ideas in your head, Aggie." "There's nothing peculiar about marrying," said the other girl saucily. "I'm sure everybody's 'doing it.' It's quite the proper thing. You know, as the smallest member of the catechism class replied to the question: 'What is the chief end of woman?' 'Marriage!' And 'tis, too," concluded the positive Agnes. "Do talk sensibly. But to return. Cecile and her brother visiting us is really the first time we'll have entertained guests--save Mrs. Treble and--" "Oh, Mrs. Trouble and Double Trouble, or Barnabetta Scruggs and her father, don't count," Agnes hastened to say. "_They_ were only people we took in. But the Shepards are real guests. And I'm so glad you decided upon giving them two of the big front rooms, Ruthie. Those guest rooms that Uncle Peter had shut up for so many years are just beautiful. There aren't such great rooms, or such splendid old furniture in Milton, as we have." "We have much to be thankful for," said Ruth placidly. "We've a lot to be proud of," amended Agnes. "And our auto! My! Think of us poor little miserable Kenways cutting such a dash." "And yet you were just now longing for more nice things," pointed out Ruth. "That's my fatal ambition," sighed her sister. "I am a female--No! A _feline_--as Tess says--Napoleon. I long for more worlds to conquer like Alexander. I dream of great things like Sir Humphrey Davy and Newton. I--" "Do be feminine in your comparisons, if not feline," suggested Ruth, laughing. "Speak of great women, not of great men." "Oh, indeed! Why, pray? Boadicea? Queen Elizabeth? Joan of Arc--" "Oh I know who _she_ was," declared Dot, who had been listening, open-eyed and open-mouthed, to this harangue of the volatile sister. "She was Noah's wife--and he built a big boat, and put horses and bears and pigs and goats on it so they wouldn't be drowned--and dogs and cats. And they were fruitful and multiplied and filled the earth--" "Oh, oh, oh!" shrieked Agnes. "That child will be the death of me! Where does she pick up her knowledge of scriptural history?" "I guess," said Ruth, kissing the pouting lips of Dot, who did not always take kindly to being laughed at, "that our old Sandyface must have been one of those cats Noah had. She has found four more little blind kittens somewhere. And what we shall do about it, I do not know." Dot and Tess ran squealing to the shed to see the new members of the Corner House family, while Neale said, chuckling: "It's a regular _cat_astrophe, isn't it? Better fill the motor car with feline creatures and let Aggie and me chase around through the country, dropping cats at farmers' barns." "Never!" proclaimed Agnes. "We mean to keep on good terms with all the farmers about Milton. We can't have them coming out and stopping us when we go by and demanding pay for all the hens you run over, Neale O'Neil." "Never yet ran over but one hen," declared the boy quickly. "And she was an old cluck hen--the farmer said so. He thought he really ought to pay me for killing her. And she made soup at that." "Come, come, come, children!" admonished Ruth. "Let us get out the books and see if we have quite forgotten everything we ever knew." They gathered around the sitting-room lamp, Sammy Pinkney having appeared. Mrs. MacCall joined them with her mending, as she loved to do in the evenings. And the Corner House study hour was inaugurated for the fall with appropriate ceremonies of baked apples on the stove and a heaping plate of popcorn in the middle of the table. "I can study so much better when I'm chewing something," Agnes admitted. Dot was soon nodding and Mrs. MacCall from her low rocking chair observed: "I think little folks had better go to bed with the chickens--eh, my lassie!" "No, Mrs. Mac; I don't want to," complained the sleepy Dot. "I've got a bed of my own." "I'll go with her," said Tess, knowing that her little sister did not like to retire alone, even if she might object to the company of chickens. Really, none of them studied much on this evening; but they had a happy time. All, possibly, save Sammy. The thought of going to school once again made that embryo pirate very despondent. "'Tain't that I wouldn't like to go with the fellers, and play at recess, and hear the organ play in the big hall, and spin tops on the basement play-room floor, and all _that_," grumbled Sammy. "But they do try to learn us such perfectly silly things." "What silly things?" demanded Agnes with amusement. "Why, all 'bout 'rithmetic. Huh! Can't a feller count on his fingers? What were they given us for, I'd like to know?" demanded this youthful philosopher. "Ow! ow!" murmured Neale, vastly amused. "Huh!" went on Sammy. "Last teacher I had--mine and Tessie's--was all the time learning us maxims, and what things meant; like _love_, and _charity_ and _happiness_. She was so silly, she was! "That Iky Goronofsky is the thick one," added Sammy, with a grin of recollection. "When she was trying to make us kids understand the difference between the meaning of those three words he couldn't get it into his head. So she gave him three buttons, one for love, one for charity and one for happiness, and made him take 'em home to study." "What did he do with them!" asked Neale, interested. "Why, when she asked Iky the next time about love, charity and happiness, he didn't know any more than he did before," said Sammy, with disgust. 'Where's your buttons, Iky?' she asks him, and Iky hauls out two of 'em. "'There's love, Miss Shipman, and there's charity,' says Iky, 'but my mother sewed happiness on my waist this morning.' Did you ever hear of such a dunce as that kid?" concluded Sammy, with disgust. Sunday was always a busy day, if a quiet one, at the old Corner House. Everything had been done to prepare for the expected guests; but several times Agnes had to enter the two big rooms which were to be devoted to the use of Cecile Shepard and her brother, just for the sake of making sure that all was right and ready. In just what style the Shepards lived Agnes did not know. That they were very well-mannered and were plainly used to what is really essential to cultivated people, the Corner House girls were sure. The visitors were not wealthy, however; far from it. They had but a single relative--a maiden aunt--and with her they made their home when they were not at school or off on peddling trips with a van and team of horses. Cecile and Luke arrived before noon on Monday. Neale drove Ruth and Agnes down to the station in the car to meet the visitors. "Oh, this is just scrumptious!" the second sister declared, with a sigh. "To think that the Kenways would ever arrive at the point where they can drive to the station in their own car for guests--" "Oh, squash!" ejaculated Neale, with disgust. "She's getting to be what Uncle Rufus calls uppity. There'll be no living in the same town with my Lady pretty soon." "It is all right," Ruth said seriously, for she did not approve of Neale any more than she could help--that was not her policy with boys. "It is perfectly proper to be glad that our circumstances have improved." "Oh, crickey!" snorted Neale. "You girls have got up in the world, that's a fact. But I've come down. Uncle Bill Sorber wanted me to be a ground and lofty tumbler." The sisters laughed, and what might have been a bit of friction was escaped. Even Ruth had to admit that the ex-circus boy was the best-natured person they knew. Well, the Shepards arrived. Cecile and Luke were just as glad to see Neale as they were to see the Corner House girls. Luke, sitting in the seat beside Neale on the way up town, whispered to him: "Isn't she sweeter than ever? I declare! I never knew so nice a girl." "Huh?" grunted Neale, and glared at his companion for a moment, forgetting that a chauffeur should keep both eyes on his business when running a car in a crowded street. "Say! were you trying to climb into that coal cart or only fooling?" gasped Luke, who although several years older than Neale had none of his experience as an automobile driver. "What did you say?" asked Neale, with his eyes looking ahead again. "Were you trying to get into that coal cart or--" "Aw, no! About Aggie Kenway." "Why--why I didn't say anything about her," Luke replied. "Oh! I spoke of Miss Ruth. Isn't she a splendid girl?" "Oh! Yes! Ruth! Some!" was the way Neale agreed with this statement of the visitor. CHAPTER VI NAMING THE NEW BABY Luke Shepard was a very friendly person who was bound to make himself beloved by the entire Corner House family. Unless, perhaps, Aunt Sarah Maltby refused to melt before the sunshine of his smile. He was a handsome fellow, too--curly brown hair, a good brown and red complexion, well chiseled features, brown eyes set wide apart, and lips that laughed above a well molded and firm-looking chin. Cecile was his antithesis--sprightly and small-framed, roguish of look and behavior, without an iota of hoidenishness about her. She was inordinately fond of her brother, and she could not understand how the Corner House girls had managed to get on so many years without one boy, at least, in the family. "Of course, you've got Neale," she said to Ruth and Agnes after they had reached the house. "And there's Sammy Pinkney," Tess put in gravely. "I'm sure he's quite as much trouble to us as a real brother could be." At this there was a burst of uncontrollable laughter. The little girls were fond of Luke Shepard, however. He had been very nice to them on that adventurous occasion when they had met him and his sister on the automobile tour; and on coming to the old Corner House for this visit he had not forgotten Tess and Dot. To the former he had brought a lovely, imaginative, beautifully bound story book, "full of gods and gondolas," Dot said with awe. To Dot herself he most tactfully presented a doll. Not a doll to take the place in any way of the beloved Alice-doll. No. Luke was too wise a youth for that. But it was a new baby nevertheless that Dot was bound to be proud of. "Oh," cried Tess, "a boy baby, Dot! And you never had a real boy baby before!" "Or such a nice looking one, at any rate," Agnes suggested. Dot, smiling "big," clasped the manly looking little manikin in its neat sailor suit and cap. She really was too pleased for speech for a minute or two. Then she said: "I'm real glad you came to see us, Mr. Luke. I was glad before. Now I'm glad _twice_." "You can't beat that kid," said Neale admiringly. But the arrival of the new doll-baby put upon the smaller Corner House girls--especially upon Dot--a duty that was always taken seriously. The naming of either new dolls or new pets usually needed the heedful attention of the entire Corner House family. The children of Sandyface, and her grandchildren, were usually an enormous care upon the little girls in this way. To name so many cats, and name them appropriately, had been in the past a matter of no little moment. Now that Sandyface had found four more eyeless, mewing little mites, only the coming of the sailor-baby, as Dot called Luke Shepard's present, made the two little girls agree to Neale's suggestion regarding the naming of the new kittens. They were christened briefly and succinctly: "One, Two, Three and Four." "For we really are too busy, and company in the house, too," said Tess earnestly, "to worry over Sandyface's new family. She _might_ have waited until some other time to find those kittens." On that first evening of the Shepards' visit there was much ado about the name for the baby. The whole family took more or less interest in it, and suggestions galore were showered upon the anxious young mother regarding the sailor-baby. Neale suggested that a ballot-box be arranged and that everybody write his suggestions upon slips of paper and deposit them in the box. Then Dot might be allowed to put in her hand, mix up the slips, and draw one. That name must be the sailor-baby's cognomen. But there was too great a hazard in this to attract the smallest Corner House girl; for Aunt Sarah had already gravely suggested Zerubbabel. "And suppose," Dot whispered, "she should write that on a paper (do you s'pose such an ugly name can be spelled!) and I should draw that out first thing! Why, a name like that would--would make an invalid of the poor child all his life!" Therefore when, on Tuesday, the Corner House girls and their guests went for a ride in the automobile, the momentous decision regarding the new baby's name was still to be made. There was no room for Sammy in the car on this occasion, and he was left behind to seek his own amusement with the aerial tramway. And as matters turned out he certainly was busy with that arrangement before the automobile party returned. However, even Tess forgot all things aerial in the enjoyment of the ride. The car ran smoothly, the day was fine, and not even a "cluck hen" crossed their path. So there was not the smallest thing to mar their pleasure. Luke rode in front with Neale; and the three older girls were so much interested in their own chatter that they scarcely thought of Tess and Dot. But they, too, were exceedingly busy with their particular affairs. What interested them most of all through the drive was the naming of the sailor-baby. Dot sat with the Alice-doll in her arms, of course; but the new doll was hugged up very close to her side upon the seat. "He is really a very pretty doll for a boy doll," Tess observed. "You really should have a very pretty name for him." "I know," agreed the anxious mother. "But all the nice names seem to have been used up. Wha--what do you think of 'Brandywine,' Tessie?" "Goodness! The name of that avenue we just passed? Why, Dot!" ejaculated the horrified older sister. "That's a _nawful_ name! And we're temp'rance." "Yes. It is kind of liquorish, I s'pose," admitted Dot. "But it sounds different. Tom, and Edgar, and Wilfred, and Feodor, and St. John, and Clarence, and Montmorency, and Peter, and Henry, and Vanscombe, and Michael, and all those others, have been used over and over again in naming babies," Dot said with seriousness. "You know we've heard of somebody, or know somebody, named by all of those names. Oh, Tess!" she ejaculated suddenly, "look there!" The automobile party were just passing Mr. Stout's big tobacco barn. One leaf of the main door was open and hooked back and Dot was pointing eagerly to some large black letters painted upon the inside of this door. "What a pretty name that is!" she whispered to Tess, excitedly. "'Nosmo'! Did you ever hear of it before?" "No-o, Dottie, I never did," her sister agreed slowly. "'Nosmo' sounds kind of funny, doesn't it? I--I never heard of a boy called that." "Well, Tess Kenway!" cried her little sister indignantly, "isn't that just what we want? A boy's name that hasn't ever been used on a boy before?" "That's so, Dottie," agreed the more cautious Tess. "That _is_ so. No boy has had it and spoiled it by being bad." Tess' opinion of the genus boy was governed largely by the attitude Ruth seemed to hold toward all boyhood. "It's brand new," declared Dot, christening the sailor-baby on the spot, and without bell, book, or candle. "Nosmo Kenway. Isn't that nice? He's so cute, too!" and she seized the new doll and pressed her red lips to the sailor-boy's highly flushed cheek. "Nosmo Kenway," murmured Tess. "Oughtn't he to have a middle name?" "Oh, well," said Dot. "We can give him that afterward--if we find a good one. But middle names don't really count, after all." The merry party of automobilists ran out as far as Mr. Bob Buckham's--the strawberry man, as they called him--a very good friend of theirs. Mrs. Buckham was confined to her chair and the Corner House girls always took her flowers or something nice when they called at the farm-house. The Kenways and Neale went in to see the invalid for a minute, leaving Cecile and Luke Shepard alone in the car. The keen-eyed girl suddenly leaned forward and tapped her brother on the arm. "Hul-lo!" he said, waking from a day-dream. "Penny for your thoughts, Luke?" she suggested. "Worth more than that, Sis." "I know. They were about Ruth Kenway," and Cecile laughed, although her eyes were anxious. "Witch!" exclaimed Luke, flushing a little. "Beware, young man!" his sister said, shaking an admonitory finger. "Beware of the dog?" queried Luke with a smile. "Just so, Boy. There is a dog. A big one in the path." "Why, Sis, I don't believe Ruth Kenway has ever even _thought_ of a boy--" "As you are thinking of her?" his sister broke in softly. "No. I think she is perfectly 'heart whole and fancy free.' And so ought you to be, Luke." "Well, she's such a sweet girl," he declared, his eyes shining. "She certainly is." "Then what have you against my--my liking her?" "There is nothing I'd like better in this world, Luke," his sister declared earnestly, "than to see you happy in the friendship of such a girl as Ruth." "Then--" "Remember Neighbor," Cecile said, earnestly. "Oh, bother Neighbor!" muttered Luke. "No. You would not like to see him bothered. And he is a very good friend of yours. He can and will help you get a start in the world after you have finished at college. His aid may mean ten years' advantage to you." "Do you suppose I care what Neighbor does with his money?" demanded Luke, hotly. "No. Not for just what the money would bring you," she agreed. "But think! What have you to offer Ruth Kenway if you should come to the point where you might ask her to engage herself to you? We're just as poor as Job's turkey after it was picked to the bones!" "I know it, Sis," groaned the young fellow. "And without Neighbor's help you may have a long and hard struggle getting anywhere," Cecile said gravely. "Too true, Sis." "Well--then--" The Kenways and Neale O'Neil reappeared. The visiting brother fell silent. Luke Shepard scarcely had a word to say during the remainder of the automobile ride. CHAPTER VII A FELINE FUROR Returning to town, the automobile party passed Stout's tobacco barn again and when it came in sight Dot eagerly began to explain to the older girls how and where she had found a name for the sailor-baby that Luke Shepard had given her. "That is a real pretty name I think," said Ruth, absently. "And quite new I am sure." Agnes demanded again where the smallest Corner House girl had seen the name, 'Nosmo' painted. "Why!" she exclaimed, "it says 'king'--that's what is painted on that door, children." "Oh, but, Sister!" exclaimed Tess. "_That_ is the other half of the big door. They've shut the half that was open when we rode along before and opened the other one." But Agnes was not listening to this explanation. She had turned back to Ruth and Cecile. Dot was eagerly repeating something over and over to herself. Tess turned to demand what it was. "Oh, Tessie!" the smallest Corner House girl cried, "that sounds b-e-a-u-ti-ful!" "What does?" demanded her sister. "I've just the nicest middle name for this sailor-baby," and she hugged her new possession again. "What is it?" asked the interested Tess. "Nosmo King Kenway. Isn't that nice?" eagerly cried the little girl. "It's--it's so 'ristocratic. Don't you think so, Tess?" Tess repeated the full name, too. It did sound rather nice. The oftener you said it the better it sounded. And--yet--there was something a wee bit peculiar about it. But Tess was too kind-hearted to suggest anything wrong with the name, as long as Dot liked it so much. And she had found it all her very own self! "I wonder what Sammy will say to _that_," murmured Dot placidly. "I guess he'll think it is a nice name, won't he?" "Well, if he doesn't it won't make any difference," Tess said loftily. Just at that time, however, (though quite unsuspected by the Corner House girls) Sammy Pinkney had his mind quite filled with other and more important matters. Since his long illness in the spring Sammy had remained something of a stranger to his oldtime boy friends. Of course, as soon as he got into school again and associated with the boys of his own class once more, he would get back into the "gang" as he called it. He was not a boy to be gibed because he played with girls so much. However, habit brought him to the side gate of the Corner House on this afternoon, whether the little girls were at home or not. He was so often in and out of the house that neither Mrs. MacCall nor Linda paid much attention to him; for although Sammy Pinkney was as "full of mischief as a chestnut is of meat" (to quote Mrs. MacCall) he never touched anything about the house that was not his, nor wandered into the rooms upstairs, save the one from the window of which the aerial tramway was strung to the window of his own bedroom "scatecornered" across Willow Street. His aim was the window of the little girls' big playing and sleeping room now, for the wire basket chanced to be fastened at this end of the line. He had it in his mind to pull the basket over to his own house, fill it there with some sort of cargo, and draw it back and forth, amusing himself by imagining that he was loading a ship from the dock. "Or, maybe," Sammy ruminated, "I'll have the old ship wrecked, and the lifesavers will put out the life buoy; and we'll bring the passengers ashore. Crickey! that'll be just the thing. I'll save 'em all from drownin'--that's what I'll do!" Then he looked about in some anxiety for the wrecked passengers of the foundered steamship which he immediately imagined was cast on the reef just about as far from the Corner House as his own domicile stood. "Got to have passengers!" cried Sammy. "Oh, crickey! the dolls would be just the thing. But I promised I wouldn't touch them. Aw, pshaw! a feller can't have much fun after all where there's a lot of girls around." Not that the girls were here to bother Sammy Pinkney now; but he felt the oppressive effect of Dot's mandatory decree. "If a fellow had _forty_ dolls he wouldn't be afraid to give them a ride on this aerial tramway!" Wandering downstairs again and out upon the side porch he found Sandyface lying in the sun, but within sight and hearing of the four new blind babies which were nested upon Uncle Rufus' old coat just within the shed door. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" gasped Sammy, his eyes big with a sudden idea. He knelt down beside the little soft balls of fur, and Sandyface came to rub around him and worship likewise. But she had no idea of the thought that ran riot in Sammy's head. "Say! they'd never know they was disturbed," muttered the boy. He gathered up the old coat, with the four little mites in it, and started stealthily for the back stairs. Sandyface, not at all disturbed in her mind, followed, purring, but with no intention of quite losing sight of her babies. The little girls were in the habit of carrying her progeny all about the place and always brought them back in safety. Sammy stole up the stairs on tiptoe. He knew very well he was up to mischief and he did not wish to meet Mrs. MacCall, or even Linda. For the Finnish girl who helped the housekeeper had her private opinion of Sammy Pinkney--and often expressed it publicly. "If I haf a boy brudder like him, I sew him up in a bag--oh, yes!" was one of the mildest threats that Linda ever made regarding Sammy. Sammy pushed up the screen and placed the coat, with the four kittens asleep on it, carefully in the deep wire basket. Sandyface, interested, leaped upon the window sill, and smelled of the kittens and the basket. Then she craned her neck to look down to the ground. "You'd better not jump, cat," warned Sammy, unfastening the rope that ran through blocks at both ends and so enabled one to pull the basket back and forth. "It's a long way to the ground." Sandyface had no such silly idea in her wise old head. As Sammy turned away for a moment she stepped gingerly into the basket, moved the squirming kittens over, and settled down to nurse them. A little thing like being twenty feet or so up in the air with her babies did not disturb Sandyface--much. "Hey, you!" exclaimed Sammy, grabbing the old cat away before the snuffling little kittens had really found she was with them. "Can't take the whole crew and all the passengers off the wreck at once. You'll overload the lifecar. Scat!" and he put her down upon the floor. But the kittens began to whine now; they were being cheated, they thought, and they desired their mother very much. Sandyface replied to them and jumped upon the window sill again. "Hey!" Sammy said, "didn't I tell you to wait till the next load? Aw! look at that cat!" For the mother cat had stepped into the basket again, purring, and once more settled down. "All right, then," ejaculated Sammy in disgust, "if you're bound to go along! But don't blame _me_ if you're so heavy that the old carrier busts." He carefully drew the basket out upon the wire, away from the house. Sandyface lifted her head; but as she was very comfortable and had her family with her, she made no great objection as the basket swung out into space. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" gasped Sammy, with fearful joy. "Bet that old basket would hold all the other cats too. Wish I had the bunch of 'em--Spotty, and Almira, and Popocatepetl, and Bungle, and Starboard, Port, Hard-a-Lee and Main-sheet! And Almira's got four kittens of her own somewhere. And so's Popocatepetl. Whew! that makes--makes--" But Sammy did not like arithmetic enough to figure up this sum; and he did not seem to have fingers enough just then to count them. So he gave it up. A cat and four kittens swinging out over Willow Street, with all the winds of heaven blowing about them, should have satisfied even Sammy Pinkney. The boy pulled the basket cautiously to the extreme end of the wire--until the carrier bumped against the clapboards under his own bedroom window. He saw Sandyface raise her head again and glare around. Half asleep until this time she had not realized that she and her babies were being so marvelously transported from their own home to the cottage where Sammy resided. "Crickey!" exclaimed the boy suddenly. "If mother comes out and sees 'em--or if that there bulldog Buster hears those cats meowing, there'll be trouble over there." He started anxiously to draw the cats and the carrier back to the Corner House. In some way the line by which he drew the basket became fouled at the other end; or the pulleys on the wire became chocked. Sammy could not tell just what the trouble was, anyway. But to his dismay the basket stuck midway of the line. High over the middle of Willow Street it stopped, and Sandyface was now standing up and telling the neighborhood just how scared she felt for her babies and herself. "Lie down, cat!" the perturbed Sammy cried to her. "You'll fall overboard and drown--I mean, break your silly neck! S-st! Lie down!" Tom Jonah, the old house dog, appeared suddenly below and began to bark. Billy Bumps came galloping around the house, shook his horns in disapproval, and "bla-ated" loudly. Linda came to the kitchen door, beheld the cat in the basket high on the wire, and seemed to understand the cause of the trouble with uncanny certainty. "That iss the Pinkney boy!" she cried. "If he was _my_ brudder--" Mrs. MacCall, called by the clatter, ran out. Aunt Sarah Maltby, even, appeared at the door, while Uncle Rufus limped up from the hen houses mildly demanding: "What's done happen' to dem cats? Don't I hear dem prognosticatin' about, somewhar's?" "Sammy Pinkney!" cried Mrs. MacCall, the first to spy the boy at the window of the little girls' play-room, "what are you doing up there?" "He's got the cat and the kittens in that basket. Did you ever?" exclaimed Aunt Sarah. "You naughty boy!" commanded Mrs. MacCall, "you pull that thing right back here and let poor Sandyface out." "I can't, Mrs. MacCall," woefully declared the boy who wanted to be a pirate. "Then pull it over to your house," said the housekeeper. "I--I can't do that either," confessed Sammy. "Why not, I should admire to know?" demanded Aunt Sarah. "'Cause it's stuck," gloomily explained Sammy. "I can't pull it one way, nor yet the other. Oh, dear! I wish that cat would stop yowling!" What he feared happened at that moment. His mother, hearing the commotion in the street and seeing a crowd beginning to gather, ran out of the house. She was always expecting something to happen to Sammy; and if a crowd gathered anywhere near the house she surmised the most dreadful peril for her son. "Sammy! Sammy!" she shrieked. "What has become of Sammy?" "Here I am, Ma," replied Sammy, with disgust. "What's the matter with you? Come home this minute!" commanded Mrs. Pinkney, who was a rather near-sighted woman, and having run out without her glasses she did not spy her son in the window of the Corner House. "I--I can't," confessed the boy, rather shaken. At that moment Mrs. Pinkney saw the neighbors pointing upward, and hearing them say: "See up there? In the basket! The poor thing!" she naturally thought they referred to the peril of her young son. "Oh, Sammy Pinkney! But you just wait till your father gets home to-night!" she cried, trying to peer up at the wire. "I knew you'd get into mischief with that thing Neale O'Neil strung up there. Whatever has the boy tried to do? Walk tight-rope?" "It's in the basket," somebody tried to explain to her. That was too much for the excitable Mrs. Pinkney. "He'll fall out of it! Of course he will. And break his precious neck! Oh, get a blanket! Some of you run for the fire ladders! How will we get him down?" She sat down on the grass, threw her apron over her head, and refused to look upward at the wire carrier in which Sandyface and her kittens were suspended, and out of which she expected her reckless son to fall at any moment. It was at this exciting moment, and into the hubbub made by the neighbors and Sandyface, that the automobile party whizzed around the corner. Neale brought the car to a sudden stop and everybody screamed. "That Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Tess, in despair. "I just _knew_ he'd get into something!" CHAPTER VIII NEIGHBOR What with Mrs. Pinkney almost in hysterics, Tom Jonah barking, the goat blatting, Aunt Sarah scolding, and the neighbors in a general uproar, it was scarcely possible for anybody to make himself heard. Therefore Neale said nothing. He hopped out from behind the steering wheel of the touring car and ran into the back premises, from which he dragged the tall fruit-picking ladder that Uncle Rufus had stowed away. [Illustration: "Neale reached up with a rake and unhooked the hanging basket"] Fortunately before any excited person turned in a fire alarm, Neale, with the help of Luke Shepard and Uncle Rufus, set up the step-ladder directly under the squalling cat and her kittens. From the top step, on which he perched precariously with Luke and the old negro steadying the ladder, Neale reached up with a rake and unhooked the hanging basket from the tramway. It was rather a delicate piece of work, and the children were scarcely assured of Sandyface's safety--nor was the old cat sure of it herself--until Neale, hanging the basket on the reversed garden rake, lowered the entire family to the ground. "Sartain suah am glad to see dat ol' coat ob' mine again," mumbled Uncle Rufus, as everybody else was congratulating one another upon the safety of the cats. "I had a paper dollar tucked away ag'in some time w'en I'd need it, in de inside pocket of dat ol' coat. It moughty near got clean 'way f'om me, 'cause of dat boy's foolishness. Sartain suah am de baddes' boy I ever seen." The consensus of opinion seemed to follow the bent of Uncle Rufus' mind. Sammy was in evil repute in the neighborhood in any case; this was considered the capsheaf. Had it not been that the aerial tramway was so securely affixed to the two houses, and to take it down would be to deprive Tess, who was innocent, of some amusement, Mrs. Pinkney would have ordered the connections between the two houses severed at once. As it was, she drove the shamefaced Sammy into the house ahead of her, and some of his boy acquaintances, lingering with ghoulish curiosity outside, heard unmistakable sounds of punishment being inflicted upon the culprit. He was then sent up to his room to meditate. And just outside his screened window was the tantalizing tramway which Neale had repaired and which was again in good working order. Sammy had been forbidden to use the new plaything; but the little Corner House girls soon began to feel sorry for him. Even Tess thought that his punishment was too hard. "For he didn't really hurt Sandyface and the kittens. Only scared 'em," she said. "But s'pose they'd've got dizzy and fell out--like I did out of the swing?" Dot observed, inclined to make the matter more serious even than her sister. "_Then_ what would have happened?" Tess nevertheless felt sorry for the culprit, and seeing his woe-begone and tear-stained face pressed close to his chamber window, she wrote the following on a piece of pasteboard, stood it upright in the basket and drew it across so that Sammy might read it: DONT MINE SAmmY WE Ar SORRY THe CATS AR Al RITE DOT & TESS The "_cat_astrophy" as Neale insisted upon calling the accident, threw some gloom into an otherwise pleasant day--for the little girls at least. And that evening something else was discovered that sent Dot to bed in almost as low a state of mind as that with which Sammy Pinkney retired. This second unfortunate incident happened after supper, when they were all gathered in the sitting room, Neale, too, being present. Luke asked Dot if she had decided upon a name for the new baby. "Oh, yes, Mr. Luke," the smallest Corner House girl replied. "The sailor-baby was christened to-day. Didn't you know!" "I hadn't heard about it," he confessed. "What is he called?" Dot told him proudly. And Tess said: "Don't you think it is a pretty name? Dot found it all her own self. It was painted on a barn." "What's that?" asked Neale suddenly. "What was painted on a barn?" "The sailor-baby's name," Dot said proudly. "'Nosmo King Kenway.'" "On a barn!" repeated the puzzled Neale. "Whose barn?" When he learned that it was Mr. Stout's tobacco barn he looked rather funny and asked several other questions of the little girls. Then he drew a sheet of paper toward him and with a pencil printed something upon it, which he passed to Agnes. She burst into laughter at once, and passed the paper on. "What is it?" Dot asked curiously. "Is it a funny picture he's drawed?" "It's funnier than a picture," laughed Luke, who had taken a squint at the paper. "I declare, isn't that a good one!" "I don't think you folks are very polite," Tess said, rather haughtily, for the others were not going to show the paper to the little girls. On the sheet Neale had arranged the letters of the new baby's name as they were meant to be read--for he knew what was painted upon the inside of the doors of Mr. Stout's barn: NO SMOKING Ruth, however, would not let the joke go on. She took Dot up on her lap and explained kindly how the mistake had been make. For Nosmo _was_ a pretty name; nobody could deny it. And, of course, King sounded particularly aristocratic. Nevertheless, Dot there and then dropped the sailor-baby's fancy name, and he became Jack, to be known by that name forever more. After the smaller girls had disappeared stairward, Neale and Luke unfolded one of the card-tables and began a game of chess which shut them entirely out of the general conversation for the remainder of the evening. The girls and Mrs. MacCall chatted companionably. They had much to tell each other, for, after all, the Corner House girls and Cecile Shepard had spent but one adventurous night together and they needed to learn the particulars of each other's lives before they really could feel "at home with one another," as Agnes expressed it. Cecile and her brother could scarcely remember their parents; and the maiden aunt they lived with--a half sister of their father's--was the only relative they knew anything about. "Oh, no," Cecile said, "we can expect no step-up in this world by the aid of any interested relative. There is no wealthy and influential uncle or aunt to give us a helping hand. We're lucky to get an education. Aunt Lorena makes that possible with her aid. And she does what she can, I know full well, only by much self-sacrifice." Then the cheerful girl began to laugh reminiscently. "That is," she pursued, "_I_ can look forward to the help of no fairy godmother or godfather. But Luke is in better odor with Neighbor than I am." "'Neighbor'!" repeated Ruth. "Who is he? Or is it a what?" "Or a game?" laughed Agnes. "'Neighbor'!" "He is really great fun," said Cecile, still laughing. "So I suppose he might be called a game. He really is a 'neighbor,' however. He is a man named Henry Harrison Northrup, who lives right beside Aunt Lorena's little cottage in Grantham. "You see, Luke and I used always to work around Aunt Lorena's yard, and have a garden, and chickens, and what-not when we were younger. Everybody has big yards in that part of Grantham. And Mr. Northrup, on one side, was always quarreling with auntie. He is a misogynist--" "A mis-_what_-inest?" gasped Mrs. MacCall, hearing a new word. "Oh, I know!" cried Agnes, eagerly. "A woman-hater. A man who hates women." "Humph!" scoffed Mrs. MacCall, "is there such indeed? And what do they call a man-hater?" "That, Mrs. MacCall, I cannot tell you," laughed Cecile. "I fear there are no women man-haters--not _really_. At least there is no distinctive title for them in the dictionary." "So much the worse for the dictionary, then," said the Scotch woman. "And, of course, _that's_ man-made!" "It was only the Greeks who were without 'em," put in Ruth, smiling. "The perfectly good, expressive English word 'man-hater' is in the dictionary without a doubt." "But do go on about Neighbor," Agnes urged. "Does he quarrel with you people all the time?" "Not with Luke," Cecile explained. "He likes Luke. He is really very fond of him, although it seems positively to hurt him to show love for anybody. "But a long time ago Mr. Northrup began to show an interest in Luke. He would come to the fence between his and Aunt Lorena's places, and talk with Luke by the hour. But if either I or aunty came near he'd turn right around and walk away. "He never allows a woman inside his door and hasn't, they say, for twenty years. He has a Japanese servant--the only one that was ever seen in Grantham; and they get along without a woman." "I'd like tae see intae that hoos," snapped Mrs. MacCall, shaking her head and dropping into her broad Scotch, as she often did when excited. "What could twa' buddies of men do alone at housekeeping!" "Oh, the Jap is trained to it," Cecile said. "Luke says everything is spick and span there. And Mr. Northrup himself, although he dresses queerly in old-fashioned clothes, has always clean linen and is well brushed. "But he does not often appear outside of his own yard. He really hates to meet women. His front gate is locked. Luke climbs the fence when he goes to see Neighbor; but people with skirts aren't supposed to be able to climb fences; so Mr. Northrup is pretty safe. Even the minister's wife doesn't get in." "But why do you call him Neighbor?" asked Ruth again. "That's what he told Luke to call him in the first place. We were not very old when Luke's strange friendship with Mr. Northrup began. After they had become quite chummy Luke, who was a little fellow, asked the old gentleman if he couldn't call him Uncle Henry. You see, Luke liked him so much that he wanted to say something warmer than Mister. "But that would never do. Mr. Northrup seemed to think that might connect him in people's minds with Aunt Lorena. So he told Luke finally to call him Neighbor. "Of course, the old gentleman is really a _dear_--only he doesn't know it," continued Cecile. "He thinks he hates women, and the idea of marriage is as distasteful to him as a red rag is to a bull. "He is going to leave Luke all his money he says. At any rate, he has promised to do something for him when he gets out of college if he manages to graduate in good odor with the faculty," and Cecile laughed. "But if Luke should suggest such a thing as marrying--even if the girl were the nicest girl in the world--Neighbor would not listen to it. He would cut their friendship in a moment, I know," added the girl seriously. "And his help may be of great value to Luke later on." If Cecile had some reason for telling the older Corner House girls and Mrs. MacCall this story she did not point the moral of it by as much as a word or a look. They were quickly upon another topic of conversation. But perhaps what she had said had taken deep root in the heart of one, at least, of her audience. CHAPTER IX EVERYTHING AT SIXES AND SEVENS Things sometimes begin to go wrong the very moment one wakes up in the morning. Then there is the coming down to breakfast with a teeny, weeny twist in one's temper that makes some unfeeling person say: "I guess you got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning." Now, of course, that is silly. There can be no wrong side to a bed--that is, to get out of. Getting up has nothing to do with it. Things are just wrong and that is all there is to it. Fortunately this state of mind seldom lasted all day with any of the four Corner House girls; nor did they often begin the day in such a humor. But there are exceptions to every rule, they say. And this Wednesday most certainly was the day when matters were "at sixes and sevens" for Dorothy Kenway. It would not be at all surprising if the trouble started the evening before when she learned that she had inadvertently named her new baby No Smoking. That certainly was cause for despair as well as making one feel horribly ridiculous. Of course, Ruth in her kind way, had tried to make the smallest Corner House girl forget it; but Dot remembered it very clearly when morning came and she got up. Then, she could not find the slippers she had worn the day before; and if Mrs. MacCall saw her with her best ones on, there would be something said about it--Dot knew that. Then, Tess seemed suddenly very distant to her. She had something on her mind and carried herself with her very "grown-upest" air with Dot. The latter, on this morning particularly, hated to admit that Tess was more than a very few days older than herself. Tess went off on this business that made her so haughty, all by herself, right after breakfast. When Dot called after her: "Where are you going, Tess?" the latter had said very frankly, "Where _you_ can't go," and then went right on without stopping for a moment to argue the point. "I do think that is too mean for anything!" declared Dot to herself, quite too angry to cry. She sat sullenly on the porch steps, and although she heard Sandyface purring very loudly and suggestively, just inside the woodshed door, she would not get up to go to see the old cat's babies--of which Sandyface was inordinately proud. "Wait," ruminated Dot, shaking her head. "Wait till Tess Kenway wants me to go somewhere with her. _I won't go!_ There, now!" So she sat, feeling very lonesome and miserable, and "enjoying" it immensely. She need not have been lonely. She could hear the older girls and Luke laughing in the front of the house, and she would have been welcomed had she gone there. Ruth was always a comforter, and even Agnes seldom said the smallest girl nay. But Dot had managed to raise a laugh a little while before--she being the person laughed at. She chanced to hear Luke, who was running lightly over the old and yellowed keys of the piano, say: "No wonder these instruments cost so much. You know it takes several elephants alone to make these," and he struck another chord. Dot had heard about the intelligence of elephants and like most other little people believed that the great pachyderms could do almost anything. But this was too much for even Dot Kenway's belief. "Oh, Ruth! elephants can't work at that trade, can they?" she demanded. "What trade, honey?" asked the surprised older sister. "Piano making. I should think that carpenters built pianos--not elephants." Of course, the older ones had laughed, and Dot's spirits had fallen another degree, although Ruth was careful to explain to the little girl that Luke had meant it took the tusks of several elephants to fashion the ivory keys for one piano. However, Dot was in no mood for "tagging" after the older ones. She just wanted to sit still and suffer! She heard Mabel Creamer "hoo-hooing" for her from beyond the yard fence, but she would not answer. Had it not been for the Alice-doll (which of course she hugged tight to her troubled little breast) life would have scarcely seemed worth living to the smallest Corner House girl. And just then she looked up and saw a picture across the street even more woe-begone than the one she herself made. It was Sammy Pinkney, gloom corrugating his brow, an angry flush in his cheeks, and sullenly kicking the toe first of one shoe and then the other against the pickets of the fence where he stood. It was evident that Sammy had been forbidden freedom other than that of his own premises. He stared across at the smallest Corner House girl; but he was too miserable even to hail Dot. After all, it seemed to the latter, that Sammy was being inordinately punished for having given Sandyface and her family an aerial ride. Besides, misery loves company. Dot was in no mood to mingle with the joyous and free. But Sammy's state appealed to her deeply. She finally got up off the step and strolled out of the yard and across the street. "'Lo, Sammy," she said, as the boy continued to stare in another direction though knowing very well that she was present before him. "'Lo, Dot," he grumbled. "What's the matter, Sammy?" she asked. "Ain't nothin' the matter," he denied, kicking on the pickets again. "Dear me," sighed Dot, "_I_ just think _every_thing's too mean for _any_thing!" "Huh!" "And everybody at my house is mean to me, too," added the little girl, stirring up her own bile by the audible reiteration of her thoughts. "Yes, they are!" "Huh!" repeated the scornful Sammy. "They ain't nowhere near as mean to you as my folks are to me." "You don't know--" "Did they lick you?" demanded the boy fiercely. "No-o." "And then make you stay in your room and have your supper there?" "No-o." "Ma brought it up on a tray," the boy said fiercely, "so I couldn't get no second helping of apple dumpling." "Oh, Sammy!" Somehow, after all, his misery seemed greater than her own. Yet there was a sore spot in the little girl's heart. "I--I wish I could run away," she blurted out, never having thought of such a thing until that very moment. "_Then_ they'd see." "Hist!" breathed Sammy, coming closer and putting his lips as close to the little girl's ear as the pickets would allow. "Hist! _I am going to run away!_" Dot took this statement much more calmly than he expected. "Oh, yes," she said. "When you go to be a pirate. You've told me that before, Sammy Pinkney." In fact, she had been hearing this threat ever since she had come to the old Corner House and become acquainted with this youngster. "And I _am_ going to be a pirate," growled Sammy, with just as deep a voice as he could muster. "Oh! not _now_?" gasped Dot, suddenly realizing that this occasion was fraught with more seriousness than any previous one of like character. "You aren't going right off now to be a pirate, Sammy Pinkney?" "Yes, I am," declared the boy. "Not now? Not this morning? Not before your mother comes back from marketing?" for she had seen Mrs. Pinkney's departure a few minutes before. "Yes, I am," and Sammy clinched it with a vigorous nod, although he had not meant to run away until nightfall. People usually waited for night to run away so it seemed to Sammy, but he was not going to have his intention doubted. "Oh, Sammy!" gasped Dot, clasping her hands across the Alice-doll's stomach, "are--are there _girl_ pirates?" "Are there what?" questioned Sammy in doubt. "Can girls run away and be pirates, too?" "Why--er--they wouldn't dars't." "Yes, I would." "You! Dot Kenway?" "Yes I would," repeated Dot stubbornly. "You want to be a pirate?" repeated Sammy. Of course he would rather have a boy to run away with. But then-- "Why can't girls be pirates?" demanded the logical Dot. "Don't pirates have to have somebody to cook and wash and keep house for them?" "I--I don't know," admitted Sammy honestly. "I never read about any girl pirates. But," as he saw Dot's pretty face beginning to cloud over, "I don't know why there shouldn't be, if they wasn't too 'fraid." "I won't be afraid," Dot declared, steeling herself as she had once done when she was forced to go to the dentist's office. "We-ell," began Sammy still doubtfully. But Dot was nothing if not determined when once she made up her mind. "Now, you come right along, Sammy Pinkney, if we're going to run away and be pirates. You know your mother won't let you if she comes home and catches you here." "But--but we ought to take something to eat--and some clothes--and--and a pistol and a knife--" "Oo-ee!" squealed the little girl. "You won't take any horrid pistol and knife if you're going to run off to be pirates with _me_, Sammy Pinkney. Why, I'd be afraid to go with you." "Huh!" grumbled Sammy, "you don't haf to go." "But you said I could," Dot declared, sure of her position. "And now you can't back out--you know you can't, Sammy. That wouldn't be fair." "Aw, well. We gotter have money," he objected faintly. "I'll run and get my purse," the little girl said cheerfully. "I've got more than fifty cents in it." But now unwonted chivalry began to stir faintly in Sammy's breast. If they were going away together, it should be his "treat." He marched into the house, smashed his bank with the kitchen poker, and came out with a pocket full of silver and nickels that looked as if they amounted to much more than they really did. However, the sinews of war in his pocket was not without a certain inspiration and comfort. Money would go a long way toward getting them to a place where their respective families could neither nag nor punish them. As runaways they may have been different from most. But, then, Sammy and Dot were very modern runaways indeed. People who saw them merely observed two very well dressed children, walking hand in hand toward the suburbs of Milton; the little girl hugging a doll to her breast and the boy with a tight fist in one pocket holding down a couple of dollars worth of change. Who would have dreamed that they were enamored of being pirates and expected to follow a career of rapine and bloodthirsty adventure on the Spanish Main? CHAPTER X ABOARD THE NANCY HANKS It must be confessed--and not to the belittlement of Sammy Pinkney--that he never would have run away to be a pirate on this occasion had it not been for Dot Kenway. When this little miss had once set her mind to a thing it took a good deal to turn her from her purpose. It had been Sammy's dire threat for a long time that he would seek the adventurous life of a buccaneer on the rolling main. But he had never set a definite date for his departure upon this venture. To-day was the day. Fate willed it thus. And it looked as though fate was disguised in the character of a strong-minded little girl with two cherry-red hair-ribbons and a doll hugged tightly in her arms. Sammy, however, having once embarked on the venture considered that he must take a certain lead in affairs. Dot certainly had urged him away from home and mother; but now she gave up the guidance of affairs entirely into her companion's hands. She had no more idea of what "being pirates" meant than she had of the location where "pirating" as a profession might be safely pursued. On Sammy's part, he knew that pirates roved the sea. The nearest water to the corner of Willow and Main Streets was the canal. Therefore he led the little girl by the hand toward that rather placid body of water that flowed through one end of Milton and into the river. The canal connected two tributaries of a large watercourse--the largest in the state, in fact; but it was not a very busy waterway. Now and then a battered old barge was drawn through by a pair of equally battered horses or mules. Milton people held the canal folk in some contempt. But then, they knew very little about the followers of the inland waterways as a class. Sometimes some of the canal boatmen came over as far as Meadow Street to purchase provisions of Mrs. Kranz, or of Joe Maroni, both of whom occupied stores on property belonging now to the four Corner House girls; and the way the two small runaways took on this day led them directly past this Meadow Street property. "If we are going to be pirates," said Sammy rather soberly for him, "we must lay in a stock of provisions. We've got to eat, you know." "Oh! have we?" asked the little girl, to whom the fact of piracy was a sublimated sort of existence in which she had not considered it would be necessary to think of mundane things. "I've got the money, and we'll lay in a stock," Sammy said, proud of his position now as acknowledged leader of the expedition. Mrs. Kranz, the German woman who kept the delicatessen store, was not at all surprised to see Dot. The Corner House girls often visited her and the other tenants on the property, and Dot was particularly beloved by the good woman. "My! my! Undt de baby, too? Coom right in undt haf some nice pop-sarsaparilla. I haf some on de ice yet--you undt your young man." "Oh, Mrs. Kranz!" cried Dot, eagerly, "we haven't come to visit you. We've come to buy something." But Sammy nudged her quickly. "Let's have the sarsaparilla," he whispered in Dot's ear, as the generous woman bustled away to the icebox. "That'll go fine." Maria Maroni, oldest of the fruit dealer's family, who dwelt in the cellar of the building but lived mostly with Mrs. Kranz, waited upon Sammy; so the storekeeper herself had no idea of the queer order Sammy gave. He bought crackers--mostly of the animal kind; a piece of cheese; fishhooks; a ball of twine; a sack of potatoes (Maria ran and got those from her father); a pencil and a pad of paper; some raisins; a jar of peanut butter; some drop-cakes; and ten cents' worth of a confection just then very popular, called by the children "gumballs." All these things, save the gumballs, he had put in a flour sack, and told Dot they were ready to depart. "Undt dat iss a pig pundle of t'ings Mrs. MacCall sent you for," said Mrs. Kranz placidly, as the runaways started out of the store. "Oh, Mrs. MacCall didn't send us," Dot explained. "No? Are dey for de poy's mutter!" "Oh, no. You see, Mrs. Kranz," Dot said gravely, "we're going to be pirates, and we have to have a stock of things to eat. Don't we, Sammy?" "Come along," growled Sammy, fearful that they would be laughed at. But Mrs. Kranz was befogged. She had never before heard of pirates, and she did not know whether it was a game, a lodge one belonged to, or a picnic. She guessed it was the last, however, for she bade them a hearty farewell and hoped they would have a pleasant day. As they came out there was Joe Maroni himself, the neat, smiling, brown little Italian in his corduroy suit and with gold rings in his ears, ready waiting with a basket piled high with fruit. "For the leetle padrona," Joe said, with a smiling bow, sending his usual gift to Ruth, whom he considered a grand signora and, as his "landlady," deserving of such thoughtful attentions. "Aw, say!" cried Sammy his eyes growing big; "that's scrumptious." "But they are for Ruthie," complained Dot. "We'll have to lug them all around with us--and no knowing when we'll get home from being pirates." "Get _home_!" snorted the boy. "Why, we can't never go home again. If they catch us they'll hang us in chains." Dot's mouth became suddenly a round "O" and nothing more, while her eyes Neale O'Neil would have said had he seen them, "bulged out." The assurance in Sammy's tone seemed final. She could not go home again! And "hanging in chains" somehow had an awfully creepy sound. But as the boy himself did not seem to take these terrible possibilities very seriously, Dot took comfort from that fact and went on again cheerfully. Nor did she mind carrying the basket of attractive fruit. One of the peaches on top was a little mellow and she stuck a tentative finger into the most luscious spot she could see upon the cheek of that particular peach. The juice was just as sweet! She touched it with her finger again and then put the finger to her lips. By this time they had come out of Meadow Street and were crossing the open common toward the canal. On one hand was a blacksmith shop, and the smith was getting ready to shoe a pair of mules which, with drooping ears and saddened aspect, waited in the shade. There was no moving boat on the canal and nothing stirring along the towpath. But a battered looking old barge was moored to the nigh bank, and Sammy's face brightened. "Come on, Dot," he said, glancing back at the little girl. "There's a ship and I guess there isn't anybody aboard. Anyhow, if there is, we'll fight our way over the bulwarks, kill half the crew, and make the others walk the plank. That is what pirates would do." "Oo-ee!" squealed Dot--and she dropped the basket of fruit. "Aw, say!" growled Sammy. "What kind of a pirate will _you_ make? Of course we have to do what all pirates do." But it was not anything to do with the true business of pirating that had brought forth that squeal from Dot Kenway. Just as she had been about to touch that peach again with her pink finger, where the sweet juice was oozing out, a great ugly, yellow wasp came along and lit right on that juicy spot! "Oo-ee!" squealed Dot again. Sammy valiantly came to the rescue, and beat away the "stinger" with his cap. But he carried the fruit himself, as well as the bag of other provisions, the rest of the way to the canalboat. "Can't trust you with it, Dot," he declared. "You'd have the things all mush if you dropped them every time you saw a bee." "I don't like bees," declared his little comrade. "And you was one yourself, once," grinned Sammy. "In that show, you know." "Oh, but I didn't sting anybody," the little girl replied. "I wouldn't be so mean!" "How do you know this fellow was going to sting you?" demanded Sammy. "Why, Sammy Pinkney! Of course he was!" declared Dot, earnestly. "I--I could see it right in his face! He was _so_ ugly." The canalboat was high out of the water, for its hold was empty; but the runaways climbed aboard easily. Sammy was as brave as a lion. He proposed to take possession of the craft and drive ashore anybody who might already be there. Only, there was nobody aboard. "The crew maybe saw us coming and deserted her," he said to Dot. "Lots of 'em do. When they see the Black Roger flying at our peak--" "What's the Black Roger?" demanded Dot, big-eyed again. She was gaining considerable information regarding pirates and "pirating." "Our flag. And when the crews of the merchant ships see it, they tremble," went on Sammy. "But we haven't got any flag," said the rather literal Dot. "You know we haven't, Sammy." "Well," he returned cheerfully, "we'll have to make one. I made one once. I got one of my father's handkerchiefs, and blacked it with ma's liquid shoeblacking, all but white spots in the center for a skull and crossbones. But--but," he admitted, "ma took it away from me." "Never mind," said Dot, kindly. "I've got a handkerchief," and she pulled forth from her pocket a diminutive bit of cambric. "You get some shoeblacking and we'll make another." Sammy was for getting settled at once, and he went to the door of the decked over cabin intending to put their possessions inside. But the door was made fast with a big padlock. However, a hatch cover was off one of the hatchways, and the sunshine shone down into the hold of the canalboat. It seemed dry and comfortable just under this opening and there was a rough ladder which gave access to the hold. Sammy went down first; then Dot delivered the package of groceries into his arms, then the basket of fruit, and lastly backed over the edge herself in a most gingerly way, and was helped down gallantly by the pirate chief. "Now what'll we do, Sammy?" asked the little girl eagerly. "We'll unpack our things first," said Sammy. "Then I'll rig up a fish-line. We'll have to catch fish to help out with the rest of the grub," added the practical youngster. "But not with worms!" cried Dot, with a shudder. "If you bring any of those horrid, squirmy worms aboard this boat, I--I'll just go right home and not be pirates any more." "Oh! All right," said the scornful Sammy, who found "female pirates" rather more trying than he had supposed. "I'll fish with grasshoppers." "We-ell," agreed Dot. "Only don't let 'em jump on me. For if they do I'll scream-- I know I shall, Sammy." "Pooh! Pirates don't scream," growled the boy. "Not--not even girl pirates?" "No," said the boy doggedly. "'Taint the thing to do. We got to be real savage and--" "Oh, but, Sammy!" gasped the little girl, "I couldn't be savage to a grasshopper." However, they unpacked their provisions and arranged them on a board. Dot really could not keep her finger off that mellow peach. "I don't believe Ruthie would mind," she said at last. "And, anyway, it's getting so juicy that maybe it wouldn't be good by the time we got home--" "Don't I tell you we ain't going home no more!" demanded Sammy. "Er--well, then I guess we'd better eat the peach to save it," said the little girl, with some hesitancy. "You cut it in half, Sammy," she added with more decision. Inroads were made upon most of the other provisions within the first hour. For, indeed, what else is there more interesting in being pirates than using up the food laid in for a voyage? Sammy had spent his two dollars with the cheerfulness and judgment of a sailor ashore with his pay in his pocket. And he did not propose to let any greedy little girl eat her share and his own of their stock. Several times Sammy ran up the ladder to examine the vicinity of the _Nancy Hanks_, as the battered old canalboat was named--its title being painted in big letters along either side of the decked-over cabin, which was a little higher than the remainder of the deck--but the pirate chief sighted no prey on the canal. The waters of that raging main seemed deserted of all craft whatsoever. Suddenly, however, he sighted an approaching group. It came from the direction of the blacksmith shop. The mules they had seen waiting to be shod ambled ahead at a pace warranted to bring them to the towpath in time. Behind, at the same gait, came a tall, shambling man, what appeared to be a girl some twelve years of age in tattered calico, and shoeless, and a droop-eared, forlorn, yellow hound. "Hist!" said Sammy, down the well of the hold. Dot did not know just what to reply to this thrilling summons, but she ventured to ask: "Do you want to say something to me, Sammy Pinkney? For if you do, you can." "Hist! Keep quiet," ordered the pirate chief. "They're--they're in the offing." "Wha--what's a offling?" she demanded. "We're orphans--Ruthie, and Aggie, and Tess, and me. So's Mr. Luke and Cecile. And so's Neale O'Neil," she added thoughtfully. "Is an offling like an orphan?" "Keep still!" hissed the boy. "They're nearer." "Who's nearer?" "Shall I make 'em heave to when they come near 'nough, or shall we let 'em go on and give chase?" "Goodness me, Sammy!" cried Dot, greatly puzzled. "You'd better come right down here. If anybody's coming we don't want to get into trouble. You _know_ we didn't ask the man if we could come into this boat, and perhaps he don't like pirates." This idea appealed to Sammy, too, as the mules and the little company with them drew near. He slipped over the edge of the hatchway and came down the ladder. Overhead a threatening black cloud had obscured the sun. Thunder muttered in the distance. A tempest would probably break soon and neither Sammy nor Dot liked thunder and lightning. "And we didn't bring any umbrella, Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Dot. "Aw, we won't need one down here. We'll be dry enough," the boy declared. Just then a drawling voice said: "Lowise, you better pull over that hatch right smart. It's agoin' to pour cats and dogs in a minute." "You get the mewels hitched on, Pap," said a shriller and younger voice. "Where's the key to the house? Give it here. And you, Beauty, come aboard. Ain't no rabbits fur you to chase so near town as this." "Oh," whispered the little girl below in the hold, "they have come on to our boat!" "Hist!" said Sammy, shakingly. "Do--do people do that to pirates?" demanded Dot, anxiously. "I--I thought we were going to--to get on to other people's boats and make them walk over a board." "_Walk the plank!_" hissed Sammy. "And aren't we?" "Wait!" commanded the pirate chief in a most threatening tone. They waited. By and by somebody came along and kicked the hatch-cover into place and the light was suddenly shut out of the hold. At the same time big drops of rain began drumming on the deck and the thunder burst forth in a rolling reverberation overhead. "I guess we _will wait_, Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Dot, nervously. "They've shut us up down here!" CHAPTER XI AFLOAT ON THE CANAL Dot Kenway might have been much more frightened, shut into the canalboat hold in the dark, had it not been for two things. She was more afraid of the thunderstorm raging overhead than she was of the dark. Secondly, she had Sammy Pinkney with her. That savage pirate might shake with nervousness, but he certainly could not be afraid! "Don't you mind, Dottie," he said to her. "They don't know we're here yet." "And if they do find out?" she asked. "Why, if they _do_-- Well, ain't we pirates?" demanded Sammy boldly. "I guess when they find that out they'll sing pretty small. Besides, there's only one man and a dog." "But isn't there a girl!" asked Dot doubtfully. "Pooh! what's a girl!" demanded Sammy loftily. "Girls don't count. They can't fight." "No-o. I s'pose not," admitted the smallest Corner House girl, who knew very well that she could not fight. She was willing to cook, wash and keep house for pirates; but Sammy must do the fighting. However, Sammy Pinkney was to learn something about the canalboat girl that would open his eyes. Just at this time something occurred that startled both runaways so greatly that they even forgot the thunder that rolled so threateningly. The canalboat began to move! "Oh, dear me! what can have happened?" gasped Dot as the boat rocked and swayed in being poled out from the bank by the boatman, and the mules started along the towpath. "Je-ru-sa-lem!" murmured Sammy. "Oh, Sammy!" "We're going," said the boy, gulping down his first surprise. "But where are we going, Sammy Pinkney? You know very well Ruthie will be scared to death if I'm not back to supper. And your mother--" "Huh!" exclaimed Sammy, with returning valor, "didn't I tell you if we ran away to be pirates that we couldn't go home again?" "Yes! but! you! didn't ever _mean_ it!" wailed Dot, with big gulps between her words. "Of course I meant it. Aw, shucks, Dot! What did I tell you? Girls can't be pirates. They're always blubbering." "Not blubbering!" snapped Dot, too angry to really cry after all. "Well, you started in to." "No, I never! Just the same I don't want to be shut up in this old boat--not after it stops thundering and lightering," declared Dot, who, as Tess was not present, felt free to misuse the English language just as she pleased. Certainly Sammy Pinkney had something more important to think of than the little girl's language. Here he was, a pirate chief, on a buccaneering expedition, and somebody had come along and coolly stolen his piratical craft, himself, and his crew! If anything would rouse the spirit of a pirate chief it was such an emergency as this. He looked around for something with which to attack the villains who had boarded the _Nancy Hanks_, but he found not a thing more dangerous than his pocketknife and the fishhooks. "And that's your fault, Dot Kenway," he declared, stricken by this startling discovery. "How am I going to fight these--these pirates, if I haven't anything to fight 'em with?" "Oh, Sammy!" cried Dot, in amazement. "Are they pirates, just the same as we are pirates?" "They must be," frankly admitted Sammy. "Else they wouldn't have come along and stolen this canalboat." "Oo-ee!" gasped the little girl. "And do pirates _steal_?" "Huh!" ejaculated the boy in vast disgust. "What did you suppose they was pirates for? Of course they steal! And they murder folks, and loot towns, and then bury their money and kill folks so's their ghosts will hang around the buryin' place and watch the treasure." Horror stricken at the details of such a wicked state of things, Dot could not for the moment reply. They heard faintly a shrill voice--evidently of the "Lowise" formerly addressed by the canalboatman. "Look out, Pap! Low bridge! Goin' to stop at Purdy's to git that mess of 'taters he said he'd have ready for us?" There was a grumbling reply from the man. "Dunno. It's rainin' so hard. Might's well keep right on to Durginville, I reckon, Lowise." "Durginville!" murmured Sammy. "My! that's a long way off, Dot!" "And are you going to let 'em carry us off this way?" demanded the little girl in growing alarm and disgust. "Why, I thought you were a pirate!" If pirates were such dreadful people as Sammy had just intimated, she wanted to see him exercise some of that savagery in this important matter. Dot Kenway had not considered being kidnapped and carried away from Milton when she set forth to be a pirate's mate. She expected him to defend her from disaster. Sammy saw the point. It was "up to him," and he was too much of a man to shirk the issue. After all, he realized that, although actually led away from home by this determined little girl, he was the one who had fully understood the enormity of what they were doing. In his own unuttered but emphatic phrase, "She was only a kid." "All right, Dot," he declared with an assumption of confidence that he certainly did not feel. "I'll see about our getting out of this right away. Of course we won't want to go to Durginville. And it's stopping raining now, anyway, I guess." The sound of the thunder was rolling away into the distance. But other sounds, too, seemed to have retreated as Sammy climbed the ladder to reach the hatch-cover. The hatchway was all of six feet square. The heavy plank cover that fitted tightly over it, was a weight far too great for a ten year old boy to lift. Sammy very soon made this discovery. Dot, scarcely able to see him from below, the hold was so dark, made out that he was balked by something. "Can't you budge it, Sammy?" she asked anxiously. "I--I guess it's locked," he puffed. "Oo-ee!" she gasped. "Holler, Sammy! Holler!" Sammy "hollered." He was getting worried himself now. It was bad enough to contemplate facing a man who might not be fond of pirates--even small ones. But if they could not get out of the hold of the canalboat, they would not be able to face the man or anybody else. The thought struck terror to the very soul of Sammy. Had he been alone he certainly would have done a little of that "blubbering" that he had just now accused Dot of doing. But "with a girl looking on a fellow couldn't really give way to unmanly tears." He began to pound on the hatch with his fists and yell at the top of his voice: "Lemme out! Lemme out!" "Oh, Sammy," came the aggrieved voice of Dot from below. "Ask 'em to let us both out. I don't want to be left here alone." "Aw, who's leavin' you here alone?" growled the boy. In fact, there seemed little likelihood of either of them getting out. There was not a sound from outside, save a faint shout now and then of the shrill-voiced girl driving the mules. The man had gone aft and was smoking his pipe as he sat easily on the broad tiller-arm. Sammy and Dot had descended into the canalboat hold by the forward hatchway and only the hollow echoes of their voices drummed through the hold of the old barge, disturbing the man not at all, while the girl was too far ahead on the towpath, spattering through the mud at the mules' heels, to notice anything so weak as the cries of the youthful stowaways. Exhausted, and with scratched fists, Sammy tumbled down the ladder again. There was just enough light around the hatch to make the gloom where the boy and girl stood a sort of murky brown instead of the oppressive blackness of the hold all about them. Dot shuddered as she tried to pierce the surrounding darkness. There might be most anything in that hold--creeping, crawling, biting things! She was beginning to lose her confidence in Sammy's ability, pirate or no pirate, to get them out of this difficult place. "Oh, Sammy!" she gulped. "I--I guess I don't want to be pirates any longer. I--I want to go home." "Aw, hush, Dot! Crying won't help," growled the boy. "But--but we can't stay here all night!" she wailed. "It's lots wusser'n it was when Tess and I was losted and we slept out under a tree till morning, and that old owl hollered 'Who? Who-o?' all night--only I went to sleep and didn't hear him. But I couldn't sleep here." "Aw, there ain't no owl here," said Sammy, with some dim idea of comforting his comrade. "But mebbe there's--there's rats!" whispered the little girl, voicing the fear that had already clutched at her very soul. "Wow!" ejaculated Sammy. But his scornful tone failed to ring true. There really might be rats in this old hulk of a barge. Were not rats supposed to infest the holds of all ships? Afloat with a cargo of rats in the hold of a ship on the tossing canal was nothing to laugh at. "I--I believe there are rats here," sobbed Dot again. "And--and we can't get out. If--if they come and--and nibble me, Sammy Pinkney, I'll ne-never forgive you for taking me away off to be pirates." "Oh, goodness, Dot Kenway! Who wanted you to come! I'm sure I didn't. I knew girls couldn't be pirates." "I'm just as good a one as you are--so now!" she snapped, recovering herself somewhat. Sammy found something just then in his pocket that he thought might aid matters. It was a bag of "gumballs." "Oh, say, Dot! have a ball?" he asked thrusting out the bag in the dark. "Oh, Sammy! Thanks!" She found one of the confections and immediately had such a sticky and difficult mouthful that it was impossible for her either to cry or talk for some time. This certainly was a relief to Sammy! He could give his mind now to thinking. And no small boy ever had a more difficult problem to solve. Two youngsters in the hold of this huge old, empty canalboat, the deck planks of which seemed so thick that nobody outside could hear their cries, and unable to lift the cover. Query: How to obtain their release? Sammy had read stories of stowaways who had wonderful adventures in the holds of ships. But he did not just fancy climbing around in this black hold, or exploring it in any way far from the hatch-well. There might be rats here, just as Dot suggested. Of course, they were in no immediate danger of starvation. His two dollars so lavishly spent drove the ghost of hunger far, far away. But, to tell the truth, just at this time Sammy Pinkney did not feel as though he would ever care much about eating. Even the gumballs did not taste so delicious as he had expected. Anxiety rode him hard--and the harder because he felt, after all, that the responsibility of Dot Kenway's being here rested upon his shoulders. She would never have thought of running away to be pirates all by herself. That was a fact that could not be gainsaid. Meanwhile the canalboat was being drawn farther and farther away from Milton. Sammy did not wish to go with it, any more than Dot did. The situation was "up to him" indeed--the boy felt it keenly; but he had no idea as to what he should do to escape from this unfortunate imprisonment. CHAPTER XII MISSING Agnes and Cecile had gone down town on a brief shopping trip, and Ruth, with Luke Shepard, was on the wide veranda of the old Corner House. The great front yard that had been weed grown and neglected when the Kenway sisters and Aunt Sarah had come here to live, was now a well kept lawn, the grass and paths the joint care of Uncle Rufus and Neale O'Neil. For nowadays Neale had time to do little other work than that of running the Kenways' car and working about the old Corner House when he was not at school. Ruth was busy, of course, with some sewing, for she, like Aunt Sarah, did not believe in being entirely idle while one gossiped. Whenever Ruth looked up from her work there was somebody passing along Main Street or Willow Street whom she knew, and who bowed or spoke to the Corner House girl. "You have such hosts of friends, Miss Ruth," Luke Shepard said. "I believe you Corner House girls must be of that strange breed of folk who are 'universally popular.' I have rather doubted their existence until now." "You are a flatterer," Ruth accused him, smiling. "I am sure you and Cecile make friends quite as easily as we do." "But Grantham is not Milton. There are only a handful of people there." Ruth bit off a thread thoughtfully. "Cecile was telling us about 'Neighbor' last evening," she said. Luke flushed quickly and he looked away from the girl for a moment. "Oh!" he said. "The poor old gentleman is a character." "But a very good friend of yours?" "I am not so sure about that," and Luke tried to laugh naturally. "To tell the truth I'm afraid he's a bit cracked, don't you know." "Oh, you do not mean that he is really--er--crazy!" "No. Though they say--somebody has--that we are most of us a little crazy. Neighbor Northrup is more than a little peculiar. Cecile told you he is a woman-hater?" "Yes. And that he carries his hatred to extremes." "I should say he does!" exclaimed Luke with vast disgust. "He wants me to promise never to marry." "Well?" "My goodness, Miss Ruth! You say that calmly enough. How would you like to be nagged in such a way continually? It's no fun I can assure you." Ruth laughed one of her hearty, delightful laughs that made even the vexed Luke join in. "It's like Aunt Sarah," confessed Ruth. "She thinks very poorly of men, and is always advising Agnes and me to 'escape the wrath to come' by joining the spinster sisterhood." "But you haven't--you _won't_?" gasped Luke in horror. At that the oldest Corner House girl laughed again, and Luke found himself flushing and feeling rather shamefaced. "Oh, well," he said, "you know what I mean. You girls wouldn't really be influenced by such foolishness?" "Doesn't Neighbor influence you?" Ruth asked him quickly. "No, indeed. Not even when he tries to bribe me. He can keep his old money." "But he has been your good friend," the girl said slowly and thoughtfully. "And Cecile says he has promised to do much for you." "And if he got tiffed he would refuse to do a thing. Oh, I know Neighbor!" growled Luke. "Yet you must not think, Miss Ruth," he added after a moment, "that I do not appreciate what he has already done for me. He is the kindest old fellow alive, get him off the subject of women. But he must have been hurt very much by a woman when he was young--he never speaks about it, but so I surmise--and he cannot forget his hatred of the sex. "Why," continued the young man, "if it would do him a bit of good--my promising never to marry--any good in the world, there'd be some sense in thinking of it. But it's downright foolishness--and I'll never agree," and the young fellow shook his head angrily. "If it would cure him of any disease, or the like, I might be coaxed to wear blinders so as not to see the pretty girls at all," and Luke tried to laugh it off again. "But he's wrong--utterly wrong. And old folks should not be encouraged in wrong doing." "You feel yourself susceptible to the charms of pretty girls, then," suggested Ruth, smiling down at her sewing. He tried to see her full expression, but could see only the smile wreathing her lips. "Well, now, Miss Ruth," he said, in defense, "who isn't made happier by seeing a pretty and cheerful face?" "Some of them say they are made miserable for life by such a sight," Ruth declared demurely. "Or, is it only a manner of speaking?" [Illustration: "'I shall begin to believe you are a man-hater,' laughed Luke"] "I shall begin to believe you are a man-hater, just as Neighbor is a woman-hater," laughed Luke. "I have my doubts," confessed Ruth. "But you, Luke, have your own way to win in life, and if this man can and will help you, shouldn't you be willing to give up a little thing like that for policy's sake?" "A little thing like _what_?" exclaimed Luke Shepard, rather warmly. "Why--er--getting married," and Ruth Kenway's eyes danced as she looked at him again for an instant. "The greatest thing in the world!" he almost shouted. "You mean love is the greatest thing in the world," said Ruth still demurely smiling. "They say marriage hasn't much to do with that--sometimes." "I believe you are pessimistic regarding the marriage state." "I don't know anything about it. Never thought of it, really." Tess just then came singing through the house, having been to see Miss Ann Titus, the dressmaker, regarding certain dresses that were to be got ready for the little girls to wear to school. She had refused to tell Dot where she was going because one of the dresses was to be a surprise to the smallest Corner House girl. It needed no seer to discover that Tess had been to see the seamstress. She was a polite little girl and she did not like to break in upon other people's conversation; but she was so chock full of news that some of it had to spill over. "D'juno, Ruthie, that Mr. Sauer, the milkman got 'rested because he didn't have enough milk in his wagon to serve his customers? The inspector said he didn't have a license to peddle water, and he took him down to the City Hall." "I had not heard of it, Tess, no," replied her older sister. "You know that awfully big man, Mr. Atkins--the awfully fat man, you know, who is a lawyer, or something, and always walks down town for exercise, and I s'pose he needs it? He stepped on a banana peel on Purchase Street the other day and almost fell. And if he had fallen on that hard walk I 'most guess he'd've exploded." "Oh, Tessie!" exclaimed Ruth, while Luke laughed openly. "And d'juno, Ruthie, that they are going to stop people from keeping pigs inside the city limits? Mr. Con Murphy can't have his any more, either. For the other day a pig that belonged to Hemstret, the butcher, got away and scared folks awful on Deering Street, 'cause he looked as though he had the yaller janders--" "The _what_?" gasped her sister, while Luke actually roared. "The yaller janders," repeated Tessie. "Do you mean the yellow jaundice? Though how a pig could get such a disease--" "Maybe. Anyway he was all yellow," Tess went on excitedly. "'Cause some boys took some ock-er-ra paint out of Mr. Timmins' shop--Timmins, the lame man, you know--and painted him and then let him out." "Painted Mr. Timmins--the lame man?" gasped Luke, in the midst of his laughter. "No. The pig that I was telling you about," said the small girl. "And Mrs. Bogert says that the next time Bogert goes to the lodge and stays till two o'clock in the morning, she's going home to her mother and take the children with her," and Tess ended this budget of news almost breathless. Ruth had to laugh, too, although she did not approve of the children carrying such gossip. "I should know you had called upon Miss Ann Titus," she observed. "I hope you didn't hear anything worse than this." "I heard her canary sing," confessed Tess; "and her little dog, Wopsy, was snoring dreadfully on the sofa. But I guess I didn't hear anything else. Where's Dot?" "I'm sure I do not know," Ruth said placidly, while Luke wiped his eyes, still chuckling in a subdued way. He saw that he was beginning to hurt Tess' feelings and he was too kind-hearted to wish to do that. "Dot must be somewhere about the house." Tess went to look for her. Her tender conscience punished her for having spoken to her little sister so shortly when she was starting on her errand to Miss Ann Titus. But how else could she have gotten rid of the "tagging" Dorothy! Just now, however, Dot seemed to have mysteriously disappeared. Nobody had seen her for more than an hour. Tess went to the fence between their own and the Creamers' yard and "hoo-hooed" until Mabel appeared. "Ain't seen her," declared that young person, shaking her head. "I tried to get you and her over here a long time ago. My mother let me make some 'lasses taffy, and I wanted you and Dot to come and help. But I had to do it all alone." "Was it good?" asked Tess, longingly. "It _looked_ luscious," admitted Mabel scowling. "But that young 'un got at it when it was cooling on the porch and filled it full of gravel. I broke a tooth trying to eat a piece. Want some, Tess?" "No-o," Tess said. "I guess not. I must find Dot." But she did not find Dot. She wandered back to the front of the Corner House just as Mrs. Pinkney, rather wild-eyed and disheveled, appeared at the side fence on Willow Street and called to Ruth: "Have you seen Sammy?" "Have you seen Dot?" repeated Tess, quite as earnestly. Ruth was finally shaken out of her composure. She rose from her seat, folding the work in her lap, and demanded: "What do you suppose has become of them? For of course, if neither Sammy nor Dot can be found, they have gone off somewhere together." CHAPTER XIII THE HUE AND CRY Ruth Kenway's suggestion bore the stamp of common sense, and even the excited mother of Sammy Pinkney accepted that as a fact. Sammy had been playing almost exclusively with the little Corner House girls of late (quite to his anxious mother's satisfaction, be it said) and if Dot was absent the boy was in all probability with her. "Well, he certainly cannot have got into much mischief with little Dorothy along," sighed Mrs. Pinkney, relieved. "But I most certainly shall punish him when he comes back, for I forbade his leaving the yard this morning. And I shall tell his father." This last promise made Tess look very serious. It was the most threatening speech that the good woman ever addressed to Sammy. Mr. Pinkney seemed a good deal like a bugaboo to the little Corner House girls; he was held over Sammy's head often as a threat of dire punishment. Sammy and his father, however, seemed to understand each other pretty well. Sammy had once confided to the little Corner House girls that "We men have to hang together"; and although he respected his father, and feared what the latter might do in the way of punishment, the punishment was usually inflicted by Mrs. Pinkney, after all. Sometimes when his mother considered that the boy had been extraordinarily naughty and she told the fact to his father, that wise man would take his son by the hand and walk away with him. Sammy always started on one of these walks with a most serious expression of countenance; but whatever was said to him, or done to him, during these absences, Sammy always returned with a cheerful mien and with a pocketful of goodies for himself and something extra nice for his mother. Neale O'Neil frequently declared that Mr. Pinkney was one of the wisest men of his time and probably "put it all over old Solomon. They say Solomon had a lot of wives," Neale remarked. "But I bet he didn't know half as much about women and how to handle them as Mr. Pinkney does." However, to get back to the discovery of the absence of Sammy and Dot. After Tess had searched the neighborhood without finding any trace of them, and Agnes had returned from down town, a council was held. "Why, they did not even take Tom Jonah with them," observed Ruth. "If they had," said Agnes, almost ready to weep, "we would be sure they were not really lost." "Can't you find out at the police station?" suggested Cecile. "Oh, my! Oh my!" cried Tess, in horror. "You don't s'pose our Dot has really been _arrested_?" "Listen to the child!" exclaimed Mrs. Pinkney, kissing her. "Of course not. The young lady means that the police may help find them. But I do not know what Sam'l Pinkney would say if he thought the officers had to look for his son." Ruth, in her usual decisive way, brooked no further delay. Surely the missing boy and girl had not gone straight up into the air, nor had they sunk into the ground. They could not have traveled far away from the corner of Willow and Main Streets without somebody seeing them who would remember the fact. She went to the telephone and began calling up people whom she knew all about town, and after explaining to Central the need for her inquiries, that rather tart young person did all in her power to give Ruth quick connections. Finally she remembered Mrs. Kranz. Dot and Sammy might have gone to Meadow Street, for many of their schoolmates lived in the tenements along that rather poor thoroughfare. Maria Maroni answered the telephone and she, of course, had news of the lost children. "Why, Miss Ruth," asked the little Italian girl into the transmitter, "wasn't you going on the picnic, too?" "What picnic!" asked the eldest Corner House girl at the other end of the wire. "Mrs. Kranz says Dottie and that little boy were going on a picnic. Sure they were! I sold them crackers and cheese and a lot of things. And my father sent you a basket of fruit like he always does. We thought you and Miss Agnes would be going, too." Ruth reported this to the others; but the puzzle of the children's absence seemed not at all explained. Nobody whom Ruth and Agnes asked seemed to know any picnic slated for this day. "They must have made it up themselves--all their own selves," Agnes declared. "They have gone off alone to picnic." "Where would they be likely to go?" asked Luke Shepard, wishing to be helpful. "Is there a park over that way--or some regular picnicking grounds?" "There's the canal bank," Ruth said quickly. "It's open fields along there. Sometimes the children have gone there with us." "I just _know_ Sammy has fallen in and been drowned," declared Mrs. Pinkney, accepting the supposition as a fact on the instant. "What will I ever say to Sam'l to-night when he comes home?" "Well," said Tess, encouragingly, "I guess he won't spank Sammy for doing that. At least, I shouldn't think he would." The older folk did not pay much attention to her philosophy. They were all more or less worried, including Mrs. MacCall and Aunt Sarah. The latter displayed more trouble over Dot's absence than one might have expected, knowing the maiden lady's usual unattached manner of looking at all domestic matters. Ruth, feeling more responsibility after all than anybody else--and perhaps with more anxious love in her heart for Dot than the others, for had she not had the principal care of Dot since babyhood?--could not be convinced now that all they could do was to wait. "There must be some way of tracing them," she declared. "If they were over on Meadow Street somebody must have seen them after they left Mrs. Kranz's store." "That is the place to take up their trail, Ruth," Luke said. "Tell me how to find the store and I'll go down there and make enquiries." "I will go with you," the eldest Corner House girl said quickly. "I know the people there and you don't." "I'll go, too!" cried Agnes, wiping her eyes. "No," said her sister decisively. "No use in more going. You remain at home with Tess and Cecile. I am much obliged to you, Luke. We'll start at once." "And without your lunch?" cried Mrs. MacCall. Ruth had no thought for lunch, and Luke denied all desire for the midday meal. "Come on!" he prophesied boldly, "we'll find those kids before we eat." "Oh!" sighed Agnes, "I wish Neale O'Neil had not gone fishing. Then he could have chased around in the automobile and found those naughty children in a hurry." "He would not know where to look for them any more than we do," her sister said. "All ready, Luke." They set off briskly for the other side of town. Luke said: "Wish I knew how to run an auto myself. That's going to be my very next addition to the sum of my knowledge. I could have taken you out in your car myself." "Not without a license in this county," said Ruth. "And we'll do very well. I _hope_ nothing has happened to these children." "Of course nothing has," he said comfortingly. "That is, nothing that a little soap and water and a spanking won't cure." "No. Dot has never been punished in that way." "But Sammy has--oft and again," chuckled Luke. "And of course he is to blame for this escapade." "I'm not altogether sure of that," said the just Ruth, who knew Dot's temperament if anybody did. "It doesn't matter which is the most to blame. I want to find them." But this was a task not easy to perform, as they soon found out after reaching Meadow Street. Certainly Mrs. Kranz remembered all about the children coming to her store that morning--all but one thing. She stuck to it that Dot had said they were going on a picnic. The word "pirates" was strange to the ear of the German woman, so having misunderstood it the picnic idea was firmly fixed in her mind. Maria Maroni had been too busy to watch which way Dot and Sammy went; nor did her father remember this important point. After leaving the store the runaways seemed to have utterly disappeared. Ruth did not admit this woful fact until she had interviewed almost everybody she knew in the neighborhood. Sadie Goronofsky and her brothers and sisters scattered in all directions to find trace of Dot and Sammy. There was a mild panic when one child came shrieking into Mrs. Kranz's store that a little girl with a dog had been seen over by the blacksmith shop, and that she had been carried off on a canalboat. "Them canalboatmen would steal anything, you bet," said Sadie Goronofsky, with confidence. "They're awful pad men--sure!" Luke went down to the blacksmith shop and learned that the horseshoer knew exactly who the canalboatman in question was. And he knew about the little girl seen with him as well. "That's Cap'n Bill Quigg and Louise. She is his twelve year old gal--and as smart as Bill is lazy. The dog belongs to them. Ornery hound. Wasn't anybody with them, and the old _Nancy Hanks_, their barge, has gone on toward Durginville. Went along about the time it showered." The thunderstorm that had passed lightly over the edge of Milton had occurred before Ruth and Luke left the Corner House. This news which the young man brought back from the blacksmith shop seemed not to help the matter in the least. He and Ruth went over to the canal and asked people whom they met. Many had seen the canalboat going toward Durginville; but nobody had spied Sammy and Dot. Where else could they go with any reasonable hope of finding trace of the runaways? Sammy and Dot, going directly across the open fields to the moored canalboat, and getting aboard that craft and into the hold, their small figures had not been spied by those living or working in the neighborhood. The searchers went home, Ruth almost in tears and Luke vastly perturbed because he could not really aid her. Besides, he was getting very much worried now. It did seem as though something serious must have happened to Sammy Pinkney and Dot Kenway. CHAPTER XIV AN UNEXPECTED DELIGHT Sammy and Dot, held prisoners in the hold of the _Nancy Hanks_, made one painful discovery at least. They learned that without light the time passed with great slowness. It seemed as though they had been in the dark many hours longer than was actually the case. They sat down side by side and seriously ate all the gumballs. These scarcely satisfied their youthful appetites and, anyway, as Dot said, it _must_ be supper time. So they ate all of the provisions they could possibly swallow. This attack made fearful inroads upon the stock of provisions. There was no cheese left, few of the animal crackers, and half of the peanut butter was literally "licked up," for they had to use their fingers. "Ho!" said Sammy, "what's the odds? Fingers was made before spoons." "Not our fingers, Sammy Pinkney," retorted Dot. "But maybe pirates don't mind about table manners." Just then her boy comrade was not thinking much about the pirate play. If he had ever felt that he was fitted to rove the seas under the Jolly Roger banner, on a career of loot and bloodshed, he had quite got over the hallucination. He wanted to go home. He wanted to get Dot home. He had a very decided belief that if his father interviewed him after this escapade something serious would happen to him. Dot, having recovered from her first fright, and being blessed now with a very full stomach, began to nod. She finally fell fast asleep with her head on Sammy's shoulder. He let her sink down on the boards, putting the sack of potatoes and his jacket under her head for a pillow. He could not sleep himself. Of course not! He must keep watch all night long. No knowing when the people who had stolen the barge might come and open the hatchway and attack them. Sammy was quite convinced that the man and the girl had illegally taken possession of the canalboat. He sat beside the softly breathing Dot and listened to certain rustling sounds in the hold, wondering fearfully what they meant. It seemed to him that no rats could make such noises. "Might be wolves--or snakes," thought the boy, and shivered desperately as he sat in the dark. The canalboat continued to go its blundering way, and scarcely a sound from out-of-doors reached the little boy's ears. Captain Bill Quigg fell asleep at the rudder arm and only woke up now and then when he came close to losing his pipe from between his teeth. "Lowise" kept close at the heels of the ancient mules, urging them with voice and goad. The hound, misnamed Beauty, slept the unhappy sleep of the flea-ridden dog. The thunderstorm had cleared the air. It was a beautiful afternoon. For although the children in the hold thought it long past their usual supper-time, it was nothing of the kind. The air in the hold began to feel close and it made Sammy very sleepy as well as Dot. But the boy was faithful to his trust. He propped his eyelids open and manfully held his watch. Frightened? Never more so, was Sammy Pinkney. But there was some pluck in the youngster and he felt he must put on a bold front before Dot. As for the canalboat captain and his "crew," they apparently went the even tenor of their way. Cap'n Bill Quigg was not a very smart man--either physically or mentally. The blacksmith at Milton had told Luke Shepard the truth. Little Louise was the smartest member of the Quigg family, which consisted only of herself, her father and the hound dog, Beauty. She practically "ran the business." In some way Quigg had become possessed of the old _Nancy Hanks_ and the mules. He plodded back and forth from one end of the canal to the other, taking such freight as he could obtain. If there chanced to be no freight, as on this occasion, he was quite philosophical about it. Louise worried. She was of a keen, anxious disposition, anyway. She showed it in her face--a hatchet-face at best behind the plentiful sprinkling of freckles that adorned it. But by no means was the face unattractive. She had had little schooling--only such as she had obtained in winter when the _Nancy Hanks_ was frozen up near a schoolhouse. Then she studied with avidity. Had she ever remained long enough for the teachers really to get acquainted with the shy, odd child, she might have made good friends. As it was, she knew few people well and was as ignorant of life as it was lived by comfortably situated people as a civilized human being could be. She had begun to scheme and plan for daily existence, and to keep the wolf of hunger away from the door of the canalboat cabin, when she was a very little girl--no older than Dot Kenway herself, in fact. Now she seemed quite grown up when one talked with her, despite her crass ignorance upon most subjects. This afternoon she paddled on in her bare feet through the mire of the towpath, while the thunder storm passed over and the sun came out again. As she urged on the mules she was planning for a delight that had never yet entered into her crippled life. She had not urged her father to stop for the farmer's potatoes, whereas on any other occasion she would have insisted upon doing so. A dollar to be earned was an important thing to Louise Quigg. But she had two half dollars saved and hidden away in the cabin. She had squeezed the sum out of her bits of housekeeping money during the past two months. For all that time the dead walls and hoardings about Durginville had been plastered with announcements of a happening the thought of which thrilled little Louise Quigg to the very tips of her fingers and toes. When they reached the Bumstead Lock this afternoon there was a chance for the girl to leave the mules grazing beside the towpath while the water rose slowly in the basin, and she could board the boat and talk with Cap'n Bill. The hound, awakened by her approach, began sniffing around the edge of the forward hatch cover. "Wonder what Beauty smells there?" Louise said idly. But her mind was on something else. The captain shook his head without much reflection and, now more thoroughly awakened, lit his pipe again. "I say, Pap!" "Wal, Lowise?" he drawled. "We're going to lay up to-night short of the soapworks at Durginville." "Heh?" he demanded, somewhat surprised, but still drawling. "What for, Lowise?" "I want to hitch there by the Lawton Pike." "Lawsy, Lowise! you don't wanter do no sech thing," said Cap'n Bill. "Yes I do, Pap." "Too many folks goin' to be there. A slather of folks, Lowise. Why! the circus grounds is right there. This is the day, ain't it?" "That's it, Pap. I want to see the circus." "Lawsy, Lowise!" the man stammered. "Circuses ain't for we folks." "Yes they are, Pap." "Ain't never been to one in all my life, Lowise," Cap'n Bill said reflectively. "No more ain't I," agreed the girl. "But I'm goin' to this one." "You goin'?" he demanded, his amazement growing. "Yes. And you're goin' too, Pap." "Git out!" gasped Cap'n Bill, actually forgetting to pull on his pipe. "Yes, you are," declared Louise Quigg, nodding her head. "I've got the two half dollars. Beauty will stay and mind the boat. I jest got a taste in my mouth for that circus. Seems to me, Pap, I'd jest _die_ if I didn't see it." "Lawsy, Lowise!" murmured Captain Bill Quigg, and was too amazed to say anything more for an hour. The _Nancy Hanks_ got through the lock and the mules picked up the slack of the towrope again at Louise's vigorous suggestion. Inside the hold Sammy and Dot both wondered about the stopping of the boat. Dot was awakened by this. "Sammy," she murmured, "is it morning? Have we been here all night?" "I--I guess not, Dot. It can't be morning. Are you hungry?" "No-o. I guess not," confessed the little girl. "Then it can't be morning," Sammy declared, for what better time-keeper can there be than a child's stomach? "But aren't they going to let us out--not ever, Sammy?" wailed the little girl. "Pshaw! Of course they will. Some time they'll want to load up this old boat. And then they'll have to open the door up there in the deck. So we'll get out." "But--but suppose it should be a long, long time?" breathed Dot, thrilled with the awfulness of the thought. "We got plenty to eat," Sammy said stoutly. "Not now we haven't, Sammy," Dot reminded him. "We ate a lot." "But there's all the potatoes--" "I wouldn't like 'em raw," put in Dot, with decision. "And you can't catch any fish as you were going to with your hook and line, Sammy. I heard that girl that's with the other pirates," she added, "tell their dog that he couldn't even catch rabbits along the canal. And what do you think, Sammy Pinkney!" "What?" he asked, drearily enough. "Why, Sadie Goronofsky said last spring that she had an uncle that was a rabbit. What do you think of that? I never heard of such a thing, did you?" "He was a rabbit, Dot?" gasped Sammy, brought to life by this strange statement. "That's just what she said. She said he was a rabbit, and he wore a round black cap and had long whiskers--like our goat, I guess. And he prayed--" "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" ejaculated Sammy. "And the rabbit, Sadie's uncle, prayed," went on Dot, uninfluenced by Sammy's ejaculation. "Now what do you think of that?" Master Sammy was as ignorant of the Jewish ritual and synagogue officers as was Dot Kenway. He burst out with disgust: "I think Sadie Goronofsky was telling a fib, that's what _I_ think!" "I'm afraid so," Dot concluded with a sigh. "But I don't like to think so. I meant to ask Ruthie about it," and she shook her head again, still much puzzled over Sadie's uncle who was a rabbi. The day waned, and still the two little stowaways heard nothing from above--not even the snuffing of the old hound about the hatch-cover. They were buried it seemed out of the ken of other human beings. It made them both feel very despondent. Sammy stuck to his guns and would not cry; but after a while Dot sobbed herself to sleep again--with a great luscious peach from Ruthie's basket of fruit, clutched in her hand and staining the frock of the Alice-doll. The _Nancy Hanks_ was finally brought to a mooring just across the canal from the tented field where the circus was pitched. The dirty brown canvas of the large and small tents showed that the circus had already had a long season. Everything was tarnished and tawdry about the show at this time of year. Even the ornate band wagon was shabby and the vociferous calliope seemed to have the croup whenever it was played. But people had come from far and near to see the show. Its wonders were as fresh to the children as though the entertainment had just left winter quarters, all spic and span. From the deck of the _Nancy Hanks_ there looked to be hundreds and hundreds of people wandering about the fields where the tents were erected. "Oh, come on, Pap, le's hurry!" exclaimed Louise Quigg, gaspingly. "Oh, my! Everybody'll see everything all up before we get there!" The mules were driven aboard over the gangplank and stabled in the forward end of the house. The cabin door was locked and Beauty set on guard. Without the first idea that they were leaving any other human beings upon the barge when they left it, Louise and her father walked toward the drawbridge on the edge of town, over which they had to pass to reach the showgrounds. Louise had hurriedly cooked supper on the other side of the partition from the coop where the mules were stabled. The fire was not entirely out when she had locked the door. Her desire to reach the showgrounds early made the child careless for once in her cramped life. The mules, quarreling over their supper, became more than usually active. One mule bit the other, who promptly switched around, striving to land both his heels upon his mate's ribs. Instead, the kicking mule burst in the partition between the stable and the living room, or cabin, of the _Nancy Hanks_. The flying planks knocked over the stove and the live coals were spread abroad upon the floor. This began to smoke at once. Little flames soon began to lick along the cracks between the deck planks. The mules brayed and became more uneasy. They did not like the smell of the smoke; much less did they like the vicinity of the flames which grew rapidly longer and hotter. As for Beauty, the hound, her idea of watching the premises was to curl down on an old coat of Quigg's on deck and sleep as soundly as though no peril at all threatened the old canalboat and anybody who might be aboard of it. CHAPTER XV THE PURSUIT Neale O'Neil did not return to Mr. Con Murphy's with a creel of fish until late afternoon. He was going to clean some of his fish and take them as a present to the Corner House girls; but something the little cobbler told him quite changed his plan. "Here's a letter that's come to ye, me bye," said Con, looking up from his tap, tap tapping on somebody's shoe, and gazing over the top of his silver-bowed spectacles at Neale. "Thanks," said Neale, taking the missive from the leather seat beside Mr. Murphy. "Guess it's from Uncle Bill. He said he expected to show in Durginville this week." "And there's trouble at the Corner House," said the cobbler. "What sort of trouble?" "I don't rightly know, me bye; save wan of the little gals seems to be lost." "Lost!" gasped Neale anxiously. "Which one? Tess? Dot? Not _Agnes_?" "Shure," said Con Murphy, "is that little beauty likely to be lost, I ax ye? No! 'Tis the very littlest wan of all." "Dot!" "'Tis so. The other wan--Theresa--was here asking for her before noon-time," the cobbler added. Neale waited for nothing further--not even to read his letter, which he slipped into his pocket; but hurried over the back fence into the rear premises of the Corner House. By this time the entire neighborhood was aroused. Luke had called up the police station and given a description of Sammy and Dot. The telephone had been busy most of the time after he and Ruth had returned from their unsuccessful visit to the canal. Agnes, red-eyed from weeping, ran at Neale when she saw him coming. "Oh, Neale O'Neil! Why weren't you here! Get out the auto at once! Let us go and find them. I _know_ they have been carried off--" "Who's carried them, Aggie?" he demanded. "Brace up. Let's hear all the particulars of this kidnapping." "Oh, you can laugh. Don't you dare laugh!" expostulated Agnes, quite beside herself, and scarcely knowing what she said. "But somebody must certainly have stolen Dot." "That might be," confessed Neale. "But who in the world would want to steal Sammy? I can't imagine anybody wanting a youngster like him." "Do be serious if you can, Neale," admonished Ruth, who had likewise been weeping, but was critical of the ex-circus boy as usual. "I am," declared Neale. "Only, let's get down to facts. Who saw them last and where?" He listened seriously to the story. His remark at the end might not have been very illuminating, but it was sensible. "Well, then, if Mrs. Kranz and Joe Maroni saw them last, that's the place to start hunting for the kids." "Didn't we go there?" demanded Ruth, sharply. "I have just told you--" "But you didn't find them," Neale said mildly. "Just the same, I see nothing else to do but to make Mrs. Kranz's store the starting point of the search. The whole neighborhood there should be searched. Start running circles around that corner of Meadow Street." "Didn't Luke and I go as far as the canal!" and Ruth was still rather warm of speech. "But I guess Neale is right, Ruth," Luke put in. "I don't know the people over there or the neighborhood itself. There may have been lots of hiding places they could have slipped into." "It's the starting point of the search," Neale declared dogmatically. "I am going right over there." "Do get out the auto," cried Agnes, who had uncanny faith in the motor car as a means of aid in almost any emergency. "And I'm going!" "Let's all go," Cecile Shepard suggested. "I think we ought to interview everybody around that shop. Don't you, Luke?" "Right, Sis," her brother agreed. "Come on, Miss Ruth. Many hands should make light work. It isn't enough to have the constables on the outlook for the children. It will soon be night." Although Ruth could not see that going to Meadow Street again promised to be of much benefit, save to keep them all occupied, she agreed to Neale's proposal which had been so warmly seconded by Luke. The boys got out the automobile and the two older Corner House girls, with Cecile, joined them. The car rolled swiftly away from home, leaving Tess in tears, Mrs. MacCall, Aunt Sarah, Uncle Rufus and Linda in a much disturbed state of mind, and poor Mrs. Pinkney in the very lowest depths of despair. They had all had a late luncheon--all save Neale. He had eaten only what he had put in his pocket when he left for his fishing trip to Pogue Lake that morning. It was approaching dinner time when they reached Meadow Street, but none of the anxious young people thought much about this fact. The news of the loss of Dot Kenway and Sammy Pinkney had by this time become thoroughly known in the neighborhood of the Stower property on Meadow Street. Not only were the tenants of the Corner House girls, but all their friends and acquaintances, interested in the search. Groups had gathered about the corner where Mrs. Kranz's store and Joe Maroni's fruit stand were situated, discussing the mystery. Suggestions of dragging the canal had been made; but these were hushed when the kindly people saw Agnes' tear-streaked face and Ruth Kenway's anxious eyes. "Oh, my dear!" gasped Mrs. Kranz, her fat face wrinkling with emotion, and dabbing at her eyes while she patted Ruth's shoulder. "If I had only knowed vat dem kinder had in der kopfs yedt, oh, my dear! I vould haf made dem go right avay straight home." "De leetla padrona allow, I go right away queek and looka for theem--yes? Maria and my Marouche watcha da stan'--sella da fruit. Yes?" cried Joe Maroni to the oldest Corner House girl. "If we only--any of us--knew where to search!" Ruth cried. Neale and Luke got out of the automobile, leaving the girls surrounded by the gossipy, though kindly, women of the neighborhood and the curious children. Neither of the young fellows had any well defined idea as to how to proceed; but they were not inclined to waste any more time merely canvassing the misfortune of Dot and Sammy's disappearance. Neale, being better acquainted with the dwellers in this neighborhood, seized a half-grown youth on the edge of the crowd and put several very pertinent questions to him. Was there any place right around there that the children might have fallen into--like a cellar, or an excavation! Any place into which they could have wandered and be unable to get out of, or to make their situation known? Had there been an accident of any kind near this vicinity during the day? The answers extracted from this street youth, who would, Neale was sure, know of anything odd happening around this section of Milton, were negative. "Say, it's been deader'n a doornail around here for a week," confessed the Meadow Street youth. "Even Dugan's goat hasn't been on the rampage. No, sir. I ain't seen an automobile goin' faster than a toad funeral all day. Say, the fastest things we got around here is the canalboats--believe me!" "Funny how we always come around to that canal--or the barges on it--in this inquiry," murmured Luke to Neale O'Neil. The two had started down the street, but Neale halted in his walk and stared at the young collegian. "Funny!" he exclaimed suddenly. "No, there isn't anything funny in it at all. The canal. Canalboats. My goodness, Mr. Shepard, there must be something in it!" "Water," growled Luke. "And very muddy water at that. I will not believe that the children fell in and were drowned!" "No!" cried Neale just as vigorously. Then he grinned. "Sammy Pinkney's best friends say he will never be drowned, although some of them intimate that there is hemp growing for him. No, Sammy and Dot would not fall into the canal. But, crickey, Shepard! they might have fallen into a canalboat." "What do you mean? Have been carried off in one? Kidnapped--actually kidnapped?" "Sh! No. Perhaps not. But you never can tell what will happen to kids like them--nor what they will do. Whew! there's an idea. Sammy was always threatening to run away and be a pirate." "The funny kid!" laughed Luke. "But Dot did not desire such a romantic career, I am sure." "Did you ever find out yet what was in a girl's head?" asked Neale, with an assumption of worldly wisdom very funny in one of his age and experience. "You don't know what the smallest of them have in their noddles. Maybe if Sammy expressed an intention of being a pirate she wasn't going to be left behind." He laughed. But he had hit the fact very nearly. And it seemed reasonable to Luke the more he thought of it. "But on a canalboat?" he said, with lingering doubts. "Well, it floats on the water, and it's a boat," urged Neale. "Put yourself in the kid's place. If the idea struck you suddenly to be a pirate where would you look around here for a pirate ship and water to sail it!" "Great Peter!" murmured Luke. "The boundless canal!" "Quite so," rejoined Neale O'Neil, his conviction growing. "Now, on that basis, let's ask about the barges that have gone east out from Milton to-day." "Why not both ways?" queried Luke, quickly. "Because most of the canalboats coming west go no farther than the Milton docks; and if the kids had got a ride on one into town, they would long since have been home. But it is a long journey to the other end of the canal. Why, it's fifteen or eighteen miles to Durginville." "How are you going to find out about these boats?" Neale had a well defined idea by this time. He sent Luke back to the car to pacify the girls as best he could, but without taking time to explain to the collegian his intention in full. Then the boy got to work. Within half an hour he interviewed the blacksmith and half a dozen other people who lived or worked in sight of the canal. He discovered that, although two barges had gone along to the Milton Lock at the river side since before noon, only the old _Nancy Hanks_ had gone in the other direction. He came back to the car and the waiting party in some eagerness. "Oh, Neale! have you found them!" cried Agnes. "Of course he hasn't. Do not be so impatient, Aggie," admonished Ruth. "I have an idea," proclaimed Neale, as he stepped into the car and turned the starting switch. "A trace of the children?" Cecile asked. "It's worth looking into," said Neale with much more confidence than he really felt. "We'll run up to the first lock and see if the lock-keeper noticed anybody save the captain and his little girl on that barge that went through this afternoon. Maybe Dot got friendly with the girl and she and Sammy went along for a ride on the _Nancy Hanks_. They say this Bill Quigg that owns that canalboat isn't any brighter than the law allows, and he might not think of the kids' folks being scared." "Oh! it doesn't seem reasonable," Ruth said, shaking her head. But she did not forbid Neale to make the journey to the lock. The road was good all the way to Durginville and it was a highway the Corner House girls had not traveled in their automobile. At another time they would have all enjoyed the trip immensely in the cool of the evening. And Neale drove just as fast as the law allowed--if not a little faster. Agnes loved to ride fast in the auto; but this was one occasion when she was too worried to enjoy the motion. As they rushed on over the road, and through the pleasant countryside, they were all rather silent. Every passing minute added to the burden of anxiety upon the minds of the two sisters and Neale; nor were the visitors lacking in sympathy. After all, little folk like Sammy and Dot are in great danger when out in the world alone, away from the shelter of home. So many, many accidents may happen. Therefore it was a very serious party indeed that finally stopped at Bumstead Lock to ask if the lock-keeper or his wife, who lived in a tiny cottage and cultivated a small plot of ground near by, had noticed any passengers upon Cap'n Bill Quigg's barge. "On the _Nancy Hanks_?" repeated the lock-keeper. "I should say 'no'! young lady," shaking his head emphatically at Ruth's question. "Why, who ever would sail as a passenger on that old ramshackle thing? I reckon it'll fall to pieces some day soon and block traffic on the canal." Ruth, disappointed, would not have persevered. But Luke Shepard asked: "Is there much traffic on the canal?" "Well, sometimes there is and sometimes there ain't. But I see all that goes through here, you may believe." "How many canalboats went toward Durginville to-day?" the collegian inquired. "Why--lemme see," drawled the lock-keeper thoughtfully, as though there was so much traffic that it was a trouble to remember all the boats. "Why, I cal'late about _one_. Yes, sir, one. That was the _Nancy Hanks_." "She ought to be a fast boat at that," muttered Neale O'Neil. "_Nancy Hanks_ was some horse." "So that was the only one?" Luke persevered. "And you spoke with Cap'n Quigg, did you?" "With Bill Quigg?" snapped the lock-keeper, with some asperity. "I guess not! I ain't wastin' my time with the likes of him." "Oh-ho," said Luke, while his friends looked interested. "You don't approve of the owner of the _Nancy Hanks_?" "I should hope not. I ain't got no use for him." "Then he is a pretty poor citizen, I take it?" "I cal'late he's the poorest kind we got. He ain't even wuth sendin' to jail. He'd gone long ago if he was. No. I've no use for Cap'n Bill." "But you saw there was nobody with him on the boat--no children?" "Only that gal of his." "No others?" "Wal, I dunno. I tell you I didn't stop none to have any doin's with _them_. I done my duty and that's all. I ain't required by law to gas with all the riffraff that sails this here canal." "I believe you," agreed Luke mildly. He looked at Neale and grinned. "Not very conclusive, is it?" he asked. "Not to my mind. Bet the kids were on there with this little girl he speaks of," muttered Neale. "Oh, do you believe it, Neale?" gasped Agnes, leaning over the back of the seat. "I am sure we are much obliged to you, sir," Ruth said, sweetly, as the engine began to roar again. "What's up, anyway?" asked the crabbed lock-keeper. "You got something on that Bill Quigg?" "Can't tell, Mister," Neale said seriously. "You ask him about it when he comes back." "Now, Neale, you've started something," declared Ruth, as the automobile sped away. "You just see if you haven't." CHAPTER XVI THE RINGMASTER "Just the same, that old fellow didn't even know whether there was somebody aboard the canalboat with Quigg and his daughter or not," Neale O'Neil said, as they turned back into the Durginville road. "Oh!" cried Cecile. "Are you going on?" "We are--just," said her brother. "Until we solve the mystery of the _Nancy Hanks_." "Do you suppose that canal boatman is bad enough to have shut the children up on his boat and will keep them for ransom?" demanded Agnes, filled with a new fear. "He's not a brigand I should hope," Cecile Shepard cried. "Can't tell what he is till we see him," Neale grumbled. "If this old canalboat hasn't been wrecked or sunk, we'll find it and interview Cap'n Quigg before we go back." "Meanwhile," Ruth said, with more than a little doubt, "the children may be wandering in quite an opposite direction." "Why, of course, our guess may be wrong, Ruth," Luke said thoughtfully, turning around the better to speak with the oldest Corner House girl. "However, we are traveling so fast that it will not delay us much." "Pshaw, no!" exclaimed Neale. "We'll be in Durginville in a few minutes." But they did not get that far. Crossing the canal by a liftbridge they swept along the other side and suddenly coming out of the woods saw before them a tented city. "Why!" cried Cecile, "it's a circus!" "I saw the pictures on the billboards," her brother admitted. "If we only had the children with us, and everything was all right, we might go." "Sure we would," responded Neale, smiling. "Oh, Neale!" cried Agnes, "is it Uncle Bill's?" "Yes. I have a letter in my pocket now from him that I've had no chance to read." "You don't suppose Mr. Sorber knows anything about the children?" said Ruth, a little weakly for her. "How could he?" gasped Agnes. "But we ought to stop and ask." "And see about the calico pony," chuckled Neale. "Tess and Dot have been hounding me to death about that." "You don't suppose Dot could have started out to hunt for the circus to get that pony, do you?" suggested Ruth, almost at her wits' end to imagine what had happened to her little sister and her friend. "We'll know about that shortly," Neale declared. Suddenly Luke Shepard exclaimed: "Hullo, what's afire, Neale? See yonder?" "At the canal," cried his sister, seeing the smoke too. "Is it a house?" asked Agnes. "A straw stack!" cried Neale. "Must be. Some farmer is losing the winter's bedding for his cattle." "It is on the canal," Luke put in. "Don't you see? There's one of those old barges there--and the smoke is coming from it." "There are the flames. The fire's burst out," Agnes cried. Suddenly Ruth startled them all by demanding: "How do we know it isn't the _Nancy Hanks_?" "Crickey! We don't," acknowledged Neale, and immediately touched the accelerator. The car leaped ahead. They went roaring on toward the circus grounds and the canal, and people on the road stepped hastily aside at the "Honk! Honk!" of the automobile horn. Fortunately there were not many vehicles in the road, for most of the farmers' wagons had already reached the grounds, and their mules and horses were hitched beside the right of way. But there was quite a crowd upon the tented field. This crowd had not, however, as Louise Quigg feared "seen everything all up" before the canalboat girl and her father reached the tents. Louise wanted to see everything to be seen outside before paying over their good money to get into the big show. So they wandered among the tents for some time, without a thought of the old canalboat. Indeed, they were out of sight of it when the mule kicked over the stove on the _Nancy Hanks_ and that pirate craft (according to the first hopes of Sammy Pinkney) caught fire. Indeed, nobody on the circus grounds was looking canalward. Torches were beginning to flare up here and there in the darkening field. There were all kinds of sideshows and "penny pops"--lifting machines, hammer-throws, a shooting gallery, a baseball alley with a grinning black man dodging the ball at the end--"certainly should like to try to hit that nigger," Pap declared--taffy booths, popcorn machines, soft drink booths, and a dozen other interesting things. Of course, Louise and her father could only look. They had no money to spend on side issues--or sideshows. But they looked their fill. For once Cap'n Bill appeared to be awake. He was as interested in what there was to be seen as the child clinging to his hairy hand. They went back of the big tent and there was one with the canvas raised so that they could see the horses and ponies stabled within. Some of the fattest and sleekest horses were being harnessed and trimmed for the "grand entrance," and such a shaking of heads to hear the tiny bells ring, and stamping of oiled hoofs as there was--all the airs of a vain girl before her looking-glass! Louise was stricken dumb before a pony, all patches of brown and cream color, and with pink like a seashell inside its ears and on its muzzle. The pony's mane was all "crinkly" and its bang was parted and braided with blue ribbons. "Oh, Pap!" gasped the little girl, breathlessly, "isn't he a _dear_? I never did see so harnsome a pony." A short, stout man, with a very red face and a long-lashed whip in his hand who was standing by, heard the canalboat girl and smiled kindly upon her. He was dressed for the ring--shiny top hat, varnished boots, and all, and Louise thought him a most wonderful looking man indeed. If anybody had told her Mr. Bill Sorber was the president of the United States she would have believed it. "So you like that pony, do you?" asked the ringmaster. "He's some pony. I reckon the little girls he belongs to will like him, too." "Oh, isn't he a circus pony?" asked Louise, wide-eyed. "He was. But I'm just going to send him to Milton to live with some little girls I know, and I bet Scalawag will have a lazy time of it for the rest of his natural life. And he'll like that," chuckled Mr. Sorber, deep in his chest, "for Scalawag's the laziest pony I ever tried to handle." "Oh," murmured Louise, "he seems too nice a horse to be called by such a bad name." "Bless you! he don't mind it at all," declared the ringmaster. "And it fits him right down to the ground! He's as full of tricks as an egg is of meat--yes ma'am! Ain't you, Scalawag?" He touched the pony lightly with his whip upon his round rump and the pony flung out his pretty heels and whinnied. Then at a touch under his belly Scalawag stood up on his hind legs and pawed the air to keep his balance. "Oh!" gasped Louise Quigg, with clasped hands. "Just as graceful as a barrel, Scalawag," chuckled Mr. Sorber. "He's too fat. But I just can't help feedin' critters well. I like to feed well myself. And I know where he's going to live in Milton he'll be well tended. Hullo! what's going on?" For suddenly a shout was heard beyond the main tent. Somebody cried, "Fire! Fire!" and there was a roaring of an automobile approaching the circus grounds at a rapid rate. "What's goin' on?" repeated Mr. Sorber, and started upon an elephantine trot for the canal side of the field. "Come on, Pap! We don't want to miss nothin'," gasped Louise, seizing the gaping Quigg's hand. She left the calico pony, however, with a backward glance of longing. The crowd broke for the canal bank. When the captain and his daughter came in sight of the fire the flames were shooting ten feet high out of the cabin roof. The boat was moored across the canal. Neale, driving down to the bank, saw that the water was between them and the fire, so he halted the car. A heavy man, bearing two empty pails in each hand, and followed closely by another man and a little girl likewise bearing buckets, came gaspingly to the automobile. "Hi, Mister!" puffed Mr. Bill Sorber, "ast your party to git out and take us over the bridge in that there machine of yours, will you? That canalboat belongs to this here man and his little gal--why, Neale!" "Hullo, Uncle Bill! Hop in--you and your friends," cried Neale. "Come in--hurry, Mr. Sorber!" Ruth added her plea. "Oh!" she said to Louise, "is that the _Nancy Hanks_?" "Sure as ever was," gulped Louise. "Come on, Pap! John and Jerry will be burnt to a cinder, so they will." "Tell me, child," Luke said, lifting the girl into his lap as he sat in front with Neale, and crowding over to give the lanky Cap'n Quigg room to sit. "Tell me, are there others aboard the boat?" "John and Jerry," sobbed Louise. "Well, well!" Luke soothed. "Don't cry. They can open the door of the cabin and walk out, can't they?" "Nop. They're chained to stanchions." "_Chained?_" gasped the excitable Agnes from the rear. "How awful! Have you got children--" "Aw, who said anything about children?" demanded Louise snappily. "Only John and Jerry." "Well?" "Them's mules," said the child, as Neale drove the car on at increasing speed. "Tell us," Ruth begged, quite as anxious now as her sister, "have you seen two children--a boy and a girl--this afternoon?" "Lots of 'em," replied Louise, succinctly. Here Cap'n Bill put in a word. "If there's anything to see, children, or what not, Lowise seen 'em. She's got the brightest eyes!" "We are looking for a little girl with a doll in her arms and a boy about ten years old. They were carrying a big paper bag and a basket of fruit, and maybe were near the canal at Milton--right there at the blacksmith shop where you had your mules shod to-day." This was Luke's speech, and despite the jarring and bouncing of the car he made his earnest words audible to the captain of the canalboat and to his daughter. "Did they come aboard your boat? Or did you see them?" he added. "Ain't been nobody aboard our boat but our ownselfs and Beauty," declared Louise. "And you did not see two children--" "Holt on!" cried the girl. "I guess I seen 'em when we was waitin' to get the mules shod. They went by." "Which way were they going?" "Toward the canal--they was. And our boat was in sight. But I didn't see 'em after." "Oh, my dear!" cried Ruth, from the tonneau, "they could not possibly be shut up anywhere on your boat?" "Why, they wasn't in the cabin, of course--nor the mules' stable," drawled the captain. "Warn't nowhere else." The automobile roared down toward the burning canalboat. The crowd from the circus field lined up along the other bank; but the towpath was deserted where the _Nancy Hanks_ lay. The flames were rapidly destroying the boat amidships. CHAPTER XVII SCALAWAG GETS A NEW HOME A dog barking aroused Sammy. He must, after all, have fallen into a light doze. With Dot sleeping contentedly on the bag of potatoes and his coat, and the only nearby sounds the rustling noise that he had finally become scornful of, the boy could not be greatly blamed for losing himself in sleep. But he thought the dog barking must be either his Buster or old Tom Jonah, the Corner House girls' dog. Were they coming to search for him and Dot? "Oh, wake up, Dot! Wake up!" cried Sammy, shaking the little girl. "There's something doing." "I wish you wouldn't, Tess," complained the smallest Corner House girl. "I don't want to get up so early. I--I've just come asleep," and she would have settled her cheek again into Sammy's jacket had the boy not shaken her. "Oh, Dot! Wake up!" urged the boy, now desperately frightened. "There's--there's smoke." "Oo-ee!" gasped Dot, sitting up. "What's happened? Is the chimney leaking?" "There's something afire. Hear that pounding! And the dog!" It was the desperate kicking of the mules, John and Jerry, they heard. And the kicking and the barking of Beauty, the hound, continued until the Corner House automobile, with the bucket brigade aboard, roared down to the canalboat and stopped. The fire was under great headway, and every person in the party helped to quench it. The girls, as well as the men and boys, rushed to the work. To see the old boat burn when it was the whole living of the Quiggs, gained the sympathy of all. Neale leaped right down into the water and filled buckets and handed them up as fast as possible. Luke and the girls carried the full pails and either threw the contents on the flames or set the pails down for Mr. Sorber to handle. The ringmaster was in his element, for he loved to direct. His shouted commands would have made an impression upon an organized fire department. And he let it be known, in true showman's style, that the Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie was doing all in its power to put out the fire. Cap'n Bill Quigg and Louise ran to loosen the mules. It was a wonder the canalboat girl was not kicked to death she was so fearless. And the mules by this time were wildly excited. Fortunately the fire had burned an outlet through the roof of the cabin and had not spread to the stable. But the heat was growing in intensity and the smoke was blinding. Especially after Mr. Sorber began to throw on water to smother the blaze. The mules were released without either the girl or her father being hurt. But John and Jerry could not be held. Immediately they tore away, raced over the narrow gangplank, and started across somebody's ploughed field at full gallop. They never had shown such speed since they had become known on the towpath. Then Louise and her father could help put out the fire. Cap'n Bill, as well as the mules, actually showed some speed. He handed up buckets of water with Neale, and amid the encouraging shouts of the crowd across the canal, the fire was finally quenched. Mr. Sorber immediately seized the occasion as a good showman, or "ballyhoo," should. "Ladies and gentlemen," he shouted, standing at the rail and bowing, flourishing his arm as though he were snapping the long whip lash he took into the ring with him, "this little exciting episode--this epicurean taste of the thrills to follow in the big tent--although of an impromptu nature, merely goes to show the versatility of Twomley and Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie, and our ability, when the unexpected happens, to grapple with circumstances and throw them, sir--throw them! That is what we did in this present thrilling happening. The fire is out. Every spark is smothered. The Fire Demon no longer seeks to devour its prey. Ahem! Another and a more quenching element has driven the Fire Demon back to its last spark and cinder--and then quenched the spark and cinder! Now, ladies and gentlemen, having viewed this entirely impromptu and nevertheless exciting manifestation of Fire and Water, we hope that your attention will be recalled to the glories of the Twomley and Sorber Herculean Circus and Menagerie. The big show will begin in exactly twenty-two minutes, ladies and gentlemen. At that time I shall be happy to see you all in your places in our comfortable seats as I enter the ring for the grand entrance. I thank you, one and all!" He bowed gracefully and retired a step just as Cap'n Bill Quigg kicked off the forward hatch-cover to let the smoke out of the hold. He let out something else--and so surprised was the canalboatman, that he actually sprang back. Two childish voices were shouting as loud as possible: "Let us out! Oh, let--us--o-o-out!" "Come on, Dot!" Sammy Pinkney cried, seeing the opening above their heads. "We can get out now." "And we'll get right off this horrid boat, Sammy," declared Dot. "I don't ever mean to go off and be pirates with you again--never. Me and my Alice-doll don't like it at all." [Illustration: "There was a rush for the open hatchway and a chorus of excited voices"] There was a rush for the open hatchway and a chorus of excited voices. "Oh, Dot, Dot! Are you there, dear?" cried Ruth. "You little plague, Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Agnes. "I've a mind to box your ears for you!" "Easy, easy," advised Neale, who was dripping wet from his waist down. "Let us see if they are whole and hearty before we turn on the punishment works. Give us your hands, Dottie." He lifted the little girl, still hugging her Alice-doll, out of the hold and kissed her himself before he put her into Ruth's arms. "Come on up, now, Sammy, and take your medicine," Neale urged, stooping over the hatchway. "Huh! Don't you kiss _me_, Neale O'Neil," growled Sammy, trying to bring the potatoes and the basket of fruit both up the ladder with him. "I'll get slobbered over enough when I get home--first." "And what second?" asked Luke, vastly amused as well as relieved. But Sammy was silent on that score. Nor did he ever reveal to the Corner House girls and their friends just what happened to him when he got back to his own home. Mr. Sorber was shaking hands with them all in congratulatory mood. Cap'n Bill Quigg was lighting his pipe and settling down against the scorched side of the cabin to smoke. Dot was passed around like a doll, from hand to hand. Louise looked on in mild amazement. "If I'd knowed that little girl was down in the hold, I sure would have had her out," she said to Neale. "My! ain't she pretty. And what a scrumptious doll!" Dot saw the canalboat girl in her faded dress, and the lanky boatman, and she had to express her curiosity. "Oh, please!" she cried. "Are you and that man pirates, like Sammy and me!" "No," said Louise, wonderingly. "Pap's a Lutheran and I went to a 'piscopalean Sunday-school last winter." The laugh raised by the excited party from the Corner House quenched any further curiosity on Dot's part. And just here Mr. Sorber suggested a most delightful thing. "Now, Neale wants to come over to the dressing tent and put on something dry," said the ringmaster. "And on the way you can stop at that house yonder by the bridge and telephone home that you are all right and the young'uns have been found. Then you'll all be my guests at Twomley and Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. The big show will commence in just fourteen minutes. Besides Scalawag wants to see his little mistress." "Who is Scalawag?" was the chorused question. "That pony, Uncle Bill?" asked Neale. "Oh!" gasped Sammy Pinkney, quite himself once more. "The calico pony with pink on him! Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" "Exactly," agreed Mr. Sorber, answering all the queries with one word. Then he turned to little Louise Quigg, to add: "That means you and your dad. You will be guests of the circus, too. Come on, now, Neale, turn your car around and hurry. I'm due to get into another ring suit-- I always keep a fresh one handy in case of accident--and walk out before the audience in just--le's see--eleven minutes, now!" That was surely a busy eleven minutes for all concerned. The Quiggs had to be urged a little to leave their canal boat again; but Beauty had faithfully remained aboard, even if she had gone to sleep at her post; so they shut her into the partly burned cabin to guard the few possessions that remained to them. "We never did have much, and we ain't likely to ever have much," said the philosophical Louise. "We can bunk to-night in the hold, Pap. We couldn't find John and Jerry till morning, anyway. We might's well celebrate 'cause the old _Nancy Hanks_ didn't _all_ go up in smoke." Luke telephoned the good news to the old Corner House that Dot and Sammy were found, safe and sound, and that they were all going to the circus. Poor Tess had to be satisfied with the promise that the long-expected pony would be at Milton in a few days. News of the runaways' safety was carried quickly to the Pinkney cottage across Willow Street. "It strikes me that these kids are getting rewarded instead of punished for running away," Luke observed to Ruth, when he returned from telephoning. "But what can we do?" the girl asked him. "I am so glad to get Dot back that I could not possibly punish her. And I don't know that she did anything so very wrong. Nor do I believe she will do anything like it again." "How about Sammy?" the collegian asked. "To tell the truth," said honest Ruth, "from what they both say I fancy Dot urged Sammy to run away. I can't blame him if I don't blame her, can I?" "They've got enough, I guess," chuckled Luke. "Two reformed pirates! Goodness! aren't kids the greatest ever?" The escapade of Sammy and Dot had carried its own punishment with it. Ruth was right when she said that Dot would never yield to such a temptation again. She had learned something about running away. As for Sammy, he was more subdued than the Corner House girls had ever seen him before. That is, he was subdued until they were in what Mr. Sorber called "a private box" at the ringside of the circus and things began to happen. Then, what small boy could remain subdued with the joys and wonders of a real circus evolving before his eyes? If the tents were dusty and patched, and some of the costumes as frayed and tarnished as they could be after two-thirds of a season's wear, all the glamour of the famous entertainment was here--the smell of the animals, the dancing dust in the lamplight, the flaring torches, the blaring of the band, the distant roaring of the lions being fed for the amusement of the spectators. The grand entrance was a marvel to the children. The curveting horses, the gaily decked chariots, the daring drivers in pink and blue tights and the very pink-cheeked women in the wonderful, glittering clothes--all these things delighted Sammy and Dot as well as Louise Quigg, who had never in her cramped life seen such a show. When Mr. Sorber entered in his fresh suit and cracked his whip, and the band began to play, Louise became absorbed. When the clowns leaped into the ring with a chorused: "Here we are again!" Dot and Sammy and Louise clutched hands without knowing it, and just "held on" to themselves and each other during most of the entertainment that followed. But the greatest excitement for the smaller people in the private box occurred toward the end of the evening when a squad of ponies came in to do their tricks. There were black ponies and white, and dappled and red ponies; but the prettiest of all (both Dot and the gasping Louise declared it) was the brown and cream colored Scalawag, with the pink nose and ears. Sammy, feeling his superiority as a boy in most instances, even at the circus, dropped every appearance of calm when Neale pointed out Scalawag as the calico pony promised Tess and Dot by Uncle Bill Sorber. "Oh, my granny!" gasped the youngster, his eyes fairly bulging, "you don't mean that's the pony I thought was like a Teddy bear?" "That's the one the girls are going to have for their very own. Uncle Rufus has been building a stall in the far shed for it--next to Billy Bumps," Neale assured him. "And it _is_ chocolate and cream and _pink_!" exclaimed Sammy. He turned suddenly to Agnes. "Oh, I say, Aggie!" he shouted. "You _did_ know all about what a calico pony was like, didn't you?" Agnes herself was delighted with the pretty creature. Of course, he was awfully round and fat; but he appeared so funny and cute when he looked out at the audience from under his braided bang, that Scalawag quite endeared himself to all their hearts. He was something of a clown in the troupe of ponies. He always started last when an order was given and when he had anything to do by himself he appeared "to really hate" to do it. Mr. Sorber seemed to get very angry, and he lashed at the pony quite furiously and shouted at him, so that the little girls squealed. But the whiplash only wound about Scalawag's neck and did not hurt him, while he put his head around and looked at the ringmaster when he shouted, as though to ask Uncle Bill Sorber: "What's your hurry?" "He's almost the oldest live thing in the show," chuckled Neale to Luke. "I can remember him when I was a little fellow and was first taken into the ring as the 'Infantile Wonder of the Ages'. I rode Scalawag. He was so fat then that I couldn't have rolled off his back very easily. "Nothing older with the show, I guess, except Monolith, the moth-eaten old elephant, and the big tortoise in the sideshow. They say the elephant's over a hundred, and some think the tortoise is two hundred years old. So they go Scalawag a little better in age." At the end of the pony act Mr. Sorber made Scalawag do something that thrilled Dot so that she whispered to Agnes she thought she "_should_ faint!" The ringmaster led the old pony right over in front of the private box, and while all the people looked on, he presented Scalawag to Dot and her absent sister, whom Mr. Sorber spoke of as "T'ressa." "Ladies and gentlemen, and all friends," began the ringmaster. "Twomley and Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie never does things by halves. Even when we find ourselves obliged to get rid of one of our faithful pufformers we make provision for that pufformer's happy old age. "Scalawag has always been a trial; but we have borne with him. We have stood his tricks and his laziness for these many moons--many moons, ladies and gentlemen. Now he is going to a good home for the rest of his lazy life where all the work, privations, et cetera of circus life will be but a memory in his equine mind. Scalawag! Salute your new mistress!" The fat pony rose on his hind legs and pawed the air, seemingly looking straight at Dot. It was then the smallest Corner House girl thought surely she would faint. CHAPTER XVIII A LONG LOOK AHEAD Before the Corner House party and their guests could get away in their automobile after the show, and before Cap'n Quigg and Louise had, in their bashful way, thanked the young folks from Milton for helping save the burning canalboat, Uncle Bill Sorber appeared to bid the party good-night. Right then and there the ringmaster made a bargain with the captain of the _Nancy Hanks_ to transport Scalawag to Milton on this return trip. The circus had shown at the home town of the Corner House girls while they were away on their motor trip earlier in the summer; so Mr. Sorber would not again be in Milton during the open season. "Old Scalawag has done his last tricks in the ring to-night," the showman said. "I'd made my mind up to that before you young people appeared. And now we had a chance to make a little fancy business of it. I believe in advertising the circus in season and out. The papers will give us half a column at least to-morrow, what with the fire on that barge and the presentation of Scalawag to this little girlie here," and he shook hands again with Dot. Dot was sound asleep before the car was off the circus field. She and Sammy slept most of the way home and, it was so late, when they arrived most of the congratulations and all the punishment due the youngsters was postponed. To tell the truth, Dot rose the next morning with a vague feeling that the venture in piracy, as Luke Shepard for a long time called it, was something that had happened to her and Sammy in a dream. And the adults were all so glad that the affair had turned out happily that even scoldings were mild. Sammy, however, had an interview with his father that next evening that made a deep impression upon the boy's mind. For the first time Sammy began to understand that he had an influence upon other people--especially small people--that must be for good rather than ill. He was the older, and he should not have allowed Dot to lead him astray. Besides, it was not manly for a boy to encourage a little girl to do things that might bring her to harm. "When I go off to be a real pirate," Sammy confessed later to Neale, "I ain't goin' to take a girl anyway. No more. My father says pirates that carried off women with 'em never came to a good end." The flurry of excitement and anxiety regarding Dot and Sammy blew over as all similar things did. With Mrs. MacCall, one may believe that there was seldom a day passed at the old Corner House that did not bring its own experiences of a startling nature. Aunt Sarah declared she was kept "in a fidgit" all the time by the children. "I don't know what a fidgit is," Tess confessed; "but we've got to be careful what we do now for a while, Dottie." "Why?" asked the little girl. "'Cause Aunt Sarah seems awfully uncomfortable when she's in one of those fidgits. Yesterday, when you were lost, she was walking up and down stairs and all over the house. She must have walked _miles_! I guess fidgits are wearing on her." The older Corner House girls did not mean that their guests should feel neglected because of the excitement about the lost children. One day's planned amusement for Cecile and Luke Shepard was lost. The latter declared, however, that pursuing embryo pirates and saving burning canalboats, to say nothing of attending the circus, seemed to him to have made up a more or less interesting and exciting day. Luke was making himself much liked by every member of the Corner House family. Even Aunt Sarah endured his presence with more than usual complacency. Agnes found him a most cheerful philosopher and friend. The little girls considered him, next to Neale O'Neil, to be the nicest boy they had ever known. Mrs. MacCall had her say regarding Luke Shepard, too. It was to Ruth, and the outburst came after the Scotch woman had ample time to consider and form her opinion of the young man. "Hech, ma lassie! there's a time coming when all o' ye will be thinkin' o' young men, an' bringin' them to the hoose. Forbye it's natural ye should. But 'tis in ma mind, Ruthie, ye'll never find one more suited to ye than yon bonnie lad." "Oh, Mrs. Mac!" gasped Ruth, blushing furiously, and she actually ran out of the room to escape the keen scrutiny of the old housekeeper. The oldest Corner House girl was growing up. One could not doubt it. Agnes exclaimed one morning as she and Ruth were dressing: "Why, Ruthie! you really are as big as the old girls now. Of course you are. You are just as much grown up as Carrie Poole--and _she's_ engaged. And so is Elizabeth Forbes. And Annie Dudley will be married before Christmas. Oh, Ruthie! did you ever think of being married?" "For goodness' sake, child!" ejaculated Ruth, hiding her face quickly from her pretty sister, "where is your sense?" "My cents are where my dollars are," laughed Agnes. "I am talking just as good sense as you ever heard, Ruth Kenway. Of course, some day you will marry." "What for?" snapped her sister, inclined to be a little piqued because of Agnes' insistence. "To please yourself, I hope," Agnes said slyly. "But surely to please some man, my dear." "I don't know any man I'd want to please--" "Hush!" warned Agnes, who was looking out of the open window, and she said it with mischief dancing in her eyes. "There's Luke Shepard." "What do you mean?" demanded Ruth, flaring up in haste, not at all like her usual placid self. "Why--on the lawn. Luke is on the lawn, I was going to say," declared Agnes, making innocent eyes again. "Why so touchy?" But her sister did not answer her. To tell the truth she was being worried a good deal by the family's interest in a matter which she considered should interest herself alone--and one other. Of course she had gone out with boys before, had been brought home from parties, had been escorted from evening meetings. Boys had carried her books home from school, and invited her to entertainments, and all that. But Ruth had always been so busy--there were such a multitude of things she was interested in--that never a sentimental thought had entered her head about any of these young swains. If any of them had been inclined to have what the slangy Agnes called a "crush" on Ruth, they had quickly discovered that she had no use for that sort of thing. She made friends of boys as she made friends of girls--and that was all. And, really, she had never cared greatly to go out much or be with boys. She only had endured Neale about the house--or so she believed--because he was useful and really was a remarkably domestic boy. Ruth's mental attitude toward men was rapidly changing. She had never in her life before thought so much about boys, or young men, as she had during this week that Luke Shepard remained at the house with his sister. He seemed quite unlike any other person that Ruth had ever known before. They were much together. Not, seemingly, by any plan on either side. But if Ruth took her sewing to the front porch, like enough she would find Luke there reading. Cecile and Agnes were clattering off at all hours to shop, or go to the motion picture shows, or visit Agnes' friends. If Luke had anything to do at all, usually it was more convenient to do it in the company of the eldest Corner House girl. And wherever they met, or whatever they did, Ruth and Luke found plenty of subjects for conversation. Never out of topics for small talk, were they, no indeed! And the most interesting things to say to each other! Of course, each was deeply interested in whatever seemed of moment to the other. Not having known each other for very long, Ruth and Luke had to learn many things about each other which they would have known as a matter of course had they been brought up as neighbors. They wanted to learn each other's likes and dislikes on a multitude of questions. Then they deferred to each other's tastes in a way that at first amazed the other people in the house and then secretly amused them. That is, Mrs. MacCall, Agnes, and Neale were amused. Tess merely said seemingly apropos of nothing at all: "Our Ruthie never did like boys before. But I guess Mr. Luke must be different." "He isn't as nice as Neale," Dot proclaimed, loyal to the older friend, "but I like him." Mr. Howbridge chanced to call--or was it chance! At any rate, he met Luke Shepard and his sister and seemed to approve of both of them. "Your young friends are remarkably attractive, I am sure, Ruth," the lawyer said, with twinkling eyes as he was going. "Let me see, there's no danger yet of a dowry being wanted out of that idle money we are going to have--for Agnes, for instance?" Ruth blushed furiously. She was getting that habit, it seemed, of late. "I do wish, Mr. Howbridge, that you wouldn't joke so--" "On such very serious subjects?" he interposed. "It would be very serious indeed if our Agnes thought of such things. At her age!" "True. And, of course, nobody else in this house could possibly bear such a thing in mind. Good-bye, my dear. Of course, if anything should happen, let me know at once." "Oh, everything is all right now, Mr. Howbridge," said Ruth, ignoring his insinuations. "I am sure the roof will not leak now that the roofers have been here. And, as you say, the painting of the house would better go until late in the fall." He shook his finger at her as he went out of the door. "You are a very bright young lady, Ruth Kenway." "Boy," said Cecile to her brother, "you are getting in deep." "And glad of it," growled Luke, knowing full well what she meant. "But what about Neighbor?" "I am going to see Neighbor," declared the young man, looking very uncomfortable but decisive. "I'm not going to be a cad." "You couldn't be that, Luke," she told him. "Oh, yes, I could. I have been tempted," Luke said. "Tempted to do what--to say what?" "To try and make Ruth Kenway like me and let me tell her how very fond I am of her without a thought for the future, Sis." "Oh, Luke! You are looking so very far ahead." "I know it. And with the prospect I have without Neighbor's help, it would be looking very, very far indeed. I would be wrong to try to tie up any girl so long. I've fought that all out. I won't do it." "But what will you do?" asked his sister, grieving for him in both voice and look. "See Neighbor the moment we get home. I'll put it to him straight. I'll be no man's slave and for no amount of money. If he will see it in the right light I shall stop off here at Milton on my way to college, and just tell Ruth all about it." "And if Neighbor will not listen to reason?" "Then I must not speak to Ruth," the young man said bitterly, and turned abruptly away from her. "Yes. But," murmured Cecile, "will that be kind to Ruth? I wonder!" CHAPTER XIX SCHOOL BEGINS Mr. Sorber was a man of his word. Scalawag arrived at the Corner House before the end of the week. Dot had told Tess so much about the beauties of the fat little creature that the older sister could scarcely wait to see the pony. "I almost wish I'd run away to be a pirate myself with Sammy Pinkney, just to see that pony do his tricks in the ring," Tess declared, with a sigh of envy. "Oh, no, you wouldn't! No, you wouldn't, Tess Kenway!" Dot hastened to say. "We had just a _nawful_ time. Hiding in that dark hole--" "Hold, Dot--hold!" reminded Tess. "Well, it _was_ a hole--so there!" her little sister said. "And there were rats in it--and maybe worse things. Only they didn't bite us." With Scalawag, the calico pony, came Louise Quigg and her father. The _Nancy Hanks_ had been moored near Meadow Street again and the canalboatman and his little girl had brought the pony ashore and led him to his new home. "Oh, you beautiful!" cried Tess, and hugged Scalawag around the neck. The entire Corner House family--and some of the neighbors--gathered to greet the little girls' new pet. Scalawag stood very placidly and accepted all the petting that they wished to shower upon him. "He eats it up!" laughed Neale, poking the pony in his fat side. "You old villain! you've certainly struck a soft snap now." Scalawag brushed flies and wagged his ears knowingly. Tom Jonah came up to him and they companionably "snuffed noses," as Sammy said. But Billy Bumps had to be kept at a distance, for he showed a marked desire to butt the new member of the Corner House family of pets. Louise and her father were entertained very nicely by the little girls and Sammy. Cap'n Bill Quigg was a simple-minded man, after all; he did not seem to deserve the bad name that the crabbed old lock-keeper had given him. He might have been slow and shiftless; but he was scarcely any more grown up than little Louise herself. Ruth Kenway, now that her mind was less disturbed than it had been the evening when they had been searching for Sammy and Dot, gave more of her attention to the neglected canalboat girl. She planned then and there to do something worth while for Louise Quigg; and in time these plans of the oldest Corner House girl bore fruit. On Saturday the Shepards went back to Grantham, for the next week Cecile and Luke would go to their respective schools. Luke bade Ruth good-bye in public. He sought no opportunity of speaking to her alone. If the girl felt any surprise at this she did not show her feeling--or anything save kindly comradery--while speeding the parting guests. Again on Saturday night the young folks gathered for study in the Corner House sitting-room. There had been very little time during this last week of the long vacation to look at school books. It is pretty hard to settle down to study after so long an absence from textbooks. Agnes actually wrinkled her pretty forehead in a scowl when she opened her school books. "What does the doctor say is mostly the matter with you, Aggie?" demanded Neale O'Neil, chuckling at her somber expression of countenance. "I don't know," growled Agnes--if a girl with such a sweet voice could be said to growl. "It must be something awful. He asked to see my tongue and then he said, 'Overworked!'" "He was perfectly correct, dear child," Ruth said. "Do give it a rest." "And we'll all rest if you do," Neale added. "You're all so smart!" cried Agnes. "And Neale O'Neil never did appreciate me. He is going to grow up to be a woman-hater--like that man Cecile Shepard told us about, who lives next door to them in Grantham." "Oh, yes--Neighbor," Ruth murmured. "I know," said Dot cheerfully. "The misogynist." "_What?_" gasped Tess, staring at her little sister who had mouthed the word so deftly. "I never, Dot! What _is_ that? It--it sounds--Why, Dot!" The astonishment of the whole family at the way in which the smallest girl had said the word had pleased Dot greatly. She quite preened and tossed her head. "Oh, Mr. Luke taught it to me," she admitted. "He said it was such a jaw-breaker that he was afraid I'd have a bad accident if I tried to say it without being told just how. It's a real nice word, I think. Much nicer than efficatacious. That's another word I've learned to say." They laughed at her then and Dot's sudden pride was quenched. Sammy was almost the only earnest student on this evening. He had met some of his boy schoolmates during the past week and he found that he desired very much to be with them in the grade they were making. "I bet I can make it if they do," he said. "Anyway, my head's just empty of studying now, so it ought to hold a lot. I'll cram it chock full of the stuff in these books and then I won't have to work so hard by and by," he added, evidently with the hope that he might obtain education by the occasional cart-load, instead of by driblets. Neale and Agnes were still "scrapping" in their own peculiar way. The beauty accused Neale again of being a harsh critic. "You never do say a good word about any of my friends," she declared. "He's wise in not doing so," laughed Ruth. "Then there will be no starting point for jealousy." "_Now_ you've said something!" declared Neale. "Humph! He wouldn't know a real sweet girl if he met one," Agnes said. "Oh, yes. I know a sweet girl," the ex-circus boy said with twinkling eyes. "Who is she!" "Carrie Mel," returned Neale quietly. "Carrie _Who_?" demanded Agnes, while the little folks, too, pricked up their ears. "And there's that very pleasant girl--Jenny Rosity," the boy said with a perfectly serious face. "And I'm sure that Ella Gant is one of the very best of girls--" Agnes giggled. "What do you mean? Who are you talking about?" asked Dot, much puzzled. "Are they friends of Aggie and Ruthie? I never heard of that Carrie-- What did you say her name was?" "The sweet girl? Oh! Carrie Mel," said Neale. "And Jenny Rosity and Ella Gant. Who are _they_?" "Then there's that very lively girl, Annie Mation," pursued Neale, racking his brain to discover other punning words. "And despite her superabundance of avoirdupois, Ellie Phant cannot be overlooked." "Well, I never! _Elephant!_" gasped Tess. "And caramel!" "And elegant and generosity," added Agnes. "Don't forget Annie Mation," said Neale, grinning. "She's a lively one. But Annie Mosity is one of the most disagreeable girls I ever met." From that they began making out lists of such punning names, including Amelia Eation, E. Lucy Date, Polly Gon, Hettie Rodoxy, Jessie Mine, Sarah Nade, and dozens of others, even searching out "Mr. Dick" to help them in this remarkably erudite task. Finally Ruth called them to time and warned them that the evening was supposed to be spent in serious study. "Monday we must all go to school," she said, for even she was to take several studies during the coming term, although she did not mean to attend recitations full time at the Milton high school. "Let us be able to answer a few questions intelligently." "I guess," said Tess, "we won't any of us be as ignorant as one of the boys was in my class last term. It wasn't Sammy, for he was home sick, you know," she hastened to add, fearful that Sammy Pinkney might suspect her of "telling on him." "Who was it then?" asked Sammy. "No. I'll only tell you what he said," Tess declared, shaking her head. "'Cause I guess he knows more now. The teacher read us a lot about hist'ry. You know, things that happened to folks away back, and what they did. You know about the Pilgrims, don't you, Sammy?" "Sure," said Sammy. "They brought over from England all that old furniture Mrs. Adams has got in her parlor. She told me so." "Were--were the Pilgrims furniture movers?" asked Dot, as usual in search of exact information. "I know a little girl whose father owns a moving van." Tess tried to continue her story after the laughter subsided. "Anyway, teacher told us how the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock and how it looked and what they engraved on a plate and put there; but this little boy wasn't paying much attention I guess." "Why? What did he do, Tess?" asked Sammy. "She told us all to draw a picture of Plymouth Rock, just as she had described it; and while we were all trying to that boy didn't draw a thing. Teacher asked him why he didn't draw Plymouth Rock, and he said: "'Teacher, I don't know whether you want us to draw a hen or a rooster.' Now, wouldn't you think he was ignorant?" she demanded amid the laughter of the family. They settled down at last to work, and before Neale and Sammy went home each of the party was prepared in some measure, at least, to face the teachers' first grilling regarding the previous term's work. Ruth busied herself more and more about the domestic affairs of the big house. Mrs. MacCall could not do it all, nor did Ruth wish her to. The oldest Corner House girl was becoming a modern as well as an enthusiastic housekeeper. She read and studied not a little in domestic science and had been even before they came to live in Milton a good, plain cook. Mr. Howbridge had once called her "Martha" because she was so cumbered with domestic cares. Ruth, however, had within her a sincere love for household details. Mrs. MacCall, who was almost as sparing of praise as Aunt Sarah at most times, considered Ruth a wonder. "She'll mak' some mannie a noble wife," the Scotch woman declared, with both pride and admiration in "Our Ruth." "But he'll not deserve her," snapped Aunt Sarah, rather in disparagement of any man, however, than in praise of Ruth. Now that Luke and his sister were gone, the housekeeper watched Ruth more keenly, even, than before. The good woman was evidently amazed, after the close association of Ruth and Luke, that nothing had come of it. If the eldest of the four Kenway sisters felt any disappointment because Luke Shepard had gone away without saying anything in private to her regarding his hopes and aspirations, she showed none of that disappointment in her manner or appearance. Save that she seemed more sedate than ever. That might be natural enough, however. Even Mrs. MacCall admitted that Ruth was growing up. "And I should like to know if we're not all growing up?" Agnes demanded, overhearing Mrs. MacCall repeat the above statement. Agnes had come down into the kitchen on Monday morning, ready for school. "I should say we were! Ruth won't let me 'hoo-hoo' from the window to Neale for him to come and take my books. Says it isn't ladylike, and that I am too old for such tomboy tricks. So," and the roguish beauty whispered this, "I am under the necessity of climbing the back fence into Mr. Con Murphy's yard to get at Neale," and she ran off to put this threat into immediate execution. CHAPTER XX BEARDING THE LION Luke Shepard went back to Grantham with Cecile in a mood that caused his sympathetic sister to speak upon mere commonplace subjects and scarcely mention the friends with whom they had spent the week. She knew Luke was plowing deep waters, and whether his judgment was wise or not, she respected his trouble. The young man believed he had no right to present his case to Ruth Kenway if he had no brighter prospects for a future living than what he could make by his own exertions. Necessarily for some years after leaving college this would be meager. Without his elderly friend's promised aid how could he ask the oldest Corner House girl to share his fortunes? As for tying her to a long engagement--the most heart-breaking of all human possibilities--the young man would not do it. He told himself half a hundred times an hour that the thought could merely be born into his mind of his own selfishness. The Kenways had suffered enough in poverty in the past. He knew all about their hard life after Mr. Kenway had died, for Ruth had told him of it herself. Until Luke could get into business after his college days were ended and make good, he would have little to offer Ruth Kenway of either luxuries or comforts. So, the young fellow told himself, it all depended upon Neighbor Northrup, who had promised to do so much for him, provided Luke gave no sign of desiring the company of a wife through life. "He's just a ridiculous, crabbed old man," Luke told himself. "I never paid much attention to Neighbor's crotchets before I met Ruth. Didn't suppose I'd ever really care enough about a girl to risk displeasing him. "Of course, he's been awfully kind to me--and promises to be kinder. I believe I am named in his will. Yet, I wonder if it's much to brag of for a fellow with all his limbs sound, presumably his share of brains, and all that, to be expecting a lift-up in the world. Maybe I'm rather leaning back on the old gentleman's promises instead of looking ahead to paddling my own canoe. Anyway I'm not going to spoil my whole life just because of such nonsense." Luke Shepard felt immensely superior at this time to Mr. Northrup with his crotchets and foibles. The latter's rooted objection to women seemed to the young collegian the height of folly. Aunt Lorena's was quite a little house beside Mr. Henry Northrup's abode. Whereas the flower-beds, and hedge, and the climbing roses about the spinster's cottage made a pleasant picture, the old Northrup house was somber indeed. The bachelor's dwelling, with its padlocked front gate, did not look cheerful enough to attract even a book agent. For some years Luke had spent quite as much time on Neighbor's premises as he had with his aunt and Cecile. There were many little things he could do for the old man that the latter could not hire done. Samri, as the Japanese butler was called, could not do everything. Arriving at Grantham in the late afternoon, Luke stopped only a moment to greet Aunt Lorena before hurrying across the line fence into Neighbor's yard. "For the good land's sake!" sighed Miss Shepard, who was very precise, if not dictatorial, "it does seem as though that boy might stay with us a minute. Off he has to go at once to Neighbor. You would think they were sweethearts--Luke and that crabbed old fellow." Cecile winced. "Luke has something on his mind, Auntie--something that he thinks he must tell Neighbor at once," and she, too, sighed. "Oh, dear! how it is all coming out I really don't know. I am almost sorry we went to the Kenways' to visit." "Why, Cecile! didn't they treat you nicely?" "Splendidly. They are all dears--especially Ruthie. But it is because of her I am worried." "Indeed?" "She and Luke have become very friendly--oh, entirely too friendly, if nothing is to come of it." Aunt Lorena dearly loved a romance. Her eyes began to sparkle and a faint flush came into her withered cheek. "You don't mean it, Sissy!" she gasped. "Not our Luke? The dear boy! Think of his having a sweetheart!" "Oh, but I don't know that he _has_ one! I am afraid he ought not even to think of it!" cried Cecile. "Nonsense! Why not? Your father was married when he was no older than Luke. And of course the dear boy would wait till he graduates." "And for a long time after, I fear," said Cecile, shaking her head. She really saw the folly of such an idea much more quickly than Aunt Lorena. "Is this Ruth Kenway a nice girl?" queried Aunt Lorena eagerly. "And is Luke actually fond of her?" "As fond as he can be I do believe," admitted the sister, still shaking her head. "And--and do you suppose Miss Kenway appreciates our Luke?" "I guess she likes him," said Cecile, smiling a little at the question. "I am sure she does, in fact. But Luke will say nothing to her unless Neighbor agrees." "Mercy! He's not gone to tell that old man about the girl?" "Of course." "Well! Of all things! The ridiculous boy!" ejaculated Aunt Lorena. "He might know that Mr. Northrup will be greatly vexed. Why, he hates women!" "Yes, I am afraid Luke will have a bad time with Neighbor," said Cecile, anxiously. She was quite right in her supposition. Luke Shepard appeared before the grim old man as the latter sat in his study and, being a perfectly candid youth, he blurted out his news without much preparation. Immediately after shaking hands, and asking after Mr. Northrup's health, he said: "Neighbor, I've got a great secret to tell you." "Heh? A secret? What is it? Broke somebody's window, have you?" for his elderly friend often seemed to think Luke still a small boy. "That wouldn't be a great secret," the young man said quietly. "No. It is the greatest thing that's ever come into my life." The old man, who could look very sternly indeed from under his heavy brows, gazed now with apprehension at his young friend. "You don't mean you think you've changed your mind about your college work?" "No, sir. But there is one thing I want to do after I get through college that I never thought of doing before." "What's the matter with you, boy?" demanded Mr. Northrup, exasperated. "You know I have been away with Cecile to see some friends of ours. And one of them, Miss Kenway--Ruth--is the nicest girl I ever met." "A girl!" literally snorted Neighbor. "Ruth Kenway is splendid," said Luke firmly. "She is lovely. And--and I think very, very much of her." "What do you mean, boy?" the old man demanded, his deep-set eyes fairly flashing. "Why do you tell me about any silly girl? Don't you know that it offends me? I can, and do, endure your speaking of your sister. It is not your fault you have a sister. But it will be your fault if you ever allow yourself to become entangled with any other woman." "But, Neighbor," said the young man desperately, "I couldn't help it. I tell you I admire Ruth Kenway immensely--immensely! I want to make her care for me, too. I want-- I want--" "The moon!" roared Mr. Northrup. "That's what you are crying for--like any baby. And you'll not get it--neither the moon nor the girl. What have I always told you? If you are fool enough to get mixed up with any girl, I wash my hands of you. Understand?" "Yes," said Luke, flushing deeply during this tirade but holding his own temper admirably in check. "Yes, I understand. But I'd like to talk with you about it--" "You can't talk to me about any girl!" "But I must," insisted Luke. "You see, I--I love her. And if I can possibly do it, I am going to win her for a wife--some day." The old gentleman arose in anger. "Do you mean to stand there and deliberately defy me?" "I am not defying you, Neighbor; I'm only telling you," Luke said, rather doggedly, it must be confessed. But his own eyes were glowing. "After my declaration to you that I will have nothing more to do with you if you fool with any girls--" "I'm not!" snapped Luke. "It is only one girl. The best girl in the world. I wish you'd go to Milton to see her." "Go to Milton? Indeed! I wouldn't go there--" He stopped and glowered at Luke for a moment without speaking. Then he asked harshly: "So this girl lives in Milton?" "Yes, sir. At the old Corner House. And she is lovely--" "Be still!" commanded the old man. "Young calf! Do you suppose _I_ am interested in your protestations of silliness about a girl! I want to hear nothing more about it. You understand my wishes well enough. I will never do a thing for you after you graduate-- I will strike you out of my will-- I'll close my door against you, if you entangle yourself in any way with this girl." "Oh, Neighbor!" murmured Luke sadly, stepping back from the old man's wildly gesturing arm. "I mean it. I always mean what I say," declared Mr. Northrup. "You should know me well enough by this time. A girl--faugh! You trouble me any more about this girl--or any other--and I'll have nothing more to do with you." "Very well, Mr. Northrup. Good-bye," said Luke, and turned toward the door. "Where are you going, you young whippersnapper!" roared the old man. "I have made up my mind. I will win Ruth if I can--though with my poor prospects I have no right to speak to her now. But it would not be right, when you feel as you do, for me to accept any further favors from you when I am determined in my heart to get Ruth in spite of you." The door closed quietly behind him before the old man could utter another word. He stared at the door, then sat down slowly and his face lost its angry color. Mr. Henry Northrup was apparently both pained and amazed. Perhaps he was mostly confused because Luke Shepard had taken him quite at his word. CHAPTER XXI ADVENTURES WITH SCALAWAG Dot came home to the old Corner House the first day of the school term with what Neale O'Neil would have called "serious trouble in the internal department." She was ravenously hungry; and yet she had eaten a good lunch and did not like to demand of Mrs. MacCall that bite between meals which was so abhorred by the Scotchwoman. "You have no more right to eat 'twixt one meal and t'other by day than you have to demand a loonch in the middle of the night," was often the good woman's observation when she was asked for a mid-afternoon lunch. Ruth was easier. She had not been brought up in the rigid, repressive school that had surrounded Mrs. MacCall's childhood. As for Linda, the Finnish girl, if she had her way she would be "stuffing" (to quote Mrs. MacCall) the children all the time. "You sh'd train your stomach to be your clock, child," Mrs. MacCall declared on this occasion, after Dot had finally mustered up her courage to ask for the lunch. "I try to, Mrs. Mac," said the smallest Corner House girl apologetically. "But sometimes my stomach's fast." That started the ball rolling that evening, and the dinner table proved to be a hilarious place. But Ruth was very quiet and her countenance carried a serious cast that might have been noticed had the others not all been so gay and excited. The first day of the term is always an exciting time. Everything about the school--even old things--seems strange. Dot had of course learned to write as well as to read; and indeed she wrote a very plain and readable hand. Even Mrs. MacCall could see it "without her specs." "I do abominate these folks whose handwriting is so fine that I have to run to get my glasses to know whether it's an invitation to tea or to tell me some bad news," the housekeeper declared, in discussing Dot's improved writing. The little girl was passing around a paper on which she had copied a sentence that her teacher had written on the blackboard just before closing hour that day. With an idea of testing the children's knowledge of English, the teacher had written the line and told her class to think it over and, in the morning, bring her the sentence rewritten in different words, but retaining the original meaning. It was the old proverb: "A wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse." "Of course, I know what it _means_," Dot said. "If a horse is blind he wouldn't see you nodding or winking. And winking isn't polite, anyway--Ruth says it isn't." "Correct, Dottums," Agnes agreed. "It is very bad and bold to wink--especially at the boys." "Wouldn't it be impolite to wink at a horse, too, Aggie?" asked the puzzled Dot. "Don't you think Scalawag would feel he was insulted if I wunk at him?" "Oh, my eye!" gasped Neale, who chanced to be at hand. "Wink, wank, wunk. Great declension, kid." "Don't call me 'kid'!" cried Dot. "I am sure _that_ is not polite, Neale O 'Neil." "Discovered, Neale!" chuckled Agnes. "You are right, Dottie," said the boy, with a twinkle in his eye. "And to repay you for my slip in manners, I will aid you in transposing that sentence so that your teacher will scarcely recognize it." And he did so. It greatly delighted Dot, for she did so love polysyllables. The other members of the family were convulsed when they read Neale's effort. The little girl carried the paper to school the next day and the amazed teacher read the following paraphrase of "A wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse:" "A spasmodic movement of the eye is as adequate as a slight motion of the cranium to an equine quadruped devoid of its visionary capacities." "Goodness!" Tess declared when she had heard this read over several times. "I don't think you would better read that to Scalawag, Dot. It would make any horse mad." "Scalawag isn't a horse," responded her sister. "He's a pony. And Neale says he'll never grow up to be a horse. He's just always going to be our cute, cunning little Scalawag!" "But suppose," sighed Tess, thoughtfully, "that he ever acts like that brown pony of Mrs. Heard's. Jonas, you know." "Oh, Jonas! He is a _bad_ pony. He gets stuck and won't go," Dot said. "Our Scalawag wouldn't do that." "He balks, Dot--balks," reproved Tess. "He doesn't get stuck." "I don't care. You can't push him, and you can't pull him. He just stands." "Until our Neale whispers something in his ear," suggested Tess. "Oh, my!" exclaimed her little sister. "Suppose Scalawag _should_ be taken that way. What _would_ we do? We don't know what Neale whispered to Mrs. Heard's pony." "That's so," agreed Tess. "And Neale won't tell me. I've asked him, and _asked_ him! He was never so mean about anything before." But Neale, with a reassuring smile, told the little girls that Scalawag would never need to be whispered to. In fact, whispering to the calico pony would merely be a waste of time. "There's nothing the matter with the old villain but inborn laziness," the youth chuckled. "You have to shout to Scalawag, not whisper to him." "Oh!" murmured Tess, "don't call him a villain. He is so pretty." "And cute," added Dot. Uncle Rufus had built him a nice box stall and Neale took time early each morning to brush and curry the pony until his coat shone and his mane was "crinkly." Before the week was out, too, the basket phaeton arrived and a very pretty russet, nickel-trimmed harness. Even the circus trimmings had never fitted Scalawag better than this new harness, and he tossed his head and pawed, as he had been trained to do, arching his neck and looking just as though he were anxious to work. "But it's all in his looks," observed Neale. "He doesn't mean it." Which seemed to be the truth when the two little girls and Sammy Pinkney got into the phaeton with Neale and took their first drive about the more quiet residential streets of Milton. Scalawag jogged along under compulsion; but to tell the truth he acted just as though, if he had his own choice, he would never get out of a walk. "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" muttered Sammy. "It's lucky we don't want to go anywhere in a hurry." It was great fun to drive around the Parade Ground and see the other children stare. When Sammy was allowed to hold the lines he sat up like a real coachman and was actually too proud for speech. The responsibilities of his position immediately impressed the embryo pirate. Neale taught him carefully how to drive, and what to do in any emergency that might arise. Scalawag was an easy-bitted pony and minded the rein perfectly. The only danger was the pony's slowness in getting into action. "I reckon," declared Neale, with some disgust, "if there was a bomb dropped behind him, old Scalawag wouldn't get out of the way quick enough, even if there was a five-minute time fuse on the bomb." "Well, I guess he'll never run away then," said Tess, with a sigh of satisfaction. Nothing could be said about Scalawag that one or the other of the two little girls could not find an excuse for, or even that the criticism was actually praise. "One thing you want to remember, children," Neale said one day, earnestly. "If you're ever out with Scalawag without me, and you hear a band playing, or anything that sounds like a band, you turn him around and beat it the other way." "All right," responded the little girls. "What for?" asked Sammy, at once interested. "Never mind what for. You promise to do as I say, or it's all off. You'll get no chance to drive the girls alone." "Sure, I'll do what you say, Neale. Only I wondered what for. Don't he like band music?" But Neale, considering it safer to say nothing more, merely repeated his warning. The children drove out every pleasant afternoon when school was over, and within the fortnight Sammy and Tess and Dot were going about Milton with the pony through the shady and quiet streets, as though they had always done so. Therefore the older Corner House girls and Neale could take their friends to drive in the motor-car, without crowding in the two smaller children. The "newness" of the automobile having worn off for Tess and Dot, they much preferred the basket carriage and the fat pony. They, too, could take their little friends driving, and this added a feeling of importance to their pleasure in the pony. Had Tess had her way every sick or crippled child in town would have ridden behind the calico pony. She wanted at once to go to the Women's and Children's Hospital, where their very dear friend, Mrs. Eland, had been matron and for the benefit of which _The Carnation Countess_ had been given by the school children of Milton, and take every unfortunate child, one after another, out in the basket carriage. Their schoolmates especially had to be invited to ride, and Sadie Goronofsky from Meadow Street, and Alfredia Blossom, Uncle Rufus' granddaughter, were not neglected. "I do declare!" said Aunt Sarah, with some exasperation, as she saw the pony and cart, with its nondescript crew, start off one afternoon for a jog around the Parade Ground. "I do declare! What riffraff Tess manages to pick up. For she certainly must be the biggest influence in gathering every rag, tag and bobtail child in the neighborhood. I never did see such a youngster." "It isn't that Tessie's tastes are so heterodox," Ruth said, smiling quietly, "but her love for others is so broad." "Humph!" snapped Aunt Sarah. "It's a wonder to me the child hasn't brought smallpox into the family from going as she does to those awful tenements on Meadow Street." Aunt Sarah had always been snobbish in her tendencies, even in her days of poverty; and since she enjoyed the comforts and luxuries of the old Corner House it must be confessed that this unpleasant trait in the old woman's character had been considerably developed. "The only tenements she goes to on Meadow Street are our own," Ruth replied with vigor. "If they are conducted so badly that diseases become epidemic there, _we_ shall be to blame--shall we not?" "Oh, don't talk socialism or political economy to _me_!" said Aunt Sarah. "Thank goodness when _I_ went to school young girls did not fill their heads with such nonsense." "But when she went to school," Ruth said afterward to Mrs. MacCall, "girls I am sure learned to be charitable and loving. And that is all our Tess is, after all." "Bless her sweet heart!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "She'll never be hurt by that, it's true. But she does bring awfully queer looking characters to the hoose, Ruth. There's no gainsaying that." As the children met these other children at the public school, Ruth could not see why the Goronofskys and the Maronis and the Tahnjeans, and even Petunia Blossom's pickaninnies, should not, if they were well behaved, come occasionally to the old Corner House. Nor did she forbid her little sisters taking their schoolmates to ride in the basket phaeton, for the calico pony could easily draw all that could pile into the vehicle. The children from Meadow Street, and from the other poorer quarters of the town, always appeared at the Kenway domicile dressed in their best, and scrubbed till their faces shone. The parents considered it an honor for their children to be invited over by Tess and Dot. Sammy, of course, would have found it much more agreeable to drive alone with some of the boys than with a lot of the little girls; but he was very fair about it. "I can't take you 'nless Tess says so," he said to Iky Goronofsky. "I'm only let to drive this pony; I don't own him. Tess and Dot have the say of it." "And all the kids is sponging on them," grunted Iky, who always had an eye to the main chance. "You know what I would do if the pony was mine?" "What would you do, Iky?" asked Sammy. "I'd nefer let a kid in the cart without I was paid a nickel. Sure! A nickel a ride! And I would soon make the cost of the harness and the cart. That's what my father would do too." Both of which statements were probably true. But the little Corner House girls had no thought for business. They were bent upon having a good time and giving their friends pleasure. The pony was not being abused in any sense. The work was good for him. But possibly Uncle Bill Sorber had not looked forward to quite such a busy time for Scalawag when he told him in confidence that he was going to have an easy time of it at the old Corner House. If Scalawag could have seen, and been able to speak with, the old ringmaster just then the pony would doubtless have pointed out an important error in the above statement. Scalawag was petted and fed and well cared for. But as the fall weather was so pleasant, each afternoon he was put between the shafts and was made to haul noisy, delighted little folk about the Parade Ground. They did not always have company in these drives, however. Sometimes only Tess and Dot were in the basket carriage, though usually Sammy was along. Once in a while they went on errands for Mrs. MacCall--to the store, or to carry things to sick people. The clatter of Scalawag's little hoofs became well known upon many of the highways and byways of Milton. Once they drove to the Women's and Children's Hospital with a basket of home-made jellies and jams that Mrs. MacCall had just put up and which Ruth wished to donate to the convalescents in the institution. For after the departure of Mrs. Eland and her sister, Miss Peperill, for the West, the Corner House Girls had not lost their interest in this charitable institution. At a corner which they were approaching at Scalawag's usual jog trot were several carriages, a hearse with plumes, and some men in uniform. Sammy had the reins on this day. "Oh, Sammy," said Tess, "we'll have to wait, I guess. It's Mr. Mudge's funeral--Mr. Peter Mudge, you know. He was a Grand Army man, and all the other Grand Army men will help bury him. There! Hear the band!" Of a sudden, and with a moaning of wind instruments punctuated by the roll of drums, the band struck into a dirge. The procession moved. And all of a sudden Sammy found that Scalawag was marking time just as he had been taught to do in the circus ring to any music. "Oh, my!" gasped Dot, "what is the matter with Scalawag?" "Turn him around, Sammy--please do," begged Tess. "Just see him! And he's following the band." That is just exactly what the pony intended to do. Sammy could not turn him. He would mind neither voice nor the tugging rein. Arching his neck, tossing his mane, and stepping high in time to the droning music, the calico pony turned the corner and followed on at the rear of the procession. "Why--why," gasped Dot, "I don't want to go to a funeral. You stop him, Sammy Pinkney." "Can't we turn him up a side street, Sammy?" whispered Tess. Everybody was looking from the sidewalk and from the houses they passed. It was a ridiculous situation. The solemn, slow notes of the band seemed just suited to Scalawag's leisurely action. He kept perfect time. "And they're goin' to march clear out to the Calvary Cemetery!" ejaculated Sammy. "It's four miles!" CHAPTER XXII THE GREEN UMBRELLA AGAIN "Boom! Boom! Boom-te-boom!" rolled the solemn drums, and Scalawag in a sort of decorous dance, keeping perfect time, insisted upon following the procession. "My goodness me, Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Tess. "This is awful! Everybody's laughing at us! _Can't_ you turn him around?" "Oh, dear! He won't turn around, or do anything else, till that band stops," declared Sammy. "This is what Neale meant. He thinks he's in the circus again and that he must march to the music." "I do declare," murmured Dot, "this pony of ours is just as hard to make _stop_ as Mrs. Heard's Jonas-pony is hard to make _go_. I wish it was Jonas we had here now, don't you, Tess? He'd be glad to stop." "And Ruthie told us to come right back 'cause there's going to be ice-cream, and we can scrape the paddles," moaned Tess. "Dear me! we'll be a _nawful_ long time going out to this fun'ral!" The situation was becoming tragic. The thought of the pleasures of scraping the ice-cream freezer paddles was enough to make Sammy turn to desperate invention for release. "Here, Tess," he commanded. "You hold these reins and don't you let 'em get under Scalawag's heels." "Oh, Sammy! what are you going to do?" queried Tess excitedly, but obeying him faithfully. "I'm going to slide out behind and run around and stop him." "Oh, Sammy! You can't!" Dot cried. "He'll just walk right over you. See him!" Everybody along the street was laughing now. It really was a funny sight to see that solemnly stepping pony right behind the line of carriages. Sammy would not be deterred. He scrambled out of the phaeton and ran around to Scalawag's head. "Whoa! Stop, you old nuisance!" ejaculated the boy, seizing the bridle and trying to halt the pony. But the latter knew his business. He had been taught to keep up his march as long as the band played. If it had suddenly changed to a lively tune, Scalawag would have stood right up on his hind legs and pawed the air! Therefore, the pony had no idea of stopping while the band played on. He pushed ahead and Sammy had to keep stepping backward or be trod on. It was a funny sight indeed to see the small boy try to hold back the fat pony that plowed along just as though Sammy had no more weight than a fly. "Oh Sammy! he'll step on you," Tess cried. "Oh, Sammy! he'll--he'll bite you," gasped Dot. "Oh, Sammy!" bawled a delighted youngster from the sidewalk, "he'll swaller you whole!" "Look out for that pony, boy!" called an old man. "What's the kid trying to do--wrastle him?" laughed another man. Tess' cheeks were very, very red. Sammy wished that the street might open and swallow him. Dot was too young to feel the smart of ridicule quite so keenly. She hugged up the Alice-doll to her bosom and squealed just as loud as she could. After all, Dot was the one who saved the situation. Her shrill cry was heard by an old gentleman in the last carriage. He was a very grand looking old gentleman indeed, for when he stood up to look down upon the obstinate pony and the small boy struggling with him, as well as the two little girls in the basket phaeton, they saw that he had medals and ribbons on his breast and a broad sash across the front of his coat. "Halt!" commanded General MacKenzie, and although he was at the rear of the procession instead of the front, the word was passed swiftly along to the band, and everybody stood still, while the droning of the instruments ceased. Instantly Scalawag stopped keeping time, and shook his head and coughed. Sammy had pulled at his bit so hard that it interfered with the pony's breathing. "What under the sun's the matter with that little pony?" demanded the veteran officer, putting on his eyeglasses the better to see Scalawag and the whole outfit. "If you pl-please, sir," stammered Sammy, "he belongs to a circus and--and he just can't make his feet behave when he hears a band." "And do you children belong to a circus, too?" asked the old gentleman in vast surprise. "Oh, no, sir," Tess put in. "And Scalawag doesn't belong to one now. But he can't forget. If you'll have your band wait, please, until we can drive up this other street, Scalawag will forget all about it." "Please do, sir," begged Dot. "For we don't really want to go to the seminary; we go to school here in Milton," which peculiar association of ideas rather stagged General MacKenzie. However, amid the subdued hilarity of the people on the sidewalks, Sammy managed at last to turn Scalawag's head and drive him up Buchan Terrace, and out of hearing of the droning of the band when the funeral procession started again. But it certainly was a memorable occasion for the little mistresses of Scalawag and for Sammy. Thereafter, when they were driving out, they were continually on the watch for a band, or any other music; and Dot even feared that the old man on the corner who attracted attention to his infirmities, as well as to the pencils he sold, with a small organette, would play some tune that would remind Scalawag of his circus days. Neale O'Neil would sometimes bring the pony around to the front of the house and have Agnes start a band record on the music machine in the parlor. Immediately Scalawag would try to go through his old tricks to the delight of the neighborhood children. "Well! it doesn't much matter, I suppose," Ruth sighed. "Every day is circus day at the old Corner House. We have gained a reputation for doing queer things, and living not at all like other folks. I wonder that nice people here in Milton allow their children to play with our little girls." "Hech!" exclaimed Mrs. MacCall. "I should like to know why not? They're the best behaved bairns anywhere, if their heids are fu' o' maggots," using the word, however, in the meaning of "crotchets" or "queer ideas." Ruth was no "nagger." She was strict about some things with the smaller ones; but she never interfered with their plays or amusements as long as they were safe and did not annoy anybody. And with their multitude of pets and toys, to say nothing of dolls galore, Tess and Dot Kenway were as happy little girls as could be found in a day's march. Besides, there was always Sammy Pinkney to give them a jolt of surprise; although Sammy's mother said he was behaving this term almost like an angel and she feared a relapse of the fever he had suffered the spring before. Neale O'Neil felt of the boy's shoulder blades solemnly and pronounced no sign yet of sprouting wings. "You are in no danger of dying young because of your goodness striking in, Sammy," he said. "Don't lose heart." "Aw--_you_!" grunted Sammy. Ruth, seeing the practicability of it, was taking lessons in driving the automobile and was to get a license shortly. Agnes felt quite put out that she was not allowed to do likewise; but to tell the truth the older folk feared to let the fly-away sister handle the car without Neale, or somebody more experienced, in the seat with her. "I don't care, Neale has killed a hen, scared innumerable dogs sleeping in the road-dust, and come near running down Mrs. Privett. You know he has! I believe I wouldn't do _much_ worse." Ruth pointed out that she need not do much worse in Mrs. Privett's case to have a very bad accident indeed. "The difference between almost running a person down, and actually hitting him, can be measured only before a magistrate," the older sister said. Ruth took her lessons from the man at the garage after luncheon, for she did not attend school in the afternoon this term, taking the few studies she desired in the morning. One afternoon she drove over to Mr. Howbridge's house for tea, and as the car jounced over the railroad crossing at Pleasant Street she suddenly spied a familiar looking object bobbing along the sidewalk. It was a huge green umbrella, and beneath it was the rather shambling figure of the old gentleman whom she had saved from possible accident at this very crossing some weeks before. He was dressed quite as he had been when Ruth first saw him. If he saw her, the car passed so rapidly that she did not see him bow. At Mr. Howbridge's house she lingered for some time, for the lawyer always enjoyed these little visits of his oldest ward. Ruth did not return to the old Corner House until almost time for the children to come home from school. Mrs. MacCall was in an excited state when the oldest Corner House girl appeared. "Hech, ma lassie!" cried the housekeeper. "Ye hae fair missed the crankiest old body I've set my eyes on in mony a day!" "Whom do you mean, Mrs. Mac?" asked Ruth, in surprise. "Let me tell 't ye! I should be fu' used to quare bodies coomin' here, for 'tis you bairns bring 'em. But this time 'twas ane o' _your_ friends, Ruthie--" "But who was he?" "Fegs! He'd never tell 't me," Mrs. MacCall declared, shaking her head. "He juist kep' sayin' he had a reason for wishin' tae see ye. Ye could nae tell from lookin' into his winter-apple face, whether 'twas guid news or bad he brought." "Oh, Mrs. Mac!" cried Ruth suddenly, "did he carry a green umbrella!" "He did juist that," declared the woman, vigorously nodding. "And a most disreputable umbrella it looked tae be. 'Gin ye judged the mon by his umbrella, ye'd think he was come tae buy rags." "Isn't he a character?" laughed Ruth. "He's as inquisitive as a chippin'-sparrow," said the housekeeper, with some disgust. "He wanted tae know ev'rything that had happened tae ye since ye was weaned." "Oh, dear! I'm rather glad I wasn't here then." "Aw, but fash not yerself he'll nae be back. For he wull." "No!" "Yes, I tell 't ye. I seen it in the gleam of his hard eye when he went. I gave him nae satisfaction as tae when ye might be home, not knowin' who he was nor what he wanted o' ye." "Oh, Mrs. MacCall, don't you remember?" and Ruth recounted the incident at the railroad crossing nearly a month before. "Huh, that's why he was so cur'ous, then. You saved his life," went on the housekeeper dropping the broad Scotch burr, now that her excitement was cooling. "I don't know that I did. But perhaps he came to thank me for what I tried to do." "It seems as though he must want to know every little thing about you," the housekeeper declared. "And how he could corner you with his questions! He should ha' made a lawyer-body. He made me tell him more than I should about the family's private affairs, I have no doot." "Oh, Mrs Mac! what do you suppose he wants!" "To see you, belike. And he'll be back again." "Goodness! I'm not sure I want to talk with him. He looked very odd to me that day I met him. And so cross!" "No doot of it. He's an ugly looking man. And from his speech it's easy to see he's no friend of womenkind." "He must be like that Neighbor Cecile was telling us about," sighed Ruth and with that dropped the subject of the strange old man with the green umbrella. Ruth had heard from Cecile Shepard since she had gone back to the preparatory school--in fact, had received two letters. They were not such bright epistles as Cecile usually wrote; but they were full of her brother. Not that Cecile mentioned Luke's differences with Neighbor, or the reason thereof; but she seemed unable to keep from writing about Luke. Ruth was secretly as anxious to hear about the young man as his sister was to write about him. Ruth was heart-hungry. She felt that Luke might have taken her into his confidence to a greater degree; and yet she suspected why he had not done so. Mr. Howbridge's talk of dowries for the sisters was always in Ruth's mind. Of course, she knew that the Stower estate was rapidly increasing in value. In a few years property that Peter Stower had purchased for a song would be worth a fortune. The Kenways were likely to be very rich. What if Luke Shepard had no money when he graduated from college? That seemed a very small thing to Ruth. She would have plenty when she came of age, and why could not her money set Luke up in some line of business that he was fitted for? Yet, there was a whisper in her heart that told Ruth that was not the right way to begin life. If Luke was ambitious he must find a better way. Nor could she help him, it seemed, in the least, for the young man had given her no right to do so. "Oh, dear me," Ruth finally decided, "it is awfully hard being a girl--sometimes!" No such questions and doubts troubled Agnes and Neale. Their course through life seemed a smooth road before them. They told each other their aspirations, and everything they planned to do in the future--that glorious future after school should end--had a part for each in it. Neale O'Neil did not hope to do anything in life which would shut Agnes out; and the girl's thought marched side-by-side with his intentions. Everything hereafter was to be in partnership. "For you know, Neale, no matter what Ruth says, I really couldn't get along without you." "Crickey!" exclaimed the boy, "this old world certainly would be what Unc' Rufus calls 'de valley ob tribulation' if you weren't right here with me." She smiled upon him gloriously, and used that emphatic ejaculation that always horrified Ruth: "You bet!" "You're a good pal, Aggie," said the boy, with feeling. "And since that morning I first saw you and we both tumbled out of the peach tree," Agnes declared solemnly--"do you remember, Neale?" "I should say I did!" "Well, I _thought_ you were awfully nice then. _Now_, I know you are." So, perhaps Agnes and Neale were growing up, too. CHAPTER XXIII THE MAD DOG SCARE The primary and grammar grades, and the high school, were in beautiful brick buildings side by side at this end of Milton. The little folk had a large play yard, as well as basement recreation rooms for stormy weather. The Parade Ground was not far away, and the municipality of Milton did not ornament the grass plots there with "Keep Off the Grass" signs. No automobiles were allowed through the street where the schools were at the hours when the children were going to or coming from school. Besides, two big policemen--the very tallest men on the force--were stationed at the crossings on either side to guide the school children through the danger zone. However, Tess usually waited for Dot after school so that the smallest Corner House girl should not have to walk home alone. It happened one afternoon during these first few weeks of school, while Tess was waiting with some of her classmates for the smaller girls, that Sammy Pinkney, Iky Goronofsky, and half a dozen other boys of Tess' age, came whooping around from the boys' entrance to the school, chasing a small, disreputable dog that ran zigzag along the street, acting very strangely. "Oh, Tess!" cried Alfredia Blossom, the colored girl, "see those boys chasin' that poor dog. I declar'! ain't they jest the wust--" "Oh, dear me, Alfredia!" urged Tess, gravely, "_do_ remember what Miss Shipman tells you. 'Worst,' not 'wust.'" "I'm gwine to save dat dog!" gasped Alfredia, too disturbed by the circumstances to mind Tess' instructions. She darted out ahead of the boys. Sammy Pinkney yelled at the top of his voice: "Let that dog alone, 'Fredia Blossom! You want to catch hydrophobia?" "Wha' dat?" demanded Alfredia, stopping short and her eyes rolling. "That dog's mad! If he bites you you'll go mad, too," declared Sammy, coming puffing to the spot where the little girls were assembled. At this startling statement some of the girls screamed and ran back into the yard. There they met the smaller girls coming forth, and for a time there was a hullabaloo that nearly deafened everybody on the block. Said Sammy with disgust: "Hoh! if hollerin' did any good, those girls would kill all the mad dogs in the State." As it was, the police officer at the corner used his club to kill the unfortunate little animal that had caused all the excitement. The S. P. C. A. wagon came and got the poor dead dog, and the doctors at the laboratory examined his brain and sent word to the newspapers that the animal had actually been afflicted with rabies. It was a strange dog; nobody knew where it had come from. It had bitten several other dogs in his course as far as the school. Some of these dogs were sent to the pound to be watched; but some foolish owners would not hear of sacrificing their pets for the general good. So, within a fortnight there was a veritable epidemic of rabies among the dogs of Milton. One man lost a valuable horse that was impregnated with the poison from being bitten by the stable dog that had been his best friend. The order went forth that all dogs should be muzzled and none should be allowed on the street save on a leash. Sammy was very careful to keep Buster chained. Buster had not many friends in the neighborhood at best. So Sammy took no chances with his bulldog. As for Tom Jonah, the old dog was such a universal pet, and was so kindly of disposition that nobody thought of including him in the general fear of the canine dwellers in Milton. Tom Jonah was old, and had few teeth left. He was troubled now and then with rheumatism, too; and he seldom left the Corner House yard save to accompany the girls on some expedition. He went with them often in the automobile, especially when they went picnicking on Saturdays. He and Scalawag were very good friends, and sometimes he accompanied the little folks in their afternoon rides around the Parade Ground. But as soon as the mad-dog scare started the girls were all very careful about letting Tom Jonah go off the premises. He was too old and dignified a dog to run out to bark at passing teams, or to follow strange dogs to make their acquaintance. Therefore the Kenways and Neale O'Neil thought it was not necessary for poor old Tom Jonah to wear an ugly and irritating muzzle all the time. The old fellow hated the thing so! "I don't blame poor Tom Jonah for not liking to wear that old thing," Dot said thoughtfully. "It's worse than the bit in Scalawag's mouth. And see how Billy Bumps hates to be harnessed up. Supposin'," added the smallest Corner House girl, "_we_ had to put on a harness and have our mouths tied up when we started for school. Oh! wouldn't it be dreadful?" "I guess it would, Dot Kenway," Tess agreed vigorously. "I guess it isn't so much fun being a dog or a horse or even a goat." "Huh!" growled Sammy who had become pretty well tired of school by this time; "anyway, they don't have to study," and he looked as though he would willingly change places with almost any of the pets about the old Corner House. Neale always walked to school with the little folks now, for Ruth was fearful that there might be other dogs loose afflicted with the terrible disease. A panic among little children is so easily started. She could trust Neale to have a watchful care over Dot and Tess. Nothing so bad as that happened; but there did come a day when tragedy because of the mad-dog scare stalked near to the Corner House. The dog-catchers were going about town netting all the stray dogs they could find. Foolish people who would not obey the law deserved to lose their pets. And if they wished to, if the dogs were pronounced perfectly healthy at the pound, the owners could appear and claim their pets by paying two dollars. This last fact, however, was something the little Corner House girls and Sammy Pinkney knew nothing about. They had a horror of "the dog catchers." The collecting agents of the S. P. C. A. are bugbears in most communities. When the children saw the green van, with its screened door in the back, and heard the yapping of the excited dogs within, Dot and Tess stuffed their fingers in their ears and ran. The children did not understand that stray dogs were likely to be bitten as those other dogs had been by one afflicted with the rabies; and that it was much more humane to catch the unmuzzled animals, that nobody cared for, and dispose of them painlessly, than to have them become diseased and a menace to the neighborhood. To make the children understand that it was dangerous to play with strange dogs was a difficult matter. The little Corner House girls were prone to be friendly with passing animals. All hungry and sore-eyed kittens appealed to Tess and Dot; the wag of a dog's tail was sufficient to interest them in its owner; each horse at the curb held a particular interest, too. They were trusting of nature, these little girls, and they trusted everybody and everything. In coming home from school one afternoon Neale was in a hurry to do an errand, and he left the little folk at the corner, hurrying around to Con Murphy's on the back street, where he lived. Ruth was away from home and Agnes had not yet arrived at the Corner House. The Willow Street block, however, seemed perfectly safe. Tess and Dot strolled along the block, their feet rustling the carpet of leaves that had now fallen from the trees. Sammy Pinkney was playing solitaire leapfrog over all posts and hydrants. Just as they reached the corner of the Corner House yard Tom Jonah heard and saw them. He rose up, barking the glad tidings that his little friends were returning from school, and as he felt pretty well this day, he leaped the fence into the street and came cavorting toward them, laughing just as broadly as a dog could laugh. Even as Tess and Dot greeted him, Sammy Pinkney emitted a shriek of dismay. A big auto-van had turned the corner and rolled smoothly along the block. One man on the front seat who was driving the truck said to his mate: "There's another of 'em, Bill. Net him." The fellow he spoke to leaped out as the green van came to a halt. He carried a net like a fish seine over his arm. Before the little girls who were fondling Tom Jonah realized that danger threatened--before the frightened Sammy could do more than shout his useless warning--the man threw the net, and old Tom Jonah was entangled in its meshes. The little girls screamed. Sammy roared a protest. The men paid no attention to the uproar. "Got a big fish this time, Harry," said Bill, dragging the struggling, growling Tom Jonah to the back of the van. "Give us a hand." For the big dog, his temper roused, would have done his captor some injury had he been able. The driver of the dog catchers' van drove the other dogs back from the door with a long pole, and then between them he and his mate heaved Tom Jonah into the vehicle. Sammy Pinkney scurried around for some missile to throw at the dog catchers. The little girls' shrieks brought neighboring children to yards and doors and windows. But there chanced not to be an adult on the block to whom the dog catchers might have listened. "Oh, Mister! Don't! Don't!" begged Tess, sobbing, and trying to hold by the coat the man who had netted Tom Jonah. "He's a good dog--a real good dog. _Don't_ take him away." "If you hurt Tom Jonah my sister Ruthie will do something _awful_ to you!" declared Dot, too angry to cry. "Wish my father was home," said Sammy, threateningly. "He'd fix you dog-catchers!" "Aw-gowan!" exclaimed the man, pushing Tess so hard that she almost fell, and breaking her hold upon his coat. But Tess forgot herself in her anxiety for Tom Jonah. She bravely followed him to the very step of the van. "Give him back! Give him back!" she cried. "You must not hurt Tom Jonah. He never did you any harm. He never did _anybody_ any harm. Give him back to us! Please!" Her wail made no impression on the man. "Drive on, Harry," he said. "These kids give me a pain." The green van moved on. Tom Jonah's gray muzzle appeared at the screened door at the back. He howled mournfully as the van headed toward Main Street. "Oh, what shall we do? What shall we do?" cried Tess, wringing her hands. "Let's run tell Ruthie," gasped Dot. "I wish Neale O'Neil was here," growled Sammy. But Tess was the bravest of the three. She had no intention of losing sight of poor Tom Jonah, whose mournful cries seemed to show that he knew the fate in store for him. "Where are you going, Tess?" shouted Sammy, as the Corner House girl kept on past the gate of her own dooryard, after the green van. "They sha'n't have Tom Jonah!" declared the sobbing Tess. "I--I won't let them." "And--and Iky Goronofsky says that they make frankfurters out of those poor dogs," moaned Dot, repeating a legend prevalent among the rougher school children at that time. "Pshaw! he was stringin' you kids," said Sammy, with more wisdom, falling in with Dot behind the determined Tess. "What'll we do? Tess is going right after that old van." "We mustn't leave her," Dot said. "Oh! I _wish_ Ruthie had seen those horrid men take Tom Jonah." As it was there seemed nothing to do but to follow the valiant Tess on her quest toward the dog pound. As for Tess herself she had no intention of losing sight of Tom Jonah. She made up her mind that no matter how far the van went the poor old dog who had been their friend for so long should not be deserted. At the seashore, soon after Tom Jonah had first come to live with the Corner House girls, the dog had been instrumental in saving the lives of both Tess and Dot. He had often guarded them when they played and when they worked. They depended upon him at night to keep away prowlers from the Corner House henroost. No ill-disposed persons ever troubled the premises at the Corner of Willow and Main Streets after one glimpse of Tom Jonah. "I don't care!" sobbed Tess, her plump cheeks streaked with tears, when her little sister and Sammy caught up with her a block away from home. "I don't care. They sha'n't put poor Tom Jonah in the gas chamber. _I_ know what they do to poor doggies. They sha'n't treat him so!" "But what'll you do, Tess!" demanded Sammy, amazed by the determination and courage of his little friend. "I don't know just what I'll do when I get there but I'll do something--you see if I don't, Sammy Pinkney!" threatened this usually mild and retiring Tess Kenway. CHAPTER XXIV IT ENGAGES AUNT SARAH'S ATTENTION Ruth, as has been said, was away from the house when this dreadful thing happened to Tom Jonah. Uncle Rufus was too lame to have followed the dog catchers' van in any case, had he seen the capture of their pet. But Mrs. MacCall and Aunt Sarah were sitting together sewing in the latter's big front room over the dining-room of the Corner House. Looking out of the window by which she sat, and biting off a thread reflectively, the housekeeper said: "It's on my mind, Miss Maltby, that our Ruth is not so chirpy as she used to be." "She's growing up," said Aunt Sarah. "I'll be glad when they're all grown up." And then she added something that would have quite shocked all four of the Corner House girls. "I'll be glad when they are all grown up, and married, and settled down." "My certie! but you are in haste, woman," gasped the housekeeper. "And it sounds right-down wicked. Wishing the bairns' lives away." "Do you realize what it's going to mean--these next four or five years?" snapped Aunt Sarah. "In what way, Miss Maltby?" asked Mrs. MacCall. "For us," said Aunt Sarah, nodding emphatically. "We're going to have the house cluttered up with boys and young men who will want to marry my nieces." "Lawk!" gasped the housekeeper. "Will they be standin' in line, think you? Not but the bonny lassies deserve the best there is--" "Which isn't saying much when it comes to a choice of _men_," Aunt Sarah sniffed. "Well," returned Mrs. MacCall, slowly, "of course there'll be none worthy of the lassies. None who deserves our Ruthie. Yet--I'm thinkin'--that that young laddie that was here now--you know, Miss Maltby. Luke Shepard." "A likeable boy," admitted Aunt Sarah, and that was high praise from the critical spinster. "Aye," Mrs. MacCall hastened to say, "a very fine young man indeed. And I am moved to say Ruthie liked him." "Eh!" exclaimed Aunt Sarah. "You maybe didn't see it. It was plain to me. They two were very fond of each other. Yes, indeed!" "My niece _fond_ of a boy?" gasped the spinster, bridling. "Why! were ye not just now speakin' of such a possibeelity?" demanded the housekeeper, and in her surprise, dropping for the moment into broad Scotch. "And they are baith of them old enough tae be thinkin' of matin'. Yes!" Aunt Sarah still stared in amazement. "Can it be _that_ that seems to have changed Ruth so?" she asked at last. "You've noticed it?" cried the Scotchwoman. "Yes. As you have suggested, she seems down-hearted. But why--" "There's something that went wrong. 'Love's young dream,' as they say, is having a partial eclipse, so it is! I see no letters comin' from that college where the laddie has gone." "But she hears from Cecile Shepard," said Aunt Sarah. "She reads me extracts from Cecile's letters. A very lively and pleasant girl is Cecile." "So she is," admitted the housekeeper. "But I'm a sight more interested in the laddie. Why doesn't he write?" "Why--er--would that be quite the thing, Mrs. MacCall?" asked Aunt Sarah, momentarily losing much of her grimness and seemingly somewhat fluttered by this discussion of Ruth's affair. "'Twould be almost necessary, Miss Maltby, I can tell you, if he was a laddie of mine," declared the Scotchwoman vigorously. "I'd no have a sweetheart that was either tongue-tied or unable to write." "Oh, but you take too much for granted," cried Aunt Sarah. "My observation tells me the two of them are fair lost on each other. I watched 'em while young Shepard was here. It's true they are young; but they'll never be younger, and it's the young lovin' and matin' was made for--not for old bodies." "You--you quite surprise me," said Aunt Sarah. "You'd best get over your surprise, Miss Maltby," said the very practical housekeeper. "You should have your eyes opened. You should see them together again." "Why not?" demanded Aunt Sarah, suddenly. "Why not what?" "Let the children have Cecile and her brother here for over Sunday--for a week end. Let them give a little party. I am sure I loved parties when I was a young girl and lived at this Corner House, when mother was alive." "It's a good idea," said the housekeeper. "I'll make some layer cakes for the party. We'll not need to go to the expense of a caterer--" She would have gone on immediately planning for the affair had she not, on glancing through the window, seen the dog catchers' green van rattling over the crossing of Main Street. "There's those dog catchers!" she exclaimed. "I wonder if Tom Jonah's safe. There are some children running and crying after it--they've lost a pet I've no doubt." Then suddenly she sprang to her feet. "Miss Maltby!" she cried. "'Tis our Tess and Dot--and Sammy Pinkney, the little scamp! It must be either his bulldog or old Tom Jonah those pestilent men have caught." Aunt Sarah had very good eyes indeed. She had already spied the party and she could see in the back of the van. "It is Tom Jonah!" she exclaimed. "They must be stopped. How dared those men take our dog?" Mrs. MacCall, who had no shoes on, could not hurry out. But Aunt Sarah was dressed for company as she always was in the afternoon. She amazed the sputtering housekeeper by stopping only to throw a fleecy hood over her hair before hurrying out of the front door of the Corner House. Aunt Sarah Maltby seldom left the premises save for church on Sunday. She did not even ride much in the girls' motor-car. She had made up her mind that an automobile was an unnecessary luxury and a "new-fangled notion" anyway; therefore she seldom allowed herself to be coaxed into the car. She never went calling, claiming vigorously that she was "no gadabout, she hoped." It was an astonishing sight, therefore, to see her marching along Willow Street in the wake of the crying, excited children, who themselves followed in the wake of the dog catchers' van. The van traveled so fast that Tess and Dot and Sammy could scarcely keep it in sight; while the children were so far ahead of Aunt Sarah that the old woman could not attract their attention when she called. It was a most embarrassing situation, to say the least. To add to its ridiculousness, Mrs. MacCall met Agnes as she came in swinging her books, and told her at the side door what had happened. Agnes flung down her books and "hoo-hooed" with all her might for Neale O'Neil. As soon as he answered, sticking his head out of his little bedroom window under the eaves of Con Murphy's cottage, Agnes left the housekeeper and the excited Finnish girl to explain the difficulty to Neale, while she ran after Aunt Sarah. Soon, therefore, there was a procession of excited Corner House folk trailing through the Milton Streets to the pound. Sammy and the two little girls trotting on behind the dog catchers' van; then Aunt Sarah Maltby, looking neither to right nor left but appearing very stern indeed; then Agnes running as hard as she could run; followed by Neale at a steady lope. The boy soon overtook his girl chum. "What under the canopy are we going to do?" he demanded. "Save Tom Jonah!" declared Agnes, her cheeks blazing. "The kids are going to do that," chuckled Neale in spite of his shortness of breath. "Guess we'd better save Aunt Sarah, hadn't we?" "Goodness, Neale!" giggled Agnes, "they won't try to shut _her_ up in the pound I should hope." They did not overtake the determined woman before she was in sight of the dog refuge. The van had driven into the yard. Before the gate could be shut Tess, followed closely by the trembling Dot and by the more or less valiant Sammy, pushed through likewise and faced the superintendent of the lost dog department. "What do you little folks want?" asked this kindly man, smiling down upon the trio. "We want Tom Jonah," said Tess, her voice quivering but her manner still brave. "You've just got to give us Tom Jonah," Dot added, gulping down a sob. "You bet you have!" said Sammy, clenching his fists. "'Tom Jonah'?" repeated the man. "Is that a dog?" Tess pointed. There was Tom Jonah at the screened door of the van. "That's him," she said. "He never did anybody any harm. These men just _stole_ him." That was pretty strong language for Tess Kenway to use; but she was greatly overwrought. "You mean they took him out of your yard?" "They took him off'n the street," said Sammy. "But he'd only jumped the fence because he saw us comin' home from school." "He isn't muzzled," said the man. "He--he don't bite," wailed Dot. "He--he ain't got any teeth to bite!" He was an old dog as the superintendent could see. Besides, he knew that his men were more eager to secure the fines than they were to be kind or fair to the owners of dogs. "How about this, Harry?" he asked the driver of the van. "The dog's ugly as sin," growled the man. "Ain't he, Bill?" "Tried to chew me up," declared the man with the net. "Say!" blurted out Sammy, "wouldn't _you_ try to chew a feller up if he caught you in a fish-net and dragged you to a wagon like that? Huh!" Harry burst out laughing. The superintendent said, quietly: "Let the big dog out." "Not me, Boss," said Bill, backing away. "That dog's got it in for me." "Let me!" exclaimed Tess. "Tom Jonah would not bite any of us--not even if he had hydrophobia. No, sir!" "Of course he wouldn't!" acclaimed Dot. "But he couldn't have hydro--hydro-- Well, whatever that is." "Keep those other dogs back, Bill, and let the little girl have her Tom Jonah," said the superintendent. "I guess there's been a mistake. These are the Corner House girls, and that is their old dog. I remember him. He wouldn't harm a fly." "No. But he'd chaw the leg off'n me, Boss," said Bill, who did not like dogs and therefore was afraid of them. "Besides, all's fish that comes into _my_ net, you know." "Go away," commanded the other man, taking the long pole himself. "I will let him out." "Oh, Tom Jonah!" cried Tess, running to the door of the van. "Be good now. The man is going to let you out and we will take you home." The old dog stopped whining but he did not, as Sammy whispered to Dot, look any too pleasant. When the superintendent opened the door, after crowding back the smaller dogs that filled the van, Tess called to Tom Jonah to come out. He leaped down. The next instant he whirled and would have charged the two men who had caused him such discomfort and disgrace, his jaws emitting terrific growls. "Stop, Tom Jonah!" from Tess and Dot, and "Cut it out, Tom Jonah!" from Sammy, were all that saved the day. The dog had never yet been cowed of spirit and, old as he was, he would have attacked a lion, let alone a pair of faint-hearted rowdies. "Take my advice, boys," said the superintendent of the pound. "Don't go around that block by the old Corner House again. This old fellow will not forget either of you." "He ought to be shot," growled Bill. "You do such a thing--such a desperately wicked thing!" exclaimed a sharp voice, "and I will see that you are prosecuted to the full extent of the law." It was Aunt Sarah who appeared like an angel of wrath at the gateway. "Mr. Howbridge shall know about your actions--you two men there! And as for you," the indignant old woman added, fixing her gaze upon the superintendent of the pound, "let me tell you that the Stower estate makes a contribution yearly to your Society, which contribution partly pays your salary. I hold _you_ responsible for the character of the men you engage to collect the poor dogs who are neglected and who have no homes. They are not supposed to take the pets of people who amply care for dumb animals. Another occasion like this and you will hear from it--mark my word, sir!" "Oh, my!" sighed Dot, afterward, her eyes still round with wonder, "I never did suppose Aunt Sarah could speak so big. Isn't she just wonnerful?" While the children were caressing Tom Jonah and the superintendent was striving to pacify the indignant Aunt Sarah, Agnes and Neale came panting to the pound. "Guess it's all over but the shouting," said Neale, with satisfaction. "Down, Tom Jonah! Down, with you! Don't jump all over my best suit of clothes." "And spare me your kisses, good old fellow!" begged Agnes. "We know just how glad you are to get out of jail. Who wouldn't be?" "Je-ru-sa-_lem_!" ejaculated Sammy Pinkney; "who'd ha' thought of Tom Jonah getting pinched?" Before the party got away from the pound, Ruth came racing down in the automobile. Returning from her first drive alone as a licensed chauffeur, she had heard of the family's migration to the pound and had come in haste to the rescue of Tom Jonah--and the remainder of the Corner House party. "For goodness' sake! do get into the automobile and act as though we'd just come for a ride," exclaimed the oldest Corner House girl. "Did ever any one hear of such ridiculous things as happen to us?" "You need not be so snippy," said Agnes, in some heat. "If Tom Jonah had actually been put into that awful gas chamber they tell about--" "They don't do such things until it is positive that nobody will claim the dog--unless he really is afflicted with rabies," Ruth said. "I'm surprised at Aunt Sarah." "You needn't be, young lady," said Miss Maltby. "You needn't be surprised at anything I may do. I have long known that I belonged to a family of crazy people, and now I guess I've proved myself as crazy as any of you." However, they could laugh at it after a while. And they did not begrudge any trouble to save poor old Tom Jonah from inconvenience. While the children were away at school thereafter they were careful to put the old dog on a long leash in a shady corner of the yard. After all, Tom Jonah had been a vagabond for a good part of his life, and old as he was sometimes the spirit of what Agnes called "the wanderlust" (she was just beginning German) came over him and he would go away to visit friends for two or three days at a time. "He'll go visiting no more at present," Ruth said with decision. However, other plans for visiting progressed. Aunt Sarah and Mrs. MacCall proceeded to carry out their conspiracy. The suggestion was made at just the right time, and in the right way, for Cecile and Luke to be invited to the old Corner House for a week-end party, and the party itself was planned. So it came to pass that Cecile Shepard wrote her brother Luke that very next week: "I suppose, Luke dear, you have received your invitation to Ruth's party. Of course, dear boy, we must both go. I would not disappoint or offend her for the world--nor must you. Buck up, old pal! This is a hard row to hoe, but I guess you'll have to hoe it alone. I can only sit on the fence and root for you. "Aunt Lorena declares the world is coming to an end. Neighbor sent Samri over to the house to ask Auntie what Ruth's last name was and how to find her. He was so mad with you that night you told him, he evidently did not catch her name. And then, Aunt Lorena says, the very next morning Neighbor started out and was gone all day. "He could not have gone to see Ruth. Of course not! Certain sure if he had, I should have heard of it from either Ruth herself or from Agnes. But he _might_ have gone to Milton to make inquiries about her. "However, I am afraid whatever he did that day he was away, it did not please him. He returned about dark, blew up Samri in the yard for some little thing, rampaged around in his most awful way, and finally, Aunt Lorena says, she could hear him scolding the butler all through dinner and half the evening. Then, she believes, the poor old Jap crept into the toolshed to spend the rest of the night out of sound of his master's voice." Luke would certainly not have gone to Milton and to the Corner House at this time save that he, like his sister, could not offend those who had been so kind to him there. And he was hungry for a sight of Ruth! Seeing her, he feared, would not aid him to be manly and put his desires aside while he fought his way through college. He knew that Neighbor would do exactly what he had said. Never could he look to the old gentleman for a friendly word, or a bit of help over a hard financial place again. As Mr. Henry Northrup was so fond of saying, he always said what he meant and meant what he said! The party was to be on Saturday evening, and the Friday when the Shepards had promised to arrive at the Corner House came, and Luke and Cecile went their separate ways to Milton by train. As he had not sent word by just what train he would arrive the young man did not expect anybody to meet him. He walked up from the station with his suitcase and came in sight of the old Corner House without being spied by anybody on the premises. A wintry wind was blowing, and the great shade trees about the house were almost bare of leaves. Yet the Stower homestead could never look anything but cheerful and homelike. Luke quickened his pace as he approached the gate. There was somebody inside that old house, he was quite sure, whom he longed desperately to see. He opened the gate and swung up the walk to the door. Bounding up the steps he reached forth his hand to touch the annunciator button when he caught sight of something standing on the porch beside the door--something that brought a gasp of amazement from his lips and actually caused him to turn pale. CHAPTER XXV LOOKING AHEAD Ruth had become quite excited over the prospect of the coming party. Of course, not as excited as Agnes, but sufficiently so to become more like her oldtime self. She went about with a smile on her lips and a gleam in her eyes that had been missing of late. Agnes hinted that she must have some particular reason for being so "chipper." "Somebody's coming you like, Ruthie Kenway!" the next oldest sister declared. For once Ruth did not deny the accusation. She merely blushed faintly and said nothing. Friday afternoon was a particularly busy time for Ruth. She found some things had been forgotten and she went down town to attend to them. She walked, and in coming back, hastening up Main Street, at the corner of the avenue that gave a glimpse of the railroad station, she came face to face with the queer old gentleman of the green umbrella! "Ha!" ejaculated the old man, stopping abruptly. "So! I find you at last, do I?" "Ye-yes, sir," stammered Ruth. To tell the truth, he looked so fierce, he had such a hawklike eye, and he spoke so harshly that he fairly frightened the oldest Corner House girl. She felt as though he must think she had been hiding from him purposely. "I was in your town here once before looking for you. You were not to be found," he said. "Ye-yes, sir," admitted Ruth. "I guess I was out that day." "Out? I didn't know where to hunt for you," growled the old man, shaking the green umbrella and looking as fierce, Ruth thought, as though he might like to shake her in the same way. "Ye-yes, sir," she stammered. "Don't say that again!" roared the stranger. "Speak sensibly. Or are you as big a fool as most other females!" At that Ruth grew rather piqued. She regained her self-possession and began to study the old man. "I'm not sure how foolish you consider all women to be, sir," she said. "Perhaps I am merely an average girl." "No. I'll be bound you've more sense than some," he grumbled. "Otherwise you wouldn't have pulled me back from that train. I'd have been run over like enough." "I'm glad you think I helped you," said Ruth simply. "Heh? What are you glad for?" "Because I like to have people feel grateful to me and like me," confessed Ruth frankly. "Hey-day!" exclaimed the old gentleman. "Here's plainness of speech. I suppose you think I am rich and that I have come to reward you?" "I thought you had come to thank me, not insult me," the girl said, with dignity. "You cannot give me money." "You are a wealthy girl, then?" "We have all the money we shall ever need," said Ruth. "It really does not matter, does it, sir? If you have thanked me sufficiently, I will go on." "Hoity-toity!" he snarled. "You are one of these very smart modern girls, I see. And wealthy, too? Where do you live?" "I am going home now, sir. You know where I live," said Ruth in surprise. "Heh? I'll go with you. I want to talk with your folks." "I really do not understand your object. I have no parents, sir," said Ruth, a little angry by this time. "If you wish to see our lawyer--" "Haven't you anybody?" "I have sisters and an aunt and a guardian--our lawyer," said Ruth not at all pleased to be obliged to satisfy the curiosity of the old man with the green umbrella. He walked on beside her and there really seemed no way to escape him. She thought it strange that he cared to come to the house again, having already been there once and interviewed Mrs. MacCall. When they came in sight of the old Corner House Ruth heard the old gentleman utter an exclamation as though he recognized it. Then, when she stopped at the gate he demanded: "So you live here?" "Of course I do," Ruth replied rather sharply for her. She opened the gate and passed through. She did not ask him to enter; but he came in just the same, green umbrella and all. He walked beside her up the path and up the steps to the door. Then as she turned to face him he grumbled: "So I suppose you're going to tell me that you are Ruth Kenway?" "That is my name, sir." "Humph! So, the boy _has_ got some sense, after all," muttered the old man. Ruth suddenly felt that there was a deep meaning in the old man's look and a reason for his curiosity. She asked faintly: "What boy, sir? Whom do you mean?" "That whippersnapper, Luke Shepard." "Oh!" Ruth exclaimed. "_You are Neighbor!_" So that is why Luke, coming half an hour later to this very front door, spied the green umbrella and Mr. Henry Northrup's great overshoes standing together on the porch of the old Corner House. Luke did not know at first whether it would be best to ring the bell or to run. He wavered for several minutes, undecided. Then suddenly Neale O'Neil, rounding the corner of the house, caught sight of him. "Hullo!" shouted the ex-circus boy. "Lost, strayed, or stolen? The girls have been looking for you. Your sister is here already." "Sh!" whispered Luke, beckoning frantically. "Somebody else is here, too." "Crickey, yes! You know the old chap? Northrup's his name. He looks as hard as nails, but our Ruth's got him feeding out of her hand already. Oh, Ruth is some charmer!" Luke fairly fell up against Neale. "Charmed Neighbor?" he gasped. "Then Aunt Lorena's right! The world _is_ coming to an end." Of course, it did not! At least, not just then. But when Luke presented himself in the sitting-room of the old Corner House and found Mr. Northrup and Ruth in quiet conversation, the young man felt that he must be walking in a dream. "You here, Neighbor?" he said, rather shakingly. "Why, yes," said Mr. Northrup calmly. "You see, Miss Ruth is rather a friend of mine. Ahem! At least, she did me a favor some time ago, and in hunting her up to thank her, I find that she is a very dear friend of your sister and yourself, Luke." "Er--yes?" questioned Luke, still a little tremulous in his speech. "Ahem!" said Mr. Northrup again, staring hard at the young man. "Your friend Miss Ruth has invited me to remain to dinner and meet her sisters and--ahem!--the rest of her family. I hope you have no objection, Luke?" with sarcasm. "Oh, no, Neighbor! Oh, no, indeed!" Luke hastened to say. To the amazement of Luke and Cecile Shepard Mr. Northrup appeared very well indeed at dinner that night in the Corner House. They learned he could be very entertaining if he wished; that he had not forgotten how to interest women if he had been a recluse for so long; and that even Tess and Dot found something about him to admire. The former said afterward that Mr. Northrup had a voice like a distant drum; Dot said he had a "noble looking forehead," meaning that it was very high and bald. Mr. Northrup and Aunt Sarah were wonderfully polite to each other. Mrs. MacCall had her suspicions of the old gentleman, remembering the umbrella and the occasion of his first call when, she considered, he had entered the house under false pretenses. Luke went to the evening train with his old friend, and Mr. Northrup's mellowed spirit remained with him--for the time at least. "She is a smart girl, Luke. I always thought you had a little good sense in your makeup, and I believe you've proved it. But remember, boy," added the man, shaking an admonitory finger at him, "remember, you're to stick to your fancy. No changing around from one girl to another. If you dare to I'll disown you-- I'll disown you just as I said I should if you hadn't picked out the girl you have." "Good gracious, Neighbor!" gasped the young man, "I--I don't even know if Ruth will have me." "Huh! You don't? Well, young man," said the old gentleman in disgust at Luke's dilatoriness, "_I do!_" Perhaps Mr. Henry Northrup's very positiveness upon this point spurred Luke to find an opportunity during this week-end visit to the old Corner House to open his heart to Ruth. In return the girl was frank enough to tell him just how glad she was that he had acted as he had before knowing that Neighbor would approve. "For of course, Luke, money doesn't have to enter the question at all. Nevertheless, I know you will desire to be established in some business before we are really _serious_ about this thing." "Serious, Ruth!" exclaimed the young man. "Well-- I don't know. Seems to me I've never been really serious about anything in my life before." Though she spoke so very cautiously about their understanding, Ruth Kenway sent Luke back to college Sunday evening knowing that she coincided with his plans and hopes perfectly. The party on Saturday night--the first of several evening entertainments the girls gave that winter--was a very delightful gathering. The visitors from out of town enjoyed themselves particularly because the bugbear of Neighbor's opposition to Luke's desires had been dissipated. "Lucky boy, Luke," his sister told him. "And you may thank Ruthie Kenway for your happiness in more senses than one. It was she who charmed your crochety old friend. No other girl could have done it." "Don't you suppose I know that?" he asked her, with scorn. That party, of course, was enjoyable for the smaller Corner House girls as well as for their elders. There was nothing really good that Tess and Dot ever missed if Ruth and Agnes had it in their power to please their smaller sisters. "It's most as good as having a party of our very own," sighed Tess, as she and Dot and Sammy Pinkney sat at the head of the front stairs with plates of ice cream and cake in their small laps. "It's better," declared Dot. "'Cause we can just eat and eat and not have to worry whether the others are getting enough." "Why, Dot Kenway!" murmured Tess. "That sounds awful--awful piggish." "Nop," said Sammy. "She's right, Tess. You see, Dot means that she really can have a better time if there isn't anything to worry about. Now, there was that day we went off and took a ride on that canalboat." "Being pirates," put in Dot, with a reminiscent sigh. "Yep," went on the philosophic Sammy. "We'd have had an awful nice day if there'd been nothing to worry us. Wouldn't we, Dot?" "I--I guess so," agreed the smallest Corner House girl slowly. "But just the same, Sammy Pinkney, I'm never going to run off to be pirates with you again. Ruthie says it isn't ladylike," she finished with an air of "be it ever so painful, ladylike I must be." "Humph!" sniffed Sammy, "you won't get another chance. I ain't going to take any girl pirating when I go again. I don't want girls on a pirate ship." "Oh, Sammy!" said Dot, "you sound just like that Mr. Neighbor Northrup. You know, Mr. Luke's friend. The misogynist." "Huh!" grunted Sammy, scowling. "But--but," Tess questioned softly, "Mr. Northrup's cured of that disease, isn't he?" THE END CHARMING STORIES FOR GIRLS The Corner House Girls Series By GRACE BROOKS HILL [Illustration] Four girls from eight to fourteen years of age receive word that a rich bachelor uncle has died, leaving them the old Corner House he occupied. They move into it and then the fun begins. What they find and do will provoke many a hearty laugh. Later, they enter school and make many friends. One of these invites the girls to spend a few weeks at a bungalow owned by her parents, and the adventures they meet with make very interesting reading. Clean, wholesome stories of humor and adventure, sure to appeal to all young girls. 1 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS. 2 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL. 3 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. 4 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY. 5 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND. 6 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR. 7 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP. 8 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND. 9 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT. 10 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES. 11 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON PALM ISLAND. 12 THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY. "THE POLLY" SERIES By DOROTHY WHITEHILL [Illustration] Polly Pendleton is a resourceful, wide-awake American girl who goes to a boarding school on the Hudson River some miles above New York. By her pluck and resourcefulness, she soon makes a place for herself and this she holds right through the course. The account of boarding school life is faithful and pleasing and will attract every girl in her teens. Cloth, large 12 mo. Illustrated 1 POLLY'S FIRST YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 2 POLLY'S SUMMER VACATION 3 POLLY'S SENIOR YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 4 POLLY SEES THE WORLD AT WAR 5 POLLY AND LOIS 6 POLLY AND BOB 7 POLLY'S RE-UNION 8 POLLY'S POLLY BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers New York, N. Y. Newark, N. J. 
18413	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 18413-h.htm or 18413-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/4/1/18413/18413-h/18413-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/4/1/18413/18413-h.zip) PRUDENCE OF THE PARSONAGE by ETHEL HUESTON With Illustrations by Arthur William Brown [Frontispiece: "What did you put in this soup, Prudence?"] New York Grosset & Dunlap Publishers Copyright 1915 The Bobbs-Merrill Company TO MY MOTHER WHO DEVOTED HER LIFE TO REARING A WHOLE PARSONAGE-FULL OF ROLLICKING YOUNG METHODISTS CONTENTS CHAPTER I INTRODUCING HER II THE REST OF THE FAMILY III THE LADIES' AID IV A SECRET SOCIETY V THE TWINS STICK UP FOR THE BIBLE VI AN ADMIRER VII LESSONS IN ETIQUETTE VIII THE FIRST DARK SHADOW OF WINTER IX PRACTISING ECONOMY X A BURGLAR'S VISIT XI ROMANCE COMES XII ROUSED FROM HER SLUMBER XIII SHE ORDERS HER LIFE XIV SHE COMES TO GRIEF XV FATE TAKES CHARGE ILLUSTRATIONS "What did you put in this soup, Prudence?" . . . . _Frontispiece_ "If you'll shut the door one minute, we'll have everything exactly as you left it." "Yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" "She predicted I'm to fall in love with you." PRUDENCE OF THE PARSONAGE CHAPTER I INTRODUCING HER None but the residents consider Mount Mark, Iowa, much of a town, and those who are honest among them admit, although reluctantly, that Mount Mark can boast of far more patriotism than good judgment! But the _very most_ patriotic of them all has no word of praise for the ugly little red C., B. & Q. railway station. If pretty is as pretty does, as we have been told so unpleasantly often, then the station is handsome enough, but as an ornament to the commonwealth it is a dismal failure,--low, smoky and dust-grimed. In winter its bleakness and bareness add to the chill of the rigorous Iowa temperature, and in summer the sap oozing through the boards is disagreeably suggestive of perspiration. The waiting-room itself is "cleaned" every day, and yet the same dust lies in the corners where it has lain for lo, these many years. And as for the cobwebs, their chief distinction lies in their ripe old age. If there were only seven spiders in the ark, after the subsiding of the waters, at least a majority of them must have found their way to Mount Mark station in South-eastern Iowa. Mount Mark is anything but proud of the little station. It openly scoffs at it, and sniffs contemptuously at the ticket agent who bears the entire C., B. & Q. reputation upon his humble shoulders. At the same time, it certainly does owe the railroad and the state a debt of gratitude for its presence there. It is the favorite social rendezvous for the community! Only four passenger trains daily pass through Mount Mark,--not including the expresses, which rush haughtily by with no more than a scornful whistle for the sleepy town, and in return for this indignity, Mount Mark cherishes a most unchristian antipathy toward those demon fliers. But the "passengers"--ah, that is a different matter. The arrival of a passenger train in Mount Mark is an event--something in the nature of a C., B. & Q. "At Home," and is always attended by a large and enthusiastic gathering of "our best people." All that is lacking are the proverbial "light refreshments!" So it happened that one sultry morning, late in the month of August, there was the usual flutter of excitement and confusion on the platform and in the waiting-room of the station. The habitués were there in force. Conspicuous among them were four gaily dressed young men, smoking cigarettes and gazing with lack-luster eyes upon the animated scene, which evidently bored them. All the same, they invariably appeared at the depot to witness this event, stirring to others no doubt, but incapable of arousing the interest of these life-weary youths. They comprised the Slaughter-house Quartette, and were the most familiar and notorious characters in all the town. _The Daily News_ reporter, in a well-creased, light gray suit and tan shoes, and with eye-glasses scientifically balanced on his aquiline nose, was making pointed inquiries into the private plans of the travelers. _The Daily News_ reporters in Mount Mark always wear well-creased, light gray suits and tan shoes, and always have eye-glasses scientifically balanced on aquiline noses. The uninitiated can not understand how it is managed, but there lies the fact. Perhaps _The News_ includes these details in its requirements of applicants. Possibly it furnishes the gray suits and the tan shoes, and even the eye-glasses. Of course, the reporters can practise balancing them scientifically,--but how does it happen that they always have aquiline noses? At any rate, that is the Mount Mark type. It never varies. The young woman going to Burlington to spend the week-end was surrounded with about fifteen other young women who had come to "see her off." She had relatives in Burlington and went there very often, and she used to say she was glad she didn't have to exchange Christmas presents with all the "friends" who witnessed her arrivals and departures at the station. Mount Mark is a very respectable town, be it understood, and girls do not go to the station without an excuse! The Adams Express wagon was drawn close to the track, and the agent was rushing about with a breathless energy which seemed all out of proportion to his accomplishments. The telegraph operator was gazing earnestly out of his open window, and his hands were busily moving papers from one pigeon-hole to another, and back again. Old Harvey Reel, who drove the hotel bus, was discussing politics with the man who kept the restaurant, and the baggage master, superior and supremely dirty, was checking baggage with his almost unendurably lordly air. This was one of the four daily rejuvenations that gladdened the heart of Mount Mark. A man in a black business suit stood alone on the platform, his hands in his pockets, his eyes wandering from one to another of the strange faces about him. His plain white ready-made tie proclaimed his calling. "It's the new Methodist preacher," volunteered the baggage master, crossing the platform, ostensibly on business bound, but really to see "who all" was there. "I know him. He's not a bad sort." "They say he's got five kids, and most of 'em girls," responded the Adams Express man. "I've ordered me a dress suit to pay my respects in when they get here. I want to be on hand early to pick me out a girl." "Yah," mocked the telegraph operator, bobbing his head through the window, "you need to. They tell me every girl in Mount Mark has turned you down a'ready." But the Methodist minister, gazing away down the track where a thin curl of smoke announced the coming of Number Nine, and Prudence,--heard nothing of this conversation. He was not a handsome man. His hair was gray at the temples, his face was earnest, only saved from severity by the little clusters of lines at his eyes and mouth which proclaimed that he laughed often, and with relish. "Train going east!" The minister stood back from the crowd, but when the train came pounding in a brightness leaped into his eyes that entirely changed the expression of his face. A slender girl stood in the vestibule, leaning dangerously outward, and waving wildly at him a small gloved hand. When the train stopped she leaped lightly from the steps, ignoring the stool placed for her feet by the conductor. "Father!" she cried excitedly and small and slight as she was, she elbowed her way swiftly through the gaping crowd. "Oh, father!" And she flung her arms about him joyously, unconscious of the admiring eyes of the Adams Express man, and the telegraph operator, and old Harvey Reel, whose eyes were always admiring when girls passed by. She did not even observe that the Slaughterhouse Quartette looked at her unanimously, with languid interest from out the wreaths of smoke they had created. Her father kissed her warmly. "Where is your baggage?" he asked, a hand held out to relieve her. "Here!" And with a radiant smile she thrust upon him a box of candy and a gaudy-covered magazine. "Your suit-case," he explained patiently. "Oh!" she gasped. "Run, father, run! I left it on the train!" Father did run, but Prudence, fleeter-footed, out-distanced him and clambered on board, panting. When she rejoined her father her face was flushed. "Oh, father," she said quite snappily, "isn't that just like me?" "Yes, very like," he agreed, and he smiled. "Where is your umbrella?" Prudence stopped abruptly. "I don't know," she said, with a stony face. "I can't remember a blessed thing about the old umbrella. Oh, I guess I didn't bring it, at all." She breathed long in her relief. "Yes, that's it, father, I left it at Aunt Grace's. Don't you worry about it. Fairy'll bring it to-morrow. Isn't it nice that we can count on Fairy's remembering?" "Yes, very nice," he said, but his eyes were tender as he looked down at the little figure beside him. "And so this is Mount Mark! Isn't it a funny name, father? Why do they call it Mount Mark?" "I don't know. I hadn't thought to inquire. We turn here, Prudence; we are going north now. This is Main Street. The city part of the town--the business part--is to the south." "It's a pretty street, isn't it?" she cried. "Such nice big maples, and such shady, porchy houses. I love houses with porches, don't you? Has the parsonage a porch?" "Yes, a big one on the south, and a tiny one in front. The house faces west. That is the college there. It opens in three weeks, and Fairy can make freshmen all right, they tell me. I wish you could go, too. You haven't had your share of anything--any good thing, Prudence." "Well, I have my share of you, father," she said comfortingly. "And I've always had my share of oatmeal and sorghum molasses,--though one wouldn't think it to look at me. Fairy gained a whole inch last week at Aunt Grace's. She was so disgusted with herself. She says she'll not be able to look back on the visit with any pleasure at all, just because of that inch. Carol said she ought to look back with more pleasure, because there's an inch more of her to do it! But Fairy says she did not gain the inch in her eyes! Aunt Grace laughed every minute we were there. She says she is all sore up and down, from laughing so much." "We have the house fixed up pretty well, Prudence, but of course you'll have to go over it yourself and arrange it as you like. But remember this: You are not allowed to move the heavy furniture. I forbid it emphatically. There isn't enough of you for that." "Yes, I'll remember,--I think I will. I'm almost certain to remember some things, you know." "I must go to a trustees' meeting at two o'clock, but we can get a good deal done before then. Mrs. Adams is coming to help you this afternoon. She is one of our Ladies, and very kind. There, that is the parsonage!" Prudence gazed in silence. Many would not have considered it a beautiful dwelling, but to Prudence it was heavenly. Fortunately the wide, grassy, shaded lawn greeted one first. Great spreading maples bordered the street, and clustering rose-bushes lined the walk leading up to the house. The walk was badly worn and broken to be sure,--but the roses were lovely! The grass had been carefully cut,--the father-minister had seen to that. The parsonage, to Prudence's gratified eyes, looked homey, and big, and inviting. In fact, it was very nearly gorgeous! It needed painting badly, it is true. The original color had been a peculiar drab, but most of it had disappeared long before, so it was no eyesore on account of the color. There were many windows, and the well-known lace curtains looked down upon Prudence tripping happily up the little board walk,--or so it seemed to her. "Two whole stories, and an attic besides! Not to mention the bathroom! Oh, father, the night after you wrote there was a bathroom, Constance thanked God for it when she said her prayers. And I couldn't reprove her, for I felt the same way about it myself. It'll be so splendid to have a whole tub to bathe in! I spent half the time bathing this last week at Aunt Grace's. A tub is so bountiful! A pan is awfully insufficient, father, even for me! I often think what a trouble it must be to Fairy! And a furnace, too! And electric lights! Don't you think there is something awe-inspiring in the idea of just turning a little knob on the wall, and flooding a whole room with light? I do revel in electric lights, I tell you. Oh, we have waited a long time for it, and we've been very patient indeed, but, between you and me, father, I am most mightily glad we've hit the luxury-land at last. I'm sure we'll all feel much more religious in a parsonage that has a bathroom and electric lights! Oh, father!" He had thrown open the door, and Prudence stood upon the threshold of her new home. It was not a fashionable building, by any means. The hall was narrow and long, and the staircase was just a plain businesslike staircase, with no room for cushions, and flowers, and books. The doors leading from the hall were open, and Prudence caught a glimpse of three rooms furnished, rather scantily, in the old familiar furniture that had been in that other parsonage where Prudence was born, nineteen years before. Together she and her father went from room to room, up-stairs and down, moving a table to the left, a bed to the right,--according to her own good pleasure. Afterward they had a cozy luncheon for two in the "dining-room." "Oh, it is so elegant to have a dining-room," breathed Prudence happily. "I always pretended it was rather fun, and a great saving of work, to eat and cook and study and live in one room, but inwardly the idea always outraged me. Is that the school over there?" "Yes, that's where Connie will go. There is only one high school in Mount Mark, so the twins will have to go to the other side of town,--a long walk, but in good weather they can come home for dinner.--I'm afraid the kitchen will be too cold in winter, Prudence,--it's hardly more than a shed, really. Maybe we'd----" "Oh, father, if you love me, don't suggest that we move the stove in here in winter! I'm perfectly willing to freeze out there, for the sake of having a dining-room. Did I ever tell you what Carol said about that kitchen-dining-room-living-room combination at Exminster? Well, she asked us a riddle, 'When is a dining-room not a dining-room?' And she answered it herself, 'When it's a little pig-pen.' And I felt so badly about it, but it did look like a pig-pen, with stove here, and cupboard there, and table yonder, and--oh, no, father, please let me freeze!" "I confess I do not see the connection between a roomful of furniture and a pig-pen, but Carol's wit is often too subtle for me." "Oh, that's a lovely place over there, father!" exclaimed Prudence, looking from the living-room windows toward the south. "Isn't it beautiful?" "Yes. The Avery family lives there. The parents are very old and feeble, and the daughters are all--elderly--and all school-teachers. There are four of them, and the youngest is forty-six. It is certainly a beautiful place. See the orchard out behind, and the vineyard. They are very wealthy, and they are not fond of children outside of school hours, I am told, so we must keep an eye on Connie.--Dear me, it is two o'clock already, and I must go at once. Mrs. Adams will be here in a few minutes, and you will not be lonely." But when Mrs. Adams arrived at the parsonage, she knocked repeatedly, and in vain, upon the front door. After that she went to the side door, with no better result. Finally, she gathered her robes about her and went into the back yard. She peered into the woodshed, and saw no one. She went into the barn-lot, and found it empty. In despair, she plunged into the barn--and stopped abruptly. In a shadowy corner was a slender figure kneeling beside an overturned nail keg, her face buried in her hands. Evidently this was Prudence engaged in prayer,--and in the barn, of all places in the world! "A--a--a--hem!" stammered Mrs. Adams inquiringly. "Amen!" This was spoken aloud and hurriedly, and Prudence leaped to her feet. Her fair hair clung about her face in damp babyish tendrils, and her face was flushed and dusty, but alight with friendly interest. She ran forward eagerly, thrusting forth a slim and grimy hand. "You are Mrs. Adams, aren't you? I am Prudence Starr. It is so kind of you to come the very first day," she cried. "It makes me love you right at the start." "Ye--yes, I am Mrs. Adams." Mrs. Adams was embarrassed. She could not banish from her mental vision that kneeling figure by the nail keg. Interrogation was written all over her ample face, and Prudence promptly read it and hastened to reply. "I do not generally say my prayers in the barn, Mrs. Adams, I assure you. I suppose you were greatly surprised. I didn't expect to do it myself, when I came out here, but--well, when I found this grand, old, rambling barn, I was so thankful I couldn't resist praying about it. Of course, I didn't specially designate the barn, but God knew what I meant, I am sure." "But a barn!" ejaculated the perplexed "member." "Do you call that a blessing?" "Yes, indeed I do," declared Prudence. Then she explained patiently: "Oh, it is on the children's account, you know. They have always longed for a big romantic barn to play in. We've never had anything but a shed, and when father went to Conference this year, the twins told him particularly to look out for a good big barn. They said we'd be willing to put up with any kind of a parsonage, if only we might draw a barn for once. You can't imagine how happy this dear old place will make them, and I was happy on their account. That's why I couldn't resist saying my prayers,--I was so happy I couldn't hold in." As they walked slowly toward the house, Mrs. Adams looked at this parsonage girl in frank curiosity and some dismay, which she strongly endeavored to conceal from the bright-eyed Prudence. The Ladies had said it would be so nice to have a grown girl in the parsonage! Prudence was nineteen from all account, but she looked like a child and--well, it was not exactly grown-up to give thanks for a barn, to say the very least! Yet this girl had full charge of four younger children, and was further burdened with the entire care of a minister-father! Well, well! Mrs. Adams sighed a little. "You are tired," said Prudence sympathetically. "It's so hot walking, isn't it? Let's sit on the porch until you are nicely rested. Isn't this a lovely yard? And the children will be so happy to have this delicious big porch. Oh, I just adore Mount Mark already." "This is a fine chance for us to get acquainted," said the good woman with eagerness. Now if the truth must be told, there had been some ill feeling in the Ladies' Aid Society concerning the reception of Prudence. After the session of Conference, when the Reverend Mr. Starr was assigned to Mount Mark, the Ladies of the church had felt great interest in the man and his family. They inquired on every hand, and learned several interesting items. The mother had been taken from the family five years before, after a long illness, and Prudence, the eldest daughter, had taken charge of the household. There were five children. So much was known, and being women, they looked forward with eager curiosity to the coming of Prudence, the young mistress of the parsonage. Mr. Starr had arrived at Mount Mark a week ahead of his family. The furniture had been shipped from his previous charge, and he, with the assistance of a strong and willing negro, had "placed it" according to the written instructions of Prudence, who had conscientiously outlined just what should go in every room. She and the other children had spent the week visiting at the home of their aunt, and Prudence had come on a day in advance of the others to "wind everything up," as she had expressed it. But to return to the Ladies,--the parsonage girls always capitalized the Ladies of their father's church, and indeed italicized them, as well. And the irrepressible Carol had been heard to remark, "I often feel like exclamation-pointing them, I promise you." But to return once more. "One of us should go and help the dear child," said Mrs. Scott, the president of the Aids, when they assembled for their business meeting, "help her, and welcome her, and advise her." "I was thinking of going over," said one, and another, and several others. "Oh, that will not do at all," said the president; "she would be excited meeting so many strangers, and could not properly attend to her work. That will never do, never, never! But one of us must go, of course." "I move that the president appoint a committee of one to help Miss Prudence get settled, and welcome her to our midst," said Mrs. Barnaby, secretly hoping that in respect for her making this suggestion honoring the president, the president would have appreciation enough to appoint Mrs. Barnaby herself as committee. The motion was seconded, and carried. "Well," said Mrs. Scott slowly, "I think in a case like this the president herself should represent the society. Therefore, I will undertake this duty for you." But this called forth a storm of protest and it became so clamorous that it was unofficially decided to draw cuts! Which was done, and in consequence of that drawing of cuts, Mrs. Adams now sat on the front porch of the old gray parsonage, cheered by the knowledge that every other Lady of the Aid was envying her! "Now, just be real sociable and tell me all about yourself, and the others, too," urged Mrs. Adams. "I want to know all about every one of you. Tell me everything." "There isn't much to tell," said Prudence, smiling. "There are five of us; I am the oldest, I am nineteen. Then comes Fairy, then the twins, and then the baby." "Are the twins boys, or a boy and a girl?" "Neither," said Prudence, "they are both girls." "More girls!" gasped Mrs. Adams. "And the baby?" "She is a girl, too." And Prudence laughed. "In short, we are all girls except father. He couldn't be, of course,--or I suppose he would, for our family does seem to run to girls." "Prudence is a very nice name for a minister's daughter," said Mrs. Adams suggestively. "Yes,--for some ministers' daughters," assented Prudence. "But is sadly unsuitable for me. You see, father and mother were very enthusiastic about the first baby who hadn't arrived. They had two names all picked out months ahead,--Prudence and John Wesley. That's how I happen to be Prudence. They thought, as you do, that it was an uplifting name for a parsonage baby.--I was only three years old when Fairy was born, but already they realized that they had made a great mistake. So they decided to christen baby number two more appropriately. They chose Frank and Fairy,--both light-hearted, happy, cheerful names.--It's Fairy," Prudence smiled reflectively. "But things went badly again. They were very unlucky with their babies. Fairy is Prudence by nature, and I am Fairy. She is tall and a little inclined to be fat. She is steady, and industrious, and reliable, and sensible, and clever. In fact, she is an all-round solid and worthwhile girl. She can do anything, and do it right, and is going to be a college professor. It is a sad thing to think of a college professor being called Fairy all her life, isn't it? Especially when she is so dignified and grand. But one simply can't tell beforehand what to expect, can one? "Father and mother were quite discouraged by that time. They hardly knew what to do. But anyhow they were sure the next would be a boy. Every one predicted a boy, and so they chose a good old Methodist name,--Charles. They hated to give it John Wesley, for they had sort of dedicated that to me, you know,--only I happened to be Prudence. But Charles was second-best. And they were very happy about it, and--it was twin girls! It was quite a blow, I guess. But they rallied swiftly, and called them Carol and Lark. Such nice musical names! Father and mother were both good singers, and mother a splendid pianist. And Fairy and I showed musical symptoms early in life, so they thought they couldn't be far wrong that time. It was a bitter mistake. It seemed to turn the twins against music right from the start. Carol can carry a tune if there's a strong voice beside her, but Lark can hardly tell the difference between _Star Spangled Banner_ and _Rock of Ages_. "The neighbors were kind of amused by then, and mother was very sensitive about it. So the next time she determined to get ahead of Fate. 'No more nonsense, now,' said mother. 'It's almost certain to be a boy, and we'll call him William after father,--and Billy for short.' We all liked the name Billy, mother especially. But she couldn't call father anything but William,--we being parsonage people, you know. But she kept looking forward to little Billy,--and then they changed it in a hurry to Constance. And after that, father and mother gave the whole thing up as a bad job. There aren't any more of us. Connie settled the baby business in our family." Mrs. Adams wiped her eyes, and leaned weakly back in her chair, gasping for breath. "Well, I swan!" was all she could say at that moment. While giving herself time to recover her mental poise she looked critically at this young daughter of the parsonage. Then her eyes wandered down to her clothes, and lingered, in silent questioning, on Prudence's dress. It was a very peculiar color. In fact, it was no color at all,--no named color. Prudence's eyes had followed Mrs. Adams' glance, and she spoke frankly. "I suppose you're wondering if this dress is any color! Well, I think it really is, but it isn't any of the regular shades. It is my own invention, but I've never named it. We couldn't think of anything appropriate. Carol suggested 'Prudence Shade,' but I couldn't bring myself to accept that. Of course, Mrs. Adams, you understand how parsonage people do with clothes,--handing them down from generation unto generation. Well, I didn't mind it at first,--when I was the biggest. But all of a sudden Fairy grew up and out and around, and one day when I was so nearly out of clothes I hardly felt that I could attend church any more, she suggested that I cut an old one of hers down for me! At first I laughed, and then I was insulted. Fairy is three years younger than I, and before then she had got my handed-downs. But now the tables were turned. From that time on, whenever anything happened to Fairy's clothes so a gore had to be cut out, or the bottom taken off,--they were cut down for me. I still feel bitter about it. Fairy is dark, and dark blues are becoming to her. She handed down this dress,--it was dark blue then. But I was not wanting a dark blue, and I thought it would be less recognizable if I gave it a contrasting color. I chose lavender. I dyed it four times, and this was the result." "Do the twins dress alike?" inquired Mrs. Adams, when she could control her voice. "Yes,--unfortunately for Connie. They do it on purpose to escape the handed-downs! They won't even have hair ribbons different. And the result is that poor Connie never gets one new thing except shoes. She says she can not help thanking the Lord in her prayers, that all of us outwear our shoes before we can outgrow them.--Connie is only nine. Fairy is sixteen, and the twins are thirteen. They are a very clever lot of girls. Fairy, as I told you, is just naturally smart, and aims to be a college professor. Lark is an intelligent studious girl, and is going to be an author. Carol is pretty, and lovable, and kind-hearted, and witty,--but not deep. She is going to be a Red Cross nurse and go to war. The twins have it all planned out. Carol is going to war as a Red Cross nurse, and Lark is going, too, so she can write a book about it, and they are both going to marry soldiers,--preferably dashing young generals! Now they can hardly wait for war to break out. Connie is a sober, odd, sensitive little thing, and hasn't decided whether she wants to be a foreign missionary, or get married and have ten children.--But they are all clever, and I'm proud of every one of them." "And what are you going to be?" inquired Mrs. Adams, looking with real affection at the bright sweet face. But Prudence laughed. "Oh, dear me, Mrs. Adams, seems to me if I just get the others raised up properly, I'll have my hands full. I used to have aims, dozens of them. Now I have just one, and I'm working at it every day." "You ought to go to school," declared Mrs. Adams. "You're just a girl yourself." "I don't want to go to school," laughed Prudence. "Not any more. I like it, just taking care of father and the girls,--with Fairy to keep me balanced! I read, but I do not like to study.--No, you'll have to get along with me just the way I am, Mrs. Adams. It's all I can do to keep things going now, without spending half the time dreaming of big things to do in the future." "Don't you have dreams?" gasped Mrs. Adams. "Don't you have dreams of the future? Girls in books nowadays dream----" "Yes, I dream," interrupted Prudence, "I dream lots,--but it's mostly of what Fairy and the others will do when I get them properly raised. You'll like the girls, Mrs. Adams, I know you will. They really are a gifted little bunch,--except me. But I don't mind. It's a great honor for me to have the privilege of bringing up four clever girls to do great things,--don't you think? And I'm only nineteen myself! I don't see what more a body could want." "It seems to me," said Mrs. Adams, "that I know more about your sisters than I do about you. I feel more acquainted with them right now, than with you." "That's so, too," said Prudence, nodding. "But they are the ones that really count, you know. I'm just common little Prudence of the Parsonage,--but the others!" And Prudence flung out her hands dramatically. CHAPTER II THE REST OF THE FAMILY It was Saturday morning when the four young parsonage girls arrived in Mount Mark. The elderly Misses Avery, next door, looked out of their windows, pending their appearance on Main Street, with interest and concern. It was a serious matter, this having a whole parsonage-full of young girls so close to the old Avery mansion. To be sure, the Averys had a deep and profound respect for ministerial households, but they were Episcopalians themselves, and in all their long lives they had never so much as heard of a widower-rector with five daughters, and no housekeeper. There was something blood-curdling in the bare idea. The Misses Avery considered Prudence herself rather a sweet, silly little thing. "You have some real nice people in the Methodist church," Miss Dora had told her. "I dare say you will find a few of them very likeable." "Oh, I will like them all," said Prudence quickly and seriously. "Like them all!" echoed Miss Dora. "Oh, impossible!" "Not for us," said Prudence. "We are used to it, you know. We always like people." "That is ridiculous," said Miss Dora. "It is absolutely impossible. One can't! Of course, as Christians, we must tolerate, and try to help every one. But Christian tolerance and love are----" "Oh, excuse me, but--really I can't believe there is such a thing as Christian tolerance," said Prudence firmly. "There is Christian love, and--that is all we need." Then leaning forward: "What do you do, Miss Avery, when you meet people you dislike at very first sight?" "Keep away from them," was the grim reply. "Exactly! And keep on disliking them," said Prudence triumphantly. "It's very different with us. When we dislike people at first sight, we visit them, and talk to them, and invite them to the parsonage, and entertain them with our best linen and silverware, and keep on getting friendlier and friendlier, and--first thing you know, we like them fine! It's a perfectly splendid rule, and it has never failed us once. Try it, Miss Avery, do! You will be enthusiastic about it, I know." So the Misses Avery concluded that Prudence was very young, and couldn't seem to quite outgrow it! She was not entirely responsible. And they wondered, with something akin to an agony of fear, if the younger girls "had it, too!" Therefore the Misses Avery kept watch at their respective windows, and when Miss Alice cried excitedly, "Quick! Quick! They are coming!" they trooped to Miss Alice's window with a speed that would have done credit to the parsonage girls themselves. First came the minister, whom they knew very well by this time, and considered quite respectable. He was lively, as was to be expected of a Methodist minister, and told jokes, and laughed at them! Now, a comical rector,--oh, a very different matter,--it wasn't done, that's all! At any rate, here came the Methodist minister, laughing, and on one side of him tripped a small earnest-looking maiden, clasping his hand, and gazing alternately up into his face, and down at the stylish cement sidewalk beneath her feet. On the other side, was Fairy. The Misses Avery knew the girls by name already,--having talked much with Prudence. "Such a Fairy!" gasped Miss Millicent, and the others echoed the gasp, but wordlessly. For Fairy for very nearly as tall as her father, built upon generous lines, rather commanding in appearance, a little splendid-looking. Even from their windows they could discern something distinctly Juno-like in this sixteen-year-old girl, with the easy elastic stride that matched her father's, and the graceful head, well carried. A young goddess,--named Fairy! Behind them, laughing and chattering, like three children, as they were,--came the twins with Prudence, each with an arm around her waist. And Prudence was very little taller than they. When they reached the fence that bordered the parsonage, the scene for a moment resembled a miniature riot. The smaller girls jumped and exclaimed, and clasped their hands. Fairy leaned over the fence, and stared intently at this, their parsonage home. Then the serious little girl scrambled under the fence, followed closely by the lithe-limbed twins. A pause, a very short one,--and then Prudence, too, was wriggling beneath the fence. "Hold the wire up for me, papa," cried Fairy, "I'm too fat." And a second later she was running gracefully across the lawn toward the parsonage. The Methodist minister laughed boyishly, and placing his hands on the fence-post, he vaulted lightly over, and reached the house with his daughters. Then the Misses Avery, school-teachers, and elderly, looked at one another. "Did you ever?" whispered the oldest Miss Avery, and the others slowly shook their heads. Now, think! Did you ever see a rector jumping a three-wire fence, and running full speed across his front yard, in pursuit of a flying family? It may possibly have occurred,--we have never seen it. Neither had the Misses Avery. Nor did they ever expect to. And if they had seen it, it is quite likely they would have joined the backsliders at that instant. But without wasting much time on this gruesome thought, they hurried to a window commanding the best view of the parsonage, and raised it. Then they clustered behind the curtains, and watched, and listened. There was plenty to hear! From the parsonage windows came the sound of scampering feet and banging doors. Once there was the unmistakable clatter of a chair overturned. With it all, there was a constant chorus of "Oh, look!" "Oh! Oh!" "Oh, how sweet!" "Oh, papa!" "Oh, Prudence!" "Look, Larkie, look at this!" Then the thud of many feet speeding down the stairs, and the slam of a door, and the slam of a gate. The whole parsonage-full had poured out into the back yard, and the barn-lot. Into the chicken coop they raced, the minister ever close upon their heels. Over the board fence they clambered to the big rambling barn, and the wide door swung closed after them. But in a few seconds they were out once more, by the back barn door, and over the fence, and on to the "field." There they closed ranks, with their arms recklessly around whoever was nearest, and made a thorough tour of the bit of pasture-land. For some moments they leaned upon the dividing fence and gazed admiringly into the rich orchard and vineyard of the Avery estate. But soon they were skipping back to the parsonage again, and the kitchen door banged behind them. Then the eldest Miss Avery closed the window overlooking the parsonage and confronted her sisters. "We must just make the best of it," she said quietly. But next door, the gray old ugly parsonage was full to overflowing with satisfaction and happiness and love. The Starrs had never had an appointment like this before. They had just come from the village of Exminster, of five hundred inhabitants. There the Reverend Mr. Starr had filled the pulpits of three small Methodist churches, scattered at random throughout the country,--consideration, five hundred dollars. But here,--why, Mount Mark had a population of fully three thousand, and a business academy, and the Presbyterian College,--small, to be sure, but the name had a grand and inspiring sound. And Mr. Starr had to fill only one pulpit! It was heavenly, that's what it was. To be sure, many of his people lived out in the country, necessitating the upkeep of a horse for the sake of his pastoral work, but that was only an advantage. Also to be sure, the Methodists in Mount Mark were in a minority, and an inferiority,--Mount Mark being a Presbyterian stronghold due to the homing there of the trim and orderly little college. But what of that? The salary was six hundred and fifty dollars and the parsonage was adorable! The parsonage family could see nothing at all wrong with the world that day, and the future was rainbow-tinted. Every one has experienced the ecstatic creepy sensation of sleeping in a brand-new home. The parsonage girls reveled in the memory of that first night for many days. "It may be haunted for all we know," cried Carol deliciously. "Just think, Connie, there may be seven ghosts camped on the head of your bed, waiting----" "Carol!" When the family gathered for worship on that first Sabbath morning, Mr. Starr said, as he turned the leaves of his well-worn Bible, "I think it would be well for you girls to help with the morning worship now. You need practise in praying aloud, and--so we will begin to-day. Connie and I will make the prayers this morning, Prudence and Carol to-morrow, and Fairy and Lark the next day. We will keep that system up for a while, anyhow. When I finish reading the chapter, Connie, you will make the first prayer. Just pray for whatever you wish as you do at night for yourself. I will follow you." Connie's eyes were wide with responsibility during the reading of the chapter, but when she began to speak her voice did not falter. Connie had nine years of good Methodist experience back of her! "Our Father, who art in Heaven, we bow ourselves before Thy footstool in humility and reverence. Thou art our God, our Creator, our Saviour. Bless us this day, and cause Thy face to shine upon us. Blot out our transgressions, pardon our trespasses. Wash us, that we may be whiter than snow. Hide not Thy face from the eyes of Thy children, turn not upon us in wrath. Pity us, Lord, as we kneel here prostrate before Thy majesty and glory. Let the words of our mouths and the meditations of our hearts, be acceptable in Thy sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer. And finally save us, an unbroken family around Thy throne in Heaven, for Jesus' sake. Amen." This was followed by an electric silence. Prudence was biting her lips painfully, and counting by tens as fast as she could. Fairy was mentally going over the prayer, sentence by sentence, and attributing each petition to the individual member in the old church at Exminster to whom it belonged. The twins were a little amazed, and quite proud. Connie was an honor to the parsonage,--but they were concerned lest they themselves should do not quite so well when their days came. But in less than a moment the minister-father began his prayer. His voice was a little subdued, and he prayed with less fervor and abandon than usual, but otherwise things went off quite nicely. When he said, "Amen," Prudence was on her feet and half-way up-stairs before the others were fairly risen. Fairy stood gazing intently out of the window for a moment, and then went out to the barn to see if the horse was through eating. Mr. Starr walked gravely and soberly out the front door, and around the house. He ran into Fairy coming out the kitchen door, and they glanced quickly at each other. "Hurry, papa," she whispered, "you can't hold in much longer! Neither can I!" And together, choking with laughter, they hurried into the barn and gave full vent to their feelings. So it was that the twins and Connie were alone for a while. "You did a pretty good job, Connie," said Carol approvingly. "Yes. I think I did myself," was the complacent answer. "But I intended to put in, 'Keep us as the apple of Thy eye, hold us in the hollow of Thy hand,' and I forgot it until I had said 'Amen.' I had a notion to put in a post-script, but I believe that isn't done." "Never mind," said Carol, "I'll use that in mine, to-morrow." It can not be said that this form of family worship was a great success. The twins were invariably stereotyped, cut and dried. They thanked the Lord for the beautiful morning, for kind friends, for health, and family, and parsonage. Connie always prayed in sentences extracted from the prayers of others she had often heard, and every time with nearly disastrous effect. But the days passed around, and Prudence and Carol's turn came again. Carol was a thoughtless, impetuous, impulsive girl, and her prayers were as nearly "verbal repetitions" as any prayers could be. So on this morning, after the reading of the chapter, Carol knelt by her chair, and began in her customary solemn voice: "Oh, our Father, we thank Thee for this beautiful morning." Then intense silence. For Carol remembered with horror and shame that it was a dreary, dismal morning, cloudy, ugly and all unlovely. In her despair, the rest of her petition scattered to the four winds of heaven. She couldn't think of another word, so she gulped, and stammered out a faint "Amen." But Prudence could not begin. Prudence was red in the face, and nearly suffocated. She felt all swollen inside,--she couldn't speak. The silence continued. "Oh, why doesn't father do it?" she wondered. As a matter of fact, father couldn't. But Prudence did not know that. One who laughs often gets in the habit of laughter,--and sometimes laughs out of season, as well as in. Finally, Prudence plunged in desperately, "Dear Father"--as she usually began her sweet, intimate little talks with God,--and then she paused. Before her eyes flashed a picture of the "beautiful morning," for which Carol had just been thankful! She tried again. "Dear Father,"--and then she whirled around on the floor, and laughed. Mr. Starr got up from his knees, sat down on his chair, and literally shook. Fairy rolled on the lounge, screaming with merriment. Even sober little Connie giggled and squealed. But Carol could not get up. She was disgraced. She had done a horrible, disgusting, idiotic thing. She had insulted God! She could never face the family again. Her shoulders rose and fell convulsively. Lark did not laugh either. With a rush she was on her knees beside Carol, her arms around the heaving shoulders. "Don't you care, Carrie," she whispered. "Don't you care. It was just a mistake,--don't cry, Carrie." But Carol would not be comforted. She tried to sneak unobserved from the room, but her father stopped her. "Don't feel so badly about it, Carol," he said kindly, really sorry for the stricken child,--though his eyes still twinkled, "it was just a mistake. But remember after this, my child, to speak to God when you pray. Remember that you are talking to Him. Then you will not make such a blunder.--So many of us," he said reflectively, "ministers as well as others, pray into the ears of the people, and forget we are talking to God." After that, the morning worship went better. The prayers of the children changed,--became more personal, less flowery. They remembered from that time on, that when they knelt they were at the feet of God, and speaking direct to Him. It was the hated duty of the twins to wash and dry the dishes,--taking turns about with the washing. This time was always given up to story-telling, for Lark had a strange and wonderful imagination, and Carol listened to her tales with wonder and delight. Even Connie found dish-doing hours irresistible, and could invariably be found, face in her hands, both elbows on the table, gazing with passionate earnestness at the young story-teller. Now, some of Lark's stories were such weird and fearful things that they had seriously interfered with Connie's slumbers, and Prudence had sternly prohibited them. But this evening, just as she opened the kitchen door, she heard Lark say in thrilling tones: "She crept down the stairs in the deep darkness, her hand sliding lightly over the rail. Suddenly she stopped. Her hand was arrested in its movement. Ice-cold fingers gripped hers tightly. Then with one piercing shriek, she plunged forward, and fell to the bottom of the stairs with a terrific crash, while a mocking laugh----" The kitchen door slammed sharply behind Prudence as she stepped into the kitchen, and Connie's piercing shriek would surely have rivaled that of Lark's unfortunate heroine. Even Carol started nervously, and let the plate she had been solemnly wiping for nine minutes, fall to the floor. Lark gasped, and then began sheepishly washing dishes as though her life depended on it. The water was cold, and little masses of grease clung to the edges of the pan and floated about on the surface of the water. "Get fresh hot water, Lark, and finish the dishes. Connie, go right up-stairs to bed. You twins can come in to me as soon as you finish." But Connie was afraid to go to bed alone, and Prudence was obliged to accompany her. So it was in their own room that the twins finally faced an indignant Prudence. "Carol, you may go right straight to bed. And Lark--I do not know what in the world to do with you. Why don't you mind me, and do as I tell you? How many times have I told you not to tell weird stories like that? Can't you tell nice, interesting, mild stories?" "Prudence, as sure as you live, I can't! I start them just as mild and proper as can be, but before I get half-way through, a murder, or death, or mystery crops in, and I can't help it." "But you must help it, Lark. Or I shall forbid your telling stories of any kind. They are so silly, those wild things, and they make you all nervous, and excitable, and-- Now, think, Larkie, and tell me how I shall punish you." Lark applied all the resources of her wonderful brain to this task, and presently suggested reluctantly: "Well, you might keep me home from the ice-cream social to-morrow night." But her face was wistful. "No," said Prudence decidedly, to Lark's intense relief. "I can't do that. You've been looking forward to it so long, and your class is to help with the serving. No, not that, Larkie. That would be too mean. Think of something else." "Well,--you might make me wash and dry the dishes all alone--for a week, Prudence, and that will be a bad punishment, too, for I just despise washing dishes by myself. Telling stories makes it so much--livelier." "All right, then," said Prudence, relieved in turn, "that is what I will do. And Carol and Connie must not even stay in the kitchen with you." "I believe I'll go to bed now, too," said Lark, with a thoughtful glance at her two sisters, already curled up snugly and waiting for the conclusion of the administering of justice. "If you don't mind, Prudence." Prudence smiled a bit ruefully. "Oh, I suppose you might as well, if you like. But remember this, Lark: No more deaths, and murders, and mysteries, and highway robberies." "All right, Prudence," said Lark with determination. And as Prudence walked slowly down-stairs she heard Lark starting in on her next story: "Once there was a handsome young man, named Archibald Tremaine,--a very respectable young fellow. He wouldn't so much as dream of robbing, or murdering, or dying." Then Prudence smiled to herself in the dark and hurried down. The family had been in the new parsonage only three weeks, when a visiting minister called on them. It was about ten minutes before the luncheon hour at the time of his arrival. Mr. Starr was in the country, visiting, so the girls received him alone. It was an unfortunate day for the Starrs. Fairy had been at college all morning, and Prudence had been rummaging in the attic, getting it ready for a rainy-day and winter playroom for the younger girls. She was dusty, perspirey and tired. The luncheon hour arrived, and the girls came in from school, eager to be up and away again. Still the grave young minister sat discoursing upon serious topics with the fidgety Prudence,--and in spite of dust and perspiration, she was good to look upon. The Reverend Mr. Morgan realized that, and could not tear himself away. The twins came in, shook hands with him soberly, glancing significantly at the clock as they did so. Connie ran in excitedly, wanting to know what was the matter with everybody, and weren't they to have any luncheon? Still Mr. Morgan remained in his chair, gazing at Prudence with frank appreciation. Finally Prudence sighed. "Do you like sweet corn, Mr. Morgan?" This was entirely out of the line of their conversation, and for a moment he faltered. "Sweet corn?" he repeated. "Yes, roasting-ears, you know,--cooked on the cob." Then he smiled. "Oh, yes indeed. Very much," he said. "Well," she began her explanation rather drearily, "I was busy this morning and did not prepare much luncheon. We are very fond of sweet corn, and I cooked an enormous panful. But that's all we have for luncheon,--sweet corn and butter. We haven't even bread, because I am going to bake this afternoon, and we never eat it with sweet corn, anyhow. Now, if you care to eat sweet corn and butter, and canned peaches, we'd just love to have you stay for luncheon with us." The Reverend Mr. Morgan was charmed, and said so. So Prudence rushed to the kitchen, opened the peaches in a hurry, and fished out a clean napkin for their guest. Then they gathered about the table, five girls and the visiting minister. It was really a curious sight, that table. In the center stood a tall vase of goldenrod. On either side of the vase was a great platter piled high with sweet corn, on the cob! Around the table were six plates, with the necessary silverware, and a glass of water for each. There was also a small dish of peaches at each place, and an individual plate of butter. That was all,--except the napkins. But Prudence made no apologies. She was a daughter of the parsonage! She showed the Reverend Mr. Morgan to his place as graciously and sweetly as though she were ushering him in to a twenty-seven course banquet. "Will you return thanks, Mr. Morgan?" she said. And the girls bowed their heads. The Reverend Mr. Morgan cleared his throat, and began, "Our Father, we thank Thee for this table." There was more of the blessing, but the parsonage girls heard not one additional phrase,--except Connie, who followed him conscientiously through every word. By the time he had finished, Prudence and Fairy, and even Lark, had composed their faces. But Carol burst into merry laughter, close upon his reverent "Amen,"--and after one awful glare at her sister, Prudence joined in. This gaiety communicated itself to the others and soon it was a rollicking group around the parsonage table. Mr. Morgan himself smiled uncertainly. He was puzzled. More, he was embarrassed. But as soon as Carol could get her breath, she gasped out an explanation. "You were just--right, Mr. Morgan,--to give thanks--for the table! There's nothing--on it--to be thankful for!" And the whole family went off once more into peals of laughter. Mr. Morgan had very little appetite that day. He did not seem to be so fond of sweet corn as he had assured Prudence. He talked very little, too. And as soon as possible he took his hat and walked hurriedly away. He did not call at the parsonage again. "Oh, Carol," said Prudence reproachfully, wiping her eyes, "how could you start us all off like that?" "For the table, for the table!" shrieked Carol, and Prudence joined in perforce. "It was awful," she gasped, "but it was funny! I believe even father would have laughed." A few weeks after this, Carol distinguished herself again, and to her lasting mortification. The parsonage pasture had been rented out during the summer months before the change of ministers, the outgoing incumbent having kept neither horse nor cow. As may be imagined, the little pasture had been taxed to the utmost, and when the new minister arrived, he found that his field afforded poor grazing for his pretty little Jersey. But a man living only six blocks from the parsonage had generously offered Mr. Starr free pasturage in his broad meadow, and the offer was gratefully accepted. This meant that every evening the twins must walk the six blocks after the cow, and every morning must take her back for the day's grazing. One evening, as they were starting out from the meadow homeward with the docile animal, Carol stopped and gazed at Blinkie reflectively. "Lark," she said, "I just believe to my soul that I could ride this cow. She's so gentle, and I'm such a good hand at sticking on." "Carol!" ejaculated Lark. "Think how it would look for a parsonage girl to go down the street riding a cow." "But there's no one to see," protested Carol. And this was true. For the parsonage was near the edge of town, and the girls passed only five houses on their way home from the meadow,--and all of them were well back from the road. And Carol was, as she had claimed, a good hand at "sticking on." She had ridden a great deal while they were at Exminster, a neighbor being well supplied with rideable horses, and she was passionately fond of the sport. To be sure, she had never ridden a cow, but she was sure it would be easy. Lark argued and pleaded, but Carol was firm. "I must try it," she insisted, "and if it doesn't go well I can slide off. You can lead her, Lark." The obliging Lark boosted her sister up, and Carol nimbly scrambled into place, riding astride. "I've got to ride this way," she said; "cows have such funny backs I couldn't keep on any other way. If I see any one coming, I'll slide for it." For a while all went well. Lark led Blinkie carefully, gazing about anxiously to see that no one approached. Carol gained confidence as they proceeded, and chatted with her sister nonchalantly, waving her hands about to show her perfect balance and lack of fear. So they advanced to within two blocks of the parsonage. "It's very nice," said Carol, "very nice indeed,--but her backbone is rather--well, rather penetrating. I think I need a saddle." By this time, Blinkie concluded that she was being imposed upon. She shook her head violently, and twitched the rope from Lark's hand,--for Lark now shared her sister's confidence, and held it loosely. With a little cry she tried to catch the end of it, but Blinkie was too quick for her. She gave a scornful toss of her dainty head, and struck out madly for home. With great presence of mind, Carol fell flat upon the cow's neck, and hung on for dear life, while Lark, in terror, started out in pursuit. "Help! Help!" she cried loudly. "Papa! Papa! Papa!" In this way, they turned in at the parsonage gate, which happily stood open,--otherwise Blinkie would undoubtedly have gone through, or over. As luck would have it, Mr. Starr was standing at the door with two men who had been calling on him, and hearing Lark's frantic cries, they rushed to meet the wild procession, and had the unique experience of seeing a parsonage girl riding flat on her stomach on the neck of a galloping Jersey, with another parsonage girl in mad pursuit. Blinkie stopped beside the barn, and turned her head about inquiringly. Carol slid to the ground, and buried her face in her hands at sight of the two men with her father. Then with never a word, she lit out for the house at top speed. Seeing that she was not hurt, and that no harm had been done, the three men sat down on the ground and burst into hearty laughter. Lark came upon them as they sat thus, and Lark was angry. She stamped her foot with a violence that must have hurt her. "I don't see anything to laugh at," she cried passionately, "it was awful, it was just awful! Carrie might have been killed! It--it----" "Tell us all about it, Lark," gasped her father. And Lark did so, smiling a little herself, now that her fears were relieved. "Poor Carol," she said, "she'll never live down the humiliation. I must go and console her." And a little later, the twins were weeping on each other's shoulders. "I wouldn't have cared," sobbed Carol, "if it had been anybody else in the world! But--the presiding elder,--and--the president of the Presbyterian College! And I know the Presbyterians look down on us Methodists anyhow, though they wouldn't admit it! And riding a cow! Oh, Larkie, if you love me, go down-stairs and get me the carbolic acid, so I can die and be out of disgrace." This, however, Lark stoutly refused to do, and in a little while Carol felt much better. But she talked it over with Prudence very seriously. "I hope you understand, Prudence, that I shall never have anything more to do with Blinkie! She can die of starvation for all I care. I'll never take her to and from the pasture again. I couldn't do it! Such rank ingratitude as that cow displayed was never equaled, I am certain." "I suppose you'll quit using milk and cream, too," suggested Prudence. "Oh, well," said Carol more tolerantly, "I don't want to be too hard on Blinkie, for after all it was partly my own fault. So I won't go that far. But I must draw the line somewhere! Hereafter, Blinkie and I meet as strangers!" CHAPTER III THE LADIES' AID "It's perfectly disgusting, I admit, father," said Prudence sweetly, "but you know yourself that it very seldom happens. And I am sure the kitchen is perfectly clean, and the soup is very nice indeed,--if it is canned soup! Twins, this is four slices of bread apiece for you! You see, father, I really feel that this is a crisis in the life of the parsonage----" "How long does a parsonage usually live?" demanded Carol. "It wouldn't live long if the ministers had many twins," said Fairy quickly. "Ouch!" grinned Connie, plagiarizing, for that expressive word belonged exclusively to the twins, and it was double impertinence to apply it to one of its very possessors. "And you understand, don't you, father, that if everything does not go just exactly right, I shall feel I am disgraced for life? I know the Ladies disapprove of me, and look on me with suspicion. I know they think it wicked and ridiculous to leave the raising of four bright spirits in the unworthy hands of a girl like me. I know they will all sniff and smile and--Of course, twins, they have a perfect right to feel, and act, so. I am not complaining. But I want to show them for once in their lives that the parsonage runs smoothly and sweetly. If you would just stay at home with us, father, it would be a big help. You are such a tower of strength." "But unfortunately I can not. People do not get married every day in the week, and when they are all ready for it they do not allow even Ladies' Aids to stand in their way. It is a long drive, ten miles at least, and I must start at once. And it will likely be very late when I get back. But if you are all good, and help Prudence, and uphold the reputation of the parsonage, I will divide the wedding fee with you,--share and share alike." This was met with such enthusiasm that he added hastily, "But wait! It may be only a dollar!" Then kissing the various members of the parsonage family, he went out the back door, barnward. "Now," said Prudence briskly, "I want to make a bargain with you, girls. If you'll stay clear away from the Ladies, and be very good and orderly, I'll give you all the lemonade and cake you can drink afterward." "Oh, Prudence, I'm sure I can't drink much cake," cried Carol tragically, "I just can't imagine myself doing it!" "I mean, eat the cake, of course," said Prudence, blushing. "And let us make taffy after supper?" wheedled Carol. Prudence hesitated, and the three young faces hardened. Then Prudence relented and hastily agreed. "You won't need to appear at all, you know. You can just stay outdoors and play as though you were model children." "Yes," said Carol tartly, "the kind the members used to have,--which are all grown up, now! And all moved out of Mount Mark, too!" "Carol! That sounds malicious, and malice isn't tolerated here for a minute. Now,--oh, Fairy, did you remember to dust the back of the dresser in our bedroom?" "Mercy! What in the world do you want the back of the dresser dusted for? Do you expect the Ladies to look right through it?" "No, but some one might drop something behind it, and it would have to be pulled out and they would all see it. This house has got to be absolutely spotless for once,--I am sure it will be the first time." "And the last, I hope," added Carol sepulchrally. "We have an hour and a half yet," continued Prudence. "That will give us plenty of time for the last touches. Twins and Connie, you'd better go right out in the field and play. I'll call you a little before two, and then you must go quietly upstairs, and dress--just wear your plain little ginghams, the clean ones of course! Then if they do catch a glimpse of you, you will be presentable.--Yes, you can take some bread and sugar, but hurry." "You may take," said Fairy. "Yes, of course, may take is what I mean.--Now hurry." Then Prudence and Fairy set to work again in good earnest. The house was already well cleaned. The sandwiches were made. But there were the last "rites," and every detail must be religiously attended to. It must be remembered that the three main down-stairs rooms of the parsonage were connected by double doors,--double doors, you understand, not portières! The front room, seldom used by the parsonage family, opened on the right of the narrow hallway. Beyond it was the living-room, which it must be confessed the parsonage girls only called "living-room" when they were on their Sunday behavior,--ordinarily it was the sitting-room, and a cheery, homey, attractive place it was, with a great bay window looking out upon the stately mansion of the Averys. To the left of the living-room was the dining-room. The double doors between them were always open. The other pair was closed, except on occasions of importance. Now, this really was a crisis in the life of the parsonage family,--if not of the parsonage itself. The girls had met, separately, every member of the Ladies' Aid. But this was their first combined movement upon the parsonage, and Prudence and Fairy realized that much depended on the success of the day. As girls, the whole Methodist church pronounced the young Starrs charming. But as parsonage people,--well, they were obliged to reserve judgment. And as for Prudence having entire charge of the household, it must be acknowledged that every individual Lady looked forward to this meeting with eagerness,--they wanted to "size up" the situation. They were coming to see for themselves! Yes, it was undoubtedly a crisis. "There'll be a crowd, of course," said Fairy. "We'll just leave the doors between the front rooms open." "Yes, but we'll close the dining-room doors. Then we'll have the refreshments all out on the table, and when we are ready we'll just fling back the doors carelessly and--there you are!" So the table was prettily decorated with flowers, and great plates of sandwiches and cake were placed upon it. In the center was an enormous punch-bowl, borrowed from the Averys, full of lemonade. Glasses were properly arranged on the trays, and piles of nicely home-laundered napkins were scattered here and there. The girls felt that the dining-room was a credit to them, and to the Methodist Church entire. From every nook and corner of the house they hunted out chairs and stools, anticipating a real run upon the parsonage. Nor were they disappointed. The twins and Connie were not even arrayed in their plain little ginghams, clean, before the first arrivals were ushered up into the front bedroom, ordinarily occupied by Prudence and Fairy. "There's Mrs. Adams, and Mrs. Prentiss, and Mrs.----," began Connie, listening intently to the voices in the next room. "Yes," whispered Carol, "peek through the keyhole, Lark, and see if Mrs. Prentiss is looking under the bed for dust. They say she----" "You'd better not let Prudence catch you repeating----" "There's Mrs. Stone, and Mrs. Davis, and----" "They say Mrs. Davis only belongs to the Ladies' Aid for the sake of the refreshments, and----" "Carol! Prudence will punish you." "Well, I don't believe it," protested Carol. "I'm just telling you what I've heard other people say." "We aren't allowed to repeat gossip," urged Lark. "No, and I think it's a shame, too, for it's awfully funny. Minnie Drake told me that Miss Varne joined the Methodist church as soon as she heard the new minister was a widower so she----" "Carol!" Carol whirled around sharply, and flushed, and swallowed hard. For Prudence was just behind her. "I--I--I--" but she could get no further. Upon occasion, Prudence was quite terrible. "So I heard," she said dryly, but her eyes were hard. "Now run down-stairs and out to the field, or to the barn, and play. And, Carol, be sure and remind me of that speech to-night. I might forget it." The girls ran quickly out, Carol well in the lead. "No wedding fee for me," she mumbled bitterly. "Do you suppose there can be seven devils in my tongue, Lark, like there are in the Bible?" "I don't remember there being seven devils in the Bible," said Lark. "Oh, I mean the--the possessed people it tells about in the Bible,--crazy, I suppose it means. Somehow I just can't help repeating----" "You don't want to," said Lark, not without sympathy. "You think it's such fun, you know." "Well, anyhow, I'm sure I won't get any wedding fee to-night. It seems to me Prudence is very--harsh sometimes." "You can appeal to father, if you like." "Not on your life," said Carol promptly and emphatically; "he's worse than Prudence. Like as not he'd give me a good thrashing into the bargain. No,--I'm strong for Prudence when it comes to punishment,--in preference to father, I mean. I can't seem to be fond of any kind of punishment from anybody." For a while Carol was much depressed, but by nature she was a buoyant soul and her spirits were presently soaring again. In the meantime, the Ladies of the Aid Society continued to arrive. Prudence and Fairy, freshly gowned and smiling-faced, received them with cordiality and many merry words. It was not difficult for them, they had been reared in the hospitable atmosphere of Methodist parsonages, where, if you have but two dishes of oatmeal, the outsider is welcome to one. That is Carol's description of parsonage life. But Prudence was concerned to observe that a big easy chair placed well back in a secluded corner, seemed to be giving dissatisfaction. It was Mrs. Adams who sat there first. She squirmed quite a little, and seemed to be gripping the arms of the chair with unnecessary fervor. Presently she stammered an excuse, and rising, went into the other room. After that, Mrs. Miller tried the corner chair, and soon moved away. Then Mrs. Jack, Mrs. Norey, and Mrs. Beed, in turn, sat there,--and did not stay. Prudence was quite agonized. Had the awful twins filled it with needles for the reception of the poor Ladies? At first opportunity, she hurried into the secluded corner, intent upon trying the chair for herself. She sat down anxiously. Then she gasped, and clutched frantically at the arms of the chair. For she discovered at once to her dismay that the chair was bottomless, and that only by hanging on for her life could she keep from dropping through. She thought hard for a moment,--but thinking did not interfere with her grasp on the chair-arms,--and then she realized that the wisest thing would be to discuss it publicly. Anything would be better than leaving it unexplained, for the Ladies to comment upon privately. So up rose Prudence, conscientiously pulling after her the thin cushion which had concealed the chair's shortcoming. "Look, Fairy!" she cried. "Did you take the bottom out of this chair?--It must have been horribly uncomfortable for those who have sat there!--However did it happen?" Fairy was frankly amazed, and a little inclined to be amused. "Ask the twins," she said tersely, "I know nothing about it." At that moment, the luckless Carol went running through the hall. Prudence knew it was she, without seeing, because she had a peculiar skipping run that was quite characteristic and unmistakable. "Carol!" she called. And Carol paused. "Carol!" more imperatively. Then Carol slowly opened the door,--she was a parsonage girl and rose to the occasion. She smiled winsomely,--Carol was nearly always winsome. "How do you do?" she said brightly. "Isn't it a lovely day? Did you call me, Prudence?" "Yes. Do you know where the bottom of that chair has gone?" "Why, no, Prudence--gracious! That chair!--Why, I didn't know you were going to bring that chair in here--Why,--oh, I am so sorry! Why in the world didn't you tell us beforehand?" Some of the Ladies smiled. Others lifted their brows and shoulders in a mildly suggestive way, that Prudence, after nineteen years in the parsonage, had learned to know and dread. "And where is the chair-bottom now?" she inquired. "And why did you take it?" "Why we wanted to make----" "You and Lark?" "Well, yes,--but it was really all my fault, you know. We wanted to make a seat up high in the peach tree, and we couldn't find a board the right shape. So she discovered--I mean, I did--that by pulling out two tiny nails we could get the bottom off the chair, and it was just fine. It's a perfectly adorable seat," brightening, but sobering again as she realized the gravity of the occasion. "And we put the cushion in the chair so that it wouldn't be noticed. We never use that chair, you know, and we didn't think of your needing it to-day. We put it away back in the cold corner of the sitting--er, living-room where no one ever sits. I'm so sorry about it." Carol was really quite crushed, but true to her parsonage training, she struggled valiantly and presently brought forth a crumpled and sickly smile. But Prudence smiled at her kindly. "That wasn't very naughty, Carol," she said frankly. "It's true that we seldom use that chair. And we ought to have looked." She glanced reproachfully at Fairy. "It is strange that in dusting it, Fairy--but never mind. You may go now, Carol. It is all right." Then she apologized gently to the Ladies, and the conversation went on, but Prudence was uncomfortably conscious of keen and quizzical eyes turned her way. Evidently they thought she was too lenient. "Well, it wasn't very naughty," she thought wretchedly. "How can I pretend it was terribly bad, when I feel in my heart that it wasn't!" Before long, the meeting was called to order, and the secretary instructed to read the minutes. "Oh," fluttered Miss Carr excitedly, "I forgot to bring the book. I haven't been secretary very long, you know." "Only six months," interrupted Mrs. Adams tartly. "How do you expect to keep to-day's minutes?" demanded the president. "Oh, I am sure Miss Prudence will give me a pencil and paper, and I'll copy them in the book as soon as ever I get home." "Yes, indeed," said Prudence. "There is a tablet on that table beside you, and pencils, too. I thought we might need them." Then the president made a few remarks, but while she talked, Miss Carr was excitedly opening the tablet. Miss Carr was always excited, and always fluttering, and always giggling girlishly. Carol called her a sweet old simpering soul, and so she was. But now, right in the midst of the president's serious remarks, she quite giggled out. The president stared at her in amazement. The Ladies looked up curiously. Miss Carr was bending low over the tablet, and laughing gaily to herself. "Oh, this is very cute," she said. "Who wrote it? Oh, it is just real cunning." Fairy sprang up, suddenly scarlet. "Oh, perhaps you have one of the twins' books, and they're always scribbling and----" "No, it is yours, Fairy. I got it from among your school-books." Fairy sank back, intensely mortified, and Miss Carr chirped brightly: "Oh, Fairy, dear, did you write this little poem? How perfectly sweet! And what a queer, sentimental little creature you are. I never dreamed you were so romantic. Mayn't I read it aloud?" Fairy was speechless, but the Ladies, including the president, were impatiently waiting. So Miss Carr began reading in a sentimental, dreamy voice that must have been very fetching fifty years before. At the first suggestion of poetry, Prudence sat up with conscious pride,--Fairy was so clever! But before Miss Carr had finished the second verse, she too was literally drowned in humiliation. "My love rode out of the glooming night, Into the glare of the morning light. My love rode out of the dim unknown, Into my heart to claim his own. My love rode out of the yesterday, Into the now,--and he came to stay. Oh, love that is rich, and pure, and true, The love in my heart leaps out to you. Oh, love, at last you have found your part,-- To come and dwell in my empty heart." Miss Carr sat down, giggling delightedly, and the younger Ladies laughed, and the older Ladies smiled. But Mrs. Prentiss turned to Fairy gravely. "How old are you, my dear?" And with a too-apparent effort, Fairy answered, "Sixteen!" "Indeed!" A simple word, but so suggestively uttered. "Shall we continue the meeting, Ladies?" This aroused Prudence's ire on her sister's behalf, and she squared her shoulders defiantly. For a while, Fairy was utterly subdued. But thinking it over to herself, she decided that after all there was nothing absolutely shameful in a sixteen-year-old girl writing sentimental verses. Silly, to be sure! But all sixteen-year-olds are silly. We love them for it! And Fairy's good nature and really good judgment came to her rescue, and she smiled at Prudence with her old serenity. The meeting progressed, and the business was presently disposed of. So far, things were not too seriously bad, and Prudence sighed in great relief. Then the Ladies took out their sewing, and began industriously working at many unmentionable articles, designed for the intimate clothing of a lot of young Methodists confined in an orphans' home in Chicago. And they talked together pleasantly and gaily. And Prudence and Fairy felt that the cloud was lifted. But soon it settled again, dark and lowering. Prudence heard Lark running through the hall and her soul misgave her. Why was Lark going upstairs? What was her errand? And she remembered the wraps of the Ladies, up-stairs, alone and unprotected. Dare she trust Lark in such a crisis? Perhaps the very sight of Prudence and the Ladies' Aid would arouse her better nature, and prevent catastrophe. To be sure, her mission might be innocent, but Prudence dared not run the risk. Fortunately she was sitting near the door. "Lark!" she called softly. Lark stopped abruptly, and something fell to the floor. "Lark!" There was a muttered exclamation from without, and Lark began fumbling rapidly around on the floor talking incoherently to herself. "Lark!" The Ladies smiled, and Miss Carr, laughing lightly, said, "She is an attentive creature, isn't she?" Prudence would gladly have flown out into the hall to settle this matter, but she realized that she was on exhibition. Had she done so, the Ladies would have set her down forever after as thoroughly incompetent,--she could not go! But Lark must come to her. "Lark!" This was Prudence's most awful voice, and Lark was bound to heed. "Oh, Prue," she said plaintively, "I'll be there in a minute. Can't you wait just five minutes? Let me run up-stairs first, won't you? Then I'll come gladly! Won't that do?" Her voice was hopeful. But Prudence replied with dangerous calm: "Come at once, Lark." "All right, then," and added threateningly, "but you'll wish I hadn't." Then Lark opened the door,--a woeful figure! In one hand she carried an empty shoe box. And her face was streaked with good rich Iowa mud. Her clothes were plastered with it. One shoe was caked from the sole to the very top button, and a great gash in her stocking revealed a generous portion of round white leg. Poor Prudence! At that moment, she would have exchanged the whole parsonage, bathroom, electric lights and all, for a tiny log cabin in the heart of a great forest where she and Lark might be alone together. And Fairy laughed. Prudence looked at her with tears in her eyes, and then turned to the wretched girl. "What have you been doing, Lark?" The heart-break expressed in the face of Lark would have made the angels weep. Beneath the smudges of mud on her cheeks she was pallid, and try as she would, she could not keep her chin from trembling ominously. Her eyes were fastened on the floor for the most part, but occasionally she raised them hurriedly, appealingly, to her sister's face, and dropped them again. Not for worlds would she have faced the Ladies! Prudence was obliged to repeat her question before Lark could articulate a reply. She gulped painfully a few times,--making meanwhile a desperate effort to hide the gash in one stocking by placing the other across it, rubbing it up and down in great embarrassment, and balancing herself with apparent difficulty. Her voice, when she was able to speak, was barely recognizable. "We--we--we are making--mud images, Prudence. It--it was awfully messy, I know, but--they say--it is such a good--and useful thing to do. We--we didn't expect--the--the Ladies to see us." "Mud images!" gasped Prudence, and even Fairy stared incredulously. "Where in the world did you get hold of an idea like that?" "It--it was in that--that Mother's Home Friend paper you take, Prudence." Prudence blushed guiltily. "It--it was modeling in clay, but--we haven't any clay, and--the mud is very nice, but--Oh, I know I look just--horrible. I--I--Connie pushed me in the--puddle--for fun. I--I was vexed about it, Prudence, honestly. I--I was chasing her, and I fell, and tore my stocking,--and--and--but, Prudence, the papers do say children ought to model, and we didn't think of--getting caught." Another appealing glance into her sister's face, and Lark plunged on, bent on smoothing matters if she could. "Carol is--is just fine at it, really. She--she's making a Venus de Milo, and it's good. But we can't remember whether her arm is off at the elbow or below the shoulder----" An enormous gulp, and by furious blinking Lark managed to crowd back the tears that would slip to the edge of her lashes. "I--I'm very sorry, Prudence." "Very well, Lark, you may go. I do not really object to your modeling in mud, I am sure. I am sorry you look so disreputable. You must change your shoes and stockings at once, and then you can go on with your modeling. But there must be no more pushing and chasing. I'll see Connie about that to-night. Now----" "Oh! Oh! Oh! What in the world is that?" This was a chorus of several Ladies' Aid voices,--a double quartette at the very least. Lark gave a sharp exclamation and began looking hurriedly about her on the floor. "It's got in here,--just as I expected," she exclaimed. "I said you would be sorry, Prue,--Oh, there it is under your chair, Mrs. Prentiss. Just wait,--maybe I can shove it back in the box again." This was greeted with a fresh chorus of shrieks. There was a hurried and absolute vacation of that corner of the front room. The Ladies fled, dropping their cherished sewing, shoving one another in a most Unladies-Aid-like way. And there, beneath a chair, squatted the cause of the confusion, an innocent, unhappy, blinking toad! "Oh, Larkie!" This was a prolonged wail. "It's all right, Prue, honestly it is," urged Lark with pathetic solemnity. "We didn't do it for a joke. We're keeping him for a good purpose. Connie found him in the garden,--and--Carol said we ought to keep him for Professor Duke,--he asked us to bring him things to cut up in science, you remember. So we just shoved him into this shoe box, and--we thought we'd keep him in the bath-tub until morning. We did it for a good purpose, don't you see we did? Oh, Prudence!" Prudence was horribly outraged, but even in that critical moment, justice insisted that Lark's arguments were sound. The professor had certainly asked the scholars to bring him "things to cut up." But a toad! A live one!--And the Ladies' Aid! Prudence shivered. "I am sure you meant well, Larkie," she said in a low voice, striving hard to keep down the bitter resentment in her heart, "I know you did. But you should not have brought that--that thing--into the house. Pick him up at once, and take him out-of-doors and let him go." But this was not readily done. In spite of her shame and deep dismay, Lark refused to touch the toad with her fingers. "I can't touch him, Prudence,--I simply can't," she whimpered. "We shoved him in with the broom handle before." And as no one else was willing to touch it, and as the Ladies clustered together in confusion, and with much laughter, in the far corner of the other room, Prudence brought the broom and the not unwilling toad was helped to other quarters. "Now go," said Prudence quickly, and Lark was swift to avail herself of the permission. Followed a quiet hour, and then the Ladies put aside their sewing and walked about the room, chatting in little groups. With a significant glance to Fairy, Prudence walked calmly to the double doors between the dining-room and the sitting-room. The eyes of the Ladies followed her with interest and even enthusiasm. They were hungry. Prudence slowly opened wide the doors, and--stood amazed! The Ladies clustered about her, and stood amazed also. The dining-room was there, and the table! But the appearance of the place was vastly different! The snowy cloth was draped artistically over a picture on the wall, the lowest edges well above the floor. The plates and trays, napkin-covered, were safely stowed away on the floor in distant corners. The kitchen scrub bucket had been brought in and turned upside down, to afford a fitting resting place for the borrowed punch bowl, full to overflowing with fragrant lemonade. And at the table were three dirty, disheveled little figures, bending seriously over piles of mud. A not-unrecognizable Venus de Milo occupied the center of the table. Connie was painstakingly at work on some animal, a dog perhaps, or possibly an elephant. And---- The three young modelers looked up in exclamatory consternation as the doors opened. "Oh, are you ready?" cried Carol. "How the time has flown! We had no idea you'd be ready so soon. Oh, we are sorry, Prudence. We intended to have everything fixed properly for you again. We needed a flat place for our modeling. It's a shame, that's what it is. Isn't that a handsome Venus? I did that!--If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it. And we're as sorry as we can be. You can have my Venus for a centerpiece, if you like." [Illustration: "If you'll just shut the door one minute, Prudence, we'll have everything exactly as you left it."] Prudence silently closed the doors, and the Ladies, laughing significantly, drew away. "Don't you think, my dear," began Mrs. Prentiss too sweetly, "that they are a little more than you can manage? Don't you really think an older woman is needed?" "I do not think so," cried Fairy, before her sister could speak, "no older woman could be kinder, or sweeter, or more patient and helpful than Prue." "Undoubtedly true! But something more is needed, I am afraid! It appears that girls are a little more disorderly than in my own young days! Perhaps I do not judge advisedly, but it seems to me they are a little--unmanageable." "Indeed they are not," cried Prudence loyally. "They are young, lively, mischievous, I know,--and I am glad of it. But I have lived with them ever since they were born, and I ought to know them. They are unselfish, they are sympathetic, they are always generous. They do foolish and irritating things,--but never things that are hateful and mean. They are all right at heart, and that is all that counts. They are not bad girls! What have they done to-day? They were exasperating, and humiliating, too, but what did they do that was really mean? They embarrassed and mortified me, but not intentionally! I can't punish them for the effect on me, you know! Would that be just or fair? At heart, they meant no harm." It must be confessed that there were many serious faces among the Ladies. Some cheeks were flushed, some eyes were downcast, some lips were compressed and some were trembling. Every mother there was asking in her heart, "Did I punish my children just for the effect on me? Did I judge my children by what was in their hearts, or just by the trouble they made me?" And the silence lasted so long that it became awkward. Finally Mrs. Prentiss crossed the room and stood by Prudence's side. She laid a hand tenderly on the young girl's arm, and said in a voice that was slightly tremulous: "I believe you are right, my dear. It is what girls are at heart that really counts. I believe your sisters are all you say they are. And one thing I am very sure of,--they are happy girls to have a sister so patient, and loving, and just. Not all real mothers have as much to their credit!" CHAPTER IV A SECRET SOCIETY Carol and Lark, in keeping with their twin-ship, were the dearest of chums and comrades. They resembled each other closely in build, being of the same height and size. They were slender, yet gave a suggestion of sturdiness. Carol's face was a delicately tinted oval, brightened by clear and sparkling eyes of blue. She was really beautiful, bright, attractive and vivacious. She made friends readily, and was always considered the "most popular girl in our crowd"--whatever Carol's crowd at the time might be. But she was not extremely clever, caring little for study, and with no especial talent in any direction. Lark was as nearly contrasting as any sister could be. Her face was pale, her eyes were dark brown and full of shadows, and she was a brilliant and earnest student. For each other the twins felt a passionate devotion that was very beautiful, but ludicrous as well. To them, the great rambling barn back of the parsonage was a most delightful place. It had a big cow-shed on one side, and horse stalls on the other, with a "heavenly" haymow over all, and with "chutes" for the descent of hay,--and twins! In one corner was a high dark crib for corn, with an open window looking down into the horse stalls adjoining. When the crib was newly filled, the twins could clamber painfully up on the corn, struggle backward through the narrow window, and holding to the ledge of it with their hands, drop down into the nearest stall. To be sure they were likely to fall,--more likely than not,--and their hands were splinter-filled and their heads blue-bumped most of the time. But splinters and bumps did not interfere with their pursuit of pleasure. Now the twins had a Secret Society,--of which they were the founders, the officers and the membership body. Its name was Skull and Crossbones. Why that name was chosen perhaps even the twins themselves could not explain, but it sounded deep, dark and bloody,--and so was the Society. Lark furnished the brain power for the organization but her sister was an enthusiastic and energetic second. Carol's club name was Lady Gwendolyn, and Lark's was Sir Alfred Angelcourt ordinarily, although subject to frequent change. Sometimes she was Lord Beveling, the villain of the plot, and chased poor Gwendolyn madly through corn-crib, horse stalls and haymow. Again she was the dark-browed Indian silently stalking his unconscious prey. Then she was a fierce lion lying in wait for the approaching damsel. The old barn saw stirring times after the coming of the new parsonage family. "Hark! Hark!" sounded a hissing whisper from the corn-crib, and Connie, eavesdropping outside the barn, shivered sympathetically. "What is it! Oh, what is it?" wailed the unfortunate lady. "Look! Look! Run for your life!" Then while Connie clutched the barn door in a frenzy, there was a sound of rattling corn as the twins scrambled upward, a silence, a low thud, and an unromantic "Ouch!" as Carol bumped her head and stumbled. "Are you assaulted?" shouted the bold Sir Alfred, and Connie heard a wild scuffle as he rescued his companion from the clutches of the old halter on which she had stumbled. Up the haymow ladder they hurried, and then slid recklessly down the hay-chutes. Presently the barn door was flung open, and the "Society" knocked Connie flying backward, ran madly around the barn a few times, and scurried under the fence and into the chicken coop. A little later, Connie, assailed with shots of corncobs, ran bitterly toward the house. "Peaking" was strictly forbidden when the twins were engaged in Skull and Crossbones activities. And Connie's soul burned with desire. She felt that this secret society was threatening not only her happiness, but also her health, for she could not sleep for horrid dreams of Skulls and Crossbones at night, and could not eat for envying the twins their secret and mysterious joys. Therefore, with unwonted humility, she applied for entrance. She had applied many times previously, without effect. But this time she enforced her application with a nickel's worth of red peppermint drops, bought for the very purpose. The twins accepted the drops gravely, and told Connie she must make formal application. Then they marched solemnly off to the barn with the peppermint drops, without offering Connie a share. This hurt, but she did not long grieve over it, she was so busy wondering what on earth they meant by "formal application." Finally she applied to Prudence, and received assistance. The afternoon mail brought to the parsonage an envelope addressed to "Misses Carol and Lark Starr, The Methodist Parsonage, Mount Mark, Iowa," and in the lower left-hand corner was a suggestive drawing of a Skull and Crossbones. The eyes of the mischievous twins twinkled with delight when they saw it, and they carried it to the barn for prompt perusal. It read as follows: "Miss Constance Starr humbly and respectfully craves admittance into the Ancient and Honorable Organization of Skull and Crossbones." The twins pondered long on a fitting reply, and the next afternoon the postman brought a letter for Connie, waiting impatiently for it. She had approached the twins about it at noon that day. "Did you get my application?" she had whispered nervously. But the twins had stared her out of countenance, and Connie realized that she had committed a serious breach of secret society etiquette. But here was the letter! Her fingers trembled as she opened it. It was decorated lavishly with skulls and crossbones, splashed with red ink, supposedly blood, and written in the same suggestive color. "Skull and Crossbones has heard the plea of Miss Constance Starr. If she present herself at the Parsonage Haymow this evening, at eight o'clock, she shall learn the will of the Society regarding her petition." Connie was jubilant! In a flash, she saw herself admitted to the mysterious Barnyard Order, and began working out a name for her own designation after entrance. It was a proud day for her. By the time the twins had finished washing the supper dishes, it was dark. Constance glanced out of the window apprehensively. She now remembered that eight o'clock was very, very late, and that the barn was a long way from the house! And up in the haymow, too! And such a mysterious bloody society! Her heart quaked within her. So she approached the twins respectfully, and said in an offhand way: "I can go any time now. Just let me know when you're ready, and I'll go right along with you." But the twins stared at her again in an amazing and overbearing fashion, and vouchsafed no reply. Connie, however, determined to keep a watchful eye upon them, and when they started barnward, she would trail closely along in their rear. It was a quarter to eight, and fearfully dark, when she suddenly remembered that they had been up-stairs an unnaturally long time. She rushed up in a panic. They were not there. She ran through the house. They were not to be found. The dreadful truth overwhelmed her,--the twins were already in the haymow, the hour had come, and she must go forth. Breathlessly, she slipped out of the back door, and closed it softly behind her. She could not distinguish the dark outlines of the barn in the equal darkness of the autumn night. She gave a long sobbing gasp as she groped her way forward. As she neared the barn, she was startled to hear from the haymow over her head, deep groans as of a soul in mortal agony. Something had happened to the twins! "Girls! Girls!" she cried, forgetting for the moment her own sorry state. "What is the matter? Twins!" Sepulchral silence! And Connie knew that this was the dreadful Skull and Bones. Her teeth chattered as she stood there, irresolute in the intense and throbbing darkness. "It's only the twins," she assured herself over and over, and began fumbling with the latch of the barn door,--but her fingers were stiff and cold. Suddenly from directly above her, there came the hideous clanking of iron chains. Connie had read ghost stories, and she knew the significance of clanking chains, but she stood her ground in spite of the almost irresistible impulse to fly. After the clanking, the loud and clamorous peal of a bell rang out. "It's that old cow bell they found in the field," she whispered practically, but found it none the less horrifying. Finally she stepped into the blackness of the barn, found the ladder leading to the haymow and began slowly climbing. But her own weight seemed a tremendous thing, and she had difficulty in raising herself from step to step. She comforted herself with the reflection that at the top were the twins,--company and triumph hand in hand. But when she reached the top, and peered around her, she found little comfort,--and no desirable company? A small barrel draped in black stood in the center of the mow, and on it a lighted candle gave out a feeble flickering ray which emphasized the darkness around it. On either side of the black-draped barrel stood a motionless figure, clothed in somber black. On the head of one was a skull,--not a really skull, just a pasteboard imitation, but it was just as awful to Connie. On the head of the other were crossbones. "Kneel," commanded the hoarse voice of Skull, in which Connie could faintly distinguish the tone of Lark. She knelt,--an abject quivering neophyte. "Hear the will of Skull and Crossbones," chanted Crossbones in a shrill monotone. Then Skull took up the strain once more. "Skull and Crossbones, great in mercy and in condescension, has listened graciously to the prayer of Constance, the Seeker. Hear the will of the Great Spirit! If the Seeker will, for the length of two weeks, submit herself to the will of Skull and Crossbones, she shall be admitted into the Ancient and Honorable Order. If the Seeker accepts this condition, she must bow herself to the ground three times, in token of submission." "There's no ground here," came a small faint voice from the kneeling Seeker. "The floor, madam," Skull explained sternly. "If the Seeker accepts the condition,--to submit herself absolutely to the will of Skull and Crossbones for two entire weeks,--she shall bow herself three times." Constance hesitated. It was so grandly expressed that she hardly understood what they wanted. Carol came to her rescue. "That means you've got to do everything Lark and I tell you for two weeks," she said in her natural voice. Then Constance bowed herself three times,--although she lost her balance in the act, and Carol forgot her dignity and gave way to laughter, swiftly subdued, however. "Arise and approach the altar," she commanded in the shrill voice, which yet gave signs of laughter. Constance arose and approached. "Upon the altar, before the Eternal Light, you will find a small black bow, with a drop of human blood in the center. This is the badge of your pledgedom. You must wear it day and night, during the entire two weeks. After that, if all is well; you shall be received into full membership. If you break your pledge to the Order, it must be restored at once to Skull and Crossbones. Take it, and pin it upon your breast." Constance did so,--and her breast heaved with rapture and awe in mingling. Then a horrible thing happened. The flame of the "Eternal Light" was suddenly extinguished, and Carol exclaimed, "The ceremony is ended. Return, damsel, to thine abode." A sound of scampering feet,--and Constance knew that the Grand Officials had fled, and she was alone in the dreadful darkness. She called after them pitifully, but she heard the slam of the kitchen door before she had even reached the ladder. It was a sobbing and miserable neophyte who stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later. The twins were bending earnestly over their Latin grammars by the side of the kitchen fire, and did not raise their eyes as the Seeker burst into the room. Constance sat down, and gasped and quivered for a while. Then she looked down complacently at the little black bow with its smudge of red ink, and sighed contentedly. The week that followed was a gala one for the twins of Skull and Crossbones. Constance swept their room, made their bed, washed their dishes, did their chores, and in every way behaved as a model pledge of the Ancient and Honorable. The twins were gracious but firm. There was no arguing, and no faltering. "It is the will of Skull and Crossbones that the damsel do this," they would say. And the damsel did it. Prudence did not feel it was a case that called for her interference. So she sat back and watched, while the twins told stories, read and frolicked, and Constance did their daily tasks. So eight days passed, and then came Waterloo. Constance returned home after an errand downtown, and in her hand she carried a great golden pear. Perhaps Constance would have preferred that she escape the notice of the twins on this occasion, but as luck would have it, she passed Carol in the hall. "Gracious! What a pear! Where did you get it?" demanded Carol covetously. "I met Mr. Arnold down-town, and he bought it for me. He's very fond of me. It cost him a dime, too, for just this one. Isn't it a beauty?" And Connie licked her lips suggestively. Carol licked hers, too, thoughtfully. Then she called up the stairs, "Lark, come here, quick!" Lark did so, and duly exclaimed and admired. Then she said significantly, "I suppose you are going to divide with us?" "Of course," said Connie with some indignation. "I'm going to cut it in five pieces so Prudence and Fairy can have some, too." A pause, while Carol and Lark gazed at each other soberly. Mentally, each twin was figuring how big her share would be when the pear was divided in fives. Then Lark spoke. "It is the will of Skull and Crossbones that this luscious fruit be turned over to them immediately." Constance faltered, held it out, drew it back. "If I do, I suppose you'll give me part of it, anyhow," she said, and her eyes glittered. "Not so, damsel," said Carol ominously. "The Ancient and Honorable takes,--it never gives." For a moment Constance wavered. Then she flamed into sudden anger. "I won't do it, so there!" she cried. "I think you're mean selfish pigs, that's what I think! Taking my very own pear, and--but you won't get it! I don't care if I never get into your silly old society,--you don't get a bite of this pear, I can tell you that!" And Constance rushed up-stairs and slammed a door. A few seconds later the door opened again, and her cherished badge was flung down upon Skull and Crossbones. "There's your old black string smeared up with red ink!" she yelled at them wildly. And again the door slammed. Carol picked up the insulted badge, and studied it thoughtfully. Lark spoke first. "It occurs to me, Fair Gwendolyn, that we would do well to keep this little scene from the ears of the just and righteous Prudence." "Right, as always, Brave Knight," was the womanly retort. And the twins betook themselves to the haymow in thoughtful mood. A little later, when Prudence and Fairy came laughing into the down-stairs hall, a white-faced Constance met them. "Look," she said, holding out a pear, divided into three parts, just like Gaul. "Mr. Arnold gave me this pear, and here's a piece for each of you." The girls thanked her warmly, but Prudence paused with her third almost touching her lips. "How about the twins?" she inquired. "Aren't they at home? Won't they break your pledge if you leave them out?" Constance looked up sternly. "I offered them some half an hour ago, and they refused it," she said. "And they have already put me out of the society!" There was tragedy in the childish face, and Prudence put her arms around this baby-sister. "Tell Prue all about it, Connie," she said. But Constance shook her head. "It can't be talked about. Go on and eat your pear. It is good." "Was it all right?" questioned Prudence. "Did the twins play fair, Connie?" "Yes," said Constance. "It was all right. Don't talk about it." But in two days Constance repented of her rashness. In three days she was pleading for forgiveness. And in four days she was starting in on another two weeks of pledgedom, and the desecrated ribbon with its drop of blood reposed once more on her ambitious breast. For three days her service was sore indeed, for the twins informed her, with sympathy, that she must be punished for insubordination. "But after that, we'll be just as easy on you as anything, Connie," they told her. "So don't you get sore now. In three days, we'll let up on you." A week passed, ten days, and twelve. Then came a golden October afternoon when the twins sat in the haymow looking out upon a mellow world. Constance was in the yard, reading a fairy story. The situation was a tense one, for the twins were hungry, and time was heavy on their hands. "The apple trees in Avery's orchard are just loaded," said Lark aimlessly. "And there are lots on the ground, too. I saw them when I was out in the field this morning." "Some of the trees are close to our fence, too," said Carol slowly. "Very close." Lark glanced up with sudden interest. "That's so," she said. "And the wires on the fence are awfully loose." Carol gazed down into the yard where Constance was absorbed in her book. "Constance oughtn't to read as much as she does," she argued. "It's so bad for the eyes." "Yes, and what's more, she's been getting off too easy the last few days. The time is nearly up." "That's so," said Lark. "Let's call her up here." This was done at once, and the unfortunate Constance walked reluctantly toward the barn, her fascinating story still in her hand. "You see, they've got more apples than they need, and those on the ground are just going to waste," continued Carol, pending the arrival of the little pledge. "The chickens are pecking at them, and ruining them." "It's criminal destruction, that's what it is," declared Lark. Connie stood before them respectfully, as they had instructed her to stand. The twins hesitated, each secretly hoping the other would voice the order. But Lark as usual was obliged to be the spokesman. "Damsel," she said, "it is the will of Skull and Crossbones that you hie ye to yonder orchard,--Avery's, I mean,--and bring hither some of the golden apples basking in the sun." "What!" ejaculated Connie, startled out of her respect. Carol frowned. Connie hastened to modify her tone. "Did they say you might have them?" she inquired politely. "That concerns thee not, 'tis for thee only to render obedience to the orders of the Society. Go out through our field and sneak under the fence where the wires are loose, and hurry back. We're awfully hungry. The trees are near the fence. There isn't any danger." "But it's stealing," objected Connie. "What will Prudence----" "Damsel!" And Connie turned to obey with despair in her heart. "Bring twelve," Carol called after her, "that'll be four apiece. And hurry, Connie. And see they don't catch you while you're about it." After she had gone, the twins lay back thoughtfully on the hay and stared at the cobwebby roof above them. "It's a good thing Prudence and Fairy are downtown," said Lark sagely. "Yes, or we'd catch it," assented Carol. "But I don't see why! The Averys have too many apples, and they are going to waste. I'm sure Mrs. Avery would rather let us have them than the chickens." They lay in silence for a while. Something was hurting them, but whether it was their fear of the wrath of Prudence, or the twinges of tender consciences,--who can say? "She's an unearthly long time about it," exclaimed Lark, at last. "Do you suppose they caught her?" This was an awful thought, and the girls were temporarily suffocated. But they heard the barn door swinging beneath them, and sighed with relief. It was Connie! She climbed the ladder skilfully, and poured her golden treasure before the arch thieves, Skull and Crossbones. There were eight big tempting apples. "Hum! Eight," said Carol sternly. "I said twelve." "Yes, but I was afraid some one was coming. I heard such a noise through the grapevines, so I got what I could and ran for it. There's three apiece for you, and two for me," said Connie, sitting down sociably beside them on the hay. But Carol rose. "Damsel, begone," she ordered. "When Skull and Crossbones feast, thou canst not yet share the festive board. Rise thee, and speed." Connie rose, and walked soberly toward the ladder. But before she disappeared she fired this parting shot, "I don't want any of them. Stolen apples don't taste very good, I reckon." Carol and Lark had the grace to flush a little at this, but however the stolen apples tasted, the twins had no difficulty in disposing of them. Then, full almost beyond the point of comfort, they slid down the hay-chutes, went out the back way, climbed over the chicken coops,--not because it was necessary, but because it was their idea of amusement,--and went for a walk in the field. At the farthest corner of the field they crawled under the fence, cut through a neighboring potato patch, and came out on the street. Then they walked respectably down the sidewalk, turned the corner and came quietly in through the front door of the parsonage. Prudence was in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. Fairy was in the sitting-room, busy with her books. The twins set the table conscientiously, filled the wood-box, and in every way labored irreproachably. But Prudence had no word of praise for them that evening. She hardly seemed to know they were about the place. She went about her work with a pale face, and never a smile to be seen. Supper was nearly ready when Connie sauntered in from the barn. After leaving the haymow, she had found a cozy corner in the com-crib, with two heavy lap robes discarded by the twins in their flight from wolves, and had settled down there to finish her story. As she stepped into the kitchen, Prudence turned to her with such a sorry, reproachful gaze that Connie was frightened. "Are you sick, Prue?" she gasped. Prudence did not answer. She went to the door and called Fairy. "Finish getting supper, will you, Fairy? And when you are all ready, you and the twins go right on eating. Don't wait for father,--he isn't coming home until evening. Come up-stairs with me, Connie; I want to talk to you." Connie followed her sister soberly, and the twins flashed at each other startled and questioning looks. The three girls were at the table when Prudence came into the dining-room alone. She fixed a tray-supper quietly and carried it off up-stairs. Then she came back and sat down by the table. But her face bore marks of tears, and she had no appetite. The twins had felt small liking for their food before, now each mouthful seemed to choke them. But they dared not ask a question. They were devoutly thankful when Fairy finally voiced their interest. "What is the matter? Has Connie been in mischief?" "It's worse than that," faltered Prudence, tears rushing to her eyes again. "Why, Prudence! What in the world has she done?" "I may as well tell you, I suppose,--you'll have to know it sooner or later. She--went out into Avery's orchard and stole some apples this afternoon. I was back in the alley seeing if Mrs. Moon could do the washing, and I saw her from the other side. She went from tree to tree, and when she got through the fence she ran. There's no mistake about it,--she confessed." The twins looked up in agony, but Prudence's face reassured them. Constance had told no tales. "I have told her she must spend all of her time up-stairs alone for a week, taking her meals there, too. She will go to school, of course, but that is all. I want her to see the awfulness of it. I told her I didn't think we wanted to eat with--a thief--just yet! I said we must get used to the idea of it first. She is heartbroken, but--I must make her see it!" That was the end of supper. No one attempted to eat another bite. After the older girls had gone into the sitting-room, Carol and Lark went about their work with stricken faces. "She's a little brick not to tell," whispered Lark. "I'm going to give her that pearl pin of mine she always liked," said Carol in a hushed voice. "I'll give her my blue ribbon, too,--she loves blue so. And to-morrow I'll take that quarter I've saved and buy her a whole quarter's worth of candy." But that night when the twins went up to bed, they were doomed to disappointment. They had no chance of making it up with Constance. For Prudence had moved her small bed out of the twins' room, and had placed it in the front room occupied by herself and Fairy. They asked if they might speak to Constance, but Prudence went in with them to say good night to her. The twins broke down and cried as they saw the pitiful little figure with the wan and tear-stained face. They threw their arms around her passionately and kissed her many times. But they went to bed without saying anything. Hours later, Lark whispered, "Carol! are you asleep?" "No. I can't go to sleep somehow." "Neither can I. Do you think we'd better tell Prudence all about it?" Carol squirmed in the bed. "I--suppose we had," she said reluctantly. "But--it'll be lots worse for us than for Connie," Lark added. "We're so much older, and we made her do it." "Yes, and we ate all the apples," mourned Carol. "Maybe we'd better just let it go," suggested Lark. "And we'll make it up to Connie afterwards," said Carol. "Now, you be careful and not give it away, Carol." "You see that you don't." But it was a sorry night for the twins. The next morning they set off to school, with no chance for anything but a brief good morning with Connie,--given in the presence of Prudence. Half-way down the parsonage walk, Carol said: "Oh, wait a minute, Lark. I left my note-book on the table." And Lark walked slowly while Carol went rushing back. She found Prudence in the kitchen, and whispered: "Here--here's a note, Prudence. Don't read it until after I've gone to school,--at ten o'clock you may read it. Will you promise?" Prudence laughed a little, but she promised, and laid the note carefully away to wait the appointed hour for its perusal. As the clock struck ten she went to the mantle, and took it down. This is what Carol had written: "Oh, Prudence, do please forgive me, and don't punish Connie any more. You can punish me any way you like, and I'll be glad of it. It was all my fault. I made her go and get the apples for me, and I ate them. Connie didn't eat one of them. She said stolen apples would not taste very good. It was all my fault, and I'm so sorry. I was such a coward I didn't dare tell you last night. Will you forgive me? But you must punish me as hard as ever you can. But please, Prudence, won't you punish me some way without letting Lark know about it? Please, please, Prudence, don't let Larkie know. You can tell Papa and Fairy so they will despise me, but keep it from my twin. If you love me, Prudence, don't let Larkie know." As Prudence read this her face grew very stern. Carol's fault! And she was ashamed to have her much-loved twin know of her disgrace. At that moment, Prudence heard some one running through the hall, and thrust the note hastily into her dress. It was Lark, and she flung herself wildly upon Prudence, sobbing bitterly. "What is the matter, Lark?" she tried, really frightened. "Are you sick?" "Heartsick, that's all," wailed Lark. "I told the teacher I was sick so I could come home, but I'm not. Oh, Prudence, I know you'll despise and abominate me all the rest of your life, and everybody will, and I deserve it. For I stole those apples myself. That is, I made Connie go and get them for me. She didn't want to. She begged not to. But I made her. She didn't eat one of them,--I did it. And she felt very badly about it. Oh, Prudence, you can do anything in the world to me,--I don't care how horrible it is; I only hope you will. But, Prudence, you won't let Carol know, will you? Oh, spare me that, Prudence, please. That's my last request, that you keep it from Carol." Prudence was surprised and puzzled. She drew the note from her pocket, and gave it to Lark. "Carol gave me that before she went to school," she explained. "Read it, and tell me what you are driving at. I think you are both crazy. Or maybe you are just trying to shield poor Connie." Lark read Carol's note, and gasped, and--burst out laughing! The shame, and bitter weeping, and nervousness, had rendered her hysterical, and now she laughed and cried until Prudence was alarmed again. In time, however, Lark was able to explain. "We both did it," she gasped, "the Skull and Crossbones. And we both told the truth about it. We made her go and get them for us, and we ate them, and she didn't want to go. I advised Carol not to tell, and she advised me not to. All the way to school this morning, we kept advising each other not to say a word about it. But I intended all the time to pretend I was sick, so I could come and confess alone. I wanted to take the punishment for both of us, so Carol could get out. I guess that's what she thought, too. Bless her little old heart, as if I'd let her he punished for my fault. And it was mostly my fault, too, Prue, for I mentioned the apples first of all." Prudence laughed,--it was really ludicrous. But when she thought of loyal little Connie, sobbing all through the long night, the tears came to her eyes again. She went quickly to the telephone, and called up the school building next door to the parsonage. "May I speak to Constance Starr, Mr. Imes?" she asked. "It is very important. This is Prudence, her sister." And when Connie came to the telephone, she cried, "Oh, you blessed little child, why didn't you tell me? Will you forgive me, Connie? I ought to have made you tell me all about it, but I was so sorry, I couldn't bear to talk much about it. The twins have told me. You're a dear, sweet, good little darling, that's what you are." "Oh, Prudence!" That was all Connie said, but something in her voice made Prudence hang up the receiver quickly, and cry bitterly! That noon Prudence pronounced judgment on the sinners, but her eyes twinkled, for Carol and Lark had scolded each other roundly for giving things away! "Connie should have refused to obey you," she said gently, holding Connie in her arms. "She knew it was wrong. But she has been punished more than enough. But you twins! In the first place, I right now abolish the Skull and Crossbones forever and ever. And you can not play in the barn again for a month. And you must go over to the Averys this afternoon, and tell them about it, and pay for the apples. And you must send all of your spending money for the next month to that woman who is gathering up things for the bad little children in the Reform School,--that will help you remember what happens to boys and girls who get in the habit of taking things on the spur of the moment!" The twins accepted all of this graciously, except that which referred to confessing their sin to their neighbors. That did hurt! The twins were so superior, and admirable! They couldn't bear to ruin their reputations. But Prudence stood firm, in spite of their weeping and wailing. And that afternoon two shamefaced sorry girls crept meekly in at the Averys' door to make their peace. "But about the Skull and Crossbones, it's mostly punishment for me, Prue," said Connie regretfully, "for the twins have been in it ever since we came to Mount Mark, and I never got in at all! And I wanted them to call me Lady Magdalina Featheringale." And Connie sighed. CHAPTER V THE TWINS STICK UP FOR THE BIBLE Prudence had been calling on a "sick member." Whenever circumstances permitted she gladly served as pastoral assistant for her father, but she always felt that raising the family was her one big job, and nothing was allowed to take precedence of it. As she walked that afternoon down Maple Street,--seemingly so-called because it was bordered with grand old elms,--she felt at peace with all the world. The very sunshine beaming down upon her through the huge skeletons of the leafless elms, was not more care-free than the daughter of the parsonage. Parsonage life had been running smoothly for as much as ten days past, and Prudence, in view of that ten days' immunity, was beginning to feel that the twins, if not Connie also, were practically reared! "Mount Mark is a dear old place,--a duck of a place, as the twins would say,--and I'm quite sorry there's a five-year limit for Methodist preachers. I should truly like to live right here until I am old and dead." Then she paused, and bowed, and smiled. She did not recognize the bright-faced young woman approaching, but she remembered just in time that parsonage people are marked characters. So she greeted the stranger cordially. "You are Miss Starr, aren't you?" the bright-faced woman was saying. "I am Miss Allen,--the principal of the high school, you know." "Oh, yes," cried Prudence, thrusting forth her hand impulsively, "oh, yes, I know. I am so glad to meet you." Miss Allen was a young woman of twenty-six, with clear kind eyes and a strong sweet mouth. She had about her that charm of manner which can only be described as winsome womanliness. Prudence gazed at her with open and honest admiration. Such a young woman to be the principal of a high school in a city the size of Mount Mark! She must be tremendously clever. But Prudence did not sigh. We can't all be clever, you know. There must be some of us to admire the rest of us! The two walked along together, chatting sociably on subjects that meant nothing to either of them. Presently Miss Allen stopped, and with a graceful wave of her hand, said lightly: "This is where I am rooming. Are you in a very great hurry this afternoon? I should like to talk to you about the twins. Will you come in?" The spirits of Prudence fell earthward with a clatter! The twins! Whatever had they been doing now? She followed Miss Allen into the house and up the stairs with the joy quite quenched in her heart. She did not notice the dainty room into which she was conducted. She ignored the offered chair, and with a dismal face turned toward Miss Allen. "Oh, please! What have they been doing? Is it very awful?" Miss Allen laughed gaily. "Oh, sit down and don't look so distressed. It's nothing at all. They haven't been doing anything. I just want to discuss them on general principles, you know. It's my duty to confer with the parents and guardians of my scholars." Immensely relieved, Prudence sank down in the chair, and rocked comfortably to and fro a few times. General principles,--ah, blessed words! "I suppose you know that Carol is quite the idol of the high school already. She is the adored one of the place. You see, she is not mixed up in any scholastic rivalry. Lark is one of the very best in her class, and there is intense rivalry between a few of the freshmen. But Carol is out of all that, and every one is free to worship at her shrine. She makes no pretensions to stand first." "Is she very stupid?" Prudence was disappointed. She did so want both of her twins to shine. "Stupid! Not a bit of it. She is a very good scholar, much better than the average. Our first pupils, including Lark, average around ninety-six and seven. Then there are others ranging between ninety and ninety-four. Carol is one of them. The fairly good ones are over eighty-five, and the fairly bad ones are over seventy-five, and the hopeless ones are below that. This is a rough way of showing how they stand. Lark is a very fine scholar, really the best in the class. She not only makes good grades, she grasps the underlying significance of her studies. Very few freshmen, even among the best, do that. She is quite exceptional. We hope to make something very big and fine of Larkie." Prudence's eyes shone with motherly pride. She nodded, striving to make her voice natural and matter-of-fact as she answered, "Yes, she is bright." "She certainly is! Carol is quite different, but she is so sweet-spirited, and vivacious, and--un-snobbish, if you know what that means--that every one in high school, and even the grammar-grade children, idolize her. She is very witty, but her wit is always innocent and kind. She never hurts any one's feelings. And she is never impertinent. The professors are as crazy about her as the scholars,--forgive the slang. Did the twins ever tell you what happened the first day of school?" "No,--tell me." Prudence was clearly very anxious. "I shall never forget it. The freshmen were sent into the recitation room to confer with Professor Duke about text-books, etc. Carol was one of the first in the line, as they came out. She sat down in her seat in the first aisle, with one foot out at the side. One of the boys tripped over it. 'Carol,' said Miss Adams gently, 'you forgot yourself, didn't you?' And Carol's eyes twinkled as she said, 'Oh, no, Miss Adams, if I had I'd still be in the recitation room.'" Miss Allen laughed, but Prudence's eyes were agonized. "How hateful of her!" "Don't the twins tell you little things that happen at school,--like that, for instance?" "Never! I supposed they were perfectly all right." "Well, here's another. Twice a week we have talks on First Aid to the Injured. Professor Duke conducts them. One day he asked Carol what she would do if she had a very severe cold, and Carol said, 'I'd soak my feet in hot water and go to bed. My sister makes me.'" Miss Allen laughed again, but Prudence was speechless. "Sometimes we have talks on normal work, practical informal discussions. Many of our scholars will be country school-teachers, you know. Miss Adams conducts these normal hours. One day she asked Carol what she would do if she had applied for a school, and was asked by the directors to write a thesis on student discipline, that they might judge of her and her ability by it? Carol said, 'I'd get Lark to write it for me.'" Even Prudence laughed a little at this, but she said, "Why don't you scold her?" "We talked it all over shortly after she entered school. Miss Adams did not understand Carol at first, and thought she was a little impertinent. But Professor Duke and I stood firm against even mentioning it to her. She is perfectly good-natured about it. You know, of course, Miss Starr, that we really try to make individuals of our scholars. So many, many hundreds are turned out of the public schools all cut on one pattern. We do not like it. We fight against it. Carol is different from others by nature, and we're going to keep her different if possible. If we crush her individuality, she will come out just like thousands of others,--all one pattern! Miss Adams is as fond of Carol now as any one of us. You understand that we could not let impudence or impertinence pass unreproved, but Carol is never guilty of that. She is always respectful and courteous. But she is spontaneous and quick-witted, and we are glad of it. Do you know what the scholars call Professor Duke?" "Professor Duck," said Prudence humbly. "But they mean it for a compliment. They really admire and like him very much. I hope he does not know what they call him." "He does! One day he was talking about the nobility system in England. He explained the difference between dukes, and earls, and lords, etc., and told them who is to be addressed as Your Majesty, Your Highness, Your Grace and so on. Then he said, 'Now, Carol, if I was the king's eldest son, what would you call me?' And Carol said, 'I'd still call you a Duck, Professor,--it wouldn't make any difference to me.'" Prudence could only sigh. "One other time he was illustrating phenomena. He explained the idea, and tried to get one of the boys to mention the word,--phenomenon, you know. The boy couldn't think of it. Professor gave three or four illustrations, and still the boy couldn't remember it. 'Oh, come now,' professor said, finally, 'something unusual, something very much out of the ordinary! Suppose you should see a blackbird running a race down the street with a sparrow, what would you call it?' The boy couldn't imagine, and professor said, 'What would you call that, Carol?' Carol said, 'A bad dream.'" Prudence smiled wearily. "Sometimes we have discussions of moral points. We take turns about conducting them, and try to stimulate their interest in such things. We want to make them think, every one for himself. One day Professor Duke said, 'Suppose a boy in this town has a grudge against you,--unjust and unfair. You have tried one thing after another to change his attitude. But he continues to annoy and inconvenience and even hurt you, on every occasion. Remember that you have tried every ordinary way of winning his good will. Now what are you going to do as a last resort?' Carol said, 'I'll tell papa on him.'" Miss Allen laughed again, heartily. "It does have a disturbing effect on the class, I admit, and often spoils a good point, but Professor Duke calls on Carol every time he sees her eyes twinkle! He does it on purpose. And Miss Adams is nearly as bad as he. One day she said, 'Suppose you have unintentionally done something to greatly irritate and inconvenience a prominent man in town. He knows you did it, and he is very angry. He is a man of sharp temper and disagreeable manners. You know that he will be extremely unpleasant and insulting if you go to him with explanations and apologies. What are you going to do?' 'I think I'll just keep out of his way for a few weeks,' said Carol soberly." "I hope she doesn't talk like that to you, Miss Allen." Instantly Miss Allen was grave. "No, she does not, I am so sorry." Leaning forward suddenly, she said, "Miss Starr, why do the twins dislike me?" "Dislike you!" echoed Prudence. "Why, they do not dislike you! What in the world makes you think----" "Oh, yes indeed they do,--both of them. Now, why? People generally like me. I have always been popular with my students. This is my second year here. Last year the whole high school stood by me as one man. This year, the freshmen started as usual. After one week, the twins changed. I knew it instantly. Then other freshmen changed. Now the whole class comes as near snubbing me as they dare. Do you mean to say they have never told you about it?" "Indeed they have not. And I am sure you are mistaken. They do like you. They like everybody." "Christian tolerance, perhaps," smiled Miss Allen ruefully. "But I want them to like me personally and intimately. I can help the twins. I can do them good, I know I can. But they won't let me. They keep me at arm's length. They are both dear, and I love them. But they freeze me to death! Why?" "I can't believe it!" "But it is true. Don't they talk of their professors at home at all?" "Oh, often." "What do they say of us?" "Why, they say Miss Adams is a perfectly sweet old lamb,--they do not mean to be disrespectful. And they say Professor Duke is the dearest duck! They almost swear by 'Professor Duck'!" "And what do they say of me?" Prudence hesitated, thinking hard. "Come now, what do they say? We must get to the bottom of this." "Why, they have said that you are very pretty, and most unbelievably smart." "Oh! Quite a difference between sweet old lamb, and the dearest duck, and being very pretty and smart! Do you see it?" "Yes," confessed Prudence reluctantly, "but I hadn't thought of it before." "Now, what is wrong? What have I done? Why, look here. The twins think everything of Professor Duke, and I am sure Carol deliberately neglects her science lessons in order to be kept in after school by him. But though she hates mathematics,--my subject,--she works at it desperately so I can't keep her in. She sits on Mr. Duke's table and chats with him by the hour. But she passes me up with a curt, 'Good night, Miss Allen.'" "And Larkie, too?" "Lark is worse than Carol. Her dislike is deeper-seated. I believe I could win Carol in time. Sometimes I waylay her when she is leaving after school, and try my best. But just as she begins to thaw, Lark invariably comes up to see if she is ready to go home, and she looks at both of us with superior icy eyes. And Carol freezes in a second. Ordinarily, she looks at me with a sort of sympathetic pity and wonder, but Lark is always haughty and nearly contemptuous. It is different with the rest of the class. It is nothing important to them. The twins are popular in the class, you know, and the others, realizing that they dislike me, hold aloof on their account." "I can't fathom it," said Prudence. "Now, Professor Duke is very brilliant and clever and interesting. And he does like Carol tremendously,--Larkie, too. He says she is the cleverest girl he ever knew. But Carol is his favorite. But he does not like teaching, and he has not the real interests of the scholars at heart. Next year, he is to begin some very wonderful research work at a big salary. That is what he loves. That is where his interests lie. But this year, being idle, and his uncle being on the school board here, he accepted this place as a sort of vacation in the meanwhile. That is all it means to him. But I love teaching, it is my life-work. I love the young people, and I want to help them. Why won't the twins give me a chance? Surely I am as attractive as Professor Duke. They are even fond of Miss Adams, whom most people consider rather a sour old maid. But they have no use for me. I want you to find out the reason, and tell me. Will you do it? They will tell you if you ask them, won't they?" "I think so. It is partly my fault. I am very strict with them about saying hateful things about people. I do not allow it. And I insist that they like everybody,--if they don't, I make them. So they have just kept it to themselves. But I will do my best." One would have thought that Prudence carried the responsibility for the entire public-school system of the United States upon her shoulders that night, so anxious were her eyes, so grave her face. Supper over, she quietly suggested to Fairy that she would appreciate the absence of herself and Connie for a time. And Fairy instantly realized that the twins must be dealt with seriously for something. So she went in search of Connie, and the two set out for a long walk. Then Prudence went to the kitchen where the twins were washing the dishes, and as usual, laughing immoderately over something. Prudence sat down and leaned her elbows on the table, her chin in her palms. "I met Miss Allen to-day," she said, closely observing the faces of the twins. A significant glance flashed between them, and they stiffened instantly. "She's very pretty and sweet, isn't she?" continued Prudence. "Yes, very," agreed Lark without any enthusiasm. "Such pretty hair," added Carol dispassionately. "She must be very popular with the scholars," suggested Prudence. "Yes, most of them are fond of her," assented Lark. "She has rather winsome manners, I think," said Carol. "Which of your professors do you like best?" queried Prudence. "Duck," they answered unanimously, and with brightening faces. "Why?" "Because he is a duck," said Carol, and they all laughed. But Prudence returned to the charge without delay. "Do you like Miss Allen?" She was going through these questions with such solemnity that the twins' suspicions had been aroused right at the start. What had Miss Allen told their sister? Again that significant flash from twin to twin. "She certainly has very likeable ways," said Lark shrewdly. "But do you like her?" insisted Prudence. "I would like her very much under ordinary circumstances," admitted Carol. "What is unusual about the circumstances?" Prudence wanted to know. "Look here, Prudence, what did Miss Allen tell you? Was she complaining about us? We've been very nice and orderly, I'm sure." Lark was aggrieved. "She wasn't complaining. She likes you both. But she says you do not like her. I want to know why." "Well, if you must know, Miss Allen is a heretic," snapped Lark. Then Prudence leaned back in her chair and gazed at the flushed faces of the twins for two full minutes. "A--a--a what?" she ejaculated, when power of speech returned to her. "Heretic," said Carol with some relish. "A heretic! You know what heresy is, don't you? We'll tell you all about it if you like, now you've got things started." "We didn't tell you before because we thought you and father would feel badly about sending us to school to a heretic. But don't you worry,--Miss Allen hasn't influenced us any." "We haven't given her a chance," said Carol, with her impish smile. "Go on," begged Prudence. "Tell me. You're both crazy, I see that. But tell me!" "Well," began Lark, for Carol always relegated the story-telling to her more gifted twin, "we've suspected Miss Allen right from the start. They used to have Bible reading every morning in school, one chapter, you know, and then the Lord's prayer. After the first week, Miss Allen dropped it. We thought that was a--a suspicious circumstance." "Phenomenally so," said Carol darkly. "But we kept our suspicions to ourselves, and we didn't come across anything else for several days. We wouldn't condemn anybody on--on circumstantial evidence, Prue. We're very fair-minded, you know." "In spite of being twins," added Carol. "What's that got to do with it?" Prudence inquired, frowning at Carol. "Oh, nothing," admitted Carol, driven into a corner. "I just wanted to make it emphatic." "Go on, Lark." "Well, there's a girl at school named Hattie Simpson. You do not know her, Prue. We don't associate with her. Oh, yes, we like her very well, but she isn't parsonage material." "She's a goat," put in Carol. "You needn't frown, Prue, that's Bible! Don't you remember the sheep and the goats? I don't know now just what it was they did, but I know the goats were very--very disreputable characters!" "Go on, Lark." "Well, her folks are atheists, and she's an atheist, too. You know what an atheist is, don't you? You know, Prue, Mount Mark is a very religious town, on account of the Presbyterian College, and all, and it seems the Simpsons are the only atheists here. Hattie says people look down on her terribly because of it. She says the church folks consider them, the Simpsons, that is, the dust on their shoes, and the crumbs off the rich man's table. She got that terribly mixed up, but I didn't correct her." "I think she did very well for an atheist," said Carol, determined not to be totally overlooked in this discussion. "What has all this to do with Miss Allen?" "Well, one day Hattie was walking home from school with us, and she was telling us about it,--the dust on their shoes, etc.,--and she said she liked Miss Allen better than anybody else in town. I asked why. She said Miss Allen believed the same things the Simpsons believe, only Miss Allen daren't say so publicly, or they would put her out of the school. She said Miss Allen said that most church members were hypocrites and drunkards and--and just generally bad, and the ones outside the church are nearly always good and moral and kind. She said Miss Allen joined the Presbyterian church here because most of the school board are Presbyterians. She said Miss Allen said she didn't care if people were Catholics or Jews or atheists or--or just ordinary Protestants, so long as they were kind to one another, and went about the world doing good works. And that's why Miss Allen wouldn't read the Bible and say the Lord's prayer in school." "What do you think of that?" demanded Carol. "Isn't that heresy? She's as bad as the priest and Levite, isn't she?" "Did you ask Miss Allen about it?" "No, indeed, we've just ignored Miss Allen ever since. We have watched her as closely as we could since then, to see if we could catch her up again. Of course she has to be careful what she says in school, but we found several strong points against her. It's a perfectly plain case, no doubt about it." "And so you went among the other freshmen influencing them, and telling tales, and criticizing your----" "No indeed, Prue, we wouldn't! But you know it says in the Bible to beware of false doctrines and the sowers of bad seed,--or something like that--" "And we bewared as hard as we could!" grinned Carol. "We have tried to explain these things to the other freshmen so Miss Allen could not lead them into--into error. Oh, that's Christian Science, isn't it? Well, Minnie Carlson is a Christian Scientist and she talks so much about falling into error that--honestly----" "We can't tell error from truth any more," interjected Carol neatly. "And so I hope you won't punish us if we accidentally vary from the truth once in a while." This was quite beyond Prudence's depth. She knew little of Christian Science save that it was a widely accepted creed of recent origin. So she brought the twins back to Miss Allen again. "But, twins, do you think it was kind, and Christian, and--and like parsonage girls, to accept all this against Miss Allen without giving her a chance to defend herself?" "As I told you, Prue, we have watched her very close since then. She has never come right out in the open,--she wouldn't dare,--but she has given herself away several times. Nothing can get by us when we're on the watch, you know!" Prudence knew. "What did Miss Allen say?" The twins thought seriously for a while. "Oh, yes, Lark," suggested Carol finally, "don't you remember she said the Bible was an allegory?" "What?" "Yes, she did. She was explaining to the English class what was meant by allegory, and she said the purpose of using allegory was to teach an important truth in a homely impressive way that could be remembered. She mentioned several prominent allegories, and said the Bible was one. And you know yourself Prue, that the Bible is Gospel truth, and--I mean, it is so! I mean----" "What she means," said Lark helpfully, "is that the Bible is not just a pretty way of teaching people to be good, but it's solid fact clear through." "That's very well expressed, Lark,"--Prudence herself could not have expressed it half so well! "But how do you twins understand all these things so thoroughly?" "Oh, you know Mrs. Sears is our Sunday-school teacher, and she's always hot on the trail of the higher critics and heretics. She explained all about the--the nefarious system to us one Sunday. She says the higher critics try to explain away the Bible by calling it allegory. So we were ready for Miss Allen there. And whenever anything came up at school, we would ask Mrs. Sears about it on Sunday,--without mentioning names of course. She's very much gratified that we are so much interested in such things. She thinks we're sure to be deaconesses, at the very least. But Carol said she wouldn't be a deaconess,--she was going to be a Red Cross nurse and go to war. That stumped Mrs. Sears for a while, and then she said we could be Red Cross Deaconess nurses." "I won't," said Carol, "because the deaconess uniforms aren't as stylish as the Red Cross nurses'. I think I'll look pretty fine in a white uniform with a stiff little cap and a red cross on my arm. Red crosses make a very pretty decoration, don't you think they do, Lark?" "What else did Miss Allen say at school?" Prudence demanded, leading the twins back to the subject. "Well, one day she said,--you know she gives uplifting little moral talks quite often, Prue. Sometimes she tells us stories with inspiring points. She's really a moral person, I believe." "And I'm honestly sorry she's a heretic," said Carol, "for I do want to be friendly enough with her to ask if she uses anything on her complexion to keep it so rose-leafy. If she does, I'll have some of it, if it takes all my next year's clothes!" Lark laughed. "A rose-leaf complexion will be a poor substitute for----" "Oh, for goodness' sake, twins, come back to Miss Allen. I am going right up to her house this minute, to ask her about it, and explain----" "She's the one to do the explaining, seems to me," said Carol belligerently. "We've got to stick up for the Bible, Prue,--it's our business." "And I don't think you should tell her,--it may hurt her feelings," urged Lark. "Have heretics feelings?" queried Carol. "I suppose it's a feeling of----" "Carol! Will you quit talking for a minute! This is a serious matter. If she believes all that nonsense, she's no proper teacher and--and she'll have to be put out of the high school. And if she doesn't believe it, she's a martyr! I'm going to find out about it at once. Do you want to come with me?" "I should say not," said the twins promptly. "I think you're very foolish to go at all," added Lark. "I wouldn't go for a dollar," declared Carol. "It'd be very interesting to see how a heretic feels, but I don't care to know how ordinary Christians feel when they fall into their hands. I'm not aching to see Miss Allen to-night." So Prudence set forth, conscientiously, in the darkness. A brave and heroic thing for Prudence to do, for she was a cowardly creature at heart. Miss Allen heard her voice in the lower hall, and came running down-stairs to meet her. "Come up," she cried eagerly, "come on up." And before Prudence was fairly inside the door, she demanded, "What is it? Did you find out? Is it my fault?" Then Prudence blushed and stammered, "Why--it sounds--silly but--they think you are a--heretic." Miss Allen gasped. Then she laughed. Then she walked to her dressing-table and picked up a long hatpin. "Will you kindly jab this into me?" she said. "I'm having a nightmare." Prudence explained in detail. At first Miss Allen laughed, it must be confessed. Then she grew very sober. "It is really my fault," she said, "for I should have remembered that young people read a ton of meaning into a pound of words. Of course, I am not guilty, Miss Starr. Professor Duke and Miss Adams can swear to that. They call me Goody-goody. They say I am an old-fashioned apostle, and they accuse me of wanting to burn them both at the stake! Now, sit down and let me explain." Prudence sat down. She was glad, so glad, that this sweet-faced, bright-eyed woman was an "ordinary Christian," and not a "priest and a Levite!" "About the allegory business, it is very simple. What I said was this,--'The Bible is full of allegory.' I did not say, 'The Bible is allegory.' I said the Bible is full of allegory, and so it is. The parables, for instance,--what are they? Do you see the difference?--But it is really more serious about poor little Hattie Simpson. As the twins told you, her parents are atheists. Her father is a loud-voiced, bragging, boastful, coarse-hearted fellow. Hattie herself does not know what her parents believe, and what they do not. She simply follows blindly after them. She thinks she is an eyesore in Mount Mark because of it. She resents it bitterly, but she feels the only decent thing for her to do is to stand by her folks. Let me tell you about our conversation. I tried to make friends with her, for I truly pity her. She has no friends, she slinks about as though constantly ashamed of herself. She trusts no one, herself least of all. I tried to draw her out, and with partial success. She told me how she feels about it all. I said, 'Hattie, won't you let some one--some minister, who knows how--tell you about Christianity, and explain to you what Christians really believe?' 'No,' she said passionately, 'I'll stand by my folks.' Then I saw she was not ready yet. I said, 'Well, perhaps it is just as well for the present, for you are too young now to take any definite stand for yourself. It is true,' I told her, 'that many church members are not Christians, and are bad immoral people,--as your father says. They are not Christians. And it is true that many outside of the church are good moral people,--but they are not Christians, either.' And then I said, 'Don't worry your head just now about whether people are Catholics or Jews or Protestants, or what they are. Just try to love everybody, and try to grow up to be such a sweet, kind, loving woman that you will be a blessing to the world. And what is more,' I said, 'do not puzzle your head now about why some believe the Bible, and some do not. Just wait. When you are older, you shall go into things for yourself, and make your own decision.'" Prudence nodded. "I think you were very sweet about it," she said. "I wanted to win her confidence in the hope that some time, a little later, I myself may show her what Christ is to us, and why we love the Bible. But I did fight shy of the real point, for fear I might anger her and put a barrier between us. I just tried to win her confidence and her love, to pave the way for what I may be able to do later on. Do you see? I have had several talks with her, but she is not ready. She is just a child, stubbornly determined to stand with her folks, right or wrong. I am trying now to cultivate the ground, I say nothing to make her dislike or distrust me. I did not think of her telling it to others,--and telling it wrong! Surely no one but the twins could have read so much into it!" "Well," and Prudence smiled, "you know we are parsonage people! We have to stick up for the Bible, as Carol says." "Oh, and about the Bible reading," said Miss Allen suddenly, "I have nothing to do with that. As you know, there are Jews and Catholics and Christian Scientists and every branch of Protestant represented in our little school. The Jews and Christian Scientists are in a minority. The Jews, have always objected to Bible reading, but they were too few to be influential. With a Catholic teacher, the Catholics were quite willing to have it. With a Protestant teacher, the Protestants were strong for it. But there was always friction--one side objecting--so the school board ruled it out entirely. I did not explain this to the scholars. I did not want our young people to know of the petty bickering and scrapping going on among the elders in the town. So I simply said that hereafter we would dispense with the Bible reading. But it was the direct order of the board. I argued against it, so did Professor Duke, so did Miss Adams. But as it happens, we are all three Presbyterians! It did no good." Then as Prudence rose to go home, she asked eagerly, "Do you think the twins will like me now?" "I don't see how in the world they can help it," declared Prudence, smiling; "indeed, they admitted they were only too anxious to love you, but couldn't honestly do so because they had to stick up for the Bible! I am so glad and relieved! This is the first time I have gone heresy-hunting, and I was quite bowed down with the weight of it. And if ever I can help with poor little Hattie, will you let me know? I must have the twins invite her to spend some Saturday with us. That's the way I make the girls like people,--by being with them a great, great deal." Just before she said good night, Prudence murmured hopefully, "I am sorry it happened, but it will be a good lesson for the twins. I am sure that after this, they will be less ready to listen to gossip, and more ready to give one the benefit of a doubt. It's a great responsibility, this raising a family, Miss Allen--and especially twins!" CHAPTER VI AN ADMIRER It must be remembered that Prudence did not live in a sheltered and exclusive city home, where girls are rigidly withheld from all unchaperoned intercourse with young men and old. We know how things are managed in the "best homes" of the big cities,--girls are sheltered from innocent open things, and, too often, indulge in really serious amusements on the quiet. But this was the Middle West, where girls are to be trusted. Not all girls, of course, but as a matter of fact, the girls who need watching, seldom get enough of it to keep them out of mischief. Out in Iowa, girls and boys are allowed to like each other, and revel in each other's company. And it is good for both. Prudence was not a sentimental girl. Perhaps this was partly due to the fact that at the age when most girls are head-full of boy, Prudence was hands-full of younger sisters! And when hands are full to overflowing, there is small likelihood of heads being full of nonsense. Prudence liked boys as she liked girls,--that was the end of it. Romance was to her a closed book, and she felt no inclination to peep between the covers. Soul-stirring had not come to her yet. But Prudence was attractive. She had that indescribable charm that carries a deep appeal to the eyes, and the lips, and the hearts of men. Happily Prudence herself did not realize this. The first young man of Mount Mark to yield to the charms of Prudence was a serious-minded lawyer, nearly ten years her senior. This was just the type of man to become enraptured with Prudence. He gazed across at her solemnly during the church service. He waited patiently after the benediction until she finished her Methodist practise of hand-shaking, and then walked joyously home with her. He said little, but he gazed in frank enchantment at the small womanly girl beside him. "He's not half bad, Fairy," Prudence would confide to her sister when they were snug in their bed. "He's not half bad at all. But at heart, he doesn't approve of me. He doesn't know that himself, and I certainly can't believe it is my duty to tell him. But I am convinced that it is true. For instance, he thinks every one, especially women, should have a mission in life, a serious, earnest mission. I told him I didn't believe anything of the kind,--I think we are just supposed to live along from day to day and do what we can, and be happy, and not say mean things about one another. But he said he considered that I was fulfilling the noblest mission a woman could have. Now what do you reckon he meant by that, Fairy? I've been puzzling my brain over it for days and days. Anybody can tell I am not the sort of girl to have a mission! Maybe he just said it to encourage me,--he's a very encouraging sort of man. He's very nice,--oh, very nice, indeed! But isn't it a nuisance to have him tagging along home with me, when I might be having such a good time with you and the twins, or father? Can a girl tell a man she prefers to go home with her family, without hurting his feelings? Is there any way to turn a person down without letting him know it? He's so nice I wouldn't hurt his feelings for anything, but--it's such a bother! I'm too young for beaus, and since I'm never going to get married it's just a waste of time." And Fairy screamed with laughter, but told Prudence she must solve her own love problems! And Prudence, unwilling to give offense, and preferring self-sacrifice, endured his company until a gay young college lad slipped in ahead of him. "First come, first served," was the motto of heartless Prudence, and so she tripped comfortably away with "Jimmy," laughing at his silly college stories, and never thinking to give more than a parting smile at the solemn face she left behind. After Jimmy came a grocery clerk named Byron Poe Smith, and after him somebody else, and somebody else, and somebody else. And Prudence continued to laugh, and thought it "awfully amusing, Fairy, but I keep wondering what you and the twins are laughing about!" But it was Fairy herself who brought a real disturbing element into the life of Prudence. One of the lightest-minded of the many light-minded college men, had been deeply smitten by the charms of dignified Fairy. He walked with her, and talked with her,--this young man was a great deal of a talker, as so pathetically many college men are! He planned many little expeditions and entertainments for her amusement, and his own happiness. His name was Eugene Babler. "Oh, he talks a lot," said Fairy coolly, "but he certainly shows one a good time, and that's the point, you know!" She came in from college one afternoon and rattled off this little tale to Prudence. "A few of us were on the campus to-day, and we decided to go down the creek to-morrow afternoon and take our suppers. There'll be Ellen Stark, and Georgia Prentiss, and myself. And the boys will be Tom Angell, and Frank Morris, and Eugene Babler. And Professor Rayburn was there when we were talking about it, and so we asked him to go along, but we told him he must take a girl. And he said, 'I wonder if your sister wouldn't go? I have only met her once, but perhaps on your recommendation, Miss Fairy----' and he paused with his breath in the air, inquiringly. So I said, 'Do you mean Prudence, or one of the twins?' He smiled very kindly and said, 'I mean Prudence.' I said I was sure you would go, and so you'll have to do it. It's a great honor, Prue, for all the upper-class girls, and even the unmarried women on the Fac. are crazy about him. He's so aloof, you know, and very intelligent. I swelled with pride at the public tribute to the parsonage!" "Professor Rayburn! Of the Fac.!" gasped Prudence. "Oh, I'm sure he didn't mean me, Fairy. You must have misunderstood him. Why, I wouldn't know what to say to a professor, you know! What is his line?" "Bugs!" cried Fairy. "He's the biology man. And this is his first year here, and he's very brilliant,--they say! I'm no authority on bugs myself. But anyhow every one just raves about him, and he showed very plainly that he was anxious to get acquainted with you, so you'll have to go." "But bugs!" wailed Prudence. "What do I know about bugs! Will he expect me to know how to divide them,--separate them, you know--" "I suppose you mean dissect them, you poor child," screamed Fairy. "Divide bugs! If professor could hear you now, Prue, he would be sadly disillusioned. You must just trot up-stairs and get one of the twins' biology books and cram up a little. He won't expect you to be an advanced buggist. He can give you points himself. Men do love to have girls appeal to their superior knowledge, and be admiring and deferent. Maybe he will 'divide one' for you if you ask him 'please.'" "I won't do it," declared Prudence. "I don't like bugs anyhow, and--why, the very pictures of them in the twins' books make me nervous. I won't do it. You can just tell him I don't feel qualified to go." "You've got to go," said Fairy sternly, "for I said you would, and he's counting on it. He's going to phone you this afternoon and ask you himself. You've got to go." At that instant, the telephone rang. "There's professor!" cried Fairy. "You tell him you are just delighted to go, and that you are so interested in bugs!" With a flushed face, Prudence took down the receiver. "Hello," she said, "this is the parsonage." And then, a second later, she said, "Yes, this is Prudence." After that she stood silent for some little time, with Fairy crouched beside her, trying to hear. Then spoke Prudence. "Yes, Fairy has been telling me. And it's very kind of you, indeed, and I know I would enjoy it. But as I was telling Fairy, I don't know a thing about bugs, and I don't like them anyhow, so I'm afraid you would find me rather stupid." Fairy was striving to get a hand over her sister's lips to stem the words, but Prudence eluded her. They were both somewhat astounded at the great peal of laughter which came over the telephone. "Good! That's just what I was hoping for! You couldn't have said anything that would give me greater pleasure. Then shall I come around with Babler, for you and your sister, about one o'clock?--Oh, that is very kind of you, Miss Starr. Good-by! Don't cultivate an interest in bugs between now and to-morrow, for my sake!" The girls looked at each other doubtfully when the receiver was once more on its hook. "I'm afraid he's laughing at me," said Prudence questioningly. "I should hope so," cried Fairy. "What in the world did you say that for? Couldn't you have pretended to be interested? Professor likes women to be dignified and intellectual and deep, and----" "Then why on earth did he ask me to go?" demanded Prudence. "Any one could tell to look at me that I'm not dignified and intellectual and deep, and----" "And I know he admired you, for he was so eager when he asked about you. Think how grand it would be to speak of 'my sister, Mrs. Professor Rayburn,' and----" "Don't be silly, Fairy. If I was going to marry anybody, which I am not, I hope you do not think for one minute that I'd marry a buggist! Gracious! Goodness! I've a notion not to go a step! I'll call him up and----" But Fairy only laughed. And after all, Prudence looked forward to the little outing in the glorious October woods with eager anticipation. It was seldom indeed that she indulged in merry-making away from the parsonage. Yet she was fond of gaiety. Long before one o'clock on that eventful day, she was ready. And her face was so bright, and her eyes so starry, that placid self-satisfied Fairy felt a twinge of something like envy. "You look like a creature from another world, Prue," she said. "If Professor Rayburn has any sense in his bones, he will fall dead in love with you,--bugs or no bugs!" "People do not have sense in their bones, Fairy, and--and--shall I say professor, or just plain Mister?" "Professor, I suppose,--every one calls him professor." "Then I shall say Mister," said Prudence. "It will be so hard to enjoy myself if I keep remembering that he teaches bugs! I might as well be at school. I shall say Mister." And she did say "Mister," and she said it so sweetly, and looked up into Professor Rayburn's face so brightly, and with happiness so evident and so girlish, that the staid professor felt a quick unaccountable throbbing down somewhere beneath his coat. He did look eager! There was no doubt of it. And he looked at Prudence, continuously. "Just like ordinary men, isn't he?" whispered Fairy to Eugene Babler,--called "Babbie," for short and for humiliation,--for he enjoyed the reputation of being a "talker" even among college men! The three young couples struck off briskly down the road, creek-ward, and Prudence followed sedately with her professor. "Fairy says it was perfectly disgusting of me to tell you I didn't know anything about bugs," she said comfortably. "But I thought maybe, you were one of those professors who like one thing so much they can't be interested in anything else. And I wanted to warn you. But I guess you aren't that kind, after all?" "Oh, no, indeed," he assured her fervently, looking deep into her blue eyes. "I like bugs, it is true. But really I like other things, one thing at least, much better." "Is it a riddle?" she inquired. "Am I supposed to guess?" "It isn't a riddle, but you may guess. Think hard, now! It's a serious matter. Please don't say 'food.'" "If I get below seventy will I be put down a grade?" she asked. Then with intense solemnity, "I guess girls." They laughed together, youthfully. "You are right," he said. And with a sigh of relief, Prudence answered, "That's the first time I ever got a hundred in anything in my life. I was very much accustomed to eighties when I was in school. I am very common and unbrilliant," she assured him. "Fairy says you are perfectly horribly clever----" She glanced up when she heard his exclamation, and laughed at his rueful face. "Oh, that isn't Fairy's expression. She thinks brilliant and clever people are just adorable. It is only I who think them horrible." Even Prudence could see that this did not help matters. "I--I do not mean that," she stammered. "I am sure you are very nice indeed, and we are going to be good friends, aren't we? But I am such a dunce myself that I am afraid of real clever people. They are so superior. And so uninteresting, and--oh, I do not mean that either." Then Prudence laughed at her predicament. "I may as well give it up. What I really mean is that you are so nice and friendly and interesting, that I can hardly believe you are so clever. You are the nicest smart person I ever saw,--except my own family, I mean." She smiled up at him deliciously. "Does that make it square?" "More than square," he said. "You are too complimentary. But the only thing that really counts to-day is whether we are going to be real good friends, as you suggested. We are, aren't we? The very best and closest of friends?" "Yes," agreed Prudence, dimpling. "I like men to be my friends,--nice men, I mean. But it isn't always safe. So many start out to be good friends, and then want to be silly. So a girl has to be very careful. But it's perfectly safe with you, and so we can be the very best of friends. I won't need to be watchful for bad symptoms." "Do you think me so unmanly that I couldn't fall in love?" he asked, and his voice was curious, as though she had hurt him. "Oh, of course, you'll fall in love," laughed Prudence. "All nice men do.--But not with me,--that was what I meant I couldn't imagine a buggy professor--oh, I beg your pardon! But the twins are so silly and disrespectful, and they thought it was such a joke that I should even look at a professor of biology that they began calling you the buggy professor. But they do not mean any harm by it, not the least in the world. They're such nice sweet girls, but--young, you know. Are your feelings hurt?" she asked anxiously. "Not a bit! I think the twins and I will be tremendously good friends. I'm quite willing to be known as the buggy professor. But you were trying to explain why I couldn't fall in love with you. I suppose you mean that you do not want me to." "Oh, not that at all," she hastened to assure him. Then she stopped. "Yes," she said honestly, "that is true, too. But that isn't what I was trying to say. I was just saying that no one realizes any more than I how perfectly impossible it would be for a clever, grown-up, brilliant professor to fall in love with such an idiot as I am. That's all. I meant it for a compliment," she added, seeing he was not well pleased. He smiled, but it was a sober smile. "You said it was true that you did not wish me to be--fond of you. Why? Don't you like me then, after all?" Now, he realized that this was a perfectly insane conversation, but for the life of him, he couldn't help it. Prudence was so alluring, and the sky was so warmly blue, the sunshine so mild and hazy, and the roadside so gloriously gay with colors! Who could have sense on such a day, with such a girl as this? "Oh, I do like you very much indeed," declared Prudence. "It's a big relief, too, for I didn't expect to--oh, I beg your pardon again, but--well, I was scared when Fairy told me how remarkable you are. I didn't want to disgrace the parsonage, and I knew I would. But--why, the reason I do not want you to fall in love with me,--that's very different from being fond of me, I do want you to be that,--but when people fall in love, they get married. I'm not going to get married, so it would be silly to fall in love, wouldn't it?" He laughed heartily at the matter-of-factness with which this nineteen-year-old girl disposed of love and marriage. "Why aren't you going to be married?" he inquired, foolishly happy, and showing more foolishness than happiness, just as we all do on such occasions. "Well, it will be ten or eleven years before Connie is fairly raised." "Yes, but you won't be a Methuselah, in eleven years," he smiled. "No, but you forget father." "Forget father! Are you raising him, too?" "No, I'm not raising him, but I'm managing him." But when he laughed, she hastened to add, "That is, I take care of him, and keep house for him, and remind him of things he forgets." Then with girlish honesty, she added, "Though I must confess that he has to remind me of things I forget, oftener than I do him. I inherited my forgetfulness from father. I asked him once if he inherited his from grandfather, and he said he forgot whether grandfather was forgetful or not! Father is very clever. So's Fairy. And the twins are the smartest little things you ever saw,--and Connie, too. Connie is the oddest, keenest child. She's wonderful. They all are,--but me. It's kind of humiliating to be the only stupid one in a family of smart folks. I suppose you've no idea how it feels, and I can't explain it. But sometimes I think maybe I ought to go off and die, so the whole family can shine and sparkle together. As it is, there's just a dull glow from my corner, quite pale and ugly compared with the brilliant gleams the others are sending out." Said Professor Rayburn, "Ah, Prudence, the faint, sweet mellow glows are always beautiful. Not sparkling, perhaps, not brilliant! But comforting, and cheering, and--always to be trusted. It's just these little corner-glows, like yours, that make life worth living." This was rather deep for Prudence, but she felt instinctively that he was complimenting her. She thanked him sweetly, and said, "And after all, I do not really mind being the stupid one. I think it's rather fun, for then I can just live along comfortably, and people do not expect much of me. It would wear me all out to be as clever as Fairy, or as witty as Carol, or as studious as Lark. But I am most tremendously proud of them, I assure you." If Professor Rayburn had continued along this interesting and fruitful line of conversation, all would have been well. "But it came just like a clap of thunder in the sunshine," said Prudence to Fairy dramatically, as they sat in their room talking things over that night. "We were having a perfectly grand time, and I was just thinking he was as nice and interesting as if he didn't know one thing to his name, when--Crash! That's how it happened." Fairy wiped her eyes, and lay back weakly on the bed. "Go on," she urged. "What happened?" "He stopped right in the middle of a sentence about me, something real nice, too, that I was awfully interested in, and said, 'Look, Miss Starr!' Then he got down on his knees and began cautiously scraping away the sticks and leaves. Then he fished out the most horrible, woolly, many-legged little animal I ever saw in my life. He said it was a giminythoraticus billyancibus, and he was as tickled over it as though he had just picked up a million-dollar diamond. And what do you suppose the weird creature did with it? He wrapped it in a couple of leaves, and put his handkerchief around it and put it in his pocket!--Do you remember when we were eating by the creek, and I got jam on my fingers? He offered me his handkerchief to wipe it off? Do you remember how I shoved him away, and shuddered? I saw you look reprovingly at me! That's why! Do you suppose I could wipe my fingers with a handkerchief that had been in one of his pockets?" "It wasn't the one that had the giminy billibus, was it?" "No, but goodness only knows what had been in this one,--an alligator, maybe, or a snake. He's very fond of snakes. He says some of them are so useful. I try to be charitable, Fairy, and I believe I would give even Satan credit for any good there was in him,--but it is too much to ask me to be fond of a man who is fond of snakes. But that is not the worst. He put the giminy thing in his pocket,--his left pocket! Then he came on walking with me, on my right side. On my right side, Fairy, do you understand what that means? It means that the giminy billibus, as you call it--oh, I wouldn't swear to the name, Fairy, I do not claim to be smart, but I know how it looked! Well, anyhow, name and all, it was on the side next to me. I stopped to look at a little stick, and switched around on the other side. Then he stooped to look at a bunch of dirt, and got on the wrong side again. Then I stopped, and then he did, and so we kept zig-zagging down the road. A body would have thought we were drunk, I suppose. Four times that man stopped to pick up some wriggling little animal, and four times he deposited his treasure in one of his various pockets. Don't ask why it is impossible for me to be friends with such a being,--spare me that humiliation!" But the fair daughter of the parsonage proved irresistibly attractive to the unfortunate professor, and he was not to be lightly shunted aside. He forsook the Presbyterian church, of which he was a member, and attended the Methodist meetings with commendable assiduity. After each service, he accompanied Prudence home, and never failed to accept her invitations, feebly given, to "come in a minute." He called as often during the week as Propriety, in the voice of Prudence, deemed fitting. It was wholly unnatural for Prudence to cater to Propriety, but Professor Rayburn did not know this. Weeks passed, a month slipped away, and another. Professor Rayburn was considered a fixture in the parsonage household by all except Prudence herself, who chafed under her bondage. "I can't just blurt out that I think he's a nuisance," she mourned to Fairy. "Oh, if he'd just do something disgusting so I could fire him off,--Pop! Just like that. Wouldn't it be glorious?" But the professor did not indulge in disgusting things, and Prudence continued to worry and fret. Then came a blessed evening when the minister and Fairy were away from home, and the twins and Connie were safely in their beds. Professor Rayburn sat with Prudence in the cozy living-room, and Prudence was charming, though quiet, and the professor was only human. Prudence had made tea, and as she rose to relieve him of his empty cup, he also rose to return it to the table. Laughing, they put it down on the tray, each holding one side of the saucer. Then when it was safely disposed of, Prudence turned toward him, still laughing at the silliness of it,--very alluring, very winsome. And Mr. Rayburn, unexpectedly to himself as to her, put his arms around her and kissed her. He was aghast at himself, once it was over, and Prudence,--well, let us say frankly that Prudence was only relieved, for it came to her in a flash that this was the "disgusting thing" for which she had so fervently longed. "Mr. Rayburn!" "That was very stupid and unpardonable of me, Prudence," he said quickly, "I really did not think what I was doing. But you were so sweet, and--I'm awfully fond of you, Prudence, you know that." Prudence looked at him thoughtfully. She felt that this hardly gave her the desired opening. So she waited, hoping he would commit himself further. More humbled by her unnatural silence, he did go on. "You know, Prudence, when a man cares for a girl as I care for you, it isn't always easy for him to be sober and sensible. You shouldn't have been so--so dear." Prudence sighed happily. She was content. This gave her the long-desired cue. "Mr. Rayburn," she said gently but decidedly, "I think you ought not to come here any more." He walked over to her quickly, and stood beside the chair into which she had dropped when he kissed her. "Don't say that, Prudence," he said in a hurried low voice. "It is true," she persisted, feeling somehow sorry, though she did not understand why she should feel so. "I--I--well, you know I--you remember what I told you that first day, don't you? About getting married, and falling in love, and such things. It is true. I don't want to love anybody, and I don't want to get married, and Fairy says--it is--remotely possible--that you might get--very fond of me." He smiled rather grimly. "Yes, I think it is--remotely possible." "Then that settles it," she said comfortably. "And besides, I have such a lot to do that I can't--well, bother--spending so much time outside as I have with you. I've been neglecting my work, and it isn't right. I haven't the time." "Which is your way of saying that you do not like me, isn't it?" Prudence stood up impulsively. "Oh, I like you, but--" she threw out her hands expressively. He took them in his, tenderly, firmly. "But, Prudence," he argued, "that is because the woman in you isn't awake. You may never love me--a dismal possibility, but it is true. But don't you think it only fair that you should give me a chance to try?" "Oh, but that's just the point," she cried. "I do not want you to try. I do not want to run any risk, at all. I wouldn't marry you if I did love you--I told you that right in the beginning." He still held her hands in one of his, caressing them slowly with the other. "What is there about me that you do not like?" he demanded suddenly. "There is something, I know." And with her awful unbelievable honesty. Prudence told him. "Yes," she said, "that is true. I hated to mention it, but there is something! Mr. Rayburn, I just can't stand the bugs!" "Good heavens! The what?" "The bugs! I can't bear for you to be near me, because I keep wondering if there are bugs and things in your pocket. I'm afraid they'll get over on me. Even now it makes me shiver when you hold my hands, because I know you've been handling the horrible little creatures with yours." He dropped her hands abruptly, and stared at her. "And after you leave, I get down on my hands and knees and look over the floor, and examine the chairs, to see if any have crawled off! It's a terrible feeling, Mr. Rayburn. You know I told you I hated bugs.--I'm afraid I've hurt your feelings," she said sadly. "Where in the world did you get such an idea as that?" he demanded rather angrily. "Do you think I have pet bugs to carry around with me for company?" "No,--but don't you remember the picnic,--and how you kept gathering them up in your handkerchiefs and putting them in your pockets? And how I kept squirming around to get on the other side,--I was trying to get away from the bugs!" "But, my heavens, Prudence, those were my field clothes. I don't put bugs in these pockets,--these are my Sunday togs!" He smiled a little. "And I always wash my hands, you know." He found it humorous, and yet it hurt him. Such a little thing to prejudice a girl so strongly,--and one he liked so marvelously well! "You might forget, and put them in these pockets,--it's a kind of habit with you, I suppose. And just plain washing won't take the idea of bugs off your hands." "Prudence, you are only a girl,--a childish girl, but a very sweet one. I want you to like me. When you grow up, you are going to be a wonderfully good and lovely woman. I--I am going to want you then. I know it. Let's just be friends now, can't we--until later--for a long time yet? I'll promise on my word of honor never to put another bug in my pockets, or my handkerchiefs. But I can't promise not to touch them, for I have to do it in class. That's how I earn my living! But I will wash my hands with Ivory soap and sapolio, and rub them with cold cream, and powder them, and perfume them, before I ever come near you again. Won't that do?" Prudence shook her head. "I know you are laughing at me," she said, "but I always told you I was just a silly simpleton. And--it isn't the bugs altogether. I--I like it better to be with my sisters than----" "Than with me? I see. As I said, the woman of you is still sleeping. Well, we are young, and I will wait. I won't bother you any more for a long time, Prudence, but I shan't forget you. And some day I will come back to you again." He stared at her moodily. Then he put his hands beneath her elbows, and looked into her eyes searchingly. "You are a strange girl, Prudence. In some ways, you are so womanly, and in other ways so--pitifully girlish! All the woman in your heart seems to be given to your sisters and your father, and-- But you will waken, and I won't hurry you." Then he put his arms around her again, and whispered in her ear, "But I love you, Prudence, and--if some one else should do the awakening--it would hurt!" Then he kissed her, and went away. But Prudence ran up-stairs, singing happily. "Oh, I feel like a caged-up bird that has broken loose," she cried to her reflection in the mirror jubilantly. "Oh, what fun it will be to come home from church with Fairy and the twins, the way I used to do!" CHAPTER VII LESSONS IN ETIQUETTE Connie was lying flat on her back near the register. The twins were sitting on the floor near her, hearing each other conjugate Latin verbs. And Prudence, with her darning basket, was earnestly trying to solve a domestic problem,--how to get three pairs of wearable stockings out of eleven hosiery remnants. So Fairy found them as she came in, radiant and glowing. "Glorious day," she said, glancing impartially at her sisters. "Just glorious! Why are you all hugging the register, may I ask? It is perfect weather. Connie, you should be out-of-doors this minute, by all means. Twins, aren't you grown-up enough to sit on chairs, or won't your footies reach the floor?--Babbie, Eugene Babler, you know, is coming to spend the evening, Prudence." "What is going on to-night?" queried Prudence. "Nothing is going on. That's why he is coming. It's too cold to meander around outdoors these nights, and so we shall have to amuse ourselves inside as best we can." The whole family came to attention at this. "Oh, goody!" cried Connie. "Let's make taffy, shall we, Fairy?" "Certainly not. This isn't a children's party. You'll go to bed at eight o'clock as usual, Connie mine.--Now, we must have something to eat. The question is, What shall it be?" "Yes," agreed Carol with enthusiasm,--Carol was always enthusiastic on the subject of something to eat. "Yes, indeed, that is the question. What shall we have?" "You will likely have pleasant dreams, Carol," was the cool retort. "Babbie did not invite himself to spend the evening with you, I believe." "Do you mean to suggest," demanded Lark with withering scorn, "that it is your intention to shut yourself up alone with this--this creature, excluding the rest of us?" "Yes, and have refreshments for just you two?" cried Carol. [Illustration: "Yes, and have refreshments for just you two?"] "That is my intention most certainly. The twins and Connie will not put in appearance at all. Prue will serve the refreshments, and will eat with us. Babbie and I shall spend the evening in the front room." "The front room?" echoed Prudence. "This room is much cheerier, and more homelike." "Well, Babbie isn't a member of the family, you know," said Fairy. "You are doing your best," sniffed Carol. "Now, you girls must understand right off, that things are different here from what they were at Exminster. When boys came to the house there they came to have a good time with the whole family. But here it is very different. I've been looking around, and I've got on to the system. The proper thing is to receive callers privately, without the family en masse sitting by and superintending. That's etiquette, you know. And one must always serve refreshments. More etiquette. Men are such greedy animals, they do not care to go places where the eats aren't forthcoming." "Men! Are you referring to this Babbling creature now?" interposed Carol. "Ouch!" said Lark. "But won't it be rather--poky--just sitting in the front room by yourselves all evening?" asked Prudence doubtfully, ignoring the offended twins. "Oh, I dare say it will. But it's the proper thing to do," said Fairy complacently. "What are you going to do all evening?" Connie wanted to know. "Just sit and look at each other and admire yourselves?" The twins thought this very clever of Connie, so they both said "Ouch!" approvingly. "Why, no, baby dear," said Fairy good-naturedly. "We shall talk. Feast our souls with a flow of reason, you know. We shall converse. We shall hold pleasant intercourse." "Wouldn't it be more fun to have the girls in for a little while?" This from Prudence. "Oh, it might,--but it wouldn't be the proper thing at all. College men do not care to be entertained by babies." "No," snapped Lark, "the wisdom of babies is too deep for these--these--these men in embryo." This was so exquisitely said that Lark was quite restored to amiability by it. "In embryo," had been added to her vocabulary that very day in the biology class. It was only the sheerest good fortune which gave her the opportunity of utilizing it so soon. And Carol said "Ouch!" with such whole-souled admiration that Lark's spirit soared among the clouds. She had scored! "And what shall we serve them?" urged Prudence. "I suppose it would hardly do to--pop corn, would it?" "No, indeed. Popping corn is very nice for the twins and the little boys in the neighborhood." Fairy smiled with relish as she saw the twins wince at this thrust. "But Babbie and I-- Oh, never! It wouldn't do at all. Now, oyster stew and crackers,--I mean wafers,----" "Oysters are fearfully expensive, Fairy," objected the frugal Prudence. "Oh, we can stand it for once," said Fairy easily. "This is the first time, and we must do something extra. Babbie is all the rage at school, and the girls are frantic with jealousy because I have cut everybody else out. To be honest about it, I can't understand it myself. Babbie's such a giddy scatter-brained youngster, you'd think he'd prefer----" "Do you like him, Fairy? Don't you think he's tiresome? He talks so much, it seems to me." "To be sure I like him. He's great fun. He's always joking and never has a sensible thought, and hates study. He's an amusing soul, I must say. He's going to attend here a couple of years, and then study pharmacy. His father is a druggist in Ottumwa, and quite well off. The only reason Babbie came here instead of going to a big college in the East is because his father is a trustee. Trustees are in honor bound to send their offspring to the college they trustee,--just as ministers are obliged to trade with the members when possible." "Even if they short-weight and long-charge you," put in Carol. "Carol!" exclaimed Prudence reprovingly. "Well, we'll serve oyster stew then. Will you eat in the dining-room?" "No, we'll eat on the little table in the front room,--informally, you know. You must get it ready, and arrange it nicely on the big tray. Then you must come to the door and say, 'Wouldn't you like a little oyster stew?' Say it carelessly, as if we always have something to eat before going to bed. And I'll say, 'Oh, yes, Prudence, bring it right in.' Then you bring it in, and we'll all eat together.--That's the way to do it! Babbie's had dates with the very swellest girls in school, and he knows about such things. We must do it up brown!" "Swell!" mocked Lark. "Do it up brown! Oh, you'll be a record-breaker of a college professor all right. I'm sure this young Babler is just the type of man to interest the modern college professor! Swell! Do it up brown!" "Ouch!" grinned Carol. "Now, will you twins run down-town for the oysters?" asked Prudence briskly. "Who? Us?" demanded Lark, indignantly and ungrammatically. "Do you think we can carry home oysters for the--the--personal consumption of this Babbling young prince? Not so! Let Fairy go after the oysters! She can carry them home tenderly and appreciatively. Carol and I can't! We don't grasp the beauty of that man's nature." "Oh, yes, twinnies, I think you'll go, all right. Hurry now, for you must be back in time to help me get supper. Fairy'll have to straighten the front room, and we won't have time. Run along, and be quick." For a few seconds the twins gazed at each other studiously. Neither spoke. Without a word, they went up-stairs to prepare for their errand. They whispered softly going through the upper hall. "We'd better make a list," said Carol softly. So with heads close together they wrote out several items on a piece of paper. "It'll cost quite a lot," objected Carol. "Thirty cents, anyhow. And Prudence'll make us pay for the oysters, sure. Remember that." "We'd better let Connie in, too," suggested Lark. Connie was hastily summoned, and the twins whispered explanations in her willing ears. "Good!" she said approvingly. "It'll serve 'em right." "But it'll cost money," said Carol. "How much have you got?" Then Connie understood why she had been consulted. The twins always invited her to join their enterprises when money was required. "A quarter," she faltered. "Well, we'll go shares," said Lark generously. "We'll pay a dime apiece. It may not take that much. But if Prudence makes us pay for the oysters, you'll have to pay a third. Will you do that?" "Yes, indeed." Connie was relieved. She did not always get off so easily! "Twins! You must hurry!" This was Prudence at the bottom of the stairs. And the twins set off quite hurriedly. Their first tall was at the meat market. "A pint of oysters," said Lark briefly. When he brought them to her, she smelled them suspiciously. Then Carol smelled. "Are these rotten oysters?" she demanded hopefully. "No," he answered, laughing. "Certainly not." "Have you got any rotten ones?" "No, we don't keep that kind." He was still laughing. The twins sighed and hurried next door to the grocer's. "A nickel's worth of pepper--the strongest you have." This was quickly settled--and the grave-faced twins betook themselves to the corner drug store. "We--we want something with a perfectly awful smell," Lark explained soberly. "What kind of a smell?" "We don't care what kind, but it must be perfectly sickening. Like something rotten, or dead, if you have it. Something that will stay smelly for several hours,--but it mustn't be dangerous, of course." "What do you want it for?" "We want it to put in a room to give it a horrible smell for an hour or so." Lark winked at him solemnly. "It's a joke," she further elucidated. "I see." His eyes twinkled. "I think I can fix you up." A moment later he handed her a small bottle. "Just sprinkle this over the carpet. It won't do any harm, and it smells like thunder. It costs a quarter." Carol frowned. "I suppose we'll have to take it," she said, "but it's pretty expensive. I hate to have druggists get such a lot of money." He laughed aloud. "I hate to have you get a good licking to-morrow, too,--but you'll get it just the same, or I miss my guess." When the twins arrived home, Fairy was just cutting the candy she had made. "It's delicious," she said to Prudence. "Here's a nice dishful for you and the girls.--Pitch in, twins, and help yourselves. It's very nice." The twins waved her haughtily away. "No, thank you," they said. "We couldn't eat that candy with relish. We are unworthy." "All right," Prudence put in quickly, as Fairy only laughed. "I'll put it in the cupboard, and Fairy and I will eat it to-morrow. It's perfectly fine,--simply delicious." But the twins were not to be tempted. Before they went up-stairs, Lark inquired sarcastically: "I suppose, Fairy, you'll don your best blue silk in honor of this event?" "Oh, no," was the ready answer, "I'll just wear my little green muslin. It's old, but very nice and comfortable--just right for an evening at home." "Yes," scoffed Carol, "and of course you are remembering that every one says it is the most becoming dress you have." "Oh, yes," laughed Fairy, "I'm remembering that, all right." Then the twins went up-stairs, but not to their own room at once. Instead they slipped noiselessly into the front bedroom, and a little later Carol came out into the hall and stood listening at the head of the stairs, as though on guard. "Be sure and leave quite a few stitches in, Lark," she whispered once. "We want it to hang together until Babbie gets here." That was all. Presently Lark emerged, and their own door closed behind them. "It's a good thing father has to go to the trustees' meeting to-night, isn't it?" asked Carol. And Lark agreed, absently. She was thinking of the oysters. As soon as they finished supper, Lark said, "Don't you think we'd better go right to bed, Prue? We don't want to taint the atmosphere of the parsonage. Of course, Fairy will want to wash the dishes herself to make sure they are clean and shining." "Oh, no," disclaimed Fairy, still good-naturedly. "I can give an extra rub to the ones we want to use,--that is enough. I do appreciate the thought, though, thanks very much." So the twins plunged in, carefully keeping Connie beside them. "She has such a full-to-overflowing look," said Carol. "If we don't keep hold of her, she'll let something bubble over." Connie had a dismal propensity for giving things away,--the twins had often suffered from it. To-night, they were determined to forestall such a calamity. Then they all three went to bed. To be sure it was ridiculously early, but they were all determined. "We feel weak under this unusual strain. Our nerves can't stand the tension. We really must retire to rest. Maybe a good night's sleep will restore us to normal," Lark explained gravely. Fairy only laughed. "Good!" she cried. "Do go to bed. The only time I am sure of you is when you are in your beds. Do you mind if I tie you in, to make assurance doubly sure?" But the twins and Connie had disappeared. "You keep your eyes open, Fairy," Prudence whispered melodramatically. "Those girls do not look right. Something is hanging over our heads." And she added anxiously, "Oh, I'll be so disappointed if things go badly. This is the first time we've ever lived up to etiquette, and I feel it is really a crisis." Fairy was a little late getting up-stairs to dress, but she took time to drop into her sisters' room. They were all in bed, breathing heavily. She walked from one to another, and stood above them majestically. "Asleep!" she cried. "Ah, Fortune is kind. They are asleep. How I love these darling little twinnies,--in their sleep!" An audible sniff from beneath the covers, and Fairy, smiling mischievously, went into the front room to prepare for her caller. The bell rang as she was dressing. Prudence went to the door, preternaturally ceremonious, and ushered Mr. Babler into the front room. She turned on the electric switch as she opened the door. She was too much impressed with the solemnity of the occasion to take much note of her surroundings, and she did not observe that the young man sniffed in a peculiar manner as he entered the room. "I'll call Fairy," she said demurely. "Tell her she needn't primp for me," he answered, laughing. "I know just how she looks already." But Prudence was too heavily burdened to laugh. She smiled hospitably, and closed the door upon him. Fairy was tripping down the stairs, very tall, very handsome, very gay. She pinched her sister's arm as she passed, and the front room door swung behind. But she did not greet her friend. She stood erect by the door, her head tilted on one side, sniffing, sniffing. "What in the world?" she wondered. Then she blushed. Perhaps it was something he had used on his hair! Or perhaps he had been having his suit cleaned! "Oh, I guess it's nothing, after all," she stammered. But Eugene Babler was strangely quiet. He looked about the room in a peculiar questioning way. "Shall I raise a window?" he suggested finally. "It's rather--er--hot in here." "Yes, do," she urged. "Raise all of them. It's--do you--do you notice a--a funny smell in here? Or am I imagining it? It--it almost makes me sick!" "Yes, there is a smell," he said, in evident relief. "I thought maybe you'd been cleaning the carpet with something. It's ghastly. Can't we go somewhere else?" "Come on." She opened the door into the sitting-room. "We're coming out here if you do not mind, Prue." And Fairy explained the difficulty. "Why, that's very strange," said Prudence, knitting her brows. "I was in there right after supper, and I didn't notice anything. What does it smell like?" "It's a new smell to me," laughed Fairy, "but something about it is strangely suggestive of our angel-twins." Prudence went to investigate, and Fairy shoved a big chair near the table, waving her hand toward it lightly with a smile at Babbie. Then she sank into a low rocker, and leaned one arm on the table. She wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully. "That smell," she began. "I am very suspicious about it. It was not at all natural----" "Excuse me, Fairy," he said, ill at ease for the first time in her knowledge of him. "Did you know your sleeve was coming out?" Fairy gasped, and raised her arm. "Both arms, apparently," he continued, smiling, but his face was flushed. "Excuse me just a minute, will you?" Fairy was unruffled. She sought her sister. "Look here, Prue,--what do you make of this? I'm coming to pieces! I'm hanging by a single thread, as it were." Her sleeves were undoubtedly ready to drop off at a second's notice! Prudence was shocked. She grew positively white in the face. "Oh, Fairy," she wailed. "We are disgraced." "Not a bit of it," said Fairy coolly. "I remember now that Lark was looking for the scissors before supper. Aren't those twins unique? This is almost bordering on talent, isn't it? Don't look so distressed, Prue. Etiquette itself must be subservient to twins, it seems. Don't forget to bring in the stew at a quarter past nine, and have it as good as possible,--please, dear." "I will," vowed Prudence, "I'll--I'll use cream. Oh, those horrible twins!" "Go in and entertain Babbie till I come down, won't you?" And Fairy ran lightly up the stairs, humming a snatch of song. But Prudence did a poor job of entertaining Babbie during her sister's absence. She felt really dizzy! Such a way to introduce Etiquette into the parsonage life. She was glad to make her escape from the room when Fairy returned, a graceful figure in the fine blue silk! She went back to the dining-room, and painstakingly arranged the big tray for the designated moment of its entrance,--according to etiquette. Fairy and Babbie in the next room talked incessantly, laughing often and long, and Prudence, hearing, smiled in sympathy. She herself thought it would be altogether stupid to be shut up in a room alone with "just a man" for a whole evening,--but etiquette required it. Fairy knew about such things, of course. A little after nine, she called out dismally, "Fairy!" And Fairy, fearing fresh disaster, came running out. "What now? What----" "I forget what you told me to say," whispered Prudence wretchedly, "what was it? The soup is ready, and piping hot,--but what is it you want me to say?" Fairy screamed with laughter. "You goose!" she cried. "Say anything you like. I was just giving you a tip, that was all. It doesn't make any difference what you say." "Oh, I am determined to do my part just right," vowed Prudence fervently, "according to etiquette and all. What was it you said?" Fairy stifled her laughter with difficulty, and said in a low voice, "Wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" Prudence repeated it after her breathlessly. So Fairy returned once more, and soon after Prudence tapped on the door. Then she opened it, and thrust her curly head inside. "Wouldn't you like a little nice, hot, oyster stew?" she chirped methodically. And Fairy said, "Oh, yes indeed, Prudence,--this is so nice of you." The stew was steaming hot, and the three gathered sociably about the table. Prudence was talking. Fairy was passing the "crackers,"--Prudence kicked her foot gently beneath the table, to remind her that etiquette calls them "wafers." So it happened that Babbie was first to taste the steaming stew. He gasped, and gulped, and swallowed some water with more haste than grace. Then he toyed idly with spoon and wafer until Prudence tasted also. Prudence did not gasp. She did not cry out. She looked up at her sister with wide hurt eyes,--a world of pathos in the glance. But Fairy did not notice. "Now, please do not ask me to talk until I have finished my soup," she was saying brightly, "I simply can not think and appreciate oyster stew at the same time." Then she appreciated it! She dropped her spoon with a great clatter, and jumped up from the table. "Mercy!" she shrieked. "It is poisoned!" Babbie leaned back in his chair and laughed until his eyes were wet. Prudence's eyes were wet, too, but not from laughter! What would etiquette think of her, after this? "What did you do to this soup, Prudence?" demanded Fairy. "I made it,--nothing else," faltered poor Prudence, quite crushed by this blow. And oysters forty cents a pint! "It's pepper, I think," gasped Babbie. "My insides bear startling testimony to the presence of pepper." And he roared again, while Prudence began a critical examination of the oysters. She found them literally stuffed with pepper, there was no doubt of it. The twins had done deadly work! Their patience, at least, was commendable,--it seemed that not one oyster had escaped their attention. The entire pint had been ruined by the pepper. "Revenge, ye gods, how sweet," chanted Fairy. "The twins are getting even with a vengeance,--the same twins you said were adorable, Babbie." It must be said for Fairy that her good nature could stand almost anything. Even this did not seriously disturb her. "Do you suppose you can find us some milk, Prue? And crackers! I'm so fond of crackers and milk, aren't you, Babbie?" "Oh, I adore it. But serve a microscope with it, please. I want to examine it for microbes before I taste." But Prudence did better than that. She made some delicious cocoa, and opened a can of pear preserves, donated to the parsonage by the amiable Mrs. Adams. The twins were very fond of pear preserves, and had been looking forward to eating these on their approaching birthday. They were doomed to disappointment! The three had a merry little feast, after all, and their laughter rang out so often and so unrestrainedly that the twins shook in their beds with rage and disappointment. Mr. Starr came in while they were eating, and joined them genially. But afterward, when Prudence realized that etiquette called for their retirement, her father still sat complacently by the register, talking and laughing. Prudence fastened her eyes upon him. "Well, I must honestly go to bed," she said, gazing hypnotically at her father. "I know you will excuse me. I must store up my strength to deal with the twins in the morning." She got up from her chair, and moved restlessly about the room, still boring her father with her eyes. He did not move. She paused beside him, and slipped her hand under his elbow. "Now, father," she said gaily, "we must put our heads together, and think out a proper punishment for the awful creatures." Her hand was uplifting, and Mr. Starr rose with it. Together they left the room with cordial good nights, and inviting Mr. Babler to "try the parsonage again." Prudence listened outside the twins' door, and heard them breathing loudly. Then she went to her own room, and snuggling down beneath the covers, laughed softly to herself. "Etiquette!" she gurgled. "Etiquette! There's no room for such a thing in a parsonage,--I see that!" It speaks well for the courage of Babbie, and the attractions of Fairy, that he came to the parsonage again and again. In time he became the best of friends with the twins themselves, but he always called them "the adorables," and they never asked him why. The punishment inflicted upon them by Prudence rankled in their memories for many months. Indeed, upon that occasion, Prudence fairly surpassed herself in the ingenuity she displayed. The twins considered themselves very nearly as grown-up as Fairy, and the fact that she was a young lady, and they were children, filled their hearts with bitterness. They never lost an opportunity of showing their independence where she was concerned. And with marvelous insight, Prudence used Fairy as her weapon of punishment,--in fact, the twins called Fairy the "ducking-stool" for many days. "The offense was against Fairy," said Prudence, with a solemnity she did not feel, "and the reparation must be done to her. For three weeks, you must do all of her bedroom work, and run every errand she requires. Moreover, you must keep her shoes well cleaned and nicely polished, and must do every bit of her darning!" The twins would have preferred whipping a thousand times. They felt they had got a whipping's worth of pleasure out of their mischief! But a punishment like this sat heavily upon their proud young shoulders, and from that time on they held Fairy practically immune from their pranks. But Prudence did not bother her head about etiquette after that experience. "I'm strong for comfort," she declared, "and since the two can not live together in our family, I say we do without etiquette." And Fairy nodded in agreement, smiling good-naturedly. CHAPTER VIII THE FIRST DARK SHADOW OF WINTER Prudence and Fairy stood in the bay window of the sitting-room, and looked out at the thickly falling snow. Already the ground was whitely carpeted, and the low-branched peach trees just outside the parsonage windows were beginning to bow down beneath their burdens. "Isn't it beautiful, Prudence?" whispered Fairy. "Isn't it beautiful? Oh, I love it when it snows." "Yes, and you love it when the sun shines, too," said Prudence, "and when it rains, and when the wind is blowing. You have the soul of a poet, that's what is the matter with you. You are a nature-fiend, as Carol would say." Fairy turned abruptly from the window. "Don't talk for a minute, Prue,--I want to write." So Prudence stood quietly in the window, listening to the pencil scratching behind her. "Listen now, Prue,--how is this?" Fairy had a clear expressive voice, "a bright voice," Prudence called it. And as she read her simple lines aloud, the heart of Prudence swelled with pride. To Prudence, Fairy was a wonderful girl. "Good night, little baby earth, going to sleep, Tucked in your blankets, all woolly and deep. Close your tired eyelids, droop your tired head, Nestle down sweetly within your white bed. Kind Mother Sky, bending softly above, Is holding you close in her bosom of love. Closely she draws the white coverlets warm, She will be near you to shield you from harm. Soon she will set all her candles alight, To scatter the darkness, and save you from fright. Then she will leave her cloud-doorway ajar, To watch you, that nothing your slumbers may mar. Rest, little baby earth, rest and sleep tight, The winter has come, and we bid you good night." Fairy laughed, but her face was flushed. "How is that?" she demanded. "Oh, Fairy," cried Prudence, "it is wonderful! How can you think of such sweet little things? May I have it? May I keep it? Oh, I think it is perfectly dear--I wish I could do that! I never in the world would have thought of baby earth going to sleep and Mother Sky tucking her in white blankets.--I think you are just wonderful, Fairy!" Fairy's eyes were bright at the praise, but she laughed as she answered. "You always think me and my scribbles perfection, Prue,--even the love verses that shocked the Ladies' Aid. You are a bad critic. But doesn't the snow make you think--pretty things, Prudence? Come now, as you stood at the window there, what were you thinking?" "I was just wondering if Connie wore her rubbers to school, and if father remembered to take his muffler." Fairy burst into renewed laughter. "Oh, you precious, old, practical Prudence," she gurgled. "Rubbers and mufflers, with such a delicious snowfall as this! Oh, Prudence, shame upon you." Prudence was ashamed. "Oh, I know I am a perfect idiot, Fairy," she said. "I know it better than anybody else. I am so ashamed of myself, all the time." Then she added rather shyly, "Fairy, are you ashamed of me sometimes? When the college girls are here, and you are all talking so brilliantly, aren't you kind of mortified that I am so stupid and dull? I do not care if outsiders do think I am inferior to the rest of you, but--really I do not want you to be ashamed of me! I--oh, I know it myself,--that I do not amount to anything, and never will, but--it would hurt if I thought you and the twins were going to find me--humiliating." Prudence was looking at her sister hungrily, her lips drooping, her eyes dark. For a long instant Fairy stared at her incredulously. Then she sprang to her feet, her face white, her eyes blazing. "Prudence Starr," she cried furiously, "how dare you say such things of us? Do you think we are as despicable as all that? Oh, Prudence, I never was so insulted in all my life! Ashamed of you! Ashamed--Why, we are proud of you, every one of us, daddy, too! We think you are the finest and dearest girl that ever lived. We think--Oh, I think God Himself must be proud of a girl like you, Prudence Starr! Ashamed of you!" And Fairy, bursting into tears, rushed wildly out of the room. For all her poetical nature, Fairy was usually self-restrained and calm. Only twice before in all her life had Prudence seen her so tempest-tossed, and now, greatly disturbed, yet pleased at the passionate avowals, she hurried away in search of her sister. She needed no more assurance of her attitude. So the twins and Connie came into an empty room, and chattered away to themselves abstractedly for an hour. Then Prudence came down. Instantly Connie was asked the all-important question: "Are your feet wet?" Connie solemnly took three steps across the room. "Hear me sqush," she said proudly. She did sqush, too! "Constance Starr, I am ashamed of you! This is positively wicked. You know it is a law of the Medes and Persians that you change your shoes and stockings as soon as you come in when your feet are wet. Do it at once. I'll get some hot water so you can soak your feet, too. And you shall drink some good hot peppermint tea, into the bargain. I'll teach you to sit around in wet clothes! Do you think I want an invalid on my hands?" "Oh, don't be so fussy," said Connie fretfully, "wet feet don't do any harm." But she obligingly soaked her feet, and drank the peppermint. "Are your feet wet, twins?" "No," said Lark, "we have better judgment than to go splashing through the wet old snow.--What's the matter with you, Carol? Why don't you sit still? Are your feet wet?" "No, but it's too hot in this room. My clothes feel sticky. May I open the door, Prudence?" "Mercy, no! The snow is blowing a hurricane now. It isn't very hot in here, Carol. You've been running outdoors in the cold, and that makes it seem hot. You must peel the potatoes now, twins, it's time to get supper. Carol, you run up-stairs and ask papa if he got his feet wet. Between him and Connie, I do not have a minute's peace in the winter time!" "You go, Lark," said Carol. "My head aches." "Do you want me to rub it?" asked Prudence, as Lark skipped up-stairs for her twin. "No, it's just the closeness in here. It doesn't ache very bad. If we don't have more fresh air, we'll all get something and die, Prudence.--I tell you that. This room is perfectly stuffy.--I do not want to talk any more." And Carol got up from her chair and walked restlessly about the room. But Carol was sometimes given to moods, and so, without concern, Prudence went to the kitchen to prepare the evening meal. "Papa says his feet are not wet, and that you are a big simpleton, and--Oh, did you make cinnamon rolls to-day, Prue? Oh, goody! Carrie, come on out! Look,--she made cinnamon rolls." Connie, too, hastened out to the kitchen in her bare feet, and was promptly driven back by the watchful Prudence. "I just know you are going to be sick, Connie,--I feel it in my bones. And walking out in that cold kitchen in your bare feet! You can just drink some more peppermint tea for that, now." "Well, give me a cinnamon roll to go with it," urged Connie. "Peppermint is awfully dry, taken by itself." Lark hooted gaily at this sentiment, but joined her sister in pleading for cinnamon rolls. "No, wait until supper is ready. You do not need to help peel the potatoes to-night, Carol. Run back where it is warm, and you must not read if your head aches. You read too much anyhow. I'll help Lark with the potatoes. No, do not take the paper, Carol,--I said you must not read." Then Lark and Prudence, working together, and talking much, prepared the supper for the family. When they gathered about the table, Prudence looked critically at Connie. "Are you beginning to feel sick? Do you feel like sneezing, or any thing?--Connie's awfully naughty, papa. Her feet were just oozing water, and she sat there in her wet shoes and stockings, just like a stupid child.--Aren't you going to eat any supper, Carol? Are you sick? What is the matter? Does your head still ache?" "Oh, it doesn't ache exactly, but I do not feel hungry. No, I am not sick, Prudence, so don't stew about it. I'm just not hungry. The meat is too greasy, and the potatoes are lumpy. I think I'll take a cinnamon roll." But she only picked it to pieces idly. Prudence watched her with the intense suspicious gaze of a frightened mother bird. "There are some canned oysters out there, Carol. If I make you some soup, will you eat it?" This was a great concession, for the canned oysters were kept in anticipation of unexpected company. But Carol shook her head impatiently. "I am not hungry at all," she said. "I'll open some pineapple, or those beautiful pickled peaches Mrs. Adams gave us, or--or anything, if you'll just eat something, Carrie." Still Carol shook her head. "I said I wasn't hungry, Prudence." But her face was growing very red, and her eyes were strangely bright. She moved her hands with unnatural restless motions, and frequently lifted her shoulders in a peculiar manner. "Do your shoulders hurt, Carol?" asked her father, who was also watching her anxiously. "Oh, it feels kind of--well--tight, I guess, in my chest. But it doesn't hurt. It hurts a little when I breathe deep." "Is your throat still sore, Carol?" inquired Lark. "Don't you remember saying you couldn't swallow when we were coming home from school?" "It isn't sore now," said Carol. And as though intolerant of further questioning, she left the dining-room quickly. "Shall I put flannel on her chest and throat, father?" asked Prudence nervously. "Yes, and if she gets worse we will call the doctor. It's probably just a cold, but we must----" "It isn't diphtheria, papa, you know that," cried Prudence passionately. For there were four reported cases of that dread disease in Mount Mark. But the pain in Carol's chest did grow worse, and she became so feverish that she began talking in quick broken sentences. "It was too hot!--Don't go away, Larkie!--Her feet were wet, and it kept squshing out.--I guess I'm kind of sick, Prue.--Don't put that thing on my head, it is strangling me!--Oh, I can't get my breath!" And she flung her hand out sharply, as though to push something away from her face. Then Mr. Starr went to the telephone and hurriedly called the doctor. Prudence meanwhile had undressed Carol, and put on her little pink flannel nightgown. "Go out in the kitchen, girls, and shut the door," she said to her sisters, who stood close around the precious twin, so suddenly stricken. "Fairy!" she cried. "Go at once. It may be catching. Take the others with you. And keep the door shut." But Lark flung herself on her knees beside her twin, and burst into choking sobs. "I won't go," she cried. "I won't leave Carrie. I will not, Prudence!" "Oh, it is too hot," moaned Carol. "Oh, give me a drink! Give me some snow, Prudence. Oh, it hurts!" And she pressed her burning hands against her chest. "Lark," said her father, stepping quickly to her side, "go out to the kitchen at once. Do you want to make Carrie worse?" And Lark, cowed and quivering, rushed into the kitchen and closed the door. "I'll carry her up-stairs to bed, Prue," said her father, striving to render his voice natural for the sake of the suffering oldest daughter, whose tense white face was frightening. Together they carried the child up the stairs. "Put her in our bed," said Prudence. "I'll--I'll--if it's diphtheria, daddy, she and I will stay upstairs here, and the rest of you must stay down. You can bring our food up to the head of the stairs, and I'll come out and get it. They can't take Carol away from the parsonage." "We will get a nurse, Prudence. We couldn't let you run a risk like that. It would not be right. If I could take care of her properly myself, I----" "You couldn't, father, and it would be wicked for you to take such chances. What would the--others do without you? But it would not make any difference about me. I'm not important. He can give me anti-toxin, and I'm such a healthy girl there will be no danger. But she must not be shut alone with a nurse. She would die!" And Carol took up the words, screaming, "I will die! I will die! Don't leave me, Prudence. Don't shut me up alone. Prudence! Prudence!" Down-stairs in the kitchen, three frightened girls clung to one another, crying bitterly as they heard poor Carol's piercing screams. "It is pneumonia," said the doctor, after an examination. And he looked at Prudence critically. "I think we must have a nurse for a few days. It may be a little severe, and you are not quite strong enough." Then, as Prudence remonstrated, "Oh, yes," he granted, "you shall stay with her, but if it is very serious a nurse will be of great service. I will have one come at once." Then he paused, and listened to the indistinct sobbing that floated up from the kitchen. "Can't you send those girls away for the night,--to some of the neighbors? It will be much better." But this the younger girls stubbornly refused to do. "If you send me out of the house when Carol is sick, I will kill myself," said Lark, in such a strange voice that the doctor eyed her sharply. "Well, if you will all stay down-stairs and keep quiet, so as not to annoy your sister," he consented grudgingly. "The least sobbing, or confusion, or excitement, may make her much worse. Fix up a bed on the floor down here, all of you, and go to sleep." "I won't go to bed," said Lark, looking up at the doctor with agonized eyes. "I won't go to bed while Carol is sick." "Give her a cup of something hot to drink," he said to Fairy curtly. "I won't drink anything," said Lark. "I won't drink anything, and I won't eat a bite of anything until Carol is well. I won't sleep, either." The doctor took her hand in his, and deftly pushed the sleeve above the elbow. "You can twist my arm if you like, but I won't eat, and I won't drink, and I won't sleep." The doctor smiled. Swiftly inserting the point of his needle in her arm, he released her. "I won't hurt you, but I am pretty sure you will be sleeping in a few minutes." He turned to Fairy. "Get her ready for bed at once. The little one can wait." An hour later, he came down-stairs again. "Is she sleeping?" he asked of Fairy in a low voice. "That is good. You have your work cut out for you, my girl. The little one here will be all right, but this twin is in nearly as bad shape as the one up-stairs." "Oh! Doctor! Larkie, too!" "Oh, she is not sick. But she is too intense. She is taking this too hard. Her system is not well enough developed to stand such a strain very long. Something would give way,--maybe her brain. She must be watched. She must eat and sleep. There is school to-morrow, isn't there?" "But I am sure Lark will not go, Doctor. She has never been to school a day in her life without Carol. I am sure she will not go!" "Let her stay at home, then. Don't get her excited. But make her work. Keep her doing little tasks about the house, and send her on errands. Talk to her a good deal. Prudence will have her hands full with the other twin, and you'll have all you can do with this one. I'm depending on you, my girl. You mustn't fail me." That was the beginning of an anxious week. For two days Carol was in delirium most of the time, calling out, crying, screaming affrightedly. And Lark crouched at the foot of the stairs, hands clenched passionately, her slender form tense and motionless. It was four in the afternoon, as the doctor was coming down from the sick room, that Fairy called him into the dining-room with a suggestive glance. "She won't eat," she said. "I have done everything possible, and I had the nurse try. But she will not eat a bite. I--I'm sorry, Doctor, but I can't make her." "What has she been doing?" "She's been at the foot of the stairs all day. She won't do a thing I tell her. She won't mind the nurse. Father told her to keep away, too, but she does not pay any attention. When I speak to her, she does not answer. When she hears you coming down, she runs away and hides, but she goes right back again." "Can your father make her eat? If he commands her?" "I do not know. I doubt it. But we can try. Here's some hot soup,--I'll call father." So Lark was brought into the dining-room, and her father came down the stairs. The doctor whispered an explanation to him in the hall. "Lark," said her father, gently but very firmly, "you must eat, or you will be sick, too. We need all of our time to look after Carol to-day. Do you want to keep us away from her to attend to you?" "No, father, of course not. I wish you would all go right straight back to Carrie this minute and leave me alone. I'm all right. But I can't eat until Carol is well." Her father drew a chair to the table and said, "Sit down and eat that soup at once, Larkie." Lark's face quivered, but she turned away. "I can't, father. You don't understand. I can't eat,--I really can't. Carrie's my twin, and--oh, father, don't you see how it is?" He stood for a moment, frowning at her thoughtfully. Then he left the room, signing for the doctor to follow. "I'll send Prudence down," he said. "She'll manage some way." "I must stay here until I see her eat it," said the doctor. "If she won't do it, she must be kept under morphine for a few days. But it's better not. Try Prudence, by all means." So Prudence, white-faced, eyes black-circled, came down from the room where she had served her sister many weary hours. The doctor was standing in the center of the room. Fairy was hovering anxiously near Lark, rigid at the window. "Larkie," whispered Prudence, and with a bitter cry the young girl leaped into her sister's arms. Prudence caressed and soothed her tenderly. "Poor little Larkie," she murmured, "poor little twinnie!--But Carol is resting pretty well now, Lark. She's coming through all right. She was conscious several times to-day. The first time she just looked up at me and smiled and whispered, 'Hard luck, Prue.' Then a little later she said, 'Tell Larkie I'm doing fine, and don't let her worry.' Pretty soon she spoke again, 'You make Lark be sensible, Prue, or she'll be sick, too.' Once again she started to say something about you, but she was too sick to finish. 'Larkie is such a--,' but that was as far as she could go. She was thinking of you all the time, Lark. She is so afraid you'll worry and make yourself sick, too. She would be heartbroken if she was able to see you, and you were too sick to come to her. You must keep up your strength for Carol's sake. If she is conscious to-morrow, we're going to bring you up a while to see her. She can hardly stand being away from you, I know. But you must get out-of-doors, and bring some color to your cheeks, first. It would make her miserable to see you like this." Lark was still sobbing, but more gently now, and she still clung to her sister. "To-morrow, Prudence? Honestly, may I go up to-morrow? You're not just fooling me, are you? You wouldn't do that!" "Of course I wouldn't. Yes, you really may, if you'll be good and make yourself look better. It would be very bad for Carrie to see you so white and wan. She would worry. Have you been eating? You must eat lots, and then take a good run out-of-doors toward bedtime, so you will sleep well. It will be a good tonic for Carol to see you bright and fresh and rosy." "Oh, I can't bear to be fresh and rosy when Carrie is sick!" "It hurts,--but you are willing to be hurt for Carol's sake! You will do it on her account. It will do her so much good. Now sit down and eat your soup, and I'll stay here a while and tell you all about her. I gave her the pansies you bought her,--it was so sweet of you, too, Larkie. It must have taken every cent of your money, didn't it? I suppose you ordered them over the telephone, since you wouldn't leave the house. When I told Carol you got them for her, she took them in her hand and held them under the covers. Of course, they wilted right away, but I knew you would like Carrie to have them close to her.'--Oh, you must eat it all, Lark. It looks very good. I must take a little of it up to Carol,--maybe she can eat some.--And you will do your very best to be strong and bright and rosy--for Carol--won't you?" "Yes, I will,--I'll go and run across the field a few times before I go to bed. Yes, I'll try my very best." Then she looked up at the doctor, and added: "But I wouldn't do it for you, or anybody else, either." But the doctor only smiled oddly, and went away up-stairs again, wondering at the wisdom that God has placed in the hearts of women! Dreary miserable days and nights followed after that. And Prudence, to whom Carol, even in delirium, clung with such wildness that they dare not deny her, grew weary-eyed and wan. But when the doctor, putting his hand on her shoulder, said, "It's all right now, my dear. She'll soon be as well as ever,"--then Prudence dropped limply to the floor, trembling weakly with the great happiness. Good Methodist friends from all over Mount Mark came to the assistance of the parsonage family, and many gifts and delicacies and knick-knacks were sent in to tempt the appetite of the invalid, and the others as well. "You all need toning up," said Mrs. Adams crossly, "you've all gone clear under. A body would think the whole family had been down with something!" Carol's friends at the high school, and the members of the faculty also, took advantage of this opportunity to show their love for her. And Professor Duke sent clear to Burlington for a great basket of violets and lilies-of-the-valley, "For our little high-school song-bird," as he wrote on the card. And Carol dimpled with delight as she read it. "Now you see for yourself, Prudence," she declared. "Isn't he a duck?" When the little parsonage group, entire, gathered once more around the table in the "real dining-room," they were joyful indeed. It was a gala occasion! The very best china and silverware were brought out in Carol's honor. The supper was one that would have gratified the heart of a bishop, at the very least! "Apple pie, with pure cream, Carol," said Lark ecstatically, for apple pie with pure cream was the favorite dessert of the sweet-toothed twins. And Lark added earnestly, "And I don't seem to be very hungry to-night, Carol,--I don't want any pie. You shall have my piece, too!" "I said I felt it in my bones, you remember," said Prudence, smiling at Carol, "but my mental compass indicated Connie when it should have pointed to Carol! And I do hope, Connie dear, that this will be a lesson to you, and impress upon you that you must always change your shoes and stockings when your feet are wet!" And for the first time in many days, clear, happy-hearted laughter rang out in the parsonage. CHAPTER IX PRACTISING ECONOMY It was a dull dreary day early in December. Prudence and Fairy were sewing in the bay window of the sitting-room. "We must be sure to have all the scraps out of the way before Connie gets home," said Prudence, carefully fitting together pieces of a dark, warm, furry material. "It has been so long since father wore this coat, I am sure she will not recognize it." "But she will ask where we got it, and what shall we say?" "We must tell her it is goods we have had in the house for a long time. That is true. And I made this fudge on purpose to distract her attention. If she begins to ask questions, we must urge her to have more candy. Poor child!" she added very sympathetically. "Her heart is just set on a brand-new coat. I know she will be bitterly disappointed. If the members would just pay up we could get her one. November and December are such bad months for parsonage people. Coal to buy, feed for the cow and the horse and the chickens, and Carol's sickness, and Larkie's teeth! Of course, those last are not regular winter expenses, but they took a lot of money this year. Every one is getting ready for Christmas now, and forgets that parsonage people need Christmas money, too. November and December are always my bitter months, Fairy,--bitter months!" Fairy took a pin from her mouth. "The velvet collar and cuffs will brighten it up a good bit. It's really a pretty material. I have honestly been ashamed of Connie the last few Sundays. It was so cold, and she wore only that little thin summer jacket. She must have been half frozen." "Oh, I had her dressed warmly underneath, very warmly indeed," declared Prudence. "But no matter how warm you are underneath, you look cold if you aren't visibly prepared for winter weather. It's a fortunate thing the real cold weather was so slow in coming. I kept hoping enough money would come in to buy her a coat for once in her life." "She has been looking forward to one long enough," put in Fairy. "This will be a bitter blow to her. And yet it is not such a bad-looking coat, after all." And she quickly ran up a seam on the machine. "Here comes Connie!" Prudence hastily swept a pile of scraps out of sight, and turned to greet her little sister with a cheery smile. "Come on in, Connie," she cried, with a brightness she did not feel. "Fairy and I are making you a new coat. Isn't it pretty? And so warm! See the nice velvet collar and cuffs. We want to fit it on you right away, dear." Connie picked up a piece of the goods and examined it intently. "Don't you want some fudge, Connie?" exclaimed Fairy, shoving the dish toward her hurriedly. Connie took a piece from the plate, and thrust it between her teeth. Her eyes were still fastened upon the brown furry cloth. "Where did you get this stuff?" she inquired, as soon as she was able to speak. "Oh, we've had it in the house quite a while," said Prudence, adding swiftly, "Isn't it warm, Connie? Oh, it does look nice, doesn't it, Fairy? Do you want it a little shorter, Connie, or is that about right?" "About right, I guess. Did you ever have a coat like this, Prudence? I don't seem to remember it.'" "Oh, no, it wasn't mine. Take some more candy, Connie. Isn't it good?--Let's put a little more fullness in the sleeves, Fairy. It's more stylish this year.--The collar fits very nicely. The velvet gives it such a rich tone. And brown is so becoming to you." "Thanks," said Connie patiently. "Was this something of yours, Fairy?" "Oh, no, we've just had it in the house quite a while. It comes in very handy right now, doesn't it? It'll make you such a serviceable, stylish coat. Isn't it about time for the twins to get here, Prudence? I'm afraid they are playing along the road. Those girls get more careless every day of their lives." "Well, if this didn't belong to one of you, whose was it?" demanded Connie. "I know the twins never had anything like this. It looks kind of familiar to me. Where did it come from?" "Out of the trunk in the garret, Connie. Don't you want some more fudge? I put a lot of nuts in, especially on your account." "It's good," said Connie, taking another piece. She examined the cloth very closely. "Say, Prudence, isn't this that old brown coat of father's?" Fairy shoved her chair back from the machine, and ran to the window. "Look, Prue," she cried. "Isn't that Mrs. Adams coming this way? I wonder----" "No, it isn't," answered Connie gravely. "It's just Miss Avery getting home from school.--Isn't it, Prudence? Father's coat, I mean?" "Yes, Connie, it is," said Prudence, very, very gently. "But no one here has seen it, and it is such nice cloth,--just exactly what girls are wearing now." "But I wanted a new coat!" Connie did not cry. She stood looking at Prudence with her wide hurt eyes. "Oh, Connie, I'm just as sorry as you are," cried Prudence, with starting tears. "I know just how you feel about it, dearest. But the people didn't pay father up last month, and nothing has come in for this month yet, and we've had so much extra expense.--I will have to wear my old shoes, too, Connie, and you know how they look! The shoemaker says they aren't worth fixing, so I must wear them as they are.--But maybe after Christmas we can get you a coat. They pay up better then." "I think I'd rather wear my summer coat until then," said Connie soberly. "Oh, but you can't, dearest. It is too cold. Won't you be a good girl now, and not make sister feel badly about it? It really is becoming to you, and it is nice and warm. You know parsonage people just have to practise economy, Connie,--it can't be helped. Take some more fudge, dear, and run out-of-doors a while. You'll feel better about it presently, I'm sure." Connie stood solemnly beside the table, her eyes still fastened on the coat, cut down from her father's. "Can I go and take a walk?" she asked finally. "May I, you mean," suggested Fairy. "Yes, may I? Maybe I can reconcile myself to it." "Yes, do go and take a walk," urged Prudence promptly, eager to get the small sober face beyond her range of vision. "If I am not back when the twins get home, go right on and eat without me. I'll come back when I get things straightened out in my mind." When Connie was quite beyond hearing, Prudence dropped her head on the table and wept. "Oh, Fairy, if the members just knew how such things hurt, maybe they'd pay up a little better. How do they expect parsonage people to keep up appearances when they haven't any money?" "Oh, now, Prue, you're worse than Connie! There's no use to cry about it. Parsonage people have to find happiness in spite of financial misery. Money isn't the first thing with folks like us." "No, but they have pledged it," protested Prudence, lifting her tear-stained face. "They must know we are counting on the money. Why don't they keep their pledges? They pay their meat bills, and grocery bills, and house rent! Why don't they pay for their religion?" "Now, Prue, you know how things go. Mrs. Adams is having a lot of Christmas expense, and she thinks her four dollars a month won't really be missed. She thinks she will make it up along in February, when Christmas is over. But she forgets that Mrs. Barnaby with two dollars, and Mrs. Scott with five, and Mr. Walter with seven, and Mr. Holmes with three, and about thirty others with one dollar each, are thinking the same thing! Each member thinks for himself, and takes no account of the others. That's how it happens." Prudence squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. "I wish you wouldn't mention names, Fairy," she begged. "I do not object to lumping them in a body and wondering about them. But I can't feel right about calling them out by name, and criticizing them.--Besides, we do not really know which ones they are who did not pay." "I was just giving names for illustrative purposes," said Fairy quickly. "Like as not, the very ones I named are the ones who did pay." "Well, get this stuff out of the way, and let's set the table. Somehow I can't bear to touch it any more. Poor little Connie! If she had cried about it, I wouldn't have cared so much. But she looked so--heartsick, didn't she, Fairy?" Connie certainly was heartsick. More than that, she was a little disgusted. She felt herself aroused to take action. Things had gone too far! Go to church in her father's coat she could not! But they hadn't the money. If Connie's father had been at home, perhaps they might have reasoned it out together. But he had left town that morning, and would not be home until Saturday evening,--too late to get a coat in time for Sunday, and Prudence had said that Connie must be coated by Sunday! She walked sturdily down the street toward the "city,"--ironically so called. Her face was stony, her hands were clenched. But finally she brightened. Her lagging steps quickened. She skipped along quite cheerfully. She turned westward as she reached the corner of the Square, and walked along that business street with shining eyes. In front of the First National Bank she paused, but after a few seconds she passed by. On the opposite corner was another bank. When she reached it, she walked in without pausing, and the massive door swung behind her. Standing on tiptoe, she confronted the cashier with a grave face. "Is Mr. Harold in?" she asked politely. Mr. Harold was the president of the bank! It was a little unusual. "Yes, he is in," said the cashier doubtfully, "but he is very busy." "Will you tell him that Constance Starr wishes to speak to him, privately, and that it is very important?" The cashier smiled. "The Methodist minister's little girl, isn't it? Yes, I will tell him." Mr. Harold looked up impatiently at the interruption. "It's the Methodist minister's little daughter, and she says it is important for her to speak to you privately." "Oh! Probably a message from her father. Bring her in." Mr. Harold was one of the trustees of the Methodist church, and prominent among them. His keen eyes were intent upon Connie as she walked in, but she did not falter. "How do you do, Mr. Harold?" she said, and shook hands with him in the good old Methodist way. His eyes twinkled, but he spoke briskly. "Did your father send you on an errand?" "No, father is out of town. I came on business,--personal business, Mr. Harold. It is my own affair." "Oh, I see," and he smiled at the earnest little face. "Well, what can I do for you, Miss Constance?" "I want to borrow five dollars from the bank, Mr. Harold?" "You--did Prudence send you?" "Oh, no, it is my own affair as I told you. I came on my own account. I thought of stopping at the other bank as I passed, but then I remembered that parsonage people must always do business with their own members if possible. And of course, I would rather come to you than to a perfect stranger." "Thank you,--thank you very much. Five dollars you say you want?" "I suppose I had better tell you all about it. You see, I need a winter coat, very badly. Oh, very badly, indeed! The girls were ashamed of me last Sunday, I looked so cold outside, though I was dressed plenty warm enough inside. I've been looking forward to a new coat, Mr. Harold. I've never had one yet. There was always something to cut down for me, from Prudence, or Fairy, or the twins. But this time there wasn't anything to hand down, and so I just naturally counted on a new one." Connie paused, and looked embarrassed. "Yes?" His voice was encouraging. "Well, I'll tell you the rest, but I hope you won't say anything about it, for I'd feel pretty cheap if I thought all the Sunday-school folks knew about it.--You see, the members need such a lot of money now just before Christmas, and so they didn't pay us up last month, and they haven't paid anything this month. And we had to get coal, and feed, and Larkie's teeth had to be fixed, and Carol was sick, you remember. Seems to me Lark's teeth might have been put off until after Christmas, but Prudence says not.--And so there isn't any money left, and I can't have a coat. But Prudence and Fairy are making me one,--out of an old coat of father's!" Constance paused dramatically. Mr. Harold never even smiled. He just nodded understandingly. "I don't think I could wear a coat of father's to church,--it's cut down of course, but--there's something painful about the idea. I wouldn't expect father to wear any of my clothes! You can see how it is, Mr. Harold. Just imagine how you would feel wearing your wife's coat!--I don't think I could listen to the sermons. I don't believe I could be thankful for the mercy of wearing father's coat! I don't see anything merciful about it. Do you?" Mr. Harold did not speak. He gazed at Connie sympathetically, and shook his head. "It's too much, that's what it is. And so I thought I'd just have to take things into my own hands and borrow the money. I can get a good coat for five dollars. But if the bank is a little short right now, I can get along with four, or even three. I'd rather have the cheapest coat in town, than one made out of father's. Do you think you can let me have it?" "Yes, indeed we can." He seemed to find his voice with an effort. "Of course we can. We are very glad to lend our money to responsible people. We are proud to have your trade." "But I must tell you, that it may take me quite a while to pay it back. Father gives me a nickel a week, and I generally spend it for candy. There's another nickel, but it has to go in the collection, so I can't really count that. I don't believe father would let me neglect the heathen, even to pay for a winter coat! But I will give you the nickel every week, and at that rate I can pay it back in a couple of years easy enough. But I'd rather give the nickels as fast as I get them. It's so hard to keep money when you can get your hand on it, you know. Sometimes I have quite a lot of money,--as much as a quarter at a time, from doing errands for the neighbors and things like that. I'll pay you as fast as I can. Will that be all right? And the interest, too, of course. How much will the interest be on five dollars?" "Well, that depends on how soon you repay the money, Connie. But I'll figure it out, and tell you later." "All right. I know I can trust you not to cheat me, since you're a trustee. So I won't worry about that." Mr. Harold drew out a bulky book from his pocket, and handed Connie a crisp new bill. Her eyes sparkled as she received it. "But, Connie," he continued, "I feel that I ought to give you this. We Methodists have done a wicked thing in forgetting our November payments, and I will just give you this bill to make up for it." But Connie shook her head decidedly. "Oh, no! I'll have to give it back, then. Father would not stand that,--not for one minute. Of course, parsonage people get things given to them, quite a lot. And it's a good thing, too, I must say! But we don't hint for them, Mr. Harold. That wouldn't be right." She held out the bill toward him, with very manifest reluctance. "Keep it,--we'll call it a loan then, Connie," he said. "And you may pay me back, five cents at a time, just as is most convenient." The four older girls were at the table when Connie arrived. She exhaled quiet satisfaction from every pore. Prudence glanced at her once, and then looked away again. "She has reconciled herself," she thought. Dinner was half over before Constance burst her bomb. She had intended waiting until they were quite through, but it was more than flesh and blood could keep! "Are you going to be busy this afternoon, Prudence?" she asked quietly. "We are going to sew a little," said Prudence. "Why?" "I wanted you to go down-town with me after school." "Well, perhaps I can do that. Fairy will be able to finish the coat alone." "You needn't finish the coat!--I can't wear father's coat to church, Prudence. It's a--it's a--physical impossibility." The twins laughed. Fairy smiled, but Prudence gazed at "the baby" with tender pity. "I'm so sorry, dearest, but we haven't the money to buy one now." "Will five dollars be enough?" inquired Connie, and she placed her crisp new bill beside her plate. The twins gasped! They gazed at Connie with new respect. They were just wishing they could handle five-dollar bills so recklessly. "Will you loan me twenty dollars until after Christmas, Connie?" queried Fairy. But Prudence asked, "Where did you get this money, Connie?" "I borrowed it,--from the bank," Connie replied with proper gravity. "I have two years to pay it back. Mr. Harold says they are proud to have my trade." Prudence was silent for several long seconds. Then she inquired in a low voice, "Did you tell him why you wanted it?" "Yes, I explained the whole situation." "What did he say?" "He said he knew just how I felt, because he knew he couldn't go to church in his wife's coat.--No, I said that myself, but he agreed with me. He did not say very much, but he looked sympathetic. He said he anticipated great pleasure in seeing me in my new coat at church next Sunday." "Go on with your luncheon, twins," said Prudence sternly. "You'll be late to school.--We'll see about going down-town when you get home to-night, Connie. Now, eat your luncheon, and don't talk about coats any more." When Connie had gone back to school, Prudence went straight to Mr. Harold's bank. Flushed and embarrassed, she explained the situation frankly. "My sympathies are all with Connie," she said candidly. "But I am afraid father would not like it. We are dead set against borrowing. After--our mother was taken, we were crowded pretty close for money. So we had to go in debt. It took us two years to get it paid. Father and Fairy and I talked it over then, and decided we would starve rather than borrow again. Even the twins understood it, but Connie was too little. She doesn't know how heartbreaking it is to keep handing over every cent for debt, when one is just yearning for other things.--I do wish she might have the coat, but I'm afraid father would not like it. She gave me the five dollars for safekeeping, and I have brought it back." Mr. Harold shook his head. "No, Connie must have her coat. This will be a good lesson for her. It will teach her the bitterness of living under debt! Besides, Prudence, I think in my heart that she is right this time. This is a case where borrowing is justified. Get her the coat, and I'll square the account with your father." Then he added, "And I'll look after this salary business myself after this. I'll arrange with the trustees that I am to pay your father his full salary the first of every month, and that the church receipts are to be turned in to me. And if they do not pay up, my lawyer can do a little investigating! Little Connie earned that five dollars, for she taught one trustee a sorry lesson. And he will have to pass it on to the others in self-defense! Now, run along and get the coat, and if five dollars isn't enough you can have as much more as you need. Your father will get his salary after this, my dear, if we have to mortgage the parsonage!" CHAPTER X A BURGLAR'S VISIT "Prue!" A small hand gripped Prudence's shoulder, and again came a hoarsely whispered: "Prue!" Prudence sat up in bed with a bounce. "What in the world?" she began, gazing out into the room, half-lighted by the moonshine, and seeing Carol and Lark shivering beside her bed. "Sh! Sh! Hush!" whispered Lark. "There's a burglar in our room!" By this time, even sound-sleeping Fairy was awake. "Oh, there is!" she scoffed. "Yes, there is," declared Carol with some heat. "We heard him, plain as day. He stepped into the closet, didn't he, Lark?" "He certainly did," agreed Lark. "Did you see him?" "No, we heard him. Carol heard him first, and she spoke, and nudged me. Then I heard him, too. He was at our dresser, but he shot across the room and into the closet. He closed the door after him. He's there now." "You've been dreaming," said Fairy, lying down again. "We don't generally dream the same thing at the same minute," said Carol stormily. "I tell you he's in there." "And you two great big girls came off and left poor little Connie in there alone with a burglar, did you? Well, you are nice ones, I must say." And Prudence leaped out of bed and started for the door, followed by Fairy, with the twins creeping fearfully along in the rear. "She was asleep," muttered Carol. "We didn't want to scare her," added Lark. Prudence was careful to turn the switch by the door, so that the room was in full light before she entered. The closet door was wide open. Connie was soundly sleeping. There was no one else in the room. "You see?" said Prudence sternly. "I'll bet he took our ruby rings," declared Lark, and the twins and Fairy ran to the dresser to look. But a sickening realization had come home to Prudence. In the lower hall, under the staircase, was a small dark closet which they called the dungeon. The dungeon door was big and solid, and was equipped with a heavy catch-lock. In this dungeon, Prudence kept the family silverware, and all the money she had on hand, as it could there be safely locked away. But more often than not, Prudence forgot to lock it. Mr. Starr had gone to Burlington that morning to attend special revival services for three days, and Prudence had fifty whole dollars in the house, an unwonted sum in that parsonage! And the dungeon was not locked. Without a word, she slipped softly out of the room, ran down the stairs, making never a sound in her bare feet, and saw, somewhat to her surprise, that the dungeon door was open. Quickly she flung it shut, pushed the tiny key that moved the "catch," and was rushing up the stairs again with never a pause for breath. A strange sight met her eyes in the twins' room. The twins themselves were in each other's arms, sobbing bitterly. Fairy was still looking hurriedly through the dresser drawers. "They are gone," wailed Carol, "our beautiful ruby rings that belonged to grandmother." "Nonsense," cried Prue with nervous anger, "you've left them in the bathroom, or on the kitchen shelves. You're always leaving them somewhere over the place. Come on, and we'll search the house just to convince you." "No, no," shrieked the twins. "Let's lock the door and get under the bed." The rings were really valuable. Their grandmother, their mother's mother, whom they had never seen, had divided her "real jewelry" between her two daughters. And the mother of these parsonage girls, had further divided her portion to make it reach through her own family of girls! Prudence had a small but beautiful chain of tiny pearls. Fairy's share consisted of a handsome brooch, with a "sure-enough diamond" in the center! The twin rubies of another brooch had been reset in rings for Carol and Lark, and were the priceless treasures of their lives! And in the dungeon was a solid gold bracelet, waiting until Connie's arm should be sufficiently developed to do it justice. "Our rings! Our rings!" the twins were wailing, and Connie, awakened by the noise, was crying beneath the covers of her bed. "Maybe we'd better phone for Mr. Allan," suggested Fairy. "The girls are so nervous they will be hysterical by the time we finish searching the house." "Well, let's do the up-stairs then," said Prudence. "Get your slippers and kimonos, and we'll go into daddy's room." But inside the door of daddy's room, with the younger girls clinging to her, and Fairy looking odd and disturbed, Prudence stopped abruptly and stared about the room curiously. "Fairy, didn't father leave his watch hanging on that nail by the table? Seems to me I saw it there this morning. I remember thinking I would tease him for being forgetful." And the watch was not there. "I think it was Sunday he left it," answered Fairy in a low voice. "I remember seeing it on the nail, and thinking he would need it,--but I believe it was Sunday." Prudence looked under the bed, and in the closet, but their father's room was empty. Should they go farther? For a moment, the girls stood looking at one another questioningly. Then--they heard a loud thud down-stairs, as of some one pounding on a door. There was no longer any doubt. Some one was in the house! Connie and the twins screamed again and clung to Prudence frantically. And Fairy said, "I think we'd better lock the door and stay right here until morning, Prue." But Prudence faced them stubbornly. "If you think I'm going to let any one steal that fifty dollars, you are mistaken. Fifty dollars does not come often enough for that, I can tell you." "It's probably stolen already," objected Fairy. "Well, if it is, we'll find out who did it, and have them arrested. I'm going down to telephone to the police. You girls must lock the door after me, and stay right here." The little ones screamed again, and Fairy said: "Don't be silly, Prue, if you go I'm going with you, of course. We'll leave the kiddies here and they can lock the door. They'll be perfectly safe in here." But the children loudly objected to this. If Prue and Fairy went, they would go! So down the stairs they trooped, a timorous trembling crowd. Prudence went at once to the telephone, and called up the residence of the Allans, their neighbors across the street. After a seemingly never-ending wait, the kind-hearted neighbor left his bed to answer the insistent telephone. Falteringly Prudence explained their predicament, and asked him to come and search the house. He promised to be there in five minutes, with his son to help. "Now," said Prudence more cheerfully, "we'll just go out to the kitchen and wait. It's quiet there, and away from the rest of the house, and we'll be perfectly safe." To the kitchen, then, they hurried, and found real comfort in its smallness and secureness. Prudence raked up the dying embers of the fire, and Fairy drew the blinds to their lowest limits. The twins and Connie trailed them fearfully at every step. When the fire was burning brightly, Prudence spoke with great assurance. "I'll just run in to the dungeon and see for sure if the money is there. I do not honestly believe there is a soul in the house, but I can't rest until I know that money is safe." "You'll do nothing of the sort," said Fairy, "you'll stay right here and wait with us. I do not believe there's any one in the house, either, but if there is, you shan't run into him by yourself. You stay right where you are, and don't be silly. Mr. Allan will do the investigating." Every breath of wind against the windows drew startled cries from the younger girls, and both Fairy and Prudence were white with anxiety when they heard the loud voices of the Allans outside the kitchen door. Prudence began crying nervously the moment the two angels of mercy appeared before her, and Fairy told their tale of woe. "Well, there now," Mr. Allan said with rough sympathy, "you just got scared, that's all. Everything's suspicious when folks get scared. I told my wife the other day I bet you girls would get a good fright some time left here alone. Come on, Jim, and we'll go over the house in a jiffy." He was standing near the dining-room door. He lifted his head suddenly, and seemed to sniff a little. There was undoubtedly a faint odor of tobacco in the house. "Been any men in here to-night?" he asked. "Or this afternoon? Think, now!" "No one," answered Prudence. "I was alone all afternoon, and there has been no one in this evening." He passed slowly through the dining-room into the hall, closely followed by his son and the five girls, already much reassured. As he passed the dungeon door he paused for a moment, listening intently, his head bent. "Oh, Mr. Allan," cried Prudence, "let's look in the dungeon first. I want to see if the money is safe." Her hand was already on the lock, but he shoved her away quickly. "Is there any way out of that closet besides this door?" he asked. "No. We call it the dungeon," laughed Prudence, her self-possession quite recovered. "It is right under the stairs, and not even a mouse could gnaw its way out, with this door shut." "Who shut that door?" he inquired, still holding Prudence's hand from the lock. Then without waiting for an answer, he went on, "Let's go back in the other room a minute. Come on, all of you." In the living-room, he hurried to the telephone, and spoke to the operator in a low voice. "Call the police headquarters, and have them send two or three men to the Methodist parsonage, right away. We've got a burglar locked in a closet, and they'll have to get him out. Please hurry." At this, the girls crowded around him again in renewed fear. "Don't be scared," he said calmly, "we're all right. He's in there safe enough and can't get out for a while. Now, tell me about it. How did you get him in the closet? Begin at the beginning, and tell me all about it." Carol began the story with keen relish. "I woke up, and thought I heard some one in the room. I supposed it was Prudence. I said, 'Prudence,' and nobody answered, and everything was quiet.' But I felt there was some one in there. I nudged Lark, and she woke up. He moved then, and we both heard him. He was fumbling at the dresser, and our ruby rings are gone. We heard him step across the room and into the closet. He closed the door after him, didn't he, Lark?" "Yes, he did," agreed Lark. "His hand was on the knob." "So we sneaked out of bed, and went into Prudence's room and woke her and Fairy." She looked at Connie, and blushed. "Connie was asleep, and we didn't waken her because we didn't want to frighten her. We woke the girls,--and you tell the rest, Prudence." "We didn't believe her, of course. We went back into their room and there was no one there. But the rings were gone. While they were looking at the dresser, I remembered that I forgot to lock the dungeon door, where we keep the money and the silverware, and I ran down-stairs and slammed the door and locked it, and went back up. I didn't hear a sound down-stairs." Mr. Allan laughed heartily. "Well, your burglar was in that closet after the money, no doubt, and he didn't hear you coming, and got locked in. Did you make any noise coming down the stairs?" "No. I was in my bare feet, and I tried to be quiet because if there was any one in the house, I did not want him coming at me in the dark. I ran back up-stairs, and we looked in father's room. I thought father had forgotten to take his watch with him, but it wasn't there.--Do you really think it was Sunday he forgot it, Fairy?" "No," said Fairy, "it was there this afternoon. The burglar's got it in the dungeon with him, of course.--I just said it was Sunday to keep from scaring the twins." In a few minutes, they heard footsteps around the house and knew the officers had arrived. Mr. Allan let them into the house, four of them, and led them out to the hall. There could be no doubt whatever that the burglar was in the dungeon. He had been busy with his knife, and the lock was nearly removed. If the officers had been two minutes later, the dungeon would have been empty. The girls were sent up-stairs at once, with the Allan boy as guard,--as guard, without regard for the fact that he was probably more frightened than any one of them. The chief officer rapped briskly on the dungeon door. Then he clicked his revolver. "There are enough of us to overpower three of you," he said curtly. "And we have men outside the house, too. If you make any disturbance, we shall all fire the instant the door is opened. If you put your firearms on the floor, and hold both hands over your head, you'll be well treated. If your hands are not up, we fire on sight. Get your revolvers ready, boys." Then the officer opened the door. Evidently the burglar was wise enough to appreciate the futility of fighting against odds. Perhaps he did not wish to add the charge of manslaughter to that of robbery. Certainly, he did not feel himself called to sudden death. At any rate, his hands were above his head, and in less than a second he was securely manacled. The chief officer had been eying him closely. "Say!" he exclaimed. "Aren't you Limber-Limb Grant?" The burglar grinned, but did not answer. "By jove!" shouted the officer. "It is! Call the girls down here," he ordered, and when they appeared, gazing at the burglar with mingled admiration, pity and fear, he congratulated them with considerable excitement. "It's Limber-Limb Grant," he explained. "There's a reward of five hundred dollars for him. You'll get the money, as sure as you're born." Then he turned again to the burglar. "Say, Grant, what's a fellow like you doing on such a fifth-rate job as this? A Methodist parsonage is not just in your line, is it?" Limber-Limb laughed sheepishly. "Well," he explained good-naturedly, "Chicago got too hot for me. I had to get out in a hurry, and I couldn't get my hands on any money. I had a fine lot of jewels, but I was so pushed I couldn't use them. I came here and loafed around town for a while, because folks said Mount Mark was so fast asleep it did not even wake up long enough to read the daily papers. I heard about this parsonage bunch, and knew the old man had gone off to get more religion. This afternoon at the station I saw a detective from Chicago get off the train, and I knew what that meant. But I needed some cash, and so I wasn't above a little job on the side. I never dreamed of getting done up by a bunch of preacher's kids. I went upstairs to get those family jewels I've heard about, and one of the little ones gave the alarm. I already had some of them, so I came down at once. I stopped in the dungeon to get that money, and first thing I knew the door banged shut. That's all. You're welcome to the five hundred dollars, ladies. Some one was bound to get it sooner or later, and I'm partial to the ladies, every time." Limber-Limb Grant was a modern thief of the new class. At that moment, in Chicago, he had in storage, a hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewels, which he could not dispose of on the pressure of the moment. The law was crowding him close, and he was obliged to choose between meeting the law, or running away from it. He ran. He reached Mount Mark, and trusted to its drowsiness for concealment for a few weeks. But that afternoon the arrival of a detective gave him warning, and he planned his departure promptly. A parsonage occupied by only five girls held no terrors for him, and with fifty dollars and a few fairly good jewels, a man of his talent could accomplish wonders. But Mount Mark had aroused from its lethargy. Limber-Limb Grant was in the hands of the law. Mr. Starr had been greatly interested in the accounts of the evangelistic services being held in Burlington. The workers were meeting with marked success, and Mr. Starr felt he should get in touch with them. So on Thursday morning he took the early east-bound train to Burlington. There he sought out a conveniently located second-class hotel, and took up residence. He attended the services at the tabernacle in the afternoon and evening, and then went to bed at the hotel. He slept late the next morning. When he finally appeared, he noticed casually, without giving it thought, that the clerk behind the desk looked at him with marked interest. Mr. Starr nodded cheerfully, and the clerk came at once from behind the desk to speak to him. Two or three other guests, who had been lounging about, drew near. "We've just been reading about your girls, sir," said the clerk respectfully. "It's a pretty nervy little bunch! You must be proud of them!" "My girls!" ejaculated Mr. Starr. "Haven't you seen the morning paper? You're Mr. Starr, the Methodist minister at Mount Mark, aren't you?" "I am! But what has happened to my girls? Is anything wrong? Give me the paper!" Mr. Starr was greatly agitated. He showed it. But the clerk could not lose this opportunity to create a sensation. It was a chance of a life-time. "Why, a burglar got in the parsonage last night," he began, almost licking his lips with satisfaction. "The twins heard him at their dresser, and when he stepped into the closet they locked him in there, and yelled for the rest of the family. But he broke away from them, and went, down-stairs and climbed down into the dungeon to get the money. Then Prudence, she ran down-stairs alone in the dark, and locked him in the dungeon,--pushed him down-stairs or something like that, I believe,--and then telephoned for the police. And she stayed on guard outside the dungeon until the police got there, so he couldn't get away. And the police got him, and found it was Limber-Limb Grant, a famous gentleman thief, and your girls are going to get five hundred dollars reward for catching him." Five minutes later, Mr. Starr and his suit-case were in a taxicab speeding toward Union Station, and within eight minutes he was en route for Mount Mark,--white in the face, shaky in the knees, but tremendously proud in spirit. Arriving at Mount Mark, he was instantly surrounded by an exclamatory crowd of station loungers. "Ride, sir? Glad to take you home for nothing," urged Harvey Reel. Mount Mark was enjoying more notoriety than ever before in the two hundred years of its existence. The name of Prudence was upon every tongue, and her father heard it with satisfaction. In the parsonage he found at least two-thirds of the Ladies' Aid Society, the trustees and the Sunday-school superintendent, along with a miscellaneous assortment of ordinary members, mixed up with Presbyterians, Baptists and a few unclassified outsiders. And Prudence was the center of attraction. She was telling the "whole story," for perhaps the fifteenth time that morning, but she broke off when her father hurried in and flung her arms about him. "Oh, papa," she cried, "they mustn't praise me. I had no idea there was a burglar in the house when I ran down the stairs, and if I hadn't been careless and left the dungeon unlocked the money would have been in no danger, and if the twins hadn't wakened me I wouldn't have known there was a burglar about the place, and if Fairy hadn't kept me from rushing out to the dungeon to see if the money was safe, he would have got away, and--it took the policemen to get him out. Oh, I know that is not very grammatical, father, but it's just as true as if it were! And I honestly can't see that much credit is due me." But Mount Mark did not take it so calmly. And as for the Methodist church,--well, the Presbyterian people used to say there was "no living with those Methodists, since the girls caught a burglar in the parsonage." Of course, it was important, from the Methodist point of view. Pictures of the parsonage and the church were in all the papers for miles around, and at their very next meeting the trustees decided to get the piano the Sunday-school had been needing for the last hundred years! When the five hundred dollars arrived from Chicago, Prudence felt that personally she had no real right to the money. "We must divide it," she insisted, "for I didn't earn it a bit more than any of the others. But it is perfectly glorious to have five hundred dollars, isn't it? Did you ever have five hundred dollars before? Just take it, father, and use it for whatever we need. It's family money." But he would not hear of this. "No," he said, "put it in the bank, Prudence, for there will come a time when you will want money very badly. Then you will have it." "Let's divide it then,--a hundred for each of us," she urged. Neither the younger girls nor their father would consent to this. But when Prudence stood very firm, and pleaded with them earnestly, they decided to divide it. "I will deposit two hundred and fifty dollars for the four younger ones," he said, "and that will leave you as much." So it was settled, and Prudence was a happy girl when she saw it safely put away in the bank. "We can get it whenever we really need it, you know," she told her father joyfully. "It's such a comfort to know it's there! I feel just like a millionaire, I am sure. Do you think it would be all right to send Limber-Limb Grant a letter of thanks for it? We were horribly scared, but--well, I for one am willing to be horribly scared for such a lot of money as that!" CHAPTER XI ROMANCE COMES Sometimes, Methodists, or Presbyterians or heretics, whatever we may be, we are irresistibly impelled to the conclusion that things were simply bound to happen! However slight the cause,--still that cause was predestined from the beginning of time. A girl may by the sheerest accident, step from the street-car a block ahead of her destination,--an irritating incident. But as she walks that block she may meet an old-time friend, and a stranger. And that stranger,--ah, you can never convince the girl that her stepping from the car too soon was not ordered when the foundations of the world were laid. Even so with Prudence, good Methodist daughter that she was. We ask her, "What if you had not gone out for a ride that morning?" And Prudence, laughing, answers, "Oh, but I had to go, you see." "Well," we continue, "if you had not met him that way, you could have met him some other way, I suppose." "Oh, no," declares Prudence decidedly, "it had to happen just that way." After all, down in plain ink on plain paper, it was very simple. Across the street from the parsonage was a little white cottage set back among tall cedars. In this cottage lived a girl named Mattie Moore,--a common, unlovely, unexciting girl, with whom Romance could not apparently be intimately concerned. Mattie Moore taught a country school five miles out from town, and she rode to and from her school, morning and evening, on a bicycle. Years before, when Prudence was young and bicycles were fashionable, she had been intensely fond of riding. But as she gained in age, and bicycles lost in popularity, she discarded the amusement as unworthy a parsonage damsel. One evening, early in June, when the world was fair to look upon, it was foreordained that Prudence should be turning in at the parsonage gate just as Mattie Moore whirled up, opposite, on her dusty wheel. Prudence stopped to interchange polite inanities with her neighbor, and Mattie, wheeling the bicycle lightly beside her, came across the street and stood beneath the parsonage maples with Prudence. They talked of the weather, of the coming summer, of Mattie's school, rejoicing that one more week would bring freedom from books for Mattie and the younger parsonage girls. Then said Prudence, seemingly of her own free will, but really directed by an all-controlling Providence, "Isn't it great fun to ride a bicycle? I love it. Sometime will you let me ride your wheel?" "Why, certainly. You may ride now if you like." "No," said Prudence slowly, "I am afraid it would not do for me to ride now. Some of the members might see me, and--well, I am very grown up, you know.--Of course," she added hastily, "it is different with you. You ride for business, but it would be nothing but a frolic with me. I want to get up at six o'clock and go early in the morning when the world is fast asleep. Let me take it to-morrow morning, will you? It is Saturday, and you won't be going to school." "Yes, of course you may," was the hearty answer. "You may stay out as long as you like. I'm going to sew to-morrow. You make take it in the parsonage now and keep it until morning. I always sleep late on Saturdays." So Prudence delightedly tripped up the parsonage board walk, wheeling the bicycle by her side. She hid it carefully in the woodshed, for the twins were rash and venturesome. But after she had gone to bed, she confided her plan to Fairy. "I'm going at six o'clock, and I'll be back in time to get breakfast. But as you know, Fairy, my plans do not always work out as I intend, so if I am a little late, you'll get breakfast for papa and the girls, like a dear, won't you?" Fairy promised. And early the next morning, Prudence, in a plain gingham house dress, with the addition of a red sweater jacket and cap for warmth, set out upon her secret ride. It was a magnificent morning, and Prudence sang for pure delight as she rode swiftly along the country roads. The country was simply irresistible. It was almost intoxicating. And Prudence rode farther than she had intended. East and west, north and south, she went, apparently guided only by her own caprice. She knew it was growing late, "but Fairy'll get breakfast," she thought comfortably. Finally she turned in a by-road, leading between two rich hickory groves. Dismounting at the top of a long hill, she gazed anxiously around her. No one was in sight. The nearest house was two miles behind, and the road was long, and smooth, and inviting, and the hill was steep. Prudence yearned for a good, soul-stirring coast, with her feet high up on the framework of the wheel, and the pedals flying around beneath her skirts. This was not the new and modern model of bicycle. The pedals on Mattie Moore's wheel revolved, whether one worked them or not. It seemed safe. The road sloped down gradually at the bottom, with an incline on the other side. What more could one desire. The only living thing in sight besides birds gossiping in the leafy branches and the squirrel scolding to himself, was a sober-eyed serious mule peacefully grazing near the bottom of the hill. Prudence laughed gleefully, like a child. She never laughed again in exactly that way. This was the last appearance of the old irresponsible Prudence. The curtain was just ready to drop. "Here goes!" she cried, and leaping nimbly into the saddle, she pedaled swiftly a few times, and then lifted her feet to the coveted position. The pedals flew around beneath her, just as she had anticipated, and the wind whistled about her in a most exhilarating way. But as she neared the bottom, a disastrous and totally unexpected thing happened. The placid mule, which had been righteously grazing beside the fence, suddenly stalked into the middle of the road. Prudence screamed, jerked the handle-bar to the right, then to the left, and then, with a sickening thud, she landed head first upon some part of the mule's anatomy. She did not linger there, however. She bounced on down to the ground, with a little cry of pain. The bicycle crashed beside her, and the mule, slightly startled, looked around at her with ears raised in silent questioning. Then he ambled slowly across the road, and deliberately continued his grazing. Prudence tried to raise herself, but she felt sharp pain. She heard some one leaping over the fence near her, and wondered, without moving her head, if it could be a tramp bent on highway robbery. The next instant, a man was leaning over her. "It's not a tramp," she thought, before he had time to speak. "Are you hurt?" he cried. "You poor child!" Prudence smiled pluckily. "My ankle is hurt a little, but I am not a child." The young man, in great relief, laughed aloud, and Prudence joined him rather faintly. "I'm afraid I can not walk," she said. "I believe I've broken my ankle, maybe my whole leg, for all I know. It--hurts--pretty badly!" "Lie down like this," he said, helping her to a more comfortable position, "do not move. May I examine your foot?" She shook her head, but he removed the shoe regardless of her head-shake. "I believe it is sprained. I am sure the bone is not broken. But how in the world will you get home? How far is it to Mount Mark? Is that where you live?" "Yes," considering, "yes, I live there, and it must be four miles, anyhow. What shall I do?" In answer, he pulled off his coat, and arranged it carefully by the side of the road on the grass. Then jerking open the bag he had carried, he took out a few towels, and three soft shirts. Hastily rolling them together for a pillow, he added it to the bed pro tem. Then he turned again to Prudence. "I'll carry you over here, and fix you as comfortably as I can. Then I'll go to the nearest house and get a wagon to take you home." Prudence was not shy, and realizing that his plan was the wise one, she made no objections when he came to help her across the road. "I think I can walk if you lift me up." But the first movement sent such a twinge of pain through the wounded ankle that she clutched him frantically, and burst into tears. "It hurts," she cried, "don't touch me." Without speaking, he lifted her as gently as he could and carried her to the place he had prepared for her. "Will you be warm enough?" he asked, after he had stood looking awkwardly down upon the sobbing girl as long as he could endure it. "Yes," nodded Prudence, gulping down the big soft rising in her throat. "I'll run. Do you know which way is nearest to a house? It's been a long time since I passed one coming this way." "The way I came is the nearest, but it's two miles, I think." "I'll go as fast as I can, and you will be all right This confounded cross-cut is so out of the way that no one will pass here for hours, I suppose. Now lie as comfortably as you can, and do not worry. I'm going to run." Off he started, but Prudence, left alone, was suddenly frightened. "Please, oh, please," she called after him, and when he came back she buried her face in shame, deep in the linen towel. "I'm afraid," she whispered, crying again. "I do not wish to be left alone here. A snake might come, or a tramp." He sat down beside her. "You're nervous. I'll stay with you until you feel better. Some one may come this way, but it isn't likely. A man I passed on the road a ways back told me to cut through the hickory grove and I would save a mile of travel. That's how I happened to come through the woods, and find you." He smiled a little, and Prudence, remembering the nature of her accident, flushed. Then, being Prudence, she laughed. "It was my own fault. I had no business to go coasting down like that. But the mule was so stationary. It never occurred to me that he contemplated moving for the next century at least. He was a bitter disappointment." She looked down the roadside where the mule was contentedly grazing, with never so much as a sympathetic glance toward his victim. "I'm afraid your bicycle is rather badly done up." "Oh,--whatever will Mattie Moore say to me? It's borrowed. Oh, I see now, that it was just foolish pride that made me unwilling to ride during decent hours. What a dunce I was,--as usual." He looked at her curiously. This was beyond his comprehension. "The bicycle belongs to Mattie Moore. She lives across the street from the parsonage, and I wanted to ride. She said I could. But I was ashamed to ride in the daytime, for fear some of the members would think it improper for a girl of the parsonage, and so I got up at six o'clock this morning to do it on the sly. Somehow I never can remember that it is just as bad to do things when you aren't seen as when you are. It doesn't seem so bad, does it? But of course it is. But I never think of that when I need to be thinking of it. Maybe I'll remember after this." She was silent a while. "Fairy'll have to get breakfast, and she always gets father's eggs too hard." Silence again. "Maybe papa'll worry. But then, they know by this time that something always does happen to me, so they'll be prepared." She turned gravely to the young man beside her. He was looking down at her, too. And as their eyes met, and clung for an instant, a slow dark color rose in his face. Prudence felt a curious breathlessness,--caused by her hurting ankle, undoubtedly. "My name is Prudence Starr,--I am the Methodist minister's oldest daughter." "And my name is Jerrold Harmer." He was looking away into the hickory grove now. "My home is in Des Moines." "Oh, Des Moines is quite a city, isn't it? I've heard quite a lot about it. It isn't so large as Chicago, though, of course. I know a man who lives in Chicago. We used to be great chums, and he told me all about the city. Some day I must really go there,--when the Methodists get rich enough to pay their ministers just a little more salary." Then she added thoughtfully, "Still, I couldn't go even if I had the money, because I couldn't leave the parsonage. So it's just as well about the money, after all. But Chicago must be very nice. He told me about the White City, and the big parks, and the elevated railways, and all the pretty restaurants and hotels. I love pretty places to eat. You might tell me about Des Moines. Is it very nice? Are there lots of rich people there?--Of course, I do not really care any more about the rich people than the others, but it always makes a city seem grand to have a lot of rich citizens, I think. Don't you?" So he told her about Des Moines, and Prudence lay with her eyes half-closed, listening, and wondering why there was more music in his voice than in most voices. Her ankle did not hurt very badly. She did not mind it at all. In fact, she never gave it a thought. From beneath her lids, she kept her eyes fastened on Jerrold Harmer's long brown hands, clasped loosely about his knees. And whenever she could, she looked up into his face. And always there was that curious catching in her breath, and she looked away again quickly, feeling that to look too long was dangerous. "I have talked my share now," he was saying, "tell me all about yourself, and the parsonage, and your family. And who is Fairy? And do you attend the college at Mount Mark? You look like a college girl." "Oh, I am not," said Prudence, reluctant to make the admission for the first time in her life. "I am too stupid to be a college girl. Our mother is not living, and I left high school five years ago and have been keeping house for my father and sisters since then. I am twenty years old. How old are you?" "I am twenty-seven," and he smiled. "Jerrold Harmer," she said slowly and very musically. "It is such a nice name. Do your friends call you Jerry?" "The boys at school called me Roldie, and sometimes Hammie. But my mother always called me Jerry. She isn't living now, either. You call me Jerry, will you?" "Yes, I will, but it won't be proper. But that never makes any difference to me,--except when it might shock the members! You want me to call you Jerry, don't you?" "Yes, I do. And when we are better acquainted, will you let me call you Prudence?" "Call me that now.--I can't be too particular, you see, when I am lying on your coat and pillowed with your belongings. You might get cross, and take them away from me.--Did you go to college?" "Yes, to Harvard, but I was not much of a student. Then I knocked around a while, looking at the world, and two years ago I went home to Des Moines. I have been there ever since except for little runs once in a while." Prudence sighed. "To Harvard!--I am sorry now that I did not go to college myself." "Why? There doesn't seem to be anything lacking about you. What do you care about college?" "Well, you went to college," she answered argumentatively. "My sister Fairy is going now. She's very clever,--oh, very. You'll like her, I am sure,--much better than you do me, of course." Prudence was strangely downcast. "I am sure I won't," said Jerrold Harmer, with unnecessary vehemence. "I don't care a thing for college girls. I know a lot of them, and--aw, they make a fellow tired. I like home girls,--the kind that stay at home, and keep house, and are sweet, and comfortable, and all that." Jerrold flipped over abruptly, and lay on the grass, his face on his arms turned toward her face. They were quiet for a while, but their glances were clinging. "Your eyes are brown, aren't they?" Prudence smiled, as though she had made a pleasant discovery. "Yes. Yours are blue. I noticed that, first thing." "Did you? Do you like blue eyes? They aren't as--well, as strong and expressive as brown eyes. Fairy's are brown." "I like blue eyes best. They are so much brighter and deeper. You can't see clear to the bottom of blue eyes,--you have to keep looking." And he did keep looking. "Did you play football at college? You are so tall. Fairy's tall, too. Fairy's very grand-looking. I've tried my best to eat lots, and exercise, and make myself bigger, but--I am a fizzle." "Yes, I played football.--But girls do not need to be so tall as men. Don't you remember what Orlando said about Rosalind,--'just as tall as my heart'? I imagine you come about to my shoulder. We'll measure as soon as you are on your feet again." "Are you going to live in Mount Mark now? Are you coming to stay?" Prudence was almost quivering as she asked this. It was of vital importance. "No, I will only be there a few days, but I shall probably be back every week or so. Is your father very strict? Maybe he would object to your writing to me." "Oh, he isn't strict at all. And he will be glad for me to write to you, I know. I write to two or three men when they are away. But they are--oh, I do not know exactly what it is, but I do not really like to write to them. I believe I'll quit. It's such a bother." "Yes, it is, that's so. I think I would quit, if I were you. I was just thinking how silly it is for me to keep on writing to some girls I used to know. Don't care two cents about 'em. I'm going to cut it out as soon as I get home. But you will write to me, won't you?" "Yes, of course." Prudence laughed shyly. "It seems so--well, nice,--to think of getting letters from you." "I'll bet there are a lot of nice fellows in Mount Mark, aren't there?" "Why, no. I can't think of any real nice ones! Oh, they are all right. I have lots of friends here, but they are--I do not know what! They do not seem very nice. I wouldn't care if I never saw them again. But they are good to me." "Yes, I can grasp that," he said with feeling. "Is Des Moines just full of beautiful girls?" "I should say not. I never saw a real beautiful girl in Des Moines in my life. Or any place else, for that matter,--until I came--You know when you come right down to it, there are mighty few girls that look--just the way you want them to look." Prudence nodded. "That's the way with men, too. Of all the men I have seen in my life, I never saw one before that looked just the way I wanted him to." "Before?" he questioned eagerly. "Yes," said Prudence frankly. "You look just as I wish you to." And in the meanwhile, at the parsonage, Fairy was patiently getting breakfast. "Prudence went out for an early bicycle ride,--so the members wouldn't catch her," she explained to the family. "And she isn't back yet. She'll probably stay out until afternoon, and then ride right by the grocery store where the Ladies have their Saturday sale. That's Prudence, all over. Oh, father, I did forget your eggs again, I am afraid they are too hard. Here, twins, you carry in the oatmeal, and we will eat. No use to wait for Prudence,--it would be like waiting for the next comet." Indeed, it was nearly noon when a small, one-horse spring wagon drove into the parsonage yard. Mr. Starr was in his study with a book, but he heard a piercing shriek from Connie, and a shrill "Prudence!" from one of the twins. He was downstairs in three leaps, and rushing wildly out to the little rickety wagon. And there was Prudence! "Don't be frightened, father. I've just sprained my ankle, and it doesn't hurt hardly any. But the bicycle is broken,--we'll have to pay for it. You can use my own money in the bank. Poor Mr. Davis had to walk all the way to town, because there wasn't any room for him in the wagon with me lying down like this. Will you carry me in?" Connie's single bed was hastily brought downstairs, and Prudence deposited upon it. "There's no use to put me up-stairs," she assured them. "I won't stay there. I want to be down here where I can boss the girls." The doctor came in, and bandaged the swollen purple ankle. Then they had dinner,--they tried to remember to call it luncheon, but never succeeded! After that, the whole parsonage family grouped about the little single bed in the cheery sitting-room. "Whose coat is this, Prudence?" asked Connie. "And where in the world did you get these towels and silk shirts?" added Fairy. Prudence blushed most exquisitely. "They are Mr. Harmer's," she said, and glanced nervously at her father. "Whose?" chorused the family. And it was plain to be seen that Lark was ready to take mental notes with an eye to future stories. "If you will sit down and keep still, I will tell you all about it. But you must not interrupt me. What time is it, Fairy?" "Two o'clock." "Oh, two. Then I have plenty of time. Well, when I got to that little cross-cut through the hickory grove, about four miles out from town, I thought I would coast down the long hill. Do you remember that hill, father? There was no one in sight, and no animals, except one hoary old mule, grazing at the bottom. It was irresistible, absolutely irresistible. So I coasted. But you know yourself, father, there is no trusting a mule. They are the most undependable animals." Prudence looked thoughtfully down at the bed for a moment, and added slowly, "Still, I have no hard feelings against the mule. In fact, I kind of like him.--Well, anyway, just as I got to the critical place in the hill, that mule skipped right out in front of me. It looked as though he did it on purpose. I did not have time to get out of his way, and it never occurred to him to get out of mine, and so I went Bang! right into him. And it broke Mattie Moore's wheel, and upset me quite a little. But that mule never budged! Jerry--er Harmer,--Mr. Harmer, you know,--said he believed an earthquake could coast downhill on to that mule without seriously inconveniencing him. I was hurt a little, and couldn't get up. And so he jumped over the fence,--No, Connie, not the mule, of course! Mr. Harmer! He jumped over the fence, and put his coat on the ground, and made a pillow for me with the shirts and towels in his bag, and carried me over. Then he wanted to go for a wagon to bring me home, but I was too nervous and scared, so he stayed with me. Then Mr. Davis came along with his cart, and Jerry--er--Harmer, you know, helped put me in, and the cart was so small they both had to walk." "Where is he now?" "Is he young?" "Is he handsome?" "Did he look rich?" "Don't be silly, girls. He went to the hotel, I suppose. Anyhow, he left us as soon as we reached town. He said he was in a hurry, and had something to look after. His coat was underneath me in the wagon, and he wouldn't take it out for fear of hurting my ankle, so the poor soul is probably wandering around this town in his shirt-sleeves." Already, in the eyes of the girls, this Jerry--er--Harmer, had taken unto himself all the interest of the affair. "He'll have to come for his coat," said Lark. "We're bound to see him." "Where does he live? What was he doing in the hickory grove?" inquired Mr. Starr with a strangely sinking heart, for her eyes were alight with new and wonderful radiance. "He lives in Des Moines. He was just walking into town, and took a short cut through the grove." "Walking! From Des Moines?" Prudence flushed uncomfortably. "I didn't think of that," she said. "But I do not see why he should not walk if he likes. He's strong and athletic, and fond of exercise. I guess he's plenty able to walk if he wants to. I'm sure he's no tramp, father, if that is what you are thinking." "I am not thinking anything of the kind, Prudence," he said with dignity. "But I do think it rather strange that a young man should set out to walk from Des Moines to Mount Mark. And why should he be at it so early in the morning? Doesn't he require sleep, as the rest of us do?" "How should I know? I guess if he likes to be but in the morning when it is fresh and sweet, it is all right. I like the morning myself. He had as much right out early as I had. His clothes were nice, and he is a Harvard graduate, and his shoes were dusty, but not soiled or worn. Anyhow, he is coming at four o'clock. If you want to ask if he is a tramp, you can do it." And Prudence burst into tears. Dramatic silence in the cheerful sitting-room! Then Fairy began bustling about to bathe the face and throat of "poor little Prudence," and her father said sympathetically: "You're all nervous and wrought up, with the pain and excitement, Prudence. I'm glad he is coming so we can thank him for his kindness. It was mighty lucky he happened along, wasn't it? A Harvard graduate! Yes, they are pretty strong on athletics at Harvard. You'd better straighten this room a little and have things looking nice when he gets here," said Father Starr, with great diplomacy. And he was rewarded, and startled, by observing that Prudence brightened wonderfully at his words. "Yes, do," she urged eagerly. "Get some of the roses from the corner bush, and put them on the table there. And when you go up-stairs, Fairy, you'd better bring down that little lace spread in the bottom drawer of our dresser. It'll look very nice on this bed.--Work hard, girls, and get everything looking fine. He'll be here at four, he said. You twins may wear your white dresses, and Connie must put on her blue and wear her blue bows.--Fairy, do you think it would be all right for you to wear your silk dress? Of course, the silk is rather grand for home, but you do look so beautiful in it. Father, will you put on your black suit, or are you too busy? And don't forget to wear the pearl cuff buttons Aunt Grace sent you." He went up-stairs to obey, with despair in his heart. But to the girls, there was nothing strange in this exactness on the part of Prudence. Jerrold Harmer was the hero of the romance, and they must unite to do him honor. He was probably a prince in disguise. Jerrold Harmer was a perfectly thrilling name. It was really a shame that America allows no titles,--Lord Jerrold did sound so noble, and Lady Prudence was very effective, too. He and Prudence were married, and had a family of four children, named for the various Starrs, before one hour had passed. "I'll begin my book right away," Lark was saying. She and Carol were in the dining-room madly polishing their Sunday shoes,--what time they were not performing the marriage ceremony of their sister and The Hero. "Yes, do! But for goodness' sake, don't run her into a mule! Seems to me even Prudence could have done better than that." "I'll have his automobile break down in the middle of the road, and Prudence can run into it. The carbureter came off, and of course the car wouldn't run an inch without it." "Yes, that's good," said Carol approvingly. "It must be a sixty cylinder, eight horsepower--er--Ford, or something real big and costly." "Twins! You won't be ready," warned Prudence, and this dire possibility sent them flying upstairs in a panic. While the girls, bubbling over with excitement, were dressing for the great event, Mr. Starr went down-stairs to sit with Prudence. Carol called to him on his way down, and he paused on the staircase, looking up at her. "Lark and I are going to use some of Fairy's powder, father," she said. "We feel that we simply must on an occasion like this. And for goodness' sake, don't mention it before Him! It doesn't happen very often, you know, but to-day we simply must. Now, don't you say anything about falling in the flour barrel, or turning pale all of a sudden, whatever else you do. We'd be so mortified, father." Mr. Starr was concerned with weightier matters, and went on down to Prudence with never so much as a reproving shake of the head for the worldly-minded young twins. "Father," began Prudence, her eyes on the lace coverlet, "do you think it would be all right for me to wear that silk dressing-gown of mother's? I need something over my nightgown, and my old flannel kimono is so ugly. You know, mother said I was to have it, and--I'm twenty now. Do you think it would be all right? But if you do not want me to wear it----" "I do want you to," was the prompt reply. "Yes, it is quite time you were wearing it. I'll get it out of the trunk myself, and send Fairy down to help you." Then as he turned toward the door, he asked carelessly, "Is he very good-looking, Prudence?" And Prudence, with a crimson face, answered quickly, "Oh, I really didn't notice, father." He went on up-stairs then, and presently Fairy came down with the dainty silk gown trimmed with fine soft lace. "I brought my lavender ribbon for your hair, Prudence. It will match the gown so nicely. Oh, you do look sweet, dearest. I pity Jerrold Harmer, I can tell you that. Now I must hurry and finish my own dressing." But with her foot on the bottom stair, she paused. Her sister was calling after her. "Send father down here, quick, Fairy." Father ran down quickly, and Prudence, catching hold of his hands, whispered wretchedly, "Oh, father, he--he is good-looking. I--I did notice it. I didn't really mean to lie to you." "There, now, Prudence," he said, kissing her tenderly, "you mustn't get excited again. I'm afraid you are too nervous to have callers. You must lie very quietly until he comes. That was no lie, child. You are so upset you do not know what you are saying to-day. Be quiet now, Prudence,--it's nearly time for him to come." "You are a dear good father," she cried, kissing his hands passionately, "but it was a lie. I did know what I was saying. I did it on purpose." And Mr. Starr's heart was heavy, for he knew that his fears were realized. CHAPTER XII ROUSED FROM HER SLUMBER At twenty minutes to four, the parsonage family clustered excitedly in the sitting-room, which the sunshine flooded cheerily. They were waiting for the hero of Prudence's romance. "Oh, Larkie, will you run up-stairs and bring my lace handkerchief? It's on our dresser, in the burnt-wood box." And after Lark had departed, she went on, "The flowers are not quite in the center of the table, Fairy,--a little to the right.--If you would move the curtains the least little bit, those torn places would not show." Then she sighed. "How nice you all look. Oh, Connie, won't you turn the clock a little this way, so I can see it? That's better, thank you, precious. Thank you, Lark,--isn't it a pretty handkerchief? I've only carried it three times, and I have never really used it. Would you keep these pearls on, Fairy, or would you take them off?" "I would keep them on, Prue,--they catch the color of the gown a little, and are just beautiful. You do look so sweet, but your face is very flushed. I am afraid you are feverish. Maybe we had better not let him see Prue to-day, father. Perhaps he can come back to-morrow." "Fairy!" exclaimed Prudence. "Besides, he must come in to get his coat. We can't expect him to go coatless over Sunday. Listen,--listen, girls! Look, Fairy, and see if that is he! Yes, it is, I know,--I can tell by his walk." Warm rich color dyed her face and throat, and she clasped her hands over her heart, wondering if Connie beside her could hear its tumult. "I'll go to the door," said Father Starr, and Prudence looked at him beseechingly. "I--I am sure he is all right, father. I--you will be nice to him, won't you?" Without answering, Mr. Starr left the room. He could not trust his voice. "Listen, girls, I want to hear," whispered Prudence. And she smiled as she heard her father's cordial voice. "You are Mr. Harmer, aren't you? I am Prudence's father. Come right in. The whole family is assembled to do you honor. The girls have already made you a prince in disguise. Come back this way. Prudence is resting very nicely." When the two men stepped into the sitting-room, Prudence, for once, quite overlooked her father. She lifted her eyes to Jerrold Harmer's face, and waited, breathless. Nor was he long in finding her among the bevy of girls. He walked at once to the bed, and took her hand. "My little comrade of the road," he said gaily, but with tenderness, "I am afraid you are not feeling well enough for callers to-day." "Oh, yes, I am," protested Prudence with strange shyness. He turned to the other girls, and greeted them easily. He was entirely self-possessed. "Miss Starr told me so much about you that I know you all to begin with." He smiled at Fairy as he added, "In fact, she predicted that I am to fall in love with you. And so, very likely, I should,--if I hadn't met your sister first." They all laughed at that, and then he walked back and stood by Prudence once more. "Was it a bad sprain? Does it pain you very badly? You look tired. I am afraid it was an imposition for me to come this afternoon." [Illustration: "She predicted I'm to fall in love with you."] "Oh, don't worry about that," put in Connie anxiously. "She wanted you to come. She's been getting us ready for you ever since the doctor left. I think it was kind of silly for me to wear my blue just for one caller." The twins glared at her, realizing that she was discrediting the parsonage, but Jerrold Harmer laughed, and Prudence joined him. "It is quite true," she admitted frankly. "The mule and I disgraced the parsonage this morning, and I wanted the rest of you to redeem it this afternoon." She looked at him inquiringly. "Then you had another coat?" "No, I didn't. I saw this one in a window this morning, and couldn't resist it. Was the ride very hard on your ankle?" Mr. Starr was puzzled. Evidently it was not lack of funds which brought this man on foot from Des Moines to Mount Mark,--half-way across the state! He did not look like a man fleeing from justice. What, then, was the explanation? "You must have found it rather a long walk," he began tentatively, his eyes on the young man's face. "Yes, I think my feet are a little blistered. I have walked farther than that many times, but I am out of practise now. Sometimes, however, walking is a painful necessity." "How long did it take you coming from Des Moines to Mount Mark?" inquired Carol in a subdued and respectful voice,--and curious, withal. "I did not come directly to Mount Mark. I stopped several places on business. I hardly know how long it would take coming straight, through. It would depend on one's luck, I suppose." "Well," said Lark, "taking it a little at a time it might be done, but for myself, I should never dream of undertaking so much exercise." "Could you walk from here to Burlington at one stretch?" asked Connie. He looked rather surprised. "Why, perhaps I could if I was in shape, but--seven miles was all I cared about this morning." "Well, I think it was mighty brave of you to walk that far,--I don't care why you did it," announced Connie with emphasis. "Brave!" he repeated. "I have walked three times seven miles, often, when I was in school." "Oh, I mean the whole thing--clear from Des Moines," explained Connie. "From Des Moines," he gasped. "Good heavens! I did not walk from Des Moines! Did you--" He turned to Prudence questioningly. "Did you think I walked clear from Des Moines?" "Yes." And added hastily, "But I did not care if you did. It did not make any difference how you came." For a moment he was puzzled. Then he burst out laughing. "I am afraid we had too much to talk about this morning. I thought I had explained my situation, but evidently I did not. I drove from Des Moines in the car, and----" "The automobile!" gasped Carol, with a triumphant look at Lark. "Yes, just so. I stopped several places on business as I came through. I drove from Burlington this morning, but I got off the road. The car broke down on me, and I couldn't fix it,--broke an axle. So I had to walk in. That is what I was seeing about to-day,--sending a man out for the car and arranging about the repairs." He smiled again. "What in the world did you think I would walk from Des Moines for?" he asked Prudence, more inquisitive than grammatical. "I did not think anything about it until they asked, and--I did not know about the car. You did not mention it." "No. I remember now. We were talking of other things all the time." He turned frankly to Mr. Starr. "Perhaps you have heard of the Harmer Automobile Company, of Des Moines. My father was Harvey Harmer. Two years ago, when I was running around in Europe, he died. It was his desire that I should personally take charge of the business. So I hurried home, and have had charge of the company since then. We are establishing sales agencies here, and in Burlington, and several other towns. I came out for a little trip, and took advantage of the opportunity to discuss the business with our new men. That's what brought me to Mount Mark." To Connie he added laughingly, "So I must sacrifice myself, and do without your praise. I did not walk until the car broke down and compelled me to do so." For the first time in her life, Prudence distinctly triumphed over her father. She flashed him the glance of a conqueror, and he nodded, understandingly. He liked Jerrold Harmer,--as much as he could like any man who stepped seriously into the life of Prudence. He was glad that things were well. But--they would excuse him, he must look after his Sunday's sermons. A little later the twins and Connie grew restless, and finally Connie blurted out, "Say, Prue, don't you think we've upheld the parsonage long enough? I want to get some fresh air." The twins would never have been guilty of such social indiscretion as this, but they gladly availed themselves of Connie's "break," and followed her out-of-doors. Then Fairy got up, laughing. "I have done my share, too. I think we'll leave the parsonage in your hands now, Prue. I want to write to Aunt Grace. I'll be just at the head of the stairs, and if Prudence wants me, you will call, won't you, Mr. Harmer? And won't you stay for dinner with us? I'm sure to disgrace the parsonage again, for I am no cook, but you can get along for once, surely. We spend more time laughing when the food is bad, and laughter is very healthful. You will stay, won't you?" Jerrold Harmer looked very eager, and yet he looked somewhat doubtfully at Prudence. Her eyes were eloquent with entreaties. Finally he laughed, and said, "I should certainly like to stay, but you see I want to come back to-morrow. Now, will I dare to come back to-morrow if I stay for dinner to-night? Wouldn't Connie say that was disgracing the parsonage?" Fairy laughed delightedly. "That is very good," she said. "Then you will stay. I'll try to fix it up with Connie to save the reputation of the house. Now, do not talk too much, Prue, and--what shall we have for dinner? We only say dinner when we have company, Mr. Harmer. What we have is supper." Prudence contracted her brows in the earnest endeavor to compose a menu suitable for this occasion. "Mashed potatoes, and--use cream, Fairy. You'd better let Lark do the mashing, for you always leave lumps. And breaded veal cutlet," with a significant glance, "and creamed peas, and radishes, and fruit. Will that be enough for you, Mr. Harmer?" "Oceans," he said contentedly. "Well, I'll collect the twins and Connie and we will try to think up a few additions. Where's the money?" "In the dungeon, and the key is on the nail above the door. And the silverware is there, too," with another significant glance. After that, Prudence lay back happily on the pillows and smoothed the lace on her mother's silk dressing gown. "Talk to me," she said, "tell me about where you live, and what you do,--your work, you know, and how you amuse yourself. I want you to amuse me now, Mr. Harmer." "You called me Jerry this morning." "Yes, I know. Do you want me to call you Jerry still?" "Yes, Prudence, I do. Do you mind if I move my chair a little closer?" "No, put it right here. Now, I am ready." "But there's nothing interesting about me. Let's talk of----" "It's interesting to me. Tell me about your business." "You don't care anything about business, I am sure." "I care about your business." "Do you, Prudence?--You look so sweet this afternoon. I nearly blurted it out before the whole family. Wouldn't the twins have laughed? It would have disgraced the parsonage. I think Mr. Starr is awfully lucky to have five girls, and all of them pretty. But isn't it strange that the prettiest and dearest one of them all should be the oldest daughter?" "Oh, but I'm not really--" Prudence began earnestly. Then she stopped, and added honestly, "But I am glad you think so." No, they did not quote poetry, they did not discuss the psychological intricacies of spontaneous attraction, they did not say anything deep, or wise, or learned. But they smiled at each other, with pleased investigating eyes. He put his hand on the coverlet, just near enough to touch the lace on the sleeve of her silk dressing gown. And together they found Paradise in the shabby sitting-room of the old Methodist parsonage that afternoon. "Must you prepare meat for breading half an hour before cooking, or when?" demanded Fairy, from the dining-room door. "What?--Oh!--Fifteen minutes before. Don't forget to salt and pepper the crumbs, Fairy." "Perhaps some time your father will let you and a couple of the others come to Des Moines with me in the car. You would enjoy a few days there, I know. I live with my aunt, a dear, motherly little old soul. She will adore you, Prudence, and you will like her, too. Would your father let you spend a week? We can easily drive back and forth in the car." "Maybe he will,--but who will keep the parsonage while I am away?" "Fairy, to be sure. She must be a good fairy once in a while. We can take the twins with us, Connie, too, if you like, and then Fairy will only have to mother your father. Do you like riding in a car?" "Oh, I love it. But I have not ridden very much. Willard Morley took me quite often when he was here, but he is in Chicago now." "When's he coming back?" suspiciously. "Prudence, shall we have tea or coffee?" This was Lark from the doorway. "Fairy wants to know." "What?--Oh!--Which do you want, Jerry?" "Which does your father prefer?" "He doesn't drink either except for breakfast." "I generally drink coffee, but I do not care much for it, so do not bother----" "Coffee, Lark." "When's that Morley chap coming back?" "I do not know." And then, "He is never coming back as far as I am concerned." Jerrold relented promptly. "You are why he went away, I suppose." "At any rate, he is gone." "Did you ever have a lover, Prudence? A real lover, I mean." "No, I, never did." "I'm awfully glad of that. I'll----" "Prudence, do you use half milk and half water for creamed tomato soup, or all milk?" "What?--Oh!--All milk, Connie, and tell Fairy not to salt it until it is entirely done, or it may curdle." "What in the world would they ever do without you, Prudence? You are the soul of the parsonage, aren't you?" "No, I am just the cook and the chambermaid," she answered, laughing. "But don't you see how hard it will be for me to go away?" "But it isn't fair! Vacation is coming now, and Fairy ought to take a turn. What will they do when you get married?" "I have always said I would not get married." "But don't you want to get married,--some time?" "Oh, that isn't it. I just can't because I must take care of the parsonage, and raise the girls. I can't." "But you will," he whispered, and his hand touched hers for just a second. Prudence did not answer. She lifted her eyes to his face, and caught in her breath once more. A little later he said, "Do you mind if I go upstairs and talk to your father a few minutes? Maybe I'd better." "But do not stay very long," she urged, and she wondered why the brightness and sunshine vanished from the room when he went out. "First door to the right," she called after him. Mr. Starr arose to greet him, and welcomed him to his combination study and bedroom with great friendliness. But Jerrold went straight to the point. "Mr. Starr, it's very kind of you to receive a perfect stranger as you have me. But I understand that with a girl like Prudence, you will want to be careful. I can give you the names of several prominent men in Des Moines, Christians, who know me well, and can tell you all about me." "It isn't necessary. We are parsonage people, and we are accustomed to receiving men and women as worthy of our trust, until we find them different. We are glad to count you among our friends." "Thank you, but--you see, Mr. Starr, this is a little different. Some day, Prudence and I will want to be married, and you will wish to be sure about me." "Does Prudence know about that?" "No," with a smile, "we haven't got that far yet. But I am sure she feels it. She hasn't--well, you know what I mean. She has been asleep, but I believe she is waking up now." "Yes, I think so. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" "No, indeed. Anything you like." "Well, first, are you a Christian?" "Not the kind you are, Mr. Starr. My parents were Christians, but I've never thought much about it myself because I was young and full of fun. I have never been especially directed to religion. I go to church, and I believe the Bible,--though I don't know much about it. I seldom read it. But I'll get busy now, if you like, and really study it and--try to come around your way. I know Prudence would make me do that." And he smiled again. "Do you drink?" "I did a little, but I promised Prudence this morning I would quit it. I never got--drunk, and I have not formed the habit. But sometimes with the boys, I drink a little. But I do not care for it, and I swore off this morning.--I smoke, too,--not cigarettes, of course. Prudence knows it, but she did not make me promise to quit that?" His voice was raised, inquiringly. "Would you have promised, if she had asked it?" This was sheer curiosity. "I suppose I would." He flushed a little. "I know I was pretty hard hit, and it was such a new experience that I would have promised anything she asked. But I like smoking, and--I don't think it is wicked." "Never mind the smoking. I only asked that question out of curiosity. We're not as strait-laced as we might be perhaps. The only things I would really object to, are those things that might seriously menace your happiness, yours and hers, if the time does come. But the next question,--can you pass a strict physical examination?" "Yes, I can. I'll go with you to your physician to-night if you like. I'm all right physically, I know." "Tell me about your relations with your mother when she was living." "She has been dead four years." Jerrold spoke with some emotion. "We were great chums, though her health was always poor. I wrote her three times a week when I was away from home, and she wrote me a note every day. When I was in school, I spent all my vacations at home to be with her. And I never went abroad until after her death because she did not like the idea of my going so far from her." "Jerrold, my boy, I do not want to seem too severe, but--tell me, has there been anything in your life, about women, that could come out and hurt Prudence later on?" Jerrold hesitated. "Mr. Starr, I have been young, and headstrong, and impulsive. I have done some things I wish now I hadn't. But I believe there is nothing that I could not explain to Prudence so she would understand. If I had thought beforehand of a girl like her, there are things I would not have done. But there is nothing, I think, that would really hurt, after I had a chance to talk it over with her." "All right. If you are the man, God bless you. I don't suppose you are worthy of Prudence, for she is a good, pure-hearted, unselfish girl,--there could be none better. But the real point is just whether you will love each other enough!--I like your coming up here like this. I think that was very decent and manly of you. And, do you mind if I just suggest that you go a little slow with Prudence? Remember that she has been sound asleep, until this morning. I do not want her awakened too rudely." "Neither do I," said Jerrold quickly. "Shall I go down now? The girls have invited me to stay for supper, and Prudence says I am to come back to-morrow, too. Is that all right? Remember, I'll be going home on Monday!" "It is all right, certainly. Spend as much time here as you like. You will either get worse, or get cured, and--whichever it is, you've got to have a chance. I like you, Jerrold. Prudence judges by instinct, but it does not often fail her." Prudence heard him running down the stairs boyishly, and when he came in, before she could speak, he whispered, "Shut your eyes tight, Prudence. And do not scold me, for I can't help it." Then he put his hands over hers, and kissed her on the lips. They were both breathless after that. Prudence lifted her lashes slowly, and gazed at him seriously. It was she who spoke first. "I was never really kissed before," she whispered, "not really." Then they sat in silence until Fairy announced that supper was ready. "But I won't promise it is eatable," she assured them, laughing. "I wish I could go to the table, too," said Prudence, looking at her father wistfully, "I could lie on the old lounge out there." "And have your supper on a tray, of course. Can you carry her, father?" "I can!" volunteered Jerrold promptly. "I have done it." "I think between us we can manage. We'll try it." And Prudence heroically endured the pain of being moved, for the sake of seeing Jerrold at the table with her parsonage family. For to her surprise, she realized that she could not bear that even a few minutes should pass, when she could not see the manly young face with the boyish mouth and the tender eyes! Prudence, at last, was aroused from her slumber. CHAPTER XIII SHE ORDERS HER LIFE "Prudence, are you going to Aunt Grace's early in the summer, or late?" demanded Fairy. "Oh, let's not talk of that now. There's plenty of time." "No, there isn't. School will be out in a week, and Babbie wants to give a house party and have our little bunch at his home for a few days this summer. He wants to set the date, and I can't tell him when because I do not know when you are going to auntie's." They sat around the breakfast table, Prudence and Fairy and their father, talking of the summer. The twins and Connie had long since excused themselves, and even now could be heard shouting gaily in the field beyond the old red barn. Prudence looked restlessly from one to the other, when her sister insisted upon an answer. "Why," she began, "I've about decided not to go to Aunt Grace's this summer." Fairy rapped on the table with the spoon she held in her hand. "Don't be silly! You have to go. You've never had a vacation in your life, and father promised Aunt Grace on his reputation as a minister, didn't you, papa?" "Yes, I promised all right." "But, papa! I do not have to go, do I? A whole month,--oh, honestly, I do not want to." "Why don't you? Last fall you were wild about it. Don't you remember dreaming----" "Oh, but that was last fall," said Prudence, smiling softly, and unconsciously she lifted one hand to where a bulky letter nestled inside her dress. "I didn't know I was going to sprain my ankle, and be so useless. It may be two weeks yet before I can walk on it." "What has that got to do with it?" "Do you really prefer to stay at home, Prudence?" queried her father. "The whole summer?" Prudence blushed most gloriously. "Oh, well," she began slowly. Then she took the plunge recklessly. "Why, you see, father, Jerry lives with his aunt in Des Moines,--he told you that, didn't he? And they have quite a big house, and--he wants to take me and the twinnies to Des Moines in the car for a week or ten days. And Fairy will take care of you and Connie. And--if I can do that--I do not want any more vacation. I couldn't bear to stay at auntie's a whole month, away from you and the parsonage." She felt very guilty, for she did not add, as she was thinking, "Besides, Jerry is coming every two weeks, and if I were away, we would miss a visit!" Fairy laughed in an irritating, suggestive way, but Mr. Starr only nodded. "I am sure you will not mind that, will you father? His aunt must be a perfectly good and nice woman, and--such a long drive in the auto, and--to see all over Des Moines." But Prudence paused guiltily, for she did not add, "With Jerry!" although the words were singing in her heart. "That will be very nice indeed, and of course I do not object. It will be a forty years' delight and wonder to the twins! Yes, I will be glad to have you go. But you can still have your month at Grace's if you wish." "But I do not wish," protested Prudence promptly. "Honestly, father, I'll write her the sweetest kind of a letter, but--oh, please do not make me go!" "Of course, we won't make you go, you goose," said Fairy, "but I think you are very foolish." "And you can go, Fairy," cried Prudence hospitably. "Aunt Grace loves you so, and you've worked so hard all year, and,--oh, yes, it will be just the thing for you." Prudence wished she might add, "And that will let me out," but she hardly dare say it. "Well, when does your Des Moines tour come off? I must know, so I can tell Babbie about the house party." "Let Babbie choose his own date. Jerry says we shall go whenever I say--I mean whenever you say, father,--and we can decide later on. Give Babbie first choice, by all means." That was the beginning of Prudence's golden summer. She was not given to self-analysis. She did what seemed good to her always,--she did not delve down below the surface for reasons why and wherefore. She hadn't the time. She took things as they came. She could not bear the thought of sharing with the parsonage family even the least ardent and most prosaic of Jerrold's letters. But she never asked herself the reason. It seemed a positive sacrilege to leave his warm, life-pulsing letters up-stairs in a bureau drawer. It was only natural and right to carry them in her dress, and to sleep with them under her pillow. But Prudence did not wonder why. The days when Jerry came were tremulously happy ones for her,--she was all aquiver when she heard him swinging briskly up the ramshackle parsonage walk, and her breath was suffocatingly hot. But she took it as a matter of course. The nights when Jerry slept in the little spare bedroom at the head of the stairs, Prudence lay awake, staring joyously into the darkness, hoping Jerry was sound asleep and comfortable. But she never asked herself why she could not sleep! She knew that Jerry's voice was the sweetest voice in the world. She knew that his eyes were the softest and brightest and the most tender. She knew that his hands had a thrilling touch quite different from the touch of ordinary, less dear hands. She knew that his smile lifted her into a delirium of delight, and that even the thought of sorrow coming to him brought stinging tears to her eyes. But why? Ah, Prudence never thought of that. She just lived in the sweet ecstatic dream of the summer, and was well and richly content. So the vacation passed, and Indian summer came. And the girls went back to their studies once more, reluctantly, yet unaccountably glad even in their reluctance. It is always that way with students,--real students. They regret the passing of vacation days, but the thought of "going back to school" has its own tingling joys of anticipation. It was Saturday evening. The early supper at the parsonage was over, the twins had washed the dishes, and still the daylight lingered. Prudence and Jerry sat side by side, and closely, on the front porch, talking in whispers. Fairy had gone for a stroll with the still faithful Babbie. Connie and the twins had evidently vanished. Ah--not quite that! Carol and Lark came swiftly around the corner of the parsonage. "Good evening," said Lark politely, and Prudence sat up abruptly. The twins never wasted politeness! They wanted something. "Do you mind if we take Jerry around by the woodshed for a few minutes, Prue?" "I'll come along," said Prudence, rising. "Oh, no," protested Lark, "we do not want you,--just Jerry, and only for a little while." Prudence sniffed suspiciously. "What are you going to do to him?" she demanded. "We won't hurt him," grinned Carol impishly. "We had intended to tie him to a stake and burn him alive. But since you have interceded on his behalf, we'll let him off with a simple scalping." "Maybe he's afraid to come," said Lark, "for there are two of us, and we are mighty men of valor." "That's all right," Prudence answered defensively. "I'd sooner face a tribe of wild Indians any day than you twins when you are mischief-bent." "Oh, we just want to use him a few minutes," said Carol impatiently. "Upon our honor, as Christian gentlemen, we promise not to hurt a hair of his head." "Oh, come along, and cut out the comedy," Jerry broke in, laughing. "I'll be back in two minutes, Prue. They probably want me to shoo a chicken out of their way. Or maybe the cat has been chasing them." Once safely around the corner, the twins changed their tactics. "We knew you weren't afraid," said Lark artistically, "we were just teasing Prudence. We know we couldn't hurt you." "Of course," emphasized Carol. "We want to ask a favor of you, that's all. It's something we can't do ourselves, but we knew you could do it, all right." Jerry perceived the drift of this argument. "I see! I'm paid in advance for my service. What's the job?" Then the twins led him to the woodshed. This woodshed stood about twenty feet from the back door of the parsonage, and was nine feet high in front, the roof sloping down at the back. Close beside the shed grew a tall and luxuriant maple. The lower limbs had been chopped off, and the trunk rose clear to a height of nearly twelve feet before the massive limbs branched out. The twins had discovered that by climbing gingerly on the rotten roof of the woodshed, followed by almost superhuman scrambling and scratching, they could get up into the leafy secrecy of the grand old maple. More than this, up high in the tree they found a delightful arrangement of branches that seemed positively made for them. These branches must be utilized, and it was in the act of utilizing them that they called upon their sister's friend for help. "Do you see this board?" began Lark, exhibiting with some pride a solid board about two feet in length. "My eyesight is quite unimpaired," answered Jerry, for he knew his twins. "Well, we found this over by the Avery barn. They have a big scrap pile out there. We couldn't find anything around here that would suit, so we looked, over there. It's just a pile of rubbish, and we knew they wouldn't mind." "Else you would not have taken it, eh? Anything like apples, for instance, is quite under the ban." "Yes, indeed," smiled Lark. "We're too old to steal apples." "Of course," added Carol. "When we need our neighbor's apples, we send Connie. And get nicely punished for it, too, I promise you." "Quite so! And this exquisite board?" "Well, we've found a perfectly gorgeous place up in the old tree where we can make a seat. It's quite a ways out from the trunk, and when the wind blows it swings splendidly. But it isn't very comfortable sitting on a thin limb, and so we want a seat. It's a fine place, I tell you. We thought you could nail this securely on to the limbs,--there are two right near each other, evidently put there on purpose for us. See what dandy big nails we have!" "From the Avery's woodshed, I suppose," he suggested, smiling again. "Oh, they are quite rusty. We found them in a sack in an old barrel. It was in the scrap heap. We're very good friends with the Averys, very good, indeed," she continued hastily. "They allow us to rummage around at will--in the barn." "And see this rope," cried Carol. "Isn't it a dandy?" "Ah! The Avery barn must be inexhaustible in its resources." "How suspicious you are, Jerry," mourned Lark. "I wish we were that way, instead of innocent and bland and trustful. Maybe we would get rich, too. This is the first time I ever really understood how you came to be a success in business." "But you are quite wrong this time," said Lark seriously. "Old Mr. Avery gave me this rope." "Yes, he did! Lark told him she was looking for a rope just exactly like this one, and then he gave it to her. He caught the idea of philanthropy right away. He's a very nice old gentleman, I tell you. He's so trusting and unsuspicious. I'm very fond of people like that." "We thought when you had the board nicely nailed on, you might rope it securely to the limbs above. They are in very good position, and that will make it absolutely safe. Do you suppose you can do that, Jerry? Do you get seasick when you climb high?" "Oh, no, high altitudes never make me seasick. I've a very good head for such purposes." "Then suppose you get busy before it grows dark. We're in a great hurry. And we do not want Connie to catch us putting it up. It'll be such fun to sit up there and swing when the wind blows, and have poor Connie down beneath wondering how we manage to stick on. She can't see the seat from the ground. Won't it be a good joke on her?" "Oh, very,---yes, indeed.--Well, let's begin.--Now, observe! I will just loop this end of the rope lightly about my--er--middle. The other end will dangle on the ground to be drawn up at will. Observe also that I bestow the good but rusty nails in this pocket, and the hammer here. Then with the admirable board beneath my arm, I mount to the heights of--Say, twins, didn't I see an old buggy seat out in the barn to-day? Seems to me----" "Oh, Jerry!" The twins fairly smothered him. "Oh, you darling. You are the nicest old thing.--Now we can understand why Prudence seems to like you. We never once thought of the old buggy seat! Oh, Jerry!" Then they hastily brought the discarded seat from the barn, and with the help of Jerry it was shoved up on the woodshed. From there, he lifted it to the lowest limb of the old maple, and a second later he was up himself. Then it was lifted again, and again he followed,--up, and up, and up,--the loose end of the donated rope trailing loose on the ground below. The twins promptly,--as promptly as possible, that is,--followed him into the tree. "Oh, yes, we'll come along. We're used to climbing and we're very agile. And you will need us to hold things steady while you hammer." And Jerry smiled as he heard the faithful twins, with much grunting and an occasional groan, following in his wake. It was a delightful location, as they had said. So heavy was the leafy screen that only by lifting a branch here or there, could they see through it. The big seat fitted nicely on the two limbs, and Jerry fastened it with the rusty nails. The twins were jubilant, and loud in their praises of his skill and courage. "Oh, Jerry," exclaimed Carol, with deep satisfaction, "it's such a blessing to discover something really nice about you after all these months!" "Now, we'll just----" "Hush!" hissed Lark. "Here comes Connie. Hold your breath, Jerry, and don't budge." "Isn't she in on this?" he whispered. He could hear Connie making weird noises as she came around the house from the front. She was learning to whistle, and the effect was ghastly in the extreme. Connie's mouth had not been designed for whistling. "Sh! She's the band of dark-browed gypsies trying to steal my lovely wife." "I'm the lovely wife," interrupted Carol complacently. "But Connie does not know about it. She is so religious she won't be any of the villain parts. When we want her to be anything real low-down, we have to do it on the sly. She would no more consent to a band of dark-browed gypsies than she would----" Connie came around the corner of the parsonage, out the back walk beneath the maple. Then she gave a gleeful scream. Right before her lay a beautiful heavy rope. Connie had been yearning for a good rope to make a swing. Here it lay, at her very feet, plainly a gift of the gods. She did not wait to see where the other end of the rope was. She just grabbed what she saw before her, and started violently back around the house with it yelling, "Prudence! Look at my rope!" Prudence rushed around the parsonage. The twins shrieked wildly, as there was a terrific tug and heave of the limb beside them, and then--a crashing of branches and leaves. Jerry was gone! It did look horrible, from above as well as below. But Jerry, when he felt the first light twinge as Connie lifted the rope, foresaw what was coming and was ready for it. As he went down, he grabbed a firm hold on the branch on which he had stood, then he dropped to the next, and held again. On the lowest limb he really clung for fifteen seconds, and took in his bearings. Connie had dropped the rope when the twins screamed, so he had nothing more to fear from her. He saw Prudence, white, with wild eyes, both arms stretched out toward him. "O. K., Prue," he called, and then he dropped. He landed on his feet, a little jolted, but none the worse for his fall. He ran at once to Prudence. "I'm all right," he cried, really alarmed by the white horror in her face. "Prudence! Prudence!" Then her arms dropped, and with a brave but feeble smile, she swayed a little. Jerry took her in his arms. "Sweetheart!" he whispered. "Little sweetheart! Do--do you love me so much, my dearest?" Prudence raised her hands to his face, and looked intensely into his eyes, all the sweet loving soul of her shining in her own. And Jerry kissed her. The twins scrambled down from the maple, speechless and cold with terror,--and saw Prudence and Jerry! Then they saw Connie, staring at them with interest and amusement. "I think we'd better go to bed, all three of us," declared Lark sturdily. And they set off heroically around the house. But at the corner Carol turned. "Take my advice and go into the woodshed," she said, "for all the Averys are looking out of their windows." Prudence did not hear, but he drew her swiftly into the woodshed. Now a woodshed is a hideously unromantic sort of place. And there was nothing for Prudence to sit on, that Jerry might kneel at her feet. So they dispensed with formalities, and he held her in his arms for a long time, and kissed her often, and whispered sweet meaningless words that thrilled her as she listened. It may not have been comfortable, but it was evidently endurable, for it is a fact that they did not leave that woodshed for over an hour. Then they betook themselves to the darkest corner of the side porch,--and history repeated itself once more! At twelve, Jerry went up-stairs to bed, his lips tingling with the fervent tenderness of her parting kiss. At one o'clock, he stood at his window, looking soberly out into the moonlit parsonage yard. "She is an angel, a pure, sweet, unselfish little angel," he whispered, and his voice was broken, and his eyes were wet, "and she is going to be my wife! Oh, God, teach me how to be good to her, and help me make her as happy as she deserves." At two o'clock he lay on his bed, staring into the darkness, thinking again the soft shy words she had whispered to him. And he flung his arms out toward his closed door, wanting her. At three o'clock he dropped lightly asleep and dreamed of her. With the first pale streaks of daylight stealing into his room, he awoke. It was after four o'clock. A little later,--just a few minutes later,--he heard a light tap on his door. It came again, and he bounded out of bed. "Prudence! Is anything wrong?" "Hush, Jerry, not so loud!" And what a strange and weary voice. "Come down-stairs, will you? I want to tell you something. I'll wait at the foot of the stairs. Be quiet,--do not wake father and the girls. Will you be down soon?" "In two minutes!" And in two minutes he was flown, agonizingly anxious, knowing that something was wrong. Prudence was waiting for him, and as he reached the bottom step she clutched his hands desperately. "Jerry," she whispered, "I--forgive me--I honestly-- Oh, I didn't think what I was saying last night. You were so dear, and I was so happy, and for a while I really believed we could belong to each other. But I can't, you know. I've promised papa and the girls a dozen times that I would never marry. Don't you see how it is? I must take it back." Jerry smiled a little, it must be admitted. This was so like his conscientious little Prudence! "Dearest," he said gently, "you have said that because you were not awake. You did not love. But you are awake now. You love me. Your father would never allow you to sacrifice yourself like that. The girls would not hear of it. They want you to be happy. And you can't be happy without me, can you?" Suddenly she crushed close to him. "Oh, Jerry," she sobbed, "I will never be happy again, I know. But--it is right for me to stay here, and be the mother in the parsonage. It is wicked of me to want you more than all of them. Don't you see it is? They haven't any mother. They haven't any one but me. Of course, they would not allow it, but they will not know anything about it. I must do it myself. And father especially must never know. I want you to go away this morning before breakfast, and--never come again." She clung to him as she said this, but her voice did not falter. "And you must not write to me any more. For, oh, Jerry, if I see you again I can never let you go, I know it. Will you do this for me?" "You've been up all night, haven't you, dearest?" "Yes,--I remembered, and then I couldn't sleep." "What have you been doing all night? It is morning now." "I walked up and down the floor, and pounded my hands together," she admitted, with a mournful smile. "You are nervous and excited," he said tenderly. "Let's wait until after breakfast. Then we'll talk it all over with your father, and it shall be as he says. Won't that be better?" "Oh, no. For father will say whatever he thinks will make me happy. He must not know a thing about it. Promise, Jerry, that you will never tell him one word." "I promise, of course, Prudence. I will let you tell him." But she shook her head. "He will never know. Oh, Jerry! I can't bear to think of never seeing you again, and never getting letters from you, and-- It seems to kill me inside, just the thought of it." "Sit down here in my lap. Put your head on my shoulder, like that. Let me rub your face a little. You're feverish. You are sick. Go to bed, won't you, sweetheart? We can settle this later on." "You must go right away, or I can not let you go at all!" "Do you mean you want me to get my things, and go right now?" "Yes." She buried her face in his shoulder. "If--if you stay in your room until breakfast time, I will lock you in, so you can not leave me again. I know it. I am crazy to-day." "Don't you think you owe me something, as well as your father and sisters? Didn't God bring us together, and make us love each other? Don't you think He intended us for each other? Do you wish you had never met me?" "Jerry!" "Then, sweetheart, be reasonable. Your father loved your mother, and married her. That is God's plan for all of us. You have been a wonderfully brave and sweet daughter and sister, I know. But surely Fairy is old enough to take your place now." "Fairy's going to be a professor, and--the girls do not mind her very well. And she isn't as much comfort to father as I am.--It's just because I am most like mother, you see. But anyhow, I promised. I can't leave them." "Your father expects you to marry, and to marry me. I told him about it myself, long ago. And he was perfectly willing. He didn't say a word against it." "Of course he wouldn't. That's just like father. But still, I promised. And what would the girls say if I should go back on them? They have trusted me, always. If I fail them, will they ever trust anybody else? If you love me, Jerry, please go, and stay away." But her arm tightened about his neck. "I'll wait here until you get your things, and we can--say good-by. And don't forget your promise." "Oh, very well, Prudence," he answered, half irritably, "if you insist on ordering me away from the house like this, I can only go. But----" "Let's not talk any more about it, Jerry. Please. I'll wait until you come down." When he came down a little later, with his suitcase, his face was white and strained. She put her arms around his neck. "Jerry," she whispered, "I want to tell you that I love you so much that--I could go away with you, and never see any of them any more, or papa, or the parsonage, and still feel rich, if I just had you! You--everything in me seems to be all yours. I--love you." Her tremulous lips were pressed against his. "Oh, sweetheart, this is folly, all folly. But I can't make you see it. It is wrong, it is wickedly wrong, but----" "But I am all they have, Jerry, and--I promised." "Whenever you want me, Prudence, just send. I'll never change. I'll always be just the same. God intended you for me, I know, and--I'll be waiting." "Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!" she whispered passionately, sobbing, quivering in his arms. It was he who drew away. "Good-by, sweetheart," he said quietly, great pity in his heart for the girl who in her desire to do right was doing such horrible wrong. "Good-by, sweetheart. Remember, I will be waiting. Whenever you send, I will come." He stepped outside, and closed the door. Prudence stood motionless, her hands clenched, until she could no longer hear his footsteps. Then she dropped on the floor, and lay there, face downward, until she heard Fairy moving in her room up-stairs. Then she went into the kitchen and built the fire for breakfast. CHAPTER XIV SHE COMES TO GRIEF Fairy was one of those buoyant, warm-blooded girls to whom sleep is indeed the great restorer. She slept soundly, sweetly, dreamlessly. And every morning she ran down-stairs so full of animation and life that she seemed all atingle to her finger-tips. Now she stood in the kitchen door, tall, cheeks glowing, eyes sparkling, and smiled at her sister's solemn back. "You are the little mousey, Prue," she said, in her full rich voice. "I didn't hear you come to bed last night, and I didn't hear you getting out this morning. I am an abominably solid sleeper, am I not? Shall I get the maple sirup for the pancakes? I wonder if Jerry knows we only use maple sirup when he is here. I'm constantly expecting Connie to give it away. Why am I always so ravenously hungry in the morning? Goodness knows I eat enough--Why, what is the matter?" For Prudence had turned her face toward her sister, and it was so white and so unnatural that Fairy was shocked. "Prudence! You are sick! Go to bed and let me get breakfast. Why didn't you call me? I'm real angry at you, Prudence Starr! Here, get out of this, and I will----" "There's nothing the matter with me. I had a headache, and did not sleep, but I am all right now. Yes, bring the sirup, Fairy. Are the girls up yet?" Fairy eyed her suspiciously. "Jerry is out unusually early, too, isn't he? His door is open. I didn't hear him coming down so he must have quite outdone himself to-day. He generally has to be called twice." "Jerry has gone, Fairy." Prudence's back was presented to view once more, and Prudence was stirring the oatmeal with vicious energy. "He left early this morning,--I suppose he is half-way to Des Moines by now." "Oh!" Fairy's voice was non-committal. "Will you get the sirup now?" "Yes, of course.--When is he coming back?" "He isn't coming back. Please hurry, Fairy, and then call the others. The oatmeal is ready." Fairy went soberly down cellar, and brought up the golden sirup. Then, ostensibly to call her sisters, she hurried up the stairs. "Girls," she began, carefully closing the door of their room behind her. "Jerry has gone, and isn't coming back any more. And for goodness' sake, don't keep asking questions about it. Just eat your breakfast as usual, and have a little tact." "Gone!" "Yes." "A lovers' quarrel," suggested Lark, and her eyes glittered greedily. "Nothing of the sort. And don't keep staring at Prue, either. And do not keep talking about Jerry all the time. You mind me, or I will tell papa." "That's funny," said Carol thoughtfully. "We left them kissing each other like mad in the back yard last night,--and this morning he has gone to return no more. They are crazy." "Kissing! In the back yard! What are you talking about?" Carol explained, and Fairy looked still more thoughtful and perturbed. She opened the door, and called out to them in a loud and breezy voice, "Hurry, girls, for breakfast is ready, and there's no time to waste in a parsonage on Sunday morning." Then she added in a whisper, "And don't you mention Jerry, and don't ask Prudence what makes her so pale, or you'll catch it!" Then she went to her father's door. "Breakfast is ready, papa," she called clearly. She turned the knob softly, and peeped in. "May I come in a minute?" Standing close beside him, she told him all she knew of what had happened. "Prudence is ghastly, father, just ghastly. And she can't talk about it yet, so be careful what you say, will you?" And it was due to Fairy's kindly admonitions that the parsonage family took the departure of Jerry so calmly. "Fairy says Jerry took the morning train," said Mr. Starr, as they were passing the cream and sugar for the oatmeal. "That is too bad! But it is just the worst of being a business man,--one never knows when one must be up and away. And of course, one can not neglect business interests.--The oatmeal is unusually good this morning, Prudence." This was nothing short of heroic on his part, for her eyes upon her father's face were so wide and dark that the lump in his throat would not stay down. That was the beginning of Prudence's bitter winter, when the brightest sunshine was cheerless and dreary, and when even the laughter of her sisters smote harshly upon her ears. She tried to be as always, but in her eyes the wounded look lingered, and her face grew so pale and thin that her father and Fairy, anxiously watching, were filled with grave concern. She remained almost constantly in the parsonage, reading very little, sitting most of her leisure time staring out the windows. Fairy had tried to win her confidence, and had failed. "You are a darling, Fairy, but I really do not want to talk about it.--Oh, no, indeed, it is all my own fault. I told him to go, and not come again.--No, you are wrong, Fairy, I do not regret it. I do not want him to come any more." And Fairy worried. What in the world had happened to separate in the morning these two who had been kissing so frankly in the back yard the evening before? Mr. Starr, too, had tried. "Prudence," he said gently, "you know very often men do things that to women seem wrong and wicked. And maybe they are! But men and women are different by nature, my dear, and we must remember that. I have satisfied myself that Jerry is good, and clean, and manly. I do not think you should let any foolishness of his in the past, come between you now." "You are mistaken, father. Jerry is all right, and always was, I am sure. It is nothing like that. I told him to go, and not to come again. That is all." "But if he should come back now----" "It would be just the same. Don't worry about it, father. It's all right." "Prudence," he said, more tenderly, "we have been the closest of friends and companions, you and I, from the very beginning. Always you have come to me with your troubles and worries. Have I ever failed you? Why, then, do you go back on me now, when you really need me?" Prudence patted his shoulder affectionately, but her eyes did not meet his. "I do not really need you now, father. It is all settled, and I am quite satisfied. Things are all right with me just as they are." Then he took a serious step, without her knowledge. He went to Des Moines, and had a visit with Jerry. He found him thinner, his face sterner, his eyes darker. When the office boy announced "Mr. Starr," Jerry ran quickly out to greet him. "Is she all right?" he cried eagerly, almost before he was within hailing distance. Mr. Starr did not mince matters. "Jerry," he said abruptly, "did you and Prudence have a quarrel? She declines to tell me anything about it, and after the conversations you and I have had, I think I have a right to know what has happened." "Does she miss me? Does she seem sorry that I am away? Does----" His voice was so boyish and so eager there was no mistaking his attitude toward Prudence. "Look here, Jerry, I want to know. Why are you staying away?" "Won't Prudence tell you?" "No." "Then I can not. She made me promise not to tell you a word. But it is not my fault, Mr. Starr. I can tell you that. It is nothing I have done or said. She sent me away because she thinks it was right for her to do so, and--you know Prudence! It is wrong, I know. I knew it all the time. But I couldn't make her see it. And she made me promise not to tell." In the end Mr. Starr went back to the parsonage no wiser than he left, save that he now knew that Jerry was really not to blame, and that he held himself ready to return to her on a moment's notice. The Ladies of the Methodist church were puzzled and exasperated. They went to the parsonage, determined to "find out what's what." But when they sat with Prudence, and looked at the frail, pathetic little figure, with the mournful eyes,---they could only sigh with her and go their ways. The twins continued to play in the great maple, even when the leaves were fallen, "It's a dandy place, I tell you, Prudence," cried Carol. "Jerry didn't have time to put up the rope before Connie pulled him down, but we've fixed it ourselves, and it is simply grand. You can go up and swing any time you like,--unless your joints are too stiff! It's a very serious matter getting up there,---for stiff joints, of course, I mean. Lark and I get up easy enough." For a moment, Prudence sat silent with quivering lips. Then she burst out with unusual passion, "Don't you ever dare climb up in that tree again as long as you live, twins! Mind what I say!" Lark looked thoughtfully out of the window, and Carol swallowed hard. It was she who said gently, "Why, of course, Prue,--just as you say." For the first time, Prudence had dealt with them harshly and unfairly. They knew it. There was neither sense nor justice in her command. But they did not argue the point. They kept their eyes considerately away from her, and buried themselves in _Julius Caesar_,--it must be remembered the twins are sophomores now. Five minutes later Prudence spoke again, humbly. "I beg you pardon, twins,--that was a perfectly idiotic thing for me to say. Of course, you may play in the maple whenever you like. But be careful. You couldn't save yourselves in falling as--as men can." "We won't play there if you want us not to," said Carol kindly. "I do want you to play there," she answered. "It's a very nice place, and great fun, I know. I might try it myself if--my joints weren't so stiff! Now, go on with your Latin." But Prudence did not pass under the maple for many weeks without clenching her hands, and shuddering. The twins were not satisfied. They marveled, and wondered, and pondered over the subject of Jerry's disappearance. Finally they felt it was more than human flesh could stand. They would approach Prudence on the subject themselves. But they bided their time. They must wait until Fairy was safely out of the house. Fairy these days had an infuriating way of saying, "That will do, twins. You'd better go and play now." It enraged and distracted the twins almost to the point of committing crime. They had made several artistic moves already. Professor Duke, of their freshman biology class, had written Carol a gay long letter. And Carol was enthusiastic about it. She and Lark talked of "dear old Duck" for two weeks, almost without pausing for sleep. "I'm sure you would fall in love with him on the spot," Carol had said to Prudence suggestively. Prudence had only smiled, evidently in sarcasm! "Jerry was very nice,--oh, very nice,--but you ought to see our little Duck!" Carol rattled rashly. "I'm sure you wouldn't regret Jerry any more if you could just get hold of Duckie. Of course, his being in New York is an obstacle, but I could introduce you by mail." "I do not care for Ducks," said Prudence. "Of course, they look very nice swimming around on the water, but when it comes to eating,--I'll take spring chicken every time." Carol did not mention "Duck" again for three days. But there came a day when Fairy was out in the country. Connie had gone driving with her father. The moment had arrived. The twins had their plan of campaign memorized, and they sauntered in to Prudence with a nonchalance that was all assumed. "Prudence," Lark began, "we're writing a book." "That's nice," said Prudence. Conversation languished. The subject seemed exhausted. Carol came to the rescue. "It's a very nice book. It's a love-story, and perfectly thrilling. Larkie does the writing, but I criticize and offer suggestions." "That's kind of you." A pause. "I'm going to dedicate it to Carol,--To my beloved sister, to whose kindness and sympathy, I owe all that I am,--or something like that," Lark explained hopefully. "How proud Carol will be!" A long pause. "We're in a very critical place just now, though," Lark seemed to be commencing at the beginning once more. "We have our heroine in a very peculiar situation, and we can't think what to do with her next." "How sad." Another pause. "We thought maybe you could help us out." "I'm afraid not," Prudence smiled a little. "I haven't any imagination. Ask Fairy. She's strong on love-stories." "Maybe if we explain the situation to you, you could give us a suggestion. It is like this: The young people have had all kinds of thrilling experiences, but they are not yet betrothed. But they are just on the point of getting there,--and something crops up all of a sudden! The hero goes dashing away, and returns no more. The heroine lies upon her silken couch, weeping, weeping. And no one knows what to do about it, because no one knows what has happened. What do you suppose could have sent the lover away like that?" "Maybe he hasn't enough money for the heroine." "Oh, yes,--he's very rich." "Maybe he is already married." "No, indeed. He's a bachelor." "Maybe he didn't love her, after all." Here Carol chimed in helpfully. "Oh, yes, he did, for we left him kissing her all over the back yard, and he wouldn't have done that if he hadn't loved her, you know." Prudence's eyes twinkled a little, but her smile was sad. "Now, what would you advise us to do?" inquired Lark briskly, feeling instinctively that Carol had explained too much. Prudence rose slowly. "I think," she said very gently, "I think I would burn the book if I were you, and pay a little more attention to my studies." Then she went up-stairs, and Carol told Lark sympathetically that they did not deserve an authoress in the parsonage when they didn't give her any more encouragement than that! On the day before Christmas, an insured package was delivered at the parsonage for Prudence. A letter was with it, and she read that first. "My dearest little sweetheart: I chose this gift for you long before I had the right to do it. I was keeping it until the proper moment. But the moment came, and went again. Still I want you to have the gift. Please wear it, for my sake, for I shall be happy knowing it is where it ought to be, even though I myself am banished. I love you, Prudence. Whenever you send for me, I am ready to come. Entirely and always yours. Jerry." With trembling fingers she opened the little package. It contained a ring, with a brilliant diamond flashing myriad colors before her eyes. And Prudence kissed it passionately, many times. Two hours later, she went quietly down-stairs to where the rest of the family were decorating a Christmas tree. She showed the ring to them gravely. "Jerry sent it to me," she said. "Do you think it is all right for me to wear it, father?" A thrill of hopeful expectancy ran through the little group. "Yes, indeed," declared her father. "How beautiful it is! Is Jerry coming to spend Christmas with us?" "Why, no, father,--he is not coming at all any more. I thought you understood that." An awkward silence, and Carol came brightly to the rescue. "It certainly is a beauty! I thought it was very kind of Professor Duckie to send Lark and me a five-pound box of chocolates, but of course this is ever so much nicer. Jerry's a bird, I say." "A bird!" mocked Fairy. "Such language." Lark came to her twin's defense. "Yes, a bird,--that's just what he is." Carol smiled. "We saw him use his wings when Connie yanked him out of the big maple, didn't we, Lark?" Then, "Did you send him anything, Prue?" Prudence hesitated, and answered without the slightest accession of color, "Yes, Carol. I had my picture taken when I was in Burlington, and sent it to him." "Your picture! Oh, Prudence! Where are they? Aren't you going to give us one?" "No, Carol. I had only one made,--for Jerry. There aren't any more." "Well," sighed Lark resignedly, "it's a pretty idea for my book, anyhow." From that day on, Prudence always wore the sparkling ring,--and the women of the Methodist church nearly had mental paralysis marveling over a man who gave a diamond ring, and never came a-wooing! And a girl who accepted and wore his offering, with nothing to say for the man! And it was the consensus of opinion in Mount Mark that modern lovers were mostly crazy, anyhow! And springtime came again. Now the twins were always original in their amusements. They never followed blindly after the dictates of custom. When other girls were playing dolls, the twins were a tribe of wild Indians. When other girls were jumping the rope, the twins were conducting a circus. And when other girls played "catch" with dainty rubber balls, the twins took unto themselves a big and heavy croquet ball,--found in the Avery woodshed. To be sure, it stung and bruised their hands. What matter? At any rate, they continued endangering their lives and beauties by reckless pitching of the ungainly plaything. One Friday evening after school, they were amusing themselves on the parsonage lawn with this huge ball. When their father turned in, they ran up to him with a sporting proposition. "Bet you a nickel, papa," cried Carol, "that you can't throw this ball as far as the schoolhouse woodshed!--By the way, will you lend me a nickel, papa?" He took the ball, and weighed it lightly in his hand. "I'm an anti-betting society," he declared, laughing, "but I very strongly believe it will carry to the schoolhouse woodshed. If it does not, I'll give you five cents' worth of candy to-morrow. And if it does, you shall put an extra nickel in the collection next Sunday." Then he drew back his arm, and carefully sighted across the lawn. "I'll send it right between the corner of the house and that little cedar," he said, and then, bending low, it whizzed from his hand. Lark screamed, and Carol sank fainting to the ground. For an instant, Mr. Starr himself stood swaying. Then he rushed across the lawn. For Prudence had opened the front door, and stepped quickly out on the walk by the corner of the house. The heavy ball struck her on the forehead, and she fell heavily, without a moan. CHAPTER XV FATE TAKES CHARGE Four hours Prudence lay unconscious, with two doctors in close attendance. Fairy, alert but calm, was at hand to give them service. It is a significant thing that in bitter anguish and grief, Christians find comfort and peace in prayer. Outsiders, as well as Christians, pray in times of danger and mental stress. But here is the big difference between the prayers of Christians and the prayers of "others." "Others" pray, and pray, and pray again, and continue still in the agony and passion of grief and fear. And yet they pray. But Christians pray, and find confidence and serenity. Sorrow may remain, but anguish is stilled. Mount Mark considered this a unique parsonage family. Their liveliness, their gaiety, their love of fun, seemed a little inapropos in the setting of a Methodist parsonage. "They ain't sanctimonious enough by half," declared old Harvey Reel, the bus driver, "but, by Jings! I tell you they are dandies!" But as a matter of fact, every one of the family, from Connie up, had a characteristic parsonage heart. When they were worried, or frightened, or grieved, they prayed. Fairy passing up the stairs with hot water for the doctors, whispered to her father as he turned in to his own room, "Keep on praying, father. I can't stop now, because they need me. But I'm praying every minute between errands!" And Mr. Starr, kneeling beside his bed, did pray,--and the stony despair in his eyes died out, and he came from the little room quiet, and confident, and calm. Connie had been unfortunate. In seeking a secluded corner to "pray for Prudence," she had passed the door of the dungeon, and paused. A fitting place! So she turned in at once, drawing the door after her, but leaving it a couple of inches ajar. Then in the farthest and darkest corner, she knelt on the hard floor, and prayed, and sobbed herself to sleep. Fairy passing through the hall, observed the door ajar, and gave it a slight push. The lock snapped into place, but Connie did not waken. Lark remained loyally with Carol until consciousness returned to her. As soon as she was able to walk, the two went silently to the barn, and climbed into the much-loved haymow. There they lay flat on the hay, faces downward, each with an arm across the other's shoulder, praying fervently. After a time they rose and crept into the house, where they waited patiently until Fairy came down on one of her numerous errands. "Is she better?" they whispered. And Fairy answered gently, "I think she is a little better." Then the twins, in no way deceived, went back to the haymow again. Fairy prepared a hasty supper, and arranged it on the kitchen table. She drank a cup of hot coffee, and went in search of her father. "Go and eat, dadsie," she urged. But he shook his head. "I am not hungry, but send the girls to the table at once." On their next trip into the house, Fairy stopped the twins. "Get Connie, and eat your supper. It's just a cold lunch, and is already on the kitchen table. You must help yourselves,--I can't come now." The twins did not speak, and Fairy went hurriedly up the stairs once more. "I do not think I can eat," said Carol. "I know I can't," was Lark's reply. "Won't Fairy make us? She'll tell papa." "We'd better take away about half of this food, and hide it. Then she will think we have already eaten." This novel plan was acted upon with promptitude. "Where's Connie? She ought to eat something. We must make her do it." "She probably cried herself to sleep somewhere. We'd better let her alone. She'll feel much better asleep and hungry, than awake and sorry for Prue." So the twins went back to the haymow. When it grew dark, they slipped into the kitchen, and huddled together on, the woodbox beside the stove. And down to them presently came Fairy, smiling, her eyes tear-brightened. "She is better!" cried Carol, springing to her feet. "Yes," said Fairy, dropping on her knees and burying her face in Lark's lap, as she still sat on the woodbox. "She's better. She is better." Lark patted the heaving shoulders in a motherly way, and when Fairy lifted her face again it was all serene, though her lashes were wet. "She is conscious," said Fairy, still on her knees, but with her head thrown back, and smiling. "She regained consciousness a little while ago. There is nothing really serious the matter. It was a hard knock, but it missed the temple. When she became conscious, she looked up at father and smiled. Father looked perfectly awful, twins, so pale, and his lips were trembling. And Prudence said, 'Now, father, on your word of honor, did you knock me down with that ball on purpose?' She spoke very low, and weak, but--just like Prudence! Father couldn't say a word, he just nodded, and gulped. She has a little fever, and the doctors say we may need to work with her part of the night. Father said to ask if you would go to bed now, so you can get up early in the morning and help us. I am to stay with Prudence to-night, but you may have to take turns in the morning. And you'll have to get breakfast, too. So father thinks you would better go to bed. Will you do that, twinnies?" "Will we!" And Carol added, "Will you kiss Prudence good night for us, and tell her we kept praying all the time? Prudence is such a great hand for praying, you know." Fairy promised, and the twins crept up-stairs. It was dark in their room. "We'll undress in the dark so as not to awake poor little Connie," whispered Lark. "It's nice she can sleep like that, isn't it?" And the twins went to bed, and fell asleep after a while, never doubting that Connie, in her corner of the room, was already safe and happy in the oblivion of slumber. But poor Connie! She had not wakened when Fairy closed the dungeon door. It was long afterward when she sat up and began rubbing her eyes. She did not know where she was. Then she remembered! She wondered if Prudence-- She scrambled to her feet, and trotted over to the dungeon door. It was locked, she could not turn the knob. At first, she thought of screaming and pounding on the door. "But that will arouse Prudence, and frighten her, and maybe kill her," she thought wretchedly. "I'll just keep still until some one passes." But no one passed for a long time, and Connie stretched her aching little body and sobbed, worrying about Prudence, fearful on her own account. She had no idea of the time. She supposed it was still early. And the parsonage was deathly quiet. Maybe Prudence had died! Connie writhed in agony on the hard floor, and sobbed bitterly. Still she would not risk pounding on the dungeon door. Up-stairs, in the front room, Prudence was at that time wrestling with fever. Higher and higher it rose, until the doctors looked very anxious. They held a brief consultation in the corner of the room. Then they beckoned to Mr. Starr. "Has Prudence been worrying about something this winter?" "Yes." "Has she been grieving, and fretting for something?" "Yes, she has." "It is that young man, isn't it?" inquired the family doctor,--a Methodist "member." "Yes." "Can you bring him here?" "Yes,--as soon as he can get here from Des Moines." "You'd better do it. She has worn herself down nearly to the point of prostration. We think we can break this fever without serious consequences, but get the young man as soon as possible. She can not relax and rest, until she gets relief." So he went down-stairs and over the telephone dictated a short message to Jerry. "Please come,--Prudence." When he entered the front bedroom again, Prudence was muttering unintelligible words under her breath. He kneeled down beside the bed, and put his arms around her. She clung to him with sudden passion. "Jerry! Jerry!" she cried. Her father caressed and petted her, but did not speak. "Oh, I can't," she cried again. "I can't, Jerry, I can't!" Again her voice fell to low mumbling. "Yes, go. Go at once. I promised, you know.--They haven't any mother.--I promised. Jerry! Jerry!" Her voice rang out so wildly that Connie, down in the dungeon, heard her cries and sobbed anew, relieved that Prudence was living, frightened at the wildness of her voice. "Oh, I do want you--more than anybody. Don't go!--Oh, yes, go at once. I promised.--Father needs me." And then a piercing shriek, "He is falling! Connie, drop that rope!" She struggled up in the bed, and gazed wildly about her,--then, panting, she fell back on the pillows. But Mr. Starr smiled gently to himself. So that was the answer! Oh, foolish little Prudence! Oh, sweet-hearted little martyr girl! Hours later the fever broke, and Prudence drifted into a deep sleep. Then the doctors went downstairs with Mr. Starr, talking in quiet ordinary tones. "Oh, she is all right now, no danger at all. She'll do fine. Let her sleep. Send Fairy to bed, too. Keep Prudence quiet a few days,--that's all. She's all right." They did not hear the timid knock at the dungeon door. But after they had gone out, Mr. Starr locked the door behind them, and started back through the hall to see if the kitchen doors were locked. He distinctly heard a soft tapping, and he smiled. "Mice!" he thought. Then he heard something else,--a faintly whispered "Father!" With a sharp exclamation he unlocked and opened the dungeon door, and Connie fell into his arms, sobbing piteously. And he did the only wise thing to do under such circumstances. He sat down on the hall floor and cuddled the child against his breast. He talked to her soothingly until the sobs quieted, and her voice was under control. "Now, tell father," he urged, "how did you get in the dungeon? The twins----" "Oh, no, father, of course not, the twins wouldn't do such a thing as that. I went into the dungeon to pray that Prudence would get well. And I prayed myself to sleep. When I woke up the door was locked." "But you precious child," he whispered, "why didn't you call out, or pound on the door?" "I was afraid it would excite Prue and make her worse," she answered simply. And her father's kiss was unwontedly tender as he carried her upstairs to bed. Prudence slept late the next morning, and when she opened her eyes her father was sitting beside her. "All right this morning, father," she said, smiling. "Are the girls at school?" "No,--this is Saturday." "Oh, of course. Well, bring them up, I want to see them." Just then the distant whistle of a locomotive sounded through the open window, but she did not notice her father's sudden start. She nodded up at him again, and repeated, "I want to see my girls." Her father sent them up to her at once, and they stood at the foot of the bed with sorry faces, and smiled at her. "Say something," whispered Carol, kicking Lark suggestively on the foot. But Lark was dumb. It was Carol who broke the silence. "Oh, Prudence, do you suppose the doctors will let me come in and watch them bandage your head? I want to begin practising up, so as to be ready for the next war." Then they laughed, and the girls realized that Prudence was really alive and quite as always. They told her of Connie's sad experience, and Prudence comforted her sweetly. "It just proves all over again," she declared, smiling, but with a sigh close following, "that you can't get along without me to look after you. Would I ever go to bed without making sure that Connie was safe and sound?" Down-stairs, meanwhile, Mr. Starr was plotting with Fairy, a willing assistant. "He'll surely be in on this train, and you must keep him down here until I get through with Prudence. I want to tell her a few things before she sees him. Bring him in quietly, and don't let him speak loudly. I do not want her to know he is on hand for a few minutes. Explain it to the girls, will you?" After sending the younger girls down-stairs again, he closed the door of Prudence's room, and sat down beside her. "Prudence, I can't tell you how bitterly disappointed I am in you." "Father!" "Yes, I thought you loved us,--the girls and me. It never occurred to me that you considered us a bunch of selfish, heartless, ungrateful animals!" "Father!" "Is that your idea of love? Is that----" "Oh, father!" "It really did hurt me, Prudence. My dear little girl, how could you send Jerry away, breaking your heart and his, and ours, too,--just because you thought us such a selfish lot that we would begrudge you any happiness of your own? Don't you think our love for you is big enough to make us happy in seeing you happy? You used to say you would never marry. We did not expect you to marry, then. But we knew the time would come when marriage would seem beautiful and desirable to you. We were waiting for that time. We were hoping for it. We were happy when you loved Jerry, because we knew he was good and kind and loving, and that he could give you all the beautiful things of life--that I can never give my children. But you thought we were too selfish to let you go, and you sent him away." "But father! Who would raise the girls? Who would keep the parsonage? Who would look after you?" "Aunt Grace, to be sure. We talked it over two years ago, when her husband died. Before that, she was not free to come to us. But she said then that whenever we were ready for her, she would come. We both felt that since you were getting along so magnificently with the girls, it was better that way for a while. But she said that when your flitting-time came, she would come to us gladly. We had it all arranged. You won't want to marry for a year or so, yet. You'll want to have some happy sweetheart days first. And you'll want to make a lot of those pretty, useless, nonsensical things other girls make when they marry. That's why I advised you to save your burglar money,--so you would have it for this. We'll have Aunt Grace come right away, so you can take a little freedom to be happy, and to make your plans. And you can initiate Aunt Grace into the mysteries of parsonage housekeeping." A bright strange light had flashed over Prudence's face. But her eyes clouded a little as she asked, "Do you think they would rather have Aunt Grace than me?" "Of course not. But what has that to do with it? We love you so dearly that we can only be happy when you are happy. We love you so dearly that we can be happy with you away from us,--just knowing that you are happy. But you--you thought our love was such a hideous, selfish, little make-believe that----" "Oh, father, I didn't! You know I didn't!--But--maybe Jerry won't forgive me now?" "Why didn't you talk it over with me, Prudence?" "I knew you too well, father. I knew it would be useless. But--doesn't it seem wrong, father, that--a girl--that I--should love Jerry more than--you and the girls? That he should come first? Doesn't it seem--wicked?" "No, Prudence, it is not wicked. After all, perhaps it is not a stronger and deeper love. You were willing to sacrifice him and yourself, for our sakes! But it is a different love. It is the love of woman for man,--that is very different from sister-love and father-love. And it is right. And it is beautiful." "I am sure Jerry will forgive me. Maybe if you will send me a paper and pencil--I can write him a note now? There's no use waiting, is there? Fairy will bring it, I am sure." But when a few minutes later, she heard a step in the hall outside, she laid her arm across her face. Somehow she felt that the wonderful joy and love shining in her eyes should be kept hidden until Jerry was there to see. She heard the door open, and close again. "Put them on the table, Fairy dearest, and--leave me for a little while, will you? Thank you." And her face was still hidden. Then the table by the bedside was swiftly drawn away, and Jerry kneeled beside her, and drew the arm from her face. "Jerry!" she whispered, half unbelievingly. Then joyously, "Oh, Jerry!" She gazed anxiously into his face. "Have you been sick? How thin you are, and so pale! Jerry Harmer, you need me to take care of you, don't you?" But Jerry did not speak. He looked earnestly and steadily into the joyful eyes for a moment, and then he pressed his face to hers. 
33554	----	Nancy _of_ Paradise Cottage _by_ SHIRLEY WATKINS THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY CHICAGO COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY GEORGE W. JACOBS & COMPANY _All rights reserved_ Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER I THE HEROINE GOES TO MARKET II INSIDE THE COTTAGE III A MODERN CINDERELLA IV LADIES OF FASHION V A RETICENT GENTLEMAN--AND MISS BANCROFT VI MISS BANCROFT BEARDS THE OGRE VII A MAN OF "PRINCIPLES" VIII THE FIRST NIGHT AT SCHOOL IX A QUARREL X THE OGRE REAPPEARS XI ALMA MAKES COMPLICATIONS XII ALMA IN A SCRAPE XIII NANCY HAS A GREAT ADVENTURE XIV PARADISE COTTAGE XV THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE MR. PRESCOTT Nancy of Paradise Cottage CHAPTER I THE HEROINE GOES TO MARKET "Let's see--bacon, eggs, bread, sugar, two cans of corn, and jam. Have I gotten everything, Alma?" Nancy, checking off the items in her marketing list, looked over toward her sister, who had wandered to the door and stood gazing out into the street where a gentle September rain was falling. Alma did not answer, seeming to have gone into a dream, and the grocer waited patiently, his pencil poised over his pad. "Alma, do wake up! Have I forgotten anything? I'm sure there was something else," said Nancy, frowning, and studying her list, with her under lip thrust forward. "I regularly go and forget something every Saturday night, when there's no Hannah to concoct something out of nothing for Sunday luncheon." "You said you were going to bake a cake--a chocolate layer cake," suggested Alma, turning, and viewing the proceeding disinterestedly with her hands in her pockets. "That's it. I have to get flour, and some cooking chocolate, and vanilla. Alma, you've got to help me carry these things. I'm not Goliath." "Mercy, Nancy, we don't have to take all that home with us, do we? Can't you send them, Mr. Simpson?" The grocer shrugged apologetically. "It's Saturday, Miss Prescott, and the last delivery went out at three--all my boys have gone home now or I'd try to accommodate you." "I do hate to go about looking like an old market woman, with my arms full of brown paper parcels," murmured Alma, _sotto voce_ to her sister. "Goodness, I don't imagine there'll be a grand stand along the way, with thousands watching us through opera glasses," laughed Nancy. "Would you mind telling me whom you expect to meet who'd faint with genteel horror because we take home our Sunday dinner? I don't intend to starve to spare anybody's feelings." "Last week I was dragging along a bag of potatoes--and--and I met Frank Barrows. And the bag split while I was talking to him, and those hateful potatoes went bumping around all over the pavement. I never was so mortified in my life," said Alma, sulkily. Nancy shot a keen glance at her sister's pretty face, and her eyes twinkled. Alma's shortage of the American commodity called humor was a source of continual quiet joy to Nancy, who was the only member of the Prescott family with the full-sized endowment of that gift. "Dear me, whatever did Frank do? Scream and cover his eyes from the awful sight? Had he never seen a raw potato in all his sheltered young life?" Alma shrugged her shoulders--a slight gesture with which she and her mother were wont to express their hopeless realization of Nancy's lack of finer feelings. "I don't suppose you would have minded it. But _I_ hate to look ridiculous, particularly before anyone like Frank Barrows." "But, Alma, you funny girl, don't you see that you look a thousand times more ridiculous when you act as if a few potatoes bouncing about were something serious? Don't tell me you stood there gazing off haughtily into the blue distance while Frank gathered up your silly old potatoes? Or did you disown them? Or did you play St. Elizabeth, and expect a miracle to turn them into roses so that they would be less offensive to Frank's aristocratic eyes? Come on now, help me shoulder our provisions. We're members of the Swiss Family Robinson, going back to our hut with our spoils. Pretend we're savages, and this is a desert island, and not respectable Melbrook at all. Next time we go marketing you can disguise yourself with a beard and blue goggles." Alma laughed unwillingly. She was a dainty and singularly pretty girl--a little bit foolish, and a good bit of a snob, but Nancy adored her, though she enjoyed making good-natured digs at Alma's weak spots. They took up their bundles, said good-night to Mr. Simpson, and went out. It was a walk of three miles from the village--or, as it preferred to be called--the town of Melbrook to the Prescotts' house, which lay in the country beyond, a modest little nest enough, where the two girls had grown up almost isolated by their poverty from the gay life of the younger Melbrookians. Alma chafed unhappily against this isolation, chafed against every reminder of their poverty, and, like her mother, once a beauty and a belle, craved the excitement of admiration, luxury and fine things. She was ashamed of the little house, which was shabby, it is true, ashamed of having to wear old clothes, and made herself wretched by envying the richer girls of the neighborhood their beautiful houses, their horses and their endless round of gay times. As Nancy once told her mother, in affectionate reproof, they were always trying to "play rich"--Mrs. Prescott and Alma. She had tried to teach Alma her own secret of finding life pleasant; but Alma did not love books, nor long solitary walks through the summer woods; and Nancy's ambition of fitting herself to meet the world and make her own living seemed to both Alma and her mother dreary and unfeminine. Somewhere, in the back of her pretty head, Mrs. Prescott cherished the hope and the belief that the two girls would find some way of coming into what she called "their own"--not by Nancy's independent plan of action, but through some easier, pleasanter course. She shuddered at the idea of their making their own living, and opposed Nancy's wish to go to college on the ground that no men liked blue-stocking women, and that therefore Nancy would be an old maid. "But, Mother darling, we can't just sit back and wait for some young millionaire to come and carry us off?" Nancy would plead, shaking her head. Time was flying, and Nancy was seventeen, and eager to begin her own life. "Let me go--I can work my way through, and Alma can stay at home with you." "I need you to help me with Alma," was Mrs. Prescott's answer. Nancy felt helpless. Her father, before her, had to his sorrow recognized the hopelessness of driving any common-sense views into Mrs. Prescott's pretty, silly little head. She had never realized that the decline of the family's fortune had been, in no small measure, due to her. She accounted for it on the grounds of old Mr. Thomas Prescott's inhuman stubbornness and selfishness. The two girls, leaving the village behind them, were walking briskly through the rain, down the main road, bordered by the imposing country estates of people who had gradually settled on the pretty countryside. Nancy could remember when the hill, where now stood a staring white stone mansion, surrounded by close-clipped lawns and trim gardens, had been a wild, lovely swell of meadow, dotted with clusters of oaks and elms; when in place of the smug little bungalow, with its artificial pond and waterfall, and ornate stone fences, there had been a wooded copse, where squirrels scuttled about among branches of trees, since fallen in the path of a moneyed civilization. Other of the houses, of haughty Mansard architecture, had stood there before she had been born, and it had often seemed to her that the huge, solemn, beautiful old place of Mr. Thomas Prescott had been there since the Creation. As they passed it, they slackened their pace, and despite the weight of bundles which grew heavier every minute, stopped and peered through the bars of the great, wrought-iron gates. A broad drive, meticulously raked and weeded, wound away from them under magnificent arching trees, to the portals--Nancy said it would have been impossible to consider Uncle Thomas's door anything but a portal--which were just visible under the low-hanging branches. The rest of the old stone house was screened from the rude gaze of prying eyes, like the face of a faded dowager of the harem; save for the upper half of a massive Norman tower, which thrust itself up out of the nest of green leaves, like the neck of some inquisitive, prehistoric bird. "I don't believe Uncle Thomas has passed through these gates in fifteen years," said Nancy. "One could almost believe that he had really died and had had himself buried on the grounds, like the eccentric old recluse he is." "Well, they would have had to have done something with all his money," replied Alma, pressing her forehead against the iron bars; "unless he left everything to his butler, and had the will read in secret. It would be just like him. Oh, Nancy, why are there such selfish old misers in the world? Just think--if he'd just give us the least little bit of all his money. Just enough to get a horse and carriage, and buy some nice clothes, and--and get a pretty house. It wouldn't be anything to him. Mamma says she is sure that he will relent some day." Nancy shrugged her shoulders. To her mind, it was foolish of her mother to put any hopes on the whims of an old eccentric. Mrs. Prescott was one of those poor optimists who believe earnestly in the miracles of chance, always forgetting that chance works its miracles as a rule only when the way has been prepared for them by the plodding labor of common sense. "We mustn't count on that, Alma," she said soberly. "There is no use in living on the possibility that Uncle Thomas will relent, and make us rich. It isn't just for the pure love of money that he has been so stingy toward us, I believe. He was never a miser toward Father, you know. I--I think he would have given us everything in the world if--if----" She hesitated, unwilling to state her private opinion to Alma. "If what?" "Well, you see, I think the trouble was this. Come along, we mustn't wait here, or you'll catch cold." "What do you think the trouble was?" prompted Alma, padding after her sister, and sloshing placidly through the puddles, in all the nonchalant confidence of sound rubbers. "Well, Alma, you mustn't misunderstand me. I'm afraid you will. You know how I adore Mother. She's so pretty, and--and childlike, and funny that nobody on earth could ever blame her----" "Blame her? For what?" cried Alma, with sudden fire. "Nothing. Only, Alma, we must realize that sometimes Mother makes little mistakes, and I believe that she has had to pay more heavily for them than she deserves. We've got to try to protect her against them, by looking at life squarely, and wisely, Alma----" "Are you going to preach a sermon? What were you going to say about Uncle Thomas?" "Just this. You know Uncle Thomas was a very clever man. He made every bit of his money himself. Father told me long ago that when Uncle Thomas began in life he did not have a cent in the world; he started out as a plain mill-hand, and then he became a mechanic, and he worked his way up from one rung to another, until through his own talent and pluck he became very, very rich. Well, it's only natural that a man like that should give money its full value--when he's toiled for years at so many cents an hour, he knows just exactly how many cents there are in a dollar. Perhaps he puts too great a value upon it, but certainly we aren't judges of that. You know that Uncle Thomas never married, and when Grandfather died, Uncle Thomas became Daddy's guardian. I believe he loved Father better than anyone in the world. Who could help it?" Nancy's voice trembled slightly, and she winked back the tears which rose to her eyes at the memory of her father's handsome merry face, which had grown so unaccountably saddened and worn before his early death. "He gave Father everything he wanted, when he was a boy--you know how Daddy used to tell us how Uncle Thomas would tiptoe up to his room at night and slip gold pieces into his stocking, so that he could find them in the morning, and then when Daddy asked him about it, he would shrug his shoulders, and his eyes would twinkle, and he'd say, 'It must have been Brownies.'" "I can't imagine how a man who used to be like that could ever have grown so hard and bitter," said Alma. "Well--then, you see, when Father grew up, Uncle wanted him to be successful for himself. And he was terribly proud of Father when Daddy first came back and told him that he had made five thousand dollars in his first year at business. Then Father told him that he was going to be married. Uncle didn't want him to--not until he had definitely settled himself in life. And then, Father was very young, and Mother only a girl of seventeen--think of it, just my age. But when Uncle saw Mother, he adored her, of course." Nancy paused, and seemed to have forgotten the rest of her story, but Alma prompted her curiously. She had never heard this tale before, for Nancy had gleaned it bit by bit from her father, when they used to take long walks together through the country, and, putting two and two together, she had been able to get rather close to the real truth of things. "I know Uncle adored Mother," said Alma, kicking through a pile of wet leaves. "He gave her those lovely Italian earrings, which I'm to have when I'm eighteen. And all that wonderful Venetian lace, which the first one of us to be married is going to have for her wedding gown." "Yes. Well, then--then after Father and Mother were married things didn't go so very well. Mother was just a girl--just my age, you know, only she was pretty, like you, and, I suppose, a little extravagant. At least, they weren't able to make ends meet very well, although Daddy made a good income--and, anyhow, Uncle Thomas would have thought her extravagant. He didn't see why it was necessary for her to send for her clothes to Paris, and why Father was always worried about bills, when he should have been able to live well within his income. Anyway, Father wasn't able to save a cent, and one day Uncle Thomas came to him and said that he had a very good opportunity for him to invest his savings, so that they would draw a much better income than what they were giving. The only trouble was that Father didn't have any savings. Then Uncle became furious; he asked Father and Mother what kind of future they thought they were laying up for us, and he scolded Mother terribly for not helping Father. He quoted the Bible about women being the helpmeet of their husbands, and about the parents eating sour grapes and setting the children's teeth on edge. He said that they were taking the path to ruin, and that Father could expect no help from him unless he and Mother economized. But you see, poor Mother always considered Paris dresses and jewellery and expensive dainties the necessities and not just the luxuries of life. I don't suppose she really understood how to economize at all. And anyway, things got worse instead of better. Then, one year, Daddy lost an awful lot of money trying to make some quickly so that he could get his debts cleared up, and start fresh. Instead, he only got in deeper. And--and then he fell ill. And you remember, Alma, when poor Father was dying, Uncle came. And he cried and cried. But when Mother came into the room, he got up and went out, and shut the door behind him. Then he shut the gates of his house against us, too. I think he feels that we--we girls must learn to look at life seriously, to work out our own futures--so that poverty will teach us to be wiser than--than poor, darling little Mother----" Nancy's voice had sunk, as if she were talking to herself, so that Alma barely heard the last words. She was thinking of Alma, wondering how she could teach her luxury-loving little sister to see life practically, without taking away the joy of it from her. "We mustn't rely on Uncle Thomas, Alma," she said presently. "We mustn't count on anything but what we can do for ourselves. Remember that, dear. We've got to realize that our lives must run a different course from those of richer girls--we can never do the things they do--but surely they will be richer lives, and happier lives, if--if we rely on no one, ask nothing from anyone, but what we earn"--her head went up--"never struggle for, or want the things that lie beyond our means, but make always the opportunities that lie within our grasp, or _the ones that we can make for ourselves_, serve as stepping stones." Alma glanced at her sister's sober, handsome face. There were times when Nancy looked to her like some brave, gallant, sturdy lad, and there were times when she agreed with Nancy in spite of herself, and against her own inclinations. "Here we are--home again. And if it isn't the snuggest, cosiest, most cheerful burrow between here and Melbrook, why"--Nancy strode gaily up the little brick walk with her long, boyish strides, and breaking into a laugh, finished, "I'll beard the Prescott himself--tower, donjon-keep and all!" CHAPTER II INSIDE THE COTTAGE It was what Nancy called the pluperfect hour of the day; that is, of a rainy day. The curtains of the living-room were drawn over the windows, the mellow lamplight dealing kindly with their faded folds. The rain, which had brought with it an early autumn chill, beat rhythmically against the panes, and gurgled contentedly from a water spout, as if it were revelling in the fact that it had had the whole countryside to itself for four-and-twenty hours. Alma had washed her yellow hair, and had built a fire to dry it by. Nancy, in her dressing-gown and slippers, with her own brown mane braided into a short, thick club, was icing the chocolate cake, helping herself generously to the scrapings in the earthenware bowl. Mrs. Prescott was embroidering. This was her greatest accomplishment, learned in a French convent. Knitting bored her to death, and darning drove her crazy, but she could sit by the hour stitching infinitesimal petals on microscopic flowers, and turning out cake mats, tea-cloths and fancy collars by the score. Faded only slightly by her forty-odd years, she was still an exquisitely pretty woman, with a Dresden-china face, marred ever so little by the fine lines which drooped from the corners of her delicate nose to the corners of her childish mouth. Her golden hair was barely silvered, her skin as fresh and rosy as Alma's, and her round little wrists, and pink-tipped fingers, Alma might have envied. The lacy dressing-gown she wore, which, at the slightest motion, shook out a faint little whiff of some expensive French perfume, struck an odd note in the shabby room, where the couch sadly displayed a broken spring, and not the most careful placing of furniture that Nancy could devise entirely concealed the holes in the faded carpet. "We ought to put a glass cover over Mother, the way some people cover French clocks," Nancy said laughingly. "You're much too valuable to get any of the dust of every-day life on you, Mamma." "I'm getting old, my dear. I only think of my daughters now," said Mrs. Prescott, with a little sigh and pushing a curly wisp of hair back from her face. "I shall be putting on spectacles soon." "Catch you! You'd go blind as a bat before you'd do any such violence to your beauty. You're like Alma. I had to argue for half an hour to-day to make Alma wear her raincoat. It wasn't becoming, and she'd far rather die of pneumonia than look like a----" "A hippopotamus," said Alma. "That's what I look like in the old thing. The sleeves dangle over my hands like a fire hose." "Nancy, I've come to a definite conclusion in regard to you and Alma, for this winter," said Mrs. Prescott, laying down her embroidery and trying to look practical and decided. "How much will it cost?" Nancy's eyes twinkled. "It's not a question of money." "Nothing ever is--with Mamma and Alma," Nancy thought, but she was silent, and continued to lick the chocolate off her spoon composedly. "I have thought the whole thing over very carefully, and I am quite sure that the matter of money must not be weighed against the value which it would have for you girls." "It's not a trip to Europe, is it, Mamma?" asked Alma, quite as if she expected that this might be the case. Indeed, a trip to Europe would have been no more incredible to Nancy than her mother's plan, which Mrs. Prescott proceeded to unfold. "You see, my dears, living as we do, you girls are absolutely cut off from the opportunities which are so essential to every girl's success in life. This has been a great worry to me. You are growing older, and you are forming no acquaintances that will be of value to you. For this reason I have decided that the expense of sending you both--for a last year, you understand--to a good school, a smart school, a school where Alma can meet girls who will count for something in social life--is an expense that must be met." "But--heavens, we've had all the ordinary schooling we need," exclaimed Nancy in amazement. "If--if I could just have a few months' tutoring so that I could take my college exams in the spring--I could work my way through college easily----" "I don't want you to go to college, Nancy," said Mrs. Prescott irritably. "What in the world is the use of a whole lot of ologies and isms--and ruining your looks over a lot of senseless analyzing and dissecting and everything----" "I won't be studying anything useless, Mother dearest. But don't you see that it will be ever so much easier for me to get a position as a teacher if I can show a Bachelor's degree instead of just a smattering of French, or a thimbleful of ancient history?" "There's no reason why you should think of becoming a teacher," answered Mrs. Prescott. "And I wish you wouldn't talk about it--it's so dreadfully drab and gloomy." "But I want to make my living in some way." "If you and Alma marry well, there won't be any reason why you should make your living." "But, Mother, we can't count on chance, like that. Suppose Alma and I never met a rich man whom we could love--we'd be helpless." "A year at Miss Leland's will give both of you plenty of opportunities. You'll meet girls there whom you ought to know, girls who will invite you to their houses, through whom you'll meet eligible young men----" "The expense of paying for board and tuition at Miss Leland's would be the least of the digging we'd have to do into the family purse. We'd be under obligations to people, which we would never be in a position to repay--we'd be no better than plain, ordinary sponges. I--I couldn't bear it. Besides, the fees at Miss Leland's are terribly high. I could go to college for almost two years on what I'd pay for one year at Miss Leland's--and all that we'd get at that school would be a little French, a smattering of history, dancing and fudge parties." "And extremely desirable acquaintances." "But, Mother, we'd never be able to keep up with them on their own scale of living," pleaded Nancy, with a hopeless conviction in her heart that she was talking to the winds. "Girls like Elise Porterbridge and Jane Whiteright have an allowance of a hundred a month, and anything else they want, when they've spent it." "You've got money on the brain, Nancy," said Alma, shaking her curls off her face. "You are a regular old miser." "Well, you're right, perhaps. I--I hate to, heaven knows, but we do have to think about it, Alma. It's the poor gamblers who are always counting on a lucky chance that are ruined. I want to be prepared for the worst--and then if something nice turns up, why, wouldn't that be ten times better than if, when we had been counting on the best, the worst should happen?" "You see, dears," Mrs. Prescott had entirely missed the point of Nancy's last remark, "Uncle Thomas is very old, and I am sure--I am _quite_ sure that he will relent." "Oh, Mother!" Poor Nancy flung up both hands in despair. "I have entered you both at Miss Leland's, so, really, there is no use in arguing about it any more. And I've already sent the check for the first term. Everything is decided. I didn't tell you until to-night, just because I was afraid that this hard-headed old Nancy of mine would try to argue me out of it; when I _know_ that it's the best and wisest thing to do. Nancy, darling, please don't scowl like that. You aren't angry with Mother, are you?" A soft little hand was laid on Nancy's muscular brown one, and in spite of herself the girl relented, with a whimsical smile and a sigh. "I'd like to see anyone who could be angry with you for two minutes," she said, burrowing her brown head in the lace on her mother's shoulder. "That nasty old Uncle Thomas has been angry with me for ten years, very nearly. Isn't he a dreadful old man?" laughed Mrs. Prescott, tweaking Nancy's ear. "We'll have to get a lot of new clothes if we are going to boarding school." Alma, having spread the towel on the floor, reclined full length in front of the fire, and meditated with satisfaction on the delightful prospect. "Mamma, if I could just once have a hat with a feather on it--a genuine _plume_, I'd be happy for the rest of my days." "Wouldn't Alma be lovely?" cried Mrs. Prescott delightedly. "Oh, you don't know how I long to give my daughters everything--everything. One thing you must have, Alma, is a black velvet dress--made very simply, of course. They are so serviceable," she flung this sop to Nancy, who, with her head thrown back, was good-humoredly tracing phantom figures in the air with her forefinger. "In for a penny, in for a pound," she observed, agreeably. "Oh, darling Uncle Thomas, kindly lend us a million. We need it, oh, we need it--every hour we need it!" "Let's set one day aside for shopping," was Alma's bright suggestion; she felt that this would be her element. "We'll go into the city in the morning, get everything done by noon, lunch at Mailliard's and then go to a matinée. I haven't seen a play since Papa took us to see Humpty Dumpty, when Nance and I were little things." "I've got eighty-three cents," said Nancy. "I'd like to see the color of _your_ money, ma'am, before we do any gallivanting." "Well,--I'm not going to sit here gazing at that cake another minute,--_please_ give me a slice, Nancy, sugar-pie, lambkin,--just a wee little scrooch of it," begged Alma, snuffing the handsome chocolate masterpiece of Nancy's culinary skill. Nancy took off a crumb and gave it to her, which elicited a wail of indignation from Alma. "Well, here you are. And it'll give you a nice tummy-ache, too," predicted Nancy, cutting off a generous slice. "Good heavens--there's the door-bell, Mother!" She stopped, knife in hand and listened, petrified. "Who on earth can be coming here at this time of night, and all of us in our dressing-gowns. Alma, you're the most nearly dressed of all of us. Here, pin up your hair. There it goes again. Fly!" Alma seized a handful of hairpins, and thrusting them into her hair as she went, ran out of the room. Nancy and her mother listened with eyebrows raised. "Must be a letter or something," Nancy surmised. "You don't suppose--it couldn't be----" Alma forestalled her conjectures, whatever they might have been, by entering the room with her face shining and an opened letter in her hand. "It's an _invitation_, Nancy," she beamed. "Isn't that exciting? Elise Porterbridge wants us to come to a 'little dance she's giving next Friday night.' And the chauffeur is waiting for an answer." "Funny she was in such a hurry," remarked Nancy. "I suppose someone fell out, and she's trying to get her list made up. What do you think, Mother?" "Why, it's delightful. I want you to know Elise better anyway. You know her aunt married the Prince Brognelotti, and she will probably do everything for that girl when she makes her début." Mrs. Prescott rustled over to the writing-table and despatched a note in her flowing, pointed hand. "Hush, Mamma, the chauffeur will hear you," cautioned Nancy with a slight frown. It always pricked her when Alma or her mother said snobbish little things, and roused her democratic pride--the stiffest pride in the world. "A dance," carolled Alma, when the door had slammed again behind the emissary of the Porterbridge heiress. "A real, sure enough dance!" She seized Nancy by the waist and whirled her about; then suddenly she stopped so abruptly that Nancy bumped hard against the table. Alma's face was sober, as the great feminine wail rose to her lips: "I haven't a thing to wear!" "You must get something, then," said Mrs. Prescott, positively, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "I want you to look lovely, Alma. It's dreadful to think of a girl with your beauty not being able to appear at your best all the time." Mrs. Prescott had a habit of speaking to Alma as if she were a petted débutante of nineteen, instead of just a pretty, care-free youngster of sixteen. She looked at Nancy, who was the treasurer of the family, much as an impecunious queen might look at her first Lord of the Exchequer while asking him for funds to buy a new crown. "Why can't you wear your blue crepe," was Nancy's unfeeling answer. "It's very becoming, and you've hardly worn it." "If you call that an evening dress," Alma cried, on the verge of tears, "you've a vivid imagination--that's all I've got to say. I just won't go if I have to look dowdy and home-made. I wouldn't have any kind of a time--you know that----" "You could cut out the neck and sleeves, and get a new girdle. I'm going to do that to my yellow, and with a few flowers--there'll be some lovely cosmos in the garden--it'll look very nice. And you're sure to have a good time, no matter what you wear, Alma." "Oh, she can't go if her clothes aren't just right, Nancy--that's all there is to it," said Mrs. Prescott. "Clothes," declared Alma, her voice quavering between tears and indignation, "are the most important things in the world. It doesn't matter _how_ pretty a girl is--if her dress is dowdy, no one will notice her." "And you must remember, Nancy, that she will be compared with girls who will be sure to be wearing the freshest, smartest and daintiest things," added Mrs. Prescott. Nancy began to laugh. They argued with her as if she were some stingy old master of the house instead of a slip of a girl of seventeen. But there was some truth in what Alma had said, and Nancy knew what agonies would torment her if she felt that she fell a whit below any girl at the dance in point of dress. Nancy could sympathize with her there--only it was quite out of the question that _both_ she and Alma should have new dresses. She thought hard a moment. There was not very much left in the family budget to carry them through the remainder of the month--but then she might let the grocer's and butcher's bills run over, or, better still, she might charge at one of the city department stores where the Prescotts still kept an account. It would be too bad if Alma's first dance should be spoiled, even if the couch did go in its shabby plush for another month or so. Five yards of silk would come to about fifteen dollars--new slippers not less than seven, silk stockings, two--that made twenty-four dollars--thirty to give a margin for odds and ends like lining and trimming. Alma would need a pretty evening dress when she went off to school, and she might as well have it now. "Well, listen, you poor old darling," she said slowly. "To-day's Saturday. If we trot in town on Monday and get the material, we could easily make up a pretty dress for you to wear on Friday night. Let's see----" "She could have a pale blue taffeta," Mrs. Prescott suggested, who was in her element when the subject turned to the matter of clothes, "made perfectly plain--with a broad girdle--or you could have a girdle and shoulder-knots of silver ribbon--and wear silver slippers with it. It would be dear with a round neck, and tiny little sleeves, and a short, bouffant skirt. You could wear my old rose-colored evening wrap,--it's still in perfect condition." "That would be _scrumptious_!" shrieked Alma, flinging her arms about them both. "You two are angelic _dumplings_, that's what you are." "Monday morning, then," said Nancy. "We'd better take an early train." When her mother and sister had gone to bed, she took out her little account book and began to figure, then all at once she flung the pencil down in disgust at herself. "Alma's right. I'm turning into a regular old miser. I'm not going to bother--I'm not going to bother. But--but somebody's _got_ to." She frowned, staring at the small old-fashioned picture of her father, which smiled gaily at her from the top of the desk. "You left that little job to me, didn't you?" she said aloud, and the memory of some words her father had once spoken to her laughingly came back to her mind--"You're my eldest son, Nancy--mind you take care of the women." "Only I'm jolly well sick of being a boy, Daddy," she said, as she jumped into bed. "I'll let the first person who steps forward take the job." CHAPTER III A MODERN CINDERELLA "Let's take a cab to the station. The roads are awfully wet still, and I'll ruin my shoes," suggested Alma. The little family were at breakfast, Nancy and Alma hastily swallowing their coffee so that they could hurry off to the station. After the fit of autumn wind and rain, another summer day had come, with a glistening sunlight which was doing its best to cheer up the drooping flowers in the tiny garden. "We don't need a cab. What are you talking about?" replied Nancy, glancing out of the window. "It's a wonderful day, and we don't have to make for all the puddles on the way to the station like ducks. By the way, don't let me forget to stop at the bank. I dare say I ought to take some money with me in case we can't get just what we want at Frelinghuysen's. How much do you think we should have, Mother?" "Seventy-five dollars ought to be enough," said Mrs. Prescott vaguely, after a moment's calculation. Nancy whooped. "Seventy-five! Good gracious--why, if I spend a cent over forty, we'll have to live on bread and water for the rest of the month!" "Well, just as you think, dear--you know best, of course," Mrs. Prescott answered absently. "You two had better be starting. I wish you would get Alma a new hat while you're in town, Nancy. I don't quite like that one she has--it doesn't go with her suit." Nancy pushed her chair back from the table. "I'll trot out and see Hannah a moment. We have about thirty-five minutes, Alma." It took them twenty minutes to walk to the station. Alma was in high spirits, Nancy still thoughtful. But the wind was up and out, tossing the trees, rippling the puddles, which reflected a clear, sparkling sky, and the riotous, care-free mood of the morning was infectious. As the train sped through the open country, passing stretches of yellowing fields, clusters of woodland and busy little villages, Alma chattered joyously: "Aren't you awfully glad about the party, Nancy? Don't you think we can go to a matinée--it's such a deliciously idle, luxurious sort of thing to do! I'm going to have chicken patties for luncheon, and lots of that scrumptious chocolate icecream that's almost black. Don't you love restaurant food, Nancy? It's such fun to sit and watch the people, and wonder what they are going to do after luncheon, and what they are saying to each other, and where they live. When I'm married I shall certainly live in town, and I'll have a box at the opera, and I'll carry a pair of those eye-glasses on jewelled sticks--what-do-you-call-'ems--and every morning I'll go down-town in my car and shop, and then I'll meet my husband for luncheon at Sherry's or the Plaza." "Of course you'll have a country-place on Long Island," suggested Nancy, with good-natured irony, which Alma took quite seriously. "Oh, yes. With terraces and Italian gardens. I _would_ love to be seen standing in a beautiful garden, with broad marble steps, and rows of poplar trees, and a sun-dial----" "For whose benefit?" "Oh, my own." "We're feeling rich to-day, aren't we?" "Well, I don't know anything that feels better than to be going to buy a new dress. Shall we get the hat too, Nancy?" "What do you think?" Alma hesitated. "Well, I suppose we'd better wait. It's funny how when you start spending money at all you want to get everything under the sun. Of course, girls like Elise or Jane _do_ get everything they want----" "Exactly. And when you're with them you feel that you must let go, too. And if you can't afford it----" Nancy shrugged her shoulders, and Alma finished for her: "It makes you miserable." "Or else," said Nancy, with a curl of the lip, "or else, if you aren't bothered with any too much pride, you'll do what that Margot Cunningham does. She simply camps on the Porterbridges. Elise is so good-natured that she lets Margot buy everything she likes and charge it to her, and Margot finds life so comfy there that she can't tear herself away. I'd rather work my fingers to the bone than take so much as a pair of gloves given to me out of good-natured charity!" Nancy's eyes sparkled. Alma was silent. There were times when Nancy's fierce, stubborn pride frightened her--sometimes the way her sister's lips folded together, and her small, cleft chin was lifted, made her fancy that there might be a resemblance between Nancy and old Mr. Prescott. Alma was the butterfly, and Nancy the bee; the butterfly no doubt wonders why the bee so busily stores away the honey won by thrift and industry, and, in all probability, the bee reads many a lesson to the gay-winged idler who clings to the sunny flower. But to-day the bee relented. "Now, ma'am, consider yourself the owner of unlimited wealth," said Nancy, as they swung briskly into the concourse of the Grand Central Station. "You're a regular Cinderella, and _I'm_ your godmother, who is going to perform the stupendously brilliant, mystifying act of turning twenty rolls of sitting-room wall-paper, and three coats of brown paint into--five yards of superb silk, two silver slippers, two silk stockings, and three yards of silver ribbon; or, one simple country maiden into a fashionable miss of entrancing beauty." "Nancy, you're the most angelic person!" squealed Alma. "But aren't you going to get yourself something, too? It makes me feel awfully mean to get new things when you have to wear that dowdy old yellow thing." "Dowdy, indeed. It's grand. 'Miss Nancy Prescott was charming in a simple gown of mousseline-de-soie, which hung in the straight lines now so much in vogue. Her only ornaments were a bouquet of rare flowers, contrasting exquisitely with the shade of her frock,--a toilette of unusual chic. Miss Alma Prescott, Melbrook's noted beauty, was superb in a lavish creation'--You're going to be awfully lavish, and quite the belle of the ball." "You ought to have some new slippers, Nancy--a pair of gold ones would absolutely _make_ your dress." "My black ones are all right. I'll put fresh bows on them," said Nancy, firm as a Trojan outwardly, though within her resolution wavered. Dared she take another seven dollars? She began to feel reckless. "Are you waited on, madam?" The smooth voice of a saleswoman roused her from her calculations. "We want to see some blue taffeta--not awfully expensive." "Step this way. We have something exquisite--five dollars a yard." "Oh, haven't you anything less than that?" stammered Nancy in dismay. Alma glanced at her reprovingly. "For heaven's sake, don't sound as if you hadn't a dollar to your name, or she'll just right-about-face and walk off," she whispered. "We'll _look_ at the expensive silk, and then work around to the cheaper--explain that it's more what we want, and so on." "Yes, and the cheaper silk will look so impossible after we've seen the other that we'll be taking it," returned Nancy. "_I_ know their wiles." "Here is a beautiful material--quite new," lured the saleswoman. "A wonderful shade. It will be impossible to duplicate. See how it falls--as softly and gracefully as satin, but with more body to it. The other is much stiffer." "How--how much is it?" asked Nancy feebly. "Five-ninety-eight. It's special, of course. Later on the regular price will be six-fifty." "Isn't it _lovely_?" breathed Alma, touching the gleaming stuff with careful fingers. "Have--have you anything for about three dollars a yard?" asked Nancy, wishing that Alma would do the haggling sometimes. The saleswoman listlessly unrolled a yard or two from another bolt and held it up. "Is it for yourself, madam? Or for the other young lady?" "It's for my sister. Let me hold this against your hair, Alma." "It's not nearly so nice as the other, of course," observed Alma, in a casual tone. "It's awfully stiff, and the color's sort of washed out. I really think----" "Oh, of course, this paler shade is not nearly so effective at night," agreed the saleswoman, pouncing keenly upon her prey. "See how beautifully this deeper color brings out the gold in the young lady's hair. Would you like to take it to the mirror, miss?" "Oh, don't, Alma!" begged Nancy, in comical despair. "Of course there isn't any comparison." She felt herself weakening. "I--I suppose this would really wear better too." "Of course it would," said Alma, quickly. "That other stuff is so stiff it would split in no time." Five times five-ninety-eight--thirty dollars. Nancy wrinkled her forehead, but she knew that she had succumbed even before she announced her surrender. The saleswoman, watching her, lynx-eyed, smiled. Alma preened herself in front of the long mirror, frankly admiring herself, with the soft, silken stuff draped around her shoulders. "All right," said Nancy. "Give me five yards." "Charged?" purred the saleswoman. But Nancy had no mind to have the gray ghost of her extravagance revisit her on the first of the month. "No, no! I'll pay for it, and take it with me." She counted out her little roll of bills, trying not to notice the pitiable way in which her purse shrank in, like the cheeks of a hungry man. "Is there nothing you would like for yourself, madam?" murmured the voice of the temptress. "Here is some ravishing charmeuse--the true ashes-of-roses. With your dark hair and eyes----" "Oh, no--no, thanks." Nancy clutched Alma, and turned her head away from the shimmering, pearl-tinted fabric. For all her stiff level-headedness, she was only human, and a girl with a healthy, ardent longing for beautiful finery; prudent she was, but prudence soon reaches its limits when the pressure of feminine vanity and exquisite luxury is brought to bear upon it. There was only one course of resistance. Nancy fled. "Now, slippers." Alma skipped along beside her, hugging her precious bundles, with shining eyes, and cheeks aglow. "I think I love slippers better than anything in the world. Nancy, you're a perfect _lamb_." They tried on slippers. Certainly Alma's tiny foot and slender ankle was a delightful object to contemplate as she turned it this way and that before the little mirror. "If you had a little buckle, miss--we have some very new rhinestone ornaments--I'd like to show you one--a butterfly set in a fan of silver lace. Just a moment." Before Nancy could stop her the saleswoman had gone. "We won't get the buckles, you dear old thing," Alma said consolingly, bending the sole of her foot. "We'll just look at them." Nancy smiled wryly. "I'd _like_ to get you everything in the shop--I hate to be stingy with you, dear; it's just this old thing," and she held up the shabby purse. "_Isn't_ that perfectly gorgeous?" shrieked Alma, as the saleswoman held a little jewelled dragon-fly, poised on a spray of silver lace, against her instep. "Gorgeous," echoed Nancy. "It's a very chic trimming--of course we use it only on the handsomer slippers," chanted the saleswoman. "Now, we could put that on for you in five minutes, and really the expense would be small, considering that nothing more would be needed as an ornament, and it would be the smartest thing to wear--no trimming on the dress whatever." "How much would it be?" asked Alma. "I--I can't take it now, but later----" "The buckles are five dollars, and with the lace fan it would come to seven. I would advise you--the prices will go up in another month----" "Well, Alma----" Nancy hesitated, made one last frantic grasp at her fleeting prudence and surrendered. "Fourteen dollars. All right. You can take the buckles as a Christmas present from me. I'll pay for those, and we'll be back for them after we've got some other things." "Nancy, you angel! You lamb! You duck! You angelic dumpling!" crowed Alma. "I never felt so absolutely luxurious in all my life." "I don't imagine you ever did," remarked Nancy; she was aghast at her own extravagance. She judged herself harshly as the victim of the failing which she had so long combatted in her mother and sister. Every atom of the prudence with which she had armed herself seemed to be melting away like wax before a furnace. She had already spent forty-four dollars, and there was still the silver ribbon to be bought, which would bring the sum up to forty-five at the very least. She had originally intended to buy one or two small items with which to freshen up her own dress for the dance, but she stubbornly put aside the idea. "Nancy, darling, aren't you going to get yourself some slippers?" "No--I don't need them. The ones I have are quite good." "I feel so mean, Nancy. Do you think I'm horribly selfish?" "Selfish! You aren't the least bit selfish, dear. I can understand perfectly how you hate to go among all those rich girls without looking as well-dressed as any of them, when you're a thousand times prettier than the nicest looking one of them. Besides, just this once----" She paused, realizing that it was not a case of "just this once" at all. Pretty, new clothes and pocket money would be the barest necessities when they should be at Miss Leland's. Why didn't her mother see the folly of sending them to a place where they would learn to want things, actually to need things, far beyond the reach of their little bank account, and where Alma, chumming with girls who had everything that feminine fancy could desire, would either be made miserable, or--she tried to rout her own practical thoughts. Why was it that she was so unwilling to trust in rosy chance? Why was it always she who had to bring the wet blanket of harsh common sense to dampen her mother's and sister's debonair trust in a smiling Providence? Was she wrong after all? She considered the lilies of the field, but somehow she could not believe that their example was the wisest one for impecunious human beings to follow. Lilies could live on sun and dew, and they had nothing to do but wave in the wind. "Oh, look, Nancy--aren't those feather fans exquisite----" "Alma, don't you dare to peep at another showcase in this store, or I'll tie my handkerchief over your eyes and lead you out blindfolded like a horse out of a fire." "But _do_ look at those darling little bottles of perfume. They're straight from Paris. I can tell from those adorable boxes with the orange silk tassels. Wouldn't you give anything on earth to have one? When I'm rich I'm going to have dozens of bottles--those slender crystal ones with enamel tops; and they'll stand in a row across the top of a Louis XVI dressing-table." Nancy smiled at Alma's ever-recurring phrase, "When I'm rich." She wondered if her butterfly sister had formed any clear notions of how that beatific state was to be realized. "Alma Prescott, there's the door, and thank heaven for it. Have the goodness, ma'am, to go directly through it. The street is immediately beyond, and that is the safest place for us two little wanderers at present." Forty-five dollars for just one evening's fun. Gold slippers would have been just the thing to wear with her yellow dress; but--well---- CHAPTER IV LADIES OF FASHION The little bedroom which Alma and Nancy shared together wore a gaily topsy-turvy appearance on that memorable night--quite as if it had succumbed to the mood of flighty joy which was in the air. The dresser, usually a very model of good order--except when Alma had been rummaging about it unchecked--was strewn with hairpins, manicuring implements, snips of ribbon and the stems of fresh flowers; all the drawers were partly open, projecting at unequal distances, and giving glimpses of the girls' simple underwear, which had been ruthlessly overturned in frantic scramblings for such finery as they possessed. A fresh, slightly scented haze of powder drifted up as Nancy briskly dusted her arms and shoulders, and then earnestly performed the same attentions for Alma. Mrs. Prescott sat on the edge of the bed, alive with interest in the primping, and taking as keen a delight in her daughters' ball-going as she had done in her own preparations for conquest twenty years before. As critical as a Parisian modiste, she cocked her pretty head on one side and surveyed the girls with an expression of alertness mingled with satisfaction--such as you might see on the face of a clever business man who watches the promising development of a smart plan, with elation, though not without an eye ready to detect the slightest hitch. Unquestionably she was justified in pinning the highest hopes on Alma's eventual success in life--if sheer exquisite prettiness can be a safe guarantee for such. Alma, who had plainly fallen in love with herself, minced this way and that before the glass, blissfully conscious of her mother's and sister's unveiled delight in her beauty. Her yellow hair, bright as gold itself spun into an aura of hazy filaments, was piled up on top of her head, so that curls escaped against the white, baby-like nape of her neck. Her dress was truly a masterpiece, and if there had been a tinge of envy in Nancy's nature she might have regretted the skill with which she herself had succeeded in setting off Alma's prettiness, until her own good looks were pale, almost insignificant, beside it. But Nancy was almost singularly devoid of envy and could look with the bright, impersonal eyes of a beauty-lover at Alma's distracting pink and white cheeks, at her blue eyes, which looked black in the gas-light, and at her round white neck and arms--the dress left arms and shoulders bare except for the impudent, short puffed sleeves which dropped low on the shoulder like those of an early Victorian beauty; anything but Victorian, however, was the brief, bouffant skirt, which showed the slim ankles and the little, arched feet, in their handsome slippers. "You're perfectly--gorgeous, Alma. You've a legitimate right to be charmed with yourself," said Nancy, sitting down on the bed beside her mother to enjoy Alma's frank struttings and posings. "I am nice," agreed Alma naïvely, trying to suppress a smile of self-approval which, nevertheless, quirked the corners of her lips. "_You_ did it, though, Nancy darling. I don't forget that, even if I do seem to be a conceited little thing." She danced over and kissed Nancy's cheek lightly, her frock enchanting her with its crisp rustlings as she did so. "Nancy, you _will_ get something nice, too,--the next time?" "You should have made up a new dress for to-night, anyhow, Nancy," said Mrs. Prescott, turning to inspect Nancy's appearance from the top of her head to the toes of her freshly ribboned slippers. Nancy colored slightly. It had not been a very easy task to overcome the temptation to "blow herself," as Alma would have debonairly expressed a foolish extravagance; and it was not particularly soothing to have that feat of economy found fault with. "If--if you think I look too dowdy, I--I'll stay at home, Mother," she said, in a quiet tone that betrayed a touch of hurt pride. "You know it was out of the question for me to get another dress, and if you feel sensitive about my going to people like the Porterbridges in what I've got, why, it's absurd to attempt it at all." Mrs. Prescott was abashed; then in her quick, sweet, impulsive way--so like that of a thoughtless, lovable little girl--she put her arms around Nancy's straight young shoulders. "Don't be cross with me, darling. I only said that because it hurts me to think that you have to deny yourself anything in the world. You are so sweet, and so strong, and--and I love you so, my dear, that I cannot bear to think of your having to deny yourself the pretty things that are given to the daughters of so many other women." Instantly Nancy unbent, and, turning her head so that she could kiss her mother's soft hair, she whispered, with a tender little laugh: "Before you begin pitying us, dearest, you can--can just remember that other women's daughters haven't been given--a mother like you." And then, because, just like a boy, she felt embarrassed at her own emotion, and the tears that had gathered in her eyes, she said briskly: "If anyone should ask me my candid opinion, I'd say that I'm rather pleased with myself--only some inner voice tells me that I'm not completely hooked. Here, Mother----" By means of an excruciating contortion she managed to indicate a small gap in the back of her dress just between the shoulder blades. "You do look awfully nice, Nancy," commented Alma; she paused reflectively a moment, and then added, "You know, I suppose that at first glance most people would say I was--was the prettier, you know--because I'm sort of doll-baby-looking, and pink and white, like a French bonbon; but an artist would think that you were really beautiful--I hit people in the eye, like a magazine cover, but you grow on them slowly like a--a Rembrandt or something." "Whew! We've certainly been throwing each other bouquets broadcast to-night," laughed Nancy, who was tremendously pleased, nevertheless. "You'd better put your cloak on, Alma, and stop turning my head around backwards with your unblushing flattery. Isn't that our coach now?" The sound of wheels on the wet gravel and the shambling cloppity-clop of horses' hoofs, had indeed announced the arrival of the "coach." "Darn it, that idiotic Peterson has sent us the most decrepit old nag in his stable," remarked Alma, looking out of the window as she slid her bare arms into the satin-lined sleeves of her wrap. "I think he calls her 'Dorothea,' which means the 'Gift of God.'" "She looks like an X-ray picture of a baby dinosaur. I hope to heaven she won't fall to pieces before we get within walking distance of the Porterbridges'," said Nancy. "I think that so-called carriage she has attached to her must be the original chariot Pharaoh used when he drove after the Israelites." In a gay mood, the two sisters climbed into the ancient coupé, which smelt strongly of damp hay, and jounced away behind the erratic Dorothea, who started off at a mad gallop and then settled abruptly into her characteristic amble. A light, gentle, steady rain pattered against the windows, which chattered like the teeth of an old beggar on a wintry day. The two girls, deliciously nervous, would burst into irrepressible giggles each time when, as they passed a street lamp, the ridiculously elongated shadow of Dorothea and the chariot scurried noiselessly ahead of them and was swallowed up in a stretch of darkness. "My dear, I'm scared _pink_!" breathed Alma, pinching Nancy's arm in a nervous spasm. "My tummy feels just as if I were going down in an awfully quick elevator." "I don't see what _you_ are scared about," replied Nancy. "_I_ almost wish this regal conveyance of ours _would_ break down." "It feels as if one of the wheels were coming off." "I guess they are all coming off; but it's been like that since the dark ages already, and I dare say it will last another century or so." "Look! There's Uncle Thomas' house, now. Doesn't it look exactly like something that Poe would write about? That one light burning in the tower window, with all the rest of the house just a huge black shape, is positively gruesome." The two girls peered through the dirty little mica oval behind them at the strange old mansion, the bizarre turrets of which were silhouetted against the sky, where the edges of the dark clouds had parted, and the horizon shone with a paler, sickly light. "It is eerie looking. I suppose old Uncle T. is up in that room poring away over his books, and the last thing he'd be thinking of is his two charming nieces bouncing off to an evening of giddy pleasure in this antique mail-cart, or whatever it is." "Oh, my dear!" Alma squealed faintly. "We're getting there! Oh, look at all the automobiles. We can't go in in this dreadful looking thing." "All right. You can get out and walk. I say, do your hands feel like damp putty?" "_Do_ they! I feel as if I were getting the measles. Oh, here we are, Nancy!" Alma's tone would have suggested that they had reached the steps of the guillotine. Dorothea, alone, was unmoved, and almost unmoving. With her poor old head dangling between her knees, she crawled slowly along the broad, well-lighted driveway of a very new and very imposing house, beset fore and aft by a train of honking and rumbling motors. Nancy burst into a little breathy quaver of hysterical laughter. "We must try to be more like Dorothea," she giggled. "Her beautiful composure is due either to an aristocratic pedigree or to her knowledge that she is going to die soon, and all this is the vanity of a world which passes." In spite of their inner agony of shyness, however, the two girls descended from the absurd old carriage at the broad steps, and reached the door, under the footmen's umbrellas, with every outward appearance of well-bred _sang-froid_. "I'm so glad you could come, Nancy. Alma, how lovely you look. Don't you want to go upstairs and take off your wraps?" Elise Porterbridge, a tall, fat girl, dressed in vivid green, greeted them; and, with all the dexterity of a matronly hostess, passed them on into the chattering mob of youths and girls which crowded the wide, brightly lighted hail. Alma clutched Nancy's arm frantically as they squeezed their way through to the stairs. "Did you see a living soul that you knew besides Elise?" whispered Alma as they slipped off their wraps into the hands of the little maid. "Oh, it would be too awful to be a wall-flower after I've gone and gotten these lovely slippers and everything." "Don't be a goose. This is a good time--don't you know one when you see it? Here, pinch your cheeks a little, and stop looking as if you were going to have a chill. You're the prettiest girl here, and that ought to give you some courage." While Nancy poked her dress and tucked in a stray wisp of hair, Alma stood eyeing the modish, self-assured young ladies who primped and chattered before the long mirrors around them, with the round solemn gaze of a hostile baby. How could they be so cool, so absolutely self-contained? "Come on,--you look all right," said Nancy aloud, and Alma marvelled at the skill with which her sister imitated that very coolness and indifference. If she had known it, Nancy was inwardly quaking with the nervous dread that attacks every young girl at her first big party like a violent stage fright. They made their way slowly down the broad stairs, passing still more pretty, chattering debonair girls who were calling laughing, friendly greeting to the young men below. From one of the other rooms a small orchestra throbbed beneath the hum of voices; the scent of half a dozen French perfumes mingled and rose on the hot air; and the brilliant colors of girls' dresses stirred and wove in and out like the changing bits of glass in a kaleidoscope. "Er--I say--good-evening, Miss Prescott. I got to you first, so I've a right to the first dance." It was Frank Barrows, the hero of Alma's potato adventure, who claimed Alma before her little silver foot had reached the last step. A lean young man, with sleek, blond hair, a weak chin, and the free-and-easy, all-conquering manner of a youth who has been spoiled by girls ever since he put on long trousers and learned to run his own car, he looked at Alma with that look of startled admiration which to a young girl is a sweeter flattery than any that words can frame. She looked up at Nancy with a glance of joyous, innocent triumph, and then, putting her plump little hand on her partner's arm, and instantly meeting his gallantry with the pretty, utterly unconscious coquetry of a born flirt, she moved off. Nancy, still standing at the foot of the stairs, watched the yellow head as it passed among the heads of the other dancers. That quick, happy glance of Alma's had said, "Forgive me for being so pretty. You are better, and finer, and more beautiful--but they haven't found it out yet." She stood alone, terribly shy, her smooth cheeks flushing scarlet, and her bright eyes searching timidly for some friendly corner where she could run and hide herself away for the rest of the evening. Without Alma beside her to be petted and protected, she looked almost pathetically just what she was--a modest young girl, who was peculiarly lovely and appealing, as she stood waiting with a beating heart to catch a friendly eye in all that terrible, gay, selfish throng of pleasure-seekers. CHAPTER V A RETICENT GENTLEMAN--AND MISS BANCROFT With only the one aim of getting to harbor by hook or crook, Nancy, her cheeks burning with shyness, edged her way along the wall. She would not have felt half so much alone if she had been dropped into the middle of the Sahara desert, and, while her little feet tingled with the rhythm of the music, she surrendered herself to the unhappy conviction that she was doomed to be a wall-flower. She did not know these people; she felt as if she could never know them. Everything in their manner, their speech and their dress suggested a foreignness to her own nature that could never be bridged, unless she herself changed and became another being. It was something that she could not define, this difference; it was simply something that grew out of a different way of thinking and feeling about life. All these people seemed to make pleasure their business, the most important purpose of their existence, and this attitude, expressed in the very way that the girls carried themselves, in the tones of their voices, in their light scraps of inconsequential and not very clever talk, made her feel strange beyond description. She stood near a group of palms under the arch of the staircase, watching the faces all about her, longing one minute to be at home, curled up with a book on her shabby, comfortable window-seat, and the next, that she might be drawn into the centre of all that bubbling, companionable enjoyment. Now she caught a glimpse of Alma, who was standing near the door of the dancing-room, bantering and coquetting with a little cluster of youths who had gathered about her, heaven knows where from or how, like flies about a jar of new honey; it was plainly Alma's natural environment, in which she revelled like a joyous young fish in a sunny pool. "So that pretty little creature is George Prescott's daughter?" The question, spoken in a rather deep and penetrating voice, carried clearly to Nancy's ears, and she turned. At a little distance from her, seated on a small couch, sat Mrs. Porterbridge, a lean woman with a tight-lipped, aquiline face, and painfully thin neck and arms, and the old lady who had put the question. A quite remarkable-looking old lady, Nancy thought, enormously fat, dressed in purple velvet, her huge, dimpled arms and shoulders billowing, out of it, like the whipped cream on top of some titanic confection. Two small, plump, tapering hands clasped a handsome feather fan against her almost perpendicular lap. Two generous chins completely obliterated any outward evidences of neck, so that her head seemed to have been set upon her shoulders with the naïve simplicity of a dough-man's; yet for all this, one glance at her keen, intelligent face, with its sleepy, twinkling eyes and humorous, witty mouth, was enough to assure one that, whoever she might be, she was not an ordinary old lady by any means. One guessed at once that she had seen much of the world in her sixty-five or seventy years, that she had enjoyed every moment of the entertainment, and that while she probably required everyone else to respect public opinion, she felt comfortably privileged to disregard it herself whenever she pleased. She had been busily discussing everyone who attracted her attention, disdaining to lower her sonorous voice or to conceal in any way the fact that she was gossiping briskly. Young and old alike hastened up to her to pay their respects, and it was evident from their manner of eager deference that she was a rather important old person, whose keen and fearless tongue made her good opinion worth gaining. At present she had centred her lively interest upon Alma, and Nancy could not resist the temptation of listening to her remarks, especially since the old lady was obviously perfectly willing to let anyone and everyone hear her who might have reason to listen. "That is little Alma Prescott," Mrs. Porterbridge was replying. "She is charmingly pretty, isn't she?" "The image of her mother. Tell me something about them. It's ridiculous, isn't it, how we can live for years within a stone's throw of our neighbors without ever knowing whether their Sunday clothes are made of silk or calico. George Prescott used to be my particular favorite, when he was a youngster. I remember when he married that empty-pated little beauty--I gave him tons of my choicest advice--was absolutely prodigal of my finest gems of wisdom; but when I saw her--well, I knew very well that there would be ups and downs--she should have married an Indian nabob--but, thought I, I might as well shout to the north wind to be placid as to tell him to give her up and find himself some sensible, excellent creature, who could mend his socks and turn his old suits for him. He would rather have lived on burnt potatoes and bacon, with that charming little spendthrift, than have enjoyed all the blessings of good housekeeping at the hands of the most estimable creature we could have found for him. I do like that spirit in a young man, however much my excellent common sense may disapprove of it. "I saw nothing of George after his marriage. I was too fond of him to stand around offering advice, when he couldn't possibly make any use of it. I should probably have lost my temper just as Tom Prescott did--and I cannot endure to be in such a ridiculous position. I had a notion that Lallie Prescott didn't live here any more." "I believe that the family suffers rather keen financial difficulties," said Mrs. Porterbridge. "The girls go out very little--are quite isolated, in fact." "You mean that they are hard up--don't use those genteel euphemisms, my dear,--I can't understand 'em. "I'm sorry. It was inevitable, of course, but I'm one of the few beings that sincerely regret seeing other people reaping what they've sown. I've always avoided my own deserts so successfully." Her big, jolly laugh rang out at this. "There are two girls, I remember. Both pretty?" "Yes, indeed," replied Mrs. Porterbridge, in the unenthusiastic tone with which the mother of a rather plain daughter will praise the beauty of another woman's daughter. "Hum. Well, that's distinctly _something_. I really couldn't work up any heartfelt interest in them if they were ugly--though, of course, I understand that beauty is only skin deep, and handsome is as handsome does, and all that--whoever invented those saws must have been unbearably ugly--I've always suspected that it was some plain, jealous old wife of King Solomon who got very philosophical in her old age. Now, I'd really like to know what little Lallie Prescott is going to do with them." Mrs. Porterbridge gave a dry, affected little laugh, looking at Alma, who was waltzing again with the obviously infatuated Frank Barrows. "Well, I imagine that she is going to do all that she can to marry them off as advantageously as possible, and I dare say that both of them----" "Now, don't say anything cattish, my dear," interrupted the old lady, quite sharply, a sudden coldness routing the twinkle in her merry eyes. "I always know when you are going to say something that will annoy me, and nothing annoys me more than to hear an older woman say anything unkind about a young girl. I tell you this because I'm sure that you don't want to make me angry. If you are trying to tell me that Lallie Prescott is a schemer in regard to the future of her two daughters, why, I should be very much surprised to learn anything else. We are all schemers for our children--and just as in love and war, we consider everything fair so long as it works for their advantage. But----" Nancy, her cheeks burning, heard no more. In a last desperate effort at escape, she turned and fled unseen through the nearest doorway. At first she did not realize where she was; then she discovered that she had chanced upon a veritable haven of refuge, a large, quiet room, cosily lighted by a reading-lamp, furnished with huge, paternal-looking armchairs and divans, and lined on three of its walls from floor to ceiling with whole regiments of books. The fourth wall was monopolized by a great stone fireplace, where three or four tree-trunks smouldered softly, popping every now and then into small explosions of ruddy sparks. The smell of leather, of wood smoke, and even the delicate musty smell of the rich, yellowed paper of old books mingled with the hazy fragrance of a Turkish cigarette. Nancy was too much concerned with her own thoughts to wonder where the source of that comfortable aroma o£ tobacco lay--it was to her just a part of the atmosphere of books and quiet and leather chairs which she always associated with her memories of her father. Revelling in the sensation of being alone, as she blissfully fancied herself to be, she wandered about looking at the titles of the books, now and again taking down a volume and turning the leaves. Here she chanced upon a delightful old edition of "Pickwick Papers," bound in worn leather, there a copy of the "Vicar of Wakefield," with yellowed pages, and quaint, old-fashioned print, and the sight of these old friends, associated as they were with the happiest and most tranquil hours of her life, soothed to a certain extent her feelings which had been cruelly wounded by the conversation she had overheard. But she was still sore and angry. Still holding the "Vicar of Wakefield" in her hand, she stood, staring absently into the fire. "So that's what people will be saying about us--that we are pushing and scheming, and--and trying to make friends just to use them for our advantage," she thought bitterly, recalling Mrs. Porterbridge's unfriendly little insinuation. Sensitive and proud as she was, that unfinished remark, made in the cold, hard tone of a woman who, judging the whole world by herself, credited everyone alike with self-interested and worldly motives, had inflicted a wound that would be long in healing. It was not indeed on her own account that she resented it so bitterly, but because of her mother and Alma, whose actions, she knew, could be so misinterpreted and ascribed to quite false motives. She knew, too, less by experience than by instinct, that beneath all the pleasures and gaiety which Alma craved so eagerly, would flow that bitter undercurrent of cynical comment made by people who had so long been self-seeking that they could not believe in the artlessness of a young girl's simple thirst for enjoyment. Busy with these thoughts, a little strange and mature perhaps for her age, she was quite unconscious of two interesting facts. First, that from an armchair just beyond the radius of the lamplight, the source of the cigarette smoke was regarding her with mingled astonishment and approval, and, second, that she herself was making a very charming picture as she stood in the deep, mellow glow of the firelight. A small man, with a kind, whimsical, clever face, was looking at her with a pair of singularly bright brown eyes--eyes which had the direct, unwavering, gentle gaze of a person who has the gift of reading the meaning of faces and expressions to which others are blind. Indeed, so clearly had he guessed the trend of the thoughts which underlay the seriousness of Nancy's sensitive face, that he felt almost like an eavesdropper. Suddenly she jerked her head and saw him. He stood up. "I--I beg your pardon," he apologized, still with the sensation of having heard something that had not been meant for his ears. "You didn't know I was here, and I was rather at a loss as to how I should break it to you." Nancy had flushed to the edge of her hair. "That--that's all right," she stammered. "I--I mean, I should apologize to you. You were reading." She began to move away toward the door again, but he stopped her hastily. "You mustn't go, and you mustn't for a moment think you've disturbed me. I haven't any business to be in here anyway, because I think I was invited to entertain and be entertained like any respectable guest. I don't know what they do to unmannerly, unsociable creatures who sneak off for a book and a smoke from the scenes of revelry, but I'm guilty, and deserve to die the death, or whatever it is." Nancy laughed. When he talked he had a droll way of wrinkling up his forehead, and then suddenly breaking into a beaming, mischievous grin, like a schoolboy. "I'm guilty, too." "Yes,--and really ever so much more so than I am; because you're deliberately robbing at least ninety-nine per cent. of the guests of a part of their evening's pleasure, whereas, my absence is of so little importance one way or the other that, although I've been in here the better part of an hour already, there hasn't been even a whimper of protest. It's been decidedly injurious to my _amour-propre_. I had hoped, when you came in, that you had been sent by the unanimous vote of all present to request my immediate return to the regions of festivity. I was prepared to be coy--but not adamantine. Imagine my chagrin and dismay when it gradually dawned on me not only that you hadn't come for any such flattering purpose, but even that you hadn't the smallest notion I was here. As far as you were concerned I was of less significance than a cockroach." "But that's not bad--a cockroach would be of awful significance to me," said Nancy, with a laugh. "We have caught each other red-handed in an overwhelming breach of manners," continued he, severely. "But then, look at it this way--here we are, each having a good time in our own way. Now it seems to me that a hostess could ask no more of a guest than that he find his own entertainment--if he seeks it by ambling out into the garden to weed up wild onions, why, well and good----" "You are only trying to dazzle me with a false argument in self-defense," said Nancy. "You should be grateful to me for furnishing such a good one, since you've need of one yourself, ma'am. But if you don't like it, why then I shall change my mind. As a matter of fact, the idea of dancing has suddenly appealed to me very strongly--since Providence has at last provided me with a--well, with a more delightful partner than I should have dared to hope for. And they are playing a very charming waltz. Will you dance with me?" He made a graceful little old-fashioned bow, and offered her his arm. Then he smiled. "I--I haven't introduced myself yet. Do you mind? I should have done it in the beginning, but I couldn't think of any graceful way of hinting at my name, and it's so horribly clumsy just to say pointblank, 'My name's George Arnold. What's yours?'" "But there isn't any other way," answered Nancy, a little shyly, but laughing, too, "unless we both go to Mrs. Porterbridge and ask her to introduce us. My name is Nancy--Anne Prescott." "There now--it's perfectly simple, isn't it? I never could understand why there should be any formal to-do about telling two people each other's names. Do you know, the very minute you came in--perhaps it was from the way you looked at those dear old books--I felt as if--well, as if we ought to be friends. You are fond of them, aren't you--of books--really fond of them?" "I love those old, shabby ones. They--they looked so very friendly." He stole a keen glance at her face, and smiled gently at what it told him. Then, as she clung to his arm, he guided her dexterously through the crowd to the dancing floor. After that first dance the whole evening changed for Nancy. She had half doubted that her companion would be a good dancer, but in two moments that doubt was routed. Gliding smoothly, weightlessly as if to the gentle rhythm of a wave, they circled through the moving swarm of dancers; Nancy's cheeks flushing like two poppies and her eyes glistening with the exhilaration of the music. Her timidity had left her; she felt warm, vivacious and attractive, and it seemed perfectly natural that after that first waltz she had partners for every dance. Mr. Arnold danced with no one else. When other partners claimed her, he retired to the doorway, and stood with his arms folded, surveying the scene with his whimsical, absent-minded smile; but evidently he regarded it as his right to have each waltz with her. "My aunt has ordered me to present you to her," he said, when he had at length led her into a corner for an ice, and a moment's chat. "For some reason she has evidently taken a great fancy to you at sight, and she is giving me no peace. She is a very peremptory and badly spoiled old lady, but it's impossible to resist her. I told her that she might frighten you to death, and that then you'd blame me." "You _didn't_!" cried Nancy, horrified. "Indeed I did. I've had the experience before--and I told her that I'd be hanged if I assumed the responsibility of surrendering any unsuspecting person into her clutches without giving them fair warning. But, seriously, she is a very dear lady,--though an eccentric one--and she has been saying extremely nice things about you. Besides--she asked me to tell you that she knew your father, and that _she_ loved him long before _you_ were born." Something in his softened, gentle tone went to Nancy's heart. She put down her ice. "Will you take me now? I think I know--I mean I've seen your aunt already." "She is a very remarkable person. She can be more terrifying--and more tender, than any woman in the world. Utterly fearless, something of a tyrant--possibly because she has never been denied anything she wanted in her life. She simply doesn't accept denials. If she had been a man she might have been a Pitt, or a Napoleon. As she is, she is a mixture of Queen Elizabeth--and Queen Victoria." The amazing individual, described by this brief biographical preface, who was still enthroned on the coquettish little French couch, and who was now consuming a pink ice with naïve relish, was indeed the old lady in purple--otherwise, Miss Elizabeth Bancroft, of Lowry House (for some reason she had always been given this somewhat English style of designation; possibly because she was the last of her name to be identified with the magnificent collections for which Lowry House, the American roof-tree of aristocratic English colonists, had been famous for more than a hundred years). As Nancy stood before her, she looked up at the girl keenly, her little blue eyes diminished in size by the thick lenses of her pince-nez. Then she handed her ice to Mr. Arnold without even glancing at him, and held out both her plump white hands to Nancy. Her whole face softened, with the dimpling, comfortable smile of a motherly old nurse. "Oh, my dear child--if you were only a boy I could believe you were George again--my George, your father--not this young rascal. Come, sit down beside me. I shan't keep you long. Have you been having a good time, my dear?" She was not a terrible old lady at all. On the contrary, with wonderful skill, with cosy, affectionate little ways, with her jolly laugh, and her droll stories, she had succeeded in less time than it takes to tell in completely winning Nancy to her. And somehow, although she appeared to be doing all the talking herself, although she touched so lightly and so adroitly that she hardly seemed to touch at all on any topic that was delicately personal to the girl, she had managed within a brief five minutes to glean a hundred little facts, which, by piecing together in her keen old mind, gave her more knowledge concerning the Prescotts than another person could have come by in a week's diligent pumping. "George, my dear----" "Yes, Aunt Eliza." "Oh, nothing. I wish to goodness you were a woman. It just occurred to me that you can't possibly understand what I was going to say to you, so never mind about listening to me. Smoke, if you want to, and let me think in peace." "Very well." From Mr. Arnold's docile submissiveness it might be surmised that he, too, wanted to think in peace. Miss Bancroft's lumbering, impressive coupé rumbled along over the wet roads toward Lowry House; its two occupants buried in that mood of silence which only two very sympathetic beings know how to respect. Presently Miss Bancroft burst out: "The child is quite charming. I shall give Tom a good sound piece of my mind. To-morrow." George Arnold grunted. "It's only fair sportsmanship to give him twelve hours' warning." "Poor Lallie Prescott. Like most silly women, she's going to try to beat Providence by pushing them forward into premature rivalry with girls who have every financial advantage over them, ruin their contentment, so that they will be ready to fling away their happiness on the first little whippersnapper who looks as if he could give them a trip to Paris and a season in Cannes every year. I admire her fighting spirit, but it's hopelessly misdirected." "Am I meant to understand you, Aunt Eliza?" "No. Don't even listen to me. Nancy has too much sense for a girl of her age, and that exquisite little Alma has none. Tut-tut. I find that I must interfere." CHAPTER VI MISS BANCROFT BEARDS THE OGRE Miss Bancroft had not made her solemn declaration lightly. She never made any announcements of her intentions without weighty consideration; consequently she was a woman who meant what she said, and meant it thoroughly. Moreover, she never procrastinated; she thought in a straight line, and she acted in a straight line. Like most women, she took a healthy human delight in "interfering"; but, unlike the majority of her sex, she indulged very rarely. When, however, she had made up her mind on the point of allowing herself to concern herself in other people's business, she experienced the exquisite relish of a strictly self-controlled gamester, who allows himself to play only rarely so that he may enjoy his sport with that peculiar zest which only long abstinence can whet. On a sunny, warm September day, mellow with the promise of an Indian summer, Miss Bancroft, smart, though rotund, in lavender linen, set out on her pilgrimage to the house of Thomas Prescott. "I see that you aren't above the traditional wiles of your sex, Aunt," commented George Arnold, looking up from his book, and surveying her with twinkling eyes, from the long wicker porch chair, where he had been dozing in the sun. "You've rigged yourself out in full panoply. That's a jaunty little parasol you have." Miss Bancroft, standing on the broad steps, put up her parasol at this, to shade the fine texture of her gaily beflowered straw hat from the sun, and then glanced around at her nephew with a demure smile. "I make a point of looking my best always when I'm going to see Tom Prescott. Of course he thinks me a sensible woman, a remarkably reasonable woman, and all that nonsense; but I like to leave him with at least a half-formed notion that I'm surprisingly well preserved, even if I have rather lost my waist-line. There was a time, you know----" the demure smile quirked the corners of her big, mobile mouth, and sparkled impishly in her eyes; then with a little wag of her head, she ran down the steps like a fat, jolly schoolgirl. George Arnold, leaning back against a chintz cushion, watched the portly, festive figure that moved away under the trees of the long drive. Miss Bancroft usually seemed to roll slowly, but efficiently, along on wheels as ponderous and impressive as an old-fashioned stage-coach. He caught a last glimpse of lavender and white through the shrubs that bordered the end of the lawn. He felt a good deal of interest in this pilgrimage of his aunt's, although he had no very clear idea of the purpose of it. It had something to do with two very pretty young girls whom he had seen at an otherwise stupid dance the night before. One of the girls looked like a Dresden doll, the other had dark eyes, and a direct, shy, almost boyish smile. Her name was Anne--Nancy. Nancy suited her much better. He had thought about her several times. For no particular reason--she was hardly eighteen, and he was, well, he was thirty-three, though that was neither here nor there. It was simply that he liked her rather better than one likes most girls of that age. She had a way of listening to a man without that stupid, flustered expression, as though she was only wondering what in the world she should say when it should be her turn to talk. She liked books. He wondered if she knew that he wrote them. Of course he wasn't world-famous, but it might interest her to know that he was the George Arnold whose collections of exquisitely delicate children's stories had already been translated into six foreign languages, "including the Scandinavian." He smiled to himself at the naïve vanity which had prompted this thought; and chastised it by telling himself that it was only too likely that her ignorance or knowledge of what he did or was were matters of like indifference to her. Meantime, Miss Bancroft, puffing a little under the combined difficulties of avoirdupois and a beaming September sun, was looking with an almost pathetic anticipation at the rich cool shadows beneath which slept the rambling mansion of Thomas Prescott. "I shall order some tea. A man is always so much more amenable to reason over a tea-table--and for my part, I'll not survive half an hour without a little light refreshment. I suppose I'll have to listen to a long discourse on the origin of the Slavic races or the religious customs of the Aztecs, until I can get him down to argue with me on his duty toward his fellow creatures. I hope to Heaven that his principles are drowsy to-day. I can't bear it if I have to combat a lot of principles. It's absolutely heathenish to have principles in warm weather anyway. Of course they are the proper things to have, but, dear me, they _are_ such nuisances. It's all right to have them about yourself, I suppose, but to have them about other people is priggish, and quite useless, so far as I can see. My observation has taught me that if you like a person it makes no difference whether their principles coincide with your own or not, or even if they have none at all; and if you don't like a person, it's downright irritating to have to approve of them." Miss Bancroft's mental grammar, like much of her spoken grammar, was inaccurate, of course; as in other matters, she held rule to scorn, when the rule interfered with her personal conception of what she was trying to make clear to other people or to herself. Under the vigorous thrust of her plump, direct forefinger, the door-bell pealed clearly in the cool remote regions of the house. Standing under the arch of the Norman doorway, she surveyed the broad, shade-flecked lawns with interest and a sort of irritable appreciation. Somewhere under the trees a gardener was raking the drive and burning neat piles of warm, brown leaves, from which the pungent smoke ascended in sinuous blue spirals, like languorously dancing phantoms of the dead leaves; and the pleasant, rhythmic sound of the rake on the gravel intensified the sober peaceful silence peculiar to that bachelor's domain. The door was opened. "Tell Mr. Prescott that it's Miss Bancroft. Nonsense, I shan't sit down in the drawing-room at all--it makes me feel like a member of the Ladies' Aid come to petition a subscription for a new church carpet or something. Tell Mr. Prescott that I'll be out on the porch." "Will you come through this way, then, madam?" suggested the old butler, meekly. Miss Bancroft followed him, sighing a little with relief as the coolness of the great hall, with its smell of old, polished wood and waxed floors, closed about her. "And, William," she called pathetically after the retreating butler, "do put the kettle on!" On her way through the house she passed a stately succession of large rooms. A handsome drawing-room, with a polished parquetry floor, fit for the dainty crimson heels of a laced and furbelowed French coquette; its great glass chandelier shrouded in white tarlatan; the dining-room, with high-wainscoted walls, on which hung three or four astonishingly valuable and even beautiful pictures by masters of the eighteenth century English school. For all its impressive grandeur, the long table, covered with a rare piece of Italian brocade, was, with the single carved chair set at the distant end, a barren table, indeed, for a man whom Miss Bancroft knew to be possessed of one of the warmest, tenderest and most affection-craving hearts in the whole world. "Principles--fiddlesticks!" she observed aloud. "Tst!" A living-room, in which no one ever lived, a writing-room, in which no one ever wrote, and long halls, wainscoted in dark oak and quiet as those of a college library, whose silence was never broken by the light staccato footsteps of gay feet, or the murmur of roguish voices. But the air of pathos which all these things wore seemed to rise from the fact that they had been planned and secured not for the enjoyment of a lonely old man, but for some happy purpose that had never been realized. They seemed to wear an expression of disappointment, even of apology for existing so uselessly. "Tut! How can anyone be patient with a man of principles," again commented Miss Bancroft; but her face had grown a little sad. She was rocking gently back and forth in the shade of the cool stone porch, when the sound of footsteps at last reached her ears, and she looked up with the warm smile of a guest who knows she is always welcome. "Elizabeth! This is a very great pleasure. I thought you had forgotten me!" "You deserve to be forgotten, my dear friend. Ah, now you've disarmed me, though. I've just conscience enough to have to tell you that I've come this time with ulterior motives." "I can find fault with no motives of yours, so long as they prompt you to visit me. I look forward to my little chats with you as a child looks forward to his Saturday treats." "My dear Tom, your gift of saying delightful things is one of the wonders of the age. Here you never see a woman from one year's end to the other, and yet you can turn a compliment as charmingly as though you practised on the fairest in the land every evening of your life." "'In my youth, said the Father----'" quoted the old gentleman with a twinkle. "However, let's hear your ulterior motives first, my dear Elizabeth, so that afterwards we can chat with unburdened minds." "No--no, I refuse to beard you until we have some tea. Thank goodness, here's William bringing it now. I took the liberty of ordering it, Tom." "You took no liberties at all--you merely assumed your privileges. Tut-tut! Tea. You women, with all your notions and your injurious habits--how very delightful it is to be near you!" "To hear you talk, Tom, how could _anyone_ suspect that you were a man of principles!" cried Miss Bancroft. "How could anyone dream that you were hard, and austere and--and unimaginative!" He looked at her in mild astonishment. He was a small old man, rather delicate in build, with the blunt broad hands of a worker, and a high, smooth, massive forehead, from which his perfectly white hair fell back, long and almost childishly soft and fine. His eyes, set deep under the sharply defined bone of his projecting brow, wore the gentle, far-away expression noticeable in many near-sighted people; but his chin contradicted their softness, and there was a hint of obstinacy in his close-set mouth and rather long upper lip. He was dressed negligently, and indeed almost shabbily, and he made no apologies for his appearance; since he never gave a thought to it himself, he could not consider what other people might think of it. His greatest hobby, lingering with him from earlier years, was chemistry, and he spent virtually all his time in the laboratory which he had fitted up in one of the odd towers that decorated his house. His coat and trousers would have given a far less observant person than Sherlock Holmes a clue to this favorite occupation of his, stained and burned as they were with acids. "Do you eat your _dinner_ in those clothes?" demanded Miss Bancroft. "Why? What's the matter with them? Why not eat dinner in 'em? My dear Elizabeth, surely at this late date you haven't taken it into your head to reform my habits?" "I don't know but that I have," replied Miss Bancroft with a touch of grimness. "Is that your ulterior motive? I suspected it. Tell me what you meant when you accused me just now of being hard and austere and unimaginative. Why unimaginative?" "No really intelligent woman would ever try to explain anything so subtle to a man. I mean that you are unimaginative because you allow yourself to be rigid----" "Rigid? Rigid about what?" "About your principles. I like you, Tom--you know how much. I admire you more than any man I have ever known, and I have known a good many remarkable men. But one thing I cannot forgive you is your principles." "My principles? When did I ever offend you with principles?" Miss Bancroft poured herself another cup of tea, and laid a second piece of bread-and-butter neatly on the side of her saucer. "Come," said Mr. Prescott, with a keen glance at her. "Come, it's not like you, Elizabeth, to beat about the bush. What can this matter be which you find so difficult to broach in plain English?" Miss Bancroft hesitated a moment. It touched her vanity to be accused of beating about the bush, since she took an especial pride in her reputation of being a woman who never minced matters, and who always made a direct and fearless attack. Then she said, simply: "I came to talk to you about--George's daughters, Tom." There was a short silence. "It's not like you, Elizabeth, to--to touch upon a matter so very delicate," remarked Mr. Prescott, quietly, his lips tightening slightly. "Of course I can understand how my attitude in regard to them must appear to you, but I fancied that there existed between you and me a silent agreement that this was one subject which was never to be mentioned." "My dear Tom, you know that under ordinary circumstances I am not an interfering woman; therefore you must realize that I should never have spoken of this to you without the best of reasons for doing so. But I feel that you are allowing certain principles, excellent no doubt in themselves, but wrong in your particular application to them, to thwart your own happiness; to say nothing of depriving others of the advantages which it is in your power to bestow." Miss Bancroft was very serious now. As she spoke she leaned over and laid her fat little hand earnestly on the old man's shabby sleeve. He said nothing, and she continued: "There are two young girls, charming--beautiful, indeed--the daughters of a man you loved far more even than most fathers love their first-born sons----" "Don't!" exclaimed Mr. Prescott, sharply, almost fiercely. "Don't speak to me of that, Elizabeth. Can't you realize that just to mention my--George recalls all my old rancor against that little, heartless spendthrift who ruined him--_killed_ him----" his voice rose hoarsely, then making an effort to control himself, he went on in a quieter tone: "It's very difficult for me to discuss this with you, Elizabeth." "I'm sorry, Tom. But you have no right to--it's a matter of your own happiness as much as theirs--and I would be no friend of yours if I were not willing and anxious to risk your anger for the sake of righting this mistake you are making." "My nieces are not in want. And familiarity with a certain degree of poverty is the source of a wisdom that safeguards men and women from follies that lead to many of the greatest miseries on earth." "Want, my dear Tom, is a purely relative condition," said Miss Bancroft. "There are needs, which to certain natures are more intolerable than physical hunger. To deprive a young girl of simple, innocent delights--companionship of her own kind, dainty clothes, harmless enjoyments--is like robbing a plant of sun and rain." "Do you mean to tell me that poverty need deprive any girl of such things? Nonsense, Elizabeth! I have seen girls who had but two dresses to their name, who worked and struggled and economized, and who nevertheless had as much pleasure--indeed more, I'll wager--than the most petted heiress in the land. And what's more, they made better wives and better mothers and better citizens. They knew how many cents make a dollar, and how many dollars their men could make in a week by the sweat of their brow, working not eight hours a day, but ten and twelve. One never heard this sickly whine from them--this talk that women must be coddled and pampered, and that men can eat their hearts out to provide the 'sun' in which they bask like pet lizards! They didn't ask for 'sunlight'--they asked only that they might work and save with their husbands--that they could be fit partners, and they found their joy, not in 'dainty clothes' and 'harmless enjoyments' but in giving their strength and their courage for their husbands and their children!" Mr. Prescott had risen to his feet in the vehemence of his feeling, and was walking back and forth, his hands locked behind his back, and his head lowered and thrust forward between his hunched-up shoulders. "Good heavens, I've got him roused for fair," thought Miss Bancroft, with a mixture of amusement and dismay. "And of course, theoretically he's dead right. Now why is it that so many things which, theoretically, are dead right, practically, are all wrong? That's what I've got to prove to him--and I don't know whether I shall succeed after all. I must take care not to be sentimental--that rouses him dreadfully." Aloud she said, in a quiet voice: "Listen, Tom--under ordinary circumstances I should agree with you absolutely. But a short time ago I spoke of want being relative. You said that your nieces are not in want. You meant, of course, that they had food and clothes and shelter. If they were girls who lived in an absolutely different plane of life that would be sufficient for their happiness. They could have pleasure with their two dresses and their one best bonnet, because everyone else of their class would have no more. But take one of them out of that class; put her where her only companions would have to be sought for among men and women who lived on a scale of comparative wealth, where, to make friends, she would have to appear well, and so on--then, what in the first case was at least a sufficiency, now becomes tragically inadequate. There is no cure but for that girl to recede from the class to which by birth, breeding and instinct she belongs. "You have built up a great fortune. You yourself are what you boast of being--a self-made man--a man originally of the people. But you made your nephew a gentleman--understand that I am using the word in the commonest sense. Consequently his children belong to a class in which needs must be measured by a different scale from that used for working women. They live--as you do, and most likely because you do--in a very rich community. They suffer from wants that girls of a different class would never know. They are deprived of things which your working girl would not be deprived of. They are poorer on their two thousand a year, or whatever it is, than a peasant woman would be on two hundred, because their particular needs are more expensive." "They will be very rich--after I die," said Mr. Prescott in a low voice, after a short pause. "But I won't let them even suspect it. That little wife of George's--I never want to see her again--she is a great little gambler. If she felt sure that in a few years her daughters were coming into a fortune of several millions, Heaven only knows but that she'd have the last cent of it spent in advance. You seem to have gleaned an immense amount of information concerning my nieces--perhaps you know what her plans for them are." "You know, Tom, that I was as much opposed--indeed more opposed, perhaps, than you were to George's marrying Lallie. But that is neither here nor there now. I am afraid that she is--well, attempting things for her girls that lie beyond her income. You must not blame her. She isn't a wise woman, but I am sure that she is one who suffers more for her mistakes than she causes others to suffer. Of course I am no judge of that. "She is a little gambler, no doubt, as you said--but a gallant one. She is playing against rather desperate odds--and she cannot be blamed if she plays foolishly. As I understand it, I believe that her object is to give her girls, by hook or crook, advantages that lie beyond her means, the goal being that one of them or both will marry--well. If she wins--well and good----" "Well and good--fiddlesticks! Nonsense! Good Heavens!" shouted Mr. Prescott. "Whatever are you driving at, Elizabeth? I can't make head or tail of all this talking. You come to me, telling me that my nieces are in want of some kind or other, that that mother of theirs is living beyond her means in her attempt to put them on a footing with the daughters of millionaires, so that they can marry some mother's son whom they fancy can stand their extravagance, and as far as I can make out, you want me to defray their expenses, so that the business of ruining some other man's boy as mine was ruined will be less difficult for them. Have you gone clean daft?" "I see I haven't made myself perfectly clear," said Miss Bancroft, patiently. "I should have told you that I saw both of your nieces last night. It was because of the older one that I came here to-day--Nancy. She looks enough like George to make your heart ache. And she is facing poor George's problem. She is a very remarkable young girl--I don't cotton to the average young miss very readily, as you know, but there was something in that bright, eager young face that went to my heart. She was at the Porterbridges'. They came in an old hack that they were ashamed of. Do you like to think of George's daughters doing that? "She is a girl who deserves a fair chance, and she's not getting it. But she isn't the sort that whimpers. She struck me as being full of a fine courage--and an independence of spirit that made one member of the family the very troublesome person he is. She is a girl who has her teeth set against circumstance, and her own cool, sober views of life. But she is very young--too young to have to cope with the difficulties that face her, and far too proud to accept any help with strings tied to it. Remember that. And in my opinion, it is a sin and a shame that you, who could give her the help she needs, and who could get a great deal of happiness in return--you won't even see her. I'm not asking anything but that you see and talk to Nancy sometime." Miss Bancroft rose, and shook out her skirt. Mr. Prescott stood, looking straight ahead of him, with his under lip thrust forward, a characteristic trick of that same grand-niece Nancy, if he but knew it. Presently he turned, and held out his hand with a queer, almost shy smile. "Do forgive me, Elizabeth, for bellowing at you as I have. You know, my dear girl--and you have often agreed with me--that, while at my death my nieces will become very rich, it has been my purpose to allow them to know poverty, with all its sorrows and harassments, so that they can use my fortune wisely for their own happiness and for the happiness of the families that they will have in time. My theory is right--but circumstances alter cases. I shall think over what you have said--but I shall promise nothing." Miss Bancroft accepted his hand and pressed it affectionately. "Well, then, good-bye. No, don't bother to open the door for me; I'll go this way." He smiled at her again as she went down the steps. "I always feel lonely when you have gone, even when we have been quarrelling," he remarked, with a wistful look. "Of course you feel lonely. You roll around in that huge house of yours like a hazelnut in a shoe," returned Miss Bancroft, quickly. He caught her meaning, and as quickly replied: "Nonsense--I like plenty of room. Never could bear to have a lot of people hanging around. No man can accomplish anything with an army of women and things hanging to his coat-tails!" "Tst!" observed Miss Bancroft, and because there was no answer to that, she could retire with the satisfaction of having had the last word. CHAPTER VII A MAN OF "PRINCIPLES" "One dozen stockings--six woolen and six silk--imagine owning six pairs of silk stockings---six nighties--don't they look luxurious, all beribboned and fluffy? One thick sweater, one pair of stout boots--I hope these boots are stout enough; they look as if they could kick a hole through the side of a battle-ship. One mackintosh--now where under the sun can I put this mackintosh?" "Oh, just roll it up in a bundle and slam it in that corner near your shoes. It'll keep 'em from bumping around. My dear, you look as if you'd been in a tornado." "_In_ a tornado! I _am_ a tornado." Nancy lifted a flushed face, and gazed at Alma through a haze of tumbled hair. Then she sat back on her heels in front of the open trunk, and seizing her locks near the temples, pulled them frenziedly. "Alma Prescott, if you sit there another moment looking calm, I'll throw this shoe-horn at you. Do anything, scream, run around in circles, pant, anything, but _don't_ look calm. Every minute I'm forgetting something vital. Let me see, nail-brush, tooth-brush, cold-cream----" "If you go over that formula again, I'll be a mopping, mowing idiot," observed Alma serenely, from the window-seat. "I wonder how one mops and mows--it sounds awfully idiotic, doesn't it? I saw you put the nail-brush _and_ the tooth-brush _and_ the cold-cream in the tray there--left-hand corner. Now, for goodness' sake, forget about them--it's just little things like that that unhinge the greatest minds. You're horribly bad company while you're packing a trunk." "Well, anyhow, it's nearly done now--and yours is ready." "You're a lamb for doing mine for me--I haven't been a bit of help, I know. Oh, you _know_ it's going to be glorious fun--at boarding school. I've always longed to go to boarding school. And it isn't awfully strict at Miss Leland's, Elise Porterbridge says. They have midnight feasts, and all sorts of things--and then, you know, Frank Barrows is at Harvard, and he asked me up there for some dance near Christmas. Don't you think Frank is very nice, Nancy?" This was what Alma had been leading around to, and Nancy knew it. Personally she thought Frank rather an affected youth, but she had sense enough not to air this opinion before Alma just then. "Why, yes, he seems very nice," she replied, with very mild interest. "I think he has sort of more to him than most men of his age," pursued Alma, affecting a judicial air. "Probably he has." "He dances beautifully. Goodness, I had a wonderful time the other night. I know that you probably think it's wrong of me, but I'd like nothing more than to go to a party like that every night in the week." "_I_ don't think it's wrong at all--only I think you'd probably get awfully sick of it in a little while. And--and the chief trouble as far as we are concerned is that it's so dreadfully expensive. I know you think I'm always harping on the same string--but do you remember the motto of Mr. Micawber--'Income one pound--expenditure nineteen shillings and sixpence--product, happiness; income one pound, expenditure one pound and sixpence, product, misery----'" "Well, I know that's very sensible, but there's lots of sense to 'eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die,'" returned Alma, with a gay laugh. "You're thinking about my dress and slippers--I could have killed that person who spilt their fruit punch all over my skirt, but there was nothing to do about it, and besides I'm sure I can hide the stain with a sash or something. I don't believe in worrying." With this, Madame Optimist turned and, pressing her short nose against the window pane, drummed with her little pink nails against the wet glass. The rain was falling again in a monotonous drenching downpour, stripping the trees of the few, brown, shivering leaves that clung to the dripping branches. The promise of Indian summer seemed to have been definitely broken for reasons of Dame Nature's own, and the weather was having a tantrum about it. But inside, the little bedroom was all the cosier in contrast to the woebegone gloom of the early dusk. The chintz window curtains of Nancy's making were faded by many washings, it is true, and the two white iron bedsteads might have looked sprucer for a coat of paint, but with a fire glowing in the grate, and sending out an almost affectionate glint upon all the familiar objects, the little room had an air of motherly cheerfulness and comfort. A shabby but inviting armchair stood in front of the hearth. In a corner, a white bookcase harbored a family of well-worn volumes, ranging from "Grimm's Fairy Tales," and "Stepping Stones to English Literature" to "The Three Musketeers" and "Jane Eyre," all tattered and thumbed, and seeming to wear the happy, weary expression of a rag doll that has been "loved to death." "Well," Nancy was saying, in reply to Alma's observation, "I don't believe in worrying, but I do believe in having an umbrella if you live in a rainy climate. Then you don't have to worry about the--rain. _Comprenez-vous_?" "I comprenez--you are talking in symbols, aren't you? Where's Mother?" "Here I am, darling," replied Mrs. Prescott from the doorway. "Dear me, the trunks are all packed, aren't they? Nancy, what a wonderful child you are. Oh, whatever am I going to do without my daughters!" "This time to-morrow night we'll all be dying of the blues. Thank goodness, here's Hannah with some tea--I'm starving," said Nancy, springing up to take the tray from the hands of the fat old woman, who had just made her appearance, her full, solemn red face looming behind the teapot. They all gathered around the fire, Nancy and Alma settling cross-legged on the floor, and immediately opening a disastrous attack on the plate of chocolate cake--Hannah's prize contribution to this farewell feast. "This time to-morrow night we'll probably be regaling ourselves on baked beans and cold rice-pudding," added Alma, cramming chocolate cake into her mouth like a greedy child. "That's an awful thought." "Now, miss, ye don't suppose they'll be feedin' ye bad," exclaimed Hannah in great concern. The old woman had taken her stand respectfully near the doorway, loath to lose the last few glimpses of her adored young mistresses. "If ye think that now, I can send ye a box of jellies and the like any time ye say." "Well, they'll probably give us something more than bread and water--but not much," replied Nancy, seriously. "They don't believe in giving students much to eat, because it hampers their brains." "Is that so, now?" marvelled Hannah. "It is indeed--it's a scientific fact, Hannah. When we come back for the Christmas holidays, we'll probably be so pale and wan that we won't even cast a shadow. But goodness, how clever we'll be." "I'm a great believer in good feedin'," commented Hannah dubiously. "And I don't cotton much to scientifics, if you'll pardon me, miss. Lord, what an empty house 'twill be without ye." "I hope you aren't insinuating that we take up much room," laughed Nancy; she was teasing Hannah to cover up her own growing sensation of homesickness and uneasiness. "Take good care of Mother, Hannah, and don't let her go out without her rubbers on, and--and make her write to us every single day. It's ridiculous, I suppose, to talk as if we were going twelve hundred instead of twelve miles, but we've never been even twelve miles away from home before." "Yes, and there's nothing like seeing something of the world to broaden a person," observed Alma, sagely. "When I'm grown up, I shall certainly travel. I intend to make a tour of the world. Egypt especially--goodness, I'd like to go to Egypt. That Edith Palliser was a lucky girl--her guardian took her to Paris and Rome and Cairo and even to Algiers, and she met all kinds of interesting people--a Spanish prince and a Russian count, and loads of artists and writers and things. I'm afraid that we must be terribly provincial." "Ah, now, don't say that," remonstrated Hannah, who had no idea what "provincial" meant, and was consequently convinced that it must mean something very bad indeed. "Bless my soul! There's the bell--now who could be comin' here on a day like this?" The door-bell had indeed been rung fiercely, and a second ring followed impatiently upon the first. Hannah vanished. "Who in the world----" wondered Nancy. "Sh! It's some man." Alma sprang up, and running out into the hall leaned curiously over the bannister. In a moment she returned, looking as if she had seen a ghost, her mouth open, and her eyes popping. "Nancy! Mother! I think it's _Uncle Thomas_!" "Nonsense!" But Nancy too scrambled to her feet and stood listening with suspended breath. "Mother----!" "No, my dear--it--it _couldn't_ be!" Mrs. Prescott had turned quite pale. "It must be just some tradesman. See--there's Hannah now." But Hannah's face confirmed the dazing suspicion. Without even announcing the stupifying news, she leaned weakly against the doorway, and pressed her hand to her ample bosom, signifying an overwhelming agitation. "Who is it, Hannah?" "The saints protect us, miss--ma'am! Sure, it's the old gentleman himself--as large as life, indeed. 'Is the missis home?' says he, and before I can draw breath--'Tell her Mr. Prescott is waitin' on her, and would like to see the young ladies,' says he. And he sticks his soakin' umbrella in the corner, and without takin' off his overshoes, stalks into the livin'-room. 'Humph!' says he, seein' the hole in the carpet, 'that's dangerous. I like to have broken me neck. Be good enough to hurry, ma'am,' says he, 'an' don't stand gawpin' at me like a simpleton.' 'Will ye have a seat, sir?' says I. 'I will, when I want one,' says he, short-like, and there he stands standin' and starin' around him, and suckin' at his lips, and kinda talkin' to hisself. What shall I be tellin' him, ma'am?" This bomb seemed to have paralyzed the little family. "I--I--tell him----" stammered Mrs. Prescott, looking piteously at Nancy for help. "You'd better go right down, Mother. Why, you look frightened to death, dear." "I am. He frightens me dreadfully. I can't bear sarcastic people. Do go down alone, Nancy,--tell him I have a headache." "No, no! That wouldn't be wise. What can he say? He may want to be very nice," said Nancy, reassuringly. "Come along--don't keep him waiting. Here, just tuck up your hair a bit. Come on, Alma." Inwardly quaking, but outwardly preserving a dignified composure, the three descended the staircase, with the calmness of people going to some inevitable fate. "He can't bite you, dear," whispered Nancy to her mother, with a nervous little giggle. Mr. Prescott was standing perfectly still, with his back toward the door, staring with an evidently absorbed interest at the wall in front of him. He turned slowly, as Mrs. Prescott entered the room, and for a moment surveyed her and the two girls without speaking. Then he said, casually: "Good-afternoon, Lallie." Alma shot a glance at Nancy. "Good-afternoon, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott, in a rather faint voice, and flushing crimson with nervousness. "It--it is very kind of you----" "Not at all," he interrupted, brusquely, "not at all. May we have a light--it is rather dark." Nancy quickly lit the gas, and as the light from the jet shone down on her upturned face the old man scrutinized her keenly. A queer, half-tender, but repressed expression changed the lines in his stern old face for a moment, then he looked at Alma, who was regarding him with perfectly unconcealed terror and awe. "How do you do?" he said to her, holding out his hand. "How do you do? You're my niece Alma, eh? Anne is the one who looks like--like my nephew, and Alma is the one who resembles her mother." He said this as if he were repeating some directions to himself. "I haven't seen you since you were children." He shook Alma's hand formally, and sat down at Mrs. Prescott's timid invitation, The short silence which ensued, while it seemed like an age of discomfort to the Prescotts, apparently was unobserved by him. "It has been a very long time since--since I have seen you, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott in desperation, quite aware that this remark, like any one she should make just then, was a very awkward one. "Yes. I never go out, madam. So this is Anne--Nancy, eh?" He turned abruptly to the girl and met her clear, steady eyes sharply. "You were a child--a very little girl when I saw you last. You resemble my nephew very much,--my--my dear. "No doubt, madam, you are wondering at the reason of this visit," he said, all at once plunging into the heart of matters with an air of impatience at any "beating about the bush." "I've no doubt it was the last thing in the world you expected, eh?" "It was indeed a surprise," murmured Mrs. Prescott. "I realized that my grandnieces are growing up, and I had a curiosity to see them. There is the kernel of the matter. They are handsome girls. I suppose everyone knows that they have a rich uncle--and prospects, eh?" "Neither my daughters nor anyone else has been deluded in that respect," answered Mrs. Prescott, with a touch of spirit. "Hum. Well, that's good, I should say. Nothing puts anyone in such a false position as to be generally regarded as having--prospects. It's ruinous, especially for girls." "My daughters have been taught that they must rely entirely on themselves. You need not have come to repeat the lesson to them, Uncle Thomas," returned Mrs. Prescott, trying to conceal her temper. Mr. Prescott affected not to notice her rising annoyance, which was a natural enough reaction from her earlier nervousness. Instead he next addressed himself directly to Alma. "So you think I'm a regular old ogre, don't you, my dear?" His eyes suddenly twinkled at her palpable terror and distress, but only Nancy caught the twinkle. "You think I'm a queer, crotchety old fellow, eh? Well, don't let's talk about me. I want to know what you are planning to do with yourselves--an old man's curiosity. Your face is your fortune, my dear--though a pretty face is not infrequently a misfortune, so the wiseacres say. I understand that you two young ladies are going now to a fashionable school,--to learn how to be fashionable, no doubt. That's a folly--it would be better if you stayed at home and learned how to cook and darn." "We _can_ cook and darn," said Nancy, demurely. "So? Good. Now tell me why are you going to this school? It's no place for poor girls. I suppose it's some woman's notion of yours, ma'am?" pursued the old gentleman, turning to Mrs. Prescott. "My plans for my daughters can concern you so little, Uncle Thomas----" began Mrs. Prescott, throwing her usual diplomacy to the winds. "That it behooves me to mind my own business, eh?" Mr. Prescott finished for her with perfect good-humor. "You are quite right, madam." He seemed really pleased at Mrs. Prescott's spirit, and went on, "You do right to tell me so. I have acted in a most unkinsmanly way toward my nieces, and consequently it's none of my business what they do or what they don't do. Well, if you had allowed me to interfere in this matter, I should have imagined that you were doing so simply because you wanted to get into my good graces, and so forth, which would have been quite useless in as far as it would have changed my plans in regard to them. It's a very silly thing you are doing with them, in my opinion, but I'm glad you have spirit enough to stick to your own mind. Now, my dear, don't be angry with me. Understand that I have come to interfere in your plans in no way at all. It's not my purpose to use your poverty and your need for my money as a force by which to tyrannize over you. I had these thoughts in mind when I came here to-day--on an old man's whimsical impulse: I wished, first of all, to put a period to the unfriendliness that has existed between us all these years; I wished to see my nieces, and I wished, at the same time--and in order to avoid any false attitude on your part or on my own--to have it clearly understood that you must not expect any financial assistance from me. Live out your own lives--think out your own problems--make your mistakes, fearlessly--do not, I beg you, humiliate yourselves by trying to conciliate an old man, who chooses to do what he will with the money he made with his own wits and labor. There, that is particularly what I wanted to say to you. Don't try to 'work' me. Don't expect anything from me. Thus, if we are friends, it will be a disinterested friendship. Otherwise, if I felt that we were on good terms, I should be thinking to myself--'It is only because I am the rich uncle.' If you were amiable with me, I'd think, 'That's because they are afraid of angering me.' Now--let us be friends. I think I can be very fond of my nieces--but don't expect anything from me. Is that clear? Will you make friends with an old man on those terms?" He looked first into Mrs. Prescott's eyes, and saw that she was still hostile; at Alma, and read her bewilderment in her face, and then at Nancy. Again his eyes softened, almost touchingly, and with quick instinct she understood the appeal that lay beneath his brusque language. She remembered her father's stories of his tenderness, and somehow she understood that what the old man longed for was the simple affection of which for so long his life had been empty. And she understood, too, his dread of gaining that affection by holding out hopes of payment for it. His reiterated "Don't expect anything of me," was more of a plea than a curt warning. He wanted their good-will for himself, and not for his money--that was what he was trying to say in his brusque, almost crude, way. Her eyes were bright with this understanding of his heart, and she held out her hand with a smile; for he seemed to have turned directly to her for his answer. He grasped her hand eagerly. "There!" he exclaimed, with an almost child-like pleasure. "There is George's daughter, every inch. We understand each other, eh? Good girl. We shall be friends, eh? I'm a friend--not a rich old uncle, who'll give you what you want, if you manage him right. That's it, you understand? Now, this is pleasant--this is honest. Be independent, my dear. Don't expect anything of me. I tell you--if I thought that it was only thoughts of my money that bought your good-will, I'd give the last cent of it away to-morrow." He got up, evidently well satisfied, and still retaining Nancy's hand in his. The other he held out to Mrs. Prescott, who took it, with a constrained smile; and then, in high good-humor he pinched Alma's dimpled chin playfully. "Good-day! Good-day! I'm glad I came. We'll know each other better after a while. We understand each other, eh? The hatchet is buried, eh? Good. It's a piece of business I've been putting off for a long while. Tut-tut! Where's my umbrella?" The three Prescotts stood at the window, staring with varying feelings at the stooped, but surprisingly agile old figure that walked off through the rain and fog, head down, the worn velvet collar of his old coat hunched around his neck--and with never a look behind. Then, all at once, both Alma and Nancy broke out laughing. "You seemed to get along with him beautifully," chuckled Alma. "Goodness, he scared me out of my five wits--so that I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I couldn't tell you for the life of me what he was talking about. I think he must be crazy. But he doesn't seem so bad at all. At times he even looked rather nice." "Why, I believe he _is_ nice," said Nancy. "He's a funny, eccentric old man, but I'm sure that he'd be rather a dear, if he doesn't think that we are trying to 'manage' him as he says." Mrs. Prescott was silent, her pretty face frowning a little. Nancy looked at her a moment, and then putting her arms around her, rubbed her own ruddy cheek against her mother's pink one. "Put yourself in his place, Mother," she said gently. "He's very lonely--he wants to be friendly--he was thinking of Father all the time, you know. But he has a horror of our being affectionate with him just for the sake of his money. Imagine what it would be to be a lonely old man, always troubled by the thought that the only reason people would be nice to him was because they were hoping to profit by it." "He made it very clear that he has no intention of--of helping us in that way," said Mrs. Prescott. "And I'm glad of it. I'm glad of it!" cried Nancy. "I don't want to act and think and live to conciliate a rich relative. I think that must be the most hateful position in the world. I want to forget that Uncle Thomas is very rich and very old--just as he wants us to forget it. I want to make my own life, and have no one to thank or to blame for whatever I accomplish but myself." "What an independent lassie! You are right, dear," said Mrs. Prescott, touching the little curls around Nancy's flushed face affectionately. "You are right. You are like a boy, aren't you? I was never that way myself--and that was the trouble. You have such good sense, my dear. Whatever am I going to do without you?" CHAPTER VIII THE FIRST NIGHT AT SCHOOL Miss Leland's school wore that sober title with a somewhat frivolous air. It seemed to be saying, "Oh, call me a school if you want to--but don't take me seriously." It was like a pretty girl, who puts on a pair of bone-rimmed spectacles in fun and assumes a studious expression, while the dimples lurk in her cheeks. It was a low, rambling, white building, with a stately colonial portico, and broad porches at each wing. In front, an immaculate lawn swept to the trim hedges that bordered the road; in the back, this lawn sloped downward to a grove of trees, which were now almost bare. Under them stood several picturesque stone benches, while just beyond lay a wide, terrace-garden with a sun-dial in the centre. Altogether, it resembled a pleasant country place, dedicated to merriment and good cheer. Through the dusk of a rather bleak autumn night, its friendly lights shone out comfortably as the two Prescotts jogged up to the door in the station wagon. The trip up from the Broadmore Station had not, however, been a lively one, despite the fact that two other girls besides the Prescotts had taken the hack with them; the first spasm of homesickness having evidently seized them all simultaneously. One of the girls, a little, sallow-faced creature, sat like a mouse in her corner, and by occasional dismal sniffles, gave notice that she was weeping and did not want to be disturbed. The other, a plump miss with scarlet cheeks and perfectly round eyes, had bravely essayed a conversation. "Are you going to Miss Leland's?" "Yes." "Is this your first year?" "Yes." "What's your names?" The Prescotts gave her the information, and she told them in exchange that her name was Maizie Forrest, that she was from Pittsburgh, that she had a brother at Yale, and another at Pomfret, and that she thought it no end of fun that they, the Prescotts, were going to Miss Leland's. After this flow of confidence, conversation languished and expired in the silence of dismal thoughts. The hack drove up to the door, and deposited the four girls on the steps. Then they entered the hall, from which was issuing a perfect babel of feminine squeaks and chattering. As Nancy and Alma stood together, frankly clinging hand to hand, a husky damsel rushed past them and precipitated herself on the neck and shoulders of the conversational Maizie. "Maizie, darling!" "Jane, dearest! When did you get here?" "Been here hours. My dear, we're going to room together! Isn't that scrumptious?" "Perfectly divine. Where's Alice?" "Hasn't come yet. Come on, let's go see M'amzelle." The small, weepy girl stood still gazing mournfully at the rapturous meetings about her. Nancy looked at her sympathetically, but she felt much too blue and strange herself to try to urge anyone else to be cheerful. "I don't know where we go, or what we're supposed to do, do you?" she whispered to Alma. "No. I hope to goodness it's near supper time. There, I think that's Miss Leland." A tall, very thin, very erect lady, wearing nose-glasses attached to a long gold chain, and with sparkling, fluffy white hair that made her face look quite brown in contrast, was descending the stairs. Several of the girls rushed to her, and she kissed them peckishly. Evidently they were old pupils. Nancy and Alma heard her asking them about their dear mothers and their charming fathers, and where they had been during the summer, and if (playfully) they were going to work very, very hard. And the girls were saying: "_Dear_ Miss Leland, it's so _nice_ to be back again!" Nancy and Alma approached her a little uncertainly. The other girls drew back and frankly stared at them. "New girls," they heard whispered, and for some reason the appellation made them both feel terribly "out of it." "Miss Leland," began Nancy, coloring, "I--I'm Anne Prescott--I--this is my sister Alma--I--er----" "Why, yes. I'm so glad you got here safely," said Miss Leland, quite cordially, taking Nancy's hand and Alma's at the same time. "Of course you want to know where your room is. You two are going to room together to-night, anyway. Later you will probably have different roommates. Now, let me see--Mildred, this is Anne Prescott, and this is Alma. They are new girls, so I'm going to count on you to help them find themselves a little. They are going to be next door to you to-night, so will you take them up-stairs?" A very handsome, very haughty-looking girl, with gray eyes and a Roman nose, shook hands with them briefly. The sisters followed her in a subdued silence. She was the sort of girl plainly destined to become one of the most frigid and formidable of dowagers; it was impossible to look at her profile, her fur coat, or to meet her cold, critical glance without immediately picturing her with a lorgnon, crisply marcelled gray hair, and the wintry smile with which the typical, unapproachable matron can freeze out the slightest attempt at an unwelcome friendliness on the part of an inconsequential person. Her last name was weighty with importance, since she was the daughter of Marshall Lloyd, the well-known railroad magnate. "I shan't like _her_," Nancy remarked to Alma, when this young lady had indicated their room to them, and left them with a curt announcement that they should go down-stairs in fifteen minutes. "She is sort of snob-looking," agreed Alma, throwing her hat on her narrow white bed. "But there's no sense in being prejudiced against a person right away. Goodness, this room is chilly. I wish we knew somebody here. I hate being a new girl. Everyone else sounds as if they are having such a good time. I feel dreadfully out of it, don't you? And all the girls look at you as if they were wondering who in the world you are." "Well, it's only natural that we feel that way now," said Nancy, trying to sound cheerful. "Come on, we've got to hurry." From the line of rooms along the corridor issued the unceasing chatter of gay voices; there was a continual scampering back and forth, bursts of tumultuous greetings, giggles, shrieks. Alma, comb in hand, stood at the doorway, listening with a wistful droop to her lips. Two doors down, four girls were perched up on a trunk, kicking it with their patent-leather heels, and gabbling like magpies. In the room opposite, five girls, curled up on the two beds, were gossiping blithely, while a sixth, a pretty, red-haired girl, was gaily unpacking her trunk, flinging her lingerie with great skill across the room into the open drawers of the bureau, which caught stockings and petticoats very much as a dog will catch a bone in his mouth. They were all having such a good time--and they all seemed to have a lengthy history of gay summer's doings to relate. Each one jabbered away, apparently perfectly regardless of what the others were saying. "Oh, my dear, I _did_ have the most marvellous time----" "Dick told me----" "Are you going to come out next winter----" "Margie's wedding was perfectly gorgeous--and _I_ caught the bouquet----" "Tom is coming down for the midwinter dance----" "Who _is_ that frump who's rooming with Sara----" "Dozens of new girls. Hope some of 'em are human, anyway----" "Come on, Alma. Hurry! You haven't even washed yet," said Nancy, impatiently. "We've got to go down-stairs----" "Yes, and stand around gaping like ninnies," added Alma, morosely, coming back to the mirror, and beginning to brush out her thick, yellow hair. "It'll be ever so much nicer when we come back here after the Christmas holidays," said Nancy, busily polishing her nails, to hide the mist that would creep over her eyes. "To-morrow we can fix up this room a bit--if we can put up some chintz curtains, and get a few books and cushions around, it'll be as good as home, almost." "But--but Mother won't be here, and neither will Hannah--boo-hoo!" And here Alma quite suddenly burst out crying, wrinkling up her pretty face like a child of two. With the tears dripping off her chin, she continued to brush her hair vigorously, sobbing and sniffling pathetically. Nancy looked up, and, unable any longer to control her own tears, while at the same time she was almost hysterically amused by Alma's ridiculously droll expression of grief, began to sob and giggle alternately. Alma, still clutching the brush, promptly threw herself into Nancy's arms, and there they sat, clinging together, and frankly wailing like a pair of lost children, in full view of the corridor. "I--I want to--g-go h-home----" sniffled Alma. "I--I don't like that girl with th-the n-nose----" wailed Nancy. "D-Do f-fix your hair, Alma. I-If you're l-late for d-dinner w-we'll be expelled. Here----" she tried to twist up Alma's unruly mane, hardly realizing what she _was_ trying to do, while Alma tenderly mopped Nancy's wet cheeks with her own little, soaking handkerchief. "I--I say! You two aren't _howling_, are you?" inquired a drawling, utterly amazed voice from the doorway. The two girls looked up, their hostile expressions plainly asking whose business it was if they _were_ howling--but promptly their hostility vanished. A very tall, astonishingly lank girl was standing in the doorway, feet apart, and hands clasped behind her back, regarding them amiably through a pair of enormous, bone-rimmed goggles. Every now and again, she would blink her eyes, and screw up her face comically, while she continued to smile, showing a set of teeth as large and white as pebbles. "You were saying something about being expelled. Are you expelled already? _Ex plus pello, pellere pulsi pulsum_--meaning to push out, or, as we say in the vernacular, to kick out, fire, bounce. Miss Drinkwater likes us to note the Latin derivations of all our English words, and I've got the habit. You two seem to be lachrymosus, or blue--by which I take it that you are new girls. I sympathize with you, although I am an ancient. Two years ago this very night, I wept so hard that I nearly gave my roommate pneumonia from the dampness. How-do-you-do?" With this unconventional preliminary, accompanied by one of the friendliest and most disarming grins imaginable, the newcomer marched over to the bed and shook hands vigorously. "My name is Charlotte Lucretia Adela Spencer. Really it is. You must take my word for it. But I only use the 'Charlotte.' The others I keep in case of emergency. I room next door, with Mildred Lloyd--who, incidentally, is a perfect lady, while _I_ am not. I was born in the year 1903, in the city of Denver, Colorado--but of that, more anon. It's tremendously interesting, but if _you_--is your name Alma?--if you don't get your coiffure coifed, you'll miss out on our evening repast. Wiggle, my dear, wiggle!" Thus urged, Alma "wiggled" accordingly; and while she carefully washed her tear-stained face, and put up her hair, their visitor, sprawling across the bed, kept up a running fire of ridiculous remarks, all uttered in her peculiar, dry, drawling voice, and punctuated with the oddest facial contortions. Yet, in spite of her nonsense, there was very evidently a good deal of real sense, and the kindest feeling behind it, and her singular face, too unusual to be called either plain or pretty, beamed with satisfaction when she had won a genuine peal of laughter from the two dejected Prescotts. "We'd better go down now. To-night of course everything is more or less topsy-turvy. My trunk, I think, must be still out in Kokomo, Indiana, or some such place. I don't even expect to see it for another month or so. But _I_ don't mind. I'm a regular child of nature anyway--it's just Amelia who's pernickety about our appearing in full regalia every night for dinner. Amelia is Leland, of course. She's tremendously keen on preserving a refining influence about the school, and I think she looks on me as a rather demoralizing factor. There goes the gong." The three went down-stairs together, Charlotte linking herself between Nancy and Alma. As if by magic, the din of a few moments before had been lulled. The fifty or sixty girls had gathered in the large reception room, where a wood-fire was blazing up a huge stone chimney, and where Miss Leland, wearing a dignified black evening dress, was seated in a pontifical chair, chatting with eight or ten of her charges, with the air of a gracious hostess. All the voices had sunk to a lower key. "Is everyone here?" She looked about her, and closing the book she had been toying with led the way into the dining-room beyond, where the ten or twelve small tables, with their snowy covers, and softly shaded candles gave the room more the appearance of a quiet restaurant than the ordinary school refectory. Charlotte Spencer sat with Nancy at a table near Miss Leland's; while Alma found herself separated from her sister, and relegated to another table where she was completely marooned among five strange girls. Charlotte introduced Nancy to a sallow maiden with prominent front teeth, named Allison Maitland, to a statuesque brunette named Katherine Leonard---- "The school beauty," was her brief comment. "And this is Denise Lloyd, sister of Mildred, my roommate. Hope we have soup." "Are you any relation to Lawrence Prescott, who goes to Williams?" asked the beautiful Katherine, turning to Nancy with a slightly patronizing air. Nancy vaguely disclaimed a kinship that might have won her Miss Leonard's interest, and thereby quickly lost some of it. "No, she's not, she says," said Charlotte. "Is he a beau of yours? 'Yes,' replied the girl, a soft blush mantling her damask cheek. 'Naturally he's a beau of mine. Who isn't?' and with this keen retort, she again lost herself in her maiden meditations. But I'll tell you who she is a relation of--she's the thirty-second cousin once removed of 'Prescott's Conquest of Peru'--aren't you, Nancy?" "Charlotte, you're a scream," said Katherine, with an affected laugh, and turning to Nancy, she went on, speaking in a mincing voice, and always placing her lips as if she were continually guarding against spoiling the symmetry of their perfect cupid's bow. "You know, we always expect Charlotte to say funny things." "I'm the school buffoon, in other words," commented Charlotte, dryly--evidently not much liking to be marked as a professional humorist. "I'm supposed to be '_so_ amusin', doncherknow'--and consequently, everyone is expected to haw-haw whenever I open my mouth. But if you listen carefully, you'll be surprised to hear that at times I talk sense. Now, Allison here is the school genius. You'd never suspect it, but she is. I wish to goodness that new waitress would bring me some more bread. It isn't considered stylish around here to have the bread on the table, but I do wish they'd consider my appetite." "Is that perfectly sweet-looking girl over there your sister?" asked Katherine, indicating Alma, her slightly patronizing air still more pronounced. "Your new rival for the golden apple, Kate," remarked Charlotte, with a grin. "And a blonde, too." Katherine flushed, and tried to laugh off her annoyance at Charlotte's impish teasing. "I think she's perfectly lovely." "Oh, handsome is as handsome does, so they say. The question is has she a beautiful soul. Now, my soul is something wonderful--if it would only show through a bit," murmured Charlotte. "I'm plain, but good, as they say of calico. There's a rumor to the effect that Cleopatra was very ugly; hope it's so. There are two alternatives for an ugly woman--either to be tremendously good and noble, or to be very, very wicked--I can't make up my mind which career to choose. It's an awful problem." "I'm going to take muthick lethons thith year, Tharlotte--with Mithter Conthtantini," lisped Denise Lloyd. "Don't you think he'th jutht wonderful?" Denise did not resemble her sister in the least. She was a plump, roly-poly girl of sixteen, still at the giggly, gushing stage of her life--but much more likable than the haughty Mildred. She turned to Nancy, with the polite desire of including the new girl in the conversation, and went on with a blush, "Mithter Conthtantini is jutht _wonderful_. Are you going to take muthick lethons? You'd jutht _love_ him! And bethides, if you take muthick, you can drop thience." "I don't think I could get very far with the piano in one year," said Nancy with a smile. "Oh, he doethn't teach piano. He teacheth violin." "And of course, the violin is so much simpler," remarked Charlotte. "Mr. Constantini has a rolling black eye, and an artistic temperament--inclined to have fits, _I_ think----" "Fitth, Tharlotte!" cried Denise, in bitter reproach. "Why, he'th jutht _lovely_! He doethn't have fitth at _all_!" "Well, it sounds as if _somebody_ were having fits, to hear all the awful squeaks and groans that come out of the music room, while one of our rising Paganinis is having her lesson. I always imagined that it was poor Mr. Constantini," replied Charlotte, mildly. "Anyway, the point is, that Constantini is a beautiful creature, and consequently a year of violin is considered infinitely more improving than a year of science. Personally, I think that the study of the violin ought to be forbidden under penalty of the law, except in cases of the most acute genius. I think that the playing of one wrong note on the violin ought to be punishable by a heavy fine, and playing two, by imprisonment for life, or longer. There are times when I feel that hanging is far too good for Dolly Parker. She ought to be boiled in oil, until tender----" Nancy laughed. "So you take the year of science? That's where I belong, too, I suppose." "Tharlotte plays the piano jutht beautifully," said Denise. "She compotheth----" "My brother calls it decomposition," said Charlotte, reddening, as she always did when any of her talents were lauded, and trying to turn it off with a joke. Miss Leland rose, and the room became silent, since she appeared to be about to make an announcement. "To-night, girls, there is, of course, no study-hour, and special privileges are extended to you all," she said, in her clear, well-trained voice. "You have an hour for recreation after dinner, and I hope that all the old girls will make a point of helping our new girls to forget that they are not at home. Prayers will be at nine, as usual, and you will not be required to be in your rooms before nine-forty-five. No doubt you all have a great deal to talk about, so I am going to be lenient with you to-night. To-morrow, the regular school regime will be resumed." "Hooray! Nancy, you and Alma are herewith cordially invited to my room to a negligee party at nine-twenty sharp. I had the good sense to bring a few delicacies with me, leaving my trunk to the tender mercies of the express company." Charlotte rose, and taking Nancy's arm, filed out of the dining-room with the other girls, behind Miss Leland. But in the living-room, a small band of girls fell upon Charlotte. "Come along, old dear. Some dance-music now. Come on." And they bore her off to the piano, deposited her almost bodily upon the bench, and opened the keyboard. Three others rolled back the rugs from the polished floor, and in a moment a dozen couples were spinning around as gaily as if they were at a ball. Nancy, a prey to her usual shyness in the midst of strangers, clung close to the piano, where Charlotte, without pausing in her astonishingly clever playing, reached up, and drew her down on the piano bench, from where she could watch Alma. Alma's prettiness and natural gaiety was having its usual success. The younger girls crowded around her, the older girls petted her. Even the frigid Mildred made her dance with her. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright again. By some indescribable charm she had walked into instant popularity. Without a shadow of envy, Nancy watched her, proudly. Alma was easily the prettiest girl in the school--everyone must like her, everything must go smoothly and gaily for her. There were people like that in the world--people who didn't have to be wise or prudent--some kindly providence seemed always to protect them from the consequences of their lack of common sense, just as kindly nature protects the butterflies. The dancers stopped one by one. Some gathered in groups about, the fire, others clustered in the window-seats--one or two practical souls had gone to their rooms to put away some of their things. Charlotte's nimble fingers began to wander idly among the keys. Nancy watched her curiously, listening in some surprise to the change in the music. She felt an instinctive fondness for this big, whimsical, friendly girl, and knew very well that underneath her nonsense lay a streak of some fine quality that would make an unshakeable foundation for a genuine friendship. She would have liked to talk to Charlotte by herself; but Charlotte was already talking in her own way. She seemed to have quite forgotten Nancy and everyone else in the room, and with her head bent over the keys, she was playing for herself. Little by little, the other girls stopped talking. She did not notice that at all. Nancy listened to her playing in astonishment. It was far beyond anything like ordinary schoolgirl facility. It was full of genuine talent and poetry, now smooth and lyrical, and again as capricious and impish as some of her own moods. She raised her head, and looked at Nancy with an absent-minded smile. "Like music?" Nancy nodded. "I believe you really do. You aren't just saying so, are you? Well, I like you--ever so much. Listen, don't get the idea that everything I say is meant to be funny--sometimes--I'm very serious--you wouldn't believe it, would you?" CHAPTER IX A QUARREL You had your choice, at Miss Leland's, between studying, and doing what the large majority of the girls did; namely, making friends, reading novels during your study periods, and leaving it to Providence to decide whether you passed your examinations or not. The teachers were lenient souls, with the exception of Miss Drinkwater, the Latin teacher, who was unreasonably irritable when her pupils came to class armed with the seraphic smiles of ignorance, and a number of convincing excuses, which invariably failed to convince Miss Drinkwater. In consequence, very few of the girls pursued their studies in that classic tongue longer than the first month. "What point was there in doing so?" they argued coolly; none of them had any aspirations toward college, and nearly all of them harbored a dread of learning anything that might show on the surface, and thereby discourage the attentions of the college youths which were of infinitely more importance in their eyes, as indeed, in the eyes of their fond mothers, likewise, than the attainment of the scholarly graces. Miss Leland's was one of those schools instituted primarily to meet the necessity of our young plutocrats for mingling with their own peculiar kind--"forming advantageous connections," it is called--the question of education was secondary if not quite negligible. The daughters of steel magnates came from Pittsburgh to meet the daughters of railroad magnates from New York, and incidentally to meet one another's brothers, at the small social functions which Miss Leland gave ostensibly for the purpose of developing in her charges an easy poise and the most correct drawing-room manners. The girls, for the most part, regarded lessons as a wholly unnecessary adjunct to their school duties, and treated them as such. And this was all very well indeed, so far as they were concerned. From school they would plunge into the whirl of their débutante season, and from that into marriage--it was all clearly mapped out for them, and the shadow of any serious doubt as to the course of their careers never fell across their serenely trustful indolence. There is something peculiarly vitiating in such an atmosphere. Pleasure was regarded not merely as an embroidery on the sober fustian of life, but as the very warp and woof of it; where the most sober consideration was that of winning popularity and the opportunity of social advantages, where the clothes to be bought and the parties to be given during the holidays were already the subject of endless absorbing discussions. The effect of all this on each of the Prescotts was diametrically opposed. Alma had adapted herself to it as easily as to a new cloak. Not having any stubborn notions of her own, she was as malleable to such an environment as a piece of modelling clay in warm water. Pretty, good-humored, easily led, she swam into a rather meaningless popularity inside of four days. This Nancy was glad of, but her satisfaction was not unmixed. She saw Alma gradually undergoing a change that threatened to damage her own steadying influence over her sister, and to divide their sympathies. Alma was only too ready, and too well suited temperamentally, to lose sight of the difference between her own circumstances, and those of the girls with whom she was now associated. Indeed the very fact that she could do so, while Nancy could not, lay at the root of the problem that had begun to worry Nancy. Aside from minor changes in Alma, such as, for instance, a new little affectedness of manner, unconsciously borrowed from Mildred Lloyd, and her use of Mildred's particular slang phrases, Nancy had noticed in her sister at times a tinge of impatience, and a little air of superiority, with which Alma unwillingly listened to her when she tried to talk to her seriously. Nancy began to feel, unhappily, that Alma was coming to resent her efforts to guide her and advise her in regard to various small matters, and worst of all, that Alma was privately beginning to look upon her as rather unnecessarily serious, and even old-maidish. It was impossible for Nancy to lose the feeling that she had that her mother had made a mistake in sending them to Miss Leland's, which gave them little or nothing that they could use, and was very likely to affect even her own steady vision of their circumstances and opportunities. She was continually trying to counteract the consequences of this mistake; but Alma was less than willing to take her point of view. Nancy still clung to her plan of getting herself ready for college; never for a moment could she lose sight of the fact that in all probability she would have to make her own living, which Alma, like her mother, was very ready to forget, counting always as they did on happy chance, to smooth out the future for them into a sunny vista. It was not that Nancy was a pessimist. She simply believed that good luck was something more or less of one's own making. She was full of eagerness and enthusiasm for life, as ardent as an ambitious boy, and restive to make a trial of her own capabilities. She knew that there was a possibility of her uncle's providing for them, after all, in spite of his own very clear hints to the contrary; but on the other hand, there remained the fact that he was an eccentric old fellow, more than equally likely to bequeath his entire fortune to some freakish project, or obscure charity organization. It was not a very easy task to study seriously at Miss Leland's. An earnest student was immediately dubbed, vividly enough, if inelegantly, a "greasy grind"--and was left more or less to her own devices; but if Nancy was not as popular as Alma, she was regarded with a good deal of respect and genuine admiration by the other girls, and in Charlotte Spencer she had found a really devoted friend. Underneath her apparent rattle-patedness, Charlotte concealed from the view of those for whom she had no especial regard a stratum of rather unusual common sense, mingled with an idealism and a youthful ardor which few would have suspected in her nature. Opinions concerning her varied widely. Mildred Lloyd considered her crude, for example; most of the girls thought her simply amusing and odd, and hardly knew how to account for some of her queer, serious moods. In one way or another, without apparently studying at all, she managed always to take the highest marks in the school. She was the only daughter of a very rich Western mine-owner, a widower, who found the problem of managing this child of his more difficult than any commercial nut he had ever had to crack. He had only the vaguest notions as to what was necessary for a girl's career, and imagined that by sending his daughter to a fashionable Eastern school, he was getting at the heart of the solution. Charlotte wanted to study music, "not like a boarding-school miss," she told Nancy. "I want to make it the real thing. I tell you I don't know anything about it--but I'm going to, yet." Old Mr. Spencer, while he had no objections to one of the arts as a ladylike accomplishment, felt that it was not exactly respectable for a girl to go into it seriously, just why, he would have been at a loss to say. "You know," Charlotte had explained, with her humorous smile, "there is a notion that it's all right for a 'lady' to dabble in anything, painting, music, or embroidery and so on, so long as she doesn't attempt to make a profession of it, or think of making money by it. Of course this idea is changing now a bit, but people like Mildred Lloyd, for instance, and all her kind, still think it's not perfectly '_nice_' as she puts it." It was not in the least that Mr. Spencer had even a grain of snobbishness in his rough, vigorous makeup, so far as either himself or his three sons were concerned; his very love for his "Charlie," as he called her, made him stubborn in his ideas concerning what was best for her. He wanted her to have everything that he could give her, and he gave her what he imagined her mother would have wanted him to give. It was because Charlotte understood that his stubbornness grew out of his adoration of her, that she good-naturedly gave in to his wishes. "In good time, I'll do what I want, of course," she said with serene self-confidence. "But the least I can do for darling old Dad is to make him believe that all the time I'm doing what _he_ wants. He _is_ such a lamb, you know." The warm friendship that grew up between the two girls had a strong bond in the similarity of their position at Miss Leland's, and in the circumstances of their being there, as well as in their mutual sympathy with each other's ideas. It was a Saturday afternoon, late in October, when the days were rapidly shortening into wintry dusks, and there was even the hint of an early snow in the slate-colored skies, against which the bare, stiff branches of the trees shivered in a nipping wind. Nancy, all ruddy, and breezy from a brisk walk with Charlotte, had come up to her room to finish an English paper. Across the hall a group of girls had gathered around Katherine Leonard's chafing dish, from which the tantalizing smell of thick, hot fudge was beginning to pervade the corridors, and distract the thoughts of the more studious from their unsocial but conscientious labors. "Come on in, Nance," called Alma, waving a sticky spoon invitingly. "Surely you aren't going to work now, are you?" Nancy hesitated, her hand on the door-knob. They all looked so jolly, the room so cosy, and the warm, chocolaty smell of the fudge was almost irresistible. Nancy's nose twitched at the delicious odor, and she smiled uncertainly. "I've got to finish my English," she began. "Oh, bother your English," cried Dolly Parker, "None of us have even looked at ours yet. Don't be a 'grind'--come on." "You're such a shark at it, Miss Garnett wouldn't bother you if you loafed for a month," added Maizie Forrest. This was quite true--and that was the trouble. It was just because Miss Garnett was so lenient that Nancy felt the responsibility of keeping up in her work resting heavily on herself. Nearly all the girls loafed shamelessly, and Nancy had to guard against the temptation to imitate them. She knew that she would have to pass a stiff examination in English to enter college, and that it mattered nothing to Miss Garnett whether she passed or not. "Well, the point is that I've got so little to do on it that I might as well finish it up and feel free," she said, finally. "I'll come in a little while, so don't, for goodness' sake, eat all the fudge." "Oh, Nancy, you make me tired," pouted Alma. "If you're going to be such an old poke, you don't deserve any fudge." Nancy only laughed in reply, and calmly went in to her room, and shut the door. She flung her sweater on her bed, sent her scarlet tam-o'-shanter after it, and then stood for a moment, her hands in the pockets of her skirt, looking about her. The Prescotts' room was certainly not the cosiest and most inviting in the school, and she had listened long to Alma's petitions for an easy chair, and a new lamp to take the place of the green-shaded student's lamp which by its hard, sharp light intensified the severe bareness of the little place. Besides the two beds, there were the two desks, two stiff desk-chairs, and the two small bureaus. Nothing had been added to soften the chilly aspect except a pair of cheap, chintz curtains at the window, and a few small cushions on the window-seat. They had no pictures or photographs, no rugs, no tea service--none of the hundred and one little knickknacks with which the other girls managed to turn their bedrooms into luxurious little dens. Consequently, they were never besieged by bands of hilarious callers, and Alma herself was never in her room any more than she could help. At night she preferred a dressing-gown chat in Mildred's room, or in Kay Leonard's; even when she studied, which occupied, indeed, little enough of her time, she sought a more congenial atmosphere, and Nancy, except for Charlotte's company, was a good deal by herself. But there was nothing to be done about it. She could not go to the expense of a new rug and an easy chair and a new lamp, and that was all there was to it. Alma felt ashamed of the mute confession of a narrow purse, expressed by the chill simplicity of the room; losing her memory of their straitened means amid the easy affluence of the other girls, she became more and more sulky against Nancy for her rigid economy. She contended that she saw no reason for it--that Nancy was carrying it to unnecessary extremes. With a shrug of her shoulders, Nancy began to rummage in her desk for her half-finished English paper, and then sat down to it, grimly determined to concentrate on it, and to drive away all distracting thoughts. She forgot about the fudge-party, and an hour went by before she looked up with a sigh, and carefully glancing over her finished pages folded them neatly inside her copy of "Burke's Speeches." All her work was finished, and she could look forward to Sunday with a comfortable anticipation of unhampered freedom. It was still half an hour before the dressing bell would ring, so she put on her kimono and, her sociable mood having passed, tucked herself up on the window-seat with a book. In a little while the door opened, and Alma came in to change her frock. Nancy glanced up, and saw in an instant that Alma was annoyed. She felt troubled. It seemed as if every day they were growing farther apart. They no longer had those happy chats together which had bound them close by affection and sympathy. Alma no longer sought her as her confidant, and seemed to resent her advice rather than to seek it. Instead, the younger girl had, as it were, transferred her affection and her admiration to the headstrong and annoyingly self-assured Mildred Lloyd. Mildred had deigned to pronounce Alma pretty, and "interesting," and had "taken her up" as the phrase is, thereby completely turning poor Alma's head so that she was gradually merging even her personality into a pale imitation of Mildred's blasé expressions and mannerisms. Alma was not left ignorant of the fact that Mildred's friendship, like her fancy, was extremely variable, and that she was quite likely to turn a cold shoulder to her new chum, without deigning to provide any reason for doing so. But Alma preferred to believe that in her case Mildred's interest would not wane, just as she preferred to forget her early prejudice of their first meeting with Mildred. An uncomfortable little silence reigned, which Nancy pretended to be unaware of, by giving a great deal of attention to her book, although the light from the window was so faint that no human eye could have spelt out the words on the page. But when, at length, she was forced by the lateness of the hour to begin dressing, it was impossible to preserve the wretched silence any longer, or to speak as if nothing were the matter. "You--you seem worried, Alma," she began hesitatingly. "Is there something on your mind?" "I'm not worried a bit," returned Alma coldly. "Well--are you angry about something?" There was a silence. Alma flung her hair over her shoulder and began to brush the ends vigorously, while Nancy watched the operation with an intentness that showed her mind to be on other things. Presently Alma said in a grave voice: "I know that it's none of my business, of course, but I _do_ think, Nancy, that you are making a mistake." "A mistake," repeated Nancy, in amazement. "How? How do you mean?" "Well, it seems to me that as far as you are concerned, it has been simply money wasted to send you here." "Why, what on earth are you talking about, Alma?" exclaimed Nancy, her temper beginning to rise in spite of her amusement at the fluffy Alma's gravely judicial air. Inasmuch as she studied harder and more seriously than any girl in the school, and rivalled Charlotte in brilliant marks, it was interesting as well as irritating to learn that Alma considered her unsuccessful. "Well, you know as well as I do that Mother's purpose in sending us here was for us to make friends. There isn't a girl in the school that you show the least interest in, except Charlotte, and Charlotte--well----" Alma shrugged her shoulders, expressing thereby what she hesitated to put into words. Instantly Nancy flared up. Usually the most even tempered and controlled of girls, she could not keep down her anger when it was roused by Alma's periodic fits of snobbishness. "What about Charlotte? Why do you shrug your shoulders like that? Because Charlotte isn't considered perfectly 'nice' by Mildred? Because Mildred thinks Charlotte 'rather ordinary--a bit crude, don'tcherknow?' She's the _realest_ girl in the school, and everyone of them knows it, too! She's the only one whose mind isn't forever running on beaux and dances and other girls' faults. She's the only one of them who has brains and a heart--she's the only real aristocrat of the whole lot! She's the only one of them whose friendship I'd give tuppence-ha'penny for----" Alma quailed a little under Nancy's indignation--she was indeed a bit ashamed of her snobbish remark; but she did not lower her flag. "That's no reason why you should let all the other girls know it. We need all the friends we can get, and we can't _afford_ to lose this opportunity of making advantageous connections." This last bit was rather an unfortunate choice of words, smacking as it did just a bit too strongly of Mildred to soothe Nancy's irate ear at just that moment. "_I_ didn't come here to make friends simply for what they could give me--regardless of whether I liked them or not. And I think it's the most _contemptible_ thing in the world to toady to girls simply because they are rich or fashionable, and may invite you to parties and things that you can never repay. And it's just that snobbish selfishness--that complete loss of self-respect for the sake of self-interest that makes so many poor people contemptible. I'd rather die before I'd play the role of little sister to the rich." Her voice began to quiver, and she had a wretched feeling that she was very near tears--tears not of anger so much as of genuine unhappiness. She felt as if every word she uttered was doing more damage, and her heart ached because she was quarrelling with Alma, and because Alma was changing more every day. She longed to throw her arms around her sister, and kiss away the memory of every word she had uttered, but stubborn pride, as much a fault with Nancy as a virtue, held her back. "Do you mean that I'm toadying?" asked Alma, her eyes growing wide. "I know now what you think of me--and I know that you're simply jealous of my fondness for Mildred," she went on passionately. "I don't know what has come over you anyway, Nancy--you don't approve of a single thing I do----" "Oh, Alma--darling! How _can_ you say such things?" The tears began to roll down Nancy's cheeks. "Whatever put such thoughts into your head, when you _know_ how much I love you. It's not me, but you who have changed. Can't you see that I can't let my work go just to play around with a lot of girls who don't care a rap for me, myself? Life isn't a song and a dance for _us_, Alma--and we can't waste our time just for a little popularity with girls who'd forget us to-morrow. Mildred----" "Oh, go ahead, and say a lot of mean things about Mildred," interrupted Alma bitterly. "You never liked her. You took a prejudice to her at first sight. You never even tried to know her. I never heard of anything so unjust in my life! You don't think that anyone is capable of a real friendship but you and Charlotte. Mildred is every bit as good a friend. Just because she's rich you think that she must be selfish--you're the most narrow-minded girl I ever knew. It's the same way with all my friends--you think Frank Barrows is just an idler--a conceited little----" "What on earth did I ever say against Frank Barrows?" Nancy defended herself weakly. "Oh, you never _say_ anything. You just look--and I know perfectly well what you think. It seems as if we can never agree about anything, any more. Now, this afternoon you might have been just a little bit sociable--instead of that you shut yourself up, as if you thought all those girls were simply a lot of sillies; but you were able to spend an hour and a half with Charlotte." "I had to finish my English paper, and that's all there was to it," retorted Nancy. "In any other school under the sun work has to come before play. Neither one of us can afford to take advantage of the leniency of the teachers here--if I did only what they required I wouldn't get to college in ten years. And I've got to get to college, no matter what _Mildred_ thinks of me. I'm sorry she doesn't approve of my behavior, but it can't be helped." In her hurt anger, she had lost her head a little bit, or she would not have thrown that last stone at Alma's chosen friend. For the time being at least, it was impossible to repair the breach that the two wounded, indignant girls had made between each other. Too sick at heart for tears, too despairingly conscious of the uselessness of any attempt at reconciliation, Nancy began to dress in a miserable silence. During dinner Nancy made a pretense at eating, but she could not join in the chatter with the other girls. Once or twice Charlotte glanced at her, but with her instinctive gentle tact appeared not to notice Nancy's blues. At her table, Alma was feverishly gay; as a matter of fact she was on the point of tears. Never before had they had such a quarrel, never before had she seen Nancy so heedlessly angry, never before had they deliberately tried to say things to hurt each other. Waves of desperate homesickness assailed her, and with the memory of happy nights when they had gossiped together in their room at the little brown house, a lump ached in her throat. She wanted Nancy more than anyone else in the world. What was it they had said to each other that had caused such a dreadful coldness between them? She tried to tell herself that Nancy had misjudged her, that Nancy was wrong, and that she was right in maintaining her ground; but listening to the banter that went on around her, struggling to keep up her own end of it bravely, she felt that not one girl in the room, nor any pleasure in the world was of the slightest value to her so long as she did not have Nancy as her confidant and dearest friend. With these thoughts battering at the foolish pride in their hearts it would have taken only a whispered word to send the sisters into one another's embrace, but the reconciliation for which they were both longing so piteously was postponed by an incident which threatened to make their quarrel even more serious. It was simply the outcome of an unfortunate chance. For some time both the girls had known that Miss Leland had planned to give them different roommates, since she thought it a good idea for sisters to be separated so that they could make closer friendships with other girls. After dinner she spoke of this again, not to Nancy but to Alma, leaving it to the younger girl to announce the change to Nancy. She had, of course, no knowledge of their quarrel, nor could she have possibly gauged the unfortunate timing of the change. Nancy went up to her room directly after dinner, not waiting for the usual hour of music and dancing, and giving as her excuse the pretense that she had some mending to do. She did, indeed, get out her work-basket as a sort of defense against unwelcome intrusion, but with a stocking drawn over her hand, she sat with her back to the door, and gave herself up to the sad consolation of tears. In a little while the door opened. Someone came in. Nancy bent over her stocking, and began to run a threadless needle through a "Jacob's-ladder"; from the corner of her eye she saw Alma busily engaged in taking some of her things out of the bureau-drawers. Alma was as painstaking in keeping her own face concealed as Nancy, though she tried to hum a tune under her breath. The silence became intolerable, but diffidence weighted their tongues. Each one of them longed to throw her pride to the winds and sue for a reconciliation; but the fear of having her overtures met with coldness held her back. At length Alma said in a voice which she vainly tried to make natural and casual: "Miss Leland has changed us. Charlotte Spencer is going to be your roommate from now on--and--and I'm going in with--with Mildred." "That's--a--a good idea," replied Nancy; sarcasm was a thousand miles from her mind, and she spoke really only for the sake of sounding as if all differences had been forgotten; but a more ill-chosen sentence could not have fallen from her lips. "I suppose--you--you're glad to be rid of me," said Alma, her lips quivering. "Anyway, you'll have Charlotte, and she's ever so much more congenial with you than I am." Nancy did not answer. If Alma had not made that last reference to Charlotte she would have had Nancy back in a moment, but there is a little devil who takes a delight in twisting people's tongues when they most need to be inspired with the right thing to say. With her night-gown and dressing-gown over her arm, and her sponge-bag in her hand, Alma walked in silence to the door. There she paused, and like Lot's wife flung back at Nancy one piteous parting look, which, alas, met only the back of Nancy's down-bent head. The door closed. Nancy sprang up, and crossed the room, running, while the spools from her overturned basket rolled off placidly under the bed. Then she paused; pride conquered the tenderness in her heart at that moment, bringing in its trail a sequence of unhappy days. "No---it won't do to admit I'm wrong. I'm not, and I'll just let her find it out." And having voiced this stern resolution, she flung herself down on the bed and, burying her face in the pillows, cried herself into a doze; while, separated from her by a thin partition of lath and plaster, Alma made up her new bed, and bedewed it with her doleful tears. CHAPTER X THE OGRE REAPPEARS "Hope you haven't forgotten that you've bound yourself in an engagement with me for the theatre to-morrow, Nannie, old dear," called Charlotte from her customary location during leisure hours--namely the piano bench. "I've reserved seats for 'The Countess Betsey'--nice, light, loads of good Viennese tunes--nothing lofty about it. Miss Drinkwater had a cute little plan for us--wanted us to go to hear--or see--I don't know just what the right word is--some production of Euripides in the original. I said 'No'--very politely. Too politely perhaps--I had to repeat it three separate and distinct times. I explained to her that while I just adored Euripides, and loved nothing better than Greek as she is spoke, my constitution craved something a bit gayer than 'Medea'--in the original. I hinted modestly that I'd been overworking a bit lately--and that my mighty brain needed something that it didn't have to chew eighty-five times before swallowing. Aren't you going to thank me?" "Oh, I do--thanks _horribly_," laughed Nancy. "Can't you see us sitting through a merry little Greek play, trying to weep in the right places, and not to laugh when everyone but the villainess had been stabbed or poisoned or fed to the lions?" "Gee--but couldn't we be lofty when we got back?" said Charlotte. "I'd say, 'How sublime were those lines in Act II, Scene 4, where, in a voice thrilling with sublime hate, the frenzied woman shrieks "Logos Nike anthropos Socrates!"' And you would glow with fervor, and say '_Zoue mou sas agapo_.' I tell you what, when it comes to dead languages----" "It's too late, I hope, for you to get enthusiastic about the idea now," interrupted Nancy, firmly. "It wouldn't be a bit unlike you to get so carried away with it, that you'd suddenly change your mind about not going--and I'll tell you right now, that if you do I am emphatically _not_ with you. I don't like to improve my mind when I'm on a holiday--and Saturdays come only once a week." "You should thirst for every opportunity to improve your understanding," reproved Charlotte, who could chatter away like a magpie, while her nimble fingers never lost a note, or stumbled in the rhythm of the lively dance tune she was playing. "Don't forget _our_ little party, Alma," said Mildred Lloyd. "Mademoiselle is going to chaperone us--I asked her yesterday. We're going in on the eleven-fifty-four, and the boys are going to meet us at Delmonico's at one." Charlotte cast a sidelong glance at Nancy; she understood that Alma possessed all this information already, and that Mildred was making the announcement simply to excite the other girls' curiosity. Since their quarrel Alma and Nancy, chiefly for the sake of outward appearances, had called an armistice. But while Nancy had not confided the first hint of the quarrel to Charlotte, poor Alma, who could never smother anything in her own heart, had unbosomed herself completely to Mildred. Needless to say, Mildred, who had disliked Nancy from the beginning, was not warmed toward her by any of the details in Alma's narrative that concerned herself. She knew that Alma had not told Nancy about their arrangements to go to the theatre, meeting two boys in town, of whom Frank Barrows was to be Alma's cavalier; and consequently, she surmised, quite correctly, that Nancy would be hurt when she spoke about the plan. Alma shot a quick, uncertain look at her sister, and blushed; but Nancy only smiled, and asked, casually: "What are you going to see?" Alma's expression changed to one of relief. "'Oh, Trixie!' Aren't we, Mildred?" "Uh-huh. Everyone says it's a scream, and the music is perfect. I wanted to go to a regular play, but then I thought the boys would like a musical comedy better. By the way, Alma, I think I'll ask Miss Leland to let us go in on the ten-fourteen--I want to do some shopping. It'll get us in at eleven, and we'll have two hours. I promised Madame Lepage that I'd come in to talk over a dress I want for the holidays--and then I've simply got to get a new hat." The following morning, after the first study period, which closed the labors of the day at nine-thirty, Nancy heard a timid knock at the door. It was Alma, gloved and bonneted in her "Sunday-best," but with an agitated expression that was ill-suited to her festive appearance. It was the first time that she had seen Nancy alone since the night of their quarrel. "Oh, Charlotte's not here, is she?" she said, evidently much relieved. "No, she walked up to the village to post a letter. We aren't going in until the eleven-fifty-four. Did you want to see her?" "No, oh, no. You see, I--I----" Alma stammered, turning scarlet, and fidgeting nervously with the button on her glove. "You see, I wondered if you could lend me--lend me just a little bit of money. I--I'll pay it right back. You see, I don't want Mildred--I mean this is a sort of Dutch treat----" "Why, of course," laughed Nancy, touched and a little bit hurt by Alma's embarrassment. Heretofore they had borrowed and lent to each other without the thought of explaining why they needed the money, and her sister's constraint marked with painful clearness her sense of the coldness between them. "How much do you want?" "Could you lend me--ten dollars? Or seven would do. I won't use it all, of course, but--but it's better to have it." Ten dollars was a good bit more than either of the girls had spent on any pleasure before the Porterbridges' dance; but Nancy said nothing, and going to her top bureau drawer, took out her pocketbook and gave Alma the bill without a second glance into the purse. "Oh, _thank_ you--oh, Nancy!" Alma looked into her sister's face, and the tears came suddenly to her eyes. "Goodness, you don't have to thank me like that," said Nancy, flushing. "You know that it's no more my money than yours, dear----" "You're--you're so good to me, Nancy---oh--I didn't mean----" and all at once Alma, who could restrain her sweet impulses no more easily than her weak ones, flung her arms around Nancy, and burst out crying. "Oh, darling Nancy, don't be angry with me any more. I can't bear it!" "Alma, dearest---I'm _not_ angry--oh, I'm so glad--so glad!" cried Nancy, in tears, too; they clung together fiercely, every hard word forgotten in the joy of "making up." "There, darling, you'll miss your train. There now, it's all just as it was. Oh, see, your hat's all over your eye"--they began to laugh tremulously. "You'd better put a little cold water on your face, sweetheart--and dust a little powder over it." They hugged each other again, and, as Alma ran down the hall, Nancy stood at the door watching her, with brighter eyes than she had had for a week. But when Alma had disappeared below the landing of the stairs, she walked back into the room with a sober expression. A quarter of an hour later she went again to the top bureau drawer to get out her gloves, and then thinking for the first time of the amount of money she had left herself, realized that she could have barely sufficient, if that, to defray her expenses of her own day in town. Each of the girls had taken fifteen dollars to last them as pocket money up until Thanksgiving--a little she had already spent on shoe-laces, ribbons and so on, and she had given Alma ten. A glance into her purse showed her to her dismay that she had left herself exactly fifty-four cents. She knew, of course, that she could easily borrow from Charlotte, but this she was absolutely unwilling to do, first because she did not want to have to write to her mother for more money, and secondly because she did not want to do anything that she would not have Alma do. To borrow from Charlotte was one thing, but to have Alma follow her precedent was unwise; for in the first place, Alma would borrow from Mildred Lloyd or Kay Leonard, and in the second place, Alma might not know just where to set her limits. Nancy dropped the purse, and shut the drawer quietly. After all, she told herself, she had not deprived herself of so much pleasure that she should pity herself. It was a beautiful day, clear and sparkling, and she would enjoy herself just as much on a walk across country as at the "Countess Betsey." Nancy had the happy faculty of banishing any regrets for a pleasure which she could not reasonably take, and finding a substitute for it with perfect cheerfulness. The prospect of a free day, which she could spend as she liked, was as full of attraction for her as her original plan for the matinée had been, and when Charlotte strolled in upon her, she was whistling softly as she pulled on her scarlet tam-o'-shanter. "Listen, Charlotte--don't kill me--but I'm afraid I've got to stay here after all. Do you mind awfully?" Naturally she could not give the reasons for her default on the theatre party; and because she had forgotten to think up a plausible excuse she flushed slightly. "Oh, come now!" howled Charlotte in dismay. "You can't do anything like that. There's not an earthly reason why you should stay here, and you know it." Then quickly her singularly delicate tact warned her not to press Nancy. The very fact that her friend had not given a reason for breaking their engagement was enough for Charlotte to know that she should not ask for one. The two girls understood each other so well that they knew instinctively when to respect one another's silences. "Well, if you can't, you can't, I suppose," she said quietly. "I'm awfully sorry; but we can go in next Saturday. If you have anything to do, however, there's no point in my staying around out here. I'll go on in anyway. Do you want me to get anything for you?" "Not a thing," replied Nancy, feeling an intense gratitude toward Charlotte for not disputing her decision with her. "I'm glad you are going." "Well, sit down and talk to me while I'm dressing. Alma's gone, hasn't she?" "Yes. Oh, wear your brown hat, Charlotte--the one with the little feather on it." "My dear, what does it matter--Drinkwater won't appreciate it." "Doesn't matter. You'll be a thing of beauty whether she knows it or not, and that's reason enough for wearing it." "Want me to bring out a pound of those scrumptious soft chocolates from Mailliards? Then we can have a regular festival on 'em to-night, if you're a good girl while I'm gone." When Charlotte had taken her departure, Nancy, who had walked over to the station with her, struck out through the village for a good walk before luncheon. The country beyond Broadmore was picturesque, and Nancy loved nothing better than to swing along without plan or purpose, cutting across a field here, or turning into a bit of glowing woodland there, as her fancy prompted. In her short full skirt, her small feet laced into sturdy low-heeled boots, she could negotiate fences and brooks with the freedom of a boy, revelling in a feeling of adventurousness and liberty. The sun had melted the frost of the early morning, the ground was soft, and the air mild though bracing. In the wide puddles which had gathered in the depressions of the country roads, a sky mottled with huge, lazy clouds was reflected. A cock crowed on some distant haystack. Now and then a mischievous wind rose, bending the long brown grass as it swept along, and making Nancy catch her breath in a sort of jubilant excitement, as it blew into her face, and spun out wisps of her hair behind her. She had turned after about two miles of walking, and was approaching the pike on the school side of the railroad station, when she heard behind her the patient creaking of the old hack, and the familiar clucking of the driver to his lean and melancholy steed. As it came beside her, she glanced up curiously; then her eyes grew round, and she stared in incredulous amazement. For, bolt upright on the decrepit back seat, his head erect under its wide-brimmed black felt hat, his thin hands folded on the crook of his cane, sat--her Uncle Thomas. She lacked breath to speak to him; but just then he turned his eyes and saw her. For a moment he merely gazed at her without a glimmer of recognition and she had half persuaded herself that his brief visit to the cottage had not been long enough to have fixed her features in his mind, when his face suddenly broke into an almost boyish smile. "Hey, driver--stop! Whoa! Why, my dear child--bless me, this is very fortunate!" With one foot on the step, he leaned out and clasped her hand. "Get in, get in, my dear--I was on my way to see you. And I nearly missed you, eh?" Nancy clambered up beside him, and the driver, not receiving any orders to the contrary, clucked to his steed, which continued on its interrupted way. "Were you really going to visit us, Uncle?" asked Nancy. "It's a pity that Alma isn't here. She went in to the city--and it was just luck that I didn't go, too." She smiled to herself, wondering if, after all, Providence had had some hand in the events of the morning which had kept her where she was. "Luck? Well, I should say so. I'd have been badly disappointed if my surprise had fallen through," chuckled Uncle Thomas, who was evidently in the best of spirits. "Well, well--you're as ruddy as a ripe pomegranate, my dear." "I've just walked four miles," said Nancy. "Walked? By yourself? Now, that's a taste you've inherited from me. Fond of walking, aren't you? Now, tell me how you are getting along--at school, I mean. Like it, eh?" He looked at her keenly, a twinkle hiding just under the surface of his gray eyes. "Yes, I like it. I'm working awfully hard--I have to, or I wouldn't get anywhere, because it would be awfully easy to loaf at Miss Leland's," laughed Nancy; she had a feeling that he was waiting to get her opinion of the school, and she was afraid of sounding priggish, or as if she were trying to impress him with an idea of her industry. So she chatted away about the girls, telling him about Charlotte particularly, describing the teachers, giving him an account of the routine, and so on, to all of which he listened as intently as if he were her father. "So you're swimming along. Good. And how is my other niece? Is she working very hard? Has she made lots of friends, eh?" Again Nancy felt that he was pumping her, but she told him casually about Alma, taking care to say nothing that might sound as if she said it for effect, and he listened, nodding his head, and smiling. "Well, now--even if we can't have Alma with us, what do you say to giving up a holiday to an old gentleman? Is that too much to ask? The whim took me to run over here to-day and kidnap my two nieces; but if I can only have one, I'll take her, if she'll let me. Will your 'schoolma'am' let you come away with me? I'd like to have you until to-morrow, and I'll get you back safe and sound." Nancy laughed. Six months before, if anyone had told her that she would be going to visit her Uncle Thomas on that particular day, she would have thought the prophet quite mad; as it was she could hardly believe her ears. "I'd _love_ to do it. Here's the school now--it won't take me a minute to get ready. You speak to Miss Leland, Uncle Thomas. I'm quite sure that I can go." A little more than an hour later Nancy found herself turning in the very old gate through the unfriendly bars of which she and Alma had peered on that distant rainy afternoon, feeling that they were gazing into a forbidden country. Yet now nothing, it seemed, could be more natural than that she should be sitting beside her uncle, chatting away with him unconstrainedly. Only the fact that he never mentioned her mother, nor suggested that she should even peep into the little brown house, made her feel uncomfortable. Furthermore, he showed the same coldness on the subject of Alma, so that, in a way, Nancy felt that somehow she had almost unfairly won his affection for herself alone, and that she was enjoying a pleasure in which her mother and sister should have had an equal share. On the other hand, she decided, at length, to say nothing either to Alma or to Mrs. Prescott about her visit; only because she was afraid that the knowledge of it might again lead them to false hopes, and to follies stimulated by those hopes. She felt sure that her uncle had come to see her, only because he had taken her at her word; that is to say, that he counted on her not in any way misunderstanding the purpose of his visit, or fancying that it gave promise of his relenting in his long-standing determination not to solve their financial problems for them. Aside from the fact that, although within a mile of the little brown cottage, she might have been a league away, and that she experienced several bad qualms of homesickness, Nancy thoroughly enjoyed that day. She lunched with her uncle in the big dining-room, sitting at the head of his table, while he placed himself at the foot. And afterwards he showed her about the huge old house, taking her to his laboratory, explaining a great deal about scientific experiments which she did not understand, showing her his books and his curios. As they passed along the corridor on the second floor, he paused a moment outside a room which was closed. Then as if on a sudden impulse, he took a key out of his pocket, and opened the door, without saying anything. It was a small room, rather bare, furnished with an almost Spartan simplicity; the sunlight beamed in, striking its full, red rays on the faded wall above the narrow, white iron bed, over which hung a picture of a lion-hunt, evidently cut out of some book or magazine--just such a picture as would strike the imagination of a lad of twelve. The rest of the wall was mottled with other pictures, many of them unframed, clipped out of colored newspapers, and fixed to the wall-paper with pins; pictures of horses and steeple-chases, and Greek athletes, and American heroes; one, the largest, was a vivid representation of the Battle of Trafalgar, showing a perfect inferno of red and yellow flames and bursting bombs, and splintered ships, and drowning sailors clinging to planks and spars. On the table between the windows stood a row of books, a few ill-treated looking lesson books hobnobbing like poor relations with other more self-confident works on "Woodcraft" and "Adventure." The mantelpiece was burdened with a heterogeneous collection of boyish knickknacks, such as a sling, a bird's-nest, a rusty bowie-knife, and a decrepit old horse-pistol. For a moment Nancy looked about her in astonishment, then, as she understood, the tears came to her eyes, and she looked up at her uncle. The room had not been changed since her father had left it for boarding-school, twenty, thirty years before. Mr. Prescott said nothing; but after a moment closed the door, locked it again, and walked away. "I'm going to have visitors for tea," he remarked, to turn the subject. "It's quite an eventful day for me; I rarely see anyone, as you know. But I thought that it might be pleasant for you to renew an acquaintance with a lady who seems to have taken a great fancy to you, and who, incidentally, is the only woman I know who has a full-sized allowance of common sense. Though at times she is very unreasonable and quite as inconsistent as any of her sex." Nancy looked at him inquiringly, and he explained: "Miss Elizabeth Bancroft." Whether he considered Miss Bancroft in the plural, as being a lady of many parts, or whether he had used the word "visitors" because she would be accompanied or followed by others, and if so how many others he expected he did not trouble himself to make clear; but the matter explained itself, when toward five o'clock, the sound of carriage wheels rattled out on the gravel drive, and in due time, Miss Bancroft laboriously descended from her equipage, assisted by her nephew, George Arnold. "My dear child, how delightful this is! I'm so really glad to see you," exclaimed Miss Bancroft, taking Nancy's hands in both her own, as if she had known her all her life. Her frank cordial manner sent a glow of pleasure to Nancy's cheeks. "I hope you remember that you met my nephew--for his sake. The idea that you might possibly have forgotten him has been troubling his vanity for a good eight hours." Nancy laughingly murmuring that she did remember Mr. Arnold, and blushing with shyness, shook hands with him. She noticed, without dreaming of connecting the fact with herself, that he seemed to be in remarkably good spirits, and that they quite overflowed when he told her how nice it was to see her again, and what a jolly, funny sort of party the whole thing was anyway. "I wasn't going to bring George," observed Miss Bancroft. "He's usually so tiresomely lazy about tearing himself away from his books or his own company, that I thought I wouldn't bother him to-day. Then lo, and behold, he gets into an unbearable fit of sulks, complains that I'm always ready enough to drag him around with people who bore him to death, and leave him alone whenever anyone interesting turns up--in a word goes into a tantrum, and all but weeps with rage, so I had to bring him." With that she indulged in a chuckle of mischievous laughter, and patted Nancy's cheek. A big wood-fire crackled noisily inside the huge stone chimney place in the living-room, and around it they all gathered in that comfortable, sociable spirit which is the characteristic mood for tea-time; everyone felt that they had really known everyone else rather longer than they had, and while Miss Bancroft poured out their tea, and chattered away with Uncle Thomas, who stood upright on the hearth-rug, drinking his tea from the mantelpiece, Nancy and Mr. Arnold chatted away as if it were impossible to say everything they wanted to in the course of one short hour or so. As a rule Nancy had a very hard time overcoming her shyness when she had to talk to a young man. She always felt that she might say something that they wouldn't understand, or which they might think affected or priggish--which were the two last sins in the world which she would have wished to be accused of, or with which anyone could accuse her. But with Mr. Arnold, she lost every atom of self-consciousness. He had travelled a great deal, and he had seen the world through a prism of mingled humor and sensitiveness, which gave his conversation the charm of a very original viewpoint on everything. He told her droll stories about his school days in England and Switzerland; recounted innumerable anecdotes about the various people he had seen, many of whom were celebrated for their brains or their follies; and altogether managed to make an hour shorter than many a minute. And in some way, while he talked, he had a way of flattering the shy young girl not by words, but by a hundred indescribable little attentions, paid unconsciously, no doubt, and simply because he was thoroughly delighted to see her again. "My dear, you mustn't fail to pay me a visit during the holidays," Miss Bancroft urged. "Remember that your father was a very great favorite of mine--and I should like to be a favorite of yours, if Uncle Thomas doesn't supplant me, quite." The old lady bent and kissed Nancy warmly as she prepared to take her departure. When the carriage had driven away Nancy and her uncle sat before the fire for a long time. To remember that afternoon was always a delight to Nancy; and she particularly liked to recall the memory of sitting there, as the dusk grew deeper in the room and the daylight faded away into pale tints, and then into a deep, quiet blue, while they sat and watched the fire. The flames had died down, but the long logs were wrapped in a hot, red glow, and every now and then they would pop softly and a spark would drop down into the ruddy embers. When dinner was over they sat by that fireside until bedtime, chatting away with a thoroughly delightful sense of camaraderie. Absolutely forgetting her mother and sister's ground of interest in Uncle Thomas, Nancy talked to him quite freely about her ambitions without the slightest feeling of constraint, impressing him unconsciously more than she could have done by the most fervid protestations with her sincerely eager wish to make her life for herself and by herself. And he liked her earnest, youthful spirit of independence, perfectly innocent of any pose of "strong-mindedness"--which to a man like Mr. Prescott would have constituted one of the most unforgivable of feminine failings, ranking equally with the other extreme, of which poor, pretty, helpless Mrs. Prescott was an example. "So you want to work your way through college? What's the idea?" he asked a bit gruffly. "A pretty girl like you, I should think, would only be planning to marry and settle down in a home of her own." Nancy colored. "That would be awfully nice, but one can't make it a business, Uncle Thomas, or all the niceness would go out of it. I think one ought to plan out all the difficult things, and leave all the--the dreadfully nice things to Chance, or Providence,--or--well, just let them happen where they belong." "You're a little Madame Solomon, aren't you, eh?" said Uncle Thomas with a short chuckle. "And how are you going to work your way through college? I shouldn't think that Miss Leland's would be exactly the place for a young lady with your ideas." "It wouldn't be, if I aired them all over the place--but I've learned to keep my ideas to myself," said Nancy, thinking how Mildred Lloyd would scoff at her "highbrow" ambitions. Uncle Thomas shot a quick, keen glance at her from under his bushy brows. "Well, you are a wise young lady. Now, who in the world taught you that--to keep your ideas to yourself? Eh?" "Why, there's nothing very wise in that," said Nancy, surprised at his tone of warm approval. "I know what I want, and if I'm with people who think it's a foolish thing to want, why, I don't talk about it--that's all." "Well, my dear, permit me to say that I think that in time you are going to have even more sense than my good Elizabeth." "You--you aren't laughing at me, Uncle Thomas? Do you think I'm trying to show off?" asked Nancy timidly, unwilling to believe his sincere praise; and she looked anxiously and shyly into his face to detect a smile if there was one. But there wasn't. "Laughing at you? My dear child--what nonsense! Bless my soul, but you are certainly my boy's daughter!" Then, after a short silence, and just as Nancy was on the point of telling him an amusing little incident about Charlotte, he interrupted her abruptly and irrelevantly: "I say,--you like that young man, eh?" "What young man?" gasped Nancy, turning scarlet. "_That_ young man," repeated Uncle Thomas, pettishly. "Elizabeth's boy--Arnold--that author-person." "Author?" "Yes. Bless me, didn't he tell you how famous he is? Do you like him, I say?" Uncle Thomas was quite fierce. "Why, yes. I think he's awfully nice. I--I don't know him very well," said Nancy, in astonishment. "Hum. Well, he's a nice fellow. Clever chap. Elizabeth dotes on him, but he doesn't let her think for him. But he's not good enough for you. You go along to college. If you won't get any silly notions about marrying and all that nonsense, I--I'll--well, maybe I'll give you a lift here and there, though it's strictly against my principles." After which involved and very cryptic remark Uncle Thomas stiffly offered her his cheek to kiss, and sent her to bed. CHAPTER XI ALMA MAKES COMPLICATIONS Charlotte was sitting in the easy chair which she had imported to her new lodging with the rest of her belongings, munching peanuts. Her bushy brown hair was pinned up into a droll little "nubbin" on top of her head, her goggles had slipped down almost to the tip of her nose, and altogether her attitude, when Nancy burst in upon her late on Sunday afternoon, gave evidence that she was in a thoughtful mood. She had often said that peanuts always disposed her to meditation. With her feet on the window-seat she gazed out upon a rather dreary scene of fog and rain, hardly blinking her big, heavy-lidded eyes, and devouring peanuts like an automaton. But the unchanging gravity of her face, as she turned around to greet her prodigal roommate, told Nancy that there was really some serious matter on her friend's mind. "Hello! Have a good time?" was her only greeting. "Very. Did you like the play yesterday? I--I hope you understood why I--I mean after I had told you that I had to stay here----" "Nancy, you know you don't have to explain anything to me. If you couldn't go with me, don't you suppose that I knew that you had your own reasons for not going?" interrupted Charlotte warmly. "My idea of real 'bosom friends,' as they call 'em, is of two people who know when not to bother each other with questions. "The reason why most of these ardent school-girl friendships come to violent deaths is because they _will_ insist on telling each other everything, and demanding an explanation for every why and wherefore. And that's that. Take off your things and have a peanut--or even two, if you like." Nancy tossed her hat on the bed and began to take off her heavy clothes. "You seemed sort of grave, Charlotte, when I came in. Has anything happened?" she asked, as she slipped into her dressing-gown and shook down her hair. "Well, in a way, yes," replied Charlotte. "Nothing to worry you really, and it's really not my affair, except that it concerns you and Alma. It's only that I'm afraid that that donkey Mildred Lloyd got Alma into rather a scrape yesterday. Oh, don't look so scared--it's all fixed up. Only, if I were you, I'd have a good talk with Alma about Mildred." "But what happened?" cried Nancy, who had turned quite pale, in spite of Charlotte's hasty reassurances. "Well, the chief trouble was that they overstayed their time in town yesterday. Ten o'clock is the very latest that any of us can come in on a holiday, As you know, and as they knew, and as that little pinhead, Mademoiselle, knew. It seems that one of the boys persuaded them to stay in for dinner and to go to the theatre again afterwards. So they didn't get in until after twelve. Well, as you can imagine, Amelia went on a regular rampage. And I've a notion that she was a good deal harder on poor Alma than she was on Mildred. Amelia is more afraid of angering Mildred than Mildred is of angering her. Mildred always takes Mademoiselle as her chaperone because she is quite sure of being able to make that little poodle do anything she wants. And Mildred, being the daughter of Marshall Lloyd, is _persona grata_ here, and can wriggle out of any scrape. I know Mildred down to the ground. I've roomed with her for a year. For some reason or other she never tried to coax me into any rule breaking--probably because we were never intimate at all, and because she knew that I don't think there's any fun or sense in that sort of thing. It doesn't take any great cleverness to break a rule, and you don't get anything much by doing so. If you want my opinion, I think that Mildred is a very unsafe sort of friend for a girl like Alma. I don't believe that Alma honestly likes her--Mildred is more than inclined to be a bully, and extremely capricious--but somehow a lot of girls feel flattered when Mildred 'takes them up,' and will do anything she tells them to, without using their own common sense for a minute. I'm saying all this to you, Nancy, when I wouldn't say it to anyone else. I don't like the idea of picking to pieces a girl whom you roomed with for a year, but I think that both of us ought to try to make Alma open her eyes before Mildred gets her into any more mischief." Nancy sat silent for a time, staring out of the window, and biting her finger thoughtfully. She longed to ask Charlotte's advice, but she hesitated to discuss her own sister even with this very close and sincere friend. She hated to admit Alma's weaknesses even to herself, and she could not bring herself to speak of them to anyone else. But she felt very uncertain as to how she was going to approach Alma on the subject of her friendship with Mildred; for in spite of their reconciliation, she knew that Alma was not ready to take any warnings, without flying up with a lot of notions about the nobility of friendship and so on; true and idealistic notions in themselves, but so unwisely applied that she stood in danger of losing them altogether through disillusionment. "I think Alma's alone now. Have you seen her?" said Charlotte. "The poor little creature has been awfully unhappy about the scolding Miss Leland gave her--Mildred wasn't at all cast down and goes around looking as if she had done something very smart. The very fact that Alma is feeling so blue about it all, while Mildred is perfectly unconcerned, shows the difference in the sort of stuff they are made of. And we must take care that Alma doesn't change under Mildred's influence so that she, too, will think it very smart to get into silly scrapes just for the fun of getting out of them." Nancy sprang up, and without a word left the room. There was no light in her sister's room, but in the gray twilight that shone in forlornly she made out a pathetic little heap on the bed. She felt a lump of pity and motherly tenderness rise in her throat; not a particle of blame was in her heart--only a desire to cuddle and comfort her thoughtless little sister. "Alma," she called softly. A tousled head was lifted from the pillow, and even in the dim light she could see how Alma's rosy, childlike face was stained and swollen with tears. "Oh, Nancy! I _am_ so glad you're back! Oh, don't be angry with me. You aren't angry, are you?" sobbed Alma. "Angry!" echoed Nancy, laughing tremulously. "Oh, you poor little darling--don't be so unhappy about it all." She hugged Alma tightly and kissed her hot cheek, feeling the tears on it. "Then you _do_ know about it. It wasn't my fault, Nancy--that is, it wasn't Milly's, either. Don't think I'm trying to shift the blame. Oh, I have been so _miserable_." "Why, dearest, it wasn't anything very bad--it was only foolish. Cheer up!" "You see,--you see--Frank was there, and another boy--and they hated to go back to Cambridge--and it all seemed perfectly harmless--and Milly said it was perfectly all right, and that Miss Leland wouldn't care a bit--and that she had often done it. I hadn't any idea--until I thought about you, and I knew you wouldn't like it. But I didn't think about that until we were coming home. But Milly just laughed." "What did Miss Leland say to you?" "She--she was furious. She said that she was ashamed of me, and that she was going to write to Mother--and that it was a cheap, common thing to do." Nancy's eyes blazed. For a moment she sat perfectly still, breathing sharply, evidently trying to conquer her temper. Then she said in a quiet tone: "She had no business to say that to you. I'm going to speak to her after dinner." "Oh, don't, Nancy," implored Alma, timidly. "It's all right now. I--I don't want you to say anything to Miss Leland." "Well, she should have been ashamed of herself to say that to you. She is nothing but a horrid old snob--I'll wager she thought twice over everything she said to Mildred." Nancy's eyes were still fiery. She was beginning to taste the humiliation of having to submit to the tyranny of snobs. If she went to Miss Leland it would end most likely by their having, for the sake of their pride, to pack up and go home. And she felt that she had no right to do anything that would so wound her mother. "Alma, dearest, I want to say something to you--please don't you be angry with me now. Please, dearest. You know that I haven't a single thought that isn't for your interest--and that I wouldn't for anything on earth try to take away from you anything that was really for your good." She paused, waiting for Alma to say something, but her sister was silent, and the room was too dim now for her to read the expression on Alma's face. "I think that you have already seen for yourself that there is danger in a friendship where one person lacks a--well, a very keen sense of honor, and the other lacks judgment. I know you don't want to make any more mistakes--you have been very unhappy over a small one, and unless you are wise, big ones may follow." "You mean--you want me to--to not be friends with Mildred?" "I want you only to be independent, dear, so that you won't be afraid to do what you know is right and wise, even if she laughs at you and coaxes you. I don't like to criticize Mildred to you if you are very fond of her; but you know that I have never trusted her, and this affair ought to show you, too, that she isn't to be trusted. She has always had her own way, and she isn't a wise girl. She hasn't been a very good influence for you, as you must have seen. Partly because of her influence we quarrelled, you know. She has laughed you out of doing many things that you know well you should have done. I am not blaming you, Alma. It is only because I know that in time Mildred would make you very, very unhappy that I'm telling you not to make her your closest friend." "She--she--I mean that in many ways she should be a very _good_ friend to have," began Alma, in a low voice. "Oh, Alma darling, you mustn't think that simply because a girl has money and position and influence that she is, on the face of that, a valuable friend. A girl like Mildred is very fickle, anyway. To-day she may want to do everything in the world for you, and to-morrow she may hardly speak to you. So long as you follow her blindly, she may show a great fancy for you, but if you were to follow your own ideas, contrary to her, she would quarrel with you in a minute." "I don't believe that of Mildred," exclaimed Alma, with sudden defiance. "You have no idea how generous she is, and--and how broad-minded. I'm sure that you are prejudiced against her, Nancy. I know that she often appears to be rather a snob, but in reality she isn't one at all. Yesterday was no more her fault than it was mine. I was just as wrong as she was." "Yes, but you were unhappy because you had done it, and Mildred isn't unhappy about it at all--as a matter of fact, she thinks that it was quite a clever thing to do." Alma was silent. Then she said, presently: "I can't quarrel with her." "You don't have to quarrel with her. I never asked you to do that. I said only to think and act as you know to be right. Certainly, then, if she grows cool with you, she will respect you more. I--I hate to see my sister so absolutely a--a--I mean I hate to see you doing blindly everything Mildred does. Because she thinks it silly and 'high-brow' to study hard, you don't study. I hate to see you so afraid to lose a friend that you will go against your own conscience and judgment just to keep her good-will. It's just--snobbery, Alma--and it's worse than even Mildred's snobbery, because it's cowardly, while hers is just--impudent." "I won't let you say such things, Nancy," cried Alma, shaking off her sister's hand. "I--I couldn't go on rooming with Mildred if I believed what you say of her, and I won't listen to you." "Oh, Alma--don't, _don't_ let us quarrel again," pleaded Nancy. "Why can't you believe that it's almost unbearably hard for me to say these things to you? I am a coward, too, because I'm so afraid of losing one little jot of your affection, that I would rather a thousand times hold my tongue than say anything to make you angry. But I can't be silent." "You've made me more unhappy now than I was before," said Alma, sullenly. "Do you want me to be a hypocrite, and pretend to be fond of Mildred still, while I'm believing what you want me to believe of her?" Nancy got up, feeling quite desperate about the failure of her attempts to show Alma her danger. While she was thinking of something to say she walked over to the door and switched on the light. Just as she turned, she saw Alma make a quick movement--but Alma was not quick enough to grasp a handsome fur neck-piece off the chair and whisk it behind the pillow before Nancy saw her. Alma blushed crimson. If it had not been for that swift action and the guilty blush, Nancy would not even have noticed the scarf--or, if she had, she would simply have thought that it was one of Mildred's. For some reason she flushed herself, and Stood staring blankly at Alma, curiously ashamed of Alma's own guilty expression. Then Alma slowly drew the scarf from its hiding-place, and tried to laugh. "You're going to scold me for my extravagance now, Nancy. I--I got this to-day. I was hiding it, because I didn't--I mean I was afraid you might read me a lecture." She attempted an air of playful penitence, but it was rather a failure. It was a very expensive fur, long and fluffy, and beautifully lined with frilled chiffon. "But--Alma," remonstrated Nancy, weakly, "how did you get it? It must have cost at least a hundred dollars. Why----" She broke off quite dazed and frightened at the thought of such a sum, and stared at her sister as if she thought that Alma had taken leave of her senses. "Well, you see--don't worry, Nancy," stammered Alma, evidently finding the greatest difficulty in explaining. "You see--it was this way. Milly--oh, Nancy,"--she stopped and looked at her sister beseechingly,--"Milly wanted me to get it. And she offered to lend me the money--she begged me to let her lend it to me, and I can pay her back whenever I please; she said she didn't care whether I paid her back at all. And I felt so shabby in that old suit of mine, and I hated to look badly when Frank was going to be there--he knows ever so much about girls' clothes, and I _did_ look positively poor beside Mildred. I knew Mother wouldn't mind--in fact, I knew that it would hurt her pride dreadfully if I didn't look respectable with those sort of people--and the fur made everything else look just right. Oh, Nancy, if you only knew how it _hurts_ me to be with girls who have everything, who look so much nicer than I do just because they have prettier clothes. I know it was wrong of me, but _I couldn't resist it_! I just simply couldn't." Nancy bit her lip. It seemed as if she were always being thrust into a position where she must needs be forever preaching to Alma. It made her feel old, and uncomfortably burdened. With Alma she always felt somewhat as a staid and wise old duenna must feel with a pretty and charmingly unpractical and mischievous charge. For a moment she was on the point of shrugging her shoulders and determining to let Alma go ahead as she pleased. She had no desire to blame Alma; she understood too well the force of the temptations that surrounded a girl like Alma in such an environment as Miss Leland's school; and she was touched by Alma's, "If you knew how it _hurts_ me!" She had foreseen just that when she had urged her mother not to send them to Miss Leland's. She herself had felt that very same sharp flick of wounded feminine pride when she compared her own small possessions with those of the other girls and realized that in spite of the neatness of her clothes they must often appear plain to the point of poorness in comparison with Mildred's or Kay's. Somehow with Charlotte, in spite of Charlotte's pretty things, she had not been so conscious of the contrast. "I--I wish you hadn't tried to hide it from me, Alma," she said gently. "Are you _afraid_ of me? Am I always scolding you?" "Nancy! Of course not," cried Alma, in distress. "I didn't mean to hide it--that was horribly cowardly--I _knew_ that it was weak of me to get it, and that I had no right to borrow the money from Mildred; and you have a perfect right to blame me awfully." "But, dear, however are we going to manage to pay her back? How much was it?" Alma looked uncomfortable. "It really was a bargain, Nancy. A--a hundred and ten, marked down from a hundred and forty. It'll last me forever." "A hundred and ten!" Nancy gasped, and then tried to compose her features so as not to scare Alma with her own breathless dismay. "I--I don't have to pay her until I get ready," murmured Alma. "I know Milly won't even think of it again." "You can't possibly accept it as a present, Alma," said Nancy sternly. "We must manage to pay Mildred back somehow--soon. She is the last person in the world whom I'd want to owe anything to. I mean to say, that people in our position _can't_ put themselves under obligations to a girl like Mildred Lloyd. It's different if you can return it in some other way. For instance, it would be all right for Kay Leonard to accept an expensive present from Mildred, because she could so easily return it, but for one of us to is like accepting a charity." Alma looked at her repentantly out of two large, grave blue eyes. "I--I'm afraid I rather made a mess of everything yesterday, Nancy," she said, hanging her head and picking at the soft fur, which somehow had lost a good deal of its charm for her; then, all at once, evidently touched by the droll naïveté of the sad remark, Nancy burst out laughing. "You poor, funny lamb! I'm always worrying you to death," she said. "Don't bother any more, Alma. I'm sick of bothering, myself. We'll manage to solve the problem somehow. Only, dearest," she grew sober again, "please--please don't--I don't want to say it again,--but think over what I said to you. I'm sure that you will see that I'm very nearly right. Come, now--you'd better tidy yourself. I'm going to dress." She bent over Alma and kissed her lightly. As she went toward the door Mildred met her. They looked at each other coolly, Mildred barely giving her a nonchalant nod, and then ignoring her altogether. "Hello, honey-pie. Don't tell me you've been weeping briny tears all afternoon over what Leland said to you," she cried gaily to Alma. "Goodness, what a penitent! What's the point in having a good time if you're going to regret it like that? I have the right idea--I make it a point never to regret anything." Nancy walked slowly back to her own room, and dressed for dinner in silence. It seemed to her that she might indeed be "sick of bothering," but that did not prevent there being a good deal for her to bother about. CHAPTER XII ALMA IN A SCRAPE It was the custom of Miss Leland's school to hold the mid-year examinations before the Christmas holidays, early in December, so that the teachers and the girls might enjoy their holidays without the shadow of that depressing necessity hanging over them, and so that they might apply themselves to the preparation for them while they were still in the habit of studying. Miss Leland held the opinion that after the gay indolence of the holiday season, and when the girls were still in the state of homesickness and lassitude following their return to school, they were much less interested in making good marks, and much less capable of applying themselves. Thus, the first week of a snowy December found the entire school in that state of tension which seizes any body of young people when a hostile body of older people is bent upon finding out how much they know. "History from nine to twelve to-morrow," groaned Charlotte. "I've reread the whole volume. I've crammed dates until I don't know whether Columbus discovered America in 1492 or 1776. I've 'rastled' with Free Silver, and I haven't the faintest notion what the trouble was about. A long, long time ago I knew whether Maryland was a Charter colony or not, but now I never expect to know again. I could write everything I know about this great and glorious country in two minutes, and it would be quite wrong at that, and the thought that we are expected to know enough to require three solid hours for writing it out is driving me rapidly into a state of chronic melancholia." "What happened in 1812, Charlotte?" demanded Nancy in a dazed voice. "Something happened then, but I don't know what." "Why, that was the year that Washington said 'Beyond the Alps lies Italy.' Which was quite true. And even if he didn't say it then, it would have been true, so you can't go far wrong there," replied Charlotte. "Nancy, kindly fold up your book. I am going to flunk, and I won't have you pass. If you try to study any more I'm going to sing the Marseillaise at the top of my voice." "I think I _will_ stop. I really do know my history, but I'm forgetting it the more I try to study." After dinner that night, the living-room was empty during the usual hour for recreation, nearly all the girls having gone to their room either to study, or simply as a matter of form, since it was considered highly undiplomatic, to say the least, to appear as if you were so sure of the outcome of your examinations that you felt privileged to take life easily. What they did, once they were in the privacy of their own rooms, was, of course, strictly their own business. Two or three, who believed that rest was essential, had solemnly gone to bed. A dozen or even more of the seriously inclined had hung "Busy" signs on the panel of their doors, through the transoms of which the greenish illumination of the students' lamps burning within told their own story. The others, philosophically believing that if they were going to pass they would, and if they were destined to flunk they would do so in spite of the best-intentioned efforts at study, were cheerfully whiling away the two hours of grace in subdued revelry. Alma, who had every reason to doubt that she would shine in her examinations unless she made a superhuman effort at cramming, and who, at the same time, was unable to comfort herself with Mildred's philosophical indifference, was curled up on her bed, her fingers in her ears, struggling to make the lines she read convey some sense to her weary brain. "I say, Milly, will you ask me some questions?" she suggested at length, lifting a weary face from her book. "I don't know _what_ I know." "Oh, bother! Don't study any more. What does it matter even if you don't pass?" said Mildred. "For goodness' sake don't you turn into a grind like Nancy. One thing I refuse to do is to room with anyone who's studious." "But I'll flunk, as sure as fate," objected Alma, "and--and I don't want to, Milly." "You're a bit late finding that out. It's not going to do you a bit of good to stuff now." "Don't your father and mother mind if you don't pass?" "Oh, Mother doesn't care a bit. She is always worrying herself to death for fear I'm overstudying. Dad sometimes rows at me about my bad marks, but Mother always takes my part. Besides this is my last year of school, and what earthly good will Latin or Algebra do me when I come out?" "I suppose they really aren't much use," agreed Alma, finding this a very comforting notion. "Of course, it's different with Nancy; she wants to go to college." "Well, of course if one wants to be a school teacher," said Mildred with a very faint sneer. "But that's a ridiculous idea for anyone who's as pretty as you are." Alma hesitated; she felt the slight cast on Nancy in Mildred's remark, but she was afraid to resent it, and told herself that she would not be justified in doing so. She was silent for a moment, wondering why she liked Mildred, when Mildred did not like Nancy. Perhaps,--she was unwilling to admit this supposition, but it formed itself hazily in her mind--perhaps she herself did not _really_ like Mildred. Perhaps way down inside of her she shared her sister's distrust of the girl. But why didn't she admit it? Because she was flattered with being the chosen friend of the most important girl in the school? Because she had accepted favors from Mildred? She blushed involuntarily as these thoughts glided through her mind. She did not want to quarrel with Mildred, even when she knew that she was right and her roommate in the wrong, because she hoped that Mildred would invite her to visit her, and that through Mildred she might have some good times. She wished that Mildred wouldn't make mean little remarks about Nancy, because she felt ashamed of herself for not openly resenting them. At length, however, she threw aside her book, and lent her rapt attention to Mildred's chatter about the coming holidays. In a little while other girls joined them, and the next hour of gossip drove away her uneasiness for the coming day, and her uncomfortable reflections. The last examination which was in Latin ended on Friday at noon. On the Wednesday of the following week the reports had been posted on the bulletin-board, and at the eleven o'clock recess some twenty girls were clustered around them struggling to get near enough to read their marks. Those who were closest called out the percentages to the others who pelted them with agitated questions. "You got seventy-six in French, Denise. Good enough. Good heavens, Nancy Prescott, you made _ninety-two_ in history, and Charlotte Spencer _ninety-four_. Ye gods and little fishes, I passed my Algebra--sixty-eight! Catch me, somebody; I'm going to faint." "Kay Leonard flunked everything but her French," whispered another. "Well, it won't disturb her at all. What did I make in Latin?" "Eighty-eight. Good for you. Drinkwater doesn't make anyone a present of her marks. I just scraped through. I say, Alma! Alma Prescott, what happened to you on your Latin?" "Why?" asked Alma, peering over Allison's shoulder, and turning a little pale. "Did--did I flunk very badly?" "Why, it just says 'Cancelled' after your name. Didn't you take your exam?" "Of course I took it!" "Well, there--you can see for yourself. It just has 'Cancelled.'" A queer silence fell upon the chattering group of girls and for several dreadful moments every eye was turned on Alma, who, white as a sheet, was staring blankly at the uncompromising word written after her name. "I--I can't understand," she said presently, in a scared, voice. "I _did_ take the examination--and I thought I really got through. I can't understand. Why should it be cancelled?" She turned her big, frightened eyes to Nancy, who, as pale as she was, only stared back at her. "Why should my examination be cancelled?" repeated Alma, dazedly. "Was anyone else's cancelled too?" "No. One, two, six girls flunked--and--for goodness' _sake_--Mildred Lloyd made the highest mark, Ninety-three! Mildred Lloyd, come here, and get your medal! Congratulations!" Mildred strolled up nonchalantly, glanced at the board and turned away; only Nancy followed her curiously with her eyes. Then she turned to Alma. "Haven't you any idea why your examination was cancelled?" she asked, in an odd voice that sounded as if her throat was dry. Alma shook her head. "It's very strange. Come and let's ask Miss Drinkwater. Maybe it's only that your paper was lost or something like that." She tried to sound comforting, but she had no faith in her suggestion. Just then, however, the bell rang, and the girls had to go to their desks. Miss Leland took her place at one end of the room and stood waiting for silence. Everyone felt that she was there to make some important announcement and her grave, cold expression led all of them to suspect that it was not an entirely pleasant one. She waited a moment after the room was silent. Alma looked piteously at Nancy, with a glance that said, "She's going to say something about me." Nancy kept her eyes fixedly on Miss Leland. Her lips were pressed together tightly, and her hands had grown as cold and damp as though she had just taken them out of ice-water. Her heart was beating so heavily that the frill on her shirt-waist trembled. Miss Leland took a step forward, straightened a book on the big desk, and then looked up. "Girls, for the first time in the history of this school, I am compelled to make an announcement that is as great a humiliation to me as it must be to you," she said, in a quiet, even voice. "Ever since this school was founded there has never until now been any occasion when I have been forced to doubt the honor of one of my pupils." She made another pause, and in that silence an electric thrill seemed to pass through each one of the girls; some of them flushed scarlet and others went white, as though each one felt in a hazy way some share in the guilt of the unnamed culprit. "For the first time in eighteen years one of my teachers has had to bring to my attention the fact that a pupil of this school attempted to _cheat_ in an examination. That examination has, of course, been cancelled, so that that girl's attempt to win a high mark, _dishonestly_, availed her nothing. "I do not need, I am sure, to incite in you feelings of disgust and shame for that girl's action. Your own sense of honor makes any warnings on my part superfluous and insulting to you. "Fortunately, the imposition was discovered, because that girl most unwisely left the interlinear translation of Virgil's �neid, which she had used to assist her in the examination, on her desk, where it was found, and brought to me. "I do not choose to announce the name of that girl, much as she merits the public disgrace. I shall speak to her privately, and if she can offer, which is not likely, any defense of her action, I may soften her punishment. Otherwise, I have no choice left to me than to expel her from a school which she has disgraced. Now, you may go to your class-rooms." The girls rose in silence, and hardly knowing what they were doing, began feverishly to collect their books and papers. But neither Alma nor Nancy moved. In a few moments the assembly hall was empty, save for the two sisters, neither of whom seemed to have been conscious of the curious glances cast at them by the other girls as they went out. When they were alone, Nancy got up and went over to Alma, who sat as if she had been turned to stone, with a face as white as chalk. "Alma, of course I know you didn't do it," said Nancy, laying her hand on her sister's, and speaking in a gentle, trembling voice. "Oh, Nancy, it's so horrible--it's so horrible," moaned Alma. "I don't know how all this could have happened. What shall I do, Nancy? What in the world shall I do?" "Come, dearest, let's go up-stairs," coaxed Nancy. "It'll come out all right. Come, dear." "Of course, now everyone knows that Miss Leland meant me," said Alma, dully. "Am I going to be expelled; Nancy? I can't stand it--I won't stand it. Come on, Nancy, let's get our things and go home." "Alma, darling, you _didn't_ do it?" cried Nancy, the very shadow of such a doubt making her feel faint and ill. Alma lifted a wan face and smiled. "I don't _know_ that I didn't do it," she said, drearily. "If they found a trot on my desk--and it must have been my desk, because mine was the only examination that was cancelled--why, how can I prove that I wasn't using it?" "But you don't even own such a thing! You wouldn't dream of having one. In some schools girls are allowed to use interlinear translations for their daily work, but it's not permitted here, and it wouldn't have entered your mind to get one. Come, we'll go to Miss Leland at once. She's alone in her office now." Alma let herself be guided up to the principal's cosy little sanctum, where Miss Leland was seated at her desk writing. A wood-fire smoldered with friendly warmth on the brightly burnished andirons, and a clear, wintry sunlight fell in through the curtained windows, where a perfect garden of indoor plants bloomed gaily. But all these pleasant, homelike things seemed to share the chill hostility of Miss Leland's level glance, as the two sisters stood looking at her timidly from the threshold of the open door. "You may come in," she said, with a curt nod. "No doubt, Alma, you wish to offer some explanation. Be seated." "My sister wanted to say that there was a mistake. The book you referred to was never in her possession, and she did not use it at her examination," said Nancy, speaking rapidly, and almost harshly, in her endeavor to keep from breaking into a fit of hysterical tears. Alma was quite incapable of saying a word for herself. "Then I am sorry that it happened to be found on her desk just after she had left the examination-room," replied Miss Leland dryly, her tone expressing her complete lack of belief in Nancy's words. "Alma, did you have that book?" asked Nancy, turning sharply to her sister. Miss Leland opened a drawer of her writing-table and took out a small volume, bound in green cloth, which she handed over to Alma. Alma had already opened her lips to utter a frantic denial to Nancy's question, when her eyes fell upon the book. She shut her mouth with a sudden gasp, and without taking it, simply stared at the inoffensive little volume with a fixed, horrified gaze. "Is that an interlinear?" she exclaimed breathlessly. "Is that the book that was found on my desk?" "So you _have_ seen it before," remarked Miss Leland. "Alma, this is a very serious matter. There can be no excuse for a girl's making use of any text-book whatever at an examination. A failure is to be deplored, but it is not a disgrace--and it is to be very much regretted that you did not choose rather to run the risk of an honorable failure than to attempt to steal a good mark, I have no choice in the matter. I am very sorry that I had to speak of it before the school, but I had to make a public example of the girl who could stoop to such an act. You understand, of course, that it will be impossible for you to continue as a pupil in this school." For some reason Alma had grown quite calm, and when Miss Leland had finished speaking, instead of appearing to be overcome by the grim meaning in the last words, she rose quietly. "Of course, if you cannot take my word for it that I never looked inside that book or anything like it in my whole life, why there is no use in my saying anything more," she said, with the utmost self-possession. "I don't know how it came to be on my desk----" "Alma, I am anxious to believe a girl is innocent until she is proved guilty," said Miss Leland, impressed by Alma's coolness, "only--you _have_ seen this volume before?" She looked at the girl with a still doubtful and puzzled expression. Alma hesitated a moment before she admitted slowly: "Yes, I have seen it, Miss Leland. But I never knew what it was." "You have seen it in the possession of some girl in this school?" "That I can't answer," replied Alma, with a firmness that Nancy had never seen in her before. "I--I don't think you have a right to ask me any more questions, Miss Leland. If--if you just let the whole business go, I'm perfectly willing to--to bear the blame. Please don't ask me any more questions. Let it be as it is. Just as long as Nancy is satisfied that I never did that hateful thing, why, I don't mind, you know." The two sisters looked at each other happily, each of them sincerely indifferent as to whether anyone else in the school believed Alma innocent or guilty. "Come on, Nancy," said Alma, almost gaily. They had started to leave the room, when Miss Leland called them back. "I am very anxious to believe in you, Alma. If there has been a mistake, be assured that it will be set right. I will tell the other girls at luncheon that--well, I must see. I am in a difficult position. You may both go now. I would advise you to go directly to your classes." Nancy was curiously absent-minded as they made their way down-stairs, hand in hand. Then all at once she drew in her breath sharply, catching her under lip between her teeth. On the bottom step she stopped short and, putting her hands on Alma's shoulder, swung her about so that she could look into her eyes. Her own were very bright. "What is it?" asked Alma; then, for some reason, she colored and turned her eyes away. "I know now where I saw that book myself, Alma," said Nancy. "Nancy!" Alma's blue eyes now suddenly filled with tears. "Oh, Nancy--you won't say anything. No, no, you didn't see it. Please don't believe that of her." "Two Sundays ago when I was talking to you--I noticed it in the bookcase in your room. I kept reading the titles on the books when I--you know the way you do when you're worried. It stood between a copy of 'Bryce's Commonwealth' and a French grammar----" "Nancy, you mustn't say anything, do you hear?" insisted Alma, beseechingly. "I won't say anything. But--but I'm going to--you go on to class. I tell you, I won't say anything. Oh, Alma, you darling! Go on to class, I say." "Nancy, what are you going to do?" demanded Alma, as Nancy broke away from her and ran up the stairs again. "You aren't going to Miss Leland?" "No, I'm not. There, isn't that the postman? You might as well see if there's anything for us before you go to French." Alma walked down the hall toward the front door, where the maid was taking the noon mail from the postman. Nancy stood waiting, half-way up the stairs, evidently lost in thoughts which were not very pleasant, for her brown eyes sparkled with suppressed indignation and contempt, and once or twice she pressed her lips together tightly, as she always did when she was trying to make herself look calmer than she felt. "Here's a letter from Mother," said Alma, coming back with an envelope in her hand. "I can't read it now, so you take it and save it for me." Nancy leaned over and took it from her. "I--I may not see you until to-night," she said, slipping the letter into the pocket of her skirt. "You know you can trust me to hold my tongue, well--quite as well as she can, and she holds hers very well indeed. Do you mind being stared at and whispered about?" Alma only smiled, then, with a little toss of her head, made a right about face, marched off, chin up, to brave the battery of glancing eyes and whispering tongues alone. CHAPTER XIII NANCY HAS A GREAT ADVENTURE There was no doubt whatever in Nancy's mind that it was Mildred who had cheated in the examination. But whether Mildred had deliberately left the book on Alma's desk, or whether she had simply forgotten it, she did not know. The fact remained, however, that so far Mildred had made no effort to clear Alma of the suspicion, and knowing Mildred's nature as she did, Nancy was not inclined to think that Mildred would ever do so of her own accord. Nancy was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt so far as believing that she had not intentionally thrown Alma into such a damaging position. In the first place, she had no motive for injuring Alma, and in the second place, she ran a very great risk of discovery herself. Leaving the whys and wherefores, Nancy regarded the simple fact; that having thus injured Alma, Mildred was not going to try to clear her, and pay the penalty herself. The thought that most wounded Nancy was that Alma was under obligations to the girl who had treated her so badly. The handsome fur neck-piece Mildred had "lent" her, was not yet paid for, and Nancy shrank from the idea of her sister's owing money to her. She had, of course, not mentioned this to Alma, although it had been the first thought that sprang into her own head, when she first became certain that Mildred was the culprit. It would have troubled Alma, who was already troubled enough, and she could have done nothing about it. "I've got to get that money somehow," Nancy said to herself grimly. "I can write to Mother for part of it--about half, perhaps, but the other half I've got to get myself." Naturally, her first idea was to pocket her pride, and to ask her Uncle Thomas for the money. Not even that would hurt her so much as the thought of owing it to Mildred; but then she dismissed this plan from her mind. It was impossible; it would be a breach of their terms of friendship, for one thing, and for another, she felt that to explain to him her reasons for wanting it would be unjust to Alma. While she was turning one plan after another over in her mind, she absently took her mother's letter from her pocket, and slit the envelope open with a hairpin. She glanced almost carelessly at the lines, written in Mrs. Prescott's pointed, flourishing hand, then all at once the meaning of the first sentence fixed her wandering attention. "MY DARLING, DARLING LITTLE DAUGHTERS: "I can hardly bring myself to write this letter. You don't know how hard it is for me--but I deserve the pain and humiliation. I am a very foolish woman, but, oh, my dears, I have made my mistakes only in trying to help you both. And now, what _have_ I done to you? There was no one to advise me, and I know nothing whatever about business, but it seemed so perfectly practical, so absolutely _sure_." All this was perfect Greek to Nancy, and she saw that her poor mother had evidently written the letter in an almost desperate state of mind. After two pages of self-reproach, it was gradually made clear to Nancy that Mrs. Prescott had made an unfortunate investment of her little capital, though the extent of the loss Mrs. Prescott did not explain. In an effort to increase their meagre income, she had taken all her money, or part of it, and bought stock in some oil interest in Texas. A Western promoter had assured her that it was the opportunity of a lifetime, he himself being either an unconscionable fraud or a self-deceiving optimist. Nancy had not the remotest idea when her mother had made the investment, but evidently the news of its complete failure had just reached her, and it was equally evident that it had been a total loss. Utter bewilderment confused Nancy's thoughts, so that at first she could hardly realize all that the misfortune might mean; she felt no terror; only a wave of pity and tenderness for her mother, whose misery was so pitifully expressed in the letter. Then she thought of Alma. Misfortune of that kind would hit both of them harder than herself, because they had a greater need for luxury and pleasure than she. There was nothing terrible to her in the thought of work, and of difficulties to be overcome, because, in her quiet way, she had a great wealth of self-confidence, the ardent ambition of youth, and that zest for struggle which is characteristic of strong natures. Alma and her mother, on the other hand, saw nothing but the wretchedness of thwarted hopes in such an existence of poverty and work. They were created for ease and luxury, just as the hollyhock is made to bloom against the sunny garden wall. Poor Mrs. Prescott, who had dreamed such happy fairy tales for her daughters, and who, with her own hands, as it were, had so innocently destroyed the little they possessed; and Alma, so thirsty for pleasure and beauty,--it was only on their account that Nancy suffered. She understood that it would be impossible for herself and Alma to come back to school for the next term; but that would have been impossible anyway, Nancy thought, even with Alma cleared of the dreadful suspicion that rested on her; for Nancy's stiff pride could not brook the thought of living among people who had doubted her sister, even though the circumstantial evidence against Alma had been very strong. "However shall I get all the money to pay Alma's debt now?" she thought, dazedly. "I can't get even half of it from Mother, because she would certainly deny herself the very necessities of life to send it. I _cannot_ ask Uncle Thomas for it." She knew that in all probability she could influence Mr. Prescott, through his increasing affection for her, to help her mother out of their present difficulty, but the thought of doing so was utterly repugnant to her, and, it seemed to her, intolerably humiliating both for Mrs. Prescott and Alma. She was afraid that Mrs. Prescott, learning that Uncle Thomas had shown a favoritism for her, might urge her to this course, and she could not decide whether she should swallow her pride for her mother's sake and for Alma's, or whether she should insist that they fight their way courageously out of the difficulty. So far as she herself was concerned, there would have been no question; there was nothing that she would not endure rather than ask her uncle for a cent. Her hands were trembling as she folded the letter up, and put it in her bureau drawer under her handkerchief case. "How am I going to tell Alma?" Well, she would break the news to-night. First of all, she must solve the problem of the debt to Mildred, Only one course was possible. There was her father's ring, which she always kept, and which was her very dearest, possession. It was of the heaviest gold, and set with a large seal stone of lapiz-lazuli. She might raise perhaps thirty-five or forty dollars on it--which left about seventy still to be found by hook or crook. Never had any sum appeared so gigantic to Nancy. She could see no other possible means of getting it than by borrowing it temporarily from Charlotte, and paying it back by one way or another during the holidays. She knew that Charlotte would be glad to lend it to her, but she shrank from the thought of putting their friendship to such a use. However, there was no help for it. In Alma's pocketbook she found enough money to pay her way into the city. Her mother would certainly be sending them a little more in a day or two for their return home. She took the money--two or three dollars, left from the ten which Alma had borrowed from her,--and began to change into her suit, thinking, meanwhile, with a smile of incredulity, of the imprudence of sending herself and Alma to one of the very schools where their poverty would be contrasted with the abundance of Mildred Lloyds and Katherine Leonards. When she was ready for town, she went to Miss Leland's office, and told her simply that she had just received a letter from her mother which made it necessary to go to the city without delay. Miss Leland gave the consent, which Nancy, in her excited state of mind, was ready to go with or without. She caught the next train to New York, and by one-thirty was in the Grand Central Station, wondering where on earth, now that she was there, she would be able to get the money on the ring. She had a vague idea that the only possible place would be some pawn-shop, and she had read in Nicholas Nickleby that one can tell a pawn-shop by three golden balls hanging in front of it, and also that one would be likely to find it only in a squalid section of the business district. The dealer would certainly be Jewish, and he would in all probability not give her a tenth of what the ring was worth. None of these thoughts were likely to raise her spirits at all, and, when at length she found herself outside a dirty little shop on lower Sixth Avenue, gazing in upon a window display of dusty violins and guitars, travelling bags and tawdry jewelry, while above her the traditional golden balls creaked in a sharp wind, her courage all but failed her. She was frankly terrified by the sordid strangeness of her environment, by the dirty, sodden loafers that shuffled past her, and by the thought of haggling for money over the counter of that dingy and even sinister-looking little shop. At length, however, she plucked up courage and, with her heart in her throat, entered. The front part of the shop was empty and very dark. At the back was a swinging door, leading into another room, from which issued the sound of voices of two men. The little bell over the front door had rung as Nancy entered, to apprise the shopkeeper of a customer, and under the swinging door she saw a pair of shuffling feet moving toward it. The shopkeeper emerged, followed by the other man, who was evidently a customer come to make a purchase of some antique piece; for the pawnbroker seemed to deal in old bric-à-brac and what not, besides his regular historic business of money-lending. "I vill gif you dat box for vun hundert dollars,--mit dat it iss a gift," the shopkeeper was saying doggedly, as he came toward Nancy, and the other man, following him, laughed. "Well, you certainly give awfully expensive presents," he remarked. "A hundred dollars, you old rascal--no one on earth would give that for a little box." "Vell, only try to duplicate it--you vill not find such a handsome piece dis side de ocean," returned the shopkeeper with a shrug. "Vot can I do for you, young lady?" But Nancy had temporarily lost all power of speech. She was not sure, indeed, that she wasn't dreaming--it was all so utterly strange, and whimsical, and impossible, that surely it could be so only in a dream. For the young man who had followed the pawnbroker out of the inner room was George Arnold! She was standing with her back to the door, but the light that came through the dirty glass shone squarely on his face, so that if she had not already recognized his voice she would have recognized his features beyond the shadow of a doubt. Her first impulse was to turn and fly, or to conceal herself hastily in one of the odd little sentry boxes, which were evidently designed to preserve the incognito of the pawnbroker's indigent customers. But already Mr. Arnold had cast a second curious glance at the unusual sight of a well-dressed, well-bred young girl in such surroundings, and with that second glance he had recognized her. His mouth opened slightly in a repressed gasp of astonishment. Probably, with a moment's thought, he might have pretended that he had not recognized her, in order to spare her any embarrassment, but he had already exclaimed, involuntarily: "Why, Miss Prescott!" and had taken a step toward her. Nancy turned scarlet, and could only gaze at him helplessly. "How can I serve you, young lady?" repeated the shopkeeper. Nancy hesitated, in a perfect agony of embarrassment, while Mr. Arnold continued to look at her, evidently very much at a loss. On the one hand, he disliked to discomfit her by being present while she transacted her business with old Zeigler, the pawnbroker, and on the other, he was equally unwilling to leave her to be swindled, as she very probably would be. Furthermore, while he realized that he had no business to inquire into her affairs, and that, to say the least, it would be the height of bad taste to do so, nevertheless he felt that she was in some difficulty and needed advice. The squalid little shop was an odd place in which to find the niece of old Thomas Prescott; for it was not likely that she had come there as he had, to browse around in a dilettante search for curios. Nancy read the question, "What are you here for?" in his face, and guessed his indecision. On her part she wished fervently that he would go, and was racking her brains for some excuse to leave the shop and to come back later. But her frantic efforts at evolving some plan of escape within the space of fifteen seconds were fruitless. Zeigler for the third time repeated his question to her with a touch of impatience. Then Mr. Arnold desperately took the bull by the horns, and with a touch of pretended gaiety asked with a laugh: "Are you in search of adventure? You aren't running away from school, are you?" "No--that is----" stammered Nancy; then, driven to take him into her confidence to some extent, and trying to put her situation in the light of a prank, she laughed mischievously, and added with an air of candor, "You've caught me." "What are you up to, young lady? Selling the family plate?" inquired Mr. Arnold boldly, and speaking to her as if she were a mischievous youngster, though his eyes were grave and puzzled. Nancy put up her chin, as if she were being scolded, and answered with a touch of childish defiance: "Don't tell on me." "Well, I won't--though you deserve it, ma'am," replied Mr. Arnold. "I won't--on one condition,--that you come with me, and 'fess up to all your misdemeanors, and let me give you the sage advice of a hardened sinner before you do anything rash. I realize that I'm taking a liberty, Miss Prescott, in concerning myself in what is strictly your own affair," he added seriously, "but isn't our friendship firmly enough established to allow me that privilege? What time is it?" He glanced at his watch. "Ten minutes past two, and I've had no luncheon. Have you?" Nancy admitted that she hadn't. "Good. I can't begin to tell you how awfully lucky I consider myself in having met you, Miss Prescott. I wish you would come with me to some nice little restaurant where we can decide the affairs of the nations. Are you in a great hurry?" Nancy said that she wasn't. To tell the truth she was very glad that Mr. Arnold _had_ concerned himself in her affairs, which she had begun to believe she was not managing any too well. They had talked in low voices so that the shopkeeper could only have heard fragments of their conversation, and then left the shop, without even a word of explanation to the irritated old money-lender. Mr. Arnold hailed a taxi-cab, and they rolled off in state. Mr. Arnold had given the driver the address of a little French restaurant on West Forty-fifth Street. "It'll be fairly empty now, and we can find just the table we want. _I_ shall order your luncheon for you, because I know just exactly what things are peculiar to this place--their special tid-bits, and I feel like ordering a regular knock-out of a feast as a sort of celebration. Really, you've no idea how delighted I am to have discovered you." His frank, boyish pleasure in this freak of chance was so plainly written on his beaming face, that Nancy colored with a schoolgirl's naïve delight in such sincere flattery. The dreaded undertaking of her trip to the city was turning into a very charming little surprise party. In some way, she felt that she had known Mr. Arnold for a very long time, and that really there was not the slightest need for concealing anything from him. His odd, attractive face was so friendly, his bright brown eyes so full of eager sympathetic interest, that almost before she had given a second thought as to whether she should or she shouldn't, she had begun to tell him the reason for her appearance at the pawnbroker's. They had found a little table in a corner of the restaurant, and Mr. Arnold had insisted upon ordering almost everything on the menu that attracted his fancy. "And above all things, you must try the hot chocolate, Miss Prescott. I suppose it's not manly, but I have the most juvenile fondness for hot chocolate, with great big blobs of whipped cream." So hot chocolate they had, and innumerable rolls, hot and fresh from the oven, and various and sundry other delicacies, calculated to cripple a weak digestion for a month at the very least. Drawn out by her growing confidence in him, and by her craving to talk out her troubles to some one whose advice would be sound and based on genuine sympathy, Nancy told him about her necessity for getting some money. The explanation involved a good many complications, and Nancy was as a rule unusually reserved. But Mr. Arnold was one of those rather rare people who can understand a great deal more than is said in just so many words, and she did not have to go into details as to why, for example, she hesitated to ask her uncle for the money, or why it was impossible to write to her mother for it. She told him simply that there was a girl at school to whom her sister was indebted, and who had played Alma a very shabby trick; and that, therefore, she felt that it was absolutely imperative to clear Alma of the obligation to her. He listened attentively, interposing occasionally in the friendly tone such as an older man might use to a young one, so that she felt no embarrassment in making the whole affair clear to him. Nor did he seem to think that there was anything very awful in her trying to raise the money for herself with the ring as a security. "Only you should have gotten someone's advice, Miss Prescott. A man like Zeigler would swindle you outrageously, and there are plenty of reputable places which make loans on jewelry as a security. How large is the debt?" Nancy told him. "A hundred and ten dollars? You are unwilling to ask your uncle?" Then seeing a look of distress in her face, he went on hastily: "Well, I think I can understand. I admire your independence, Miss Prescott. I say," he asked suddenly, with a touch of shyness, "would you mind if I should call you Nancy? It sounds so much more friendly." "I---I'd like you to," replied Nancy, simply. "It makes me feel sort of old to be called Miss Prescott." "Very well, and it makes me feel quite antique to be called Mr. Arnold. I wish you'd flatter me into believing myself young once more by calling me George." "Oh, goodness, I don't believe I could! I--I mean that sounds so dreadfully cheeky!" exclaimed Nancy. "I suppose I must seem actually prehistoric to you," he said with a laugh that sounded just a little bit forced. "But if you practised a bit, you'd probably find that it would get easier for you, and it would please me very much. To return to business--I think that if you will let me have the ring, I can get the money on it for you this afternoon. I know the best place to go, where you will get something really proportionate to its value, and on the best terms." Nancy could have hugged him in her relief and gratitude. She protested a little feebly against his putting himself to any trouble, but he waved her words aside, and she took the ring from her bag, and gave it to him. He looked at it curiously; inside the broad finger band was inscribed in characters almost obliterated by wear, the words, "To George, on his 21st birthday, 1891."' "It was Father's. Uncle Thomas gave it to him," explained Nancy, simply, and at the same moment both of them were thinking of the eccentric old gentleman, whose gift to a beloved nephew was now being used to assist that nephew's daughter in a difficulty in which _his_ help was denied her. "Now, how would you like to spend your time for three-quarters of an hour or so?" asked Mr. Arnold, as they walked out of the restaurant. "I am going off with this ring and I'll be back with the money as soon as I possibly can. You pick some place for me to meet you." Nancy glanced up and down the street, trying to find some spot where she could amuse herself. "I think I'd like to look around some book-shop--is there one near here?" "I'm an authority on the subject. I know every book-shop in New York, and if you'll follow me I'll show you my favorite haunt. Then I can be sure that you won't wander away--my only trouble will be in getting you out of the place, and if I were wise I wouldn't let you go there under any circumstances. But my generosity was always very much greater than my wisdom." He conducted Nancy, accordingly, to this paradise, and rather lingeringly withdrew on his errand, leaving her in the quaint little shop, where perfect tidal waves of books rose on all sides of her, distracting her with alluring, familiar titles, with the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of rare old volumes, and with that peculiar smell of leather and paper and ink and mustiness which is to the nostrils of the book-lover as the scent of earth and trees is to the wanderer. On one of the shelves her eyes caught a glimpse of a name on the back of three or four delicately bound volumes, and she quickly took one of them down to inspect it, suddenly remembering her uncle's remark about that "author-person." The name on the back of the book was "George Arnold." It was a volume of stories, finely bound, and illustrated with pen drawings by a very famous artist and designer; and was prefaced by a foreword from the pen of one of the most celebrated of the present-day English critics. Nancy promptly climbed up on a high stool that stood near the shelf, and with her heels hooked on the second rung and the book spread open on her lap began to read. She had time to glance only here and there; and it was with surprise and pleasure that she saw a sentence in the preface which spoke of the "writings of Mr. Arnold" as being "an example of the most delicate artistry. A talent so rare, so peculiarly sensitive, so rich in a wholly inimitable poetry, and waywardness of fancy, that one hardly hesitates to pronounce it actual genius." And it was this "genius," this "prophet in his own country," who at the present moment was hurrying off in _her_ service. Nancy felt a positive thrill of dismay, mingled with something else that was wholly pleasant and exciting. But how in the world could she ever call him "George." Imagine calling a famous writer by his first name--it seemed impertinent, to say the least. To tell the truth, she spent a good deal more of her time thinking about this simple, friendly gentleman than in browsing over the book-shelves which, under ordinary circumstance, would have been so fascinating to her. Why was he so very nice to _her_--insignificant her? How could she possibly be interesting to a man who had probably been intimate with many of the most celebrated men and women of the day? But, of course, it was very likely that he wasn't particularly interested in her, and was only that he had a generous disposition. He was ever so much older than she was--thirty-four anyway--and probably he thought she was a nice child. She was pondering thus, the book still open on her lap, and her back to the door, when he returned, flushed with satisfaction, and also with haste. "I say, I've done a marvellous stroke of business," he announced, as he came up behind her. "You seem to have found a very absorbing book, Nancy--aren't you at all interested in learning what my amazing talent for high finance has accomplished?" "I can't tell you how good you have been to me," began Nancy, gratefully and shyly. "I haven't been good to you a bit. It's you who have been good to _let_ me help you," he said, smiling down into her eyes. "I take it as a very high compliment that you were frank enough with me to tell me how I could serve you; because there is nothing, you know, that I would rather do. That sounds rather flowery, doesn't it? But it's quite true. Now listen--I have brought you the sum of one hundred and fifty American dollars. That's more than you expected to get on the ring, isn't it?" "A hundred and fifty!" "Here it is, in beautiful clean notes. I'll explain it all to you presently. Did you find anything nice? What book have you got there?" He glanced at the volume she held, and seeing what it was, laughed, and took it away from her. "How did you ever find _that_?" he asked, in a deprecating voice, though, at that, genuinely modest as he was, he was not ill-pleased. "I thought you would have found something better. I'm not posing as the modest author, and all that sort of thing, but there are some wonderful books in here that you shouldn't have missed." "I--I didn't know you were--I mean----" "You mean you didn't know that I was all that that critic chap says I am? Well, I'm not. He's just gotten into the amiable habit of saying kind things in his old age--so that he can get into Heaven when he dies, in spite of all the damage he did in his youth. Come along--unless you want to look about you some more." "I'll be ready in a moment," said Nancy, slipping off the stool. "I--there's something being wrapped for me that I want to get." With that she went off to the back of the store and had the little volume tied up, and paid for it with the last cent in her pocketbook. Then she returned. "All right now? Here is your money." He took a fat envelope out of his pocket and gave it to her, and they left the shop. As they walked across to Fifth Avenue, he explained to her rather vaguely the proceeding by which he had raised the money for her; but while she quite failed to understand it all she rested upon her faith in his superior intelligence in business matters. "When I want to get the ring back again, what do I do? and don't I have to pay interest?" "Oh, no, you don't have to pay interest, that's the wonderful part of it. And when you want it back, you just tell me. I'll have to get it for you, but you won't mind that, will you?" "Oh, no--oh, you _have_ been so kind, Mr. Arnold, I mean, G-George. Only you won't say anything to Uncle Thomas--of course you won't, but I'm just mentioning that." "I won't breathe a word to any living thing on land or sea. This is our own private conspiracy, and no one shall have any part in it," he assured her, gaily. "Only please promise me that, if you should need any help again, you'll ask me. I--it disturbed me very much to find you at old Zeigler's, though of course it was my good fortune." There was an abundance of time before Nancy's train left, so they strolled at an easy pace down Fifth Avenue, stopping to look in at the shop windows whenever they saw anything that caught their fancy, and chatting together as if they had known each other all their lives. At the corner of Forty-fourth Street, Mr. Arnold suddenly dove into a huge florist's shop on the corner, and in a moment returned bearing a bunch of Parma violets, tied with a silken cord and tassel. "I say, will you wear these?" he asked, bluntly. "You know, I always wanted to give a bouquet to a young lady, but I never could find the young lady to whom I wanted to give them. The flowers were plentiful, but I began to think that the lady didn't exist." Nancy colored at the compliment with which he proffered her the flowers, and dimpled as only a rosy girl can dimple. His attentions were very flattering, and his half-shy, boyish manner made them doubly so. "Now do tell me what book you have there?" he asked, as they turned east on Forty-second Street. "Is it something very learned or very frivolous?" With a little laugh, Nancy handed him the package. "You can open it, if you promise to tie it up again," she said, watching his face out of the corners of her eyes, as he untied the string. He glanced from the book to her face, trying to look disapproving, though he could not quite conceal his look of naïve pleasure. "_Very_ frivolous. I see that I shall have to direct your book-buying as well as your business. Why didn't you let me get it for you if you wanted it?" "Because I wanted to get it for myself--you probably wouldn't have let me get it." "Well, if I had given it to you, I could have written something in it, and that's something I always wanted to do, you know, something about 'the compliments of the author' in a flowing script." "Well, why don't you write something in it anyway?" "May I?" "Only not 'the compliments of the author.'" He took her to the train, and then standing beside her seat, took out his fountain pen, and scribbled on the fly-leaf of the little volume. "There," he said, handing it back to her. "Now, good-bye. I am going to see you again in the holidays, am I not? I have enjoyed two or three hours to-day more than I have enjoyed anything in years." He took her hand and shook it warmly, and then as the train gave a warning jerk, he hurried off. With the great fragrant bunch of violets at her waist, with money in her pocket to set her mind at rest, and with the memory of a singularly pleasant episode, Nancy saw the wintry landscape, over which a fresh snow was beginning to fall, through rosy spectacles. Somehow, not even the thought of the latest and greatest trouble loomed so very black and terrifying in her mind. She glanced down at the little book in her lap, and then opened it at the fly-leaf. He had written, "To commemorate To-day," and had signed it simply, "George." It had been a day of unusual unhappiness and unusual pleasure--not even he had understood what the mingling had been for Nancy, but the memory of the pleasure outweighed the memory of trouble; as if ashamed of herself she tried to fix her thoughts on plans for helping and advising her mother and Alma; but at length she gave it up, to review the little, delightful trivial memories of "To-day," putting off the recollection of trouble until To-morrow. CHAPTER XIV PARADISE COTTAGE The twenty-second of December, a red letter date, indeed, for some fifty excited, bustling girls, dawned without bringing much of a thrill to the two Prescotts. Neither of them could enter with genuine enthusiasm into the gay holiday anticipations of the others, finding in them too depressing a contrast to their own expectations of a not very happy Christmas tide. Nancy had shown Alma their mother's letter, and had had several long and serious talks with the poor child, who had been almost overcome with despair. Neither of them even thought of the matter of the examination, that trouble having been completely wiped out by the newer and heavier one, nor did they draw any particular satisfaction from the fact that Alma's Latin examination had been credited, and her name cleared of suspicion, while the identity of the actual culprit remained their own secret. The debt to Mildred had been paid, Alma evidently believing that the money had been sent by Providence, and asking Nancy no questions. So far as the matter of the examination was concerned, Miss Leland had allowed the subject to drop, simply announcing her gratification at the fact that there had unquestionably been a mistake, and that Miss Drinkwater was satisfied on this point. A coldness that reached the condition of an almost habitual silence sprang up between Alma and Mildred, and the fact that Mildred asked for no explanations gave further circumstantial proof of her own guilt. The incident of her trip to New York with the ring and her meeting with Mr. Arnold Nancy did not mention; feeling a peculiar shyness about it, and a wholesome dread of being teased. Her violets had been smuggled up to her room so that they would not lead to questions and jokes, and had faded away slowly in an inconspicuous corner, diffusing their fragrance extravagantly as they drooped and wilted over the edges of a tooth-brush mug. But two of them had been chosen to immortalize their memory, and had been carefully pressed between the pages of the little volume of stories. After a first outburst of despair and tears, Alma had taken the bad news from home with a quiet pluck that surprised and touched Nancy. Her old-time unquestioning faith in Nancy was revived again, and she felt that if Nancy could take a cheerful view of the outlook, why, it could not be so very bad. They left for home again, on the early afternoon train, with ten or fifteen of the other girls, all of whom were, of course, in the highest spirits. Only Charlotte knew that they would not return to Miss Leland's after the holidays, and her sorrow at parting with Nancy was touchingly apparent in her effort to seem cheerful. It was after four o'clock when the two girls, trudging up from the Melbrook station, through the snow, at length came in sight of the little brown house. The long red rays of the sinking sun threw the shadows of the bare trees across the unbroken white surface of the lawn; and the cottage, with its gabled roof, was silhouetted against the ruddy, western sky, so that it looked as if the light were radiating from it. "Oh, Nancy!" Alma turned a shining face to her sister. "I don't much care what happens--it's home, and nothing can change that! Mother and Hannah's inside, and there's a fire, and it's all so snug, and safe, and _loving_!" Nancy, who was gazing at the beloved little place with bright, dreamy eyes, and that tender smile on her mouth that always gave her face a singularly winning sweetness, answered: "It makes me think of a picture I saw once--it was called the 'House at Paradise'--I don't know why. It was just the picture of a quaint little house, that seemed to be glowing from something inside of it--and perhaps because the house in the picture made me think of our home, I've always thought of this as 'Paradise Cottage.' Oh, my dear, let's run!" It was not until after supper, when they had gathered around the fireside just as they used to, in dressing-gowns and slippers, that they opened the council of war. "Oh, my dears, what can you do?" sighed Mrs. Prescott. "I had hoped for so much. It will kill me to feel that my daughters are forced to work for their living by my fault." "I really do think that I'd sort of like to make some money," added Alma. "Of course I'm not fitted for anything in particular, but, do you know, I was just wondering why I couldn't get some position like that girl in Mr. Dixon's office.--Do you know what, she said that after the first of the year she expected to get a position in New York, and I'll bet my hat that I could get that very place!" Inspired by this sudden idea, Alma sat bolt upright on the shabby sofa, and pursing up her lips, with self-satisfaction looked from her mother to Nancy, who promptly applauded. "Brilliant! I remember her saying that, too. Let's go over and see Mr. Dixon to-morrow," said Nancy. "I don't see why _I_ couldn't give lessons, you know, tutor children--like the two little Porterbridge girls, for example. Margaret doesn't go to school because she's so delicate, and I know that last winter Mrs. Porterbridge kept Dorothy at home with her. I might even be able to get up a little class. I don't look so awfully young, and lots of girls my age have done it. Miss Drinkwater at school told me that she had begun to help her father with his pupils when she was less than seventeen, and I'll be eighteen in March. I'd love it, too." Soon they were all chatting and laughing like schoolgirls, the three of them. "I used to think I wanted ever so many things," observed Alma, with a pretty little air of earnest thought fulness. "But do you know what, I've discovered that I never really wanted anything more than what I've already got--you and Nancy, Mother." CHAPTER XV THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE MR. PRESCOTT A little after five o'clock on a dull January afternoon the two sisters met on the road that ran from Melbrook to the cottage. It had been just a week since they had actually started in "working." Alma had just spoken in time to get the position that had been opened in the young village lawyer's office, guided by a kindly Providence. "I don't see how you are clever enough to teach, Nancy," said Alma, looking at her sister's rather tired face with admiration. "I'd be throwing books and things inside of five minutes. But isn't it wonderful to think that we are really and truly making money? Did you ever believe that we could do it? I just hope that Uncle Thomas hears what we are doing--that'll just show him that we don't want anything from _him_. I wonder what Mildred would say to us--wouldn't she be shocked, though?" Inside the little house, Alma banged the door behind her, while Nancy shouted gaily to her mother up-stairs. "Well, well, well, what is all this noise for?" inquired a calm, masculine voice from the sitting-room. The two girls stopped still, thunderstruck; for the voice, unfamiliar in its genial accents, was nevertheless unmistakably the voice of Mr. Prescott! Alma stared at Nancy, Nancy stared back at Alma, neither of them knowing whether to stay where they were or to go forward. "I shan't bite," remarked Mr. Prescott, mildly. Nancy boldly advanced, being on more familiar terms with the "Ogre" than the frankly terrified Alma, and to Alma's amazement he proceeded to kiss them both, and then, as if embarrassed, cleared his throat, and said "How-do-you-do" in a dry, formal tone. In a few moments Mrs. Prescott came downstairs. She looked older and sadder than she had the last time he had seen her, and, because she had denied herself any new clothes since she had lost the money, she now wore an old gown which she had had for years. It was not a pose with her, for she no longer pitied herself, or bemoaned her limited means, but rather a sincere half-childlike desire to punish herself for having, as she believed, deprived her daughters of what she considered the best things in life. Nevertheless, her natural instinct for daintiness had asserted itself in the little touches of lace at the neck and wrists--and she looked pretty and dignified as she greeted Mr. Prescott. It was not long before the first feeling of constraint wore off. As Alma said afterwards, it was impossible to believe that they had been laughing and chatting with the "Ogre" "just as if he were a nice old man." He called Mrs. Prescott "Lallie," and paid her two compliments. He gave them a very long discourse on the value of a scientific education for everybody, and from that veered off into a heated tirade against the uselessness of modern education, anyway. "Am I to understand that you two young ladies are--earning money?" inquired Mr. Prescott. Amusement, chagrin, curiosity, and admiration were mingled in his changing expressions. "Indeed we are," replied Alma, quite beaming with self-satisfaction. "_Ever_ so much. Of course, Nancy makes more than I, now--Nance is much cleverer than I, but Nancy's work is more the intellectual kind, you know, and Nancy will probably be famous, and I'll be rich." "Bless my soul!" gasped the "Ogre," then suddenly he threw back his head, and laughed and laughed, nor could Nancy and Mrs. Prescott keep from joining in. The more Alma proclaimed her enthusiasm for business, the more patent her utterly delightful inaptitude for it became. Then he grew grave, and turning to Mrs. Prescott said, in a gentle, friendly voice: "Lallie, I wish you would tell me--everything that has happened. I would be very dull, indeed, if I could not guess that you and my nieces have had a new misfortune. I blame myself. I--I have made mistakes, and--well, life is very short." Mrs. Prescott was silent for a moment, and sat up stiffly, as if uncertain whether she should listen to the dictates of her pride or of her hopes. Then presently, speaking in a quiet, monotonous voice, she told him about her bad investment, and why she had made it. When Mrs. Prescott had finished speaking, everyone was silent for a little while. Then Mr. Prescott said, abruptly: "You have been only vain, Lallie." Then, bluntly but not unkindly, turning to Mrs. Prescott. "Very vain, very foolish. And now that we've talked business, I'm going to ask if I may stay to supper?" Of course he stayed. And Hannah, as she saw the last of her delicacies vanishing silently down the "Ogre's" lean, old throat, indulged in a bright vision of his eventual surrender. But, having stuck to his principles for thirteen years, Mr. Prescott was not a man to change them in a moment of impulse. After that evening at his niece's he made no further reference to their affairs, and seemed quite oblivious of their difficulties. Some very narrow straits lay ahead of the Prescotts, and they had to deny themselves things that once their little income had allowed them. Winter wore away into spring, and the girls went on doggedly with their tasks. Miss Bancroft had gone away for a month or so. They had been to see her several times during the winter, and she had dropped in to see Mrs. Prescott fairly often. There had been something very delightful in those few afternoons spent with her; for she was one of those charming old ladies who remain perennially girlish, and her interest and sympathy in their talk had won from them a very warm affection. Mr. Arnold had not appeared on the scenes during the entire winter and spring; having gone to England, Miss Bancroft had casually explained, for an indefinite stay. This intelligence had depressed Nancy unaccountably, but she explained her depression to herself on the grounds that she was worried about reclaiming the ring, which she valued so dearly. As the days grew longer, they had their tea out in the little garden, which Nancy zealously tended. And these pleasant evenings made the whole day seem quite cheerful--if it had not been for the incessant worry about the future. One afternoon in the middle of the month, they were sitting out in the little arbor, where the vines, covered with a veil of delicate, sticky little leaves, already offered a light shade from the beams of the western sun. As Nancy turned her head to say something joking to Alma, she noticed for the first time how very quiet her sister had been while they had been talking. Alma was lying full length on the little bench, with her arm across her eyes. Evidently feeling that her mother and sister were wondering what was the matter, she took away her arm, revealing a feverishly flushed face and heavy eyelids. "I just have a beastly old headache," she explained drowsily. "It isn't anything but spring fever." "You poor little kid!" cried Nancy, going to her in concern and throwing her arm around her. "It isn't anything," said Alma, feebly. "I had it yesterday, too, but it wasn't so bad." "Well, I'm going to see if you have any fever, anyway," Nancy said quietly, not liking the look of Alma's hot cheeks and crimson lips. They got Alma to bed, and in a few moments after her head had sunk into the cool pillow, she had dozed off into a heavy sleep. Nancy tried to conceal her uneasiness, but Alma had a fever of a hundred and one, which is not common to a simple headache. But the visit from Dr. Bevan, cheerful as he was, did anything but set their fears at rest. Nancy could only stare from him to her mother in speechless consternation, when it developed next day that Alma had the measles beyond a doubt. In the morning Mr. Dixon and the Porterbridges were notified that the Prescotts could not be at their work. The situation was indeed a pretty serious crisis in their career; for their income was reduced at once by something over a hundred dollars a month. This worry, however, was completely dwarfed when, on the third day after Alma had fallen ill, Dr. Bevan announced that he thought it best to send a trained nurse. Nancy had had about all that she could bear, and without saying another word, rushed off, to bury her face in the sofa cushions, and smother her frantic sobs from her mother's ears. It seemed to her absolutely certain that Alma was going to die, and her mind filled with little forgotten memories, each of which stabbed her with an agonizing pang of misery. The nurse, a very tall, strong, rosy woman named Miss Tracy, arrived about noon-time and, quickly changing into her stiff white uniform, ordered Mrs. Prescott off to lie down, telling Nancy that there was no need for either of them to worry. Her presence, her brisk, thorough, confident manner, lifted a hundred pounds from their hearts, and for the first time in three days they drew a breath of relief. Mrs. Prescott, who sadly needed sleep, lay down in her own room, and Nancy, who had not been out of the house since Alma had fallen ill, took a book and went out onto the porch to free her mind of worries that seemed to have dulled her thoughts. Everything had become so complicated, it was so utterly impossible to know what was to be done, that she felt as if it were no use worrying, as if something unforeseen would have to happen to solve difficulties that were absolutely beyond their power to solve. And so she merely wondered idly how the nurse's bills and the doctor's bills were to be paid. And finally, the warm air and the whirr of the lawn-mower, and the sleepy hum in the vines, made her drowsy; her eyelids fell, opened, and then closed again. "Oh, yes, I'm a very great man. I know the King of England intimately," someone who did not look at all _like_ Mr. Arnold, a fat, pompous-looking man with mutton-chop whiskers, who, however, was Mr. Arnold, kept repeating to her; and she kept wondering, "Why did I think he was so nice? Why did I think he was good-looking?" Then all at once she heard someone coming up the wooden steps of the porch. She sat bolt upright, putting hasty hands to her tumbled, curly hair, and with dazed, sleepy eyes stared at the newcomer with a positively unintelligent expression of amazement. At length she articulated, in an almost reproachful tone: "I thought you were in Europe. You _were_ in Europe." "Yes. But one doesn't have to stay in Europe, you know, unless they put you in jail over there, and I always try to avoid that," returned Mr. Arnold pleasantly. "But you've been there for months," said Nancy, quite aware that she wasn't talking perfectly good sense. And then they both burst out laughing. "Alma is ill," Nancy told him. "She has measles, and we are in quarantine, so you ought to go away." He looked at her tired face, where the strain of fear and trouble showed in her pale cheeks and heavy eyes, and then he smiled in his warm, understanding way, and said gently: "You've been worried to death about something, haven't you, Nancy? Well, I'm not going to ask you any questions now, only, whenever you feel that you want to, remember that you can tell me anything. Would you rather I went away now and came back later on, when you are less troubled? Is there anything I can do?" "Oh, don't go away--I mean, it's very nice to see you. Alma has a nurse now, and I think she is going to be better soon--and it's so _cheerful_ to see you!" "Does Mr. Prescott know of Alma's illness?" he asked, after a moment's hesitation. "I don't think my aunt does. She has just come back. I landed the day before yesterday, and came down here last night. I--I asked her about you all, and she said nothing about Alma's being ill." "No, I don't suppose Uncle Thomas does know," answered Nancy. "He comes over to see us every now and then, but then again he'll shut himself up for quite a long while, and I don't think he knows what we are doing any more than we know what he's doing." "You know I'm buying a house here in Melbrook," said Mr. Arnold, rather irrelevantly. "A very nice house--do you know that yellow one, with the white columns and the porte-cochère over on Tindale Road?" "I do know the one you mean," cried Nancy. "It's a beauty. There's the loveliest old-fashioned garden----" "That's it--that's the one. I--you're sure you like it?" For some reason or other Nancy turned pink at this simple question, and tried to stammer a casual reply. Then he went on serenely: "I expect to have it in pretty good shape in a week or two, and when your sister is better, I'd love to have you and your mother and Alma come over and have tea with me. Aunt Eliza is directing the furnishing and all that--she's quite in her element, but I'd love to have your expert advice too. Heavens, _I_ don't know anything about chintz, and scrim, and all that sort of foolishness." He chatted along, telling her about his trip, recounting amusing little incidents of the things that had happened on the boat, and completely carrying her thoughts away from her own personal affairs. But after a little while she began to notice that he was really not thinking about what he was saying, that he seemed to have something on his mind, which he was always on the point of saying, and then veered off to something else. All at once he got up and remarked abruptly: "What the dickens do I care personally for chintzes and scrim? I don't know which is which." Nancy stared at him, thinking that he had taken leave of his senses. He rammed his long, brown hands fiercely into the pockets of his gray trousers, took them out again, and thrust them into the pockets of his coat; then, as if he had taken a deep breath, and was holding it, he said: "Will you marry me, Nancy?" She could not have uttered a word. She simply sat and stared at him. Then, without being conscious of a single idea in her head, she jumped up and made a dive for the door. He caught her hand and made her turn around and face him. He had begun to smile, slightly, and it was that gentle, wonderfully sweet smile, half-amused and half-tender, that made her blush from the yoke of her gingham dress up to the edge of her hair. "Well--will you?" "I--I don't know," stammered Nancy; with that she promptly turned and fled into the house. Mr. Arnold stood regarding the screen-door with a blank expression; then, after a moment or two, he walked away slowly. It was not until he had reached the gate that he remembered he had left his hat on one of the porch chairs. * * * * * Alma was sitting up. Wrapped in a pink blanket, with her yellow curls pinned on top of her head, where they nodded like the heads of daffodils, surrounded by her admiring family, including Hannah and the trained nurse, and a perfect garden of spring flowers, which had been arriving daily since the appearance of Mr. Arnold, she was convalescing visibly. "I didn't know that Mr. Arnold was back," said Alma, burying her small nose in a huge bouquet of white lilacs. "Isn't it perfectly dear of him to send these things, when I only met him once in my life?" Upon which guileless remark Nancy turned a lively and hopelessly noticeable scarlet. To make her embarrassment quite complete, Alma looked directly into her eyes and grinned deliberately. "I wonder why he takes such a tremendous interest in us?" she went on, mercilessly. "I feel it in my bones. I feel as if something perfectly scrumptious were going to happen." Mrs. Prescott laughed and kissed her. "Now, Nancy, come on, and 'fess up," was the bomb which Alma hurled without a word of warning. "I know perfectly well that you've got something on your conscience, and I've got a suspicion already that it's Mr. Arnold." If she was desirous of creating a sensation, she should have been amply satisfied with the result of her remarks. Mrs. Prescott, as if she had been suddenly aroused from sleep, opened her pretty mouth and stared at her elder daughter for a moment and then exclaimed: "I must have been dreaming!" Nancy squirmed. She looked reproachfully at Alma, then at her mother, and at length said simply: "He--he asked me to marry him." And then she followed with the whole story. She told them of her visit to her uncle, where she had seen Mr. Arnold for the second time, and then went on to give a full account of her memorable trip to the pawnbrokers' with the ring. "I--I would have told you everything long ago, but I didn't want you to think that Uncle Thomas was 'relenting' because he asked me to visit him--and about the other time----" Alma stopped her by leaning over and kissing her. "You were paying for _my_ experience," Alma said bravely. "I learned--I don't know what exactly, except that people like Mildred, whom I always thought as being important to know, weren't worth one teeny little ounce of trouble. I learned to be honest with myself, and that it's a whole lot better to work with your two hands than to be a toady, for the sake of making things easier,--and lots else. And I'm going to work hard, Nancy----" "Stuff and nonsense!" declared an angry voice from the doorway. From a gargantuan bouquet of hyacinths, lilacs, and daffodils, issued the voice of the "Ogre." Evidently, finding the front door open, and the lower floor deserted, and hearing the sound of voices from above, the old gentleman had borne his offering aloft, without a word of announcement. Snorting with some inward indignation, he testily tossed his head to get rid of an impudent lilac which was tickling his nose, and glared over the bouquet. "This idea of working is pure foolishness. I never heard of such women's nonsense before in my life. Here, where in the name of common sense can I put these flowers, and why wasn't I informed of my niece's illness?" When Nancy, stifling her unseemly laughter, had relieved him of his offering, he grew calmer. "Why wasn't I told that you were ill, my dear?" he asked, sitting down and taking Alma's hand in his. "We--we hardly thought of anything until she began to be better," answered Mrs. Prescott. He looked at her sternly a moment, and then his whole face softened, almost to a look of humility and shame-facedness. "Once you told me that you were a foolish woman, Lallie," he said, "and I must confess that for a very long time I was blind enough, and selfish enough, to think it of you. Now it's only fair that I should be as brave as you and admit that I have been a very foolish man. I have been about the biggest fool that ever escaped the badge of long ears. All I did was to deprive myself of a lot of happiness, and to deprive some other very dear people of happiness that it was my privilege to bestow. "Now, the truth is, that while my 'principles' were excellent,--they wouldn't work. They didn't do _me_ any good. Hang it all! Here I was trying to make good, thrifty wives out of you two girls, for some young rascal--and depriving myself of the sweetest pleasure in life for that same impudent young husband who shan't have you, anyway! "They were excellent principles, too, their only fault being that they--wouldn't work. "And now, ladies, I herewith adopt you. I shall establish my legal right to you all. I--I feel--well, I hope I have made it quite clear, that anything, everything--on this green earth, that I can give you, is yours. And if you want to make me very happy, you'll demand it instantly." For a little time no one said anything, then, heaving a great sigh, Alma burst out: "Uncle Thomas, I'll expire if I don't hug you!" And when she _had_ hugged him, until there was more likelihood of _his_ demise than her own, he said: "I'm afraid I'm breaking up a brilliant business career for you, ma'am. The little that I can offer you is a mere nothing compared to the dazzling prospects which were opening before you----" "You needn't be jocose, Uncle," interrupted Alma, severely. "Many a millionaire started on only five cents, and _I_ started on fifteen dollars!" "I hear that young Arnold is buying a house here," remarked Mr. Prescott. "Now, what in the world is he doing that for?" "Why, indeed?" murmured Alma, wickedly. "The truth is, Uncle Thomas that he is madly in love with me. He sent me all these flowers, and, measles or no measles, he has been serenading me every night; hasn't he, Miss Tracy?" "Alma! You ridiculous creature," cried Mrs. Prescott, joining in the laugh at this nonsense. Uncle Thomas looked amused but puzzled, hardly certain whether to believe there was an element of truth in this rigmarole or not. He glanced from Mrs. Prescott to Alma, to Nancy, and there he paused. He was a good enough reader of faces to know now where the wind lay, and his eyes grew sober. "Well, my dear little niece, you're pretty young," he said gently, "but one is never too young to be happy. What do you think, Lallie?" Mrs. Prescott smiled, although there were tears in her eyes, and said: "Ask Nancy, Uncle Thomas." "Well, Nancy?" Nancy tried to laugh, as she took her mother's hand and Alma's, and faltered again: "I--I don't know." But here we, who can see into the minds of all these people, have no hesitation about saying in just so many words, that she did know very well; only she didn't know that she knew. * * * * * The "Ogre" had sent a note to his nieces, asking them for dinner on a certain June evening. And strange to relate it was Nancy who delayed the proceedings. When she finally joined her admiring family she was deliciously conscious that a dress of pale gold-colored organdie, and a broad-brimmed hat trimmed with delicate blue flowers, were about the most becoming things she could possibly wear. And she was not entirely ignorant of the fact that she could be very, very pretty when she wanted to. It was pleasant to register this interesting fact on other people also, Miss Bancroft and the Ogre, and--well, George Arnold, for instance. It was partly on account of the gathering darkness, no doubt, or partly because Alma wanted to look at the summer-house while Nancy and George wanted to continue to look at the roses, but however it was--well, there they were--Mr. Arnold and Miss Prescott, absorbedly looking at the roses. Or perhaps they weren't even looking at the roses. "Now, look here, Nancy, if you'll be a good girl, and say what I tell you to, I'll give you something nice. It's not a candy, either." "Wh-what do you want me to say?" gasped Nancy, suddenly feeling quite terrified. "First of all, put your hand in mine, so," he took her hand gently, and then lifted it to his lips. "And now say--'I love you, George!'" "Oh--I c-can't!" whispered Nancy, feebly. "Yes, you can. Try it, dear." "Well, don't you, Nancy?" For the first time he sounded very grave, and his eyes looked anxious. Then somehow Nancy felt quite calm and happy and brave, she answered him, honestly: "Yes, I do. I love you, George." She felt him take her left hand and single out the third finger. Then she felt something cool slipped on it. She gasped. The first diamond she had ever owned caught and flashed back a moonbeam. "Oh--I didn't know it was that!" she stammered. "I would have said what--what you wanted me to, anyway, George. I mean, _I_ wanted to, awfully." He promptly kissed her. 
32556	----	DOROTHY'S TOUR BY EVELYN RAYMOND NEW YORK HURST & CO., INC. PUBLISHERS THE DOROTHY BOOKS By EVELYN RAYMOND These stories of an American girl by an American author have made "Dorothy" a household synonym for all that is fascinating. Truth and realism are stamped on every page. The interest never flags, and is ofttimes intense. No more happy choice can be made for gift books, so sure are they to win approval and please not only the young in years, but also "grown-ups" who are young in heart and spirit. Dorothy Dorothy at Skyrie Dorothy's Schooling Dorothy's Travels Dorothy's House Party Dorothy in California Dorothy on a Ranch Dorothy's House Boat Dorothy at Oak Knowe Dorothy's Triumph Dorothy's Tour _Illustrated, 12mo, Cloth Price per Volume, 50 Cents_ COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY THE PLATT & PECK CO. CONTENTS CHAPTER. PAGE. I. AT BELLEVIEU 9 II. ALFARETTA'S LETTER 18 III. THE PREPARATIONS 28 IV. IN NEW YORK 40 V. THE CARNEGIE CONCERT 52 VI. THE OPERA 65 VII. AN EPISODE 82 VIII. "AMERICA" 95 IX. A DREAD CALL IN THE NIGHT 106 X. THE LOCKET 118 XI. THE TOUR BEGINS 129 XII. IN WASHINGTON 150 XIII. SIGHT-SEEING 166 XIV. HIGH HONOR 187 XV. MT. VERNON 203 XVI. THE LAKE CITY 214 XVII. THE ACCIDENT 230 XVIII. CONCLUSION 245 DOROTHY'S TOUR CHAPTER I. AT BELLEVIEU. "Dorothy!" called Jim as he quickly searched the garden at Bellevieu for her. "Yes," answered Dorothy, "I am here sitting under the big oak tree." "I have something for you," cried Jim. "Guess what?" "Guess what?" echoed Dorothy. "Well it might be--Oh! there are so many, many things it could be." "Here, take it. Its only a letter from New York, and never mind what might be in it, read it--" said Jim, who was altogether too practical and never cared to imagine or suppose anything. All he wanted was real facts and true and useful facts at that, which is not a bad trait in a youth's character. Dorothy broke the seal carefully and read the letter through once and then started to read it all over again, exclaiming every once in a while to herself, "Oh, oh, dear. I am so glad!" and finally, "I must tell Aunt Betty at once." Jim, who had been standing there forgotten all this time, broke in: "Oh, I say, Dolly Doodles, can you tell me what this message is that so excites you that you have clear forgotten me?" "Oh, Jim dear," said Dorothy, "it's too wonderful. Just think, I am to start in two weeks for New York, where Mr. Ludlow will meet Aunt Betty and I." By this time Jim and Dorothy were walking rapidly toward the house, where at once they sought Aunt Betty to tell her the news, only to find that Mrs. Calvert had gone visiting. Seeing Old Ephraim in the hall, Dorothy ran up to him and said: "Ephraim, do tell us where Aunt Betty has gone." "Ah certainly does know, Misses," answered old Ephraim. "She o'de'd Metty" (whom we remember as Methuselah Bonapart Washington from the previous books, Dorothy's Triumph, House Boat and Oak Knowe, and other volumes wherein our little heroine's story is told). "Metty, he 'lowed he take her see dat lil lady. De man what gibs de music lessons' wife." "Oh, I know now, Ephy," said Dorothy, "Aunty went to see Frau Deichenberg. Well, Jim, we shall have to wait till Aunt Betty comes back to tell her our wonderful news. But dear me, what a forgetful girl I am. I haven't told you all yet. Well, Jim, it's a long story, so let's go back to the garden and I will tell you all there." So back to the old oak tree with the rustic seat beneath it they went. The garden in Bellevieu looked its loveliest. It was early in September and all the fall flowers with their wondrous hues made the garden a regular fairy land. And Lem, the little boy the campers had found on a memorable night, had been true to his word and had tended the garden faithfully. You will remember how Lem Haley had cried out at night and when found and protected by the little camping party had ridden back to Bellevieu in the huge automobile. He, like all who knew Aunt Betty, Mrs. Cecil Somerset Calvert, had grown to love her and now tried hard to please her by keeping the garden at old Bellevieu a feast for the eyes and a delight to all who came there. Dorothy and Jim seated themselves beneath the tree and Dorothy started out by saying: "Oh, Jim, dear, I really am dreadfully nervous every time I think of starting out on that long trip through the United States and Canada, as Mr. Ludlow says I must. You see this letter says that Mr. Ludlow will expect Aunt Betty and I to be at the Pennsylvania station on September 27. That's, let's see----. Oh, Jim, what day does the 27th of September fall on?" Dorothy at this period was a winsome girl indeed. She had good looks, which is always a worthy asset, then her artistic temperament and perhaps her musical training had combined with other natural attributes in the building of a character charmingly responsive. She had been frequently complimented for her musical talent, but bore her honor simply and unaffectedly. As a protege of Mrs. Calvert, Jim had grown to be a fellow of manly aspect, and while in no way related to her, filled in some degree the place of a son in her heart and was a brother to every one else in the household. Jim, who had been calculating the same while Dorothy was talking, quickly responded, "Tuesday." "Oh, dear, I might have known that myself if I had only read on a ways instead of stopping just in the wrong place. Mr. Ludlow said that he would like me to play at a concert or two in New York before I start traveling for good. Oh, I must play at a concert on Thursday, the 29th. That is why he wants me to be in New York on Tuesday so I can have one day to rest in. Dear, thoughtful man to think of giving me a rest after my trip. Oh, Jim, if you could only come to New York with us!" "I can," said Jim. "In fact I was going to keep that as a surprise, but I have saved enough money this summer to go to New York and be near you and with Aunt Betty when you play for the first time under this new contract." "Jim," Dorothy said, "you are just as thoughtful and kind as you can be and it will be so nice to have you with Aunt Betty, and I shall play all the better for knowing that out in the big, big audience there are you two whom I really care to please more than anyone else in the wide, wide world. Jim, every one is so good to me and so kind in all things. Oh, dear, oh, dear; do you really suppose that I will be a very great violinist?" "Why Dorothy Calvert!" Jim reproached. "You funny girl. You are a great violinist already, and in time you will be a very, very great violinist perhaps--who knows but what you might be the most famous violinist in the world? Why, Herr Deichenberg thinks you are doing very wonderfully now, and you will practice just the same even if you are going on a concert tour. In fact you will have to practice harder----" "Oh, Jim, I must do my very best all the time and you can trust me to do that. But, come, let's go inside now. It's getting dark and Aunt Betty will soon be back." But the boy did not move, and finally said: "You stay here and finish telling me your plans and then we will go in." So Dorothy reseated herself and told Jim how Mr. Ludlow would tell her when she got to New York her future plans and that now all that he had written was for her to get ready for her trip, and on Tuesday, the 27th of September, for her and her Aunt Betty to be in New York. "To think, Jim," said Dorothy, "that my one ambition in life has commenced to be realized. I have always longed for this day to come when I could really play to people, and now to be in a company with so many other artists and to tour all over. There are so many, many people who can play the violin better than I can, and for me to be chosen!" "Dorothy, girl, it was because you worked so very, very hard, and as Herr Deichenberg, you know says, 'You have, mine girl, accomplished the impossible,' and now we are all so proud of you," Jim gladly responded. "I tried so hard and all for dear, darling Aunt Betty, and she has been so good to me and to you and to everybody, no wonder everyone loves her," added Dorothy. "Jim, I am worried about Aunt Betty. You know how she lost so much money last year in those old investments that foolish lawyer made for her. Well, she has always done so much for me that I am going to show her that I can take care of myself, and her too. Just think, $200 a week and all my expenses paid. And a private car for the party, Aunt Betty, and an attendant. I just couldn't go and leave aunty, so they managed to let me take her with me. Do you think, Jim, that traveling will hurt Aunt Betty?" "Hurt her? Indeed I do not," the boy said gravely, for he was thinking that Aunt Betty was no longer young and that she had been worried and tired most all summer, for she had insisted on staying near Dorothy who couldn't leave Baltimore because of her lessons and preparations for the fall, as Herr Deichenberg was working hard over his little protege so as to have a great success come of the tour. "You know, Dorothy, the change will be good for her," Jim volunteered. "And Aunt Betty enjoys nothing more than travel. She will enjoy the music, too, and most of all the very one thing that will give her most pleasure is the fact that she will be with you and near you to keep you from all kinds of harm and such things as are apt to go with such a trip. But, Dorothy, dear girlie, don't think I mean that anything is going to hurt you or harm you in any way, but you see I mean Aunt Betty will be with you and it's not many a girl who has an Aunt Betty like yours." "Jim, what a long, long speech for you. Let's go inside," said Dorothy. The two slowly walked around the garden, exclaiming at its beauty, till they reached the house. Dorothy led Jim into the music room, pushed him playfully into a chair, and taking her violin in her hand, said, "Listen." Jim sat there listening to what he thought was the most wonderful music in all the world. Piece after piece the girl played, bringing out with clear, vibrating tones, the tunes she loved best, her body swaying to the music's rhythm. "Surely," thought Jim, "if the audiences do not care for Dorothy's playing, and how they can help that I cannot see, they will immediately fall and worship at her personal charm and beauty," of which, thanks to Aunt Betty and the good Mother Martha's training, Dorothy was wholly unconscious. How long they stayed there, neither of them could have told. And Aunt Betty, who had entered quite unseen, remained till old Ephraim said from the doorway, "Ah most surely wanted to excuse myself, but ah has been dere standing for most a hour and more than likely the dinner is spoilt, cause ah simply couldn't interrup' dat beautiful music." Dorothy carefully put away her violin and ran to Aunt Betty telling her she had some brand new news. "Let it wait, Dorothy," said Aunt Betty, "till we are all at the dinner table. Come, Jim," and then they all went to the table, Jim saying as he did that music sure did give him an appetite, and that that must be the reason they had music at so many of the New York hotels at meal time, or, as Dorothy corrected him, at dinner. CHAPTER II. ALFARETTA'S LETTER. "Alfa, Alfy," called Ma Babcock. "Come 'ere quick, there's something 'ere fer ye." "Ma, where are you," yelled Alfy from the barnyard. "'Ere in the kitchen," answered Ma Babcock. "All right," said Alfy. "Dunno as I know what you want," she continued to herself. "What is it, ma?" "'Ere's a letter fer ye," Ma Babcock rejoined. "Must be from Dorothy. Can't think of anyone else writing me, can you? I'll open it and see. "Oh, ma! Listen, listen! Dear Dorothy wants me right away. Oh, how can I get to her; you couldn't get on without me, now. Oh, dear, oh dear," wailed Alfy, most in tears. "Alfaretta Babcock, come to your senses. A big girl like you, crying," scolded Ma Babcock. "Tell me what Dorothy says in her letter." Alfaretta, reading-- "Dear, dear Alfy-- "In two weeks I start on my concert tour, and as I had not expected to go for more than a month at least, I want you to come and stay with me and I've got such a good proposition to make you. I will be very busy and will need you to help me get my clothes and things together. Oh, Alfy, dear, please, please come. Don't you disappoint me. I just must see you again. It's been such an awful long time since you have stayed with me. Tell Ma Babcock she simply must let you come. Metty will meet you at the station. Take the noon train. Give my love to all the little Babcocks and to ma. Tell ma, Baretta and Claretta can help her while you are away, and I am sure that Matthew will help too. Oh, Alfy, do, do come. With love, "Ever your affectionate, "DOROTHY. "There, ma, that's what she says." "Well, well, things do come sudden always. I must get my things on and drive down and tell 'em all at Liza Jane's Thread and Needle Store to start the news a-spreadin'." "Then I may go?" "Matthew, hitch up Barnabas, quick now," responded Mrs. Babcock, by way of response. "You, Alfy, go inside in the front room and get your clothes out so we can see what's clean and what ain't." "Ma! Then I can go! Oh, goody, goody! I am so glad. And I can start to-morrow--yes? Oh please say yes!" coaxed Alfy. Inside in the front room, Alfy working quickly, sorted things out and before Ma Babcock got back with a new pair of shoes for her, she had most of her things mended (as she was real handy with the needle), and nearly all packed in the old suit case Pa Babcock brought home with him from Chicago. "Alfy!" called ma from the kitchen. "Try on these shoes and see as they're all right." "Yes, ma," answered Alfy, coming into the kitchen with thread and needle in one hand and shirt-waist in the other. "What shall I do with these? I can't take those shoes with these in my hand." "Go back and take those things in and put them on the bed," said ma, getting vexed at Alfy's excitement and trying to calm her down. Alfy, after laying the things down, came back and took the shoes and some new ribbons ma had brought her from Liza Jane's and went back to the front room. "My, but these shoes are real smart. I think that they are and hope Dorothy will. And shucks, no one has such pretty ribbons. Black, that's kind of old and dull looking. I like the red much the best. The blue ones are real pretty, too. And my, but those red ribbons are pretty." And thus Alfy talked to herself as she fussed around and tried to remember all the little things she wanted. "Ma, ma," and Alfy ran in the kitchen calling louder as she went: "Where did you put my raincoat? You know I haven't used that one--the good one--since I was to California with Dorothy." "Well, let me see. Reckon I did see you have it. So long ago I can't just remember. Must a been last year some time. Oh, did you look in the closet in the barn? Upstairs in the room I had fixed for the boys to sleep in, but they got scared and wouldn't. You remember I put all the things we didn't use much up there." "I'll look. Maybe it's up there," and Alfy went out still talking to herself, while ma went all over the house, in all the closets, looking for that raincoat. It was a very fine raincoat, one just like Dorothy's, only Alfaretta's was red while Dorothy's was gray. Mrs. Calvert had bought one for each of the girls in San Francisco. Alfy had put hers away when she reached home, hoping to be able to use it some time again, thinking it was too good for use "up mounting." Alfy was now in the barn and had just reached the closed door when she heard a curious "tap-tap." Alfy was not afraid. She never had been what the boys call a "scare-cat," but it seemed kind of funny, so she stood still and listened. "Tap-tap." "My," thought Alfy. "What's that? Oh, it's----" "Tap-tap," again and this time the sound came from right over Alfaretta's head, making her start and her heart go thump, thump so loud she thought whoever it was tapping could hear it. She tried to move, but stood rooted to the spot. "Tap-tap." This time to the right of the girl. Then Alfy summoned her lost courage and said as calmly as she could, "Who's there?" No one responded, and in a few seconds, "Tap-tap," came the sound to the left of the girl. Then thoroughly scared, as the room was half dark and rapidly growing darker, Alfy turned and ran, stumbling over an old stool as she tried to make the door in great haste. Matthew heard her and came running up, saying: "What's the matter, sis?" He had been unhitching Barnabas, as Ma Babcock was through with him now. "Oh!" moaned Alfy. "It's some one in the closet. I heard them tap-tapping and got scared and ran. Gosh, my shin hurts! There!" giving the stool that had caused the disaster a vicious kick. "Maybe--oh, Alfy! Maybe----" chimed in Matthew. "Maybe its a ghost." "Ma! Ma!" screached Alfy. "Ma! Ma!" yelled Matthew. Both by this time were rapidly approaching the kitchen. "Well," said Ma Babcock, "You--land o' livin'--you look as though you'd seen a ghost." "Ma," murmured Alfy, "we didn't see him, I heard him. He's in the closet in the barn." And then both children started in to talk and explain at the same time so that ma couldn't understand a word. "Here, you--you Alfy, tell me all. You, Matthew, keep still," she exclaimed. Then Alfy told her how she heard the tapping on the door of the closet. "Come, we'll all go back and see," said Ma Babcock, and with that they all started for the barn, Alfy limping after ma and Matthew. When they reached the upstairs room they tip-toed to the closet and listened, and after waiting a few minutes and hearing nothing, ma called loudly, "Is anyone in there?" No answer came. Then she quickly flung open the closet door, and what did they hear but the flutter, flutter of wings, and then they saw, perched high on the lintel of the door, a little wood-pecker. "There," said Ma Babcock, "there is what made those tap-taps, a wood-pecker. Just as if I didn't know there couldn't be any ghosts. And a great big girl like you, Alfaretta, being scared of a little bird." With that they all breathed a sigh of relief, and Matthew and ma went down out of the barn, leaving Alfaretta to look over the contents of the well packed closet, to find, if possible, her raincoat. "My, my, just think what a lot I shall have to tell Dorothy. I wonder what she will say. Just a bird. Shucks. I thought it was a real ghost. But ma says there are no really real ghosts. But, well, I don't know." All this time Alfy had been opening boxes and shutting them, putting them back where she had found them, when suddenly she came across an old sampler about a foot square. Alfy looked at it, then brought it to the lamp and could see lots of new and hard stitches she had never learned. She didn't see how anyone could sew them at all. And, my--what was that in the corner? A name. "Well," thought Alfy, "here is a find. Maybe I can beg it off ma, and then I can take it to Dorothy." She had almost forgotten her raincoat, when she went back to the closet and looked in the box again to see if there was anything else new there, and then discovered her precious raincoat in the bottom of the big box. Hastily closing the box and shoving things back in the closet, with her raincoat and the queer old sampler, Alfy ran hurriedly downstairs and through the yard and into the kitchen. Ma Babcock had by this time prepared dinner and just as Alfy came in she called all the children to the dinner table. "Ma," exclaimed Alfy, "I found my raincoat, and this, too. What is it?" "Let me see." "Let me see." "And me," chimed in all the little Babcocks, trying to get possession of what Alfy was holding. "Be quiet," said ma, sternly. "Give it to me, Alfy." Alfy handed her the sampler and Ma Babcock exclaimed: "Poor Hannah! Poor Hannah!" "What Hannah? And was she very poor--poorer than we?" lisped little Luke, the youngest of the Babcocks. "Ma, who did you say?" demanded Alfaretta. "Why, Alfy, this is a sampler made by one of my little playmates years and years ago. A delicate little girl was Hannah Woodrow. She came up here summering, and then 'cause she was broken in health stayed all one year with me. She could sew so very well. She made that sampler and left it with me when the folks did take her back to Baltimore with them. She married--deary me--maybe she married some one named--Haley, I think. That's what it was; and I ain't heard from her since." "Ma, can I have the sampler?" asked Alfy. "I would like to take it to Baltimore to show Dorothy." "Well, I s'pose I must say yes, if you want to show it to Dorothy Calvert, and 'pears to me Mrs. Calvert might like to see it, too," remarked ma. "But come now, dinner is getting cold and you must get to bed early, Alfaretta, if you want to catch that early train for Baltimore, and like as not you've fooled your time away and haven't packed a single thing." But Alfy showed her mother she had been very busy and had all her things ready to start. So she went off gladly to bed, dreaming that all was ready and that she had departed for Dorothy, which, indeed, the next morning was a reality. CHAPTER III. THE PREPARATIONS. "You dear, dear Alfy," piped Dorothy, joyously as she ran to meet Alfy, whom Metty had just brought up from the station to the house. "Oh, Dorothy, I am so glad to see you," rejoined Alfy with none the less joy than Dorothy had displayed. "I just must kiss you again." "Did you have an uneventful trip?" asked Dorothy, drawing her friend into the house. "Just simply took train and arrived, that was all." "Metty, you see that Alfy's things are taken up to the blue room." Then turning to Alfaretta again, "Aunt Betty is upstairs in the sewing room. We shall go straight to her. I believe she is just longing to get a sight of you again, just as much as I was when I wrote you." "Oh, Mrs. Calvert, I am so glad to see you again--Aunt Betty," said Alfy, going over to Aunt Betty's chair and putting both arms around her and kissing her several times. "Why, Jim, I do declare. You here, too? Dorothy didn't say you were here in her letter." Alfy then went to the doorway where Jim was standing and gave him a hard hug. "Oh, it's just like the old times." Jim blushed a rosy red and said awkwardly, "I'm so glad to see you, Alfy. It's been more than a year since you have seen me, isn't it?" Jim decidedly disliked to be fussed over, and although he had known Alfy all his life just as he had Dorothy, he always felt confused and ill at ease when either of the girls kissed him or embraced him in any way. Now all the other boys, so Gerald often told him, would only be too glad to stand in his shoes. "Come, Alfy," said Dorothy, leading Alfaretta upstairs one more flight. "Here is your room. And see, here are all your things. Now hurry and clear up, and put your things where they belong. When you have finished, come down to the sewing room and we will talk as we work." "I'll be there in less than no time," called Alfy. Dorothy then went back to the sewing room and picked up her sewing. There she and Aunt Betty worked till Alfy put in an appearance. "See, I have my needles, thimble, thread and all, all in this little apron pocket. And this apron will save me lots of time, for when I'm through sewing all I have to do is take the apron off and shake the threads into the waste basket and not have to spend most half an hour picking threads off my dress," said practical Alfy. "Well, Alfy," said Mrs. Calvert, "that is surely a very good idea. What can I give you to sew? We must all be kept busy, and then Dorothy will tell you her plans. Maybe you could baste up the seams of this skirt," handing the skirt to Alfaretta, who immediately began to sew up the seams. Dorothy then unburdened herself of the good news and told Alfy how Mr. Ludlow, her manager, had written for her to be in New York on Tuesday, the 27th, and be ready to play at a concert on Thursday, and shortly after to start on her trip. Then, best of all, how besides a very liberal salary, she could have accompanying her, with all charges paid, her dear Aunt Betty and a companion. Would Alfy be the companion? Alfaretta was astonished and delighted, and her joy knew no bounds. She felt sure Ma Babcock would allow her to go. Such wonderful vistas of happiness the plan suggested, it was long before the subject was exhausted. Aunt Betty then told Alfaretta that she and Dorothy were making some simple little dresses for Dorothy's use while away. "But, Aunt Betty," asked Alfy, "what are you going to wear?" "Why, Alfy," replied Aunt Betty. "I have ordered a black serge suit for traveling, and some neat white waists. Then I am having Mrs. Lenox, Frau Deichenberg's dressmaker, make me a couple of fancy dresses, too, both of them black, but one trimmed more than the other." "And Alfy, Mrs. Lenox is making me a couple of dresses, too. One pink one for the very best, and one white one for the next best. These I shall have to wear at some of the concerts," added Dorothy. "I would like to know what these are that we are sewing on," demanded Alfy. "Why," answered Dorothy, "these are simple white dresses, the kind I have always worn, and most always shall." "Dorothy Calvert," remarked Alfy, very sternly, "they are as pretty as they can be, even if they are plain. They are very substantial and can be washed and worn many times without hurting the dress. You know very well fancy dresses are so hard to launder." "And, dear," said Aunt Betty, "you know, Dorothy, the people go to the concerts to hear you play, not to see what you wear and I have always liked my little girl best in just this kind of white dress. Now, dear, go down and practice awhile so as you will be able to play just the best you know how to when you go to Herr Deichenberg to take your lesson. For, Dorothy, you will not have many more lessons from Herr before you go away. And maybe if we finish up some of this sewing I will let Alfaretta go with you to Herr's for your lesson. Frau Deichenberg said that Herr was not feeling very well and had a bad cough, so that when I was there night before last she said, 'Maybe Miss Dorothy would not mind coming here for her lesson.' I told her you would come." With that Dorothy walked slowly from the room, very much worried about her dear Herr Deichenberg, as she knew he was getting old and was afraid his cough might develop into something worse. She reached the music room and practiced faithfully for more than an hour. When she had put the violin away and was about to leave the music room, some one called her. She turned and saw Jim on the veranda outside the window, and crossing the room and lifting up the French sash she said, "What is it, Jim?" "I just wanted to tell you something," the boy answered. "While you were practicing, Gerald Banks came up here in his automobile. He wanted to see you. I told him he couldn't as you were very busy practicing." Dorothy liked to have Jim assume authority over her in this manner, and questioned gayly: "Well, Father Jim, what did he want?" "He just wanted to take you autoing in the morning," Jim replied, "so I went upstairs to Aunt Betty and told her." "Dear, thoughtful Jim," interrupted Dorothy. "What did Aunt Betty have to say?" "Aunt Betty said," replied Jim, "that he could come around about ten o'clock to-morrow morning and take you and Alfy to Herr Deichenberg's when you could take your lesson. Then--well, I guess I won't tell you. I will let you be surprised. You wait and see!" "Oh, Jim! Please, please tell me? I must know now, really I must. Please, please," begged Dorothy. "I shan't tell," remarked Jim, slowly walking away from her. "Jim! Jim!" called Dorothy, running after him. "Dear Jim, please, please tell me." "Girls certainly are curious creatures," soliloquized Jim, as Dorothy had turned on her heel and was walking quickly toward the door, saying to herself, but loud enough for Jim to hear, "Well, Aunt Betty will tell me, I'm sure." "Aunt Betty. Oh, Aunt Betty!" called Dorothy as she burst into the sewing room where Aunt Betty and Alfy were still sewing. "Jim says--oh, I mean, you must tell me what the surprise is for to-morrow. He said Gerald would take me to Herr Deichenberg's for my lesson in the morning and then he wouldn't tell me any more." "Well, can't my little girl wait till then and see what more, for herself? That's much better than having some one tell you," remonstrated Aunt Betty. "I'll tell you, Dorothy," said Alfy. "You will?" interrupted Dorothy, "you dear." "Don't interrupt me, Dorothy. I was going to say--what was I going to say?" said Alfy. "I know. I said I'd tell you--well, I meant to say I would tell you that a surprise isn't a surprise if you know beforehand." "I thought you were going to tell me," remarked Dorothy, "but you didn't even intend to." "I guess my little girl will have to wait," severely murmured Aunt Betty, kissing Dorothy, who by this time was standing very near her aunt's chair. "Well," said Dorothy, "I guess I shall have to." So she sat down and took up her sewing again. All three carefully sewed in silence for some time till Aunt Betty said: "Dorothy, girl, I think you could try on this dress, now." "Certainly," replied Dorothy. "I am sure I ought to be quite willing." Aunt Betty and Alfy fitted the dress carefully, altering the seams in the shoulders and cutting out the neck some. Before they had stopped sewing they had nearly finished this dress and had two others well under way. Putting away their sewing carefully so as they could start again early in the morning, they all went to their rooms to dress for dinner. They had a quiet meal after which Dorothy played for them awhile, and then they all sang songs, each choosing the songs they liked best. Thus they spent a quiet but most enjoyable evening. They retired early as Alfy was quite tired after her long journey and wanted to get a good night's sleep. They had an early breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup of which Alfy was very fond, and soon after, the three were busy again in the sewing room. There they stayed, quietly working and talking, Alfy telling of the little Babcocks, till it was time for the girls to get ready for the automobile ride. Dorothy had apparently forgotten all about the surprise for she never even mentioned it at all. "Alfy," said Dorothy, when they were most ready, "when we get to Herr Deichenberg's you must be very quiet as I take my lesson and not say anything at all. You know Herr does not like to be disturbed while he gives a lesson. You will find many curious things to look at, and if you want to ask about any of them, you just remember what you want to ask about and tell me after." Alfy promised, and in a few minutes the girls heard Gerald toot his automobile horn. Quickly they ran, waving good-bye and throwing kisses to Aunt Betty, who was looking out of the second story window. With Jim seated beside Gerald, they started. Dorothy told Gerald the direction to take and after a very short time they drew up at Herr Deichenberg's little cottage. The girls descended and bade Jim and Gerald good-bye. "Oh, Dorothy," Gerald called back, "when shall I return for you?" Dorothy, greatly surprised, questioned, "You are coming back, Gerald?" "Surely." "Oh, goody, goody. Be here at twelve o'clock. That will bring us back home in time for lunch at one o'clock." Alfy, who thought the previous ride had been to short altogether, exclaimed "Oh, I'm so, so, so glad. We can have another ride. Oh, Dorothy, I do just love automobiling, I really do." Frau Deichenberg came to the door just then and ushered the two girls into the cozy living-room where they laid aside their wraps. "Herr is in the studio," murmured Frau. "He is awaiting you there, Miss Dorothy." "I'll go right up," answered Dorothy. "Now Frau Deichenberg, do not bother with Alfy at all. She can amuse herself till I finish." With that Dorothy ascended the stairs and Frau, after excusing herself by saying she must tend dinner as they always had dinner at noon--Herr wanted it so--left Alfy alone. Alfy roamed about the room and examined all kinds of curios,--queer baskets, curious vases, old fans and precious paintings and etchings. So quickly did the time pass that she never noticed Dorothy as she came into the room. "Well, Alfy, all ready to go home?" chirped Dorothy from behind her. "Well, well, I never knew you were through. When did you come into the room, just now?" asked Alfy. "Yes, Alfy, just now, and if I'm not mistaken, there is Gerald tooting his horn outside--he must be hailing us," remarked Dorothy. The girls quickly donned their coats, bid good-bye to Frau, and departed. Dorothy exclaimed in delight, "Look, look, Alfy, its dear Aurora, she must have come too! Oh, you dear, dear girl, I am so glad to see you!" And Dorothy embraced her, fondly kissing her several times. "Alfy, this is Aurora Banks, Gerald's sister. Aurora, you have heard me speak of Alfaretta many times, I am sure." "Oh, I am so glad to know you," heartily responded Aurora, "Dorothy is always talking of you." "Well, Jim, now I know what the surprise is," laughed Dorothy, "its Aurora." "Now, that's all wrong," warned Gerald, "altogether wrong." "No it isn't, is it Jim?" remarked Dorothy. "Well, yes and no," tactfully put in Jim. "The real surprise is this,--Aunt Betty has ordered a luncheon for all of us, a farewell luncheon for you, Dorothy, and we are all invited; so let's hurry home. I'm hungry for one." "And I--I am most near starved," cried Alfy. The young people reached home just as luncheon was ready, and my! what a luncheon it was; all declared there never was a finer. CHAPTER IV. IN NEW YORK. "Good-bye--good-bye--dear old Bellevieu," sang Dorothy. "Good-bye all for a long, long time, for to-day has my career begun." Aunt Betty looked sadly at the dear old home and felt very loathe to part from it and its comforts. Then all, Dorothy, Alfaretta, Jim and Aunt Betty, waved fond farewells to the faithful old force of servitors who stood lined up in the doorway. "Oh, Jim, boy," wailed Alfaretta, "we will soon be in New York and then I shall have to say good-bye to you for, goodness only knows how long it will be before I see you again." "That's right, Alfy dear," replied Jim, "always look for trouble. Just think of the good times we'll all have in New York before Dorothy really starts to travel." "Well, I suppose I might have thought of that, but I didn't," answered Alfy. "There is only a short drive now to the station," added Aunt Betty, "and I think you could get our tickets, Jim. Take this money and get four tickets for New York on the noon train, I think we have plenty of time to catch it." "I am so sorry that Herr and Frau are not with us. I just hate to go without him. It hardly seems right, does it, Aunty," asked Dorothy. "You know, Dorothy, that Herr has a very bad cold, and such a cough, I am quite worried about him. He would have come in spite of all that but Frau would not let him. I think Frau Deichenberg did a wise thing in keeping him home," replied Aunt Betty. "Seems as if I am not going to have a very happy start," lamented Dorothy. "I wanted Herr to hear me play and criticise." "Dorothy, girl, cheer up. That's no way to be when you are about to start on a career," sternly admonished Jim. "You have every reason to be happy." In the rush and excitement of getting the tickets and finding out just when and where the train came in, Dorothy forgot her sorrow. They all bid good-bye to Metty, who had driven them to the station and who drove away mourning to himself as he went, "Deedy, deedy. Lonesome, ve'y, ve'y lonesome will ole Bellevieu be wi'out de Misses and de li'le Misses dere." They were at last all seated on the train and quickly were speeding toward New York. Dorothy and Alfaretta were sitting together talking happily of the people in the car and of the passing, ever changing scenery. Aunt Betty and Jim were in the seat just in back of them. Suddenly the latter reached into his pocket and procured a letter, handing it to Aunt Betty to read, explaining he had written the Edison Co., of New York, and that that was their answer. Aunt Betty carefully read the letter through and turning to Jim, asked, "What are you going to do about it, my boy?" "That's just what I would like to know," answered Jim. "I always wanted to go to college, and have saved as much as I could, but I can't quite see my way clear to go there yet. I have studied very hard all along and have learned a great deal about electricity. The books Mr. Winters left me have helped me very much, but I am very far behind in some subjects required for entrance to college. My languages are very poor as is my history, and I write a very poor hand." "Well, Jim," answered Aunt Betty, "I am sure I do not know just what I would have you do in this case. The offer is for work in the--what department is it?" "The position is in the department of installation as assistant to the superintendent. The company is a very desirable one to be in. I have heard that they are very fair and that one who works well stands good chances," replied Jim. "I think we had better talk this over with someone before you decide one way or the other," added Aunt Betty. "Maybe Mr. Ludlow could tell us something of it." "I would have to live in New York," remarked Jim, "and where I do not know." "I should see that you were well established in your new place before I left New York," Aunt Betty said. "You are always so good, Aunt Betty," answered Jim. "The salary they have offered me is not very large, but is is twenty-five dollars a week." "Did Mr. Sterling have anything to do with trying to get you the place, Jim?" asked Aunt Betty. "Yes and no," responded Jim. "I used a letter from him for reference." "Well," rejoined Aunt Betty, "I think we had better leave the matter open and not say anything more about it till we talk it over with Mr. Ludlow. Don't say anything to the girls as yet for it will be quite a surprise for them." By this time the train was nearing New York and Dorothy asked Aunt Betty if they had not better get fixed up. Quickly gathering their things together, they left the train to find Mr. Ludlow waiting for them. Mr. Ludlow expected to take Aunt Betty and Dorothy right to the Martha Washington, where they could stay till Dorothy was ready to start on her tour, but Jim presented a new problem for the Martha Washington was a hotel for ladies only and no men can stay there. So calling a couple of taxicabs, he hustled Dorothy, Aunt Betty and Alfaretta in one, and taking the other with Jim he ordered the man to drive to the Prince Arthur. They reached their destination very quickly and Mr. Ludlow arranged for rooms for all. Leaving them in the possession, so to speak, of a bell-boy, he departed, saying he would see them early in the morning for a little while to tell Dorothy briefly what she would have to do for the next few days. The bell-boy conducted Alfaretta, Dorothy and Aunt Betty to the seventh floor, where, unlocking a door, he disclosed to them three very nice connecting rooms, and leaving them there he took Jim down the hall a few doors and showed him his room. Once inside the room, Alfy murmured faintly three or four times, "Oh!" "What's the matter, Alfy?" asked Dorothy. "I just can't get used to elevators," replied Alfy. "What nice rooms"--walking through them--"three rooms"--looking at them again--"two bedrooms--one parlor." "Two bedrooms and one sitting room," corrected Dorothy. "You take the single bedroom, Aunt Betty, and Alfy and I can use the double one." Alfy picked up her things and took them to the smaller bedroom and taking off her hat and coat and hanging them in the closet, she started immediately to unpack. "What a lovely room ours is," remarked Alfy, "it's such a pretty pink and white." Aunt Betty took off her things and Dorothy insisted she go in the sitting room and stay there till they had unpacked everything. Shortly they heard a knock at the door. Alfy ran to open it. It was Jim. Coming into the room, he said, "I have a nice little room, but as I finished unpacking my things I thought I would come in here and see how you were." "We are all settled now," said Aunt Betty. "Dorothy and Alfy have been quite busy. But children, come now, we must all dress for dinner. When you are ready, Jim, come back here." Jim was ready in no time, so he went into Dorothy's sitting room and waited there, reading a magazine. Very shortly the girls were ready and they all descended into the large dining room. Alfy, clinging to Dorothy's hand, said, "Oh, Dorothy dear, I am quite scared. What shall I do?" "Do just as I do," whispered the more experienced Dorothy, quietly leading Alfy into the room. Odd it is that those accustomed to hotel life are inapt to think of the trepidation of the novice or new comer. The head waiter conducted them to a table in the corner, then handed them his bill of fare. "What would you like to have?" Aunt Betty asked Alfaretta. "Oh, dear, most anything suits me, just what I would like to have I can't think. I want just what Dorothy orders," answered Alfy. "Well, Dorothy girl," said Aunt Betty, turning to her, "what will it be?" "I would like--oh, let me see. Can we have oysters, Aunt Betty?" asked Dorothy. "Then steak and baked potatoes. For salad just plain lettuce with French dressing." "Yes, that will do very nicely, dear, and we can have ice cream for dessert," answered Aunt Betty, who gave the order to the waiter. Shortly after they were served and all voted that they were enjoying a delightful repast. "What kind of ice cream would you like, Alfy?" asked Aunt Betty. "Strawberry," promptly answered Alfy, "it's so nice and pink." "Chocolate for me," cried Dorothy. "And for me, too," joined in Jim. "I think I shall have plain vanilla," added Aunt Betty, laughing. When dinner was over and a very pleasant meal it was, they all went up to Dorothy's sitting room for a quiet evening. "Oh, Dorothy and Aunt Betty, I had just the best dinner I have ever had. I must, I just must write it all to Ma Babcock, she will sure want to tell it at Liza Jane's." With that Alfy crossed the floor and entered her room where she wrote a long, long letter home telling her mother of the wonders of a New York hotel. "Ting-ling-ling-ling," bussed the telephone in the hall. Dorothy answered the call saying, "Hello. Oh! Why we are all up here. Where? Oh, yes, in the sitting room. Yes. Yes. Now? All right. Good-bye." Turning to Aunt Betty, Dorothy said, "It's Mr. Ludlow." "What did he want, dear?" asked Aunt Betty. "He is coming right up here," replied Dorothy. "There, that's him now. Didn't you hear a knock?" Opening the door she found Mr. Ludlow there. "Come in, Mr. Ludlow." Mr. Ludlow came in and deposited his gloves, cane and hat on a vacant space upon the table, then he sat down and turning to Dorothy said: "I suppose, little girl, you are very, very curious to know where you are going to play to-morrow--no, not to-morrow--the next day." "Yes, I am," timidly responded Dorothy. "Well, I am going to give you a treat. To-morrow I am going to ask Aunt Betty to take all you young folks to a matinee. I hope I have picked out a play that will suit you all. I have chosen 'Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.' I suppose you are quite familiar with the little heroine, Dorothy." "No, Mr. Ludlow, I am sorry to say I do not know her." "Oh dear, Dorothy didn't I get you the book to read?" asked Aunt Betty. "Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, "but Molly took it home with her. She wanted something to read on the cars." "Well, well, never mind, you will enjoy the play all the more for not having read the story. Here are the seats, Mrs. Calvert. And, Dorothy, I would like you to notice the naturalness of the characters in the play, and profit by it. Naturalness and ease mean a great deal for you,--self possession--poise, my dear." "What about the concert? Where is that? When? Here I am asking questions faster than you can answer them," remarked Dorothy. "In time, in time, my dear," responded Mr. Ludlow. "Thursday I will call for you here and take you with me to Carnegie Hall, where, my dear, you will render two pieces. The rest of the concert has been arranged for, and the small part left for you will not scare you, but only help to get you used to playing before large audiences. Now, Dorothy child, what would you like to play? This time you can choose your own pieces." "I should like to play what Aunt Betty and Jim like best," answered Dorothy; "they hear me play oftener than anyone else." "My choice is 'Das Gude vom Lied,' by Schuman," replied Aunt Betty. "And mine is 'Rondo a capriccio,' by Beethoven," said Jim. "All right, all right, they will suit exactly," added Mr. Ludlow. "Mr. Ludlow," remarked Aunt Betty, "I would like to take up a few minutes of your time when you are finished with Dorothy." "I shall be through in just a few minutes, madam," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Do you want me to play again in New York?" questioned Dorothy. "Yes, just once more, my dear," answered Mr. Ludlow. "That is on Saturday night at the Hippodrome, at 8.15 p. m. It's a benefit concert for the blind babies of New York. Many famous people are offering their talent. You do not mind playing there, do you? Your future plans we will discuss later, but that will be all for now. No--I shall have to know what you are going to play there. May I suggest that 'Southern Medley' you play so well, and one other piece, say Shubert's 'Serenade.' Now have a good time to-morrow and be ready at one o'clock sharp, on Thursday." "What I wanted to say, Mr. Ludlow, was concerning Jim. He is thinking of taking a business proposition with the Edison Company as assistant in the department of installation," added Aunt Betty. "Why, really, Mrs. Calvert, I hardly know much about that line of business, but judging from hearsay I should say that Jim was very lucky indeed to get such an offer," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Haven't you any business friends in New York?" "Why Mr. Ford, the railroad man might help," announced Jim from his corner. "By all means see Mr. Ford," said Mr. Ludlow. "It's getting very late and I must go." "I will be ready for you in time on Thursday. And thank you, oh so much, for the tickets for to-morrow," replied Dorothy. CHAPTER V. THE CARNEGIE HALL CONCERT. "Oh, dear, what a lazy girl I am. Nine o'clock and I have not had breakfast. What day is it? Thursday,--and Mr. Ludlow coming here at one o'clock. I must hurry for I must practice some," murmured Dorothy to herself. "Dorothy girl, are you still in bed?" called Aunt Betty from the next room. "I'll be with you in just a minute, Aunty dear. I'm most ready. Oh, Alfy, please help me,--please," called Dorothy. "All right," replied Alfy, "do you need me to do up the back of your dress?" "Yes, and that's all. I'm so late. I did want to write Frau this morning, too," said Dorothy crossly. "Come, let's go to breakfast." After breakfast Dorothy practiced and Aunt Betty and Alfaretta took a walk and visited some of the large stores where they did a little shopping, Aunt Betty buying the girls each a pair of long white gloves and an Irish-lawn collar at Altman's. Dorothy was all dressed and waiting for them when they got home. She had on a very simple white dress, one they had made, with just a touch of pink, a small pink bow, at the waist, and a pink hair ribbon. She had practiced the two compositions thoroughly and felt that she knew them perfectly. True, she did feel a slight bit nervous, but in her past experience when she had her violin in her hands she lost self-consciousness and became wrapped up in her music. "Dorothy," called Alfy, "we are home, and, see, Aunt Betty bought me these. They are so pretty and I always did want them. I'm so glad I have them. But you go to Aunt Betty, she has something for you." "You are a funny girl, Alf," answered Dorothy. "You have been talking away and I haven't any idea what you were trying to get at. Aunt Betty, where are you?" "In the sitting room, dear," answered Aunt Betty. "What is Alfy talking about, Aunt Betty?" asked Dorothy, walking into the room. "This and this," replied Aunt Betty, holding up two packages. "These are for you, dear." Dorothy, taking the two packages and kissing her aunt, murmured: "You dear, dear Aunt Betty. I must see what's inside." She carefully opened the first and exclaimed as she drew forth a long pair of white gloves, "Oh, goody, goody. Just what I have been longing for." And then opening the second package she found it contained a very beautiful Irish crochetted collar. "Aunt Betty! You dear, dear Aunt Betty. Just think how fine this will look with my gray coat. Just like all the girls we see here in New York. You are the best aunt ever a girl had." Dorothy then gathered up her treasures and took them with her into the next room to put them away. Aunt Betty went into Alfy's room and said, "Alfy dear, if you will give me your coat I will help you sew the collar on it so you can wear it this afternoon." "Oh! that will be fine! I can wear it to the concert. And can I wear the red hair ribbon Ma Babcock bought me from Liza Jane's?" said Alfy. "Ting-a-ling. Ting-a-ling," rang the telephone bell. Dorothy rushed across the room to answer it and found that Mr. Ludlow was waiting for her below in a taxicab. "Good-bye, Aunt Betty, dear," called Dorothy; then running into her Aunt's room she kissed her several times. "You will all surely come. I do need you all there." "We'll be there in plenty of time, Dorothy dear," answered Aunt Betty. "Now run along girlie, and don't forget your violin." "Here it is," cried Alfy from the next room, "I'll bring it to you." "You're a dear, Alfy," called Dorothy, who by this time was already in the hall. Mr. Ludlow escorted Dorothy to the taxicab, getting in with her and, shutting the door, he directed the driver to go to Carnegie Hall. "Well, Dorothy, child," asked Mr. Ludlow, "is everything all right? You are not scared, are you? You just try to do your best and everything will be fine." "I'm not scared, I'm sure of that; but do you think the people will like me?" questioned Dorothy. "Sure of that, my dear, sure of that. All you must do is just be your very own self," laughed Mr. Ludlow. "But here we are and we must get out." The driver stopped the cab and they quickly descended and walked into the building. "Now, Dorothy, I am going to show you around the place. Just follow me," directed Mr. Ludlow. Dorothy looked at the large room and the many chairs and said hesitatingly, "Will it be crowded?"--and when Mr. Ludlow said he hoped so, she sighed and murmured: "My, what a lot of people I shall have to please!" then she added softly to herself, "Jim, Alfy and Aunt Betty; they will surely be pleased and the rest will, too, if I can make them." Mr. Ludlow then led Dorothy to the stage and made her walk up and down and all over the place so that she would get familiar with it. "Mr. Ludlow," asked Dorothy, "where shall I stand?" "Right about here," answered Mr. Ludlow, walking to the front of the stage and a little to the left. "Don't face directly front." "Is this right?" asked Dorothy, taking the position Mr. Ludlow requested. "That will do,--that will do just right," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Now come inside and I will take you to see some of the noted artists who are going to play or sing." He led Dorothy in from the stage and through a long narrow passage which terminated in a large room where there were numerous chairs, tables and couches. Dorothy noticed three or four girls talking together in the center of the room but those in other groups all seemed to be older. Mr. Ludlow walked over to the group in the center of the room and addressing a small, fair girl, said, "Good afternoon, Miss Boothington." The girl turned and seeing Mr. Ludlow, exclaimed, "Mr. Ludlow, I am so glad you are here. I did want you to hear my singing and criticize. You will, will you not?" "Miss Boothington, that shall be as you please. But now let me present you to a little friend of mine. This," remarked Mr. Ludlow, turning to Dorothy, "is Miss Dorothy Calvert, and Dorothy, this is my ward, Miss Ruth Boothington. Miss Boothington sings, and will be one of our companions on your trip." "I am so glad to meet you, Miss Calvert," replied Miss Boothington. "As we are to be so much together, please call me Dorothy if you will," interrupted Dorothy. "And you will call me Ruth," Miss Boothington remarked. "I know we shall have some very fine times together. And you are a solo violinist?" "Yes, I play the violin," answered Dorothy. "Are you going to sing to-day?" "Yes," answered Ruth. "At least I am going to try to." "Here, here. That will never do, Miss Ruth. You should have said that you would sing. Of course you would sing," remarked Mr. Ludlow. Turning to Dorothy, he said, "Well, Dorothy, I think I shall leave you here with Miss Boothington. I guess she can take care of you. I am going to the front and will sit with your Aunt Betty." With that Mr. Ludlow left the two girls and walked out and around front where he looked for Aunt Betty. "Is this the place? My, ain't it big!" exclaimed Alfy, as Aunt Betty and Jim followed her to the door. "I have our tickets here," remarked Jim, presenting them to the doorkeeper. "I guess we shall have to go right in and get our seats," added Aunt Betty. "Keep close to me, Alfy, and Jim, you see that Alfy doesn't get lost." They were at last ushered into a large box on the right side of the house. "My, what a lot of seats. Is there going to be people in all of them?" asked Alfy, leaning so far out of the box that she almost fell over the rail. "Here! You sit still," sharply corrected Jim. "And, Alfy, try to act like a young lady, not like a back-woods little girl. Sit still." Alfy reluctantly subsided and appeared to be rather angry. Aunt Betty, noticing this said, "Watch me, Alfy, and do as I do and you will be all right." "Good-afternoon, Mr. Ludlow," said Jim, making room for him. "Good-afternoon, all," answered Mr. Ludlow, seating himself next Aunt Betty. "Did you come to keep us company all the afternoon?" asked Aunt Betty. "Or did you just wish to hear Dorothy play?" "I thought you wouldn't mind if I sat with you," replied Mr. Ludlow. "I have quite a few young friends who are to help entertain us this afternoon. I do hope you shall enjoy them." Ruth had, in the meantime, presented Dorothy to the other girls in the group, and they all chattered gayly for a while. Ruth glanced at her watch, and drawing Dorothy aside, said, "Let's sit down quietly for a few minutes, and say nothing at all. It always helps to calm you and give you self-possession." The girls walked to a far end of the room and sat down, keeping silent for several minutes. Then Ruth broke the silence by asking, "Where is your violin, Dorothy?" "I guess it's over there where we were standing before," replied Dorothy, rising and making her way quickly to the spot. But no violin was visible. "My!" exclaimed Ruth. "What did you do with it?" "Oh," lamented Dorothy, "I don't know." "Where did you have it last?" questioned Ruth. "I had it home in the hotel," moaned Dorothy, most in tears. "I remember I did bring it. Alfy handed it to me and I took it in the taxi." "In the taxi? That's where you left it, you foolish child," interrupted Ruth. "How, oh how, can I get it? I must have it. I have to play," groaned Dorothy. "Run! Run and telephone. Call up the New York Taxicab Company," breathlessly exclaimed Ruth. "Oh, oh, Dorothy, I must go! I must! I just must, yet how can I leave you here--but I have got to sing now. Oh, I am all out of breath." "Stop talking, you dear girl, and go and sing your best so as to make them give you an encore, anything to gain more time for me. Now go!" And Dorothy kissed her and pushed her forward. Running down the length of the room, she flew into a telephone booth, and hastily searching out the number called up Columbus 6,000. "Hello, hello," called Dorothy, frantically. "Hello! Is--has--a man come back with a violin in his taxicab--I must have it! I have to play! Yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. Good-bye." She hung up the receiver, and sat back despondently. The cab had not returned in which she had ridden to the hall. "Oh, what shall I do! No violin and my turn to play next. What shall I do, oh, what shall I do?" "Miss Calvert," called the boy. "Your turn next." "Oh, dear," moaned Dorothy, "see if you can borrow an instrument for me from one of the musicians in the orchestra." Just then a man rushed into the room carrying a violin under his arm. Dorothy ran up to him and fairly snatched the precious thing out of his arms, exclaiming, "I can play now. I can. I can! Oh, thank you, thank you! But I must go. Please come to the Prince Arthur to-night at 8.30 p. m. I will see you then." With that she dashed off, and trying to calm herself, walked upon the stage. She carefully positioned herself just where Mr. Ludlow had told her to stand, and waiting for the introduction to be played by the orchestra, looked around the house, and discovering the box party, smiled at them gayly. When the last few bars of the music were played, gracefully placing her violin in position she commenced to draw her bow gently across the strings and produced clear, vibrant tones. Her body moved rhythmically, swaying back and forward in perfect accord with the music. The audience listened spellbound, and when she had finished the whole house echoed with applause. She then walked slowly off the stage, only to be motioned back again to play an encore which she did with as much success as she had scored with her first piece. When she turned from the stage the second time Ruth, who was waiting in the wings, whispered in her ear, "Dorothy dear, you did just splendidly, and you will surely be a great success. The people applauded you so very much I thought they would never stop." "Oh, I'm so glad. I do hope Mr. Ludlow liked it, and is satisfied with me," murmured Dorothy. "I can answer that, Dorothy," said a voice in back of her that belonged to Mr. Ludlow, who had left the box just as Dorothy had finished playing and come to speak to them. "Both of you girls did very well indeed. Very well indeed. But come now with me and we'll go around and sit in the box and listen to the rest of the concert. I want to hear it all." With that they traced their way back and soon were seated with the rest of the party. Dorothy told them all about how she had lost her violin and at the last minute recovering it vowed that she would be more careful of it in the future. The little party was loud in its praises of Dorothy's playing and Ruth's singing, for Dorothy presented her new friend to them as soon as she could. That evening they learned that it was the chauffeur of the taxicab who had found the violin in the auto before he had returned to the garage, and he had immediately started back for the hall with it, knowing it would be needed. Dorothy sent a letter of thanks and a reward, and Aunt Betty, learning the next day that he had a little boy with a broken leg in the hospital, sent a large basket of fruit for the young sufferer. CHAPTER VI. THE OPERA. The girls spent the next day in a very quiet manner. The morning passed quickly as they wrote letters and fixed up their rooms. About dinner time Jim knocked at the door and Dorothy answered. "Dorothy, I have written and 'phoned Mr. Ford and I can't seem to get any answer from him," announced Jim. "What did you want him for, Jim?" questioned Dorothy. "Why, I wanted to get his opinion on that position I want to take with the Edison Co.," answered Jim. "I have it!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Send him a telegram." "I might try that, though I have about made up my mind----" Just at that moment Aunt Betty called from her room, "Dorothy, Dorothy, girl!" "Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, going to her aunt's door. "What may you want?" "Don't you think it would be real nice if we four went for a drive this afternoon? It's a nice warm afternoon and we can go up Fifth avenue and into the park," suggested Aunt Betty. "That will be fine. I'll run and tell Alfy and we'll get ready," responded Dorothy, going quickly out of the room. "Alfy! Alfy! Where are you?" "In here," called Alfy from her room. Dorothy rushed into the room, crying, "Alfy dear, just think, we are going driving this afternoon, Aunt Betty, Jim, and you and I. We are going driving--driving." "Oh, that's just great," exclaimed Alfy, dancing round the room. "It's fun to go driving in a big city." "Let's get ready right away," said Dorothy, taking Alfy's hand and dancing round in a circle with her, singing, "Let's get ready, let's get ready, let's get ready right away." And then they let go of each other's hands and danced away to accomplish the art of "getting ready right away." Very soon the girls were in the sitting room waiting for Jim and Aunt Betty. Just then Jim burst into the room crying, "Dorothy, I can't get a horse and carriage here to drive myself like one has in Baltimore, but I did get a nice automobile. I guess it will not cost any more, for we cover so much ground in a short time. I found a large, red touring car that just holds five and the chauffeur is downstairs now waiting for us, so hustle into your things." "An auto ride! That's better still," responded Alfy as she rushed to put on her hat and coat. "I am all ready, dear," called Aunt Betty from the next room. "Well, then, come on," answered Jim. "All come with me." And they followed him down and out to the automobile. They were very much delighted with the auto car, and the three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, climbed into the back seat, and Jim took his place with the driver. Aunt Betty called, "Jim, Jim, please tell the chauffeur to drive slowly and to go up Fifth avenue." Away they went. "Oh, oh, oh!" gasped Alfy at the first corner. "Oh, I most thought we would bump into that trolley car!" "Well," said Jim, "we didn't, but it was a pretty close shave." "Just think of all the people we might have hurt if we had," said Dorothy. "I guess," replied Jim, "that the only ones hurt would have been ourselves, for the trolley is so heavy we couldn't have bothered that much." Just then they turned into Fifth avenue and joined the procession of already too many machines that were slowly wending their way up and down that old thoroughfare. "Dorothy and Alfy," said Aunt Betty, "in those large houses live the very rich of New York." "Oh, I wouldn't live in a house like that," said Alfy, "if I was rich. I couldn't, I just could never be happy in one like that," pointing to a large gray stone mansion. "It hasn't any garden and windows only in the front, and looks like a pile of boxes, one on top of the other." "Don't the people in New York care for gardens, aunty dear?" questioned Dorothy. "Yes. Yes, indeed, dear. But these are only their winter homes," laughed Aunt Betty. "They have summer homes in the country where they have very beautiful gardens. They only spend a few months here in these houses each winter." "Well, I would rather have a real home for all the time," said practical Jim. "A real home, like Bellevieu." "Dear, dear old Bellevieu, I wouldn't exchange it either for all of these places," whispered Dorothy. "And after this trip is over, and I have made a lot of money, we will all go back there again, and I will build that new sun-parlor Aunt Betty has so long wanted." Aunt Betty sighed, for she and she only knew how badly off was the poor old estate. The mortgage that must be paid and the repairs and other things that were needed. She hoped that Dorothy's trip would be a success, and that she could pay off the mortgage at last. Then answering Dorothy, she said, "Dear, dear little girl, you are always trying to think of something pleasant for someone else. Never mind your old Aunt Betty, dear." "But I do," whispered Dorothy in her ear, "because I love you more than anyone else in the world." "Yes, dear, maybe now you do," rejoined Aunt Betty, "but some day, some day wait and see." They eagerly looked at the beautiful homes, the large and handsome hotels and most of all the happy throng of people who filled the streets, remarking that they had never before seen quite so many people, each hurrying along apparently to do his or her special duty. From Fifth avenue they went up Riverside Drive, around Grant's Tomb. Then as the limit of time they had arranged for was nearly up they told the chauffeur to drive home, all happy and full of thoughts of the new things they had seen. "Well, what next, Dorothy girl?" exclaimed Aunt Betty. "Why, I don't quite know. Let me see--just what day is this?" said Dorothy to herself. "It's--it's--oh, yes, it's Friday! Oh, oh! Why we must all hurry, hurry, hurry--dress right at once." "Dorothy, child, what ails you?" laughed Aunt Betty. "Talking away so fast and all to yourself. Come now, tell me what you want us to dress for?" "Why, aunty, I had most forgotten it. It's Friday, and we promised--I mean I promised--but I forgot all about it," continued Dorothy. Just then Alfy interrupted. "Dorothy I am most dead with curiosity; tell us quick, please." "Well," rejoined Dorothy, "it's just this. You see, I promised--" "You said all that before," interrupted Alfy again. "Be still, Alfy, or I just won't tell," scolded Dorothy. "Mr. Ludlow is coming here at eight o'clock to take us all to the opera. Miss Boothington, Ruth, is going also. He told me to tell you all, and I just guess I must have since then forgotten. I don't see how I did, but I just did. Oh, aunty, it's a box Mr. Ludlow has and we must dress all up 'cause all the millionaires of New York go to the opera." "Dorothy dear, whatever made you forget?" asked Aunt Betty. "Guess 'cause she is doing and seeing so much she has lost track of the days. Isn't that so?" chimed in Alfy. "That doesn't excuse my little girl," remarked Aunt Betty, and turning to Dorothy, "What is it we are going to hear, dearest?" "I think Mr. Ludlow said 'Koenigskinder'," answered Dorothy. "I am not sure but that's what I think he said." "Ah, yes," said Aunt Betty, "that is a comparatively new opera and Miss Geraldine Farrar sings the principal part in it. She plays the part of the goose-girl. Well, I guess we had better hurry. We must dress and have dinner before Mr. Ludlow gets here for us." "Can I wear that new pink dress, Aunty?" called Dorothy. "Why, dear, I would keep that one for one of your concerts, and if I were you I would wear the little white one with the blue ribbons, and tell Alfy she might wear the white dress Miss Lenox made for her before we left Baltimore," said Aunt Betty. "All right," called back Dorothy. It didn't take the girls long to get dressed, and when they were finished they appeared in the sitting room. Both Jim and Aunt Betty declared that there weren't two finer girls in all New York City. And Jim added under his breath, "In all the world," thinking only of Dorothy then. Down they went for dinner, and so anxious were they that they should not be late that the meal was passed over as quickly and quietly as possible. They had just reached their rooms when Mr. Ludlow was announced, and gathering up their wraps and long white gloves--for Alfy thought more of these white gloves than anything else she owned just then--they went forth to meet Mr. Ludlow. "Well, well," said Mr. Ludlow, who was standing beside Ruth in the lobby, "all here and all ready. I do wish you would set the same example of promptness for Ruth. She is always, always late." "Well," replied Ruth, "somehow I always try but just can't seem to get dressed in time. I didn't keep you waiting very long to-day, did I?" "Well, dear, that is because I said that the longer you kept me waiting, the less you could have for dinner," laughed Mr. Ludlow. "Maybe that is why, because I do get so tired of boarding house meals," rejoined Ruth, and, turning to Dorothy, "Come dear, the auto is all ready and we are not so very early." The others followed them and soon they reached the Metropolitan Opera House, and after passing through the crowded lobby, entered the foyer. It was quite dark, and very quietly they followed Mr. Ludlow, whose box was on the right hand side, well toward the stage. They were presently all seated, but before they had time to talk or look around much the music began. And such music. Dorothy was oblivious to all else as she followed the score. For memory's convenience she wrote out the plot of the opera, the next day, and here is a copy from her diary: The Goose-Girl lives in the hills which look down in the town of Hellabrunn. Around her stray her geese. She lies on the green grass, beneath the branches of a shady linden-tree. Near her is the hut which she inhabits with an old cruel Witch. Behind her stretch wild woods and lonely mountains. She sings and feeds her flock. The Witch appears, scolding and berating the girl, whom she orders to prepare a magic pasty which will kill whoever eats of it. The Goose-Girl begs the Witch to let her go into the world of men. But she implores in vain. Out of the woods, and from the hills, a youth comes roving. He seems poor. But by his side there hangs a sword and in his hand he holds a bundle. He is the King's Son, though the Goose-Girl does not know it. And in the bundle is a royal crown. The King's Son tells the Goose-Girl of his wanderings. He has left his home, and the King's service, to be free. The Goose-Girl asks him what a King may be. He answers her, marvelling at her beauty and her ignorance. She longs to follow him. He falls in love with her, and asks her to go maying with him, through the summer land. He kisses her; and then a gust of wind blows the girl's wreath away. The King's Son picks up the wreath and hides it near his heart. In exchange for it he offers her his crown. The sweethearts are about to run off together when a wild wind alarms them and the Goose-Girl finds her feet glued to the ground. Thinking she is afraid to roam with him the King's Son tosses his crown into the grass, tells the girl that she is unworthy to be a King's mate and leaves her, vowing she shall never see him more till a star has fallen into a fair lily which is blooming near. The Goose-Girl is still sighing for her lover, when the Witch returns, abuses her for having wasted her time on a man and weaves a magic spell to prevent her escape. A Fiddler enters, singing a strange song. He is followed by two citizens of Hellabrunn, a Woodcutter and a Broom (or besom) maker, who have been sent to ask the Witch where they can find the son of the King, who is just dead. They are in mortal fear of the old woman. But the Fiddler scoffs at her and all her arts. The Fiddler, acting as their mouthpiece, says that the people of Hellabrunn are dying to have a King or a Queen to rule over them. The Witch replies that the first person, rich or in rags, who enters the town gate next day at noon should be enthroned. The Woodcutter and Broom-maker go back to Hellabrunn. But the Fiddler lingers, suspecting that the Goose-Girl is in the hut. Soon she appears and confides her sorrows to the Fiddler, who assures her she shall wed the King's Son. The Witch, however, jeers at the thought and tells the Fiddler that the girl is the child of a hangman's daughter. In spite of all, the Goose-Girl plucks up heart, for she feels that her soul is royal and she knows that she will not shame her kingly lover. She prays to her dead father and mother for help. And as she kneels, a shooting star falls into the lily. The Goose-Girl runs off into the woods with her flock, to join her sweetheart, and this ends the first act. In the second act the town of Hellabrunn is in a turmoil of excitement, awaiting the new ruler. Near the town-gate is an inn. The Innkeeper's Daughter is scolding the Stable-Maid, when the King's Son enters, poorly clad as before. Though she despises his poverty, the Innkeeper's Daughter coquettes with him; for he is comely. She gives him food and drink, which seem coarse to him, and advises him to get married. He declines and arouses the girl's anger. The people enter, seat themselves and drink. A Gate-keeper forbids any to approach the gate, which must be left free for the coming King. Musicians enter, playing pipes and bagpipes. A dance begins. The Innkeeper and his servants bustle about. He sees the King's Son, who offers himself to him as an apprentice, but is told that there is no work for him, unless he is willing to be a swineherd. He consents. The Woodcutter appears, with the Broom-maker and his thirteen daughters. The Woodcutter, swelling with importance, tosses a gulden on the Innkeeper's table, to wipe out an old score, but pockets it again when unobserved. One of the Broom-maker's daughters asks the King's Son to play at Ring-a-rosy with her. Their game is interrupted by the entrance of the Town Councillors and well-to-do Burghers, with their wives and children. The Councillors seat themselves in a tribune erected for them and the eldest of them invites the Woodcutter to relate his adventures in the woods. The King's Son is amazed to hear him tell of imaginary dangers which he has encountered with the Broom-maker. He learns from the Woodcutter's account, however, that on the stroke of twelve a King's Son, richly clad, and bright with gems, will enter by the now closed gate. He asks the people if the expected monarch might not come in rags. They laugh at the idea and he is accused of being a meddler, rogue and thief. The clock strikes twelve. The crowd rushes toward the gate. An intuition warns the King's Son who is near. Then, as the gate is opened, the poor Goose-Girl enters, escorted by her geese. She tells the King's Son she has come to join him on his throne. But the crowd jeers at her and scorns her youthful lover and though the Fiddler storms and rages at their blindness, the two lovers are driven out with sticks and stones. Only the Fiddler and the little daughter of the Broom-maker believe them worthy of the throne. This was where the curtain went down and I thought it was the end. Oh, how disappointed I was, and then how happy, when I knew there was another act. Winter has come. Since the expulsion of the King's Son and his sweetheart, the Witch has been burned at the stake for her supposed betrayal of the people to whom she had promised a new ruler. The Fiddler, who has been maimed and imprisoned for defending the outcasts, now lives alone in the Witch's hut, where he is feeding the doves the Goose-Girl has left behind. He is disturbed by the arrival of the Woodcutter and the Broom-maker, with a troop of children who have come to entreat him to come back to Hellabrunn. He refuses. But when one of the children begs him to lead them all in search of the lost King's Son and his bride, he consents. The Woodcutter and the Broom-maker withdraw into the hut, where they discover the poisoned pasty which the Witch had baked. Hardly have the echoes of a song sung by the Fiddler died away, when the King's Son and the Goose-Girl re-appear, hungry and thirsting and worn out with wandering. They stop to rest and the King's Son knocks at the door of the hut to beg food and shelter. The Woodcutter refuses to give them anything. To comfort her sweetheart, the Goose-Girl pretends she is none the worse for her long travels over hill and dale in the vain effort to discover the King's Son's old home. She sings and dances to him. But she soon grows faint and falls. To save his love from starving, the King's Son then barters his royal crown, which he has found again, for the poisoned pasty. The outcasts eat it and soon after die, fancying themselves happy in a land of love and roses. With her last breath the Goose-Girl braves grim Death who threatens her and sighs "I love thee, dear!" The Fiddler and the troop of little children then return, only to learn that they have found the outcasts but to lose them. They lay the youthful lovers on a bier and bear them away to bury them on a high hill. And as they go, they sing a last lament for the poor "Kingly Children." After the opera, Mr. Ludlow invited them to a supper at one of the cafes, but Aunt Betty demurred, as it was quite late, and so they were driven straight home. "Alfy," said Dorothy, when they had reached their rooms, "you are such a funny girl. You didn't half pay attention to the opera at all. All I saw you doing was looking at the ladies in the boxes." "I was trying to remember the dress of the lady in that one box, the one that glistened all over with diamonds. I wanted to write and tell Ma Babcock just how to make it. It was so stylish, and had such a nice low neck and long train," said Alfy. "Alfy, are you sure you are not crazy?" laughed Dorothy. "Oh, oh! Just imagine Ma Babcock in a dress like that! Oh, dear! It's so funny." "Why, Dorothy!" angrily added Alfy, "why couldn't ma have a dress like that? And anyway, I couldn't understand a word they were singing. I am going right to bed, I am, so there!" "Alfy, dear, don't you know that people only wear dresses like that to evening affairs, and, of course, you couldn't understand, it was all in German. Here, kiss me good-night." The girls kissed each other and were soon fast asleep. CHAPTER VII. AN EPISODE. The next morning no one arose very early. They were all quite willing to rest. Jim, first of all, was up and out. He had been working over a list of boarding houses as he had quite decided to take the position, and his salary would not permit him to live in an expensive hotel. He had not been very successful and on returning to the hotel found Aunt Betty reading in their sitting room. "Aunt Betty," said Jim. "Yes," answered Aunt Betty, "what is it? Do you want to talk business with me?" "Yes, business," responded Jim, doubtfully. "I have been out all the morning trying to find a boarding house." "A boarding house?" echoed Aunt Betty. "Yes, a boarding house," answered Jim. "You see I have quite decided to take the position. I received a letter from Mr. Ford's secretary saying Mr. Ford is abroad, and not expected back for some time. And if I work there at the Edison, I must live in a boarding house not too far away from there. I didn't have much luck." "Why not ask Mr. Ludlow? He might know of a place," suggested Aunt Betty. "Or maybe you could see if there is a room at that place where Ruth, Miss Boothington, is staying. You remember her saying that she was tired of boarding house meals, do you not?" "I never thought of that," added Jim. "Suppose I ask Dorothy where she lives, maybe she knows." "Yes, call her," replied Aunt Betty. "Dorothy! Dorothy! Where are you?" called Jim. "Here, in Alfy's room, I have been writing in my diary," answered the girl. "I will be there in just a minute. Oh, dear," she continued to herself, "I just can't seem to ever write to Frau. Every time I start on that letter someone calls, and then I stop writing, and it is so long before I can get at it again. I have to begin all over." "Well, young man, what is it this time?" she said, turning to Jim as she entered the room. "It's just this, Dorothy. You see, I am going to take the position in New York and I must live here," started Jim. "Ah, Jim, you never told me anything about really taking a position. I just supposed that--well, I don't quite know--but I didn't think you really meant to do it," interrupted Dorothy. "I do, Dorothy, mean it. And I have made up my mind to take it and work, so hard that some day I can make a man out of myself like Dr. Sterling and some others I know," replied Jim. "But to get down to the point why we called you, Aunt Betty thought you might help in finding a boarding place for me. You see, I must live here in the city, and it's hard to find a good boarding place. Miss Ruth, last night, said something about her place. Do you know where it is?" "No, Jim, I can't say that I do, but I heard her say that it was down on lower Fifth avenue--way downtown, she said. I might call up Mr. Ludlow and find out right now, or you can wait till to-night, for I play at that concert at the Hippodrome this evening, you know." "Call him up now, dear," suggested Aunt Betty from her corner. "Then you and Jim can take a walk there this afternoon. Alfy and I can find something to amuse ourselves with. We could take one of those stages and ride up Fifth avenue on it. It's a fine ride on a nice day like this." "Very well," answered Dorothy, immediately going to the telephone, and acting on her aunt's suggestion. Jim and Aunt Betty sat quietly by till she had finished her conversation at the telephone. "Mr. Ludlow says that Ruth lives on Fifth avenue, near Washington square, and it's a very large, old-fashioned boarding house run by an elderly southern lady, who, being in very adverse circumstances, had to take hold and do something. He said that the rooms were fairly large, the meals first rate and the charges moderate, and that we had better see her at once because she has usually a pretty full house," added Dorothy. "Why not start at once, dear," replied Aunt Betty. "Then you can come home and practice this afternoon, and as Alfy and I will be out there will be nothing to distract you." "Yes, let's go now, Dorothy, if you can spare the time to go with me," pleaded Jim. "Where is it near?" "He says it is near Ninth street," replied Dorothy. "All right, Jim, I will be ready in a few minutes. Oh dear," she sighed to herself, "poor Frau will not get her letter very soon, I guess. Well, I can write this afternoon, after I practice, and I will make the letter extra long so as to make up for the time I have taken to write her." "Good-bye, Aunt Betty," called Dorothy a short time later. "Good-bye, Aunt Betty," echoed Jim. "We'll be back soon." With that the two disappeared and Aunt Betty from her corner sighed as she thought of what a charming pair the pretty Dorothy and the tall youth made. "Shall we ride?" asked Jim. "No. Let's walk, it is not far, only a few blocks," said Dorothy. "That's just what I wanted to do," replied Jim, "only I was most afraid you would not care to. We haven't had a good walk in a long time." They walked on silently as the streets were so crowded and there was lots to see, and the crossings required much attention, these two not being used to the busy streets of New York, where one has to look in all directions at once and keep moving lively to avoid being run into by the many automobiles or trucks that are hurrying along. Finally Dorothy, observing the number on the houses, said: "Here we are, this is the house." Up the steps they ran and Jim gave the old-fashioned bell a vigorous pull. "Ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling," vaguely sounded from somewhere within and presently a pleasant faced young girl with white cap and apron and dark dress, said in a low voice, "Whom do you wish to see?" Jim answered, "Will you tell Miss Boothington that Miss Dorothy Calvert wishes to see her?" Slowly they followed the neat maid into the old fashioned parlor and waited there for her to take the message to Ruth. "Oh, Jim," whispered Dorothy, very softly putting her hand on Jim's arm. "Jim, if I were you I should love to stay here. It is more like a home, a real home than any place I have been in, in the big city." "Yes, it is. And it is so quiet and restful. I do hope there will be room for me here," answered Jim. Just then they heard foot-steps on the stairs and in a second Ruth's cheery voice greeted them with a "Hello!" from the hall. "Well, this is a surprise. I didn't expect to see you till to-night, Dorothy. Have I you to thank for bringing her to me?" she asked, smiling at Jim. "Yes, I guess so," replied Dorothy. "We came on business." "On business!" echoed Ruth. "Yes, on business," answered Jim. "It's just this: You see I have taken a position in New York and I have to board here. We didn't know of any place and Aunt Betty thought of something you had said the night before about boarding-house meals." "Yes," continued Dorothy, "and I called Mr. Ludlow up and he recommended this place and we came right down here, and we have just fallen in love with the place at first sight. Haven't we, Jim?" "Wait. Let me see. You want to see Mrs. Quarren. She is out just now, but she is such a dear. I know! You must both stay to lunch. It is just eleven forty-five and we lunch here at twelve. You see so many of the boarders here do not come home at noon-time, they work too far to come back, so that there will be plenty of room. And then you can see how the table suits you. Mrs. Quarren is always in for meals. You see she is just a great dear mother to us all. I won't know what to do without her." "I will lend you Aunt Betty when you are with us," volunteered Dorothy. "But we must let her know we are going to stay here for lunch." "I'll telephone her if you will show me where the 'phone is," spoke up Jim. "Right this way, please," said Ruth, leading Jim into the hall where he saw the little table and 'phone. "Come back to the parlor when you are through," and Ruth went back to Dorothy. "You are to play to-night, are you not?" she inquired. "Yes, and are you to sing?" questioned Dorothy. "Right after you play. We are each to do just one thing to-night. I am going to sing 'Still vie de Nochte,' or in English, 'Still as the Night,' you see it's just a little German song. What are you to play?" asked Ruth. "I thought I was to play two selections--Mr. Ludlow said so----" started Dorothy. "Yes, dear, you were," interrupted Ruth, "but he changed his mind after I had coaxed him and he has consented to let me sing so we each can have one number then." "Well, then I will play that old medley, 'Southern Airs.' I like that best of all. It makes me think of home," answered Dorothy. "And I always can just fairly see old Bellevieu when you play that piece," added Jim from the doorway. "Aunt Betty said it was satisfactory, and that she and Alfy would go out this afternoon and for you to come home soon and practice." Just then the luncheon bell sounded and the three went quickly down stairs. They were seated at a small table near the window. Ruth always sat there and as the other guests at that table were never present for luncheon, Dorothy and Jim could sit there too. So the three had the little table all to themselves. Just as soon as she could, Mrs. Quarren came over to the table, for she had returned from her duties outside. Ruth presented Dorothy and Jim to her, and as she sat pleasantly chatting, Jim told her of his want. She said she would see him after dinner in the library. "Well, Dorothy, you come to my room with me while Jim sees Mrs. Quarren in the library," said Ruth, rising and carefully pushing her chair back under the table. "You are very kind. I would like to see your room. You lead and I will follow," answered Dorothy. "Oh, the room is not much. You come too, Jim, and I will show you where the library is," said Ruth, leading the way upstairs. "Right in there, Jim." Jim entered the library and the girls ascended to the floors above. "I am going out this afternoon with a friend," said Ruth. "I promised I would go shopping with her," and she opened the door of her room. The room was a large, sunny one with simple furnishings. "I'll sit here," announced Dorothy, "till you are ready to go." "I will just hustle with my things and be ready in a moment," replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words. In a very few minutes the girls were ready and slowly descended the stairs again to wait for Jim in the parlor. "Well, here I am. Room engaged and all," said a cheery voice from the hall which they knew as Jim's. "Where is it?" questioned Ruth. "Yes, where?" echoed Dorothy. "Where do you suppose?" mocked Jim. "Well, I will tell you. Ruth it is your room." "My room!" exclaimed the girl. "Yes, your room," laughed Jim. "I am to have it next Wednesday. Mrs. Quarren said you were to leave it Tuesday." "Tuesday!" interrupted Dorothy, in a very much surprised tone of voice. "Yes, dear, Tuesday. Didn't Mr. Ludlow tell you?" added Ruth. "Tuesday we go to Washington on the noon train." "Ah, is it so soon? I didn't know it. It makes me feel so sad. I hate to leave New York now, just as I am becoming used to it," wailed Dorothy. "Oh, I just must go back to the hotel. I have to practice and it is getting late." "Come on, Dorothy," said Jim, rising and walking to the door. "Good-bye till to-night," said Dorothy. "Good-bye, dear, till to-night," answered Ruth. With that Dorothy and Jim made their departure for home. The way back was rather quiet, for the news that the girls were to start so soon had made Jim sad. And Dorothy couldn't help but feel the same way. When at last they had silently reached the hotel and had gone up to the rooms, Dorothy spoke. "Jim, do you want to stay here and be my audience while I practice and tell me what you think of my playing?" "Yes, indeed I do," answered Jim, gladly grasping the opportunity to be near the girl, and when he had seated himself in a great chair added, "I'll be more than audience, I'll be newspaper reporter and a very exacting and critical one at that. And then, when you finish I will tell you what I would put in the paper about you and your playing." "That's a bargain," answered Dorothy, taking her violin in hand. "I will start right now." So saying she commenced playing slowly at first, anon faster and faster, then again more slowly that beautiful composition, "A Medley of Southern Airs," putting all her love and yearning for her own southern home into the effort. Jim from his chair by the window could picture each phase of the piece, and when she had finished with the beautiful sad strains of "Home, Sweet Home," he could hardly control himself, and man that he was, he could not keep the tears from his eyes. For a brief moment neither spoke. Dorothy laid down her violin and came over to him. Jim arose and took both her hands, saying softly, "Dorothy girl, it was wonderful, but it makes me so sad. I just can't bear to think of parting from you." "Jim, dear, you too feel sad?" she questioned softly, but withdrawing her hands. Jim let the little hands slowly drop but took her by the shoulders, looking eagerly into her eyes. "You will miss me?" he questioned, "really miss me?" "Of course I will, dreadfully so," she answered. Then without a word of warning he drew her gently to him and kissed her full on the lips. For one brief moment they clung together, then Dorothy withdrew his arms. "Jim, oh, Jim! what have you done?" she sobbed. "Girl, I just couldn't help it," answered Jim, gently drawing her into his embrace again. "Dorothy, little Dorothy, didn't you know before? Couldn't you guess?" "Jim, dear, I never thought of you that way, and it's so new and strange. I can't realize it all." And with that Dorothy rushed away and into her own room. CHAPTER VIII. "AMERICA." Just before dinner Dorothy came slowly from her room into the sitting room where she found Jim all alone, seated in the same large chair by the window. She had dressed this evening with much care and wore a white dress with blue ribbons at her waist. She had also fixed her hair differently and more in the prevailing fashion. The girls of New York she had noticed wore their hair "up," and as Dorothy was eighteen, she thought she too must dress it like they did. So carefully this afternoon did she arrange it, with three little curls at her neck and a tiny curl just peeping out at each ear. It made her look a little older and very fascinating indeed. Decidedly Jim so thought, as he turned to look at her as she entered the room. "Come here and sit down. I want to talk to you just a few minutes, dear," he said, drawing up a chair close to his for her. Dorothy obeyed, as some way she always was accustomed to obeying this boy, although he was really only five years older than she was. "What is it you want to say?" she asked, seating herself leisurely. "It's about what happened this afternoon," Jim began, and hesitated, hardly knowing how to continue. Looking at Dorothy he thought that she too had changed since the afternoon; she seemed more fair, more grown up, as if she had become a full grown woman instead of a child. "Dear, I am sorry for what I said and did. I can't make any excuses, I just lost control. The thought of your going away maddened me. I can't help loving you, caring for you. I have done that now for years. I didn't mean to speak to you until I had made good. And now I have spoiled it all by my recklessness," he added, bitterly. Then quickly changing his tone of voice to a more cheerful one, he continued: "Dear, never mind, we can be the same old friends again, can't we?" "Yes, and no, Jim," quietly responded Dorothy, who had already felt a complete change that before she didn't realize and even now didn't understand. Jim seized her hands and asked hurriedly, "Could you love me? Could you? You don't know how much I would give for just one little word of hope. Don't leave me back here in New York, working, fighting, all by myself with no word of cheer. Answer me girl, answer me. Could you care, not as much as I do, now, but just a little?" "Jim, I do, a little," was all she could manage to say before she was seized eagerly in his arms again and having kisses showered upon her hair, cheeks and lips. "Jim, Jim, you are behaving shamefully and mussing me all up," she said, struggling to free herself, but she was held fast and stern tones pleaded, "I just can't let you go now. I just can't." "Jim, dear, you must or I won't even love you a little," she laughed. "Well, if I must, I must," he said, kissing her just once again. "My girl, my own girl," he added. "Jim, I haven't promised you anything, and I just said I cared for you a little. I'd have to love you a lot before I could promise you anything. You mustn't call me yours. If, when I come back from my trip, and that's a long time from now, I do love you----" added Dorothy. "You will promise me then? You will? Oh girl, you make me so happy, so happy!" cried Jim. "I will work so hard all winter and save up so much. I have considerable saved up now. Then you will come to me, girl?" "I said if I did love you then," teased Dorothy, "and that's if----" "You little tease," interrupted Jim. "I will punish you." "No you won't," Dorothy added quickly. "And never, never say anything of the kind to me again, or even try to love me, or I'll just never, never love you. I have my music to attend to and you mustn't disturb my practice or even try to make me think of you when I should be thinking of it." "Very well," acquiesced Jim, sadly, "it will be very hard though. I'll promise if you will write me every day while you are away." "Every day!" exclaimed Dorothy. "Not every day. I wouldn't know what to say." "All you would have to say to me would be, 'I love you,' over and over again," laughed Jim. "But I can't, cause maybe I don't," teased Dorothy, "but I'll write sometimes." "Sometimes," complained Jim, mournfully. "Sometimes is better than never," laughed the girl. "Very well. I'll hope that sometimes is very often or nearly every day," said Jim. "Kiss me once more, then I won't bother you again." Then folding her to him he kissed that dear, dear face and thought of the many times he used to blush and show all kinds of discomfort when Dorothy kissed him of her own free will, and then he remembered Gerald Beck's comments that any fellow would go a long, long way to kiss Dorothy. And thinking of the difference now, he drew her closer as she was drawing away, and turning her head back, kissed her on the brow and then she slowly turned and walked to the table, picking up her violin and played. While she was playing Aunt Betty and Alfy came in. They sat down quietly so as not to disturb her. Dorothy finished her piece and then came over and kissed her aunt, saying, "Dear Aunt Betty, have you and Alfy enjoyed yourselves?" "Oh, yes indeed, dear. We took a stage up to Ninety-sixth street, through to Riverside Drive and then back again," answered Aunt Betty. "And what did you think of it, Alfy?" asked Jim, turning to the girl. "I just couldn't keep my eyes off the crowds of people walking up and down Fifth avenue, all of them dressed up as if they were going to church, and Aunt Betty said they were all going to tea at the hotels--afternoon tea--and men too. Why, I saw a lot of men and they were all dressed up too, and had on some of those yellow gloves and carried canes. And all the ladies carried silver chain purses or bags. Ah," and Alfy heaved a great sigh, "I wish I had a silver bag; they make you look so dressed up. Then there were so many, many stores and such nice things to buy in all of them. I would like to be rich just for one day and then I could buy all I wanted. I would get--oh, I just couldn't tell you all I would get. I saw so many things I just wanted so bad." And I guess Alfy would have continued indefinitely if the telephone bell had not interrupted her. Dorothy answered the call and turning to Aunt Betty, said, "Aunt Betty, dear, Ruth wants to know if I can take dinner with her and Mr. Ludlow at the Hotel Astor at six o'clock, so we can go to the Hippodrome real early and find out our places before the concert starts." "Certainly, if you wish it," answered Aunt Betty. So Dorothy returned to the telephone and continued her conversation with Ruth and when finished hung up the receiver and turned again to Aunt Betty, saying, "Ruth said for me to hurry and dress and they--Ruth and Mr. Ludlow--would call for me--about six o'clock. What shall I wear?" "The little pink dress, dear; that is quite pretty and most appropriate for the occasion," answered Aunt Betty. "I am tired, so Alfy will help you. Besides, I want to talk to Jim." "Oh, Aunt Betty," interrupted Dorothy. "I forgot to tell you that this afternoon while we were at Ruth's, we learned of the fact that we start on our trip on Tuesday--the noon train for Washington. Jim can tell you all the rest while I dress." "And did you get a room there where Ruth is, Jim?" questioned Aunt Betty. Whereat Jim told of his arrangements, discussing the matter till Dorothy returned. "Take your violin, dear, and hurry. The 'phone is ringing now and I guess that is them. Yes, it is," said Aunt Betty, answering the call. "Good-bye, all, for just a little while. You all be early," called Dorothy, as she left the room. After a remarkably fine dinner at the Hotel Astor, which the girls enjoyed immensely, they all drove to the Hippodrome. Mr. Ludlow led the girls inside and showed them where they were to sit while they waited for their turn to play or sing. There were many, many people in a large room and Mr. Ludlow told them they were the artists and their friends, but that presently all that were to take part would meet in the room where the girls were. He left them there for a few minutes and went away to find out if they had been given their places on the list. He found their numbers were five and six, Ruth being five. He came back, told the girls this and then left them to themselves till their turns came. They sat still, not saying much but enjoying all the people about them,--some of them seemed to them so queer. Finally it was Ruth's turn to sing. Slowly she got up, walked to the entrance and on the stage. She rendered her simple song, "Still vie die Nochte" very well, and amid a volley of applause, left the stage. She could not give an encore so she simply walked to the front again and bowed. Dorothy, listening, had heard all and was preparing for her task, tuning her violin. Just then Ruth, returning, whispered in her ear, "Good luck," as she passed her. Dorothy turned and smiled at her new friend, and then proceeded forward to the stage, violin in hand. One brief glimpse she caught of the crowded house, and she thought she had never seen so many, many people before. The Hippodrome is very large, the stage being one of the largest in the world, and the seating capacity being many thousands. So you see there were a great number of people there. The house was over-crowded, as naturally every one was interested in the home for blind babies, and the talent of the evening had called forth a very large attendance. Slowly Dorothy raised her violin and started the initial strain of the melody. The beautiful "Southern Airs" appealed to many, as there were a large number of southerners present that night. Played by the beautiful girl, it made the old go back in memory to days that were the happiest in their lives. They longed for the South; the large plantations, the beautiful gardens, the spacious, old, rambling houses, the darkies playing on their violins in the moonlight, the cabins with the little pickaninies disporting in front--all of these and more dreams floated vividly before them, inspired by the wonderful music. Then softly, very softly the music fell from the violin, the sweet strains of "Dixie," when suddenly a piercing shriek, another, still another, rent the air. People turned pale. Some started to rise from their seats. A woman or two fainted. Then another and more awful shriek, which sounded as if some one was being murdered. The people in their seats hesitated! Was it fire? Was someone being robbed, or murdered, or what? In a single second a great restlessness took possession of them all, tending to make of the crowd an angry mob, and panic a possible result. Dorothy from her place on the stage for a moment was rooted immovable to the spot. She looked in the direction from which the screams came and saw a man throw up his hands and shriek again. It was the man who played the trombone in the orchestra. He threw his instrument in the air and turned as white as chalk, then stiffened out and began to froth at the mouth. In a moment she knew that the man had convulsions. She had somewhere seen someone in a similar state. The orchestra had suddenly stopped playing. Out in the audience she saw a sight that terrified her more than she would admit to herself. One thought raced through her brain. She, she alone might--nay must--prevent a panic; people were becoming more excited every moment. Instinct of some sort made her grasp her violin and raise it. Then she knew what to do. Without accompaniment, in clear, sweet tones she played "America." Slowly the people rose, rose to pay their respects to their national hymn, patriotism immediately conquering all fear. While she played the poor trombone player was carried out to receive medical attention. All through the three verses of the hymn Dorothy held the audience, and then as she finished and the curtain fell, the house broke out in thunderous applause, for now they realized what this girl had done, what possibilities she had saved them from. So insistent was the applause that Dorothy had to stop in front of the curtain again and again. CHAPTER IX. A DREAD CALL IN THE NIGHT. The next day Dorothy was ill as the result of the strain of the previous evening, and when Mr. Ludlow and Ruth called they found her resting on the couch in the living room. Ruth was eager to talk of the happenings of the night before, but Mr. Ludlow restrained her, saying: "Dorothy, I am very proud of you, and I want to thank you for what you did last night. The morning papers are full of the news of the events of last night, and now every place you go you will be doubly welcomed and given hearty receptions. It was a very good thing for us as it has given you advance press notices, which are superior and more convincing than anything I could put in for you. You will probably get all kinds of letters from people wanting you to play at private concerts, but keep them, my dear, as sometimes they come in very handy, and you never can tell when you can use them. "But for the present you must rest, that is, to-day and to-morrow. Tuesday we start on the noon train for Washington, so be prepared and on time. Ruth has much packing to do likewise, so we will go now and leave you to yourself." "Oh, can't I stay and talk?" interrupted Ruth eagerly. "There are so many things I want to talk to Dorothy about." "No. I guess you had better go home and pack up. You know I want you to go to church to-night. There is to be a musical service at St. Bartholomew's that I want you to hear," added Mr. Ludlow. "Can't we all go?" questioned Ruth. "I think Dorothy is better off home, here," rejoined Aunt Betty. "She had better stay here and rest, just for to-day. Then you see, she has to pack and shop a little to-morrow." "I would like to go," Alfy chimed in. "I just love church music, it is so grand, so very impressive and kind of awe inspiring." "All right," answered Mr. Ludlow, "suppose you do. You can bring Jim with you, if he would care to come." "I know I should enjoy the services very much," responded Jim, not very enthusiastically, but so long as he couldn't be with Dorothy he could sit there and think of her, and Alfy was so anxious to go it would be unkind to refuse. "Well, you two meet us there," said Mr. Ludlow, and turning to Ruth, "Come along, my dear." "Good-bye, all," said Ruth, and they departed. Dorothy and Aunt Betty stayed home as arranged, while Jim and Alfy attended church, returning to the hotel just as Aunt Betty and Dorothy were about to retire. "Oh, Dorothy," exclaimed Alfy, eagerly, "you ought to have gone, you missed such a lot. The music was so beautiful. I just know that an organ has locked up in those big pipes the finest music in the world. It's so solemn and impressive it most made me cry." "But you forget the wonderful singing," interrupted Jim. "They had a full choir, and the voices of so many young boys sounded like the voices of angels. And as they played the recessional and marched out, the singing grew softer and softer, and sounded as if it were coming from Heaven indeed." Dorothy did not say anything at this, but looked at Jim earnestly. "I am glad you enjoyed the services. Yes, the Episcopal services, I do think, are the most impressive of all denominations," said Aunt Betty. "Did you see Ruth and Mr. Ludlow?" asked Dorothy, turning to Alfy. She was afraid to look at Jim for fear of seeing something in his eyes she felt she had no right at that time to see. "Yes, we met them in time, and they both wished to be remembered to you and Aunt Betty, and hoped you were feeling rested now," answered Alfy. "Come, let's go to bed now, dears," said Aunt Betty. "We all have to do a lot to-morrow and must get up real early." With that they all retired to rest till the morrow. That at least was their expectation, but soon there was to materialize a different aspect to affairs. New York, even at night, is a noisy place, so it is little wonder that when the cries of "Fire," "Fire," rent the air, few heard and the few who did hear paid not much attention. But when someone knocked on Mrs. Calvert's door with a terrific thud, and yelled, "Fire! Fire! All out! Use stairs to the left!" all three, Aunt Betty, Dorothy and Alfy, were out of their beds with unhesitating promptness, and remarkably scared at that. "Fire! Fire!" rang through the air, and they could hear the bell-boys thump, thump, thump on each door. "Put on your slippers and kimona and come at once!" commanded Aunt Betty, suiting actions to her words. "Come, Alfy, Dorothy, this way out!" Very quickly, indeed, the girls, too bewildered to do much else but obey orders, followed close by, Alfy picking up her hat and a few other articles as she ran through her room. "This way, ladies," called the bell-boy. "This way. No danger, only it's best to get out. Use this stair." Aunt Betty and the girls quickly gained the stairs, and ran down as fast as they could, one after the other. On reaching the main floor they heard the call of another attendant. "All step outside and across the street." So they followed quietly on and outside till they stood on the opposite side of the street. There were assembled a couple of hundred people, mainly guests of the hotel, most of them more or less asleep and very scantily clothed in garments hastily assumed. Some of the women and children were sobbing, and most of them shivering. Looking up at the hotel, Dorothy tried to locate just where the fire was. She finally discovered a little flame and smoke curling up from the wing of the hotel, not where their rooms were, but far above, near the top floors. Quickly she ran her eye down and counted the floors, finding that the fire was on the tenth and eleventh floors. Suddenly it came to her that her priceless violin, her precious Cremona, was back there in their rooms on the seventh floor. Suddenly she slipped away from Aunt Betty and started toward the building. Swiftly she made her way through the crowd, and very quietly passed the firemen and bell-boys who stood about the entrance to the burning building. In a second she was past them, and on her way up the long stairs as she knew that the elevators were not running, and would not take her up if they were. She felt sure that she could get to the room and return with safety without being missed. In the meantime, Jim, who had not awakened at the first alarm, almost frantic at not being able to discover Aunt Betty and the girls, was wandering in and out of the crowd, scanning the faces of everyone very carefully, trying vainly to find the ones he loved best in all this wide, wide world. Suddenly a hand grasped his arm and a voice said, "Jim, Jim, we have been looking for you. Where have you been?" and Jim turned and saw it was Aunt Betty that spoke. "What do you think of the fire?" she continued. "Do you think it is going to be real serious?" "No. But one can hardly tell. I should judge that with the capable fire service that New York has, so fully equipped and strictly up-to-date, that they could get it under entire control with possible danger to only a couple of floors," answered Jim. "Then, maybe our floor will not be burned at all?" inquired Alfy. "I hope not," answered Aunt Betty. Just then Jim turned to look at the girl, for she stood directly in back of Aunt Betty, and catching sight of her he laughed outright. "Why, Alfy, what have you there?" he exclaimed. A funny sight, indeed, was Alfy, her little bedroom slippers of red just peeping out from under her bright pink kimona which she had slipped on over her night dress, and a bright red hat in her hand. "My hat," answered Alfy. "My best new hat. I saw it lying on the table so I picked it up as I passed. I couldn't bear to think of losing it. It's my favorite color and here it is." She placed the hat on her head and laughed as she did so. Aunt Betty turned and laughed, too, and so did many of the people around them. The girl looked funny indeed with the kimona and the hat. Her long, abundant growth of hair was braided down her back in two huge braids tied at the ends with blue hair ribbons which had long been discarded from day use. The red hat topping all looked as if the fire itself was there in their midst. "Great heavens!" exclaimed Aunt Betty, suddenly. "Where is Dorothy? Where is she?" Whereat faintness overcame her, and she dropped helpless upon the sidewalk. Jim caught and held her in his young strong arms, and carried her over to a chair that had been brought out of the hotel. Here he put her in the care of a young matron, who had kindly offered assistance, and was aiding Alfy. Being sure that she was safe and well cared for, he quickly began to look for Dorothy. In a few seconds he ran through the crowd, his heart sinking, as he could not locate her anywhere. Then he thought she might have gone back to the burning building. The thought of her, the girl he loved, up there in that dangerous place nearly drove him frantic. Quickly he rushed past the fire lines, yelling to the policemen who would have delayed him perhaps, when every moment was precious. He must find her. His Dorothy must be saved. "There is someone in there I must save!" he shouted to those he passed. He hurried on and ran into the building. First he went toward the elevator, but seeing no one there, turned and ran for the stairs. Quickly he mounted them quickly--indeed he ran! Up those seven long flights of stairs he went with an energy he never called forth before. As he neared their floor he saw that the fire had in some few places broken through to the seventh floor, and realized that he could go no higher, and had but a few moments more. "Dorothy! Dorothy!" he called out. He thought he heard a very faint answer from her and rushed madly onward. He could not see, and was choked by the thickening smoke. Finding his way into the bath room he opened the window, then he picked up two large towels and hastily wet them with cold water. One of those he wrapped about his head, and then he called again. She answered faintly, and then he found the girl, her precious violin in her hands. She choked with the smoke, and was all out of breath from her long race up the many flights of stairs. "Jim," she sobbed. "I just had to get this. I couldn't leave my violin up here," and fell into his arms. "Come girl," said Jim, sternly. "Here, put this around your face, so," and he carefully adjusted the wet towel he had provided for the purpose. "Now, follow me, and give me your hand." Just outside the doors the smoke was very dense. "Lay down and creep!" ordered Jim, "and give me your violin." He took the violin and forced Dorothy down and beside him so that their heads would be close to the floor. As you doubtless know, smoke rises, and the place freest from smoke would be the lowest possible one. Thus they crept until they reached the stair. "Stand up, now," commanded Jim, "and take the violin again." Then he took her in his arms and rapidly made his way down, till they had passed the zone of danger. Here for one brief moment he held the girl in his arms, murmuring lowly, "Thank God, darling, you are safe now." Then they quickly made their way to the place where he had left Aunt Betty and Alfy. There sat Mrs. Calvert, pale but calm. On seeing her, Dorothy rushed into her aunt's arms, and explained, "Dear Aunt Betty, I just went back after my violin. I couldn't let it stay in there and get burned. And Jim came after me and saved me." "Dear, dear child, don't you know how foolish that was to do? Why you are far more precious to me than any violin, no matter how priceless it may be." Just then they heard a voice calling the crowd to attention. It was the manager of the hotel, making an announcement. He told the people that while the firemen had the fire well in control, it was considered safest for none of the guests to return to their rooms until the morning, when it would be entirely safe. The Hotel Breslin, he informed them, would accommodate them for the night, and was but a few doors away. The people began to follow his instructions at once, and the clerks at the Hotel Breslin were soon very busy apportioning rooms to them. All were very shortly trying to overcome their worries sufficiently to enable them to regain the sleep they had lost. The fire had been caused by the carelessness of some of the servants of the hotel in dropping lighted matches on the floor, the servants' apartments being in the top of the building. It was therefore hoped that little damage had been done to the property of the guests. CHAPTER X. THE LOCKET. The next morning, quite late, for it was nearly ten o'clock, Aunt Betty and the two girls arose. The hotel people had arranged to have the breakfasts sent up to all the unfortunate ones, and otherwise made them as comfortable as possible. The trio breakfasted and Aunt Betty suggested, "Dorothy, dear, I think it would be a wise idea to telephone over to the hotel and find out if any of our things were left unharmed by the fire, and ask, too, if we might come back there now." "Yes, Aunt Betty," answered Dorothy, as she started for the 'phone. She talked over the wire for several minutes, then returning to her aunt and Alfy said, "They say that some of our things have not been spoiled at all, but that the rooms are a complete wreck, because the firemen broke all the windows when they stopped the fire at that point. We have been given a suite on the second floor, and all the things which belong to us have been moved down there." "Ah," interrupted Alfy. "I am so glad there are some things left. I was afraid we would have to go about all day in blankets and look like Indian squaws." "No, indeed," answered Dorothy. "They are going to send us in our coats, so that we can get to the carriage that they have placed at the disposal of the guests and be driven right to the door." "They have certainly tried to be as considerate as possible to all their guests," said Mrs. Calvert. "Here," said Dorothy, answering a loud knock at the door, "here are our coats now." "Come, let us see what we have left, for I feel sure that we will have to hurry and get more clothes for you girls if we have to start for Washington very soon," rejoined Mrs. Calvert. They all slipped on their outer garments, and very quickly were carried downstairs by the elevator. They hurried into their carriage and very soon were located in their new suite of rooms. "Oh, just look, Aunt Betty!" exclaimed Dorothy. "See, the trunks we packed last night with all our good things are all right. The water never leaked through at all." "That saves us a good deal of trouble and expense, doesn't it? I certainly thought that all three of us would have to be fitted out entirely again. I am very, very glad that we were so fortunate," answered Aunt Betty. "Oh, dear!" exclaimed Alfy. "Oh, dear, just see! Isn't it too bad that I didn't stay home and pack instead of going to church with Jim last night. All I have in my trunk is the two white dresses you made me at Bellevieu before we started on the trip, and my raincoat. Oh! Oh! Oh! And I forgot all about it. I intended to show it to you right away as soon as I reached Bellevieu. I begged Ma Babcock so for it, and then to think I clean forgot it! Ah, she will be so disappointed to know I forgot it." "Why, Alfy child," remonstrated Aunt Betty. "What are you talking about? There now, calm yourself and tell me." "It's this," replied Alfy, holding up a piece of linen about a foot square, "this sampler. I found it in an old box in the closet of the spare room Ma had fixed up in the barn, when I was searching for my raincoat just before I left home. Ma said a school friend, a little Baltimore girl who was 'up Mounting' summering, and who fell ill and stayed all winter and went to school with Ma, made it for her." And Alfy handed the square of linen to Mrs. Calvert. Aunt Betty took it up and carefully examined it while Dorothy looked over her shoulder and tried to see it too. "Why," exclaimed Mrs. Calvert, "this is beautiful work! Just beautiful! And what is the name? Dorothy dear, will you see if you can find my glasses? I put them in my work bag, which I put in the tray of the trunk. Yes, way down in the right hand corner." Dorothy crossed over to the trunk and immediately found the desired bag, and opening it took out the glasses. "Here they are, Aunt Betty," she said, handing them to her. Aunt Betty put the glasses on and proceeded carefully to examine the sampler. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "I have it now! The name is in this corner, and as far as I can make it out is 'Hannah.' 'Hannah' something. 'Morrow.' Maybe that's it." "Let me see," interrupted Dorothy, "maybe I can make it out. I think the first letter is 'W,' not 'M,'" and turning to Alfy, "what did Ma Babcock say about the name?" "Ma said that it was Hannah somebody, and that she was a poor sickly girl. She lived in Baltimore and married a man who did not treat her well, and died shortly after. I forget what she said her last name was. But she said she married a man whose name was 'Halley' or 'Haley,'" answered Alfy. "Oh, Aunt Betty, I have it!" exclaimed Dorothy joyously. "I have it! It's 'Woodrow,' 'W-o-o-d-r-o-w, Woodrow.'" "Yes, that's it. I recollect, now, ma saying, 'Hannah Woodrow,'" chimed in Alfy. "I wonder," said Aunt Betty, slowly, for she had been thinking, "I wonder if it could be? You see, little Lem, Lem Haley, had no mother or father, and just lived with his uncle, who abused him terribly. It was he we found that night in the forest when we were camping. Do you think it could be possible that this sampler was made by his mother? Poor, unfortunate woman." "Maybe we have some clue to work on now," said Dorothy. "Wouldn't it be odd if it was his mother who made this sampler? She could sew well if it was, for there are many hard and difficult stitches in that." "And," added Alfy, "Ma said she was a rich girl; her folks had lots of money, 'cause she dressed so nicely. And they paid Grandma Brown good board, so ma said." "May I have the sampler, Alfy?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "Yes, indeed," answered Alfy. "Ma Babcock said for me to give it to you, as maybe you would be interested in it." "I am going to take it to my lawyer and see what he says about it. You say you think that Mrs. Haley, or Hannah Woodrow, is dead?" added Aunt Betty. "Yes, ma said that she had not heard from her in so long that she was sure that the poor unfortunate lady was dead," answered Alfaretta. "I have felt all along that there was some dreadful catastrophe or mystery about little Lem. His uncle was such a hard, cruel man, and little Lem knew very little or nothing about his early life or parents. All that he knew was that he was bound out to this harsh and cruel man whom he called uncle, and made to work very hard, too hard, indeed, for a child, for his board," remarked Aunt Betty. "I do hope we can find out something about his people. He is such a good boy, and now he goes to school and he is such an apt pupil," added Dorothy. "Come now, we must dress and arrange our things and see what we need. You girls please dress as quickly as possible and each make out a list of what you have lost. In that way I can tell at a glance what is needed, and we can go shopping this afternoon. I will also send Jim to my lawyer with a note, and this sampler," remarked Aunt Betty. And they all hurried away to dress. Aunt Betty, finishing first, rang for Jim. Jim came to her and she said, "Jim, here is a sampler that Ma Babcock had and let Alfy bring to me. It was made by a girl named Hannah Woodrow, who married a man named Haley, who was cruel to her. It is supposed that the unfortunate woman died. The girl was a Baltimore girl who spent a year with Mrs. Babcock's mother and attended school with Ma Babcock. She is thought to have been rich. I wonder if in any way she could have been related to little Lem Haley. We must try to trace up all facts and get to the bottom of things. I have written a letter, and I thought you would not mind taking it and the sampler to my lawyer." "Where is it?" asked Jim. "I will go gladly." "You go to Mr. Van Zandt, at 115 Broadway," replied Mrs. Calvert. "Give him the package and the letter and tell him I am going out of town to-morrow at noon to Washington, and that I will send him a complete route list later on as soon as all our plans are made." "All right," answered Jim, taking the package and putting the letter into his coat pocket. "I will not be back directly, if that makes no difference to you. I have a little shopping I should like to do this afternoon." So saying, Jim left on his errand. At Mrs. Calvert's suggestion the girls began making out a list of things that were missing so that they could replace them that afternoon if possible. Suddenly Dorothy rushed into the room where Aunt Betty was quietly seated reading and trying to collect her nerves that she said had been shattered by the experiences of the night before. "Aunt Betty, dear Aunt Betty, I can't find my locket!" she cried. "Alfy and I have hunted all over. We searched everything before we came to you with the news. We didn't want to bother you till we were sure that we hadn't merely mislaid it." "Are you sure, dear, you have looked all over everything you have?" questioned Aunt Betty. "Yes, and there is no trace of it anywhere," replied the girl. "And it's the only locket I have and has the pictures of mother and father in it. The only pictures we have of them." "Well, dear, don't let's give up hope yet. Let me go with you and look," answered her aunt. "Dear Aunt Betty, I am sure it isn't in there. I always wear it. You know I do. Ever since you gave it to me it has been my most cherished possession," bewailed Dorothy. "No, it isn't anywhere in there," said Alfy, decidedly, walking into the room at that moment. "I, myself, have searched everywhere, and you know how thorough I am, Mrs. Calvert." "Maybe it's upstairs in our old rooms," suggested Aunt Betty. "They might have mislaid it." "I will ring for a maid and then Alfy and I will go up with her and look," answered Dorothy, immediately acting on the suggestion. "It must be up there, dear, as everything else came down safely, and all my jewelry is intact," added Mrs. Calvert. "I do hope it is. It has given me such a scare," rejoined Alfy. "Come along, Alfy; we are going up now," said Dorothy, as the maid appeared in answer to her summons. "We'll be right down, Aunt Betty." And with that the girls departed. In a few moments they came back, and by just glancing at them Aunt Betty knew that the quest had failed. "No, it is nowhere there," said Dorothy sadly, "nowhere there." "Ring for the manager, dear, and I will see him and see what he suggests doing. The locket is of no value to anyone else. Its main value is in the pictures. I am very sorry I have no other copy of them. I have a picture of your father when he was younger, a mere boy at our Baltimore home, Bellevieu, but I never had another picture of your mother, dear," said Aunt Betty. The manager came now in response to their call, and Aunt Betty told him of the loss of the locket, and wherein its value lay. He was very sorry indeed to hear of the loss, but felt hopeful that he could restore the locket to them in the course of an hour or two. Dorothy turned to Aunt Betty as the manager left the room, and flung herself weeping into her lap. "Dear, dear child," soothed Aunt Betty, "don't be foolish, dear. There are still hopes of its being found." "But they are the only pictures I ever had of them," bemoaned the little girl. The dear old lady took the young girl in her arms and comforted her with hopeful suggestion and loving words of encouragement. CHAPTER XI. THE TOUR BEGINS. On his way downtown, Jim paused in front of Lebolt's on Fifth avenue, one of New York's biggest jewelry houses. The windows were full of attractive pieces of jewelry. One thing in particular caught his eye, a little pendant of gold and pearls. He thought at once of Dorothy and wanted very much to give her something--something nice because of the previous day's happenings--something that would help her to remember him very often--a little token of his regard. He went inside and inquired of a clerk where he could see pendants, and was directed to a near counter. He was shown many, and after having quite a hard time choosing which he liked best at a price he could afford to pay he finally decided on a little bunch of grapes formed of a cluster of pearls, with the leaves and vine of gold hung on a slender chain--altogether a very dainty and appropriate gift. And he left the store thinking of how he would present this to Dorothy, for he wanted no one to know of his reasons for giving it to her but himself--and she. Taking a car he soon came to the vicinity of the lawyer's office and looking over the bulletin at the entrance he located a sign with his name upon it. On reaching a small outer office he asked of a pleasant faced girl sitting there, "Can I see Mr. Van Zandt? I have a package and letter to deliver to him personally." "Mr. Van Zandt," answered the girl, "is just now very busy. He is conferring with another lawyer, and I cannot disturb him, as he left word that on no account and for no one should I bother him. He will not be much longer, and if you would care to wait for a half hour, I am sure that you could see him then." "I will wait," said Jim in reply. The girl then showed him into a little library off to one side of the office where there were some easy chairs. Picking out one that looked particularly comfortable to him he took up a magazine from the well laden table, and seating himself started to read. After waiting half an hour or more, he was finally admitted into a room wherein sat Mr. Van Zandt, at a desk strewn entirely with legal papers. "Mr. Van Zandt, I am from Mrs. Calvert. She sent me here with a letter and package for you," said Jim. "Most opportune, most opportune," answered Mr. Van Zandt, gravely, taking the letter and package from Jim. "Excuse me, young man, excuse me, while I see what Mrs. Calvert has to say," he added, breaking the seal of Aunt Betty's letter and slowly reading its contents. "Ah! So you are the Jim she speaks of in the letter, and says I may question concerning these matters?" "Yes, indeed," responded Jim. "Is there anything you would like to ask me?" "No. Not that I just think of now. But I have a little story to tell you. Listen carefully and see if you can repeat the same to Mrs. Calvert, when you see her later this afternoon," replied Mr. Van Zandt. "This was told me by a fellow colleague, the man you no doubt saw leave this office as you entered it. Strange how things come about. Long years ago there was an English family named Winchester, a father and mother and six children, four of them girls and two boys. The parents were very strict with their children, and one boy, the oldest, ran away from home, and was never heard of by the old people again. The youngest girl had a very pretty love affair, but because her parents disapproved, and I believe they would have disapproved of a saint from heaven if he wished to marry their child Marrie, she took the vows and became a sister. Two died very young, and the other two daughters lived to be old maids, and in time all died. "The runaway son married, so much we have learned, and had one very beautiful daughter, who after, mother fashion, also ran away and married. The daughter's name was Dorothy Winchester. The man she married was a Calvert. These two died early deaths, leaving behind, so 'tis said, a little daughter named after the mother, Dorothy Winchester Calvert." "Our Dorothy," whispered Jim. "Now, it seems to me that Mrs. Calvert was sister-in-law to the Calvert that married the beautiful Dorothy Winchester. And from what I know, Dorothy Calvert, Mrs. Calvert's ward, is the child of the former two. But as a large estate, consisting of much property in England and a great deal of money, is left to the heir or heirs of this Dorothy Winchester, we shall have to have legal proof that this girl is the right child. And when the right proof is found, my colleague will turn over to me the various papers and deeds to the estate. And after proving herself the legal heir of this estate, Miss Calvert may have to take a trip to England to see the London solicitors and straighten matters out there. They have been working on this estate for many years now, and finally, but only recently traced the son to America. That is how things have come to this point now. Will you tell Mrs. Calvert and Dorothy that I would like to see them at their earliest convenience, bringing letters, pictures and any other form of proof they may have with them?" "I will tell them that, sir." "Very well. Good afternoon, young man, good afternoon," and Mr. Van Zandt closed the interview. Jim, after leaving Mr. Van Zandt, hurried back to the hotel, all the time thinking of the wonderful story he had to tell to Dorothy. He also wondered just how things would stand between them if Dorothy became a great English heiress. On reaching the hotel he went straight up to the girl's rooms and there found Dorothy weeping in Aunt Betty's lap. "I have such good news, such wonderful news," cried Jim. "I can't wait to tell you. Why, Dorothy, what has happened? Tell me," he added, catching sight of Dorothy at her aunt's feet, her face in her lap. Just then Dorothy smiled up at him and said, "Nothing. I was just a little foolish. Go on and tell us all your wonderful news. I would rather hear good news than tell sad, any day." "I have just come from your lawyer's, Mr. Van Zandt's, where I heard a most wonderful story. I gave him the letter and package. He read the former, and said he would give the matter attention. I had to wait for over a half hour. He was conferring with a colleague," continued Jim. "Oh, do hurry and get to the real story part," said the ever impatient Alfaretta. "Be still, Alfy. How can Jim tell us while you are talking?" commanded Dorothy. "To go on where I left off," continued Jim, "Mr. Van Zandt said that his colleague told him a story which he would tell me and which I was to repeat to you. "It seems that many years ago a family named Winchester had a large estate and plenty of money in England. They had children, and one, the eldest, ran away, came to America and married. He had a little daughter who grew up to be very beautiful. Her name was Dorothy Winchester." At this point in the story, Aunt Betty heaved a great sigh, and grew quite pale. "The beautiful young girl ran off with a handsome young man whose name was Calvert. And, Mrs. Calvert, the lawyer thought that to be your brother-in-law. The young couple suffered early deaths, leaving a child, a girl named after the mother, Dorothy Winchester Calvert. That, dear, is you," and Jim paused to see the effect of his words. Dorothy had risen, and coming to him, placed her hands in his and said, "Is this all true or just a joke?" looking eagerly in his eyes for the answer. "Yes," answered Jim, with an attempt at gaiety, "yes, all true." "Then do I understand that all Dorothy has to do is to prove she is Dorothy Winchester Calvert and she will come into this inheritance?" said Aunt Betty. "Yes. Mr. Van Zandt said for me to tell you that he would like to see you and Dorothy as early as possible in the morning, and for you to bring with you any proofs, such as letters, pictures, etc., which you have handy in your possession," instructed Jim. The word pictures immediately recalled to Dorothy her late misfortune, and she turned to Aunt Betty, saying, "Dear Aunt Betty, there is all my proof gone--the pictures in that locket. They would have been just what was needed, and now the locket is gone." "Why has the locket gone?" questioned Jim. "That is the sad news we had to tell you when you came in with the good news," said Mrs. Calvert. "Dorothy has either mislaid or someone has stolen her locket, the one I gave her with the pictures of her father and mother in it." "There," interrupted Alfy. "There is someone knocking. Maybe it is the manager returning with the locket. It's an hour since he said that he would have it back to Dorothy in that time." The manager entered and came over to Mrs. Calvert's chair, and said, "I am very sorry, madam, but I have not been able to recover mademoiselle's trinket. It is nowhere to be found. I have had three maids searched, three of them, who readily admitted going into the suite upstairs. The maids were very angry, and threatened to leave my employ. Nothing could be found. We have found no trace of it at all. All we can do, madam, is to hope. I will get a detective and have him try to locate the thief. Is it of great value?" "Just now we have had news that makes the locket of precious value. An estate, a large inheritance, hangs upon its recovery, as therein lies the only proof we have, or, I should say, did have," answered Mrs. Calvert. "We will do all we can," continued the manager, "and make every effort to restore the locket as quickly as possible." He then departed, and prepared to have the lost article traced without any delay. "I have my list of clothes and things that are missing and will have to be replaced all made out," said Alfy to Mrs. Calvert. "Very good," answered Aunt Betty. "Come into your room and I will look over your things and verify the list and see if you need anything else beside what you have written down." Alfy and Aunt Betty went off to see about the outlay necessary to replace the loss Alfy sustained from the fire. No sooner had they gone than Jim came over to Dorothy, looked into her eyes and said, "Girl, will this--this estate, make any difference--if the large fortune comes to you? I was so glad to hear the news, and be the one to tell you of it while I was there with Mr. Van Zandt, but somehow on my way back to the hotel I became sorry, sorry because it will mean that you will be a great English heiress, and I--I--" "You, Jim? You will always be my great big Jim," said Dorothy, with a sweet, sincere smile. "But isn't it too bad that the locket just disappeared when we needed it? And, fortune or no fortune, it's the only picture I had of my own mother." "Girl," said Jim, softly, taking the small purple velvet box out of his vest pocket, "I brought you this. It's only a little remembrance of what has gone between us. Just a little token of my eternal regard for you. I wish it could have been more." And he placed the little jewel box in Dorothy's hands. He watched her carefully, noting the pleasure in her face when she opened the box and saw the dainty pendant encased in the white satin. Carefully she drew it out. "Oh, what a beauty!" exclaimed the girl. "Jim, dear, you are so good and thoughtful. It's just as good and dainty as it can be, and far too good for me." "Let me clasp it around your neck for you," he replied. "I am glad you like it." But when he had his arms around the girl's neck, clasping the slender chain in place, Jim could not resist the temptation of drawing her close to him. She did not resist, so he held her closer for a moment in a fond embrace, and then raising her head, their lips met in a loving kiss. "My little girl," murmured Jim. "My dear little girl." Then releasing her he said, "I chose this pendant because I knew you would not accept a ring." Dorothy shook her head, but made no audible response. "Not until you have had plenty of time to know your own mind, but that you should have by the time you have returned from your trip. Then, Dorothy girl, you will give me my answer?" "Perhaps, Jim," whispered Dorothy. "Perhaps then I will." "Can't we keep the reason, the real reason, secret. We can have this one secret from everyone else, can't we? Tell them all it is a little parting gift from me. Then when you come back, girl, you can tell them, if you decide to--if you can love me enough. Until then it's our secret," said Jim. "I must go show it to Aunt Betty and Alfy. It's such a beautiful pendant I want everyone to see it," said Dorothy. "And I must get my things collected, for you see I have a lot to do. I wonder if I can prove anything without the locket." "Maybe they will accept Aunt Betty's word for things. But the hard part of it all is that you go away to-morrow for such a long trip," said Jim. "And, Dorothy, how I shall miss you! I won't know what to do without you." "Yes, you will," responded Dorothy. "You will have to work and work very hard at your new position." "Yes, indeed I will," laughed Jim, "very hard indeed. If I want to get married soon, I shall have to economize and save all I can." "Foolish boy," said Dorothy. "Good-bye; I am going to leave you here all, all alone," and she ran over to Jim, put her hands in his and looked up at him, saying, "You are a dear, good boy, and I shall prize my pendant highly, and wear it always, and when I do think of you." "That's all I could ask," answered Jim. "And, girl, please do take care of yourself and be careful all through this trip. I regret so much that I can't be along with you." "Dorothy! Dorothy!" called Aunt Betty, from the girl's room. "Yes, Aunt Betty, I am coming," answered Dorothy. As she left the room she threw a kiss with her dainty finger tips to Jim. That afternoon was spent in ordering things they all needed, and as time saving and convenient much was done by telephone. Then in trying on various things as they came all wrapped up in attractive bundles from the stores. Aunt Betty bought Alfy a complete new outfit, as her things were entirely ruined, and she was more than delighted with each new article. There was a plain gray suit, and one just like it for Dorothy. Alfy insisted that they would be mistaken for twins in them. And Aunt Betty ordered as a surprise to the girl a plain grey felt outing hat, which was to come in the morning. Dorothy had a few new shirt waists and a couple of pairs of slippers; also two new gowns, one pale yellow chiffon trimmed with a little gold lace; the other a very pale shell pink crepe de chine and shadow lace. These were for her to use on the stage, and at any private affairs that might come up. Alfy was very much pleased with a pale blue evening dress, as she had never had one before in all her life. This pretty little party dress was very simple, being made of pale blue chiffon over a shell pink satin slip, and the only trimming it had was one large rose of pink shade, catching the skirt in a dainty fold, and a few dainty pink rose buds edging the neck and sleeves. When she tried it on she ran carefully to Dorothy and exclaimed, "Dorothy, dear, just see my new dress! Isn't it wonderful? Do you like it? Do you think it is becoming? And look at these!" and she held up a new pair of pink satin slippers, and gloves to match. Dorothy laughed gayly, saying, "Dear, dear Alfy, they are beautiful things, and I have never seen you look quite so fine before." "I must show Jim," she answered. And off she went to the next room, where Jim sat thinking and dreaming. "What do you think of me?" she asked him. Jim looked up, saw Alfy, and said, "You look like a very fine young lady who has just stepped out of a picture." And he made a mental note of the fact that the girl had no ornament about her neck, and made a resolution to get up early and go out the next morning and buy Alfy a string of coral beads that he thought were just needed to finish her costume. These he would give Alfy for her parting gift. The next morning Jim carried out his purpose and bought the string of corals, pale pink, graduated beads, a string just long enough to go around the girl's neck. And for Mrs. Calvert he bought a set of collar and belt pins to match in heavy dull gold. These two gifts he labeled and sent up to them. He was busy that morning moving his possessions to Mrs. Quarren's so that he would be all ready to occupy his room there that evening. He was to meet Dorothy and the rest of her party at the Pennsylvania station at noon time. Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy and Alfaretta, as early as possible, went down to the lawyer's office. "Mr. Van Zandt will receive you in his room right away. He expected you," said the pleasant faced girl, as Aunt Betty and the two girls walked into the office. "Mr. Van Zandt, this is my ward and niece, Miss Dorothy Winchester Calvert and her friend, Miss Alfaretta Babcock," said Aunt Betty, introducing the two girls. "So you are the fortunate Miss Dorothy Winchester Calvert," the lawyer gravely said. "Let me see, little miss, how about the proof I must have? Proof is what is needed now. My colleague has to be satisfied. So do the London solicitors." "Until yesterday, Mr. Van Zandt, Dorothy always wore a locket around her neck in which were her mother's and father's pictures. We were unfortunately caught in a hotel fire, and some of our things were destroyed. This locket has been missing since the fire. The hotel people have since then done their utmost to trace the missing article, whose value now is priceless, and nothing has been seen of it. Detectives are now working on the case." "Most unfortunate--most unfortunate," commented Mr. Van Zandt. "Have you no other proof?" "There is my word, some old letters, and a picture of Dorothy's father taken when he was quite young, which I have at Bellevieu. I will send for them and have Jim bring them to you. In the meantime, he has promised to attend to the tracing of the locket, and will report to you about it," answered Aunt Betty. "I will let you know, too, Mrs. Calvert, how my colleague takes this news, and," added the lawyer, "I would like you and Miss Dorothy to sign a number of papers, and Miss Babcock can sign as a witness for Miss Dorothy." Before long they had all affixed their signatures to quite a number of important looking papers. Alfaretta felt very consequential and trembled visibly. This did not take long, and, bidding Mr. Van Zandt good-bye, they were soon hastening to the Pennsylvania depot, to await the coming of Jim, and the others of the troupe who were to travel with them. Dorothy hoped that Mr. Ludlow would not forget their private car, as she was anxious to see it. Aunt Betty was to have charge of it, Ruth, Alfy, and Dorothy being in her care for the entire trip. Alfy was slowly counting the minutes off. She wanted to thank Jim, as she thought more of the little string of corals than anything else in the world just then. They had pleased her beyond words. Dorothy was glad, too, because in giving Alfy the string of corals and Aunt Betty the pins it detracted from the strangeness of his giving such a lovely present to her. Aunt Betty and Alfy were both hearty in praise of Dorothy's new ornament, and commented on Jim's taste in selecting it. At the Pennsylvania station they found Jim waiting. "What did Mr. Van Zandt say?" he questioned, coming to meet them. "I have tended to your trunks, and put them and your suit cases in your private car. Mr. Ludlow and his gathering party are over in the other side of the station, and I will take you over to them in a few minutes." "We can't very well prove Dorothy's identity without that locket. It is most necessary for Mr. Van Zandt to have it. I told him," informed Mrs. Calvert, "that you would keep track of the search, and bring it to him immediately it is found. Also, Jim, I must write to Bellevieu and have some things, a picture of Mr. Calvert and one or two letters I have there, forwarded to you. Will you see that they are placed in Mr. Van Zandt's hands safely? We had to sign a great many papers. The trouble is in convincing Mr. Van Zandt's colleague and the London solicitors who have the property in their hands." "I will certainly do my level best," answered Jim, "to get the locket back, and will let you know of everything that comes up." Then they all walked slowly across the immense waiting room of the station, and in a far secluded corner found Mr. Ludlow and Ruth, among a group of chattering people, some old, some young, and Dorothy wondered just who belonged to the company and who did not. Mr. Ludlow came forward. With him was a tall, dark young man. "Mrs. Calvert," said he, "let me introduce Mr. Dauntrey. Mr. Dauntrey is our treasurer. This is Miss Dorothy Calvert, of whom you have often heard me speak, and her friend, Miss Babcock. Mr. Dauntrey, ladies." "I am sure I am very pleased to meet you all, and I am sure we shall all be firm friends before long," said Mr. Dauntrey, pleasantly, his eyes lingering longer on Dorothy than any of the rest. Just then Ruth rushed up to Dorothy and exclaimed, "Dear, dear Dorothy, I have been hearing wonderful tales about you--about how you saved your precious violin from the fire, and then were gallantly rescued by Jim, our new hero. Oh, tell me all about it! I am dying to hear it all from you! It must have been very thrilling. Oh, why is it I never get into any such wonderful adventures?" "I will tell you what little there is to tell when we get started on our trip. We shall have lots of time on the train," answered the girl. "Yes, indeed," said Ruth, "and I shall see that you do not forget your promise. Come over here and let me introduce you to some of the members of our company. I sing. You play the violin. That blonde lady over there, Miss Mary Robbia, has a wonderful contralto voice. The little girl over there, Florence Winter, is a dancer. She does all kinds of classical dances and is considered very wonderful. And Mr. Carlton is the pianist. He is the man standing over there talking to the lady in black." Dorothy looked at each person as Ruth pointed them out, and felt that she would enjoy her trip very much, for they all looked like nice, congenial people. Mr. Ludlow came up to her then and presented Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy and Alfy to all the members of the company, each in turn, Miss Robbia, Miss Winter and Mr. Carlton. They then all said good-bye to all their friends and relatives who had come to see them off, and hastened to board their car, which was to start in a few minutes. "Good-bye, my little girl," whispered Jim, kissing a stray lock of Dorothy's hair as he swung off the car. The car gave one jerk and then started out. The girls waved good-bye from the car windows till they could no longer see the ones they were leaving behind. It would take the remainder of the afternoon to reach Washington, and there they were to meet one or two more members of the company, and to learn of the final plans for the whole trip. CHAPTER XII. IN WASHINGTON. The train ride passed quickly enough, and just gave Aunt Betty time for a rest. Between intervals of reading, Dorothy told Ruth of all the previous day's happenings, and before they knew it they had arrived in Washington. Mr. Dauntrey came to Dorothy and volunteered to take care of their baggage. Aunt Betty had packed the suit cases for all three of them, so she gave him these, saying, "If you will have these in the hotel bus, Mr. Dauntrey, I will be obliged. We shall not get our trunk up to the hotel till late this evening, I heard Mr. Ludlow say." "What hotel do we stop at, Mr. Dauntrey?" inquired Ruth. "At the Willard, Miss Boothington," he answered, politely adding, "I will come back for your suit cases and tend to you in just a few seconds if you will wait in the car for me." "Thank you," the girl answered, going back into the car to gather her things together. "There, that is all, I guess, a bag, a hat box and one suit case. I can manage to exist with that much for a few days." "Come along. Just follow me," cried Mr. Ludlow, just loud enough for all to hear him. "This way. I want to get you all taken care of and over to the hotel as quickly as possible. I have made reservations and I hope everything will be ready at once for us." "Come Ruth," sang out Dorothy, as she and Aunt Betty and Alfaretta made their way after Mr. Ludlow. "Come or you will be left behind." "I promised I'd wait here for Mr. Dauntrey," answered Ruth. "He is coming back for me. My luggage is all here, and I can't manage it." "Very well, we will wait for you in the stage," answered Dorothy, and linking her arm in Alfaretta's, followed close after Mrs. Calvert, who was walking just in front with Mr. Ludlow. "There's Mr. Dauntrey," whispered Alfaretta. "He's with that little dancer, Miss Winters." "So he is," whispered Dorothy, "I hope he has not forgotten Ruth. Mr. Ludlow usually attends to Ruth himself; I wonder why he has not thought of her?" "Maybe he is provoked at her," answered Alfy, very softly so as the couple just in front would not hear them. "He looked at her real cross like, at the Pennsylvania station to-day. She was standing, talking very earnestly with Mr. Dauntrey, and Mr. Ludlow called to her twice and she never heard him." "Maybe that's why. But see, there he goes back. I guess he has gone after Ruth now," replied Dorothy. "Here we are. Now all get in. We must hurry," announced Mr. Ludlow. "Are we all here? Let me see--Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy, Alfaretta, Miss Winters, Miss Robbia and Mr. Carleton," as the pianist came in sight carrying two suit cases, "but where is Ruth? Ruth and Mr. Dauntrey, where are they?" "Mr. Dauntrey has just gone back after Ruth. She was gathering her luggage together as I left the car. Mr. Dauntrey said he would hurry back and get her if she would wait," answered Dorothy. Just then Ruth and Mr. Dauntrey came in sight. The girl held his arm and was looking up into his face, chatting pleasantly, while in back a porter, very much laden down with Ruth's belongings, trailed along after them. The occupants of the bus caught just then a sentence spoken by a passing couple. "See the little bride and groom here on their honeymoon." At these words Mr. Ludlow frowned deeply and looked very cross indeed. He spoke not a word to Ruth as she was handed into the bus by Mr. Dauntrey, but quickly got in and shut the door behind him. In a few minutes they had reached the hotel. Mr. Ludlow registered for the party and then the keys were supplied for the rooms assigned to them. Mrs. Calvert and the girls went quickly upstairs and dressed for dinner. The evening meal is always quite a function in Washington. The people for the most part dress in evening clothes. The hotels are almost always crowded with the government people, senators, representatives and officers of various degrees. Mrs. Calvert went down first and sent a card to Jim telling him of their safe arrival, then the girls joined her. Mr. Ludlow had arranged for a dinner party. They found some of the company waiting in the lounging room. Soon they were all assembled and Mr. Ludlow and Mrs. Calvert led them into the brilliant dining room where they all had a very gay dinner. Mr. Ludlow suggested that they visit the Library of Congress, as the evening was a very favorable hour for such a visit. At that time the beautiful interior decorations were seen to great advantage under the brilliant illumination. "Come, let us get our wraps," said Mrs. Calvert. "The building closes about ten and there is much of interest to be seen there." "Very well," answered Dorothy. "Do you want your black wrap? I will get it. You sit here." "Yes, dear. The black one," answered Aunt Betty, seating herself and waiting for Dorothy to return. "Come Alfy," called Dorothy, and the girls quickly disappeared down the long, brilliantly lighted corridor which was crowded with guests. They were gone but a few moments and returned with their wraps securely fastened and carrying Aunt Betty's. "Let me help you into it," said a cheery voice behind them. Turning, they saw, much to their surprise, Mr. Dauntrey. "Come with me. I have already secured a taxi, and it will just hold four. The others can follow." He took Mrs. Calvert's arm and gallantly helped her into the taxicab, then Dorothy, and then Alfaretta, each with the same niceness of manner. He then quickly got in himself, taking the one vacant seat beside Dorothy. He closed the door and off they started. The entrances to the library are in the front, facing the Capitol. A grand staircase leads up to the doorways of the central pavilion, giving access to the main floor. Up this staircase the quartette slowly climbed. "Just look!" exclaimed Dorothy, when they had reached the top. "Just look around. See all the lights of the Capitol over there. Isn't it all very beautiful?" "And look down at the fountain!" cried Alfy. "See how the sea-creatures are blowing water from their mouths, and in the centre 'Apollo.'" "No, if I may correct you, that is Neptune," said Mr. Dauntrey. "I have a guide book here. It is freely placed at your disposal, ladies." "I think every one that visits the Capitol should have a guide book," said Aunt Betty. "It adds immeasurably to one's pleasure. I have an old one at the hotel, and I have been looking it over. I read it through the last time I was here, not so many years ago. I do not recall the publisher's name." "The one I have here is Rand, McNally Company's," said Mr. Dauntrey. "And so was mine, I remember now, and it was fine, too," replied Aunt Betty. "Although that is not Apollo," said Mr. Dauntrey, "your mention of the name reminds me of a western politician who once visited here. He had great wealth, but little education, and when someone in his presence spoke of a statue of Apollo, he said, 'Oh, yes, I have one on my parlor mantle. On one end I have Apollo, and on the other, Appolinaris.'" "An amusing anecdote, and I don't doubt a real one," said Aunt Betty, laughing with the others, "but isn't that a wonderful old fountain? See the beautiful effects produced by the water as it is thrown in cross lines from all those miniature turtles, sea serpents and what not, that are supposed to populate ocean and stream." They stepped up the last tread and entered a long corridor, stretching along the front and forming an exaggerated vestibule. They gazed between piers of Italian marble supporting arches, an entrancing vista. In heavy brackets they noted pairs of figures, advanced somewhat from the walls, "Minerva in War," armed with sword and torch, and "Minerva in Peace," equipped with scroll and globe. Before these, greatly admiring them, the girls stood, and Mrs. Calvert said, "Dorothy, those are the most admired ornaments in the whole building, but you can see them again as you pass out. Come, let's go inside." "Yes, if you enjoy great art, Miss Dorothy," spoke up Mr. Dauntrey, "I will be pleased to personally conduct you through the Art Museum. Art, too, is my one hobby. To be happy I must always have the beautiful, always the beautiful." Passing on through the screen of arches, they entered the main hall, in the centre of which ran a magnificent stairway leading to the second floor and rotunda gallery. "Oh!" gasped Alfaretta. "Isn't the floor lovely? All little colored marbles. I hate to step on it. What is that brass disk for?" "Those little pieces of colored marbles are the essential materials for mosaic work, and the brass rayed disk is to show the points of the compass," said Mr. Dauntrey, kindly looking at the girl with an amused expression. "Look!" cried Dorothy, "over that way, way far back. See the carved figures?" "Yes," answered Aunt Betty. "The one thing the arch typifies is study. The youth eager to learn and the aged man contemplating the fruits of knowledge. It is a very famous group. I have a postcard picture of it that a relative sent me and I always remembered and liked it." "Here is something I always thought was interesting, on this side," said Mr. Dauntrey, leading them to the other side of the hall. "These two boys sitting beside the map of Africa and America. The one in the feathered head-dress and other accoutrements represents the original inhabitants of our country, the American Indian, the other, showing the lack of dress and the war equipment of the ignorant African. Then those two opposite, the one typifying the Mongolian tribes of Asia, the other in classic gown, surrounded by types of civilization indicating the pre-eminence of the Caucasian race in all things, such, for instance, as your chosen profession, music." "That would be a good way to study geography," said Alfy. "Then you would hardly ever fail if you had those interesting figures to look at." Aunt Betty then called their attention to the ceiling which was elaborately ornamented with carvings and stucco work with symbols of arts and sciences. The southern walls were full of rare and beautiful paintings, the most striking of these being, "Lyric Poetry," painted by Walker. It represents Lyric Poetry in an encompassing forest, striking a lyre and surrounded by Pathos, Beauty, Truth, Devotion, and playful Mirth. The east end of this hall which looks out on the reading rooms is reserved for Senators and members of the House of Representatives. It is decorated in subjects chosen from Greek mythology. "Come in here," said Dorothy, entering the periodical or public reading room. "See here, any one, no matter where he is from, can find one of his home papers." "Can any one stay here and read anything they want, and as long as they want?" inquired Alfy. "Yes. It is free to anyone," answered Mrs. Calvert. Next they passed into an exhibition hall, where in cases of glass made like a table they saw a great number of rare and curious books representing the beginning time of printing and bookmaking. There were a great many early printed Bibles and specimens of famous special editions of Bibles. Some of them, so they learned, dated back to the fifteenth century and were of much value on account of their rarity. One table in this room especially interested Dorothy. It contained manuscripts, autographs and curious prints relating to the history of our United States. The print room interested Alfy greatly. This room is devoted to an extensive exhibit of the art of making pictures mechanically. Here are a great series of prints illustrating the development of lithography, and the processes a lithograph goes through whether printed in one or in varied color. Also here are examples of every sort of engraving upon wood, copper and steel. About the walls hang examples of etchings and engravings. They then entered the Rotunda Galleries. They paused for a moment to look at two paintings there, one of Joy and the other of Sadness. "I like Joy the best by far," exclaimed Alfy. Joy, here, was represented by a light-haired, cheerful woman, amid flowers and happy in the sunshine. She went nearer the picture and read out loud the beautiful words of Milton's famous "L'Allegro." "Come thou goddess, fair and free, In Heaven ycleped Euphroysine, And by men, heart-easing Mirth. Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful jollity, Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks and wreathed smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek." "I learned most of that poem by heart when I went to school at Oak Knowe," said Dorothy. "Indeed, and so did I," answered Mr. Dauntrey, "at school but not at Oak Knowe," he laughed. "But my favorite was the other poem, 'Il Penserose.'" "The other picture represents that," said Mrs. Calvert. "Listen while I recite to you the lines that inspired that picture," said Mr. Dauntrey, and in a wonderful voice he brought out each shade of meaning: "Hail, thou goddess, sage and holy! Hail, divinest Melancholy! Come; but keep thy wonted state, With even step and musing gait, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in their eyes, There held in holy passion still Forget thyself to marble...." The stack rooms or apartments where the books are kept open out on each side of the rotunda. The cases rise way up to the roof and are filled with adjustable shelves. There are decks at intervals of every few feet from top to bottom by which the attendants reach the books. Each of these stacks will hold eight hundred thousand books, and although they may be consulted by any one, very few are ever lost, for only members of Congress and about thirty other officials can take books out of the library. "As there is a constant call for books of reference from the Capitol when legislators often want a volume for instant use, an underground tunnel has been made between the two buildings. This contains a cable carrier upon which books can be sent back and forth," explained Mr. Dauntrey. "But haven't you seen enough of the library now?" "There is Mr. Ludlow!" exclaimed Dorothy, "and I think he is calling us." "Yes, let us go over to him," added Mrs. Calvert. "Come." "Ah, here you all are," said Mr. Ludlow. "I called to you just now because there is one painting I would like to have you all see before you go upstairs to the restaurant." "Is it here?" questioned Dorothy. "No. You follow me and I will bring you to it in just a few seconds," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Here we are. I want you all to follow this series of pictures." "It is called the evolution of the book," added Mrs. Calvert. The series begins with a picture representing the means that the prehistoric men took to commemorate an event singly--the creation of the cairn, nothing more nor less than the piling up of stones. Then comes a picture illustrating oral tradition--an Arab story writer of the desert. The third represents an Egyptian carving hyroglyphics on a tomb. These are the forerunners and the next is picture writing, represented by an American Indian painting some tribal story or event. In lieu of paper he uses a skin. The fifth is shown by a figure of a monk sitting by the embrasure of his cell, laboriously decorating the pages of some sacred book of the Middle Ages. And finally, the initial attainment of modern methods is shown by a scene in the shop of Guttenburg, where the original printer is seen examining a proof sheet, while an employe looks over his shoulder, and another assistant has the lever of a crudely constructed press in hand. They all thought this series of pictures a beautiful one, and very interesting. Dorothy commented, "If they had not discovered how to print and make books, I wonder if we would have had a library like this one here, filled with stones all covered with hyroglyphics?" "I hardly think so," answered Mr. Ludlow, "for we could never get so much stone in a building. But come now. We will go upstairs to the little restaurant and sit down and rest for a few minutes." So taking the elevator they reached the restaurant which is located in the upper floor of the building, and finding a large table, they seated themselves. They ordered ice cream for the girls, and the men took lemonade. While refreshing themselves, Mr. Ludlow said, "I would like to see you all in the morning at ten o'clock. I will then disclose our plans to you for the next few weeks. Also, to-morrow, our number will be increased by three more singers who will join us here. They are Miss Dozzi and Mrs. Helmholz and Signor de Reinzzi." Every one said they would be on time in the morning, and started to go back to the hotel. On the way out from the library, Dorothy asked, "Mr. Ludlow, are all these pictures and pieces of statuary done by Italians and other foreigners?" "No, indeed," he answered. "The decorations are wholly the work of American architects, painters and sculptors, more than fifty of whom participated in the work. So that, you see, the library is an exhibit of the native art and ability of the citizens of the United States and a memorial to them." CHAPTER XIII. SIGHT-SEEING. The next morning they all hurried to the private sitting room of Mr. Ludlow's suite, where he had asked them to assemble. "Aunt Betty and Alfy," called Dorothy, "both of you must come too, so you can hear what Mr. Ludlow has to say, for you know you belong to the company, too." Ruth rushed up to Dorothy and whispered, "I think you were very mean, keeping Mr. Dauntrey all to yourself last night, and making me stay with Mr. Ludlow. He was so cross. I hope he is better natured to-day, or when we rehearse this afternoon we will all have trouble." "I didn't take Mr. Dauntrey," answered Dorothy in a very surprised tone of voice. "I didn't seek his company. He just took us and put us in a taxicab and that's all." "Sh!" whispered Ruth, "here he is now. Isn't he a handsome man?" "I don't particularly care for his style. He is too effeminate looking. Come over here and sit down by Aunt Betty and I," and Dorothy started to walk over to where the others sat. Ruth did not follow her, however, but remained just where she was. "And how is Miss Ruth, to-day?" inquired Mr. Dauntrey. "I am quite longing for our real work to start so I can hear you sing. I am sure it will be a great pleasure." Mr. Ludlow entered just then as Ruth looked up to Mr. Dauntrey, and murmured, "Ah, that was so nice of you to say." "Are you all here?" inquired Mr. Ludlow. "Let me take a little account of you." Mentally he ran over the small list of people. "All ready then. All sit down and make yourselves comfortable. I will only detain you a few minutes now. We are going to have a very important recital in the new National Theatre to-morrow night. I have a little typewritten letter for each of you. I will give these to Mr. Dauntrey and he will hand them to you." Turning to Mr. Dauntrey he handed him a number of white envelopes, saying: "There now, don't neglect to give each one the proper envelope." Turning once more to the rest of them, he continued, "If by any chance you don't happen to like the instructions contained in those envelopes, report at once to Mr. Dauntrey and he will take up the matter with me, or refer you to me." Mr. Ludlow had had many dealings with performers before, and he knew from experience that it was better to give instructions this way. It avoided open contentions which were likely when one artist thought he or she was slighted, and enabled each one to know exactly what they had to do, for there was no mistaking written orders. "The new National Theatre," continued Mr. Ludlow, "is on Pennsylvania avenue near Thirteenth street, and is of great capacity and comfort. I hope you will all do your best for I have written to the President, and have asked him to accept, as a token of our respect, a box for that night. I hope he honors us with his presence, and it may afford you all an opportunity to meet him personally. I expect this concert to be a big thing for us. This city is favorably disposed toward classical concerts, and Mr. Dauntrey has worked hard sending out special announcements for us. "I expect each of you to do your very best and look your very best. Always look your best. Looks go a great way. If people see you enter the stage confidently and look nice--nice and neat, not gaudy, not cheap or overdressed, just good simple dresses, and not made in outlandish styles--their first impression is very apt to be a lasting one. There, I think that is enough of a lecture. I plan to go from here to Pittsburgh, and, with several stops, on to Chicago. From Chicago on to St. Louis, and from there with a half dozen stops, if we are successful, to San Francisco. Just what we will do then I can't tell now. But I think that is enough to know now." "But what hotels are we to stop in at those places, Mr. Ludlow?" inquired Miss Winters. "I suppose all you fair ladies will want to have a list of the hotels in advance," laughed Mr. Ludlow, "and you shall have duplicate route lists with dates, which you can send to your friends so you can have mail each morning. I may want you to give two concerts here in Washington, but I am not sure yet," added Mr. Ludlow. "We also may have to run down to Mount Vernon and give a concert there, so I want you all to be ready to render something different than what you are to use to-morrow. You can each select your own piece. Is there anything now you want to ask me?" he said finally, turning so as to see them all. "Well," he continued, "if there is nothing else we will adjourn till this afternoon when I have made appointments with some of you to come here alone so that I may have an idea of how you are doing. If you all would care to, I think it would be a good thing if we visited the Capitol now. You are privileged in each city to do as much sight-seeing as you can and care to without getting over tired." They were all appreciative of this courtesy, and thought that that would make their tour a very very pleasant one. Just as soon as Mr. Dauntrey had handed them their envelopes, they departed for their rooms to get hats and coats and be ready to start at once. Aunt Betty also had her guide book, and in a very short time they were all ready for a visit to the Capitol. The Capitol building commands a central and slightly hilltop position. The grounds in front of the building are perfectly level, but in the rear slope downwards towards the Potomac flats. In the northwestern part of the park is an ivy-covered rest-house, one window of which looks into a grotto. Ruth thought this a pretty spot indeed, and exclaimed, "Oh, just see here, isn't this a romantic spot? I could sit here for hours and dream." "Wouldn't that be rather lonesome, Miss Ruth?" said Mr. Dauntrey to her, softly. "Wouldn't you rather have someone else here with you?" Ruth did not answer this question, but just gave him an adorable little glance. "The ground immediately in front of the Capitol is the plaza," said Mr. Ludlow. "Here vast crowds assemble to witness presidential inaugurations." Three flights of broad steps led up to the main entrance, an architecturally effective feature. The southern wing contains the House of Representatives and the northern one the Senate chamber. "The central portico," remarked Mrs. Calvert, "I would like to have you notice particularly. It dates back from 1825. The allegorical group cut in sandstone was designed by the President, John Quincy Adams." "What does it represent?" questioned Alfy. "The group represents the genius of our beloved America," answered Mrs. Calvert. "America is resting her shield upon an altar, while an eagle rests at her feet. She is listening to hope, and points in response to Justice." "I think you have told us a very good story of that piece, Mrs. Calvert, and as you are just as well, perhaps better acquainted with this place than I am, do you mind explaining the things occasionally, so as to help me out?" asked Mr. Ludlow. "Why, it is a pleasure to me, I assure you," answered Mrs. Calvert, gracefully. "You see I have been here often and I have my indispensable Rand, McNally guide book." "Right here where you are standing," interrupted Mr. Dauntrey, for he wished them to understand that he had been to Washington before and knew something of the place, "is where all the presidents of the United States since the time of Jackson have been inaugurated, the chief justice adminstrating the oath of office here in full view of the onlookers." The large bronze doors were thrown back, and all entered the building itself. The entrance takes one immediately into the rotunda, which is of enormous size. The floor is of sandstone, the rotunda being nearly 100 feet in diameter, and almost twice that high. A balcony runs around it, and strangely interesting is the fact that this balcony has a very good whispering echo. The decoration of this huge place is confined mostly to the walls, but there are a few pieces of statuary on the floor. The great wall space is given to historical pictures of considerable size, and all are familiar to everyone through their reproduction on postals, currency and postage stamps. The whole party made a tour of the room with much interest, viewing the canvases. "We might divide these pictures into two classes," said Mr. Ludlow, "the early historical and revolutionary. The former are, I suspect, to a degree imaginative, but the latter are accurately true to the times and scenes they depict. In the first group are the following: 'The Landing of Columbus at San Salvador in 1492,' 'The Discovery of the Mississippi by De Soto in 1541,' 'The Baptism of Pocahontas at Jamestown in 1613,' and, the last of this group, 'The Farewell Service on Board the Speedwell.' This shows an unseaworthy old port now called Lyden, Holland--for America, bearing the first colony of pilgrims who were finally landed on Plymouth Rock by the Mayflower." "Then," Mrs. Calvert pointed out, "there follows the group of Revolutionary pictures. Beside each picture of this group is an outline key which gives the names of the people shown. The first is 'The Signing of the Declaration of Independence' in the old hall in Philadelphia in 1776. The second one is the 'Surrender of Burgoyne at Saratoga' to General Gates. This picture was made from sketches made on the very spot by Colonel Trumbull, who was a close friend of Washington. He was present at the scene of the next picture also, 'The Surrender of Lord Cornwallis.' The British are seen marching between the lines of the Americans and their French allies. "The fourth is the 'Resignation of Washington' as commander-in-chief of his well-tried army, always a rather pathetic scene, it seems to me." "How interesting. I could spend hours here, but suppose we must not." "Where next?" inquired Dorothy. "We will go through this door and into what was the original Hall of Representatives, and is now the Statuary Hall," answered Mrs. Calvert. The room which they now entered was semi-circular in shape, and whose ceiling is half a dome beneath which is a spacious gallery now filled with a library. "The House of Representatives used this hall quite generally for fifty years, from 1808 on," said Mr. Ludlow. "Here Clay, Webster, Adams, Calhoun, Randolph, Cass, and many others won world-wide fame, and made the walls ring with their fiery eloquence. Here were many fierce and bitter wrangles over vexed questions, turbulent scenes, displays of sectional feelings. Too bad they had no talking machines in those days to deal out impassioned oratory for future generations." "What is that star set in the floor for?" inquired Ruth; whose interest in oratory of past ages was limited. "That marks the spot where John Quincy Adams, then a representative from his home, Massachusetts, was prostrated at his desk. See, the date is February 1, 1848," read Dorothy. "Where did all these statues come from?" questioned Alfaretta. "Most of them were bought and placed here, and some of them, I think, were donated," answered Aunt Betty. "This statuary hall," continued Mr. Ludlow, "has great acoustic properties." "Shall we get a Capitol guide?" asked Mrs. Calvert. "They say they can amuse one greatly, for they know each place where these strange things can be heard." "Yes, I will go and find one. You stay here till I come back," added Mr. Ludlow, turning to the others. In a few moments he was back, accompanied by a young man in uniform. The guide showed them where they could hear curious echoes, whispers distinct at a distance, and the ability to hear slight sounds that are inaudible at your elbow. They all tried these experiments. Ruth took her place at one corner of the room and Dorothy in the other corner at the same side of the room. The guide told them that they could converse in a low tone, yet each heard distinctly what the other said. Ruth started off by saying, "Dorothy, do you believe what this guide is telling us or do you think he is fooling us?" Dorothy was greatly surprised when she found she could hear quite plainly what Ruth said, and answered, "I am surprised to say I do." At this ambiguous answer they all laughed. Then, one by one, they tried the experiment, each finding how perfectly it worked out. Leaving Statuary Hall by the door under the arch, they traversed the corridor to the present Hall of Representatives. It is an oblong room of liberal size. The ceiling is a framework of iron, bronzed and gilded, and inlaid with glass upon which the coats-of-arms of the States are painted. The light effect is beautiful; the colors are mellowed rather than obscured. The Speaker's raised desk is against the southern wall and below this are the marble desks of the official reporters. The latter keep a stenographic record of everything done or said, to be published the next morning so that those who are absent or pay little attention to what is going on may still keep posted on the progress of events. The sergeant-at-arms is within easy call. This latter officer is called the Speaker's policeman--the representative of the physical force, and his symbol of authority is the mace, which reposes on a marble pedestal at the right of the speaker. "The mace was adopted by the House in the first Congress," explained Mr. Ludlow. "It has been in use ever since." "How do they use it?" questioned Dorothy. "When it is placed upon its pedestal," he answered, "it signifies that the House is in session, and under the Speaker's authority." "I suppose I ought to know, but who is the Speaker, and what does he do?" asked Alfaretta. "The Speaker," continued Mr. Ludlow, "is the head of the House, elected by vote of the members." "And I have a question," said Ruth. "What is a mace?" "In this case, the mace is a bundle of black rods fastened with transverse bands of silver. On its top is a silver globe, surmounted by a silver eagle," answered Mr. Ludlow, "and when the sergeant-at-arms is executing the commands of the Speaker, he is required to bear aloft the mace in his hands, unlike the House of Parliament, where there is much form and ceremony, there is little else here than quiet dignity." Grouped in concentric semi-circles are the desks of the Representatives, all small, uniform and handsome. "The Republican party all sit on the Speaker's left and the Democrats on the right," volunteered Mr. Dauntrey. "My, but there are a lot of seats," said Alfy. "Who uses them?" "In the galleries," said Mr. Ludlow. "Those over the Speaker's head are for the press. The others are for onlookers, some for diplomats, friends of the Congressmen, and some for ladies. They hold more than a thousand people, I think." Going downstairs they came to the House lobby. This apartment is richly furnished and contains many portraits, most of them being crayon drawings of the Speakers of the past. Passing through this room and out, one comes to the committee rooms in one of which is hung a notable collection of paintings of the principal forts of the United States. From this corridor, the party descended the eastern grand staircase to a basement corridor which extends from end to end of the Capitol on this ground floor. This they traversed till they came to the Senate chamber. The white marble pillars in this at once attracted their attention. Mr. Ludlow said, "I want you all to examine these marble pillars carefully and notice that though they are of Corinthian mold, their floriated capitals represent leaves of American plants, the one most used being the tobacco leaf." Passing onward, to the right, they saw the old Supreme Court chamber, now used as a law library. All the corridors at this end are bright, and the walls and ceilings are very elaborately decorated with mural designs in the Italian manner, being daintily drawn and brightly colored. Among them are many portraits of early men of note, in medallions, and a long series of charming drawings in colors of American birds and flowers. The vestibule of the Senate post office is particularly picturesque, having over the post office door a large painting of Fulton, indicating his first steamboat, "The Claremont," passing the palisades of the Hudson. A stairway leads on up to the main floor, where corridors completely extend around the Senate chamber, which occupies the center of its wing. Here the ceiling, in contrast with the one of the House, is flat, with broad panels of glass, painted with emblems of the army, the navy and the arts. The walls are of marble, paneled, the doors of choice mahogany, the carpet green, which sets off well the mahogany desks of quaint pattern. Each desk bears a silver plate with the occupant's name engraved upon it. "Do the Republicans sit on the left of the Speaker here, and the Democrats on the right, as in the House?" questioned Alfaretta, very proud of herself for having remembered what had been told her in the other room. "Yes, but there is no Speaker in the Senate," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Who is it, then, that uses that beautifully carved high backed chair on that little platform there?" asked Dorothy. "The president of the Senate is the Vice-President of the United States," said Mrs. Calvert, smiling and thinking that the girls ought to know more about these things, for they were shockingly lacking in knowledge of all the fundamental principles of the workings of the government. "Who are all these statues of?" asked Alfaretta, pointing to the niches in the walls. "These are statues of all the vice-presidents," answered Mrs. Calvert again. "Outside here are many interesting things that you will all like to see," said Mr. Ludlow. "To the right here is the famous portrait of Washington, and opposite, one of John Adams." "Is that Benjamin Franklin?" inquired Ruth, looking at a large marble statue at the foot of the eastern staircase, when they had passed through the door situated between the two portraits. "Yes, and the picture on the wall of the stair landing is a very famous one. It is of Commander Perry at the battle of Lake Erie. Perry is seen transferring himself and his flag from his sinking flagship 'Lawrence' to the 'Niagara,' when he won that great victory. This transfer was made under fire. Perry's younger brother, Matthew, then a midshipman, is depicted here as entreating his brother and commander not to expose himself too recklessly," said Mr. Ludlow in the way of explaining this picture. "And the faces of the sailors are drawn from once well-known employes about the Capitol," added Aunt Betty. "My guide book tells me that." "This vestibule opens at its inner end into the Senate reception room. The one thing of interest in this room," said Mr. Ludlow, when they had entered, "is the picture on the south wall. It is of Washington, in conference with Jefferson and Hamilton." "Isn't the room pretty! What luxurious chairs, soft sofas, beautiful rugs, and those cream colored curtains!" exclaimed Ruth. "Whose room is this?" asked Dorothy, who was becoming tired, and, wanting to move on more rapidly, had gone ahead. "This next room is the President's room," answered Aunt Betty. "It is the custom of the President to sit here during the last day of a Congressional session in order to be ready to sign bills requiring immediate attention. The portraits are those of Washington and his first cabinet members." From here they ascended to the gallery floor by way of the western grand staircase, at the foot of which stands the statue of John Hancock. In the wall of the landing is Walker's painting, "The Storming of Chepultepec." The scene is during the Mexican War, when it was captured by Scott's army. The rooms here in the gallery are numerous committee rooms not open to the public, so they all passed on down the corridor to the interesting rooms that contain Morau's celebrated pictures of the canyons of the Colorado and of the Yellowstone, which were painted by actual study of the scenes. Those familiar with these marvelous regions of the country recognize that the coloring is by no means overly vivid, and that the drawings are most accurate and natural. In the adjoining hall is the painting of the encounter between the Monitor and the Merrimac. This picture is the only exception to the rule that no reminder of the Civil War should be placed in the Capitol; an exception due to the fact that this was in reality a drawn battle, where the courage of the contestants was conspicuously equal, and where the naval methods of old found their grave. Its historic interest is, therefore, world-wide. "The bust, there, Dorothy," said Aunty Betty, "is of John A. Dix, afterward a major general. It was he, who, when he was Secretary of the Treasury early in the uncivil war, sent to one of his special representatives in a Southern State the famous order containing the words, 'If anyone attempts to haul down the American flag, shoot him on the spot,' which so thrilled patriotic hearts." "From here let us go to the Supreme Court," said Mr. Ludlow. "That will finish our tour of the Capitol." A small elevator took them down to the main floor, where they walked along the corridor, viewing the portraits of Thomas Jefferson and Patrick Henry. The Supreme Court of the United States now uses the chamber in the old Capitol which was originally designed for the Senate. The background is a row of columns of variegated gray Potomac marble, with white Ionic capitals. In the centre is the chair of the chief justice, behind which are draped crimson curtains surmounted by a hovering eagle. On the dias below is the long "bench" of the most august court in the land. "One formal custom here will be of interest," said Mr. Dauntrey. "On court days the justices enter the room in procession precisely at noon. They wear voluminous black silk gowns, and sit in a prescribed order with the chief justice, of course, in the centre." "There. I think we have made a very careful tour of the Capitol. I think we have missed nothing at all of importance," said Mr. Ludlow. "But I guess by now, you are all tired and anxious to be back to the hotel." "What time is it, I wonder?" said Dorothy to herself, and turning to Mr. Ludlow said, "Mr. Ludlow, I feel as if it were time for lunch." "Why, it's one-thirty o'clock," said Mr. Ludlow. "I am surprised that the time has gone so quickly, so let's hurry back to the hotel, for we are already late." All were hungry and anxious to get back to their luncheon, but no one regretted a single moment spent in this most interesting place. CHAPTER XIV. HIGH HONOR. That afternoon Dorothy devoted to practice, giving special attention to the three pieces she was to play at the concert, two of which had been given place on the program. The third was to be held in readiness in case she needed to respond to an encore. Aunt Betty and Alfy listened to her and expressed their approval. They were never limited in their praise of her work, which always seemed to them beyond criticism. "Good-bye, for a while," called Dorothy, at the end of a stanza. "I will only be gone a few minutes, I hope. Mr. Ludlow, in my letter of instructions, told me to come to him at four o'clock. I have to play over my selections to him so he can criticize them." Dorothy walked slowly down the hall and knocked on the sitting room door. In a moment, to her surprise, Mr. Dauntrey opened it. "Good afternoon," said he. "Now, I shall have the pleasure of listening to you play, I hope." "Mr. Ludlow said that I was to come here at four o'clock. I think he wants me to play my selections over for him," answered Dorothy. "Yes, you are right," said Mr. Ludlow, from his large easy rocking chair by the open window, which overlooked a court. "Yes. Stand over there and start in at once." Dorothy, thus enjoined, took up her violin and began playing. She finished her first piece without any interruptions on the part of Mr. Ludlow. She was about to start the second piece when he called to her to stop. "Play the introduction to that piece again and a little louder, also a little firmer," he ordered. She did as she was told. "That's a little better," he said, when she had finished. "But I should play the introduction still louder, so as to make a marked contrast when the melody proper starts in, by playing that very softly, like someone singing way off in the distance. And one more thing; in the last part, when you have that staccato melody, play that sharper. Now, try the piece all over again." Dorothy answered, "Yes," and then played again, trying to do just as Mr. Ludlow asked her to, and when she finished she stood still, saying nothing, just waiting to hear what Mr. Ludlow would say. If she expected a word of praise she was to be disappointed. "Very well, try the next one," was all Mr. Ludlow said. So the girl once more took up her violin, and filled the room with melody. This time she played her piece, so she thought, very poorly, in part, because of Mr. Dauntrey. She seemed to feel his eyes on her, and it made her nervous. "Very well," said Mr. Ludlow, much to her surprise. "That will be all for this afternoon. And, Miss Dorothy, try not to get nervous or excited to-night. I expect you to do your very best." "I will try," smiled back Dorothy. "Good afternoon." Just as she reached the door, she saw Ruth, who stepped back into the shadow of the hall. Ruth questioned, "Is he cross? And is Mr. Dauntrey there?" "Mr. Ludlow isn't cross, but he's very business-like. And Mr. Dauntrey is in there, and I wish he hadn't been," answered Dorothy. "Oh, dear," exclaimed Ruth, "I just know he will be so cross with me, for if Mr. Dauntrey is in there I just can't sing. He thinks I am a wonderful singer, and I know that I'm not. Still, I hate to have him think that I can't sing at all." "You will do all right, dear," comforted Dorothy. "Just think you are alone, and forget everything and everybody." "Very well," answered Ruth, "and good-bye. I must go in and bear it," saying which she walked up to the door and knocked. Dorothy walked down the hall toward her own rooms, then she turned, took the elevator downstairs, and bought a postal, one showing a picture of the capitol. This she took to her writing desk, addressed it, and wrote just this, "Arrived safe. Visited the capitol this morning. Will write later. With love, Dorothy." She placed a stamp on it and mailed it, then hurried upstairs to her room again. "I am rather tired," she said to her aunt and Alfy, who were reading, "I think I shall rest a few minutes before I dress for dinner. We need to have dinner real early to-night, as we are expected to be at the National Theater at 7.30 p. m. Mr. Ludlow is to give us each a program, then, and tell us of any last orders he may have for us." "Shall I get your things all out and have everything all ready for you?" inquired Alfy. "Yes, please." "What dress do you want to wear?" asked Alfy. "I think you had better wear the pink one, dear," suggested Mrs. Calvert. "Very well, the pink one, Alfy," called Dorothy. "I will have all the things you need ready; shoes--I mean slippers, stockings, handkerchiefs, and gloves," called back Alfy, as by this time Dorothy had reached her room, and was preparing for her rest. Both Mrs. Calvert and Alfaretta continued to read for quite some time, and finally when she thought it was time for Alfy to get dressed, Aunt Betty said: "Alfy, I think you had better start to get dressed, now, and as you are to lay out Dorothy's things for her, I do not think you will have any too much time." "Surely, Aunt Betty, I will begin at once. I was so interested in my book that I forgot my duties," answered Alfy, and she started into the next room and commenced getting Dorothy's things ready first. When she had finished this task, she walked back into the sitting room again and inquired, "Aunt Betty, I have finished getting Dorothy's things ready. Will you please now tell me what you would like to have me wear?" "I think you might wear your little white dress, with the pretty blue sash and ribbon of the same color, for your hair," answered Mrs. Calvert. "And you might wear white shoes and stockings. We are merely going to be part of the audience, to-night, so I hardly think we need dress very much." "All right," answered Alfy, cheerily, and started away again, humming a little tune under her breath. She was pleased to think she could wear her new white dress, with the pretty blue sash. And she thought she would ask Dorothy to tie the blue ribbon around her hair, as Dorothy always did such things so much daintier than she did. Still singing, she started to dress in earnest. It wasn't long before Dorothy awoke from her nap, and soon the two girls were dressed and ready to help each other with the finishing touches. Together they made short and quick work of this. Mrs. Calvert looked up as they entered the room, and said, "Come here, and kiss me, dears. You both look very sweet; very pretty, indeed." "Do you and Alfy want to be audience again, while I play over my pieces once more?" asked Dorothy. "I'm sure Mr. Ludlow didn't quite like the way I played one of them this afternoon." "Of course we do," answered Aunt Betty. "We will each sit down and listen very attentively." "I will play first the last piece on the program," announced Dorothy. "Very well," said Mrs. Calvert, smiling encouragingly at the girl. Dorothy gave careful attention to her work, and played one after the other of the three selections through, pausing long enough between each piece so that they might know she was about to begin the next. The one Mr. Ludlow had taken exception to and criticised, that afternoon, she played last, paying strict attention to the parts he had indicated as needing correction. When she had finished, she laid down her violin, and came and stood in front of her aunt, questioning: "Do you think I played them well enough? Did I do better than I did this afternoon before I went in to see Mr. Ludlow, and did you notice the difference in the playing of the last piece?" "My, what a lot of questions," said Aunt Betty, laughing. "Now, to answer them all: Yes, I do think you played much better just now than you did before. And I think Mr. Ludlow's corrections in that last piece improve it greatly. You see, he considers your work from the viewpoint of the audience." "I am glad you like the correction. I think it is better by far, myself. But I just wanted to get your opinion on it before I was quite satisfied," replied Dorothy. "I guess, to change the subject, that we are all ready for dinner, so let's go down; maybe some of the others are ready also." They found that all of the party were already at dinner, so they joined them in a quiet meal. Each seemed imbued with the responsibility that rested on their shoulders. Dorothy, leaving her aunt and Alfaretta to follow her to the theater, started early with Ruth and Mr. Ludlow. On the way to the theater, Mr. Ludlow said, "Just one final word of instruction: Stand either a little to the right or a little to the left of the centre of the stage; never just in the centre. It looks better from the house side. And try not to get nervous. Mr. Dauntrey will give you each a program. And now, I think you are all right." Mr. Dauntrey, joining them on their arrival, gave each a program. Dorothy noted that she was to be the third, and was quite pleased to find that she came in the first half of the program. She always liked to play and then go out and sit with her aunt and listen to the remainder of the recital. The programs were beautifully printed in gold and color, on a heavy white paper, on the cover of which was an eagle. The sheets were tied together with a red, white and blue ribbon. The contents read as follows: PART I. 1. Songs-- "Ave Maria" Gounod "La Palonia" Gradier Miss Mary Robbia. 2. Piano Solo-- "Am Meer" Schubert "Caprice Brilliant" Leybach Mr. C. B. Carleton. 3. Violin Solo-- Adagio from "Moonlight Sonata" Beethoven Meistersinger Wagner Miss Dorothy Calvert. 4. Songs-- "Chanson de Florian" Godard "Ah, That We Two Were a-Maying" Smith Miss Ruth Boothington. PART II. 5. Classical Dances-- "Hungarian Dance" Brahms "Dance of the Sylphs" Berlioz Miss Florence Winter. 6. Trio Songs-- "The Psalms" Faure "Serenade" Schubert "Song of the Toreador" Bizet "Lost Chord" Sullivan Rendered by Trio: Miss Dozzi, Mrs. Helmholz, Signor de Peiuzzi. "Are you going out in front to sit with your aunt and Alfaretta, after you have finished?" inquired Ruth, who was standing beside Dorothy. "Yes, do you want to come out with me?" Dorothy asked. "Yes. If I may," answered Ruth. "Will you wait here in the wings till I have finished singing, and then we can go out together. I come right after you on the program." "I am anxious to see Miss Winter's dance," said Dorothy. "And so am I, and to hear that trio sing," answered Ruth. "Do you want to see the stage?" called Mr. Dauntrey. "Come now, if you do. Mr. Ludlow wants you all to go and try it out; that is, I mean, practice making an entrance." The girls walked over in the direction in which Mr. Dauntrey led. "Oh!" exclaimed Ruth, when the vista of the stage came into view. "Isn't it pretty!" "It is, indeed," acquiesced Dorothy. The stage was a spacious one. To the right was placed the grand piano, around which palms were artistically arranged. In the centre, and way to the rear, as a background, hung a large American flag. On each side of the flag ran a regular column of palms. Little plants and flowers were on the stage in such profusion as to transform it into a veritable fairyland. "Wasn't that a nice idea to put the flag back there?" said Ruth. "I think the stage decorations are very artistic, and I am sure with such surroundings, everyone should do their very best," said Mr. Dauntrey. Just then they looked at the clock in the wings and saw that it was 8.15 p. m., the time announced to commence. They all walked off the stage and back into the wings. As the curtain arose, Miss Robbia advanced to do her part. Just then Dorothy heard Mr. Ludlow say, "I think the President is here." "Oh, I hope he does come," answered Miss Ruth. But Dorothy, as she went back to await her turn, was not quite so sure. It seemed a serious thing to play before the greatest dignitary in the land. The first number at last was finished, then the second, then it was Dorothy's turn. When she was on the stage, she looked out into the audience and there, sure enough, in the large, beautifully decorated box, sat the President and his party. Surely the presence of such a notable guest should prompt her to do her best. She wondered if the fact of his being there would make her nervous. Then she thought of Jim and of what he would say, and then once launched upon her theme, she forgot everything else. Her whole soul, it seemed to the audience, was engulfed in her art. Never had instrument fashioned by hand been more responsive to human touch. When she had finished playing, she heard vaguely the applause, and went out again before the curtain to bow her acknowledgment. Then a large bunch of American beauty roses were handed to her. A very pretty picture indeed did she make with the large bouquet of flowers in her arms. When the first half of the concert was over, Mr. Ludlow came back and said: "The President would like Miss Ruth and Miss Dorothy to come to his box; he would like to congratulate you both." "Ah, that is pleasing, indeed," exclaimed Dorothy. "Surely we are honored," added Ruth. They followed Mr. Ludlow out to the President's box, where he and his family and a few friends sat. When they reached the box, the President rose and said, smilingly: "I want to congratulate you young people on your success. It has been a great pleasure for me to hear you. Your playing, Miss Calvert, was entrancing." All the eyes of the audience were now turned on the presidential box, and there was a craning of necks, trying to see what was going on there. The incident was soon over, the President had shaken hands with each, and Dorothy at last found time to look at the card attached to her roses. She imagined Aunt Betty had sent them to her. But she was very much surprised and greatly pleased when she saw Jim's name on them, and wondered how he could have sent them. She hugged them close to her and kissed each pretty rose. Just then Ruth came up and said, "I am ready now, dear, let's go out in front. My! What beautiful flowers you have. Who sent them to you?" "A friend," answered Dorothy, blushing. "Wasn't _he_ thoughtful to remember to telegraph them here for you," laughed Ruth. "I wish I had a friend to send me beautiful flowers," she added. "Who gave you those beautiful violets you are wearing, that just match your eyes?" questioned Dorothy. "Oh, Mr. Ludlow sent them. He always does, because he knows I love violets, but that's different from having American beauty roses sent to one," Ruth replied. By this time they were around in front and had quietly sat down in the two seats reserved for them beside Aunt Betty and Alfaretta. Miss Winter had come on the stage preparatory to performing her dances. She was a very pretty little girl, with blonde hair, and had a small, but well formed figure. The stage was cleared and the lights dull. She danced about the stage in such a light, breezy way that it seemed to the audience that she was wafted about by a spring breeze. She danced most artistically, and her rendering of the two dances was so perfect that the audience applauded again and again, though in response, she just made some curtain bows and retired. The trio, which Ruth so wished to hear, came next. Their rendition was a long and exquisite one, and Ruth now realized why Mr. Ludlow had put them last. She turned to Dorothy and whispered, "Aren't they wonderful!" "Yes," answered Dorothy. "They are the best we have." "That's why," explained Ruth, "Mr. Ludlow put them last, so they would leave a good impression of the whole concert in the people's mind. I feel as if I just couldn't sing at all." The concert was now over, and the audience indicated by the volume of applause that rang out that it was a great success. Everyone had done just what they thought was their very best, and many had received beautiful flowers. It wasn't long before they were all home. CHAPTER XV. MT. VERNON. As Mr. Ludlow had planned for them to visit Mount Vernon and the White House the next day it necessitated their packing partly, so as to be ready to take the train for the next city in which they were to give a concert. As the concert had been such a great success here, they were very hopeful regarding the rest of the tour. The next morning they were all ready in time for the 10 a. m. boat for Mount Vernon. They had agreed the night before to see Mount Vernon first and leave the White House till last, as the majority cared more to see the former. On their way they passed the City of Alexandria, and were told that here the Union troops began the invasion of Virginia soil, and here fell Elsworth the first notable victim of the war. The old red brick hotel, where he pulled down the flag of the Confederates was pointed out to the party by the guide. Also the guide pointed out to them Christ Church, which Washington and his family had attended. Then, a little further on, among some peach orchards, begins the Mount Vernon estate, which in Washington's time contained about eight thousand acres. The estate is on the right bank of the Potomac, just sixteen miles below Washington. The land was part of an extensive grant to John Washington, the first of the family who came to America in middle of the seventeenth century. The estate descended to George, when he was barely more than a boy. He continued to develop and beautify the property until the breaking out of the war of 1776. Then the ability he had shown in the Virginia militia called him to the service of the United Colonies. He returned to Mount Vernon at the close of the war, but had to leave it, and take up his duties as first President of the Republic. He was buried upon his estate and the family declined to accept the subsequent invitation of Congress to transfer the body to the undercroft of the Capitol. After Mrs. Washington's death, the property descended finally to John Augustine Washington, who proposed to dispose of it. A Southern lady, Miss Ann Pamela Cunningham, secured the refusal, and after failing to interest Congress in her proposal that the Government should buy and preserve it as a memorial, succeeded in arousing the women of the country. An association of these women, named the "Mount Vernon Ladies' Association of the Union," with representatives from every State was incorporated, and in 1858 paid $200,000 for the central portion of the property, some 200 acres, covenanting to hold it in perpetuity. An admission fee of 25 cents charged all visitors goes to the payment of current expenses. The tomb of Washington is the first object of attention. It stands immediately at the head of the path from the landing. Its position, small dimensions, and plain form of brick, were indicated by Washington in his will. The front part, closed by plain iron gates, through which anyone may look, contains two plain sarcophagi, each excavated from a single block of marble. The one in the centre of the little enclosure contains the remains of the Father of His Country, within the little mahogany coffin in which they were originally put. At the left is that of Martha Washington. Four times a year these iron gates are opened by the authorities, and wreaths and other floral offerings are deposited therein. The mansion itself, stands upon considerable eminence, overlooking broad reaches of the historic Potomac. It is built of oak and pictures have made its architectural features familiar everywhere. When Mount Vernon was acquired by the ladies' association, it was not only out of repair, but the furniture had been distributed to various heirs, or sold and scattered. An effort was made to preserve as much as possible, and to restore as closely as might be the original homelike appearance of the house. It has been impossible to do this absolutely, and a great many other articles of furniture, adornment and historical interest have been added. In order to do this, the various State branches of the association were invited to undertake to furnish one room each, and many have done so. The names of these States are associated with the apartments they have taken charge of. A considerable quantity of furniture, as well as personal relics of George and Martha Washington, are here, however, especially in the bedrooms where they died. "Ah," exclaimed Dorothy as she entered the hall. "Just look at those swords. Did they all belong to Washington?" "Yes, dear, the one in the middle of the three," answered Mrs. Calvert, "was the one he wore when he resigned his commission at Annapolis, and when he was inaugurated at New York." "And what is this key hanging here for?" asked Alfaretta. "That key has a most interesting history," answered Mr. Ludlow. "That is the key to the Bastile, that prison in Paris, which was so justly hated by the people, and which was demolished by the mob. Lafayette sent it to Washington in a letter." Next they turned to the east and entered the music room. This room is under the care of the State of Ohio. "Oh, just see all the things in here!" cried Dorothy. "Look at that dear harpsichord." "That harpsichord was given to Nellie Custis by Washington," answered Aunt Betty. They next entered the west parlor. Above the mantel piece is carved the coat-of-arms of the family. The carpet here is a rug presented by Louis XVI to Washington. It was woven to order, in dark green with orange stars; its center piece is the seal of the United States, and the border is a floriated design. This room was refurnished by the State of Illinois. "Look, dear, see the spinet there," said Mrs. Calvert to Dorothy. "Yes, and what beautiful candlesticks those are standing there on that queer table," answered Dorothy. "What is this next room?" inquired Alfaretta. "This room," answered Aunt Betty, "was Mrs. Washington's sitting room, and was refurnished in the manner of the period by Georgia. But the dining room is what I want you to especially notice. The furniture here was that originally used by Washington--" "Next is Washington's library, for I see books in there," announced Ruth. "This is one of the most important rooms in the house," said Mr. Ludlow, as they entered the banquet hall. Its length is the whole width of the mansion, and its richly decorated ceiling is full two stories high. "The ornate fireplace and mantel of Italian marble and workmanship once occupied a place in a country home in England," said Mrs. Calvert; "someone brought it over the ocean and gave it to Washington, and it is worth examining." They now ascended the stairs to the second floor to visit the bedrooms. "Let's go first to the bedroom where Washington died," said Mr. Ludlow. "It is almost exactly as it was when he lived here." "There is the large four-poster," said Dorothy. "Yes, dear, and these pillows here on the chairs were worked by Martha Washington herself," added Aunt Betty. They next went to see the room where Martha Washington died. It is directly above the one occupied by Washington. This is fitted up as nearly as possible as it was when occupied by Martha, but only the corner washstand really belonged to her. They visited the other bedrooms, noticing the important things of interest in them, and then started back to the city, where they had late luncheon and went out immediately after to visit the White House. They had very little time left and wanted to get just a glimpse of the President's home. Everyone is familiar with the appearance of the White House. The grounds consist of some eight acres sloping down to the Potomac. The immediate gardens were early attended to as is shown by the size of the trees. One park, near the house, known as the white lot, is open to the public, and here, in warm weather, the marine band gives outdoor concerts. Here also is the sloping terrace just behind the White House, that the children of the city gather upon on Easter to roll their colored eggs. Coming up from Pennsylvania avenue along the semi-circular drive that leads up from the open gates, they entered the stately vestibule through the front portico. The middle upper window from which Lincoln made so many impromptu but memorable addresses during the war was pointed out. The doorkeepers here direct callers upon the President up the broad staircase. They formed the company into one party and conducted them, under their guidance, around the building. They were taken into the East room, originally designed for a banquet hall, which is used now as a state reception room. It has eight beautiful marble mantels, surmounted by tall mirrors, and large crystal chandeliers from each of the three great panels of the ceiling. Full length portraits of George and Martha Washington are among the pictures on the wall. Every visitor is told that Mrs. Madison cut the former painting from out the frame with a pair of shears to preserve it from the enemy when she fled from the town in 1814. But in her own letters describing her flight she says that Mr. Custis, the nephew of Washington, hastened over from Arlington to save the precious portrait and that a servant cut the outer frame with an axe so the canvas could be removed, stretched on the inner frame. Adjoining the East room is the Green room, named so from the general color scheme which has been traditional. The ceiling is ornamented with an exquisite design in which musical instruments are entwined in a garland with cherubs and flowers. Next to this, and somewhat larger and oval, is the Blue room. The ornaments here are presents from the French. The mantel clock was a present from Napoleon to Lafayette, and was given by the latter to the United States. The fine vases were presented by the president of the French Republic, on the occasion of the opening of the Franco-American cable. It is here the President stands when holding receptions and ceremonials. The Red room, west of the Blue room, is square and the same size as the Green parlor. It is more homelike than the others because of its piano and mantel ornaments, abundant furniture and pictures. It is used as a reception room and private parlor by the ladies of the mansion. In the State dining room at the end of the corridor, elaborate dinners are usually given once or twice a week, during the winter, and they are brilliant affairs. Plants and flowers from the conservatories are supplied in limitless quantities and the table is laden with a rare display of plate, porcelain and cut glass. It presents a beautiful appearance and is an effective setting for the elaborate toilets of the ladies and their glittering jewels. The table service is exceedingly beautiful and is adorned with various representations of the flora and fauna of America. The new set of cut glass, consisting of five hundred and twenty separate pieces, was made especially for the White House, and on each piece, from the mammoth centerpiece and punch bowl to the tiny salt cellars, is engraved the coat-of-arms of the United States. The table can be made to accommodate as many as fifty-four persons, but the usual number of guests is from thirty to forty. A door leads into the conservatory, which is always a beauty spot. Just opposite the state dining room is the private or family dining room. The offices of the President and his secretaries are on the second floor at the eastern end. The President's room and Cabinet room are in the executive office west of the White House, so the guide told them, and a large force of watchmen including police officers are on duty inside the mansion at all hours, and a continuous patrol is maintained by the local police of the grounds immediately surrounding the mansion. Thinking they had seen as much as they could safely spare time for, they hurried away back to the hotel, where they all hastily packed the rest of their things and sent them at once to the station. They soon started on their considerable journey, and almost nightly concerts till they should reach Chicago. CHAPTER XV. THE LAKE CITY. About a week later, they arrived one day, late in the afternoon, in Chicago, and at once took a bus from the station to the hotel, the Blackstone. They were to sing at the Auditorium that evening. The concert they gave originally in Washington was to be repeated. As all were now familiar with their task, they did not have to practice unless so disposed. Mr. Ludlow and his assistant hurried off to the Auditorium to see about decorations and to meet the committee that had charge of selling tickets there. Mrs. Calvert, Dorothy, and Alfaretta hurried up to their rooms to get their things straightened out. Alfy found, having packed hurriedly that morning, that their dresses were badly wrinkled. She said to Mrs. Calvert: "Aunt Betty, what shall I do? My dresses are very much mussed, and I guess Dorothy's are in the same condition." "I have a little electric iron in my trunk that I always carry with me for just that purpose, when I travel, because one's things are very apt to get wrinkled no matter how much care one takes of them," answered Aunt Betty. "May I have it?" questioned Alfaretta, eagerly, for she was always very fond of ironing, and always was very proud of her skill in that direction, for more than once Ma Babcock had praised her by saying even she couldn't have done as well herself. "I would love to iron the things all out nice, and make them look like new." "Certainly, I will get it for you. You unscrew the electric light bulb and take it out, and then put the small disk in place and screw it tight. Then turn on the current, and place the piece with the wire attached into the socket. Then in a few minutes the iron will be hot enough to use," directed Aunt Betty. Alfy started off to look for things to press; ribbons, belts, ties, collars and the dresses that they wished to wear that night. These she laid on the bed, and Aunt Betty left her there, as happy and content as she could be in having found some way in which she could be useful. When Dorothy was all alone at last, she opened a letter that the clerk had given her when she arrived, and read as follows: DEAR, DEAR GIRL: I received your postal and letter from Washington, but was rather disappointed not to have had another letter from you ere this. But I suppose you have been very busy sight-seeing in all the places you have been, and then you must have given up considerable time to practicing for your concerts. I know that you have little time while you are traveling about. I read the accounts of the first concert in the New York papers, and they all referred to it as being a great success. I am very proud of you, dear. As yet I have heard nothing at all from the detectives concerning your locket and chain, but I have heard of a new detective, a private man. A fellow in the office was telling me about his good work in many cases; it seems that he is a friend of this fellow's. The chap is a nice boy and is under me in my work. His name is Billie Clarke, and he lives uptown in New York. He has invited me up to his home to meet his mother and sister, some time next week. I shall go because it is very lonely here in this big city without you, dear. I miss you, little sweetheart, in a hundred different ways. Mr. Van Zandt telephoned me and said that he had submitted the proof he had concerning you, to his colleague, who would comment upon it a little later, and would submit it to the London solicitors; and just as soon as I hear anything about the result I will write to you. I asked him if he had been able to do anything in the line of tracing up little Lem's people, but he said that he couldn't say much as he had just started, and had found but very few traces. So that is something we will still have to hope for, though I am sure he will do his best to solve that mystery. I like my new work very much indeed. There is a lot to learn, and I spend all my evenings reading up on matters I am not quite strong in, but, in time, I certainly hope to make good. And, dearest, I hope to save up all I can, against that day when I will surely be the happiest man on earth. You know what day I mean, dear girl. Mrs. Quarren has been just great to me, and has done everything she could to make my room seem homelike. The meals here are wonderful, and if I keep on eating as much as I have this last week, I shall be fat when you come back here again. Now, dear, please, please write to me. You know how very lonely I am, and how anxious I am about you. Write and tell me all the news. I love you, girl, always. Your own, JIM Dorothy read the letter once, and sighed, "Dear, dear Jim," and then she slowly read the letter through again, kissed the signature, blushing as she did so. She then got up, walked to the writing desk, a pretty little mahogany one, fitted out nicely, selected some paper and started to write. She thought, "I will just write a little note to Jim to thank him for sending me those beautiful American beauty roses that everyone admired. I ought to have done so before." Her letter was as follows: DEAR JIM: The clerk just handed me your letter as I came into the hotel, for we just arrived in Chicago. I was very glad to hear from you. Most of all, I want to thank you so very much for those flowers. They were just beautiful, and it pleased me so, to think of your remembering that we were to have the concert, and then sending those flowers to me by telegraph. The President was at the concert, and in the intermission we went to his box, spoke to him, and shook hands with him. I carried your flowers with me all the time. I am going to rest for a while after I write this letter, as we give a concert here to-night at the Auditorium. The members of the company that joined us at Washington are very fine. There is a trio, and their singing is exquisite; also a Miss Winters, who is a wonderful dancer. She fairly floats about the stage, and makes a very pretty picture. The whole company is very good, indeed, and I guess we are doing very well, judging from the applause we earn. Mr. Ludlow seems pleased with the finances. You know Mr. Dauntrey takes care of those and helps Mr. Ludlow in general. Although the latter is very considerate and helpful, I don't know just why it is, but there is something I don't quite like about him. He is so very handsome that most girls, including Ruth, are raving about him. We have a few busy days. A concert every night and train by day. We go from here to St. Louis, and then to the Coast. I am anxious to get to San Francisco. I want to look up that old house there on the bluff that we had that year we took Aunt Betty there for her health when Monty Sharp was with us. Do you remember, Jim? I am so sorry about that locket, but I know that you will find it, and then we can clear up the whole affair. And so you think that perhaps Mr. Van Zandt will find out all about poor little Lem's parents just from that sampler that Alfy found in the attic? I do so hope so. Aunt Betty and Alfy, I know, would wish to be remembered, if they knew I was writing, so I will send their love anyway. Now, isn't this a nice, long, newsy letter? I have to practice a little now, so I will stop. I am yours, as ever, DOROTHY. She read the letter she had just written over again, and then sealed it. She then opened the door, stepped into the hall and dropped it into the mail box chute near the elevator. Then she returned to the room to dress and rest before the concert. In a little while Alfy entered and found her dressing. "See what I have been doing," she said, gayly, holding up the dresses she had just finished pressing so that Dorothy could see and admire them. "You dear girl," commented Dorothy, going over and kissing her. "You are always doing something for me. Thank you, dear, for pressing my dress. Doesn't it look nice now?--like new again." "Is there anything else that you would like to have pressed, now that I am working?" Alfy inquired. "Why, there is that blue waist that I have been wearing in the train. It is very mussy," added Dorothy, "but if you are in a hurry, don't bother with it; I really can get along without it." "Give it to me," responded Alfy. "I just love ironing, and will have it done in no time. I might as well press mine while I am about it, too." And taking Dorothy's waist from her, she quickly found her own, and started off with them. The girls were soon ready, and then went down the stair with Mrs. Calvert. Mr. Ludlow called for Dorothy at seven o'clock that evening, and they started for the Auditorium. The stage, this time, was decorated with huge bunches of chrysanthemums, and large green palms that hung their great, fan-like leaves in a regular bower effect over the stage, making a very effective background for the performance. The programs here were, of course, inside much like the Washington ones, but this time the cover was of heavy, dark brown manila paper, embossed into a large dull gold chrysanthemum, and tied with a yellow ribbon bow at the top end. They were very pretty and effective. The committee of ladies that had charge of selling the seats here in Chicago had arranged to have the programs sold. They had selected ten very pretty and charming debutantes, and had provided them with pretty little dainty satin bags, with yellow chrysanthemums handpainted on them. These bags were hung over their shoulders by yellow ribbons. The whole effect was very pretty and artistic. The girls were to charge twenty-five cents for the programs, and the money they slipped into a little pocket in the bag which held them. During the intermission, most of the people retired to the cosy little tea-room in front of the place, where cool and refreshing drinks as well as ice creams and ices were served at a moderately low fee. There the girls met many charming Chicago people, and the committee of ladies made it very pleasant for them by introducing them to almost everyone. A most informal and successful evening, they all agreed they had spent. The next day was Sunday, and as a few of their number were visiting friends in Chicago, the rest of them decided to spend the day sight-seeing. The trio, for so they were always called by the rest, all had gone to visit relatives, and little Miss Winter had promised to visit a friend who lived in a suburb of the city. So the rest of the company felt quite lost, and thought the best way to amuse themselves in this large, strange city was to go sight-seeing and become acquainted with it. "Did you know," said Mr. Ludlow as the little party started out on a tour of the city, "that Chicago is especially famous for its highly developed and extensive boulevard systems and parks? The public parks cover an area of over four thousand acres and are being added to every year." "Yes," responded Mrs. Calvert, "and the great boulevards of the city encircle the metropolis and connect parks and squares. These great roads, splendidly paved and shaded by trees, and lined with ornamental lamp posts, are throughout the year favorite highways for the automobilists." About ten minutes' walk from the hotel brought them to Grant Park on the lake front. There the Art Institute attracted their attention, and they found the building open. "The center of art interests in Chicago is located here," said Mr. Ludlow. "This building contains the Museum of Fine Arts and the School of Design. Its collections and the building and its work are entirely conducted on voluntary subscriptions." "I have heard that the Art School here is the largest one in America," said Mrs. Calvert. They visited the various rooms in the museum, including the Hall collection of casts of ancient and modern sculpture, and the Higinbotham collection of Naples bronzes, the rooms containing French sculpture and musical instruments, scarabæae, Egyptian antiques, Greek vases of glass and terra-cotta, and found all very interesting. They then visited Blackstone Hall, containing the great Blackstone collection of architectural casts chiefly from French subjects. Then the paintings of George Inness. These canvases are so diverse and representative that it is highly improbable that another equally significant group of works by Inness will ever come into market again. From the north side of Grant Park and extending south to Garfield boulevard near Washington Park is Michigan Boulevard. This historic drive, part of which was once an Indian trail, is a main artery of automobile travel from the lake front hotel districts to the south parks. The party then took a surface car to Jackson Park, which was a short distance. It was the site of the world's Columbian Exposition. "The Field Museum of Natural History was the Fine Arts Building in the Exposition of 1893," said Mr. Ludlow. "Let's visit that part first." This museum was established soon after the close of the world's Columbian Exposition, and occupies one of the largest and most beautiful buildings in the whole exposition group covering two acres. The building is classic Greek in style, constructed with brick and steel, covered with ornamental stucco, in imitation of marble. Marshall Field, whose name the institution perpetuates, was the person who made the building possible by his generosity. He gave about one and a half million dollars. Then at his death in 1906, he left the institution eight million dollars, one-half for endowment, and the other half for a magnificent permanent building, worthy of the unrivaled scientific collections which it contains. The nucleus of the material now on view was gathered by gift and purchase from exhibitions at the World's Columbian Exposition. From here they walked to the Wooded Island, an interesting feature of which is the Cahokia Court House, reputed to be the oldest public building in the whole Mississippi valley. It was built, it is said, about the year 1716, at Cahokia, Illinois, and has served in various public capacities. At different periods it was employed for both civil and military purposes, and is recognized as the oldest county seat building (Saint Clair County, Illinois) in the original Northwest Territory. The building is constructed of squared walnut logs, set on end in the early French manner of stockade construction, the logs being held together with wooden pins. Three flags, French, English and American, float from the flagstaff of the Old Cahokia Court House, daily. Within the building are a number of photographs of the original documents which pertain to its interesting history. The Japanese buildings, representing three periods of Japanese history, remain in their original site at the north end of Wooded Island, and near them is a tiny garden in formal Japanese style. The United States Life Saving Station is near the lake shore and was one of the interesting government exhibitions, and has ever since been maintained as a regular life saving station. La Rabida, at the south end of the park on the lake shore is an exact reproduction of an ancient Spanish convent, where Columbus was at one time sheltered and befriended, in the days before he was able to secure aid from the Spanish court. "And an interesting reminder of Columbus can be seen in those three small caravels," said Mr. Ludlow. "Do you know their names? They are reproductions of the small craft that brought Columbus and his followers on their first voyage to the New World." Dorothy, who had remembered reading an article on Columbus in a recent magazine, exclaimed joyfully, "I know, the Nina, the Pinta and the Santa Maria." "Right," laughed Mr. Ludlow. "Oh, I am hungry," said Alfy, suddenly, "I am most starved. What time is it, I wonder? I feel as if it were way past dinner time." Mr. Ludlow consulted his watch and said, "It is just six forty-five." "I guess we had better start back to the hotel, now," broke in Mrs. Calvert. "I am rather tired and hungry, too." "We have seen quite a lot of the city and we can go into the shopping district and see that in the morning. There are some few things I would like to purchase," remarked Dorothy. "I would like to visit Marshall Field's. I have always heard so much about it and I would like to see if these Chicagoans really know what a good store is." "You will find that Marshall Field's is indeed a very wonderful store. Just like our New York stores, though, but a trifle better, anyway," said Mrs. Calvert. "Yes, I think you will all agree with me, when you visit that wonderful store in the morning." They hurried back to the hotel and prepared for dinner, after which Mr. Ludlow took Ruth, Dorothy and Alfaretta to church. Aunt Betty stayed home, being too tired to go out. CHAPTER XVI. THE ACCIDENT. On Monday morning the company divided into little parties and went shopping, each to secure their own special needs. Dorothy, Ruth, Alfaretta and Mrs. Calvert made one party. They went direct to Marshall Field's and were admittedly amazed by what they saw, so stupendous is the place. They were surprised to find the store's capacity so large and everything so fine, of such good quality, reasonably priced and conveniently arranged. Mrs. Calvert bought a belt and a pair of gloves, and met such courteous attention and carefulness among the shop-girls as to be very much impressed. She said to Dorothy: "Dear, I never before found shopping so pleasant. I wish I could always get everything I wished at Chicago, and especially here in this store, for it is directed wonderfully well." "I would like to send some souvenir postcards," broke in Alfy. "Do you suppose I can get them here?" "Yes, indeed," answered Dorothy. "I saw them, a large counter full of all kinds of views in and around the city; they were near the door which we entered." "You can write them right here, and send them off from the store," added Aunt Betty. "Come along then," directed Ruth. "All this way who want post cards." They made their way to the counter where the cards were displayed and immediately were engaged in selecting views of the things and places they had seen in the city. "Here is a very pretty card," said Ruth. "It has the La Rabida on it. You remember the convent we saw in Jackson Park yesterday, where they had all of those Columbus relics?" "Yes, and did you see this one?" asked Dorothy, holding up a card to view. "It's the little Japanese Garden on the Wooded Island in the same park." "Look!" exclaimed Alfy, showing them all another card, "here is one of the Art Institute!" Mrs. Calvert, who had been searching through the various cards, said, "I think these three are very interesting, this of the store, this one of our hotel, and this other of the Life Saving Station in the park." "Well, have you all selected those you wish?" said Dorothy. "Because, if you have, we can all go over there to the writing room and send them all right off." "What a beautifully appointed room," said Mrs. Calvert, as they entered the spacious, well lighted writing room, with the mahogany desks and generous supply of good quality writing paper, pens, ink-wells, etc. There was also in the corner a stamp machine, in which one deposits the right change and secures the desired number of stamps in return. "I want to send cards to Ma and Pa Babcock. Ma always likes me to, so she can show them down at Liza Jane's," said Alfy. "I would like to send one to Gerald Banks and his sister, and, of course, to Jim," said Dorothy. "I think there are just two I wish to send. I want to send one to Mrs. Quarren," rejoined Ruth, "and if you do not mind, I think I should like to send one to Jim, also." "Of course I don't object," laughed Dorothy. "Jim would be pleased to think you had remembered him. But let me see which one you are going to send him so I may send him a different one." "Very well," answered Ruth. "I will send the one of the hotel." "And I," responded Dorothy, "will send the one of the lake and Wooded Island in Jackson Park." "I think I shall send Jim a card also," said Mrs. Calvert. "But I shall send him the one of the store. My list is just a little longer than all you girls' lists. I shall send cards to Frau and Herr Deichenberg, little Lemuel and old Ephraim, and Jim, whom I mentioned before." "Shall I get the stamps?" said Ruth. "Can I go with you?" asked Alfy. "I want to see how the machine works." "Certainly, come on," added Ruth. "How many shall we need?" "You had better get fifteen," answered Mrs. Calvert. "You see," remarked Ruth to Alfaretta, "that one can only deposit nickels and dimes in the slot." "What are you going to put in?" questioned Alfy. "I am going to deposit first a dime and then a nickel in the slot that's marked for one cent stamps," replied Ruth, suiting her actions to her words and picking up the stamps which the machine dropped into the receiving tray. "That's real fun," said Alfaretta. "I'd always buy stamps here, but Ma Babcock would not like it." "Why not?" asked Ruth. "Because Ma always wants to talk, and would not think she had her money's worth without it." They put the stamps on the cards and then mailed them in the large gilt mail box near the door in the corner. "I guess it's most time for us to go back to the hotel for luncheon," said Aunt Betty. "Almost," replied Ruth, looking at her small gold watch. "It's now just eleven-thirty." "I want to get some blue ribbon," said Dorothy, "before we leave for the hotel." "And I must get a veil," added Ruth. The girls departed on their quests and in less than two minutes met Mrs. Calvert at the door and all went back together to the hotel for luncheon. It was a quiet mid-day meal, and as soon as it was over they had to devote their attention to their trunks, as they were to leave that afternoon for their next stopping place. Mr. Dauntrey and Mr. Ludlow attended to the baggage and the tickets and very soon all were ready. Just as they were leaving the hotel to go to the station, Mr. Dauntrey singled Ruth out, and approaching her, said, "Will you come and walk down with me?" "With pleasure," said the girl, suiting her steps to his, and they started slowly to stroll down to the station. "I have a box of Huyler's here for you," remarked Mr. Dauntrey. "I thought perhaps you would like it. I thought it would be nice for you to have on the train." "Why thank you ever so much. You are very kind." "Not half as kind as I would like to be, if you would only afford me the opportunity." Ruth made some answer that turned the conversation to some less personal subject. She kept up a run of chatter about indifferent matters. So many people were upon the streets and so many conveyances on the roadways that progress was slow, and when they reached the station they found Mr. Ludlow very much provoked that Ruth should have kept them all waiting, nearly causing the loss of their train. "Couldn't you have walked a little faster, Ruth?" Mr. Ludlow asked. "Or taken the stage to the station if you were so tired? This must not happen again." Ruth, who disliked being reprimanded before everybody, angrily exclaimed, "Well, you didn't have to wait here for me, I am sure, for you might have known that Mr. Dauntrey is capable of taking care of me, and, aside from that, I think I can take pretty good care of myself." Mr. Ludlow did not reply, but hurried them to their private car, the others of the party having preceded him. Very shortly they were speeding on their way. Mrs. Calvert read a book, and Dorothy and Alfy were merrily chatting over their trip, so Ruth turned away from Mr. Ludlow and busied herself talking to Mr. Dauntrey and nibbling his chocolates and bon bons. Mr. Ludlow, who had most of the time been looking out of the window, turned to Mrs. Calvert and said, "I think it looks as if we were going to have a bad storm. It looks to me as if the clouds have been following us up, and I'm afraid we are going to get it in a little while good and plenty." Mrs. Calvert looked out of the window and saw the storm clouds approaching and gathering for the downpour, and then her eyes wandered to the river beside which the train ran. "Just look!" she exclaimed, pointing to the water. "Look, quick, at the river!" "That is quite remarkable," said Mr. Ludlow. "Just see how high the water is and how fast it is flowing." "Why it seems to be rising higher and higher by the minute as we go along," responded Mrs. Calvert. "I can't understand it, can you?" "Oh!" shrieked Ruth at this moment, clinging to Mr. Dauntrey's hand. "Oh, what an awful flash of lightning! Oh, how I hate an electric storm! Lightning scares me half to death." "I like it," replied Alfy, looking across the dark, turbulent, swiftly moving stream. "I always like to watch it. And 'up mounting' we do have some awful storms. You remember them, don't you, Dorothy?" "Of course I do. Sometimes, though, I used to get a little scared. They used to be so very bad," said the girl, and all the people in the car jumped as a loud crash of thunder followed a blazing streak of lightning. The thunder seemed right under their feet and was so loud and so sudden that all were startled for a minute. Ruth jumped up and grabbed Mr. Ludlow around the neck and hid her face in his shoulder, moaning, "Oh, oh, I don't like this at all." Mr. Ludlow, although he did not like to see the girl so overcome with nervousness, was decidedly happy that she should turn to him, and hoped perhaps that the storm would last forever, if he could continue to hold Ruth to him. This awful clap was followed by another flash of lightning which lit up the car brighter than daylight. Mrs. Calvert, who was facing the window, looked out and gasped, "Oh, why don't they stop the train?" Then they all heard a mighty splash and the train gave a terrible lurch and threw those standing over on the floor and those sitting had a hard time to keep their places. All the lights immediately went out and Alfy shouted, "We are struck!" Some of the party shrieked and one or two fainted dead away. None could see the others in the terrible, black darkness in which they were enveloped. At last, after a prolonged silence that seemed ages, Mrs. Calvert said. "Is any one hurt?" Everyone began to collect their scattered thoughts by this time, and Mr. Ludlow had managed to rise from his fallen position and get Ruth up and into a seat. He grouped about in the pitch blackness into which they had been plunged and finally found his chair. He deftly managed to retain Ruth's hand in his, in order to reassure her. The answer Mrs. Calvert received in general was that everyone was safe and physically unharmed and mentally as near right as could be expected. Mrs. Calvert then asked, "Did anyone see out of the window when the flash of lightning lit up this car?" And when she had received answer that no one had, she continued: "I happened to be sitting facing the window and when the flash came I saw out very plainly." "What did you see?" questioned Mr. Ludlow, in a firm voice. "The river," responded Mrs. Calvert. "The river was up to the tracks." The fact was suggestive of further danger, and then Dorothy questioned, "What was the crash? And why did the train lurch so? And why are all the lights out?" "Maybe," suggested Alfy, "maybe we were struck with lightning. Do you think so, Aunt Betty?" "I don't know," she replied. "I can't understand where the train hands can be. They should be here to tell us what has happened." "Do you suppose we have struck another train?" questioned Dorothy. "Oh," groaned Ruth. "I wish we could have some lights. It's so dark I am afraid something will happen, and maybe some one will be killed." "Hush, child," remarked Mr. Ludlow. "Just be thankful things are no worse than they are, that we are all safe alive and none of us are hurt." Ruth subsided to silence and sobbed beneath her breath. Just then, George, the old negro porter, broke in on the excited party and endeavored to tell what was the matter. "Lord o' Mercy, massa!" he exclaimed. "De train am wrecked. The ingin and one ob de baggage cars did fall off these track, plump, splash, right in de water." "That's what the crash and splash and jerk was that we felt. The water was so high that it probably came up on the tracks here, and the engine and baggage car jumped the weakened trestle into the water. I wonder how it was it didn't pull the rest of the train into the water also," said Mr. Ludlow. Just then the conductor and a brakeman passing from the next car through their own explained what had occurred to Mr. Ludlow and the other interested listeners. First lighting the gas lamps to dispel the semi-darkness, the conductor said, "Sir, you see the lightning struck the train right between the first passenger car and the baggage, severing the connection, and leaving the engine and baggage car free to go ahead. They did, and running a little farther ahead it jumped the track, but no one was hurt. The shock somehow set the brakes, and brought the remaining cars to a stop. It's lucky we held to the tracks, sir, it is indeed." "Did anyone in the passenger cars get hurt?" questioned Mr. Ludlow. "No, sir, only a few fainted," answered the conductor. "What are we going to do now? We have no power to go ahead, and we can't even go back. We can't move. Are we to stay right where we are, conductor?" "For a time, we must," was the answer. "When is another train due here?" questioned Mrs. Calvert. "A train is due to come through this way in an hour and a half, madam," said the conductor. "But that will not help us any to go ahead. We have sent word back and may expect help from the nearest station. Some arrangement can likely be made to switch us off on a branch road, and by a circuitous route we can get back again to our line." "And how about our concert to-night?" "If help is promptly sent we may get you there on time." "We were due at five o'clock," said Mr. Ludlow. "We can't promise you anything definite now," said the conductor, as he went about his duties. "All we can do is to just sit still and hope for aid, and that it will come in time," said Mrs. Calvert. "I'm afraid that's all, except to be thankful that we were not killed," suggested Mr. Ludlow. The exact idea of their position was finally grasped by all, and everyone breathed a little prayer for having been saved so miraculously. They all quieted down and prepared to sit there and wait, and hope for the arrival of a train bringing aid. An hour an a half, so they had been told, and that hour and a half seemed the longest hour and a half that most of them had ever experienced. Finally they heard a shout from one of the brakemen, a glad shout, a joyous sign, they thought, and then the conductor came through and announced, "Sir, a small repair train has just come up to us. They sent it out very promptly, as they thought that we might be in even more serious need than we are." "Can it take us back, then?" asked Mr. Ludlow, and the rest of the company sighed in relief, because they now knew that they were safe and would eventually be pulled out of their present position. "It can take back two cars, sir," answered the conductor, "and would you object, sir, if I put some other passengers in here with you?" "Not at all," answered Mr. Ludlow. "Bring in as many as you wish. We will be only too glad to have them." The conductor departed, returning in a little time, accompanied by about a dozen women and half as many small children, saying, "I brought the women and young ones, as I thought that they would be more comfortable in here." Dorothy and Ruth, alert and interested, forgot their own discomfort in rendering aid to others, anxious and in distress. "They have connected the little repair train engine to the two cars," the conductor announced, "and we will be off in a short time now. We are going back up the road a little way and branch off, and so recover the main line. We think we will get you to your destination in time for your concert." This was done, but with little time to spare, and if all the artists were not quite up to their usual standard of excellence that night, the experience of the afternoon was quite sufficient excuse. The remainder of the trip to St. Louis was without event of note. The accident on the train was not without its advantages in the way of publicity, and their concerts drew large audiences. In St. Louis two concerts were given, both being very successful. CHAPTER XVII. CONCLUSION. In the sequence of events the tour came to an end. A twenty-weeks' season had been successfully carried through. There had been, of course, hampering and untoward conditions to surmount. An occasional discordant note was struck. Mr. Carleton, who acted as accompanist when no orchestra was employed, turned out to be rather an arbitrary individual, and had caused Ruth, particularly, many a heart-ache. Dorothy, with her winning responsiveness to an artistic temperament, felt that she had less cause to complain. Her affair with Jim had not of late been plain sailing. She had not written to him very often or a bit regularly, and he had entered a rather arbitrary protest, so she thought, and one letter at least, that she had addressed to him had gone astray. Then Jim reached the conclusion that his letters were not appreciated, and that absence had caused an estrangement. He nursed his resentment into a cauldron of bitterness, and with the perverseness of lovers built mountains of molehills. Not but that such ephemeral erections may, and oftimes do, cast a shadow that will blot out true regard. Without a tried and certain knowledge of her heart as concerned Jim, Dorothy had found the ever gentlemanly attentions of Mr. Dauntrey very agreeable. Ruth, on such occasions, was inclined to resentful looks and acts, of which, however, Dorothy was sublimely ignorant. One day, journeying from Sacramento to San Francisco, it had been observed that Mr. Dauntrey and Alfy were in close consultation, an unusual event for those two to find a subject of mutual interest. Later, in a spirit of fun, Dorothy chided her companion. "So you have won over Mr. Dauntrey," cried Dorothy, laughing. "Nonsense," said Alfy, but blushing rosily. "But for two hours on the train you monopolized him entirely. What did you find to talk about?" "Well, for one thing, we were talking about you," was the defensive response. "About me, Alfy, what could you have been saying about me?" "I was telling him," said Alfy, hesitatingly, "about your English inheritance." "Oh, but I wonder you did that. I asked that nothing be said about it. For, as you know, nothing has ever come of the matter, and nothing may. The locket has never been found, and the lawyer says that there are other 'seemingly insurmountable requirements.' My, what big words. I wonder I could string them all together." "Well," went on Alfy, in her further defense, "he asked about you, and I couldn't see that there was any harm." "No real harm, Alfy. And I hoped for Aunt Betty's sake that there was an inheritance assured. She is so worried about Bellevieu. The mortgages and taxes seem to eat up everything. I have given her, of course, all of my earnings, but she says things are still going badly." "What are we to do now?" asked Alfy, seeking another subject. "Go home?" "Mr. Ludlow has made some arrangements for Ruth to sing and for me to play here in San Francisco, at private houses of the rich. As you know, all of the others except Mr. Dauntrey, have gone east, their contracts expired." Their conversation was interrupted, now, by Aunt Betty, who came into the room. "Here is a much belated letter," she exclaimed, "the envelope all marked up with forwarding addresses. It must have been traveling about for quite some time." "It's from Jim," cried Dorothy, and quickly broke the seal. The postmark the letter bore was a date fully two months back, and the first few lines were, to the recipient very pleasing ones, till she remembered that they were written before their late disagreement. But the major part of the letter bore upon a subject that concerned them all, and this she read aloud. "It's about Lem," cried Dorothy. "Mr. Van Zandt has made some quite wonderful discoveries. And just to think, it all comes about through that sampler you found, Alfy. But let me read: "I have some interesting news concerning Lemuel Haley, the boy your camping party found in the thick woods crying that night. It was a lucky thing for the boy that Mrs. Babcock gave Alfaretta that sampler, for from just such a simple little thing as that, we have been able to trace all of Lem's family history, bringing out a sufficient, although I will not say good, reason for his uncle's mistreatment of him. "Lemuel Haley's mother was Hannah Woodrow. The very same girl that summered with Mrs. Babcock, and remained there attending the little village school for one whole year. She was a very delicate girl, not particularly pretty and very shy. She had large limpid brown eyes, and was of small build. "She returned to Baltimore, after her year in the mountains, and lived the regulation life of a wealthy farmer's daughter. There Mr. Haley, a traveling salesman, so he told her family, fell in love with her or--her money, and when both her father and mother died quite suddenly, the traveling salesman made it his business to woo the lonely girl. He wished to marry her immediately and protect her, so he told her, and was so persistent that the poor distracted, grief-stricken girl finally gave him her promise, and within a month of her parents' death married him. At once he proceeded to dissipate her fortune, and, to make a long story short, the poor girl died when Lem was born. The father was later killed by an accident. "Lem's only relative, it was found, was an uncle who lived in the South. This man volunteered to take the little one, and was made legal guardian and controller of the remnant of the fortune. The child was a weak, delicate boy, and this uncle, a cruel, planning man, figured that if he worked Lem very hard all the time, he would eventually break down, and then he would come in for the child's money. Thus, the poor boy was driven to desperation, and finally ran away. You know better than I do, the incidents connected with his rescue. "I have prepared all necessary legal papers as to the facts, to prove that Mr. Haley was and is an unfit guardian for the child, and will present these to the court." This pleasing news was interestedly discussed, and a happy future argued for the boy. The following morning, Mr. Dauntrey was early at the breakfast table, with a proposition that the party should visit Tamalpais. The day was beautifully clear, and on no other is a trip to the mountain's summit interesting. Mr. Ludlow could not go, but the ladies accepted with alacrity, and a prompt start was made. Glorious sights indeed are revealed, as the railroad winds its way to the apex of this peak, the highest so near an American city. Lunch was served at the summit house, but Dorothy was so interested in the views obtainable from the various vantage points that she wandered away from the others while they were still seated at the table. When her absence was noted, Mr. Dauntrey sought her out, at first unsuccessfully, then seeking for her in a secluded view point seldom visited, he heard her voice, and found that, in her anxiety to attain a high rock, she had lost her footing, and catching for a support had sprained her ankle. She had as well badly torn her dress. Her rescuer was all gallantry and courtesy, and assisted her to a seat near at hand. He would have carried her to the train platform, but this proffer Dorothy declined. "I shall be able to walk, shortly," she explained. "It is not a severe sprain and the pain is bearable, and only acute when I put my weight on my foot." "A few moments' rest will help to set you right," said Mr. Dauntrey, and then added, looking into her eyes, "Do you know, I wish you had been in some real serious danger, and that I had been privileged to render aid." "I thank you for what you have done, and now let's go to the others," quickly interposed the girl. But one effort to rest her weight upon her foot dissuaded her from any further immediate endeavor, and so she sought, unsuccessfully, to turn the conversation in other directions. "Do you know," he repeated, "that I would like to render such service that you would never wish for any other servitor?" "Please," said Dorothy, "let's talk about the wonderful view of sea and forest and the heaven above." "I am intense in my admiration of all that is beautiful, and above all, permit me to say that I admire the beautiful Dorothy." She raised her hand in protest, but he continued. "May I quote for you a little gem that is aptly expressive of my sentiments?" "Well," laughed Dorothy, quizzically looking at her foot, "I am at your mercy." The man by her side did not venture to touch her hand, which rested on the bench almost beside his own, but, with earnest intensity of his manner, he leaned forward and looked longingly, nay lovingly, into her eyes till they fell before his gaze. His face, handsome and animated, his voice musical and well modulated. Every word was spoken slowly as if to admit of certain assimilation. "May my Heaven be A rosary bower, With one sweet angel, And that one--Thee!" There was a moment's pause. "Miss Calvert," he went on, "I would that my heaven might begin on earth. It will, if you will be mine." Dorothy, like all other girls, under similar circumstances, had felt for a moment the compliment of a man's love, then all at once she recalled the conversation between Alfy and her quondam lover, and with her quick intuition, she had recognized her possible inheritance as the probable cause of Mr. Dauntrey's sudden declaration. Still she would not be unkind. "Oh, my foot pains me unbearably. Please, Mr. Dauntrey, get Alfy to come and help me." "Just one little word of hope and I fly." "No, Mr. Dauntrey, I can but say at once, and frankly and firmly, too, no," and with that she made pretense to such suffering from the injured foot that the suppliant for her hand had but, with the best grace he could muster, to comply with her very reasonable request. Dorothy, when the others came, was able, leaning lightly on Alfy's arm, to accompany them to the train, and soon was happily interested in the wonderful panorama spread before their eyes on the return journey. The base of the mountain reached, there was some delay, and Mr. Dauntrey walked about with Ruth, the two in earnest conversation. Aunt Betty and Dorothy sat quietly, while the former made as presentable as she could the torn garment worn by the girl. "You will have to discard this gown, and substitute for traveling your light mohair. Fortunately, the weather is warm enough now. You have not had it on for a long time." To Alfy was referred this decision, with results that will develop later. Alfy was interested, albeit horrified, and held irresistibly spellbound, by the "sausage" man, selling, as the placard said, "Hot Dogs." A half dozen wooley canines were exhibited on the counter and elsewhere about, and when an order for a frankfurter sandwich was given, one of the dogs was grabbed up and caused to disappear into a mechanical contrivance with a large wheel, which was then turned and there were barkings and such grumblings as might be expected from an animal suffering dire and distressing annihilation. Then from an opening, the much aproned proprietor handed forth the promised sandwich. At the hotel that afternoon, the girl's injured foot was cared for by her aunt. "We want no medicine-man," she said, "for I know of the most effective home remedy, guaranteed to cure in twenty-four hours. I have secured the ingredients from the hotel kitchen." "What may they be?" inquired Dorothy. "Lard and salt. The former spread on, and about the injured ankle, and liberally sprinkled with salt. Then securely bandaged." "It certainly is simple, and I will surely be able to play at the reception to-morrow afternoon?" "I have no doubt of it." "Aunty, we are so seldom by ourselves, and Ruth and Alfy have gone out. I want to have a long talk with you." Dorothy lay resting, her injured foot supported, while her aunt sat beside her, caressingly stroking her hair and forehead. First, the young girl spoke of Mr. Dauntrey and of her experience of that day. The humorous aspect of the circumstances appealed alike to both. Then the inheritance was discussed, and Aunt Betty deplored again the unfortunate loss of the locket and the lacking "insurmountable requirements," in the way of some missing papers. Concerning the latter, Aunt Betty had some hopes that among her accumulated correspondence and documents at Bellevieu, there might be found helpful data bearing on the subject. "Unless some good fortune is happily vouchsafed us," deplored Aunt Betty sorrowfully, "I greatly fear that Bellevieu will be lost." "Mr. Van Zandt wrote, however," encouraged Dorothy, "that it would be well worth while for us to go to England, and that personally presenting myself might 'achieve results otherwise unattainable.' You see, I have remembered his words." "I am determined upon that," responded Aunt Betty, "and I am arranging that we shall go within a month after we get back east. I have a little surprise for you, too. Molly Breckenridge is going also. The judge has arranged for her expenses." The reader, who would wish to still further follow the fortunes of our heroine will find in "Dorothy in England," a volume of startling interest and sweet sentiment. Dorothy was most appreciative of her aunt's thoughtfulness, and now she unburdened her mind of her secret. She told her of her strong regard for Jim, of his expressed love for her, and of her own inability to just exactly determine if her feelings were the equivalent of his. She wished for Jim every happiness, and she shared in his ambitions. They had had a difference, and she was most unhappy, and yet there was an intangible something that restrained her from seeking a reconciliation. The good, motherly woman, who was her confessor, knew perhaps better than the girl herself, the strength of her regard for Jim, and knew that the heart's promptings are seldom influenced. With this wisdom for a guide, she counselled wisely and satisfyingly. Time, and right doing, would remedy and set square all that was untoward. Folded in each other's arms in harmony of feeling, they were suddenly broken in upon by Alfy. "What do you think," she cried. "You told me to get out your light traveling dress. You had not worn it since that day of the fire in New York, and what do you think!" she excitedly repeated, "in the fold of the skirt I found this!" and she held forth the long missing locket. So it unquestionably was. The gown had been put away, and in the folds of the skirt had been caught, and so long retained, the locket. A word more and our story ends. The journey east was uneventful. At Baltimore, Aunt Betty and the girls said good-bye to Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Dauntrey. Ruth was to visit a day at Bellevieu and then go on with Alfy to New York. THE END. TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors; otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's words and intent. 
105	----	by Al Haines. Persuasion by Jane Austen (1818) Chapter 1 Sir Walter Elliot, of Kellynch Hall, in Somersetshire, was a man who, for his own amusement, never took up any book but the Baronetage; there he found occupation for an idle hour, and consolation in a distressed one; there his faculties were roused into admiration and respect, by contemplating the limited remnant of the earliest patents; there any unwelcome sensations, arising from domestic affairs changed naturally into pity and contempt as he turned over the almost endless creations of the last century; and there, if every other leaf were powerless, he could read his own history with an interest which never failed. This was the page at which the favourite volume always opened: "ELLIOT OF KELLYNCH HALL. "Walter Elliot, born March 1, 1760, married, July 15, 1784, Elizabeth, daughter of James Stevenson, Esq. of South Park, in the county of Gloucester, by which lady (who died 1800) he has issue Elizabeth, born June 1, 1785; Anne, born August 9, 1787; a still-born son, November 5, 1789; Mary, born November 20, 1791." Precisely such had the paragraph originally stood from the printer's hands; but Sir Walter had improved it by adding, for the information of himself and his family, these words, after the date of Mary's birth-- "Married, December 16, 1810, Charles, son and heir of Charles Musgrove, Esq. of Uppercross, in the county of Somerset," and by inserting most accurately the day of the month on which he had lost his wife. Then followed the history and rise of the ancient and respectable family, in the usual terms; how it had been first settled in Cheshire; how mentioned in Dugdale, serving the office of high sheriff, representing a borough in three successive parliaments, exertions of loyalty, and dignity of baronet, in the first year of Charles II, with all the Marys and Elizabeths they had married; forming altogether two handsome duodecimo pages, and concluding with the arms and motto:--"Principal seat, Kellynch Hall, in the county of Somerset," and Sir Walter's handwriting again in this finale:-- "Heir presumptive, William Walter Elliot, Esq., great grandson of the second Sir Walter." Vanity was the beginning and the end of Sir Walter Elliot's character; vanity of person and of situation. He had been remarkably handsome in his youth; and, at fifty-four, was still a very fine man. Few women could think more of their personal appearance than he did, nor could the valet of any new made lord be more delighted with the place he held in society. He considered the blessing of beauty as inferior only to the blessing of a baronetcy; and the Sir Walter Elliot, who united these gifts, was the constant object of his warmest respect and devotion. His good looks and his rank had one fair claim on his attachment; since to them he must have owed a wife of very superior character to any thing deserved by his own. Lady Elliot had been an excellent woman, sensible and amiable; whose judgement and conduct, if they might be pardoned the youthful infatuation which made her Lady Elliot, had never required indulgence afterwards.--She had humoured, or softened, or concealed his failings, and promoted his real respectability for seventeen years; and though not the very happiest being in the world herself, had found enough in her duties, her friends, and her children, to attach her to life, and make it no matter of indifference to her when she was called on to quit them.--Three girls, the two eldest sixteen and fourteen, was an awful legacy for a mother to bequeath, an awful charge rather, to confide to the authority and guidance of a conceited, silly father. She had, however, one very intimate friend, a sensible, deserving woman, who had been brought, by strong attachment to herself, to settle close by her, in the village of Kellynch; and on her kindness and advice, Lady Elliot mainly relied for the best help and maintenance of the good principles and instruction which she had been anxiously giving her daughters. This friend, and Sir Walter, did not marry, whatever might have been anticipated on that head by their acquaintance. Thirteen years had passed away since Lady Elliot's death, and they were still near neighbours and intimate friends, and one remained a widower, the other a widow. That Lady Russell, of steady age and character, and extremely well provided for, should have no thought of a second marriage, needs no apology to the public, which is rather apt to be unreasonably discontented when a woman does marry again, than when she does not; but Sir Walter's continuing in singleness requires explanation. Be it known then, that Sir Walter, like a good father, (having met with one or two private disappointments in very unreasonable applications), prided himself on remaining single for his dear daughters' sake. For one daughter, his eldest, he would really have given up any thing, which he had not been very much tempted to do. Elizabeth had succeeded, at sixteen, to all that was possible, of her mother's rights and consequence; and being very handsome, and very like himself, her influence had always been great, and they had gone on together most happily. His two other children were of very inferior value. Mary had acquired a little artificial importance, by becoming Mrs Charles Musgrove; but Anne, with an elegance of mind and sweetness of character, which must have placed her high with any people of real understanding, was nobody with either father or sister; her word had no weight, her convenience was always to give way--she was only Anne. To Lady Russell, indeed, she was a most dear and highly valued god-daughter, favourite, and friend. Lady Russell loved them all; but it was only in Anne that she could fancy the mother to revive again. A few years before, Anne Elliot had been a very pretty girl, but her bloom had vanished early; and as even in its height, her father had found little to admire in her, (so totally different were her delicate features and mild dark eyes from his own), there could be nothing in them, now that she was faded and thin, to excite his esteem. He had never indulged much hope, he had now none, of ever reading her name in any other page of his favourite work. All equality of alliance must rest with Elizabeth, for Mary had merely connected herself with an old country family of respectability and large fortune, and had therefore given all the honour and received none: Elizabeth would, one day or other, marry suitably. It sometimes happens that a woman is handsomer at twenty-nine than she was ten years before; and, generally speaking, if there has been neither ill health nor anxiety, it is a time of life at which scarcely any charm is lost. It was so with Elizabeth, still the same handsome Miss Elliot that she had begun to be thirteen years ago, and Sir Walter might be excused, therefore, in forgetting her age, or, at least, be deemed only half a fool, for thinking himself and Elizabeth as blooming as ever, amidst the wreck of the good looks of everybody else; for he could plainly see how old all the rest of his family and acquaintance were growing. Anne haggard, Mary coarse, every face in the neighbourhood worsting, and the rapid increase of the crow's foot about Lady Russell's temples had long been a distress to him. Elizabeth did not quite equal her father in personal contentment. Thirteen years had seen her mistress of Kellynch Hall, presiding and directing with a self-possession and decision which could never have given the idea of her being younger than she was. For thirteen years had she been doing the honours, and laying down the domestic law at home, and leading the way to the chaise and four, and walking immediately after Lady Russell out of all the drawing-rooms and dining-rooms in the country. Thirteen winters' revolving frosts had seen her opening every ball of credit which a scanty neighbourhood afforded, and thirteen springs shewn their blossoms, as she travelled up to London with her father, for a few weeks' annual enjoyment of the great world. She had the remembrance of all this, she had the consciousness of being nine-and-twenty to give her some regrets and some apprehensions; she was fully satisfied of being still quite as handsome as ever, but she felt her approach to the years of danger, and would have rejoiced to be certain of being properly solicited by baronet-blood within the next twelvemonth or two. Then might she again take up the book of books with as much enjoyment as in her early youth, but now she liked it not. Always to be presented with the date of her own birth and see no marriage follow but that of a youngest sister, made the book an evil; and more than once, when her father had left it open on the table near her, had she closed it, with averted eyes, and pushed it away. She had had a disappointment, moreover, which that book, and especially the history of her own family, must ever present the remembrance of. The heir presumptive, the very William Walter Elliot, Esq., whose rights had been so generously supported by her father, had disappointed her. She had, while a very young girl, as soon as she had known him to be, in the event of her having no brother, the future baronet, meant to marry him, and her father had always meant that she should. He had not been known to them as a boy; but soon after Lady Elliot's death, Sir Walter had sought the acquaintance, and though his overtures had not been met with any warmth, he had persevered in seeking it, making allowance for the modest drawing-back of youth; and, in one of their spring excursions to London, when Elizabeth was in her first bloom, Mr Elliot had been forced into the introduction. He was at that time a very young man, just engaged in the study of the law; and Elizabeth found him extremely agreeable, and every plan in his favour was confirmed. He was invited to Kellynch Hall; he was talked of and expected all the rest of the year; but he never came. The following spring he was seen again in town, found equally agreeable, again encouraged, invited, and expected, and again he did not come; and the next tidings were that he was married. Instead of pushing his fortune in the line marked out for the heir of the house of Elliot, he had purchased independence by uniting himself to a rich woman of inferior birth. Sir Walter had resented it. As the head of the house, he felt that he ought to have been consulted, especially after taking the young man so publicly by the hand; "For they must have been seen together," he observed, "once at Tattersall's, and twice in the lobby of the House of Commons." His disapprobation was expressed, but apparently very little regarded. Mr Elliot had attempted no apology, and shewn himself as unsolicitous of being longer noticed by the family, as Sir Walter considered him unworthy of it: all acquaintance between them had ceased. This very awkward history of Mr Elliot was still, after an interval of several years, felt with anger by Elizabeth, who had liked the man for himself, and still more for being her father's heir, and whose strong family pride could see only in him a proper match for Sir Walter Elliot's eldest daughter. There was not a baronet from A to Z whom her feelings could have so willingly acknowledged as an equal. Yet so miserably had he conducted himself, that though she was at this present time (the summer of 1814) wearing black ribbons for his wife, she could not admit him to be worth thinking of again. The disgrace of his first marriage might, perhaps, as there was no reason to suppose it perpetuated by offspring, have been got over, had he not done worse; but he had, as by the accustomary intervention of kind friends, they had been informed, spoken most disrespectfully of them all, most slightingly and contemptuously of the very blood he belonged to, and the honours which were hereafter to be his own. This could not be pardoned. Such were Elizabeth Elliot's sentiments and sensations; such the cares to alloy, the agitations to vary, the sameness and the elegance, the prosperity and the nothingness of her scene of life; such the feelings to give interest to a long, uneventful residence in one country circle, to fill the vacancies which there were no habits of utility abroad, no talents or accomplishments for home, to occupy. But now, another occupation and solicitude of mind was beginning to be added to these. Her father was growing distressed for money. She knew, that when he now took up the Baronetage, it was to drive the heavy bills of his tradespeople, and the unwelcome hints of Mr Shepherd, his agent, from his thoughts. The Kellynch property was good, but not equal to Sir Walter's apprehension of the state required in its possessor. While Lady Elliot lived, there had been method, moderation, and economy, which had just kept him within his income; but with her had died all such right-mindedness, and from that period he had been constantly exceeding it. It had not been possible for him to spend less; he had done nothing but what Sir Walter Elliot was imperiously called on to do; but blameless as he was, he was not only growing dreadfully in debt, but was hearing of it so often, that it became vain to attempt concealing it longer, even partially, from his daughter. He had given her some hints of it the last spring in town; he had gone so far even as to say, "Can we retrench? Does it occur to you that there is any one article in which we can retrench?" and Elizabeth, to do her justice, had, in the first ardour of female alarm, set seriously to think what could be done, and had finally proposed these two branches of economy, to cut off some unnecessary charities, and to refrain from new furnishing the drawing-room; to which expedients she afterwards added the happy thought of their taking no present down to Anne, as had been the usual yearly custom. But these measures, however good in themselves, were insufficient for the real extent of the evil, the whole of which Sir Walter found himself obliged to confess to her soon afterwards. Elizabeth had nothing to propose of deeper efficacy. She felt herself ill-used and unfortunate, as did her father; and they were neither of them able to devise any means of lessening their expenses without compromising their dignity, or relinquishing their comforts in a way not to be borne. There was only a small part of his estate that Sir Walter could dispose of; but had every acre been alienable, it would have made no difference. He had condescended to mortgage as far as he had the power, but he would never condescend to sell. No; he would never disgrace his name so far. The Kellynch estate should be transmitted whole and entire, as he had received it. Their two confidential friends, Mr Shepherd, who lived in the neighbouring market town, and Lady Russell, were called to advise them; and both father and daughter seemed to expect that something should be struck out by one or the other to remove their embarrassments and reduce their expenditure, without involving the loss of any indulgence of taste or pride. Chapter 2 Mr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold or his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see finally adopted. Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it much serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles. She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour; but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. She was a benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments, most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with manners that were held a standard of good-breeding. She had a cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent; but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to a great deal of compassion and consideration under his present difficulties. They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. But she was very anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and Elizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations, and she did what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted Anne, who never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the question. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to Sir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty against importance. She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of indifference for everything but justice and equity. "If we can persuade your father to all this," said Lady Russell, looking over her paper, "much may be done. If he will adopt these regulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able to convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the eyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle. What will he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have done, or ought to do? There will be nothing singular in his case; and it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of prevailing. We must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father, there is still more due to the character of an honest man." This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure, and saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be prescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell's influence highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation. Her knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle reductions. How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little consequence. Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up with, were not to be borne. "What! every comfort of life knocked off! Journeys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and restrictions every where! To live no longer with the decencies even of a private gentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once, than remain in it on such disgraceful terms." "Quit Kellynch Hall." The hint was immediately taken up by Mr Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done without a change of abode. "Since the idea had been started in the very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple," he said, "in confessing his judgement to be entirely on that side. It did not appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient dignity to support. In any other place Sir Walter might judge for himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in whatever way he might choose to model his household." Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was settled, and the first outline of this important change made out. There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in the country. All Anne's wishes had been for the latter. A small house in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her ambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something very opposite from her inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and did not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home. Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt that he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer place for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important at comparatively little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over London had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there. Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes. It would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in his own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have found the mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's feelings they must have been dreadful. And with regard to Anne's dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising, first, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school there, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards spent there with herself. Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must suit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided; and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits good. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits were not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to be more known. The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the beginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir Walter's have found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This, however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own circle. Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to design letting his house. Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word "advertise," but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the idea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint being dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour, that he would let it at all. How quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir Walter and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted. It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional burden of two children. She was a clever young woman, who understood the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall; and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been already staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of caution and reserve. Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against previous inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying to get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the injustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth the advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in vain: Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in more decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs Clay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her but the object of distant civility. From situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimate, a very unequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion; and a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of more suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an object of first-rate importance. Chapter 3 "I must take leave to observe, Sir Walter," said Mr Shepherd one morning at Kellynch Hall, as he laid down the newspaper, "that the present juncture is much in our favour. This peace will be turning all our rich naval officers ashore. They will be all wanting a home. Could not be a better time, Sir Walter, for having a choice of tenants, very responsible tenants. Many a noble fortune has been made during the war. If a rich admiral were to come in our way, Sir Walter--" "He would be a very lucky man, Shepherd," replied Sir Walter; "that's all I have to remark. A prize indeed would Kellynch Hall be to him; rather the greatest prize of all, let him have taken ever so many before; hey, Shepherd?" Mr Shepherd laughed, as he knew he must, at this wit, and then added-- "I presume to observe, Sir Walter, that, in the way of business, gentlemen of the navy are well to deal with. I have had a little knowledge of their methods of doing business; and I am free to confess that they have very liberal notions, and are as likely to make desirable tenants as any set of people one should meet with. Therefore, Sir Walter, what I would take leave to suggest is, that if in consequence of any rumours getting abroad of your intention; which must be contemplated as a possible thing, because we know how difficult it is to keep the actions and designs of one part of the world from the notice and curiosity of the other; consequence has its tax; I, John Shepherd, might conceal any family-matters that I chose, for nobody would think it worth their while to observe me; but Sir Walter Elliot has eyes upon him which it may be very difficult to elude; and therefore, thus much I venture upon, that it will not greatly surprise me if, with all our caution, some rumour of the truth should get abroad; in the supposition of which, as I was going to observe, since applications will unquestionably follow, I should think any from our wealthy naval commanders particularly worth attending to; and beg leave to add, that two hours will bring me over at any time, to save you the trouble of replying." Sir Walter only nodded. But soon afterwards, rising and pacing the room, he observed sarcastically-- "There are few among the gentlemen of the navy, I imagine, who would not be surprised to find themselves in a house of this description." "They would look around them, no doubt, and bless their good fortune," said Mrs Clay, for Mrs Clay was present: her father had driven her over, nothing being of so much use to Mrs Clay's health as a drive to Kellynch: "but I quite agree with my father in thinking a sailor might be a very desirable tenant. I have known a good deal of the profession; and besides their liberality, they are so neat and careful in all their ways! These valuable pictures of yours, Sir Walter, if you chose to leave them, would be perfectly safe. Everything in and about the house would be taken such excellent care of! The gardens and shrubberies would be kept in almost as high order as they are now. You need not be afraid, Miss Elliot, of your own sweet flower gardens being neglected." "As to all that," rejoined Sir Walter coolly, "supposing I were induced to let my house, I have by no means made up my mind as to the privileges to be annexed to it. I am not particularly disposed to favour a tenant. The park would be open to him of course, and few navy officers, or men of any other description, can have had such a range; but what restrictions I might impose on the use of the pleasure-grounds, is another thing. I am not fond of the idea of my shrubberies being always approachable; and I should recommend Miss Elliot to be on her guard with respect to her flower garden. I am very little disposed to grant a tenant of Kellynch Hall any extraordinary favour, I assure you, be he sailor or soldier." After a short pause, Mr Shepherd presumed to say-- "In all these cases, there are established usages which make everything plain and easy between landlord and tenant. Your interest, Sir Walter, is in pretty safe hands. Depend upon me for taking care that no tenant has more than his just rights. I venture to hint, that Sir Walter Elliot cannot be half so jealous for his own, as John Shepherd will be for him." Here Anne spoke-- "The navy, I think, who have done so much for us, have at least an equal claim with any other set of men, for all the comforts and all the privileges which any home can give. Sailors work hard enough for their comforts, we must all allow." "Very true, very true. What Miss Anne says, is very true," was Mr Shepherd's rejoinder, and "Oh! certainly," was his daughter's; but Sir Walter's remark was, soon afterwards-- "The profession has its utility, but I should be sorry to see any friend of mine belonging to it." "Indeed!" was the reply, and with a look of surprise. "Yes; it is in two points offensive to me; I have two strong grounds of objection to it. First, as being the means of bringing persons of obscure birth into undue distinction, and raising men to honours which their fathers and grandfathers never dreamt of; and secondly, as it cuts up a man's youth and vigour most horribly; a sailor grows old sooner than any other man. I have observed it all my life. A man is in greater danger in the navy of being insulted by the rise of one whose father, his father might have disdained to speak to, and of becoming prematurely an object of disgust himself, than in any other line. One day last spring, in town, I was in company with two men, striking instances of what I am talking of; Lord St Ives, whose father we all know to have been a country curate, without bread to eat; I was to give place to Lord St Ives, and a certain Admiral Baldwin, the most deplorable-looking personage you can imagine; his face the colour of mahogany, rough and rugged to the last degree; all lines and wrinkles, nine grey hairs of a side, and nothing but a dab of powder at top. 'In the name of heaven, who is that old fellow?' said I to a friend of mine who was standing near, (Sir Basil Morley). 'Old fellow!' cried Sir Basil, 'it is Admiral Baldwin. What do you take his age to be?' 'Sixty,' said I, 'or perhaps sixty-two.' 'Forty,' replied Sir Basil, 'forty, and no more.' Picture to yourselves my amazement; I shall not easily forget Admiral Baldwin. I never saw quite so wretched an example of what a sea-faring life can do; but to a degree, I know it is the same with them all: they are all knocked about, and exposed to every climate, and every weather, till they are not fit to be seen. It is a pity they are not knocked on the head at once, before they reach Admiral Baldwin's age." "Nay, Sir Walter," cried Mrs Clay, "this is being severe indeed. Have a little mercy on the poor men. We are not all born to be handsome. The sea is no beautifier, certainly; sailors do grow old betimes; I have observed it; they soon lose the look of youth. But then, is not it the same with many other professions, perhaps most other? Soldiers, in active service, are not at all better off: and even in the quieter professions, there is a toil and a labour of the mind, if not of the body, which seldom leaves a man's looks to the natural effect of time. The lawyer plods, quite care-worn; the physician is up at all hours, and travelling in all weather; and even the clergyman--" she stopt a moment to consider what might do for the clergyman;--"and even the clergyman, you know is obliged to go into infected rooms, and expose his health and looks to all the injury of a poisonous atmosphere. In fact, as I have long been convinced, though every profession is necessary and honourable in its turn, it is only the lot of those who are not obliged to follow any, who can live in a regular way, in the country, choosing their own hours, following their own pursuits, and living on their own property, without the torment of trying for more; it is only their lot, I say, to hold the blessings of health and a good appearance to the utmost: I know no other set of men but what lose something of their personableness when they cease to be quite young." It seemed as if Mr Shepherd, in this anxiety to bespeak Sir Walter's good will towards a naval officer as tenant, had been gifted with foresight; for the very first application for the house was from an Admiral Croft, with whom he shortly afterwards fell into company in attending the quarter sessions at Taunton; and indeed, he had received a hint of the Admiral from a London correspondent. By the report which he hastened over to Kellynch to make, Admiral Croft was a native of Somersetshire, who having acquired a very handsome fortune, was wishing to settle in his own country, and had come down to Taunton in order to look at some advertised places in that immediate neighbourhood, which, however, had not suited him; that accidentally hearing--(it was just as he had foretold, Mr Shepherd observed, Sir Walter's concerns could not be kept a secret,)--accidentally hearing of the possibility of Kellynch Hall being to let, and understanding his (Mr Shepherd's) connection with the owner, he had introduced himself to him in order to make particular inquiries, and had, in the course of a pretty long conference, expressed as strong an inclination for the place as a man who knew it only by description could feel; and given Mr Shepherd, in his explicit account of himself, every proof of his being a most responsible, eligible tenant. "And who is Admiral Croft?" was Sir Walter's cold suspicious inquiry. Mr Shepherd answered for his being of a gentleman's family, and mentioned a place; and Anne, after the little pause which followed, added-- "He is a rear admiral of the white. He was in the Trafalgar action, and has been in the East Indies since; he was stationed there, I believe, several years." "Then I take it for granted," observed Sir Walter, "that his face is about as orange as the cuffs and capes of my livery." Mr Shepherd hastened to assure him, that Admiral Croft was a very hale, hearty, well-looking man, a little weather-beaten, to be sure, but not much, and quite the gentleman in all his notions and behaviour; not likely to make the smallest difficulty about terms, only wanted a comfortable home, and to get into it as soon as possible; knew he must pay for his convenience; knew what rent a ready-furnished house of that consequence might fetch; should not have been surprised if Sir Walter had asked more; had inquired about the manor; would be glad of the deputation, certainly, but made no great point of it; said he sometimes took out a gun, but never killed; quite the gentleman. Mr Shepherd was eloquent on the subject; pointing out all the circumstances of the Admiral's family, which made him peculiarly desirable as a tenant. He was a married man, and without children; the very state to be wished for. A house was never taken good care of, Mr Shepherd observed, without a lady: he did not know, whether furniture might not be in danger of suffering as much where there was no lady, as where there were many children. A lady, without a family, was the very best preserver of furniture in the world. He had seen Mrs Croft, too; she was at Taunton with the admiral, and had been present almost all the time they were talking the matter over. "And a very well-spoken, genteel, shrewd lady, she seemed to be," continued he; "asked more questions about the house, and terms, and taxes, than the Admiral himself, and seemed more conversant with business; and moreover, Sir Walter, I found she was not quite unconnected in this country, any more than her husband; that is to say, she is sister to a gentleman who did live amongst us once; she told me so herself: sister to the gentleman who lived a few years back at Monkford. Bless me! what was his name? At this moment I cannot recollect his name, though I have heard it so lately. Penelope, my dear, can you help me to the name of the gentleman who lived at Monkford: Mrs Croft's brother?" But Mrs Clay was talking so eagerly with Miss Elliot, that she did not hear the appeal. "I have no conception whom you can mean, Shepherd; I remember no gentleman resident at Monkford since the time of old Governor Trent." "Bless me! how very odd! I shall forget my own name soon, I suppose. A name that I am so very well acquainted with; knew the gentleman so well by sight; seen him a hundred times; came to consult me once, I remember, about a trespass of one of his neighbours; farmer's man breaking into his orchard; wall torn down; apples stolen; caught in the fact; and afterwards, contrary to my judgement, submitted to an amicable compromise. Very odd indeed!" After waiting another moment-- "You mean Mr Wentworth, I suppose?" said Anne. Mr Shepherd was all gratitude. "Wentworth was the very name! Mr Wentworth was the very man. He had the curacy of Monkford, you know, Sir Walter, some time back, for two or three years. Came there about the year ---5, I take it. You remember him, I am sure." "Wentworth? Oh! ay,--Mr Wentworth, the curate of Monkford. You misled me by the term gentleman. I thought you were speaking of some man of property: Mr Wentworth was nobody, I remember; quite unconnected; nothing to do with the Strafford family. One wonders how the names of many of our nobility become so common." As Mr Shepherd perceived that this connexion of the Crofts did them no service with Sir Walter, he mentioned it no more; returning, with all his zeal, to dwell on the circumstances more indisputably in their favour; their age, and number, and fortune; the high idea they had formed of Kellynch Hall, and extreme solicitude for the advantage of renting it; making it appear as if they ranked nothing beyond the happiness of being the tenants of Sir Walter Elliot: an extraordinary taste, certainly, could they have been supposed in the secret of Sir Walter's estimate of the dues of a tenant. It succeeded, however; and though Sir Walter must ever look with an evil eye on anyone intending to inhabit that house, and think them infinitely too well off in being permitted to rent it on the highest terms, he was talked into allowing Mr Shepherd to proceed in the treaty, and authorising him to wait on Admiral Croft, who still remained at Taunton, and fix a day for the house being seen. Sir Walter was not very wise; but still he had experience enough of the world to feel, that a more unobjectionable tenant, in all essentials, than Admiral Croft bid fair to be, could hardly offer. So far went his understanding; and his vanity supplied a little additional soothing, in the Admiral's situation in life, which was just high enough, and not too high. "I have let my house to Admiral Croft," would sound extremely well; very much better than to any mere Mr--; a Mr (save, perhaps, some half dozen in the nation,) always needs a note of explanation. An admiral speaks his own consequence, and, at the same time, can never make a baronet look small. In all their dealings and intercourse, Sir Walter Elliot must ever have the precedence. Nothing could be done without a reference to Elizabeth: but her inclination was growing so strong for a removal, that she was happy to have it fixed and expedited by a tenant at hand; and not a word to suspend decision was uttered by her. Mr Shepherd was completely empowered to act; and no sooner had such an end been reached, than Anne, who had been a most attentive listener to the whole, left the room, to seek the comfort of cool air for her flushed cheeks; and as she walked along a favourite grove, said, with a gentle sigh, "A few months more, and he, perhaps, may be walking here." Chapter 4 He was not Mr Wentworth, the former curate of Monkford, however suspicious appearances may be, but a Captain Frederick Wentworth, his brother, who being made commander in consequence of the action off St Domingo, and not immediately employed, had come into Somersetshire, in the summer of 1806; and having no parent living, found a home for half a year at Monkford. He was, at that time, a remarkably fine young man, with a great deal of intelligence, spirit, and brilliancy; and Anne an extremely pretty girl, with gentleness, modesty, taste, and feeling. Half the sum of attraction, on either side, might have been enough, for he had nothing to do, and she had hardly anybody to love; but the encounter of such lavish recommendations could not fail. They were gradually acquainted, and when acquainted, rapidly and deeply in love. It would be difficult to say which had seen highest perfection in the other, or which had been the happiest: she, in receiving his declarations and proposals, or he in having them accepted. A short period of exquisite felicity followed, and but a short one. Troubles soon arose. Sir Walter, on being applied to, without actually withholding his consent, or saying it should never be, gave it all the negative of great astonishment, great coldness, great silence, and a professed resolution of doing nothing for his daughter. He thought it a very degrading alliance; and Lady Russell, though with more tempered and pardonable pride, received it as a most unfortunate one. Anne Elliot, with all her claims of birth, beauty, and mind, to throw herself away at nineteen; involve herself at nineteen in an engagement with a young man, who had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the profession, would be, indeed, a throwing away, which she grieved to think of! Anne Elliot, so young; known to so few, to be snatched off by a stranger without alliance or fortune; or rather sunk by him into a state of most wearing, anxious, youth-killing dependence! It must not be, if by any fair interference of friendship, any representations from one who had almost a mother's love, and mother's rights, it would be prevented. Captain Wentworth had no fortune. He had been lucky in his profession; but spending freely, what had come freely, had realized nothing. But he was confident that he should soon be rich: full of life and ardour, he knew that he should soon have a ship, and soon be on a station that would lead to everything he wanted. He had always been lucky; he knew he should be so still. Such confidence, powerful in its own warmth, and bewitching in the wit which often expressed it, must have been enough for Anne; but Lady Russell saw it very differently. His sanguine temper, and fearlessness of mind, operated very differently on her. She saw in it but an aggravation of the evil. It only added a dangerous character to himself. He was brilliant, he was headstrong. Lady Russell had little taste for wit, and of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every light. Such opposition, as these feelings produced, was more than Anne could combat. Young and gentle as she was, it might yet have been possible to withstand her father's ill-will, though unsoftened by one kind word or look on the part of her sister; but Lady Russell, whom she had always loved and relied on, could not, with such steadiness of opinion, and such tenderness of manner, be continually advising her in vain. She was persuaded to believe the engagement a wrong thing: indiscreet, improper, hardly capable of success, and not deserving it. But it was not a merely selfish caution, under which she acted, in putting an end to it. Had she not imagined herself consulting his good, even more than her own, she could hardly have given him up. The belief of being prudent, and self-denying, principally for his advantage, was her chief consolation, under the misery of a parting, a final parting; and every consolation was required, for she had to encounter all the additional pain of opinions, on his side, totally unconvinced and unbending, and of his feeling himself ill used by so forced a relinquishment. He had left the country in consequence. A few months had seen the beginning and the end of their acquaintance; but not with a few months ended Anne's share of suffering from it. Her attachment and regrets had, for a long time, clouded every enjoyment of youth, and an early loss of bloom and spirits had been their lasting effect. More than seven years were gone since this little history of sorrowful interest had reached its close; and time had softened down much, perhaps nearly all of peculiar attachment to him, but she had been too dependent on time alone; no aid had been given in change of place (except in one visit to Bath soon after the rupture), or in any novelty or enlargement of society. No one had ever come within the Kellynch circle, who could bear a comparison with Frederick Wentworth, as he stood in her memory. No second attachment, the only thoroughly natural, happy, and sufficient cure, at her time of life, had been possible to the nice tone of her mind, the fastidiousness of her taste, in the small limits of the society around them. She had been solicited, when about two-and-twenty, to change her name, by the young man, who not long afterwards found a more willing mind in her younger sister; and Lady Russell had lamented her refusal; for Charles Musgrove was the eldest son of a man, whose landed property and general importance were second in that country, only to Sir Walter's, and of good character and appearance; and however Lady Russell might have asked yet for something more, while Anne was nineteen, she would have rejoiced to see her at twenty-two so respectably removed from the partialities and injustice of her father's house, and settled so permanently near herself. But in this case, Anne had left nothing for advice to do; and though Lady Russell, as satisfied as ever with her own discretion, never wished the past undone, she began now to have the anxiety which borders on hopelessness for Anne's being tempted, by some man of talents and independence, to enter a state for which she held her to be peculiarly fitted by her warm affections and domestic habits. They knew not each other's opinion, either its constancy or its change, on the one leading point of Anne's conduct, for the subject was never alluded to; but Anne, at seven-and-twenty, thought very differently from what she had been made to think at nineteen. She did not blame Lady Russell, she did not blame herself for having been guided by her; but she felt that were any young person, in similar circumstances, to apply to her for counsel, they would never receive any of such certain immediate wretchedness, such uncertain future good. She was persuaded that under every disadvantage of disapprobation at home, and every anxiety attending his profession, all their probable fears, delays, and disappointments, she should yet have been a happier woman in maintaining the engagement, than she had been in the sacrifice of it; and this, she fully believed, had the usual share, had even more than the usual share of all such solicitudes and suspense been theirs, without reference to the actual results of their case, which, as it happened, would have bestowed earlier prosperity than could be reasonably calculated on. All his sanguine expectations, all his confidence had been justified. His genius and ardour had seemed to foresee and to command his prosperous path. He had, very soon after their engagement ceased, got employ: and all that he had told her would follow, had taken place. He had distinguished himself, and early gained the other step in rank, and must now, by successive captures, have made a handsome fortune. She had only navy lists and newspapers for her authority, but she could not doubt his being rich; and, in favour of his constancy, she had no reason to believe him married. How eloquent could Anne Elliot have been! how eloquent, at least, were her wishes on the side of early warm attachment, and a cheerful confidence in futurity, against that over-anxious caution which seems to insult exertion and distrust Providence! She had been forced into prudence in her youth, she learned romance as she grew older: the natural sequel of an unnatural beginning. With all these circumstances, recollections and feelings, she could not hear that Captain Wentworth's sister was likely to live at Kellynch without a revival of former pain; and many a stroll, and many a sigh, were necessary to dispel the agitation of the idea. She often told herself it was folly, before she could harden her nerves sufficiently to feel the continual discussion of the Crofts and their business no evil. She was assisted, however, by that perfect indifference and apparent unconsciousness, among the only three of her own friends in the secret of the past, which seemed almost to deny any recollection of it. She could do justice to the superiority of Lady Russell's motives in this, over those of her father and Elizabeth; she could honour all the better feelings of her calmness; but the general air of oblivion among them was highly important from whatever it sprung; and in the event of Admiral Croft's really taking Kellynch Hall, she rejoiced anew over the conviction which had always been most grateful to her, of the past being known to those three only among her connexions, by whom no syllable, she believed, would ever be whispered, and in the trust that among his, the brother only with whom he had been residing, had received any information of their short-lived engagement. That brother had been long removed from the country and being a sensible man, and, moreover, a single man at the time, she had a fond dependence on no human creature's having heard of it from him. The sister, Mrs Croft, had then been out of England, accompanying her husband on a foreign station, and her own sister, Mary, had been at school while it all occurred; and never admitted by the pride of some, and the delicacy of others, to the smallest knowledge of it afterwards. With these supports, she hoped that the acquaintance between herself and the Crofts, which, with Lady Russell, still resident in Kellynch, and Mary fixed only three miles off, must be anticipated, need not involve any particular awkwardness. Chapter 5 On the morning appointed for Admiral and Mrs Croft's seeing Kellynch Hall, Anne found it most natural to take her almost daily walk to Lady Russell's, and keep out of the way till all was over; when she found it most natural to be sorry that she had missed the opportunity of seeing them. This meeting of the two parties proved highly satisfactory, and decided the whole business at once. Each lady was previously well disposed for an agreement, and saw nothing, therefore, but good manners in the other; and with regard to the gentlemen, there was such an hearty good humour, such an open, trusting liberality on the Admiral's side, as could not but influence Sir Walter, who had besides been flattered into his very best and most polished behaviour by Mr Shepherd's assurances of his being known, by report, to the Admiral, as a model of good breeding. The house and grounds, and furniture, were approved, the Crofts were approved, terms, time, every thing, and every body, was right; and Mr Shepherd's clerks were set to work, without there having been a single preliminary difference to modify of all that "This indenture sheweth." Sir Walter, without hesitation, declared the Admiral to be the best-looking sailor he had ever met with, and went so far as to say, that if his own man might have had the arranging of his hair, he should not be ashamed of being seen with him any where; and the Admiral, with sympathetic cordiality, observed to his wife as they drove back through the park, "I thought we should soon come to a deal, my dear, in spite of what they told us at Taunton. The Baronet will never set the Thames on fire, but there seems to be no harm in him."--reciprocal compliments, which would have been esteemed about equal. The Crofts were to have possession at Michaelmas; and as Sir Walter proposed removing to Bath in the course of the preceding month, there was no time to be lost in making every dependent arrangement. Lady Russell, convinced that Anne would not be allowed to be of any use, or any importance, in the choice of the house which they were going to secure, was very unwilling to have her hurried away so soon, and wanted to make it possible for her to stay behind till she might convey her to Bath herself after Christmas; but having engagements of her own which must take her from Kellynch for several weeks, she was unable to give the full invitation she wished, and Anne though dreading the possible heats of September in all the white glare of Bath, and grieving to forego all the influence so sweet and so sad of the autumnal months in the country, did not think that, everything considered, she wished to remain. It would be most right, and most wise, and, therefore must involve least suffering to go with the others. Something occurred, however, to give her a different duty. Mary, often a little unwell, and always thinking a great deal of her own complaints, and always in the habit of claiming Anne when anything was the matter, was indisposed; and foreseeing that she should not have a day's health all the autumn, entreated, or rather required her, for it was hardly entreaty, to come to Uppercross Cottage, and bear her company as long as she should want her, instead of going to Bath. "I cannot possibly do without Anne," was Mary's reasoning; and Elizabeth's reply was, "Then I am sure Anne had better stay, for nobody will want her in Bath." To be claimed as a good, though in an improper style, is at least better than being rejected as no good at all; and Anne, glad to be thought of some use, glad to have anything marked out as a duty, and certainly not sorry to have the scene of it in the country, and her own dear country, readily agreed to stay. This invitation of Mary's removed all Lady Russell's difficulties, and it was consequently soon settled that Anne should not go to Bath till Lady Russell took her, and that all the intervening time should be divided between Uppercross Cottage and Kellynch Lodge. So far all was perfectly right; but Lady Russell was almost startled by the wrong of one part of the Kellynch Hall plan, when it burst on her, which was, Mrs Clay's being engaged to go to Bath with Sir Walter and Elizabeth, as a most important and valuable assistant to the latter in all the business before her. Lady Russell was extremely sorry that such a measure should have been resorted to at all, wondered, grieved, and feared; and the affront it contained to Anne, in Mrs Clay's being of so much use, while Anne could be of none, was a very sore aggravation. Anne herself was become hardened to such affronts; but she felt the imprudence of the arrangement quite as keenly as Lady Russell. With a great deal of quiet observation, and a knowledge, which she often wished less, of her father's character, she was sensible that results the most serious to his family from the intimacy were more than possible. She did not imagine that her father had at present an idea of the kind. Mrs Clay had freckles, and a projecting tooth, and a clumsy wrist, which he was continually making severe remarks upon, in her absence; but she was young, and certainly altogether well-looking, and possessed, in an acute mind and assiduous pleasing manners, infinitely more dangerous attractions than any merely personal might have been. Anne was so impressed by the degree of their danger, that she could not excuse herself from trying to make it perceptible to her sister. She had little hope of success; but Elizabeth, who in the event of such a reverse would be so much more to be pitied than herself, should never, she thought, have reason to reproach her for giving no warning. She spoke, and seemed only to offend. Elizabeth could not conceive how such an absurd suspicion should occur to her, and indignantly answered for each party's perfectly knowing their situation. "Mrs Clay," said she, warmly, "never forgets who she is; and as I am rather better acquainted with her sentiments than you can be, I can assure you, that upon the subject of marriage they are particularly nice, and that she reprobates all inequality of condition and rank more strongly than most people. And as to my father, I really should not have thought that he, who has kept himself single so long for our sakes, need be suspected now. If Mrs Clay were a very beautiful woman, I grant you, it might be wrong to have her so much with me; not that anything in the world, I am sure, would induce my father to make a degrading match, but he might be rendered unhappy. But poor Mrs Clay who, with all her merits, can never have been reckoned tolerably pretty, I really think poor Mrs Clay may be staying here in perfect safety. One would imagine you had never heard my father speak of her personal misfortunes, though I know you must fifty times. That tooth of her's and those freckles. Freckles do not disgust me so very much as they do him. I have known a face not materially disfigured by a few, but he abominates them. You must have heard him notice Mrs Clay's freckles." "There is hardly any personal defect," replied Anne, "which an agreeable manner might not gradually reconcile one to." "I think very differently," answered Elizabeth, shortly; "an agreeable manner may set off handsome features, but can never alter plain ones. However, at any rate, as I have a great deal more at stake on this point than anybody else can have, I think it rather unnecessary in you to be advising me." Anne had done; glad that it was over, and not absolutely hopeless of doing good. Elizabeth, though resenting the suspicion, might yet be made observant by it. The last office of the four carriage-horses was to draw Sir Walter, Miss Elliot, and Mrs Clay to Bath. The party drove off in very good spirits; Sir Walter prepared with condescending bows for all the afflicted tenantry and cottagers who might have had a hint to show themselves, and Anne walked up at the same time, in a sort of desolate tranquillity, to the Lodge, where she was to spend the first week. Her friend was not in better spirits than herself. Lady Russell felt this break-up of the family exceedingly. Their respectability was as dear to her as her own, and a daily intercourse had become precious by habit. It was painful to look upon their deserted grounds, and still worse to anticipate the new hands they were to fall into; and to escape the solitariness and the melancholy of so altered a village, and be out of the way when Admiral and Mrs Croft first arrived, she had determined to make her own absence from home begin when she must give up Anne. Accordingly their removal was made together, and Anne was set down at Uppercross Cottage, in the first stage of Lady Russell's journey. Uppercross was a moderate-sized village, which a few years back had been completely in the old English style, containing only two houses superior in appearance to those of the yeomen and labourers; the mansion of the squire, with its high walls, great gates, and old trees, substantial and unmodernized, and the compact, tight parsonage, enclosed in its own neat garden, with a vine and a pear-tree trained round its casements; but upon the marriage of the young 'squire, it had received the improvement of a farm-house elevated into a cottage, for his residence, and Uppercross Cottage, with its veranda, French windows, and other prettiness, was quite as likely to catch the traveller's eye as the more consistent and considerable aspect and premises of the Great House, about a quarter of a mile farther on. Here Anne had often been staying. She knew the ways of Uppercross as well as those of Kellynch. The two families were so continually meeting, so much in the habit of running in and out of each other's house at all hours, that it was rather a surprise to her to find Mary alone; but being alone, her being unwell and out of spirits was almost a matter of course. Though better endowed than the elder sister, Mary had not Anne's understanding nor temper. While well, and happy, and properly attended to, she had great good humour and excellent spirits; but any indisposition sunk her completely. She had no resources for solitude; and inheriting a considerable share of the Elliot self-importance, was very prone to add to every other distress that of fancying herself neglected and ill-used. In person, she was inferior to both sisters, and had, even in her bloom, only reached the dignity of being "a fine girl." She was now lying on the faded sofa of the pretty little drawing-room, the once elegant furniture of which had been gradually growing shabby, under the influence of four summers and two children; and, on Anne's appearing, greeted her with-- "So, you are come at last! I began to think I should never see you. I am so ill I can hardly speak. I have not seen a creature the whole morning!" "I am sorry to find you unwell," replied Anne. "You sent me such a good account of yourself on Thursday!" "Yes, I made the best of it; I always do: but I was very far from well at the time; and I do not think I ever was so ill in my life as I have been all this morning: very unfit to be left alone, I am sure. Suppose I were to be seized of a sudden in some dreadful way, and not able to ring the bell! So, Lady Russell would not get out. I do not think she has been in this house three times this summer." Anne said what was proper, and enquired after her husband. "Oh! Charles is out shooting. I have not seen him since seven o'clock. He would go, though I told him how ill I was. He said he should not stay out long; but he has never come back, and now it is almost one. I assure you, I have not seen a soul this whole long morning." "You have had your little boys with you?" "Yes, as long as I could bear their noise; but they are so unmanageable that they do me more harm than good. Little Charles does not mind a word I say, and Walter is growing quite as bad." "Well, you will soon be better now," replied Anne, cheerfully. "You know I always cure you when I come. How are your neighbours at the Great House?" "I can give you no account of them. I have not seen one of them to-day, except Mr Musgrove, who just stopped and spoke through the window, but without getting off his horse; and though I told him how ill I was, not one of them have been near me. It did not happen to suit the Miss Musgroves, I suppose, and they never put themselves out of their way." "You will see them yet, perhaps, before the morning is gone. It is early." "I never want them, I assure you. They talk and laugh a great deal too much for me. Oh! Anne, I am so very unwell! It was quite unkind of you not to come on Thursday." "My dear Mary, recollect what a comfortable account you sent me of yourself! You wrote in the cheerfullest manner, and said you were perfectly well, and in no hurry for me; and that being the case, you must be aware that my wish would be to remain with Lady Russell to the last: and besides what I felt on her account, I have really been so busy, have had so much to do, that I could not very conveniently have left Kellynch sooner." "Dear me! what can you possibly have to do?" "A great many things, I assure you. More than I can recollect in a moment; but I can tell you some. I have been making a duplicate of the catalogue of my father's books and pictures. I have been several times in the garden with Mackenzie, trying to understand, and make him understand, which of Elizabeth's plants are for Lady Russell. I have had all my own little concerns to arrange, books and music to divide, and all my trunks to repack, from not having understood in time what was intended as to the waggons: and one thing I have had to do, Mary, of a more trying nature: going to almost every house in the parish, as a sort of take-leave. I was told that they wished it. But all these things took up a great deal of time." "Oh! well!" and after a moment's pause, "but you have never asked me one word about our dinner at the Pooles yesterday." "Did you go then? I have made no enquiries, because I concluded you must have been obliged to give up the party." "Oh yes! I went. I was very well yesterday; nothing at all the matter with me till this morning. It would have been strange if I had not gone." "I am very glad you were well enough, and I hope you had a pleasant party." "Nothing remarkable. One always knows beforehand what the dinner will be, and who will be there; and it is so very uncomfortable not having a carriage of one's own. Mr and Mrs Musgrove took me, and we were so crowded! They are both so very large, and take up so much room; and Mr Musgrove always sits forward. So, there was I, crowded into the back seat with Henrietta and Louisa; and I think it very likely that my illness to-day may be owing to it." A little further perseverance in patience and forced cheerfulness on Anne's side produced nearly a cure on Mary's. She could soon sit upright on the sofa, and began to hope she might be able to leave it by dinner-time. Then, forgetting to think of it, she was at the other end of the room, beautifying a nosegay; then, she ate her cold meat; and then she was well enough to propose a little walk. "Where shall we go?" said she, when they were ready. "I suppose you will not like to call at the Great House before they have been to see you?" "I have not the smallest objection on that account," replied Anne. "I should never think of standing on such ceremony with people I know so well as Mrs and the Miss Musgroves." "Oh! but they ought to call upon you as soon as possible. They ought to feel what is due to you as my sister. However, we may as well go and sit with them a little while, and when we have that over, we can enjoy our walk." Anne had always thought such a style of intercourse highly imprudent; but she had ceased to endeavour to check it, from believing that, though there were on each side continual subjects of offence, neither family could now do without it. To the Great House accordingly they went, to sit the full half hour in the old-fashioned square parlour, with a small carpet and shining floor, to which the present daughters of the house were gradually giving the proper air of confusion by a grand piano-forte and a harp, flower-stands and little tables placed in every direction. Oh! could the originals of the portraits against the wainscot, could the gentlemen in brown velvet and the ladies in blue satin have seen what was going on, have been conscious of such an overthrow of all order and neatness! The portraits themselves seemed to be staring in astonishment. The Musgroves, like their houses, were in a state of alteration, perhaps of improvement. The father and mother were in the old English style, and the young people in the new. Mr and Mrs Musgrove were a very good sort of people; friendly and hospitable, not much educated, and not at all elegant. Their children had more modern minds and manners. There was a numerous family; but the only two grown up, excepting Charles, were Henrietta and Louisa, young ladies of nineteen and twenty, who had brought from school at Exeter all the usual stock of accomplishments, and were now like thousands of other young ladies, living to be fashionable, happy, and merry. Their dress had every advantage, their faces were rather pretty, their spirits extremely good, their manner unembarrassed and pleasant; they were of consequence at home, and favourites abroad. Anne always contemplated them as some of the happiest creatures of her acquaintance; but still, saved as we all are, by some comfortable feeling of superiority from wishing for the possibility of exchange, she would not have given up her own more elegant and cultivated mind for all their enjoyments; and envied them nothing but that seemingly perfect good understanding and agreement together, that good-humoured mutual affection, of which she had known so little herself with either of her sisters. They were received with great cordiality. Nothing seemed amiss on the side of the Great House family, which was generally, as Anne very well knew, the least to blame. The half hour was chatted away pleasantly enough; and she was not at all surprised, at the end of it, to have their walking party joined by both the Miss Musgroves, at Mary's particular invitation. Chapter 6 Anne had not wanted this visit to Uppercross, to learn that a removal from one set of people to another, though at a distance of only three miles, will often include a total change of conversation, opinion, and idea. She had never been staying there before, without being struck by it, or without wishing that other Elliots could have her advantage in seeing how unknown, or unconsidered there, were the affairs which at Kellynch Hall were treated as of such general publicity and pervading interest; yet, with all this experience, she believed she must now submit to feel that another lesson, in the art of knowing our own nothingness beyond our own circle, was become necessary for her; for certainly, coming as she did, with a heart full of the subject which had been completely occupying both houses in Kellynch for many weeks, she had expected rather more curiosity and sympathy than she found in the separate but very similar remark of Mr and Mrs Musgrove: "So, Miss Anne, Sir Walter and your sister are gone; and what part of Bath do you think they will settle in?" and this, without much waiting for an answer; or in the young ladies' addition of, "I hope we shall be in Bath in the winter; but remember, papa, if we do go, we must be in a good situation: none of your Queen Squares for us!" or in the anxious supplement from Mary, of--"Upon my word, I shall be pretty well off, when you are all gone away to be happy at Bath!" She could only resolve to avoid such self-delusion in future, and think with heightened gratitude of the extraordinary blessing of having one such truly sympathising friend as Lady Russell. The Mr Musgroves had their own game to guard, and to destroy, their own horses, dogs, and newspapers to engage them, and the females were fully occupied in all the other common subjects of housekeeping, neighbours, dress, dancing, and music. She acknowledged it to be very fitting, that every little social commonwealth should dictate its own matters of discourse; and hoped, ere long, to become a not unworthy member of the one she was now transplanted into. With the prospect of spending at least two months at Uppercross, it was highly incumbent on her to clothe her imagination, her memory, and all her ideas in as much of Uppercross as possible. She had no dread of these two months. Mary was not so repulsive and unsisterly as Elizabeth, nor so inaccessible to all influence of hers; neither was there anything among the other component parts of the cottage inimical to comfort. She was always on friendly terms with her brother-in-law; and in the children, who loved her nearly as well, and respected her a great deal more than their mother, she had an object of interest, amusement, and wholesome exertion. Charles Musgrove was civil and agreeable; in sense and temper he was undoubtedly superior to his wife, but not of powers, or conversation, or grace, to make the past, as they were connected together, at all a dangerous contemplation; though, at the same time, Anne could believe, with Lady Russell, that a more equal match might have greatly improved him; and that a woman of real understanding might have given more consequence to his character, and more usefulness, rationality, and elegance to his habits and pursuits. As it was, he did nothing with much zeal, but sport; and his time was otherwise trifled away, without benefit from books or anything else. He had very good spirits, which never seemed much affected by his wife's occasional lowness, bore with her unreasonableness sometimes to Anne's admiration, and upon the whole, though there was very often a little disagreement (in which she had sometimes more share than she wished, being appealed to by both parties), they might pass for a happy couple. They were always perfectly agreed in the want of more money, and a strong inclination for a handsome present from his father; but here, as on most topics, he had the superiority, for while Mary thought it a great shame that such a present was not made, he always contended for his father's having many other uses for his money, and a right to spend it as he liked. As to the management of their children, his theory was much better than his wife's, and his practice not so bad. "I could manage them very well, if it were not for Mary's interference," was what Anne often heard him say, and had a good deal of faith in; but when listening in turn to Mary's reproach of "Charles spoils the children so that I cannot get them into any order," she never had the smallest temptation to say, "Very true." One of the least agreeable circumstances of her residence there was her being treated with too much confidence by all parties, and being too much in the secret of the complaints of each house. Known to have some influence with her sister, she was continually requested, or at least receiving hints to exert it, beyond what was practicable. "I wish you could persuade Mary not to be always fancying herself ill," was Charles's language; and, in an unhappy mood, thus spoke Mary: "I do believe if Charles were to see me dying, he would not think there was anything the matter with me. I am sure, Anne, if you would, you might persuade him that I really am very ill--a great deal worse than I ever own." Mary's declaration was, "I hate sending the children to the Great House, though their grandmamma is always wanting to see them, for she humours and indulges them to such a degree, and gives them so much trash and sweet things, that they are sure to come back sick and cross for the rest of the day." And Mrs Musgrove took the first opportunity of being alone with Anne, to say, "Oh! Miss Anne, I cannot help wishing Mrs Charles had a little of your method with those children. They are quite different creatures with you! But to be sure, in general they are so spoilt! It is a pity you cannot put your sister in the way of managing them. They are as fine healthy children as ever were seen, poor little dears! without partiality; but Mrs Charles knows no more how they should be treated--! Bless me! how troublesome they are sometimes. I assure you, Miss Anne, it prevents my wishing to see them at our house so often as I otherwise should. I believe Mrs Charles is not quite pleased with my not inviting them oftener; but you know it is very bad to have children with one that one is obligated to be checking every moment; "don't do this," and "don't do that;" or that one can only keep in tolerable order by more cake than is good for them." She had this communication, moreover, from Mary. "Mrs Musgrove thinks all her servants so steady, that it would be high treason to call it in question; but I am sure, without exaggeration, that her upper house-maid and laundry-maid, instead of being in their business, are gadding about the village, all day long. I meet them wherever I go; and I declare, I never go twice into my nursery without seeing something of them. If Jemima were not the trustiest, steadiest creature in the world, it would be enough to spoil her; for she tells me, they are always tempting her to take a walk with them." And on Mrs Musgrove's side, it was, "I make a rule of never interfering in any of my daughter-in-law's concerns, for I know it would not do; but I shall tell you, Miss Anne, because you may be able to set things to rights, that I have no very good opinion of Mrs Charles's nursery-maid: I hear strange stories of her; she is always upon the gad; and from my own knowledge, I can declare, she is such a fine-dressing lady, that she is enough to ruin any servants she comes near. Mrs Charles quite swears by her, I know; but I just give you this hint, that you may be upon the watch; because, if you see anything amiss, you need not be afraid of mentioning it." Again, it was Mary's complaint, that Mrs Musgrove was very apt not to give her the precedence that was her due, when they dined at the Great House with other families; and she did not see any reason why she was to be considered so much at home as to lose her place. And one day when Anne was walking with only the Musgroves, one of them after talking of rank, people of rank, and jealousy of rank, said, "I have no scruple of observing to you, how nonsensical some persons are about their place, because all the world knows how easy and indifferent you are about it; but I wish anybody could give Mary a hint that it would be a great deal better if she were not so very tenacious, especially if she would not be always putting herself forward to take place of mamma. Nobody doubts her right to have precedence of mamma, but it would be more becoming in her not to be always insisting on it. It is not that mamma cares about it the least in the world, but I know it is taken notice of by many persons." How was Anne to set all these matters to rights? She could do little more than listen patiently, soften every grievance, and excuse each to the other; give them all hints of the forbearance necessary between such near neighbours, and make those hints broadest which were meant for her sister's benefit. In all other respects, her visit began and proceeded very well. Her own spirits improved by change of place and subject, by being removed three miles from Kellynch; Mary's ailments lessened by having a constant companion, and their daily intercourse with the other family, since there was neither superior affection, confidence, nor employment in the cottage, to be interrupted by it, was rather an advantage. It was certainly carried nearly as far as possible, for they met every morning, and hardly ever spent an evening asunder; but she believed they should not have done so well without the sight of Mr and Mrs Musgrove's respectable forms in the usual places, or without the talking, laughing, and singing of their daughters. She played a great deal better than either of the Miss Musgroves, but having no voice, no knowledge of the harp, and no fond parents, to sit by and fancy themselves delighted, her performance was little thought of, only out of civility, or to refresh the others, as she was well aware. She knew that when she played she was giving pleasure only to herself; but this was no new sensation. Excepting one short period of her life, she had never, since the age of fourteen, never since the loss of her dear mother, known the happiness of being listened to, or encouraged by any just appreciation or real taste. In music she had been always used to feel alone in the world; and Mr and Mrs Musgrove's fond partiality for their own daughters' performance, and total indifference to any other person's, gave her much more pleasure for their sakes, than mortification for her own. The party at the Great House was sometimes increased by other company. The neighbourhood was not large, but the Musgroves were visited by everybody, and had more dinner-parties, and more callers, more visitors by invitation and by chance, than any other family. They were more completely popular. The girls were wild for dancing; and the evenings ended, occasionally, in an unpremeditated little ball. There was a family of cousins within a walk of Uppercross, in less affluent circumstances, who depended on the Musgroves for all their pleasures: they would come at any time, and help play at anything, or dance anywhere; and Anne, very much preferring the office of musician to a more active post, played country dances to them by the hour together; a kindness which always recommended her musical powers to the notice of Mr and Mrs Musgrove more than anything else, and often drew this compliment;--"Well done, Miss Anne! very well done indeed! Lord bless me! how those little fingers of yours fly about!" So passed the first three weeks. Michaelmas came; and now Anne's heart must be in Kellynch again. A beloved home made over to others; all the precious rooms and furniture, groves, and prospects, beginning to own other eyes and other limbs! She could not think of much else on the 29th of September; and she had this sympathetic touch in the evening from Mary, who, on having occasion to note down the day of the month, exclaimed, "Dear me, is not this the day the Crofts were to come to Kellynch? I am glad I did not think of it before. How low it makes me!" The Crofts took possession with true naval alertness, and were to be visited. Mary deplored the necessity for herself. "Nobody knew how much she should suffer. She should put it off as long as she could;" but was not easy till she had talked Charles into driving her over on an early day, and was in a very animated, comfortable state of imaginary agitation, when she came back. Anne had very sincerely rejoiced in there being no means of her going. She wished, however to see the Crofts, and was glad to be within when the visit was returned. They came: the master of the house was not at home, but the two sisters were together; and as it chanced that Mrs Croft fell to the share of Anne, while the Admiral sat by Mary, and made himself very agreeable by his good-humoured notice of her little boys, she was well able to watch for a likeness, and if it failed her in the features, to catch it in the voice, or in the turn of sentiment and expression. Mrs Croft, though neither tall nor fat, had a squareness, uprightness, and vigour of form, which gave importance to her person. She had bright dark eyes, good teeth, and altogether an agreeable face; though her reddened and weather-beaten complexion, the consequence of her having been almost as much at sea as her husband, made her seem to have lived some years longer in the world than her real eight-and-thirty. Her manners were open, easy, and decided, like one who had no distrust of herself, and no doubts of what to do; without any approach to coarseness, however, or any want of good humour. Anne gave her credit, indeed, for feelings of great consideration towards herself, in all that related to Kellynch, and it pleased her: especially, as she had satisfied herself in the very first half minute, in the instant even of introduction, that there was not the smallest symptom of any knowledge or suspicion on Mrs Croft's side, to give a bias of any sort. She was quite easy on that head, and consequently full of strength and courage, till for a moment electrified by Mrs Croft's suddenly saying,-- "It was you, and not your sister, I find, that my brother had the pleasure of being acquainted with, when he was in this country." Anne hoped she had outlived the age of blushing; but the age of emotion she certainly had not. "Perhaps you may not have heard that he is married?" added Mrs Croft. She could now answer as she ought; and was happy to feel, when Mrs Croft's next words explained it to be Mr Wentworth of whom she spoke, that she had said nothing which might not do for either brother. She immediately felt how reasonable it was, that Mrs Croft should be thinking and speaking of Edward, and not of Frederick; and with shame at her own forgetfulness applied herself to the knowledge of their former neighbour's present state with proper interest. The rest was all tranquillity; till, just as they were moving, she heard the Admiral say to Mary-- "We are expecting a brother of Mrs Croft's here soon; I dare say you know him by name." He was cut short by the eager attacks of the little boys, clinging to him like an old friend, and declaring he should not go; and being too much engrossed by proposals of carrying them away in his coat pockets, &c., to have another moment for finishing or recollecting what he had begun, Anne was left to persuade herself, as well as she could, that the same brother must still be in question. She could not, however, reach such a degree of certainty, as not to be anxious to hear whether anything had been said on the subject at the other house, where the Crofts had previously been calling. The folks of the Great House were to spend the evening of this day at the Cottage; and it being now too late in the year for such visits to be made on foot, the coach was beginning to be listened for, when the youngest Miss Musgrove walked in. That she was coming to apologize, and that they should have to spend the evening by themselves, was the first black idea; and Mary was quite ready to be affronted, when Louisa made all right by saying, that she only came on foot, to leave more room for the harp, which was bringing in the carriage. "And I will tell you our reason," she added, "and all about it. I am come on to give you notice, that papa and mamma are out of spirits this evening, especially mamma; she is thinking so much of poor Richard! And we agreed it would be best to have the harp, for it seems to amuse her more than the piano-forte. I will tell you why she is out of spirits. When the Crofts called this morning, (they called here afterwards, did not they?), they happened to say, that her brother, Captain Wentworth, is just returned to England, or paid off, or something, and is coming to see them almost directly; and most unluckily it came into mamma's head, when they were gone, that Wentworth, or something very like it, was the name of poor Richard's captain at one time; I do not know when or where, but a great while before he died, poor fellow! And upon looking over his letters and things, she found it was so, and is perfectly sure that this must be the very man, and her head is quite full of it, and of poor Richard! So we must be as merry as we can, that she may not be dwelling upon such gloomy things." The real circumstances of this pathetic piece of family history were, that the Musgroves had had the ill fortune of a very troublesome, hopeless son; and the good fortune to lose him before he reached his twentieth year; that he had been sent to sea because he was stupid and unmanageable on shore; that he had been very little cared for at any time by his family, though quite as much as he deserved; seldom heard of, and scarcely at all regretted, when the intelligence of his death abroad had worked its way to Uppercross, two years before. He had, in fact, though his sisters were now doing all they could for him, by calling him "poor Richard," been nothing better than a thick-headed, unfeeling, unprofitable Dick Musgrove, who had never done anything to entitle himself to more than the abbreviation of his name, living or dead. He had been several years at sea, and had, in the course of those removals to which all midshipmen are liable, and especially such midshipmen as every captain wishes to get rid of, been six months on board Captain Frederick Wentworth's frigate, the Laconia; and from the Laconia he had, under the influence of his captain, written the only two letters which his father and mother had ever received from him during the whole of his absence; that is to say, the only two disinterested letters; all the rest had been mere applications for money. In each letter he had spoken well of his captain; but yet, so little were they in the habit of attending to such matters, so unobservant and incurious were they as to the names of men or ships, that it had made scarcely any impression at the time; and that Mrs Musgrove should have been suddenly struck, this very day, with a recollection of the name of Wentworth, as connected with her son, seemed one of those extraordinary bursts of mind which do sometimes occur. She had gone to her letters, and found it all as she supposed; and the re-perusal of these letters, after so long an interval, her poor son gone for ever, and all the strength of his faults forgotten, had affected her spirits exceedingly, and thrown her into greater grief for him than she had known on first hearing of his death. Mr Musgrove was, in a lesser degree, affected likewise; and when they reached the cottage, they were evidently in want, first, of being listened to anew on this subject, and afterwards, of all the relief which cheerful companions could give them. To hear them talking so much of Captain Wentworth, repeating his name so often, puzzling over past years, and at last ascertaining that it might, that it probably would, turn out to be the very same Captain Wentworth whom they recollected meeting, once or twice, after their coming back from Clifton--a very fine young man--but they could not say whether it was seven or eight years ago, was a new sort of trial to Anne's nerves. She found, however, that it was one to which she must inure herself. Since he actually was expected in the country, she must teach herself to be insensible on such points. And not only did it appear that he was expected, and speedily, but the Musgroves, in their warm gratitude for the kindness he had shewn poor Dick, and very high respect for his character, stamped as it was by poor Dick's having been six months under his care, and mentioning him in strong, though not perfectly well-spelt praise, as "a fine dashing felow, only two perticular about the schoolmaster," were bent on introducing themselves, and seeking his acquaintance, as soon as they could hear of his arrival. The resolution of doing so helped to form the comfort of their evening. Chapter 7 A very few days more, and Captain Wentworth was known to be at Kellynch, and Mr Musgrove had called on him, and come back warm in his praise, and he was engaged with the Crofts to dine at Uppercross, by the end of another week. It had been a great disappointment to Mr Musgrove to find that no earlier day could be fixed, so impatient was he to shew his gratitude, by seeing Captain Wentworth under his own roof, and welcoming him to all that was strongest and best in his cellars. But a week must pass; only a week, in Anne's reckoning, and then, she supposed, they must meet; and soon she began to wish that she could feel secure even for a week. Captain Wentworth made a very early return to Mr Musgrove's civility, and she was all but calling there in the same half hour. She and Mary were actually setting forward for the Great House, where, as she afterwards learnt, they must inevitably have found him, when they were stopped by the eldest boy's being at that moment brought home in consequence of a bad fall. The child's situation put the visit entirely aside; but she could not hear of her escape with indifference, even in the midst of the serious anxiety which they afterwards felt on his account. His collar-bone was found to be dislocated, and such injury received in the back, as roused the most alarming ideas. It was an afternoon of distress, and Anne had every thing to do at once; the apothecary to send for, the father to have pursued and informed, the mother to support and keep from hysterics, the servants to control, the youngest child to banish, and the poor suffering one to attend and soothe; besides sending, as soon as she recollected it, proper notice to the other house, which brought her an accession rather of frightened, enquiring companions, than of very useful assistants. Her brother's return was the first comfort; he could take best care of his wife; and the second blessing was the arrival of the apothecary. Till he came and had examined the child, their apprehensions were the worse for being vague; they suspected great injury, but knew not where; but now the collar-bone was soon replaced, and though Mr Robinson felt and felt, and rubbed, and looked grave, and spoke low words both to the father and the aunt, still they were all to hope the best, and to be able to part and eat their dinner in tolerable ease of mind; and then it was, just before they parted, that the two young aunts were able so far to digress from their nephew's state, as to give the information of Captain Wentworth's visit; staying five minutes behind their father and mother, to endeavour to express how perfectly delighted they were with him, how much handsomer, how infinitely more agreeable they thought him than any individual among their male acquaintance, who had been at all a favourite before. How glad they had been to hear papa invite him to stay dinner, how sorry when he said it was quite out of his power, and how glad again when he had promised in reply to papa and mamma's farther pressing invitations to come and dine with them on the morrow--actually on the morrow; and he had promised it in so pleasant a manner, as if he felt all the motive of their attention just as he ought. And in short, he had looked and said everything with such exquisite grace, that they could assure them all, their heads were both turned by him; and off they ran, quite as full of glee as of love, and apparently more full of Captain Wentworth than of little Charles. The same story and the same raptures were repeated, when the two girls came with their father, through the gloom of the evening, to make enquiries; and Mr Musgrove, no longer under the first uneasiness about his heir, could add his confirmation and praise, and hope there would be now no occasion for putting Captain Wentworth off, and only be sorry to think that the cottage party, probably, would not like to leave the little boy, to give him the meeting. "Oh no; as to leaving the little boy," both father and mother were in much too strong and recent alarm to bear the thought; and Anne, in the joy of the escape, could not help adding her warm protestations to theirs. Charles Musgrove, indeed, afterwards, shewed more of inclination; "the child was going on so well, and he wished so much to be introduced to Captain Wentworth, that, perhaps, he might join them in the evening; he would not dine from home, but he might walk in for half an hour." But in this he was eagerly opposed by his wife, with "Oh! no, indeed, Charles, I cannot bear to have you go away. Only think if anything should happen?" The child had a good night, and was going on well the next day. It must be a work of time to ascertain that no injury had been done to the spine; but Mr Robinson found nothing to increase alarm, and Charles Musgrove began, consequently, to feel no necessity for longer confinement. The child was to be kept in bed and amused as quietly as possible; but what was there for a father to do? This was quite a female case, and it would be highly absurd in him, who could be of no use at home, to shut himself up. His father very much wished him to meet Captain Wentworth, and there being no sufficient reason against it, he ought to go; and it ended in his making a bold, public declaration, when he came in from shooting, of his meaning to dress directly, and dine at the other house. "Nothing can be going on better than the child," said he; "so I told my father, just now, that I would come, and he thought me quite right. Your sister being with you, my love, I have no scruple at all. You would not like to leave him yourself, but you see I can be of no use. Anne will send for me if anything is the matter." Husbands and wives generally understand when opposition will be vain. Mary knew, from Charles's manner of speaking, that he was quite determined on going, and that it would be of no use to teaze him. She said nothing, therefore, till he was out of the room, but as soon as there was only Anne to hear-- "So you and I are to be left to shift by ourselves, with this poor sick child; and not a creature coming near us all the evening! I knew how it would be. This is always my luck. If there is anything disagreeable going on men are always sure to get out of it, and Charles is as bad as any of them. Very unfeeling! I must say it is very unfeeling of him to be running away from his poor little boy. Talks of his being going on so well! How does he know that he is going on well, or that there may not be a sudden change half an hour hence? I did not think Charles would have been so unfeeling. So here he is to go away and enjoy himself, and because I am the poor mother, I am not to be allowed to stir; and yet, I am sure, I am more unfit than anybody else to be about the child. My being the mother is the very reason why my feelings should not be tried. I am not at all equal to it. You saw how hysterical I was yesterday." "But that was only the effect of the suddenness of your alarm--of the shock. You will not be hysterical again. I dare say we shall have nothing to distress us. I perfectly understand Mr Robinson's directions, and have no fears; and indeed, Mary, I cannot wonder at your husband. Nursing does not belong to a man; it is not his province. A sick child is always the mother's property: her own feelings generally make it so." "I hope I am as fond of my child as any mother, but I do not know that I am of any more use in the sick-room than Charles, for I cannot be always scolding and teazing the poor child when it is ill; and you saw, this morning, that if I told him to keep quiet, he was sure to begin kicking about. I have not nerves for the sort of thing." "But, could you be comfortable yourself, to be spending the whole evening away from the poor boy?" "Yes; you see his papa can, and why should not I? Jemima is so careful; and she could send us word every hour how he was. I really think Charles might as well have told his father we would all come. I am not more alarmed about little Charles now than he is. I was dreadfully alarmed yesterday, but the case is very different to-day." "Well, if you do not think it too late to give notice for yourself, suppose you were to go, as well as your husband. Leave little Charles to my care. Mr and Mrs Musgrove cannot think it wrong while I remain with him." "Are you serious?" cried Mary, her eyes brightening. "Dear me! that's a very good thought, very good, indeed. To be sure, I may just as well go as not, for I am of no use at home--am I? and it only harasses me. You, who have not a mother's feelings, are a great deal the properest person. You can make little Charles do anything; he always minds you at a word. It will be a great deal better than leaving him only with Jemima. Oh! I shall certainly go; I am sure I ought if I can, quite as much as Charles, for they want me excessively to be acquainted with Captain Wentworth, and I know you do not mind being left alone. An excellent thought of yours, indeed, Anne. I will go and tell Charles, and get ready directly. You can send for us, you know, at a moment's notice, if anything is the matter; but I dare say there will be nothing to alarm you. I should not go, you may be sure, if I did not feel quite at ease about my dear child." The next moment she was tapping at her husband's dressing-room door, and as Anne followed her up stairs, she was in time for the whole conversation, which began with Mary's saying, in a tone of great exultation-- "I mean to go with you, Charles, for I am of no more use at home than you are. If I were to shut myself up for ever with the child, I should not be able to persuade him to do anything he did not like. Anne will stay; Anne undertakes to stay at home and take care of him. It is Anne's own proposal, and so I shall go with you, which will be a great deal better, for I have not dined at the other house since Tuesday." "This is very kind of Anne," was her husband's answer, "and I should be very glad to have you go; but it seems rather hard that she should be left at home by herself, to nurse our sick child." Anne was now at hand to take up her own cause, and the sincerity of her manner being soon sufficient to convince him, where conviction was at least very agreeable, he had no farther scruples as to her being left to dine alone, though he still wanted her to join them in the evening, when the child might be at rest for the night, and kindly urged her to let him come and fetch her, but she was quite unpersuadable; and this being the case, she had ere long the pleasure of seeing them set off together in high spirits. They were gone, she hoped, to be happy, however oddly constructed such happiness might seem; as for herself, she was left with as many sensations of comfort, as were, perhaps, ever likely to be hers. She knew herself to be of the first utility to the child; and what was it to her if Frederick Wentworth were only half a mile distant, making himself agreeable to others? She would have liked to know how he felt as to a meeting. Perhaps indifferent, if indifference could exist under such circumstances. He must be either indifferent or unwilling. Had he wished ever to see her again, he need not have waited till this time; he would have done what she could not but believe that in his place she should have done long ago, when events had been early giving him the independence which alone had been wanting. Her brother and sister came back delighted with their new acquaintance, and their visit in general. There had been music, singing, talking, laughing, all that was most agreeable; charming manners in Captain Wentworth, no shyness or reserve; they seemed all to know each other perfectly, and he was coming the very next morning to shoot with Charles. He was to come to breakfast, but not at the Cottage, though that had been proposed at first; but then he had been pressed to come to the Great House instead, and he seemed afraid of being in Mrs Charles Musgrove's way, on account of the child, and therefore, somehow, they hardly knew how, it ended in Charles's being to meet him to breakfast at his father's. Anne understood it. He wished to avoid seeing her. He had inquired after her, she found, slightly, as might suit a former slight acquaintance, seeming to acknowledge such as she had acknowledged, actuated, perhaps, by the same view of escaping introduction when they were to meet. The morning hours of the Cottage were always later than those of the other house, and on the morrow the difference was so great that Mary and Anne were not more than beginning breakfast when Charles came in to say that they were just setting off, that he was come for his dogs, that his sisters were following with Captain Wentworth; his sisters meaning to visit Mary and the child, and Captain Wentworth proposing also to wait on her for a few minutes if not inconvenient; and though Charles had answered for the child's being in no such state as could make it inconvenient, Captain Wentworth would not be satisfied without his running on to give notice. Mary, very much gratified by this attention, was delighted to receive him, while a thousand feelings rushed on Anne, of which this was the most consoling, that it would soon be over. And it was soon over. In two minutes after Charles's preparation, the others appeared; they were in the drawing-room. Her eye half met Captain Wentworth's, a bow, a curtsey passed; she heard his voice; he talked to Mary, said all that was right, said something to the Miss Musgroves, enough to mark an easy footing; the room seemed full, full of persons and voices, but a few minutes ended it. Charles shewed himself at the window, all was ready, their visitor had bowed and was gone, the Miss Musgroves were gone too, suddenly resolving to walk to the end of the village with the sportsmen: the room was cleared, and Anne might finish her breakfast as she could. "It is over! it is over!" she repeated to herself again and again, in nervous gratitude. "The worst is over!" Mary talked, but she could not attend. She had seen him. They had met. They had been once more in the same room. Soon, however, she began to reason with herself, and try to be feeling less. Eight years, almost eight years had passed, since all had been given up. How absurd to be resuming the agitation which such an interval had banished into distance and indistinctness! What might not eight years do? Events of every description, changes, alienations, removals--all, all must be comprised in it, and oblivion of the past-- how natural, how certain too! It included nearly a third part of her own life. Alas! with all her reasoning, she found, that to retentive feelings eight years may be little more than nothing. Now, how were his sentiments to be read? Was this like wishing to avoid her? And the next moment she was hating herself for the folly which asked the question. On one other question which perhaps her utmost wisdom might not have prevented, she was soon spared all suspense; for, after the Miss Musgroves had returned and finished their visit at the Cottage she had this spontaneous information from Mary:-- "Captain Wentworth is not very gallant by you, Anne, though he was so attentive to me. Henrietta asked him what he thought of you, when they went away, and he said, 'You were so altered he should not have known you again.'" Mary had no feelings to make her respect her sister's in a common way, but she was perfectly unsuspicious of being inflicting any peculiar wound. "Altered beyond his knowledge." Anne fully submitted, in silent, deep mortification. Doubtless it was so, and she could take no revenge, for he was not altered, or not for the worse. She had already acknowledged it to herself, and she could not think differently, let him think of her as he would. No: the years which had destroyed her youth and bloom had only given him a more glowing, manly, open look, in no respect lessening his personal advantages. She had seen the same Frederick Wentworth. "So altered that he should not have known her again!" These were words which could not but dwell with her. Yet she soon began to rejoice that she had heard them. They were of sobering tendency; they allayed agitation; they composed, and consequently must make her happier. Frederick Wentworth had used such words, or something like them, but without an idea that they would be carried round to her. He had thought her wretchedly altered, and in the first moment of appeal, had spoken as he felt. He had not forgiven Anne Elliot. She had used him ill, deserted and disappointed him; and worse, she had shewn a feebleness of character in doing so, which his own decided, confident temper could not endure. She had given him up to oblige others. It had been the effect of over-persuasion. It had been weakness and timidity. He had been most warmly attached to her, and had never seen a woman since whom he thought her equal; but, except from some natural sensation of curiosity, he had no desire of meeting her again. Her power with him was gone for ever. It was now his object to marry. He was rich, and being turned on shore, fully intended to settle as soon as he could be properly tempted; actually looking round, ready to fall in love with all the speed which a clear head and a quick taste could allow. He had a heart for either of the Miss Musgroves, if they could catch it; a heart, in short, for any pleasing young woman who came in his way, excepting Anne Elliot. This was his only secret exception, when he said to his sister, in answer to her suppositions:-- "Yes, here I am, Sophia, quite ready to make a foolish match. Anybody between fifteen and thirty may have me for asking. A little beauty, and a few smiles, and a few compliments to the navy, and I am a lost man. Should not this be enough for a sailor, who has had no society among women to make him nice?" He said it, she knew, to be contradicted. His bright proud eye spoke the conviction that he was nice; and Anne Elliot was not out of his thoughts, when he more seriously described the woman he should wish to meet with. "A strong mind, with sweetness of manner," made the first and the last of the description. "That is the woman I want," said he. "Something a little inferior I shall of course put up with, but it must not be much. If I am a fool, I shall be a fool indeed, for I have thought on the subject more than most men." Chapter 8 From this time Captain Wentworth and Anne Elliot were repeatedly in the same circle. They were soon dining in company together at Mr Musgrove's, for the little boy's state could no longer supply his aunt with a pretence for absenting herself; and this was but the beginning of other dinings and other meetings. Whether former feelings were to be renewed must be brought to the proof; former times must undoubtedly be brought to the recollection of each; they could not but be reverted to; the year of their engagement could not but be named by him, in the little narratives or descriptions which conversation called forth. His profession qualified him, his disposition lead him, to talk; and "That was in the year six;" "That happened before I went to sea in the year six," occurred in the course of the first evening they spent together: and though his voice did not falter, and though she had no reason to suppose his eye wandering towards her while he spoke, Anne felt the utter impossibility, from her knowledge of his mind, that he could be unvisited by remembrance any more than herself. There must be the same immediate association of thought, though she was very far from conceiving it to be of equal pain. They had no conversation together, no intercourse but what the commonest civility required. Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. With the exception, perhaps, of Admiral and Mrs Croft, who seemed particularly attached and happy, (Anne could allow no other exceptions even among the married couples), there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement. When he talked, she heard the same voice, and discerned the same mind. There was a very general ignorance of all naval matters throughout the party; and he was very much questioned, and especially by the two Miss Musgroves, who seemed hardly to have any eyes but for him, as to the manner of living on board, daily regulations, food, hours, &c., and their surprise at his accounts, at learning the degree of accommodation and arrangement which was practicable, drew from him some pleasant ridicule, which reminded Anne of the early days when she too had been ignorant, and she too had been accused of supposing sailors to be living on board without anything to eat, or any cook to dress it if there were, or any servant to wait, or any knife and fork to use. From thus listening and thinking, she was roused by a whisper of Mrs Musgrove's who, overcome by fond regrets, could not help saying-- "Ah! Miss Anne, if it had pleased Heaven to spare my poor son, I dare say he would have been just such another by this time." Anne suppressed a smile, and listened kindly, while Mrs Musgrove relieved her heart a little more; and for a few minutes, therefore, could not keep pace with the conversation of the others. When she could let her attention take its natural course again, she found the Miss Musgroves just fetching the Navy List (their own navy list, the first that had ever been at Uppercross), and sitting down together to pore over it, with the professed view of finding out the ships that Captain Wentworth had commanded. "Your first was the Asp, I remember; we will look for the Asp." "You will not find her there. Quite worn out and broken up. I was the last man who commanded her. Hardly fit for service then. Reported fit for home service for a year or two, and so I was sent off to the West Indies." The girls looked all amazement. "The Admiralty," he continued, "entertain themselves now and then, with sending a few hundred men to sea, in a ship not fit to be employed. But they have a great many to provide for; and among the thousands that may just as well go to the bottom as not, it is impossible for them to distinguish the very set who may be least missed." "Phoo! phoo!" cried the Admiral, "what stuff these young fellows talk! Never was a better sloop than the Asp in her day. For an old built sloop, you would not see her equal. Lucky fellow to get her! He knows there must have been twenty better men than himself applying for her at the same time. Lucky fellow to get anything so soon, with no more interest than his." "I felt my luck, Admiral, I assure you;" replied Captain Wentworth, seriously. "I was as well satisfied with my appointment as you can desire. It was a great object with me at that time to be at sea; a very great object, I wanted to be doing something." "To be sure you did. What should a young fellow like you do ashore for half a year together? If a man had not a wife, he soon wants to be afloat again." "But, Captain Wentworth," cried Louisa, "how vexed you must have been when you came to the Asp, to see what an old thing they had given you." "I knew pretty well what she was before that day;" said he, smiling. "I had no more discoveries to make than you would have as to the fashion and strength of any old pelisse, which you had seen lent about among half your acquaintance ever since you could remember, and which at last, on some very wet day, is lent to yourself. Ah! she was a dear old Asp to me. She did all that I wanted. I knew she would. I knew that we should either go to the bottom together, or that she would be the making of me; and I never had two days of foul weather all the time I was at sea in her; and after taking privateers enough to be very entertaining, I had the good luck in my passage home the next autumn, to fall in with the very French frigate I wanted. I brought her into Plymouth; and here another instance of luck. We had not been six hours in the Sound, when a gale came on, which lasted four days and nights, and which would have done for poor old Asp in half the time; our touch with the Great Nation not having much improved our condition. Four-and-twenty hours later, and I should only have been a gallant Captain Wentworth, in a small paragraph at one corner of the newspapers; and being lost in only a sloop, nobody would have thought about me." Anne's shudderings were to herself alone; but the Miss Musgroves could be as open as they were sincere, in their exclamations of pity and horror. "And so then, I suppose," said Mrs Musgrove, in a low voice, as if thinking aloud, "so then he went away to the Laconia, and there he met with our poor boy. Charles, my dear," (beckoning him to her), "do ask Captain Wentworth where it was he first met with your poor brother. I always forgot." "It was at Gibraltar, mother, I know. Dick had been left ill at Gibraltar, with a recommendation from his former captain to Captain Wentworth." "Oh! but, Charles, tell Captain Wentworth, he need not be afraid of mentioning poor Dick before me, for it would be rather a pleasure to hear him talked of by such a good friend." Charles, being somewhat more mindful of the probabilities of the case, only nodded in reply, and walked away. The girls were now hunting for the Laconia; and Captain Wentworth could not deny himself the pleasure of taking the precious volume into his own hands to save them the trouble, and once more read aloud the little statement of her name and rate, and present non-commissioned class, observing over it that she too had been one of the best friends man ever had. "Ah! those were pleasant days when I had the Laconia! How fast I made money in her. A friend of mine and I had such a lovely cruise together off the Western Islands. Poor Harville, sister! You know how much he wanted money: worse than myself. He had a wife. Excellent fellow. I shall never forget his happiness. He felt it all, so much for her sake. I wished for him again the next summer, when I had still the same luck in the Mediterranean." "And I am sure, Sir," said Mrs Musgrove, "it was a lucky day for us, when you were put captain into that ship. We shall never forget what you did." Her feelings made her speak low; and Captain Wentworth, hearing only in part, and probably not having Dick Musgrove at all near his thoughts, looked rather in suspense, and as if waiting for more. "My brother," whispered one of the girls; "mamma is thinking of poor Richard." "Poor dear fellow!" continued Mrs Musgrove; "he was grown so steady, and such an excellent correspondent, while he was under your care! Ah! it would have been a happy thing, if he had never left you. I assure you, Captain Wentworth, we are very sorry he ever left you." There was a momentary expression in Captain Wentworth's face at this speech, a certain glance of his bright eye, and curl of his handsome mouth, which convinced Anne, that instead of sharing in Mrs Musgrove's kind wishes, as to her son, he had probably been at some pains to get rid of him; but it was too transient an indulgence of self-amusement to be detected by any who understood him less than herself; in another moment he was perfectly collected and serious, and almost instantly afterwards coming up to the sofa, on which she and Mrs Musgrove were sitting, took a place by the latter, and entered into conversation with her, in a low voice, about her son, doing it with so much sympathy and natural grace, as shewed the kindest consideration for all that was real and unabsurd in the parent's feelings. They were actually on the same sofa, for Mrs Musgrove had most readily made room for him; they were divided only by Mrs Musgrove. It was no insignificant barrier, indeed. Mrs Musgrove was of a comfortable, substantial size, infinitely more fitted by nature to express good cheer and good humour, than tenderness and sentiment; and while the agitations of Anne's slender form, and pensive face, may be considered as very completely screened, Captain Wentworth should be allowed some credit for the self-command with which he attended to her large fat sighings over the destiny of a son, whom alive nobody had cared for. Personal size and mental sorrow have certainly no necessary proportions. A large bulky figure has as good a right to be in deep affliction, as the most graceful set of limbs in the world. But, fair or not fair, there are unbecoming conjunctions, which reason will patronize in vain--which taste cannot tolerate--which ridicule will seize. The Admiral, after taking two or three refreshing turns about the room with his hands behind him, being called to order by his wife, now came up to Captain Wentworth, and without any observation of what he might be interrupting, thinking only of his own thoughts, began with-- "If you had been a week later at Lisbon, last spring, Frederick, you would have been asked to give a passage to Lady Mary Grierson and her daughters." "Should I? I am glad I was not a week later then." The Admiral abused him for his want of gallantry. He defended himself; though professing that he would never willingly admit any ladies on board a ship of his, excepting for a ball, or a visit, which a few hours might comprehend. "But, if I know myself," said he, "this is from no want of gallantry towards them. It is rather from feeling how impossible it is, with all one's efforts, and all one's sacrifices, to make the accommodations on board such as women ought to have. There can be no want of gallantry, Admiral, in rating the claims of women to every personal comfort high, and this is what I do. I hate to hear of women on board, or to see them on board; and no ship under my command shall ever convey a family of ladies anywhere, if I can help it." This brought his sister upon him. "Oh! Frederick! But I cannot believe it of you.--All idle refinement!--Women may be as comfortable on board, as in the best house in England. I believe I have lived as much on board as most women, and I know nothing superior to the accommodations of a man-of-war. I declare I have not a comfort or an indulgence about me, even at Kellynch Hall," (with a kind bow to Anne), "beyond what I always had in most of the ships I have lived in; and they have been five altogether." "Nothing to the purpose," replied her brother. "You were living with your husband, and were the only woman on board." "But you, yourself, brought Mrs Harville, her sister, her cousin, and three children, round from Portsmouth to Plymouth. Where was this superfine, extraordinary sort of gallantry of yours then?" "All merged in my friendship, Sophia. I would assist any brother officer's wife that I could, and I would bring anything of Harville's from the world's end, if he wanted it. But do not imagine that I did not feel it an evil in itself." "Depend upon it, they were all perfectly comfortable." "I might not like them the better for that perhaps. Such a number of women and children have no right to be comfortable on board." "My dear Frederick, you are talking quite idly. Pray, what would become of us poor sailors' wives, who often want to be conveyed to one port or another, after our husbands, if everybody had your feelings?" "My feelings, you see, did not prevent my taking Mrs Harville and all her family to Plymouth." "But I hate to hear you talking so like a fine gentleman, and as if women were all fine ladies, instead of rational creatures. We none of us expect to be in smooth water all our days." "Ah! my dear," said the Admiral, "when he had got a wife, he will sing a different tune. When he is married, if we have the good luck to live to another war, we shall see him do as you and I, and a great many others, have done. We shall have him very thankful to anybody that will bring him his wife." "Ay, that we shall." "Now I have done," cried Captain Wentworth. "When once married people begin to attack me with,--'Oh! you will think very differently, when you are married.' I can only say, 'No, I shall not;' and then they say again, 'Yes, you will,' and there is an end of it." He got up and moved away. "What a great traveller you must have been, ma'am!" said Mrs Musgrove to Mrs Croft. "Pretty well, ma'am in the fifteen years of my marriage; though many women have done more. I have crossed the Atlantic four times, and have been once to the East Indies, and back again, and only once; besides being in different places about home: Cork, and Lisbon, and Gibraltar. But I never went beyond the Streights, and never was in the West Indies. We do not call Bermuda or Bahama, you know, the West Indies." Mrs Musgrove had not a word to say in dissent; she could not accuse herself of having ever called them anything in the whole course of her life. "And I do assure you, ma'am," pursued Mrs Croft, "that nothing can exceed the accommodations of a man-of-war; I speak, you know, of the higher rates. When you come to a frigate, of course, you are more confined; though any reasonable woman may be perfectly happy in one of them; and I can safely say, that the happiest part of my life has been spent on board a ship. While we were together, you know, there was nothing to be feared. Thank God! I have always been blessed with excellent health, and no climate disagrees with me. A little disordered always the first twenty-four hours of going to sea, but never knew what sickness was afterwards. The only time I ever really suffered in body or mind, the only time that I ever fancied myself unwell, or had any ideas of danger, was the winter that I passed by myself at Deal, when the Admiral (Captain Croft then) was in the North Seas. I lived in perpetual fright at that time, and had all manner of imaginary complaints from not knowing what to do with myself, or when I should hear from him next; but as long as we could be together, nothing ever ailed me, and I never met with the smallest inconvenience." "Aye, to be sure. Yes, indeed, oh yes! I am quite of your opinion, Mrs Croft," was Mrs Musgrove's hearty answer. "There is nothing so bad as a separation. I am quite of your opinion. I know what it is, for Mr Musgrove always attends the assizes, and I am so glad when they are over, and he is safe back again." The evening ended with dancing. On its being proposed, Anne offered her services, as usual; and though her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she sat at the instrument, she was extremely glad to be employed, and desired nothing in return but to be unobserved. It was a merry, joyous party, and no one seemed in higher spirits than Captain Wentworth. She felt that he had every thing to elevate him which general attention and deference, and especially the attention of all the young women, could do. The Miss Hayters, the females of the family of cousins already mentioned, were apparently admitted to the honour of being in love with him; and as for Henrietta and Louisa, they both seemed so entirely occupied by him, that nothing but the continued appearance of the most perfect good-will between themselves could have made it credible that they were not decided rivals. If he were a little spoilt by such universal, such eager admiration, who could wonder? These were some of the thoughts which occupied Anne, while her fingers were mechanically at work, proceeding for half an hour together, equally without error, and without consciousness. Once she felt that he was looking at herself, observing her altered features, perhaps, trying to trace in them the ruins of the face which had once charmed him; and once she knew that he must have spoken of her; she was hardly aware of it, till she heard the answer; but then she was sure of his having asked his partner whether Miss Elliot never danced? The answer was, "Oh, no; never; she has quite given up dancing. She had rather play. She is never tired of playing." Once, too, he spoke to her. She had left the instrument on the dancing being over, and he had sat down to try to make out an air which he wished to give the Miss Musgroves an idea of. Unintentionally she returned to that part of the room; he saw her, and, instantly rising, said, with studied politeness-- "I beg your pardon, madam, this is your seat;" and though she immediately drew back with a decided negative, he was not to be induced to sit down again. Anne did not wish for more of such looks and speeches. His cold politeness, his ceremonious grace, were worse than anything. Chapter 9 Captain Wentworth was come to Kellynch as to a home, to stay as long as he liked, being as thoroughly the object of the Admiral's fraternal kindness as of his wife's. He had intended, on first arriving, to proceed very soon into Shropshire, and visit the brother settled in that country, but the attractions of Uppercross induced him to put this off. There was so much of friendliness, and of flattery, and of everything most bewitching in his reception there; the old were so hospitable, the young so agreeable, that he could not but resolve to remain where he was, and take all the charms and perfections of Edward's wife upon credit a little longer. It was soon Uppercross with him almost every day. The Musgroves could hardly be more ready to invite than he to come, particularly in the morning, when he had no companion at home, for the Admiral and Mrs Croft were generally out of doors together, interesting themselves in their new possessions, their grass, and their sheep, and dawdling about in a way not endurable to a third person, or driving out in a gig, lately added to their establishment. Hitherto there had been but one opinion of Captain Wentworth among the Musgroves and their dependencies. It was unvarying, warm admiration everywhere; but this intimate footing was not more than established, when a certain Charles Hayter returned among them, to be a good deal disturbed by it, and to think Captain Wentworth very much in the way. Charles Hayter was the eldest of all the cousins, and a very amiable, pleasing young man, between whom and Henrietta there had been a considerable appearance of attachment previous to Captain Wentworth's introduction. He was in orders; and having a curacy in the neighbourhood, where residence was not required, lived at his father's house, only two miles from Uppercross. A short absence from home had left his fair one unguarded by his attentions at this critical period, and when he came back he had the pain of finding very altered manners, and of seeing Captain Wentworth. Mrs Musgrove and Mrs Hayter were sisters. They had each had money, but their marriages had made a material difference in their degree of consequence. Mr Hayter had some property of his own, but it was insignificant compared with Mr Musgrove's; and while the Musgroves were in the first class of society in the country, the young Hayters would, from their parents' inferior, retired, and unpolished way of living, and their own defective education, have been hardly in any class at all, but for their connexion with Uppercross, this eldest son of course excepted, who had chosen to be a scholar and a gentleman, and who was very superior in cultivation and manners to all the rest. The two families had always been on excellent terms, there being no pride on one side, and no envy on the other, and only such a consciousness of superiority in the Miss Musgroves, as made them pleased to improve their cousins. Charles's attentions to Henrietta had been observed by her father and mother without any disapprobation. "It would not be a great match for her; but if Henrietta liked him,"-- and Henrietta did seem to like him. Henrietta fully thought so herself, before Captain Wentworth came; but from that time Cousin Charles had been very much forgotten. Which of the two sisters was preferred by Captain Wentworth was as yet quite doubtful, as far as Anne's observation reached. Henrietta was perhaps the prettiest, Louisa had the higher spirits; and she knew not now, whether the more gentle or the more lively character were most likely to attract him. Mr and Mrs Musgrove, either from seeing little, or from an entire confidence in the discretion of both their daughters, and of all the young men who came near them, seemed to leave everything to take its chance. There was not the smallest appearance of solicitude or remark about them in the Mansion-house; but it was different at the Cottage: the young couple there were more disposed to speculate and wonder; and Captain Wentworth had not been above four or five times in the Miss Musgroves' company, and Charles Hayter had but just reappeared, when Anne had to listen to the opinions of her brother and sister, as to which was the one liked best. Charles gave it for Louisa, Mary for Henrietta, but quite agreeing that to have him marry either could be extremely delightful. Charles "had never seen a pleasanter man in his life; and from what he had once heard Captain Wentworth himself say, was very sure that he had not made less than twenty thousand pounds by the war. Here was a fortune at once; besides which, there would be the chance of what might be done in any future war; and he was sure Captain Wentworth was as likely a man to distinguish himself as any officer in the navy. Oh! it would be a capital match for either of his sisters." "Upon my word it would," replied Mary. "Dear me! If he should rise to any very great honours! If he should ever be made a baronet! 'Lady Wentworth' sounds very well. That would be a noble thing, indeed, for Henrietta! She would take place of me then, and Henrietta would not dislike that. Sir Frederick and Lady Wentworth! It would be but a new creation, however, and I never think much of your new creations." It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an end to. She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the families renewed--very sad for herself and her children. "You know," said she, "I cannot think him at all a fit match for Henrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made, she has no right to throw herself away. I do not think any young woman has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to those who have not been used to them. And, pray, who is Charles Hayter? Nothing but a country curate. A most improper match for Miss Musgrove of Uppercross." Her husband, however, would not agree with her here; for besides having a regard for his cousin, Charles Hayter was an eldest son, and he saw things as an eldest son himself. "Now you are talking nonsense, Mary," was therefore his answer. "It would not be a great match for Henrietta, but Charles has a very fair chance, through the Spicers, of getting something from the Bishop in the course of a year or two; and you will please to remember, that he is the eldest son; whenever my uncle dies, he steps into very pretty property. The estate at Winthrop is not less than two hundred and fifty acres, besides the farm near Taunton, which is some of the best land in the country. I grant you, that any of them but Charles would be a very shocking match for Henrietta, and indeed it could not be; he is the only one that could be possible; but he is a very good-natured, good sort of a fellow; and whenever Winthrop comes into his hands, he will make a different sort of place of it, and live in a very different sort of way; and with that property, he will never be a contemptible man--good, freehold property. No, no; Henrietta might do worse than marry Charles Hayter; and if she has him, and Louisa can get Captain Wentworth, I shall be very well satisfied." "Charles may say what he pleases," cried Mary to Anne, as soon as he was out of the room, "but it would be shocking to have Henrietta marry Charles Hayter; a very bad thing for her, and still worse for me; and therefore it is very much to be wished that Captain Wentworth may soon put him quite out of her head, and I have very little doubt that he has. She took hardly any notice of Charles Hayter yesterday. I wish you had been there to see her behaviour. And as to Captain Wentworth's liking Louisa as well as Henrietta, it is nonsense to say so; for he certainly does like Henrietta a great deal the best. But Charles is so positive! I wish you had been with us yesterday, for then you might have decided between us; and I am sure you would have thought as I did, unless you had been determined to give it against me." A dinner at Mr Musgrove's had been the occasion when all these things should have been seen by Anne; but she had staid at home, under the mixed plea of a headache of her own, and some return of indisposition in little Charles. She had thought only of avoiding Captain Wentworth; but an escape from being appealed to as umpire was now added to the advantages of a quiet evening. As to Captain Wentworth's views, she deemed it of more consequence that he should know his own mind early enough not to be endangering the happiness of either sister, or impeaching his own honour, than that he should prefer Henrietta to Louisa, or Louisa to Henrietta. Either of them would, in all probability, make him an affectionate, good-humoured wife. With regard to Charles Hayter, she had delicacy which must be pained by any lightness of conduct in a well-meaning young woman, and a heart to sympathize in any of the sufferings it occasioned; but if Henrietta found herself mistaken in the nature of her feelings, the alteration could not be understood too soon. Charles Hayter had met with much to disquiet and mortify him in his cousin's behaviour. She had too old a regard for him to be so wholly estranged as might in two meetings extinguish every past hope, and leave him nothing to do but to keep away from Uppercross: but there was such a change as became very alarming, when such a man as Captain Wentworth was to be regarded as the probable cause. He had been absent only two Sundays, and when they parted, had left her interested, even to the height of his wishes, in his prospect of soon quitting his present curacy, and obtaining that of Uppercross instead. It had then seemed the object nearest her heart, that Dr Shirley, the rector, who for more than forty years had been zealously discharging all the duties of his office, but was now growing too infirm for many of them, should be quite fixed on engaging a curate; should make his curacy quite as good as he could afford, and should give Charles Hayter the promise of it. The advantage of his having to come only to Uppercross, instead of going six miles another way; of his having, in every respect, a better curacy; of his belonging to their dear Dr Shirley, and of dear, good Dr Shirley's being relieved from the duty which he could no longer get through without most injurious fatigue, had been a great deal, even to Louisa, but had been almost everything to Henrietta. When he came back, alas! the zeal of the business was gone by. Louisa could not listen at all to his account of a conversation which he had just held with Dr Shirley: she was at a window, looking out for Captain Wentworth; and even Henrietta had at best only a divided attention to give, and seemed to have forgotten all the former doubt and solicitude of the negotiation. "Well, I am very glad indeed: but I always thought you would have it; I always thought you sure. It did not appear to me that--in short, you know, Dr Shirley must have a curate, and you had secured his promise. Is he coming, Louisa?" One morning, very soon after the dinner at the Musgroves, at which Anne had not been present, Captain Wentworth walked into the drawing-room at the Cottage, where were only herself and the little invalid Charles, who was lying on the sofa. The surprise of finding himself almost alone with Anne Elliot, deprived his manners of their usual composure: he started, and could only say, "I thought the Miss Musgroves had been here: Mrs Musgrove told me I should find them here," before he walked to the window to recollect himself, and feel how he ought to behave. "They are up stairs with my sister: they will be down in a few moments, I dare say," had been Anne's reply, in all the confusion that was natural; and if the child had not called her to come and do something for him, she would have been out of the room the next moment, and released Captain Wentworth as well as herself. He continued at the window; and after calmly and politely saying, "I hope the little boy is better," was silent. She was obliged to kneel down by the sofa, and remain there to satisfy her patient; and thus they continued a few minutes, when, to her very great satisfaction, she heard some other person crossing the little vestibule. She hoped, on turning her head, to see the master of the house; but it proved to be one much less calculated for making matters easy--Charles Hayter, probably not at all better pleased by the sight of Captain Wentworth than Captain Wentworth had been by the sight of Anne. She only attempted to say, "How do you do? Will you not sit down? The others will be here presently." Captain Wentworth, however, came from his window, apparently not ill-disposed for conversation; but Charles Hayter soon put an end to his attempts by seating himself near the table, and taking up the newspaper; and Captain Wentworth returned to his window. Another minute brought another addition. The younger boy, a remarkable stout, forward child, of two years old, having got the door opened for him by some one without, made his determined appearance among them, and went straight to the sofa to see what was going on, and put in his claim to anything good that might be giving away. There being nothing to eat, he could only have some play; and as his aunt would not let him tease his sick brother, he began to fasten himself upon her, as she knelt, in such a way that, busy as she was about Charles, she could not shake him off. She spoke to him, ordered, entreated, and insisted in vain. Once she did contrive to push him away, but the boy had the greater pleasure in getting upon her back again directly. "Walter," said she, "get down this moment. You are extremely troublesome. I am very angry with you." "Walter," cried Charles Hayter, "why do you not do as you are bid? Do not you hear your aunt speak? Come to me, Walter, come to cousin Charles." But not a bit did Walter stir. In another moment, however, she found herself in the state of being released from him; some one was taking him from her, though he had bent down her head so much, that his little sturdy hands were unfastened from around her neck, and he was resolutely borne away, before she knew that Captain Wentworth had done it. Her sensations on the discovery made her perfectly speechless. She could not even thank him. She could only hang over little Charles, with most disordered feelings. His kindness in stepping forward to her relief, the manner, the silence in which it had passed, the little particulars of the circumstance, with the conviction soon forced on her by the noise he was studiously making with the child, that he meant to avoid hearing her thanks, and rather sought to testify that her conversation was the last of his wants, produced such a confusion of varying, but very painful agitation, as she could not recover from, till enabled by the entrance of Mary and the Miss Musgroves to make over her little patient to their cares, and leave the room. She could not stay. It might have been an opportunity of watching the loves and jealousies of the four--they were now altogether; but she could stay for none of it. It was evident that Charles Hayter was not well inclined towards Captain Wentworth. She had a strong impression of his having said, in a vext tone of voice, after Captain Wentworth's interference, "You ought to have minded me, Walter; I told you not to teaze your aunt;" and could comprehend his regretting that Captain Wentworth should do what he ought to have done himself. But neither Charles Hayter's feelings, nor anybody's feelings, could interest her, till she had a little better arranged her own. She was ashamed of herself, quite ashamed of being so nervous, so overcome by such a trifle; but so it was, and it required a long application of solitude and reflection to recover her. Chapter 10 Other opportunities of making her observations could not fail to occur. Anne had soon been in company with all the four together often enough to have an opinion, though too wise to acknowledge as much at home, where she knew it would have satisfied neither husband nor wife; for while she considered Louisa to be rather the favourite, she could not but think, as far as she might dare to judge from memory and experience, that Captain Wentworth was not in love with either. They were more in love with him; yet there it was not love. It was a little fever of admiration; but it might, probably must, end in love with some. Charles Hayter seemed aware of being slighted, and yet Henrietta had sometimes the air of being divided between them. Anne longed for the power of representing to them all what they were about, and of pointing out some of the evils they were exposing themselves to. She did not attribute guile to any. It was the highest satisfaction to her to believe Captain Wentworth not in the least aware of the pain he was occasioning. There was no triumph, no pitiful triumph in his manner. He had, probably, never heard, and never thought of any claims of Charles Hayter. He was only wrong in accepting the attentions (for accepting must be the word) of two young women at once. After a short struggle, however, Charles Hayter seemed to quit the field. Three days had passed without his coming once to Uppercross; a most decided change. He had even refused one regular invitation to dinner; and having been found on the occasion by Mr Musgrove with some large books before him, Mr and Mrs Musgrove were sure all could not be right, and talked, with grave faces, of his studying himself to death. It was Mary's hope and belief that he had received a positive dismissal from Henrietta, and her husband lived under the constant dependence of seeing him to-morrow. Anne could only feel that Charles Hayter was wise. One morning, about this time Charles Musgrove and Captain Wentworth being gone a-shooting together, as the sisters in the Cottage were sitting quietly at work, they were visited at the window by the sisters from the Mansion-house. It was a very fine November day, and the Miss Musgroves came through the little grounds, and stopped for no other purpose than to say, that they were going to take a long walk, and therefore concluded Mary could not like to go with them; and when Mary immediately replied, with some jealousy at not being supposed a good walker, "Oh, yes, I should like to join you very much, I am very fond of a long walk;" Anne felt persuaded, by the looks of the two girls, that it was precisely what they did not wish, and admired again the sort of necessity which the family habits seemed to produce, of everything being to be communicated, and everything being to be done together, however undesired and inconvenient. She tried to dissuade Mary from going, but in vain; and that being the case, thought it best to accept the Miss Musgroves' much more cordial invitation to herself to go likewise, as she might be useful in turning back with her sister, and lessening the interference in any plan of their own. "I cannot imagine why they should suppose I should not like a long walk," said Mary, as she went up stairs. "Everybody is always supposing that I am not a good walker; and yet they would not have been pleased, if we had refused to join them. When people come in this manner on purpose to ask us, how can one say no?" Just as they were setting off, the gentlemen returned. They had taken out a young dog, who had spoilt their sport, and sent them back early. Their time and strength, and spirits, were, therefore, exactly ready for this walk, and they entered into it with pleasure. Could Anne have foreseen such a junction, she would have staid at home; but, from some feelings of interest and curiosity, she fancied now that it was too late to retract, and the whole six set forward together in the direction chosen by the Miss Musgroves, who evidently considered the walk as under their guidance. Anne's object was, not to be in the way of anybody; and where the narrow paths across the fields made many separations necessary, to keep with her brother and sister. Her pleasure in the walk must arise from the exercise and the day, from the view of the last smiles of the year upon the tawny leaves, and withered hedges, and from repeating to herself some few of the thousand poetical descriptions extant of autumn, that season of peculiar and inexhaustible influence on the mind of taste and tenderness, that season which had drawn from every poet, worthy of being read, some attempt at description, or some lines of feeling. She occupied her mind as much as possible in such like musings and quotations; but it was not possible, that when within reach of Captain Wentworth's conversation with either of the Miss Musgroves, she should not try to hear it; yet she caught little very remarkable. It was mere lively chat, such as any young persons, on an intimate footing, might fall into. He was more engaged with Louisa than with Henrietta. Louisa certainly put more forward for his notice than her sister. This distinction appeared to increase, and there was one speech of Louisa's which struck her. After one of the many praises of the day, which were continually bursting forth, Captain Wentworth added:-- "What glorious weather for the Admiral and my sister! They meant to take a long drive this morning; perhaps we may hail them from some of these hills. They talked of coming into this side of the country. I wonder whereabouts they will upset to-day. Oh! it does happen very often, I assure you; but my sister makes nothing of it; she would as lieve be tossed out as not." "Ah! You make the most of it, I know," cried Louisa, "but if it were really so, I should do just the same in her place. If I loved a man, as she loves the Admiral, I would always be with him, nothing should ever separate us, and I would rather be overturned by him, than driven safely by anybody else." It was spoken with enthusiasm. "Had you?" cried he, catching the same tone; "I honour you!" And there was silence between them for a little while. Anne could not immediately fall into a quotation again. The sweet scenes of autumn were for a while put by, unless some tender sonnet, fraught with the apt analogy of the declining year, with declining happiness, and the images of youth and hope, and spring, all gone together, blessed her memory. She roused herself to say, as they struck by order into another path, "Is not this one of the ways to Winthrop?" But nobody heard, or, at least, nobody answered her. Winthrop, however, or its environs--for young men are, sometimes to be met with, strolling about near home--was their destination; and after another half mile of gradual ascent through large enclosures, where the ploughs at work, and the fresh made path spoke the farmer counteracting the sweets of poetical despondence, and meaning to have spring again, they gained the summit of the most considerable hill, which parted Uppercross and Winthrop, and soon commanded a full view of the latter, at the foot of the hill on the other side. Winthrop, without beauty and without dignity, was stretched before them; an indifferent house, standing low, and hemmed in by the barns and buildings of a farm-yard. Mary exclaimed, "Bless me! here is Winthrop. I declare I had no idea! Well now, I think we had better turn back; I am excessively tired." Henrietta, conscious and ashamed, and seeing no cousin Charles walking along any path, or leaning against any gate, was ready to do as Mary wished; but "No!" said Charles Musgrove, and "No, no!" cried Louisa more eagerly, and taking her sister aside, seemed to be arguing the matter warmly. Charles, in the meanwhile, was very decidedly declaring his resolution of calling on his aunt, now that he was so near; and very evidently, though more fearfully, trying to induce his wife to go too. But this was one of the points on which the lady shewed her strength; and when he recommended the advantage of resting herself a quarter of an hour at Winthrop, as she felt so tired, she resolutely answered, "Oh! no, indeed! walking up that hill again would do her more harm than any sitting down could do her good;" and, in short, her look and manner declared, that go she would not. After a little succession of these sort of debates and consultations, it was settled between Charles and his two sisters, that he and Henrietta should just run down for a few minutes, to see their aunt and cousins, while the rest of the party waited for them at the top of the hill. Louisa seemed the principal arranger of the plan; and, as she went a little way with them, down the hill, still talking to Henrietta, Mary took the opportunity of looking scornfully around her, and saying to Captain Wentworth-- "It is very unpleasant, having such connexions! But, I assure you, I have never been in the house above twice in my life." She received no other answer, than an artificial, assenting smile, followed by a contemptuous glance, as he turned away, which Anne perfectly knew the meaning of. The brow of the hill, where they remained, was a cheerful spot: Louisa returned; and Mary, finding a comfortable seat for herself on the step of a stile, was very well satisfied so long as the others all stood about her; but when Louisa drew Captain Wentworth away, to try for a gleaning of nuts in an adjoining hedge-row, and they were gone by degrees quite out of sight and sound, Mary was happy no longer; she quarrelled with her own seat, was sure Louisa had got a much better somewhere, and nothing could prevent her from going to look for a better also. She turned through the same gate, but could not see them. Anne found a nice seat for her, on a dry sunny bank, under the hedge-row, in which she had no doubt of their still being, in some spot or other. Mary sat down for a moment, but it would not do; she was sure Louisa had found a better seat somewhere else, and she would go on till she overtook her. Anne, really tired herself, was glad to sit down; and she very soon heard Captain Wentworth and Louisa in the hedge-row, behind her, as if making their way back along the rough, wild sort of channel, down the centre. They were speaking as they drew near. Louisa's voice was the first distinguished. She seemed to be in the middle of some eager speech. What Anne first heard was-- "And so, I made her go. I could not bear that she should be frightened from the visit by such nonsense. What! would I be turned back from doing a thing that I had determined to do, and that I knew to be right, by the airs and interference of such a person, or of any person I may say? No, I have no idea of being so easily persuaded. When I have made up my mind, I have made it; and Henrietta seemed entirely to have made up hers to call at Winthrop to-day; and yet, she was as near giving it up, out of nonsensical complaisance!" "She would have turned back then, but for you?" "She would indeed. I am almost ashamed to say it." "Happy for her, to have such a mind as yours at hand! After the hints you gave just now, which did but confirm my own observations, the last time I was in company with him, I need not affect to have no comprehension of what is going on. I see that more than a mere dutiful morning visit to your aunt was in question; and woe betide him, and her too, when it comes to things of consequence, when they are placed in circumstances requiring fortitude and strength of mind, if she have not resolution enough to resist idle interference in such a trifle as this. Your sister is an amiable creature; but yours is the character of decision and firmness, I see. If you value her conduct or happiness, infuse as much of your own spirit into her as you can. But this, no doubt, you have been always doing. It is the worst evil of too yielding and indecisive a character, that no influence over it can be depended on. You are never sure of a good impression being durable; everybody may sway it. Let those who would be happy be firm. Here is a nut," said he, catching one down from an upper bough, "to exemplify: a beautiful glossy nut, which, blessed with original strength, has outlived all the storms of autumn. Not a puncture, not a weak spot anywhere. This nut," he continued, with playful solemnity, "while so many of his brethren have fallen and been trodden under foot, is still in possession of all the happiness that a hazel nut can be supposed capable of." Then returning to his former earnest tone--"My first wish for all whom I am interested in, is that they should be firm. If Louisa Musgrove would be beautiful and happy in her November of life, she will cherish all her present powers of mind." He had done, and was unanswered. It would have surprised Anne if Louisa could have readily answered such a speech: words of such interest, spoken with such serious warmth! She could imagine what Louisa was feeling. For herself, she feared to move, lest she should be seen. While she remained, a bush of low rambling holly protected her, and they were moving on. Before they were beyond her hearing, however, Louisa spoke again. "Mary is good-natured enough in many respects," said she; "but she does sometimes provoke me excessively, by her nonsense and pride--the Elliot pride. She has a great deal too much of the Elliot pride. We do so wish that Charles had married Anne instead. I suppose you know he wanted to marry Anne?" After a moment's pause, Captain Wentworth said-- "Do you mean that she refused him?" "Oh! yes; certainly." "When did that happen?" "I do not exactly know, for Henrietta and I were at school at the time; but I believe about a year before he married Mary. I wish she had accepted him. We should all have liked her a great deal better; and papa and mamma always think it was her great friend Lady Russell's doing, that she did not. They think Charles might not be learned and bookish enough to please Lady Russell, and that therefore, she persuaded Anne to refuse him." The sounds were retreating, and Anne distinguished no more. Her own emotions still kept her fixed. She had much to recover from, before she could move. The listener's proverbial fate was not absolutely hers; she had heard no evil of herself, but she had heard a great deal of very painful import. She saw how her own character was considered by Captain Wentworth, and there had been just that degree of feeling and curiosity about her in his manner which must give her extreme agitation. As soon as she could, she went after Mary, and having found, and walked back with her to their former station, by the stile, felt some comfort in their whole party being immediately afterwards collected, and once more in motion together. Her spirits wanted the solitude and silence which only numbers could give. Charles and Henrietta returned, bringing, as may be conjectured, Charles Hayter with them. The minutiae of the business Anne could not attempt to understand; even Captain Wentworth did not seem admitted to perfect confidence here; but that there had been a withdrawing on the gentleman's side, and a relenting on the lady's, and that they were now very glad to be together again, did not admit a doubt. Henrietta looked a little ashamed, but very well pleased;--Charles Hayter exceedingly happy: and they were devoted to each other almost from the first instant of their all setting forward for Uppercross. Everything now marked out Louisa for Captain Wentworth; nothing could be plainer; and where many divisions were necessary, or even where they were not, they walked side by side nearly as much as the other two. In a long strip of meadow land, where there was ample space for all, they were thus divided, forming three distinct parties; and to that party of the three which boasted least animation, and least complaisance, Anne necessarily belonged. She joined Charles and Mary, and was tired enough to be very glad of Charles's other arm; but Charles, though in very good humour with her, was out of temper with his wife. Mary had shewn herself disobliging to him, and was now to reap the consequence, which consequence was his dropping her arm almost every moment to cut off the heads of some nettles in the hedge with his switch; and when Mary began to complain of it, and lament her being ill-used, according to custom, in being on the hedge side, while Anne was never incommoded on the other, he dropped the arms of both to hunt after a weasel which he had a momentary glance of, and they could hardly get him along at all. This long meadow bordered a lane, which their footpath, at the end of it was to cross, and when the party had all reached the gate of exit, the carriage advancing in the same direction, which had been some time heard, was just coming up, and proved to be Admiral Croft's gig. He and his wife had taken their intended drive, and were returning home. Upon hearing how long a walk the young people had engaged in, they kindly offered a seat to any lady who might be particularly tired; it would save her a full mile, and they were going through Uppercross. The invitation was general, and generally declined. The Miss Musgroves were not at all tired, and Mary was either offended, by not being asked before any of the others, or what Louisa called the Elliot pride could not endure to make a third in a one horse chaise. The walking party had crossed the lane, and were surmounting an opposite stile, and the Admiral was putting his horse in motion again, when Captain Wentworth cleared the hedge in a moment to say something to his sister. The something might be guessed by its effects. "Miss Elliot, I am sure you are tired," cried Mrs Croft. "Do let us have the pleasure of taking you home. Here is excellent room for three, I assure you. If we were all like you, I believe we might sit four. You must, indeed, you must." Anne was still in the lane; and though instinctively beginning to decline, she was not allowed to proceed. The Admiral's kind urgency came in support of his wife's; they would not be refused; they compressed themselves into the smallest possible space to leave her a corner, and Captain Wentworth, without saying a word, turned to her, and quietly obliged her to be assisted into the carriage. Yes; he had done it. She was in the carriage, and felt that he had placed her there, that his will and his hands had done it, that she owed it to his perception of her fatigue, and his resolution to give her rest. She was very much affected by the view of his disposition towards her, which all these things made apparent. This little circumstance seemed the completion of all that had gone before. She understood him. He could not forgive her, but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain, that she knew not which prevailed. Her answers to the kindness and the remarks of her companions were at first unconsciously given. They had travelled half their way along the rough lane, before she was quite awake to what they said. She then found them talking of "Frederick." "He certainly means to have one or other of those two girls, Sophy," said the Admiral; "but there is no saying which. He has been running after them, too, long enough, one would think, to make up his mind. Ay, this comes of the peace. If it were war now, he would have settled it long ago. We sailors, Miss Elliot, cannot afford to make long courtships in time of war. How many days was it, my dear, between the first time of my seeing you and our sitting down together in our lodgings at North Yarmouth?" "We had better not talk about it, my dear," replied Mrs Croft, pleasantly; "for if Miss Elliot were to hear how soon we came to an understanding, she would never be persuaded that we could be happy together. I had known you by character, however, long before." "Well, and I had heard of you as a very pretty girl, and what were we to wait for besides? I do not like having such things so long in hand. I wish Frederick would spread a little more canvass, and bring us home one of these young ladies to Kellynch. Then there would always be company for them. And very nice young ladies they both are; I hardly know one from the other." "Very good humoured, unaffected girls, indeed," said Mrs Croft, in a tone of calmer praise, such as made Anne suspect that her keener powers might not consider either of them as quite worthy of her brother; "and a very respectable family. One could not be connected with better people. My dear Admiral, that post! we shall certainly take that post." But by coolly giving the reins a better direction herself they happily passed the danger; and by once afterwards judiciously putting out her hand they neither fell into a rut, nor ran foul of a dung-cart; and Anne, with some amusement at their style of driving, which she imagined no bad representation of the general guidance of their affairs, found herself safely deposited by them at the Cottage. Chapter 11 The time now approached for Lady Russell's return: the day was even fixed; and Anne, being engaged to join her as soon as she was resettled, was looking forward to an early removal to Kellynch, and beginning to think how her own comfort was likely to be affected by it. It would place her in the same village with Captain Wentworth, within half a mile of him; they would have to frequent the same church, and there must be intercourse between the two families. This was against her; but on the other hand, he spent so much of his time at Uppercross, that in removing thence she might be considered rather as leaving him behind, than as going towards him; and, upon the whole, she believed she must, on this interesting question, be the gainer, almost as certainly as in her change of domestic society, in leaving poor Mary for Lady Russell. She wished it might be possible for her to avoid ever seeing Captain Wentworth at the Hall: those rooms had witnessed former meetings which would be brought too painfully before her; but she was yet more anxious for the possibility of Lady Russell and Captain Wentworth never meeting anywhere. They did not like each other, and no renewal of acquaintance now could do any good; and were Lady Russell to see them together, she might think that he had too much self-possession, and she too little. These points formed her chief solicitude in anticipating her removal from Uppercross, where she felt she had been stationed quite long enough. Her usefulness to little Charles would always give some sweetness to the memory of her two months' visit there, but he was gaining strength apace, and she had nothing else to stay for. The conclusion of her visit, however, was diversified in a way which she had not at all imagined. Captain Wentworth, after being unseen and unheard of at Uppercross for two whole days, appeared again among them to justify himself by a relation of what had kept him away. A letter from his friend, Captain Harville, having found him out at last, had brought intelligence of Captain Harville's being settled with his family at Lyme for the winter; of their being therefore, quite unknowingly, within twenty miles of each other. Captain Harville had never been in good health since a severe wound which he received two years before, and Captain Wentworth's anxiety to see him had determined him to go immediately to Lyme. He had been there for four-and-twenty hours. His acquittal was complete, his friendship warmly honoured, a lively interest excited for his friend, and his description of the fine country about Lyme so feelingly attended to by the party, that an earnest desire to see Lyme themselves, and a project for going thither was the consequence. The young people were all wild to see Lyme. Captain Wentworth talked of going there again himself, it was only seventeen miles from Uppercross; though November, the weather was by no means bad; and, in short, Louisa, who was the most eager of the eager, having formed the resolution to go, and besides the pleasure of doing as she liked, being now armed with the idea of merit in maintaining her own way, bore down all the wishes of her father and mother for putting it off till summer; and to Lyme they were to go--Charles, Mary, Anne, Henrietta, Louisa, and Captain Wentworth. The first heedless scheme had been to go in the morning and return at night; but to this Mr Musgrove, for the sake of his horses, would not consent; and when it came to be rationally considered, a day in the middle of November would not leave much time for seeing a new place, after deducting seven hours, as the nature of the country required, for going and returning. They were, consequently, to stay the night there, and not to be expected back till the next day's dinner. This was felt to be a considerable amendment; and though they all met at the Great House at rather an early breakfast hour, and set off very punctually, it was so much past noon before the two carriages, Mr Musgrove's coach containing the four ladies, and Charles's curricle, in which he drove Captain Wentworth, were descending the long hill into Lyme, and entering upon the still steeper street of the town itself, that it was very evident they would not have more than time for looking about them, before the light and warmth of the day were gone. After securing accommodations, and ordering a dinner at one of the inns, the next thing to be done was unquestionably to walk directly down to the sea. They were come too late in the year for any amusement or variety which Lyme, as a public place, might offer. The rooms were shut up, the lodgers almost all gone, scarcely any family but of the residents left; and, as there is nothing to admire in the buildings themselves, the remarkable situation of the town, the principal street almost hurrying into the water, the walk to the Cobb, skirting round the pleasant little bay, which, in the season, is animated with bathing machines and company; the Cobb itself, its old wonders and new improvements, with the very beautiful line of cliffs stretching out to the east of the town, are what the stranger's eye will seek; and a very strange stranger it must be, who does not see charms in the immediate environs of Lyme, to make him wish to know it better. The scenes in its neighbourhood, Charmouth, with its high grounds and extensive sweeps of country, and still more, its sweet, retired bay, backed by dark cliffs, where fragments of low rock among the sands, make it the happiest spot for watching the flow of the tide, for sitting in unwearied contemplation; the woody varieties of the cheerful village of Up Lyme; and, above all, Pinny, with its green chasms between romantic rocks, where the scattered forest trees and orchards of luxuriant growth, declare that many a generation must have passed away since the first partial falling of the cliff prepared the ground for such a state, where a scene so wonderful and so lovely is exhibited, as may more than equal any of the resembling scenes of the far-famed Isle of Wight: these places must be visited, and visited again, to make the worth of Lyme understood. The party from Uppercross passing down by the now deserted and melancholy looking rooms, and still descending, soon found themselves on the sea-shore; and lingering only, as all must linger and gaze on a first return to the sea, who ever deserved to look on it at all, proceeded towards the Cobb, equally their object in itself and on Captain Wentworth's account: for in a small house, near the foot of an old pier of unknown date, were the Harvilles settled. Captain Wentworth turned in to call on his friend; the others walked on, and he was to join them on the Cobb. They were by no means tired of wondering and admiring; and not even Louisa seemed to feel that they had parted with Captain Wentworth long, when they saw him coming after them, with three companions, all well known already, by description, to be Captain and Mrs Harville, and a Captain Benwick, who was staying with them. Captain Benwick had some time ago been first lieutenant of the Laconia; and the account which Captain Wentworth had given of him, on his return from Lyme before, his warm praise of him as an excellent young man and an officer, whom he had always valued highly, which must have stamped him well in the esteem of every listener, had been followed by a little history of his private life, which rendered him perfectly interesting in the eyes of all the ladies. He had been engaged to Captain Harville's sister, and was now mourning her loss. They had been a year or two waiting for fortune and promotion. Fortune came, his prize-money as lieutenant being great; promotion, too, came at last; but Fanny Harville did not live to know it. She had died the preceding summer while he was at sea. Captain Wentworth believed it impossible for man to be more attached to woman than poor Benwick had been to Fanny Harville, or to be more deeply afflicted under the dreadful change. He considered his disposition as of the sort which must suffer heavily, uniting very strong feelings with quiet, serious, and retiring manners, and a decided taste for reading, and sedentary pursuits. To finish the interest of the story, the friendship between him and the Harvilles seemed, if possible, augmented by the event which closed all their views of alliance, and Captain Benwick was now living with them entirely. Captain Harville had taken his present house for half a year; his taste, and his health, and his fortune, all directing him to a residence inexpensive, and by the sea; and the grandeur of the country, and the retirement of Lyme in the winter, appeared exactly adapted to Captain Benwick's state of mind. The sympathy and good-will excited towards Captain Benwick was very great. "And yet," said Anne to herself, as they now moved forward to meet the party, "he has not, perhaps, a more sorrowing heart than I have. I cannot believe his prospects so blighted for ever. He is younger than I am; younger in feeling, if not in fact; younger as a man. He will rally again, and be happy with another." They all met, and were introduced. Captain Harville was a tall, dark man, with a sensible, benevolent countenance; a little lame; and from strong features and want of health, looking much older than Captain Wentworth. Captain Benwick looked, and was, the youngest of the three, and, compared with either of them, a little man. He had a pleasing face and a melancholy air, just as he ought to have, and drew back from conversation. Captain Harville, though not equalling Captain Wentworth in manners, was a perfect gentleman, unaffected, warm, and obliging. Mrs Harville, a degree less polished than her husband, seemed, however, to have the same good feelings; and nothing could be more pleasant than their desire of considering the whole party as friends of their own, because the friends of Captain Wentworth, or more kindly hospitable than their entreaties for their all promising to dine with them. The dinner, already ordered at the inn, was at last, though unwillingly, accepted as a excuse; but they seemed almost hurt that Captain Wentworth should have brought any such party to Lyme, without considering it as a thing of course that they should dine with them. There was so much attachment to Captain Wentworth in all this, and such a bewitching charm in a degree of hospitality so uncommon, so unlike the usual style of give-and-take invitations, and dinners of formality and display, that Anne felt her spirits not likely to be benefited by an increasing acquaintance among his brother-officers. "These would have been all my friends," was her thought; and she had to struggle against a great tendency to lowness. On quitting the Cobb, they all went in-doors with their new friends, and found rooms so small as none but those who invite from the heart could think capable of accommodating so many. Anne had a moment's astonishment on the subject herself; but it was soon lost in the pleasanter feelings which sprang from the sight of all the ingenious contrivances and nice arrangements of Captain Harville, to turn the actual space to the best account, to supply the deficiencies of lodging-house furniture, and defend the windows and doors against the winter storms to be expected. The varieties in the fitting-up of the rooms, where the common necessaries provided by the owner, in the common indifferent plight, were contrasted with some few articles of a rare species of wood, excellently worked up, and with something curious and valuable from all the distant countries Captain Harville had visited, were more than amusing to Anne; connected as it all was with his profession, the fruit of its labours, the effect of its influence on his habits, the picture of repose and domestic happiness it presented, made it to her a something more, or less, than gratification. Captain Harville was no reader; but he had contrived excellent accommodations, and fashioned very pretty shelves, for a tolerable collection of well-bound volumes, the property of Captain Benwick. His lameness prevented him from taking much exercise; but a mind of usefulness and ingenuity seemed to furnish him with constant employment within. He drew, he varnished, he carpentered, he glued; he made toys for the children; he fashioned new netting-needles and pins with improvements; and if everything else was done, sat down to his large fishing-net at one corner of the room. Anne thought she left great happiness behind her when they quitted the house; and Louisa, by whom she found herself walking, burst forth into raptures of admiration and delight on the character of the navy; their friendliness, their brotherliness, their openness, their uprightness; protesting that she was convinced of sailors having more worth and warmth than any other set of men in England; that they only knew how to live, and they only deserved to be respected and loved. They went back to dress and dine; and so well had the scheme answered already, that nothing was found amiss; though its being "so entirely out of season," and the "no thoroughfare of Lyme," and the "no expectation of company," had brought many apologies from the heads of the inn. Anne found herself by this time growing so much more hardened to being in Captain Wentworth's company than she had at first imagined could ever be, that the sitting down to the same table with him now, and the interchange of the common civilities attending on it (they never got beyond), was become a mere nothing. The nights were too dark for the ladies to meet again till the morrow, but Captain Harville had promised them a visit in the evening; and he came, bringing his friend also, which was more than had been expected, it having been agreed that Captain Benwick had all the appearance of being oppressed by the presence of so many strangers. He ventured among them again, however, though his spirits certainly did not seem fit for the mirth of the party in general. While Captains Wentworth and Harville led the talk on one side of the room, and by recurring to former days, supplied anecdotes in abundance to occupy and entertain the others, it fell to Anne's lot to be placed rather apart with Captain Benwick; and a very good impulse of her nature obliged her to begin an acquaintance with him. He was shy, and disposed to abstraction; but the engaging mildness of her countenance, and gentleness of her manners, soon had their effect; and Anne was well repaid the first trouble of exertion. He was evidently a young man of considerable taste in reading, though principally in poetry; and besides the persuasion of having given him at least an evening's indulgence in the discussion of subjects, which his usual companions had probably no concern in, she had the hope of being of real use to him in some suggestions as to the duty and benefit of struggling against affliction, which had naturally grown out of their conversation. For, though shy, he did not seem reserved; it had rather the appearance of feelings glad to burst their usual restraints; and having talked of poetry, the richness of the present age, and gone through a brief comparison of opinion as to the first-rate poets, trying to ascertain whether Marmion or The Lady of the Lake were to be preferred, and how ranked the Giaour and The Bride of Abydos; and moreover, how the Giaour was to be pronounced, he showed himself so intimately acquainted with all the tenderest songs of the one poet, and all the impassioned descriptions of hopeless agony of the other; he repeated, with such tremulous feeling, the various lines which imaged a broken heart, or a mind destroyed by wretchedness, and looked so entirely as if he meant to be understood, that she ventured to hope he did not always read only poetry, and to say, that she thought it was the misfortune of poetry to be seldom safely enjoyed by those who enjoyed it completely; and that the strong feelings which alone could estimate it truly were the very feelings which ought to taste it but sparingly. His looks shewing him not pained, but pleased with this allusion to his situation, she was emboldened to go on; and feeling in herself the right of seniority of mind, she ventured to recommend a larger allowance of prose in his daily study; and on being requested to particularize, mentioned such works of our best moralists, such collections of the finest letters, such memoirs of characters of worth and suffering, as occurred to her at the moment as calculated to rouse and fortify the mind by the highest precepts, and the strongest examples of moral and religious endurances. Captain Benwick listened attentively, and seemed grateful for the interest implied; and though with a shake of the head, and sighs which declared his little faith in the efficacy of any books on grief like his, noted down the names of those she recommended, and promised to procure and read them. When the evening was over, Anne could not but be amused at the idea of her coming to Lyme to preach patience and resignation to a young man whom she had never seen before; nor could she help fearing, on more serious reflection, that, like many other great moralists and preachers, she had been eloquent on a point in which her own conduct would ill bear examination. Chapter 12 Anne and Henrietta, finding themselves the earliest of the party the next morning, agreed to stroll down to the sea before breakfast. They went to the sands, to watch the flowing of the tide, which a fine south-easterly breeze was bringing in with all the grandeur which so flat a shore admitted. They praised the morning; gloried in the sea; sympathized in the delight of the fresh-feeling breeze--and were silent; till Henrietta suddenly began again with-- "Oh! yes,--I am quite convinced that, with very few exceptions, the sea-air always does good. There can be no doubt of its having been of the greatest service to Dr Shirley, after his illness, last spring twelve-month. He declares himself, that coming to Lyme for a month, did him more good than all the medicine he took; and, that being by the sea, always makes him feel young again. Now, I cannot help thinking it a pity that he does not live entirely by the sea. I do think he had better leave Uppercross entirely, and fix at Lyme. Do not you, Anne? Do not you agree with me, that it is the best thing he could do, both for himself and Mrs Shirley? She has cousins here, you know, and many acquaintance, which would make it cheerful for her, and I am sure she would be glad to get to a place where she could have medical attendance at hand, in case of his having another seizure. Indeed I think it quite melancholy to have such excellent people as Dr and Mrs Shirley, who have been doing good all their lives, wearing out their last days in a place like Uppercross, where, excepting our family, they seem shut out from all the world. I wish his friends would propose it to him. I really think they ought. And, as to procuring a dispensation, there could be no difficulty at his time of life, and with his character. My only doubt is, whether anything could persuade him to leave his parish. He is so very strict and scrupulous in his notions; over-scrupulous I must say. Do not you think, Anne, it is being over-scrupulous? Do not you think it is quite a mistaken point of conscience, when a clergyman sacrifices his health for the sake of duties, which may be just as well performed by another person? And at Lyme too, only seventeen miles off, he would be near enough to hear, if people thought there was anything to complain of." Anne smiled more than once to herself during this speech, and entered into the subject, as ready to do good by entering into the feelings of a young lady as of a young man, though here it was good of a lower standard, for what could be offered but general acquiescence? She said all that was reasonable and proper on the business; felt the claims of Dr Shirley to repose as she ought; saw how very desirable it was that he should have some active, respectable young man, as a resident curate, and was even courteous enough to hint at the advantage of such resident curate's being married. "I wish," said Henrietta, very well pleased with her companion, "I wish Lady Russell lived at Uppercross, and were intimate with Dr Shirley. I have always heard of Lady Russell as a woman of the greatest influence with everybody! I always look upon her as able to persuade a person to anything! I am afraid of her, as I have told you before, quite afraid of her, because she is so very clever; but I respect her amazingly, and wish we had such a neighbour at Uppercross." Anne was amused by Henrietta's manner of being grateful, and amused also that the course of events and the new interests of Henrietta's views should have placed her friend at all in favour with any of the Musgrove family; she had only time, however, for a general answer, and a wish that such another woman were at Uppercross, before all subjects suddenly ceased, on seeing Louisa and Captain Wentworth coming towards them. They came also for a stroll till breakfast was likely to be ready; but Louisa recollecting, immediately afterwards that she had something to procure at a shop, invited them all to go back with her into the town. They were all at her disposal. When they came to the steps, leading upwards from the beach, a gentleman, at the same moment preparing to come down, politely drew back, and stopped to give them way. They ascended and passed him; and as they passed, Anne's face caught his eye, and he looked at her with a degree of earnest admiration, which she could not be insensible of. She was looking remarkably well; her very regular, very pretty features, having the bloom and freshness of youth restored by the fine wind which had been blowing on her complexion, and by the animation of eye which it had also produced. It was evident that the gentleman, (completely a gentleman in manner) admired her exceedingly. Captain Wentworth looked round at her instantly in a way which shewed his noticing of it. He gave her a momentary glance, a glance of brightness, which seemed to say, "That man is struck with you, and even I, at this moment, see something like Anne Elliot again." After attending Louisa through her business, and loitering about a little longer, they returned to the inn; and Anne, in passing afterwards quickly from her own chamber to their dining-room, had nearly run against the very same gentleman, as he came out of an adjoining apartment. She had before conjectured him to be a stranger like themselves, and determined that a well-looking groom, who was strolling about near the two inns as they came back, should be his servant. Both master and man being in mourning assisted the idea. It was now proved that he belonged to the same inn as themselves; and this second meeting, short as it was, also proved again by the gentleman's looks, that he thought hers very lovely, and by the readiness and propriety of his apologies, that he was a man of exceedingly good manners. He seemed about thirty, and though not handsome, had an agreeable person. Anne felt that she should like to know who he was. They had nearly done breakfast, when the sound of a carriage, (almost the first they had heard since entering Lyme) drew half the party to the window. It was a gentleman's carriage, a curricle, but only coming round from the stable-yard to the front door; somebody must be going away. It was driven by a servant in mourning. The word curricle made Charles Musgrove jump up that he might compare it with his own; the servant in mourning roused Anne's curiosity, and the whole six were collected to look, by the time the owner of the curricle was to be seen issuing from the door amidst the bows and civilities of the household, and taking his seat, to drive off. "Ah!" cried Captain Wentworth, instantly, and with half a glance at Anne, "it is the very man we passed." The Miss Musgroves agreed to it; and having all kindly watched him as far up the hill as they could, they returned to the breakfast table. The waiter came into the room soon afterwards. "Pray," said Captain Wentworth, immediately, "can you tell us the name of the gentleman who is just gone away?" "Yes, Sir, a Mr Elliot, a gentleman of large fortune, came in last night from Sidmouth. Dare say you heard the carriage, sir, while you were at dinner; and going on now for Crewkherne, in his way to Bath and London." "Elliot!" Many had looked on each other, and many had repeated the name, before all this had been got through, even by the smart rapidity of a waiter. "Bless me!" cried Mary; "it must be our cousin; it must be our Mr Elliot, it must, indeed! Charles, Anne, must not it? In mourning, you see, just as our Mr Elliot must be. How very extraordinary! In the very same inn with us! Anne, must not it be our Mr Elliot? my father's next heir? Pray sir," turning to the waiter, "did not you hear, did not his servant say whether he belonged to the Kellynch family?" "No, ma'am, he did not mention no particular family; but he said his master was a very rich gentleman, and would be a baronight some day." "There! you see!" cried Mary in an ecstasy, "just as I said! Heir to Sir Walter Elliot! I was sure that would come out, if it was so. Depend upon it, that is a circumstance which his servants take care to publish, wherever he goes. But, Anne, only conceive how extraordinary! I wish I had looked at him more. I wish we had been aware in time, who it was, that he might have been introduced to us. What a pity that we should not have been introduced to each other! Do you think he had the Elliot countenance? I hardly looked at him, I was looking at the horses; but I think he had something of the Elliot countenance, I wonder the arms did not strike me! Oh! the great-coat was hanging over the panel, and hid the arms, so it did; otherwise, I am sure, I should have observed them, and the livery too; if the servant had not been in mourning, one should have known him by the livery." "Putting all these very extraordinary circumstances together," said Captain Wentworth, "we must consider it to be the arrangement of Providence, that you should not be introduced to your cousin." When she could command Mary's attention, Anne quietly tried to convince her that their father and Mr Elliot had not, for many years, been on such terms as to make the power of attempting an introduction at all desirable. At the same time, however, it was a secret gratification to herself to have seen her cousin, and to know that the future owner of Kellynch was undoubtedly a gentleman, and had an air of good sense. She would not, upon any account, mention her having met with him the second time; luckily Mary did not much attend to their having passed close by him in their earlier walk, but she would have felt quite ill-used by Anne's having actually run against him in the passage, and received his very polite excuses, while she had never been near him at all; no, that cousinly little interview must remain a perfect secret. "Of course," said Mary, "you will mention our seeing Mr Elliot, the next time you write to Bath. I think my father certainly ought to hear of it; do mention all about him." Anne avoided a direct reply, but it was just the circumstance which she considered as not merely unnecessary to be communicated, but as what ought to be suppressed. The offence which had been given her father, many years back, she knew; Elizabeth's particular share in it she suspected; and that Mr Elliot's idea always produced irritation in both was beyond a doubt. Mary never wrote to Bath herself; all the toil of keeping up a slow and unsatisfactory correspondence with Elizabeth fell on Anne. Breakfast had not been long over, when they were joined by Captain and Mrs Harville and Captain Benwick; with whom they had appointed to take their last walk about Lyme. They ought to be setting off for Uppercross by one, and in the meanwhile were to be all together, and out of doors as long as they could. Anne found Captain Benwick getting near her, as soon as they were all fairly in the street. Their conversation the preceding evening did not disincline him to seek her again; and they walked together some time, talking as before of Mr Scott and Lord Byron, and still as unable as before, and as unable as any other two readers, to think exactly alike of the merits of either, till something occasioned an almost general change amongst their party, and instead of Captain Benwick, she had Captain Harville by her side. "Miss Elliot," said he, speaking rather low, "you have done a good deed in making that poor fellow talk so much. I wish he could have such company oftener. It is bad for him, I know, to be shut up as he is; but what can we do? We cannot part." "No," said Anne, "that I can easily believe to be impossible; but in time, perhaps--we know what time does in every case of affliction, and you must remember, Captain Harville, that your friend may yet be called a young mourner--only last summer, I understand." "Ay, true enough," (with a deep sigh) "only June." "And not known to him, perhaps, so soon." "Not till the first week of August, when he came home from the Cape, just made into the Grappler. I was at Plymouth dreading to hear of him; he sent in letters, but the Grappler was under orders for Portsmouth. There the news must follow him, but who was to tell it? not I. I would as soon have been run up to the yard-arm. Nobody could do it, but that good fellow" (pointing to Captain Wentworth.) "The Laconia had come into Plymouth the week before; no danger of her being sent to sea again. He stood his chance for the rest; wrote up for leave of absence, but without waiting the return, travelled night and day till he got to Portsmouth, rowed off to the Grappler that instant, and never left the poor fellow for a week. That's what he did, and nobody else could have saved poor James. You may think, Miss Elliot, whether he is dear to us!" Anne did think on the question with perfect decision, and said as much in reply as her own feeling could accomplish, or as his seemed able to bear, for he was too much affected to renew the subject, and when he spoke again, it was of something totally different. Mrs Harville's giving it as her opinion that her husband would have quite walking enough by the time he reached home, determined the direction of all the party in what was to be their last walk; they would accompany them to their door, and then return and set off themselves. By all their calculations there was just time for this; but as they drew near the Cobb, there was such a general wish to walk along it once more, all were so inclined, and Louisa soon grew so determined, that the difference of a quarter of an hour, it was found, would be no difference at all; so with all the kind leave-taking, and all the kind interchange of invitations and promises which may be imagined, they parted from Captain and Mrs Harville at their own door, and still accompanied by Captain Benwick, who seemed to cling to them to the last, proceeded to make the proper adieus to the Cobb. Anne found Captain Benwick again drawing near her. Lord Byron's "dark blue seas" could not fail of being brought forward by their present view, and she gladly gave him all her attention as long as attention was possible. It was soon drawn, perforce another way. There was too much wind to make the high part of the new Cobb pleasant for the ladies, and they agreed to get down the steps to the lower, and all were contented to pass quietly and carefully down the steep flight, excepting Louisa; she must be jumped down them by Captain Wentworth. In all their walks, he had had to jump her from the stiles; the sensation was delightful to her. The hardness of the pavement for her feet, made him less willing upon the present occasion; he did it, however. She was safely down, and instantly, to show her enjoyment, ran up the steps to be jumped down again. He advised her against it, thought the jar too great; but no, he reasoned and talked in vain, she smiled and said, "I am determined I will:" he put out his hands; she was too precipitate by half a second, she fell on the pavement on the Lower Cobb, and was taken up lifeless! There was no wound, no blood, no visible bruise; but her eyes were closed, she breathed not, her face was like death. The horror of the moment to all who stood around! Captain Wentworth, who had caught her up, knelt with her in his arms, looking on her with a face as pallid as her own, in an agony of silence. "She is dead! she is dead!" screamed Mary, catching hold of her husband, and contributing with his own horror to make him immoveable; and in another moment, Henrietta, sinking under the conviction, lost her senses too, and would have fallen on the steps, but for Captain Benwick and Anne, who caught and supported her between them. "Is there no one to help me?" were the first words which burst from Captain Wentworth, in a tone of despair, and as if all his own strength were gone. "Go to him, go to him," cried Anne, "for heaven's sake go to him. I can support her myself. Leave me, and go to him. Rub her hands, rub her temples; here are salts; take them, take them." Captain Benwick obeyed, and Charles at the same moment, disengaging himself from his wife, they were both with him; and Louisa was raised up and supported more firmly between them, and everything was done that Anne had prompted, but in vain; while Captain Wentworth, staggering against the wall for his support, exclaimed in the bitterest agony-- "Oh God! her father and mother!" "A surgeon!" said Anne. He caught the word; it seemed to rouse him at once, and saying only-- "True, true, a surgeon this instant," was darting away, when Anne eagerly suggested-- "Captain Benwick, would not it be better for Captain Benwick? He knows where a surgeon is to be found." Every one capable of thinking felt the advantage of the idea, and in a moment (it was all done in rapid moments) Captain Benwick had resigned the poor corpse-like figure entirely to the brother's care, and was off for the town with the utmost rapidity. As to the wretched party left behind, it could scarcely be said which of the three, who were completely rational, was suffering most: Captain Wentworth, Anne, or Charles, who, really a very affectionate brother, hung over Louisa with sobs of grief, and could only turn his eyes from one sister, to see the other in a state as insensible, or to witness the hysterical agitations of his wife, calling on him for help which he could not give. Anne, attending with all the strength and zeal, and thought, which instinct supplied, to Henrietta, still tried, at intervals, to suggest comfort to the others, tried to quiet Mary, to animate Charles, to assuage the feelings of Captain Wentworth. Both seemed to look to her for directions. "Anne, Anne," cried Charles, "What is to be done next? What, in heaven's name, is to be done next?" Captain Wentworth's eyes were also turned towards her. "Had not she better be carried to the inn? Yes, I am sure: carry her gently to the inn." "Yes, yes, to the inn," repeated Captain Wentworth, comparatively collected, and eager to be doing something. "I will carry her myself. Musgrove, take care of the others." By this time the report of the accident had spread among the workmen and boatmen about the Cobb, and many were collected near them, to be useful if wanted, at any rate, to enjoy the sight of a dead young lady, nay, two dead young ladies, for it proved twice as fine as the first report. To some of the best-looking of these good people Henrietta was consigned, for, though partially revived, she was quite helpless; and in this manner, Anne walking by her side, and Charles attending to his wife, they set forward, treading back with feelings unutterable, the ground, which so lately, so very lately, and so light of heart, they had passed along. They were not off the Cobb, before the Harvilles met them. Captain Benwick had been seen flying by their house, with a countenance which showed something to be wrong; and they had set off immediately, informed and directed as they passed, towards the spot. Shocked as Captain Harville was, he brought senses and nerves that could be instantly useful; and a look between him and his wife decided what was to be done. She must be taken to their house; all must go to their house; and await the surgeon's arrival there. They would not listen to scruples: he was obeyed; they were all beneath his roof; and while Louisa, under Mrs Harville's direction, was conveyed up stairs, and given possession of her own bed, assistance, cordials, restoratives were supplied by her husband to all who needed them. Louisa had once opened her eyes, but soon closed them again, without apparent consciousness. This had been a proof of life, however, of service to her sister; and Henrietta, though perfectly incapable of being in the same room with Louisa, was kept, by the agitation of hope and fear, from a return of her own insensibility. Mary, too, was growing calmer. The surgeon was with them almost before it had seemed possible. They were sick with horror, while he examined; but he was not hopeless. The head had received a severe contusion, but he had seen greater injuries recovered from: he was by no means hopeless; he spoke cheerfully. That he did not regard it as a desperate case, that he did not say a few hours must end it, was at first felt, beyond the hope of most; and the ecstasy of such a reprieve, the rejoicing, deep and silent, after a few fervent ejaculations of gratitude to Heaven had been offered, may be conceived. The tone, the look, with which "Thank God!" was uttered by Captain Wentworth, Anne was sure could never be forgotten by her; nor the sight of him afterwards, as he sat near a table, leaning over it with folded arms and face concealed, as if overpowered by the various feelings of his soul, and trying by prayer and reflection to calm them. Louisa's limbs had escaped. There was no injury but to the head. It now became necessary for the party to consider what was best to be done, as to their general situation. They were now able to speak to each other and consult. That Louisa must remain where she was, however distressing to her friends to be involving the Harvilles in such trouble, did not admit a doubt. Her removal was impossible. The Harvilles silenced all scruples; and, as much as they could, all gratitude. They had looked forward and arranged everything before the others began to reflect. Captain Benwick must give up his room to them, and get another bed elsewhere; and the whole was settled. They were only concerned that the house could accommodate no more; and yet perhaps, by "putting the children away in the maid's room, or swinging a cot somewhere," they could hardly bear to think of not finding room for two or three besides, supposing they might wish to stay; though, with regard to any attendance on Miss Musgrove, there need not be the least uneasiness in leaving her to Mrs Harville's care entirely. Mrs Harville was a very experienced nurse, and her nursery-maid, who had lived with her long, and gone about with her everywhere, was just such another. Between these two, she could want no possible attendance by day or night. And all this was said with a truth and sincerity of feeling irresistible. Charles, Henrietta, and Captain Wentworth were the three in consultation, and for a little while it was only an interchange of perplexity and terror. "Uppercross, the necessity of some one's going to Uppercross; the news to be conveyed; how it could be broken to Mr and Mrs Musgrove; the lateness of the morning; an hour already gone since they ought to have been off; the impossibility of being in tolerable time." At first, they were capable of nothing more to the purpose than such exclamations; but, after a while, Captain Wentworth, exerting himself, said-- "We must be decided, and without the loss of another minute. Every minute is valuable. Some one must resolve on being off for Uppercross instantly. Musgrove, either you or I must go." Charles agreed, but declared his resolution of not going away. He would be as little incumbrance as possible to Captain and Mrs Harville; but as to leaving his sister in such a state, he neither ought, nor would. So far it was decided; and Henrietta at first declared the same. She, however, was soon persuaded to think differently. The usefulness of her staying! She who had not been able to remain in Louisa's room, or to look at her, without sufferings which made her worse than helpless! She was forced to acknowledge that she could do no good, yet was still unwilling to be away, till, touched by the thought of her father and mother, she gave it up; she consented, she was anxious to be at home. The plan had reached this point, when Anne, coming quietly down from Louisa's room, could not but hear what followed, for the parlour door was open. "Then it is settled, Musgrove," cried Captain Wentworth, "that you stay, and that I take care of your sister home. But as to the rest, as to the others, if one stays to assist Mrs Harville, I think it need be only one. Mrs Charles Musgrove will, of course, wish to get back to her children; but if Anne will stay, no one so proper, so capable as Anne." She paused a moment to recover from the emotion of hearing herself so spoken of. The other two warmly agreed with what he said, and she then appeared. "You will stay, I am sure; you will stay and nurse her;" cried he, turning to her and speaking with a glow, and yet a gentleness, which seemed almost restoring the past. She coloured deeply, and he recollected himself and moved away. She expressed herself most willing, ready, happy to remain. "It was what she had been thinking of, and wishing to be allowed to do. A bed on the floor in Louisa's room would be sufficient for her, if Mrs Harville would but think so." One thing more, and all seemed arranged. Though it was rather desirable that Mr and Mrs Musgrove should be previously alarmed by some share of delay; yet the time required by the Uppercross horses to take them back, would be a dreadful extension of suspense; and Captain Wentworth proposed, and Charles Musgrove agreed, that it would be much better for him to take a chaise from the inn, and leave Mr Musgrove's carriage and horses to be sent home the next morning early, when there would be the farther advantage of sending an account of Louisa's night. Captain Wentworth now hurried off to get everything ready on his part, and to be soon followed by the two ladies. When the plan was made known to Mary, however, there was an end of all peace in it. She was so wretched and so vehement, complained so much of injustice in being expected to go away instead of Anne; Anne, who was nothing to Louisa, while she was her sister, and had the best right to stay in Henrietta's stead! Why was not she to be as useful as Anne? And to go home without Charles, too, without her husband! No, it was too unkind. And in short, she said more than her husband could long withstand, and as none of the others could oppose when he gave way, there was no help for it; the change of Mary for Anne was inevitable. Anne had never submitted more reluctantly to the jealous and ill-judging claims of Mary; but so it must be, and they set off for the town, Charles taking care of his sister, and Captain Benwick attending to her. She gave a moment's recollection, as they hurried along, to the little circumstances which the same spots had witnessed earlier in the morning. There she had listened to Henrietta's schemes for Dr Shirley's leaving Uppercross; farther on, she had first seen Mr Elliot; a moment seemed all that could now be given to any one but Louisa, or those who were wrapt up in her welfare. Captain Benwick was most considerately attentive to her; and, united as they all seemed by the distress of the day, she felt an increasing degree of good-will towards him, and a pleasure even in thinking that it might, perhaps, be the occasion of continuing their acquaintance. Captain Wentworth was on the watch for them, and a chaise and four in waiting, stationed for their convenience in the lowest part of the street; but his evident surprise and vexation at the substitution of one sister for the other, the change in his countenance, the astonishment, the expressions begun and suppressed, with which Charles was listened to, made but a mortifying reception of Anne; or must at least convince her that she was valued only as she could be useful to Louisa. She endeavoured to be composed, and to be just. Without emulating the feelings of an Emma towards her Henry, she would have attended on Louisa with a zeal above the common claims of regard, for his sake; and she hoped he would not long be so unjust as to suppose she would shrink unnecessarily from the office of a friend. In the meanwhile she was in the carriage. He had handed them both in, and placed himself between them; and in this manner, under these circumstances, full of astonishment and emotion to Anne, she quitted Lyme. How the long stage would pass; how it was to affect their manners; what was to be their sort of intercourse, she could not foresee. It was all quite natural, however. He was devoted to Henrietta; always turning towards her; and when he spoke at all, always with the view of supporting her hopes and raising her spirits. In general, his voice and manner were studiously calm. To spare Henrietta from agitation seemed the governing principle. Once only, when she had been grieving over the last ill-judged, ill-fated walk to the Cobb, bitterly lamenting that it ever had been thought of, he burst forth, as if wholly overcome-- "Don't talk of it, don't talk of it," he cried. "Oh God! that I had not given way to her at the fatal moment! Had I done as I ought! But so eager and so resolute! Dear, sweet Louisa!" Anne wondered whether it ever occurred to him now, to question the justness of his own previous opinion as to the universal felicity and advantage of firmness of character; and whether it might not strike him that, like all other qualities of the mind, it should have its proportions and limits. She thought it could scarcely escape him to feel that a persuadable temper might sometimes be as much in favour of happiness as a very resolute character. They got on fast. Anne was astonished to recognise the same hills and the same objects so soon. Their actual speed, heightened by some dread of the conclusion, made the road appear but half as long as on the day before. It was growing quite dusk, however, before they were in the neighbourhood of Uppercross, and there had been total silence among them for some time, Henrietta leaning back in the corner, with a shawl over her face, giving the hope of her having cried herself to sleep; when, as they were going up their last hill, Anne found herself all at once addressed by Captain Wentworth. In a low, cautious voice, he said:-- "I have been considering what we had best do. She must not appear at first. She could not stand it. I have been thinking whether you had not better remain in the carriage with her, while I go in and break it to Mr and Mrs Musgrove. Do you think this is a good plan?" She did: he was satisfied, and said no more. But the remembrance of the appeal remained a pleasure to her, as a proof of friendship, and of deference for her judgement, a great pleasure; and when it became a sort of parting proof, its value did not lessen. When the distressing communication at Uppercross was over, and he had seen the father and mother quite as composed as could be hoped, and the daughter all the better for being with them, he announced his intention of returning in the same carriage to Lyme; and when the horses were baited, he was off. (End of volume one.) Chapter 13 The remainder of Anne's time at Uppercross, comprehending only two days, was spent entirely at the Mansion House; and she had the satisfaction of knowing herself extremely useful there, both as an immediate companion, and as assisting in all those arrangements for the future, which, in Mr and Mrs Musgrove's distressed state of spirits, would have been difficulties. They had an early account from Lyme the next morning. Louisa was much the same. No symptoms worse than before had appeared. Charles came a few hours afterwards, to bring a later and more particular account. He was tolerably cheerful. A speedy cure must not be hoped, but everything was going on as well as the nature of the case admitted. In speaking of the Harvilles, he seemed unable to satisfy his own sense of their kindness, especially of Mrs Harville's exertions as a nurse. "She really left nothing for Mary to do. He and Mary had been persuaded to go early to their inn last night. Mary had been hysterical again this morning. When he came away, she was going to walk out with Captain Benwick, which, he hoped, would do her good. He almost wished she had been prevailed on to come home the day before; but the truth was, that Mrs Harville left nothing for anybody to do." Charles was to return to Lyme the same afternoon, and his father had at first half a mind to go with him, but the ladies could not consent. It would be going only to multiply trouble to the others, and increase his own distress; and a much better scheme followed and was acted upon. A chaise was sent for from Crewkherne, and Charles conveyed back a far more useful person in the old nursery-maid of the family, one who having brought up all the children, and seen the very last, the lingering and long-petted Master Harry, sent to school after his brothers, was now living in her deserted nursery to mend stockings and dress all the blains and bruises she could get near her, and who, consequently, was only too happy in being allowed to go and help nurse dear Miss Louisa. Vague wishes of getting Sarah thither, had occurred before to Mrs Musgrove and Henrietta; but without Anne, it would hardly have been resolved on, and found practicable so soon. They were indebted, the next day, to Charles Hayter, for all the minute knowledge of Louisa, which it was so essential to obtain every twenty-four hours. He made it his business to go to Lyme, and his account was still encouraging. The intervals of sense and consciousness were believed to be stronger. Every report agreed in Captain Wentworth's appearing fixed in Lyme. Anne was to leave them on the morrow, an event which they all dreaded. "What should they do without her? They were wretched comforters for one another." And so much was said in this way, that Anne thought she could not do better than impart among them the general inclination to which she was privy, and persuaded them all to go to Lyme at once. She had little difficulty; it was soon determined that they would go; go to-morrow, fix themselves at the inn, or get into lodgings, as it suited, and there remain till dear Louisa could be moved. They must be taking off some trouble from the good people she was with; they might at least relieve Mrs Harville from the care of her own children; and in short, they were so happy in the decision, that Anne was delighted with what she had done, and felt that she could not spend her last morning at Uppercross better than in assisting their preparations, and sending them off at an early hour, though her being left to the solitary range of the house was the consequence. She was the last, excepting the little boys at the cottage, she was the very last, the only remaining one of all that had filled and animated both houses, of all that had given Uppercross its cheerful character. A few days had made a change indeed! If Louisa recovered, it would all be well again. More than former happiness would be restored. There could not be a doubt, to her mind there was none, of what would follow her recovery. A few months hence, and the room now so deserted, occupied but by her silent, pensive self, might be filled again with all that was happy and gay, all that was glowing and bright in prosperous love, all that was most unlike Anne Elliot! An hour's complete leisure for such reflections as these, on a dark November day, a small thick rain almost blotting out the very few objects ever to be discerned from the windows, was enough to make the sound of Lady Russell's carriage exceedingly welcome; and yet, though desirous to be gone, she could not quit the Mansion House, or look an adieu to the Cottage, with its black, dripping and comfortless veranda, or even notice through the misty glasses the last humble tenements of the village, without a saddened heart. Scenes had passed in Uppercross which made it precious. It stood the record of many sensations of pain, once severe, but now softened; and of some instances of relenting feeling, some breathings of friendship and reconciliation, which could never be looked for again, and which could never cease to be dear. She left it all behind her, all but the recollection that such things had been. Anne had never entered Kellynch since her quitting Lady Russell's house in September. It had not been necessary, and the few occasions of its being possible for her to go to the Hall she had contrived to evade and escape from. Her first return was to resume her place in the modern and elegant apartments of the Lodge, and to gladden the eyes of its mistress. There was some anxiety mixed with Lady Russell's joy in meeting her. She knew who had been frequenting Uppercross. But happily, either Anne was improved in plumpness and looks, or Lady Russell fancied her so; and Anne, in receiving her compliments on the occasion, had the amusement of connecting them with the silent admiration of her cousin, and of hoping that she was to be blessed with a second spring of youth and beauty. When they came to converse, she was soon sensible of some mental change. The subjects of which her heart had been full on leaving Kellynch, and which she had felt slighted, and been compelled to smother among the Musgroves, were now become but of secondary interest. She had lately lost sight even of her father and sister and Bath. Their concerns had been sunk under those of Uppercross; and when Lady Russell reverted to their former hopes and fears, and spoke her satisfaction in the house in Camden Place, which had been taken, and her regret that Mrs Clay should still be with them, Anne would have been ashamed to have it known how much more she was thinking of Lyme and Louisa Musgrove, and all her acquaintance there; how much more interesting to her was the home and the friendship of the Harvilles and Captain Benwick, than her own father's house in Camden Place, or her own sister's intimacy with Mrs Clay. She was actually forced to exert herself to meet Lady Russell with anything like the appearance of equal solicitude, on topics which had by nature the first claim on her. There was a little awkwardness at first in their discourse on another subject. They must speak of the accident at Lyme. Lady Russell had not been arrived five minutes the day before, when a full account of the whole had burst on her; but still it must be talked of, she must make enquiries, she must regret the imprudence, lament the result, and Captain Wentworth's name must be mentioned by both. Anne was conscious of not doing it so well as Lady Russell. She could not speak the name, and look straight forward to Lady Russell's eye, till she had adopted the expedient of telling her briefly what she thought of the attachment between him and Louisa. When this was told, his name distressed her no longer. Lady Russell had only to listen composedly, and wish them happy, but internally her heart revelled in angry pleasure, in pleased contempt, that the man who at twenty-three had seemed to understand somewhat of the value of an Anne Elliot, should, eight years afterwards, be charmed by a Louisa Musgrove. The first three or four days passed most quietly, with no circumstance to mark them excepting the receipt of a note or two from Lyme, which found their way to Anne, she could not tell how, and brought a rather improving account of Louisa. At the end of that period, Lady Russell's politeness could repose no longer, and the fainter self-threatenings of the past became in a decided tone, "I must call on Mrs Croft; I really must call upon her soon. Anne, have you courage to go with me, and pay a visit in that house? It will be some trial to us both." Anne did not shrink from it; on the contrary, she truly felt as she said, in observing-- "I think you are very likely to suffer the most of the two; your feelings are less reconciled to the change than mine. By remaining in the neighbourhood, I am become inured to it." She could have said more on the subject; for she had in fact so high an opinion of the Crofts, and considered her father so very fortunate in his tenants, felt the parish to be so sure of a good example, and the poor of the best attention and relief, that however sorry and ashamed for the necessity of the removal, she could not but in conscience feel that they were gone who deserved not to stay, and that Kellynch Hall had passed into better hands than its owners'. These convictions must unquestionably have their own pain, and severe was its kind; but they precluded that pain which Lady Russell would suffer in entering the house again, and returning through the well-known apartments. In such moments Anne had no power of saying to herself, "These rooms ought to belong only to us. Oh, how fallen in their destination! How unworthily occupied! An ancient family to be so driven away! Strangers filling their place!" No, except when she thought of her mother, and remembered where she had been used to sit and preside, she had no sigh of that description to heave. Mrs Croft always met her with a kindness which gave her the pleasure of fancying herself a favourite, and on the present occasion, receiving her in that house, there was particular attention. The sad accident at Lyme was soon the prevailing topic, and on comparing their latest accounts of the invalid, it appeared that each lady dated her intelligence from the same hour of yestermorn; that Captain Wentworth had been in Kellynch yesterday (the first time since the accident), had brought Anne the last note, which she had not been able to trace the exact steps of; had staid a few hours and then returned again to Lyme, and without any present intention of quitting it any more. He had enquired after her, she found, particularly; had expressed his hope of Miss Elliot's not being the worse for her exertions, and had spoken of those exertions as great. This was handsome, and gave her more pleasure than almost anything else could have done. As to the sad catastrophe itself, it could be canvassed only in one style by a couple of steady, sensible women, whose judgements had to work on ascertained events; and it was perfectly decided that it had been the consequence of much thoughtlessness and much imprudence; that its effects were most alarming, and that it was frightful to think, how long Miss Musgrove's recovery might yet be doubtful, and how liable she would still remain to suffer from the concussion hereafter! The Admiral wound it up summarily by exclaiming-- "Ay, a very bad business indeed. A new sort of way this, for a young fellow to be making love, by breaking his mistress's head, is not it, Miss Elliot? This is breaking a head and giving a plaster, truly!" Admiral Croft's manners were not quite of the tone to suit Lady Russell, but they delighted Anne. His goodness of heart and simplicity of character were irresistible. "Now, this must be very bad for you," said he, suddenly rousing from a little reverie, "to be coming and finding us here. I had not recollected it before, I declare, but it must be very bad. But now, do not stand upon ceremony. Get up and go over all the rooms in the house if you like it." "Another time, Sir, I thank you, not now." "Well, whenever it suits you. You can slip in from the shrubbery at any time; and there you will find we keep our umbrellas hanging up by that door. A good place is not it? But," (checking himself), "you will not think it a good place, for yours were always kept in the butler's room. Ay, so it always is, I believe. One man's ways may be as good as another's, but we all like our own best. And so you must judge for yourself, whether it would be better for you to go about the house or not." Anne, finding she might decline it, did so, very gratefully. "We have made very few changes either," continued the Admiral, after thinking a moment. "Very few. We told you about the laundry-door, at Uppercross. That has been a very great improvement. The wonder was, how any family upon earth could bear with the inconvenience of its opening as it did, so long! You will tell Sir Walter what we have done, and that Mr Shepherd thinks it the greatest improvement the house ever had. Indeed, I must do ourselves the justice to say, that the few alterations we have made have been all very much for the better. My wife should have the credit of them, however. I have done very little besides sending away some of the large looking-glasses from my dressing-room, which was your father's. A very good man, and very much the gentleman I am sure: but I should think, Miss Elliot," (looking with serious reflection), "I should think he must be rather a dressy man for his time of life. Such a number of looking-glasses! oh Lord! there was no getting away from one's self. So I got Sophy to lend me a hand, and we soon shifted their quarters; and now I am quite snug, with my little shaving glass in one corner, and another great thing that I never go near." Anne, amused in spite of herself, was rather distressed for an answer, and the Admiral, fearing he might not have been civil enough, took up the subject again, to say-- "The next time you write to your good father, Miss Elliot, pray give him my compliments and Mrs Croft's, and say that we are settled here quite to our liking, and have no fault at all to find with the place. The breakfast-room chimney smokes a little, I grant you, but it is only when the wind is due north and blows hard, which may not happen three times a winter. And take it altogether, now that we have been into most of the houses hereabouts and can judge, there is not one that we like better than this. Pray say so, with my compliments. He will be glad to hear it." Lady Russell and Mrs Croft were very well pleased with each other: but the acquaintance which this visit began was fated not to proceed far at present; for when it was returned, the Crofts announced themselves to be going away for a few weeks, to visit their connexions in the north of the county, and probably might not be at home again before Lady Russell would be removing to Bath. So ended all danger to Anne of meeting Captain Wentworth at Kellynch Hall, or of seeing him in company with her friend. Everything was safe enough, and she smiled over the many anxious feelings she had wasted on the subject. Chapter 14 Though Charles and Mary had remained at Lyme much longer after Mr and Mrs Musgrove's going than Anne conceived they could have been at all wanted, they were yet the first of the family to be at home again; and as soon as possible after their return to Uppercross they drove over to the Lodge. They had left Louisa beginning to sit up; but her head, though clear, was exceedingly weak, and her nerves susceptible to the highest extreme of tenderness; and though she might be pronounced to be altogether doing very well, it was still impossible to say when she might be able to bear the removal home; and her father and mother, who must return in time to receive their younger children for the Christmas holidays, had hardly a hope of being allowed to bring her with them. They had been all in lodgings together. Mrs Musgrove had got Mrs Harville's children away as much as she could, every possible supply from Uppercross had been furnished, to lighten the inconvenience to the Harvilles, while the Harvilles had been wanting them to come to dinner every day; and in short, it seemed to have been only a struggle on each side as to which should be most disinterested and hospitable. Mary had had her evils; but upon the whole, as was evident by her staying so long, she had found more to enjoy than to suffer. Charles Hayter had been at Lyme oftener than suited her; and when they dined with the Harvilles there had been only a maid-servant to wait, and at first Mrs Harville had always given Mrs Musgrove precedence; but then, she had received so very handsome an apology from her on finding out whose daughter she was, and there had been so much going on every day, there had been so many walks between their lodgings and the Harvilles, and she had got books from the library, and changed them so often, that the balance had certainly been much in favour of Lyme. She had been taken to Charmouth too, and she had bathed, and she had gone to church, and there were a great many more people to look at in the church at Lyme than at Uppercross; and all this, joined to the sense of being so very useful, had made really an agreeable fortnight. Anne enquired after Captain Benwick. Mary's face was clouded directly. Charles laughed. "Oh! Captain Benwick is very well, I believe, but he is a very odd young man. I do not know what he would be at. We asked him to come home with us for a day or two: Charles undertook to give him some shooting, and he seemed quite delighted, and, for my part, I thought it was all settled; when behold! on Tuesday night, he made a very awkward sort of excuse; 'he never shot' and he had 'been quite misunderstood,' and he had promised this and he had promised that, and the end of it was, I found, that he did not mean to come. I suppose he was afraid of finding it dull; but upon my word I should have thought we were lively enough at the Cottage for such a heart-broken man as Captain Benwick." Charles laughed again and said, "Now Mary, you know very well how it really was. It was all your doing," (turning to Anne.) "He fancied that if he went with us, he should find you close by: he fancied everybody to be living in Uppercross; and when he discovered that Lady Russell lived three miles off, his heart failed him, and he had not courage to come. That is the fact, upon my honour. Mary knows it is." But Mary did not give into it very graciously, whether from not considering Captain Benwick entitled by birth and situation to be in love with an Elliot, or from not wanting to believe Anne a greater attraction to Uppercross than herself, must be left to be guessed. Anne's good-will, however, was not to be lessened by what she heard. She boldly acknowledged herself flattered, and continued her enquiries. "Oh! he talks of you," cried Charles, "in such terms--" Mary interrupted him. "I declare, Charles, I never heard him mention Anne twice all the time I was there. I declare, Anne, he never talks of you at all." "No," admitted Charles, "I do not know that he ever does, in a general way; but however, it is a very clear thing that he admires you exceedingly. His head is full of some books that he is reading upon your recommendation, and he wants to talk to you about them; he has found out something or other in one of them which he thinks--oh! I cannot pretend to remember it, but it was something very fine--I overheard him telling Henrietta all about it; and then 'Miss Elliot' was spoken of in the highest terms! Now Mary, I declare it was so, I heard it myself, and you were in the other room. 'Elegance, sweetness, beauty.' Oh! there was no end of Miss Elliot's charms." "And I am sure," cried Mary, warmly, "it was a very little to his credit, if he did. Miss Harville only died last June. Such a heart is very little worth having; is it, Lady Russell? I am sure you will agree with me." "I must see Captain Benwick before I decide," said Lady Russell, smiling. "And that you are very likely to do very soon, I can tell you, ma'am," said Charles. "Though he had not nerves for coming away with us, and setting off again afterwards to pay a formal visit here, he will make his way over to Kellynch one day by himself, you may depend on it. I told him the distance and the road, and I told him of the church's being so very well worth seeing; for as he has a taste for those sort of things, I thought that would be a good excuse, and he listened with all his understanding and soul; and I am sure from his manner that you will have him calling here soon. So, I give you notice, Lady Russell." "Any acquaintance of Anne's will always be welcome to me," was Lady Russell's kind answer. "Oh! as to being Anne's acquaintance," said Mary, "I think he is rather my acquaintance, for I have been seeing him every day this last fortnight." "Well, as your joint acquaintance, then, I shall be very happy to see Captain Benwick." "You will not find anything very agreeable in him, I assure you, ma'am. He is one of the dullest young men that ever lived. He has walked with me, sometimes, from one end of the sands to the other, without saying a word. He is not at all a well-bred young man. I am sure you will not like him." "There we differ, Mary," said Anne. "I think Lady Russell would like him. I think she would be so much pleased with his mind, that she would very soon see no deficiency in his manner." "So do I, Anne," said Charles. "I am sure Lady Russell would like him. He is just Lady Russell's sort. Give him a book, and he will read all day long." "Yes, that he will!" exclaimed Mary, tauntingly. "He will sit poring over his book, and not know when a person speaks to him, or when one drops one's scissors, or anything that happens. Do you think Lady Russell would like that?" Lady Russell could not help laughing. "Upon my word," said she, "I should not have supposed that my opinion of any one could have admitted of such difference of conjecture, steady and matter of fact as I may call myself. I have really a curiosity to see the person who can give occasion to such directly opposite notions. I wish he may be induced to call here. And when he does, Mary, you may depend upon hearing my opinion; but I am determined not to judge him beforehand." "You will not like him, I will answer for it." Lady Russell began talking of something else. Mary spoke with animation of their meeting with, or rather missing, Mr Elliot so extraordinarily. "He is a man," said Lady Russell, "whom I have no wish to see. His declining to be on cordial terms with the head of his family, has left a very strong impression in his disfavour with me." This decision checked Mary's eagerness, and stopped her short in the midst of the Elliot countenance. With regard to Captain Wentworth, though Anne hazarded no enquiries, there was voluntary communication sufficient. His spirits had been greatly recovering lately as might be expected. As Louisa improved, he had improved, and he was now quite a different creature from what he had been the first week. He had not seen Louisa; and was so extremely fearful of any ill consequence to her from an interview, that he did not press for it at all; and, on the contrary, seemed to have a plan of going away for a week or ten days, till her head was stronger. He had talked of going down to Plymouth for a week, and wanted to persuade Captain Benwick to go with him; but, as Charles maintained to the last, Captain Benwick seemed much more disposed to ride over to Kellynch. There can be no doubt that Lady Russell and Anne were both occasionally thinking of Captain Benwick, from this time. Lady Russell could not hear the door-bell without feeling that it might be his herald; nor could Anne return from any stroll of solitary indulgence in her father's grounds, or any visit of charity in the village, without wondering whether she might see him or hear of him. Captain Benwick came not, however. He was either less disposed for it than Charles had imagined, or he was too shy; and after giving him a week's indulgence, Lady Russell determined him to be unworthy of the interest which he had been beginning to excite. The Musgroves came back to receive their happy boys and girls from school, bringing with them Mrs Harville's little children, to improve the noise of Uppercross, and lessen that of Lyme. Henrietta remained with Louisa; but all the rest of the family were again in their usual quarters. Lady Russell and Anne paid their compliments to them once, when Anne could not but feel that Uppercross was already quite alive again. Though neither Henrietta, nor Louisa, nor Charles Hayter, nor Captain Wentworth were there, the room presented as strong a contrast as could be wished to the last state she had seen it in. Immediately surrounding Mrs Musgrove were the little Harvilles, whom she was sedulously guarding from the tyranny of the two children from the Cottage, expressly arrived to amuse them. On one side was a table occupied by some chattering girls, cutting up silk and gold paper; and on the other were tressels and trays, bending under the weight of brawn and cold pies, where riotous boys were holding high revel; the whole completed by a roaring Christmas fire, which seemed determined to be heard, in spite of all the noise of the others. Charles and Mary also came in, of course, during their visit, and Mr Musgrove made a point of paying his respects to Lady Russell, and sat down close to her for ten minutes, talking with a very raised voice, but from the clamour of the children on his knees, generally in vain. It was a fine family-piece. Anne, judging from her own temperament, would have deemed such a domestic hurricane a bad restorative of the nerves, which Louisa's illness must have so greatly shaken. But Mrs Musgrove, who got Anne near her on purpose to thank her most cordially, again and again, for all her attentions to them, concluded a short recapitulation of what she had suffered herself by observing, with a happy glance round the room, that after all she had gone through, nothing was so likely to do her good as a little quiet cheerfulness at home. Louisa was now recovering apace. Her mother could even think of her being able to join their party at home, before her brothers and sisters went to school again. The Harvilles had promised to come with her and stay at Uppercross, whenever she returned. Captain Wentworth was gone, for the present, to see his brother in Shropshire. "I hope I shall remember, in future," said Lady Russell, as soon as they were reseated in the carriage, "not to call at Uppercross in the Christmas holidays." Everybody has their taste in noises as well as in other matters; and sounds are quite innoxious, or most distressing, by their sort rather than their quantity. When Lady Russell not long afterwards, was entering Bath on a wet afternoon, and driving through the long course of streets from the Old Bridge to Camden Place, amidst the dash of other carriages, the heavy rumble of carts and drays, the bawling of newspapermen, muffin-men and milkmen, and the ceaseless clink of pattens, she made no complaint. No, these were noises which belonged to the winter pleasures; her spirits rose under their influence; and like Mrs Musgrove, she was feeling, though not saying, that after being long in the country, nothing could be so good for her as a little quiet cheerfulness. Anne did not share these feelings. She persisted in a very determined, though very silent disinclination for Bath; caught the first dim view of the extensive buildings, smoking in rain, without any wish of seeing them better; felt their progress through the streets to be, however disagreeable, yet too rapid; for who would be glad to see her when she arrived? And looked back, with fond regret, to the bustles of Uppercross and the seclusion of Kellynch. Elizabeth's last letter had communicated a piece of news of some interest. Mr Elliot was in Bath. He had called in Camden Place; had called a second time, a third; had been pointedly attentive. If Elizabeth and her father did not deceive themselves, had been taking much pains to seek the acquaintance, and proclaim the value of the connection, as he had formerly taken pains to shew neglect. This was very wonderful if it were true; and Lady Russell was in a state of very agreeable curiosity and perplexity about Mr Elliot, already recanting the sentiment she had so lately expressed to Mary, of his being "a man whom she had no wish to see." She had a great wish to see him. If he really sought to reconcile himself like a dutiful branch, he must be forgiven for having dismembered himself from the paternal tree. Anne was not animated to an equal pitch by the circumstance, but she felt that she would rather see Mr Elliot again than not, which was more than she could say for many other persons in Bath. She was put down in Camden Place; and Lady Russell then drove to her own lodgings, in Rivers Street. Chapter 15 Sir Walter had taken a very good house in Camden Place, a lofty dignified situation, such as becomes a man of consequence; and both he and Elizabeth were settled there, much to their satisfaction. Anne entered it with a sinking heart, anticipating an imprisonment of many months, and anxiously saying to herself, "Oh! when shall I leave you again?" A degree of unexpected cordiality, however, in the welcome she received, did her good. Her father and sister were glad to see her, for the sake of shewing her the house and furniture, and met her with kindness. Her making a fourth, when they sat down to dinner, was noticed as an advantage. Mrs Clay was very pleasant, and very smiling, but her courtesies and smiles were more a matter of course. Anne had always felt that she would pretend what was proper on her arrival, but the complaisance of the others was unlooked for. They were evidently in excellent spirits, and she was soon to listen to the causes. They had no inclination to listen to her. After laying out for some compliments of being deeply regretted in their old neighbourhood, which Anne could not pay, they had only a few faint enquiries to make, before the talk must be all their own. Uppercross excited no interest, Kellynch very little: it was all Bath. They had the pleasure of assuring her that Bath more than answered their expectations in every respect. Their house was undoubtedly the best in Camden Place; their drawing-rooms had many decided advantages over all the others which they had either seen or heard of, and the superiority was not less in the style of the fitting-up, or the taste of the furniture. Their acquaintance was exceedingly sought after. Everybody was wanting to visit them. They had drawn back from many introductions, and still were perpetually having cards left by people of whom they knew nothing. Here were funds of enjoyment. Could Anne wonder that her father and sister were happy? She might not wonder, but she must sigh that her father should feel no degradation in his change, should see nothing to regret in the duties and dignity of the resident landholder, should find so much to be vain of in the littlenesses of a town; and she must sigh, and smile, and wonder too, as Elizabeth threw open the folding-doors and walked with exultation from one drawing-room to the other, boasting of their space; at the possibility of that woman, who had been mistress of Kellynch Hall, finding extent to be proud of between two walls, perhaps thirty feet asunder. But this was not all which they had to make them happy. They had Mr Elliot too. Anne had a great deal to hear of Mr Elliot. He was not only pardoned, they were delighted with him. He had been in Bath about a fortnight; (he had passed through Bath in November, in his way to London, when the intelligence of Sir Walter's being settled there had of course reached him, though only twenty-four hours in the place, but he had not been able to avail himself of it;) but he had now been a fortnight in Bath, and his first object on arriving, had been to leave his card in Camden Place, following it up by such assiduous endeavours to meet, and when they did meet, by such great openness of conduct, such readiness to apologize for the past, such solicitude to be received as a relation again, that their former good understanding was completely re-established. They had not a fault to find in him. He had explained away all the appearance of neglect on his own side. It had originated in misapprehension entirely. He had never had an idea of throwing himself off; he had feared that he was thrown off, but knew not why, and delicacy had kept him silent. Upon the hint of having spoken disrespectfully or carelessly of the family and the family honours, he was quite indignant. He, who had ever boasted of being an Elliot, and whose feelings, as to connection, were only too strict to suit the unfeudal tone of the present day. He was astonished, indeed, but his character and general conduct must refute it. He could refer Sir Walter to all who knew him; and certainly, the pains he had been taking on this, the first opportunity of reconciliation, to be restored to the footing of a relation and heir-presumptive, was a strong proof of his opinions on the subject. The circumstances of his marriage, too, were found to admit of much extenuation. This was an article not to be entered on by himself; but a very intimate friend of his, a Colonel Wallis, a highly respectable man, perfectly the gentleman, (and not an ill-looking man, Sir Walter added), who was living in very good style in Marlborough Buildings, and had, at his own particular request, been admitted to their acquaintance through Mr Elliot, had mentioned one or two things relative to the marriage, which made a material difference in the discredit of it. Colonel Wallis had known Mr Elliot long, had been well acquainted also with his wife, had perfectly understood the whole story. She was certainly not a woman of family, but well educated, accomplished, rich, and excessively in love with his friend. There had been the charm. She had sought him. Without that attraction, not all her money would have tempted Elliot, and Sir Walter was, moreover, assured of her having been a very fine woman. Here was a great deal to soften the business. A very fine woman with a large fortune, in love with him! Sir Walter seemed to admit it as complete apology; and though Elizabeth could not see the circumstance in quite so favourable a light, she allowed it be a great extenuation. Mr Elliot had called repeatedly, had dined with them once, evidently delighted by the distinction of being asked, for they gave no dinners in general; delighted, in short, by every proof of cousinly notice, and placing his whole happiness in being on intimate terms in Camden Place. Anne listened, but without quite understanding it. Allowances, large allowances, she knew, must be made for the ideas of those who spoke. She heard it all under embellishment. All that sounded extravagant or irrational in the progress of the reconciliation might have no origin but in the language of the relators. Still, however, she had the sensation of there being something more than immediately appeared, in Mr Elliot's wishing, after an interval of so many years, to be well received by them. In a worldly view, he had nothing to gain by being on terms with Sir Walter; nothing to risk by a state of variance. In all probability he was already the richer of the two, and the Kellynch estate would as surely be his hereafter as the title. A sensible man, and he had looked like a very sensible man, why should it be an object to him? She could only offer one solution; it was, perhaps, for Elizabeth's sake. There might really have been a liking formerly, though convenience and accident had drawn him a different way; and now that he could afford to please himself, he might mean to pay his addresses to her. Elizabeth was certainly very handsome, with well-bred, elegant manners, and her character might never have been penetrated by Mr Elliot, knowing her but in public, and when very young himself. How her temper and understanding might bear the investigation of his present keener time of life was another concern and rather a fearful one. Most earnestly did she wish that he might not be too nice, or too observant if Elizabeth were his object; and that Elizabeth was disposed to believe herself so, and that her friend Mrs Clay was encouraging the idea, seemed apparent by a glance or two between them, while Mr Elliot's frequent visits were talked of. Anne mentioned the glimpses she had had of him at Lyme, but without being much attended to. "Oh! yes, perhaps, it had been Mr Elliot. They did not know. It might be him, perhaps." They could not listen to her description of him. They were describing him themselves; Sir Walter especially. He did justice to his very gentlemanlike appearance, his air of elegance and fashion, his good shaped face, his sensible eye; but, at the same time, "must lament his being very much under-hung, a defect which time seemed to have increased; nor could he pretend to say that ten years had not altered almost every feature for the worse. Mr Elliot appeared to think that he (Sir Walter) was looking exactly as he had done when they last parted;" but Sir Walter had "not been able to return the compliment entirely, which had embarrassed him. He did not mean to complain, however. Mr Elliot was better to look at than most men, and he had no objection to being seen with him anywhere." Mr Elliot, and his friends in Marlborough Buildings, were talked of the whole evening. "Colonel Wallis had been so impatient to be introduced to them! and Mr Elliot so anxious that he should!" and there was a Mrs Wallis, at present known only to them by description, as she was in daily expectation of her confinement; but Mr Elliot spoke of her as "a most charming woman, quite worthy of being known in Camden Place," and as soon as she recovered they were to be acquainted. Sir Walter thought much of Mrs Wallis; she was said to be an excessively pretty woman, beautiful. "He longed to see her. He hoped she might make some amends for the many very plain faces he was continually passing in the streets. The worst of Bath was the number of its plain women. He did not mean to say that there were no pretty women, but the number of the plain was out of all proportion. He had frequently observed, as he walked, that one handsome face would be followed by thirty, or five-and-thirty frights; and once, as he had stood in a shop on Bond Street, he had counted eighty-seven women go by, one after another, without there being a tolerable face among them. It had been a frosty morning, to be sure, a sharp frost, which hardly one woman in a thousand could stand the test of. But still, there certainly were a dreadful multitude of ugly women in Bath; and as for the men! they were infinitely worse. Such scarecrows as the streets were full of! It was evident how little the women were used to the sight of anything tolerable, by the effect which a man of decent appearance produced. He had never walked anywhere arm-in-arm with Colonel Wallis (who was a fine military figure, though sandy-haired) without observing that every woman's eye was upon him; every woman's eye was sure to be upon Colonel Wallis." Modest Sir Walter! He was not allowed to escape, however. His daughter and Mrs Clay united in hinting that Colonel Wallis's companion might have as good a figure as Colonel Wallis, and certainly was not sandy-haired. "How is Mary looking?" said Sir Walter, in the height of his good humour. "The last time I saw her she had a red nose, but I hope that may not happen every day." "Oh! no, that must have been quite accidental. In general she has been in very good health and very good looks since Michaelmas." "If I thought it would not tempt her to go out in sharp winds, and grow coarse, I would send her a new hat and pelisse." Anne was considering whether she should venture to suggest that a gown, or a cap, would not be liable to any such misuse, when a knock at the door suspended everything. "A knock at the door! and so late! It was ten o'clock. Could it be Mr Elliot? They knew he was to dine in Lansdown Crescent. It was possible that he might stop in his way home to ask them how they did. They could think of no one else. Mrs Clay decidedly thought it Mr Elliot's knock." Mrs Clay was right. With all the state which a butler and foot-boy could give, Mr Elliot was ushered into the room. It was the same, the very same man, with no difference but of dress. Anne drew a little back, while the others received his compliments, and her sister his apologies for calling at so unusual an hour, but "he could not be so near without wishing to know that neither she nor her friend had taken cold the day before," &c. &c; which was all as politely done, and as politely taken, as possible, but her part must follow then. Sir Walter talked of his youngest daughter; "Mr Elliot must give him leave to present him to his youngest daughter" (there was no occasion for remembering Mary); and Anne, smiling and blushing, very becomingly shewed to Mr Elliot the pretty features which he had by no means forgotten, and instantly saw, with amusement at his little start of surprise, that he had not been at all aware of who she was. He looked completely astonished, but not more astonished than pleased; his eyes brightened! and with the most perfect alacrity he welcomed the relationship, alluded to the past, and entreated to be received as an acquaintance already. He was quite as good-looking as he had appeared at Lyme, his countenance improved by speaking, and his manners were so exactly what they ought to be, so polished, so easy, so particularly agreeable, that she could compare them in excellence to only one person's manners. They were not the same, but they were, perhaps, equally good. He sat down with them, and improved their conversation very much. There could be no doubt of his being a sensible man. Ten minutes were enough to certify that. His tone, his expressions, his choice of subject, his knowing where to stop; it was all the operation of a sensible, discerning mind. As soon as he could, he began to talk to her of Lyme, wanting to compare opinions respecting the place, but especially wanting to speak of the circumstance of their happening to be guests in the same inn at the same time; to give his own route, understand something of hers, and regret that he should have lost such an opportunity of paying his respects to her. She gave him a short account of her party and business at Lyme. His regret increased as he listened. He had spent his whole solitary evening in the room adjoining theirs; had heard voices, mirth continually; thought they must be a most delightful set of people, longed to be with them, but certainly without the smallest suspicion of his possessing the shadow of a right to introduce himself. If he had but asked who the party were! The name of Musgrove would have told him enough. "Well, it would serve to cure him of an absurd practice of never asking a question at an inn, which he had adopted, when quite a young man, on the principal of its being very ungenteel to be curious. "The notions of a young man of one or two and twenty," said he, "as to what is necessary in manners to make him quite the thing, are more absurd, I believe, than those of any other set of beings in the world. The folly of the means they often employ is only to be equalled by the folly of what they have in view." But he must not be addressing his reflections to Anne alone: he knew it; he was soon diffused again among the others, and it was only at intervals that he could return to Lyme. His enquiries, however, produced at length an account of the scene she had been engaged in there, soon after his leaving the place. Having alluded to "an accident," he must hear the whole. When he questioned, Sir Walter and Elizabeth began to question also, but the difference in their manner of doing it could not be unfelt. She could only compare Mr Elliot to Lady Russell, in the wish of really comprehending what had passed, and in the degree of concern for what she must have suffered in witnessing it. He staid an hour with them. The elegant little clock on the mantel-piece had struck "eleven with its silver sounds," and the watchman was beginning to be heard at a distance telling the same tale, before Mr Elliot or any of them seemed to feel that he had been there long. Anne could not have supposed it possible that her first evening in Camden Place could have passed so well! Chapter 16 There was one point which Anne, on returning to her family, would have been more thankful to ascertain even than Mr Elliot's being in love with Elizabeth, which was, her father's not being in love with Mrs Clay; and she was very far from easy about it, when she had been at home a few hours. On going down to breakfast the next morning, she found there had just been a decent pretence on the lady's side of meaning to leave them. She could imagine Mrs Clay to have said, that "now Miss Anne was come, she could not suppose herself at all wanted;" for Elizabeth was replying in a sort of whisper, "That must not be any reason, indeed. I assure you I feel it none. She is nothing to me, compared with you;" and she was in full time to hear her father say, "My dear madam, this must not be. As yet, you have seen nothing of Bath. You have been here only to be useful. You must not run away from us now. You must stay to be acquainted with Mrs Wallis, the beautiful Mrs Wallis. To your fine mind, I well know the sight of beauty is a real gratification." He spoke and looked so much in earnest, that Anne was not surprised to see Mrs Clay stealing a glance at Elizabeth and herself. Her countenance, perhaps, might express some watchfulness; but the praise of the fine mind did not appear to excite a thought in her sister. The lady could not but yield to such joint entreaties, and promise to stay. In the course of the same morning, Anne and her father chancing to be alone together, he began to compliment her on her improved looks; he thought her "less thin in her person, in her cheeks; her skin, her complexion, greatly improved; clearer, fresher. Had she been using any thing in particular?" "No, nothing." "Merely Gowland," he supposed. "No, nothing at all." "Ha! he was surprised at that;" and added, "certainly you cannot do better than to continue as you are; you cannot be better than well; or I should recommend Gowland, the constant use of Gowland, during the spring months. Mrs Clay has been using it at my recommendation, and you see what it has done for her. You see how it has carried away her freckles." If Elizabeth could but have heard this! Such personal praise might have struck her, especially as it did not appear to Anne that the freckles were at all lessened. But everything must take its chance. The evil of a marriage would be much diminished, if Elizabeth were also to marry. As for herself, she might always command a home with Lady Russell. Lady Russell's composed mind and polite manners were put to some trial on this point, in her intercourse in Camden Place. The sight of Mrs Clay in such favour, and of Anne so overlooked, was a perpetual provocation to her there; and vexed her as much when she was away, as a person in Bath who drinks the water, gets all the new publications, and has a very large acquaintance, has time to be vexed. As Mr Elliot became known to her, she grew more charitable, or more indifferent, towards the others. His manners were an immediate recommendation; and on conversing with him she found the solid so fully supporting the superficial, that she was at first, as she told Anne, almost ready to exclaim, "Can this be Mr Elliot?" and could not seriously picture to herself a more agreeable or estimable man. Everything united in him; good understanding, correct opinions, knowledge of the world, and a warm heart. He had strong feelings of family attachment and family honour, without pride or weakness; he lived with the liberality of a man of fortune, without display; he judged for himself in everything essential, without defying public opinion in any point of worldly decorum. He was steady, observant, moderate, candid; never run away with by spirits or by selfishness, which fancied itself strong feeling; and yet, with a sensibility to what was amiable and lovely, and a value for all the felicities of domestic life, which characters of fancied enthusiasm and violent agitation seldom really possess. She was sure that he had not been happy in marriage. Colonel Wallis said it, and Lady Russell saw it; but it had been no unhappiness to sour his mind, nor (she began pretty soon to suspect) to prevent his thinking of a second choice. Her satisfaction in Mr Elliot outweighed all the plague of Mrs Clay. It was now some years since Anne had begun to learn that she and her excellent friend could sometimes think differently; and it did not surprise her, therefore, that Lady Russell should see nothing suspicious or inconsistent, nothing to require more motives than appeared, in Mr Elliot's great desire of a reconciliation. In Lady Russell's view, it was perfectly natural that Mr Elliot, at a mature time of life, should feel it a most desirable object, and what would very generally recommend him among all sensible people, to be on good terms with the head of his family; the simplest process in the world of time upon a head naturally clear, and only erring in the heyday of youth. Anne presumed, however, still to smile about it, and at last to mention "Elizabeth." Lady Russell listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply:--"Elizabeth! very well; time will explain." It was a reference to the future, which Anne, after a little observation, felt she must submit to. She could determine nothing at present. In that house Elizabeth must be first; and she was in the habit of such general observance as "Miss Elliot," that any particularity of attention seemed almost impossible. Mr Elliot, too, it must be remembered, had not been a widower seven months. A little delay on his side might be very excusable. In fact, Anne could never see the crape round his hat, without fearing that she was the inexcusable one, in attributing to him such imaginations; for though his marriage had not been very happy, still it had existed so many years that she could not comprehend a very rapid recovery from the awful impression of its being dissolved. However it might end, he was without any question their pleasantest acquaintance in Bath: she saw nobody equal to him; and it was a great indulgence now and then to talk to him about Lyme, which he seemed to have as lively a wish to see again, and to see more of, as herself. They went through the particulars of their first meeting a great many times. He gave her to understand that he had looked at her with some earnestness. She knew it well; and she remembered another person's look also. They did not always think alike. His value for rank and connexion she perceived was greater than hers. It was not merely complaisance, it must be a liking to the cause, which made him enter warmly into her father and sister's solicitudes on a subject which she thought unworthy to excite them. The Bath paper one morning announced the arrival of the Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and her daughter, the Honourable Miss Carteret; and all the comfort of No. --, Camden Place, was swept away for many days; for the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most unfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to introduce themselves properly. Anne had never seen her father and sister before in contact with nobility, and she must acknowledge herself disappointed. She had hoped better things from their high ideas of their own situation in life, and was reduced to form a wish which she had never foreseen; a wish that they had more pride; for "our cousins Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret;" "our cousins, the Dalrymples," sounded in her ears all day long. Sir Walter had once been in company with the late viscount, but had never seen any of the rest of the family; and the difficulties of the case arose from there having been a suspension of all intercourse by letters of ceremony, ever since the death of that said late viscount, when, in consequence of a dangerous illness of Sir Walter's at the same time, there had been an unlucky omission at Kellynch. No letter of condolence had been sent to Ireland. The neglect had been visited on the head of the sinner; for when poor Lady Elliot died herself, no letter of condolence was received at Kellynch, and, consequently, there was but too much reason to apprehend that the Dalrymples considered the relationship as closed. How to have this anxious business set to rights, and be admitted as cousins again, was the question: and it was a question which, in a more rational manner, neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot thought unimportant. "Family connexions were always worth preserving, good company always worth seeking; Lady Dalrymple had taken a house, for three months, in Laura Place, and would be living in style. She had been at Bath the year before, and Lady Russell had heard her spoken of as a charming woman. It was very desirable that the connexion should be renewed, if it could be done, without any compromise of propriety on the side of the Elliots." Sir Walter, however, would choose his own means, and at last wrote a very fine letter of ample explanation, regret, and entreaty, to his right honourable cousin. Neither Lady Russell nor Mr Elliot could admire the letter; but it did all that was wanted, in bringing three lines of scrawl from the Dowager Viscountess. "She was very much honoured, and should be happy in their acquaintance." The toils of the business were over, the sweets began. They visited in Laura Place, they had the cards of Dowager Viscountess Dalrymple, and the Honourable Miss Carteret, to be arranged wherever they might be most visible: and "Our cousins in Laura Place,"--"Our cousin, Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret," were talked of to everybody. Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth. Lady Russell confessed she had expected something better; but yet "it was an acquaintance worth having;" and when Anne ventured to speak her opinion of them to Mr Elliot, he agreed to their being nothing in themselves, but still maintained that, as a family connexion, as good company, as those who would collect good company around them, they had their value. Anne smiled and said, "My idea of good company, Mr Elliot, is the company of clever, well-informed people, who have a great deal of conversation; that is what I call good company." "You are mistaken," said he gently, "that is not good company; that is the best. Good company requires only birth, education, and manners, and with regard to education is not very nice. Birth and good manners are essential; but a little learning is by no means a dangerous thing in good company; on the contrary, it will do very well. My cousin Anne shakes her head. She is not satisfied. She is fastidious. My dear cousin" (sitting down by her), "you have a better right to be fastidious than almost any other woman I know; but will it answer? Will it make you happy? Will it not be wiser to accept the society of those good ladies in Laura Place, and enjoy all the advantages of the connexion as far as possible? You may depend upon it, that they will move in the first set in Bath this winter, and as rank is rank, your being known to be related to them will have its use in fixing your family (our family let me say) in that degree of consideration which we must all wish for." "Yes," sighed Anne, "we shall, indeed, be known to be related to them!" then recollecting herself, and not wishing to be answered, she added, "I certainly do think there has been by far too much trouble taken to procure the acquaintance. I suppose" (smiling) "I have more pride than any of you; but I confess it does vex me, that we should be so solicitous to have the relationship acknowledged, which we may be very sure is a matter of perfect indifference to them." "Pardon me, dear cousin, you are unjust in your own claims. In London, perhaps, in your present quiet style of living, it might be as you say: but in Bath; Sir Walter Elliot and his family will always be worth knowing: always acceptable as acquaintance." "Well," said Anne, "I certainly am proud, too proud to enjoy a welcome which depends so entirely upon place." "I love your indignation," said he; "it is very natural. But here you are in Bath, and the object is to be established here with all the credit and dignity which ought to belong to Sir Walter Elliot. You talk of being proud; I am called proud, I know, and I shall not wish to believe myself otherwise; for our pride, if investigated, would have the same object, I have no doubt, though the kind may seem a little different. In one point, I am sure, my dear cousin," (he continued, speaking lower, though there was no one else in the room) "in one point, I am sure, we must feel alike. We must feel that every addition to your father's society, among his equals or superiors, may be of use in diverting his thoughts from those who are beneath him." He looked, as he spoke, to the seat which Mrs Clay had been lately occupying: a sufficient explanation of what he particularly meant; and though Anne could not believe in their having the same sort of pride, she was pleased with him for not liking Mrs Clay; and her conscience admitted that his wishing to promote her father's getting great acquaintance was more than excusable in the view of defeating her. Chapter 17 While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very different description. She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton, now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school, grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time; and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the want of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference. Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her situation forward in a more decided but very different form. She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully involved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe rheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for the present a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account, and was now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost excluded from society. Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from Miss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in going. She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she intended, at home. It would excite no proper interest there. She only consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in Westgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken. The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest in each other more than re-kindled. The first ten minutes had its awkwardness and its emotion. Twelve years were gone since they had parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the other had imagined. Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming, silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of seven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as consciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless widow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all that was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left only the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and talking over old times. Anne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be cheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the past--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of the present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her heart or ruined her spirits. In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and Anne's astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more cheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's. She had been very fond of her husband: she had buried him. She had been used to affluence: it was gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happiness again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs, no health to make all the rest supportable. Her accommodations were limited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no possibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which there was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet, in spite of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How could it be? She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone. It was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every other want. There had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly failed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her state on first reaching Bath. Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable object; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers, with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be in good hands. She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to attend her. "And she," said Mrs Smith, "besides nursing me most admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She had a large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will, but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable: something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I assure you, is a treat." Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, "I can easily believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent, disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude, patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of volumes." "Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late." Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon added in a different tone-- "I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present, will furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive, fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report but of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis, however. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the high-priced things I have in hand now." Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of such a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great alacrity--"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow." They were not much interested in anything relative to Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was disdainful, and Sir Walter severe. "Westgate Buildings!" said he, "and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and who was her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to be met with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most extraordinary taste! Everything that revolts other people, low company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting to you. But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow: she is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another day. What is her age? Forty?" "No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will at once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow, and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged." "But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?" asked Elizabeth. "She sees nothing to blame in it," replied Anne; "on the contrary, she approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs Smith." "Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance of a carriage drawn up near its pavement," observed Sir Walter. "Sir Henry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms, but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to convey a Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings! A poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs Smith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and Ireland! Mrs Smith! Such a name!" Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity. Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait on her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be, in having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable sensations which her friend meant to create. Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot. She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned. Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled, blushed, and gently shook her head. "I am no match-maker, as you well know," said Lady Russell, "being much too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations. I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be a very happy one." "Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit." Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me. You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name, and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to her in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me more delight than is often felt at my time of life!" Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table, and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings this picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of having the precious name of "Lady Elliot" first revived in herself; of being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne did not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of "Lady Elliot" all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a case was against Mr Elliot. Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied that she really knew his character. That he was a sensible man, an agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough. He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been afraid to answer for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the present. The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not favourable of what he had been. She saw that there had been bad habits; that Sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had been a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair character? How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly cleansed? Mr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight, at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided imperfection. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth and enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt that she could so much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind never varied, whose tongue never slipped. Mr Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers in her father's house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood too well with every body. He had spoken to her with some degree of openness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as agreeable as any body. Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw nothing to excite distrust. She could not imagine a man more exactly what he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved Anne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn. Chapter 18 It was the beginning of February; and Anne, having been a month in Bath, was growing very eager for news from Uppercross and Lyme. She wanted to hear much more than Mary had communicated. It was three weeks since she had heard at all. She only knew that Henrietta was at home again; and that Louisa, though considered to be recovering fast, was still in Lyme; and she was thinking of them all very intently one evening, when a thicker letter than usual from Mary was delivered to her; and, to quicken the pleasure and surprise, with Admiral and Mrs Croft's compliments. The Crofts must be in Bath! A circumstance to interest her. They were people whom her heart turned to very naturally. "What is this?" cried Sir Walter. "The Crofts have arrived in Bath? The Crofts who rent Kellynch? What have they brought you?" "A letter from Uppercross Cottage, Sir." "Oh! those letters are convenient passports. They secure an introduction. I should have visited Admiral Croft, however, at any rate. I know what is due to my tenant." Anne could listen no longer; she could not even have told how the poor Admiral's complexion escaped; her letter engrossed her. It had been begun several days back. "February 1st. "My dear Anne,--I make no apology for my silence, because I know how little people think of letters in such a place as Bath. You must be a great deal too happy to care for Uppercross, which, as you well know, affords little to write about. We have had a very dull Christmas; Mr and Mrs Musgrove have not had one dinner party all the holidays. I do not reckon the Hayters as anybody. The holidays, however, are over at last: I believe no children ever had such long ones. I am sure I had not. The house was cleared yesterday, except of the little Harvilles; but you will be surprised to hear they have never gone home. Mrs Harville must be an odd mother to part with them so long. I do not understand it. They are not at all nice children, in my opinion; but Mrs Musgrove seems to like them quite as well, if not better, than her grandchildren. What dreadful weather we have had! It may not be felt in Bath, with your nice pavements; but in the country it is of some consequence. I have not had a creature call on me since the second week in January, except Charles Hayter, who had been calling much oftener than was welcome. Between ourselves, I think it a great pity Henrietta did not remain at Lyme as long as Louisa; it would have kept her a little out of his way. The carriage is gone to-day, to bring Louisa and the Harvilles to-morrow. We are not asked to dine with them, however, till the day after, Mrs Musgrove is so afraid of her being fatigued by the journey, which is not very likely, considering the care that will be taken of her; and it would be much more convenient to me to dine there to-morrow. I am glad you find Mr Elliot so agreeable, and wish I could be acquainted with him too; but I have my usual luck: I am always out of the way when any thing desirable is going on; always the last of my family to be noticed. What an immense time Mrs Clay has been staying with Elizabeth! Does she never mean to go away? But perhaps if she were to leave the room vacant, we might not be invited. Let me know what you think of this. I do not expect my children to be asked, you know. I can leave them at the Great House very well, for a month or six weeks. I have this moment heard that the Crofts are going to Bath almost immediately; they think the Admiral gouty. Charles heard it quite by chance; they have not had the civility to give me any notice, or of offering to take anything. I do not think they improve at all as neighbours. We see nothing of them, and this is really an instance of gross inattention. Charles joins me in love, and everything proper. Yours affectionately, "Mary M---. "I am sorry to say that I am very far from well; and Jemima has just told me that the butcher says there is a bad sore-throat very much about. I dare say I shall catch it; and my sore-throats, you know, are always worse than anybody's." So ended the first part, which had been afterwards put into an envelope, containing nearly as much more. "I kept my letter open, that I might send you word how Louisa bore her journey, and now I am extremely glad I did, having a great deal to add. In the first place, I had a note from Mrs Croft yesterday, offering to convey anything to you; a very kind, friendly note indeed, addressed to me, just as it ought; I shall therefore be able to make my letter as long as I like. The Admiral does not seem very ill, and I sincerely hope Bath will do him all the good he wants. I shall be truly glad to have them back again. Our neighbourhood cannot spare such a pleasant family. But now for Louisa. I have something to communicate that will astonish you not a little. She and the Harvilles came on Tuesday very safely, and in the evening we went to ask her how she did, when we were rather surprised not to find Captain Benwick of the party, for he had been invited as well as the Harvilles; and what do you think was the reason? Neither more nor less than his being in love with Louisa, and not choosing to venture to Uppercross till he had had an answer from Mr Musgrove; for it was all settled between him and her before she came away, and he had written to her father by Captain Harville. True, upon my honour! Are not you astonished? I shall be surprised at least if you ever received a hint of it, for I never did. Mrs Musgrove protests solemnly that she knew nothing of the matter. We are all very well pleased, however, for though it is not equal to her marrying Captain Wentworth, it is infinitely better than Charles Hayter; and Mr Musgrove has written his consent, and Captain Benwick is expected to-day. Mrs Harville says her husband feels a good deal on his poor sister's account; but, however, Louisa is a great favourite with both. Indeed, Mrs Harville and I quite agree that we love her the better for having nursed her. Charles wonders what Captain Wentworth will say; but if you remember, I never thought him attached to Louisa; I never could see anything of it. And this is the end, you see, of Captain Benwick's being supposed to be an admirer of yours. How Charles could take such a thing into his head was always incomprehensible to me. I hope he will be more agreeable now. Certainly not a great match for Louisa Musgrove, but a million times better than marrying among the Hayters." Mary need not have feared her sister's being in any degree prepared for the news. She had never in her life been more astonished. Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! It was almost too wonderful for belief, and it was with the greatest effort that she could remain in the room, preserve an air of calmness, and answer the common questions of the moment. Happily for her, they were not many. Sir Walter wanted to know whether the Crofts travelled with four horses, and whether they were likely to be situated in such a part of Bath as it might suit Miss Elliot and himself to visit in; but had little curiosity beyond. "How is Mary?" said Elizabeth; and without waiting for an answer, "And pray what brings the Crofts to Bath?" "They come on the Admiral's account. He is thought to be gouty." "Gout and decrepitude!" said Sir Walter. "Poor old gentleman." "Have they any acquaintance here?" asked Elizabeth. "I do not know; but I can hardly suppose that, at Admiral Croft's time of life, and in his profession, he should not have many acquaintance in such a place as this." "I suspect," said Sir Walter coolly, "that Admiral Croft will be best known in Bath as the renter of Kellynch Hall. Elizabeth, may we venture to present him and his wife in Laura Place?" "Oh, no! I think not. Situated as we are with Lady Dalrymple, cousins, we ought to be very careful not to embarrass her with acquaintance she might not approve. If we were not related, it would not signify; but as cousins, she would feel scrupulous as to any proposal of ours. We had better leave the Crofts to find their own level. There are several odd-looking men walking about here, who, I am told, are sailors. The Crofts will associate with them." This was Sir Walter and Elizabeth's share of interest in the letter; when Mrs Clay had paid her tribute of more decent attention, in an enquiry after Mrs Charles Musgrove, and her fine little boys, Anne was at liberty. In her own room, she tried to comprehend it. Well might Charles wonder how Captain Wentworth would feel! Perhaps he had quitted the field, had given Louisa up, had ceased to love, had found he did not love her. She could not endure the idea of treachery or levity, or anything akin to ill usage between him and his friend. She could not endure that such a friendship as theirs should be severed unfairly. Captain Benwick and Louisa Musgrove! The high-spirited, joyous-talking Louisa Musgrove, and the dejected, thinking, feeling, reading, Captain Benwick, seemed each of them everything that would not suit the other. Their minds most dissimilar! Where could have been the attraction? The answer soon presented itself. It had been in situation. They had been thrown together several weeks; they had been living in the same small family party: since Henrietta's coming away, they must have been depending almost entirely on each other, and Louisa, just recovering from illness, had been in an interesting state, and Captain Benwick was not inconsolable. That was a point which Anne had not been able to avoid suspecting before; and instead of drawing the same conclusion as Mary, from the present course of events, they served only to confirm the idea of his having felt some dawning of tenderness toward herself. She did not mean, however, to derive much more from it to gratify her vanity, than Mary might have allowed. She was persuaded that any tolerably pleasing young woman who had listened and seemed to feel for him would have received the same compliment. He had an affectionate heart. He must love somebody. She saw no reason against their being happy. Louisa had fine naval fervour to begin with, and they would soon grow more alike. He would gain cheerfulness, and she would learn to be an enthusiast for Scott and Lord Byron; nay, that was probably learnt already; of course they had fallen in love over poetry. The idea of Louisa Musgrove turned into a person of literary taste, and sentimental reflection was amusing, but she had no doubt of its being so. The day at Lyme, the fall from the Cobb, might influence her health, her nerves, her courage, her character to the end of her life, as thoroughly as it appeared to have influenced her fate. The conclusion of the whole was, that if the woman who had been sensible of Captain Wentworth's merits could be allowed to prefer another man, there was nothing in the engagement to excite lasting wonder; and if Captain Wentworth lost no friend by it, certainly nothing to be regretted. No, it was not regret which made Anne's heart beat in spite of herself, and brought the colour into her cheeks when she thought of Captain Wentworth unshackled and free. She had some feelings which she was ashamed to investigate. They were too much like joy, senseless joy! She longed to see the Crofts; but when the meeting took place, it was evident that no rumour of the news had yet reached them. The visit of ceremony was paid and returned; and Louisa Musgrove was mentioned, and Captain Benwick, too, without even half a smile. The Crofts had placed themselves in lodgings in Gay Street, perfectly to Sir Walter's satisfaction. He was not at all ashamed of the acquaintance, and did, in fact, think and talk a great deal more about the Admiral, than the Admiral ever thought or talked about him. The Crofts knew quite as many people in Bath as they wished for, and considered their intercourse with the Elliots as a mere matter of form, and not in the least likely to afford them any pleasure. They brought with them their country habit of being almost always together. He was ordered to walk to keep off the gout, and Mrs Croft seemed to go shares with him in everything, and to walk for her life to do him good. Anne saw them wherever she went. Lady Russell took her out in her carriage almost every morning, and she never failed to think of them, and never failed to see them. Knowing their feelings as she did, it was a most attractive picture of happiness to her. She always watched them as long as she could, delighted to fancy she understood what they might be talking of, as they walked along in happy independence, or equally delighted to see the Admiral's hearty shake of the hand when he encountered an old friend, and observe their eagerness of conversation when occasionally forming into a little knot of the navy, Mrs Croft looking as intelligent and keen as any of the officers around her. Anne was too much engaged with Lady Russell to be often walking herself; but it so happened that one morning, about a week or ten days after the Croft's arrival, it suited her best to leave her friend, or her friend's carriage, in the lower part of the town, and return alone to Camden Place, and in walking up Milsom Street she had the good fortune to meet with the Admiral. He was standing by himself at a printshop window, with his hands behind him, in earnest contemplation of some print, and she not only might have passed him unseen, but was obliged to touch as well as address him before she could catch his notice. When he did perceive and acknowledge her, however, it was done with all his usual frankness and good humour. "Ha! is it you? Thank you, thank you. This is treating me like a friend. Here I am, you see, staring at a picture. I can never get by this shop without stopping. But what a thing here is, by way of a boat! Do look at it. Did you ever see the like? What queer fellows your fine painters must be, to think that anybody would venture their lives in such a shapeless old cockleshell as that? And yet here are two gentlemen stuck up in it mightily at their ease, and looking about them at the rocks and mountains, as if they were not to be upset the next moment, which they certainly must be. I wonder where that boat was built!" (laughing heartily); "I would not venture over a horsepond in it. Well," (turning away), "now, where are you bound? Can I go anywhere for you, or with you? Can I be of any use?" "None, I thank you, unless you will give me the pleasure of your company the little way our road lies together. I am going home." "That I will, with all my heart, and farther, too. Yes, yes we will have a snug walk together, and I have something to tell you as we go along. There, take my arm; that's right; I do not feel comfortable if I have not a woman there. Lord! what a boat it is!" taking a last look at the picture, as they began to be in motion. "Did you say that you had something to tell me, sir?" "Yes, I have, presently. But here comes a friend, Captain Brigden; I shall only say, 'How d'ye do?' as we pass, however. I shall not stop. 'How d'ye do?' Brigden stares to see anybody with me but my wife. She, poor soul, is tied by the leg. She has a blister on one of her heels, as large as a three-shilling piece. If you look across the street, you will see Admiral Brand coming down and his brother. Shabby fellows, both of them! I am glad they are not on this side of the way. Sophy cannot bear them. They played me a pitiful trick once: got away with some of my best men. I will tell you the whole story another time. There comes old Sir Archibald Drew and his grandson. Look, he sees us; he kisses his hand to you; he takes you for my wife. Ah! the peace has come too soon for that younker. Poor old Sir Archibald! How do you like Bath, Miss Elliot? It suits us very well. We are always meeting with some old friend or other; the streets full of them every morning; sure to have plenty of chat; and then we get away from them all, and shut ourselves in our lodgings, and draw in our chairs, and are as snug as if we were at Kellynch, ay, or as we used to be even at North Yarmouth and Deal. We do not like our lodgings here the worse, I can tell you, for putting us in mind of those we first had at North Yarmouth. The wind blows through one of the cupboards just in the same way." When they were got a little farther, Anne ventured to press again for what he had to communicate. She hoped when clear of Milsom Street to have her curiosity gratified; but she was still obliged to wait, for the Admiral had made up his mind not to begin till they had gained the greater space and quiet of Belmont; and as she was not really Mrs Croft, she must let him have his own way. As soon as they were fairly ascending Belmont, he began-- "Well, now you shall hear something that will surprise you. But first of all, you must tell me the name of the young lady I am going to talk about. That young lady, you know, that we have all been so concerned for. The Miss Musgrove, that all this has been happening to. Her Christian name: I always forget her Christian name." Anne had been ashamed to appear to comprehend so soon as she really did; but now she could safely suggest the name of "Louisa." "Ay, ay, Miss Louisa Musgrove, that is the name. I wish young ladies had not such a number of fine Christian names. I should never be out if they were all Sophys, or something of that sort. Well, this Miss Louisa, we all thought, you know, was to marry Frederick. He was courting her week after week. The only wonder was, what they could be waiting for, till the business at Lyme came; then, indeed, it was clear enough that they must wait till her brain was set to right. But even then there was something odd in their way of going on. Instead of staying at Lyme, he went off to Plymouth, and then he went off to see Edward. When we came back from Minehead he was gone down to Edward's, and there he has been ever since. We have seen nothing of him since November. Even Sophy could not understand it. But now, the matter has taken the strangest turn of all; for this young lady, the same Miss Musgrove, instead of being to marry Frederick, is to marry James Benwick. You know James Benwick." "A little. I am a little acquainted with Captain Benwick." "Well, she is to marry him. Nay, most likely they are married already, for I do not know what they should wait for." "I thought Captain Benwick a very pleasing young man," said Anne, "and I understand that he bears an excellent character." "Oh! yes, yes, there is not a word to be said against James Benwick. He is only a commander, it is true, made last summer, and these are bad times for getting on, but he has not another fault that I know of. An excellent, good-hearted fellow, I assure you; a very active, zealous officer too, which is more than you would think for, perhaps, for that soft sort of manner does not do him justice." "Indeed you are mistaken there, sir; I should never augur want of spirit from Captain Benwick's manners. I thought them particularly pleasing, and I will answer for it, they would generally please." "Well, well, ladies are the best judges; but James Benwick is rather too piano for me; and though very likely it is all our partiality, Sophy and I cannot help thinking Frederick's manners better than his. There is something about Frederick more to our taste." Anne was caught. She had only meant to oppose the too common idea of spirit and gentleness being incompatible with each other, not at all to represent Captain Benwick's manners as the very best that could possibly be; and, after a little hesitation, she was beginning to say, "I was not entering into any comparison of the two friends," but the Admiral interrupted her with-- "And the thing is certainly true. It is not a mere bit of gossip. We have it from Frederick himself. His sister had a letter from him yesterday, in which he tells us of it, and he had just had it in a letter from Harville, written upon the spot, from Uppercross. I fancy they are all at Uppercross." This was an opportunity which Anne could not resist; she said, therefore, "I hope, Admiral, I hope there is nothing in the style of Captain Wentworth's letter to make you and Mrs Croft particularly uneasy. It did seem, last autumn, as if there were an attachment between him and Louisa Musgrove; but I hope it may be understood to have worn out on each side equally, and without violence. I hope his letter does not breathe the spirit of an ill-used man." "Not at all, not at all; there is not an oath or a murmur from beginning to end." Anne looked down to hide her smile. "No, no; Frederick is not a man to whine and complain; he has too much spirit for that. If the girl likes another man better, it is very fit she should have him." "Certainly. But what I mean is, that I hope there is nothing in Captain Wentworth's manner of writing to make you suppose he thinks himself ill-used by his friend, which might appear, you know, without its being absolutely said. I should be very sorry that such a friendship as has subsisted between him and Captain Benwick should be destroyed, or even wounded, by a circumstance of this sort." "Yes, yes, I understand you. But there is nothing at all of that nature in the letter. He does not give the least fling at Benwick; does not so much as say, 'I wonder at it, I have a reason of my own for wondering at it.' No, you would not guess, from his way of writing, that he had ever thought of this Miss (what's her name?) for himself. He very handsomely hopes they will be happy together; and there is nothing very unforgiving in that, I think." Anne did not receive the perfect conviction which the Admiral meant to convey, but it would have been useless to press the enquiry farther. She therefore satisfied herself with common-place remarks or quiet attention, and the Admiral had it all his own way. "Poor Frederick!" said he at last. "Now he must begin all over again with somebody else. I think we must get him to Bath. Sophy must write, and beg him to come to Bath. Here are pretty girls enough, I am sure. It would be of no use to go to Uppercross again, for that other Miss Musgrove, I find, is bespoke by her cousin, the young parson. Do not you think, Miss Elliot, we had better try to get him to Bath?" Chapter 19 While Admiral Croft was taking this walk with Anne, and expressing his wish of getting Captain Wentworth to Bath, Captain Wentworth was already on his way thither. Before Mrs Croft had written, he was arrived, and the very next time Anne walked out, she saw him. Mr Elliot was attending his two cousins and Mrs Clay. They were in Milsom Street. It began to rain, not much, but enough to make shelter desirable for women, and quite enough to make it very desirable for Miss Elliot to have the advantage of being conveyed home in Lady Dalrymple's carriage, which was seen waiting at a little distance; she, Anne, and Mrs Clay, therefore, turned into Molland's, while Mr Elliot stepped to Lady Dalrymple, to request her assistance. He soon joined them again, successful, of course; Lady Dalrymple would be most happy to take them home, and would call for them in a few minutes. Her ladyship's carriage was a barouche, and did not hold more than four with any comfort. Miss Carteret was with her mother; consequently it was not reasonable to expect accommodation for all the three Camden Place ladies. There could be no doubt as to Miss Elliot. Whoever suffered inconvenience, she must suffer none, but it occupied a little time to settle the point of civility between the other two. The rain was a mere trifle, and Anne was most sincere in preferring a walk with Mr Elliot. But the rain was also a mere trifle to Mrs Clay; she would hardly allow it even to drop at all, and her boots were so thick! much thicker than Miss Anne's; and, in short, her civility rendered her quite as anxious to be left to walk with Mr Elliot as Anne could be, and it was discussed between them with a generosity so polite and so determined, that the others were obliged to settle it for them; Miss Elliot maintaining that Mrs Clay had a little cold already, and Mr Elliot deciding on appeal, that his cousin Anne's boots were rather the thickest. It was fixed accordingly, that Mrs Clay should be of the party in the carriage; and they had just reached this point, when Anne, as she sat near the window, descried, most decidedly and distinctly, Captain Wentworth walking down the street. Her start was perceptible only to herself; but she instantly felt that she was the greatest simpleton in the world, the most unaccountable and absurd! For a few minutes she saw nothing before her; it was all confusion. She was lost, and when she had scolded back her senses, she found the others still waiting for the carriage, and Mr Elliot (always obliging) just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs Clay's. She now felt a great inclination to go to the outer door; she wanted to see if it rained. Why was she to suspect herself of another motive? Captain Wentworth must be out of sight. She left her seat, she would go; one half of her should not be always so much wiser than the other half, or always suspecting the other of being worse than it was. She would see if it rained. She was sent back, however, in a moment by the entrance of Captain Wentworth himself, among a party of gentlemen and ladies, evidently his acquaintance, and whom he must have joined a little below Milsom Street. He was more obviously struck and confused by the sight of her than she had ever observed before; he looked quite red. For the first time, since their renewed acquaintance, she felt that she was betraying the least sensibility of the two. She had the advantage of him in the preparation of the last few moments. All the overpowering, blinding, bewildering, first effects of strong surprise were over with her. Still, however, she had enough to feel! It was agitation, pain, pleasure, a something between delight and misery. He spoke to her, and then turned away. The character of his manner was embarrassment. She could not have called it either cold or friendly, or anything so certainly as embarrassed. After a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again. Mutual enquiries on common subjects passed: neither of them, probably, much the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of his being less at ease than formerly. They had by dint of being so very much together, got to speak to each other with a considerable portion of apparent indifference and calmness; but he could not do it now. Time had changed him, or Louisa had changed him. There was consciousness of some sort or other. He looked very well, not as if he had been suffering in health or spirits, and he talked of Uppercross, of the Musgroves, nay, even of Louisa, and had even a momentary look of his own arch significance as he named her; but yet it was Captain Wentworth not comfortable, not easy, not able to feign that he was. It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth would not know him. She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw him, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was convinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance, expecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with unalterable coldness. Lady Dalrymple's carriage, for which Miss Elliot was growing very impatient, now drew up; the servant came in to announce it. It was beginning to rain again, and altogether there was a delay, and a bustle, and a talking, which must make all the little crowd in the shop understand that Lady Dalrymple was calling to convey Miss Elliot. At last Miss Elliot and her friend, unattended but by the servant, (for there was no cousin returned), were walking off; and Captain Wentworth, watching them, turned again to Anne, and by manner, rather than words, was offering his services to her. "I am much obliged to you," was her answer, "but I am not going with them. The carriage would not accommodate so many. I walk: I prefer walking." "But it rains." "Oh! very little, Nothing that I regard." After a moment's pause he said: "Though I came only yesterday, I have equipped myself properly for Bath already, you see," (pointing to a new umbrella); "I wish you would make use of it, if you are determined to walk; though I think it would be more prudent to let me get you a chair." She was very much obliged to him, but declined it all, repeating her conviction, that the rain would come to nothing at present, and adding, "I am only waiting for Mr Elliot. He will be here in a moment, I am sure." She had hardly spoken the words when Mr Elliot walked in. Captain Wentworth recollected him perfectly. There was no difference between him and the man who had stood on the steps at Lyme, admiring Anne as she passed, except in the air and look and manner of the privileged relation and friend. He came in with eagerness, appeared to see and think only of her, apologised for his stay, was grieved to have kept her waiting, and anxious to get her away without further loss of time and before the rain increased; and in another moment they walked off together, her arm under his, a gentle and embarrassed glance, and a "Good morning to you!" being all that she had time for, as she passed away. As soon as they were out of sight, the ladies of Captain Wentworth's party began talking of them. "Mr Elliot does not dislike his cousin, I fancy?" "Oh! no, that is clear enough. One can guess what will happen there. He is always with them; half lives in the family, I believe. What a very good-looking man!" "Yes, and Miss Atkinson, who dined with him once at the Wallises, says he is the most agreeable man she ever was in company with." "She is pretty, I think; Anne Elliot; very pretty, when one comes to look at her. It is not the fashion to say so, but I confess I admire her more than her sister." "Oh! so do I." "And so do I. No comparison. But the men are all wild after Miss Elliot. Anne is too delicate for them." Anne would have been particularly obliged to her cousin, if he would have walked by her side all the way to Camden Place, without saying a word. She had never found it so difficult to listen to him, though nothing could exceed his solicitude and care, and though his subjects were principally such as were wont to be always interesting: praise, warm, just, and discriminating, of Lady Russell, and insinuations highly rational against Mrs Clay. But just now she could think only of Captain Wentworth. She could not understand his present feelings, whether he were really suffering much from disappointment or not; and till that point were settled, she could not be quite herself. She hoped to be wise and reasonable in time; but alas! alas! she must confess to herself that she was not wise yet. Another circumstance very essential for her to know, was how long he meant to be in Bath; he had not mentioned it, or she could not recollect it. He might be only passing through. But it was more probable that he should be come to stay. In that case, so liable as every body was to meet every body in Bath, Lady Russell would in all likelihood see him somewhere. Would she recollect him? How would it all be? She had already been obliged to tell Lady Russell that Louisa Musgrove was to marry Captain Benwick. It had cost her something to encounter Lady Russell's surprise; and now, if she were by any chance to be thrown into company with Captain Wentworth, her imperfect knowledge of the matter might add another shade of prejudice against him. The following morning Anne was out with her friend, and for the first hour, in an incessant and fearful sort of watch for him in vain; but at last, in returning down Pulteney Street, she distinguished him on the right hand pavement at such a distance as to have him in view the greater part of the street. There were many other men about him, many groups walking the same way, but there was no mistaking him. She looked instinctively at Lady Russell; but not from any mad idea of her recognising him so soon as she did herself. No, it was not to be supposed that Lady Russell would perceive him till they were nearly opposite. She looked at her however, from time to time, anxiously; and when the moment approached which must point him out, though not daring to look again (for her own countenance she knew was unfit to be seen), she was yet perfectly conscious of Lady Russell's eyes being turned exactly in the direction for him--of her being, in short, intently observing him. She could thoroughly comprehend the sort of fascination he must possess over Lady Russell's mind, the difficulty it must be for her to withdraw her eyes, the astonishment she must be feeling that eight or nine years should have passed over him, and in foreign climes and in active service too, without robbing him of one personal grace! At last, Lady Russell drew back her head. "Now, how would she speak of him?" "You will wonder," said she, "what has been fixing my eye so long; but I was looking after some window-curtains, which Lady Alicia and Mrs Frankland were telling me of last night. They described the drawing-room window-curtains of one of the houses on this side of the way, and this part of the street, as being the handsomest and best hung of any in Bath, but could not recollect the exact number, and I have been trying to find out which it could be; but I confess I can see no curtains hereabouts that answer their description." Anne sighed and blushed and smiled, in pity and disdain, either at her friend or herself. The part which provoked her most, was that in all this waste of foresight and caution, she should have lost the right moment for seeing whether he saw them. A day or two passed without producing anything. The theatre or the rooms, where he was most likely to be, were not fashionable enough for the Elliots, whose evening amusements were solely in the elegant stupidity of private parties, in which they were getting more and more engaged; and Anne, wearied of such a state of stagnation, sick of knowing nothing, and fancying herself stronger because her strength was not tried, was quite impatient for the concert evening. It was a concert for the benefit of a person patronised by Lady Dalrymple. Of course they must attend. It was really expected to be a good one, and Captain Wentworth was very fond of music. If she could only have a few minutes conversation with him again, she fancied she should be satisfied; and as to the power of addressing him, she felt all over courage if the opportunity occurred. Elizabeth had turned from him, Lady Russell overlooked him; her nerves were strengthened by these circumstances; she felt that she owed him attention. She had once partly promised Mrs Smith to spend the evening with her; but in a short hurried call she excused herself and put it off, with the more decided promise of a longer visit on the morrow. Mrs Smith gave a most good-humoured acquiescence. "By all means," said she; "only tell me all about it, when you do come. Who is your party?" Anne named them all. Mrs Smith made no reply; but when she was leaving her said, and with an expression half serious, half arch, "Well, I heartily wish your concert may answer; and do not fail me to-morrow if you can come; for I begin to have a foreboding that I may not have many more visits from you." Anne was startled and confused; but after standing in a moment's suspense, was obliged, and not sorry to be obliged, to hurry away. Chapter 20 Sir Walter, his two daughters, and Mrs Clay, were the earliest of all their party at the rooms in the evening; and as Lady Dalrymple must be waited for, they took their station by one of the fires in the Octagon Room. But hardly were they so settled, when the door opened again, and Captain Wentworth walked in alone. Anne was the nearest to him, and making yet a little advance, she instantly spoke. He was preparing only to bow and pass on, but her gentle "How do you do?" brought him out of the straight line to stand near her, and make enquiries in return, in spite of the formidable father and sister in the back ground. Their being in the back ground was a support to Anne; she knew nothing of their looks, and felt equal to everything which she believed right to be done. While they were speaking, a whispering between her father and Elizabeth caught her ear. She could not distinguish, but she must guess the subject; and on Captain Wentworth's making a distant bow, she comprehended that her father had judged so well as to give him that simple acknowledgement of acquaintance, and she was just in time by a side glance to see a slight curtsey from Elizabeth herself. This, though late, and reluctant, and ungracious, was yet better than nothing, and her spirits improved. After talking, however, of the weather, and Bath, and the concert, their conversation began to flag, and so little was said at last, that she was expecting him to go every moment, but he did not; he seemed in no hurry to leave her; and presently with renewed spirit, with a little smile, a little glow, he said-- "I have hardly seen you since our day at Lyme. I am afraid you must have suffered from the shock, and the more from its not overpowering you at the time." She assured him that she had not. "It was a frightful hour," said he, "a frightful day!" and he passed his hand across his eyes, as if the remembrance were still too painful, but in a moment, half smiling again, added, "The day has produced some effects however; has had some consequences which must be considered as the very reverse of frightful. When you had the presence of mind to suggest that Benwick would be the properest person to fetch a surgeon, you could have little idea of his being eventually one of those most concerned in her recovery." "Certainly I could have none. But it appears--I should hope it would be a very happy match. There are on both sides good principles and good temper." "Yes," said he, looking not exactly forward; "but there, I think, ends the resemblance. With all my soul I wish them happy, and rejoice over every circumstance in favour of it. They have no difficulties to contend with at home, no opposition, no caprice, no delays. The Musgroves are behaving like themselves, most honourably and kindly, only anxious with true parental hearts to promote their daughter's comfort. All this is much, very much in favour of their happiness; more than perhaps--" He stopped. A sudden recollection seemed to occur, and to give him some taste of that emotion which was reddening Anne's cheeks and fixing her eyes on the ground. After clearing his throat, however, he proceeded thus-- "I confess that I do think there is a disparity, too great a disparity, and in a point no less essential than mind. I regard Louisa Musgrove as a very amiable, sweet-tempered girl, and not deficient in understanding, but Benwick is something more. He is a clever man, a reading man; and I confess, that I do consider his attaching himself to her with some surprise. Had it been the effect of gratitude, had he learnt to love her, because he believed her to be preferring him, it would have been another thing. But I have no reason to suppose it so. It seems, on the contrary, to have been a perfectly spontaneous, untaught feeling on his side, and this surprises me. A man like him, in his situation! with a heart pierced, wounded, almost broken! Fanny Harville was a very superior creature, and his attachment to her was indeed attachment. A man does not recover from such a devotion of the heart to such a woman. He ought not; he does not." Either from the consciousness, however, that his friend had recovered, or from other consciousness, he went no farther; and Anne who, in spite of the agitated voice in which the latter part had been uttered, and in spite of all the various noises of the room, the almost ceaseless slam of the door, and ceaseless buzz of persons walking through, had distinguished every word, was struck, gratified, confused, and beginning to breathe very quick, and feel an hundred things in a moment. It was impossible for her to enter on such a subject; and yet, after a pause, feeling the necessity of speaking, and having not the smallest wish for a total change, she only deviated so far as to say-- "You were a good while at Lyme, I think?" "About a fortnight. I could not leave it till Louisa's doing well was quite ascertained. I had been too deeply concerned in the mischief to be soon at peace. It had been my doing, solely mine. She would not have been obstinate if I had not been weak. The country round Lyme is very fine. I walked and rode a great deal; and the more I saw, the more I found to admire." "I should very much like to see Lyme again," said Anne. "Indeed! I should not have supposed that you could have found anything in Lyme to inspire such a feeling. The horror and distress you were involved in, the stretch of mind, the wear of spirits! I should have thought your last impressions of Lyme must have been strong disgust." "The last hours were certainly very painful," replied Anne; "but when pain is over, the remembrance of it often becomes a pleasure. One does not love a place the less for having suffered in it, unless it has been all suffering, nothing but suffering, which was by no means the case at Lyme. We were only in anxiety and distress during the last two hours, and previously there had been a great deal of enjoyment. So much novelty and beauty! I have travelled so little, that every fresh place would be interesting to me; but there is real beauty at Lyme; and in short" (with a faint blush at some recollections), "altogether my impressions of the place are very agreeable." As she ceased, the entrance door opened again, and the very party appeared for whom they were waiting. "Lady Dalrymple, Lady Dalrymple," was the rejoicing sound; and with all the eagerness compatible with anxious elegance, Sir Walter and his two ladies stepped forward to meet her. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, escorted by Mr Elliot and Colonel Wallis, who had happened to arrive nearly at the same instant, advanced into the room. The others joined them, and it was a group in which Anne found herself also necessarily included. She was divided from Captain Wentworth. Their interesting, almost too interesting conversation must be broken up for a time, but slight was the penance compared with the happiness which brought it on! She had learnt, in the last ten minutes, more of his feelings towards Louisa, more of all his feelings than she dared to think of; and she gave herself up to the demands of the party, to the needful civilities of the moment, with exquisite, though agitated sensations. She was in good humour with all. She had received ideas which disposed her to be courteous and kind to all, and to pity every one, as being less happy than herself. The delightful emotions were a little subdued, when on stepping back from the group, to be joined again by Captain Wentworth, she saw that he was gone. She was just in time to see him turn into the Concert Room. He was gone; he had disappeared, she felt a moment's regret. But "they should meet again. He would look for her, he would find her out before the evening were over, and at present, perhaps, it was as well to be asunder. She was in need of a little interval for recollection." Upon Lady Russell's appearance soon afterwards, the whole party was collected, and all that remained was to marshal themselves, and proceed into the Concert Room; and be of all the consequence in their power, draw as many eyes, excite as many whispers, and disturb as many people as they could. Very, very happy were both Elizabeth and Anne Elliot as they walked in. Elizabeth arm in arm with Miss Carteret, and looking on the broad back of the dowager Viscountess Dalrymple before her, had nothing to wish for which did not seem within her reach; and Anne--but it would be an insult to the nature of Anne's felicity, to draw any comparison between it and her sister's; the origin of one all selfish vanity, of the other all generous attachment. Anne saw nothing, thought nothing of the brilliancy of the room. Her happiness was from within. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowed; but she knew nothing about it. She was thinking only of the last half hour, and as they passed to their seats, her mind took a hasty range over it. His choice of subjects, his expressions, and still more his manner and look, had been such as she could see in only one light. His opinion of Louisa Musgrove's inferiority, an opinion which he had seemed solicitous to give, his wonder at Captain Benwick, his feelings as to a first, strong attachment; sentences begun which he could not finish, his half averted eyes and more than half expressive glance, all, all declared that he had a heart returning to her at least; that anger, resentment, avoidance, were no more; and that they were succeeded, not merely by friendship and regard, but by the tenderness of the past. Yes, some share of the tenderness of the past. She could not contemplate the change as implying less. He must love her. These were thoughts, with their attendant visions, which occupied and flurried her too much to leave her any power of observation; and she passed along the room without having a glimpse of him, without even trying to discern him. When their places were determined on, and they were all properly arranged, she looked round to see if he should happen to be in the same part of the room, but he was not; her eye could not reach him; and the concert being just opening, she must consent for a time to be happy in a humbler way. The party was divided and disposed of on two contiguous benches: Anne was among those on the foremost, and Mr Elliot had manoeuvred so well, with the assistance of his friend Colonel Wallis, as to have a seat by her. Miss Elliot, surrounded by her cousins, and the principal object of Colonel Wallis's gallantry, was quite contented. Anne's mind was in a most favourable state for the entertainment of the evening; it was just occupation enough: she had feelings for the tender, spirits for the gay, attention for the scientific, and patience for the wearisome; and had never liked a concert better, at least during the first act. Towards the close of it, in the interval succeeding an Italian song, she explained the words of the song to Mr Elliot. They had a concert bill between them. "This," said she, "is nearly the sense, or rather the meaning of the words, for certainly the sense of an Italian love-song must not be talked of, but it is as nearly the meaning as I can give; for I do not pretend to understand the language. I am a very poor Italian scholar." "Yes, yes, I see you are. I see you know nothing of the matter. You have only knowledge enough of the language to translate at sight these inverted, transposed, curtailed Italian lines, into clear, comprehensible, elegant English. You need not say anything more of your ignorance. Here is complete proof." "I will not oppose such kind politeness; but I should be sorry to be examined by a real proficient." "I have not had the pleasure of visiting in Camden Place so long," replied he, "without knowing something of Miss Anne Elliot; and I do regard her as one who is too modest for the world in general to be aware of half her accomplishments, and too highly accomplished for modesty to be natural in any other woman." "For shame! for shame! this is too much flattery. I forget what we are to have next," turning to the bill. "Perhaps," said Mr Elliot, speaking low, "I have had a longer acquaintance with your character than you are aware of." "Indeed! How so? You can have been acquainted with it only since I came to Bath, excepting as you might hear me previously spoken of in my own family." "I knew you by report long before you came to Bath. I had heard you described by those who knew you intimately. I have been acquainted with you by character many years. Your person, your disposition, accomplishments, manner; they were all present to me." Mr Elliot was not disappointed in the interest he hoped to raise. No one can withstand the charm of such a mystery. To have been described long ago to a recent acquaintance, by nameless people, is irresistible; and Anne was all curiosity. She wondered, and questioned him eagerly; but in vain. He delighted in being asked, but he would not tell. "No, no, some time or other, perhaps, but not now. He would mention no names now; but such, he could assure her, had been the fact. He had many years ago received such a description of Miss Anne Elliot as had inspired him with the highest idea of her merit, and excited the warmest curiosity to know her." Anne could think of no one so likely to have spoken with partiality of her many years ago as the Mr Wentworth of Monkford, Captain Wentworth's brother. He might have been in Mr Elliot's company, but she had not courage to ask the question. "The name of Anne Elliot," said he, "has long had an interesting sound to me. Very long has it possessed a charm over my fancy; and, if I dared, I would breathe my wishes that the name might never change." Such, she believed, were his words; but scarcely had she received their sound, than her attention was caught by other sounds immediately behind her, which rendered every thing else trivial. Her father and Lady Dalrymple were speaking. "A well-looking man," said Sir Walter, "a very well-looking man." "A very fine young man indeed!" said Lady Dalrymple. "More air than one often sees in Bath. Irish, I dare say." "No, I just know his name. A bowing acquaintance. Wentworth; Captain Wentworth of the navy. His sister married my tenant in Somersetshire, the Croft, who rents Kellynch." Before Sir Walter had reached this point, Anne's eyes had caught the right direction, and distinguished Captain Wentworth standing among a cluster of men at a little distance. As her eyes fell on him, his seemed to be withdrawn from her. It had that appearance. It seemed as if she had been one moment too late; and as long as she dared observe, he did not look again: but the performance was recommencing, and she was forced to seem to restore her attention to the orchestra and look straight forward. When she could give another glance, he had moved away. He could not have come nearer to her if he would; she was so surrounded and shut in: but she would rather have caught his eye. Mr Elliot's speech, too, distressed her. She had no longer any inclination to talk to him. She wished him not so near her. The first act was over. Now she hoped for some beneficial change; and, after a period of nothing-saying amongst the party, some of them did decide on going in quest of tea. Anne was one of the few who did not choose to move. She remained in her seat, and so did Lady Russell; but she had the pleasure of getting rid of Mr Elliot; and she did not mean, whatever she might feel on Lady Russell's account, to shrink from conversation with Captain Wentworth, if he gave her the opportunity. She was persuaded by Lady Russell's countenance that she had seen him. He did not come however. Anne sometimes fancied she discerned him at a distance, but he never came. The anxious interval wore away unproductively. The others returned, the room filled again, benches were reclaimed and repossessed, and another hour of pleasure or of penance was to be sat out, another hour of music was to give delight or the gapes, as real or affected taste for it prevailed. To Anne, it chiefly wore the prospect of an hour of agitation. She could not quit that room in peace without seeing Captain Wentworth once more, without the interchange of one friendly look. In re-settling themselves there were now many changes, the result of which was favourable for her. Colonel Wallis declined sitting down again, and Mr Elliot was invited by Elizabeth and Miss Carteret, in a manner not to be refused, to sit between them; and by some other removals, and a little scheming of her own, Anne was enabled to place herself much nearer the end of the bench than she had been before, much more within reach of a passer-by. She could not do so, without comparing herself with Miss Larolles, the inimitable Miss Larolles; but still she did it, and not with much happier effect; though by what seemed prosperity in the shape of an early abdication in her next neighbours, she found herself at the very end of the bench before the concert closed. Such was her situation, with a vacant space at hand, when Captain Wentworth was again in sight. She saw him not far off. He saw her too; yet he looked grave, and seemed irresolute, and only by very slow degrees came at last near enough to speak to her. She felt that something must be the matter. The change was indubitable. The difference between his present air and what it had been in the Octagon Room was strikingly great. Why was it? She thought of her father, of Lady Russell. Could there have been any unpleasant glances? He began by speaking of the concert gravely, more like the Captain Wentworth of Uppercross; owned himself disappointed, had expected singing; and in short, must confess that he should not be sorry when it was over. Anne replied, and spoke in defence of the performance so well, and yet in allowance for his feelings so pleasantly, that his countenance improved, and he replied again with almost a smile. They talked for a few minutes more; the improvement held; he even looked down towards the bench, as if he saw a place on it well worth occupying; when at that moment a touch on her shoulder obliged Anne to turn round. It came from Mr Elliot. He begged her pardon, but she must be applied to, to explain Italian again. Miss Carteret was very anxious to have a general idea of what was next to be sung. Anne could not refuse; but never had she sacrificed to politeness with a more suffering spirit. A few minutes, though as few as possible, were inevitably consumed; and when her own mistress again, when able to turn and look as she had done before, she found herself accosted by Captain Wentworth, in a reserved yet hurried sort of farewell. "He must wish her good night; he was going; he should get home as fast as he could." "Is not this song worth staying for?" said Anne, suddenly struck by an idea which made her yet more anxious to be encouraging. "No!" he replied impressively, "there is nothing worth my staying for;" and he was gone directly. Jealousy of Mr Elliot! It was the only intelligible motive. Captain Wentworth jealous of her affection! Could she have believed it a week ago; three hours ago! For a moment the gratification was exquisite. But, alas! there were very different thoughts to succeed. How was such jealousy to be quieted? How was the truth to reach him? How, in all the peculiar disadvantages of their respective situations, would he ever learn of her real sentiments? It was misery to think of Mr Elliot's attentions. Their evil was incalculable. Chapter 21 Anne recollected with pleasure the next morning her promise of going to Mrs Smith, meaning that it should engage her from home at the time when Mr Elliot would be most likely to call; for to avoid Mr Elliot was almost a first object. She felt a great deal of good-will towards him. In spite of the mischief of his attentions, she owed him gratitude and regard, perhaps compassion. She could not help thinking much of the extraordinary circumstances attending their acquaintance, of the right which he seemed to have to interest her, by everything in situation, by his own sentiments, by his early prepossession. It was altogether very extraordinary; flattering, but painful. There was much to regret. How she might have felt had there been no Captain Wentworth in the case, was not worth enquiry; for there was a Captain Wentworth; and be the conclusion of the present suspense good or bad, her affection would be his for ever. Their union, she believed, could not divide her more from other men, than their final separation. Prettier musings of high-wrought love and eternal constancy, could never have passed along the streets of Bath, than Anne was sporting with from Camden Place to Westgate Buildings. It was almost enough to spread purification and perfume all the way. She was sure of a pleasant reception; and her friend seemed this morning particularly obliged to her for coming, seemed hardly to have expected her, though it had been an appointment. An account of the concert was immediately claimed; and Anne's recollections of the concert were quite happy enough to animate her features and make her rejoice to talk of it. All that she could tell she told most gladly, but the all was little for one who had been there, and unsatisfactory for such an enquirer as Mrs Smith, who had already heard, through the short cut of a laundress and a waiter, rather more of the general success and produce of the evening than Anne could relate, and who now asked in vain for several particulars of the company. Everybody of any consequence or notoriety in Bath was well know by name to Mrs Smith. "The little Durands were there, I conclude," said she, "with their mouths open to catch the music, like unfledged sparrows ready to be fed. They never miss a concert." "Yes; I did not see them myself, but I heard Mr Elliot say they were in the room." "The Ibbotsons, were they there? and the two new beauties, with the tall Irish officer, who is talked of for one of them." "I do not know. I do not think they were." "Old Lady Mary Maclean? I need not ask after her. She never misses, I know; and you must have seen her. She must have been in your own circle; for as you went with Lady Dalrymple, you were in the seats of grandeur, round the orchestra, of course." "No, that was what I dreaded. It would have been very unpleasant to me in every respect. But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off; and we were exceedingly well placed, that is, for hearing; I must not say for seeing, because I appear to have seen very little." "Oh! you saw enough for your own amusement. I can understand. There is a sort of domestic enjoyment to be known even in a crowd, and this you had. You were a large party in yourselves, and you wanted nothing beyond." "But I ought to have looked about me more," said Anne, conscious while she spoke that there had in fact been no want of looking about, that the object only had been deficient. "No, no; you were better employed. You need not tell me that you had a pleasant evening. I see it in your eye. I perfectly see how the hours passed: that you had always something agreeable to listen to. In the intervals of the concert it was conversation." Anne half smiled and said, "Do you see that in my eye?" "Yes, I do. Your countenance perfectly informs me that you were in company last night with the person whom you think the most agreeable in the world, the person who interests you at this present time more than all the rest of the world put together." A blush overspread Anne's cheeks. She could say nothing. "And such being the case," continued Mrs Smith, after a short pause, "I hope you believe that I do know how to value your kindness in coming to me this morning. It is really very good of you to come and sit with me, when you must have so many pleasanter demands upon your time." Anne heard nothing of this. She was still in the astonishment and confusion excited by her friend's penetration, unable to imagine how any report of Captain Wentworth could have reached her. After another short silence-- "Pray," said Mrs Smith, "is Mr Elliot aware of your acquaintance with me? Does he know that I am in Bath?" "Mr Elliot!" repeated Anne, looking up surprised. A moment's reflection shewed her the mistake she had been under. She caught it instantaneously; and recovering her courage with the feeling of safety, soon added, more composedly, "Are you acquainted with Mr Elliot?" "I have been a good deal acquainted with him," replied Mrs Smith, gravely, "but it seems worn out now. It is a great while since we met." "I was not at all aware of this. You never mentioned it before. Had I known it, I would have had the pleasure of talking to him about you." "To confess the truth," said Mrs Smith, assuming her usual air of cheerfulness, "that is exactly the pleasure I want you to have. I want you to talk about me to Mr Elliot. I want your interest with him. He can be of essential service to me; and if you would have the goodness, my dear Miss Elliot, to make it an object to yourself, of course it is done." "I should be extremely happy; I hope you cannot doubt my willingness to be of even the slightest use to you," replied Anne; "but I suspect that you are considering me as having a higher claim on Mr Elliot, a greater right to influence him, than is really the case. I am sure you have, somehow or other, imbibed such a notion. You must consider me only as Mr Elliot's relation. If in that light there is anything which you suppose his cousin might fairly ask of him, I beg you would not hesitate to employ me." Mrs Smith gave her a penetrating glance, and then, smiling, said-- "I have been a little premature, I perceive; I beg your pardon. I ought to have waited for official information. But now, my dear Miss Elliot, as an old friend, do give me a hint as to when I may speak. Next week? To be sure by next week I may be allowed to think it all settled, and build my own selfish schemes on Mr Elliot's good fortune." "No," replied Anne, "nor next week, nor next, nor next. I assure you that nothing of the sort you are thinking of will be settled any week. I am not going to marry Mr Elliot. I should like to know why you imagine I am?" Mrs Smith looked at her again, looked earnestly, smiled, shook her head, and exclaimed-- "Now, how I do wish I understood you! How I do wish I knew what you were at! I have a great idea that you do not design to be cruel, when the right moment occurs. Till it does come, you know, we women never mean to have anybody. It is a thing of course among us, that every man is refused, till he offers. But why should you be cruel? Let me plead for my--present friend I cannot call him, but for my former friend. Where can you look for a more suitable match? Where could you expect a more gentlemanlike, agreeable man? Let me recommend Mr Elliot. I am sure you hear nothing but good of him from Colonel Wallis; and who can know him better than Colonel Wallis?" "My dear Mrs Smith, Mr Elliot's wife has not been dead much above half a year. He ought not to be supposed to be paying his addresses to any one." "Oh! if these are your only objections," cried Mrs Smith, archly, "Mr Elliot is safe, and I shall give myself no more trouble about him. Do not forget me when you are married, that's all. Let him know me to be a friend of yours, and then he will think little of the trouble required, which it is very natural for him now, with so many affairs and engagements of his own, to avoid and get rid of as he can; very natural, perhaps. Ninety-nine out of a hundred would do the same. Of course, he cannot be aware of the importance to me. Well, my dear Miss Elliot, I hope and trust you will be very happy. Mr Elliot has sense to understand the value of such a woman. Your peace will not be shipwrecked as mine has been. You are safe in all worldly matters, and safe in his character. He will not be led astray; he will not be misled by others to his ruin." "No," said Anne, "I can readily believe all that of my cousin. He seems to have a calm decided temper, not at all open to dangerous impressions. I consider him with great respect. I have no reason, from any thing that has fallen within my observation, to do otherwise. But I have not known him long; and he is not a man, I think, to be known intimately soon. Will not this manner of speaking of him, Mrs Smith, convince you that he is nothing to me? Surely this must be calm enough. And, upon my word, he is nothing to me. Should he ever propose to me (which I have very little reason to imagine he has any thought of doing), I shall not accept him. I assure you I shall not. I assure you, Mr Elliot had not the share which you have been supposing, in whatever pleasure the concert of last night might afford: not Mr Elliot; it is not Mr Elliot that--" She stopped, regretting with a deep blush that she had implied so much; but less would hardly have been sufficient. Mrs Smith would hardly have believed so soon in Mr Elliot's failure, but from the perception of there being a somebody else. As it was, she instantly submitted, and with all the semblance of seeing nothing beyond; and Anne, eager to escape farther notice, was impatient to know why Mrs Smith should have fancied she was to marry Mr Elliot; where she could have received the idea, or from whom she could have heard it. "Do tell me how it first came into your head." "It first came into my head," replied Mrs Smith, "upon finding how much you were together, and feeling it to be the most probable thing in the world to be wished for by everybody belonging to either of you; and you may depend upon it that all your acquaintance have disposed of you in the same way. But I never heard it spoken of till two days ago." "And has it indeed been spoken of?" "Did you observe the woman who opened the door to you when you called yesterday?" "No. Was not it Mrs Speed, as usual, or the maid? I observed no one in particular." "It was my friend Mrs Rooke; Nurse Rooke; who, by-the-bye, had a great curiosity to see you, and was delighted to be in the way to let you in. She came away from Marlborough Buildings only on Sunday; and she it was who told me you were to marry Mr Elliot. She had had it from Mrs Wallis herself, which did not seem bad authority. She sat an hour with me on Monday evening, and gave me the whole history." "The whole history," repeated Anne, laughing. "She could not make a very long history, I think, of one such little article of unfounded news." Mrs Smith said nothing. "But," continued Anne, presently, "though there is no truth in my having this claim on Mr Elliot, I should be extremely happy to be of use to you in any way that I could. Shall I mention to him your being in Bath? Shall I take any message?" "No, I thank you: no, certainly not. In the warmth of the moment, and under a mistaken impression, I might, perhaps, have endeavoured to interest you in some circumstances; but not now. No, I thank you, I have nothing to trouble you with." "I think you spoke of having known Mr Elliot many years?" "I did." "Not before he was married, I suppose?" "Yes; he was not married when I knew him first." "And--were you much acquainted?" "Intimately." "Indeed! Then do tell me what he was at that time of life. I have a great curiosity to know what Mr Elliot was as a very young man. Was he at all such as he appears now?" "I have not seen Mr Elliot these three years," was Mrs Smith's answer, given so gravely that it was impossible to pursue the subject farther; and Anne felt that she had gained nothing but an increase of curiosity. They were both silent: Mrs Smith very thoughtful. At last-- "I beg your pardon, my dear Miss Elliot," she cried, in her natural tone of cordiality, "I beg your pardon for the short answers I have been giving you, but I have been uncertain what I ought to do. I have been doubting and considering as to what I ought to tell you. There were many things to be taken into the account. One hates to be officious, to be giving bad impressions, making mischief. Even the smooth surface of family-union seems worth preserving, though there may be nothing durable beneath. However, I have determined; I think I am right; I think you ought to be made acquainted with Mr Elliot's real character. Though I fully believe that, at present, you have not the smallest intention of accepting him, there is no saying what may happen. You might, some time or other, be differently affected towards him. Hear the truth, therefore, now, while you are unprejudiced. Mr Elliot is a man without heart or conscience; a designing, wary, cold-blooded being, who thinks only of himself; whom for his own interest or ease, would be guilty of any cruelty, or any treachery, that could be perpetrated without risk of his general character. He has no feeling for others. Those whom he has been the chief cause of leading into ruin, he can neglect and desert without the smallest compunction. He is totally beyond the reach of any sentiment of justice or compassion. Oh! he is black at heart, hollow and black!" Anne's astonished air, and exclamation of wonder, made her pause, and in a calmer manner, she added, "My expressions startle you. You must allow for an injured, angry woman. But I will try to command myself. I will not abuse him. I will only tell you what I have found him. Facts shall speak. He was the intimate friend of my dear husband, who trusted and loved him, and thought him as good as himself. The intimacy had been formed before our marriage. I found them most intimate friends; and I, too, became excessively pleased with Mr Elliot, and entertained the highest opinion of him. At nineteen, you know, one does not think very seriously; but Mr Elliot appeared to me quite as good as others, and much more agreeable than most others, and we were almost always together. We were principally in town, living in very good style. He was then the inferior in circumstances; he was then the poor one; he had chambers in the Temple, and it was as much as he could do to support the appearance of a gentleman. He had always a home with us whenever he chose it; he was always welcome; he was like a brother. My poor Charles, who had the finest, most generous spirit in the world, would have divided his last farthing with him; and I know that his purse was open to him; I know that he often assisted him." "This must have been about that very period of Mr Elliot's life," said Anne, "which has always excited my particular curiosity. It must have been about the same time that he became known to my father and sister. I never knew him myself; I only heard of him; but there was a something in his conduct then, with regard to my father and sister, and afterwards in the circumstances of his marriage, which I never could quite reconcile with present times. It seemed to announce a different sort of man." "I know it all, I know it all," cried Mrs Smith. "He had been introduced to Sir Walter and your sister before I was acquainted with him, but I heard him speak of them for ever. I know he was invited and encouraged, and I know he did not choose to go. I can satisfy you, perhaps, on points which you would little expect; and as to his marriage, I knew all about it at the time. I was privy to all the fors and againsts; I was the friend to whom he confided his hopes and plans; and though I did not know his wife previously, her inferior situation in society, indeed, rendered that impossible, yet I knew her all her life afterwards, or at least till within the last two years of her life, and can answer any question you may wish to put." "Nay," said Anne, "I have no particular enquiry to make about her. I have always understood they were not a happy couple. But I should like to know why, at that time of his life, he should slight my father's acquaintance as he did. My father was certainly disposed to take very kind and proper notice of him. Why did Mr Elliot draw back?" "Mr Elliot," replied Mrs Smith, "at that period of his life, had one object in view: to make his fortune, and by a rather quicker process than the law. He was determined to make it by marriage. He was determined, at least, not to mar it by an imprudent marriage; and I know it was his belief (whether justly or not, of course I cannot decide), that your father and sister, in their civilities and invitations, were designing a match between the heir and the young lady, and it was impossible that such a match should have answered his ideas of wealth and independence. That was his motive for drawing back, I can assure you. He told me the whole story. He had no concealments with me. It was curious, that having just left you behind me in Bath, my first and principal acquaintance on marrying should be your cousin; and that, through him, I should be continually hearing of your father and sister. He described one Miss Elliot, and I thought very affectionately of the other." "Perhaps," cried Anne, struck by a sudden idea, "you sometimes spoke of me to Mr Elliot?" "To be sure I did; very often. I used to boast of my own Anne Elliot, and vouch for your being a very different creature from--" She checked herself just in time. "This accounts for something which Mr Elliot said last night," cried Anne. "This explains it. I found he had been used to hear of me. I could not comprehend how. What wild imaginations one forms where dear self is concerned! How sure to be mistaken! But I beg your pardon; I have interrupted you. Mr Elliot married then completely for money? The circumstances, probably, which first opened your eyes to his character." Mrs Smith hesitated a little here. "Oh! those things are too common. When one lives in the world, a man or woman's marrying for money is too common to strike one as it ought. I was very young, and associated only with the young, and we were a thoughtless, gay set, without any strict rules of conduct. We lived for enjoyment. I think differently now; time and sickness and sorrow have given me other notions; but at that period I must own I saw nothing reprehensible in what Mr Elliot was doing. 'To do the best for himself,' passed as a duty." "But was not she a very low woman?" "Yes; which I objected to, but he would not regard. Money, money, was all that he wanted. Her father was a grazier, her grandfather had been a butcher, but that was all nothing. She was a fine woman, had had a decent education, was brought forward by some cousins, thrown by chance into Mr Elliot's company, and fell in love with him; and not a difficulty or a scruple was there on his side, with respect to her birth. All his caution was spent in being secured of the real amount of her fortune, before he committed himself. Depend upon it, whatever esteem Mr Elliot may have for his own situation in life now, as a young man he had not the smallest value for it. His chance for the Kellynch estate was something, but all the honour of the family he held as cheap as dirt. I have often heard him declare, that if baronetcies were saleable, anybody should have his for fifty pounds, arms and motto, name and livery included; but I will not pretend to repeat half that I used to hear him say on that subject. It would not be fair; and yet you ought to have proof, for what is all this but assertion, and you shall have proof." "Indeed, my dear Mrs Smith, I want none," cried Anne. "You have asserted nothing contradictory to what Mr Elliot appeared to be some years ago. This is all in confirmation, rather, of what we used to hear and believe. I am more curious to know why he should be so different now." "But for my satisfaction, if you will have the goodness to ring for Mary; stay: I am sure you will have the still greater goodness of going yourself into my bedroom, and bringing me the small inlaid box which you will find on the upper shelf of the closet." Anne, seeing her friend to be earnestly bent on it, did as she was desired. The box was brought and placed before her, and Mrs Smith, sighing over it as she unlocked it, said-- "This is full of papers belonging to him, to my husband; a small portion only of what I had to look over when I lost him. The letter I am looking for was one written by Mr Elliot to him before our marriage, and happened to be saved; why, one can hardly imagine. But he was careless and immethodical, like other men, about those things; and when I came to examine his papers, I found it with others still more trivial, from different people scattered here and there, while many letters and memorandums of real importance had been destroyed. Here it is; I would not burn it, because being even then very little satisfied with Mr Elliot, I was determined to preserve every document of former intimacy. I have now another motive for being glad that I can produce it." This was the letter, directed to "Charles Smith, Esq. Tunbridge Wells," and dated from London, as far back as July, 1803:-- "Dear Smith,--I have received yours. Your kindness almost overpowers me. I wish nature had made such hearts as yours more common, but I have lived three-and-twenty years in the world, and have seen none like it. At present, believe me, I have no need of your services, being in cash again. Give me joy: I have got rid of Sir Walter and Miss. They are gone back to Kellynch, and almost made me swear to visit them this summer; but my first visit to Kellynch will be with a surveyor, to tell me how to bring it with best advantage to the hammer. The baronet, nevertheless, is not unlikely to marry again; he is quite fool enough. If he does, however, they will leave me in peace, which may be a decent equivalent for the reversion. He is worse than last year. "I wish I had any name but Elliot. I am sick of it. The name of Walter I can drop, thank God! and I desire you will never insult me with my second W. again, meaning, for the rest of my life, to be only yours truly,--Wm. Elliot." Such a letter could not be read without putting Anne in a glow; and Mrs Smith, observing the high colour in her face, said-- "The language, I know, is highly disrespectful. Though I have forgot the exact terms, I have a perfect impression of the general meaning. But it shows you the man. Mark his professions to my poor husband. Can any thing be stronger?" Anne could not immediately get over the shock and mortification of finding such words applied to her father. She was obliged to recollect that her seeing the letter was a violation of the laws of honour, that no one ought to be judged or to be known by such testimonies, that no private correspondence could bear the eye of others, before she could recover calmness enough to return the letter which she had been meditating over, and say-- "Thank you. This is full proof undoubtedly; proof of every thing you were saying. But why be acquainted with us now?" "I can explain this too," cried Mrs Smith, smiling. "Can you really?" "Yes. I have shewn you Mr Elliot as he was a dozen years ago, and I will shew him as he is now. I cannot produce written proof again, but I can give as authentic oral testimony as you can desire, of what he is now wanting, and what he is now doing. He is no hypocrite now. He truly wants to marry you. His present attentions to your family are very sincere: quite from the heart. I will give you my authority: his friend Colonel Wallis." "Colonel Wallis! you are acquainted with him?" "No. It does not come to me in quite so direct a line as that; it takes a bend or two, but nothing of consequence. The stream is as good as at first; the little rubbish it collects in the turnings is easily moved away. Mr Elliot talks unreservedly to Colonel Wallis of his views on you, which said Colonel Wallis, I imagine to be, in himself, a sensible, careful, discerning sort of character; but Colonel Wallis has a very pretty silly wife, to whom he tells things which he had better not, and he repeats it all to her. She in the overflowing spirits of her recovery, repeats it all to her nurse; and the nurse knowing my acquaintance with you, very naturally brings it all to me. On Monday evening, my good friend Mrs Rooke let me thus much into the secrets of Marlborough Buildings. When I talked of a whole history, therefore, you see I was not romancing so much as you supposed." "My dear Mrs Smith, your authority is deficient. This will not do. Mr Elliot's having any views on me will not in the least account for the efforts he made towards a reconciliation with my father. That was all prior to my coming to Bath. I found them on the most friendly terms when I arrived." "I know you did; I know it all perfectly, but--" "Indeed, Mrs Smith, we must not expect to get real information in such a line. Facts or opinions which are to pass through the hands of so many, to be misconceived by folly in one, and ignorance in another, can hardly have much truth left." "Only give me a hearing. You will soon be able to judge of the general credit due, by listening to some particulars which you can yourself immediately contradict or confirm. Nobody supposes that you were his first inducement. He had seen you indeed, before he came to Bath, and admired you, but without knowing it to be you. So says my historian, at least. Is this true? Did he see you last summer or autumn, 'somewhere down in the west,' to use her own words, without knowing it to be you?" "He certainly did. So far it is very true. At Lyme. I happened to be at Lyme." "Well," continued Mrs Smith, triumphantly, "grant my friend the credit due to the establishment of the first point asserted. He saw you then at Lyme, and liked you so well as to be exceedingly pleased to meet with you again in Camden Place, as Miss Anne Elliot, and from that moment, I have no doubt, had a double motive in his visits there. But there was another, and an earlier, which I will now explain. If there is anything in my story which you know to be either false or improbable, stop me. My account states, that your sister's friend, the lady now staying with you, whom I have heard you mention, came to Bath with Miss Elliot and Sir Walter as long ago as September (in short when they first came themselves), and has been staying there ever since; that she is a clever, insinuating, handsome woman, poor and plausible, and altogether such in situation and manner, as to give a general idea, among Sir Walter's acquaintance, of her meaning to be Lady Elliot, and as general a surprise that Miss Elliot should be apparently, blind to the danger." Here Mrs Smith paused a moment; but Anne had not a word to say, and she continued-- "This was the light in which it appeared to those who knew the family, long before you returned to it; and Colonel Wallis had his eye upon your father enough to be sensible of it, though he did not then visit in Camden Place; but his regard for Mr Elliot gave him an interest in watching all that was going on there, and when Mr Elliot came to Bath for a day or two, as he happened to do a little before Christmas, Colonel Wallis made him acquainted with the appearance of things, and the reports beginning to prevail. Now you are to understand, that time had worked a very material change in Mr Elliot's opinions as to the value of a baronetcy. Upon all points of blood and connexion he is a completely altered man. Having long had as much money as he could spend, nothing to wish for on the side of avarice or indulgence, he has been gradually learning to pin his happiness upon the consequence he is heir to. I thought it coming on before our acquaintance ceased, but it is now a confirmed feeling. He cannot bear the idea of not being Sir William. You may guess, therefore, that the news he heard from his friend could not be very agreeable, and you may guess what it produced; the resolution of coming back to Bath as soon as possible, and of fixing himself here for a time, with the view of renewing his former acquaintance, and recovering such a footing in the family as might give him the means of ascertaining the degree of his danger, and of circumventing the lady if he found it material. This was agreed upon between the two friends as the only thing to be done; and Colonel Wallis was to assist in every way that he could. He was to be introduced, and Mrs Wallis was to be introduced, and everybody was to be introduced. Mr Elliot came back accordingly; and on application was forgiven, as you know, and re-admitted into the family; and there it was his constant object, and his only object (till your arrival added another motive), to watch Sir Walter and Mrs Clay. He omitted no opportunity of being with them, threw himself in their way, called at all hours; but I need not be particular on this subject. You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do." "Yes," said Anne, "you tell me nothing which does not accord with what I have known, or could imagine. There is always something offensive in the details of cunning. The manoeuvres of selfishness and duplicity must ever be revolting, but I have heard nothing which really surprises me. I know those who would be shocked by such a representation of Mr Elliot, who would have difficulty in believing it; but I have never been satisfied. I have always wanted some other motive for his conduct than appeared. I should like to know his present opinion, as to the probability of the event he has been in dread of; whether he considers the danger to be lessening or not." "Lessening, I understand," replied Mrs Smith. "He thinks Mrs Clay afraid of him, aware that he sees through her, and not daring to proceed as she might do in his absence. But since he must be absent some time or other, I do not perceive how he can ever be secure while she holds her present influence. Mrs Wallis has an amusing idea, as nurse tells me, that it is to be put into the marriage articles when you and Mr Elliot marry, that your father is not to marry Mrs Clay. A scheme, worthy of Mrs Wallis's understanding, by all accounts; but my sensible nurse Rooke sees the absurdity of it. 'Why, to be sure, ma'am,' said she, 'it would not prevent his marrying anybody else.' And, indeed, to own the truth, I do not think nurse, in her heart, is a very strenuous opposer of Sir Walter's making a second match. She must be allowed to be a favourer of matrimony, you know; and (since self will intrude) who can say that she may not have some flying visions of attending the next Lady Elliot, through Mrs Wallis's recommendation?" "I am very glad to know all this," said Anne, after a little thoughtfulness. "It will be more painful to me in some respects to be in company with him, but I shall know better what to do. My line of conduct will be more direct. Mr Elliot is evidently a disingenuous, artificial, worldly man, who has never had any better principle to guide him than selfishness." But Mr Elliot was not done with. Mrs Smith had been carried away from her first direction, and Anne had forgotten, in the interest of her own family concerns, how much had been originally implied against him; but her attention was now called to the explanation of those first hints, and she listened to a recital which, if it did not perfectly justify the unqualified bitterness of Mrs Smith, proved him to have been very unfeeling in his conduct towards her; very deficient both in justice and compassion. She learned that (the intimacy between them continuing unimpaired by Mr Elliot's marriage) they had been as before always together, and Mr Elliot had led his friend into expenses much beyond his fortune. Mrs Smith did not want to take blame to herself, and was most tender of throwing any on her husband; but Anne could collect that their income had never been equal to their style of living, and that from the first there had been a great deal of general and joint extravagance. From his wife's account of him she could discern Mr Smith to have been a man of warm feelings, easy temper, careless habits, and not strong understanding, much more amiable than his friend, and very unlike him, led by him, and probably despised by him. Mr Elliot, raised by his marriage to great affluence, and disposed to every gratification of pleasure and vanity which could be commanded without involving himself, (for with all his self-indulgence he had become a prudent man), and beginning to be rich, just as his friend ought to have found himself to be poor, seemed to have had no concern at all for that friend's probable finances, but, on the contrary, had been prompting and encouraging expenses which could end only in ruin; and the Smiths accordingly had been ruined. The husband had died just in time to be spared the full knowledge of it. They had previously known embarrassments enough to try the friendship of their friends, and to prove that Mr Elliot's had better not be tried; but it was not till his death that the wretched state of his affairs was fully known. With a confidence in Mr Elliot's regard, more creditable to his feelings than his judgement, Mr Smith had appointed him the executor of his will; but Mr Elliot would not act, and the difficulties and distress which this refusal had heaped on her, in addition to the inevitable sufferings of her situation, had been such as could not be related without anguish of spirit, or listened to without corresponding indignation. Anne was shewn some letters of his on the occasion, answers to urgent applications from Mrs Smith, which all breathed the same stern resolution of not engaging in a fruitless trouble, and, under a cold civility, the same hard-hearted indifference to any of the evils it might bring on her. It was a dreadful picture of ingratitude and inhumanity; and Anne felt, at some moments, that no flagrant open crime could have been worse. She had a great deal to listen to; all the particulars of past sad scenes, all the minutiae of distress upon distress, which in former conversations had been merely hinted at, were dwelt on now with a natural indulgence. Anne could perfectly comprehend the exquisite relief, and was only the more inclined to wonder at the composure of her friend's usual state of mind. There was one circumstance in the history of her grievances of particular irritation. She had good reason to believe that some property of her husband in the West Indies, which had been for many years under a sort of sequestration for the payment of its own incumbrances, might be recoverable by proper measures; and this property, though not large, would be enough to make her comparatively rich. But there was nobody to stir in it. Mr Elliot would do nothing, and she could do nothing herself, equally disabled from personal exertion by her state of bodily weakness, and from employing others by her want of money. She had no natural connexions to assist her even with their counsel, and she could not afford to purchase the assistance of the law. This was a cruel aggravation of actually straitened means. To feel that she ought to be in better circumstances, that a little trouble in the right place might do it, and to fear that delay might be even weakening her claims, was hard to bear. It was on this point that she had hoped to engage Anne's good offices with Mr Elliot. She had previously, in the anticipation of their marriage, been very apprehensive of losing her friend by it; but on being assured that he could have made no attempt of that nature, since he did not even know her to be in Bath, it immediately occurred, that something might be done in her favour by the influence of the woman he loved, and she had been hastily preparing to interest Anne's feelings, as far as the observances due to Mr Elliot's character would allow, when Anne's refutation of the supposed engagement changed the face of everything; and while it took from her the new-formed hope of succeeding in the object of her first anxiety, left her at least the comfort of telling the whole story her own way. After listening to this full description of Mr Elliot, Anne could not but express some surprise at Mrs Smith's having spoken of him so favourably in the beginning of their conversation. "She had seemed to recommend and praise him!" "My dear," was Mrs Smith's reply, "there was nothing else to be done. I considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had been your husband. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first wife. They were wretched together. But she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her. I was willing to hope that you must fare better." Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having been induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the misery which must have followed. It was just possible that she might have been persuaded by Lady Russell! And under such a supposition, which would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late? It was very desirable that Lady Russell should be no longer deceived; and one of the concluding arrangements of this important conference, which carried them through the greater part of the morning, was, that Anne had full liberty to communicate to her friend everything relative to Mrs Smith, in which his conduct was involved. Chapter 22 Anne went home to think over all that she had heard. In one point, her feelings were relieved by this knowledge of Mr Elliot. There was no longer anything of tenderness due to him. He stood as opposed to Captain Wentworth, in all his own unwelcome obtrusiveness; and the evil of his attentions last night, the irremediable mischief he might have done, was considered with sensations unqualified, unperplexed. Pity for him was all over. But this was the only point of relief. In every other respect, in looking around her, or penetrating forward, she saw more to distrust and to apprehend. She was concerned for the disappointment and pain Lady Russell would be feeling; for the mortifications which must be hanging over her father and sister, and had all the distress of foreseeing many evils, without knowing how to avert any one of them. She was most thankful for her own knowledge of him. She had never considered herself as entitled to reward for not slighting an old friend like Mrs Smith, but here was a reward indeed springing from it! Mrs Smith had been able to tell her what no one else could have done. Could the knowledge have been extended through her family? But this was a vain idea. She must talk to Lady Russell, tell her, consult with her, and having done her best, wait the event with as much composure as possible; and after all, her greatest want of composure would be in that quarter of the mind which could not be opened to Lady Russell; in that flow of anxieties and fears which must be all to herself. She found, on reaching home, that she had, as she intended, escaped seeing Mr Elliot; that he had called and paid them a long morning visit; but hardly had she congratulated herself, and felt safe, when she heard that he was coming again in the evening. "I had not the smallest intention of asking him," said Elizabeth, with affected carelessness, "but he gave so many hints; so Mrs Clay says, at least." "Indeed, I do say it. I never saw anybody in my life spell harder for an invitation. Poor man! I was really in pain for him; for your hard-hearted sister, Miss Anne, seems bent on cruelty." "Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I have been rather too much used to the game to be soon overcome by a gentleman's hints. However, when I found how excessively he was regretting that he should miss my father this morning, I gave way immediately, for I would never really omit an opportunity of bringing him and Sir Walter together. They appear to so much advantage in company with each other. Each behaving so pleasantly. Mr Elliot looking up with so much respect." "Quite delightful!" cried Mrs Clay, not daring, however, to turn her eyes towards Anne. "Exactly like father and son! Dear Miss Elliot, may I not say father and son?" "Oh! I lay no embargo on any body's words. If you will have such ideas! But, upon my word, I am scarcely sensible of his attentions being beyond those of other men." "My dear Miss Elliot!" exclaimed Mrs Clay, lifting her hands and eyes, and sinking all the rest of her astonishment in a convenient silence. "Well, my dear Penelope, you need not be so alarmed about him. I did invite him, you know. I sent him away with smiles. When I found he was really going to his friends at Thornberry Park for the whole day to-morrow, I had compassion on him." Anne admired the good acting of the friend, in being able to shew such pleasure as she did, in the expectation and in the actual arrival of the very person whose presence must really be interfering with her prime object. It was impossible but that Mrs Clay must hate the sight of Mr Elliot; and yet she could assume a most obliging, placid look, and appear quite satisfied with the curtailed license of devoting herself only half as much to Sir Walter as she would have done otherwise. To Anne herself it was most distressing to see Mr Elliot enter the room; and quite painful to have him approach and speak to her. She had been used before to feel that he could not be always quite sincere, but now she saw insincerity in everything. His attentive deference to her father, contrasted with his former language, was odious; and when she thought of his cruel conduct towards Mrs Smith, she could hardly bear the sight of his present smiles and mildness, or the sound of his artificial good sentiments. She meant to avoid any such alteration of manners as might provoke a remonstrance on his side. It was a great object to her to escape all enquiry or eclat; but it was her intention to be as decidedly cool to him as might be compatible with their relationship; and to retrace, as quietly as she could, the few steps of unnecessary intimacy she had been gradually led along. She was accordingly more guarded, and more cool, than she had been the night before. He wanted to animate her curiosity again as to how and where he could have heard her formerly praised; wanted very much to be gratified by more solicitation; but the charm was broken: he found that the heat and animation of a public room was necessary to kindle his modest cousin's vanity; he found, at least, that it was not to be done now, by any of those attempts which he could hazard among the too-commanding claims of the others. He little surmised that it was a subject acting now exactly against his interest, bringing immediately to her thoughts all those parts of his conduct which were least excusable. She had some satisfaction in finding that he was really going out of Bath the next morning, going early, and that he would be gone the greater part of two days. He was invited again to Camden Place the very evening of his return; but from Thursday to Saturday evening his absence was certain. It was bad enough that a Mrs Clay should be always before her; but that a deeper hypocrite should be added to their party, seemed the destruction of everything like peace and comfort. It was so humiliating to reflect on the constant deception practised on her father and Elizabeth; to consider the various sources of mortification preparing for them! Mrs Clay's selfishness was not so complicate nor so revolting as his; and Anne would have compounded for the marriage at once, with all its evils, to be clear of Mr Elliot's subtleties in endeavouring to prevent it. On Friday morning she meant to go very early to Lady Russell, and accomplish the necessary communication; and she would have gone directly after breakfast, but that Mrs Clay was also going out on some obliging purpose of saving her sister trouble, which determined her to wait till she might be safe from such a companion. She saw Mrs Clay fairly off, therefore, before she began to talk of spending the morning in Rivers Street. "Very well," said Elizabeth, "I have nothing to send but my love. Oh! you may as well take back that tiresome book she would lend me, and pretend I have read it through. I really cannot be plaguing myself for ever with all the new poems and states of the nation that come out. Lady Russell quite bores one with her new publications. You need not tell her so, but I thought her dress hideous the other night. I used to think she had some taste in dress, but I was ashamed of her at the concert. Something so formal and _arrangé_ in her air! and she sits so upright! My best love, of course." "And mine," added Sir Walter. "Kindest regards. And you may say, that I mean to call upon her soon. Make a civil message; but I shall only leave my card. Morning visits are never fair by women at her time of life, who make themselves up so little. If she would only wear rouge she would not be afraid of being seen; but last time I called, I observed the blinds were let down immediately." While her father spoke, there was a knock at the door. Who could it be? Anne, remembering the preconcerted visits, at all hours, of Mr Elliot, would have expected him, but for his known engagement seven miles off. After the usual period of suspense, the usual sounds of approach were heard, and "Mr and Mrs Charles Musgrove" were ushered into the room. Surprise was the strongest emotion raised by their appearance; but Anne was really glad to see them; and the others were not so sorry but that they could put on a decent air of welcome; and as soon as it became clear that these, their nearest relations, were not arrived with any views of accommodation in that house, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were able to rise in cordiality, and do the honours of it very well. They were come to Bath for a few days with Mrs Musgrove, and were at the White Hart. So much was pretty soon understood; but till Sir Walter and Elizabeth were walking Mary into the other drawing-room, and regaling themselves with her admiration, Anne could not draw upon Charles's brain for a regular history of their coming, or an explanation of some smiling hints of particular business, which had been ostentatiously dropped by Mary, as well as of some apparent confusion as to whom their party consisted of. She then found that it consisted of Mrs Musgrove, Henrietta, and Captain Harville, beside their two selves. He gave her a very plain, intelligible account of the whole; a narration in which she saw a great deal of most characteristic proceeding. The scheme had received its first impulse by Captain Harville's wanting to come to Bath on business. He had begun to talk of it a week ago; and by way of doing something, as shooting was over, Charles had proposed coming with him, and Mrs Harville had seemed to like the idea of it very much, as an advantage to her husband; but Mary could not bear to be left, and had made herself so unhappy about it, that for a day or two everything seemed to be in suspense, or at an end. But then, it had been taken up by his father and mother. His mother had some old friends in Bath whom she wanted to see; it was thought a good opportunity for Henrietta to come and buy wedding-clothes for herself and her sister; and, in short, it ended in being his mother's party, that everything might be comfortable and easy to Captain Harville; and he and Mary were included in it by way of general convenience. They had arrived late the night before. Mrs Harville, her children, and Captain Benwick, remained with Mr Musgrove and Louisa at Uppercross. Anne's only surprise was, that affairs should be in forwardness enough for Henrietta's wedding-clothes to be talked of. She had imagined such difficulties of fortune to exist there as must prevent the marriage from being near at hand; but she learned from Charles that, very recently, (since Mary's last letter to herself), Charles Hayter had been applied to by a friend to hold a living for a youth who could not possibly claim it under many years; and that on the strength of his present income, with almost a certainty of something more permanent long before the term in question, the two families had consented to the young people's wishes, and that their marriage was likely to take place in a few months, quite as soon as Louisa's. "And a very good living it was," Charles added: "only five-and-twenty miles from Uppercross, and in a very fine country: fine part of Dorsetshire. In the centre of some of the best preserves in the kingdom, surrounded by three great proprietors, each more careful and jealous than the other; and to two of the three at least, Charles Hayter might get a special recommendation. Not that he will value it as he ought," he observed, "Charles is too cool about sporting. That's the worst of him." "I am extremely glad, indeed," cried Anne, "particularly glad that this should happen; and that of two sisters, who both deserve equally well, and who have always been such good friends, the pleasant prospect of one should not be dimming those of the other--that they should be so equal in their prosperity and comfort. I hope your father and mother are quite happy with regard to both." "Oh! yes. My father would be well pleased if the gentlemen were richer, but he has no other fault to find. Money, you know, coming down with money--two daughters at once--it cannot be a very agreeable operation, and it streightens him as to many things. However, I do not mean to say they have not a right to it. It is very fit they should have daughters' shares; and I am sure he has always been a very kind, liberal father to me. Mary does not above half like Henrietta's match. She never did, you know. But she does not do him justice, nor think enough about Winthrop. I cannot make her attend to the value of the property. It is a very fair match, as times go; and I have liked Charles Hayter all my life, and I shall not leave off now." "Such excellent parents as Mr and Mrs Musgrove," exclaimed Anne, "should be happy in their children's marriages. They do everything to confer happiness, I am sure. What a blessing to young people to be in such hands! Your father and mother seem so totally free from all those ambitious feelings which have led to so much misconduct and misery, both in young and old. I hope you think Louisa perfectly recovered now?" He answered rather hesitatingly, "Yes, I believe I do; very much recovered; but she is altered; there is no running or jumping about, no laughing or dancing; it is quite different. If one happens only to shut the door a little hard, she starts and wriggles like a young dab-chick in the water; and Benwick sits at her elbow, reading verses, or whispering to her, all day long." Anne could not help laughing. "That cannot be much to your taste, I know," said she; "but I do believe him to be an excellent young man." "To be sure he is. Nobody doubts it; and I hope you do not think I am so illiberal as to want every man to have the same objects and pleasures as myself. I have a great value for Benwick; and when one can but get him to talk, he has plenty to say. His reading has done him no harm, for he has fought as well as read. He is a brave fellow. I got more acquainted with him last Monday than ever I did before. We had a famous set-to at rat-hunting all the morning in my father's great barns; and he played his part so well that I have liked him the better ever since." Here they were interrupted by the absolute necessity of Charles's following the others to admire mirrors and china; but Anne had heard enough to understand the present state of Uppercross, and rejoice in its happiness; and though she sighed as she rejoiced, her sigh had none of the ill-will of envy in it. She would certainly have risen to their blessings if she could, but she did not want to lessen theirs. The visit passed off altogether in high good humour. Mary was in excellent spirits, enjoying the gaiety and the change, and so well satisfied with the journey in her mother-in-law's carriage with four horses, and with her own complete independence of Camden Place, that she was exactly in a temper to admire everything as she ought, and enter most readily into all the superiorities of the house, as they were detailed to her. She had no demands on her father or sister, and her consequence was just enough increased by their handsome drawing-rooms. Elizabeth was, for a short time, suffering a good deal. She felt that Mrs Musgrove and all her party ought to be asked to dine with them; but she could not bear to have the difference of style, the reduction of servants, which a dinner must betray, witnessed by those who had been always so inferior to the Elliots of Kellynch. It was a struggle between propriety and vanity; but vanity got the better, and then Elizabeth was happy again. These were her internal persuasions: "Old fashioned notions; country hospitality; we do not profess to give dinners; few people in Bath do; Lady Alicia never does; did not even ask her own sister's family, though they were here a month: and I dare say it would be very inconvenient to Mrs Musgrove; put her quite out of her way. I am sure she would rather not come; she cannot feel easy with us. I will ask them all for an evening; that will be much better; that will be a novelty and a treat. They have not seen two such drawing rooms before. They will be delighted to come to-morrow evening. It shall be a regular party, small, but most elegant." And this satisfied Elizabeth: and when the invitation was given to the two present, and promised for the absent, Mary was as completely satisfied. She was particularly asked to meet Mr Elliot, and be introduced to Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret, who were fortunately already engaged to come; and she could not have received a more gratifying attention. Miss Elliot was to have the honour of calling on Mrs Musgrove in the course of the morning; and Anne walked off with Charles and Mary, to go and see her and Henrietta directly. Her plan of sitting with Lady Russell must give way for the present. They all three called in Rivers Street for a couple of minutes; but Anne convinced herself that a day's delay of the intended communication could be of no consequence, and hastened forward to the White Hart, to see again the friends and companions of the last autumn, with an eagerness of good-will which many associations contributed to form. They found Mrs Musgrove and her daughter within, and by themselves, and Anne had the kindest welcome from each. Henrietta was exactly in that state of recently-improved views, of fresh-formed happiness, which made her full of regard and interest for everybody she had ever liked before at all; and Mrs Musgrove's real affection had been won by her usefulness when they were in distress. It was a heartiness, and a warmth, and a sincerity which Anne delighted in the more, from the sad want of such blessings at home. She was entreated to give them as much of her time as possible, invited for every day and all day long, or rather claimed as part of the family; and, in return, she naturally fell into all her wonted ways of attention and assistance, and on Charles's leaving them together, was listening to Mrs Musgrove's history of Louisa, and to Henrietta's of herself, giving opinions on business, and recommendations to shops; with intervals of every help which Mary required, from altering her ribbon to settling her accounts; from finding her keys, and assorting her trinkets, to trying to convince her that she was not ill-used by anybody; which Mary, well amused as she generally was, in her station at a window overlooking the entrance to the Pump Room, could not but have her moments of imagining. A morning of thorough confusion was to be expected. A large party in an hotel ensured a quick-changing, unsettled scene. One five minutes brought a note, the next a parcel; and Anne had not been there half an hour, when their dining-room, spacious as it was, seemed more than half filled: a party of steady old friends were seated around Mrs Musgrove, and Charles came back with Captains Harville and Wentworth. The appearance of the latter could not be more than the surprise of the moment. It was impossible for her to have forgotten to feel that this arrival of their common friends must be soon bringing them together again. Their last meeting had been most important in opening his feelings; she had derived from it a delightful conviction; but she feared from his looks, that the same unfortunate persuasion, which had hastened him away from the Concert Room, still governed. He did not seem to want to be near enough for conversation. She tried to be calm, and leave things to take their course, and tried to dwell much on this argument of rational dependence:--"Surely, if there be constant attachment on each side, our hearts must understand each other ere long. We are not boy and girl, to be captiously irritable, misled by every moment's inadvertence, and wantonly playing with our own happiness." And yet, a few minutes afterwards, she felt as if their being in company with each other, under their present circumstances, could only be exposing them to inadvertencies and misconstructions of the most mischievous kind. "Anne," cried Mary, still at her window, "there is Mrs Clay, I am sure, standing under the colonnade, and a gentleman with her. I saw them turn the corner from Bath Street just now. They seemed deep in talk. Who is it? Come, and tell me. Good heavens! I recollect. It is Mr Elliot himself." "No," cried Anne, quickly, "it cannot be Mr Elliot, I assure you. He was to leave Bath at nine this morning, and does not come back till to-morrow." As she spoke, she felt that Captain Wentworth was looking at her, the consciousness of which vexed and embarrassed her, and made her regret that she had said so much, simple as it was. Mary, resenting that she should be supposed not to know her own cousin, began talking very warmly about the family features, and protesting still more positively that it was Mr Elliot, calling again upon Anne to come and look for herself, but Anne did not mean to stir, and tried to be cool and unconcerned. Her distress returned, however, on perceiving smiles and intelligent glances pass between two or three of the lady visitors, as if they believed themselves quite in the secret. It was evident that the report concerning her had spread, and a short pause succeeded, which seemed to ensure that it would now spread farther. "Do come, Anne," cried Mary, "come and look yourself. You will be too late if you do not make haste. They are parting; they are shaking hands. He is turning away. Not know Mr Elliot, indeed! You seem to have forgot all about Lyme." To pacify Mary, and perhaps screen her own embarrassment, Anne did move quietly to the window. She was just in time to ascertain that it really was Mr Elliot, which she had never believed, before he disappeared on one side, as Mrs Clay walked quickly off on the other; and checking the surprise which she could not but feel at such an appearance of friendly conference between two persons of totally opposite interest, she calmly said, "Yes, it is Mr Elliot, certainly. He has changed his hour of going, I suppose, that is all, or I may be mistaken, I might not attend;" and walked back to her chair, recomposed, and with the comfortable hope of having acquitted herself well. The visitors took their leave; and Charles, having civilly seen them off, and then made a face at them, and abused them for coming, began with-- "Well, mother, I have done something for you that you will like. I have been to the theatre, and secured a box for to-morrow night. A'n't I a good boy? I know you love a play; and there is room for us all. It holds nine. I have engaged Captain Wentworth. Anne will not be sorry to join us, I am sure. We all like a play. Have not I done well, mother?" Mrs Musgrove was good humouredly beginning to express her perfect readiness for the play, if Henrietta and all the others liked it, when Mary eagerly interrupted her by exclaiming-- "Good heavens, Charles! how can you think of such a thing? Take a box for to-morrow night! Have you forgot that we are engaged to Camden Place to-morrow night? and that we were most particularly asked to meet Lady Dalrymple and her daughter, and Mr Elliot, and all the principal family connexions, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be so forgetful?" "Phoo! phoo!" replied Charles, "what's an evening party? Never worth remembering. Your father might have asked us to dinner, I think, if he had wanted to see us. You may do as you like, but I shall go to the play." "Oh! Charles, I declare it will be too abominable if you do, when you promised to go." "No, I did not promise. I only smirked and bowed, and said the word 'happy.' There was no promise." "But you must go, Charles. It would be unpardonable to fail. We were asked on purpose to be introduced. There was always such a great connexion between the Dalrymples and ourselves. Nothing ever happened on either side that was not announced immediately. We are quite near relations, you know; and Mr Elliot too, whom you ought so particularly to be acquainted with! Every attention is due to Mr Elliot. Consider, my father's heir: the future representative of the family." "Don't talk to me about heirs and representatives," cried Charles. "I am not one of those who neglect the reigning power to bow to the rising sun. If I would not go for the sake of your father, I should think it scandalous to go for the sake of his heir. What is Mr Elliot to me?" The careless expression was life to Anne, who saw that Captain Wentworth was all attention, looking and listening with his whole soul; and that the last words brought his enquiring eyes from Charles to herself. Charles and Mary still talked on in the same style; he, half serious and half jesting, maintaining the scheme for the play, and she, invariably serious, most warmly opposing it, and not omitting to make it known that, however determined to go to Camden Place herself, she should not think herself very well used, if they went to the play without her. Mrs Musgrove interposed. "We had better put it off. Charles, you had much better go back and change the box for Tuesday. It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Miss Anne, too, if there is a party at her father's; and I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play, if Miss Anne could not be with us." Anne felt truly obliged to her for such kindness; and quite as much so for the opportunity it gave her of decidedly saying-- "If it depended only on my inclination, ma'am, the party at home (excepting on Mary's account) would not be the smallest impediment. I have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you. But, it had better not be attempted, perhaps." She had spoken it; but she trembled when it was done, conscious that her words were listened to, and daring not even to try to observe their effect. It was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day; Charles only reserving the advantage of still teasing his wife, by persisting that he would go to the play to-morrow if nobody else would. Captain Wentworth left his seat, and walked to the fire-place; probably for the sake of walking away from it soon afterwards, and taking a station, with less bare-faced design, by Anne. "You have not been long enough in Bath," said he, "to enjoy the evening parties of the place." "Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player." "You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes." "I am not yet so much changed," cried Anne, and stopped, fearing she hardly knew what misconstruction. After waiting a few moments he said, and as if it were the result of immediate feeling, "It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a half is a period." Whether he would have proceeded farther was left to Anne's imagination to ponder over in a calmer hour; for while still hearing the sounds he had uttered, she was startled to other subjects by Henrietta, eager to make use of the present leisure for getting out, and calling on her companions to lose no time, lest somebody else should come in. They were obliged to move. Anne talked of being perfectly ready, and tried to look it; but she felt that could Henrietta have known the regret and reluctance of her heart in quitting that chair, in preparing to quit the room, she would have found, in all her own sensations for her cousin, in the very security of his affection, wherewith to pity her. Their preparations, however, were stopped short. Alarming sounds were heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open for Sir Walter and Miss Elliot, whose entrance seemed to give a general chill. Anne felt an instant oppression, and wherever she looked saw symptoms of the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to meet the heartless elegance of her father and sister. How mortifying to feel that it was so! Her jealous eye was satisfied in one particular. Captain Wentworth was acknowledged again by each, by Elizabeth more graciously than before. She even addressed him once, and looked at him more than once. Elizabeth was, in fact, revolving a great measure. The sequel explained it. After the waste of a few minutes in saying the proper nothings, she began to give the invitation which was to comprise all the remaining dues of the Musgroves. "To-morrow evening, to meet a few friends: no formal party." It was all said very gracefully, and the cards with which she had provided herself, the "Miss Elliot at home," were laid on the table, with a courteous, comprehensive smile to all, and one smile and one card more decidedly for Captain Wentworth. The truth was, that Elizabeth had been long enough in Bath to understand the importance of a man of such an air and appearance as his. The past was nothing. The present was that Captain Wentworth would move about well in her drawing-room. The card was pointedly given, and Sir Walter and Elizabeth arose and disappeared. The interruption had been short, though severe, and ease and animation returned to most of those they left as the door shut them out, but not to Anne. She could think only of the invitation she had with such astonishment witnessed, and of the manner in which it had been received; a manner of doubtful meaning, of surprise rather than gratification, of polite acknowledgement rather than acceptance. She knew him; she saw disdain in his eye, and could not venture to believe that he had determined to accept such an offering, as an atonement for all the insolence of the past. Her spirits sank. He held the card in his hand after they were gone, as if deeply considering it. "Only think of Elizabeth's including everybody!" whispered Mary very audibly. "I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card out of his hand." Anne caught his eye, saw his cheeks glow, and his mouth form itself into a momentary expression of contempt, and turned away, that she might neither see nor hear more to vex her. The party separated. The gentlemen had their own pursuits, the ladies proceeded on their own business, and they met no more while Anne belonged to them. She was earnestly begged to return and dine, and give them all the rest of the day, but her spirits had been so long exerted that at present she felt unequal to more, and fit only for home, where she might be sure of being as silent as she chose. Promising to be with them the whole of the following morning, therefore, she closed the fatigues of the present by a toilsome walk to Camden Place, there to spend the evening chiefly in listening to the busy arrangements of Elizabeth and Mrs Clay for the morrow's party, the frequent enumeration of the persons invited, and the continually improving detail of all the embellishments which were to make it the most completely elegant of its kind in Bath, while harassing herself with the never-ending question, of whether Captain Wentworth would come or not? They were reckoning him as certain, but with her it was a gnawing solicitude never appeased for five minutes together. She generally thought he would come, because she generally thought he ought; but it was a case which she could not so shape into any positive act of duty or discretion, as inevitably to defy the suggestions of very opposite feelings. She only roused herself from the broodings of this restless agitation, to let Mrs Clay know that she had been seen with Mr Elliot three hours after his being supposed to be out of Bath, for having watched in vain for some intimation of the interview from the lady herself, she determined to mention it, and it seemed to her there was guilt in Mrs Clay's face as she listened. It was transient: cleared away in an instant; but Anne could imagine she read there the consciousness of having, by some complication of mutual trick, or some overbearing authority of his, been obliged to attend (perhaps for half an hour) to his lectures and restrictions on her designs on Sir Walter. She exclaimed, however, with a very tolerable imitation of nature:-- "Oh! dear! very true. Only think, Miss Elliot, to my great surprise I met with Mr Elliot in Bath Street. I was never more astonished. He turned back and walked with me to the Pump Yard. He had been prevented setting off for Thornberry, but I really forget by what; for I was in a hurry, and could not much attend, and I can only answer for his being determined not to be delayed in his return. He wanted to know how early he might be admitted to-morrow. He was full of 'to-morrow,' and it is very evident that I have been full of it too, ever since I entered the house, and learnt the extension of your plan and all that had happened, or my seeing him could never have gone so entirely out of my head." Chapter 23 One day only had passed since Anne's conversation with Mrs Smith; but a keener interest had succeeded, and she was now so little touched by Mr Elliot's conduct, except by its effects in one quarter, that it became a matter of course the next morning, still to defer her explanatory visit in Rivers Street. She had promised to be with the Musgroves from breakfast to dinner. Her faith was plighted, and Mr Elliot's character, like the Sultaness Scheherazade's head, must live another day. She could not keep her appointment punctually, however; the weather was unfavourable, and she had grieved over the rain on her friends' account, and felt it very much on her own, before she was able to attempt the walk. When she reached the White Hart, and made her way to the proper apartment, she found herself neither arriving quite in time, nor the first to arrive. The party before her were, Mrs Musgrove, talking to Mrs Croft, and Captain Harville to Captain Wentworth; and she immediately heard that Mary and Henrietta, too impatient to wait, had gone out the moment it had cleared, but would be back again soon, and that the strictest injunctions had been left with Mrs Musgrove to keep her there till they returned. She had only to submit, sit down, be outwardly composed, and feel herself plunged at once in all the agitations which she had merely laid her account of tasting a little before the morning closed. There was no delay, no waste of time. She was deep in the happiness of such misery, or the misery of such happiness, instantly. Two minutes after her entering the room, Captain Wentworth said-- "We will write the letter we were talking of, Harville, now, if you will give me materials." Materials were at hand, on a separate table; he went to it, and nearly turning his back to them all, was engrossed by writing. Mrs Musgrove was giving Mrs Croft the history of her eldest daughter's engagement, and just in that inconvenient tone of voice which was perfectly audible while it pretended to be a whisper. Anne felt that she did not belong to the conversation, and yet, as Captain Harville seemed thoughtful and not disposed to talk, she could not avoid hearing many undesirable particulars; such as, "how Mr Musgrove and my brother Hayter had met again and again to talk it over; what my brother Hayter had said one day, and what Mr Musgrove had proposed the next, and what had occurred to my sister Hayter, and what the young people had wished, and what I said at first I never could consent to, but was afterwards persuaded to think might do very well," and a great deal in the same style of open-hearted communication: minutiae which, even with every advantage of taste and delicacy, which good Mrs Musgrove could not give, could be properly interesting only to the principals. Mrs Croft was attending with great good-humour, and whenever she spoke at all, it was very sensibly. Anne hoped the gentlemen might each be too much self-occupied to hear. "And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet, altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for Charles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement." "That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft. "I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. I always think that no mutual--" "Oh! dear Mrs Croft," cried Mrs Musgrove, unable to let her finish her speech, "there is nothing I so abominate for young people as a long engagement. It is what I always protested against for my children. It is all very well, I used to say, for young people to be engaged, if there is a certainty of their being able to marry in six months, or even in twelve; but a long engagement--" "Yes, dear ma'am," said Mrs Croft, "or an uncertain engagement, an engagement which may be long. To begin without knowing that at such a time there will be the means of marrying, I hold to be very unsafe and unwise, and what I think all parents should prevent as far as they can." Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her. The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion. Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character. "Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?" "Certainly: Captain Benwick." "Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," (in a deep tone,) "it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then--but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;" (looking towards Captain Wentworth,) "he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!" "No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe." "It was not in her nature. She doted on him." "It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved." Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions." "Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since." "True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick." "No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather." "Your feelings may be the strongest," replied Anne, "but the same spirit of analogy will authorise me to assert that ours are the most tender. Man is more robust than woman, but he is not longer lived; which exactly explains my view of the nature of their attachments. Nay, it would be too hard upon you, if it were otherwise. You have difficulties, and privations, and dangers enough to struggle with. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be hard, indeed" (with a faltering voice), "if woman's feelings were to be added to all this." "We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught. "Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Harville. "Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes." "There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are. I am in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne,) "well supplied, and want for nothing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot," (lowering his voice,) "as I was saying we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No man and woman, would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you--all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men." "Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." "But how shall we prove anything?" "We never shall. We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a point. It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some respect saying what should not be said." "Ah!" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, "if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows whether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a twelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!" pressing his own with emotion. "Oh!" cried Anne eagerly, "I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as--if I may be allowed the expression--so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone." She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed. "You are a good soul," cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her arm, quite affectionately. "There is no quarrelling with you. And when I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied." Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs Croft was taking leave. "Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe," said she. "I am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to Anne.) "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?" Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully. "Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute." Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to understand it. She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look! He had passed out of the room without a look! She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware of his being in it: the work of an instant! The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A. E.--," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words: "I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W. "I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never." Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was overpowering happiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in. The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. She began not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse herself. They could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. This was dreadful. Would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home. "By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a chair. She must not walk." But the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night. Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said-- "I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both." "Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going." "Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me." "To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say." Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent. They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said-- "Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?" "I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised. "Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop." There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and today there could scarcely be an end. She had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment. That had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last four-and-twenty hours. It had been gradually yielding to the better hopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it had been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which had reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the irresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and poured out his feelings. Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified. He persisted in having loved none but her. She had never been supplanted. He never even believed himself to see her equal. Thus much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness; but he was obliged to acknowledge that only at Uppercross had he learnt to do her justice, and only at Lyme had he begun to understand himself. At Lyme, he had received lessons of more than one sort. The passing admiration of Mr Elliot had at least roused him, and the scenes on the Cobb and at Captain Harville's had fixed her superiority. In his preceding attempts to attach himself to Louisa Musgrove (the attempts of angry pride), he protested that he had for ever felt it to be impossible; that he had not cared, could not care, for Louisa; though till that day, till the leisure for reflection which followed it, he had not understood the perfect excellence of the mind with which Louisa's could so ill bear a comparison, or the perfect unrivalled hold it possessed over his own. There, he had learnt to distinguish between the steadiness of principle and the obstinacy of self-will, between the darings of heedlessness and the resolution of a collected mind. There he had seen everything to exalt in his estimation the woman he had lost; and there begun to deplore the pride, the folly, the madness of resentment, which had kept him from trying to regain her when thrown in his way. From that period his penance had become severe. He had no sooner been free from the horror and remorse attending the first few days of Louisa's accident, no sooner begun to feel himself alive again, than he had begun to feel himself, though alive, not at liberty. "I found," said he, "that I was considered by Harville an engaged man! That neither Harville nor his wife entertained a doubt of our mutual attachment. I was startled and shocked. To a degree, I could contradict this instantly; but, when I began to reflect that others might have felt the same--her own family, nay, perhaps herself--I was no longer at my own disposal. I was hers in honour if she wished it. I had been unguarded. I had not thought seriously on this subject before. I had not considered that my excessive intimacy must have its danger of ill consequence in many ways; and that I had no right to be trying whether I could attach myself to either of the girls, at the risk of raising even an unpleasant report, were there no other ill effects. I had been grossly wrong, and must abide the consequences." He found too late, in short, that he had entangled himself; and that precisely as he became fully satisfied of his not caring for Louisa at all, he must regard himself as bound to her, if her sentiments for him were what the Harvilles supposed. It determined him to leave Lyme, and await her complete recovery elsewhere. He would gladly weaken, by any fair means, whatever feelings or speculations concerning him might exist; and he went, therefore, to his brother's, meaning after a while to return to Kellynch, and act as circumstances might require. "I was six weeks with Edward," said he, "and saw him happy. I could have no other pleasure. I deserved none. He enquired after you very particularly; asked even if you were personally altered, little suspecting that to my eye you could never alter." Anne smiled, and let it pass. It was too pleasing a blunder for a reproach. It is something for a woman to be assured, in her eight-and-twentieth year, that she has not lost one charm of earlier youth; but the value of such homage was inexpressibly increased to Anne, by comparing it with former words, and feeling it to be the result, not the cause of a revival of his warm attachment. He had remained in Shropshire, lamenting the blindness of his own pride, and the blunders of his own calculations, till at once released from Louisa by the astonishing and felicitous intelligence of her engagement with Benwick. "Here," said he, "ended the worst of my state; for now I could at least put myself in the way of happiness; I could exert myself; I could do something. But to be waiting so long in inaction, and waiting only for evil, had been dreadful. Within the first five minutes I said, 'I will be at Bath on Wednesday,' and I was. Was it unpardonable to think it worth my while to come? and to arrive with some degree of hope? You were single. It was possible that you might retain the feelings of the past, as I did; and one encouragement happened to be mine. I could never doubt that you would be loved and sought by others, but I knew to a certainty that you had refused one man, at least, of better pretensions than myself; and I could not help often saying, 'Was this for me?'" Their first meeting in Milsom Street afforded much to be said, but the concert still more. That evening seemed to be made up of exquisite moments. The moment of her stepping forward in the Octagon Room to speak to him: the moment of Mr Elliot's appearing and tearing her away, and one or two subsequent moments, marked by returning hope or increasing despondency, were dwelt on with energy. "To see you," cried he, "in the midst of those who could not be my well-wishers; to see your cousin close by you, conversing and smiling, and feel all the horrible eligibilities and proprieties of the match! To consider it as the certain wish of every being who could hope to influence you! Even if your own feelings were reluctant or indifferent, to consider what powerful supports would be his! Was it not enough to make the fool of me which I appeared? How could I look on without agony? Was not the very sight of the friend who sat behind you, was not the recollection of what had been, the knowledge of her influence, the indelible, immoveable impression of what persuasion had once done--was it not all against me?" "You should have distinguished," replied Anne. "You should not have suspected me now; the case is so different, and my age is so different. If I was wrong in yielding to persuasion once, remember that it was to persuasion exerted on the side of safety, not of risk. When I yielded, I thought it was to duty, but no duty could be called in aid here. In marrying a man indifferent to me, all risk would have been incurred, and all duty violated." "Perhaps I ought to have reasoned thus," he replied, "but I could not. I could not derive benefit from the late knowledge I had acquired of your character. I could not bring it into play; it was overwhelmed, buried, lost in those earlier feelings which I had been smarting under year after year. I could think of you only as one who had yielded, who had given me up, who had been influenced by any one rather than by me. I saw you with the very person who had guided you in that year of misery. I had no reason to believe her of less authority now. The force of habit was to be added." "I should have thought," said Anne, "that my manner to yourself might have spared you much or all of this." "No, no! your manner might be only the ease which your engagement to another man would give. I left you in this belief; and yet, I was determined to see you again. My spirits rallied with the morning, and I felt that I had still a motive for remaining here." At last Anne was at home again, and happier than any one in that house could have conceived. All the surprise and suspense, and every other painful part of the morning dissipated by this conversation, she re-entered the house so happy as to be obliged to find an alloy in some momentary apprehensions of its being impossible to last. An interval of meditation, serious and grateful, was the best corrective of everything dangerous in such high-wrought felicity; and she went to her room, and grew steadfast and fearless in the thankfulness of her enjoyment. The evening came, the drawing-rooms were lighted up, the company assembled. It was but a card party, it was but a mixture of those who had never met before, and those who met too often; a commonplace business, too numerous for intimacy, too small for variety; but Anne had never found an evening shorter. Glowing and lovely in sensibility and happiness, and more generally admired than she thought about or cared for, she had cheerful or forbearing feelings for every creature around her. Mr Elliot was there; she avoided, but she could pity him. The Wallises, she had amusement in understanding them. Lady Dalrymple and Miss Carteret--they would soon be innoxious cousins to her. She cared not for Mrs Clay, and had nothing to blush for in the public manners of her father and sister. With the Musgroves, there was the happy chat of perfect ease; with Captain Harville, the kind-hearted intercourse of brother and sister; with Lady Russell, attempts at conversation, which a delicious consciousness cut short; with Admiral and Mrs Croft, everything of peculiar cordiality and fervent interest, which the same consciousness sought to conceal; and with Captain Wentworth, some moments of communications continually occurring, and always the hope of more, and always the knowledge of his being there. It was in one of these short meetings, each apparently occupied in admiring a fine display of greenhouse plants, that she said-- "I have been thinking over the past, and trying impartially to judge of the right and wrong, I mean with regard to myself; and I must believe that I was right, much as I suffered from it, that I was perfectly right in being guided by the friend whom you will love better than you do now. To me, she was in the place of a parent. Do not mistake me, however. I am not saying that she did not err in her advice. It was, perhaps, one of those cases in which advice is good or bad only as the event decides; and for myself, I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice. But I mean, that I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience. I have now, as far as such a sentiment is allowable in human nature, nothing to reproach myself with; and if I mistake not, a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman's portion." He looked at her, looked at Lady Russell, and looking again at her, replied, as if in cool deliberation-- "Not yet. But there are hopes of her being forgiven in time. I trust to being in charity with her soon. But I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?" "Would I!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough. "Good God!" he cried, "you would! It is not that I did not think of it, or desire it, as what could alone crown all my other success; but I was proud, too proud to ask again. I did not understand you. I shut my eyes, and would not understand you, or do you justice. This is a recollection which ought to make me forgive every one sooner than myself. Six years of separation and suffering might have been spared. It is a sort of pain, too, which is new to me. I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards. Like other great men under reverses," he added, with a smile. "I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve." Chapter 24 Who can be in doubt of what followed? When any two young people take it into their heads to marry, they are pretty sure by perseverance to carry their point, be they ever so poor, or ever so imprudent, or ever so little likely to be necessary to each other's ultimate comfort. This may be bad morality to conclude with, but I believe it to be truth; and if such parties succeed, how should a Captain Wentworth and an Anne Elliot, with the advantage of maturity of mind, consciousness of right, and one independent fortune between them, fail of bearing down every opposition? They might in fact, have borne down a great deal more than they met with, for there was little to distress them beyond the want of graciousness and warmth. Sir Walter made no objection, and Elizabeth did nothing worse than look cold and unconcerned. Captain Wentworth, with five-and-twenty thousand pounds, and as high in his profession as merit and activity could place him, was no longer nobody. He was now esteemed quite worthy to address the daughter of a foolish, spendthrift baronet, who had not had principle or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which Providence had placed him, and who could give his daughter at present but a small part of the share of ten thousand pounds which must be hers hereafter. Sir Walter, indeed, though he had no affection for Anne, and no vanity flattered, to make him really happy on the occasion, was very far from thinking it a bad match for her. On the contrary, when he saw more of Captain Wentworth, saw him repeatedly by daylight, and eyed him well, he was very much struck by his personal claims, and felt that his superiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her superiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name, enabled Sir Walter at last to prepare his pen, with a very good grace, for the insertion of the marriage in the volume of honour. The only one among them, whose opposition of feeling could excite any serious anxiety was Lady Russell. Anne knew that Lady Russell must be suffering some pain in understanding and relinquishing Mr Elliot, and be making some struggles to become truly acquainted with, and do justice to Captain Wentworth. This however was what Lady Russell had now to do. She must learn to feel that she had been mistaken with regard to both; that she had been unfairly influenced by appearances in each; that because Captain Wentworth's manners had not suited her own ideas, she had been too quick in suspecting them to indicate a character of dangerous impetuosity; and that because Mr Elliot's manners had precisely pleased her in their propriety and correctness, their general politeness and suavity, she had been too quick in receiving them as the certain result of the most correct opinions and well-regulated mind. There was nothing less for Lady Russell to do, than to admit that she had been pretty completely wrong, and to take up a new set of opinions and of hopes. There is a quickness of perception in some, a nicety in the discernment of character, a natural penetration, in short, which no experience in others can equal, and Lady Russell had been less gifted in this part of understanding than her young friend. But she was a very good woman, and if her second object was to be sensible and well-judging, her first was to see Anne happy. She loved Anne better than she loved her own abilities; and when the awkwardness of the beginning was over, found little hardship in attaching herself as a mother to the man who was securing the happiness of her other child. Of all the family, Mary was probably the one most immediately gratified by the circumstance. It was creditable to have a sister married, and she might flatter herself with having been greatly instrumental to the connexion, by keeping Anne with her in the autumn; and as her own sister must be better than her husband's sisters, it was very agreeable that Captain Wentworth should be a richer man than either Captain Benwick or Charles Hayter. She had something to suffer, perhaps, when they came into contact again, in seeing Anne restored to the rights of seniority, and the mistress of a very pretty landaulette; but she had a future to look forward to, of powerful consolation. Anne had no Uppercross Hall before her, no landed estate, no headship of a family; and if they could but keep Captain Wentworth from being made a baronet, she would not change situations with Anne. It would be well for the eldest sister if she were equally satisfied with her situation, for a change is not very probable there. She had soon the mortification of seeing Mr Elliot withdraw, and no one of proper condition has since presented himself to raise even the unfounded hopes which sunk with him. The news of his cousin Anne's engagement burst on Mr Elliot most unexpectedly. It deranged his best plan of domestic happiness, his best hope of keeping Sir Walter single by the watchfulness which a son-in-law's rights would have given. But, though discomfited and disappointed, he could still do something for his own interest and his own enjoyment. He soon quitted Bath; and on Mrs Clay's quitting it soon afterwards, and being next heard of as established under his protection in London, it was evident how double a game he had been playing, and how determined he was to save himself from being cut out by one artful woman, at least. Mrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming longer for Sir Walter. She has abilities, however, as well as affections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or hers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from being the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at last into making her the wife of Sir William. It cannot be doubted that Sir Walter and Elizabeth were shocked and mortified by the loss of their companion, and the discovery of their deception in her. They had their great cousins, to be sure, to resort to for comfort; but they must long feel that to flatter and follow others, without being flattered and followed in turn, is but a state of half enjoyment. Anne, satisfied at a very early period of Lady Russell's meaning to love Captain Wentworth as she ought, had no other alloy to the happiness of her prospects than what arose from the consciousness of having no relations to bestow on him which a man of sense could value. There she felt her own inferiority very keenly. The disproportion in their fortune was nothing; it did not give her a moment's regret; but to have no family to receive and estimate him properly, nothing of respectability, of harmony, of good will to offer in return for all the worth and all the prompt welcome which met her in his brothers and sisters, was a source of as lively pain as her mind could well be sensible of under circumstances of otherwise strong felicity. She had but two friends in the world to add to his list, Lady Russell and Mrs Smith. To those, however, he was very well disposed to attach himself. Lady Russell, in spite of all her former transgressions, he could now value from his heart. While he was not obliged to say that he believed her to have been right in originally dividing them, he was ready to say almost everything else in her favour, and as for Mrs Smith, she had claims of various kinds to recommend her quickly and permanently. Her recent good offices by Anne had been enough in themselves, and their marriage, instead of depriving her of one friend, secured her two. She was their earliest visitor in their settled life; and Captain Wentworth, by putting her in the way of recovering her husband's property in the West Indies, by writing for her, acting for her, and seeing her through all the petty difficulties of the case with the activity and exertion of a fearless man and a determined friend, fully requited the services which she had rendered, or ever meant to render, to his wife. Mrs Smith's enjoyments were not spoiled by this improvement of income, with some improvement of health, and the acquisition of such friends to be often with, for her cheerfulness and mental alacrity did not fail her; and while these prime supplies of good remained, she might have bid defiance even to greater accessions of worldly prosperity. She might have been absolutely rich and perfectly healthy, and yet be happy. Her spring of felicity was in the glow of her spirits, as her friend Anne's was in the warmth of her heart. Anne was tenderness itself, and she had the full worth of it in Captain Wentworth's affection. His profession was all that could ever make her friends wish that tenderness less, the dread of a future war all that could dim her sunshine. She gloried in being a sailor's wife, but she must pay the tax of quick alarm for belonging to that profession which is, if possible, more distinguished in its domestic virtues than in its national importance. Finis 
37972	----	http://www.archive.org/details/sunshinejane00warniala Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). Small capital letters were replaced by all capitals SUNSHINE JANE [Illustration: "Auntie Susan, it's Aunt Matilda and Mr. Beamer." FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 265._] SUNSHINE JANE by ANNE WARNER Author of "The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary," "Susan Clegg and Her Friend, Mrs. Lathrop," etc. With Frontispiece by Harriet Roosevelt Richards Boston Little, Brown, and Company 1914 Copyright, 1913, 1914, By Little, Brown, and Company. All rights reserved Published, February, 1914 Reprinted, January, 1914 Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. Presswork by S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. GENERAL IGNORANCE 1 II. EVERYBODY GETS THERE 6 III. MATILDA TEACHES 22 IV. JANE BEGINS SUNSHINING 37 V. A CHANGE IN THE FEEL OF THINGS 61 VI. LORENZO RATH 84 VII. A NEW OUTLOOK ON MATILDA 98 VIII. SOUL-UPLIFTING 127 IX. MADELEINE'S SECRET 138 X. OLD MRS. CROFT 148 XI. SHE SLEEPS 159 XII. EMILY'S PROJECT 169 XIII. EMILY IS HERSELF FREELY 191 XIV. JANE'S CONVERTS 208 XV. REAL CONVERSATION 220 XVI. THE MOST WONDERFUL THING EVER HAPPENED 233 XVII. WHY JANE SHOULD HAVE BELIEVED 243 XVIII. IN A PERFECTLY RIGHT WAY 256 XIX. THE RESULTS 277 SUNSHINE JANE SUNSHINE JANE CHAPTER I GENERAL IGNORANCE THERE was something pathetic in the serene unconsciousness of the little village as the stage came lumbering down the hillside, bearing its freight of portent. So many things were going to be changed forever after,--and no one knew it. Such a vast difference was going speedily to make itself felt, and not a soul was aware even of what a bigger soul it was so soon to be. Old Mrs. Croft, clear at the other end of town and paralyzed for twenty years, hadn't the slightest conception of what a leading part was being prepared for her to play. Poor Katie Croft, her daughter-in-law and slave, whose one prayer was for freedom, dreamed not that the answer was now at last coming near. Mrs. Cowmull, sitting on her porch awaiting the "artist who had advertised," knew not who or what or how old he might be or the interest that would soon be hers. Poor Emily Mead, shelling peas on the bench at the back of her mother's house, frowned fretfully and, putting back her great lock of rich chestnut hair with an impatient gesture, wished that she might see "just one real man before she died,"--and the man was even then jolting towards her. Miss Debby Vane, putting last touches to the flowers on her guest-room table, where Madeleine would soon see them, was also sweetly unaware of the approach of momentous events. She thought but of Madeleine, the distant cousin whose parents wanted to see if absence would break up an obnoxious love affair, and so were sending her to Miss Debby, who was "only too pleased." "A love affair," she whispered rapturously. "A _real_ love affair in this town!" And then she pursed her lips delightfully, never guessing that she was to see so much besides. Meanwhile Miss Matilda Drew stood looking sternly out of her sister Susan's window, considering if there were any necessary yet up to now forgotten point to be impressed upon Jane the instant that she should arrive. Miss Matilda was naturally as ignorant as all the rest,--as ignorant even as poor Susan, lying primly straight behind her on the bed. Susan was a widow and an invalid, not paralyzed like old Mrs. Croft, but pretty helpless. Matilda had lived with her for five years and tended her assiduously, as she grew more and more feeble. Now Matilda was "about give out," and--"just like a answer out of a clear sky," as Matilda said--their niece Jane, whom neither had seen since she was a mite in curls fifteen years ago, had written to ask if she might spend her holiday with them. They had said "Yes," and Matilda was going away for a rest while Jane kept house and waited on her poor old aunt. Jane was one of the passengers now rattling along in the stage. She differed widely from the others and from every one else in the village, but all put together, they formed that mass known to literature as "the situation." I think myself that it was the rest that formed "the situation" and that Jane formed "the key," but I may be prejudiced. Anyway, "key" or not, Miss Matilda's niece was a sweet, brown-skinned, bright-haired girl, with a happy face, great, beautiful eyes, and a heart that beat every second in truer accord with the great working principles of the universe. She was the only one among them now who had a foot upon the step that led to the path "higher up." And yet because she was the only one, she had seen her way to come gladly and teach them what they had never known; not only that, but also to learn of them the greatest lesson of her own life. So we see that although conscious of both hands overflowing with gifts, Jane really was as ignorant, in God's eyes, as all the rest. She had gone far enough beyond the majority to know that to give is the divinest joy which one may know, but she had not gone far enough to realize that in the greatest outpouring of generosity which we can ever give vent to, a vacuum is created which receives back from those we benefit gifts way beyond the value of our own. "I shall bring so much happiness here," ran the undercurrent of her thought; she never imagined that Fate had brought her to this simple village to fashion herself unto better things. So all, alike unaware--those in the stage and those awaiting its advent with passengers and post--drew long, relieved breaths as it passed with rattle and clatter over the bridge and into the main street. CHAPTER II EVERYBODY GETS THERE JANE sat on the rear seat with old Mr. Cattermole, who was coming home to his daughter, Mrs. Mead. "Ever been here before?" old Mr. Cattermole asked her. "No, never." "Hey?" "No, never." "Once?" "Never." "What?" "Never!" "I'll tell you what it is," said Mr. Cattermole, beaming benevolently, "it's the jolting. It keeps me from hearing what you say." Jane nodded, smiling. But old Mr. Cattermole wasn't long inconvenienced by the jolting. "Who you going to stop with?" he asked next. "Mrs. Ralston and Miss Drew." "Who?" "Mrs. Ralston and Miss Drew." "Who? I don't hear you." "Miss Drew." "The Crews?--There ain't no such people in town." "Miss Drew!" Jane became slightly crimson. "I'll tell you," said Mr. Cattermole, "we'll wait. I can't hear. Really I can't." The next minute they arrived at Mrs. Cowmull's, since she lived in the first house on the street. Lorenzo Rath, the artist, who had been sitting on the middle seat with Madeleine, now pressed her hand, twisted about and shook Jane's, nodded to old Mr. Cattermole, leaned forward and dragged his suit-case from under the seat, and then wriggled out, over two boxes and under a flapping curtain, and down on to the sidewalk. Mrs. Cowmull was standing on the porch, trying to look hospitable and unconscious at the same time. "Here," said the stage driver, suddenly delivering Lorenzo's trunk on to the top of his head,--"and here's the lampshade and the codfish,--they get down here, too." Lorenzo couldn't help laughing. "Au revoir," he cried, waving the lampshade as the steps began to move. "We'll meet again soon," Madeleine cried, her face full of bright color. "Yes, of course." Then they were off. "Seemed a nice young feller," said old Mr. Cattermole to Jane. "Yes." She tried to speak loudly. "Hey!" "Yes." "I'll tell you," said old Mr. Cattermole benevolently, "you come and see my granddaughter Emily, and then we'll talk. My granddaughter's a great student. You'll like her. She's full of the new ideas and new books and all that. We're very proud of her. Only she don't get married." Then the stage stopped, and Mrs. Mead came running out. "Oh, Father, did you buy the new magazines,--on the train, you know?" Old Mr. Cattermole was descending backwards with the care of a cat in an apple-tree. "It's my daughter," he said to Jane. "I can always hear her because she speaks so plain. Yes, Emma, it _was_ dusty, very dusty." "This lawn-sprinkler is your's, ain't it?" said the stage driver, jerking it off the roof into Mrs. Mead's arms. "Here's his bag, too." And then they went on again. Madeleine now had space to turn about. "You'll come and see me?" she asked Jane earnestly; "it'll be so nice. We're both strangers here." "I'll try," Jane answered, "but I shall be closely tied to the house. Aunt Susan is an invalid, you see. I'll not only have all the work, but if I go out, that poor sick woman will be left helpless and alone up-stairs." "Perhaps I can come and see you, then," said Madeleine. "I'll have the time to come, if you'll have the time to see me." "I don't know anything about what my life will be," said Jane. "As I told you on the train, I've only seen my aunts once in my life and that was fifteen years ago. But I should think that you could come and see us. I should think that a little company would do Aunt Susan a lot of good. I'm sure that it would, in fact. But she may not like to see strangers. I really don't know a thing about it. I'm all in the dark." "I'll come and ask if I may come," said Madeleine brightly. "If she sees me, maybe she'll like me. Most everybody does." She laughed. "I'm sure of that," Jane said, laughing, too. Then the stage stopped at Miss Debby Vane's, and Miss Debby came flying down to embrace her cousin. "Thanks be to God that you're here safe, my dear. These awful storms at sea have just about frightened me to death." "But I was on land, Aunt Deborah." Madeleine, in getting down, had gotten into a warm embrace at the same time. "I know, dear, I know. But one can't remember that all the time--can one?" Miss Debby was kissing her over and over. "Your step-ladder. Look out!" cried the stage driver, and they had barely time to jump from under. Then Madeleine reached up and clasped Jane's hand. "We shall be friends," she said earnestly; "I've never met any one whom I've liked quite in the same way that I like you. Do let us see all that we can of one another." "_I_ want to, I know," Jane answered. The stage driver was already remounting his seat. "Au revoir," Madeleine cried, just as Lorenzo had done. "Just for a little," Jane called back, and then she was alone in the stage, rattling down the long, green-arched street to its furthest end. "There goes the stage," Katie Croft called out to her mother-in-law in the next room. "Now Miss Drew'll have her niece and be able to get away for a little rest." "If it was a daughter-in-law, she couldn't, maybe," said a voice from the next room; "the rest is going to be poor, sweet Susan Ralston's, anyhow. Oh, my Susan Ralston, my dear, sweet Susan Ralston, my loving Susan Ralston, where I used to go and call!" "Why, Mother, you haven't so much as thought of Mrs. Ralston for years." Katie's voice was very sharp. "Nobody knows what I think of," wailed the voice from the other room. "My thoughts is music. They fly and sing all night. They sing Caw, Caw, and they fly like feathers." Katie Croft walked over and shut the door with a bang. Katie was almost beside herself. The stage now drew up before the Ralston house. Miss Matilda quitted the window, where she had stood watching for an hour, and went to the gate. Her emotions were quite tumultuous--for her. Single-handed she had tended her sister for five years, and now she was going to have a rest. She had had very trying symptoms, and the doctor had advised a rest,--three weeks of freedom, night and day. She was going away on a real holiday, going back to the place where she had taught school before the summons had come to cherish, love, and protect her only sister, who was not strong and had property. It seemed like a dream,--a wild, lively, and joyful dream. She almost smiled as she thought of what was at hand. Jane descended, her small trunk came bang down beside her in the same instant, and the driver was paid and drove off. The aunt and niece then turned to go into the house. "Well, and so it's you!" Matilda's tone and glance were slightly inquisitorial, and more than slightly dictatorial. "I'm glad to see you're strong. You'll need be. She's an awful care. She ain't up much now. Isn't up at all sometimes for weeks. Sleeps considerable. Take off your hat and coat and hang them there. That's the place where they belong." Jane obeyed without saying anything. But her smile spoke for her. "Hungry?" inquired Matilda. "A little." "I surmised you would be and waited supper. Thought you'd see how I fixed hers then. She's eating very little. Less and less all the time. There's a garden to weed, too. Awful inconvenient out there across two stiles. But she won't give it up. She pays me to tend it, or I'd let the dandelions root it out in short order. But I tend it." They had gone into the kitchen, where a kettle stewed feebly over a half-dead fire. "Sit down," said Matilda. "I'll fix her supper first. She takes her tea cold, so I save it from morning and heat it up with a little boiling water, _so_. Then there's this bit of fish I saved from day before yesterday, and I cut a piece of bread. No butter, because her stomach's delicate. You'll see that she'll hardly eat this. Watch now." Jane sat and watched, still smiling. "Mr. Rath, the artist, came down in the stage with you, didn't he?" Miss Matilda went on. "What kind of a young man was he? Somebody'll tell you, so it might as well be me, what's brought him here. Mrs. Cowmull's trying to marry off her niece, Emily Mead. There aren't any men in town, so she advertised. She gave it out that she wanted a boarder, but everybody see through that. That's what marriage has come to these days, catching men to board 'em and then marrying them when they're thinking of something else. I thank Heaven I ain't had nothing to do with any marriage. They're a bad business. There, that's your supper." Jane started slightly. Her own cold fish and lukewarm tea sat before her. "Shan't I take Aunt Susan's up first?" she asked, recollecting that she still had some lunch in her bag, and that Matilda would be leaving early in the morning. "No need. She likes things cold. You ought to see her face if she gets anything boiling in her mouth. It's no use to give her nothing hot. You'd think it was a snake. I give it up the third time she burnt her." "But I ought to go up and see her, I think; she hasn't seen me since I was such a little girl." "No need. You go ahead and enjoy your supper without bothering over her. She knows you're here, and she isn't one that's interested in things. She'll read an old shelf paper for hours, but carry her up a new paper and like as not when you get to the bed with it, you'll find her asleep. She sleeps a lot." Jane--thus urged--picked the chilled fish with a fork and considered. "I'll show you about the house after you've done eating," the aunt continued presently; "it's easy taken care of, for I keep it all shut up. Just Susan's room and mine and the kitchen is open. The neighbors won't bother you, for I give them to understand long ago as I wasn't one with time to waste. There isn't any one in the place that a woman with any sense would want to bother with, anyhow." "I don't fancy that I'll have time to be lonesome," smiled Jane, bravely swallowing some tea. "You'd have if it wasn't for the garden. I don't know whatever in the world makes Susan set such store by that garden. She will have it that it shall be kept up in memory of her husband, and you never saw such weeds. I've often sat down backwards when one come up--often." "I can't see it at all," with a glance out of the window. "You can't from here. And it's got to be watered, and she counts every pot full of water from her bed. She can hear me pumping. The birds dig up the seeds as fast as I can plant 'em, and I never saw no sense in slaving in the sun over what you can buy in the shade any day.--Are you done?" "Yes, I'm done." "Then come on." "Can I spread the tray?" "Tray! She doesn't have a tray. What should I fuss with a tray for, when I've got two hands?" Jane rose and stood by the table in silence, watching the cup filled from the standing teapot and the plate ornamented with a lonely bit of fish and a slice of bread. "Don't you butter the bread?" "She's in bed so much she mustn't have rich food," Matilda answered; "there, now it's ready. Come on." "Shan't I carry anything?" "I can take it, I guess. I've carried it alone for five years; I guess I can manage it to-night." Jane followed up the stairs in silence; Matilda marched ahead with a firm, heavy tread. "Shall I knock for you?" "I don't know what for. She yells anyway, whenever I come in, whether she's knocked or not. Just open the door." Jane opened the door gently, and they went in together. The room was half darkened, and only a little sharp nose showed over the top of the bedquilt. "Here's your supper," said the affectionate sister, "and here's Jane." A shrill cry was followed by two eyes tipping upward beyond the nose. "Oh, are you Jane?" There was a lot of pathos in the tone. The girl moved quickly to the bedside. "I hope that we're going to be very happy," she said; "we must love one another very much, you know." The invalid hoisted herself on to an elbow and looked towards the plate which Matilda was holding forth. "Oh, my! Fish again!" she wailed. Later--on their way back to the kitchen fire--Matilda said significantly: "Most ungrateful person I ever saw, she is. But just don't notice what she says. It's the only way to get on. I keep her room tidy and I keep her house clean and I keep her garden weeded. I'm careful of her money, and she's well fed. I don't know what more any one could ask, but she ain't satisfied and she ain't always polite, but you'll only have three weeks of what I've had for five years, so I guess it won't kill you." "Oh, I think that I'll be all right," Jane answered cheerfully. "The stage is ordered for seven in the morning, and I shall get up at half-past four," the aunt continued. "You can sleep till five just as well. I'm going to bed now, and you'd better do the same thing." "Yes, I think so," said Jane cheerfully; "good night." CHAPTER III MATILDA TEACHES MATILDA seated herself bolt upright on one of the kitchen chairs and drew a hard, stiff sigh. "It'll be a great rest to get away," she said, "more of a rest than any one but me will ever know. You see, she's left all she's got to me in her will, so I'm bound in honor to keep a pretty sharp watch over everything. I can't even take a chance at her sinking suddenly away, with the room not picked up or a cobweb in some high corner. I've seen her will, and she ain't left you a cent, so you won't have the same responsibility. It'll be easier for you." "I'll do my very best," said Jane. "The trouble is I'm too conscientious," said Matilda. "I was always conscientious, and she was always slack. It's an awful failing. It's a warning, too, for now there she lays, snug as a bug in a rug, and me with New Asthma in my arm from tending her and the house." "You'll get over all that very soon," said the niece soothingly. Matilda glanced at her suspiciously. "No, I shan't. I may get better, but I shan't get over it. It's a nerve trouble and can't never be completely cured. A doctor can alligator it, but he can't cure it. I'll have it till I die." Jane was silent. "You wrote that you were some kind of a nurse. What kind did you say you were?" "I'm a Sunshine Nurse." "A Sunshine Nurse! What's that? Some new idea of never pulling down the shades?" Jane laughed. "Not exactly. It's an Order just founded by a doctor. He picked out the girls himself, and he sends them where he chooses for training." "What's the training?" Jane looked at her and hesitated a little. "I expect you'll laugh," she said finally; "it does sound funny to any one who isn't used to such ideas. We're to see the sun as always shining, and always shine ourselves, and our training consists in going where there isn't any brightness and being bright, and going where there isn't any happiness and teaching happiness." "Sounds to me like nonsense," said Matilda, rising abruptly; "don't you go letting up the sitting-room shades and fading the upholstering,--that's all I've got to say. Come now and I'll show you about locking up, and then we'll go to bed." Jane obeyed with promptness and was most observant and attentive. Matilda loaded her with behests and instructions and seemed appreciative of the intelligence with which they were received. "I wouldn't go in for nothing fancy," she said, as they completed their task; "the less you stir up her and the house, the easier it'll be for me when I come back. You don't want to ever forget that I'm coming back, and don't put any fancy ideas into her head. There's plenty to do here without going out of your way to upset my ways." "I'll remember," said Jane. Then they started up-stairs, and a few minutes later the Sunshine Nurse was alone in her own room, free to stand quietly by the window and let her outward gaze form a bond between the still beauty of a country night and the glad vision of work in plenty, and that of a kind which Miss Matilda couldn't prohibit, because she knew not the world in which such work is done. "Not--" said Jane to herself with a little whimsical smile--"not but what I'm 'most sure that my teaching will be manifest in a lot of material changes, too, but by the time that she comes back, her own feelings will be sufficiently 'alligatored' so that she'll see life differently also. God's plan is just as much for her good in sending her away as it is for mine in sending me here, and I mustn't forget that for a minute. I'll be busy and she'll be busy, and we'll both be learning and we'll both be teaching and we'll both be being necessary." She drew a chair close and sat down, full of her own bright and helpful thoughts. Much of love and wonder came flooding into her through the medium of the sweet, calm night without. "It's like being among angels," she fancied, and felt a close companionship with those who had known the Great White Messengers face to face. Long she sat there, praying the prayer that is just one indrawn breath of content and uplifted consciousness. Not many girls of twenty-two would have seen so much in that not unusual situation, and yet it was to her so brimful of fair possibilities that she could hardly wait for morning to begin work. When she rose to undress, when she climbed into the plain, hard bed that received her so kindly, when she slept at last, all was with the same sense of responsibility mixed with energetic intention. All that she had "asked" in the usual sense of "asking in prayer" had been "to be shown exactly how," and because she was one of those who know every prayer to be answered, in the hour of its making she knew that to be answered, too. "I'll be led along," was her last thought before sleeping, and it swept the fringe of her consciousness, leaving her to enter dreamland with the happy security of a trusting child. It really seemed no time at all before Matilda rapped loudly on her door, bringing her suddenly to the knowledge that the hour to begin all the longed-for work was at hand. "Five o'clock!" Matilda howled gently through the crack. "Yes, yes," she cried in response. The door opened a bit wider. "You'd better get right up or you'll go to sleep again," Matilda said, putting her head in, "right this minute." "Yes, I will." She sat up in bed to prove it. "All right," said her aunt--and shut the door. Jane had unpacked her small trunk the night before, and so was able to dress quickly and get down-stairs without a minute wasted. She found Matilda in the kitchen, very busy with the stove. "I do hope you'll remember what I said last night," she said, shoveling out ashes with an energy that filled the room with dust. "I can't have her habits all upset. It'll be no good giving me this change if you go and spoil her. Remember that." "I won't make any trouble," promised Jane. "I'll always remember that you're coming back." As she spoke, she saw again the thin, hopeless face on the pillow up-stairs and knew that Matilda herself was to know a glad surprise over the change which should welcome her home-coming. It was the learning to instantly realize the better side of those who insisted on exhibiting their worst that was the leading force in the training of that beaming little Order to which she belonged. The Sunshine Nurses were forbidden to consider anything or anybody as fixedly wrong either in kind, conception, or working out. It would be a very comfortable way of looking at things--even for such mere, ordinary, everyday folk as you and me. Matilda now said, "Ugh, ugh!" over the dust and proceeded to dive into the wood-box with one hand and get a sliver in her thumb. "In the morning she has tea," she said, going to the window to put her hand to rights. "One cup. Piece of bread. At noon, whatever is handy. Night, cup of tea and whatever she fancies. Bread or a cracker usually. She eats very little and less all the time. The cat eats more than she does. He's a snooper, that cat,--you'll have to watch out." Jane didn't seem to understand. "A--a snooper?" "Steals food. Awful thief. Slap him when you catch him at it; it's all you can do. Sometimes I throw water over him. He'll make off with what would be a meal for a hired man, and he's sly as any other thief." "Can't I help you with your hand?" "No, you can't. I get lots of them. They bother me a little because Mrs. Croft's cousin died of blood-poison from one. There, it's out. What was I saying? Oh, yes, the cat." "Where is she now?" "It's a he. Named Alfred for her husband. He's up in her room now. Always sleeps on her bed. She will have him, and I humor her. She's my only sister and she can't live long and she's left me all her money, and I humor her. It's my plain duty." "Is it healthy for an invalid to sleep with a cat?" "No, it ain't. But I promised to do whatever she said about the cat and the garden, and I do." "I'm sure it's very good in you," Jane murmured, looking out of the window. "It is. I'm a good woman. I do my whole duty, and there's not many in a town this size can say as much." "Where is the garden?" "I'll show you, if you don't mind getting your feet wet. I have my rubbers on already, to travel, so I can go right there now while the fire is kindling." "Is it wet?" "Most grass is wet, at five in the morning." Jane wanted to laugh. "I mean, isn't there a path?" "Part way, and then you have to climb two fences." "Climb! Two!" the niece turned in surprise. "Climb two fences. You never saw such a place. The strip between is rented for a cow-pasture. That's why there's two fences." "But why not have gates?" "Don't ask me. Find out if you can. I've lived here five years, and I ain't found out. You try and see if you'll do better. She's very secretive, and so was he before he died. I've just had to get along the best I could. She fails and fails steady, but it don't seem to affect her health none, and now at last it's affected mine instead and give me neophytes in my left arm." Jane turned her head and looked some more out of the window. "We'll go now. Might as well. The kettle will get to boiling while we're away, and then we'll have breakfast. It boils slow, because I've got the eggs in it for my lunch. Come on." The question of the wet grass seemed to have faded. They went out the kitchen door. It was a clear, bright morning. "Weedy weather," commented Matilda, and led the way down the path. "It's a pretty place," said Jane, her eyes roaming happily. "Yes, I suppose so. But it takes an artist or some one who hasn't lived in it for five years to feel that way." She paused to climb the first fence. It was three rails high and very awkward. "I'll go over first," she said. "Think of it; I've done this six times a day for five years." Jane didn't wonder that she was so agile at it. "But how funny to have a garden away off here!" she said. Matilda was now over on the other side. "Yes, and think of keeping it up. Folks about here make no bones of telling me that they were both half-witted, only as she's my sister, they try to give me to understand as she caught it from him. He was a miser, you know." Jane was just getting her second leg over. "I don't know a thing about him," she said. "Well, you will, soon enough. The neighbors'll come flocking as soon as I'm gone, and you'll soon know all there is to know about us all. They'll pick me to pieces, too, and tell you I'm starving Susan to death, but I don't care. Climbing these fences has hardened me to calumny." They crossed the strip of cow-pasture, and Matilda got over another fence, saying as she did so: "Whom the Lord loveth He chasteneth," leaving Jane to make the application and follow her at the same time. Then they found themselves in a trim little garden. "How sweet," said the niece. "You can see I've done my duty by it, too," said Matilda; "that's my way. I'm hard and I ain't pretty to look at, but I do my duty, which is more'n most handsome women do. Every last bean here is clawed around like it ought to be, and the whole thing neat as wax. Same with Susan; you'd think from her face I'd murdered her, and yet the Recording Angel knows she's had a cold sponge and every last snarl combed out of her hair every day since I came. I don't boast, but I do work." "Dear me, it's a long way from the house," said Jane, forgetting her higher philosophy for the minute. "It's a good ten minutes to get here. A picking of peas is a half-hour's job. And ten to one, when I get back, the cat's been at the cream." Jane had had time to remember. "I can see you've been awfully good," she said warmly, "and my, but you've worked hard. Everything shows that." Matilda's face flushed with pleasure, the sudden pathetic flushing of unexpected appreciation. "I just have," she declared. "I've worked hard all my life and done a lot of good, and nobody's ever bothered to thank me. She don't. She just lays there and lets me run up and down stairs and climb fences and dig weeds and scamper back and forth with a extra hike, when I hear the bell of the door, till it'll be a mercy if I don't get neophytes all over, and the New Asthma in both legs, _I_ think." After a brief tour of the tiny whole, devoted mainly to instructing the novice, Matilda led the way back to the house. "Does it ever need watering?" Jane asked, lapsing again to a lower level. "Sometimes," said Matilda briefly. Jane hadn't the heart to say another word until--several steps further on--it occurred to her that the garden also could be only a good factor in God's plan, if she wreathed it and shrined it and saw it in her world, as He saw all His world on the day when it was first manifest and set. "And God saw everything that He had made, and behold, it was very good." CHAPTER IV JANE BEGINS SUNSHINING THE stage came for Matilda at eight o'clock. For half an hour before it could possibly be due, the traveler sat ready on a chair in the hall, with her umbrella tightly gripped in both hands, delivering bits of useful information as they occurred to her. "Be careful to lock up well every night." "Remember if she dies sudden, I shall want to know at once." "Don't look to enjoy yourself, but remember you're doin' a act of Christian charity." Jane sat on a small, hard ottoman in the corner by the whatnot and said: "I'll try," or "Yes, indeed," every time. "You're a good girl," the aunt said finally. "I'm glad to know you. Those Rainy-day Cooks or whatever you call yourself--" "Sunshine Nurse." "Yes, of course,--well, it's a good idea. I feel perfectly sure you'll do everything you know how." "Yes, I will," said Jane, resolving all over fresh that everything was going to come out fine, even to the return of Matilda herself. "There, I hear the stage on the bridge," said her aunt, jumping to her feet suddenly. "I must go and say good-by to Susan." "Isn't she still asleep?" "It doesn't matter. She's my only living sister, and it's my duty to wake her up." She rushed up-stairs, and a feeble little yell from above soon announced her duty done. Then followed a brief hum and jabber, and then she came running down again. "Feels bad to see me go," she said briefly. "That's natural, as she's turned over to you body and soul and ain't the least idea what you're like. I told her it was no more chances than every child run just being born, and a third of them lived, but she never could see reason,--kind of clung to my arm,--she's my only sister, and it makes me feel bad." With which hasty statement Matilda gave a brief dab to each eye, put up her pocket-handkerchief, and opened the front door. Jane had her bag in her hand, and they had carried the trunk to the gate before. The stage was empty, and the driver was tying the trunk-strap with a rope. "Well, good-by," said Matilda; "remember to lock up well every night." "Yes, I will," said Jane. "I hope you'll have a good time and a splendid change." "I'm sure of the change," said Matilda, swinging herself up with an agility bred of her liberal diet on stiles. "Five years,--will you only think of it?" The driver picked up the reins, gave them a slap, and the expedition was off. Matilda Drew was really "gone off on a visit." "Think of it," said Katie Croft, who, despite her town-name of "Katie," was a gray-haired woman of fifty. "Think of it! A vacation! What luck some folks have. I shall never have a vacation in all--" her voice ceased, and she continued sweeping down the steps, the stage passing out of sight as she did so. Meanwhile Jane had re-entered the house and carefully closed the door after her. She felt curiously freed in spirit, and that subtly supreme joy of seeing a helplessly bad situation delivered bound and gagged into one's hands to be mended was hers. "I'll go straight and ask about auntie's breakfast first," she thought, mounting the staircase. To her light tap at the door, a feeble "come in" responded. She entered then and observed, with a slight start, that the invalid had just been up. The blind was drawn, and a pair of kicked-off slippers betrayed a hasty jump back into bed. Her eyes sought Susan's in explanation. "I didn't know that you could move about," she said, with a pleased look. Susan's little, sharp nose had an apologetic appearance, as it showed over the sheet-fold. "I can get about a little, days when I'm strong," she explained, "and I wanted to see her off. I wanted to see if she really did go." She paused, gave a sharp choke and gasp, and then waited. Jane leaned over and kissed her forehead. "I will try very hard to make you comfortable and happy," she said gently. Susan rather shrunk together in the bed. "What kind of a girl are you, anyhow?" she asked suddenly and sharply. "Are you really religious, or do you only just go to church?" "I try to do what's right," her niece answered simply. The invalid contemplated her intently. "It can be pretty hard living with any one that tries to do right," she said. "My experience is that good people is often more trying than bad ones. Maybe it's just that I've had more to do with them, though. I suppose Matilda told you about everything and the garden and all?" "Yes, I think I know what to see to." "And the cat?--and his stealing?" "Yes, she told me about him." "The garden must be weeded," Susan pronounced, sinking down deep into the bed. "Don't you ever forget that. And that cat has got to be fed--and well fed, too--even if he does steal." Jane watched her disappear beneath the bedclothes. "Auntie," she said, "I've got lots of funny ideas, and one of them is that it's wicked not to be just as happy as possible every minute. Now I'm to be here three weeks, and I think that I ought to be able to make them a real change for you as well as for Aunt Matilda. We'll begin with your breakfast. You tell me what you like best, and I'll fix it for you--" Susan's head came up out of the bed-clothes with the suddenness of a boy rising from a dive. "If I can have anything I want," she cried, "I want some hot tea--some boiling hot tea, some tea made with water that's boiling as hard as it can boil. And I want the pot hot. Burning hot before the tea goes in." Jane started. "I thought you liked your tea cold." Susan's eyes fairly snapped. "Well, I don't. I don't like nothing cold. I like everything hot." Jane moved towards the door. "I'll go and make some right away," she said. Susan's small, bright eyes looked after her very hard indeed. "I wonder if you really mean what you say about my doing what I please." "Of course I mean what I say." "Then I want to go back into my own room." The niece stopped. "Isn't this your room?" she asked in surprise. "No, this is the nearest room to the top of the stairs. I'll show you which is my room." With a quick leap she was out of bed. "Barefooted!" cried Jane. "I'll get into slippers quick enough, and I always wear stockings in bed. It's one of my peculiar ways. I'm very peculiar." She was running out of the room. Jane followed, astonished at the strength and steadiness of the bedridden. "But I thought that--that you were always in bed," she stammered. Susan stopped short and turned about. "It was the pleasantest way to get along," she said briefly. "I guess that you've a really kind heart, so I'll trust you and tell you the truth. Matilda wasn't here very long before I see that if her patience wasn't to give out, I'd got to begin to fail. I went to bed, and I've failed ever since. I've failed steady. It's been the only thing to do. It wasn't easy, but it was that or have things a lot harder. So I failed." Jane stared in amazement, and then suddenly the fun of it all overcame her, and she burst out laughing. Susan laughed, too. "It was all I could do," she repeated over and over. "And so you failed," said her niece, still laughing. "Yes, and so I failed." "Mercy on us, it's the funniest thing I ever heard in all my life," exclaimed the Sunshine Nurse. "It ain't always been funny for me," said Susan, "but come, now, I want to show you my room." She opened a door as she spoke and led the way into a dark, musty-smelling place. It was the work of only a minute to draw the blind and throw up the window. "Right after we've had breakfast, we'll clean it," the aunt declared, "and then I'll move right back in. Husband and me had this room for twenty long years together. He was a saving man, and most of what he was intending to save when I wanted to buy things was told me in this room. Whatever I wanted he always said I could have, and then when it came night, he said I couldn't. The room is full of memories for me--sad memories--but after he was mercifully snatched to everlasting blessedness, I grew fond of it. It's a nice room." "I think I'll get your tea," said Jane, "and then I'll clean this room and help you move into it. We'll have you all settled before noon." She turned and ran down to the kitchen. The kettle was singing, and she stuffed more wood in under it and began to hunt for a tray and the other concomitants of an up-stairs breakfast. Things were not easily found. "Well, I declare!" a voice at the window behind her exclaimed, as she was down on her knees getting a tray-cloth out of a lower drawer. The voice gave her a violent start, being a man's. She sprang to her feet and faced about. "I'm sorry; I thought you'd know me." It was the artist of the day before, the young man who had come down in the stage. "It's so early." She went to the window and shook hands. "But I'm glad to see you, anyhow." "I always get up at six and walk five miles before breakfast when I'm in the country," he explained. "Do you really? What enterprise!" "And so this is where you've come. Why, it's the quaintest old place that I ever saw. A regular tangle of picturesque possibilities. Who are you visiting?" "I'm taking care of my invalid aunt while my other aunt has a little rest." "Is she very ill?" "Oh, no. But this is her tea that I'm making, and I must take it up to her now." "I'll go, then. But may I come again--and sketch?" "I can't have company. I'll be too busy." "Can't I help with the work?" He was so pleasant and jolly that she couldn't help laughing. "I'm afraid not," she said, shaking her head. He stood with his hand on the window-sash. "Do you know my name?" he asked. "No." "It's Lorenzo, Lorenzo Rath. I've to grow famous with that name. Think of it." She laughed again. "I can draw the outside of the house, anyhow--can't I?" "Dear me, I suppose so,"--she picked up the tray,--"you must go now, though. Good-by." "Good-by," he cried after her. "Oh, see the steam," was Susan's exultant exclamation, as she entered her room. "I ain't seen steam coming out of a teapot's nose for upwards of three years. Matilda just couldn't seem to stand my taking my tea hot, and she's my only sister, and I humor her. Who was you talking to?" "A man who came down on the stage yesterday. He was out walking and didn't know that I lived here." "Oh, a love affair!" cried Susan, in high-keyed ecstasy. "He's fallen in love with you, and like enough was prowling around all night. Oh! How interesting! I ain't seen a love affair close to for years." She was so genuinely joyful that Jane felt sorry to dampen the enthusiasm. "I don't believe you'll see one now," she said, smiling good-humoredly. "You see, I don't mean to marry, Auntie. I'm a Sunshine Nurse, and they have their hands too full for that kind of thing." "A nurse! I didn't know you were a nurse." "A Sunshine Nurse is a person who does what doctors can't always do,--who makes folk well." "Are you going to make me well?" "Yes," said Jane, resolutely. Susan stopped eating and looked at her with an expression full of contradictory feelings. "I shall like it," she said slowly. "But, oh my! Matilda won't. Why, she--" she paused. "Oh, I _do_ wonder if I can trust you?" "Anybody can trust me," said Jane. "It's part of my training to be honest." "Dear me, but that's a good idea," said Susan, with sincerest approval. "Well, if I can trust you, I don't mind telling you that it's taken considerable care for me to live along with Matilda. I don't mean anything against her--not rat-poison nor anything like that, you know?--but she hasn't just approved of my living; she's looked upon it as a waste of her time. And I've had to manage pretty careful in consequence. You see, she's my only sister, and she'd have my property anyhow, but if I had to have a nurse or a woman to look out for me long, there'd be no property to leave. She's real sensible, and we both know just how it is, but it's been pleasantest for me to stay more and more in bed and kind of catch at things as I walk, and once in a while I don't eat all day, and so it keeps up her hope and keeps things pleasant." Jane looked paralyzed. "How can you go without food all day?" Susan considered a little. Then she took a big drink of hot tea and confessed. "I don't really. I watch till she goes to the garden, and then I skip down-stairs and make a good meal and lay it all on the cat." Jane sank down on the foot of the bed and burst out laughing again. Again she just couldn't help it. Susan laughed, too; first softly and gingerly, then in a way almost as hearty as her niece's. "Oh me, oh my," the latter declared, after a minute, wiping her eyes. "Well, we'll have a very lively three weeks, I see." "Oh, yes," Susan exclaimed, "and we'll have liver and bacon, and I'll see the neighbors when they come in. I give up seeing them because it made so much trouble, and the way I'm made is--'Anything for peace.' That's what I always used to say to husband, whatever he said. First along I used to say real things, but all the last years I just said whatever he said; anything for peace." "You've finished your tea now," said Jane, rising. "I'll take the tray down while you dress a bit, and then we'll move you into the other room." "Oh, and _how_ I will enjoy it," cried Susan, clasping her hands in ecstasy. "Oh, you Sunshine Jane, you--how glad I am you've come." "I'm glad, too," said Jane. "We'll have an awfully nice time." She ran down-stairs with the tray and found Madeleine sitting in the kitchen, waiting. "Why, how long have you been here?" she asked. Madeleine lifted a rather mournful countenance and tried to smile. "Oh, Miss Grey. I'm so blue. I can't stand this place at all, I don't believe. My situation is going to be unbearable." "What's the matter with it?" "It's so small and petty and spiteful. All last evening I had to sit and listen to gossip. I hate personalities. Why, whatever I do is going to be seen and talked about the minute I do it." Jane looked grave. "That nice woman who came out to meet you didn't look like a gossip." "She isn't, but she sits and listens, and every once in a while she throws oil on the fire by saying, '_I_ never believed the story.'" "Who did the talking?" "The neighbors--a woman named Mrs. Mead, who came in with her daughter. The mother was old-fashioned in her ideas, and the daughter was new. That old man in the stage stopped there, you know." "My aunt spoke of them last evening," said Jane; "she said that Emily Mead was picked out to marry that young man who came down with us." Madeleine laughed and then blushed. "I'm afraid not," she said. "I know him. He won't marry anybody here." Jane turned and began to put away the breakfast things. "Don't be bored," she said gently. "Put on this extra apron, and help me wash these dishes; and then I'll set the kitchen to rights and get ready to move my aunt into another bedroom. She's an invalid, you know." "What kind of a person is your aunt?" "Awfully nice," began Jane, but was stopped by the sudden opening of the hall door. There stood Susan, all dressed. "It seems good to have clothes on again," she remarked calmly; "I ain't been dressed for upwards of three years." Then she saw Madeleine. "How do you do," she said, holding out her hand. "I suppose you're the Miss Mar from Deborah's?" "Yes, I am," Madeleine admitted, smiling. "My, but you look good to me," said Susan; "it's so nice to see a strange face. You see, I've been in bed for a long time, and I give up seeing strangers long before that." She sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and beamed on them both, turn and turn about. "Husband always thought that strangers was pickpockets," she said, "but I like to look at 'em. My, but I will enjoy these next weeks. You see, I live with my sister," she explained to Madeleine, "and I've had a pretty hard time. My sister's got a good heart, but maybe you know how awful hard it is to live with that kind of people. It's been pleasanter to stay in bed." "But you won't do that any more, Auntie," said Jane, moving busily about. "No, indeed I won't. You see," again to Madeleine, "she was my only sister, so I humored her. It's the only way to get on with some people. But you can even humor folks too much, and she got a disease they call the Euphrates all up and down her ear and her elbow, just from being humored too much. So she's gone off for a change." "What are you doing?" Madeleine asked Jane. "Making waffles. I thought it would be fun to eat them hot right now." Susan fairly shrieked with joy. "I ain't so much as smelt one since husband died. Waffles in the morning, and I'm so awful hungry, too. Oh, Jane, the Lord will surely set a crown of glory on your head the minute He sees it. Your feet won't be into heaven when the crown goes on. How did you ever think of it?" Jane brought out the iron, laughing as she did so. "Why, Auntie, it's part of my training." "Cooking waffles in the morning?" "No. Giving joy. If I think of any way to give pleasure and don't do it, I count it a sin. To make more happiness is all the work of a Sunshine Nurse." "Isn't that splendid?" Susan appealed to Madeleine. Madeleine's great, beautiful eyes were lifted towards the other girl's face with an expression mysterious in its longing. "Teach me the gift," she said; "I want to make more happiness, too." "We'll be her class," exclaimed Susan, "just you and me." "The first lesson is eating waffles," Jane announced solemnly. "And me, too," cried a voice in the kitchen window, and there was Lorenzo Rath back for his second call that day, and it not yet ten o'clock. "I've been to Mrs. Cowmull's and eaten breakfast, and I'm as hungry as a wolf." He came in through the window as he spoke. "Oh, a young man!" cried Susan. "I ain't seen a young man since the last time the pump broke. Oh, my! Ain't this jolly? Ain't this fun?" "You show Madeleine where to find plates and forks and knives, Auntie," said Jane. "Here, Mr. Rath, I'll break two more eggs and you can beat them. I haven't made enough batter, if there's a man to eat, too." "I feel as if I'd leave Mrs. Cowmull's to-morrow and come here to board," said Lorenzo. "Could I?" His tone was very earnest. "No, you couldn't," said Jane firmly. "Oh, let him," exclaimed Susan, from the pantry, where she was getting out plates. "It'll make Mrs. Cowmull so mad, and I ain't made any one mad for years and years. I'd so revel to be human again. And it would be so nice having a man about, too." "I couldn't think of it," said Jane, getting very crimson. Madeleine looked at the artist. "Then I shall leave Mrs. Cowmull's, anyway," said Lorenzo, decidedly; "I shall look up another place at once. Why, that woman would drive me mad. She says something ridiculous every time she opens her mouth. She asked me this morning if I'd ever climbed to the top of the Kreutzer Sonata." "What did you say?" Madeleine asked. "I told her no, but I'd been to the bottom of the Campanile and seen them getting out coal from the mine there." "Well, that showed you'd seen some sights, anyhow," said Susan, placidly. "The waffles are done!" Jane announced. They all drew up round the table. "This is living," the invalid exclaimed. "If my sister would only never come back!" "Maybe she won't!" suggested Lorenzo. "I wouldn't like her to die," said Susan, gravely. "I'm sensitive over feeling people better off dead. But if she'd marry, it would be nice." "For the man?" queried Lorenzo. "For us all," said Susan, gravely. "Just exactly the right thing is going to happen to her and everybody," said Jane, firmly--dividing the waffles as she spoke. "Are you so sure?" the artist asked, looking a little amused. Susan noticed the look. "She's a Sunshine Nurse," she explained quickly. "It's her religion to be like that. She can't help it. She's promised." CHAPTER V A CHANGE IN THE FEEL OF THINGS IT didn't take long for the town to wake up to the fact that some new element had entered into its composition. "I can't get over it, Susan Ralston's being up and about," Miss Debby Vane said distressedly to Mrs. Mead. "Why, she was 'most dead!" "Matilda ought not to have gone away," Mrs. Mead said sternly. "Sick folks in bed can't bear a change. A new face gives them a little spurt of strength, and then when they see the old face again, they kind of give up hope and drop right off." "Yes, I know that," said Miss Debby; "my father had a cousin die that way. There was a doctor going about in a wagon, pulling teeth and giving shocks, and he said he'd give Cousin Hannah a shock and cure her. So they took him up-stairs, and there she was dead of heart disease. They thought of prosecuting him, but the funeral coming right on they hadn't time, and then he was gone to another place, and it seemed too much bother." "That girl is just the same kind, I believe," said Mrs. Mead; "that dreadful way of making you feel that after all what she says is pretty sensible, maybe. My Emily is awfully took with her, and Father's just crazy about her. He come down on the stage with her, and then he went out to see her. She knows how to get around men; she was frying doughnuts." "Yes, and Mrs. Cowmull's artist was out there, and they had waffles in the middle of the morning. That's a funny kind of new religion." "Has she got a new religion?" Miss Debby looked frightened. "I hadn't heard of it." "Why, yes; Emily says she's got the funniest religion you ever heard of. Whatever she wants to do or don't want to do, she says it's her religion." "Dear me, but I should think that that would be very convenient," said Miss Debby, much impressed. "Why, my religion is always just the opposite of what I want to do or don't want to do. It says so every Sunday, you know,--'we have done those things,' and so forth." "Hers is different," said Mrs. Mead. "Well, I declare," repeated Miss Debby; then, suddenly, "I remember now that Madeleine said that they had waffles because Jane said that she thought waffles would taste good, and it was her religion to do whatever you thought of right off. Well, I declare!" Both ladies stared in solemn amazement at one another. "This'll be a nice town to live in, if she sets everybody to doing whatever you like, because it's right," Mrs. Mead said finally. "Father won't put on his coat again this summer." "It'll make a great difference in the feeling of the town," said Miss Debby, mysteriously, "a great difference. Well, I hope it won't change Madeleine any way her family won't approve. Madeleine's in love, and I suppose it's Mr. Rath. They knew each other before, and her family don't want it. I've pieced it all out of scraps." "Oh, dear!" said Emily Mead's mother, her face falling; "my, I hadn't heard but what he was a free man." "Oh, no," said Miss Debby, "your sister isn't sure. But everybody else is. My own view of artists is they're deluders and snares. I give an artist a picture and a dollar once to enlarge, and that was the last I ever heard of them both--of all three." "I wonder if Emily knows Mr. Rath's engaged," said Mrs. Mead, sadly. "Dear me, I never thought of that." "Not engaged, but in love," corrected Miss Debby. "Perhaps he's a real artist and changeable," suggested Mrs. Mead. "There's no comfort in that for any one, 'cause if he'll change once, he'll change right along." Mrs. Mead sighed very heavily. "Well, I must keep up for Father and Emily," she remarked, not tracing any very clear connection between word and deed. "Yes," said Miss Debby, "you must, and we'll all keep a sharp eye on these new kind of ways of looking at things, for we don't know where they'll end." The "new way of looking at things" had already been very efficacious in the house at the other end of the street. It had assumed an utterly new appearance, both outside and in. "And I never felt nothing like the change in the _feel_ of it," Susan exclaimed that afternoon, as she re-arranged her belongings in her own room. "Oh, you Sunshine Jane, you, you've just sunshone into every room, and I'm so happy turning my things about I don't know what to do. Matilda wouldn't never let me turn a china cow other end to, and I've lived with some of the ornaments facing wrong for the whole of these five long years." "It isn't me, Auntie," said Jane, washing shelves with the hearty and happy energy which she threw into every task in which she engaged; "it's the opening of the windows and the letting in of God and His sunshine together. I'll soon have time to clean the whole house, and then we'll have fun re-arranging every room. You've such pretty things, and they must be rubbed up and given a chance to play a part in the world. God never meant anything to be idle,--not even a brass andiron. If it can't work, it can shine and be cheerful, anyway. What can't smile ought to shine, you know." "I wonder why rubbing things makes 'em bright," said Susan, opening her bonnet-box and hitting her bonnet a smart cuff to knock dust out of the folds. "I never could understand that." "It's your individuality that you transfer till the poor dull things get enough of it to shine alone, without anybody's help." "What a good reason," said Susan. "My, to think maybe I'll go to church again in this bonnet! Matilda was always wanting to rip it up, but something made me cling to it. It's a kind of souvenir. I wore it to husband's funeral and my last picnic, and there are lots of other pleasant memories inside it." "I'll freshen it up with a cloth dipped in ammonia," said Jane. "Dear me, how I _do_ enjoy washing shelves. I love to sop the soapy water over and mop the corners, and dry the whole, and fit a clean newspaper in, and then see the closet in perfect order." "You like to do everything, seems to me," said Susan. "Yes, I do. I've been led to see that doing things well is about the finest way in which one can pass one's time. And I'm crazy over doing things _well_. If I fold a towel, I like to fold it just square, and if I make a bed, I want the fold in the spread and the fold in the sheet to meet even." "You'll make a fine wife, Jane," said Susan, gravely, "only no man'll ever appreciate the folds lying straight." Jane laughed merrily. "I'm never going to marry; I'm one of the new sex, the creatures who are born to live alone and lend a hand anywhere. Didn't you know that?" "That's nonsense," said Susan; "no woman's made so." "No. It's a big fact. One of the newest facts in the world. The New Woman, you know!" "Mercy on us," said Susan, "don't you go in for any of that nonsense. The idea of a girl like you deciding not to marry! I never heard of such a thing!" "It's so, though," said Jane, smiling brightly; "you see, my little Order is a kind of Sisterhood. We're taught to want to help in so many homes and to never even think of a home of our own. We're taught to love all children so dearly that we mustn't limit ourselves to one family of little ones. We're trained to be so fond of the best in every man that we see more good to be done as sisters to men than as wives." "I don't believe Mr. Rath will agree with you," said Susan, "nor any other real nice fellow." Jane was cutting paper for the shelves. "Yes, he will," she said, nodding confidently; "men are so scarce nowadays that they are ready to agree with any one." "Jane, _I_ think he's in love with you already." Susan's tone was very solemn. Jane merely laughed. Then the door-bell rang, and she had to run. Presently she was back, a little breathless. "It's Mrs. Mead and her daughter. Can you come down?" "Yes, in a minute. You say, in a minute." Jane ran down again with the message. "Most remarkable," said Mrs. Mead, now dressed for calling, with her black hair put back in three even crinkles on either side, "about your aunt, you know, I mean. Why, we looked upon her as 'most dead. You know, Emily, we've always been given to understand she was nearing her end." "It does an invalid a lot of good to have something new to think about," said Jane. "I'm very enlivening. Aunt Susan just couldn't help getting up, when she heard me upsetting her house in all directions." "Yes, I expect it was enough to make her nervous," said Mrs. Mead, sincerely. "How long are you going to stay?" "Until Aunt Matilda comes back." "I don't believe she'll like these changes," said Mrs. Mead, gravely. "I should think that you'd feel a good deal of responsibility. It's no light matter to leave a shut-up house and an invalid in bed to a niece and come home to find the house open and the invalid all over it." "And a man coming in and having waffles in the morning," said Emily Mead, with a smile meant to be arch. Jane laughed. "That was dreadful, wasn't it?" she said, twinkling--"it was all so impromptu and funny. And everybody had such a good time. It just popped into my head, and you see it's my religion to have to do anything that you think will make people happy, if you see a chance." "Yes, we've heard about your religion," said Mrs. Mead; "dear me, I should think you'd get into a lot of trouble! Waffles in the morning would upset some folks, except on Sunday." "Perhaps most people haven't enough religion to manage them week-days," Jane suggested. "My aunt, Mrs. Cowmull, says Mr. Rath could hardly eat any lunch," observed Emily, smiling some more. "Oh, dear!" said Jane, "but I'm not surprised. Aunt Susan couldn't, either." Mrs. Mead coughed significantly. "Susan Ralston's pretty delicate to stand many new ideas, I should think," she began, but stopped suddenly as Susan entered, and viewed her with an expression of shocked surprise. "Why, Mrs. Ralston, I'd no idea you were so well. Where have you kept yourself these last years, if you were so well?" "In my own room," said Susan, with dignity. "I didn't see no special call to come down. Matilda knew where everything was, but Jane doesn't, so I've changed my ways for a little." Jane took her hand and pressed it affectionately. The sunshine seeds were sprouting finely. "Don't you want to come out into the garden with me?" she asked Emily Mead, and Emily rose at once. "I thought auntie would enjoy visiting alone with her old friend," she added, as they passed through the hall. "What are you, anyway?" Emily asked curiously. "I've heard you were a trained nurse,--are you?" "I'm one of the brand-new women," said Jane; "not a Suffragette, nor an advanced anything, but just a creature who means to give her life up to teaching happiness as an art." "Yes, I heard that. But how do you do it?" asked Emily Mead. "By being happy and thinking happy thoughts and doing happy things." Emily considered. "But don't you ever have hard things to do?" "Never. I enjoy them all--I love to work." Emily looked at her wonderingly. "But washing dishes?--We don't keep a girl, and I hate washing dishes. What would you say to them?" Jane laughed. "What, those two lovely tin pans and that nice boiling kettle? And all the dirty plates sinking under the soap-suds and then piling up under the clean hot water. And the shining dryness and the putting them on the shelves all in their own piles. And then the knowing that God wanted those dishes washed, and that you've done them just exactly as He'd like to see them done. Why, I think dish-washing is grand!" Emily opened her eyes widely. "How funny you are! I never heard such talk before! But, then, you've lived in a big city and learned to think in a big way. You wouldn't see dish-washing so if you'd done it all your life and never been told it was nice. You couldn't." "But you've been told now," said Jane, "and no work need ever seem horrid to you again. Just look at it in my way after this." "But all work seems horrid to me. I'd like to marry an awfully rich man and never see this place again. I hate it." Jane thought a minute; then said in sweet, low, even tones: "You won't evolve any man fit to marry out of that spirit, you know." The other girl stared at her. "Evolve!" "Yes. Don't you know that every minute in this world is the result of all the minutes that have gone before, and that who we marry is part of a result--not just an accident?" "_What?_" "Don't you know that? Don't you understand?" "Not a bit. Tell me what you mean?" "It's too long to explain right this minute, because one can't tell such things quickly, and if you've never studied them, you haven't the brain-cells to receive them. You see brain-cells are the houses for thoughts, and they have to be built and ready before the thoughts can move in. That's what they told me, when I was learning." Emily looked at her in bewilderment. "It's very interesting," said Jane. "I think that it's the most interesting thing in the whole world. You see, I didn't have any life at all; I was an orphan and not very bright. And then I happened to get hold of a book that said that all the life there was in the world was mine, if I'd just take it. So I wrote to the man who wrote the book--" "How did you ever dare?" "Why, I knew that the man who wrote that book would help any one--he couldn't have written the book if he hadn't been made to help people--and I asked him how I could begin." "What did he answer?" "He said: 'Seize every chance to prove your mind the master of your own body first, and when you are thoroughly master of yourself, you can master all else.'" "What did he mean?" "Well, I took it that he meant me to do anything that I thought of, right off, and that if I got in the habit of sweeping all work out of my small way, I'd soon be given a chance at big work in a big way." "And were you?" "Yes. I began to get through so quick--I lived with an uncle and helped his wife with the sewing and the children--that I had some spare time, and I went into the kitchen and learned to cook. Then one of the children was ill, and the doctor thought I'd make a good nurse, so he got me into a hospital, and I met a woman there who had all the books that I wanted to read and who just took hold and helped me right out. I saw that I didn't want to be a sick-nurse, because there's such a lot of humbug and such a lot that's silly, and my friend said that I was one who would evolve opportunities--" "What does that mean?" "Evolve means to sort of develop out of the world and yourself together at the same time." "I don't understand." "Why, if you want anything, you want it because it's there, and you can get it if you've got the strength and perseverance to build a road to it." "_What!_" "I mean just what I say. We can get anything, if we have sufficient will-power to build a way right straight to it." "Suppose I want to marry a millionaire?" "It would mean a lot of well-directed effort, and the effort would slowly train you to want something much better than to live rich and idle." Jane paused a minute, and Emily looked at her curiously. "If you want to marry a millionaire bad enough to start in and make yourself all over new, you'll have such control over your future that I think you'll get something much better than a millionaire." "I never heard any one like you in all my life," said Emily Mead. "I'd be so glad to help you straight along," Jane said. "I've got two books with me, and you can read one and then the other. Then you'll get where you can get the meaning out of the Bible, and then you'll begin to see the meaning of everything. The world gets so wonderful. You see miracles everywhere. You feel so well. The sun shines so bright. Life becomes so lovely." Emily looked at her with real wonder. "How did you happen to come here?" she asked. "Oh, that came long after all the rest of the story. One day I remembered that my mother had two sisters, and I wrote to them. My letter arrived just as Aunt Matilda's arm began to trouble her, and she asked me if I could come for a visit. You see that was another opportunity I evolved." Emily seized her hand impulsively. "I'm so glad that you came. I'm going to try, and you'll help me?" "Yes, indeed, I will. Would you like one of the books right now?" "Oh, I should." "I'll get it for you, and then I'll tell you some day about the doctor I met and his Sunshine Order." They went towards the house. "You mustn't expect to understand everything right off, you know," Jane said to her gently. "You see this is all new to you, and that means that you can't any more understand right off than you could paint a picture right off. You have to learn gradually." "But I mean to learn," said Emily. They went in the door, and Jane ran upstairs and fetched the book. "There!" she said, "you read it, and I'll help you all I can. You see the thing is to learn with your whole heart to do God's will, and then, in some strange, subtle way, you get to feel what is coming and to sort of shape all. It's so fascinating and thrilling to realize that what you want is marching towards you as fast as you can march towards it." "What do you want?" Emily asked. "I want to do exactly what I'm doing," said Jane, very quietly. "I've passed wanting anything else. I want lots of chances to teach and help,--that's all." "Don't you want to marry?" "Oh, no,--I want to be able to teach and help everywhere. I don't want things for myself, somehow." "How strange!" They went into the sitting-room. "Oh, Jane," Susan cried, "how I have enjoyed hearing about everybody in town! Sister never told me about Eddy King's running off with the store cash or Mrs. Wilton's daughter going to cooking-school, or one thing." "We must be going," said Mrs. Mead, rising; "we'll come again, though. It's good to see you up, Mrs. Ralston, and I only hope you may stay up. You know Katie Croft's mother-in-law got up just as you have and then had a stroke that night." "Oh, is old Mrs. Croft dead?" "No, she isn't," said Mrs. Mead; "if she was, she wouldn't be such a warning as she is." "Dear, dear," said Susan, "think of all I've missed. Has she got it just in her legs or all over? Matilda never told me." "Legs," said Mrs. Mead, "and it's affected her temper. Katie has an awful time with her." "Dear, dear," said Susan again,--"and, oh, Jane, a boy I've known since he was a baby has had his skull japanned and nearly died. Matilda's never told me a thing!" "Well, she didn't know much, you know," said Mrs. Mead; "she kept herself about as close as she kept you. We were given to understand pretty plainly that we weren't wanted to call." "Think of that now," said Susan, "and me up-stairs, feeling all my friends had forgot me!" "Everybody'll come now," said Mrs. Mead; "folks will be glad to see you so well. We were told you never got up and hardly ate enough to keep a cat." "An ordinary cat," corrected Emily; "Miss Matilda's always told what a lot your cat ate." "He is an eater," said Susan, crinkling a bit about the eyes; "but I eat, too, now, I can tell you." After they were gone, Jane came back into the sitting-room. Her aunt was standing by the window. "It's so beautiful to be down-stairs," she said, without turning. "My goodness, and to think that only a week ago I laid up-stairs wanting to die." "You can thank Aunt Matilda that you didn't die," said Jane, going and putting her arm around her. "If she had kept you thinking of all the illnesses in town, you'd have died long ago. Sick thoughts are more catching than diseases. But we don't need to talk of that now." "No, indeed we don't," said Susan, "for there's Mr. Rath coming." Jane gave a little start. "I wonder what for," she said. "What for!" Susan's tone was full of deep meaning; "why, he's fallen dead in love with you, Jane, that's what it means, and I don't wonder, for you're the nicest girl I ever saw." "Oh, Auntie!" said Jane, quite red. "The very idea!" CHAPTER VI LORENZO RATH IT wasn't to be supposed for a minute that Lorenzo Rath, a real live young man and an artist, shouldn't take first place in the town talk. Jane's remarkable religion might attract the attention of a few who were sufficiently religious themselves to be naturally shocked over the waffles and depressed over the invalid's recovery, but Lorenzo was of interest to every one. "If he ain't took already, there's a fine chance for Emily," Mr. Cattermole said benevolently to his daughter. Being a man, he naturally supposed that Mrs. Mead would never have come by such an idea if she hadn't had a bright old father to point it out to her. "Emily doesn't want to marry," said Mrs. Mead, compressing her lips and expanding her dignity simultaneously; "she wouldn't marry an artist, anyway." "Maybe he ain't much of an artist," said Mr. Cattermole, with a tendency to look on the bright side. "Why don't Emily want to marry? I thought girls always wanted to marry. They did when I was young." "It's different nowadays," said Mrs. Mead, with condescending reserve. "You don't understand, Father, but nothing is like it used to be. The world is getting all changed. When Emily was an only child, she was looked upon as very odd, but most women have an only child nowadays. Life is quite different." "I'd like to see Emily married," said Mr. Cattermole, thoughtfully. "Emily has had plenty of chances," said her mother, waving the brave, tattered mother-lie that seems to cover over such cruel wounds. "Has she really?" said Mr. Cattermole, in genuine surprise. "I didn't know that. And she wouldn't have 'em! Laws sakes! Who, for instance?" "No one you knew," said his daughter, telling the truth then. "Sarah knew 'em, I suppose?" (Sarah was Mrs. Cowmull.) "No, no one Sarah knew." "Think of that now! Why, I s'posed there wasn't nothing Sarah didn't know." In voicing this opinion Mr. Cattermole voiced the town opinion, too. It was popularly supposed that Sarah Cowmull always knew everything. But she didn't know the status of Lorenzo Rath's heart, and Lorenzo Rath himself puzzled her not a little. Lorenzo puzzled everybody, mainly because he was so open and simple that even a child must have suspected him of keeping something back. Such frankness was unthinkable, such innocence incredible. "Why, he's gallivanting all over with Madeleine, and yet she's gotten another man's picture on her table!" said Miss Debby to Katie Croft. "And he's skipping in Mrs. Ralston's gate at all hours," said Katie Croft--"no kind of ceremony to him. The other day he see mother in the window, and he waved his hat at her and give her an awful turn. She don't see well, and thought he threw a stone at her. She ain't used to city ways; she's used to country ways. I had to let her smell camphor for a good hour, and while she was smelling, the kitchen fire went out. I wish he'd keep his hat on his head another time. My life's hard enough without having a artist suddenly set to, to cheer up mother." "What do you think of Mrs. Ralston's niece? Think she's nice?" "Nice! With Susan Ralston about as lively as a cricket! I don't think much of such new ways. I don't know whatever Matilda will say. She's just got life all systematized, and now here's Susan up and out of bed. I'm so scared the girl'll come over and go at mother, I don't know what to do." "My, suppose Mrs. Croft was to be up and about!" said Miss Debby, opening her eyes widely. "Whatever would you do?" "Do! I know what I'd do." Young Mrs. Croft looked dark and mysterious. "I know just exactly what I'll do. And I'm all ready to do it, and if I'm interfered with, I will do it,--good and quick, too." "How is old Mrs. Croft now?" Miss Debby asked. "Oh, she's grabbin' as ever. I never see such a disposition. She's always catching at me or the cat or something. Seems to consider it a way of attracting attention. Crazy folks has such crazy ideas, and she's crazy,--crazy as a loon." Katie Croft took up her market basket and went on up the street. Miss Debby stayed behind to wait for the noon mail. "Katie's so bitter," she said to herself, shaking her head; "she ought to be more grateful for being supported." Miss Debby forgot that there are few things so irritating in this world as being supported. It is a situation which has become especially unpopular lately, particularly with women and political motives. But no old worn-out aphorism held for one minute in the breezy bloom of the House Where Jane Lived. "Oh, I'm so happy," Susan exclaimed many times daily, "I'm so happy. I never felt nothing like your sunshining in all my life before, you Sunshine Jane, you! I feel like my own cupboards, all unlocked and aired and nice and used again." Jane stopped caroling as she kneaded bread and laughed--which sounded equally pleasant. "I'm as happy as you are, Auntie; it's so nice to be in heaven." "I used to think maybe I'd die suddenly and find myself there some day," said Susan. "I'm glad I didn't." "It's better to live suddenly than to die suddenly," said Jane, merrily; "when people are awfully bothered sometimes, I've heard their friends say: 'But if you died suddenly, it would work out somehow,' and I wanted to say: 'Why not live suddenly instead of dying suddenly, and then everything's bound to come out splendidly.'" "Oh, Jane, what a grand idea,--to live suddenly! That's what I've done, surely." "Yes," said Jane, "that's what I did, too. Instead of fading out of life, we just bloomed into life. It's just as easy, and a million times more fun." "And it's all so awfully agreeable," said Susan. "My things look so nice, all set different, and it's so pleasant having folks coming in, and I like it all, and we haven't to fuss with the garden." "I attend to the garden!" cried a voice outside, and a mysterious hand shoved a basket of peas over the window-ledge. "I know who that is," said Susan; "it's that boy, and he's smelt cinnamon rolls and come to lunch. How do you do?" Lorenzo, brown and merry, was getting in at the window. "Why, you've really been weeding!" exclaimed Susan. "Of course! I've tended the garden ever since you gave it up." "I declare! Well, I never. Jane, we must give him a bite of something." "Yes, that's what I came for," said Lorenzo, cheerfully, "cookies, jelly-roll,--anything simple and handy. Madeleine and I were out walking, discussing our affairs, and when I stopped for the garden, she went on for her mail. I'm awfully hungry." "People say you're engaged to her," said Susan. Jane turned to get the tin of cookies. "Yes, naturally. People say so much. She is a pretty girl, isn't she?--but then there's Emily Mead. I must look at myself on all sides and consider carefully. Old Mr. Cattermole took me to drive yesterday and told me that he was healthy and his dead wife was healthy and that, except for what killed him, Mr. Mead was healthy, too; and there was Emily, perfectly healthy and the only grandchild, and why didn't I come over often,--it wasn't but a step." "Well, you do beat all," said Susan. Jane offered the tin of cookies. Lorenzo took six. They were all laughing. Later, when he'd gone away, Susan said, almost shyly this time: "Jane, I don't want to interfere, but he _is_ in love." "With Madeleine?" "With you." "Auntie," Jane came to her side, "you mustn't speak in that way about me. I can't marry,--not possibly. I'm a Sunshine Nurse, and I shall be a Sunshine Nurse till I die. I'll make homes happy, but I shall never have one of my own." Susan looked frightened and timid. "But why?" "For many reasons. And all good ones." There was that in the young girl's tone that ended the subject for the time being. But Susan thought of it a great deal, and alone in her room that night, Jane thought, too. She had made herself ready for bed, and then sat down by the window, clasping her hands on the sill. Lorenzo Rath was buoyantly dear and jolly, and she realized that he was the nicest man that she had ever met. It had all been fun, great fun, and she had enjoyed it mightily. But with all her learning Jane was not so very much farther along the Highway to Happiness than some others. In many cases she was only a holder of keys as yet--the distinct knowledge to be gained by unlocking secrets with their aid was as yet not hers. To hold the keys and look at the doors is to realize what power means,--but to unlock is to use it. Jane was still a novice; she left the doors locked and was content to hold the keys, and no more. The next night Lorenzo appeared again. "I'm half-dead," he said. "I've tramped twelve miles, sketching." "Dear, dear," said Susan, "seems like nobody in this world ever wants what's close to." "Sometimes it's no use to want what's close to," said Lorenzo, "or else what's close to is like Emily Mead, and you just ache to run." "Emily Mead is a very nice girl," said Jane, in a tone clearly reproachful. Lorenzo just laughed. But then Susan made some excuse to slip away. "I wonder if you'd help me a little," he said then, hesitating a bit. "Is it something that I can do? Of course I'll help you if I can." "It's something very necessary." "Necessary?" "To my welfare and happiness." "What is it?" "I think--I'm--falling in love." "Oh, dear," Jane was carefully tranquil. "I've never really been in love in my life, so I can't be sure. But I think it's that." Jane said nothing. The room was getting dark. "I've never seen any one so pretty in all my life as Miss Mar," said the young artist, slowly. "You know we're old friends." "Oh, she's lovely," said Jane, with sudden fervor. "I thought that we might make up little picnics and walks and things?" hesitated the young man. "Of course," said Jane, heartily. "And you can come here all you like. Auntie likes you both so much." Lorenzo Rath stood by the door. "Were you ever in love?" he asked bluntly. "No," said Jane. "I've never had the least little touch of it." "Haven't you ever thought about it?" "No, I've never had time. I've never seen any man that I could or would marry." "Never?" "Never." "That's too bad," said Lorenzo Rath slowly. "Seems to me you'd make such a splendid wife." She laughed a little. Then she had to wink quickly to drive back tears which leapt suddenly. "I won't say any more," said Lorenzo. She thought that he did not care to speak of Madeleine to her. Then she went. And later she found herself sitting in her own room again, sitting by the same window, thinking. "Poor Emily Mead and her illusory millionaire! I'm about as silly as she is," thought Jane. "And yet I know it's higher and more beautiful to make life lovely for others than to make it lovely for one's self." She sighed because the reflection--all altruistic as it was--was not quite the truth, and she was true enough herself to feel jarred by the slightest cross-shadow of falsehood. Truth plays as widely and freely as the sunbeams themselves and goes as straight to the heart of each and all. Finally she opened a little book and read aloud a few pages to herself in a low tone. "I know I'm on the right path," she said, when she had closed the book; "the thing is to stick resolutely to keeping on straight ahead. And I must be absolutely content with all that comes. You have to be content if you're going to grow in goodness, for you have to know that you've been trying and been successful." She sat still a while longer and then rose with a deep, long breath. "Well, to-day's been something, and to-morrow I'll be something better, I know." The truth did shine then, and she went to bed calmed, but was hardly stretched down between the cool sheets when Susan rapped at the door. "Come in." "Oh, Jane, I can't sleep. I've got to thinking of when Matilda comes back, and I'm scared blue." CHAPTER VII A NEW OUTLOOK ON MATILDA THE next morning Susan looked half-sheepish and half-anxious. "I just couldn't help it, Jane. I laid in bed so long, thinking, and then it come over me what life was going to be when she was back and you gone and--well--I just couldn't help coming. I felt awful." Jane was busy with breakfast. "I know, Auntie, I know. I ought to have thought of Aunt Matilda sooner. Half her stay is over." "Oh, my, I should say it was," wailed Susan; "that's what scares me so. We're so happy, and the time is going so fast. It's about the most awful thing I ever knew." Jane began beating eggs for an omelette. "We never were one bit alike," Susan intoned mournfully; "we were always so different, and then when husband died, there was just nothing to do but for us to live together. She's my only sister, and it's right that I should humor her, but, oh my, what a scratch-about life she has led me. I was getting to feel more like a mouse than a woman--soon as I got a bite, I'd begin to tremble and to listen and then how I _did_ run!" "But it will be all so different when she comes back," Jane said cheerily. "She'll be very different, and so will you. It'll be just like I told you last night." "I know,--I know. But somehow I can't see it as you do. I'm all upset. And I'm so happy without her. We're so happy. The house looks beautiful. You've just made everything over. I declare, Jane, I never saw anything like you. All my old things have turned new, and so pretty. I feel like a bride. That is, I feel like a bride when I ain't thinking of Matilda." "It looks very nice, surely," said Jane, smiling. "Your things were so pretty, anyhow. But what I was gladdest about was to really get it all opened up and fresh. I didn't want any one to come while it was so gloomy. The whole town may call now." "They do, too," said Susan, diverted for the minute; "they certainly do. Oh, it is so nice, I so adore to hear all about things again. Matilda just shut everybody out. She didn't like company." "She was pretty busy, you know." "She hadn't any more to do than you have. She hadn't so much to do as you have, because she didn't do a thing you do." "But you were ill. She was always up and down stairs--" "No, she wasn't, Jane. No, she wasn't." "Well, she had your meals to carry upstairs." "I don't call it meals to run with a teacup. Meals! _Such_ meals! It's a wonder I didn't die. She'd turn anything upside down on a plate and something else upside down on that, and call it a meal for me. I was about sick, just from how she fed me. If I said something was cooked too dry, she emptied the tea-kettle into it next time; and if I said anything was too wet, she put on fresh coal and left it in the oven over night. If I said the room was too light, she shut it up as dark as a pickpocket; and if I said it was too dark, she turned the sun into my eyes. She's my only sister and I must humor her, but I've had a very hard time, Jane, and I don't blame myself for waking up with my teeth all of a chatter over the thought of living with her again." Jane had their breakfast ready now on the table by the window. "Come and sit down," she said; "we'll talk while we eat. It's like I told you last night,--there must be a hitch somewhere. Of course, God has a good reason for you and Aunt Matilda living together. He doesn't allow accidents in His world." "Perhaps He wasn't thinking. I can't believe that anybody would deliberately put anybody in the house with Matilda--not if they knew Matilda. I didn't know what she'd grown into myself when she first came to take care of me, because I was a little poorly. It was to save spending on a nurse, you know. They're such trying, prying things, nurses are." "I'm a nurse, you know." "My goodness, I didn't mean your kind; I meant the regular kind." Jane was laughing. "But I mustn't laugh," she said, after a minute; "we must go to work. Let's see if we can find out how it all began. Didn't you and Aunt Matilda get on nicely at first?" Susan considered. "Well, I don't believe we did. She was always so very sparing. Husband was sparing, and of course I'd had a good many years of it, but when your husband's gone and you've got the property yourself and have left it to an only sister who takes care of you, you don't like her being even more sparing,--putting you on skim-milk right from the first and chopping the potato peelings in the hash." "But there must have been some good in the situation, or it wouldn't have been. When there's a wrong situation, the cure lies in hunting out the good, not in talking over the bad." "You won't find any good in Matilda and me living together,--not if you hunt till Doomsday." Susan took a big sip of coffee and then shook her head hard. "There's good in everything." "I don't know what it was here, then. I was all ready to die, and the doctor said I couldn't live, and when I found out how Matilda was counting on it, I just made up my mind to live just to spite her. But it's been awful hard work." Jane turned and seized her hand. "Well, maybe that's the reason for the situation, then. You see if she'd been different, you'd have died, but being a person who made you mad, you stayed alive." Susan laughed a little. "I've been mad enough, I know," she went on; "it's awful to be up-stairs the way I've been and have to prowl down-stairs and run off with your food like a dog in an alley. I was always watching till I saw Matilda over that second fence and then racing for something to eat. I've been very hungry often and often, Jane, very hungry indeed,--and in my own house, too." The tears came into the girl's eyes. "Poor Auntie!" she said. "Well, it's all over now and won't ever come back. You must believe me when I say so. Old conditions never return. The wheel can't turn backward. That mustn't be." "But how'll it help it when Matilda's visit gets over?" Jane rested her chin on her hands and looked out of the window. "I'll have to get you on to a plane where you can't live as you did ever again," she said. "On a plane!--" Susan stared. "A plane is a kind of grade in life. We keep going up them like stairs, and the quieter and happier people live, the higher is the plane on which they are. It's very simple, when you come to understand it. It's sort of like a marble staircase built out of a marsh and on up a mountain. You can stand down in the mud, or step higher in the reeds, or step higher in the water (generally it's hot water," Jane interrupted herself to say with a little smile). "Or out on the dry earth, or higher where it's flowers, or higher or higher. But every time you get up a step you leave all the mess of all the lower steps behind you forever. Do you understand?" "No, I don't." "Why, don't you see that if you lift yourself higher than your surroundings, of course you'll have other conditions around you and be really living another life? We can't possibly be bound by conditions lower than our souls. It's a law. I'll help you to understand it, and then it will help you to not be at all troubled over Aunt Matilda. You'll be above her. Don't you see? One can always get out of a disagreeable life by lifting one's self above it." "But I did stay up-stairs," said Susan, with beautiful literalness. "I think it's awful to have to keep a plane above any one, when the whole house is yours." "I didn't mean that," said Jane. "I meant that mentally you must get above her. It isn't in words or in thoughts,--you must _be_ above her. You must get free. I must help you. You can do it. Anybody can do it. And as soon as you are free in your spirit, your life will change. Our daily life follows our thoughts. Our thoughts make a pattern, and life weaves it. The world of stars that we can't hardly grasp at all is all God's thought. The life in this house was your thought and Aunt Matilda's." "It wasn't mine," said Susan quickly; "it was hers." "Well, it's mine now," said Jane. "That's the true business of the Sunshine Nurses. They must get a new thought into a house and get it to growing well. Then they'll leave the true sunshine there forever after." Susan's eyes were very curious--very bright. "I declare I don't see how you'll do it here," she said. "I can't look at Matilda any new way, as I know of. Whatever she does, she does just exactly as I don't like it." "I suppose that you try her, too." "Well, I didn't die; of course she minded that. But I couldn't die. You can't die just to order." "No, of course not; I didn't mean that." Jane was quite serious. "I don't blame you at all for not doing that." Susan had finished and rose from the table. "Let's leave the dishes and go out in the yard," she said. "I'm awfully anxious to keep on at this till we find a way out, if you think that you can; I go about wild when I think of her. I'm ready for anything except staying in bed any more." "Oh, that's all over," said Jane. "You're off the bed-plane now, and don't you see how much higher you've got already? The next step is to fix yourself so securely on this happy one that you know that it's yours and you can't leave it. You see, you feel able to go back down again, and as long as you feel that way, it's possible. One has to bar out the wrong kind of life forever, and then of course it's over." "But she is coming back," said Susan, "and I can't live any more on gobbles of milk and cold bits swallowed while I'm getting up-stairs three steps to the jump." Jane looked at her. "I expect that exercise was awfully good for you, Auntie," she said seriously. "You've probably gotten a lot of health and interest out of it. Don't forget that." "Well, maybe; but I don't want any more." Susan's tone was terribly earnest. "It's all over then," said Jane, slowly and with emphasis; "if you truly and honestly don't want any more, then it must be all over. The thing to do now is to build a firm connection between ourselves and it's being all over." "I don't quite understand what you mean," said Susan, "but something's got to be done, of course, because otherwise she'll come home, and oh, my, her face when she sees me up and around!" Jane knit her brows. "You see, Auntie," she said slowly, "there's only one thing to do. We've got to change ourselves completely; we've to get where we want her to come home and where we look forward to it--" Susan stopped short and lifted up both hands. "Gracious, we can't ever do that! It isn't in humanity." "Yes, we can do it," said Jane firmly; "people can always do anything that they can think out, and if we can think this out straight, we can do it." "How?" "It isn't easy to see in just the first minute, but I understand the principle of it and I know that we can work it, for I've seen it done. You do it by getting an entirely new atmosphere into the house." "But you've done that already," interrupted Susan. "It isn't musty anywhere any more, and there's such a kind of a happy smell instead." "I don't mean that kind of an atmosphere. I mean a change of feeling in ourselves. We've got to somehow make ourselves all over; we must really and truly be different." "But I am made over, and you were all right, anyhow." "No, I'm not all right," said Jane firmly. "I'm very wrong. I'm letting silly thoughts with which I've no business torment me dreadfully, and I'm not driving them out with any kind of resolution. Then we're both doing wrong about Aunt Matilda. We're making a narrow little black box of our opinion and crowding her into it all the time. There's nothing so dreadful as the way families just chain one another to their faults. Outsiders see all the nice things, and we have lots of courage to always live up to their opinions, but families spend most of their time just nailing those they love best into pretty little limits. You and I are so happy together, and we're changing ourselves and one another every day, but we never think that Aunt Matilda's also having experience and changing herself, too. We kind of forbid her to grow better." "You won't find anything that will change Matilda very quick, Jane. She's a dreadful person to stick to habits; she's drunk out of the blue cup and give me the green one for these whole five years." "The change in the atmosphere of the house," said Jane slowly, "must be complete. We must never say one more word about her that isn't nice, and we mustn't even think unkind thoughts. We must talk about her lots and look forward to her coming back--" "Oh, heavens, I can't," gasped Susan. "We'll begin to-day on her room--" "Then you'll make her madder than a hatter, sure; she can't bear to have her room touched." "I'm going to make it the prettiest room in the house," said Jane resolutely. "I'm going to brush and clean and mend and fix all those clothes she's left hanging up, and I'm going to love her dearly from now on." Susan sat still, her lips moving slightly, but whether with repressed feeling or trembling sentiment it would be impossible to say. "She looked awful cute when she was little and wore pantalettes," she said finally. "Bravo!" cried Jane, running to her and kissing her. "There's a fine victory for you, and now,"--her face brightening suddenly,--"I've got an idea of what we can do to lift us right straight up into a new circle of life. What do you say to our making the little back parlor over into a bedroom, and--" "--taking Mr. Rath to board?" cried Susan joyfully. "Oh, I am sure that he wanted to come all along." Jane laughed outright. "No, indeed, the very idea! No, what I thought of was inviting that poor old Mrs. Croft here for a week and giving her and her daughter-in-law a rest from one another." Susan gave a sharp little yell. "Why, Jane Grey, I never heard the beat! Why, she can't even feed herself!" "It would be a way to change the atmosphere of the house; it's just the kind of thing that would change us all--" "I should think it would change us all," interrupted Susan; "why, she threw a cup of tea at Katie's back last week. Katie said she couldn't possibly imagine what had come over her,--she was leaning out to hook the blinds." "It would be a Bible-lovely thing to do," Jane went on slowly. "You or I could feed her, and I'd take care of her. I'm a nurse, you know!" "Jane! Well, you beat all! Well, I never did! Old Mrs. Croft. Why, they say you might as well be gentle with a hornet." "Maybe she has her reasons; maybe it's,--Set a hornet to tend a hornet, for all we know. Anyway, it's come to me as some good to do, and when I think of any good that I can do, I have to do it,--else it's a sin. That's my religion." "That religion of yours'll get you into a lot of hot water along through life." Susan's tone was very grave. "And you've never seen old Mrs. Croft, or you'd never speak of her and religion in the same breath. They've got a cat she caresses, and some days she caresses it for all she's worth. I've heard the cat being caressed when it was quiet, myself, many's the time. You can't use that religion of yours on old Mrs. Croft; she isn't a subject for religion. She's one of that kind that the man in the Bible thanked God he wasn't one of them." "My religion is what brought me here to you," said Jane gently. "You aren't really sorry that I learned it, are you, Auntie?" Susan's eyes moistened quickly. She gasped, then swallowed, then made up her mind. "Well, Sunshine Jane," she said resignedly, "when shall we get her?" "We'll put her room in order to-morrow morning, and I'll go and ask her in the afternoon." "Oh, dear!" said Susan, with a world of meaning in the two syllables. "I hope she'll enjoy the change." Jane laughed. "Goodness, Auntie, I never saw any one pick up new ideas as quick as you do. I was months learning how to make myself over, and you do it in just a few hours. You must have laid a big foundation of self-control up there in bed." Susan sighed, uncheered. "It kept me pretty sharp, I tell you," she said; "when you're always hungry and have to get your food on the sly and be positively sure of never being found out, it does keep you in trim being spry pretty steady." "May we come in?" asked voices at the gate. It was Lorenzo Rath and Madeleine. "We wanted to see how you were getting on to-day," the latter called. "We've been changing the furniture and the atmosphere," said Susan, trying bravely to smile. "Jane is turning everything around and bringing the bright new side out." "If you'll come and help me wash the breakfast dishes and then make biscuits," Jane said to Madeleine, "I'll ask you both to lunch." "I want to learn how to do everything, of course," said Madeleine. "And why shouldn't we go down to the garden?" suggested Lorenzo to Susan. "You'll point out the things you want to-day, and I'll pull 'em up." "But there are fences to climb," said Jane. "Fiddle for fences," said her aunt; "he'll go ahead, and I'll skim over 'em like a squirrel. I never made anything of fences." So they divided the labor. "The house looks so pretty," said Madeleine, as she and Jane went through to the kitchen. "How do you ever manage it,--with just the same things, too?" Jane glanced about. "Why, there's a right place for everything, and if you just stand back a bit and let the things have time to think, they'll tell you where to put them. There was an old blue vase in the dining-room that was pretty weak-minded, but I was patient and carried it all over the place till finally it was suited on top of the what-not in the corner of the hall. The trouble with most things is that we hurry them too much at first, and then we don't help them out of their false position later." "Oh, Jane, you are so delightfully quaint. You must tell Mr. Rath that. It's the kind of speech that will just charm the soul right out of an artist." Jane was deep in the flour-bin. "But I don't want to charm his soul. I'll leave that to you." "To me! Why, he doesn't care a rap about me." "Well, then, to Emily Mead." "Emily Mead! Oh, my dear, you have put a lot of new ideas into her head! She says that you told her that any one could get anything that he or she wanted." "And so they can." "Suppose she wants Mr. Rath?" "If she wants him in the right way, she'll have him." "I don't like that way of speaking of men," said Madeleine, dipping her white fingers into the flour and beginning to chip the butter through it. "Don't you think it's horrid how girls speak of men nowadays? I do." "Of course I do," said Jane. "But one drops into the habit just because everybody does it. I'll never be married myself, and it's partly because I think it's all being so dragged down. Instead of two people's knowing one another and liking one another better till finally a big, beautiful, holy secret sort of dawns on them and makes the world all over new, girls just go on and act as if men were wild animals to be hunted and caught and talked about, or married and made fun of. I don't think all these new ideas and new ways for women have made women a bit more womanly. When I had to earn my living, I picked out work that a man couldn't do, and that I wouldn't be hurting any man by doing. I'm sorry for men nowadays. And I think women lose a lot the way some of them go on." "After all, there can't be anything nicer than to be a woman, can there?" said Madeleine, stirring as the other poured in ingredients. "I've always been glad that I was a woman. I think that a woman's life is so sweet, and it's beautiful to be protected and cared for." The pink flew over her cheeks at the words. Jane's lashes swept downward for a minute, then rose resolutely. "Or to protect and care for others. It always seems to me as if a woman was the sort of blessed way through which a man's love and strength and care go to his children. Men are so helpless with children, but they do such a lot for wives, and then the mothers pass it on to the little ones." "Life's lovely when you think of it rightly, isn't it?" Madeleine said thoughtfully. "I'm so pleased over having come here. You see Father and Mother wanted me to spend a few weeks quietly where I could rest and pick myself up a little, and so they sent me here. I didn't care much about coming, but I'm glad now. You're doing me lots of good, Jane; you seem to help me to unlock the doors to everything that's just best in me." "It isn't that I do it," said Jane; "it's that it's been done to me, and after it got through me, it's bound to shine on. It's like light; every window you clean lets it through into another place, where maybe there's something else to clean and let it through again." "I suppose we just live to keep clean and let light through," laughed Madeleine, cutting out the biscuits. "That's all." "I think that you'd make a good preacher, Jane; you've such nice, plain, homely, understandable ways of putting things." Jane laughed and popped the pan into the oven. "Come and help lay the table," she said. "Oh, you never saw anything as sweet as Aunt Susan's joy in her own things. She's like a little child at Christmas. It's a kind of coming back to life for her." "They say that her sister was awfully mean to her." "But she wasn't at all. She thought that she was sicker than she was, and she kept her in bed, and the joke of it was that Aunt Susan didn't like to hurt her feelings by letting her see what mistaken ideas she had, so she hopped up every time the coast was clear and kept lively and interested trying to be about and in bed at once." "How perfectly delightful! I never heard anything so funny. And then you came and discovered the truth." "Well, I didn't want her to stay in bed. I'd never encourage any one in a false belief, but she hadn't the belief,--she had only the false appearance. She didn't enjoy being an invalid one bit." "I think it's too droll," said Madeleine. "Didn't you laugh when it dawned on you first?" "It dawned on me rather sadly. But we laugh together now." "What will she do when her sister comes back?" "Oh, that will all come out nicely. I don't know just how, but I know that it will come out all right." "Do you always have faith in things coming out rightly?" "Always. I wouldn't dare not to. I'm one of those people who kind of feel the future as it draws near, and so I wouldn't allow myself to feel any mean future drawing near, on principle. I always feel that nice things are marching straight towards me as fast as ever the band of music plays." "Do you believe that it really makes any difference?" "Of course it makes a difference. It makes all the difference in the world, because hope's a rope by which any good thing can haul you right up to it, hand over hand." "You give me a lot to think about," said Madeleine. Jane ran out and picked some ivy leaves to place under the vase of flowers in the middle of the table. It made a little green mat. "There; we're all ready when they come, now," she said. Presently they did come. "Oh, what will Mrs. Cowmull say to this!" said Lorenzo, as he pulled out Mrs. Ralston's chair. "She's busy marking passages in _The Seven Lamps of Architecture_ to read aloud to me while I eat, and now I shan't show up at all." "Have you seen her niece lately?" asked Madeleine. "Yes, I saw her this morning. She wants to pose for me, only she stipulated that she should wear clothes. I told her that my models all wore thick wool and only showed a little of their faces. She didn't seem to like that." "But what did you mean? Surely you don't always have them wear thick woolen?" "I just do. If they haven't thick wool on, I won't paint them at all." "What do you mean?" "Why, I paint sheep." The mild little joke met with great favor. "I think you're a very clever young man," Susan said with great sincerity. "To think of me having a good time laughing with a sheep painter," she added. "Who holds them for you to paint, and do you set them afterwards?" "I paint them right in the fields," said Lorenzo. "I should think they'd butt you from behind." "I paint over a fence." "Well, that's safe," said Jane's aunt. "If you're careful not to be on the side where there's a bull." After supper Madeleine helped Jane wash the dishes. "What fun you make out of everything," she said. "It's the only way," Jane answered. "My mission is to make two sunbeams shine where only one slanted." "I'm glad I'm one of the heathen to whom you were sent," said Madeleine affectionately. Jane put her arm around her. "So am I, dear, very glad." Madeleine laid her face against the other girl's. "Some day I want to tell you a secret," she said; "a secret that Lorenzo told me yesterday." Jane felt her heart sort of skip a beat. "Do tell me," she said in a whisper. "I can't now," said Madeleine. "I want to be all alone with you. It's too--too big a secret to bear to be broken in upon." "Can you come to-morrow afternoon? Auntie's going to Mrs. Mead's to the Sewing Society, and I'll be here alone." "That will be nice," said Madeleine; "yes, I'll come." CHAPTER VIII SOUL-UPLIFTING IT was the next morning about eleven o'clock. "You see," said Jane, sitting in the Crofts' sitting-room opposite Katie Croft who, whatever else she might or might not be, was certainly not pleasant of expression, "you see, my aunt has been an invalid so much that she appreciates what a change means to both the sick one and the one who cares for her, and so we thought that it would be so nice if you'd let me wheel your mother--" "She ain't my mother--she's my mother-in-law," broke in Mrs. Katie Croft, instantly indignant over so false an imputation. "Good lands, the very idea! My mother! And never one single stroke of paralysis nor nothing in my family, and all reading the Bible without glasses right up till they died." "You see, it would give you a little rest, too," Jane continued, "and it would do Aunt Susan good to feel that she was helping a weaker--" "She ain't weak," broke in Katie Croft, again; "my lands, she's strong as a lady-ox. Anything she makes up her mind to keep she lays hold of with a grip as makes you fairly sick all up and down your back. You don't know perhaps, Miss Grey, as my husband died in our youth, and I come to live with his mother as a sacred duty, and I tell you frankly that I wish I'd never been born or that he'd never been born, forty times an hour--I do." "You'll like a week alone, I'm sure," said Jane serenely, "and we'll like to have your mother-in-law. Perhaps she'll get a few new ideas--" "She's stubborn as a mule," interrupted the daughter-in-law. "But may I see her and ask her? I do so want to help you a little. Life must have been so hard for you these last years." "Hard!" said Katie Croft, with emphasis. "Hard! Well, I'll tell you what it is, Miss Grey,--to marry a young man as was meek as Moses and then have him just fade right straight out and get a mother-in-law like that old--that old--that old--well, I'll tell you frankly she's a siren and nothing else." (Young Mrs. Croft probably meant "vixen," but Jane did not notice.) "My life ain't really worth a shake-up of mustard and vinegar some days. What I have suffered!" "I know more than you think," said Jane sympathetically; "nurses take care of so many kinds of people. But do let me ask her. If she likes to come to us, it'll be a great rest to you, and perhaps it'll do her a little good, too." "I can't understand you're wanting her," said Katie. "It's all over town how queer you are, but I never thought that anybody could be as queer as that!" "Do let us go to her," Jane urged. Katie rose and forthwith conducted the caller to old Mrs. Croft's room, a large, square place adorned with no end of black daguerreotypes and faded photographs. "Mother, it's Miss Grey. You know?--she's Mrs. Ralston's niece." Old Mrs. Croft received her visitor with acutely suspicious eyes. "Well?" she said tartly. Jane took her hand, but she jerked it smartly away. "Sit down anywhere," said Katie; "she hears well." "Hear!" said old Mrs. Croft. "I should say I did hear. There ain't a pan fell in the neighborhood for the last ten years as hasn't woke me out of a sound sleep, dreaming of my husband--" "Miss Grey's come to see you about something," interrupted Katie; "she--" "I had a husband," continued old Mrs. Croft, raising her voice from Do to Re, "and such a one! Wednesday he'd go to sleep and Thursdays he'd wake, so regular you could tell the days of the week just from his habits. He--" "Miss Grey wants--" interrupted Katie. "I came to--" said Jane. "I had a husband," continued old Mrs. Croft, going from Re to Mi now; "oh, my, but I did have a husband. In May I had him and in December I had him, but he was always the same to me. You can see his picture there, Miss Grey; it's all faded out, just from being looked at; but I'll tell you where it never fades, Miss Grey--it never so much as turns a hair in my heart. My heart is engraved--" "You'd better go on and say what you've got to say," said Katie to Jane. "I often put her to bed talking, and she talks all the night through." "I want to ask you--" Jane began. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," sang Mrs. Croft. "Oh, I had--" "--I want you to come and stay with us," Jane said, with forceful accents. There was a sudden tense hush. "My aunt and I want you to come and make us a little visit," the caller added. The hush grew awful. "A little change would be so good for you--you've been shut up so long." Old Mrs. Croft lifted her two hands towards the ceiling. "What do you want to take me out of my own house for? Going to do something to it that I wouldn't approve, I expect. Oh, I see it all. There was Macbeth and there was Othello, and now there's my house--What are you going to do to it, anyhow?" The question was pitched so high and sharp that Jane jumped. "We just want to give you a little change." "Change! I had a change once. Went to Cuba with my husband and nearly died. I don't want no change of _house_," with deep meaning in the emphasis; "the change that I want is another change. Change is a great thing to have. My husband never changed. Only his collars. Never no other way." "You and Aunt Susan are old friends--" suggested Jane. "Never nothing special," broke in old Mrs. Croft. "My goodness, I do hope your aunt ain't calling me her friend, because if she is, it's a thing I can't allow." Jane thanked her stars that her powers of mental concentration forbade her mind to wander. "I'm sure if you came to us, you'd enjoy it," she said persuasively; "we've such a pretty bedroom down-stairs, and I'll sleep on the dining-room sofa, so you won't feel lonely." "Lonely. I never feel lonely. I'd thank Heaven if I could be let alone for a little, once in a while. I don't want to come, and that's a fact. If that be treason, make the most of it." "Oh, but you must come," said Jane; "you'll like it. We want you, and you must come." "Well, get me my bonnet then," said old Mrs. Croft. "Run, Katie, I've been sitting here waiting for it for over an hour." Katie and Jane regarded one another in consternation. They hadn't quite counted on this. "I'm going visiting," said Mrs. Croft gaily. "Oh, my, and how I shall visit. Years may come and years may go, and still I shall sit there visiting away, and when I hear the door-bell, I shall know it's time for Christmas dinner." Katie took Jane's hand and drew her out of the room. "I don't believe you'd better take her," she said; "she's so flighty. I know how to manage her, and you don't. Just give it up." "No, I won't," said Jane, smiling. "I know that it's a kind thing to do and that I must do it. I'm going to take her." "Seems so odd you're wanting to," said Katie. "You're very funny, I think. People are saying that you think that everything's for the best. Do you really believe that?" "Of course. We can't get outside of God's plan, whatever we may do. If we do wrong, we have to bear the consequences because it's as easy to _see_ the right thing to do as the wrong, but the great Plan never wavers." "Oh, my," said Katie. "I'm glad to know that." Jane pressed her hand. "I'll get things all ready, and we'll bring her over tomorrow night," she said; "that'll be best. Then she can go right to bed and get rested from the effort." So it was arranged, and the Sunshine Nurse went home to tell Susan that Mrs. Croft had consented to come. She felt quite positive that now they would both attain unto a higher plane without any difficulty, if they kept such a guest in the house for a week. "It isn't going to be easy, Auntie," she said, a bit later, "but it will teach you and me a lot, and if one wants to voyage greatly, one must get out into the deep water." "I'll do anything to get hold of some different way of getting on with Matilda," said Susan, "and I begin to see what you mean when you say that if I change _me_, I'll change it all. If you could make flour into sugar, you'd have cake instead of biscuit, but, oh, my! Old Mrs. Croft!" "It won't be for so very long," said Jane, "and think of Katie Croft through all these years! She's been splendid, I think." "Well, she didn't have any other place to live, you know," Susan promptly reminded her niece. "Work's work, no matter why you do it," Jane said, "and all the big laws work greatly. This having old Mrs. Croft is a pretty big step for you and me to take, and you'll see that when Aunt Matilda returns, we'll be so strongly settled in our new ways that she can't unsettle us. We'll be absolutely different people." "Y--yes," said Susan, confidence fighting doubt stoutly. "I'm willing to try, although left to myself I should never have thought of old Mrs. Croft as a way of getting different." "Anything that we do with earnest purpose is a way of getting better," said Jane. She looked out of the window for a minute, and her lip almost quivered. Susan didn't notice. "Everything is always for the best, if we're sure of it," she then said firmly. CHAPTER IX MADELEINE'S SECRET THE two girls were enjoying a pleasant time in Susan's big, tidy kitchen. "I never knew that a kitchen could be so perfectly lovely," said Madeleine, as they took tea by the little table by the window. "Jane, you are a genius! One opens the gate here with a bubbling feeling that everything in the whole world's all right." "I'm so glad," said Jane; "it's grand to feel that one is a real channel of happiness. I always seem to see people as made to form that kind of connection between God and earth, and that happiness is the visible sign of success, a good 'getting through,' so to speak." "Do you know, the English language is awfully indefinite. That sentence might mean good flowing like water through people, or people so made that good can go through them easily. Do you see?" "Yes, I see. But either meaning is all right. It isn't what I say that matters so much, anyway. It's how you take it." "I took that two ways." "Yes, and both were good. That's so fine,--to get two good meanings, where I only meant one." They smiled together. "Mr. Rath and I were talking about that last evening," said Madeleine, the color coming into her face a little. "Do you know, he's really a very dear man. He's awfully nice." Jane jumped up to drive a wasp out of the window. "You know him better than I do," she said, very busy. "I've known him for several years, but never as well as here." Jane came back and sat down. Madeleine was silent, seeming to search for words. "You were going to tell me a secret," her friend said, after a little. "I know, but I--I can't." Jane lifted her eyes almost pitifully. "Why not?" "I don't feel that I have the right, after all. Secrets are such precious things." "If I can help you--?" "Oh, no, no.--It isn't any trouble. It's something quite different--I--I thought that perhaps I could tell you my thoughts, but--I can't." There was a silence. "There are such wonderful feelings in the world," Madeleine went on, after a little; "they don't seem to fit into words at all. One feels ashamed to have even planned to talk about them. One feels so humble when--" she paused--then closed her lips. Jane put out her hand and took the hand upon the other side of the little table, close. "Don't mind me, dear; I understand." "Do you really?" "Yes." Madeleine's eyes were anxious. "Do you guess? Did you guess?" "Yes." "And how--what--what do you think?" "I think that it would be lovely, only, of course, I don't quite know it all, for I shall never have anything like it." Madeleine started. "Oh, Jane, don't say that." "But it's so, dear." "Oh, _no_." "No, dear,--I can guess and sympathize. But I shall never have any such happiness. It's--it's quite settled." Madeleine left her seat, went round by the side of the other girl, flung herself down on the floor, and looked as if she were about to cry. "Oh, Jane, you mustn't feel so. Why shouldn't you marry?" "I can't, dear; I've debts of my father's to pay, and I'm pledged to my Order." "But they'll get paid after a while." "It will take all my youth." "But a way can be found?" "No way can ever be. There is no one in the wide world to help me. I'm quite alone." "Why, Jane," said Madeleine, always kneeling and always looking up, "I know some one who can manage everything, and you do, too." Jane stared a little. "My aunt, do you mean?" "No,--God." Jane smiled suddenly. "Thank you, dear. I hadn't forgotten, but I just didn't think. Still, I think God means me to be brave about my burdens. I don't think that He sees them as things from which to be relieved." Madeleine was still looking up. "But the channel doesn't think; the channel just conveys what pours along it," she whispered. Just at this second the scene altered. "Oh, there's my aunt!" Jane exclaimed. Susan passed the window, and the next minute she came in the door. "I've had the most bee--youtiful afternoon," she announced radiantly. "I did Jane lots of credit, for I never said a word about anybody, but oh, how splendid it was to just be good and silent, and hear all the others talk. They talked about everybody, and a good many were of my own opinion, so I had considerable satisfaction without doing a thing wrong." Jane couldn't help laughing or Madeleine, either. "Was young Mrs. Croft there?" "No, and most everybody says that she'll go off to-morrow and never come back, and we'll have old Mrs. Croft till she dies. They looked at me pretty hard, but I stuck to my soul and never said a word." "It was noble in you, Auntie," Jane said warmly. "Yes, it was," assented Susan. Then she turned to Madeleine, who had returned to her chair. "Jane's religion's pretty hard on me, but I like its results, and I can do anything I set out to do, and I don't mean to not get a future if I can help it. You see, my sister Matilda is a very peculiar person. You must know that by this time?" "I have heard a good deal about her," Madeleine admitted. "Well, I hope it isn't unkind in me to say that I know more than anybody else can possibly imagine." "But she's coming back all right," Jane interrupted firmly; "we mustn't forget that." "No," said Susan, with a quick gasp in her breath; "no, I'm not forgetting a thing. I'm only talking a little. And oh, how Mrs. Cowmull did talk about you, Madeleine. She says Mr. Rath can't put his nose out of the door alone." "That's dreadful," said Madeleine, trying not to color, "especially as we always come straight here." "Well, I tell you it's pretty hard work being good," said Susan, with a cheerful sigh; "it's a relief to get home and take off one's bonnet." "And don't you want some tea, Auntie? It's all hot under the cozy." "Yes, I will, you Sunshine Jane, you. I'll never cease to be grateful for good tea again as long as I live. I've had five years of the other kind to help me remember." Later, when Madeleine was gone, Susan said: "Do you know, Jane, Katie Croft is certainly going to desert that awful old woman when we get her here? Everybody says so." "No, she isn't, Auntie; the expected is never what happens." "Jane, any one with your religion can't rely on proverbs to help them out, because the whole thing puts you right outside of common-sense to begin with." Jane was sitting looking out upon the pretty garden. "I know, Auntie; I only quoted that in reference to the Sewing Society gossip. It's never the expected that happens in their world; it's the expected that always happens in my world. And proverbs don't exist in my world; they're every one of them a human limitation." "Well, Jane, I don't know; some of them are very pretty, and when I've seen Matilda over the fence and run down to get a few scraps, I've taken considerable comfort in 'No cloud without a silver lining' and 'It never rains but it pours.' They were a great help to me." Jane kissed her tenderly. "Bless you, Auntie,--everything's all right and all lovely, and Madeleine made me so happy to-day. I'm sure that she's engaged." "Yes, I've thought that, too." "Yes, and I'm so glad for her." "I hope he's good enough for her." "Oh, I'm sure that he is." Jane thought a minute. "And Madeleine gave me a big lesson, too," she added. "What?" "She showed me that with all my teaching and preaching, I don't trust God half enough yet." "Well, Jane," said Susan solemnly, "I s'pose trusting God is like being grateful for the sunshine,--human beings ain't big enough to hold all they ought to feel." "Perhaps we'd be nothing but trust and gratitude, then," said Jane, smiling. "They're nice feelings to be made of," said Susan serenely, "but I must go and put my bonnet away. But, oh, heavens, when I think that to-morrow old Mrs. Croft is coming!" "And that lots of good is coming with her; she is coming to bring happiness and happiness only." "Yes, I know," Susan's air was completely submissive. "I can hardly wait for her to get here. They wondered at the Sewing Society if she'd sing Captain Jinks all night often. She does sometimes, you know. But I'm sure we'll like her. She's a nice woman." CHAPTER X OLD MRS. CROFT OLD Mrs. Croft arrived the next afternoon about half after four. She was rolled up in her chair, and her small trunk followed on a wheelbarrow. "How old you have grown!" she said to Susan, by way of greeting, as she grated up the gravel. "My, to think you ever looked young!" They wheeled her into the hall. "Same hall," she said, looking about, "same paper you had thirty years ago. Oh, my, to think of it. I've papered and papered and scraped off, and papered and papered and scraped off, and then papered again in those same thirty years." They got her into the room on the ground floor, which had been prepared for her. "I suppose this was the most convenient place to put me," she said, "and so you put me in it. Put me where you please, only I do hope you haven't beetles. It makes me very nervous to hear 'em chipping about all night, and when I'm nervous, I don't sleep, and when I don't sleep, I just can't help lying awake. It's a way I've got. I caught it from my husband when he was a baby. He'd wake up and give it to me." Susan went out with Jane to get her some supper. "I never thought much about Katie Croft," she said, "but I never doubted she had a hard time." "Yes," said Jane, "and one of the nicest things in this world is to be able to give some one who's had a hard time a rest." "Wouldn't it be dreadful if she died, though, while she was here?" "Who? Old Mrs. Croft?" "Oh, no, she won't ever die. I meant Katie. Everybody says she's going to run away, but if she don't do that and dies, we'll be just as badly off as if she did it." "Oh, Auntie!" "Well, Jane, we'd have to keep old Mrs. Croft till she died." "I guess there's not much chance of that," Jane said; "she won't die. She has come here to do us good and to receive good herself, that's all." Susan looked appalled. "Surely you don't expect to sunshine _her_ up, do you?" "Yes, I do." Then Susan looked amazed. "Well, I never did! I thought she was just here to do us good. I--" Their conversation was suddenly interrupted by a piercing shriek. Jane flew. "I'm so happy I just had to let it out," Mrs. Croft announced. "I can't hold in joy or sorrow. Sorrow I let out in the low of my voice--like a cow, you know--but joy I let rise to the skies. You'll hear to-night." Jane looked at her and smiled. She looked like a story-book witch in a nice, white, modern bed. "I thought that perhaps you wanted something," she said, turning to leave the room again. "No, indeed, I never want anything. I ain't by no means so bad off as is give out." "I guessed as much. You can make a fresh start now, and we shan't remind you of the past." "Oh, then I'm coming to the table," exclaimed Mrs. Croft, "and I'm going to be helped like a Christian and feed myself like a human being. This being put to bed and just all but tied there with a rope isn't going to go on much longer, I can tell you." "Don't speak of it at all," said Jane; "you just do what you please here, and we'll let you. I'm going to get you your supper now." "Stop!" cried old Mrs. Croft sharply. "Stop! I won't have it! I won't stand it. Oh, I've had such a time," she went on, bringing her clenched fist down vigorously on her knee under the bedclothes and raising her voice very high indeed, "such a time! I had a beautiful son that you or any girl might have been proud to marry, and then he must go and marry that Katie Croft creature. There ain't many things to cut a mother's heart to the quick like seeing her own son marry her own daughter-in-law. Such a nice raised boy as he was, so neat, and she kicking her clothes under the bed at night to tidy up the room. Oh!" cried Mrs. Croft, lifting her voice to a still more surprising pitch, "what I have suffered! Nothing ain't been spared me. I lost my son and the use of my legs from the shock and--" "Supper is all ready," Jane interrupted sweetly and calmly. "What you got?" "Sardines--" "I never eat 'em." "Toast." "I hate it." "Plum preserves." "Lord have mercy on me, I wouldn't swallow one if you gave it to me." Jane stood still at the door. Susan, having heard the screams, came running in. "Oh, Mrs. Ralston," cried Mrs. Croft, "I had"--Jane rose, approached the bed, and laid a firm hand on her arm. "What do you want for supper?" she asked in a quiet, penetrating tone. "I don't want nothing," cried Mrs. Croft; "days I eat and days I don't. This is a day I don't eat, and on such a day I only take a little ham and eggs from time to time. Oh, my husband, how I did love you! It's just come over me how I loved him, and I love him so I can't hardly stand it--" "We'll go out and have supper ourselves, then," said Jane. "Eat, drink, and be merry while you can," fairly yelled Mrs. Croft. "The handwriting is on the wall and the Medes and Persians is in the chicken yard right now. Oh, what a--" They slipped out and shut the door after them. Susan turned a scared face Jane's way. "Why, she's crazy!" she said. "Katie always said so, and folks thought she was just talking. It's awful." "She's a little excited with the change," said Jane soothingly; "she'll be calmer soon. It's very bad to shut one's self off from others. It's better to fuss along with disagreeable people than to live altogether alone. She's grown flighty through being left alone. It's a wonder that you didn't get odd yourself." When they went back after supper, Mrs. Croft was sound asleep. "Don't wake her, for goodness' sake," whispered Susan, in the doorway. Jane left the room quietly, and her aunt took her by the arm and led her up-stairs. "This is pretty serious," she said. "I think Katie Croft ought to have told us." "She didn't want her to come; we insisted," said Jane. "I tell you what," said Susan, "we were too happy." Susan's tone was so solemn that Jane had an odd little qualm. But the next instant she knew that all was right, because all is always right. "Auntie," she said, putting her hand on the older woman's shoulder, "you must try to realize that you've moved out of the world where things go wrong into the world where things go right. When you go out of the cold, dark winter night into a cosy, warm house, you don't fear that the house will turn dark and cold any minute." "But old Mrs. Croft isn't a house; she's moved into us, instead." Jane smiled her customary smile of tranquil sweetness. "She has come to show us ourselves," she said, "and to bring us to some kind of better things. I know it." Susan's eyes altered to confidence. "Well, Sunshine Jane," she said, "I'll try to believe that you know. I'll try." They went to bed early, and Jane slept on the dining-room sofa. In the night Mrs. Croft, calling, woke her. She jumped up and went to her at once. "I'm hungry. You didn't ask me here to starve me, did you? Oh, how hungry I am. I've never been so hungry before." "I'll get you anything you like," the girl said. "What shall it be?" Mrs. Croft shook her head lugubriously. "Whatever I eat is sure to kill me. I wish I was home. You don't know how good dear Katie is to me, Miss Grey. Nobody could, unless they lived with her year in and year out as I do. Something told me never to leave my sweet child, and I disobeyed my conscience which won't let me sleep for aching like a serpent's tooth. Oh, my little Katie, my pretty little Katie, my loving little Katie that I went and left at home! Take me to her." "But she isn't at home," said Jane. "She's gone away on a little visit. She went last evening." "I shall never see her again," said Mrs. Croft mournfully. "I shall never see no one again. Oh, dear; oh, dear. My eyes. My eyes." "What shall I get you? A glass of milk?" "It doesn't matter. Whatever you like. I was never one to make trouble. Whatever you like." When Jane returned with the milk and some hastily prepared bread and butter, Mrs. Croft was praying rapidly. "I think I've got religion," said she, in a bright, chatty tone; "if you'll sit down, I'll convert you. It's never too late to mend, and so get your darning basket and come right here." She began to eat and drink very rapidly. "It's going to kill me," she said, between bites, "but I don't care a mite. What is life after all,--a vain fleeting shadow of vanity,--why, you ain't put no jam on this bread!" "Do you like jam? I'll get you some at once." "Oh, merciful heavens, waking me up in the dead of night to give me plain bread and no jam! I shall never see Katie again, and perhaps it's just as well, for she'd not stand such doings. Oh, you idle, thriftless girl, take me home, take me home at once." "In the morning," said Jane gently. "Oh, my,--why did I ever come! Katie, my Katie, my long-loving Katie; my dear little Katie that's gone to New York!" Then, having swallowed the milk in great gulps and the bread in great bites, she shut her eyes and lay back again in bed. "Shan't I bring you anything else?" Jane asked. "No," said the invalid, "not by no means, and I'll trouble you to get out and keep out and don't make a noise in the morning, for I want my last hours to be peaceful, and I'm going to take a screw-driver and fix my thoughts firmly to heaven at once." Jane went softly out. CHAPTER XI SHE SLEEPS THE next morning Susan felt perturbed. "She'll take up a whole week of our happy visit, and I can't bear to lose a minute. The time's going too fast, anyhow." Lorenzo Rath came in shortly after. He and Madeleine and Emily Mead were in and out daily to suit themselves by this time. "Do you know, Mrs. Croft has gone off, nobody knows where," he said gravely; "she's left no address, and people say she'll never come back." Susan threw up her hands with a wail. "Oh, Jane, she _has_ left that dreadful old woman on us for life; I'll just bet anything folks knew exactly that she meant to do it when they talked to me so. What _will_ Matilda say when she comes back?" Jane was silent a minute. "It's no use doubting what one really believes," she said finally. "I do really believe that I came here for a good purpose, and I know that I had a good purpose in inviting Mrs. Croft. I'm taught that to doubt is like pouring ink into the pure water of one's good intentions, and I won't doubt. I refuse to." "But if you go back to where you come from and leave me with Matilda and old Mrs. Croft, I'll be dead or I'll wish I was dead,--it all comes to the same thing," cried poor Susan. "Auntie," said Jane firmly, "I shan't leave you alone with Aunt Matilda and Mrs. Croft, you needn't fear." "Oh," said Susan, her face undergoing a lightning transformation, "if you'll stay here, I'll keep Mrs. Croft or anybody else, with pleasure." "What, even me?" laughed Lorenzo. "I'd like to keep you," said Susan warmly. "I think you're one of the nicest young men I ever knew." "I'd like to stay," said Lorenzo, looking at Jane. She lifted up her eyes and they had a peculiar expression. Just then Emily Mead came in. "Only think," she said, directly greetings were over, "people say Mrs. Croft drew all their money out of the bank before she left. Everybody says she's deserted her mother-in-law completely." "Jane, it really is so," said Susan; "she really is gone." Jane looked steadily into their three faces. "If I begin worrying and doubting, of course there'll be a chance to worry and trouble, because I'm the strongest of you all," she said gravely, "but I won't go down and live in the world of worry and trouble under any circumstances. I know that only good can come of Mrs. Croft's being here. I _know_ it!" "I wish that I could learn how you manage such faith," said the young artist. "I'd try it on myself,--yes, I would, for a fact." "It's not so easy," said Jane, looking earnestly at him. "It means just the same mental discipline that physical culture means for the muscles. It takes time." "But I'd like to learn," said Lorenzo. "So would I!" said Emily Mead. "I've begun already," said Susan; "every time I think of old Mrs. Croft I say: 'She's here for some good purpose, God help us.'" "Tell me," said Emily Mead, "what possessed you to have her, anyway? Everybody's wondering." "Jane thought that it would be a nice thing to do. And so we did it." "Do you always do things if you think of them?" Emily asked Jane. "I'm taught that I must." "Taught?" "It's part of my sunshine work." "That's why she's here," interposed Susan; "she thought of me and came right along." Emily looked thoughtful. "I wonder if I could learn," she said. "Anybody can learn anything," said Lorenzo. "Wouldn't it be nice to all learn Jane's religion?" "I've got it most learned," said Susan, "I'm to where I'm most ready to stand Matilda, if only we don't have to keep old Mrs. Croft." "What is old Mrs. Croft doing now?" Emily asked suddenly. "She's still asleep. She says that she sleeps late." Then Emily rose to go. Lorenzo Rath rose and left with her. "Jane," said Susan solemnly, after they were alone, "I'm afraid that religion of yours ain't as practical as it might be, after all. It's got us old Mrs. Croft, and I ain't saying a word, but now I'm about positive it's going to lose you that young man. You could have him if you'd just exert yourself a little, and you don't at all." "I couldn't have him, Auntie." "Yes, you could. Don't tell me. I know a young man when I see one, and Mr. Rath's a real young man. He loves you, Jane, just because nobody could help it, and if you weren't always so busy, he'd get on a good deal faster." "I can't marry, Aunt Susan." Jane, with Madeleine's secret high in her heart, was very busy setting the kitchen to rights. "Some people are not meant to have homes of their own. It's the century." "Fiddle for the century," said Susan, with something almost like violence. "I'm awful tired of all this hash and talk about the century. About the only thing I've had to think of since Matilda made up her mind I was too sick to get up, was what I read in newspapers about the troubles of the century. Centuries is always in hot water till they're well over, and then they get to be called the good old days. I guess days ain't so different nor centuries either nor women neither. Fiddle for all this kind of rubbish,--it's no use except to upset a nice girl like you and keep her from marrying a nice young fellow like Mr. Rath. Girls don't know nothing about love no more. Mercy on us, why, it's a kind of thing that makes you willing to go right out and hack down trees for the man." Jane looked a little smiling and a little wistful. "I'll tell you what it is, Auntie," she said; "when my father died he left a debt that ought to be paid, and I promised him I'd pay it. I couldn't marry--it wouldn't be honest." Susan's eyes flew pitifully open. "Good heavens, mercy on us, no; then you never can't marry, sure and certain. There never was the man yet so good he wouldn't throw a thing like that in a woman's teeth. It's a man's way, my dear, and a wife ought not to mind, but one of the difficulties of being a wife is that you always do mind." "I know that I should mind," said Jane quietly, "and, anyway, I don't want to marry. I'm much happier going about on my sunbeam mission, trying to help others a bit here and a bit there." She smiled bravely as she spoke, for all that it takes a deal of training in truth not to waver or quaver in such a minute. She had to think steadily along the lines which she had worked so hard to build into every brain-cell and spirit-fiber of her make-up. "Auntie," she went on then, after a brief reflection that he who works in truth's wool works without fear as to the breaking of one single thread, "you and I are trying dreadfully hard--trying with all our might to do exactly right. We're trying to break your chains by the only way in which material chains can be broken,--by breaking those of others. We can't go astray. If old Mrs. Croft should stay here till she died, and if I should work till I died at paying the debts of others, she'd stay for some good purpose, and I'd be working in the same way. Be very sure of that." For a second Susan looked cheered--but only for a second. Then, "That's all very well for you and me, who want to be uplifted--at least you want to be, and I think maybe I'll like it after I get a little used to it. But Matilda doesn't know or care anything about planes, and it's Matilda I keep thinking of." There was another pause, and then she added: "And it's Matilda I'll have to live with,--along with old Mrs. Croft. Oh, Jane, I'd be so much happier if you'd marry Mr. Rath and let me come and live with you!" Jane went and put her arms about her. "Auntie, it isn't easy to learn my way of looking at things, because you have to keep at them till they're so firm in you that nothing from outside can ever shake or uproot them. But what I believe is just so firm with me, and I won't give anything up,--not even about Mrs. Croft. We're all right and she's all right and everything's all right, and I don't need to marry any one." Susan winked mournfully. "If there was only some way to meet Matilda on her way home and kind of get that through her head before she saw Mrs. Croft. You see, she always shuts that room up cold winters and keeps cold meat in there. I've had many a good meal out of that room." "You must not cast about for ways and means," said Jane firmly. "Life is like a sunshiny warm day, and our part is to breathe and feel and thank God,--not to look for the sun to surely cease shining." "But it does stop," wailed Susan, "often." "Yes, thank Heaven," said Jane, "if it didn't, we'd be burnt up alive by our own vitality." "Oh, dear," said Susan briefly, "you've an answer for everything. Well, let's get dinner." They went into the kitchen. CHAPTER XII EMILY'S PROJECT AFTER dinner that day Emily Mead came with her work. Emily Mead was one of those nondescript girls who seem to spring up more and more thickly in these troublous, churned-up times of ours. Too pretty to be plain, too unattractive to be beautiful. Too well-to-do to need to work, too poor to attain to anything for which she longed. Too clever to belong to her class, not clever enough to rise above it. Altogether a very fit subject for Jane to "sunshine," as her aunt put it. "How do you get along with old Mrs. Croft?" she asked, directly she was seated. "She's asleep yet," Jane said; "she was so restless all night." "She always sleeps days and is awake all night; didn't you know that before?" queried Emily, in surprise. "Some one ought to have told you." "It doesn't matter," said Jane serenely. There was never any bravado in her serenity; it was quite sincere. "That was what made Katie so mad," Emily continued. "She said it gave her her days, to be sure, but, as she couldn't very well sleep, too, all day, she never really had any time herself." "We'll get along all right," said Jane quietly; "old people have ways, and then they change and have other ways, and the rest must expect to be considerate." "Mercy on us, I wonder what she'll change to next," said Susan, with feeling. She had just returned from listening at the invalid's door. "Don't worry, Auntie,--just remember!" Jane's smile was at once bright and also a bit admonitory. "I'm trying to believe that everything's all right always, too," said Susan to Emily, "but, oh, my!" They went out on the shady side of the house to where a little table stood, which was made out of a board nailed into a cut-off tree stump. Jane and Emily carried chairs, and Susan brought her darning basket. It was delightfully pleasant. From time to time Jane or her aunt slipped in and listened at the door, but old Mrs. Croft slept on like a baby. "I do wonder if Katie Croft has really gone for good!" Emily said to Susan, while Jane was absent on one of these errands. "I can't trust myself even with my own opinions," said Susan reservedly; "I haven't much time to get changed before Matilda comes, you know, and I want to believe in Jane's religion if I can. It's so kind of warm and comforting. I like it." "Jane," Emily said, turning towards her when she returned, "I've come to-day on an awfully serious errand, and I want you to help me." "I will certainly, if I can. What is it?" "Do you really believe that wanting anything shows that one is going to get it? You said something like that the other day." "I know that one can get anything one wants," Jane answered gravely; "of course the responsibility of some kinds of wanting is awfully heavy. But the law doesn't alter." "Can you explain it to me?" "Yes, that's it," said Susan, "you tell us how to manage. I want to get something myself. Or I mean it's that I want something I've got to go away again. Or I guess I'd better not try to say what I mean." "But you won't either of you understand what I mean, when I tell you," said Jane. "It's just as I said before, it takes a lot of study to get your brain-cells to where they can hold an idea that's really new to you. Heads are like empty beehives,--you have to have the comb before you can have the honey, and every different kind of study requires a different kind of cells just for its use alone. When things don't interest us, it's because the brain-cells in regard to that subject have never been developed. That's all. That's what they taught me." "I think it's interesting," said Susan. "I always thought that the inside of my head was one thing that I didn't need to bother about. Seems it isn't, after all. Go on, you Sunshine Jane, you." "I'm like your aunt. I thought that what I thought was the last thing that mattered," said Emily. "Everything matters. There's nothing in this world that doesn't matter, because this world is all matter. Anything that doesn't matter must be spirit. Don't you see that when you say and really mean that a thing doesn't matter, you mean that to you it isn't material,--that it's no part of your world?" "Dear me, I never thought of that," said Susan, "then I suppose as long as things do matter to us, it means we just hang on to them and hold them for all we're worth." "Yes." "But, Jane, thoughts can't matter much? Or we can forget things." "There isn't anything that we can think of at all that we are ever free not to think about again--that is, if it's a good thought," said Jane. "If a thought comes to us at all, it comes with some responsibility attached. Either we are meant to gain strength by dismissing it, if it seems wrong, or it's our duty to do something with it, if it's right. Most people's minds are all littered up with thoughts that they never either use or put away. That's what makes them so stupid." "Goodness!" exclaimed Susan. "Why, I never put a thought away in my life,--not as I know of." "I've never thought anything at all about my thoughts," said Emily, looking rather startled. "Lots of people don't," said Jane; "they act just as a woman would in making a dress, if she cut it out a bit now and a bit then without ever laying the pattern back even, and then joined it anywhere any time, and then was surprised when it didn't even prove fit to wear--not to speak of looking all witched." "Is that what ails some lives?" Emily asked, looking yet more startled. "It's what ails almost every life. It's what makes 'I didn't think' the worst confession in the world. A man driving a motor with his eyes shut wouldn't be a bit worse. Life's a great powerful force always rushing on, and we swing into the tide and never bother to row or to steer or to see that our boat is water-tight." "You make me feel awful, Jane. As if I'd been lazy, staying in bed so. And it was the only way." "You couldn't do any better, Auntie. At least you weren't doing anything wrong. Being moored in a little, quiet cove is better than being adrift and slamming into the boats of others." "I'd really have had to think more about Matilda's thoughts than my own, if I'd known. I'd never have had time for much thinking as I pleased in the way you say; I was always jumping up and flopping down." "Jane," said Emily earnestly, "then every thought matters?" "Yes, or matterates." Jane smiled. "If a thought doesn't produce good, it'll surely produce bad,--it's got to do something. You plant your thoughts in time just as one plants seed in the ground, and any further thoughts of the same kind add to its strength until enough strength causes an appearance in this world." "You really believe that?" "I know it. I know it so well that I think that every seed that's ever fallen was a lesson that we were too stupid to learn. Every time a seed fell and germinated, God said: 'There, that's the very plainest teaching on earth. Can't you see?' Sometimes I think the world's all a book for us to learn heaven in, just as our bodies explain our souls to us." Susan looked at Emily in an awed way. "I guess I can get to believe it all," she said, in a low tone; "it sounds so plain when you stop and think of it." "I'll try to believe it," said Emily, "but what I care most about is to learn how to get what you want?" Jane considered. "That comes ever so far along. You have to learn to get what you want out of yourself before you can be upon the plane where you naturally get what you want, because you are too far on to want what you couldn't get." Emily didn't understand and didn't care. "Do tell me how it's done, anyway," she begged eagerly. "I don't know whether what I say will have any meaning for you, but I'll say it, anyway. You'll have to know that it's what I believe and live by, and if you're to believe it and live by it, it will come to you quite easily, and if not it's because it isn't for you yet." "I mean to believe," said Emily firmly. "I want something, and I'll do anything to get it." Jane shook her head. "That's the very hardest road to come by," she said, "unless it's some overcoming in yourself that you are wanting. You see, the very first step has to be the conquering of ourselves, not the asking for material things. You have to open a channel for the spirit, and then the material flows through afterwards, as a matter of course. But if you've gone on a good ways, you don't think of getting _things_ at all; you just want opportunities to grow, and you know that what you need for life will keep coming." "But it doesn't with lots of people," said Emily. "Just look at the poor--and the suffering." "They aren't living according to this law," said Jane. "They're living on another plane. There are different planes." "Don't you see," interposed Susan, "we asked Mrs. Croft because it would get me on a plane where, when Matilda came back, she wouldn't mind so many changes." Emily looked inquiring. "A different plane?" "Yes," said Jane, "you can lift yourself straight out of any circle of conditions by suddenly altering all your own ideas--if you've strength to do so." "I'd never have asked Mrs. Croft alone by myself, you know," said Susan; "nobody that looked at things the way other folks do, would. But Jane looks at everything different from everybody else. She said it would be a quick way of being different. I guess she's right." "I never heard any ideas like that." "But they aren't new," said Jane; "they're older than the hills. God made the world and then gave every man dominion over his world. We all have the whole of _our_ world to rule. This way of looking at things is new to you, but there are thousands and thousands of people proving it true every day. All the old religions teach it, and all the new religions bid you live it or they won't be for you. They don't kill men for not believing now. They just let them live and suffer and go blundering on. Why"--Jane grew suddenly pink with fervor--"why, everywhere I look, almost, I see just lovely chances being let die, because people won't fuss to tend them. People are too careless and too thoughtless. The truth is so plain that the very word 'thoughtless' fairly screams what's the matter to every one, but hardly any one bothers." "But the people who believe as you do,--do they all get everything that they want?" asked Emily. "Or else they want what they get," said Jane; "it comes to exactly the same thing when you begin to understand. The beauty of every step nearer God is the new learning of how exactly right his world is managed. All my old puzzles have been cleared up, and it's so wonderful. Why, I used to think that when beautiful, dear little children died it was awful; but now I know that they came to help and teach others, and that when they'd spread their lesson to those others, they didn't need lessons themselves and just left the school and went back into the beautiful world of Better Things. It was such a help to me to know why splendid men and women who were needed went so suddenly sometimes; it's because they're needed much more elsewhere and respond to that call of duty at once. I don't think of death as anything dreadful now; I think of it as a door that will open and close very easily for me." "It's one door that Matilda liked to keep setting open," said Susan,--"oh, dear me, Jane, I'm trying to grow brain-cells and be a credit to you, and I can't think of anything but old Mrs. Croft. Perhaps she's woke up." Jane rose and went into the house. "Do you think you can take it all in?" Emily asked, slowly and thoughtfully. "I'm doing my best," said Susan, "she's so happy and so good I think she must know what she's talking about." Jane came back. "She's still sleeping," she said; "don't you worry, dear Auntie." "I can't help it," said Susan. "I've dodged about for so long and played things were so that weren't so, that I guess I'm pretty much out of tune, and it'll be a little while before I can stop worrying." "No, you aren't out of tune," said Jane, smiling at her affectionately, "or if you are, just say you're in tune and you will be, right off." "Do you believe that?" Emily asked. "Why, of course. I know it absolutely for myself, and I know that it's equally true for others if they have the strength to declare it." "But how?" "How! Why, because every declaration of good is spiritual, and proves that you are one with your soul and master over your body, just as false declarations make you one with your body and take away all power from your soul. That's how mental cures work. When anybody says 'I am well,' she declares souls can't be ill, and she makes Truth stronger by adding her strength to its strength. But when a man says 'I am ill,' he declares a lie, for souls can't be ill, and so he's claiming not to be spiritual, but just to be his own body. It's as if a weaver stopped weaving and said: 'I've broken several threads, and _I'm_ going to be imperfect, and _I_ won't bring any price, and _I'll_ only be fit to cut up into cleaning cloths.' What would you think of him? You'd say: 'Why, that's only an hour's work in cloth and can be put aside without further thought. Just go right on and with your skill and judgment make the next piece perfect. It was never any of it _you_; it was the stuff you were making.' Bodies are the stuff we are making." Emily laid down her work. "Jane, that's wonderful," she said solemnly. "You put that so that I really got hold of it. I understand exactly what you mean, and if only everybody else did!" "But nobody else really matters to you," said Jane; "all that matters to you is that you believe. They have their lives--you have yours." Emily was looking very earnest. "I'm going to try," she said, rising. "I'm going to try. I must go now, but I'm going home to go to work in my world." Jane walked with her to the gate. "I'll help you all I can," she said, "I'm so glad you're interested. It makes life so splendid." Emily stopped and took her hand. "Jane," she said, "I want to tell you something. I want to marry Mr. Rath. I think he's the nicest man I ever saw. Do you really--really--believe that I can, if I learn to think as you do?" Jane turned white beneath the other's eyes. "Why, but don't you know--don't you _see_ that he's in love?" "In love! With you?" "With me,--oh, _no_. With Madeleine." "Oh, no, he's not in love with her," said Emily decidedly; "I know that. I know that perfectly well." "They knew one another before they came here, you know." "Why, I see them round town together all hours," said Emily; "they're like brother and sister, they're not one bit in love. I thought that perhaps it was you." "Oh, dear, no--I can't marry. I never even think of it." "Don't you use any of your ideas with him?" "No, indeed! I never ask anything for myself any more. I just ask to manifest God's will,--to help in any of His work that offers." "You're awfully good, dear. But, honestly, do you think that I could surely get him if I tried?" "Why, the law is certain, but"--Jane spoke gently--"you're so far from understanding it yet. I only told you a little. It takes ever so long to get one's mind built to where it will grasp an ideal and hold it without wavering once. There's such a lot I didn't tell you; I couldn't in those few minutes. I just showed you the picture, and you have to work hard till you learn how to paint it. You see, a wish is like blowing a bubble, and if you add wishes and more wishes, you gradually change the bubble into a solid mold, which is a real thing of spirit but empty of material; then, if you keep it solid and firm, the fact of it is real spiritually, and a vacuum as to matter makes the matter just _have_ to fill it, and it is that filling into the mold shaped by our thoughts that makes what we see and live here in this world. The world is all matter circulating in thought-molds. Anything that you carefully and steadily and consistently think out must become manifest. God manifesting His will means that. We are His will. And the nearer we approximate to the highest in Him, the more we can manifest ourselves. That's why very good people are seldom rich; they want to manifest in deeds and not in things. That's why they never keep money--it only represents to them the need of others. If you really and truly love Mr. Rath, and feel it steadily and steadfastly your mission to make him very happy, of course it will be, even though he loved some one else. But to want a man who loved some one else wouldn't be possible to any one who believed in this teaching. That's where it is, you see. When you get power, you never want to do evil with it. Power from God never manifests in evil. When you are where you can get whatever you want, it simply means that you are living where only good can come, and where you are able to see it coming." Emily stood perfectly still, looking downwards. Then suddenly she burst into violent sobs. "Oh, I feel so small, so mean--so wicked. It isn't as you feel a bit with me. I just want to get out of this stupid town--and he's so good-looking!" Jane's eyelids fell. "I feel so mean and petty," Emily went on, pressing her hands over her face. "I could never be good like you. I can't understand. I just want to be married. I'm so tired of my life." "Well," said Jane, with steady firmness, "why don't you go to him and talk it all over nicely? As you would with Madeleine or me. Perhaps that would be best." "Do you really think so?" said Emily, lifting her eyes; "do you believe that a girl can go to a man and be honest with him, just as a man can with a woman?" "I couldn't," said Jane, "because I wouldn't want to, but if you want to do it, I don't see why you can't." "But why wouldn't you?" "Because I get my things that other way,--simply by asking God to guide me towards His will and guide me from mistake." "Did you do that about asking old Mrs. Croft?" "Certainly. I do it about everything. I live by that rule now. I've absolute faith in God's guidance." Emily looked at her. "It must be beautiful," she said, "and you really think that it would be all right for me to go and talk to him, do you?" "Yes," said Jane slowly. "I think that it would be best all round." "After all, this is the woman's century," said Emily, with a sudden energy quite unlike her previous interest. "I don't know why I shouldn't." "I think that the best way to handle all our problems is to let them flow naturally to their finish," said Jane; "dammed or choked rivers always make trouble." "I should like to say just what I felt to a man just once," said Emily thoughtfully. "It would do me a world of good." "Then say it," said Jane. "Only are you really sure that he's not in love with Madeleine?" "Oh, I'm positive as to that." "Then go ahead." They parted, and Jane returned to the house. She was not so entirely spiritual that she could repress a very human kind of smile over Emily's project. CHAPTER XIII EMILY IS HERSELF FREELY AS Emily turned from Mrs. Ralston's gate, she felt more buoyant happiness than anything in life had ever hitherto brought her. She felt licensed on high authority to revel in the hitherto forbidden. She wanted Lorenzo Rath, and she thought that she understood how to get him. We may follow her thought and then we will follow where it led her, for in all the surge of the new teaching there is no lesson greater to learn than this which Emily had failed to grasp,--that the possession of tools does not make one a carver; that all things spiritual must be learned exactly as all things material. One may have so lived previously that the learning is a mere showing how, but without experience nothing, either spiritual, mental, or physical, can be efficaciously handled. When people declare that something is not true because they tried it and it failed to work, remember Emily Mead. Emily had acquired just one idea out of Jane's exposition: "That you could get anything that you want." It is the idea that hosts of people find most attractive in this world, quite irrespective of its correlative esotericism,--that the soul growing towards infinite power learns every upward step by resolutely liking what it gets. No man can climb a stair by hacking down every step passed; he climbs by being so firm upon each step that he can poise his whole weight thereon as he mounts. It is part of the supremely beautiful logic of the highest teaching that the same effort which Jesus made--every great teacher has made--is sure to make, too. We must see the Divine embodied in the Present and the Weak and the Humble, before in our own spirit we may deal, for the good of all, with the Future and Strength and Power. When one seizes upon anything God-given as a means of acquiring earth-gifts, one has but seized the empty air; the idea and then ideal have never been in the possession of such an one. There is nothing shut away from those who really make God's teaching a vital part of themselves, but such men and women are no longer keen to selfishly possess, and the good which they reach out for flows easily in for their further distribution; in other words, they become what we were all designed to be,--the outward manifestations of God's purpose, the living breathing, blessed servants of His will. How far this interpretation lay from poor Emily's comprehension the reader knows. She hurried along, her whole being bounding with joy over the simplicity of the new lesson. It all seemed almost too story-book-like to be happening in her stupid, commonplace life. She had spent so many long hours in thinking over how things would never happen for her, that she had entirely lost faith in their ever changing their ways and now, all of a sudden, here was a complete reversal. Bonds were turned into wings; that unattainable being, a live man, was not only at hand, but available; she felt herself bidden not to doubt her power; she judged herself advised to say frankly all the things that girls may never say. This was the day of feminine freedom. To wish was to have. What one wanted was the thing that was best for one. Emily--with all of Jane's ideas swimming upside down in her head--felt superbly joyous and confident. After all, being alive was a pretty good thing. She turned a corner into the lane that led in a roundabout way to her mother's back garden gate and walked swiftly. She was a fine, straight girl with a lithe, springy walk. Perhaps Lorenzo Rath could not have done better, from most standpoints, than to marry such an one. Many men do worse. And there was old Mr. Cattermole's money, too. Some of these views float in all human atmosphere to-day--float there securely, because the world is a practical world, and an automobile is obvious, while love and trust are absolutely unknown to many. "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon too," and Mammon is very plain and practical, rolling on rubber tires to the best restaurant. Emily could not have reduced her roseate visions to any such sordid reasoning, but love to her meant leaving town and having a good-looking and lively young man to take her about. This was not really love, any more than the means by which she expected to acquire it were the religion taught by Jane. We hear much of the downfall of love and the downfall of religion in these days, but no one even stops to realize that religion and love cannot possibly even shake on their thrones. Their counterfeits may crumble and tumble, but real truth can never fail. It was the counterfeits at which Emily, like many another, grasped eagerly. So now she was tripping lightly along and, turning the twist by the great chestnut tree, her heart gave a sudden flop, for just ahead she saw her quarry. He was propped against the fence, using his knees for an easel, while he made a rapid water-color sketch. He was good at those little impressions of an artistic bit, that nearly always show forth in youth a great artist struggling to grow. Emily started, for she was very close to him before she saw him, and her rampant thoughts led her to blush, apologize, and stammer precisely as she might have done, had her sex never advanced at all but merely remained the dominant note that they have always been. "Why, Mr. Rath," and then she paused. Lorenzo--who wanted to finish his sketch--nodded pleasantly without looking up. "Grand day for walking," he said, as a supremely polite hint, and continued to work rapidly. Emily went close beside him and looked downward upon the canvas. "How pretty! I wish I knew more about pictures. What is that brown hill? You can't see a hill from here." "That's a cow," said Lorenzo, painting very fast indeed, "but don't ask me to explain things, for I can't work and talk at the same time." Emily sank down beside him with a pleasant sense of proprietorship now that she could get him by will power alone. "I've just come from Mrs. Ralston's. They're in such distress over old Mrs. Croft." "Is she worse?" The artist forgot to paint all of a sudden, and turned quickly towards her. "Oh, no,--she was asleep when I left. Jane didn't seem a bit troubled, but Mrs. Ralston is almost wild over not knowing what to say to her sister when she comes back and finds that awful old woman there. It's a terrible situation. Everybody knows that young Mrs. Croft has run away. She just hated to stay and now she's gone. Isn't it awful?" "Oh, I don't know," said Lorenzo, suddenly regaining his deep interest in work, "I have a distinct feeling that Miss Grey will bring things out all right for most people always. It's her way." "Yes, she's a dear girl," said Emily, and paused to have time to consider things a little while, feeling that the conversation should be continued by the man. The man didn't continue the conversation, however, merely wielding his brush and looking completely absorbed. Then she remembered her mission. "Mr. Rath, do you believe in frankness always?" "I wish that I did." "But don't you?" "Civilization wouldn't stand for it." "Perhaps not every one could bear it, but some could. I could, I'm sure." "Are you so sure?" "Yes, I am sure. I was talking with Jane alone just at the gate before I left, and she believes that frankness is best always." "It's easiest, certainly." Lorenzo raised his eyebrows a little impatiently, but she paid no attention. "Do you think so?" "Why, of course. When one wants to be let alone and blurts out, 'Let me alone,' why, one gets let alone." "Oh, but that would be impolite," said Emily, feeling that for an artist he used very crude metaphor. "Of course, Jane and I were not talking about that kind of people, or that kind of ways. We were talking of people like you and me--nice people, you know. Jane advised me to be quite frank with you." Lorenzo opened his eyes widely. "About what, please?" "Oh, about all things. You see I meet so few men, and men are so interesting, and I enjoy talking with them. I've read a good deal, and I don't care for the life in this place. I want to leave it dreadfully." "So do I," said the artist. "I quite agree with you there." "You see, Jane has been teaching me to understand life, and I am getting the feeling that I am meant for something else than just helping my mother, wandering about town, and going to church. I'm very tired and restless." Lorenzo painted fast. "Mr. Rath, if you--a man--felt as I do, what would you do?" "Get out." "But where?" "Everybody can find a way, if they really want to." "It isn't as if I had talent, you see." "A good many people haven't talent and yet do very well, indeed." "But I don't want to be a shop-girl or anything like that." "Naturally not." There was a pause. "I'm very much interested in the progress women are making," said Emily. "I read all I can get hold of about it. Don't you think it remarkable?" "I don't think much about it, and I skip everything on the subject." "Oh, Mr. Rath!" "I'm a jealous brute. I don't like to realize that a woman can do everything that is a man's work, even to the verge of driving him to starvation, while he can't do any of her work under any circumstances." "He could wash and cook and sweep." "Oh, he's invented machines to save her that." "I see you've no sympathy with the advanced woman." "Yes, I have. I'm very sorry for her. A nice mess the next generation will be." "Oh, dear." "My one comfort is that boys take after their mothers, and I'm looking to see a future generation of men so strong-minded that they smash ladies back to where they belong--in the rear with the tents." "Goodness, Mr. Rath, then you don't like any of the ways things are going?" "Of course I don't. Once upon a time a busy man's time was sacred; now any woman who feels like taking it, appropriates it mercilessly." "I should lock the door, if I felt that way. But now really, don't you think that we might speak quite openly and frankly?" Lorenzo began to put up his paints. "I want to get to the bottom of a lot of things." "Well?" "You're the first man that I've ever known that I felt could understand what I meant, and I do want to know the man's side of things." "A man hasn't got any side nowadays. He's not allowed one." Emily looked a little surprised. "You speak bitterly." "I think I've a right. Men are still observing the rules of the game and suffering bitter consequences." "What do you mean?" "Women with homes have gone into the world to earn some extra pocket money until they've knocked the bottom out of all wage systems, and you never can make the wildest among them see that women can't expect men's pay unless they do men's work. A man's work is only half of it in business, the other half is supporting a family. Women want equal pay and to spend the result as they please. The man's wages go usually on bread and the woman's on bonnets, to speak broadly. He goes to his own home at night and has every single bill for four to ten people. She goes to somebody else's house and has only her own needs to face, with perhaps some contribution towards those off somewhere." "Dear me," said Emily, "I never thought of that." "No," said Lorenzo, snapping the lid of his color box shut, "women don't think of that. But men do." "But surely there are loads and loads of women who do support families." "Yes, and who are dragged down by the injustice of what economists call 'The Law of Supplemented Earnings'!" Emily felt that the experience of conversing frankly with a live man was not exactly what she had anticipated. It certainly was in no way romantic. She felt baffled and a good deal chilled. The conversation had taken a horrid twist away from what she had intended. "You think that women have no right to go out in the world then?" she said. "You don't sympathize with the modern trend?" "I sympathize with nature and human nature," said Lorenzo, "but not with civilization." He rose to his feet. "Oh, Mr. Rath!" she looked upward, expecting to be assisted to rise. "I believe in life, lived by live things in the way God meant. I loathe this modern institution limping along with its burden of carefully fed and tended idiots and invalids and babies, better dead. I wish that I were a Zulu." "Good Heavens!" "Come," said the man, picking up his load, "we can go now." "Had you finished?" She scrambled to her feet. "I'd done all that I could under the circumstances." "I suppose the light changes so fast at this time...." Emily was quite unsuspicious and content. The intuition that used to reign supreme in women was especially lacking in her. She had not the least idea of what her presence meant to the unhappy artist. "Come, come," he repeated impatiently. They walked away then through the pretty winding lane. "It seems to me so awful that we are all so hopeless," Emily went on presently. "We are all put here and often see just what should be done and can't do it possibly." "I do exactly what I choose," said Lorenzo,--then he added: "as a usual thing." "You must be very happy." She paused. "I suppose that you have plenty of money to live as you please." "I'm fortunate enough not to have any." "Goodness!" the exclamation was sincere. The shock to Emily was dreadful. "Why do you call that fortunate?" she asked, after a little hasty agony of downfall as to rich and generous travel, spaced off by going to the theater. "Because it makes me know that I shall do something in the world. A very little money is enough to swamp a man nowadays, when the idea of later being supported by a woman is always a possibility. Oh," said Lorenzo, with sudden irritation, "if there weren't so many perfectly splendid women and girls in the world, I'd go off and become a Trappist. Everything's being knocked into a cocked hat. I've had girls practically make love to me. Disgusting." Emily felt her heart hammer hard. "You're very old-fashioned in your views," she said, a little faintly. They came out by her mother's back gate as she spoke. "Yes, I am," said Lorenzo, "I admit it." Mrs. Mead came running out of the back door. "Oh, Emily," she cried, "old Mrs. Croft is dead. Jane sent for the doctor--she sent a boy running--but she's dead. Wherever have you been for so long?" CHAPTER XIV JANE'S CONVERTS THE feelings which revolved around the dead body of old Mrs. Croft can be better imagined than described; everybody had wondered as to every contingency except this. In the midst of the confusion Jane moved quietly, a little white and with lips truly saddened. "And I meant to do such a lot for her,--I meant to help her so much," she murmured from time to time. The doctor, a ponderous gentleman of great weight in all ways, was very grave. The doctor said that he had warned the daughter of such a possible ending twenty years before. "Heart failure was _always_ imminent," he declared severely, looking upon Jane, Susan, and Mrs. Cowmull, who had driven out with him and thus become instantly a privileged person. "She never ought to have been left alone a minute during these last forty years. Even if she had lived to be a hundred, the danger was always there. Such neglect is awful." He stopped and shook his head vigorously. "Awful," he declared again with emphasis, "awful!" "I didn't know that she had heart disease," said Jane. "No blame attaches to you," said the doctor, veering suddenly about as to the point in discussion; "nobody can blame you. I shall exonerate you completely. Of course, if you were not aware of the state of the case, you couldn't be expected to consider its vital necessities." "Oh, and it was so vital," sobbed Mrs. Cowmull. "Dear, sweet, old Mrs. Croft. Our sunbeam. And to go off like that. What good is life when people can die any minute. Oh! Oh!" There was a brief pause for silent sorrow. "I never looked for her to die," Mrs. Cowmull went on, shaking her head. "I always told Emily she'd outlive even Brother Cattermole. So many people will, you know. Dear, kind, loving friend! And now to think she's gone. I can't make it seem true. She's been alive so long. Seems only yesterday that I was up to see Katie about making a pie for the social, and our dear, sweet friend was singing her favorite song, _Captain Jinks of the Horse Marines_, all the time. What spirits she did have everywhere, except in her legs." Susan sat perfectly quiet. The doctor took Jane's arm and led her into the hall, there to speak of the first few necessary steps to be taken. Then he returned to the sitting-room, gathered up Mrs. Cowmull and departed, saying that he would send "some practical person at once." Mrs. Cowmull, who was widely known as having practical designs on him, did not resent the implied slur at her own abilities at all. After they were gone, there was a slight further pause, and then Susan rose slowly and went and laid her hands upon her niece's shoulders. "Oh, Jane, that religion of yours is a wonderful thing. I'm converted." Jane started. "Converted, Auntie?" "Yes. You were sure that it would come out all right and now see." Then a little white smile had to cross the young girl's face. "The poor old woman," she said gently, "to think of her lying there all alone all that day. I thought that she was sleeping so quietly." "Well, she was," said Susan. "Yes, of course she was. It's just our little petty way of thinking that masks all of what is truly sacred and splendid behind a veil of wrong thinking. Of course she was sleeping quietly." "It'll be sort of awful if they can't find Katie, though," Susan said next; "she left no address, and I think it's almost silly to try to hunt her up. I'm only too pleased to pay for the funeral, I'm sure, and there won't be any real reason for her returning." "No," said Jane thoughtfully. "And I really can look forward to Matilda's coming back now," pursued Susan. "I shan't mind a bit. Old Mrs. Croft has done that much good, anyway,--she's made me feel that Matilda's coming back is just nothing at all. You see you knew that everything was coming out all right, but I'd never had any experience with that kind of doings up till now, and it was all new to me. I was only thinking of when you and me would have to face Matilda. Matilda would have looked pretty queer if she'd come home to old Mrs. Croft to tend, and me up and lively." Jane didn't seem to hear. "I never once thought of her dying," she said again; "oh, dear, she had so much to learn. I expected to do her such a lot of good." "I wouldn't complain, Jane. I wouldn't find fault with a thing. Goodness, think if she'd begun singing _Captain Jinks_ last night. I've heard that sometimes she'd sing it six hours at a stretch." Jane shook her head. "Who is to go down and pack up that house?" she wondered. "Oh, the house can be rented furnished. It's a nice home for anybody," said Susan, "and the rent'll buy her a lovely monument." The funeral was fixed for the third day, and some effort made to trace the daughter-in-law. But that lady evidently didn't care to be found. "It's hardly any use going to a great deal of expense to hunt her up," Lorenzo said to Jane, "because the house is all there is, and a thorough search with detectives would just about eat it up alive." He probably was not wholly disinterested in his outlook, for the next bit of news that shook the community was that Lorenzo Rath had taken Mrs. Croft's house and moved in! Naturally Mrs. Cowmull was far from pleased. "Of course it means he's going to get married," she said to Miss Vane, "but what folly to take a house so soon. Who's to cook for him? And who's he going to marry? Not Emily, I know. She wouldn't have him." Miss Vane didn't know and didn't care. "Not my Madeleine," she said promptly, for her part; "she gets a letter every day. She'll marry that man." "Then it's Jane Grey," said Mrs. Cowmull. The town was greatly exercised, and not as positive as to Emily's state of mind as her aunt. "It'll be one of those two," Mrs. Ball said to Miss Crining (both very superior women and much given to meeting at the grocery store). "They're both after him. Emily chases him wherever he's posing woods and cows, and the little appetite that Mrs. Cowmull says he has, after going to Mrs. Ralston's, shows what they're thinking of." Miss Crining shook her head. "Once on a time girls were so sweet and womanly," she said. "My," said Mrs. Ball, "I remember when my husband asked me. I almost fell flat. I'd never so much as thought of him. I was engaged to a boy named Richie Kendall, and Mr. Ball was bald, and had all those children older than I was. There was some romance about life then." "And me," said Miss Crining, with a gentle sigh, "I never told a soul I was in love till months after he was drowned. I didn't know I was in love myself. Girls used to be like that, modest, timid." "Mr. Rath's very severe on girls nowadays, Mrs. Cowmull says," said Mrs. Ball; "but he's blind like all men are and will get hooked when he ain't looking, like they all do." But Lorenzo Rath didn't care about any of the gossip; he was so happy over his home. "I'll have a woman come and cook occasionally," he explained blithely to Jane and Susan, "and I'll get all my illustrating off my hands in short order." "Do you illustrate?" Jane asked. "Yes, that's my bread-and-butter job." "It'll be nice to have you in the neighborhood," said Susan placidly; "to think how it's all come about, too. I'm in heaven, no matter what I'm doing. I just sit about and pray to understand more of Jane's religion. I'm gasping it down in big swallows. I think it's so beautiful how she does right, without having to take the consequences." Jane laughed a little at that and went out to get supper. "She's a nice girl," Lorenzo said, looking after her; "when she leaves here, what shall we do?" "Oh, heavens, I don't know," said Susan. "I try never to think of it." "And what is she going to do?" "Oh, she's going back to her nursing, and I want to cry when I think that other people will have her around and I shan't. I'll be here alone with Matilda. Not but what I'm a good deal more reconciled than I was, when I thought I'd be alone with Matilda and old Mrs. Croft, too." "Yes, that would have been bad," said Lorenzo soberly. "Well, I must be running along. I've got a lot of work to do and a lot of thinking, too." Susan contemplated him earnestly. "Well," she said, with fervor, "when Jane goes, I'll still have you, anyway." Lorenzo, who had just risen, stopped short at that. "Do you know an idea that I'm just beginning to hold?" he asked suddenly. "No; how should I?" "It's this. Why shouldn't you and I try working Jane's Rule of Life a little? I'm dreadfully impressed with a lot she says. Suppose you and I pulled together and made up our minds that she was going to stay here in some perfectly right and pleasant and proper way. How, then? Don't you believe maybe we could manage it?" Susan stared. "But there couldn't be any perfectly right, pleasant, proper way," she said sadly, "because she wants to go." "I'd like to try." The aunt shook her head, sighing heavily. "It's no use. There isn't a way. Nothing could keep her. You see, she's got some family debts to pay, and she can't rest till she's paid 'em. I've begged and prayed her to stay; I've told her that her own flesh and blood has first claim, but she won't hear to any kind of sense." "I wish that we might try," Lorenzo insisted. "I've listened to her till I just about believe she really does know what she's talking about. It seems as if it's all so logical and after all, it's the way God made the world, surely." "Yes, I know, but you and I ain't equal to making worlds and won't be yet awhile." "I don't care," said the young man, turning towards the door, "I'm going at it alone, then. I don't believe that any one in the world needs her as much as I do, and I'm going to have her, and that by her own methods, too." Susan's mouth opened in widest amazement. "Mercy on us, you ain't proposing to her by way of me, are you? You don't mean that you really do want to marry her, do you?" "No, I don't mean that I want to marry her. I mean that I'm going to marry her." "Oh! Oh!" the aunt cried faintly. "Oh, goodness me! But I don't know why I'm surprised, for I said you was in love with her right from the start. I couldn't see how you could help but be." "Of course I couldn't help but be. Who could? She's one of the few real girls that are left in the world these days. The regular girls with lectures and diplomas and stiff collars have spoiled the sweetest things God ever made. Men don't thank Heaven for any of these late innovations wrought in womankind." "Oh, I know," said Susan; "my husband was old-fashioned, too. I"--she stopped short, because just then the door opened, and Jane came in. CHAPTER XV REAL CONVERSATION BOTH Susan and lover jumped rather guiltily, but Jane didn't notice. Or if she did notice, it did not impress her as anything worthy consideration. Among the little weeds in the rose-garden of life, did you ever think of what a common one is that bother over how people act when you "come in suddenly"? It is one of the petty tortures of everyday existence. "They stopped talking the instant they saw me!" "They both turned red, when I opened the door!" Well, what if they did? Is it a happening of the slightest moment? Unless one is guilty and in dread of discovery, what can it matter who chatters or of what? Stop and realize the real, separate, distinct meaning of the phrase "He was above suspicion," and see how it applies equally to being safe from the evil thoughts _of_ others as well as being safe from the holding of evil thoughts _towards_ others. If people change color at your approach and it makes you uncomfortable, you are not above suspicion either of or from others. Then look to it well that henceforth you manage to root out the double evil. There are a whole lot of very uncomfortable family happenings founded on the absolutely natural crossings of family intercourse, and the only possible way to go smoothly through such rapids is--as the Irishman said--to pick up your canoe and port around them. Don't go down to the level of anything beneath your own standard, because when you go down anywhere for any reason, your standard goes down with you. There is that peculiarity about standards that we keep them right with us, whether we go up or whether we go down. "Oh, Jane," said Susan, "we're having such an interesting time talking about your religion." Jane smiled. "I'm glad," she said simply. "Did you decide to absorb some of it?" "Oh, I'm converted, anyhow," said the aunt; "nobody could live in the house with you and not be, and Mr. Rath is going to try it for a while, too." Jane looked at Lorenzo a little roguishly. "It's a contagion in the town," she said; "I feel like an ancient missionary." "I know," said Susan, "holding up a cross. I've seen them in pictures." "Yes, and I hold up the cross, too," said Jane, "only most people wouldn't know it. Do you know what the cross meant in the long-ago times,--before the Christian era?" she asked Lorenzo quickly. "No." "It's the sunbeam transfixing and vivifying the earth-surface. It was the holiest symbol of the power of God. It embodied divine life descending straight from heaven and making itself a part of earth." "My!" exclaimed Susan, really amazed. Jane smiled and laid her hand upon her aunt's affectionately. "I love my cross," she said; "it's the greatest emblem that humanity can know, and, just because we are human, it will always keep coming back into our lives. Only it shouldn't be preached as a burden, it should be preached as an opportunity." Lorenzo sat watching her. A curious white look passed over his face. He felt for the moment that he hardly ought to dare hope that this girl who was so full of help for all should narrow her field of labor to just him. "You'll end by being like Dinah in _Adam Bede_," he said, trying to laugh; "you like to teach and preach, don't you?" "I don't know," said Jane; "it's always there, right on my heart and lips. I feel as if the personal 'I' was only its voice." "I don't think she's exactly human," said Susan meditatively; "she doesn't strike me so." "Don't say that, Auntie," said the young girl quickly; "I want to be human more than anything else. I don't want to make you or anybody feel that I'm not. It would be as dreadfully lonely to be looked upon as unhuman as to be looked upon as inhuman. I want to work and love and be loved." "But you're so different from everybody else," said her aunt. "But I don't want to be different. I want to just be a woman--or a girl." Some kindly intuition prompted Susan to change the subject. "Mr. Rath and I were talking about girls just now; we both thought what a pity it is that there are so few in these days." "I guess there are just as many girls as ever, only they aren't so conspicuous," Jane said, laughing at Lorenzo. "I think they're more conspicuous," said Lorenzo, "only they're the wrong kind." "I liked the old kind," said Susan, "the kind that stayed at home and wasn't wild to get away and be going into business." Jane laughed again. "You ought not to blame the girls, Auntie. Lots of them feel dreadfully over leaving home. But they have to go out and work. I had to, I know. It's some kind of big world-change that's pushing us all on into different places." "I wasn't thinking of girls who do something nice and quiet like you. I was thinking of the others." "They have to go, too," said Jane. "There's a fearful pressure that we don't understand behind it all. A restlessness and discontent that no one can alter." "Yes, that's true," said Lorenzo; "I never thought of it, but I can see that it is so now that you've put it into my head." "I've seen a lot of it. It's curious that it seems to come equally to women who want to work and to women who don't. I'm sure I never wanted to earn my living, but I was forced to it. And ever so many others are, too. It's rather an awful feeling that you're in the grip of a power that sweeps your life beyond your guidance. I'm trying hard to be big enough to live in this century, but I'd have liked the last better." "Don't you consider that there's anything voluntary in the way women are acting now?" Lorenzo asked, with real interest. "No, I'm afraid not. I think that there's something we don't understand, or grasp, or--or quite see rightly. I believe that everything is ordered and ordered ultimately for the best, and I see the problems of to-day as surely here by God's will and to be worked out by learning the conduct of the current instead of opposing it. But still I really don't understand it all as I wish that I did." "You really do feel God as a friend," said Lorenzo, watching her illuminated face. "He isn't just a religion to you, then?" "He's _everything_ to me," said Jane reverently, "Help and Sunlight and Strength and Daily Bread. That part of Him that is energy manifests in us in one way, and that part of Him that is divine right and justice manifests in us in another way. My part in this life is to learn to use them together, but they and all else are all God." Susan rose from her seat and stood contemplating her niece and Lorenzo by turns. "To think of talking like this in my house," she said; "this is what I call real conversation. I tell you, Jane, you certainly did lift me into another life when you invited old Mrs. Croft here. Every kind of religion sinks right into me now, and I can believe without the least bother. It's wonderful, but I'm going to have a short-cake for tea, so I'll have to go." She went away, and Lorenzo turned to the window. There was a little pause while he wondered about many things. Finally he held out his hand abruptly. "You've gone a long way, Jane," he said, "you've got a big grip on life and its meaning, and you make me understand as I never did before how hopeless it is to wish that the wheels of time will turn backward. But whatever you may preach, you only prove what I said and what I feel, that the old-fashioned, sweet, home-keeping, winning and winnable girl is gone, only she's gone in a different way from what most people understand. When she still exists, she exists for herself--not for a man." Jane felt her eyes fill suddenly. "Why do you say that?" "Because you prove it. A man might adore you, but he couldn't hope to get you. Could he?" Her eyes dropped. "Do you think that it's all any harder on the man than it is on the girl?" she asked. "If men feel bad nowadays over the changes, how do you suppose it is with the woman, unfitted to fight and forced into the battle. A woman isn't built as a man is; she's created for another kind of work, much harder and lasting, much longer than any man's labor. And she has to leave that work of her own either undone or only half-done and do things unsuited to her. Of course there are some girls and women who like it,--but most of them don't. Most of them feel dreadfully and would give anything to be able to stay in a home and live the life God meant to be woman's. There's always a pitiful story behind nine out of every ten bread-winning women, whether they go out washing or are artists like you. A woman never leaves her home until she's forced to do so." "Are you sure that you know what you're talking about? Aren't you an idealist? Look at Emily Mead--" he smiled in spite of his earnestness. "If she had a rag of a chance, she'd fly off to-morrow. It wouldn't take force." Jane remained carefully grave. "That's more her mother's fault than hers. Her mother has taught her that girls only live to marry." "And quite right, too. Don't you believe it?" "It used to be true, but it isn't now. A girl can't marry without a man, and the world's all disjointed. It's a part of that strange new leaven which causes civilization to drive men and women both to become homeless by separating them widely on earth." "Of course it's a governmental crime to send men by the hundreds of thousands to fight it out alone in Canada and leave their sisters to be old maids in England, but governments are pretty stupid, nowadays." "We are all pretty stupid. We build all our difficulties and then hang to them and their consequences for dear life. It's too bad in us." "Do you mean woman?" "No, I mean everybody." "It's depressing, isn't it?" "I don't think so. I think it's grand." "Grand!" "Yes, because I like to struggle in a big way. And then, too, if I'm a woman forced to work because I'm one part of the problem, I'm also gloriously happy in being part of the new upburst of comprehension that's balancing and will soon overbalance such a lot of the troubles." "You mean? Oh, you mean your way of looking at things." "Of course I do. I'm so blessedly glad of every circumstance in my life, because each one led to my getting hold of just what I have got hold of. I'm perfectly happy and perfectly content. It's so beautiful to be guided by a rule that never fails." Lorenzo couldn't but laugh. "I tell you what," he said gayly, "I'll let you into a little secret. I've made up my mind to go to work and learn how to work that game of yours myself. I want to be blessedly glad and gloriously happy, too." "You've got to be in earnest, you know," Jane said. "It's handling live wires to amuse oneself with any force of God, and will-power is more of a force than electricity." "Oh, I'm in earnest," said the artist. "I've made my picture--as you say--and I hang to it for grim death. Only I can't see, if you feel as you do about home and marriage, and all that, why you don't make one, too." "I'm making ever so many homes," said Jane. "I'm teaching home-making. That's a Sunshine Nurse's business, and it would be selfish in me to desert my task. Besides--" she paused. CHAPTER XVI THE MOST WONDERFUL THING EVER HAPPENED SHE stopped and hesitated. "Yes," he said impatiently, "besides--?" "I wonder if it would be right to be quite frank with you?" "Nothing sincere is ever wrong. Of course you ought to be quite frank with me,--aren't you that with every one?" Still she considered. "What stops you?" he asked. "Go on. Tell me everything. It's my right." "Why is it your right?" "Because I love you, and you know it." She started violently, then turned very white. "Don't say that. I've always thought of you as engaged to Madeleine. She was talking to me, and I thought--I--" She stopped, quite shaken. "You misunderstand her. She's always been in love with one fellow--the one that her parents are against. He's even poorer than I am." Then Jane pressed her lips together and interlocked her fingers. "I can never marry. I never think of it. There's money to be paid, nobody to pay it but me, and no way to get it except to earn it." Lorenzo looked almost sternly at her. "What about the book you lent me; it would say that that was setting limits. It says that we've not to concern ourselves with ways and means. I've only to concern myself with loving you. The rest will come along of its own accord." She shook her head. "No, it won't. This world is all learning, and it's part of my lesson not to be able to apply it in absolute faith to myself. So many teachers have wisdom to give away which they can't quite take unto themselves, you know." She smiled a little tremulously. "But you ought to take it unto yourself. It ought to be easy and simple for you to realize that if conditions are false, they don't exist; that if you want a home, it's because you are going to have one; that if I love you, it's because it's right that you should be loved." She put her hands down helplessly on each side of the chair-seat. "I never even think of such things," she said, almost in a whisper. "But why not?" "I've always been so necessary to others. I've no rights in my own life." "But if life is a thing to guide, why not guide your beneficence as well from a basis of home as from one of homelessness?" "Nothing has ever seemed to be for me, myself. Everything has always pointed to me for others." Lorenzo paced back and forth. "But it is the women like you who should show the way out of the wilderness and back to the right, instead of attempting to order the chaos while sweeping on with it. If there be a real truth in this new teaching which lays hold of all those who are in earnest so easily and so quickly, its first care should be to demonstrate happiness in the lives of its believers,--not the negative happiness of wide-spread devotion to others, but the positive lessons of joy in the center from which springs--must spring--the next generation of better, wiser men and women, those among whom I expect to live as an old man." Jane turned her face away, her eyes filled with tears. "You make me feel very small and petty," she said; "you show me a way beyond what I had guessed. But I can't grasp at it; I'm too used to asking nothing for myself. I'm always so sure that God is managing for me. And I have so much to do." "Perhaps realization that God is managing is all that you need to set right. Perhaps that confidence will bring you all things. Even me." He laughed a little. "It has brought me all that I needed. Daily bread, daily possibilities of helpfulness,--I don't ask more, except 'more light.'" "It sounds a little presumptuous coming from me, but perhaps I can help you towards your end, even as to 'more light.' At any rate, I'll try if you'll let me." She sat quite still. Finally she lifted up her eyes--and they were beautiful eyes, big and true--and said, the words coming softly forth: "It would be so wonderful." Lorenzo didn't speak. He felt choked and gasping. To him it was also "so wonderful," as wonderful as if he hadn't lived with it night and day ever since the first minute of knowing her. "I think I'd better go," he said very gently, realizing keenly that he must not press her in this first blush of the new spring-time. "I've 'made my picture' you know, and I won't let it fade, you may be sure. And you must believe in happiness for yourself,--you tell us that the first step is all that counts. Get the seed into the ground then. I'll do the rest." She sat quite still. "If I could only try," she whispered. He turned quickly away and was gone. After a dizzy little while she rose and went into the kitchen. Susan was moving briskly about. "Two cups flour, four teaspoonfuls baking powder, one of sugar, one of salt, two of butter, two of lard, cup half water, half milk, pour in pan greased and bake in hot oven. Scotch scone-bread for lunch," she said, almost suiting the deed to the word. "Is Mr. Rath still here?" "No, he's gone." "You know, Jane, he's caught your religion. I never heard anything like it. He's got the whole thing pat. I'd be almost scared to go round teaching a thing like that. Why, folks'll be doing anything they please soon. I've been wondering if I could get strong enough to kind of dispose of Matilda, in some perfectly right way, you know. I wouldn't think of anything that wasn't perfectly right, you know." Jane seemed a little numb and stood watching the buttering of the scone-pan without speaking. "I keep saying: 'Matilda doesn't want to come back. Matilda's disposed of in a perfectly pleasant way.' I've been saying it ever since I began on those scones. I guess I've said it twenty times, and I'm beginning to make a real impression on myself. I'm beginning to feel sure God is fixing things up. It's too beautiful to feel God taking an interest in your affairs. Matilda doesn't want to come home. Matilda is completely disposed of in a perfectly pleasant way." Susan's accents were very emphatic. "Auntie," said Jane, turning her eyes towards her and rallying her attention by a strong effort, "you know your perfect faith is because Aunt Matilda really isn't anxious to come home. It's only if you're doubting that there's any doubt about it. One doesn't alter Destiny, one only apprehends it. Oh, dear," she said though, sitting down suddenly, and hiding her face in her hands, "the thing about light is that it always keeps bursting over you with a new light, and my own teaching has suddenly come to me as if I'd never known what any of it meant before. I'm too stunned at seeing how I've limited myself. I'm really too stupid." Susan glanced at her as she poured the batter into the pan, and then kept glancing. Her face grew softened, "I wouldn't worry, dear," she said finally, "don't you bother over anything. God's taking care of everything and everybody. It's every bit of it all right. You must know that yourself, or you never could have taught it to me." "Yes, I do know it,--but in spite of myself I can't see--I can't dare think--" "You told me not to worry over old Mrs. Croft," said Susan, coming around by her side and putting her arm about her; "you said worry spoiled everything. And I did try so hard." "Yes, I know, I'll try. I really will--But--" suddenly she turned deep crimson, "it seems too awful for me to take one minute to work on myself or my life. I need all my time for others." "But you don't have to," said Susan, "all you've got to do is to know things are right. You know they're right because they are right. Everything's coming along fine, and you just feel it coming; that's your part. My goodness, Jane, isn't this funny? There isn't a blessed thing you've preached to me that I ain't having to preach back to you now. You don't seem to have sensed hardly any of your own meaning. Talk about being a channel; you'd better choke up a little and hold back some for yourself." Jane threw her arms around her and kissed her. "Auntie, you're right, you're right. I won't doubt a mite more. I'll try to know as much as I seem to have taught." "Just be yourself, you Sunshine Jane, you," Susan was clinging close to the girl she loved so well, "just be yourself. Nothing else is needed." "Yes," Jane whispered, "I will." "That's the thing," said Susan; "'cause you've certainly taught us a lot. I'll lay the table now," she moved towards the door, "Matilda doesn't want to come home. Matilda wants to stay away in some perfectly pleasant way," she added with heavy emphasis, passed through, and let the door close. Jane was left alone in the kitchen. "He said he loved me!" she thought over and over. "It seems so wonderful--the most wonderful thing that has ever happened since the world was made. He said he loved me!" She went up-stairs to her own room and shut the door softly. "Of course I can never marry him," she whispered aloud, "but he did say he loved me. Oh, I know that nothing so wonderful ever was in this world before!" CHAPTER XVII WHY JANE SHOULD HAVE BELIEVED THE Sunshine Nurse was long in seeking sleep that night and early to rise the next morning. She found herself suddenly metamorphosed--facing a new world--two worlds in fact. There was the world of Lorenzo's actually loving her, which was a dream from which she would surely awaken, and then there was that second world of wonder, the world of her own teaching, a world in which she started, big-eyed, at all in which she had trusted, and wondered if it could be possible that what she believed firmly and preached so ardently was really true. "It isn't setting limits to face what must be," she said over and over to herself, "and I _must_ pay poor father's debts, and there is no possible way for me to get the money except to earn it bit by bit." The statement had gone to bed with her, and it rose with her when she rose; it looked indisputable, incontrovertible, as all fixed statements have a way of looking--and yet each time that she made it she felt hot with guilt. "It's setting limits," cried her soul, "it's saying that God can't possibly do what He pleases," and, as she listened to the strong, heaven-sent cry of rebellion against petty earthly laws, she struggled in the meshes of her own old earlier learning, the "old garment" which clings so close about us all, and which we simply must discard before we can don the new robe of Infinite Hope and Radiant Belief in God's law of Only Good for Each and Every One. Jane always rose an hour before her aunt. The hour was spent in opening windows, brushing up and building the kitchen fire. It was always a pleasant hour, for she usually filled it to the brim with work well done and thoughts sent strongly and happily out over the coming time. But to-day all this was changed; new thoughts rioted forth on every side, and a sort of chaos took the place of her usually sunny calm. This riot and chaos is the common, logical outcome of all who feel sure that they are wiser than God. You cannot possibly set any border to His Kingdom and then be happy in that outer darkness which you have deliberately chosen for your own part. As well ask a cow to shut herself out of her pasture and rest happy in the waste beyond. "I mustn't think, because it is none of it for me--" she repeated over and over, much as if the aforesaid cow declared, "I am barred out--I can never get back--I must starve contentedly." Jane--who would have laughed at my illustration quite as you have laughed yourself--saw only distress in her own, and had to wink away so many tears that finally in maddest self-defense she rushed out doors and fled to the little garden that had, through so many years, been Susan's refuge in such a droll way. And Lorenzo was there! He looked very blithe and happy. "Well," he said, "have you thought it over and decided that you're right, after all?" She was panting, and surprise flooded her face with color. "Oh--" she gasped, "oh!" and then: "Right--of course I'm right!" He approached, his hand extended. "Right in believing, or right in mistrusting?" She gave him her hand, and he took it. "Don't put it that way," she said; "it isn't that way." "But, dear Jane, that's the only way to put it. It's the way you've been teaching us. Either we can look up and ahead confidently, or you're all wrong. I can't believe that you're ever even a little bit wrong, so I'm going to believe that it's all true." "No, no--it isn't--I mean--Oh, in my case, it can't be so. Everything that I said was true, only I myself am meant to--to work--not to--to marry. It's a kind of pledge I've taken to myself. It doesn't change the teaching." Then she dragged her hand free. Lorenzo smiled. "You can't tell me any of that. I know. I'm the happiest man in the world." Then he went on, taking up the rake and scratching a little here and there: "Like other pupils, I've surpassed my teacher. You've preached, and I practice; you can describe God's thoughts, and I think them. You're sure that He can do anything, and I know what He's going to do. I've been let straight into one of His secrets. It's been revealed to me how the world is run." Jane stared. "How can you talk so?" "I talk so because I know so. Everything's coming right for you." "You're crazy," she tried to laugh. "I've heard people say that of you. Not that it matters." She stood watching him and considering his words. "I wouldn't let you give me the money to straighten out my father's affairs, even if you were ever so rich, you know," she said slowly. "I couldn't." "I know it." "And I wouldn't let Auntie pay the debts." "I know. God doesn't require either your aunt's help or mine in this matter." Jane's eyes moistened slightly. "Please don't make a joke of anything so hard and sad." "I'm not joking; I'm a veritable apostle of joy. I'm as happy as I can be." She looked at him with real wonder because his appearance certainly bore out his words. "I wish that I knew what you meant." He dropped the rake, came to her side, and caught her hand. "Can't you trust God--can't you trust me?--won't you try?" She looked up into his face. "I wish that I could, but how can I?" "You ought to know. So deep and big and true a nature. Surely you ought to be able to understand your own teaching!" "But I can't see any way." "Your book says that one must not think of ways; one must just look straight to the good end." "Oh, but there isn't any such end possible for me." Lorenzo dropped her hand and laughed out loud. And then he caught her in his arms and kissed her. She screamed. To her it was the greatest shock of her life, for no man had ever kissed her before. "Oh--oh, mercy!" Matters were not helped much by Susan's looking over the fence just then and crying out abruptly: "Well, I declare!" "Mrs. Ralston," said Lorenzo, not even blushing, "you're the very person we need this minute. I want to marry Jane, and she won't hear to it because of her father's debts. The debts are all right and everything's all right, only she won't believe it. I wish you'd climb the fence and help me persuade her, for although I _know_ she'll end by marrying me, I've just set my heart on converting her to her own religion first." Susan swung easily over the fence. "You're just right, Mr. Rath, you ought to marry her. She's the nicest person to have around the house that I ever saw; she's far too good to be a nurse. How much did your father owe, you Sunshine Jane, you? Maybe I can pay it. I will if I can." "There," said Lorenzo; "see how easy it is to evolve money if you'd only trust a little?" Jane looked at him and then at Susan. "I couldn't take your money, Auntie," said she, quite gently, but quite firmly. "And then, too," she added, with her roguish smile, "you've left it to Aunt Matilda." "Yes, but dear," Susan's face became suddenly radiant, "you know I've been working your religion on her; maybe she isn't coming back at all; maybe something will happen; maybe she's going to be drowned or something like that in some perfectly right way." "No," said Lorenzo soberly. "It isn't necessary to plan as to God's business at all. He knows. I don't think that Jane ought to take anybody's money; she ought to pay the debts with her own money, but I can't see why she can't trust and know it's coming." "Because there's no place for it to come from," said Jane firmly. "Unless Matilda--" Susan interposed. "I believe I'm better at her religion than she is herself," said Lorenzo. "I declare, I believe that there's nothing that I can't get now. I wanted a house, and I worked just as the book said! I saw myself living cosily alone, and in less than a week I was living cosily alone. Now I want Jane with me in the house, and I mean to have her, and I shall have her, and there's no doubt about that; but I do wish--with all my heart--that she could rise to a higher plane." "If that's all, I know how to manage that easily enough," said Susan. "We could get old Mr. Cattermole in for a week and raise Jane's plane with him, just like she raised mine with Mrs. Croft." "Oh, she'll rise," said her lover quietly. "We must give her time and help her, that's all." Jane stood doubting between them. Her aunt regarded her wistfully. "Dear me," she said, "I wonder if I could screw myself up to believing she'll come in for a fortune. I want to help, but I'm a little like her--I can't for the life of me see where it's to come from." "But that isn't the question at all," said Lorenzo, "the question isn't how--the question is just the faith. Why, it's the corner-stone of the whole thing! It's the moving into God's world where nothing but good can be, and you know you're there because you see only good coming in all directions! Just good--nothing but good! I don't see why Jane holds back so. I know that she can get that money and get every other thing she wants in life, including me, and I'm one of the nicest fellows alive--" "That's so--" interposed Susan. "If she'll only put out her hand with confidence. I've studied that book till I'm full of it, and I know that I'm going to have her for my wife, and I know it absolutely, and I want her to know it, too." Susan began to get back over the fence. "I'm going in about breakfast," she said; "the trouble with us is we all need hot coffee to brace up our souls." "Keep on declaring the truth," Lorenzo reminded her, as she walked off upon the other side. "I will. I'll say 'Jane is going to get some money' and 'Matilda doesn't want to come home to live,' alternately." When she was out of hearing the two young people remained silent for a few seconds. Then the man spoke. "Dear," his voice was very gentle, "I want to tell you something. I've had a very great experience in the last twenty-four hours. It isn't loving you--it's that I've been allowed to see a little bit of life from God's standpoint. Don't you want to know the real truth about all this?" "What do you mean?" "I'm going to tell you, because you'll see the lesson and learn it with me. We don't doubt that God knows all that has been or is to be, do we?--or that in our minutes of fiercest pain or trouble He looks calmly to the end beyond?" She shook her head. "No, of course not." "Well, dearest girl, I was allowed last night to put myself in the Deity's place and see one corner of the universe as He must see the whole." Her eyes grew big. "What do you mean?" "I mean this. I want you, and I understand perfectly about the money. I sat down last night and I labored with myself until I made myself _know_ that it was yours. I can't tell you just how it came to me, but I knew it. It is yours and yours absolutely, and now I want you to realize it and believe in it without question, before I give it to you. Will you do that? I'm asking of you the faith that Jesus preached. Can you believe?" Jane looked at him wonderingly. "You mean--" "I mean just what I say." "I can't receive money from you." "It isn't my money." "I don't understand. I only know that there is no way that I can get the money." Lorenzo looked at her a minute, and then said slowly and very gently: "I've found Mrs. Croft's will. She left all that she had to whoever took care of her the night she died. It appears that she had a good deal more than any one supposed. It's all yours, dear. Now you see why you should have trusted." CHAPTER XVIII IN A PERFECTLY RIGHT WAY WHEN Susan, looking out of the window, saw the two whom she had left behind coming across the grass, she knew instantly. "They've settled it somehow," she exclaimed in supremest joy, and whirled to whisk the bacon off the stove. "Auntie," said Jane, from outside the window, the minute after, "I am just dumb. I don't believe I'll ever be able to lift up my head in life again." "Auntie," said Lorenzo, over her shoulder, "she's inherited her fortune." Susan gave a scream. "Oh, good mercy!" "Yes, dear," said her niece, now in the doorway, "only I can't believe it. I think that it's a dream." "You see she still isn't able to rise to the proper heights of trust," laughed her lover, also now in the doorway, "but I have hopes of yet teaching her to believe what she believes." "Come straight in and help me set all this on the table, so that I can listen with a free mind." Susan's appeal was pathetic in the extreme. "Where _did_ she get it, anyhow?" "Oh, Auntie, it's the most wonderful thing you ever heard of." Jane took up the coffee-pot and led the way. "I did it all, except I didn't provide the money," said Lorenzo, and the next minute they were all seated, and he could tell the whole story. Susan didn't scream. She sat still, a bit of toast in her hand, listening breathlessly. When Lorenzo had finished, "Oh, that new religion!" she murmured in an awed voice, and then, "Nothing like this ever happened in this town before, I know." "I'm more bewildered over it's being there for me and my not being able to believe than I am by the money," said Jane. "Oh, Auntie, what a lesson, what a lesson!" "You would limit yourself, you see," said Lorenzo; "you wouldn't believe." "How could I ever imagine such a thing?" "You didn't have to imagine,--you only had to expect." "You laid limits, you see," said Susan, suddenly beginning to pour out the coffee, and pouring with a glad dash that swept over cup and saucer together. "I expect if God hadn't been patient--like Mr. Rath--He could have very well hid that will forever. There may be a lot of such goings on in the world, for all we know. My goodness, suppose I'd been like Matilda and not have had old Mrs. Croft around for one minute,--it makes me ill to think of it! It's a lesson for me, too." "Life is all lessons," said Jane. "Dear me, think of Aunt Matilda's surprise!" "Think of it! Good mercy, how can I wait to tell her!" Susan's whole face beamed. "I don't mind a bit her coming back now. That shows the good of making that declaration about her. Those declarations are a great thing. I've told myself Matilda was coming back in a perfectly right way so many times that now, however she came back, I'd be positive it was perfectly right." "Ah, Auntie," said Jane, "you've got hold of another great truth. Every one seems quicker than me." "Well, you started us at it, anyhow," said Susan kindly. "Oh my, but I'm happy! Why, I believe I'm really in a hurry now for Matilda to come back, just so I can tell her. Think of that--me really and truly anxious to see Matilda again! My, you Sunshine Jane, you--what a lot of difference you've made in me." "When is your aunt coming?" Lorenzo asked Jane. "She went for three weeks," said Jane; "it will be three weeks next Thursday." "Goodness, only three weeks, and it seems like three years?" observed Susan. "What a lot has happened! There's Jane--and her religion--and me up and well--and old Mrs. Croft here and gone--and you, Mr. Rath,--and then you and Jane--and now this money." "I can't believe any of it," said Jane; "I try, but I just can't. I guess I'm hopelessly limited. I'm too bewildered, I--" "I'll tell you what ails you," said her aunt warmly. "It's that you've spread yourself too much; you've given such a lot away everywhere that you've got to just stop and let the tide run backwards into you yourself for a while. It's nature. Nature and the new religion combined." "I feel overwhelmed by the coming-back tide then," said Jane; "I don't deserve it all." Her aunt started to reply, but was stopped by a sudden loud bang outside. "Goodness, what's that?" she exclaimed. "Auto tire burst, I think. I'll go and see," said Lorenzo, jumping up and going out. "Jane," said Susan solemnly, "that's a young man in a million. Think of his finding that will. My, but he'll make a good husband!" "I just can't realize any of it," said her niece. She seemed to be totally unequal to any other view of her present situation. "Well, you'd better realize it," said her aunt, "because it's coming right along. What will Mrs. Mead say, I wonder! Dear me, how every one will wish they'd tried to get up a plane or two by having old Mrs. Croft to visit them. If that poor old thing could only come back, the whole town would just adore to have her on a visit now, and every one would sit up all night and listen to _Captain Jinks_ so cheerfully. She used to sing _Rally round the flag, boys_ too,--I forgot that. She used to sing it when she heard the roosters begin to crow. But nobody would have minded, whatever she sang now." "Oh, there's--" Jane hesitated and blushed. Lorenzo stood in the door. "It wasn't a burst tire," he explained briefly; "it's a new kind of siren they're using. It's friends from out of town, Mr. and Mrs. Beamer." "They've got the wrong house," said Susan. "I don't know any Beamers." "They asked for Mrs. Ralston." "Then they're selling something, grape-wine or hand-knit lace, or something. I don't want to see 'em." "I'll go," said Jane. And went at once. In the pretty, changed sitting-room she found the visitors--Mrs. Beamer tall and of large build, with a handsome motor-costume. Mr. Beamer also large, very wiry, and with rampant gray hair. Mrs. Beamer was Matilda. But what a changed Matilda! "Well, Jane," coming forward and holding out both hands, "did you and Susan feel it?" Jane staggered and laid hold of a chair. "Feel--" she stammered--"feel what? Oh, Aunt Matilda!" "Did you feel the good I've been doing you? How's my sister?" "She--oh, she's all right." "Up and dressed?" "Yes." "There, you see!" Matilda turned to Mr. Beamer, triumph radiating her whole figure. "It worked,--oh, Matthew, it worked." Then she turned back to Jane. "Get up right off, didn't she? Same day I left?" "Y--yes." Jane clung more tightly to the chair. She began to doubt the ground beneath her feet. "Perfectly well, strong, able-bodied,--isn't she?" "Yes." "You see?--" to Mr. Beamer. Then, "Oh, it's too splendid! I s'pose the cat's stopped snooping, too, hasn't he?" "Y--yes." "House all clean? Garden growing fine?"-- "Yes, indeed." "And you, Jane, how are you?" "Oh, I'm all right. I--I've become engaged." "You hear that, Matthew? And the town?" "Everybody's well." "Did you ever in all your life!" "Oh, old Mrs. Croft died!" "Did she indeed. Katie happy?--" "Katie was away. She died here." "How nice! I expect she enjoyed every minute of it. Oh, Jane, you don't know how happy your every word is making me!" "Shan't I call auntie?" "No, we'll go out and have breakfast with you. We had one breakfast so as to make it easy for you to have us have it with you." "Do come right out to the table." Jane led the way. "I can't think what Aunt Susan will say!" "Never mind what she says--it'll be just right. Everything always is. Come, Matthew;" then Mrs. Matilda Beamer led off, and Mr. Matthew Beamer followed, smiling cheerfully. He seemed to be a very cheerful man. "Perhaps I'd better go first and just prepare auntie," Jane suggested hastily. "No need. She always yelled when she saw me suddenly, and this time it will be for joy. Life is going to be all joy for Susan now." Jane turned the button of the dining-room door. "Auntie Susan, it's Aunt Matilda and Mr. Beamer." Susan justified her sister's views by forthwith giving the yell of her whole life. "Ma--tilda!--And Mr. Beamer!--" Matilda went up to her, seized her, gave her a good hug and a real kiss. "I've made lots of mistakes," she said, with a big tear in each eye, "but somehow it was written that I should be allowed to make them right. Susan, this is Matthew. Sit down, Matthew. Sit down, every one." Lorenzo hastily pushed up chairs, and they all sat down. "I'll get some more dishes," Jane exclaimed, hurrying into the pantry. "Matilda!" Susan looked almost ready to faint. "Are you--are you--" "I'm married," said Matilda. "I don't know what I've ever done to deserve it, but I'm married. It's the most beautiful romance that ever was in the world, and we've come to tell you all about it." "Oh, do!" Susan exclaimed. "Jane, come back! Think of another romance, and Matilda, too! Well, what next!" Matilda smiled quite radiantly. "We met on the train the day I left here," she began; "it was right off. He took me out on the back platform of the car and opened my eyes to life, and we just suited, didn't we, Matthew?" "Tell it all," said Mr. Beamer; "tell the beginning." "Yes," said his wife, "I will, I'll tell it all. It's so splendid it would be a pity to skip anything. You see, he looked at me and--well, really, Matthew, I think you'd better tell the first part." "No, you tell," said Mr. Beamer. "No, Matthew, you tell it, and I'll help anywhere I can." "Well," said her husband, "then I'll begin with saying, Sister Susan, Niece Jane, and young man, that I'd better tell you what I am, first of all, because I'm the only one of the kind in the world so far as I know. You see, one of those Bible miracles, that no one can seem to lay hold of any more, got into me, and I'm the result." "That is all true," interposed Matilda, her plain face quite metamorphosed, as she looked at her husband and then at them. "Every word he says is true, and it's all miracles." "You see I was just a plain, ordinary man, with a nice business and a good disposition," Mr. Beamer went on, "and I did get so awful tired of things as they were going, and I used to wish everything was different, and then one day, all of a God-blessed sudden, it came over me, with a shock like lightning, that wanting things different is the first step to getting 'em different, and that if you've got the brain to see what's lacking, you've got the body to turn to and help fill up the hole. I didn't get religion out of a book; I got it just like that. I was sitting in a rocking-chair with a palm-leaf fan, and I got up and put the fan on the shelf and knew I was all made new. The very next day I read about a doctor as set up some nurses--" "Oh, my goodness," Susan cried, "hear that, Jane!" "--as was to spread sunshine, and I thought that was a good idea, only I couldn't see a place in it for me, 'cause I wasn't young and wasn't no girl to go 'round spreading nothing. I looked upon it that being a man, my business wasn't to spread things--a man's business is to get the stuff to spread; so I figured out that being as I was a man, I could maybe help make the sunshine, and then any one could slather it on that pleased. So I began to look about for some sunshine to make, and the handiest field I see was folks with hard lines around their mouths; there's a powerful lot of them around, you know,--ain't nothin' so hard to break up in life as hard lines around mouths. So I set out to plow fields of hard lines." He paused. It was a picture, a picture painted in heavenly colors to see his face at the moment, full of its own heartfelt, tried, and true enthusiasm, and the faces of those of his four listeners, each touched with the spiritual light shed by recent events over his or her own individual path. "Do go on," Jane whispered softly. "Well, whenever I'd see a hard man sitting alone, I'd go up to him and hold out my hand and say, 'Well, I ain't laid eyes on you, I don't know when!' That wasn't no lie, and 'most always we'd get a-talking. Then I'd say, 'I'm a harmless crank that likes to go round making friends, and I took a fancy to you right off.' It was wonderful all I come up against. Why, the hardest folks was just aching to sit down and explain that they wasn't hard at all. It was the most interesting thing I ever got hold of. I got arrested once for a gold-brick man, and it give me a fine chance at the jailers and some of the men in prison. Pretty soon everything that turned up seemed to just come along to give me a chance to make a little sunshine. Pretty soon life was all nothing but sunshine chances. I got hold of some books that showed me that lots of others were trying some similar games, and all working hard, and I picked out one book that 'most anybody could understand, and I used to carry it to read from. Would you believe that I wore out that book about a hundred times and sold it more'n five hundred times and give it away 'most a thousand times. I got where hard lines was just play to me. I've now got where they're flowers in my garden. I just fly at 'em. If they don't give up to one course, they do to another. I travel about looking for 'em. I was on my last trip when I see Matilda sittin' across the aisle from me, and I said to myself right off, 'What fine lines!' So I went right over and shook hands with her--" "He said he feared maybe he'd made a mistake," interrupted his wife, "and I said--God forgive me!--'If you speak to me again, I'll call out to the conductors!'" "And I said: 'Madam, excuse me, I'm only a harmless crank as is trying to help folks as is sick or in trouble, and you look like a woman as could tell me of some I could help, maybe!'" "Then I thought of you, Susan," said the sister; "you see, I'd been looking out of the window, and the view was so pretty, and it kind of come over me how awful hard it was to lie in bed--and--and I felt kind of bad, and his face looked kind, and I said: 'Well, sit down. I do know somebody sick.'" "So I set down," went on Mr. Beamer, "and in just a little while she let up like everybody does and told me the whole story, and then I took her out on the back platform and we was swinging 'round curves of mighty lovely scenery, and I got out my book and I begin to read aloud to her." "And I got hold of the idea like mad," said Matilda. "I said right off: 'Then Susan's really all well now?' an' he said: 'She's been well always,' and I says: 'And my arm's well,' and he said: 'Nothin' ain't ever ailed your arm except your own innard feelings, and they're gone now,' and then I just put my hands over my face and says: 'Oh, God, forgive me for lots and lots and lots of things.'" There was another little pause, and then Susan said very low: "And God did it." "And then," said Mr. Beamer, "I says to her: 'Now, if you want to see how true everything I've been saying is, we'll just put this to a practical proof.' I'd noticed a woman with lines back there in the car slapping two sleepy children, and I told Matilda we'd each take a child for an hour and give her lines a chance to smooth out a little, and then we'd come back on the platform and talk it over." "So we did it," said Matilda, "and when I took the baby back to the woman, she burst out crying and said she'd tried to hold in all day and just couldn't any longer, cause her mother was sick and had been sick so long, and she couldn't leave the children to go to her 'cause the children was the neighbor's and left with her to board, and she'd never liked children and only took 'em 'cause her mother needed the money." "Showing," interrupted Mr. Beamer, "how we'd misjudged her and her hard lines, which is another feature of my crusade, as lots don't think enough about." "But what come next was just like a story, too," Matilda said. "When I got to Mrs. Camp's at last, I found Mrs. Camp so changed that if I hadn't met Matthew on the train and got something to hold on to, I couldn't have stayed in the house an hour." "Why, what was the matter with Mrs. Camp?" Susan asked anxiously. "Why, all Mrs. Camp's family is married now, and it seems she was so lonely she's turned into a social settler or some such thing, and her nice, quiet house where I'd looked to rest was one swarm of Italians learning English and girls learning sewing and women asking advice and such a chaos of Bedlam you never dreamed. If it hadn't been for my just having got religion that way, I'd have turned around and come straight back home. But as it was, I didn't have time to do anything but get into my blue print and take hold right with her and get some order into things in general." "Oh, Aunt Matilda!" Jane's face was radiant. "Afternoons Matthew came with an auto, and he'd take me off with the back seat full of children, and we'd hunt hard lines anywhere they looked likely." "And then, of course, we soon got married," said Mr. Beamer. "Yes, and that's all," said Matilda. "_Now did you ever?_" There was a sudden hush, until finally Susan said, through tears: "Oh, Matilda,--it's like something in heaven's got loose and fell right down over us, isn't it?" "I think it's all too wonderful," said Jane. "Of course there really is something out of heaven spread over earth every day," said Lorenzo, low, and very reverently; "only people don't see it." "But nowadays, everybody's beginning to recognize it," Jane murmured. "It's like it says in one of my books," said Mr. Beamer. "God's a reservoir and we're all pipes, just as soon as we're willing to be pipes, and then He pours through us according to how willing we are, because you're big or little just according to how willing you are." "Let us all be very willing," said Jane. "Oh, Jane," said Susan, "that sounds like a blessing to ask at the table. Let's ask a blessing after this and just say: 'Let us all be very willing!'" "Amen," said Lorenzo. CHAPTER XIX THE RESULTS JANE was married in the early autumn. She didn't have any trousseau or any wedding presents or any bridal trip. It was a new kind of wedding, because so much about her and her way of looking at life was new to those about her, that even her marriage had to match it. "My clothes are always in nice order," she said to Susan, slightly appalled over the non-existing preparations, "and I love to sew and will make what I need as I need it." "I don't want any presents," Lorenzo had said decidedly. "I don't want any one on earth to groan because I'm marrying Jane." "I don't think much of bridal trips; Matthew and I didn't have one, so I know all about them," said Matilda, who now had her standard and never lowered it for one instant; "those bothers are just about over for sensible people." So it all fell out in this way. One lovely bright September day, Mr. and Mrs. Beamer and Mrs. Susan Ralston walked quietly into the village church and sat down in the front pew. Shortly after the clergyman and the bride and the groom came in, and the clergyman married the bride to the groom. Then they all went out together, and the clergyman left them to go home together. A nice cold luncheon was spread at Susan's, and the cat was waiting, scratching hard at his white bow while he did so. After luncheon Mr. Beamer, his wife, and his wife's sister went off for a journey. "Think of me traveling!" Susan cried ecstatically. "Oh, Jane, may you enjoy going abroad this winter as much as I shall going off now." Jane smiled her pretty smile, and then, after the last wave of adieu, she and Lorenzo went back into the house. "This is really very funny, you know," said Lorenzo; "first we will wash all the dishes, and then we will plan our future." "Yes," Jane said. But they failed to do either. Instead, they left the dishes and the future to care for themselves. Going straight down into the garden, climbing the two fences, safely secluded in the little, growing, blooming inclosure, Lorenzo took his wife in his arms, and said: "Oh, my dearest dear, how rightest right everything is!" THE END Books by Anne Warner =The Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary= Players' Edition, with illustrations reproduced from photographs of scenes in the play. =$1.50= Always amusing and ends in a burst of sunshine.--_Philadelphia Ledger._ =Just Between Themselves= Frontispiece in color by Will Grefé. =$1.50= It is full of apt, pert little take-offs on human nature that provokes frequent chuckles.--_Philadelphia Item._ =In A Mysterious Way= Illustrated by J. V. McFall. =$1.50= A story of love and sacrifice that teems with the author's original humor.--_Baltimore American._ =Your Child and Mine= Illustrated. =$1.50= The child-heart, strange and sweet and tender, lies open to this sympathetic writer.--_Chicago Record-Herald._ =An Original Gentleman= Frontispiece by Alice Barber Stephens. =$1.50= Exhibits her cleverness and sense of humor.--_New York Times._ =Susan Clegg, Her Friend and Her Neighbors= Illustrated. =$1.50= Combining all the Susan Clegg stories originally published in "Susan Clegg and Her Friend Mrs. Lathrop" and "Susan Clegg and Her Neighbors' Affairs." One of the most genuinely humorous books ever written.--_St. Louis Globe-Democrat._ =Susan Clegg And a Man in the House= Illustrated by Alice Barber Stephens. =$1.50= Susan is a positive joy, and the reading world owes Anne Warner a vote of thanks for her contribution to the list of American humor.--_New York Times._ =When Woman Proposes= Illustrated in color. =$1.25 _net_= Dainty in form and content. It is printed, bound, and illustrated charmingly, and the story, style, and atmosphere correspond.--_New York Herald_ =A Woman's Will= Illustrated. =$1.50= A deliciously funny book.--_Chicago Tribune._ =How Leslie Loved= Illustrations in color by A. B. Wenzell. =$1.25 _net_= The sprightly romance of a young and charming American widow. LITTLE, BROWN, & CO., _Publishers_ 34 BEACON STREET, BOSTON * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Throughout the dialogues, there were words used to mimic accents of the speakers. Those words were retained as-is. Errors in punctuations and inconsistent hyphenation were not corrected unless noted below: On page 228, "winable" was replaced with "winnable". On page 242, the comma after "softly" was replaced with a period. On page 245, the period after "cow declared" was replaced with a comma. On page 278, "Mr Beamer" was replaced with "Mr. Beamer". In the advertisements at the end of the book, the duplicate header on the last page was removed. 
40178	----	[Illustration: The popovers had popped just right. (_Frontis_) (_The Carter Girls' Mysterious Neighbors_)] THE CARTER GIRLS' MYSTERIOUS NEIGHBORS By NELL SPEED AUTHOR OF "The Molly Brown Series," "The Tucker Twins Series," etc. [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers New York Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1931 BY HURST & COMPANY MADE IN U. S. A. Contents I. EN ROUTE TO THE FARM 7 II. THE LANDLADIES AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE 19 III. THE COUNT 38 IV. GRANTLY 56 V. VALHALLA 63 VI. CHLOE 76 VII. BOBBY'S BLAME PAY 90 VIII. SATURDAY 107 IX. GOLDILOCKS' CHAIRS 118 X. NOVEMBER 133 XI. PARADISE 153 XII. HERZ 167 XIII. GOOSE STEPPING 189 XIV. AN EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY 197 XV. BLACK SOCIALISM 211 XVI. DRESSING FOR THE BALL 221 XVII. THE BALL 231 XVIII. ANGEL'S FOOD 247 XIX. A LITTLE LEARNING 255 XX. IN THE MEANTIME 262 XXI. THE FLAMING SWORD 272 XXII. A NEAT TRICK 287 XXIII. VISITORS AT PRESTON 294 XXIV. THE CARRIER PIGEON 308 The Carter Girls' Mysterious Neighbors CHAPTER I EN ROUTE TO THE FARM "How I hate being poor!" exclaimed Helen Carter, looking ruefully at her darned glove. "Me, too!" echoed the younger sister, Lucy. "Shh! Father will hear you," admonished Douglas. "Nobody can hear above the rattle of this horrid old day coach," declared Helen. "There is something about the odor of a common coach that has spent its life hauling commuters from home to work--from work to home, that sickens me," and Helen's sensitive nostrils quivered in disgust. "I'm sorry, dear; I know it is all so hard on you," said Douglas. "Not a bit harder on me than it is on you." "Not a bit!" from Lucy. "I think it must be," smiled Douglas. "I have an idea Nature did not intend me to ride in Pullmans. I am really just as comfortable in a day coach and I think they are lots more airy and better ventilated. What do you think about it, Nan?" "Oh, I like 'em--such interesting types," drawled Nan. "You get to your destination sooner, too, as the Pullman is always hitched onto the back end of the train." "I can't see anything very interesting in commuters, I must say," laughed Helen, "but Nan was always easy to please." "Yes, Nan is our philosopher," said Douglas. "Well, since Lucy and I are to join the army of commuters it would be foolish of us not to find them interesting. Don't you remember Mrs. Doasyouwouldbedoneby? If we find them interesting maybe they will return the compliment." "Yes, and I remember Mrs. Bedonebyasyoudid, too," declared Douglas, exchanging a sly glance with Helen. The two older sisters could not help seeing that a nice looking boy sitting across the aisle had already found something to interest him in the dreamy brown eyes of one courageous commuter to be. His own grey eyes were twinkling with merriment. Evidently the rattle of the despised coach had not drowned the conversation so far as he was concerned. He had made some pretense of studying, but Latin Comp. was deadly dull in comparison with the chatter of the Carter girls. The Carters were _en route_ to their winter quarters, chosen after much discussion and misgivings as the best place they could find for all concerned. The doctor had pronounced the ultimatum: Mr. Carter must be in the country for another year at least and he must have no business worries. He must live out-of-doors as much as possible and no matter how perplexing the problems that in the natural course of events would arise in a household, they were not to be brought to the master of that household. As Mrs. Carter had determined many weeks before to play the rôle of a lily of the field, announcing herself as a semi-invalid, who was to be loved and cherished and waited on but not to be worried, it meant that Douglas, as oldest child, must be mother and father as well. Hers was the thankless task of telling her sisters what they must and must not do, and curbing the extravagance that would break out now and then in spots. Small wonder that it was the case, as, up to a few months before this, lavish expenditure had been the rule in the Carter family rather than the exception. They had spent a wonderful summer running a week-end boarding camp on the side of a mountain in Albemarle County. It had been a remarkable thing for these young girls to have undertaken and accomplished, all untrained as they were. But when their father's nervous breakdown came and the realization that there was no more money in the family till, and none likely to be there unless they could earn it, right manfully they put their young shoulders to the wheel and with a long push and a strong push and a push all together they got their wagon, if not hitched to a star, at least moving along the highroad of life and making some progress. Dr. George Wright, the nerve specialist who had undertaken Mr. Carter's cure, had been invaluable in their search for the proper place in which to spend the winter, this winter that was to put the keystone in their father's recovery. Such a place was not easy to find, as it must be near enough to Richmond for Nan and Lucy to go to school. That was one time when Douglas put her foot down most emphatically. The two younger girls were quite willing to follow in their sister Helen's footsteps and "quiturate," but Douglas knew that they must be held to their tasks. She bitterly regretted her own inability to continue her education, as college had been her dream, and she also deplored the fact that Helen was not able to spend the one more year at school necessary for her graduation. As for Helen, not having to go to school was the one bright spot for her in the whole sordid business, at least she had boldly declared such was the case. The winter was to be a busy one for Helen, as the home work was to fall to her share. Douglas, by a great piece of good luck, had obtained a place as teacher in a district school not far from the little farm that had been selected as the abiding place for the Carter family during that winter of 1916 and '17. The teacher who had been employed had been called away by private affairs, and Douglas had fallen heir to the position. The train rocked and swayed and bumped on the illy-laid road-bed as our girls sped on to their destination. Mrs. Carter in a seat across the aisle had placed her tired head on her husband's shoulder. The poor little lady felt in her heart of hearts that all of this going to out-of-the-way country places to spend winter months was really absurd, but then it was absurd to be poor anyhow, something she had not bargained for in her scheme of existence. She had said not a word, however, but had let Douglas and that stern Dr. Wright manage everything. She felt about as capable of changing the plans of her family as her youngest child, Bobby, might. Bobby, who had spent the time on the train most advantageously, having made friends with the brakeman and conductor, was now sitting in an alert attitude, as his new friends had informed him that there were only five minutes more before they would reach Grantly, their destination. Going to the country was just what he wanted and he was preparing to have a glorious time with no restrictions as to clean face and hands. To be sure, he had heard that he was to go to school, but since Douglas was to be the teacher this fact was not disturbing him much. The summer in the mountains had done much to develop this darling of the Carters. He no longer looked so much like an angel as when we were first introduced to the family. His curls were close cropped now and he was losing teeth faster than he was gaining them. If there could be such a thing as a snaggled tooth angel perhaps that celestial being would resemble Bobby Carter; but I am sure if that angel could have thought up as much mischief in a week as Bobby could execute in an hour, he would have met the fate of Lucifer and been hurled from Heaven. It may be, though, that if Lucifer had possessed such eyes as this little boy he would have been forgiven and might still be in his happy home. It was an impossibility to harbor wrath against Bobby if once you looked in his eyes. They were like brown forest pools. His sister Nan had the same eyes and the same long curling lashes. The shape and color of their eyes were inherited from their beautiful little mother, but the soulful expression that the children possessed was something that came from within and is not controlled by laws of heredity. Mrs. Carter's eyes if they reminded one of forest pools were certainly very shallow pools. "At last!" as the brakeman called out their station, came with a sigh of relief from the whole family. The station consisted of a platform and a little three-sided shed designed to shield the traveler from the weather, if the weather did not happen to arrive on the unprotected fourth side. "They promised to meet us," said Douglas as she collected parcels and umbrellas, "but I don't see a sign of them." "Maybe they are on the other side," suggested the hopeful Nan, peering through the window. They weren't, however, nor anywhere in sight. Douglas and Helen looked at each other askance. The two older girls were the only ones in the family who had seen their future abode and they felt very responsible. This hitch of not being met was most disconcerting. They had felt if everything went off smoothly and well their choice of a home would be smiled upon. First, the day they moved must be good, and this day in October was surely perfect. The packing must be done without bustle and confusion, and that had been accomplished. They must have a good luncheon before leaving Richmond, and Miss Elizabeth Somerville, who had invited them to her house, had feasted her cousins most royally, sending them forth with well-nourished bodies and peaceful minds in consequence. This was the first obstacle to their carefully laid plans. They were to learn that no plan depending in any particular on the coöperation of their landladies, the Misses Grant, would go through safely. Miss Ella and Miss Louise Grant were joint owners of the small farm that the glib real estate agent had persuaded Dr. Wright and our girls was the one and only place in which the winter could be comfortably spent. "Excellent air and water; close to schools and churches; neighborhood as good as to be found in Virginia, and what more could be said? House one of the old landmarks of the county; the view from the front porch quite a famous one; R. F. D. at yard gate; commuting distance from Richmond; roads excellent, as we have found on our way here." They had motored out and certainly the roads had seemed very good. The Misses Grant were all that was left of a large and at one time influential family. They lived in a great old mansion erected in the middle of what was at one time a vast estate but which had gradually shrunk through generations of mortgages until now it comprised about two thousand acres. The name of this old place was Grantly. The farm that Helen and Douglas had rented for the year was only called a farm by courtesy, as it had in its holding only about ten acres. It had at one time been the home of the overseer of Grantly when that aristocratic estate could boast an overseer. It was too humble an abode to have a name of its own, but our girls were determined to give it a name when they found out what would suit it. Now they stood on the platform of the tiny station and said in their hearts that such a place, belonging to such unreliable persons, deserved no name at all. "Oh, I'm so sorry they haven't sent to meet us. They told me if I would write to them they would have a carriage and a farm wagon here," wailed Douglas. "Why not walk?" suggested Mr. Carter. "A quarter of a mile is nothing." "Oh, do let's walk!" exclaimed Lucy. "We can just leave the luggage here and get someone to come back for it." "All of you can walk," came faintly from Mrs. Carter. "Just leave me here alone. I don't fancy anything much will happen to me." "But Mumsy, only a quarter of a mile!" begged Lucy. "Why, my child, I never expect to walk more than a few blocks again as long as I live." Mr. Carter looked pained and ended by staying with his wife while the four girls and Bobby trooped off to find someone to send for them. "Why does Mother say she never expects to walk more than a few blocks again as long as she lives?" blurted out Lucy. "Is she sick? She looks to me like she's getting fat." "Tell her that," suggested Nan, "and I bet you she will find she can walk a teensy little more than a few blocks." CHAPTER II THE LANDLADIES AND A NEW ACQUAINTANCE "This is a long quarter of a mile," said Nan, trying to keep up with her more athletic sisters. "The agent told us a quarter of a mile, but I reckon he meant as the crow flies. He did not allow for all the twistings and turnings of this lane," laughed Helen. "It is a very pretty walk, anyhow, and I'm glad we are not so close to the track because of Bobby," said the philosophic Nan. "Shucks! You needn't be a-thinkin' I can't find my way back to that old station," said that young hopeful. "I wisht it was barefoot time and I would wade in that branch." They were crossing a pretty little stream that intersected the road. Of course Bobby took occasion to slip off the stepping-stones and get his foot wet. "S'long as one is wet I reckon I might as well get th' other one wet, too," and he stepped boldly into the stream. "Sqush! Sqush! Ain't this a grand and glorious feeling?" "Oh, Bobby!" chorused his sisters. "'Tain't gonter make no diffunce! My 'ployer says sech things as this toughen kids." Bobby always called Dr. Wright his employer, as it had been his habit to go with that young physician while he was making his professional calls, his duties being to hold out his arm when they were turning corners or preparing to stop; and to sit in the car and guard his 'ployer's property from the depredations of hoodlums and micks. "I don't think some kids need toughening," said Nan, trying to look severe. "Yes'n I gotter joke on you, too! They was a pretty near grown-up boy on the train wanted to know what yo' name was. I was jawin' the inductor an' the boy comed and plunked hissef down by me an' he axed me what was my name and where I was a-gointer, an' was all'n you my aunts or what. He was so busy a-findin' out he come near a-missing his gettin' off place. He lives jus' befo' our gettin' off place." "Oh, that must have been the good-looking boy sitting opposite us, just behind Mother and Father! You noticed him, Douglas, didn't you?" asked Helen. "Well, he wasn't a-noticin' you much," proceeded the _enfant terrible_. "He wanted mostly to know what was Nan's name an' where she went to school." "Surely you didn't tell him!" blushed Nan. "Sho' nix! I told him yo' name was Lizajane an' you was a-clerkin' in the five an' ten." "Oh, Bobby!" Nobody could help laughing at the saucy youngster, and his sisters were ever inclined to find him amusing and altogether delightful in spite of his outrageousness. Their laughter rang out clear and infectious. First they laughed at Bobby and then they laughed for the pure joy of laughing. Douglas forgot her burdens and responsibilities; Helen forgot how she hated to be poor; Nan forgot that the quarter of a mile she was going to have to trudge twice a day to join the army of commuters was much nearer half a mile and she was not a very energetic girl; Lucy had nothing to forget or regret, being only thirteen with a perfect digestion. For the moment all of them forgot the nerve-worn father and the hypochondriacal mother waiting so forlornly at the station with the luggage piled so hopelessly at one end. In the midst of their gale of laughter they heard the hum of a motor and the toot of a horn. A large touring car came swerving around the curve in the road. "That's him now!" cried the delighted Bobby. It was no other than the boy on the train. He stopped his car and with crimson face began to stammer forth unintelligible words. "Excuse me!--but--that is a--you see I---- Oh, hang it all! er--my name is William--Will--Billy Sutton." "Oh, he's plum nutty an' thinks he's Billy Sunday--Billy Nut Sunday!" and Bobby danced gleefully in his squshy shoes. "Bobby! Behave yourself!" said Douglas, trying to swallow the laugh she was in the midst of. "We was jes' a-talkin' about you," said Bobby, with his most disarming smile. "About me?" and the young fellow choked his engine. "Yes, I was a-tellin'----" But here Helen took her little brother in hand. Helen could usually manage him better than any of the others. She whispered some mysterious something to him which quickly sobered him. "I don't want you to think I am impertinent or interfering, but your little brother told me on the train coming out that your mother and father were both ill----" "Yes, I told him they were likely to die mos' any time." "And I heard at the post-office at Preston, where I live, that you have rented the farm from the Misses Grant; also that those ladies were not expecting you until tomorrow----" "But I wrote we would be there today, Wednesday!" exclaimed Douglas. "That doesn't make a bit of difference to Miss Ella and Miss Louise Grant," laughed the boy. "They never get anything straight because they discuss every subject so thoroughly that they are all mixed up before they get through. Anyhow, they did not meet you, and if you don't think I am pushing or forward or something----" "Butinsky!" suggested Bobby, but Helen slipped her hand over his pert little mouth. "Thank you for that word--butinsky--why, I should like the privilege of going after your mother and father and bringing all the luggage my car will hold." "Oh, you are too kind!" chorused the girls. "Let me take all of you first to the farm." "We must go by Grantly to let the ladies know we are here," suggested Douglas. "They are both of them at the farm. I saw them as I came by." "Did you tell them we had come?" "No! They were sure to let me know it was none of my business, and, as I was fully aware of the fact, I just drove on by, hoping to be of more service to you in this way." The girls and Bobby piled into the car assisted by the boy, who handed them in with pleasing gallantry. By adroit manoeuvering he managed to get Nan in front, although the irrepressible did squeeze in, too. "I must sit in front so I can poke out my arm. Maybe you is huntin' a shover. I'm Dr. Wright's shover in town an' up'n the mountings. He don't mind my having two jobs in off times when he ain't a-needin' me." "Well, then, I'll employ you right now," said Billy Sutton, solemnly. "I think maybe it is in order for us to introduce ourselves," said Douglas. "This is Helen Carter; and this, Nan; and this, Lucy; I am Douglas; and Bobby has already been noticed enough." Hands were shaken and then they started gaily off. "It seems a long quarter of a mile from the station to the farm, but maybe it is because I am lazy," said Nan, who was unfeignedly glad of a lift. "Who said it was only a quarter of a mile? It is exactly three quarters." Two minutes brought them to the farm gate, where Billy deposited the occupants of the back seat. It was decided that Nan and Bobby were to go on to the station with their new friend and benefactor and explain him to Mr. and Mrs. Carter. "Oh, Douglas, isn't the place sweet? Lucy, don't you like it?" asked Helen as they opened the big gate that led from the road into the lawn of their new abode. "Great! It looks so romantical." "I was so afraid it wasn't going to be as nice as we thought it was because the real estate agent was so glib and rattled on so he confused us. I was afraid he had hypnotized us into liking it. But it is lovely," and Douglas breathed a great sigh of relief. Indeed it was lovely; lovelier, I fancy, than the real estate agent dreamed. The lawn was spacious, with soft rolling contours and a few great trees, some of them centuries old. In the front a mighty oak stood guard at one corner and an elm at another. Nearer the house a straight young ash and a willow oak divided the honors. At one side of the quaint old house a great mock orange had established a precedent for mock oranges and grown into a tree, just to show what a mock orange is capable of when not confined to the limitations of a hedge. Its trunk was gnarled and twisted and because of careful pruning of lower branches it had grown like a huge umbrella with limbs curving out from the parent stem and almost touching the ground all around. "What a grand place to play house and tell secrets!" thought Lucy, regretting that thirteen years old, almost fourteen, was too great an age to indulge in dolly tea parties. A grove of gum trees glorified the back yard with their brilliant October foliage. There never was such a red as the gum tree boasts and these huge specimens were one blaze of color. The trunks had taken on a hoary tone that contrasted pleasantly with the warm tints of the leaves. The yard contained about four acres enclosed by a fence that had been covered entirely by honeysuckle, and even then a few blossoms were making the air fragrant. In the back there were several rather tumble-down outhouses, but these, too, were covered with honeysuckle as though by a mantle of charity. The house had been added to from time to time as the race of overseers had felt the need. These additions had been made with no thought of congruity or ornamentation, but since utility had been the ruling thought the outcome was on the whole rather artistic. The original house, built in the first years of the nineteenth century, had a basement dining-room, a large chamber over this and two small, low-ceilinged attic rooms. Later a shed room had been built at one side in the back, then a two-story addition had reared itself next to that with no apparent connection with the main house, not even a family resemblance. This two-storied "lean-to" was known always as "the new house," although it had been in existence some threescore years. There were two rooms and two halls in this addition and it had a front porch all its own. The old house also boasted a front porch, with a floor of unplaned boards and posts of rough cedar. But who minds cedar pillars when Washington's bower has done its best to cover them up? As for unplaned boards with cracks between: what a good place to sweep the dirt! The green blinds were open all over the house and windows were raised. As our girls stood on the lawn drinking in the beauty and peace of the scene they heard loud and angry voices proceeding from the basement window. "Louise Grant, you are certainly foolish! Didn't I tell you they wouldn't be coming down here yesterday? Here you have littered up this place with flowers and they will all be faded by tomorrow. I have told you a million times I read the letter that Douglas Carter wrote and she said distinctly she was coming on Thursday." This in a loud, high, commanding tone as though the speaker was determined to be heard. "You needn't put your hands over your ears! I know you can hear me!" "That's all right, Ella Grant," came in full contralto notes; "just because they didn't come yesterday is no sign they did not say they were coming that day. I read the note, too, and if you hadn't have been so quick to burn it I guess I could prove it. Those flowers are not doing anybody any harm and I know one thing--they smell a sight better than that old carbolic you are so fond of sprinkling around." "I thought I heard the three train stop at the crossing," broke in the high, hard voice. "No such thing! I noticed particularly." "Nonsense! You were so busy watching that Sutton boy racing by in his car that you didn't even know it was train time. What John Sutton means by letting that boy drive that car I can't see. He isn't more than fourteen----" "Fourteen! Ella Grant, you have lost your senses! He is twenty, if he is a day. I remember perfectly well that he was born during the Spanish war." "Certainly! That was just fourteen years ago." The girls couldn't help laughing. It happened that it was eighteen years since the Spanish war, as our history scholar, Lucy, had just learned. That seemed to be the way the sisters hit the mark: one shooting far in front, one far behind. "We had better knock," whispered Helen, "or they will begin to break up the china soon." She accordingly beat a rat-tat on the open front door of the old house. "Someone is knocking!" exclaimed the contralto. "Not at all! It's a woodpecker," put in the treble. One more application of Helen's knuckles and treble was convinced. "That time it was a knock," she conceded. There was a hurrying and scurrying, a sound of altercation on the stairs leading from the basement to the front hall. "Why do you try to go first? You know perfectly well I can go faster than you can, and here you have started up the steps and I can't get by. You fat----" "If you can go so much faster, why didn't you start up the steps first?" panted the contralto. "Don't talk or you'll never get up the steps! Save your wind for climbing." The bulky form of Miss Louise hove in sight and over her shoulder the girls could see the stern countenance of her long, slim sister. How could two such different looking persons be born of one mother? Miss Louise was all breadth and no height; Miss Ella, all height and no breadth. Miss Louise was dark of complexion, with coal-black hair streaked with grey; Miss Ella was a strawberry blonde with sandy hair streaked with grey. Age that brought the grey hair seemed about the only thing they had in common, except, of course, the estate of Grantly. That had been willed to them by their father with a grim humor, as he must have been well aware of their idiosyncrasies. They were to hold the property together with no division, the one who survived to inherit the whole. "Well!" said Miss Ella over the shoulder of her sister, who refused to give her right of way but who was silenced for the moment by shortness of breath. "Why did you come today when you wrote you were coming to-morrow?" "I did not write I was coming tomorrow," said Douglas, smiling in spite of herself. "There! What did I tell you?" panted Miss Louise. "You said Tuesday, didn't you, honey?" with ingratiating sweetness. "No, Miss Grant, I said Wednesday." The incident was closed. The wrangling sisters had no more to say on the subject except to apologize for not having them met. It was explained that Billy Sutton had gone to get Mr. and Mrs. Carter, but the trunks must be sent for. Quite humbly Miss Ella went to get her farmhand to hitch up the mules to drive to the station, while Miss Louise showed the girls over the house. Everything was in beautiful order and shining with cleanliness. The white pine floors were scrubbed until they reminded the girls of biscuit boards, and very lovely did the bright rag rugs look on these floors. The furniture was very plain with the exception of an occasional bit of fine old mahogany. A beautiful old highboy was not too proud to stay in the same room with a cheap oak dresser, and in the basement dining-room a handsome mahogany table democratically mingled with split-bottom chairs. Miss Louise had put flowers everywhere for their reception the day before and the whole house was redolent of late roses and mignonette and citronella. An occasional whiff of carbolic acid and chloride of lime gave evidence of the indomitable practicality of Miss Ella. Miss Louise proved very sweet and kindly when not in her sister's presence and later on the girls found Miss Ella to be really very agreeable. Both ladies seemed to be bent on showing kindness and consideration to their tenants to make up for the mistake about their day of arrival. Mr. and Mrs. Carter could not help thinking that the place their daughters had chosen for them to spend the winter was pretty. As they rolled up in Billy's car the quaint house and beautiful lawn certainly presented a most pleasing aspect, and their handsome daughters were an added loveliness to the landscape as they hurried to meet their parents. "Ah, this is great!" exclaimed Mr. Carter, taking a deep breath of the pure fresh air. "I think I shall have to have a cow and some pigs and do some fall plowing besides. Eh, Helen? You and I are to be the stay-at-homes. What do you think?" "I think what you think, Daddy," answered Helen, smiling happily over her father's show of enthusiasm. Dr. Wright had told her that with returning healthy nerves would come the enthusiasm that before his illness had seemed to be part of Robert Carter's make-up. "How do you like it, Mumsy?" asked Douglas as she drew her arm through her mother's. "Very nice, I am sure, but I think it would be wiser for me to go to bed now. I am not very strong and if I can give up before I drop it would be less trouble for my family," and Mrs. Carter took on a most plaintive accent. "A little tea and toast will be all I want for my supper." "Oh now, it will be too bad for you to go to bed," said Miss Ella. "We were planning to have all of you come up to Grantly for supper." She and Miss Louise seemed to have agreed for once on the propriety of having their tenants to supper. "The count is coming," said Miss Louise, with a sentimental note in her full voice. "The count! Who is the count?" asked Mrs. Carter with some show of animation and interest. "He is a nobleman who has settled in our neighborhood," said Miss Ella in a matter-of-fact tone, as though noblemen were the rule rather than the exception in her life. "Maybe it would be possible for me to take a short rest and come to Grantly," said Mrs. Carter, with a quickening in her pretty eyes. At mention of the count, Billy Sutton pretended to be much occupied with his engine, but Nan noticed a slight curl on his lip as he bent over the wheel. CHAPTER III THE COUNT "Isn't it fine not to have to bother about supper?" said Helen, as she and Douglas were attempting to get some order out of the chaos of trunks that had been brought from the station and systematically put in the wrong place by the good-natured, shambling, inefficient darky who served as factotum to the Misses Grant. Helen and Douglas had decided to take one attic room in the old house for their bedroom; Bobby was to have the other; the large chamber below them was to serve as family sitting-room; Nan and Lucy were to have the upstairs room in the new house; Mr. and Mrs. Carter the lower room; the shed room was to serve as guest chamber when needed; the dining-room was in the basement. Over the outside kitchen was another extremely low attic room that was to be the servant's bedroom, when they got her. This room was accessible from the kitchen by a flight of primitive chicken steps, that is, accessible to the young and agile. The two servants the Carters had had at the week-end camp had been eager to come with them to the country, but Douglas and Helen had decided that they were expensive luxuries, and as much as they hated to part with them, had determined to have a country girl, accustomed to less wages than Susan, and to do without a manservant in place of the faithful, if high-priced, Oscar. Dr. Wright had insisted that some chores were indispensable for Mr. Carter, such as chopping wood, carrying water, etc., and that gentleman was eager to assist wherever he could. "Surely you are not going to dress up to go out to supper this evening," said Douglas, as Helen shook out a pretty little old-rose dinner gown, a leftover from the time when the Carters purchased clothes for every occasion and for every passing style and season. "I am going to dress suitably, but I don't call it dressing up," said Helen, hunting for the stockings to match the gown. "I think Father is well enough for me to wear silk stockings this evening," she said a little wistfully. We all remember that in the first throes of agony over her father's nervous breakdown Helen had taken an oath not to wear silk stockings until he was well. "What do you think, Douglas?" "Of course, you goose, just so you don't have to buy the stockings," laughed Douglas. "I am going to wear what I have on, I can tell you that. There is a lot to do to get the beds made up and the house ready to sleep in, and I have no idea of unpacking my own trunk until tomorrow," and Douglas unlocked the trunk that held the bed linen. "Oh, Douglas, please put on your grey crêpe de chine! I'll get it out for you and find your stockings and everything," begged Helen. "I don't think it is very respectful to our hostesses for you not to be suitably dressed." "Is it altogether our hostesses you are thinking about?" teased Douglas. "Whom else should I consider?" "How about the count?" "Well, naturally I can't help thinking some about a nobleman," declared Helen frankly. "Do you fancy he is young or old, rich or poor, handsome or ugly? I am wild to see him." "I can't imagine. They didn't even say what he was a count of. I hope he is not German. I must say I'd hate to put on my best dress for a German count," laughed Douglas. "Why, Douglas, I wouldn't be so biased as all that. As long as our country is neutral, I don't think it is fair for us to take such a stand. I'd rather dress up for a German count than--than--a Russian anarchist or maybe an Australian Bushman." "Well, I am not pining to dress up for anybody, but if I must, I must. How about Mumsy?" "She has already got out her black lace and is going to wear her pearls. She is trying to persuade Father into his tuxedo but I fancy he will rebel." "Mercy on us! I thought we would never have to dress in this out-of-the-way spot," sighed Douglas. "Well, I for one am glad to have a chance to dress. It seems to me we have been khakied to death all summer, and I believe people deteriorate when they stay in the same old clothes year in and year out. I could wish my old-rose had another width in it. Skirts are much broader this fall. The sleeves are quite right, though,--sleeves haven't changed much." Poor Helen! It was a keen misery to her not to be in the latest style. She had a natural taste for dress and the tendency to overrate the importance of clothes had been fostered in her by her frivolous mother. Douglas, on the other hand, had a tendency to underrate the value of dress and her inclination was to be rather careless of her attire. After much scrabbling and stirring up of trunks the whole family was dressed in what Mrs. Carter and Helen considered suitable garments, with the exception of Mr. Carter, who could not be coerced into a dinner coat. "I can't think that a quiet supper in the country with two old ladies who are renting us the overseer's cottage could possibly call for formal dressing. Of course, you women know best what you want to wear, and very handsome all of you look I am sure, but you must excuse me." "That's what I say!" exclaimed Bobby, putting his hands in his pockets and trying to balance himself with his feet very far apart. "Me'n Father certainly do nachelly hate clean clothes. When I gits to be growed up, I'm gonter be a barefoot tramp an' ain't never gonter wash nor nothin'." Bobby was still smarting and indignant from the polishing Helen had seemed to think the occasion demanded, especially concentrating on his long-suffering ears. "Sometimes I wisht I hadn't never had my curls cut off. Folks weren't near so 'ticular 'bout my yers when I had curls. They kinder hid 'em." "But, Bobby, when you are going to have supper with a count you must be very carefully dressed," explained Lucy. "Counts are not just common persons like us." "I thank you I'm no common person," drawled Nan. "I'm a good American and fit to dine with any count living. That's the way Douglas and I feel. We wouldn't have changed our dresses if Mother and Helen hadn't made such a point of it." "Good for you, Nan!" and her father put his arm around her. "Of course you must dress as your mother sees fit, but don't, for goodness' sake, think a man, because he is a count or even a king, must be treated differently from any other gentleman of your acquaintance." They were on their way to Grantly, only about five minutes' walk from the farmhouse. The sun had set in a blaze of glory but already the great October moon was doing her best to take his place. There was a hint of frost in the air and our Carters were bringing their appetites with them to grace the board of their hospitable landladies. "I do hope Miss Ella and Miss Louise won't quarrel all the time," whispered Helen as they approached the imposing mansion. "They remind me of the blue and white seidlitz powders," said Douglas: "bound to sizzle when you mix 'em. They are so mild and gentle when they are apart and the minute they get together--whiz!" Mrs. Carter cast a triumphant glance at her husband as they entered the parlor at Grantly. The Misses Grant were dressed in rustling black silk with old lace berthas and cuffs, and the gentleman who sprang to his feet, bringing his heels together with a click as he bowed low, was attired in a faultlessly fitting dress suit. Helen's questions were answered by one glance at this distinguished stranger; certainly he was young and handsome; the chances were that he was also not poor. That cut of dress suit did not go with poverty, nor did the exquisite fineness of his linen. Douglas's question of his nationality remained to be solved. "Count de Lestis" did not give the girls a clue to the country from which this interesting person hailed. "He does not look German," Douglas said to herself. "He is too dark and too graceful." She breathed a sigh of relief that her grey crêpe de chine had not been donned in honor of a German, count or no count. When she saw that the Misses Grant evidently considered their suppers worthy to be dressed up for, she was glad she had listened to the dictates of Helen. That young lady was looking especially charming in the old-rose gown, in spite of the fact that the skirt did not flare quite enough. Helen had a way of wearing her clothes and of arranging her hair that many a dame at Palm Beach or Newport would have given her fortune to possess. Mrs. Carter always was at her best in a parlor and now her beauty shone resplendent, framed in black lace and pearls. Her gracious manner and bearing marked her as one whose natural place was in society. Her gift was social and it did seem a great waste that such a talent should have to be buried under the bushel of an overseer's cottage in an out-of-the-way spot in the country, with a once prosperous husband to do the chores and a maid-of-all-work, chosen because of her cheapness and not her worth. The Misses Grant smiled their approval over the appearance of their guests. The fact that they were two quarrelsome old sisters farming on a dwindling estate did not lessen their importance in their own eyes, and they always felt that the dignity of Grantly demanded ceremonial dressing for the evening meal. The sisters showed no marks of having toiled through the entire afternoon to prepare the feast that they were to set before their guests. Disagreeing as they did on every subject, food was not exempt. If Miss Ella decided to make an angel's food cake, Miss Louise must make a devil's food cake; if one thought the whites of eggs left from the frozen custard would be well to use in a silver cake, the other simultaneously determined to have apple float, requiring whites of eggs, and then the yolks must be converted into golden cake. The consequence was that their supper table groaned with opposing dishes. Each one pressed upon the guests her own specialty, and if it so happened that Miss Ella had to serve some dish of Miss Louise's concocting, she would do it with a deprecating air as though she were helping you to cold poison; and if Miss Louise perforce must hand you one of Miss Ella's muffins, she would shake her head mysteriously as though to warn you against them. One thing was apparent from the beginning and that was that the count was a good mixer. His English was perfect, except for an occasional suggestion of an interchange of b and p, and also a too great stress on his s. He was a brilliant conversationalist but had the wit not to be a monologueist. He had done much traveling for a man under thirty and had lived in so many places that it made him a real citizen of the world. Evidently he had the Misses Grant charmed. From the moment that he bought Weston, a fine old estate in the neighborhood, and came into their county to settle, the old ladies had taken him to their hearts. They seemed in danger of agreeing on the subject of this fascinating young man's charms. However, they found something to quarrel about even in this stranger: Miss Ella thought his mouth was his best feature, while Miss Louise insisted that his eyes were. Of course the Carters were one and all dying to know more about him: Who was he? What was his nationality? Why had he settled in America? Where were his people? Did he have a family? He seemed to be equally curious about them. Why should city people of such breeding and beauty come and live in a little tumbledown shack in the country? He had merely been told by the Misses Grant that the tenants who had just moved into the little farmhouse were to have supper with them, when these visions of loveliness burst upon him. He couldn't decide which one of the sisters was the most attractive. Douglas was the most beautiful with her titian hair and clear complexion, not ruined by the summer out-of-doors as her mother had feared. But Helen--there was a piquancy about Helen that was certainly very fetching; her brown hair was so beautifully arranged at exactly the right and becoming angle; her little head was so gracefully set on her athletic shoulders; her bearing was so gallant;--certainly Helen was very attractive. Then there was Nan with her soft loveliness, her great eyes now shining with excitement and now dreaming some entrancing dream. She was only sixteen but there was something about her countenance that gave promise of great cleverness. Lucy was growing more like Helen and much of Helen's charm was hers, although the child had strong characteristics all her own. While Count de Lestis was deciding which one of the sisters was most attractive, he did the extremely tactful and suitable thing of addressing his remarks to their mother, not forgetting to give the hostesses a full share of attention. Mr. Carter, who since his illness had been inclined to be very quiet, was drawn into the conversation and held his own with his old time power. Little wonder that his daughters were grateful to this interesting stranger who had this effect on their beloved father. The young man told them he was Hungarian and had bought the estate of Weston with a view to entering into intensive farming. "Then you are not Prussian!" exclaimed Douglas. "Oh, I am so glad!" "Ah!" and his handsome eyes flashed for a moment. Then he looked amused. "And why are you so glad?" "Why, of course anyone would be glad," and Douglas blushed. "Who would want to have a Prussian for a neighbor?" "Do you dislike them so much then?" "I hate them!" "And you, too?" turning to Helen. "I am trying to remain neutral as our president has asked us to. I don't feel so terribly Anglo-Saxon as my sister." Of course this started the question of the war, which was in the minds of everybody. Count de Lestis rather surprised Mr. Carter by his frank announcement concerning his connection with Berlin. "I, no doubt, would be fighting with the Central Powers if I had not committed political suicide four years ago." "And how was that?" "I wrote a book in which I made a plea for a democratization of Austria-Hungary. In it I intimated that the Hohenzollerns had no right to dictate to the universe. I was requested to leave the country. I was then living in Vienna, making short trips to my estate, which lies partly in Austria and partly in Hungary. Now there is danger of my entire possessions being confiscated." "Oh, but when Germany is finally whipped you can come into your own again," asserted Douglas. "The outcome is merely a matter of time." "And so Germany is to be whipped?" his eyes flashing again. "Of course," said Douglas simply. "And why of course?" "'Because God's in his Heaven,'" whispered Nan, but the count heard her. "Yes, but whose God?" "The God of Justice and of Right." "How about the God of Might?" "There is no such God," and this time Douglas's eyes did some flashing. "I believe the United States will intervene before so very long," said Mr. Carter as he and the count strolled out on the veranda to enjoy their cigars. The older man was enjoying his talk with this young foreigner. He looked forward with pleasure to seeing much of him, since Weston was only about three miles from the farm. They made plans to do some shooting together, as the open season was only a week off. When de Lestis learned that Mr. Carter was an architect he asked him to visit him at his earliest convenience at Weston to advise with him concerning the restoration of the old house to its original grandeur. "I'm not supposed to be doing any work for at least a year," sighed Mr. Carter, "but I might look it over and tell you what I think and then recommend a suitable architect to take it in hand." Douglas and Helen had a talk with Miss Louise on the subject of a country girl to come to them as maid of all work. "They are all of them thoroughly trifling," declared that lady in her soft round voice, "but this creature we have has a sister who could come to you. I beg of you not to give her any more wages than ours receives, as in that case we should have to go up." "Certainly not," said Douglas. "Just tell us what that is." But on learning that it was only seven dollars a month, the girls felt that it was no wonder the creatures were thoroughly trifling. "Did she cook this wonderful supper?" asked Helen. "No, indeed! Ella and I always cook everything we eat and this Tempy washes the dishes and cleans." "But we want someone to cook. Do you think I might train the sister?" "Well, I have heard you can train monkeys but I have never seen it done," laughed the fat old lady. "Come with me now and we can speak to Tempy about her sister Chloe." They found Tempy in the pantry, peacefully sleeping in the midst of the unwashed dishes. Not in the least abashed at being caught napping, she waked up and told Helen that no doubt Chloe would be pleased fur ter come. She promised to fetch her on the morrow. "I will pay her just what the Misses Grant pay you," said Helen. "Lawsamussy, missy, she ain't wuth what I is. She ain't nebber wucked out ter say much. I done started at six and wucked up ter seben, an' if Chloe gits now what I gits, she'll be too proudified. You jis' start her at six same as Miss Ellanlouise done me." CHAPTER IV GRANTLY Since our girls were to become quite intimate with the peculiar old sisters and their home, perhaps it would be just as well for me to give my readers some idea of what Grantly was like. The first thing that struck a visitor was the wonderful box bushes in the hedge enclosing the yard and in a labyrinth in the garden. These bushes were so thick that one could really walk on the tops of them if they were kept clipped, which they were not. In the labyrinth the bushes met overhead and even after a heavy rain the paths between were perfectly dry. It took days of soaking rain to make those winding paths wet. Beyond the labyrinth was an old-fashioned garden, but now in October chrysanthemums and late roses and cosmos were all that was left of the riot of color that could be seen there during the spring and summer. The house was of a very peculiar architectural design: a long, low body with a tower at each end. In each tower was a square room with many windows overlooking the country for miles around. Miss Ella claimed one of these rooms as her own especial property; Miss Louise the other. To approach Miss Ella's sanctum sanctorum it was necessary to climb a narrow spiral stairway; Miss Louise's was more accessible by reason of a broad stairway of many landings, but the ceilings at the landings were so low that anyone of ordinary stature must stoop to ascend. These rooms were used only as sitting-rooms by the erratic sisters as, strange to say, the two old ladies slept in the same room and in the same great four-posted tester bed. There were many other bedrooms in the mansion, but they both preferred the great chamber leading from the parlor, and there they slept and no doubt quarreled in their sleep. "This is my sitting-room up here," said Miss Ella as she showed her guests over the quaint old house. "You may come up if you like. I had the steps made this way so Louise can't get up here and worry my soul out of me with her eternal chatter. She's too fat for the spiral stairway. Elephant!" "Yes, and my sitting-room is in the other tower, and thank goodness, Ella would find it a back-breaking job to get up my steps," retaliated Miss Louise. "Giraffe!" Those strange old ladies had actually had the original steps to the towers changed to suit their particular grouches! They really spent very little time in their tower fastnesses, however, as they were much happier when together and quarreling. A tale was told in the neighborhood that once Miss Ella had neglected or forgotten to contradict Miss Louise on some vital subject such as whether it was or was not going to rain, and Miss Louise was so uneasy that she sent post haste for Dr. Allison. "I was afraid it was a stroke or something," whimpered Miss Louise. She worried herself into a sick headache before the doctor arrived, and then the fat one had to go to bed and take the medicine and Miss Ella was forced to repent of her misbehavior by nursing her sister. Dr. Allison left strict injunctions that she was not to worry her poor sister again by agreeing with her. Grantly was filled with fine old furniture and all kinds of curios. A great-uncle had been a traveler in the Orient and many were the teakwood cabinets and jade ornaments; curious Japanese prints; Chinese embroidered fans and screens; bronze Buddhas; rare vases with inlaid flowers and birds; Toby jugs and lacquered teapots; quaint armor, swords and daggers; everything in fact that might be found in an old house that a traveler had once called home. "Does Tempy dust all these beautiful things?" asked Mrs. Carter, who was quite carried away by the wonders in her landladies' home. "Bless you, no! She doesn't dare to touch a one of them," laughed Miss Louise. "Ella dusts the high ones, I dust the low." She said it quite with the air of the song: "You take the high road, I'll take the low." With all of its beauties, Grantly was undergoing a process of slow decay. Lack of paint and neglected leaks were getting in their insidious work. There never seemed to be money enough for the owners to afford the needed repairs, and if there ever was any money at all, they could never come to an agreement on which repairs were the most urgent. The overseer's house was suffering in the same way. A kind of dry rot had attacked portions of it. Weather-boarding was so loose in places that Bobby could pull it off. Steps groaned and floors creaked; shutters had lost fastenings; putty had dropped from the window panes, which were insecurely held in place with tacks; mop-boarding and floors had parted company many years before. All of these little details had escaped the inexperienced eyes of Douglas and Helen when they decided that this was the place of all others to spend the winter. Dr. Wright, who had accompanied them, had been more noticing, but had wisely decided to say nothing, as he wanted his patient to become interested in tinkering at small jobs, and he could see that this little farm would keep Mr. Carter busy. The ladies of Grantly had promised to have everything in order before the tenants should arrive, but disagreeing on which workman they should employ, the time had slipped by and nothing had been done. The pump to the well had lost its sucker and had to be primed before water could be got. This meant that the person who pumped must remember to fill a can of water and leave it for the next pumper. The yard gate shut with difficulty and opened with more. The stovepipe in the kitchen had a large hole in one side and if the wind shifted, so did the smoke, seeking an outlet through the nearest aperture. All of these disagreeable features dawned gradually on our girls. They saw nothing to be complained of in those rare October days. Accustomed as they had become to camp life, they made light of any inconveniences. Their father was happy and getting better every day, so any small hardships that might fall to their share were to be lightly borne. CHAPTER V. VALHALLA That was the name Nan gave to the little winter home. "Valhalla is the place where the dead warriors go, and that is what we all of us are after the day's work is done." Commuting at first was very tiring for both Nan and Lucy. Catching trains was hard on their nerves and the trip seemed interminable, but in a few weeks they fell into the attitude of mind of all commuters and just accepted it as part of the daily routine. It became no more irksome than doing one's hair or brushing one's teeth. The girls made many friends on the train and before the winter was over really enjoyed the time spent going to and from school. Billy Sutton was Nan's devoted cavalier. He managed, if possible, to sit by her and together they would study. He helped her with her mathematics, and she, quick at languages, would correct his French exercises. Those were sad mornings for Billy when the seat by Nan was taken before they reached Preston. He cursed his luck that Preston should not have been beyond Grantly instead of a station nearer to town. Coming home he always saw to it that no "fresh kid" got ahead of him in the choice of seats. He would get to the station ahead of time and watch with eagle eye for Nan's sedate little figure; then he would pounce on her like a veritable eagle and possess himself of her books and parcels. Thereafter no power could have separated him from her short of the brakeman who cruelly called out: "P-errr-reston!" Billy's younger sister Mag was of great assistance to her big brother in his manoeuvres. She struck up a warm friendship with Lucy, and since the two younger girls were together, what more natural than that he and Nan should be the same? "How would you like me to run you over to see Lucy for a while this afternoon?" he would ask in the lordly and nonchalant manner of big brothers, and Mag would be duly grateful, all the time laughing in her sleeve, as is the way with small sisters. The only person who ever got ahead of Billy on the homeward voyage was Count de Lestis. That man of the world with lordly condescension permitted Billy to carry all the books and parcels and then quietly appropriated the seat by Nan. That was hard enough, but what was harder was to see how Nan dimpled under the compliments the count paid her, and how gaily she laughed at his wit, and how easily she held her own in the very interesting conversation into which they plunged. Billy, boiling and raging, could not help catching bits of it. Actually Nan was quoting poetry to the handsome foreigner. With wonder her schoolboy friend heard her telling the count of how she had gone up in an aeroplane the preceding summer and what her sensations were. She had never told him all these things. "And why is it you like so much to fly?" the count asked. "Is it merely the physical sensation?" "Oh no, there is something else. I'll tell you a little bit of poetry I learned the other day from a magazine. That is the way I feel, somehow: "'Well, good-by! We're going! Where? Why there is no knowing Where! We've grown tired, we don't know why, Of our section of the sky, Of our little patch of air, And we're going, going! Where? "'Who would ever stop to care?-- Far off land or farther sea Where our feet again are free, We shall fare all unafraid Where no trail or furrow's made-- Where there's room enough, room enough, room enough for laughter! And we'll find our Land o' Dreaming at a long day's close, We'll find our Land o' Dreaming--perhaps, who knows? To-morrow--or the next day--or maybe the day after! "'So good-by! We're going! Why? O, there is no knowing Why! Something's singing in our veins, Something that no book explains. There's no magic in your air! And we're going, going! Where? "'Where there's magic and to spare! So we break our chains and go. Life? What is it but to know Southern cross and Pleiades, Sunny lands and windy seas; Where there's time enough, time enough, time enough for laughter! We'll find our Land o' Dreaming, so away! Away! We'll find our Land o' Dreaming--or at least we may-- Tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe the day after!'" Nan Carter was a very charming girl at any time, but Nan Carter reciting poetry was irresistible. So the count found her. Her eyes looked more like forest pools than ever and the trembling Billy was very much afraid the handsome nobleman was going to fall into said pools. He gritted his teeth with the determination to be on the spot ready to pull him out by his aristocratic and well-shod heels if he should take such a tumble. "Ah, you have the wanderlust, too! I'd like to go with you to your Land o' Dreaming." Fortunately Billy did not hear this remark, as the brakeman opened the door at this juncture and shouted the name of a station. For once Billy was glad when the brakeman finally called: "P-err-reston!" If he had to get out, so had the hated count. He never had taken as much of a fancy to de Lestis as the other members of the neighborhood had, anyhow, and now he knew why he had never liked him. "He is a selfish, arrogant foreigner," he raged on in his boyish way. "He might have let me sit with Nan part of the way, anyhow." Nan went home quite pleased with the interesting conversation she had had on the train. The count was rapidly becoming a warm friend of the family. Everybody liked him but Lucy, and she had no especial reason for disliking him. "He's got no time for me and I guess that's the reason," she said when questioned. "Mag doesn't cotton to him much, either." "Well, I should think you would be glad for Father to have somebody to talk to," said Helen. "You and Mag are too young to have much in common with a grown-up gentleman." "Pooh, Miss Grandmother! I'm most as old as Nan and he cottons to her for fair. I know why he doesn't think much of Mag and me--it is because he knows we know he is nothing but a Dutchman." "Dutchman! Nonsense! Dutchmen proper come from Holland and Count de Lestis is a Hungarian." "Well, he can talk Dutch like a Prussian, anyhow. You oughter hear him jabbering with that German family that live over near Preston. He brings old Mr. Blitz newspapers all the time and they laugh and laugh over jokes in them; at least, they must be jokes to make them laugh so." "Of course the count speaks German. He speaks a great many languages," declared Helen with the dignified air that she thought necessary to assume when she and Lucy got in a discussion. "Well, what's the reason he ain't fighting for his country? Tell me that! Mag says that Billy says that if his country was at war you wouldn't catch him buying farms in strange countries, like this de Lestis. He says he'd be in the fight, if he couldn't do anything but beat a drum." "But you see he is not in sympathy with the cause, child. All of the Austrians and Hungarians are not on the Kaiser's side. A whole lot of them believe in a more democratic form of government than Emperor William wants. The count explained all that to Father. He says he could not conscientiously fight with Prussia against democracy." "All that sounds mighty fine but I like men that fight," and Lucy tossed her head. "Me and Mag both like men that fight." "Mag and I," admonished Helen. The gentleman in question had just been off on a business trip. He had much business in New York and Washington and sometimes made flying visits to Chicago. He was interested in a land agency and was hoping to import some Hungarian and Serbian families to the United States. He had bought up quite a tract of land in Virginia, making cash payments that showed he had unlimited means. "They make excellent servants," he told the Misses Grant, "far superior to your negroes. The Serbs are especially fine farmers. It is really a nation of yeomen. They could make the barren tracts of Virginia blossom like the rose." "Well, bring them over then." The sisters almost agreed about this but they had a diverging point in that Miss Ella thought she would rather have a family of Hungarians, since that was the count's nationality; while Miss Louise fancied some Serbs, because they were at least fighting on the side of the Allies. But to return to "Valhalla." Douglas did not at all approve of the name Nan had given the little home. "I am not a dead warrior when the day is over nor do I mean to be one ever," she declared. She started in on her winter of teaching with all the energy and vim of the proverbial new broom. She gloried in the fact that she was able to turn her education to some account; and while the remuneration of a country school teacher is certainly not munificent, it helped a great deal towards the family expenses. The rent from the Carters' pretty home in Richmond was all they had to live on now, except for a small sum in bank left over from the camp earnings. It would be possible to manage if no clothes had to be bought, and one and all promised to do with last year's suits. Only a born teacher could make a real success of a country school where thirty children must be taught in all grades up to high-school standing. It took infinite patience, boundless good humor, and a systematic saving of time, together with a keen sense of fun to get Douglas over each day. She found the school in a state of insurrection, due to having proved too much for the first teacher, who had found urgent business elsewhere, and then for a series of substitutes until the present incumbent, Miss Douglas Carter, was installed. She made a little speech the first morning, telling the pupils quite frankly that this was her first year of teaching but that it was not going to be her last; that she was determined to make good and she asked their help; that she was willing to give them all she had in the way of knowledge and strength but that they must meet her half-way and do their best. She gave them to understand from the very first that she intended to have good order and that obedience was to be the first lesson taught. Most of the children fell into her plans with enthusiasm. Of course there were the reactionaries who had to be dealt with summarily. Bobby was one of them. He was very difficult to manage in school. Never having been under the least restraint before in all of his seven years, it was hard on him to have to sit still and pretend to study, and he made it harder on Douglas. The faction opposed to government in any form egged him on. They laughed at his impertinent remarks to the teacher and bribed him to do and say many outrageous things. Poor Douglas was tempted to confess herself beaten as far as her little brother was concerned and give up trying to teach him. He was rather young for school, she almost fooled herself into believing; but there was a sturdiness and determination in Douglas Carter's make-up that would not let her succumb to difficulties. "I will succeed! He shall learn! My pupils must respect me, and if I can't make my own little brother obey me, how can I expect to control the rest of them?" She asked herself what she would do with any other pupil, not her brother, who gave her so much trouble. "Write a note to his mother or father, of course," she answered. "But I can't bear to bother Father, and Mother would blame me and no doubt pet Bobby. I'll write a note to Dr. Wright and his disapproval will hurt Bobby more than anything that could happen." And so she wrote the following letter to Bobby's employer: _Preston, Va., R. F. D. Route 1. November 1, 1916._ DEAR DR. WRIGHT: I am sorry to inform you that your chauffeur, Robert Carter, Jr., is misbehaving at school in such a way that his teacher is afraid he will have to be expelled. She has done everything in her power to make him be more considerate but he is very, very naughty and tries to worry his teacher all the time. Very sincerely, DOUGLAS CARTER. Dr. Wright telephoned that he would be down to see them on Saturday after receiving Douglas's note; but the message was sent via Grantly, as the Carters had no telephone, and Miss Ella and Miss Louise could not agree just what his name was or when he said he was coming. So the matter was lost sight of in the wrangle that ensued and the word was not delivered until too late. CHAPTER VI CHLOE To Helen had fallen the most difficult and trying part of the program: training a cheap, country servant to the ways of civilization. Many times did she think of Miss Louise's trained monkey as she labored with Chloe, with whom she had to start all over every day. A seven o'clock breakfast must be ready for Nan and Lucy, and the one morning that she left it to Chloe the girls had to go off with nothing more comforting on their little insides than cold bread and milk. That was when the new maid had first arrived and Helen had not sounded the depths of her incompetence and ignorance. "What would you have done in your own home if you had had to have an early breakfast for someone?" asked Helen, curious to know if the girl knew how to do anything. "I'd 'a' done what I done this mornin': let 'um fill up on what col' victuals they was lef' on de she'f." Helen endeavored to introduce Chloe to the mysteries of the fireless cooker, which they had brought with them from camp, but the girl seemed to think there was some kind of magic in a thing that cooked without fire and would none of it. "I ain't a-goin' ter tetch no sich hoodoo doin's as dat 'ere box," she asserted. "It mus' hab a kinder debble in it ter keep it hot 'thout a piece er dry wood or nothin'." Helen was lifting out the pot full of steaming oatmeal that she had put in the cooker the night before, determined that her sisters should not have to go off again with such cold comfort. "All right, you keep up the wood fire and I'll attend to the fireless cooker," laughed Helen. "What makes the stove smoke? It was burning all right yesterday." "Smoking 'cause dat hoodoo debble done got in it," and Chloe rolled her great eyes until nothing showed but the whites. "Smoking because you've got the damper turned down," and Helen righted the appliance. "Have you set the table?" "Yassum!" "Put everything on it just as I showed you yesterday?" "Nom! I ain't put nothin' on it. I jes' sot the cheers up to it, but all the gals is got ter do is jes' retch the things off'n the sidebo'd." That meant that Helen must run and get the table set as quickly as possible as it was three minutes to seven. Chloe followed her meekly to the dining-room to do her bidding. "Run back to the kitchen, Chloe, and look at the biscuit, and see if they are burning," cried Helen as she rapidly placed the silver on the table. A few minutes later, having set the table she hastened to the kitchen. An ominous odor greeted her. "Chloe, did you look at the biscuit?" "Yassum! They was gettin' ready to burn. I guess they is 'bout burned by now." "Oh, Chloe, why didn't you take them out?" and poor Helen thought maybe she was going to weep with exasperation. "You nebber tol' me ter do mo'n look at 'em. My maw an' Sis Tempy both done caution me not to be too frisky 'bout doin' things 'til the white folks tells me. Tempy says white folks laks ter boss 'bout ev'ything." "Oh, for a trained monkey!" thought Helen. "I could at least give one a good switching." Chloe had only two characteristics to work on: one was perfect good-nature, the other unbounded health and strength. Helen wondered if she had enough material to go on to evolve even a passable servant. Anyhow she meant to try. She determined to do the cooking herself for a little while with Chloe as scullion, and also to have the girl do the housework. Of course Mrs. Carter was of absolutely no assistance. She held to her purpose of semi-invalidism. The family would not listen to her when she offered the only sane suggestion for the winter: that they should oust the tenant and move back into their own pretty, comfortable, well-furnished home; Douglas to make her début in Richmond society and the other girls continue at school. As for money--why not just make bills? They had perfectly good credit, and what was credit for but to use? Dr. Wright had been so stern with her, and Douglas so severe and unfilial, and they had intimated that she wanted to kill her dear Robert, so she had just let them have their own way. She insisted she had not the strength to cope with these changed conditions and took on the habits of an invalid. Helen, remembering how Susan, who was supposed to help with the cooking at the camp, had been kept busy waiting on her mistress, feared Chloe would be pressed into lady's maid service, too. Indeed Mrs. Carter attempted it, but Chloe proved too rough for the job, and that poor lady was forced to run the ribbons in her lingerie herself. Chloe's cleaning was even worse than her cooking if such a thing was possible. She spread up the beds, leaving great wrinkles and bumps, which proved to be top sheets and blankets that she had not thought fit to pull up. When Helen remonstrated and made her take all the covers off to air before making the beds she obeyed, but put the covers back on regardless of sequence, with counterpanes next to the mattress and sheets on top, with blankets anywhere that her fancy dictated. She swept the dirt safely under the rugs; wiped up the floor with bath towels; and the crowning glory of her achievement was sticking all the tooth-brushes together. Now when we remember that Helen herself had perhaps never made up a bed in her whole life until about eight months before this time, we may indeed have sympathy for her in her tribulations. Her days were full to running over, beginning very early in the morning and ending only after the family was fed at night. The cooking was not so difficult, as she had a genius for it and consequently a liking. Chloe could wash dishes after a fashion and clean the kitchen utensils, which was some comfort. Mr. Carter always carried his wife's breakfast tray to her room and waited on her like a devoted slave. He would even have run the ribbons in had she trusted him. All he could do for her now was wait on her and spoil her, and this he did to perfection. She was the same lovely little creature he had married and he was not unreasonable enough to expect her to be anything else. He did not think it strange that his little canary could not turn herself into a raven and feed him when he was hungry. His tenderness to his wife was so great that his daughters took their keynote from him and their patience towards their mother was wonderful. They vied with one another in their attentions to the parent that they would not let themselves call selfish. Helen cooked her little dainties; Nan kept her in light literature from the circulating library in town; Lucy scoured the fields for mushrooms that a late fall had made plentiful; Douglas always brought her the choice fruit and flowers that her pupils showered on her; even Bobby did his part by bringing her ripe persimmons that the frost had nipped just enough to make delicious. Mr. Carter was often able to bring her in a partridge or a young hare. On the whole life wasn't so bad. When one felt perfectly well, semi-invalidism was a pretty pleasant state. As for society: the count was a frequent visitor and the ladies from Grantly most attentive. The Suttons had called, too, several times, and other county families were finding the Carters out. It was easy to treat the fact that they were living in the overseer's house as a kind of joke. Of course, anyone could tell that they were not the kind of persons who usually lived in overseers' houses. Chloe was the thorn in the flesh, the fly in the ointment for Mrs. Carter. Chloe could not be laughed away,--Chloe was no joke. Accustomed to trained, highly-paid servants to do her bidding, this rough, uncouth ourang-outang was more than the dainty little lady could stand. The very first time Count de Lestis called, Mrs. Carter happened to be alone in the house except for Chloe, Mr. Carter having gone to Preston for much-needed nails and Helen having run up to Grantly to ask the advice of Miss Ella on the best way to preserve some late pears. A knock and Chloe promptly fell down the steps in her eagerness to get to the door. She had been up in Douglas's and Helen's room attempting to make up the bed to suit Miss Helen. "Thank Gawd I fell down instidder up! If'n I had 'a' fell up I wouldn't 'a' got ma'ied dis year," and she picked herself up and dived at the front door. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Carter and the young ladies at home?" Mrs. Carter heard in the count's fine baritone. "Nawsir! The boss is done gone ter Preston ter fetch some nails ter try ter bolster up this here ole shack, an' Miss Douglas is done gone ter her teachin' job an' Miss Helen is done stepped up to see Miss Ellanlouise 'bout 'zervin' some ole hard pears----" "And how about Mrs. Carter?" in an amused voice. "Oh, she is a-layin' on the sofy tryin' ter git sick." "Is she ill?" solicitously. "Naw! She is jes' plum lazy. She's too lazy ter chaw an' has ter have all her victuals fixed soft like." "Well, will you please take her this card?" "That there ticket?" Imagine Mrs. Carter's mortification, when the grinning Chloe came running into the sitting-room with the count's card crushed in her eager hand, to discover that the wretched girl was in her stocking feet; capless, with her wrapped plaits sticking out all over her head like quills upon the fretful porcupine; her apron on hind part before. "Chloe! Where is your cap?" exclaimed that elegant lady. "Well, lawsamussy! I done forgot about it. It do make my haid eatch so I done pulled it off." "And your shoes?" "I's savin' them fer big meetin' nex' year." "And why do you wear your apron in the back? Put it on right this minute." "Well, Ole Miss, my dress was siled an' my ap'on was clean, so I jes' slid it 'roun' behinst so it wouldn't git siled, too." Nothing but the fact that the count was cooling his heels on the front porch kept Mrs. Carter from weeping outright. Old Miss, indeed! All she could do was feebly tell Chloe to ask the gentleman in. If Count de Lestis had been ushered in by a butler in livery he could not have entered in a more ceremonious manner. He bowed low over the fair lady's hand, kissing her finger-tips lightly. Even the spectacle of Chloe's walking off, with her clean apron on hind part before and her shoeless condition disclosing large holes in the heels of her stockings, did not upset his gravity. He, too, realized that Chloe was no joke. Afterwards Chloe said to Helen: "That sho' is a pretty man what comed ter see you alls. I ain't knowin' yit what made him stoop over an' smell yo' ma's hand. Cose she mus' smell pow'ful good with never put'n her hands in nothin' mo' than her own victuals." Helen was weak with laughter. "What fer they call him a count, Miss Helen? Is it 'cause he spen' all his time a-countin' out money? They do say he is pow'ful good an' kin' ter the niggers. Some say he likes niggers better'n what he does white folks, but I says that is plum foolish. Anyhow, he talks mighty sweet to 'em an' don't never call 'em low down triflin' black rascals whin they gits kinder lop-sided with liquor, like some of the county gents does whin hands gits so fur gone they can't git in the craps. He done started a night school over at Weston what his secondary is teachin'." "I didn't know he had a secretary," exclaimed Helen, "but it certainly is kind of him to try and help the poor colored people. I wish you could go to night school, Chloe." "Lawd, Gawd, no! Miss Helen! I ain't got no call to larn." "Can't you read at all, Chloe?" "Well, I kin read whin they is picters ter go by. I done been ter school mos' six months countin' the diffunt years what I started, but my ma, she say my haid was too hard an' she 'fraid it might git cracked open if'n teacher tried to put any mo' in it. She say some folks is got sof' haids what kin stretch an' they ain't so ap' ter bus' open, haids kinder like hog bladders what you kin keep on a-blowin' up." "Wouldn't you like me to teach you to read, Chloe?" asked Helen, feeling rather ashamed that this foreigner should come to Virginia and take more interest in the education of the negroes than she should ever have done. "I believe I could teach you without breaking your head open." "Anything you says do I'll do, but I tell you now I ain't got no mo' notion er readin' than a tarrapin. A tarrapin kin git his haid out'n the shell an' you might git a little larnin' in it, but my haid is groun' what you gotter break up with a grubbin' hoe." "I am willing to try. Let's begin now! First we will learn how to spell things right here in the kitchen and then you can soon be reading recipes," said Helen kindly. "Now we are making biscuit, so we will begin with that. First take two cups of flour," and she wrote on the whitewashed wall of the kitchen: "2 cups of flour." Chloe was delighted with this kind of school, very different from her former experiences where she was made to sit for hours on a hard bench saying the same thing over and over with no conception of what it was all about. Now "2 cups of flour" had some sense in it, so had "2 spoons of baking powder." "Lard the size of an egg" was a brilliant remark; "1 spoon of salt" had a gleam of intelligence, too; "1 cup of milk" was filled with gumption. In less than a week the girl could read and write the recipe for biscuit and was eagerly waiting for her beloved Miss Helen to advance her to cake. CHAPTER VII BOBBY'S BLAME DAY Dr. George Wright was making a name for himself in his chosen profession. Older men were beginning to look upon him as an authority on nervous cases and now he had been asked to come in as partner in a sanitarium starting in the capital city of Virginia. Certainly he had been very successful in his treatment of Robert Carter's case, so successful that even Mrs. Carter could not but admire him. She was still very much in awe of him, but he had her respect and she depended upon him. The daughters felt the same way without the awe. Douglas and Nan and Lucy were openly extravagant in their praise of him. Helen was a little more guarded in her expressions of admiration, but she had a sincere liking for him and deep gratitude not only for what he had done for her father but for his service to her. She could never forget that it was Dr. Wright who had brought her to her senses when her father was first taken ill, making her see herself as a selfish, extravagant, vain girl. It takes some generosity of spirit to like the person who makes you see the error of your ways, but Helen Carter had that generosity. There were times when her cheeks burned at the memory of what Dr. Wright must have thought of her. How silly he must have found her, how childish! After the experience in the mountains when the rattlesnake bit her on the heel and Dr. Wright had come to her assistance with first aid to the injured, which in the case of a snake bite means sucking the wound, Helen began to realize that what the young physician thought of her made a great deal of difference to her. His approval was something worth gaining. Douglas had not told her she had written the letter to Dr. Wright as Bobby's employer. She had a feeling that her dignity as teacher was involved and she must not confide in her family. She was waiting, hoping to hear from him, rather expecting him to write to Bobby and call him to account for his misdemeanors. Bobby had been especially unruly all week. There was nothing he had not thought of doing in the way of mischief, and thinking mischief was almost identical with doing mischief where Bobby Carter was concerned. The deed was no sooner conceived than accomplished and the other children, who were inclined to be naughty, thought up extra things for him to do. Putting a piece of rubber on the stove was certainly not Bobby's idea, nor slipping chestnut burrs in the desk-seats while the girls were not looking, causing howls of anguish when they inadvertently sat down on the same. Bobby manfully took the blame for all of these things, however, confidently certain that no punishment worth speaking of would be meted out to him. "He is honest, at least," sighed Douglas, "and owns up every time." Friday afternoon on the way home she felt that maybe Nan's name for their place was a good one. She was almost a dead warrior if not quite one. "Oh, for a Valkyrie to bear me to Valhalla!" Bobby was trudging along by her side looking as though butter would not melt in his mouth. What a sturdy little fellow he was growing to be! Douglas looked down on his jaunty, erect figure. "Bobby, you are getting right fat." Bobby slapped his pockets. "That ain't fat, that's blame pay!" "Blame pay! What on earth?" "Oh, them is the gif's I gits fer saying I done it ev'y time you asks us to hol' up our han's who done it." "Oh, Bobby!" "You see, the big fellers say you ain't man enough to whup 'em an' you is too soft to whup me, so I don't run no risk nohow. This is a top string I got for 'tendin' like I put the rubber on the stove,--this here is a big apple I got for not fillin' the girls' desks with chestnut burrs,--this here pile er oak balls I come mighty near not gettin'. I sho' did want to turn the fleas loose on Minnie Brice but the big boys was afraid I might not be able to open the little purse right and so one of them done it." "Fleas on Minnie Brice?" "Yes, you never did fin' out about it, so I didn't have to own up. You know what a funny thin neck Minnie's got, just like a mud turkle, and how she wears a stiff collar kinder like a shell and it sets out all around, fur out from her neck?" "Yes, I know," said Douglas, struggling with a laugh. "Well, the fellers caught some fleas off'n ol' Blitz's houn' dog an' then they put 'em in a teensy money purse with a tight clasp, an' while Minnie was leaning over studying her joggerfy, Tim Tenser dumped 'em all down her back." "Poor Minnie! No wonder she missed all of her lessons today. I could not imagine what was the matter with her. Bobby, you wouldn't have done such a cruel thing as that surely!" "Shoo! That ain't nothin'. It might 'a' been toads, 'cep'n the little ones is all growed up big now. We are a-savin' up the toad joke 'til spring. First the fellers said I didn't 'serve no blame money 'cause Minnie jes' cried when she missed her lessons an' didn't scratch none, only wiggled, an' teacher never did ask us to hol' up our han's who done it. But Ned Beatty said I was a dead game spo't an' I took the chanst an' I mus' have my blood money, an' so I got all these here oak balls." "Bobby, do you realize that you must take all of these blame gifts back to the boys?" "Blamed if I will!" "Please don't talk that way! Don't say: 'Blamed if you will.'" "Well, wasn't you a-talkin' that way? Didn't you say, 'blame gif's,' with your own mouth? I'd like to know why I have to take them back." "Well, you got them for taking the blame and now you no longer take the blame but have told on the ones who did the naughty things." "But I ain't a-tellin' teacher! I'm a-tellin' my own sister Douglas. You ain't teacher 'cep'n when you is in school." "Oh, so that is the way you look at it! I suppose you think I am not your own sister while I am teacher, either, and when you worry me sick at school it is only teacher and not Douglas you are distressing so much," and Douglas sat down on the roadside and burst out crying. Now Douglas Carter was no weeper. I doubt if her little brother had ever seen her shed a tear in all of his seven years. And he, Robert Carter, Jr., had done this thing! He had made his sister Douglas cry. When she was playing teacher, she had feelings just as much as she did when she turned into his sister Douglas again. And what was this thing she was saying about his having to give back the blood money? Had he told on the boys after having received pay for taking the blame? Why, that was a low-down, sneaky trick! "Don't cry, Douglas, please don't cry! I'm a-gonter take back all the things--'cep'n the apple--I done et into that a leetle bit." But the flood gates were opened and Douglas could not stop crying. Like most persons who cry with difficulty, when she once began she kept it up. Now she was crying for all the times she might have cried. She had had enough to make her cry but had held in. She was crying now for all the days and nights of anxiety she had spent in thinking of her sick father; she was crying for the stern way in which she had been forced to deal with her mother over extravagancies; she was crying for having to make Helen understand that there was no money for clothes; she was crying for having to be the adamant sister who forced Nan and Lucy to go on to school; she was crying because her own dream of college was to come to nothing; she was crying very little because of Bobby's naughtiness, but he, of course, thought that it was all because of him. One of her biggest grievances was against herself: why had she been so priggish with her cousin, Lewis Somerville? Last August he had come to her on the eve of his enlistment to go with the troops to the Mexican border and had plead so earnestly with her to try to love him just a little bit and to let him go off engaged to her, and she had turned him down with absurd talk of friendship and the like. He had astonished her when he made love to her, but she knew perfectly well in her heart of hearts that it would have astonished her a great deal more if he had made love to someone else. No doubt that was what he was doing that minute: making love to someone else. A young man who looked like a Greek god was not going to be turned down by every girl. How good Lewis had always been to her and how well he had understood her! He thought she was cold and unfeeling now, she just knew he did. She had received no letters from him for weeks, at least it seemed weeks. Oh well, if he wanted to make love to other girls, why she wasn't going to be the one to care! "Douglas, I hear a auto a-comin'. If'n you don't stop bawlin' folks will see you." A car was coming! She could hear its chug as it climbed the hill half a mile off. "Please wet my handkerchief in that little branch so I can wash my face," she begged Bobby, while she smoothed her ruffled hair and wished she had one of Helen's precious dorines to powder her red nose. "Yo' hankcher is as wet as water already. I don't see what you want it any wetter for," said Bobby, who might have quoted: "'Too much of water hast thou, my poor Ophelia,'" had he known his Hamlet. "I ain't a-gonter be bad no mo', Douglas," declared Bobby as he brought the little handkerchief back from the brook dripping wet. "You mos' cried yo' face away, didn't you, Dug?" and with that Douglas had to laugh. "Feel better now?" he said with quite the big brother air. "That there car is jes' roun' the bend. I reckon if you turn yo' face away the folks in it won't know you is been a-bawlin'." The car slowed up, then stopped when the driver recognized Douglas, and Count de Lestis sprang out to greet her. The signs of the recent storm were still visible on her pretty face in spite of all the water Bobby had brought from the brook. Douglas tried to hold her head down so the count could not see her disfigured countenance, but such floods of weeping could not but be noticed. "My dear Miss Carter, you are in distress!" He looked so truly grieved and anxious that already Douglas felt somewhat comforted. Sympathy is a great balm. "It is nothing! I am a foolish, weak girl." "Not that! You are very intelligent and far from weak. Are you not the staunch ally? The poor Kaiser would not find you weak." "I done it all! I made her cry!" declared Bobby. The count looked at the youngster, amused. "And so! Do little American gentlemen make their sisters cry?" Bobby hung his head. "Well, come on and let me take you home, and then I'll take your sister for a little ride and wipe all the tears away with the wind." "Let me go riding, too. I don't want to go home." "No, not this time. My little red car doesn't like to take for long rides boys who make their sisters cry." So Bobby had to climb meekly in to be ignominiously dumped at the yard gate while Douglas was whisked off in the count's natty little red roadster. "Now you are looking like your beautiful self," he declared, slowing down his racer and turning to gaze into Douglas's face. "What is it that made you weep so profusely? Not the little brother. Beautiful damsels do not weep so much because of little brothers." Douglas smiled. "Ah, the sun has come out! Now I am happy. I am so distressed by tears that I can hardly bear it." "You must have a very tender heart." "Yes, perhaps! Now tell me what caused your grief." How handsome this man was and how kind! He seemed like an old friend. He really did care what was troubling her and it would be a relief to pour out all of her foolish griefs. Douglas missed her father's sympathy. She knew that he was as ready as ever with his love and solicitude for her, but she felt that she must not add to his worries one iota. Her mother was out of the question and Helen was too young. Before she knew it, she was trying to tell Count de Lestis all about it, all but about Lewis Somerville--somehow that was something she could not mention. Her grievances sounded very small when she tried to put them into words. Naturally she could not dwell upon her mother's extravagancies or this man would think her poor little mother was selfish; Helen was such a trump, the fact that she longed for stylish clothes certainly was not enough to make a grown girl sit on the roadside and dissolve in tears; while Nan and Lucy were commuting to school like little soldiers. It ended by being a humorous account of Bobby and his blame pay. Of course the count knew perfectly well that that was not all that had made this lovely girl give way so to grief. No doubt Bobby's misbehavior was the last straw, but there had been a heavy load to carry before Douglas's camel of endurance had got his back broken. He laughed merrily over the fleas and Douglas forgot all about her worries and laughed, too. "Poor little Minnie! She did squirm so, and think of her being too ladylike to scratch, and how she must have disappointed those bad boys by refraining!" "Yes, if all women would just squirm and not scratch it would take much from the pleasure of teasing them," laughed de Lestis. "What amuses me is how boys are alike all the world over. The discipline of my school days was very strict, but a thing like that might have happened among boys in Berlin as much as here in a rural school in Virginia." "Berlin! But you are Hungarian!" "So! So--but Hungarians can go to school in Berlin. Even Americans have profited by the educational advantages offered there." Douglas thought her companion's tone sounded a little harsh. She bent her candid gaze on him and met his glowing eyes. Blue eyes looked unflinchingly into black until the steering of the red car forced him to give his attention to the wheel. "I wish the count's moustache did not turn up quite so much at the corners," thought the girl. "It makes him look a wee bit like the Kaiser; of course, though, he is kind and the Kaiser is cruel." "Perhaps we had better turn around now," she suggested gently, contrite that even for a moment she had thought this kind friend could resemble the hated Kaiser. Certainly the wind had wiped away all traces of the emotional storm from Douglas's countenance. The young man by her side could but admire the pure profile presented to him, with its soft, girlish lines but withal a look of strength and determination. Her loosened hair was like sunlight and her cheeks had the pink of the Cherokee rose. Profiles were all well enough, but he would like another look into those eyes as blue as summer skies after a shower. "Of course, my dear Miss Carter, I know that the little rascal Bobby must have been very annoying but I cannot but think that you have not entrusted to me your real troubles." Douglas stiffened almost imperceptibly. "When one finds a beautiful damsel sitting by the roadside in such grief that her charming face is convulsed with weeping, one cannot but divine that some affair of the heart has touched her. Tell me, has some bold cavalier trifled with her affections?" Douglas stiffened more perceptibly. "Your father told me of a young cousin, a Mr. Somerville, who is now on the Mexican border----" "Father told you! I don't believe it." "My dear young lady, he only told me there was such a cousin; you have told me the rest. Now! Now! Don't let your sweet eyes shed another tear for him. He is not worth it! If he can find amusement in the ladies of Mexico, who are, when all is told, an untidy lot, why should you worry? There are other fish in the sea!" If the Count de Lestis wished to see something more of Douglas's eyes he had his desire fulfilled now. She turned and once more blue eyes looked unflinchingly into black. This time the black eyes had a mischievous gleam and the blue ones looked more like winter ice than summer skies. "Now I have made you angry." Once more his car took his attention for the moment. "Not at all!" icily. "You wish you had not come with me." "I appreciate your kindness in bringing me for the drive very much," still cold and formal in tone. "I guessed too well, that is where I sinned." Douglas was silent, but she still looked at her companion. "She is like the little Minnie: she squirms but will not scratch." "I was just thinking," said Douglas, changing the subject with a swiftness that disarmed the count, "your moustache certainly turns up at the ends just like Emperor William's." CHAPTER VIII SATURDAY "Isn't it glorious to be living and for it to be Saturday?" yawned Lucy. "Yes, and not to have to catch that old train," and Nan snuggled down luxuriously under the bedclothes. "I used to think Saturday was a pretty good institution when we lived in town, but now--Oh, ye gods! Now!" "Did you know that Saturday was decreed a half-holiday in the days of the Saxon King Edgar 958 A. D.?" asked Lucy, who had a way of springing historical facts on people. "No, but I know it's going to be a whole holiday for Nan Carter in the year of grace 1916. I intend to do nothing but laze the whole day long, laze and read." "I bet you won't. I bet you go nutting with Mag and me, because if we go it means Billy goes along, and if he goes along he'll be in a terrible grouch unless you go, too." October had delightfully spread over into November. The weather had obligingly stayed good, and although our Carters had been at Valhalla more than a month, they had experienced no real bad days. Nippy, frosty nights had put Mr. Carter wise to the many cracks that he must stop up. Weather strips must be put on windows and doors, panes of glass must be puttied in. Suspicious stains on walls and ceilings warned him of leaks, but he had to wait for a rain to locate them. He found himself almost as busy as he had been before his breakdown, but busy in such a different way. "I'm glad it's Saturday! I think I won't work today," he had remarked to his wife at about the same time Nan and Lucy were having their talk. "Come and walk in the woods with me." That lady had graciously consented, if he promised not to go far and to lift her over fences. "I think I'll wash my hair today; and darn the stockings; and go over the accounts; and write some letters; and read the _Saturday Evening Post_," said Douglas as she and Helen dressed hurriedly. Their little attic room was hot in summer and cold in winter. Douglas had been thinking a great deal about her ride with the count. Had he only meant to tease her? Was he trying to flirt with her? Did she like him at all or did she in a way distrust him? She asked herself all of these questions. Of course she liked him! Why should she distrust a man because of the way his moustache grew? Of course he was teasing her, and who could help teasing a silly goose of a girl who sat on the roadside and bawled until her nose was disgracefully red, and then insisted it was all because her little brother had aided and abetted in the crime of putting fleas down a little girl's neck? He had made a good guess about Lewis Somerville, because no doubt her father had told him that she and Lewis had been chums from the time they were babies. "I only hope I will be able to make up to him for my discourtesy by being very polite to him the next time I see him," she thought. "Count de Lestis is coming to lunch with us today," said Helen, almost as though she had been reading her sister's mind. "Father asked him." "That's good! Isn't it nice for Father to have such a congenial friend?" "And Mumsy! She enjoys his visits so much. I am going to try and have a scrumptious luncheon, but I tell you I am going to leave mighty little of it to Chloe." "I think she is improving, Helen." "Of course she is improving. She is trying so hard to do what I want her to and I am trying so hard to be patient. I think I am improving some myself." "Oh, honey, you are simply splendid. I think you have the hardest job of all and I think you are doing better than any of us." "Nonsense!" But Helen looked very happy over her sister's praise. "I'd rather do general housework for six dollars a month than go every day and teach thirty little nincompoops a-b, ab." "But the thing is you are doing general housework for nothing a month." "I am doing a little teaching of a-b, ab, too, only my methods are different. I have evolved a very advanced style of teaching and Chloe, too, is learning to spell. My method is somewhat that of Dotheboys' Hall--you remember: 'W-i-n-d-o-w, window--Go wash them.' I make her spell and write all the kitchen utensils. She learns while she is working and it makes her take an interest in becoming educated." "Oh, Helen, you are so clever! You must let me help about the luncheon." "How about washing your head; and writing your letters; and casting up the household accounts; and the _Saturday Evening Post_?" "Well, the letters and _Post_ will keep!" On Saturday the rule was that the dead warriors must make up their own beds and clean their own rooms, so shortly after breakfast there was a general scramble in process. Helen turned Chloe loose in the dining-room to have it swept and garnished for their distinguished visitor. What a pretty room it was, much the most attractive in the house, with the exception of the sitting-room, perhaps! Low, rough-hewn rafters were frankly exposed to view. The walls were sealed with pine boards. Walls and ceiling were both painted a very soft, pleasing grey-green. On the high mantel was an old-fashioned wooden clock with painted door, and this was flanked on both sides by funny old vases with large raised roses and gilt ears. Two high windows and a glass door, opening on a covered passage leading to the kitchen, gave a soft and insufficient light. Douglas had just put the finishing touch to the table: a bunch of cosmos sent down by the Misses Grant. Nan had made the mayonnaise; and Lucy had found a great basket of mushrooms and peeled them for Helen to cream. Truly they were to have a scrumptious luncheon. The count had arrived and was playing lady-come-to-see, so Lucy said, with Mrs. Carter. The whir of a motor drew the attention of all. "Who on earth!" exclaimed Helen. "Surely not callers at this hour, just when my popovers are almost ready to eat!" "Mo' comply!" declared Chloe. "Dat ol' red rooster what yo' paw set so much sto' by is been a-crowing halleluja all mornin'. I been a-tryin' ter make him hesh, 'cause we ain't got no mo' cheers fer comply." "That's so, there aren't but eight dining-room chairs," laughed Helen. "My 'ployer done come and a soger is in with him!" cried Bobby, tearing excitedly by the dining-room in his race to open the gate for his beloved Dr. Wright. Helen ran out in her pink bungalow apron, first peeping into the oven, not trusting Chloe yet to keep things from burning. "Douglas!" she called excitedly, but Douglas, with flushed cheeks, bent over the bowl of cosmos. "A soldier with him! What soldier? Could it be Lewis?" she asked herself. It was Lewis Somerville, looking very handsome and upstanding indeed in his khaki uniform, with his face burned a deep bronze so that his eyes looked very blue and his teeth very white. He clambered out over the great basket of fruit Dr. Wright was bringing to Mrs. Carter, dropped the boxes and parcels piled in around him and hugged and kissed all the female cousins in sight, Helen, Nan and Lucy. He shook Bobby by the hand, knowing full well that that youngster would sooner die than be hugged and kissed. "Douglas, where is Douglas?" he whispered to Helen. "In the dining-room! You can get there around at the back of the house--in the basement. We thought you were still in Mexico." Lewis did not wait to tell her that he wasn't, but doing double quick time he streaked around the house, and finding the basement stairs without any trouble, he was down them in one stride. "Douglas!" "Oh, Lewis!" Douglas forgot that not so very many months before this time she had informed her cousin that she was too big to be kissed and that he was not close enough kin to warrant indiscriminate hugging. Certainly she was no younger than she had been eight months before and Lewis was no closer kin, but now she submitted to his embraces and even clung to him for a moment. It was so wonderful to have him back safe and sound. She could hardly believe it was only yesterday that she had sat on the roadside and wept. He was her same Lewis, too. She felt instinctively that the count's suggestion in regard to Mexican beauties was ridiculous. "And Lewis, sergeant stripes on your sleeve, too! Why didn't you tell me?" "I did! Didn't you get my letter?" "No, not for weeks and weeks!" "Strange! I must say I am not crazy about that letter's being lost." "Can't you tell me what was in it?" "Sure! I'm telling you now," and the young man caught her to him once more, but Douglas suddenly remembered she was too old to be kissed by a second cousin, once removed. "I'm not crazy about having anyone but you read that letter, though, not only because of my telling you this," and he took another for luck, "but," as Douglas recovered her maidenly reserve and pushed him from her laughing, "I said some other things in that letter that I wouldn't like anyone and everyone to see." "State secrets?" "Well, a newly-made sergeant would hardly have such things intrusted to him! It was only my opinion concerning the state of affairs down there on the border. I may be wrong about things, but a soldier has no right to blab his conclusions about conditions in belligerent countries, especially when the press is wary in its comments." "I wouldn't worry a moment about it. If you could see the road that our R. F. D. has to come over you would not wonder that some of our letters jolt out. There is one creek to cross that is like going down the Grand Canyon." "If it only jolted out there and found watery oblivion, I shan't mind. But what a bully little shack this is! Wright was afraid we would not get here in time for luncheon, and he and I were determined to lie and say we had eaten, but gee, I'm glad not to have to perjure my soul!" CHAPTER IX GOLDILOCKS' CHAIRS "Miss Hell-e-en! Miss Hell-e-en! Yo' popovers is done popped over!" came in a wailing shriek from the kitchen. Helen went so fast her pink bungalow apron looked like a rosy streak. Dr. Wright, fearing some dire calamity had befallen someone and his "first aid to the injured" might be in demand, ran after her. The popovers had popped just right, however, but must be devoured immediately; so luncheon was served as quickly as possible. "Bring those two chairs from the kitchen, Chloe," commanded Douglas as she deftly rearranged the table for ten persons instead of eight. "Now, Miss Douglas, don't you know 'bout dem cheers in de kitchen? Th' ain't got no mo' seat to 'em dan a rabbit." "Bring them anyhow," laughed Douglas. "I can sit in one and Miss Helen in the other." In the confusion of placing family and guests, Douglas forgot all about the bottomless chairs. After everyone was seated she suddenly remembered them with horror. "Suppose the count got one of them!" It made very little difference about anyone else. But the count! All of that charm and elegance in a chair with no seat! As soon as grace was said, Bobby, with a shriek of delight, suddenly collapsed and disappeared. "One chair accounted for!" thought Douglas. Bobby's heels were sticking up and he peered saucily through his feet at the astonished company. "I done got a Goldilocks' cheer," he announced. "'An' Goldilocks sat, an' sat, an' sat, an' sat 'til she sat the bottom out of the little bar's cheer.'" "Bobby, take your seat!" commanded Mr. Carter, trying to look stern. "I done took it!" "Get up!" Easier said than done! Bobby was fast stuck, "I reckon my 'ployer'll have to op'rate on me," he said plaintively, "'fo' I kin eat." There was a roar of laughter at this and Dr. Wright, who was sitting between Helen and Bobby, extricated the youngster and then changed chairs with him, whereupon they proceeded to the business of eating popovers and creamed mushrooms and the other good things that Helen had planned for the repast. Douglas then laughingly told of their predicament in having only eight whole straight chairs in the house and of her intention of sitting on one of the decrepit ones herself and of having Helen sit on the other. "It is rather like playing 'Thimble, thimble! Who's got the thimble?'" she laughed. "I hope whoever has it is comfortable." "Don't all speak at once!" said Lucy. "Of course some of the company's got it, because home folks would put you out of misery at once." Still silence and Douglas was mortally certain the count had it and was too polite to say so. "He certainly has beautiful manners," she said to herself, and turning from Lewis, who was endeavoring to monopolize her, she smiled her sweetest on the courteous foreigner. She felt she must make up to him anyhow for telling him his moustache turned up like the Kaiser's. "Isn't it strange, Cousin Robert," said Lewis to Mr. Carter, "I wrote Douglas I was coming and she never got my letter?" The count's manner was a little distrait. Evidently he was trying to hear what Douglas was saying and to listen to the conversation between Lewis and Mr. Carter at the same time. "Is that so? I am afraid our postman is careless. He seems to get the mail mixed sometimes. Every now and then our letters get left at Grantly." "But the ladies up there would send them down, I am sure," said Mrs. Carter. "You got my telephone message all right, didn't you?" Dr. Wright asked Douglas. "What message?" "Why, I telephoned Grantly I would be out today!" "No, they did not deliver it." "Perhaps they will send the letter with the message," suggested the count in an amused tone. Just then Chloe fell down the steps into the dining-room with a plate of hot popovers, which she adroitly caught before they reached the floor. "Miss Ellanlouise done sent Sis Tempy down with the news that you alls is gonter hab some comply. They done dis'greed whether they is a-comin' yesterday or tomorrow." "Who is it coming?" laughed Helen. "They done 'sputed whether it is a doctor or a lywer, an' they ain't able t' agree what his name is, but Miss Ella thinks it is Stites an' Miss Louise she holds that it is Bright. Both on 'em was a-tryin' ter listen at the 'phome ter onct so they done got kinder twis'ed like." "When was the message sent?" asked Douglas. "Sis Tempy said Miss Ella said it come of a Chuseday an' Miss Louise called her back an' tol' her not ter pay no 'tention ter Miss Ella, that she knows it come of a Thursday." "Why, that must be my message I sent on Wednesday!" exclaimed Dr. Wright. "I am either Lawyer Stites or Dr. Bright." "Of course!" and everyone laughed heartily over the mistake of the peculiar old sisters. "Well, it doesn't make any real difference since you are here, does it?" asked Helen. "Not a bit! Being here is what is important to me. Does it make any difference to you?" Dr. Wright was able to say this in a whisper to Helen. It seemed very difficult for him to have many words in private with this girl, who seemed to him to become more charming every day. Certainly adversity had improved her in his eyes. The character and determination she had shown when once the gravity of her father's condition had been explained to her were really remarkable in one so young, and one who had up to that time never done a single thing she had not wanted to do. Tête-à-têtes with Helen were made difficult for him by reason of his popularity with the whole Carter family. Mr. Carter had various questions to discuss with him; Mrs. Carter must always tell him her symptoms; Douglas wanted his advice about many things; Nan found him very sympathetic and always had something to confide in him; Lucy, realizing that Helen no longer looked upon him as an enemy to the family, had come over to his camp and now considered him her company just as much as anybody's and demanded his attention accordingly. Of course Bobby knew he belonged exclusively to him. Was he not his 'ployer? "Does it make any difference to you?" he repeated. Helen was on the point of answering him very kindly when Count de Lestis leaned over and engaged her attention. "Miss Helen, do not forget the promise you made me to come to Weston some morning with your father. There are many things I want to show you. I want your advice, too, about some pantry arrangements I am contemplating. What does mere man know of pantry shelves?" "Oh, I'd love to come!" exclaimed Helen, and the kind answer she was preparing to give Dr. Wright never was spoken. That young physician looked at the Hungarian count as though he would cheerfully throttle him. Helen's advice about pantry shelves, indeed! What business had this foreigner to draw Helen into his household arrangements? During that luncheon de Lestis managed to antagonize both Lewis Somerville and George Wright. Douglas had smiled entirely too many times on this stranger to suit Lewis, and Helen had been much too eager to pass on the housekeeping arrangements to accord with George's ideas of United States' relations with Hungary. "Why is he not fighting with his country?" each young man asked himself. Chloe was waiting on the table remarkably well, much to Helen's gratification. Only once had she fallen down the steps, and, thanks to her teacher's vigilance, she usually remembered to pass things to the left. "You must try to show the Count de Lestis how much you have learned," Helen had told her while she was preparing the lunch; "remember how interested he is in educating colored people." Helen, seated at the head of the table, was pouring the tea, Mrs. Carter having resigned her place to her daughter when she resigned herself to be a semi-invalid. "Hand this to Count de Lestis," Helen said, having put in sugar to his taste. "Here's yo' C-U-P, CUP of T-E, TEA," shouted Chloe, as she balanced the cup precariously on the tray. "Beg pardon!" exclaimed the honored guest in amazement. "C-U-P, CUP! H-O-T, HOT! T-E, TEA!" The count took the tea with a puzzled look on his handsome countenance and Chloe fled from the room, not in embarrassment but to impart to Sis Tempy how she had done made Miss Helen proud by showing the count how much she done learned her to spell. Everybody roared, even Mrs. Carter, who had come to the realization that the most dignified way to treat Chloe was to recognize her as a joke. "It is this way," said Helen when she could speak. "You see, I have been trying to teach the poor thing to read and spell. She told me of the wonderful work you are doing," to the count. "I am doing?" "Yes, in your night school at Weston! It made me ashamed to think you, a foreigner, should be doing so much for the colored race, and I doing nothing, so I determined to do what I could with my own servant at least. I can't tell you how splendid I think it is of you and your secretary to give so much time to the poor country darkies." The count flushed a dark red. He seemed actually confused by this girl's praise. "All of us think it is fine," said Nan. "Speak for yourself!" whispered Lucy. "Mag and I think it is smart Alec of him and we bet he does it 'cause he wants to, not to help the colored people." "I beg your pardon! Did you speak to me?" asked the count, recovering himself from the evident confusion into which Helen's and Nan's approbration seemed to have plunged him. "I--I--said--er--I said you and your kind secretary must enjoy the work," stammered Lucy. "Do you find they learn easily?" asked Dr. Wright, trying to hide his feelings and wishing he had put in his spare time in altruistic work among the colored brethren. "The truth of the matter is I do no teaching myself. This night school is a fad of Herz, my secretary." "Ah, but I know you do some, because Chloe tells me of how kindly you speak to the darkies," insisted Helen. "She says you make beautiful talks to them sometimes and they are crazy about you." "They exaggerate!" shrugged the count. "They seem a simple, kindly folk, grateful for any crumb of learning." "Aren't there any district schools here for the colored people?" asked George Wright. "Yes, but no place for the older ones to learn. It is quite pathetic how they yearn for knowledge,--so Herz tells me." "Well, my opinion is that too much learning is bad for them," blurted out Lewis. "Oh, Lewis!" exclaimed Douglas. "How can you say such a thing? Too much learning can't be bad for anybody." "What I mean is too much and not enough. They get just enough to make them big-headed and not enough to give them any balance." "'A little learning is a dangerous thing-- Drink deep or taste not the Pierian Spring,'" murmured Nan. "Exactly!" said Lewis gratefully. "I don't want to hold the darky down, but I do think he should be taught very carefully or he will get wrong notions in his head, social equality with the whites and such stuff." "I find Americans very strange when one gets them on the subject of social equality," and de Lestis suddenly seemed very superior and quite conscious of his own station in life. "There is much talk of being democratic but not so much practice. Your Declaration of Independence plainly states that all men shall be free and equal, and still, while you grant the black race freedom, you deny it equality." "I reckon you don't understand the South very well," answered Lewis, his blue eyes flashing. "Ah!" was all the count said, but he said it with a toploftical manner that irritated Lewis. "The colored soldiers are excellent, so I have heard," put in Douglas, hoping to get the subject changed, if not too abruptly. "Yes, they are good," said Lewis, "but that is because they are trained well. That is drinking deep of Nan's Pierian Spring. I think a military training in colored schools is almost more important than in the white ones. It gives them the kind of balance they don't get in any other way." "Why don't you give the pupils in your night school some drilling?" asked Helen. "Thank you for the suggestion!" and the count bowed low over Helen's hand as they arose from the table at a signal from Mrs. Carter, who began to think the conversation was getting entirely too serious and not at all social. "I shall profit by it immediately and introduce a kind of setting-up exercise at least." "Now we'll find out who had the other busted cheer!" cried Bobby. It was the count, and his tact and good manners in patiently sitting through the meal on what must have been a rather uncomfortable perch made the females of the party, excepting Lucy, admire him just that much more, but it did not make George Wright and Lewis Somerville think any more highly of the good-looking foreigner. "He had much better be fighting for his country," grumbled Lewis to his companion in misery, "even if it would be on the wrong side." Which was not the proper remark for a soldier in the army of a neutral nation. CHAPTER X NOVEMBER The mystery that will never be solved for the human race is why some days must be dark and dreary and why those days sometimes stretch themselves into weeks. The weather that had been so perfect when our Carters first came to Valhalla had held for a long time. Frosty, crisp autumn mornings that made the blood tingle in one's veins, followed by warmer days and then cold bracing nights when a fire in the great chimney of the living-room was most acceptable, had become so much the rule that when the exception occurred no one was prepared to accept it. Morning after morning Nan and Lucy had trudged cheerfully over the fields and through the lane to Grantly Station to catch the early train, enjoying the walk and not minding at all that the quarter of a mile was really three-quarters. Coming home was happy, too. The train reached Grantly by half-past three, the pleasantest time in an autumn afternoon, and the girls would loiter along the road, stopping to eat wild grapes or to crack walnuts or maybe to get some persimmons, delicious and shriveled from the hard frosts. Sometimes Billy and Mag would have the good news for them that the Suttons' car was to be at Preston and that meant that our girls were to get out at that station and be run home by Billy. They were great favorites with both Mr. and Mrs. Sutton who encouraged the intimacy with their son and daughter. Suitable companions are not always to be found in rural communities and the coming of the Carters to the neighborhood was recognized by that worthy couple as a great advantage to their children. "Nan is a charming girl, William," Mrs. Sutton had said to her husband, "and even if Billy fancies himself to be in love with her it will do him no harm, only good, since she has such good sense and breeding." "Of course it will do him good and maybe it is not just fancy on his part. We Suttons have a way of deciding early and sticking to it. Eh, Margaret? I remember you had your hair in a plait and wore quite short skirts when I began to scheme how best to get a permanent seat by you on the train, and here I've got it!" and Mr. Sutton gave his portly wife a comfortable hug. "And Mag is having a splendid time with Lucy," continued that lady, accepting the hug with a smile. "Lucy is so quick and clever, no one could help liking her. I, for one, am glad the Carters have come." "What do you think is the matter with their mother? They always speak of her as an invalid. She looks well enough to me, although of course not robust like one beautiful lady I know." Mr. Sutton admired his wife so much that the flesh she was taking on just made her that much more beautiful in his eyes. He thought there could not be too much of a good thing. "Invalid indeed! She is just spoiled and lazy," declared Mrs. Sutton who was all energy and industry. "She is attractive enough but I should hate to be her daughter." "Yes, and I'd hate to be her husband, too!" The Suttons had been most pleasant and hospitable to their new neighbors, although there could not have been two women brought together so dissimilar as Mrs. Sutton and Mrs. Carter. Mrs. Carter considered her mission in life to be as beautiful as possible and also charming. Mrs. Sutton had never had time to think what her mission in life was, she was so busy doing the things it seemed important to do. She was first of all the wife of a successful farmer and that meant eternal vigilance on her part, as the success of a farm depends so much on the management of women. Next she was the mother of two healthy, normal children who must be trained in the way they should go. After that she was an important member of a community where her progressive spirit was needed and appreciated. Her home, Preston, was where the Ladies' Aid met and worked and kept the little church out of debt; there was headquarters for the Traveling Library; there the Magazine Club read and swapped periodicals. She was president of the Preston Equal Suffrage League, a struggling but valorous band, and now that work of organizations was sorely needed for suffering humanity, this same league was rolling bandages and making comfort kits for the Allies, showing that votes for women was not the only thing it could work for. Truly Mrs. Sutton was a busy and happy woman. But we are forgetting that the weather seemed destined to become our topic! Certainly the Suttons are a more agreeable subject than the weather our girls were fated to endure. Of course the sun can't shine all the time and in the natural course of events October days must shorten into November days and they in turn into December, with nights growing longer and longer and days shorter and shorter and both of them colder and colder. Drizzling rains must fall, even if a trusting family has taken its abode in a weather-beaten old house, up a muddy lane that must be walked through to reach the station. "'In winter I get up at night And dress by early candle light,'" yawned Nan one morning as the alarm went off, warning her it was time to rouse herself and Lucy. Lucy had curled up in a little ball, having gone to bed without quite enough cover. It had turned cold and damp during the night, a heavy rain had kept up for hours and now at six in the morning it was drizzling dismally. "I don't see how we can go to town to-day," sighed Nan, peering out of the window. "It is so dark and gloomy." "I reckon the lane will be awfully muddy," said Lucy, reluctantly uncurling herself, "and I believe I left my rubbers at school that time I took them in when I thought it was going to rain and it didn't." "You'll have to borrow Helen's." "Gee! Isn't it cold?" and Lucy drew back the foot she had tentatively poked out of bed. "I wish we could live in a steam-heated house again." Valhalla was heated by open fireplaces, drum stoves and the Grace of God, according to Chloe. There was a small stove in the younger girls' room, but up to this time they had not felt the necessity of having a fire. It seemed difficult on that rainy morning for everyone to awaken. Chloe's feet and then her reluctant legs came through the trap-door of her attic room and slowly down the chicken steps leading into the kitchen long after Helen had started the kerosene stove and put on the kettle. "I ain't slep' none," she declared when Helen remonstrated with her because of her tardiness. "The rain done leaked in on my haid an' I reckon I's gonter die er the ammonia." "Oh, I fancy not! A little water won't hurt you," said Helen, flying around the kitchen like a demented hen trying to scratch up a breakfast for her brood. "Hurry up and set the table, it is so late." "Won't hurt me! Lawsamussy, Miss Helen! Don't you know that niggers can't wash they haids in winter time? They do say they wool has deeper roots than what white folks' hair is got an' the water what touches they haids dreens plum down inter they brains." "Brains, did you say?" said Helen, but her sarcasm was lost on Chloe. "If it leaked on your head why didn't you move your bed? It leaked on Miss Douglas and me, too, but we moved the bed." "Well, I was in a kinder stupid an' looks like I couldn't raise han' or foot." "I can well believe it," muttered Helen. "Please set the table as fast as you can!" "Helen," cried Lucy, hurrying into the dining-room, "you'll have to lend me your rubbers! I left mine in town." "Have to?" "Well, please to!" "I hate for you to stretch my rubbers all out of shape." "Stretch 'em much! Your feet are bigger than mine." "That being the case I certainly won't lend them to be dropped off in the mud." "Children! Children!" admonished Douglas, hurrying to breakfast. "What are you quarreling about?" "Who shall be Cinderella!" drawled Nan. "And it seems a strange subject to dispute about on such a morning. For my part, I wish my feet were a quarter of a mile long and I could take three steps and land at the station." "It leaked in our room last night," said Lucy. "And ours!" chorused Helen and Douglas. "Mine, too! But I ain't a-keerin'," from Bobby. "My haid is done soaked up with leaks," grinned Chloe. "I really think Miss Ella and Miss Louise should have had the roof mended before we came," said Douglas. "Well, tonight we can go to bed with our umbrellas up," suggested Nan. "Yes! An' wake up a corp!" said Chloe dismally, as she handed the certainly not overdone biscuit. "It am sho' death ter hist a umbrell in the house." Nan and Lucy were finally off, forlorn little figures with raincoats and rubbers and dripping umbrellas. Helen's rubbers were a bit too small, much to that young lady's satisfaction and to Lucy's chagrin. "My feet will slim down some as I grow older, the shoe man told me. I betcher when I am as old as you are my feet will be smaller," said Lucy as she paddled off with the rubbers pulled on as far as she could get them. The road was passable until they got within a hundred yards of the station and then they struck a soft stretch of red clay that was the consistency of molasses candy about to be pulled. Nan clambered up an embankment, balancing herself on a very precarious path that hung over the road, but Lucy kept to the middle of the pike. "I hear the train!" cried Nan. "We must hurry!" "Hurry, indeed! How can anyone hurry through fudge?" and poor Lucy gave a wail of agony. She was stuck and stuck fast. "Come on!" begged Nan, but Lucy with an agonized countenance looked at her sister. "I'm stuck!" "If I come pull you out, I'll get stuck, too! What on earth are we to do?" "Throw me a plank," wailed Lucy in the tones of a drowning man. Her feet were going in deeper and deeper. Helen's rubbers were almost submerged and there seemed to be nothing to keep Lucy's shoes and finally Lucy from going the way of the rubbers. Nan dropped her books, umbrella and lunch on the bank and pulled a rail from the fence. Lucy clutched it and with a great pull and a sudden lurch which sent Nan backwards into the blackberry bushes, the younger girl came hurtling from what had threatened to become her muddy grave. The train was whistling, so they had to forego the giggling fit that was upon them and run for the station. The small branch that they must pass before they got there, was swollen beyond recognition, but one stepping-stone obligingly projected above water and with a mighty leap they were over. The accommodating accommodation train reached the station of Grantly before they did, but the kindly engineer and conductor waited patiently while the girls, puffing and panting, raced up the hill. They had hardly recovered their breath when Billy and Mag boarded the train at Preston. "Well, if you girls aren't spunky!" cried Billy admiringly as he sank in the seat by Nan, which Lucy had tactfully vacated, sharing the one with Mag. "Mag and I were betting you couldn't make it this morning." "We just did and that is all," laughed Nan, recounting the perils of the way. "And only look at my boots! Did you ever see such sights?" cried Lucy. "Oh, Heavens! One of Helen's rubbers is gone!" "That must have happened when I fished you out with the fence rail. I heard a terrible sough but didn't realize what it meant. They were so much too small for you," said Nan. "Small, indeed! They were too big. Their coming off proves they were too big," insisted Lucy. "I'm glad your feet didn't come off too, then," teased Nan. "At one time I thought they were going to." Billy produced a very shady handkerchief from a hip pocket and proceeded to wipe off the girls' shoes, while he sang the sad song of the Three Flies: "'There were three flies inclined to roam, They thought they were tired of staying at home, So away they went with a skip and a hop Till they came to the door of a grocer-ri shop. "'Away they went with a merry, merry buz-zz, Till they came to a tub of mo-las-i-uz, They never stopped a minute But plunged right in it And rubbed their noses and their pretty wings in it. "'And there they stuck, and stuck, and stuck, And there they cussed their miserable luck, With nobody by But a greenbottle fly Who didn't give a darn for their miser-ri.'" "But what I am worrying about," he continued when his song had been applauded, "is how you are going to get home. Our car has been put out of commission for the winter. Mag and I had to foot it over the hill this morning, but our path is high and dry, while the road to Grantly is something fierce. If you get off at Preston and go home with us, I'll get a rig and drive you over." "No, indeed, we couldn't think of it," objected Nan. "This is only the beginning of winter and we can't get off at Preston every day and impose on you and your father's horses to get us home. We shall just have to get some top boots and get through the mud somehow." "But you don't know that stream. If it was high this morning, by afternoon it will be way up. The Misses Grant should have told you what you were to expect. They should have a bridge there, but it seems Miss Ella wants a rustic bridge and Miss Louise thinks a stone bridge would be better, so they go a century with nothing but a ford." "Going home I mean to pull another rail off the fence and do some pole vaulting," declared Lucy. "I hope I can find Helen's big old rubber I left sticking in the mud." "It may stay there until the spring thawing," said Mag. "You had better stick to the path going home. It is better to stick than get stuck." "I wish I had some stilts," sighed Nan. "They would carry me over like seven league boots." "Can you walk on them?" asked Billy. "Sure! Walking on stilts is my one athletic stunt," laughed Nan. "I haven't tried for years but I used to do it with extreme grace." That afternoon Billy had a mysterious package that he stowed under the seats in the coach. "What on earth is that?" demanded Mag. "Larroes to catch meddlers!" "Please, Billy!" "Well, it's nothing but some fence rails to help Nan and Lucy get home. I'm afraid the Misses Grant will object if they pull down a fence every time they get stuck in the mud." The parcel proved to contain two pairs of bright red stilts found at a gentleman's furnishing store. They had been used to advertise a certain grade of very reliable trousers, of an English cut. Just before the train reached Preston Billy unearthed them and presented Nan and Lucy each with a pair. "Here are some straps, too, to put on your books to sling them over your shoulders. You can't walk on stilts and carry things in your hands at the same time. Tie your umbrellas to the stilts! So long!" and Billy fled from the coach before the delighted girls could thank him. Going home over the muddy road was very different from the walk they had taken that morning. In the first place it had stopped raining and their umbrellas could be closed and tied to the stilts. The air was cold and crisp now and there was a hint of snow. They stopped in the little station long enough to strap their books securely and get their packs on their backs, and then, mounting their steeds, they started on their way rejoicing. "I wonder if I can walk," squealed Nan. "It has been years and years since I tried," and she balanced herself daintily on the great long red legs. "Of course you can! Once a stilt walker, always a stilt walker!" cried Lucy, starting bravely off. Nan found the art was not lost and followed her sister down the muddy hill to the branch. Billy was right: it had been high in the morning but was much higher in the afternoon. The one stepping-stone that had kept its nose above water on their trip to town was now completely submerged. "Ugggh!" exclaimed Lucy. "My legs are floating!" And indeed it was a difficult feat to walk through deep rushing water on stilts. They have a way of floating off unless you put them down with a most determined push and bear your whole weight on them as you step. "Look at me! I can get through the water if I goose step!" cried Nan. "Isn't this the best fun ever? Oh, Nan, I pretty near love Billy for thinking of such a thing. Don't you?" "Well, I wouldn't say love exactly." "I would! I can't see the use in beating 'round the bush about such matters. He is certainly the nicest person we know and does more kind things for us." "He is nice and I do like him a lot," confessed Nan. "Better than the count and Mr. Tom Smith?" "I don't see what they have to do with it," and Nan got rosy from her exertion of goose stepping through the water and up the muddy hill. "Well, the old count talked about taking a trip with you to the land of dreaming, wherever that is, and Tom Smith took you on fine flying bats, but Billy here, he gets some stilts for you and lets you help yourself through the mud. I say, give me Billy every time!" "Billy is a nice boy; but Count de Lestis is an elegant, cultured gentleman; and Tom Smith--Tom Smith--he--he----" "I guess you are right--Tom Smith, Tom Smith he he! But flying machines wouldn't do much good here in the mud, and stilts will get us over the branch dry shod. There's Helen's rubber!" and Lucy adroitly lifted the little muddy shoe out of the mire on the end of one of her stilts and with a skillful twist of the wrist flopped it onto dry ground. When they reached the top of the hill where the road became better they hid their stilts in the bushes, up close to the fence, carefully covering them with dry leaves and brush. "Our flamingo legs," Nan called them. During that winter many times the girls crossed the swollen stream on those red stilts and truly thanked the kind Billy Sutton who had thought of them. They would cache them under the little station, there patiently and safely to await their return. It was always hard to walk through the water and on one dire occasion when the stream was outdoing itself, having burst all bounds and spread far up on the road, poor Nan goose stepped too far and fell backwards in the water. Fortunately it was on her homeward journey and she could get to Valhalla and change her dripping garments. She came across the following limerick of Frost's which she gleefully learned, feeling that it suited her case exactly: "'There was once a gay red flamingo Who said: By the Great Jumping Jingo! I've been in this clime An uncommon long time But have not yet mastered their lingo.'" CHAPTER XI PARADISE It was astonishing how quickly that winter of 1916 and '17 passed for those sojourners in Valhalla in spite of the fact that they were at times thoroughly uncomfortable. It is not an easy matter for persons, brought up in a modern, steam-heated house with three bath rooms, every form of convenience and plenty of trained servants, to adapt themselves to the simplicity of country life and that in its most primitive state. Hard as the life was it agreed with them, one and all. Douglas and Bobby walked to school, rain or shine, but their road lay in the uplands where the mud rarely got more than ankle deep. Nan and Lucy had to contend with much more serious conditions, but thanks to their flamingo legs they got by. The weather wasn't always bad by any means. There were wonderful clear sparkling days with the ground frozen hard, and then came the snow that meant sleigh rides with the Suttons and grand coasting parties. Mr. Carter was growing very robust from his labors of stopping up cracks and cutting fire wood. He gradually mended the leaks in the roof; puttied in the window panes; replaced the broken hinges and fastenings to doors and shutters; propped up sagging porch floors; and patched the cracked and fallen plastering. The Misses Grant viewed his efforts with mingled satisfaction and embarrassment. "We have intended to do all this for you, Mr. Carter, but Ella was so stubborn about the carpenter. She never would agree to having that new man at Preston, who is really quite capable," Miss Louise would explain. "Certainly not! We knew nothing about him and have always employed Dave Trigg----" "But you know perfectly well that Dave Trigg is doubled up with rheumatism," snapped Miss Louise. "Yes, and you know perfectly well, too, that that man at Preston has moved away," retaliated her tall sister, and so on would they wrangle. "I enjoy doing it," Mr. Carter would assure them. "My only fear is that I will get the place in such good order that you will raise our rent." Which sally would delight the souls of the ladies who were in danger of agreeing about one more thing, and that was the altogether desirability of the Carters and the especial desirability of Mr. Carter. Accepting Mrs. Carter at the extremely high valuation of her patient family, they were ever kind and considerate of her. Many were the dainty little dishes they sent to Valhalla from the great house to tempt the palate of their semi-invalid tenant, vying with each other in their attentions. "An' she jes' sets back an' takes it," Chloe would mutter. "Mis' Carter done set back so much that settin' back come nachel ter her now. "'My name is Jimmie An' I take all yer gimme.' "That's my ol' Mis'." Chloe and Helen had continued the lessons in reading and writing. The whitewashed kitchen walls bore evidence to much hard work on part of both teacher and pupil. Chloe had learned to cook many simple dishes and to write and spell all she cooked. By slow stages, so slow they were almost imperceptible, the girl was becoming an efficient servant. Her wages were raised to eight dollars a month in spite of the remonstrances of her sister Tempy, who thought she must serve as long as she had before she could make as much. "Sis Tempy been a-goin' over ter night school at the count's ev'y time she gits a chanst but she ain't ter say larned nothin'." Helen and Chloe were engaged in the delectable task of making mince pies for Christmas. Chloe had just electrified Helen by writing on the wall of her own accord: "Reseat fer miCe Pize." "What does she learn?" asked Helen, smiling as she deftly rolled the pastry. "She say they done started a kinder 'batin' siety an' ain't ter say foolin' much with readin' an' writin' an' sich. The secondary ain't so patient as what you is, an' he uster git kinder worked up whin the niggers wint ter sleep in school." "I fancy that would be trying." "They's drillin' 'em now an' they likes that 'cause the secondary done promised them from the count that some day he'll gib 'em uniforms. Niggers is allus keen on begalia." "Does Tempy drill, too?" "Lawsamussy, no! Women folks jes' sets an' watches. Tempy say she done march aroun' enough fer Miss Ellanlouise, an' as fer flingin' broomsticks--she does enough of that 'thout no German gemmun a-showin' her nothin' 'bout how ter do it." "Do they drill with broomsticks?" "Yassum, that's what they tell me, but they do say----" "Say what?" asked Helen as the colored girl hesitated. "They don't say nothin'!" "You started to tell me something they say about broomsticks." "I ain't started ter tell a thing!" and Chloe shut her mouth very tight and rolled her eyes back in a way she had that made you think she was going to turn herself inside out. "What do they debate about?" asked Helen amused at Chloe's sudden reserve. "They 'spute 'bout the pros an' cons of racin'." "Horse racing?" "I ain't so sho', but from what Sis Tempy done tol' me it mought be an' agin it moughtn't." "Does Tempy debate?" "Sis Tempy! Yi! Yi!" and Chloe went off in peals of laughter. "Sis Tempy can't argyfy with nothin' but a rollin' pin. She done put up a right good argymint only las' Sunday with her beau, that big slue-footed nigger, Jeemes Hanks." "What was the argument about?" "Jeemes he done say he's jes' as good as any white folks an' some better'n a heap er them. He say his vote don't count none an' he ain't able ter buy no good lan' jes' 'cause de white folks won't sell him none up clost ter they homes,--an' Sis Tempy ups an' tells him that his vote ain't no count 'cause he ain't no count hisse'f. She tells him that buzzards lays buzzard eggs an' buzzard eggs hatches out mo' buzzards; an' that made him hoppin' mad 'cause that nigger Jeemes sho' do set great sto' by hisse'f." "Does James feel that white people ought to sell him land whether they want to or not?" "'Zactly! He been wantin' ter buy a strip from Miss Ellanlouise up yander by the clarin', not so fur from the great house. They's glad enough ter sell some er that rocky lan' off over by the gravel pit, but they don't want no niggers fer clost neighbors." "And what did Tempy say?" "She never said nothin'. She jes' up'n driv him out'n the cabin with the rollin' pin. She tells him while she's a-lickin' him, though, that he's a-larnin' his a-b-c's upside down at the count's school an' fer her part she ain't a-goin' back." "Do you think the count is responsible for James's nonsense?" asked Helen. "I can't see how he got such notions from a gentleman like the count." "I ain't a-sayin'! I ain't a-sayin'!" and once more Chloe's mouth went shut with a determined click and she rolled her great eyes. Helen thought no more about it. Darkies were funny creatures, anyhow. Of course it was hard on James Hanks if he wanted to buy good ground and no one would sell it to him, but on the other hand one could hardly expect the Misses Grant to sell off their ancestral acres just to accommodate the slue-footed beau of their cook. Miss Ella and Louise were entirely unreconstructed as far as the colored people were concerned. They were kind to them when they were ill and helped them in many ways, but they never for an instant lost sight of the fact that they were of an inferior race nor did they let the darkies lose sight of the fact. They were not very popular with their negro neighbors although they were mutually dependent. Grantly had to depend on colored labor and many families among them got their entire living from Grantly. The medicine chest at the great house furnished castor oil and paregoric for all the sick pickaninnies for miles around; Miss Louise had to make up great jars of her wintergreen ointment so that the aching joints of many an old aunty or uncle might find some ease; while Miss Ella's willow bark and wild cherry tonic warded off chills and fevers from the mosquito infested districts down in the settlement in the swamps. The older members of the community of negroes appreciated the real goodness and kindness of the two old ladies and overlooked their overbearing ways, but the younger generation, who cared not for the ointment or tonic, could see nothing but arrogance in the really harmless old spinsters. Most of the former slaves, who had at one time belonged to Grantly, had passed away. The few who remained were old and feeble and these had many arguments with the younger ones, trying to make them see the real kindness and goodness of Miss Ellanlouise. "You done got fat on castor ile out'n the chist at Grantly whin you was a sickly baby," old Uncle Abe Hanks would say to his refractory grandson Jeemes. "An' you an' yo' paw befo' you was pulled from the grabe by parrygoric from dat same chist, an' now you set up here an' say: 'Down with southe'n 'ristocrats!' Humph! You'd better be a-sayin': 'Down with the castor ile an' parrygoric!' 'Down with the good strong soup an' fat back Miss Ellanlouise done sent yo' ol' gran'pap las' winter whin there warn't hide or har er his own flesh an' blood come nigh him!' Yes! They went down all right--down the red lane. You free niggers is got the notion you kin live 'thout the 'ristocrats. Why don't you go an' live 'thout 'em then? Nobody ain't a-holdin' you. As fer me--gib me 'ristocrats ev'y time!" "The Count de Lestis is as 'ristocratical as those ol' tabbies," the grandson would reply sullenly, "and he doesn't treat a colored gemman like he was a houn' dog." "'Ristocratical much! That furrener? You ain't got good sinse, boy. That there pretty little count didn't even come from Virginny an' all the 'ristocrats done come from Virginny one time er anudder. I done hear Ol' Marster say dat time an' time agin." "The count say he gonter sell us all the lan' we want. An' he say he gonter fetch over some nice, kind white folks ter live neighbors to us; white folks what is jes' as good as these white folks 'roun' here but who ain't a-gonter hol' theyselves so proudified like." "Yes! I kin see him now tu'nnin' loose a lot er po' white Guinnies what will take the bread out'n the mouth er the nigger. Them po' white furreners kin live on buzzard meat, an' dey don' min' wuckin' day in an' day out, an' if'n dey gits a holt in the lan' the nigger'll hab ter go. As fer a-livin' long side er niggers,--I tell you now, son, that the white folks what don't min' a-livin' long side er niggers is wuss'n niggers, an' I can't say no mo' scurrilous thing about them than that--wuss'n niggers!" A strong discontent was certainly brewing among the younger generation of negroes. Conversations similar to the one between Uncle Abe Hanks and James were not uncommon in the settlement that lay midway between Grantly and Weston. This settlement was known by the exceedingly appropriate name of Paradise. There were about a dozen cabins there, some of them quite comfortable and neat, others very poor and forlorn. There was a church, the pride of their simple hearts because it was built of brick; also a ramshackled old building known as "The Club." This club had originally been a tobacco barn, built, of course, without windows, for the curing of tobacco. In converting it into a club house, windows had been cut in the sides but with no fixed plan. Wherever a member decided it would be nice to have a window, a window was cut. No two were the same size or on the same level. Most of them were more or less on the slant, giving the building the appearance of having survived an earthquake. In this club house the secret societies met to hold their mysterious rites. Here they had their festivals and bazaars and sometimes, when the effects of protracted meetings had worn off and the ungodly were again to the fore, they would have dances that threatened to bring down the walls and roof of the rickety building. It was whispered through the county that a blind tiger was also operated there but this was not proven. Certainly there was much drunkenness at times in Paradise, considering the state was dry. Count de Lestis was very popular in Paradise. He always had a kind word for old and young. Then, too, he had work for them and paid them well. His fame spread and actually there was a boom in Paradise. Other negroes in settlements near by were anxious to move to Paradise. Town lots were in demand and the club had a waiting list for membership. The church was full to overflowing when on Sunday Brother Si took his stand in the little pulpit. Night school at Weston was something new and something to do, so the darkies flocked to it. Herz, the secretary, had his hands full trying to teach the mob that congregated three times a week to sit at the feet of learning. He did get angry occasionally when his pupils, tired out no doubt after a hard day's work, would fall asleep with audible attestations. CHAPTER XII HERZ Herz was in such strong contrast to his employer, the count, that he gave Helen and Douglas quite a shock when they first met him. They had walked over to Weston with their father, who had been prevailed upon to take the order for the restoration of the old mansion. Dr. Wright had been consulted as to the advisability of his trying to do this work and had approved of it as being something to occupy his patient without making him nervous. It meant many trips to Weston on the part of Mr. Carter and equally many to Valhalla on the part of the count. De Lestis had done very little talking about Herz, mentioning him usually rather in the tone of one speaking of a servant, but Helen came to the opinion the moment she looked at him that there was nothing servile about him; on the contrary, he was evidently the more intellectual of the two men. He was a little younger than the count, much taller, with broad spare shoulders and a back as straight as a board. His blue eyes were very near sighted, necessitating the wearing of very thick lenses in his large gold-rimmed spectacles. His hair was yellow and grew straight up on his head like wheat stubble. His brow was broad and high and well shaped. He really was a handsome man except that his mouth was too full lipped and so very red. His English was perfect with no touch of accent as with the count. He said he had been born in Cincinnati and his father was a naturalized American, so even Douglas, the strong pro ally, had to accept him as German in name only. Weston was a good three miles from Grantly by the road, but much closer if one took a path through the woods, skirting Paradise and approaching the old house from the rear. Truly it had been a grand estate in its day and de Lestis was determined to restore it to its pristine glory. He had owned the place about a year and had accomplished much in that time. The fences and gates were in perfect repair; the fields showed that good farming theories had already been put into practice; the woods, that some knowledge of forestry had been applied, as the undergrowth had been cleared away and useless timber been cut down to give room to valuable trees. "What a lot of money must have been spent here," said Douglas, noting the new fencing and well-built barns as they approached the house. "Yes, de Lestis seems to have unlimited supplies of cash. I fancy he is a man of great wealth," said Mr. Carter. "I have ordered a Delco light to be installed in his house. He spares no expense in restoring the old place. I was rather opposed to having the new lighting system. It seems such an anomaly in a colonial mansion." "But, Daddy, you wouldn't want the count to grope his way around with tallow dips," laughed Helen. "I fancy that was what was used when Weston was first built." "I'd have him do it rather than ruin the architectural effect of such a wonderful old house; but de Lestis has his own ideas about things and all he wants of me, after all, is to do the work of a contractor. As for Herz,--he has better taste than de Lestis, I believe." "Tell us about Herz, Daddy. You never have told us what he is like," demanded Helen. "You judge for yourselves," answered the father. The truth was that Mr. Carter had not known just what to make of Herz. Clever he was certainly and no underling, as they had gathered from de Lestis. This was the girls' first visit to Weston although the count had urged their coming many times. Douglas's school was dismissed for the Christmas holidays and she felt like a bird out of the cage: two whole weeks of delightful freedom ahead of her! Teaching had come easy to her and she had conquered Bobby and the other unruly pupils and felt that she was in a way getting on top of her work. The days passed rapidly and her school was in a fine condition, enthusiastic pupils and eager students. Nevertheless it was great to be having a holiday and she meant to make the most of it. She and Helen were planning a trip to Richmond after Christmas to visit Cousin Elizabeth Somerville. Lewis was stationed there with his company and his duties not being so very arduous, he hoped to spend much time with his favorite cousin. Valhalla was very lovely and the girls had grown very fond of it. Their plans for their father were working out and they knew they had done right in taking the place and moving the family to the country, but nevertheless they were looking forward with pleasure to the visit to Richmond and release from all of their duties for a few days. What glowing girls they were! Robert Carter looked at them with pardonable pride as they tramped through the woods, their cheeks crimson with the exercise in the cold air. How they had shown the "mettle of their pasture" when the time came for them to take hold! He had always known that Douglas had a certain bulldog tenacity that would make her keep her grip no matter what happened, but Helen had astonished him. When something had snapped in his tired brain he had instinctively turned to Douglas as the person to decide for the family welfare, but Helen had shown herself capable far beyond his hopes. He well knew that her part of the work was most difficult, and he saw with wonder her patience with her mother and with the seemingly impossible Chloe. "I'll make it all up to them," he said to himself. The doctor's prescription of country life and freedom from care with plenty of occupation for his hands was working wonders. This work he had been doing for de Lestis was not taxing his mind at all, and he suddenly realized that it was not because it was so easy but because his mind was in working order again. He felt his old power coming back to him, the power of concentration, of initiative. Sometimes he would try to lie awake at night just for the pleasure of feeling himself to be well. His illness had been a blessing in disguise since it had brought out all this latent fineness in his girls. It had somehow made them more beautiful, too, at least they seemed so in the eyes of their doting father. Approaching Weston from the rear, no one was in sight. Smoke arising from the kitchen chimney gave evidence of a servant's being somewhere. The yard was in perfect order, with no unsightly ash pile or tin cans to offend the eye. To one side Mr. Carter pointed out the rose garden that the count had taken much care of, spending hundreds of dollars on every known variety that would flourish in that latitude. Beyond were greenhouses and hot beds that furnished lettuce and cauliflower and spinach through the winter for the master's delicate palate. "Isn't it lovely?" gasped Helen. "It must be splendid to be rich." Mounting the broad steps leading to the pillared gallery they heard voices speaking in some foreign language, they could not tell whether it was German or not, and then a loud laugh and "Ach Gott!" in the count's unmistakable baritone. Through the window they saw the two men, de Lestis and Herz, bending over a table spread with papers. Herz was pointing out something to his employer which seemed to delight him, as he was laughing heartily. This was gathered only by one glance, as immediately the Carters passed beyond the angle through which they could view the interior of the room and Mr. Carter knocked on the front door. The door was not opened for several minutes. Evidently the count employed servants for such tasks and did not believe in opening doors with his own august hands. Helen gave an impatient rat tat again. She was not fond of waiting. The door was opened suddenly and by the count. "Ah! My good friends!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "I did not expect you until tomorrow, my dear Mr. Carter." "I came a day sooner because my daughters could come with me." "And what an honor!" He ushered them into the room where they had viewed him for the moment in passing. There were no papers on the table now and everything was in perfect order. The secretary was standing at attention, awaiting an introduction to the ladies. He bowed from his waist up, shutting up like a jack-knife. He had not the easy, graceful manners of the count, but seemed much blunter and less polished. One could not fancy his kissing the hand of a lady as the count was famous for doing. Love at first sight is supposed to happen only in books but it does happen sometimes in real life, and on that frosty day in December it came to pass in the library at Weston, came like a flash of lightning, came without warning and without being wanted. Certainly the secretary had not wanted to stop the work he was engaged in that seemed to be so engrossing; he did not even want to meet these Carter girls but had been forced into it by his employer. What good would it do him to fall in love? He cared not a whit for women, anyhow, despised them in fact. But the little blind god, Cupid, took none of these things into consideration. He simply let fly his dart and as Adolph Herz straightened himself up after making his stiff, jack-knife bow, the arrow hit him square in his heart. It was a toss of the penny which sister it should be; both of them were lovely, both of them rosy and charming. He looked at Douglas first, however, and never saw Helen at all, at least, seemed not to. He did not take his eyes from Douglas's face during the entire call. "Has the lighting system come yet?" asked Mr. Carter. "It should have been here by now." "Did you order one?" asked the count. "I understood I was to send the order and have done so. You sent it off, did you not, Herz?" "Certainly! A week ago!" "But you told me to order it," insisted Mr. Carter. "I am sure you did." "Why, that is all right, my dear fellow," said the count very kindly. "If both of them come it will make no difference. I can install one of them in the barn and garage." "Oh, but I cannot let you have the expense of both if I was at fault," and Mr. Carter looked distressed. Was his head not behaving as it should, after all? "Why, my dear Mr. Carter, it might easily have been my mistake and I cannot have you bothered about it. The expense is trifling. Miss Helen, help me to persuade your father that it is nothing." The count's manner was so kindly and he seemed so anxious to make Mr. Carter feel that if any mistake had been made he, the count, had made it that Helen was deeply grateful. How much she liked this foreign nobleman, anyhow. He was always so gracious, so suave, so elegant. His heart must be tender, his disposition good, or how could he make all of the poor colored people like him so much? Helen was fully aware of the fact that the count was attracted by her, but there had been times when she was sure he was equally taken with Douglas, and certainly his manner to Nan on several occasions had been one of devotion. He always seemed to be coming out on the train with Nan and Lucy, and Lucy had intimated that he had caused Billy Sutton many sad hours by "hogging" the seat by Nan. Could he be a flirt? Helen put the thought from her. She hated a male flirt. Nevertheless she was conscious of the fact that she had a little tiny twinge of jealousy, so tiny that it was only a speck, but it was there. "It's Douglas's hair and Nan's eyes," she thought. "I believe he thinks I'm more interesting than they are, though," and then she took herself to task for a foolish, vain girl. "What difference does it make to me, anyhow? What do we know of this stranger and what is he to us?" Now the girls gave their attention to the estate, for they were naturally interested in the work their father had undertaken. The workmen were through, carpenters, plasterers and painters, and the place had been turned over to Count de Lestis. Very beautiful it was and one for any owner to be proud of. The spacious hall, with its waxed floor and beautiful stairway with mahogany treads and bannisters, was as fine an example of southern colonial as one could find in the whole of Virginia. The furnishings were in keeping with the general plan of the house, as at Mr. Carter's suggestion an antique dealer and decorator from Richmond had had his finger in the pie. Much of the furniture had been bought with the house, being old mahogany that had been at Weston for more than a century. "How lovely it is!" gasped Helen as the doors to the great dining-room were thrown open. "I am so glad you like it," whispered the count in a very meaning tone. "I have your father to thank for its being so complete. Never have I seen work carried on so rapidly. I was afraid I would be living in the discomfort of shavings and mortar beds for months to come." "Daddy is always like that," said Helen smiling. Nothing pleased Helen so much as praise of her father. "He can always make workmen work. They say in Richmond that not even plumbers disappoint him. He always turns over his houses on time unless there is something absolutely unforeseen, like a strike or something." "I am indeed fortunate in having prevailed upon him to do this for me." "But he has enjoyed doing it so much. You see Daddy has not been able to work for so long and I think he had begun to feel that maybe he had lost out, and this proves that he hasn't. He does not know how to be idle. Why last summer when he was supposed to do nothing but rest he drew the plans and built bird houses for Bobby." "Ah, indeed! I am so glad you reminded me of something. Mr. Carter," he called to that gentleman who was critically examining some electric wiring recently put in ready for the Delco batteries which were on the way, "I want now some plans for bird houses if such trivial work is not beneath you. I want bird houses for every kind of feathered songster that can be attracted and persuaded to live at Weston." "How wonderful!" cried Helen and Douglas in chorus. Douglas had been engaged in conversation by the secretary, who was limbering up in an amazing manner. He was most attentive, showing her into every nook and cranny of the old house. He opened sideboards and cabinets to reveal the exquisite finish of the satinwood drawers and shelves; he took down bits of rare old china from the plate rack in the dining-room, explaining the marks on the bottoms. He was so kind that Douglas almost liked him, but not quite. "Adolph Herz is too German in sound," the Anglo-Saxon in her cried out. "And then his mouth! It is so red!" "Certainly I'll enjoy drawing plans for bird houses," laughed Mr. Carter. "I shall even take pleasure in carpentering them. They are really lots of fun to make." "I agree with you," said Herz. "Simply drawing a design is never so much pleasure as carrying it out. How a sculptor can be willing to do only the clay modeling of his statue and then let someone else carve the marble is more than I can understand. When I think of something to be done, I must do it myself--trust it to no one." "Well, I am a lazy bones myself and anyone can do my work," laughed the count. "Now Adolph here has drawn the plan for a pigeon house and he wants to build it himself. I tell him it is absurd, that any carpenter can carry out his ideas, but he will not listen to me. Adolph is a very stubborn man, Miss Carter." He addressed this remark to Douglas who smiled at the young secretary. He was frowning heavily and his full lips were drawn into a hard red line. The count caught his eye and gave him a bantering look in return. "Come on, Adolph, and show Mr. Carter your plans for the pigeon house!" "They are not completed," he answered sullenly. "I am quite a pigeon fancier," went on the master of Weston. "They are charming birds to raise and one can make much money on squabs. We are going into pigeon raising quite seriously. I think we shall build a very large house. Eh, Adolph?" "Where will you put the pigeon house?" asked Mr. Carter. "Right there on the roof, about in the centre of the house," said the count, pointing to the top of the mansion. "Not there! Surely you would not do such a thing!" cried Helen incredulously. "Why not?" "It would ruin the architectural effect of Weston," declared Mr. Carter. "I think not!" "Well, I know it would," maintained the architect stoutly. "Why, de Lestis, all of my work would be as nothing if you should put a pigeon house there. I beg of you not to!" "But, my dear Mr. Carter, I am a pigeon fancier and want my pigeons at a point where I can watch them twirling and dipping. I love their cooing, too." "All right! It is your house and you can do as you choose with it, but please do not mention me as the architect who restored the place. I cannot stand for such a piece of Philistinism." Mr. Carter laughed as he made the above remark, but his daughters knew by a certain look in his eyes that he was angry. "Are you to have carrier pigeons?" asked Douglas, hoping to relieve the company of an embarrassment that seemed to have fallen upon it. The secretary still had his mouth drawn in a stern line although he had smoothed his frowning brow. Helen was plainly put out at the count's daring to go against her father's artistic taste, while Count de Lestis seemed to be taking a kind of delight in teasing everybody. "If you will promise to send me a message, I will," he answered gallantly. "Oh, that would be great fun! I have never seen a carrier pigeon." The count then devoted himself to Douglas for the rest of the visit, showing her the pantry shelves that he had on one occasion expressed himself as desirous for Helen to pass on. "All we need now is a lady of the manor," he said in a low tone. "It is not meet for man to live alone." Douglas looked at him quite frankly, her blue eyes steady as she gazed into his black ones. "Can't your mother come and keep house for you?" she asked quite simply. There was no flirting in Douglas Carter's make-up. Herz, who refused to go far from her in spite of the count's sudden devoted attentions, relaxed his grim expression that he had held ever since the pigeon house had been the subject of conversation. His mouth broke into a smile and his easy manner returned. The Carters soon took their departure, although the master of the house was insistent that they should stay to tea with them. "We must get back to Valhalla," declared Douglas. "Valhalla! Is that the name of your place?" asked Herz. "That is the name my sister Nan gave it. She says we are all more or less dead warriors when the day is over. I don't like giving it such a German name myself, but Nan says poetry is universal and---- Oh! I beg your pardon!" The girl had forgotten that her companion was of German birth. "Do you dislike the Germans so much?" he asked. "Not the German people----" she stammered. "Just the Imperial Government!" "But aren't the people the Government?" "I hope not." "Ah, so Miss Carter has opened fire on you, too, has she?" laughed de Lestis. "If there were more fighters like her among the Allies, poor Germany would have her banners trailing in the dust by now." "I did not mean to be rude to Mr. Herz," said Douglas. "I am too prejudiced in favor of France and England to remember my manners. If I have injured you, I beg your pardon," and she gave the secretary her hand in good-by. He blushed like a schoolgirl and stammered out some unintelligible something. De Lestis renewed his attentions to Helen just as though he had not been hovering over her sister with tender nothings. "He is a flirt!" thought Helen. "I think I can give him as good as he sends, but I am beginning to hate him." She dimpled to his remarks, however, and as she bade him good-by at the door she smiled saucily into his eyes. "To think of that man's being willing to ruin his roof line," sighed Mr. Carter as he and his daughters started on their homeward walk. "Just look how beautiful it is," pointing to the old chimneys where the roof melted into the sky. "It is a shame," cried Helen. "But how cold it is! There now, I left my gloves on the library table." "Run back and get them, honey; Douglas and I will wait for you here by the stile." Helen ran back. Once more she glanced into the library where on their arrival they had caught a glimpse of the two men bending over the papers. Now what was her astonishment to see the secretary actually shaking the count, who was laughing heartily. The secretary's eyes were flashing as he blurted out the words: "Fool! Fool!" The count opened the door quickly this time at her knock. "Your gloves! I found them and almost hoped you would leave them with me, but the little hands would have been so cold. Indeed, they are so cold," and he gallantly kissed them. Helen seized her gloves and with glowing cheeks raced back to her father and sister. She gave her hands a vigorous rubbing on her grey corduroy skirt before she put on her gloves as though she might rub off the kiss. In the excitement over the dénouement of the visit she forgot for the time being that she had caught the secretary shaking his employer and calling him a fool. CHAPTER XIII GOOSE STEPPING The winter wore on. Our warriors were fighting the good fight and each night as they gathered round the cheerful fire in the great chimney in the living-room at Valhalla they had tales to tell of difficulties overcome. Of course there were failures, many of them, but each failure meant a lesson learned and better luck next time. Douglas had days when the little ideas refused to shoot and her pupils seemed to be just so many wooden dolls, but she learned the rare lesson, that teachers must learn if they are to be successful: when a class won't learn, and can't learn, and doesn't want to learn, there is something the matter with the teacher. When she came to this realization she took herself to task, and the dark days came farther and farther apart. The letter she had written Dr. Wright had had a most salutary effect on Bobby. That young physician had taken the naughty boy for a long ride and had given him a man to man talk, first temporarily dismissing him from his employ and sternly forbidding him to hold out his hand when they were going around corners. He was not allowed to blow the horn at dangerous curves and all of his honors were stripped from him. "It nearly killed me to do it," George Wright confessed to Helen. "I couldn't look him in the eye for fear of weakening, but he took it like the little man he is. I fancy Douglas will have no more trouble with him for a while. I am glad she asked me to help her out. It is no joke to teach your own flesh and blood. Bobby says he thought that Douglas was just playing school and he didn't know he was really bothering her. He knows now and is even prepared to lick any boy not twice his size who disturbs his sister." Count de Lestis seemed to have much business that took him away from Weston. Sometimes he was gone for several weeks at a time, but when he returned he would drop in at Valhalla as though he had not been away at all. He was always a welcome visitor. Mrs. Carter greeted him as a long lost friend. He seemed to be the incarnation of the social world to the poor little lady, destined to spend her days out of her element. Mr. Carter had almost forgiven him the pigeon house, but not quite. "There is something lacking, somehow, in a man who would do such a thing," he had declared to Helen. The pigeon house was built by the secretary, according to his own plans and specifications, and placed on the roof, where it loomed an eyesore to the artistic. Truly they seemed to be going into pigeon raising in good earnest. It was a huge affair, large enough to accommodate many pigeons; and then, with the careless expenditure of money that seemed to characterize the master of Weston, crates of pigeons arrived and were installed in their new quarters. "The carrier pigeons have not come, but when they do I'll bring one to you," the count said to Douglas, "and you must promise to send me a message." The girl laughingly promised. The count was still doing what Helen called "browsing." He flitted from sister to sister, whispering his tender nothings and for the moment seeming all devotion to the one with whom he happened to be. "Thank goodness, I found out in time what a flirt he is!" Helen whispered to her inmost self. "Once, for just a fraction of a second, I was jealous of Douglas and of Nan, too. His house is so lovely and he is so rich and handsome and so fascinating, and I do so hate to be poor! But I can't abide a male flirt!" Nevertheless, Helen was very glad to see the count when he called at Valhalla and she was very successful in hiding her real feelings from that gentleman, who twirled his saucy moustache in masculine satisfaction when he thought of the attractive girl who so courteously received his attentions. Douglas's indifference rather piqued him and he was constantly trying to break through it, but no matter what flattering remarks he made to her she never seemed to know they were intended for her, Douglas Carter. "That young soldier is at the bottom of it!" he would exclaim to himself after trying his best to get an answering spark from this girl who appeared so altogether lovely in his eyes, more lovely and desirable because of her indifference, and then, too, because he knew instinctively that Herz was hopelessly in love with her; and many men are like sheep and go where others lead. The secretary was becoming a real nuisance to Douglas, who in a way liked him, but who never got over his very German name and his red, red mouth. He so often seemed to know exactly the moment when she was to dismiss school and would appear as she locked the schoolhouse door and quietly join her on the walk home. He was very interesting and Douglas much preferred him to the count, who could not be with any female for more than a few moments without bordering on love-making of some kind. Herz had a great deal of information and this he would impart to Douglas in quite the manner of a professor as he walked stiffly by her side. Bobby was not at all in favor of sharing the walks home with this tall, stiff stranger. Ever since Dr. Wright's talk with him he had considered himself Douglas's protector, and he liked to pretend that as they went along the lonesome road and skirted the dark pine woods he was going to shoot imaginary bandits who infested their path. He couldn't play any such game with this matter-of-fact man stalking along by their side, explaining to Douglas some intricate point in philosophy. "Say, kin you goose step?" he asked one day when Herz was especially irritating to him. Bobby had a "bowanarrow" hid in the bushes by the branch, with which he had intended to kill many Indians on their homeward walk. "Yes, of course!" came rather impatiently from Herz, who thought children should be seen and not heard and that this especial child would be well neither seen nor heard. "Well, do it!" "Bobby, don't bother Mr. Herz," Douglas admonished. "He kin talk an' goose step at the same time," Bobby insisted. Herz began solemnly to goose step, expounding his philosophy as he went. Bobby shrieked with delight. This wasn't such a bad companion, after all. It was so ridiculous that Douglas could hardly refrain from shouting as loud as Bobby. "Is that the way the German soldiers really walk?" asked Bobby. "So I am told." "Where did you learn to do it?" asked Douglas. "I--I--at a school where I was educated." "Oh, but you are an American, so the count told me." "I am an American." This was uttered in a very dead tone. The man suddenly turned on his heel and with a muttered good-by disappeared. "Ain't he a nut, though?" exclaimed Bobby. "He is peculiar," agreed Douglas. "Do you like for him to walk home with you, Dug?" "I don't know whether I do or not." "Well, I don't like it a bit, 'cep'n, of co'se, when he goose steps an' then it's great. I seen a colored fellow a-goose steppin' the other day, an' he says he learned it at the count's school what Mr. Herz is a-teachin'. He says they call it settin' up exercises, but he would like to do some settin' down exercise. I reckon he was tryin' to make a kinder joke." CHAPTER XIV AN EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY Every American will always remember that winter of 1917 as being one of extreme unrest. Would we or would we not be plunged into the World War? Should we get in the game or should we sit quietly by and see Germany overrun land and sea? Valhalla was not too much out of the world to share in the excitement, and like most of the world was divided in its opinions. Douglas and her father were for the sword and no more pens. Helen and Mrs. Carter felt it was a pity to mix up in a row that was not ours, although in her secret soul Helen knew full well that the row was ours and if war was to be declared she would be as good a fighter as the next. Nan was an out and out pacifist and declared the world was too beautiful to mar with all of this bloodshed. Lucy insisted that Nan got her sentiments from Count de Lestis, who had been "hogging" a seat by her sister quite often in the weeks before that day in March when diplomatic relations with Germany were broken off by our country. As for Lucy: she could tell you all about the causes of the war and was quite up on Bismarck's policy, etc. She delighted her father with her knowledge of history and her logical views of the present situation. She and Mag were determined to go as Red Cross nurses if we did declare war, certain that if they tucked up their hair and let down their dresses no one would dream they were only fourteen. Bobby walked on his toes and held his head very high, trying to look tall, hoping he could go as a drummer boy or something if he could only stretch himself a bit. "Good news, girls!" cried Helen one evening in February when they had drawn their seats around the roaring fire piled high with wood cut by Mr. Carter, whose muscles were getting as hard as iron from his outdoor work. "What?" in a chorus from the girls, always ready for any kind of news, good or bad. "The count is going to have a ball!" "Really? When?" "On the twenty-second of February! He says if he gives a party on Washington's birthday nobody can doubt his patriotism." "Humph! I don't see what business he has with patriotism about our Washington," muttered Lucy. "But he does feel patriotic about the United States, he told me he did," said Nan. "I think he means to take out his naturalization papers in the near future," said Mr. Carter. "He tells me he feels very lonesome now that he is in a way debarred from his own country," sighed Mrs. Carter. "That book he wrote has made the Kaiser very angry." "Well, after the war is over that book will raise him in the estimation of all democracies," suggested Douglas. "Mag says that Billy wrote to Brentano's to try and get him that book and they say they can't find it; never heard of it," blurted out Lucy. "It has perhaps not been translated into English," said Helen loftily. "Mag says that that's no matter. Brentano will get you any old book in any old language if it is in existence." "How can they when a book has been suppressed? I reckon the Kaiser is about as efficient about suppressing as he is about everything else. Well, book or no book, I'm glad to be going to a ball. He says we must ask our friends from Richmond and he is going to invite everybody in the county and have a great big splendid affair, music from Richmond, and supper, too." "Kin I go?" asked Bobby, curling up in Helen's lap, a way he had of doing when there was no company to see him and sleep was getting the better of him. "Of course you can, if you take a good nap in the daytime." "Daddy and Mumsy, you will go, surely," said Douglas. "Yes, indeed, if your mother wants to! I'm not much of a dancer these days, but I bet she can outdance any of you girls. Eh, Mother?" "Not as delicate as I am now; but of course I shall go to the ball to chaperone my girls," said the little lady plaintively. "I doubt my dancing, however." "He says we must ask Dr. Wright and Lewis and any other people we want. He says he is really giving this ball to us because we have been so hospitable to him," continued Helen. "We haven't been any nicer to him than Miss Ella and Miss Louise," said Lucy, who seemed bent on obstructing. "But they are too old to have balls given to them," laughed Helen. "They are going, though. I went to see them this afternoon with Count de Lestis and they are just as much interested as I am. They asked the privilege of making the cakes for the supper and he was so tactful that he did not tell them he was to have a grand caterer to do the whole thing. The old ladies just love to do it, and one is to make angel's food and one devil's food. "The Suttons are going," and Helen held the floor without interruptions because of the subject that was interesting to all the family. "Mr. Sutton says if the roads permit he will send his big car to take our whole family, and if the roads are too bum he will have the carriage out for Mrs. Sutton and Mumsy, and all of us can go in the hay wagon." "Grand! I hope the roads will be muddy up to the hubs!" cried Lucy. "Hay wagons are lots more fun than automobiles." "Hard on one's clothes, though," and Helen looked a little rueful. The question of dress was important when one had nothing but old last year's things that were so much too narrow. "What are you going to wear to the ball?" asked Douglas that night when she and Helen were snuggling down in their bed in the little room up under the roof. "I haven't anything but my rose chiffon. It is pretty faded looking and hopelessly out of style, but I am going to try to freshen it up a bit. Ah me! I don't mind working, but I do wish I were not an unproductive consumer. I'd like to make some money myself and sometimes buy something." Douglas patted her sister consolingly. "Poor old Helen! I do feel so bad about you." "Well, you needn't! But I did see such a love of a dancing frock when we were down town that day with Cousin Elizabeth: white tulle over a silver cloth with silver girdle and trimmings. It was awfully simple but so effective. I could just see myself in it. I ought to be ashamed to let clothes make so much difference with me, but I can't help it. I am better about it than I was at first, don't you think?" "I think you are splendid and I also think you have the hardest job of all to do: working all the time and never making any money." The next morning Douglas held a whispered conversation with Nan before they got off to their respective schools. "See what it costs but don't let Helen know. She will be eighteen tomorrow, and if it isn't worth a million, I am going to take some of my last month's salary and get it for her." When Nan, who was not much of a shopper, approached the great windows of Richmond's leading department store, what was her joy to see the very gown that Douglas had described to her displayed on Broad Street and marked down to a sum in the reach of a district school teacher. "It looks so like Helen, somehow, that I can almost see her wearing it in place of the wax dummy," exclaimed Nan. "Must I charge it, Miss Carter?" asked the pleasant saleswoman as she took the precious dress out of the show-window. "Please, Miss Luly, somehow I'd rather not charge it, but I haven't the money today. Couldn't you fix it up somehow so I could take it with me and bring you the money tomorrow? We don't charge any more, but if I don't buy it right now I'm so afraid somebody else might get it." The smiling saleswoman, who had been waiting on the Carters ever since the pretty Annette Sevier came a bride to Richmond, held a conference with the head of the firm on how this could be managed. "Miss Nan Carter is very anxious not to charge, but can't pay until tomorrow." "Ummm! A little irregular! What Carter is it?" "Mr. Robert Carter's daughter!" "Let her have it and anything else she wants on any terms she wishes. Robert Carter's name on a firm's books is the same as money in the bank. I have wondered why his account has been withdrawn from our store," and the head of the firm immediately dictated a letter to his former patron, requesting in polite terms that he should run up as big a bill as he wished and that he could pay whenever he got ready. So very polite was the letter that one almost gathered he need not pay at all. Mr. Carter laughed aloud when he read the letter, remembering those days not yet a year gone by when the bills used to pile in on the first of every month and he would feel that they must be paid immediately and the only way to do it was redouble his energy and work far into the night. The flat box with the precious dancing dress was not an easy thing to carry on stilts, but the lane was muddy and Nan had to do it somehow. With much juggling she got safely over the dangers of the road and smuggled it into the house without Helen's seeing it. "I got it!" Nan whispered to Douglas when she could get her alone. "But you didn't have the money! I asked you to find out the price first," said Douglas, fearing Nan, in her zeal, had overstepped the limit in price. "I didn't want anything charged. I am so afraid we might get started to doing it again." "Never! I just kind of borrowed it until tomorrow. You see I struck a sale and they couldn't save it for me because there were only a few of them. I told them I couldn't charge but would bring the money tomorrow, and Miss Luly fixed it up for me, somehow, and told me I could have the whole department store on any terms I saw fit to dictate." Morning dawned on Helen's eighteenth birthday but found her in not very jubilant spirits. It isn't much fun to have an eighteenth birthday when you have to bounce out of bed and rush into your clothes to see that a poor ignorant country servant doesn't make the toast and scramble the eggs before she even puts a kettle of water on for coffee. Chloe always progressed backwards unless Helen was there to do the head work. Helen found Chloe had already descended her perilous ladder and had the stove hot and the kettle on as a birthday present to her beloved mistress. Chloe really adored Helen and did her best to learn and remember. The breakfast table was set, too, and Chloe's eyes were shining as though she had something to say but wild horses would not make her say it. The sisters came in at the first tap of the bell and her father was in his place, too. Helen started to seat herself at her accustomed place, but at a shout from Lucy looked before she sat. Her chair was piled high with parcels. "Happy birthday, honey!" said Douglas. "Happy birthday, daughter!" from Mr. Carter. "Happy birthday! Happy birthday!" shouted all of them in chorus. "Why, I didn't know anybody remembered!" cried Helen. "Not remember your eighteenth birthday! Well, rather!" said Mr. Carter. Then began the opening of the boxes while Chloe stood in the corner grinning for dear life. A pearl pin from Mrs. Carter, one she had worn when she first met her husband, was in the small box on top. An old-fashioned filigree gold bracelet was Mr. Carter's gift. It had belonged to his mother, for whom Helen was named. "It will look very lovely on your arm, my dear," he said when Helen kissed him in thanks. Cousin Elizabeth Somerville had sent her ten dollars in gold; Lewis, some new gloves; there was a vanity box from Lucy with a saucy message about always powdering her nose; a little thread lace collar from Nan, made by her own hands; and to balance all was a five-pound box of candy from Dr. Wright. "I had a big marble for you, but it done slipt out'n my pocket," said Bobby, and then he had to give a big hug and a kiss, which Helen declared was better than even a marble. "But you haven't opened your big box, the one at the bottom," insisted Nan. It had got covered up with papers and Helen had overlooked it. "Please hurry up and open it because Lucy and I have to beat it. It will be train time before we know it." As Helen untied the strings and unwrapped the tissue paper that was packed around the contents of the big box you could have heard a pin drop in that dining-room at Valhalla. She eagerly pulled aside the papers and then shook out the glimmering gown. "Oh, Douglas! Douglas! You shouldn't have done it! It is even prettier than I remembered it to be!" "Mind out, don't splash on it," warned Nan just in time to keep the two great tears that welled up into Helen's eyes from spotting the exquisite creation. "My Miss Helen's gwinter look like a angel whin she goes ter de count's jamboree," declared Chloe. "Well, your Miss Douglas is the angel and she's going to have to have a new dress with slits in the shoulder-blades to let her wings come through," sobbed Helen, laughing at the same time as she held the dress up in front of her and danced around the table. She had thought nobody remembered her eighteenth birthday and now found nobody had forgotten it. "You shouldn't have afforded it, Douglas. I can't keep it. It would be too selfish of me." "Marked down goods not sent on approval," drawled Nan. CHAPTER XV BLACK SOCIALISM Sergeant Somerville and Private Tinsley accepted the invitation to the count's ball with alacrity. Their company had been mustered out just in the nick of time for them to obtain indefinite leave. It was rumored that they were to be taken in again, this time as regulars, but the certainty of having no military duties to perform for the time being was very pleasant to our two young men. The Carter girls had taken the count at his word and invited several friends from Richmond to stay at Valhalla and attend the ball. Dr. Wright was eager to come and with the recklessness of physicians who use their cars for business and not for pleasure, he made the trip in his automobile. He had a new five-seated car, taking the place of his former runabout. "M. D.'s and R. F. D.'s have to travel whether roads are good or bad," he had declared. The two young soldiers and Tillie Wingo had the hardihood to risk their necks with him, and at the last minute he picked up Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury, who had been invited by Lucy so that she and Mag would not have to be wall flowers. Six persons in a five-passenger car insures them from much jolting, as there is no room to bounce. Tillie was in her element with five pairs of masculine ears to chatter in. She and Bill were still engaged "in a way," as she expressed it, although neither one of them seemed to regard it very seriously. Tillie insisted upon making a secret of it as much as she was capable, so that in Bill's absence she might not be laid on the shelf. "The fellows don't think much of an engaged girl," she said frankly, "and I have no idea of taking a back seat yet awhile." The recklessness of the guests in coming over Virginia roads in an automobile in the month of February was nothing to the recklessness of the Carters in inviting six persons to spend the night with them when they possessed but one small guest chamber. "We can manage somehow," Helen declared, "and, besides, we will be out so late dancing there won't be much use in having a place to sleep, because we won't have any time to sleep." "Only think of all of those bedrooms at Grantly with nobody in them!" exclaimed Lucy. "Those old ladies might just as well ask some of us up there, but they will never think of it, I know." "If they do, they will disagree about which ones to ask and which rooms to put them in, and we will never get the invitation," laughed Helen. "Anyhow, they are dear old ladies and I am mighty fond of them." Helen often ran up to the great house to ask advice from the Misses Grant about household affairs and was ever welcome to the lonely old women. "They are certainly going to the ball, aren't they?" asked Douglas. "They wouldn't miss it for worlds. They are having a time just now, though, because Tempy has left them. They can't find out what her reason is and feel sure she didn't really want to go; now her sister Chloe is so near she seemed quite content, but for weeks she has been in a peculiar frame of mind and the last few days they have caught her in tears again and again. They sent for Dr. Allison, who lives miles and miles from here, but Miss Ella and Miss Louise will trust no other doctor. He says as far as he can tell she is not ill. Anyhow, she has gone home, and today their man-servant departed, also. Of course they might draw on the field hands for servants, but they hate to do it because they are so very rough. They have had this man-servant for years and years, ever since he was a little boy, and they can't account for his going, either. He had a face as long as a ham when he left them and gave absolutely no excuse except that his maw was sick, and as Miss Ella says, 'His mother has been dead for ten years, and she ought to know, since she furnished the clothes in which she was buried.' Miss Louise said she had only been dead eight, and they were her clothes, but they agree that she is dead at least, and can't account for Sam's excuse." "Poor old ladies, I am sorry for them," said Douglas. On the day of the ball, there was much furbishing up of finery at Valhalla. Mr. Carter's dress suit had to be pressed and his seldom used dress studs unearthed. Mrs. Carter forgot all about being an invalid and was as busy and happy as possible, trying dresses on her daughters to see that their underskirts were exactly the right length and even running tucks in with her own helpless little hands. "It is a good thing I don't have to think about my own outsides," said Helen, "as all of my time must be spent in planning for our guests' insides. I tell you, six more mouths to fill is going to keep Chloe and me hustling." "It sho' is an' all them dishes ter wash is goin' ter keep me hustlin' some mo'," grumbled Chloe. "An' then I gotter go ter the count's an' stir my stumps." "I am sorry, but I am going to give you a nice holiday after it is all over," said her young mistress kindly. The count had asked Helen to bring Chloe to look after the ladies in the dressing-room. "I ain't a-mindin' 'bout dishes. I's jes' a-foolin'---- Say, Miss Helen, what does potatriotic mean?" "Patriotic? That means loving your country and being willing to give up things for it and help save it. Everybody should be patriotic." "But s'posin' yer ain't got no country?" "Why, Chloe, everybody has a country, either the place where you were born or the place where you have been living long enough to love and feel that it is yours." "But niggers is been livin' here foreveraneveramen, an' still they ain't ter say got no country." "Why, you have! Don't you think Uncle Sam would look after you and fight for you if you needed his help?" "I ain't got no Uncle Sam, but I hear tell that he wouldn't raise his han' ter save a nigger, but yit if'n they's a war that he'll 'spec' the niggers ter go git shot up fer him." "Why, Chloe! How can you say such a thing?" "I ain't er sayin' it--I's jes' a-sayin' I hears tell." "Who told it to you?" "Nobody ain't tol' it ter me. I jes' hearn it." "Well, it's not true." "I hearn, too, that they's plenty er money ter go 'roun' in this country, but some folks what thinks they's better'n other folks has hoarded an' hoarded 'til po' folks can't git they han's on a nickel. An' I hearn that they's gonter be distress an' misery, an' wailin' an' snatchin' er teeth 'til some strong man arouses an' makes these here rich folks gib up they tin. Nobody ain't a-gonter know who dat leader will be, he mought be white an' thin agin he mought be black, but he's a-gonter be a kinder sabior." "How is he going to manage?" asked Helen, amused at what sounded like a sermon the girl might have heard from the rickety pulpit of the brick church. "I ain't hearn, but I done gib out ter all these niggers that my white folks ain't got no tin put away here in this Hogwallow or whatever Miss Nan done named it. They keeps their money hot a-spendin' it, I tells 'em all." Helen laughed, and with a final touch at the supper table and a last peep at the sally lunn muffins, which were rising as they should, she started to go help her mother with the dancing frocks and their petticoats that would show discrepancies. "Say, Miss Helen, is you sho' Miss Ellanlouise is goin' ternight?" asked Chloe, following her up the steps. "Yes, Chloe, I'm sure." "An', Miss Helen, if'n folks ain't got no country ter love what ought they do?" "Why, love one another, I reckon. Love the people of their own race, and try to help them." "Oughtn't folks ter love they own color better'n any other?" "Why, certainly!" "If'n some of yo' folks got into trouble, what would you do?" "Why, I'd help them out if I could." "Even if'n they done wrong?" "Of course! They would still be my own people." "If they ain't ter say done it but is a-gonter do it, thin what would you do?" "I'd try to stop them." "Would you tell on 'em?" "I'd try to stop them first. Who has done wrong or is going to do it, Chloe?" "Nobody ain't done wrong an' I ain't a-never said they is. I ain't said a word. This talk was jes' some foolishness I done made up out'n my haid. But say, Miss Helen,--I'd kinder like ter stop at Mammy's cabin over to Paradise befo' I gits ter de count's. I kin take my foot in my han' an' strike through the woods an' beat the hay wagin thar, it goin' roun' by the road." "All right, Chloe!" Helen rather fancied that Chloe wanted to see her sister, who was evidently contemplating some imprudence. She had been threatening to marry James Hanks, but her people had shown themselves very much opposed to it. Perhaps the girl was on the eve of an elopement which had called forth all of the above conversation from her sister. Where did she get all of those strange socialistic ideas? Was Lewis Somerville right and was the little learning a dangerous thing for these poor colored people? Surely she had helped Chloe by the little teaching she had given her. The girl was like another creature. She seemed now to have self-respect, and Helen felt instinctively that her loyalty to her and her family was almost a religion with her. CHAPTER XVI DRESSING FOR THE BALL "How are Miss Ella and Louise going?" asked Douglas, as she stooped for a parting glance in the mirror which the sloping ceiling necessitated hanging so low that a girl as tall as Douglas could not see above her nose without bending double. "In their phaeton," answered Helen. "They don't mind driving themselves. I asked them. You see with Sam gone they can't get out the big old rockaway." "They must keep along near the hay wagon. Such old ladies should not be alone on the road," said Douglas. "I dare you to tell them that! They have no fear of anything or anybody. They say they have lived alone in this county for so many, many years that they are sure nobody will ever harm them." "Well, I am sure nobody ever would," said Nan. The girls had decided that the only way to take care of so many guests was to double up "in layers," as Lucy called it. Bobby was sent over into the new house with Lewis and Bill, his old tent mates, for whom Nan and Lucy had vacated their room while they came over to the old house and brought Tillie Wingo with them. "Three in a double bed and two in a single bed wouldn't be so bad after a ball," Nan had declared. Dressing for the ball was the more difficult feat, however. The ceiling was so low and sloping and Tillie Wingo did take up so much room with her fluffy ruffles. The Carter girls were glad to see the voluble Tillie. She was such a gay, good-natured person and seemed so pleased to be included in this pleasure party. She looked as pretty as a pink in a much beruffled painted chiffon; and while they were dressing, she obligingly showed Helen the very latest steps in dancing. Helen was charming in her birthday present dress. Nan declared she looked like the princess in the fairy tale with the dress like the moonlight. "With all my finery, I don't look nearly so well as you do, Douglas," Helen declared. Indeed Douglas was beautiful. She had on the graduating dress, the price of which had caused her so much concern the spring before. With careful ripping out of sleeves and snipping down of neck, Mrs. Carter had converted it into an evening dress with the help of a wonderful lace fichu, something left over from her own former splendor. The sight of her eldest daughter all dressed in the ball gown brought tears of regret to poor Mrs. Carter's eyes. "What a débutante you would have made!" she sighed. "You have a queenly something about you that is quite rare in a débutante and might have made the hit of the season." "Oh, Mumsy, I'm a much better district school teacher!" and Douglas blushed with pleasure at her mother's rare praise. The girl had seen a subtle difference in her mother's manner to her ever since she had felt it her duty to take a stand about their affairs. Mrs. Carter was ever gentle, ever courteous, but Douglas knew that she looked upon her no longer as her daughter somehow,--rather as a kind of taskmistress that Fate had set over her. The young men were gathered in the living-room waiting for the girls and when they burst upon them in all the glory of ball gowns they quite dazzled them. "Douglas!" gasped Lewis in an ill-concealed whisper, "you somehow make me think of an Easter lily." "Well, I don't feel like one a bit. I can't fancy an Easter lily's dancing, and I mean to dance every dance I get a chance and all the others, too." "I reckon I can promise you that," grinned her cousin. Bill Tinsley made no ado of taking the pretty Tillie in his arms and opening the ball with a whistled fox trot. "I'm going to get the first dance with you, and to make sure I'll just take it now, please." "Don't you like my dress?" asked Helen, twirling around on her toe before Dr. Wright, whose eyes plainly showed that he not only liked the dress but what was in the dress rather more than was good for the peace of mind of a rising young nerve specialist. "Lovely!" he exclaimed, not looking at the dress at all, but at the charming face above the dress. "Douglas gave it to me for a birthday present,--it was her extravagance, not mine. I think she is about the sweetest thing in all the world. The only thing that worries me is mashing it all up in the Suttons' hay wagon." "Are the roads so very bad? Why not go in my car?" "They are pretty bad, but no worse than the road from Richmond. It certainly is strange how that road changes. It was fine when the agent brought us out here to see the place. Wasn't it?" "It was, but I don't think it is such a very bad road now. It may be because I like to travel on it. But come on and go with me in my car. If you will trust your dress and neck to me." "I will, since you put my dress first! Somehow that makes me feel you will be careful of it and respect it." A rattle of wheels and Billy Sutton came driving up in a great hay wagon filled with nice, clean straw, and close on his heels were Mr. and Mrs. Sutton in their carriage, which was to take Mr. and Mrs. Carter sedately to the ball. "Helen and I are going in my car. Does anyone want to occupy the back seat?" asked George Wright, hoping he would be paid for his politeness by a refusal. "No indeed, I adore a hay wagon! It's so nice and informal," cried Tillie. Douglas did want to go, but felt perhaps it was up to her to chaperone the youngsters in the hay wagon, so for once Dr. Wright thought he was to get Helen for a few moments to himself. "Chloe must go with us," declared Helen. "She wants to stop in Paradise to see her mother." Dr. Wright cracked a grim joke to himself which concerned Chloe and the antipodes of Paradise, but he smothered his feelings and opened the door for the delighted colored girl, who had never been in an automobile before. What a gay crowd they were in that hay wagon! Billy Sutton had contrived to get Nan on the front seat with him, where she was enthroned high above the others, looking down on the horses' backs as they strained and pulled the great wagon through the half-frozen mud. Billy had some friends out from town who immediately attached themselves to Tillie Wingo, who was to beaux just as a honey-pot to bees. They stopped and picked up two families of young folks on the way to the count's, and by the time they got them all in, the wagon was quite full. "I am glad Helen didn't trust her new dress to this," Douglas whispered to Lewis. "Well, I am glad you didn't have on such fine clothes and came this way," he whispered back. "Wright is too reckless for me on these country roads. Not that I am afraid myself, but I certainly should hate to see you turned over." "Whar Miss Ellanlouise?" asked Chloe, when she could get her breath after the first mad plunge into the delights of motoring. "Oh, there! How selfish of me! I should have thought of it and asked them to go with us," said Helen. "We can go back for them," suggested the doctor, who had begun to feel that he never would have a chance to see Helen alone. "Oh, no, we needn't mind. They are coming in their phaeton, and no doubt have started long before this. They are so good to me, I should have thought of them." Chloe was put out at Paradise, assuring her mistress she would come up through the woods in a few moments and no doubt be at her post in the dressing-room before the guests should arrive. Paradise was very dark and lonesome. The few scattered cabins showed not a gleam. There was a dim light trickling from the windows of the club, but as they approached that rickety building, that disappeared. Helen saw some dark forms up close to the wall when she looked back after passing that place of entertainment. "I reckon they are going to initiate someone tonight," she thought. "Chloe had such a strange talk with me today," she told her companion and then repeated the conversation she had had with the colored girl. "I can't quite understand her." "Perhaps this count is instilling some kind of silly socialistic notions in their heads," suggested the doctor, who held the same opinion Lewis Somerville did of the gentleman who was to be their host for the evening. Indeed, he so cordially mistrusted him that only the fact he was to be with Helen had reconciled him to spending an evening under his roof. "Oh, no, I can hardly think that, and besides, the count does not do the teaching. That is done by a Mr. Herz, his secretary. He is an American, born in Cincinnati. He seems to be very intelligent and certainly has taken a shine to Douglas. I don't know just what she thinks of him, but she lets him walk home from school with her every now and then." "I don't like the name much!" "Well, the poor man can't help his name. You speak as though we were already at war with Germany. I am trying to preserve our neutrality until war is declared." "My neutrality has been nothing but a farce since I have realized that Germany is at war with us." "You sound just like Douglas and Father. Will you go to war if it comes?" "Why, of course! Would you have me do otherwise?" "I--I--don't know," and Helen wished she had not asked the question that had called forth this query. This night was to be one of pleasure, feasting and dancing. War had no place in her thoughts when she had on her new dress and the music was coming from Richmond. CHAPTER XVII THE BALL "Music and lights put me all in a flutter!" exclaimed Helen as they approached the broad and hospitable mansion. Already there were several buggies and carriages in the gravelled driveway. The guests were arriving early, as sensible country people should. Let the city folks wait until far in the night to begin their revels, but those living in the country as a rule feel that balls should start early and break up early. "Do you care so much for parties?" "I think I must. I have not been to very many balls, because you see I am not out in society yet. I reckon I'll never make my début now," and Helen gave a little sigh. "Does it make so very much difference to you?" "Well, not so much as it would have a year ago. I used to feel that making one's début was a goal that was of the utmost importance, but somehow now I do feel that there are things a little bit more worth while." "What for instance?" "Getting Father well, and--and----" "And what?" "You might think I am silly if I tell you,--silly to talk about it." "I promise to think you are you no matter what else it is, and you are--well, never mind what you are." "Well, somehow I have begun to feel that helping people to be gay is important, like cheering up Miss Ella and Miss Louise. They have such stupid times. I really believe they quarrel just to make life a little gayer. I go to see them every day and it makes me feel good all over to know how much they like to have me come." "And you were afraid I'd think that was silly?" asked George Wright as he halted his car down under a great willow oak, well away from the other vehicles. How he wished they were to stay out under that tree all evening! Music and dancing were nothing to him compared to the pleasure he obtained from talking to this girl. "Let's sit here until the others come," he suggested. "And waste all that good music!" Dr. Wright began to envy the Misses Grant whom Helen wanted to make happy. "Of course not! I forgot how seldom you have a chance to dance." Weston was wonderfully beautiful. The electric lights may have been an anomaly, but they certainly helped to make the old house show what it was capable of. The dead and gone colonials who had built the place had been forced either to have their balls by daylight or to content themselves with flickering candles, which no doubt dropped wax or even tallow on the handsome gowns of the beauties and belles. The broad hall with the great rooms on each side seemed to be made for dancing. The floor was polished to a dangerous point for the unwary, but the unwary had no business on a ballroom floor. The count seemed in his element as he received his guests, but Herz looked thoroughly out of place and ill at ease. "Ah, Miss Helen! I am so glad to welcome you--and Dr. Wright--it is indeed kind of you to come! I am depending upon you, Miss Helen, to help me entertain these people who have come so promptly. They neither dance nor speak. Herz is about as much use to me on this occasion as a porcupine would be. Only look around the room at my guests!" They did indeed look most forlorn. One old farmer was almost asleep while his wife sat bolt upright by his side with a long sad face and a deep regret in her eyes. No doubt, she was regretting the comfortable grey wrapper she had discarded for the stiff, best, green silk, and the broad easy slippers that had been replaced by the creaking shoes. Several girls with shining eyes and alert expressions were evidently wondering what ailed the young men who stood against the wall as though it might fall down if they budged an inch. "Why are they wasting all this good music?" demanded Helen. "As you say in America: 'Seek me!'" laughed the host. "Search me, you mean." "Ah, but is it not almost the same? What do you say, Dr. Wright?" "Well, I'd rather someone would seek me than search me." "So! And now, Miss Helen, if you will discard your wraps and return quickly and help me I shall be most grateful. If these poor people do not get started they will go to sleep." Helen flew up to the dressing-room which, sure enough, Chloe had reached before her. The girl was huddled down in a corner of the room looking the picture of woe. "Did you see Tempy?" asked Helen, taking for granted that Chloe had been speaking of her sister when she had asked about one's duty to one's own people. "No'm!" "Wasn't she at your mother's?" "I don't know, 'm!" "Was your mother there?" "Yassum!" There was never any use in trying to make Chloe talk when she had decided not to, so Helen threw off her wraps and with a peep in the mirror where one could see from top to toe, she hastened to the aid of Count de Lestis. "Mother will be along soon and she can do wonders with people who are bashful," declared Helen, "but I'll try my hand at it until she comes. They must dance, then they will thaw out." "Certainly, and will you dance with me to show them how?" Helen forgot all about the fact that she had come with Dr. Wright and he might reasonably expect to claim the first dance. "Yes, but you must introduce me to all these people and I'll ask some of the girls to dance while you go get the young men to come fall in the breach." The shiny-eyed girls were willing enough and the young men seemed to think if the count didn't mind his walls falling down, far be it from them to hold them up, so in a few moments the sad crowd were in a gale of good humor. The old farmer waked up and his wife looked as though she might try her new creaky shoes on the waxed floor if anyone would only ask her. Dr. Wright looked on rather grimly as Helen was whisked from under his very nose. He might have stood it better if the count had not been such a perfect dancer and so very handsome. He had a way of whispering to his partner during the dance that was also a sore trial to the young physician. "What could he be saying to Helen to make her dimple and blush?" The arrival of the carriage containing Mrs. Sutton and Mrs. Carter with their rather bored husbands was a welcome interruption to the poor young man. Soon came the lumbering hay wagon with its giggling, chattering load, and then Helen was at liberty to dance with him, since the count perforce must again play the gracious host. "Isn't it perfect?" she exclaimed. "The floor, the music, and everything!" "Not quite so perfect now as when you had the count for a partner, I am afraid," he muttered, bending over to make her hear. He was too tall to converse while dancing with Helen. He had never regretted his inches before. "Nonsense! You dance just as well as he does, and he talks so much while he is dancing. I hate to dance and talk, too,--just dancing is enough for me." "Me, too, then!" and once more he felt the satisfaction that a man who measures over six feet can't help feeling. Helen was right. Mrs. Carter was a born entertainer and she had hardly taken the social reins in her hands before the ball was running smoothly. Even Bobby found a partner, a funny little girl with such bushy hair that anyone could tell at a glance it had been put up in curl papers for several days. She looked like a pink hollyhock in her starched book-muslin that stood out like a paper lamp shade. Her round black eyes seemed very lovely to the gallant Bobby, who took her into the back hall where they turned round and round in imitation of the dance, and when dancing palled on them they showed each other how to make rabbits out of their handkerchiefs. "This is the kind of party I like," said the wholesome Mrs. Sutton. "Every Jill has her Jack and there are some Jacks to spare. Deliver me from parties where girls must sit against the wall and wait for partners to be released." "When you get the vote you can do the asking, and then parties where the females predominate will be more popular," teased her husband. "Nonsense! We can still do the asking if we care to. Come on and dance with me, sir!" and Mr. Sutton delightedly complied. Mrs. Carter did not have to spend all the evening making other people have a good time. She was asked to dance by the count and her pretty little figure and graceful bearing attracted other partners, and she was soon tripping the light fantastic toe as untiringly as any of her daughters. Tillie Wingo herself did not get broken in on oftener. Herz stood in corners, looking like one of the men out of Noah's ark, Nan declared, so stiff and wooden. "I don't know which one he resembles most, Shem, Ham, or Japheth," she whispered to Billy Sutton, "but I wonder if you licked him if the paint would come off." "I don't know, but I'd like to try. I can't abide that Dutchman. I believe he thinks he is superior to all of us, even his precious count. Jehoshaphat! I believe he is asking Douglas to dance." So he was. The secretary was stalking across the room, determination on his noble brow and his full mouth drawn together in a tight red line. He stopped in front of Douglas and placing one hand on his breast and the other one on his waist line in the back, he shut up like a jack-knife. Douglas looked a little astonished, not knowing exactly what the young man wanted, and then the memory of the early days at dancing school came to her when the little boys were forced to bow to the little girls before they danced with them. "Certainly," she said, excusing herself from Lewis, who looked a little sullen, having expected to claim this particular waltz with his cousin, but who had neglected to do so, being too intent on gazing at her pretty flushed face. Herz clasped her around the waist and began to twirl in a most astonishing manner. She could hardly keep her footing and very early lost her breath. Skilful guiding was not necessary, although when they arose to dance the floor was well filled with other couples, but these, knowing full well that discretion was the better part of valor, gave the spinning pair the right of way. The man never lost his gravity or dignity, but his mouth broke from the hard red line to its usual full-lipped curve. Douglas felt as though that dance would never end. His strong arm held her like an iron ring as round and round they went. "'Hi! Lee! Hi! Low! Hi! Lee! Hi! Low! I jus' come over, I jus' come over-- Hi! Lee! Hi! Low! Hi! Lee! Hi! Low! I jus' come over the sea,'" sang Billy Sutton, as he and Nan watched the gyrations of their host's secretary. "Did you ever see such a proof of foreign blood in any man who pretends to be American born?" "Why, Billy, he is American born. The count says he was born and raised in Cincinnati." "Yes, and the count says he himself was born and raised in Hungary, but I bet you anything they may have been born where they say they were but they were raised in Berlin. Look at that fellow and tell me if he doesn't dance like Old Heidelberg." "The count doesn't, anyhow. I never saw such divine dancing as the count's." As though he had heard her, the handsome smiling de Lestis came to claim her for the rest of the dance. "Aren't these foreigners the limit?" said the boy, seeking the disconsolate Lewis. "I know I oughtn't to say anything about a fellow when I am in his house, but somehow that count gets my goat." "Mine, too! Who is this Herz?" "Oh, he is a kind of lady's maid or secretary or something for his nibs. Says he is an American, but I have my doubts. I don't see how Miss Douglas Carter can stand for him, but she lets him walk home from school with her any time, so I hear," announced Billy, absolutely unconscious of the fact he was retailing very unwelcome news to his companion. "Humph!" was all Lewis could say, but that monosyllable had a world of meaning in it. And so although the music was gay and the lights were bright and the laughter was merry in that ballroom, there were several sore hearts, and the little green-eyed monster was waltzing or fox trotting or one stepping every dance. "I wonder why Miss Ella and Louise don't get here," Helen said to Dr. Wright, who had at last persuaded her to sit out one dance with him. "They have had plenty of time even with their slow old horse." They had found a sofa in the back hall behind a clump of palms. There were many plants artistically grouped by the florist from town, who had tastefully decorated the whole mansion. "The telephone has been ringing a great deal since we came. Could they be trying to get the count? I always feel like jumping when the 'phone rings, feeling that it must be for me." "Oh, no! The ring for Weston is two long and three short rings. These country 'phones are hard to learn, but I often answer the one at Grantly for my old friends." "Listen, there goes the bell again! Goodness! I believe one of these 'phones that rings everybody's number would send me crazy." "They say you get used to them. That is four shorts and a long. That's for Dr. Allison, who lives miles and miles from here. Don't you remember Page Allison, that lovely girl who came to Greendale with the Tucker twins? It is her father." "Of course I do, and I know Dr. Allison, too! A delightful gentleman!" "I believe I'll call up Miss Ella and see what is the matter,--why they don't come on." George Wright sighed. There always seemed to be something to keep Helen from talking to him tête-à-tête. Still, he felt glad to think that Helen was so fond of these old ladies and so thoughtful of them. The telephone was under the stairway, quite near their retired nook. Helen rang the number for Grantly and there was a quick response. "Hello!" came in Miss Louise's contralto notes. "Miss Louise, this is Helen Carter! Why haven't you started yet? Don't you know the count can't give a ball without you and Miss Ella?" "Oh, my dear, my sister is ill, very ill,--fainted just as we were getting ready to leave. You see she would make that cake, that angel's food, although I told her I was going to make a fruit cake, but you know Ella---- Oh, but how can I rattle along this way? I have been trying so hard to get Dr. Allison and he doesn't answer." "Wait a minute, Miss Louise," and Helen put her hand over the receiver and turned to Dr. Wright. "Dr. Wright, will you take me to Grantly? Miss Ella has had a fainting fit--a stroke, I am afraid it is." "Take you! My dear, I'll take you anywhere you want to go." "Miss Louise, Dr. Wright is going to bring me to Grantly in his automobile immediately. Don't worry; we will be there soon." She rang off quickly and flew upstairs for her wraps. Chloe was not in the dressing-room, but she quickly unearthed her cape and hood from the bed where the many shawls and cloaks had been piled. On the way out she whispered to Nan where she was going, but told her not to tell the others, as she did not want to break up the ball or to cast a shadow on the happiness of the dancers. CHAPTER XVIII ANGEL'S FOOD Not a sound or glimmer of light in Paradise as they speeded silently through the settlement! The club, too, was deserted. "I think you are splendid to be willing to give up this ball to go to the aid of these old ladies," said Dr. Wright, drawing the rug more closely around Helen, as the air was quite nipping. "Why, the idea of my not doing it! You must think I'm nothing but a heartless butterfly." "I think you are anything but one. You love dancing, though, so much. I should have come alone. Somehow I couldn't make up my mind to forego the ride alone with you. Isn't it a beautiful night?" The stars were shining brightly but the lazy moon had not yet gotten up. "If we find the poor old lady not too ill, I'll take you back to the dance after we have made her comfortable. There will be a moon to light our way later on." "That will be fine! Maybe they won't even miss us. But somehow I have a feeling that Miss Ella is very ill." "Five minutes more will decide the question. Hasn't my new car eaten up distance, though? Just think, in old days what a time sick persons had to wait for a physician without telephones and without cars!" "Dr. Allison still drives a fast horse to a light buggy. Page says he will none of horseless carriages. I believe it is only recently that he has submitted to a telephone." "It is a good thing his medical theories have not kept pace with his means of locomotion, or he would be a back number sure." Valhalla was very quiet, peacefully sleeping under the stars. What a haven of refuge it had been to the Carters! Helen looked lovingly at the picturesque roof lines as the car glided rapidly past. "Do you know, I think that must be the most restful place in all the world? I have grown so attached to the little tumbledown house, leaks and cracks, smoking stove and all." "Hasn't it been awfully hard on you?" "Not any harder on me than on the others!" "I can't tell you what I think of all of you Carter girls for the way you have grappled with the winter in the country. I think you have had the hot end of it, too." There flashed through Helen's mind a picture of the first time she saw the young doctor, in the library of their pretty home in Richmond. There had been no approval in his cold glance then, nothing but censure and severity. She had deserved it all. Did she deserve the praise he gave her now? "The hot end is better than the cold end during the winter months," she laughed. "At least I can stay snugly in the kitchen and not have to go out in all weathers like poor Douglas and the other girls." Miss Louise met them at the door, tears rolling down her fat cheeks. She still was dressed in her stiff black silk but had tied on a great gingham apron over her best dress. "How good of you to come to us!" was all she could sob out. "You should have sent for us immediately," said Helen, putting her arms around the trembling old woman. "Ella always wants Dr. Allison, and I hated so to break up the pleasure of the young people." "Where is your sister?" asked Dr. Wright, taking off his gloves and great coat, and extracting a small leather case from its pocket. "I got her to bed after she came to." "She is conscious then?" "Yes, but very low, very low. She has been so docile I am afraid she is going to die," and the poor lady began to weep anew. "Let me go in with the doctor," insisted Helen. "I can do what is necessary and you might scare Miss Ella. She mustn't be made to think she is so ill." The tall form of Miss Ella was stretched on the great four-posted bed, and so still was it that for a moment Helen was afraid to go near. "She might be dead! She might be dead!" her heart cried out, but she shut her mouth very tight and advanced bravely up to the bedside. "Miss Ella, Dr. Wright has come to see you. Dr. Allison will be here later on perhaps." "I'll be better in a few moments. I must have fainted," she said weakly. "I ought not to have tried the angel food cake. It is so tedious. Louise told me not to, but I was very headstrong." Helen looked up apprehensively at the doctor, who was feeling the patient's pulse. It did seem rather ominous for Miss Ella to be so humble and to confess that Louise's judgment was of any importance. "What did you eat for dinner?" asked the doctor. "I--I--don't remember." "Think!" "I reckon I ate some bread." "Nothing else?" "I can't remember." At a nod from the doctor Helen went out to seek this information from Miss Louise, whom she found huddled up on the hall sofa. "Eat for dinner! I am sure I don't know. She wouldn't eat when I did and I do believe she didn't eat anything." "How about supper?" "Oh, we neither one of us ate any supper. We felt it would be discourteous to the count after all the trouble and expense he must have gone to, with caterers from Richmond and all." Helen flew back to the bedside of Miss Ella. "She ate no dinner that Miss Louise can remember and neither one of them ate any supper," she cried. "Well, of course she fainted then. Can you take the matter in hand and get some toast and tea for both of them? Miss Louise will be toppling over next." Helen was intimate enough with the old sisters to know just where they kept everything and in short order she had a tray ready for poor half-starved Miss Ella. "It was not a stroke at all," Dr. Wright assured the anxious sister. "Nothing but hunger." "I told her to eat," and Miss Louise looked venomously at the invalid. "I came to get my dinner and you had taken all the breast of the chicken. I wasn't going to eat your leavings," declared Miss Ella, color coming back into her wan cheeks and the fire of battle to her faded eyes. Helen laughed happily. The sisters were quarreling again and everything was assuming a more normal aspect. "Now both of you ladies must get to bed," insisted the doctor, after Miss Louise had been persuaded to eat some of Helen's good toast. "I think you have had ball enough for tonight." He looked at his watch. "I will take you back to Weston," he whispered to Helen. Helen would not go until both of her old friends were tucked peacefully in their great bed and then, kissing them good-night, she stole quietly from the room. She was greatly relieved that things had turned out so well and delighted that she was to be taken back to the ball. "It's pretty nice to do your duty and still have a good time," she said to herself. Dr. Wright was waiting in the hall for her. He silently bundled her up in her cape and hood and together they stepped on the gallery. The lazy moon was up now and outshining the faithful stars. The great box bushes and thick hedge cast deep shadows across the lawn. The two stood for a moment in silence, drinking in the beauty of the scene. "We can't lock the front door," said Dr. Wright finally. "I see it has an old-fashioned great brass key and the only way to lock it is to fasten the old ladies in the house." "Why, nothing will ever hurt those dear old folks," laughed Helen. "There are as safe as can be. They tell me they often go to bed without locking doors. They usually have a quarrel about whether the front door has been locked or not, and get so excited they both forget to do it." CHAPTER XIX A LITTLE LEARNING "Listen! What is that?" A low rumble of voices was heard, coming from the rear of Grantly. "Could it be the dancers coming home?" suggested Helen. "No, not from that direction!" The rumble increased to a roar, low but continuous. Evidently a great many persons were talking or muttering and they were getting closer and closer. "Let's have a light, so we kin see!" said a voice louder and clearer than the rest, and then there was a guffaw from many throats. "A lot of darkies!" gasped Helen. "What can they be doing here?" "You go inside and I'll see," commanded the young man. "I'll do no such thing! I'll go with you and see. If I go in the house again I'll wake Miss Ella and Miss Louise up, and you said yourself that it was most important for them to have a night of unbroken rest." "Helen, I insist!" "But I'm not going to be sent back in the house while you go get shot up or something, so there!" "Shot up! The idea! It is nothing but some late revelers going home. Perhaps the darkies have been having a ball somewhere, too." "Perhaps, but they have no business coming through Grantly." There was a hoarse shout from the rear and suddenly a light shot up into the sky. "The straw stack! They are burning the straw stack!" cried Helen. George Wright quietly opened the great front door and picking Helen up in his arms, carried her into the hall. He put her down and hastily closed the door. Helen heard the great brass key turn in the lock. It was very dark in the hall. She groped her way along the wall. It was all she could do to keep from screaming, but remembering her two old friends, now no doubt peacefully snoozing, she held herself in check. Suddenly she bumped square into the telephone. "I'll give a hurry call for the whole neighborhood," she cried, and no sooner thought than done. It was said afterwards that no such ringing of a 'phone had ever been heard before in the county. "_Grantly on fire and a great crowd of negro brutes in the yard!_" was the message that was sent abroad. The two old ladies slept peacefully on. Helen could hear the deep stertorous snore, Miss Louise's specialty, and the high steam-whistle pipe that Miss Ella was given to. "I can't stand this!" cried the girl. "They may be killing him this minute; and he expects me to stay shut up in this house while he gets shot to death!" She felt her way back to the kitchen where she could see well enough, thanks to the fire that the desperadoes had kindled. She cautiously unlocked the door and stepped out on the back porch. The negroes were dancing around the burning stack, led by a tall gangling man whom Helen recognized as Tempy's slue-footed admirer, James Hanks. Some of them seemed to be rather the worse for drink, and all of them were wild-eyed and excited-looking. "Come on, gent'men!" cried the leader. "Let's git our loot while we's got light a-plenty. The ol' tabbies is safe at the count's ball, safe an' stuffin'." There was a shout of laughter at this witticism. Helen was trembling with fright, but not fright for herself. The dear old ladies were uppermost in her mind, and the doctor! Her doctor! Where was he? Would he tackle all of those crazy, half-drunk brutes single-handed and not even armed? A sudden thought came to her. She slipped back into the kitchen. Remembering the box tacked to the wall, just over the kerosene stove where the matches were kept, she felt along the wall until her hand touched it. Then armed with these matches she crept back through the house to the great parlor where the trophies of the dead and gone great-uncle, the traveler in the Orient, were. She cautiously struck a match, thankful that the parlor was on the other side of the house from the fire, and seized at random what old arms she could lay her hands on: a great sword, that Richard the Lion-Hearted might have wielded, an Arabian scimiter and a light, curiously wrought shield. The sword was heavy but she managed to stagger along the hall with her load. "Now remember, friends an' citizens!" James Hanks was saying as he harangued the crowd. "This here prop'ty by rights b'longs to us. Ain't we an' our fo'bars done worked this here lan' from time in memoriam? Ain't we tilled the sile an' hoed the craps fur these ol' tabbies an' what is we got to show fur it? Nothin'! Nothin', I say! All we is a-doin' on this sacred night is takin' what is ourn. 'Tain't meet nor right fur two ol' women to hab control of all these fair lands, livin' in luxry, wallowin' in honey an' rollin' in butter, while we colored ladies an' gent'men is fo'ced to habit pig stys an' thankful to git sorghum an' drippin's. Don't none of you go into this here undertakin' 'thout you is satisfied you is actin' up to principles. All what considers it they bounden duty to git back what is by rights theirn, jes' step forward." Helen counted fifteen men as they reeled forward. Where was Dr. Wright? Was he hearing the speech that the perfidious James was making? And the old ladies--were they still sleeping? The back porch was littered up with various barrels and boxes, and behind these Helen crouched. Of course she realized that the darkies thought that Grantly was empty and that they intended to break in and take what treasures they could find. Would they be scared off when they found someone was in the house, or would they feel that they had gone too far to retreat in their infamous undertaking? Whatever was to be the outcome, she must find the doctor and help him, die by his side if necessary. What an ending to the ball, the ball where she had danced so gaily and happily! Had they missed them yet? She had not been able to tell what 'phones had answered her hurry call. She had only known that several persons got on the line and that her message had reached some ears, but whose she could not say. The mob had started towards the front. "Yes, we'll go in the front way, now an' ever after," growled the leader. "Only las' week that ol' skinny Ella done driv me to the back do'. I come up the front way jes' to tes' her an' she sent me roun' to the back jes' lak some dog. Whin we gits through, I reckon she'll be glad enough if she's got a back do' to go in." Helen waited to hear no more but streaked around the opposite side of the house, bearing her ancient weapons. Peeping through the railing of the great gallery in front she espied George Wright calmly standing in the doorway which was flooded with moonlight. CHAPTER XX IN THE MEANTIME Nan and Billy Sutton were the only persons at Weston who knew that Helen and Dr. Wright had left the house, and they, according to instructions, had kept mum. "I hate for Helen to miss one teensy bit of the ball," Nan said. "She does so adore dancing." "I should think she would. Anybody who can dance like that ought to like it. I think she is a ripper to go to those old grouches." "Now, Billy, that is no way to talk! Those old ladies are really lovely. You would have gone to them in a minute." "Well, maybe! But I wouldn't have enjoyed leaving this to go." "Perhaps they will be able to come back. Miss Louise is an awful alarmist." Supper was served, the waiters from Richmond taking affairs into their own hands, so that the untrained country servants at Weston were pushed into the background. "Miss Helen done said I's got quite a el'gant air in serving," grumbled Chloe, when she was not allowed to bear in the trays of dainties to the hungry guests. "I reckon these here town niggers thinks they is the king bees. I don't care what they says, I's gonter git a sicond hep ter my Miss Helen." The girl filled a tray with salad, croquettes, sandwiches and what not and made her way into the parlors. She peered around for her young mistress. The rooms were well filled with the country guests and many couples were having their supper in the nooks made by the skilful decorators of clumps of palms and evergreens. Chloe peeped behind them all and not finding her Miss Helen she went to Douglas. "Whar Miss Helen?" "Why, I don't know, Chloe! What do you want?" "I want my Miss Helen ter git her fill er victuals she ain't had ter mess in." "I haven't seen her," laughed Douglas. "Ask Miss Nan." "Miss Nan, whar Miss Helen?" "Why, Chloe, she has gone away but may be back later." "Whar she gone?" "She told me not to tell, because she doesn't want to disturb the others, but she has gone with Dr. Wright to see Miss Ella Grant, who is ill." "Miss Ellanlouise is here to the ball, ain't they?" "No, they didn't come." "Miss Helen ain't gone ter Grantly, is she?" "Of course!" Then poor Chloe dropped her tray, laden with goodies for her beloved mistress, and a mixture of salad and croquettes and sandwiches rolled over the floor. "My Gawd! My Gawd!" shrieked the girl. "Whar the count? Whar Mr. Carter? Whar that secondary?" "What is it?" demanded the count sternly, as he stepped over the débris. "My Miss Helen done gone ter Grantly!" "Is that so? Why did she leave?" His calm tones quieted the girl a little. "She done gone with Dr. Wright----" "Miss Ella Grant is ill and Helen went with Dr. Wright to look after her," put in Nan. "I don't know why Chloe is so excited." By this time the guests were crowding around the corner where Nan and Billy had ensconced themselves for what they thought was to be a quiet little supper. "'Cited! I tell you, you'd better git a move on you, you count and you secondary. The niggers is planning no good fur Grantly this night." "What negroes?" asked the count. "'Tain't no diffunce what niggers! You git out that little red devil of a mobile an' you licksplit ter Grantly as fas' as you kin, an' you take mo'n one gun." If everybody had not been wrought up to a high pitch of excitement, they would have been amused to see this ignorant country black girl handing out orders to the Count de Lestis as though she were a duchess and he a stable boy. The count motioned to Herz and they turned and left the room. "I get in on this!" cried Lewis Somerville. "And I! And I!" from every male throat in the room. Many of the farmers had pistols with them, deeming it more prudent to go armed on midnight drives through the lonely districts. Mrs. Carter fainted when it was explained to her where her daughter had gone and what the danger was. For once in her life, however, her husband had no thought for her. He left her to the ministrations of the farmer's wife in the stiff green silk, and hastened out to climb on the running-board of the count's little car, which was already under way. In what seemed like a moment since the poor Chloe had dropped her tray, there was not a single white male left at Weston, except Bobby Carter and he was only left because Lucy held him, scratching and fighting to go to the rescue of his precious sister. Even the musicians from Richmond had joined the posse. The negro waiters stepped gingerly around with many superior airs, congratulating themselves that they were as they were and not as the ignorant country blacks. Chloe sat on the floor and rocked and moaned, refusing to be comforted. "I done what she tol' me was right!" was her cryptic remark which none understood. "Why do we wait here?" asked Douglas, who was pale as death. Mrs. Carter had been revived and was lying on a sofa. "Why, indeed! Let's get in the hay wagon and go," said Nan. "Who can drive it?" "I!" cried the redoubtable Mrs. Sutton. Almost all of the carriages and buggies had been requisitioned by the masculine element but the hay wagon remained and a few other vehicles. The horses were quickly unblanketed by the women with the help of the waiters. Mrs. Carter and Douglas were the last to leave the house, as the poor nervous lady was kept quiet until they were ready to start. Just as they were going out the door Douglas heard a violent ringing of the telephone. Knowing the peculiarities of a country connection and its way of ringing at every house, and also knowing that the long, violent, protracted ringing meant emergency of some sort, Douglas ran to answer it. She distinctly heard Helen's voice crying the alarm: "_Grantly on fire and a great crowd of negro brutes in the yard!_" "What is it, my dear?" feebly asked Mrs. Carter. "Nothing at all!" said Douglas calmly. She felt that such a message would only upset her poor mother more, and it was best to keep it locked within her own panting breast. If any of the persons in that hay wagon should live to be a thousand years old they could never forget that terrible ride over the rough, muddy roads on that twenty-second of February, 1917. "Look, the moon is up!" whispered Lucy to Mag, both of them remembering the gay ride to the ball only a few hours before and how they had remarked that it would be so jolly going back because the moon would be up. "Something's on fire!" someone cried, and then the heavens were lit by the burning straw stack. A straw stack can make more light in the sky than a Woolworth building if both should be set afire; but the straw burns out so quickly that it is little more than a flash in the pan. Mrs. Sutton proved a famous Jehu. She managed her team quite as well as Billy. Nan sat up on the high seat by her, looking with admiration at the strong, capable hands. "Do you think they will be in time?" Nan whispered to her valiant companion. "Sure they will, my dear! They are there by this time and I believe that fire is nothing but a straw stack. Look, even now how it is dying down! Poor Miss Ella and Miss Louise! They seem to have the faculty of not getting along with the darkies. They are as kind as can be to them when they are sick or in want, but they always have an overbearing manner with them when they are well. I wonder what that girl meant by saying she had done just as Helen had told her." "I don't know. Helen has been so patient with Chloe and has really made a pretty good cook of her. She simply adores Helen. She comes to her with all kinds of questions to answer and problems of life to solve. Do you think these colored men would want to kill Helen just because they are angry with the Misses Grant?" "No, my dear, I don't think these colored men would want to kill anybody. God grant they are not drunk! That is the only danger I am fearing. I am not afraid of any sober negro alive, but a drunken one is to be avoided like a rattlesnake." "Well, Mrs. Sutton, I just feel somehow that God and Dr. Wright are going to take care of Helen,--and Miss Ella and Miss Louise, too." "I am sure of it, my dear. I am so sure of it that I am thanking God for having sent Dr. Wright and Helen to Grantly,--otherwise the poor, foolish old ladies might have been found there by the darkies when they expected the house to be empty, with everyone gone to the ball, and then there is no telling what would have happened." Mrs. Sutton shuddered as though she were cold. "I keep on thinking of Dr. Wright's face,--his keen blue eyes and his jaw,--somehow, I believe that jaw will pull them out safely." CHAPTER XXI THE FLAMING SWORD And what a time we have had to keep Helen peeping through the railings at Dr. Wright as he stood in the brilliant moonlight on the gallery at Grantly, while the crazed mob of darkies advanced jauntily to the front of the old mansion! It was their intention to enter and claim the spoils thereof: treasures that they had begun to think belonged to them by reason of their long service and the service of their fathers and fathers' fathers. Confident that the mansion was empty, they made no endeavor to be quiet. All the white folks for miles and miles around were feasting at the count's ball; as for the burning rick,--they had not thought that the fire would do more than warm things up for their deed. "Now fur the loot!" cried James Hanks. "An' we mus' hurry up, 'cause whin the ol' tabbies gits home from the ball they mus'n't be hide or har of the house lef' standin'." "Bus' open the bar'l er coal ile!" suggested one black brute, "so's we can pour her on." "They keep the coal ile in the woodshed," a little bandy-legged man remarked. "Now see hyar! Befo' we enter this here domicyle, they's to be a reg'lar understandin' 'bout the findin's," continued James Hanks. "The money is to be 'vided ekal an' the silvo and chino an' other little value bowles is to be portioned out 'cordin' to they valubility." "Sho'! Sho'! We's all 'greed to that!" came in a chorus. "I goes fust, as the man 'pinted by Gawd as yo' leader." As James Hanks started up the broad steps he was dumfounded when Dr. Wright came forward. He retreated down the steps and the crowd of darkies behind him surged backward. "What is it you want?" asked the young physician quite simply, in a voice as cool and natural as though he were a soda clerk dealing out soft drinks. "We--er--we--we didn't know any of the white folks was in." "Exactly!" and Dr. Wright came closer to the nonplussed darky. "Perhaps God has appointed me to defend this home." "We is hyar fur our rights," came from the extreme edge of the crowd in a growling voice. "Your rights!" "Yessah!" and James Hanks spoke up more bravely, emboldened by the support he felt the crowd was able to give him. "Aw go on, Jeemes! He ain't even armed," cried the black brute who had been so free in his suggestions about breaking open the barrel of kerosene. "Gawd wouldn't send nobody 'thout even a razor." Helen saw the crowd pushing forward. She felt a choking in her throat and loosened the cord that fastened her evening wrap. The heavy cape and hood fell to the ground. She was over the railing in a twinkling of an eye, dragging her ancient weapons of offense and defense with her. The hood had loosened her hairpins and now her hair fell around her shoulders in a heavy shower. She ran along the gallery, dragging the sword with one hand and with the other clutching the shield and scimiter. Without a word she thrust the great sword in the outstretched hand of the young man. He looked at her in astonishment and terror. Having locked her in the hall he had thought of course she would remain there. At least, he had so devoutly hoped so that he had made himself believe that was where he would find her when this wretched affair was over. His face blanched and his knees trembled visibly. The fear that he had not felt for himself was intense for this girl, but he grasped the sword and waved it over the crowd. At sight of Helen the crowd set up a groan. They sank on their knees or fell prone to the earth. God had sent an angel of vengeance with a flaming sword for their undoing. Indeed less superstitious persons than those poor darkies might have been startled by the sudden appearance of Helen Carter. Her dress, that Nan had described as like the moon, might well have been the garb of an angel. Her long light brown hair, usually so carefully coiffed but now falling below her waist, added to the make-up, as did also the ancient shield and the crescent scimiter. With the shield held forward, as though to guard the doctor, and the scimiter raised aloft, she stood gazing on the trembling crowd. "Gawd save this nigger! Gawd save this nigger!" cried the abject one with the bandy legs. "A angel of destruction, carryin' a flamin' sword! Lemme git out'n this!" wailed another. "'Twas Jeemes Hanks set fire to the straw stack! Not me! Not me!" from one who knelt and rocked himself back and forth. "I ain't teched a thing what don't b'long to me!" "I jes' come along to see the fun! I ain't nebber had no idee er harmin' Miss Ellanlouise!" "Me neither! Me neither!" "Jeemes Hanks, He's the one, good Gawd! He's the one!" James Hanks, goaded to desperation by the backslidings of his followers, turned on them in fury: "You low down sneaks! Can't you see that this ain't no angel of the Lawd? This is one of them gals come to live in the ol' tumble-down overseer's house, jes' a play actin' to scare you. If'n we can't down them we ain't worth of the name of Loyal Af'cans. Come on, boys, an' let's finish 'em an' thin we can git our loot. I ain't afraid of them. A flamin' sword ain't in it with a gun." He reached for his hip pocket. Dr. Wright grabbed the angel of the Lord most unceremoniously and held her behind him. The kneeling and groveling mob was divided in its feelings as to whether Helen was or was not a celestial visitor, but they were one and all anxious to be through with the night's work without bloodshed. This was an outcome they had not bargained for. To go to Grantly and get all the money that they ignorantly supposed the old ladies to possess, to steal the silver and whatever else they fancied and then to set fire to the ancient pile, thereby destroying all trace of their burglary, so that when the white folks came home from the count's fine ball there would be naught to tell the tale, was a very different matter from this thing of having to get rid of two persons, perhaps kill them and then be found out. "Jeemes, you is foolish in de haid," spoke up Bandy-Legs. "Indeed you are!" came in clear ringing tones from Helen as she waved her scimiter, the moonlight flashing on it. "This minute the whole county knows that Grantly is on fire and that all of you are here." "Oh, rats! Whatcher tryin' ter give us?" from the scornful, incredulous leader. "I am telling you what is so. As soon as I heard you in the yard and saw the light from the straw stack, I gave a hurry call and got the neighbors on the 'phone." "An' what was you an' the young man a-doin' of in Grantly?" sneered James, coming up quite close to Helen. "Looks like whin Miss Ellanlouise is to the ball, it's a strange place----" but James was not allowed to finish what he had to say. Dr. Wright's powerful fist shot out and the darky received a scientifically dealt blow square on his jaw bone that sent him backwards down the steps, where he lay in a huddled heap and like the Heathen Chinee: "Subsequent proceedings interested him no more"--at least, not for a while. Their leader down and out, the crowd began to melt away, but in a tone that commanded instant obedience George Wright bade them to halt. "Listen, you fools! If one of you budges from this spot until I give him permission I will lick him to within an inch of his life. Miss Ella Grant had a fainting spell and could not go to the ball, and Miss Carter and I came over here from Weston when her sister telephoned us the trouble she was in. We were just leaving the house when you arrived." "Is Miss Ellanlouise in dar now?" asked a trembling old man. "Yes!" "Praise be ter Gawd fer stayin' our han'! Praise be ter Gawd!" "Yes, you had better give praise. I am not going to tell you what I think of you for attempting this terrible thing. You know yourselves how wicked and foolish you are." Just then a light shot across the yard and in a moment the red car belonging to the count came whizzing into view. "Now you may go, all but you, and you, and you!" indicating the ones who had been so glib about the kerosene and their rights, and the one who had known so well that God would not have sent an angel without even a razor. The men pointed out tremblingly obeyed, coming up to the steps as though drawn by a magnet. The rest of the mob simply disappeared, dodging behind the box bushes and losing themselves in the convenient labyrinth. That little red car had brought over six men: the count and his secretary, Mr. Carter, Mr. Sutton, Lewis Somerville and Bill Tinsley. Hardly a word had been spoken on that ride. The count had pushed the powerful engine to its utmost ability and it had taken the car through heavy mud, up hills and down dales, through mire and ruts with a speed truly remarkable. "Some car!" remarked Lewis. "Some!" grunted Bill. Mr. Carter's mouth was close set and his eyes looked like steel points. All of his girls were dear to him but Helen had always seemed closer for some reason; perhaps her very wilfulness was the reason. And now as he thought of her in danger, it seemed as though he could single-handed tackle any number of foes. He prayed continuously as he stood on the running-board of that speeding car, but his prayer was perhaps not very devout: "Oh, God, let me get at them! Let me get at them!" The relief of finding his dear girl alive and unharmed was so great that Mr. Carter sobbed. When Helen saw him jump from the car, she flew down the box-bordered walk and threw herself into his arms. "Daddy! Daddy! We saved Miss Ella and Miss Louise!" "And who saved you?" "Dr. Wright saved me and I saved him." Mr. Sutton, who was magistrate for the district, made short order in arresting James Hanks and his companions. As the vehicles arrived with the other members of the posse there was some whisper of a lynching, but Mr. Sutton downed the whisper with contempt. "There hasn't been a lynching in Virginia for eighteen years and I should hate our county to be the one to break the record. It will have a much more salutary effect to have these poor fools locked up in jail and be brought to trial with all of their deviltry exposed and aired in the papers. After all, the only real harm done is the burning of an old rotting straw stack that was not fit for bedding, as I remember." The count and Herz were most solicitous in their endeavors to help in any possible way. It was decided that Grantly must be patrolled for the rest of the night, as it was feared that some of the darkies might return. Dr. Wright smiled at the suggestion. He knew full well that the poor negroes who had been allowed to depart would not be seen or heard of for many a day. He had seen too great and abject a fear in their rolling eyes to have any apprehension of danger from them. James Hanks showed signs of returning life. The young physician leaned over him and felt his pulse. "Umm hum! You had better be glad I didn't break your jaw. You'll be all right in a few days and in the meantime the quiet of the lock-up will be very good for your nerves." "Ah, then that is some work that Herz and I can do," cried the count. "These men must be taken to jail, and why should not we attend to it? Eh, Adolph!" "Certainly!" Herz had been looking very grim ever since Chloe had dropped the tray of second helpings for Helen. "I wish we had handcuffs," said Mr. Sutton. "Why, that is hardly necessary. I should think Herz and I with pistols could take four poor devils, unarmed, to jail. Especially since one of those devils has been already put out of business by this skilful surgeon," laughed the count. "Yes, and I'll go along with you," sighed Mr. Sutton who was accustomed to early retiring. This midnight rioting was not much to his taste, but he was determined as magistrate of the district to see the matter safely through. "Why, my dear man, there is not a bit of use in your going. You can trust Herz and me to land them safely." "Well, all right, but I feel responsible for the good of the community and these black devils must be locked up in the court-house jail before many hours." "You had better take my car," suggested Dr. Wright. "It will hold the six of you more comfortably." "Oh, not at all! Mine brought six of us over here from Weston and can take six away. The prisoners can stand on the running-boards, all but the injured one, and he can sit by me. If any of them attempts to escape we can wing him quite easily." Dr. Wright felt rather relieved that his offer was turned down. No man would relish his perfectly new car being used to carry four bad darkies to jail over roads that were quite as vile as the prisoners. Everyone felt grateful to the count for his unselfish offer, everyone but Skeeter Halsey and Frank Maury. They had fondly hoped to have a hand in the undertaking. The night had been a thrilling one for the two boys. They bitterly regretted that they had not got there in time to rush in and save Miss Helen. "I felt like I could 'a' killed at least six niggers," Skeeter said to Lucy and Mag. "Humph! Only six? I could have put a dozen out of business," scoffed Frank; and Lucy and Mag were sure they could. The boys were allowed to divide the patrol duties with Lewis and Bill, and very proud they were as they stalked up and down in front of the mansion and around the barnyard, keeping a sharp lookout for skulking blacks. Almost everything has an amusing side if one can see it. Witness: the jokes that are cracked by the men in the trenches in the midst of the tremendous world tragedy. The amusing thing about that night's happenings was that Miss Ella and Miss Louise slept right through it. Worn out by their cake making and wrangling, intensely relieved that it was nothing but hunger and not a stroke that had befallen one of them, they had slept like two children. CHAPTER XXII A NEAT TRICK The court-house was due south of Grantly and towards it the count turned his powerful little car. After running about two miles, he made a deviation to the west and then to the north. "How much gasoline have we?" he asked Herz. "The tank is full." "Good! I take it you grasp my intentions." "Of course! I'm no fool. It would never do to have these idiots testify in court. Where to?" "Richmond! There we can turn them loose with money enough to get north." "Boss, ain't yer gonter han' us over?" asked James Hanks, who was rapidly recovering. "Naturally not! You can thank your stars that you are too big a fool to be trusted to face a judge," snarled Herz. The three negroes who were hanging to the car were jubilant at the news. "I sho' is lucky," said one. "I ain't nebber had no sinse an' it looks lak it done he'p me out a heap ter be so foolish lak." "It would be much easier to shoot them all and testify that they endeavored to escape," suggested Herz with a humorous twist to his ugly mouth. "Oh, boss! Please don't do no sich a deed," whined James Hanks. "I ain't never a-goin' ter let on that you----" "I know you are not!" and Herz put a cold revolver against the negro's temple. "You are not even going to let on anything here in this car. Now you keep your mouth shut, and shut tight or I'll blow your head off. We've got no use for people who fail." "Heavens! What a Prussian you are, Herz!" laughed the count. Richmond was reached in safety. Money was handed out to each one of the grateful negroes with instructions to take the first train north and then to separate. "They'll catch you sure if you stick together. But if they do catch you, you keep your black mouths shut about anything connected with the Count de Lestis or me,--do you understand?" They understood and made off as quickly as they could. "Ain't he a tur'ble slave driver, though?" said the bandy-legged one, and the others agreed. No time for rest for the occupants of the little red car. Back they went over the muddy roads as fast as the wonderful engine could take them. It was just dawn when they reached a certain spot in the road on the way to the court-house where they considered it most likely they could work their machinations. There was a sharp curve with a steep embankment on the outer edge. The car was carefully steered until two wheels were almost over the precipice. Then the count alighted, first turning off his engine. With shoulders to the wheel, the two men pushed until the machine toppled over into the ditch. "There, my darling! I hated to do it. I hope you are not much hurt," said the count whimsically. "Now roll on after her," and Herz pushed his employer over the embankment. Then he jumped down himself and wallowed in the mud. "Here's blood a-plenty for both of us. You can furnish blue blood but I have good red blood for two." He deliberately gashed his arm with his penknife and smeared his face with blood, and then rubbed it all over the countenance of the laughing count, who seemed to look upon the whole affair as a kind of college boy's prank. "Now your ankle is sprained and you can't walk, so I'll go to the nearest farmhouse for assistance and there telephone Mr. Sutton that his prisoners have escaped. You were pinioned under the car and I had to dig you out,--remember!" "All right, but I wish you would have the sprained ankle and let me go for aid. I'm beastly hungry and besides I don't want to be laid up just now. I rather wanted to take a walk with Miss Douglas Carter this afternoon. Heavens! Wasn't she beautiful last night?" "Humph!" "Much more beautiful than her sister, although I tell you that that Helen was very wonderful, especially after her hair came down and she had played angel. I wish I could have taken that stupid doctor's car instead of my own little red devil. I should have enjoyed ditching his car, but we needed the endurance and speed of my own darling." "You had better be having some pain now in case a traveler comes along the road. I'll get help as soon as possible;" and Herz went off without any comment on the comparative beauty of the two Misses Carter. Douglas was to him the most beautiful person in all the world, but he hated himself for loving her, feeling instinctively that his love was hopeless. His very name was against him and should she ever know the truth--but pshaw! These stupid people never would find out things. They were as easy to hoodwink as the darkies themselves. Mr. Sutton's fury knew no bounds when he got the message from Herz that the prisoners had escaped. It was with difficulty that he composed himself sufficiently to ask after the welfare of the two gentlemen who had undertaken the job of landing the negroes safely in jail. "The Count de Lestis has sprained his ankle and his face is all smeared with blood,--I could not tell how great were his injuries," lied the unblushing one over the telephone. "I spent hours getting him from under the car. Fortunately the mud was soft and deep and he is not seriously injured." "Just where was the accident?" "At that sharp curve in the road about two miles this side of the court-house,--just beyond the bridge." "Umhum! Do you need any assistance?" "No, I thank you. I'll get some mules to right the car. I think I am mechanic enough to repair the engine." "How about a doctor for your friend? Dr. Wright is still with the Carters." "Oh--er--ah--I think he can get along very well without calling in a physician. I have bandaged his ankle." "You did a good deal before you gave warning as to the escape of the prisoners." There was no answer to this remark, so without further ceremony Mr. Sutton hung up the receiver. There was to be no rest for the weary, it seemed. A search party must be called and the country scoured for the missing men. CHAPTER XXIII VISITORS AT PRESTON Dr. Wright was pretty sure that James Hanks would not have been able to travel very far after the knockout blow he had received, so when they could not find him in the woods near by it was decided he must be in hiding in some cabin. The search continued but no trace was found of the missing men. "Sounds shady to me," declared Lewis Somerville. "The idea! You can't mean that the count and Mr. Herz deliberately let the men get away!" exclaimed Douglas. "I believe they are capable of it." "Lewis! How can you?" "I tell you I mistrust them both. I don't like their names--I don't like their looks--I don't like their actions." "Nor do I," declared Billy Sutton, who had dropped in that morning to have a chat after the ball. Everybody was too exhausted to think of going on with any very arduous work. "Well, I think that after you accepted the count's hospitality you have no right to say things about him," broke in Nan. "Well, hasn't he accepted the hospitality of this country, and what is he doing? Don't you know it is that fool darky school that got all those poor nigs thinking that Grantly belonged to them? I bet Miss Helen agrees with me." "I--I--don't know," said Helen faintly. "I am all mixed up about the whole thing. Why should the count want to make trouble?" The matter was discussed up and down by the young people. The males for the most part sided against the count and his secretary, the females, with the exception of Lucy and Mag, taking up for them. Mrs. Carter was most indignant that anyone should say anything disagreeable about a gentleman of such fine presence and engaging manners as the Count de Lestis, one who knew so well how to entertain and who was so lavish. As for the other man, that Herz, no doubt he was fully capable of any mischief. He could not dance, had no small talk, and held his fork in a very awkward way when at the table. The count's ankle did not keep him in very long. He was soon around, although he limped quite painfully. His only difficulty was in remembering which foot was injured. He renewed his attentions towards the ladies at Valhalla. His protestations of concern for the Misses Grant were warm and convincing. He offered to come stay with them or let Herz come until they were sure that the county had settled down into its usual state of safety and peace. Those ladies were not in the least afraid, however, but still declared that nobody would ever hurt them. It turned out that on the night of what came so near being such a tragedy they had had in the house exactly three dollars and twenty cents. What an angry crowd it would have been when they began the division! Now came stirring news in the daily papers. Diplomatic relations were broken with Germany and the declaration of war imminent! Excitement and unrest were on every hand. Sometimes Nan and Lucy would come home laden with extras with headlines of terror and bloodshed. Mr. Carter occasionally went to town with them. "I feel as though I must find out what people are saying and thinking," he would declare. The truth of the matter was that Mr. Carter was well,--as well as ever, and the mere chopping of wood and stopping of cracks was not enough to occupy him. It had seemed to him as he went on that mad ride to the rescue of his beloved Helen that he was absolutely himself again. No longer could he let people plan his life for him. He was a man and meant to take the reins into his own hands. Not that his girls had not driven the family coach excellently well. They were wonderful, but he was able to do it for himself now and he intended to start. He consulted Dr. Wright: "I tell you, Wright, I am as fit as a fiddle and can get to work now." "Of course you are! Didn't I give you a year? You have not taken quite a year but the time is almost up. The shock that night of the ball helped you on to a complete recovery a little ahead of time. Sometimes a nervous patient gets a shock that does more than rest. The trouble is, one can't tell whether it will kill or cure." "Well, this one cured all right. Why, man, I could build a cathedral tomorrow!" "Good!" "I never can thank you enough for your kindness to me and my family. If there is ever anything I can do for you----" "No doubt there will be," was the doctor's cryptic remark. Herz kept up his walks with Douglas, although the girl did nothing to encourage him. She did everything to discourage him, in fact, except actually ask him to let her alone. She would find him waiting on the road after school. Sometimes he would even come to the school door for her if for any reason she was detained. These walks were usually taken when the count was off on one of his many business trips. In Virginia, March means spring, although sometimes a very blustering spring. If one wanders in the woods it is quite usual to find hepatica and arbutus making their way up through the leaves. The tender green begins to make its appearance on hedge and tree, and in the old gardens jonquils and daffodils and crocuses pop up their saucy heads, defying possible late snows and frosts. The roads were still muddy but not quite so bad as in the winter, and now, more than ever, Douglas with her faithful protector, Bobby, could enjoy the walks to and from school. The stilts did not have to be used nearly so often, although Nan and Lucy had become such adepts on their flamingo legs that they often mounted them merely for the pleasure and not because of the mud. Valhalla was growing lovelier day by day. The gaunt trees had taken on a veil of green. The nations were at war. The United States was being forced into the game in spite of her attempts at neutrality; but Mother Nature's slogan was: "Business as usual!" and she was attending to it exactly as she had from the beginning and as she will until the end of time. Spring had come in good earnest, and with her the myriads of little creatures who must work so hard for a mere existence. Strange scratchings had begun in the chimneys at Valhalla. The swallows were back and gave the Carters to understand that they had been tenants in that old overseer's house long before those city folks ever thought of such a thing as spending the winter in such a place. The robins were hopping about the lawn, trying to decide where they would build, while the mocking-birds were already busy in the honeysuckle hedge. One Saturday, the Saturday before war was actually declared, the Count de Lestis came to call, bringing with him in a lovely wicker cage a carrier pigeon for Douglas. "You promised that sometimes you would send me a message, remember," he said with the sentimental glance that Douglas refused to respond to. "Certainly I will. I'll send a note asking you to come to dinner. Would that do?" "Anything you send will do," he sighed. The pigeon was a beautiful little creature with glossy plumage and dainty red legs. "He will come back straight to Weston because he has young in the nest. He is not like some men who are up and away at the smallest excuse." "But how cruel to take him away from his young!" "Ah, but the hausfrau is there! She will see that no harm befalls the babies. And, too, she will remain faithful until her lord returns. As faithful as a pigeon means true unto death." The pigeon house had continued to be a thorn in the flesh to Mr. Carter. It was painted white, as that is what the pigeons like, and it was so large and so out of tone with the fine lines of the roof that Mr. Carter declared he could not bear to go to Weston any more. No trace of the lost negroes was found, although Mr. Sutton had detectives from Richmond to work on the case. They had evidently got away and well away. The farmer who had been so nearly asleep when Helen and Dr. Wright arrived at the ball, the farmer whose wife wore the stiff, green silk, declared he had passed that road on the way home that night and he had seen no sign of a red car turned turtle down a ditch. Of course the neighbors all said he had been driving in his sleep. Mr. Sutton made a trip into Richmond and had a conference with the governor. He told him that the bloodhounds employed to trace the darkies had never left the scene of the accident, although they had had many things belonging to the escaped men as a clue to tracing them. The governor told Mr. Sutton something that made him open his honest eyes very wide. At the same time he was cautioned to keep his honest mouth shut very tight. He came back to Preston with an air of mystery about him that disconcerted his good wife greatly. "Margaret, could you accommodate a guest just now?" "Why, certainly, if it is necessary, but who is the guest?" "A gentleman I have never met, maybe there will be two of them,--but we must pretend they are our very good friends." "Why, William, are you crazy?" "No, ma'am!" and then he whispered something to her, although they were alone, and she, too, opened her eyes very wide but promised to keep her mouth shut. The visitors came, two quiet gentlemen with good manners and simple habits. Mr. and Mrs. Sutton decided they should be some long lost cousins from the west who were in the country for their health. Thus they explained their visitors to Billy and Mag and their neighbors. They brought a small Ford runabout which they used a great deal. Mr. Sutton had a long conference with Mr. Carter. There was some more opening of eyes and shutting of mouths. "What a fool I have been!" cried that gentleman. "I can see it all now. Lewis Somerville tried to make me see but I was quite hard on the boy. Well! Well! What is to be done?" "Nothing! Just bide our time." "See here, Sutton, I believe there was method in that man's madness when he got two electric light systems. He told me to order one and then said his secretary had ordered one, too. Pretended he had not told me to, and then was tremendously kind and magnanimous about it. I began to think maybe I had not understood,--you see my head hadn't been very clear for business for many months and I mistrusted myself. I'll wager anything that that extra battery is running a wireless station at Weston." "Geewhilikins!" exclaimed the elder Sutton in very much the same tone his son might have used. "This business is growing very exciting." Sometimes the two quiet gentlemen visitors at Preston would go out for an airing in their little car, and finding a secluded spot in a pine woods, one of them would cleverly convert himself into an Armenian pedlar with a pack filled with cheap lace and jewelry. Then he would make the rounds of the cabins. He could speak almost no English when doing this part and seemed not to understand any at all. He visited every house in Paradise and from there made his way to Weston. His heavy, blue-black beard and long straggling hair so completely disguised him that the count never dreamed the man he saw at his kitchen door haggling with his colored cook over some coarse pillow shams was the same smooth-faced gentleman he had met that morning driving with his neighbor Sutton. As a book agent, the clever detective gained access to the count's library and actually sold him a set of Ruskin. As telephone inspector, he got much information desired, and as a government agricultural expert, he was favored with a long, intimate talk with the owner of Weston. Old Blitz, the German farmer near Preston, came in for his share of visits, too, from pedlars and book agents, etc. The mills of the government were grinding slowly but they were grinding exceeding small. The neighborhood was in absolute ignorance of the fact that their delightful count was being watched. His comings and goings were known. He had few secrets. It was learned by the detectives that he was not a Hungarian at all but his father was Austrian, his mother Prussian. He had been sent to this country by his government to make trouble among the negroes and to buy up tracts of land for future emigration. When the world was to be Prussianized, fair Virginia was not to be neglected. The raid on Grantly was traced absolutely to his lectures and the teachings of Herz, the so-called secretary. The only thing that had gone wrong was that the negroes had acted sooner than their masters had planned. Their object had been to have a general uprising and they wanted it to be timed about when war was declared. Their schemes had not been directed against poor old Grantly especially, but against all the whites, with a view of keeping the darkies out of the army. Herz turned out to be a full-blooded Prussian, who had lived in Cincinnati for about five years. He was a trusted spy of his government and had done wonderful work for them in Mexico. He was really the brains of the partnership and de Lestis the mixer. When de Lestis went off on his long business trips to Chicago and New York it developed he had been across the water several times, bearing with him maps and information that must be personally conducted. A wireless station was suspected but it was difficult to locate. "Look in the pigeon house," suggested Mr. Carter, still bearing a grudge against the atrocity that had ruined his beloved roof line. There it was, as neatly installed an instrument as one could find with the extra batteries doing the work perfectly. The telephone inspector found it quite easily. The pigeon house was a hollow sham. There was a reason for making it so large since the wireless was to have an inner chamber. The net was drawing more closely around the two men but they, scornful of the intelligence of the stupid Americans, went unconcernedly on, laying their plans and hatching their deviltries. Many a laugh they had over the automobile accident. "Those darkies before a clever lawyer would have been our undoing," they admitted to one another. The night school was discontinued for the time being and the poor colored people got back into their one time rut. Tempy resumed her labors at Grantly, a sadder and wiser girl. She no longer slept amidst the unwashed dishes but seemed anxious to become as good a servant as her sister Chloe. Sam, the factotum, returned in time to put in the garden. CHAPTER XXIV THE CARRIER PIGEON There came a day in mid-April that will always be remembered by the dwellers in Valhalla. Herz had walked home from school with Douglas, and contrary to his custom, had come in when they reached the house. He was in a strange, fierce humor and it seemed to Douglas as though his near-sighted eyes were boring holes in her. She could not keep her mind and talk off the war and whenever war was mentioned he became very glum. "Now that we are at war, will you not enlist?" she asked. "If you are a true American, I do not see how you can help it." "My eyes would debar me. Near-sighted men can't always serve where they would like to," he answered rather bitterly. "You see good in no one but a soldier." "Why, not at all!" blushed Douglas. "Of course, when my country is at war I want our young men to be willing to fight. Being a girl is all that keeps me here. You might work in a munition factory and help that way." "Ah, I should like that! Would you think more of me if I could help your country in some way?" "Your country, too!" Herz had come so close to her as they stood in the middle of the quaint old living-room that Douglas felt a desire to run away. She welcomed the sight of Helen running across the lawn from the direction of Grantly. "Guess!" panted Helen, bursting in on them. "I have seen James Hanks! He was sneaking out of the kitchen at Grantly. Had been in to see Tempy, I reckon. The man is crazy about her. Miss Louise saw him, too, and has 'phoned Mr. Sutton. I fancy he is on the way over here now with those western cousins of his. Funny men, aren't they? Miss Ella says she never heard of either Mr. or Mrs. Sutton's having any western kin, and she has known them and all their people for pretty near a century. I believe they are detectives myself, trying to find those runaway darkies." While Helen was giving out this information, Herz stood as though he had turned to stone. His face was white with a red spot on each high cheek bone. "Where is your carrier pigeon?" he asked Douglas abruptly. "The cage hangs on the porch." He drew from his pocket a small note-book and wrote rapidly in it. Tearing out the sheet, he strode to the porch, and with a small rubber band he quickly attached the note to the foot of the docile bird that he had grabbed from the cage without even a "by your leave." "What are you doing?" demanded Douglas. Was the man crazy? "Stop!" cried Helen. "Count de Lestis gave that bird to my sister." "Yes, and she was to send him a message. This is the message. It is as he would have it, I am sure. You remember he told you he would rather someone would seek him than search him. He shall have his choice." He carried the pigeon out on the lawn and freed it. The clever bird rose in a spiral flight and then started straight towards Weston and its mate. Without a word, Herz left the girls and started towards Weston, too, taking a line almost as straight as the one the pigeon had chosen. "Is he crazy, Douglas?" "I think he is something worse. I believe he is afraid of detectives." The count and his confederate got away,--although they were captured later on in North Carolina. The faithful red car carried them off rapidly. De Lestis was waiting for his one time secretary at the cross roads by Paradise. "Did you destroy the papers and maps?" gasped that gentleman as he sprang into the car. "How could I when your call was so urgent? I brought all the money, though. Those fools will never find the wireless. They have no imagination. And I have the grey paint to put my darling here in her uniform." That night, after having speeded for hours, the two men drew the little red car into the woods where they painted her a dingy grey. The count had purchased the paint only the day before at the country store. "In case of an emergency!" he had told Herz. Little did he dream that one of the visitors at Mr. Sutton's found out before night that he had bought the paint, and that when messages were sent in every direction to look out for two German spies, information was also given that they would be in a red car that had more than likely been painted grey. When Weston was thoroughly searched, many things besides the wireless station were brought to light. One of the detectives brought to Douglas a letter addressed in Lewis Somerville's writing. "Where did you find it?" blushed Douglas. "In the count's desk! I am sorry to have to tell you that it was my duty to read it before giving it to you." It was the letter Lewis had written from the Mexican border and no wonder Douglas blushed. He had made most violent love to her in this letter and had also spoken quite openly of the situation in Mexico from a soldier's standpoint. "Nothing is too small for them!" cried Douglas. "But what an escape we have made!" exclaimed Helen. "I bet you that man has made love to every one of us except Lucy." "He had better not say anything sweet to me," said that young lady. "Mag and I never could abide him." "Well, I liked him a whole lot," sighed Nan. "He appreciated poetry so thoroughly." There were three young men who were secretly glad when the count and Herz were caught: Dr. Wright, Lewis Somerville and Billy Sutton. They did not wish to be ungenerous, but it _was_ hard to have your especial girl monopolized on every occasion. The Misses Grant never could be made to understand that their precious count was a spy. "He was a charming gentleman and we want to hear nothing unkind about him," they actually agreed. Mrs. Carter insisted it was all the doings of that common Herz, who did not know how to conduct himself in a ballroom and who held his fork so awkwardly at the table. And Mr. Carter, true to his professional instinct, declared he had had his doubts about de Lestis from the moment he sacrificed his roof line to the pigeon house. But whatever the opinion held by the various members of the Carter family, all agreed that the surprising summer at Valhalla was one long to be remembered. Fascinating as had been its mysteries, its uncertainties, its new friendships and responsibilities however, not one of the family was sorry to return to Richmond. There, as fall advanced into winter, new doors of opportunity were opened and old associations renewed. Once more there were numbered among the city's happily busy people "The Carter Girls of Carter House." THE END [Illustration] The Girl Scouts Series BY EDITH LAVELL A new copyright series of Girl Scouts stories by an author of wide experience in Scouts' craft, as Director of Girl Scouts of Philadelphia. Clothbound, with Attractive Color Designs. PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH. THE GIRL SCOUTS AT MISS ALLEN'S SCHOOL THE GIRL SCOUTS AT CAMP THE GIRL SCOUTS' GOOD TURN THE GIRL SCOUTS' CANOE TRIP THE GIRL SCOUTS' RIVALS THE GIRL SCOUTS ON THE RANCH THE GIRL SCOUTS' VACATION ADVENTURES THE GIRL SCOUTS' MOTOR TRIP For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK [Illustration] Marjorie Dean High School Series BY PAULINE LESTER Author of the Famous Marjorie Dean College Series These are clean, wholesome stories that will be of great interest to all girls of high school age. 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All Cloth Bound Copyright Titles PRICE, 65 CENTS EACH CAPTAIN JACK LORIMER; or, The Young Athlete of Millvale High. Jack Lorimer is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boys. His fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. JACK LORIMER'S CHAMPIONS; or, Sports on Land and Lake. There is a lively story woven in with the athletic achievements, which are all right, since the book has been O. K'd. by Chadwick, the Nestor of American Sporting journalism. JACK LORIMER'S HOLIDAYS; or, Millvale High in Camp. It would be well not to put this book into a boy's hands until the chores are finished, otherwise they might be neglected. JACK LORIMER'S SUBSTITUTE; or, The Acting Captain of the Team. On the sporting side, this book takes up football, wrestling, and tobogganing. There is a good deal of fun in this book and plenty of action. JACK LORIMER, FRESHMAN; or, From Millvale High to Exmouth. Jack and some friends he makes crowd innumerable happenings into an exciting freshman year at one of the leading Eastern colleges. The book is typical of the American college boy's life, and there is a lively story, interwoven with feats on the gridiron, hockey, basketball and other clean honest sports for which Jack Lorimer stands. For sale by all booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the Publishers A. L. BURT COMPANY 114-120 EAST 23rd STREET NEW YORK Transcriber's Note In this text-version italics has been indicated with _italics_ and bold with =bold=. Small capitals has been changed to all capitals. A few obvious printer's errors have been corrected. Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation or accentuation. 
36400	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 36400-h.htm or 36400-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36400/36400-h/36400-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/36400/36400-h.zip) [Illustration: One young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van. _Frontispiece._] THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES How They Met What Happened And How It Ended by GRACE BROOKS HILL Author of "The Corner House Girls," "The Corner House Girls on a Houseboat," etc. Illustrated by Thelma Gooch Barse & Hopkins Publishers Newark, N. J. New York, N. Y. * * * * * BOOKS FOR GIRLS The Corner House Girls Series By Grace Brooks Hill _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated._ THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES Publishers BARSE & HOPKINS Newark, N. J. New York, N. Y. * * * * * Copyright, 1921, by Barse & Hopkins _The Corner House Girls Among the Gypsies_ Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I The Fretted Silver Bracelet 9 II A Profound Mystery 20 III Sammy Pinkney in Trouble 31 IV The Gypsy Trail 40 V Sammy Occasions Much Excitement 50 VI The Gypsy's Words 60 VII The Bracelet Again To the Fore 70 VIII The Misfortunes of a Runaway 81 IX Things Go Wrong 90 X All Is Not Gold That Glitters 100 XI Mysteries Accumulate 108 XII Getting in Deeper 114 XIII Over the Hills and Far Away 122 XIV Almost Had Him 134 XV Uncertainties 143 XVI The Dead End of Nowhere 149 XVII Ruth Begins To Worry 157 XVIII The Junkman Again 165 XIX The House Is Haunted 175 XX Plotters at Work 184 XXI Tess and Dot Take a Hand 195 XXII Excitement Galore 206 XXIII A Surprising Meeting 217 XXIV The Captives 234 XXV It Must Be All Right 244 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS One young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van Title "You have found it!" he chattered with great excitement 112 The girls could sit under the trees while Luke reclined on a swinging cot 158 "They want that silver thing back. It wasn't meant for you" 203 THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES CHAPTER I--THE FRETTED SILVER BRACELET If Sammy Pinkney had not been determined to play a "joey" and hooked back one of the garage doors so as to enter astride a broomstick with a dash and the usual clown announcement, "Here we are again!" all would not have happened that did happen to the Corner House girls--at least, not in just the way the events really occurred. Even Dot, who was inclined to be forgiving of most of Sammy's sins both of omission and commission, admitted that to be true. Tess, the next oldest Corner House girl (nobody ever dignified her with the name of "Theresa," unless it were Aunt Sarah Maltby) was inclined to reflect the opinion regarding most boys held by their oldest sister, Ruth. Tess's frank statement to this day is that it was entirely Sammy's fault that they were mixed up with the Gypsies at all. But-- "Well, if I'm going to be in your old circus," Sammy announced doggedly, "I'm going to be a joey--or _nothin'_." "You know very well, Sammy, that you can't be that," said Tess reprovingly. "Huh? Why can't I? I bet I'd make just as good a clown as Mr. Sully Sorber, who is Neale's half-uncle, or Mr. Asa Scruggs, who is Barnabetta's father." "I don't mean you can't be a clown," interrupted Tess. "I mean you can't be just _nothing_. You occupy space, so you must be something. Our teacher says so." "Shucks!" ejaculated Sammy Pinkney. "Don't I know that? And I wish you wouldn't talk about school. Why! we're only in the middle of our vacation, I should hope." "It seems such a long time since we went to school," murmured Dot, who was sitting by, nursing the Alice-doll in her arms and waiting her turn to be called into the circus ring, which was the cleared space in the middle of the cement floor. "That's because all you folks went off cruising on that houseboat and never took me with you," grumbled Sammy, who still held a deep-seated grouch because of the matter mentioned. "But 'tain't been long since school closed--and it isn't going to be long before the old thing opens again." "Why, Sammy!" admonished Tess. "I just _hate_ school, so I do!" vigorously announced the boy. "I'd rather be a tramp--or a Gypsy. Yes, I would." "Or a pirate, Sammy?" suggested Dot reflectively. "You know, me and you didn't have a very nice time when we went off to be pirates. 'Member?" "Huh!" grumbled Sammy, "that was because you was along. Girls can't be pirates worth shucks. And anyway," he concluded, "I'm going to be the joey in this show, or I won't play." "It will be supper time and the others will be back with the car, so none of us can play if we don't start in pretty soon," Tess observed. "Dot and I want to practice our gym work that Neale O'Neil has been teaching us. But you can clown it all you want to, Sammy." "Well, that lets me begin the show anyway," Sammy stated with satisfaction. He always did want to lead. And now he immediately ran to hook back the door and prepared to make his entrance into the ring in true clowning style, as he had seen Sully Sorber do in Twomley & Sorber's Herculean Circus and Menagerie. The Kenway garage opened upon Willow Street and along that pleasantly shaded and quiet thoroughfare just at this time came three rather odd looking people. Two were women carrying brightly stained baskets of divers shapes, and one of these women--usually the younger one--went into the yard of each house and knocked at the side or back door, offering the baskets for sale. The younger one was black-eyed and rather pretty. She was neatly dressed in very bright colors and wore a deal of gaudy jewelry. The older woman was not so attractive--or so clean. Loitering on the other side of the street, and keeping some distance behind the Gypsy women, slouched a tall, roughly clad fellow who was evidently their escort. The women came to the Kenway garage some time after Sammy Pinkney had made his famous "entrance" and Dot had abandoned the Alice-doll while she did several handsprings on the mattress that Tess had laid down. Dot did these very well indeed. Neale O'Neil, who had been trained in the circus, had given both the smaller Corner House girls the benefit of his advice and training. They loved athletic exercises. Mrs. McCall, the Corner House housekeeper, declared Tess and Dot were as active as grasshoppers. The two dark-faced women, as they peered in at the open doorway of the garage, seemed to think Dot's handsprings were marvelously well done, too; they whispered together excitedly and then the older one slyly beckoned the big Gypsy man across the street to approach. When he arrived to look over the women's heads it was Tess who was actively engaged on the garage floor. She was as supple as an eel. Of course, Tess Kenway would not like to be compared to an eel; but she was proud of her ability to "wriggle into a bow knot and out again"--as Sammy vociferously announced. "Say, Tess! that's a peach of a trick," declared the boy with enthusiasm. "Say! Lemme--Huh! What do _you_ want?" For suddenly he saw the two Gypsy women at the door of the garage. The man was now out of sight. "Ah-h!" whined the old woman cunningly, "will not the young master and the pretty little ladies buy a nice basket of the poor Gypsy? Good fortune goes with it." "Gee! who wants to buy a basket?" scoffed Sammy. "You only have to carry things in it." The bane of Sammy Pinkney's existence was the running of errands. "But they _are_ pretty," murmured Tess. "Oh--oo! See that nice green and yellow one with the cover," gasped Dot. "Do you suppose we've got money enough to buy that one, Tess? How nice it would be to carry the children's clothes in when we go on picnics." By "children" Dot meant their dolls, of which, the two smaller Corner House girls possessed a very large number. Several of these children, besides the Alice-doll, were grouped upon a bench in the corner of the garage as a part of the circus audience. The remainder of the spectators were Sandyface and her family. Sandyface was now a great, _great_ grandmother cat, and more of her progeny than one would care to catalog tranquilly viewed the little girls' circus or rolled in kittenish frolic on the floor. It sometimes did seem as though the old Corner House demesne was quite given up to feline inhabitants. And the recurrent appearance of new litters of kittens belonging to Sandyface herself, her daughters and granddaughters, had ceased to make even a ripple in the pool of Corner House existence. This explanation regarding the dolls and cats is really aside from our narrative. Tess and Dot both viewed with eager eyes the particular covered basket held out enticingly by the old Gypsy woman. Of course the little girls had no pockets in their gymnasium suits. But in a pocket of her raincoat which Tess had worn down to the garage over her blouse and bloomers, she found a dime and two pennies--"just enough for two ice-cream cones," Sammy Pinkey observed. "Oh! And my Alice-doll has eight cents in her cunning little beaded bag," cried Dot, with sudden animation. She produced the coins. But there was only twenty cents in all! "I--I--What do you ask for that basket, please?" Tess questioned cautiously. "Won't the pretty little ladies give the poor old Gypsy woman half a dollar for the basket?" The little girls lost hope. They were not allowed to break into their banks for any purpose without asking Ruth's permission, and their monthly stipend of pocket money was very low. "It is a very nice basket, little ladies," said the younger Gypsy woman--she who was so gayly dressed and gaudily bejeweled. "I know," Tess admitted wistfully. "But if we haven't so much money, how can we buy it?" "Say!" interrupted the amateur joey, hands in pockets and viewing the controversy quite as an outsider. "Say, Tess! if you and Dot really want that old basket, I've got two-bits I'll lend you." "Oh, Sammy!" gasped Dot. "A whole quarter?" "Have you got it here with you?" Tess asked. "Yep," announced the boy. "I don't think Ruth would mind our borrowing twenty-five cents of you, Sammy," said Tess, slowly. "Of course not," urged Dot. "Why, Sammy is just like one of the family." "Only when you girls go off cruising, I ain't," observed Sammy, his face clouding with remembrance. "_Then_ I ain't even a step-child." But he produced the quarter and offered it to Tess. She counted it with the money already in her hand. "But--but that makes only forty-five cents," she said. The two Gypsy women spoke hissingly to each other in a tongue that the children did not, of course, understand. Then the older woman thrust the basket out again. "Take!" she said. "Take for forty-fi' cents, eh? The little ladies can have." "Go ahead," Sammy said as Tess hesitated. "That's all the old basket is worth. I can get one bigger than that at the chain store for seven cents." "Oh, Sammy, it isn't as bee-_you_-tiful as this!" gasped Dot. "Well, it's a basket just the same." Tess put the silver and pennies in the old woman's clawlike hand and the longed-for basket came into her possession. "It is a good-fortune basket, pretty little ladies," repeated the old Gypsy, grinning at them toothlessly. "You are honest little ladies, I can see. You would never cheat the old Gypsy, would you? This is all the money you have to pay for the beautiful basket? Forty-fi' cents?" "Aw, say!" grumbled Sammy, "a bargain is a bargain, ain't it? And forty-five cents is a good deal of money." "If--if you think we ought to pay more--" Tess held the basket out hesitatingly. Dot fairly squealed: "Don't be a ninny, Tessie Kenway! It's ours now." "The basket is yours, little ladies," croaked the crone as the younger woman pulled sharply at her shawl. "But good fortune goes with it only if you are honest with the poor old Gypsy. Good-bye." The two strange women hurried away. Sammy lounged to the door, hands in pockets, to look after them. He caught a momentary glimpse of the tall Gypsy man disappearing around a corner. The two women quickly followed him. "Oh, what a lovely basket!" Dot was saying. "I--I hope Ruth won't scold because we borrowed that quarter of Sammy," murmured Tess. "Shucks!" exclaimed their boy friend. "Don't tell her. You can pay me when you get some more money." "Oh, no!" Tess said. "I would not hide anything from Ruth." "You couldn't, anyway," said the practical Dot. "She will want to know where we got the money to pay for the basket. Oh, _do_ open it, Tess. Isn't it lovely?" The cover worked on a very ingeniously contrived hinge. Had the children known much about such things they must have seen that the basket was worth much more than the price they had paid for it--much more indeed than the price the Gypsies had first asked. Tess lifted the cover. Dot crowded nearer to look in. The shadows of the little girls' heads at first hid the bottom of the basket. Then both saw something gleaming dully there. Tess and Dot cried out in unison; but it was the latter's brown hand that darted into the basket and brought forth the bracelet. "A silver bracelet!" Tess gasped. "Oh, look at it!" cried Dot. "Did you _ever_? Do you s'pose it's real silver, Tess?" "Of course it is," replied her sister, taking the circlet in her own hand. "How pretty! It's all engraved with fret-work--" "Hey!" ejaculated Sammy coming closer. "What's that?" "Oh, Sammy! A silver bracelet--all fretted, too," exclaimed the highly excited Dot. "Huh! What's that? 'Fretted'? When my mother's fretted she's--Say! how can a silver bracelet be cross, I want to know?" "Oh, Sammy," Tess suddenly ejaculated, "these Gypsy women will be cross enough when they miss this bracelet!" "Oh! Oh!" wailed Dot. "Maybe they'll come back and want to take it and the pretty basket, Tess. Let's run and hide 'em!" CHAPTER II--A PROFOUND MYSTERY Tess Kenway was positively shocked by her sister Dot's suggestion. To think of trying to keep the silver bracelet which they knew must belong to the Gypsy woman who had sold them the green and yellow basket, was quite a horrifying thought to Tess. "How _can_ you say such a thing, Dottie Kenway?" she demanded sternly. "Of course we cannot keep the bracelet. And that old Gypsy lady said we were honest, too. She could _see_ we were. And, then, what would Ruthie say?" Their older sister's opinion was always the standard for the other Corner House girls. And that might well be, for Ruth Kenway had been mentor and guide to her sisters ever since Dot, at least, could remember. Their mother had died so long ago that Tess but faintly remembered her. The Kenways had lived in a very moderately priced tenement in Bloomsburg when Mr. Howbridge (now their guardian) had searched for and found them, bringing them with Aunt Sarah Maltby to the old Corner House in Milton. In the first volume of this series, "The Corner House Girls," these matters are fully explained. The six succeeding volumes relate in detail the adventures of the four sisters and their friends--and some most remarkable adventures have they had at school, under canvas, at the seashore, as important characters in a school play, solving the mystery of a long-lost fortune, on an automobile tour through the country, and playing a winning part in the fortunes of Luke and Cecile Shepard in the volume called "The Corner House Girls Growing Up." In "The Corner House Girls Snowbound," the eighth book of the series, the Kenways and a number of their young friends went into the North Woods with their guardian to spend the Christmas Holidays. Eventually they rescued the twin Birdsall children, who likewise had come under the care of the elderly lawyer who had so long been the Kenway sisters' good friend. During the early weeks of the summer, just previous to the opening of our present story, the Corner House girls had enjoyed a delightful trip on a houseboat in the neighboring waters. The events of this trip are related in "The Corner House Girls on a Houseboat." During this outing there was more than one exciting incident. But the most exciting of all was the unexpected appearance of Neale O'Neil's father, long believed lost in Alaska. Mr. O'Neil's return to the States could only be for a brief period, for his mining interests called him back to Nome. His son, however, no longer mourned him as lost, and naturally (though this desire he kept secret from Agnes) the boy hoped, when his school days were over, to join his father in that far Northland. There was really no thought in the mind of the littlest Corner House girl to take that which did not belong to her. Most children believe implicitly in "findings-keepings," and it seemed to Dot Kenway that as they had bought the green and yellow basket in good faith of the two Gypsy women, everything it contained should belong to them. This, too, was Sammy Pinkney's idea of the matter. Sammy considered himself very worldly wise. "Say! what's the matter with you, Tess Kenway? Of course that bracelet is yours--if you want it. Who's going to stop you from keeping it, I want to know?" "But--but it must belong to one of those Gypsy ladies," gasped Tess. "The old lady asked us if we were honest. Of course we are!" "Pshaw! If they miss it, they'll be back after that silver thing fast enough." "But, Sammy, suppose they don't know the bracelet fell into this basket?" "Then you and Dot are that much in," was the prompt rejoinder of their boy friend. "You bought the basket and all that was in it. They couldn't claim the _air_ in that basket, could they? Well, then! how could they lay claim to anything else in the basket?" Such logic seemed unanswerable to Dot's mind. But Tess shook a doubtful head. She had a feeling that they ought to run after the Gypsies to return to them at once the bracelet. Only, neither she nor Dot was dressed properly to run through Milton's best residential streets after the Romany people. As for Sammy-- Happily, so Tess thought, she did not have to decide the matter. Musically an automobile horn sounded its warning and the children ran out to welcome the two older Corner House girls and Neale O'Neil, who acted as their chauffeur on this particular trip. They had been far out into the country for eggs and fresh vegetables, to the farm, in fact, of Mr. Bob Buckham, the strawberry king and the Corner House girls' very good friend. In these times of very high prices for food, Ruth Kenway considered it her duty to save money if she could by purchasing at first cost for the household's needs. "Otherwise," this very capable young housewife asked, "how shall we excuse the keeping of an automobile when the up-keep and everything is so high?" "Oh, _do_," begged Agnes, the flyaway sister, "_do_ let us have something impractical, Ruth. I just hate the man who wrote the first treatise on political economy." "I fancy it is 'household economy' you mean, Aggie," returned her sister, smiling. "And I warrant the author of the first treatise on that theme was a woman." "Mrs. Eva Adam, I bet!" chuckled Neale O'Neil, hearing this controversy from the driver's seat. "It has always been in my mind that the First Lady of the Garden of Eden was tempted to swipe those apples more because the price of other fruit was so high than for any other reason." "Then Adam was stingy with the household money," declared Agnes. "I really wish you would not use such words as 'swipe' before the children, Neale," sighed Ruth who, although she was no purist, did not wish the little folk to pick up (as they so easily did) slang phrases. She stepped out of the car when Neale had halted it within the garage and Agnes handed her the egg basket. Tess and Dot immediately began dancing about their elder sister, both shouting at once, the smallest girl with the green and yellow basket and Tess with the silver bracelet in her hand. "Oh, Ruthie, what do you think?" "See how pretty it is! And they never missed it." "_Can't_ we keep it, Ruthie?" This from Dot. "We paid those Gypsy ladies for the basket and all that was in it. Sammy says so." "Then it must be true of course," scoffed Agnes. "What is it?" "Well, I guess I know some things," observed Sammy, bridling. "If you buy a walnut you buy the kernel as well as the shell, don't you? And that bracelet was inside that covered basket, like the kernel in a nut." "Listen!" exclaimed Neale likewise getting out of the car. "Sammy's a very Solomon for judgment." "Now don't you call me that, Neale O'Neil!" ejaculated Sammy angrily. "I ain't a pig." "Wha--what! Who called you a pig, Sammy?" "Well, that's what Mr. Con Murphy calls _his_ pig--'Solomon.' You needn't call me by any pig-name, so there!" "I stand reproved," rejoined Neale with mock seriousness. "But, see here: What's all this about the basket and the bracelet--a two-fold mystery?" "It sounds like a thriller in six reels," cried Agnes, jumping out of the car herself to get a closer view of the bracelet and the basket. "My! Where did you get that gorgeous bracelet, children?" The beauty of the family, who loved "gew-gaws" of all kinds, seized the silver circlet and tried it upon her own plump arm. Ruth urged Tess to explain and had to place a gentle palm upon Dot's lips to keep them quiet so that she might get the straight of the story from the more sedate Tess. "And so, that's how it was," concluded Tess. "We bought the basket after borrowing Sammy's twenty-five cent piece, and of course the basket belongs to us, doesn't it, Ruthie?" "Most certainly, my dear," agreed the elder sister. "And inside was that beautiful fretted silver bracelet. And that--" "Just as certainly belongs to the Gypsies," finished Ruth. "At least, it does not belong to you and Dot." "Aw shu-u-cks!" drawled Sammy in dissent. Even Agnes cast a wistful glance at the older girl. Ruth was always so uncompromising in her decisions. There was never any middle ground in her view. Either a thing was right, or it was wrong, and that was all there was to it! "Well," sighed Tess, "that Gypsy lady _said_ she knew we were honest." "I think," Ruth observed thoughtfully, "that Neale had better run the car out again and look about town for those Gypsy women. They can't have got far away." "Say, Ruth! it's most supper time," objected Neale. "Have a heart!" "Anyway, I wouldn't trouble myself about a crowd of Gypsies," said Agnes. "They may have stolen the bracelet." "Oh!" gasped Tess and Dot in unison. "You know what June Wildwood told us about them. And she lived with Gypsies for months." "Gypsies are not all alike," the elder sister said confidently in answer to this last remark by Agnes. "Remember Mira and King David Stanley, and how nice they were to Tess and Dottie?" she asked, speaking of an incident related in "The Corner House Girls on a Tour." "I don't care!" exclaimed Agnes, pouting, and still viewing the bracelet on her arm with admiration. "I wouldn't run _my_ legs off chasing a band of Gypsies." They were all, however, bound to be influenced by Ruth's decision. "Well, I'll hunt around after supper," Neale said. "I'll take Sammy with me. You'll know those women if you see them again, won't you, kid?" "Sure," agreed Sammy, forgiving Neale for calling him "kid" with the prospect of an automobile ride in the offing. "But--but," breathed Tess in Ruth's ear, "if those Gypsy ladies don't take back the bracelet, it belongs to Dot and me, doesn't it, Sister?" "Of course. Agnes! do give it back, now. I expect it will cause trouble enough if those women are not found. A bone of contention! Both these children will want to wear the bracelet at the same time. Don't _you_ add to the difficulty, Agnes." "Why," drawled Agnes, slowly removing the curiously engraved silver ornament from her arm, "of course they will return for it. Or Neale will find them." This statement, however, was not borne out by the facts. Neale and Sammy drove all about town that evening without seeing the Gypsy women. The next day the smaller Corner House girls were taken into the suburbs all around Milton; but nowhere did they find trace of the Gypsies or of any encampment of those strange, nomadic people in the vicinity. The finding of the bracelet in the basket remained a mystery that the Corner House girls could not soon forget. "It does seem," said Tess, "as though those Gypsy ladies couldn't have meant to give us the bracelet, Dot. The old one said so much about our being honest. She didn't expect us to _steal_ it." "Oh, no!" agreed Dot. "But Neale O'Neil says maybe the Gypsy ladies stole it, and were afraid to keep it. So they gave it to us." "M-mm," considered Tess. "But that doesn't explain it at all. Even if they wanted to get rid of the bracelet, they need not have given it to us in such a lovely basket. Ruth says the basket is worth a whole lot more than the forty-five cents we paid for it." "It _is_ awful pretty," sighed Dot in agreement. "Some day they will surely come back for the bracelet." "Oh, I hope not!" murmured the littlest Corner House girl. "It makes such a be-_you_-tiful belt for my Alice-doll, when it's my turn to wear it." CHAPTER III--SAMMY PINKNEY IN TROUBLE Uncle Rufus, who was general factotum about the old Corner House and even acted as butler on "date and state occasions," was a very brown man with a shiny bald crown around three-quarters of the circumference of which was a hedge of white wool. Aided by Neale O'Neil (who still insisted on earning a part of his own support in spite of the fact that Mr. Jim O'Neil, his father, expected in time to be an Alaskan millionaire gold-miner), Uncle Rufus did all of the chores about the place. And those chores were multitudinous. Besides the lawns and the flower gardens to care for, there was a good-sized vegetable garden to weed and to hoe. Uncle Rufus suffered from what he called a "misery" in his back that made it difficult for him to stoop to weed the small plants in the garden. "I don't know, Missy Ruth," complained the old darkey to the eldest Corner House girl, "how I's goin' to get that bed of winter beets weeded--I dunno, noways. My misery suah won't let me stoop down to them rows, and there's a big patch of 'em." "Do they need weeding right now, Uncle Rufus?" "Suah do, Missy. Dey is sufferin' fo' hit. I'd send wo'd for some o' mah daughter Pechunia's young 'uns to come over yere, but I knows dat all o' them that's big enough to work is reg'larly employed by de farmers out dat a-way. Picking crops for de canneries is now at de top-notch, Missy; and even Burnejones Whistler and Louise-Annette is big enough to pick beans." "Goodness me!" exclaimed Agnes, who overheard the old man's complaint. "There ought to be kids enough around these corners to hire, without sending to foreign lands for any. They are always under foot if you _don't_ want them." "Ain't it de truf?" chuckled the old man. "Usual' I can't look over de hedge without spyin' dat Sammy Pinkney and a dozen of his crew. They's jest as plenty as bugs under a chip. But now--" "Well, why not get Sammy?" interrupted Ruth. "He ought to be of some use, that is sure," added Agnes. "Can yo' put yo' hand on dat boy?" demanded Uncle Rufus. "'Nless he's in mischief I don't know where to look for him." "I can find him all right," Agnes declared. "But I cannot guarantee that he will take the job." "Offer him fifty cents to weed those beet rows," Ruth said briskly. "The bed I see is just a mat of weeds." They had walked down to the garden while the discussion was going on. "If Sammy will do it I'll be glad to pay the half dollar." She bustled away about some other domestic matter; for despite the fact that Mrs. McCall bore the greater burden of housekeeping affairs, Ruth Kenway did not shirk certain responsibilities that fell to her lot both outside and inside the Corner House. After all was said and done, Sammy Pinkney looked upon Agnes as his friend. She was more lenient with him than even Dot was. Ruth and Tess looked upon most boys as merely "necessary evils." But Agnes had always liked to play with boys and was willing to overlook their shortcomings. "I got a lot to do," ventured Sammy, shying as usual at the idea of work. "But if you really want me to, Aggie--" "And if you want to make a whole half dollar," suggested Agnes, not much impressed by the idea that Sammy would weed beets as a favor. "All right," agreed the boy, and shooing Buster, his bulldog, out of the Corner House premises, for Buster and Billy Bumps, the goat, were sworn enemies, Sammy proceeded to the vegetable garden. Now, both Uncle Rufus and Agnes particularly showed Sammy which were the infant beets and which the weeds. It is a fact, however, that there are few garden plants grown for human consumption that do not have their counterpart among the noxious weeds. The young beets, growing in scattered clumps in the row (for each seed-burr contains a number of seeds), looked much like a certain weed of the lambs'-quarters variety; and this reddish-green weed pretty well covered the beet bed. Tess and Dot had gone to a girls' party at Mrs. Adams', just along on Willow Street, that afternoon, so they did not appear to disturb Sammy at his task. In fact, the boy had it all his own way. Neither Uncle Rufus nor any other older person came near him, and he certainly made a thorough job of that beet bed. Mrs. McCall "set great store," as she said, by beets--both pickled and fresh--for winter consumption. When Neale O'Neil chanced to go into the garden toward supper time to see what Sammy was doing there, it was too late to save much of the crop. "Well, of all the dunces!" ejaculated Neale, almost immediately seeing what Sammy had been about. "Say! you didn't do that on purpose, did you? Or don't you know any better?" "Know any better'n _what_?" demanded the bone-weary Sammy, in no mood to endure scolding in any case. "Ain't I done it all right? I bet you can't find a weed in that whole bed, so now." "Great grief, kid!" gasped the older boy, seeing that Sammy was quite in earnest, "I don't believe you've left anything _but_ weeds in those rows. It--it's a knock-out!" "Aw--I never," gulped Sammy. "I guess I know beets." "Huh! It looks as though you don't even know _beans_," chortled Neale, unable to keep his gravity. "What a mess! Mrs. McCall will be as sore as she can be." "I don't care!" cried the tired boy wildly. "I saved just what Aggie told me to, and threw away everything else. And see how the rows are." "Why, Sammy, those aren't where the rows of beets were at all. See! _These_ are beets. _Those_ are weeds. Oh, great grief!" and the older boy went off into another gale of laughter. "I--I do-o-on't care," wailed Sammy. "I did just what Aggie told me to. And I want my half dollar." "You want to be paid for wasting all Mrs. McCall's beets?" "I don't care, I earned it." Neale could not deny the statement. As far as the work went, Sammy certainly had spent time and labor on the unfortunate task. "Wait a minute," said Neale, as Sammy started away in anger. "Maybe all those beet plants you pulled up aren't wilted. We can save some of them. Beets grow very well when they are transplanted--especially if the ground is wet enough and the sun isn't too hot. It looks like rain for to-night, anyway." "Aw--I--" "Come on! We'll get some water and stick out what we can save. I'll help you and the girls needn't know you were such a dummy." "Dummy, yourself!" snarled the tired and over-wrought boy. "I'll never weed another beet again--no, I won't!" Sammy made a bee-line out of the garden and over the fence into Willow Street, leaving Neale fairly shaking with laughter, yet fully realizing how dreadfully cut-up Sammy must feel. The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune seem much greater to the mind of a youngster like Sammy Pinkney than to an adult person. The ridicule which he knew he must suffer because of his mistake about the beet bed, seemed something that he really could not bear. Besides, he had worked all the afternoon for nothing (as he presumed) and only the satisfaction of having earned fifty cents would have counteracted the ache in his muscles. Harried by his disappointment, Sammy was met by his mother in a stern mood, her first question being: "Where have you been wasting your time ever since dinner, Sammy Pinkney? I never did see such a lazy boy!" It was true that he had wasted his time. But his sore muscles cried out against the charge that he was lazy. He could not explain, however, without revealing his shame. To be ridiculed was the greatest punishment Sammy Pinkney knew. "Aw, what do you want me to do, Maw? Work _all_ the time? Ain't this my vacation?" "But your father says you are to work enough in the summer to keep from forgetting what work is. And look how grubby you are. Faugh!" "What do you want me to do, Maw?" "You might do a little weeding in our garden, you know, Sammy." "Weeding!" groaned the boy, fairly horrified by the suggestion after what he had been through that afternoon. "You know very well that our onions and carrots need cleaning out. And I don't believe you could even find our beets." "Beets!" Sammy's voice rose to a shriek. He never was really a bad boy; but this was too much. "Beets!" cried Sammy again. "I wouldn't weed a beet if nobody ever ate another of 'em. No, I wouldn't." He darted by his mother into the house and ran up to his room. Her reiterated command that he return and explain his disgraceful speech and violent conduct did not recall Sammy to the lower floor. "Very well, young man. Don't you come down to supper, either. And we'll see what your father has to say about your conduct when he comes home." This threat boded ill for Sammy, lying sobbing and sore upon his bed. He was too desperate to care much what his father did to him. But to face the ridicule of the neighborhood--above all to face the prospect of weeding another bed of beets!--was more than the boy could contemplate. "I'll run away and be a pirate--that's just what I'll do," choked Sammy, his old obsession enveloping his harassed thoughts. "I'll show 'em! They'll be sorry they treated me so--all of 'em." Just who "'em" were was rather vague in Sammy Pinkney's mind. But the determination to get away from all these older people, whom he considered had abused him, was not vague at all. CHAPTER IV--THE GYPSY TRAIL Mr. Pinkney, Sammy's father, heard all about it before he arrived home, for he always passed the side door of the old Corner House on his return from business. He came at just that time when Neale O'Neil was telling the assembled family--including Mrs. McCall, Uncle Rufus, and Linda the maid-of-all-work--about the utter wreck of the beet bed. "I've saved what I could--set 'em out, you know, and soaked 'em well," said the laughing Neale. "But make up your mind, Mrs. McCall, that you'll have to buy a good share of your beets this winter." "Well! What do you know about that, Mr. Pinkney?" demanded Agnes of their neighbor, who had halted at the gate. "Just like that boy," responded Mr. Pinkney, shaking his head over his son's transgressions. "Just the same," Neale added, chuckling, "Sammy says you showed him which were weeds and which were beets, Aggie." "Of course I did," flung back the quick-tempered Agnes. "And so did Uncle Rufus. But that boy is so heedless--" "I agree that Sammy pays very little attention to what is told him," said Sammy's father. Here Tess put in a soothing word, as usual: "Of course he didn't mean to pull up all your beets, Mrs. McCall." "And I don't like beets anyway," proclaimed Dot. "He certainly must have worked hard," Ruth said, producing a fifty-cent piece and running down the steps to press it into Mr. Pinkney's palm. "I am sure Sammy had no intention of spoiling our beet bed. And I am not sure that it is not partly our fault. He should not have been left all the afternoon without some supervision." "He should be more observing," said Mr. Pinkney. "I never did see such a rattlebrain." "'The servant is worthy of his hire,'" quoted Ruth. "And tell him, Mr. Pinkney, that we forgive him." "Just the same," cried Agnes after their neighbor, "although Sammy may know beans, as Neale says, he doesn't seem to know beets! Oh, what a boy!" So Mr. Pinkney brought home the story of Sammy's mistake and he and his wife laughed over it. But when Mrs. Pinkney called upstairs for the boy to come down to a late supper she got only a muffled response that he "didn't want no supper." "He must be sick," she observed to her husband, somewhat anxiously. "He's sick of the mess he's made--that's all," declared Mr. Pinkney cheerfully. "Let him alone. He'll come around all right in the morning." Meanwhile at the Corner House the Kenway sisters had something more important (at least, as they thought) to talk about than Sammy Pinkney and his errors of judgment. What Dot had begun to call the "fretful silver bracelet" was a very live topic. The local jeweler had pronounced the bracelet of considerable value because of its workmanship. It did not seem possible that the Gypsy women could have dropped the bracelet into the basket they had sold the smaller Corner House girls and then forgotten all about it. "It is not reasonable," Ruth Kenway declared firmly, "that it could just be a mistake. That basket is worth two dollars at least; and they sold it to the children for forty-five cents. It is mysterious." "They seemed to like Tess and me a whole lot," Dot said complacently. "That is why they gave it to us so cheap." "And that is the very reason I am worried," Ruth added. "Why don't you report it to the police?" croaked Aunt Sarah Maltby. "Maybe they'll try to rob the house." "O-oh," gasped Dot, round-eyed. "Who? The police?" giggled Agnes in Ruth's ear. "Maybe we ought to look again for those Gypsy ladies," Tess said. "But the bracelet is awful pretty." "I tell you! Let's ask June Wildwood. She knows all about Gypsies," cried Agnes. "She used to travel with them. Don't you remember, Ruth? They called her Queen Zaliska, and she made believe tell fortunes. Of course, not being a real Gypsy she could not tell them very well." "Crickey!" ejaculated Neale O'Neil, who was present. "You don't believe in that stuff, do you, Aggie?" "I don't know whether I do or not. But it's awfully thrilling to think of learning ahead what is going to happen." "Huh!" snorted her boy friend. "Like the weather man, eh? But he has some scientific data to go on." "Probably the Gypsy fortune tellers have reduced their business to a science, too," Ruth calmly said. "Anyhow," laughed Neale, "Queen Zaliska now works in Byburg's candy store. Some queen, I'll tell the world!" "Neale!" admonished Ruth. "_Such_ slang!" "Come on, Neale," said the excited Agnes. "Let you and me go down to Byburg's and ask her about the bracelet." "I really don't see how June can tell us anything," observed Ruth slowly. "Anyway," Agnes briskly said, putting on her hat, "we need some candy. Come on, Neale." The Wildwoods were Southerners who had not lived long in Milton. Their story is told in "The Corner House Girls Under Canvas." The Kenways were very well acquainted with Juniper Wildwood and her sister, Rosa. Agnes felt privileged to question June about her life with the Gypsies. "I saw Big Jim in town the other day," confessed the girl behind the candy counter the moment Agnes broached the subject. "I am awfully afraid of him. I ran all the way home. And I told Mr. Budd, the policeman on this beat, and I think Mr. Budd warned Big Jim to get out of town. There is some talk about getting a law through the Legislature putting a heavy tax on each Gypsy family that does not keep moving. _That_ will drive them away from Milton quicker than anything else. And that Big Jim is a bad, bad man. Why! he's been in jail for stealing." "Oh, my! He's a regular convict, then," gasped Agnes, much impressed. "Pshaw!" said Neale. "They don't call a man a convict unless he has been sent to the State prison, or to the Federal penitentiary. But that Big Jim looked to be tough enough, when we saw him down at Pleasant Cove, to belong in prison for life. Remember him, Aggie?" "The children did not say anything about a Gypsy man," observed his friend. "There were two Gypsy women." She went on to tell June Wildwood all about the basket purchase and the finding of the silver bracelet. The older girl shook her head solemnly as she said: "I don't understand it at all. Gypsies are always shrewd bargainers. They never sell things for less than they cost." "But they made that basket," Agnes urged. "Perhaps it didn't cost them so much as Ruth thinks." June smiled in a superior way. "Oh, no, they didn't make it. They don't waste their time nowadays making baskets when they can buy them from the factories so much cheaper and better. Oh, no!" "Crackey!" exclaimed Neale. "Then they are fakers, are they?" "That bracelet is no fake," declared Agnes. "That is what puzzles me most," said June. "Gypsies are very tricky. At least, all I ever knew. And if those two women you speak of belonged to Big Jim's tribe, I would not trust them at all." "But it seems they have done nothing at all bad in this case," Agnes observed. "Tess and Dot are sure ahead of the game, so far," chuckled Neale in agreement. "Just the same," said June Wildwood, "I would not be careless. Don't let the children talk to the Gypsies if they come back for the bracelet. Be sure to have some older person see the women and find out what they want. Oh, they are very sly." June had then to attend to other customers, and Agnes and Neale walked home. On the way they decided that there was no use in scaring the little ones about the Gypsies. "I don't believe in bugaboos," Agnes declared. "We'll just tell Ruth." This she proceeded to do. But perhaps she did not repeat June Wildwood's warning against the Gypsy band with sufficient emphasis to impress Ruth's mind. Or just about this time the older Corner House girl had something of much graver import to trouble her thought. By special delivery, on this evening just before they retired, arrived an almost incoherent letter from Cecile Shepard, part of which Ruth read aloud to Agnes: "... and just as Aunt Lorina is only beginning to get better! I feel as though this family is fated to have trouble this year. Luke was doing so well at the hotel and the proprietor liked him. It isn't _his_ fault that that outside stairway was untrustworthy and fell with him. The doctor says it is only a strained back and a broken wrist. But Luke is in bed. I am going by to-morrow's train to see for myself. I don't dare tell Aunt Lorina--nor even Neighbor. Neighbor--Mr. Northrup--is not well himself, and he would only worry about Luke if he knew.... Now, don't _you_ worry, and I will send you word how Luke is just the minute I arrive." "But how can I help being anxious?" Ruth demanded of her sister. "Poor Luke! And he was working so hard this summer so as not to be obliged to depend entirely on Neighbor for his college expenses next year." Ruth was deeply interested in Luke Shepard--had been, in fact, since the winter previous when all the Corner House family were snowbound at the Birdsall winter camp in the North Woods. Of course, Ruth and Luke were both very young, and Luke had first to finish his college course and get into business. Still and all, the fact that Luke Shepard had been hurt quite dwarfed the Gypsy bracelet matter in Ruth's mind. And in that of Agnes, too, of course. In addition, the very next morning Mrs. Pinkney ran across the street and in at the side door of the Corner House in a state of panic. "Oh! have you seen him?" she cried. "Seen whom, Mrs. Pinkney?" asked Ruth with sympathy. "Is Buster lost again?" demanded Tess, poising a spoonful of breakfast food carefully while she allowed her curiosity to take precedence over the business of eating. "That dog always _is_ getting lost." "It isn't Sammy's dog," wailed Mrs. Pinkney. "It is Sammy himself. I can't find him." "Can't find Sammy?" repeated Agnes. "His bed hasn't been slept in! I thought he was just sulky last night. But he is _gone_!" "Well," said Tess, practically, "Sammy is always running away, you know." "Oh, this is serious," cried the distracted mother. "He has broken open his bank and taken all his money--almost four dollars." "My!" murmured Dot, "it must cost lots more to run away and be pirates now than it used to." "Everything is much higher," agreed Tess. CHAPTER V--SAMMY OCCASIONS MUCH EXCITEMENT "I do hope and pray," Aunt Sarah Maltby declared, "that Mrs. Pinkney won't go quite distracted about that boy. Boys make so much trouble usually that a body would near about believe that it must be an occasion for giving thanks to get rid of one like Sammy Pinkney." This was said of course after Sammy's mother had gone home in tears--and Agnes had accompanied her to give such comfort as she might. The whole neighborhood was roused about the missing Sammy. All agreed that the boy never was of so much importance as when he was missing. "I do hope and pray that the little rascal will turn up soon," continued Aunt Sarah, "for Mrs. Pinkney's sake." "I wonder," murmured Dot to Tess, "why it is Aunt Sarah always says she 'hopes and prays'? Wouldn't just praying be enough? You're sure to get what you pray for, aren't you?" "But what is the use of praying if you don't hope?" demanded Tess, the hair-splitting theologian. "They must go together, Dot. I should think you'd see that." Mrs. Pinkney had lost hope of finding Sammy, however, right at the start. She knew him of course of old. He had been running away ever since he could toddle out of the gate; but she and Mr. Pinkney tried to convince themselves that each time would be the last--that he was "cured." For almost always Sammy's runaway escapades ended disastrously for him and covered him with ridicule. Particularly ignominious was the result of his recent attempt, which is narrated in the volume immediately preceding this, to accompany the Corner House Girls on their canal-boat cruise, when he appeared as a stowaway aboard the boat in the company of Billy Bumps, the goat. "And he hasn't even taken Buster with him this time," proclaimed Mrs. Pinkney. "He chained Buster down cellar and the dog began to howl. So mournful! It got on my nerves. I went down after Mr. Pinkney went to business early this morning and let Buster out. Then, because of the dog's actions, I began to suspect Sammy had gone. I called him. No answer. And he hadn't had any supper last night either." "I am awfully sorry, Mrs. Pinkney," Agnes said. "It was too bad about the beets. But he needn't have run away because of _that_. Ruth sent him his fifty cents, you know." "That's just it!" exclaimed the distracted woman. "His father did not give Sammy the half dollar. As long as the boy was so sulky last evening, and refused to come down to eat, Mr. Pinkney said let him wait for that money till he came down this morning. _He_ thought Ruth was too good. Sammy is always doing something." "Oh, he's not so bad," said the comforting Agnes. "I am sure there are lots worse boys. And are you sure, Mrs. Pinkney, that he has really run away this time?" "Buster can't find him. The poor dog has been running around and snuffing for an hour. I've telephoned to his father." "Who--_what_? Buster's father?" "Mr. Pinkney," explained Sammy's mother. "I suppose he'll tell the police. He says--Mr. Pinkney does--that the police must think it is a 'standing order' on their books to find Sammy." "Oh, my!" giggled Agnes, who was sure to appreciate the comical side of the most serious situation. "I should think the policemen would be so used to looking for Sammy that they would pick him up anywhere they chanced to see him with the idea that he was running away." "Well," sighed Mrs. Pinkney, "Buster can't find him. There he lies panting over by the currant bushes. The poor dog has run his legs off." "I don't believe bulldogs are very keen on a scent. Our old Tom Jonah could do better. But of course Sammy went right out into the street and the scent would be difficult for the best dog to follow. Do you think Sammy went early this morning?" "That dog began to howl soon after we went to bed. Mr. Pinkney sleeps so soundly that it did not annoy him. But I _knew_ something was wrong when Buster howled so. "Perhaps I'm superstitious. But we had an old dog that howled like that years ago when my grandmother died. She was ninety-six and had been bedridden for ten years, and the doctors said of course that she was likely to die almost any time. But that old Towser _did_ howl the night grandma was taken." "So you think," Agnes asked, without commenting upon Mrs. Pinkney's possible trend toward superstition, "that Sammy has been gone practically all night?" "I fear so. He must have waited for his father and me to go to bed. Then he slipped down the back stairs, tied Buster, and went out by the cellar door. All night long he's been wandering somewhere. The poor, foolish boy!" She took Agnes up to the boy's room--a museum of all kinds of "useless truck," as his mother said, but dear to the boyish heart. "Oh, he's gone sure enough," she said, pointing to the bank which was supposed to be incapable of being opened until five dollars in dimes had been deposited within it. A screw-driver, however, had satisfied the burglarious intent of Sammy. She pointed out the fact, too, that a certain extension bag that had figured before in her son's runaway escapades was missing. "The silly boy has taken his bathing suit and that cowboy play-suit his father bought him. I never did approve of that. Such things only give boys crazy notions about catching dogs and little girls with a rope, or shooting stray cats with a popgun. "Of course, he has taken his gun with him and a bag of shot that he had to shoot in it. The gun shoots with a spring, you know. It doesn't use real powder, of course. I have always believed such things are dangerous. But, you know, his father-- "Well, he wore his best shoes, and they will hurt him dreadfully, I am sure, if he walks far. And I can't find that new cap I bought him only last week." All the time she was searching in Sammy's closet and in the bureau drawers. She stood up suddenly and began to peer at the conglomeration of articles on the top of the bureau. "Oh!" she cried. "It's gone!" "What is it, Mrs. Pinkney?" asked Agnes sympathetically, seeing that the woman's eyes were overflowing again. "What is it you miss?" "Oh! he is determined I am sure to run away for good this time," sobbed Mrs. Pinkney. "The poor, foolish boy! I wish I had said nothing to him about the beets--I do. I wonder if both his father and I have not been too harsh with him. And I'm sure he loves us. Just think of his taking _that_." "But what is it?" cried Agnes again. "It stood right here on his bureau propped up against the glass. Sammy must have thought a great deal of it," flowed on the verbal torrent. "Who would have thought of that boy being so sentimental about it?" "Mrs. Pinkney!" begged the curious Agnes, almost distracted herself now, "_do_ tell me what it is that is missing?" "That picture. We had it taken--his father and Sammy and me in a group together--the last time we went to Pleasure Cove. Sammy begged to keep it up here. And--now--the dear child--has--has carried--it--away with him!" Mrs. Pinkney broke down utterly at this point. She was finally convinced that at last Sammy had fulfilled his oft-repeated threat to "run away for good and all"--whether to be a pirate or not, being a mooted question. Agnes comforted her as well as she could. But the poor woman felt that she had not taken her son seriously enough, and that she could have averted this present disaster in some way. "She is quite distracted," Agnes said, on arriving home, repeating Aunt Sarah's phrase. "Quite distracted." "But if she is extracted," Dot proposed, "why doesn't she have Dr. Forsyth come to see her?" "Mercy, Dot!" admonished Tess. "_Dis_tracted, not _ex_tracted. You do so mispronounce the commonest words." "I don't, either," the smaller girl denied vigorously. "I don't mispernounce any more than you do, Tess Kenway! You just make believe you know so much." "Dot! Mis_per_nounce! There you go again!" This was a sore subject, and Ruth attempted to change the trend of the little girls' thoughts by suggesting that Mrs. McCall needed some groceries from a certain store situated away across town. "If you can get Uncle Rufus to harness Scalawag you girls can drive over to Penny & Marchant's for those things. And you can stop at Mr. Howbridge's house with this note. He must be told about poor Luke's injury." "Why, Ruthie?" asked little Miss Inquisitive, otherwise Dot Kenway. "Mr. Howbridge isn't Luke Shepard's guardian, too, is he?" "Now, don't be a chatterbox!" exclaimed the elder sister, who was somewhat harassed on this morning and did not care to explain to the little folk just what she had in her mind. Ruth was not satisfied to know that Cecile had gone to attend her brother. The oldest Kenway girl longed to go herself to the resort in the mountains where Luke Shepard lay ill. But she did not wish to do this without first seeking their guardian's permission. Tess and Dot ran off in delight, forgetting their small bickerings, to find Uncle Rufus. The old colored man, as long as he could get about, would do anything for "his chillun," as he called the four Kenway sisters. It needed no coaxing on the part of Tess and Dot to get their will of the old man on this occasion. Scalawag was fat and lazy enough in any case. In the spring Neale had plowed and harrowed the garden with him and on occasion he was harnessed to a light cart for work about the place. His main duty, however, was to draw the smaller girls about the quieter streets of Milton in a basket phaeton. To this vehicle he was now harnessed by Uncle Rufus. "You want to be mought' car'ful 'bout them automobiles, chillun," the old man admonished them. "Dat Sammy Pinkney boy was suah some good once in a while. He was a purt' car'ful driber." "But he's a good driver _now_--wherever he is," said Dot. "You talk as though Sammy would never get back home from being a pirate. Of course he will. He always does!" Secretly Tess felt herself to be quite as able to drive the pony as ever Sammy Pinkney was. She was glad to show her prowess. Scalawag shook his head, danced playfully on the old stable floor, and then proceeded to wheel the basket phaeton out of the barn and into Willow Street. By a quieter thoroughfare than Main Street, Tess Kenway headed him for the other side of town. "Maybe we'll run across Sammy," suggested Dot, sitting sedately with her ever-present Alice-doll. "Then we can tell his mother where he is being a pirate. She won't be so extracted then." Tess overlooked this mispronunciation, knowing it was useless to object, and turned the subject by saying: "Or maybe we'll see those Gypsies." "Oh, I hope not!" cried the smaller girl. "I hope we'll never see those Gypsy women again." For just at this time the Alice-doll was wearing the fretted silver bracelet for a girdle. CHAPTER VI--THE GYPSY'S WORDS That very forenoon after the two smallest girls had set out on their drive with Scalawag a telegram came to the old Corner House for Ruth. As Agnes said, a telegram was "an event in their young sweet lives." And this one did seem of great importance to Ruth. It was from Cecile Shepard and read: "Arrived Oakhurst. They will not let me see Luke." Aside from the natural shock that the telegram itself furnished, Cecile's declaration that she was not allowed to see her brother was bound to make Ruth Kenway fear the worst. "Oh!" she cried, "he must be very badly hurt indeed. It is much worse than Cecile thought when she wrote. Oh, Agnes! what shall I do?" "Telegraph her for particulars," suggested Agnes, quite practically. "A broken wrist can't be such an awful thing, Ruthie." "But his back! Suppose he has seriously hurt his back?" "Goodness me! That would be awful, of course. He might grow a hump like poor Fred Littleburg. But I don't believe that anything like that has happened to Luke, Ruthie." Her sister was not to be easily comforted. "Think! There must be something very serious the matter or they would not keep his own sister from seeing him." Ruth herself had had no word from Luke since the accident. Neither of the sisters knew that Cecile Shepard had never had occasion to send a telegram before and had never received one in all her life. But she learned that a message of ten words could be sent for thirty-two cents to Milton, so she had divided what she wished to say in two equal parts! The second half of her message, however, because of the mistake of the filing clerk at the telegraph office in Oakhurst, did not arrive at the Corner House for several hours after the first half of the message. Ruth Kenway meanwhile grew almost frantic as she considered the possible misfortune that might have overtaken Luke Shepard. She grew quite as "extracted"--to quote Dot--as Mrs. Pinkney was about the absence of Sammy. "Well," Agnes finally declared, "if I felt as you do about it I would not wait to hear from Mr. Howbridge. I'd start right now. Here's the time table. I've looked up the trains. There is one at ten minutes to one--twelve-fifty. I'll call Neale and he'll drive you down to the station. You might have gone with the children if that telegram had come earlier." Agnes was not only practical, she was helpful on this occasion. She packed Ruth's bag--and managed to get into it a more sensible variety of articles than Sammy Pinkey had carried in his! "Now, don't be worried about _us_," said Agnes, when Ruth, dressed for departure, began to speak with anxiety about domestic affairs, including the continued absence of the little girls. "Haven't we got Mrs. McCall--and Linda? You _do_ take your duties so seriously, Ruth Kenway." "Do you think so?" rejoined Ruth, smiling rather wanly at the flyaway sister. "If anything should happen while I am gone--" "Nothing will happen that wouldn't happen anyway, whether you are at home or not," declared the positive Agnes. Ruth made ready to go in such a hurry that nobody else in the Corner House save Agnes herself realized that the older sister was going until the moment that Neale O'Neil drove around to the front gate with the car. Then Ruth ran into Aunt Sarah's room to kiss her good-bye. But Aunt Sarah had always lived a life apart from the general existence of the Corner House family and paid little attention to what her nieces did save to criticise. Mrs. McCall was busy this day preserving--"up tae ma eyen in wark, ma lassie"--and Ruth kissed her, called good-bye to Linda, and ran to the front door before any of the three actually realized what was afoot. Agnes ran with her to the street. At the gate stood a dark-faced, brilliantly dressed young woman, with huge gold rings in her ears, several other pieces of jewelry worn in sight, and a flashing smile as she halted the Kenway sisters with outstretched hand. "Will the young ladies let me read their palms?" she said suavely. "I can tell them the good fortune." "Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Agnes, pushing by the Gypsy. "We can't stop to have our fortunes told now." Ruth kept right on to the car. "Do not neglect the opportunity of having the good fortune told, young ladies," said the Gypsy girl shrewdly. "I can see that trouble is feared. The dark young lady goes on a journey because of the threat of _ill_ fortune. Perhaps it is not so bad as it seems." Agnes was really impressed. Left to herself she actually would have heeded the Gypsy's words. But Ruth hurried into the car, Neale reached back and slammed the tonneau door, and they were off for the station with only a few minutes to catch the twelve-fifty train. "There!" ejaculated Agnes, standing at the curb to wave her hand and look after the car. "The blonde young lady does not believe the Gypsy can tell her something that will happen--and in the near future?" "Oh!" exclaimed Agnes. "I don't know." And she dragged her gaze from the car and looked doubtfully upon the dark face of the Gypsy girl which was now serious. The latter said: "Something has sent the dark young lady from home in much haste and anxiety?" The question was answered of course before it was asked. Any observant person could have seen as much. But Agnes's interest was attracted and she nodded. "Had your sister," the Gypsy girl said, guessing easily enough at the relationship of the two Corner House girls, "not been in such haste, she could have learned something that will change the aspect of the threatened trouble. More news is on the way." Agnes was quite startled by this statement. Without explaining further the Gypsy girl glided away, disappearing into Willow Street. Agnes failed to see, as the Gypsy quite evidently did, the leisurely approach of the telegraph messenger boy with the yellow envelope in his hand and his eyes fixed upon the old Corner House. Agnes ran within quickly. She was more than a little impressed by the Gypsy girl's words, and a few minutes later when the front doorbell rang and she took in the second telegram addressed to Ruth, she was pretty well converted to fortune telling as an exact science. * * * * * Sammy Pinkney had marched out of the house late at night, as his mother suspected, lugging his heavy extension-bag, with a more vague idea of his immediate destination than was even usual when he set forth on such escapades. To "run away" seemed to Sammy the only thing for a boy to do when home life and restrictions became in his opinion unbearable. It might be questioned by stern disciplinarians if Mr. and Mrs. Pinkney had properly punished Sammy after he had run away the first few times, the boy would not have been cured of his wanderlust. Fortunately, although Sammy's father was stern enough, he very well knew that this desire for wandering could not be beaten out of the boy. Merely if he were beaten, when he grew big enough to fend for himself in the world, he would leave home and never return rather than face corporal punishment. "I was just such a kid when I was his age," admitted Mr. Pinkney. "My father licked me for running away, so finally I ran away when I was fourteen, and stayed away. Sammy has less reason for leaving home than I had, and he'll get over his foolishness, get a better education than I obtained, and be a better man, I hope, in the end. It's in the Pinkney blood to rove." This, of course, while perhaps being satisfactory to a man, did not at all calm Sammy's mother. She expected the very worst to happen to her son every time he disappeared; and as has been shown on this occasion, the boy's absence stirred the community to its very dregs. Had Mrs. Pinkney known that after tramping as far as the outskirts of the town, and almost dropping from exhaustion, Sammy had gone to bed on a pile of straw in an empty cow stable, she would have been even more troubled than she was. Sammy, however, came to no harm. He slept so soundly in fact on the rude couch that it was mid-forenoon before he awoke--stiff, sore in muscles, clamorously hungry, and in a frame of mind to go immediately home and beg for breakfast. He had more money tied up in his handkerchief, however, than he had ever possessed before when he had run away. There was a store in sight at the roadside not far ahead. He hid his bag in the bushes and bought crackers, ham, cheese, and a big bottle of sarsaparilla, and so made a hearty if not judicious breakfast and lunch. At least, this picnic meal cured the slight attack of homesickness which he suffered. He was no longer for turning back. The whole world was before him and he strode away into it--lugging that extension-bag. While his troubled mother was showing Agnes Kenway the unmistakable traces of his departure for parts unknown, Sammy was trudging along pretty contentedly, the bag awkwardly knocking against his knees, and his sharp eyes alive to everything that went on along the road. Sammy had little love for natural history or botany, or anything like that. He suffered preparatory lessons in those branches of enforced knowledge during the school year. He did not care a bit to know the difference between a gray squirrel and a striped chipmunk. They both chattered at him saucily, and he stopped to try a shot at each of them with his gun. To Sammy's mind they were legitimate game. He visualized himself building a fire in a fence corner, skinning and cleaning his game and roasting it over the flames for supper. But the squirrel and the chipmunk visualized quite a different outcome to the adventure and they refused to be shot by the amateur sportsman. Sammy struck into a road that led across the canal by a curved bridge and right out into a part of the country with which he was not at all familiar. The houses were few and far between, and most of them were set well back from the road. Sometimes dogs barked at him, but he was not afraid of watch dogs. He did not venture into the yards or up the private lanes. He had bought enough crackers and cheese to make another meal when he should want it. And there were sweet springs beside the road, or in the pastures where the cattle grazed. Few vehicles passed him in either direction. It was the time of the late hay harvest and everybody was at work in the fields--and usually when he saw the haymakers at all, they were far from the road. He met no pedestrians at all. Being quite off the line of the railroad, there were no tramps on this road, and of course there was nothing else to harm the boy. His mother, in her anxiety, peopled the world with those that would do Sammy harm. In truth, he was never safer in his life! But adventure? Why, the world was full of it, and Sammy Pinkney expected to meet any number of exciting incidents as he went on. "Sammy," Dot Kenway once said, "has just a _wunnerful_ 'magination. Why! if he sees our old Sandyface creeping through the grass after a poor little field mouse, Sammy can think she's a whole herd of tigers. His 'magination is just wunnerful!" CHAPTER VII--THE BRACELET AGAIN TO THE FORE While Sammy's sturdy, if short, legs were leaving home and Milton steadily behind him, Dot and Tess were driving Scalawag, the calico pony, to Penny & Marchant's store, and later to Mr. Howbridge's house to deliver the note Ruth had entrusted to them. Their guardian had always been fond of the Kenway sisters--since he had been appointed their guardian by the court, of course--and Tess and Dot could not merely call at Mr. Howbridge's door and drive right away again. Besides, there were Ralph and Rowena Birdsall. The Birdsall twins had of late likewise come under Mr. Howbridge's care, and circumstances were such that it was best for their guardian to take the twins into his own home. Having two extremely active and rather willful children in his household had most certainly disturbed Mr. Howbridge out of the rut of his old existence. And Ralph and Rowena quite "turned the 'ouse hupside down," to quote Hedden, Mr. Howbridge's butler. The moment the twins spied Tess and Dot in the pony phaeton they tore down the stairs from their quarters at the top of the Howbridge house, and flew out of the door to greet the little Corner House girls. "Oh, Tessie and Dot!" cried Rowena, who looked exactly like her brother, only her hair was now grown long again and she no longer wore boy's garments, as she had when the Kenways first knew her. "How nice to see you!" "Where's Sammy?" Ralph demanded. "Why didn't he come along, too?" "We're glad to see you, Rowena and Rafe," Tess said sedately. But Dot replied eagerly to the boy twin: "Oh, Rafe! what do you think? Sammy's run away again." "Get out!" "I'm going to," said Dot, considering Ralph's ejaculation of amazement an invitation to alight, and she forthwith jumped down from the step of the phaeton. "You can't mean that Sammy has run off?" cried Ralph. "Listen to this, Rowdy." "What a silly boy!" criticised his sister. "I don't know," chuckled Ralph Birdsall. "'Member how you and I ran away that time, Rowdy?" "Oh--well," said his sister. "We had reason for doing so. But you know Sammy Pinkney's got a father and a mother--And for pity's sake, Rafe, stop calling me Rowdy." "And he's got a real nice bulldog, too," added Dot, reflectively considering any possibility why Sammy should run away. "I can't understand why he does it. He only has to come back home again. I did it once, and I never mean to run away from home again." Meanwhile Tess left Ralph to hitch Scalawag while she marched up the stone steps of the Howbridge house to deliver Ruth's note into Hedden's hand, who took it at once to Mr. Howbridge. Dot interested the twins almost immediately in another topic. Rowena naturally was first to spy the silver girdle around the Alice-doll's waist. "What a splendid belt!" cried Rowena Birdsall. "Is it real silver, Dot?" "It--it's fretful silver," replied the littlest Corner House girl. "Isn't it pretty?" "Why," declared Ralph after an examination, "it's an old, old bracelet." "Well, it is old, I s'pose," admitted Dot. "But my Alice-doll doesn't know that. _She_ thinks it is a brand new belt. But of course she can't wear it every day, for half the time the bracelet belongs to Tess." This statement naturally aroused the twins' curiosity, and when Tess ran back to join them in the front yard the story of the Gypsy basket and the finding of the bracelet lost nothing of detail by being narrated by both of the Corner House girls. "Oh, my!" cried Rowena. "Maybe those Gypsies are just waiting to grab you. Gypsies steal children sometimes. Don't they, Rafe?" "Course they do," agreed her twin. Dot looked rather frightened at this suggestion, but Tess scorned the possibility. "Why, how foolish," she declared. "Dot and I were lost once--all by ourselves. Even Tom Jonah wasn't with us. Weren't we, Dot? And we slept out under a tree all night, and a nice Gypsy woman found us in the morning and took us to her camp. Didn't she, Dot?" "Oh, yes! And an owl howled at us," agreed the smaller girl. "And I'd much rather sleep in a Gypsy tent than have owls howl at me." "The owl _hooted_, Dot," corrected Tess. "Well, what's the difference between a hoot and a howl?" demanded Dot, rather crossly. She did so hate to be corrected! "Well, of course," said Rowena Birdsall thoughtfully, "if you are acquainted with Gypsies maybe you wouldn't be scared. But I don't believe they gave you this bracelet for nothing." "No," agreed Dot quickly. "For forty-five cents. And we still owe Sammy Pinkney twenty-five cents of it. And he's run away." So they got around again to the first exciting piece of news Tess and Dot had brought, and were discussing that when Mr. Howbridge came out to speak to the little visitors, giving them his written answer to Ruth's note. He heard about Sammy's escapade and some mention of the Gypsies. "Well," he chuckled, "if Sammy Pinkney has been carried off by the Gypsies, I sympathize with the Gypsies. I have a very vivid recollection of how much trouble Sammy can make--and without half trying. "Now, children, give my note to Ruth. I am very sorry that Luke Shepard is ill. If he does not at once recover it may be well to bring him here to Milton. With his aunt only just recovering from her illness, it would be unwise to take the boy home." This he said more to himself than to the little girls. Because of their errand Tess and Dot could remain no longer. Ralph unhitched the pony and Tess drove away. Around the very first corner they spied a dusty, rather battered touring-car just moving away. A big, dark man, with gold hoops in his ears, was driving it. There was a brilliantly dressed young woman in the tonneau, which was otherwise filled with boxes, baskets, a crate of fruit, and odd-shaped packages. "Oh, Tess!" squealed Dot. "See there!" "Oh, Dot!" rejoined her sister quite as excitedly. "That is the young Gypsy lady." "Oh-oo!" moaned Dot. "Have we _got_ to give her back this fretful silver bracelet, Tessie?" "We must _try_," declared Tess firmly. "Ruth says so. Get up, Scalawag! Come on--hurry! We must catch them." The touring-car was going away from the pony-phaeton. Scalawag objected very much to going faster than his usual easy jog trot--unless it were to dance behind a band! _He_ didn't care to overtake the Gypsies' motor-car. And that car was going faster and faster. Tess stopped talking to the aggravating Scalawag and lifted up her voice to shout after the Gypsies. "Oh, stop! Stop!" she called. "Miss--Miss Gypsy! We've got something for you! Why, Dot, you are not hollering at all!" "I--I'm trying to," wailed the smaller girl. "But I do so hate to make Alice give up her belt." The Gypsy turned his car into a cross street ahead and disappeared. When Scalawag brought the Corner House girls to that corner the car was so far away that the girls' voices at their loudest pitch could not have reached the ears of the Romany folk. "Now, just see! We'll never be able to give that bracelet back if you don't do your share of the hollering, Dot Kenway," complained Tess. "I--I will," promised Dot. "Anyway, I will when it's your turn to wear the bracelet." The little girls reached home again at a time when the whole Corner House family seemed disrupted. To the amazement of Tess and Dot their sister Ruth had departed for the mountains. Neale had only just then returned from seeing her aboard the train. "And it's too late to stop her, never mind what Mr. Howbridge says in this note," cried Agnes. "That foolish Cecile! Here is the second half of her telegraph message," and she read it aloud again: "Until afternoon; will wire you then how he is." "Crickey!" gasped Neale, red in the face with laughter, and taking the two telegrams to read them in conjunction: "Arrived Oakhurst. They will not let me see Luke until afternoon. Will wire you then how he is." "Isn't that just like a girl?" "No more like a girl than it is like a boy," snapped Agnes. "I'm sure all the brains in the world are not of the masculine gender." "I stand corrected," meekly agreed her friend. "Just the same, I don't think that even you, Aggie, would award Cecile Shepard a medal for perspicuity." "Why--_why_," gasped the listening Dot, "has Cecile got one of those things the matter with her? I thought it was Luke who got hurt?" "You are perfectly right, Dottie," said Agnes, before Neale could laugh at the little girl. "It _is_ Luke who is hurt. But this Neale O'Neil is very likely to dislocate his jaw if he pronounces many such big words. He is only showing off." "Squelched!" admitted Neale good-naturedly. "Well, what do you wish done with the car? Shall I put it up? Can't chase Ruth's train in it, and bring her back." "You might chase the Gypsies," suggested Tess slowly. "We saw them again--Dot and me." "Oh! The Gypsies? What do you think, Neale? I do believe there is something in that fortune-telling business," Agnes cried. "I bet there is," agreed Neale. "Money for the Gypsies." But Agnes repeated what the Gypsy girl had said to Ruth and herself just as the elder Corner House girl was starting for the train. "I saw that Gyp of course," agreed Neale. "But, pshaw! she only just _guessed_. Of course there isn't any truth in what those fortune tellers hand you. Not much!" "There was something in that basket they handed Tess and me," said Dot, complacently eyeing the silver girdle on the Alice-doll. "Say! About that bracelet, Aggie," broke in Neale. "Do you know what I believe?" "What, Neale?" "I believe those Gypsies must have stolen it. Then they got scared, thinking that the police were after them, and the women dropped it into the basket the kids bought, believing they could get the bracelet back when it was safe for them to do so." "Do you really suppose that is the explanation?" "I am afraid the bracelet is 'stolen goods.' Perhaps the children had better not carry it away from the house any more. Or until we are sure. The police--" "Mercy me, Neale! you surely would not tell the police about the bracelet?" "Not yet. But I was going to suggest to Ruth that she advertise the bracelet in the Milton _Morning Post_. Advertise it in the 'Lost and Found' column, just as though it had been picked up somewhere. Then let us see if the Gypsies--or somebody else--comes after it." "And if somebody does?" "Well, we can always refuse to give it up until ownership is proved," declared Neale. "All right. Let's advertise it at once. We needn't wait for Ruth to come back," said the energetic Agnes. "How should such an advertisement be worded, Neale?" They proceeded to evolve a reading notice advertising the finding of the silver bracelet, which when published added not a little to the complications of the matter. CHAPTER VIII--THE MISFORTUNES OF A RUNAWAY In this present instance Sammy Pinkney was not obliged to exert his imagination to any very great degree to make himself believe that he was having real adventure. Romance very soon took the embryo pirate by the hand and led him into most exciting and quite unlooked-for events. Sammy's progress was slow because of the weight of the extension-bag. Yet as he trudged on steadily he put a number of miles behind him that afternoon. Had his parents known in which direction to look for him they might easily have overtaken the runaway. Neale O'Neil could have driven out this road in the Kenway's car and brought Sammy back before supper time. Mr. Pinkney, however, labored under the delusion that because Sammy was piratically inclined, he would head toward the sea. So he got in touch with people all along the railroad line to Pleasant Cove, suspecting that the boy might have purchased a ticket in that direction with a part of the contents of his burglarized bank. The nearest thing to the sea that Sammy came to after passing the canal on the edge of Milton was a big pond which he sighted about mid-afternoon. Its dancing blue waters looked very cool and refreshing, and the young traveler thought of his bathing suit right away. "I can hide this bag and take a swim," he thought eagerly. "I bet that pond is all right. Hullo! There's some kids. I wonder if they would steal my things if I go in swimming?" He was not incautious. Being mischievously inclined himself, he suspected other boys of having similar propensities. The boys he had observed were playing down by the water's edge where an ice-house had once stood. But the building had been destroyed by fire, all but its roof. The eaves of this shingled roof, which was quite intact, now rested on the ground. The boys were sliding from the ridge of the roof to the ground, and then climbing up again to repeat the performance. It looked to be a lot of fun. After Sammy had hidden his extension-bag in a clump of bushes, he approached the slide. One boy, who was the largest and oldest of the group, called to Sammy: "Come on, kid. Try it. The slide's free." It looked to be real sport, and Sammy could not resist the invitation given so frankly. He saw that the bigger boy sat on a piece of board when he slid down the shingles; but the others slid on the seat of their trousers--and so did Sammy. It proved to be an hilarious occasion. One might have heard those boys shouting and laughing a mile away. A series of races were held, and Sammy Pinkney managed to win his share of them. This so excited him that he failed for all of the time to notice what fatal effect the friction was having upon his trousers. He was suddenly reminded, however, by a startling happening. All the shingles on that roof were not worn smooth. Some were "splintery." Sammy emitted a sharp cry as he reached the ground after a particularly swift descent of the roof, and rising, he clapped his hand to that part of his anatomy upon which he had been tobogganing, with a most rueful expression on his countenance. "Oh, my! Oh, my!" cried Sammy. "I've got two big holes worn right through my pants! My good pants, too. My maw will give me fits, so she will. I'll never _dare_ go home now." The big boy who had saved his own trousers from disaster by using the piece of board to slide on, shouted with laughter. But another of the party said to Sammy: "Don't tell your mother. I aren't going to tell _my_ mother, you bet. By and by she'll find the holes and think they just wore through naturally." "Well," said Sammy, with a sigh, "I guess I've slid down enough for to-day, anyway. Good-bye, you fellers, I'll see you later." He did not feel at all as cheerful as he spoke. He was really smitten with remorse, for this was almost a new suit he had on. He wished heartily that he had put on that cowboy suit--even his bathing suit--before joining that coasting party. "That big feller," grumbled Sammy, "is a foxy one, he is! He didn't wear through his pants, you bet. But _me_--" Sammy was very much lowered in his own estimation over this mishap. He was by no means so smart as he had believed himself to be. He felt gingerly from time to time of the holes in his trousers. They were of such a nature that they could scarcely be hidden. "Crickey!" he muttered, "she sure will give me fits." The boys he had been playing with disappeared. Sammy secured his bag and suddenly found it very, very heavy. Evening was approaching. The sun was so low now that its almost level rays shone into his eyes as he plodded along the road. A farmer going to Milton market in an auto-truck, its load covered with a brown tarpaulin, passed Sammy. If it had not been for the holes in his trousers, and what his mother would do and say about it, the boy surely would have asked the farmer for a ride back home! His hesitancy cost him the ride. And he met nobody else on this road he was traveling. He struggled on, his courage beginning to ebb. He had eaten the last crumbs of his lunch. After the pond was out of sight behind him the runaway saw no dwellings at all. The road had entered a wood, and that wood grew thicker and darker as he advanced. Fireflies twinkled in the bushes. There was a hum of insect life and somewhere a big bullfrog tuned his bassoon--a most eerie sound. A bat flew low above his head and Sammy dodged, uttering a startled squawk. "Crickey! I don't like this a bit," he panted. But the runaway was no coward. He was quite sure that there was nothing in these woods that would really hurt him. He could still see some distance back from the road on either hand, and he selected a big chestnut tree at the foot of which, between two roots, there was a hollow filled with leaves and trash. This made not a bad couch, as he very soon found. He thrust the bag that had become so heavy farther into the hollow and lay down before it. But tired as he was, he could not at once go to sleep. Somewhere near he heard a trickle of water. The sound made the boy thirsty. He finally got up and stumbled through the brush, along the roadside in the direction of the running water. He found it--a spring rising in the bank above the road. Sammy carried a pocket-cup and soon satisfied his thirst by its aid. He had some difficulty in finding his former nest; but when he did come to the hollow between two huge roots, with the broadly spreading chestnut tree boughs overhead, he soon fell asleep. Nothing disturbed Sammy thereafter until it was broad daylight. He awoke as much refreshed as though he had slept in his own bed at home. Young muscles recover quickly from strain. All he remembered, too, was the fun he had had the day before, while he was foot-loose. Even the disaster to his trousers seemed of little moment now. He had always envied ragged urchins; they seemed to have so few cares and nobody to bother them. He ran with a whoop to the spring, drank his fill from it, and then doused his face and hands therein. The sun and air dried his head after his ablutions and there was nobody to ask if "he had washed behind his ears." He returned to the chestnut tree where he had lain all night, whistling. Of course he was hungry; but he believed there must be some house along the road where he could buy breakfast. Sammy Pinkney was not at all troubled by his situation until, stooping to look into the cavity near which he had slept, he made the disconcerting discovery that his extension-bag was not there! "Wha--wha--_what_?" stammered Sammy. "It's gone! Who took it?" That he had been robbed while he went to the spring was the only explanation there could be of this mysterious disappearance. At least, so thought Sammy. He ran around the tree, staring all about--even up into the thickly leaved branches where the clusters of green burrs were already formed. Then he plunged through the fringe of bushes into the road to see if he could spy the robber making away in either direction. All he saw was a rabbit hopping placidly across the highway. A jay flew overhead with raucous call, as though he laughed at the bereft boy. And Sammy Pinkney was in no mood to stand being laughed at! "You mean old thing!" he shouted at the flashing jay--which merely laughed at him again, just as though he did know who had stolen Sammy's bag and hugely enjoyed the joke. In that bag were many things that Sammy considered precious as well as necessary articles of clothing. There was his gun and the shot for it! How could he defend himself from attack or shoot game in the wilds, if either became necessary? "Oh, dear!" Sammy finally sniffed, not above crying a few tears as there was nobody by to see. "Oh, dear! Now I've _got_ to wear this good suit--although 'tain't so good anyway with holes in the pants. "But all my other things--crickey! Ain't it just mean? Whoever took my bag, I hope he'll have the baddest kind of luck. I--I hope he'll have to go to the dentist's and have all his teeth pulled, so I do!" which, from a recent experience of the runaway, seemed the most painful punishment that could be exacted from the thief. Wishing any amount of ill-fortune for the robber would not bring back his bag. Sammy quite realized this. He had his money safely tied into a very grubby handkerchief, so that was all right. But when he started off along the road at last, he was in no very cheerful frame of mind. CHAPTER IX--THINGS GO WRONG Of course there was no real reason why life at the old Corner House should not flow quite as placidly with Ruth away as when the elder sister was at home. It was a fact, however, that things seemed to begin to go wrong almost at once. Having written the notice advertising the silver bracelet as though it had been found by chance, Agnes made Neale run downtown again at once with it so as to be sure the advertisement would be inserted in the next morning's _Post_. As the automobile had not been put into the garage after the return from taking Ruth to the station, Neale used it on this errand, and on his way back there was a blowout. Of course if Ruth had been at home she could scarcely have averted this misfortune. However, had she been at home the advertisement regarding the bracelet might not have been written at all. Meanwhile, Mrs. McCall's preserve jars did not seal well, and the next day the work had to be done all over again. Linda cut her finger "to the bone," as she gloomily announced. And Uncle Rufus lost a silver dollar somewhere in the grass while he was mowing the lawn. "An' dollars is as scarce wid me as dem hen's teef dey talks about," said the old darkey. "An' I never yet did see a hen wid teef--an' Ah reckon I've seen a million of 'em." "Oh-oo!" murmured Dot Kenway. "A million hens, Unc' Rufus? _Is_ there that many?" "He, he!" chuckled the old man. "Ain't that the beatenes' chile dat ever was? Always a-questionin' an' a-questionin'. Yo' can't git by wid any sprodigious statement when she is around--no, suh!" Nor could such an expression as "sprodigious" go unchallenged with Dot on the scene--no, indeed! A big word in any case attracted Miss Dorothy. "What does that mean, Unc' Rufus?" she promptly demanded. "Is--is 'sprodigious' a dictionary word, or just one of your made-up words?" "Go 'long chile!" chuckled the old man. "Can't Uncle Rufus make up words just as good as any dictionary-man? If I knows what Ah wants to say, Ah says it, ne'er mind de dictionary!" "That's all very well, Unc' Rufus," Tess put in. "But Ruthie only wants us to use language that you find in books. So I guess you'd better not take that one from Uncle Rufus, Dottie." "Howcome Missy Ruth so pertic'lar?" grumbled the old man. "Yo' little gals is gettin' too much l'arnin'--suah is! But none of hit don't find de ol' man his dollar." At this complaint Tess and Dot went to work immediately to hunt for the missing dollar. It was while they were searching along the hedgerow next to the Creamers' premises that the little girls got into their memorable argument with Mabel Creamer about the lobster--an argument, which, being overheard by Agnes, was reported to the family with much hilarity. Mabel, an energetic and sharp-tongued child, and Bubby, her little brother, were playing in their yard. That is, Bubby was playing while Mabel nagged and thwarted him in almost everything he wanted to do. "Now, don't stoop over like that, Bubby. Your face gets all red like a lobster does. Maybe you'll turn into one." "I _ain't_ a lobs'er," shouted Bubby. "You will be one if you get red like that," repeated his sister in a most aggravating way. "I won't be a lobs'er!" wailed Bubby. "Of course you won't be a lobster, Bubby," spoke up Tess from across the hedge. "You're just a boy." "Course I's a boy," declared Bubby stoutly, sensing that Tess Kenway's assurance was half a criticism. "I don't want to be a lobs'er--nor a dirl, so there!" "Oh-oo!" gasped Dot. "You will be a lobster and turn all red if you are a bad boy," declared Mabel, who was always in a bad temper when she was made to mind Bubby. "Why, Mabel," murmured Dot, who knew a thing or two about lobsters herself, "you wouldn't boil Bubby, would you?" "Don't have to boil 'em to make 'em turn red," declared Mabel, referring to the lobster, not the boy. "My father brought home live lobsters once and the big one got out of the basket on to the kitchen floor." "Oh, my!" exclaimed the interested Dot. "What happened?" With her imagination thus spurred by appreciation, Mabel pursued the fancy: "And there were three little ones in the basket, and that old, big lobster tried to make them get out on the floor too. And when they wouldn't, what do you think?" "I don't know," breathed Dot. "Why, he got so mad at them that he turned red all over. I saw him--" "Why, Mabel Creamer!" interrupted Tess, unable to listen further to such a flight of fancy without registering a protest. "That can't be so--you know it can't." "I'd like to know why it can't be so?" demanded Mabel. "'Cause lobsters only turn red when they are boiled. They are all green when they are alive." "How do you know so much, Tess Kenway?" cried Mabel. "These are my lobsters and I'll have them turn blue if I want to--so there!" There seemed to be no room for further argument. Besides, Mabel grabbed Bubby by the hand and dragged him away from the hedge. "My!" murmured Dot, "Mabel has _such_ a 'magination. And maybe that lobster did get mad, Tess. We don't know." "She never had a live lobster in her family," declared Tess, quite emphatically. "You know very well, Dot Kenway, that Mr. Creamer wouldn't bring home such a thing as a live lobster, when there are little children in his house." "M--mm--I guess that's so," agreed Dot. "A live lobster would be worse than Sammy Pinkney's bulldog." Thus reminded of the absent Sammy the two smaller Corner House girls postponed any further search for Uncle Rufus's dollar and went across the street to learn if any news had been gained of their runaway playmate. Mrs. Pinkney was still despairing. She had imagined already a score of misfortunes that might have befallen her absent son, ranging from his eating of green apples to being run over by an automobile. "But, Mrs. Pinkney!" burst forth Tess at last, "if Sammy has run away to sea to be a pirate, there won't be any green apples for him to eat--and no automobiles." "Oh, you can never tell what trouble Sammy Pinkney will manage to get into," moaned his mother. "I can only expect the very worst." "Well," Dot remarked with a sigh, as she and Tess trudged home to supper, "I'm glad there is only one boy in _my_ family. My boy doll, Nosmo King Kenway, will probably be a source of great anxiety when he is older." "I wouldn't worry about that," Tess told her placidly. "If he is very bad you can send him to the reform school." "Oh--oo!" gasped Dot, all her maternal instincts aroused at such a suggestion. "That would be awful." "I don't know. They do send boys to the reform school. Jimmy Mulligan, whose mother lives in that little house on Willow Wythe, is in the reform school because he wouldn't mind his mother." "But they don't send Sammy there," urged Dot. "No--o. Of course," admitted the really tender-hearted Tess, "we know Sammy isn't really naughty. He is only silly to run away every once in a while." There was much bustle inside the old Corner House that evening. Because they really missed Ruth so much, her sisters invented divers occupations to fill the hours until bedtime. Tess and Dot, for instance, had never cut out so many paper-dolls in all their lives. Another telegram had arrived from Cecile Shepard (sent, of course, before Ruth had reached Oakhurst), stating that she had been allowed to see her brother and that, although he could not be immediately moved, he was improving and was absolutely in no danger. "If Ruthie had only waited to get _this_ message," complained Agnes, "she would not have gone up there to the mountains at all. And just see, Neale, how right that Gypsy girl was. There was news on the way that changed the whole aspect of affairs. She was quite wonderful, _I_ think." By this time Neale saw that it was better not to try to ridicule Agnes' budding belief in fortune telling. "Less said, the soonest mended," was his wise opinion. "I like Cecile Shepard," Agnes went on to say, "and always shall; but I don't think she has shown much sense about her brother's illness. Scaring everybody to death, and sending telegrams like a patch-work quilt!" "Maybe Ruth will come right home again when she finds Luke is all right," said Tess hopefully. "Dear, me! aren't boys a lot of trouble?" "Sammy and Luke are," agreed Dot. "All but Neale," said the loyal Agnes, her boy chum having departed. "I don't see what this family would do without Neale O'Neil." In the morning the older sister's absence seemed to make quite as great a gap in the household of the old Corner House as at night. But Neale rushed in early with the morning paper to show Agnes their advertisement in print. Under the "Lost and Found" heading appeared the following: "FOUND:--Silver bracelet, antique design. Owner can regain it by proving property and paying for this advertisement. Apply Kenway, Willow and Main Streets." "It sounds quite dignified," decided Agnes admiringly. "I guess Ruth would approve." "Crickey!" ejaculated Neale O'Neil, "this is _one_ thing Ruth is not bossing. We did this off our own bat, Aggie." "Just the same," ruminated Agnes, "I wonder what Mr. Howbridge will say if he reads it?" "I am glad," said Neale with gratitude, "that my father doesn't interfere with what I do. And I haven't any guardian, unless it is dear old Con Murphy. Folks let me pretty much alone." "If they didn't," said Agnes saucily, "I suppose you would run away as you did from the circus." "No," laughed her chum. "One runaway in the neighborhood is enough. Mr. Pinkney has been up half the night, he tells me, telephoning and sending telegrams. He has about made up his mind that Sammy hasn't gone in the direction of Pleasant Cove, after all." "We ought to help hunt for Sammy," cried Agnes eagerly. "Let us take Mrs. Pinkney in the auto, Neale, and search for that little rascal." "No. She will not leave the house. She wants to greet Sammy when he comes back--no matter whether it is day or night," chuckled Neale. "But Mr. Pinkney is going to get away from the office this afternoon, and we'll take him. He is afraid his wife will be really ill." "Poor woman!" "She cannot be contented to sit down and wait for Sammy to turn up--as he always does." "You mean, he always gets turned up," giggled Agnes. "Somebody is sure to find him." "Well, then, it might as well be us," agreed Neale. "I'll tune up the engine, and see that the car is all right. We should be able to go over a lot of these roads in an afternoon. Sammy could not have got very far from Milton in two days, or less." CHAPTER X--ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS Quite unsuspicious of the foregoing plans for his apprehension, Sammy Pinkney was journeying on, going steadily away from Milton, and traveling much faster now that he did not have to carry the extension-bag. The boy had no idea who could have stolen his possessions; but he rubbed his knuckles in his eyes, forced back the tears, and pressed on, feeling that freedom even without a change of garments was preferable to the restrictions of home and all the comforts there to be found. He walked two miles or more and was very hungry before he came to the first house. It stood just at the edge of the big wood in which Sammy had spent the night. It was scarcely more than a tumbled-down hut, with broken panes of glass more common than whole ones in the windows, these apertures stuffed with hats and discarded garments, while half the bricks had fallen from the chimney-top. There were half a dozen barefooted children running about, while a very wide and red-faced woman stood in the doorway. "Hullo, me bye!" she called to Sammy, as he lingered outside the broken fence with a longing eye upon her. "Where be yez bound so airly in the marnin'?" "I'm just traveling, Ma'am," Sammy returned with much dignity. "Could--could you sell me some breakfast?" "Breakfast, is it?" repeated the smiling woman. "Shure, I'd give yez it, if mate wasn't so high now. Come in me kitchen and sit ye down. There's tay in the pot, and I'll fry yez up a spider full o' pork and taters, if that'll do yez?" The menu sounded tempting indeed to Sammy. He accepted the woman's invitation instantly and entered the house, past the staring children. The two oldest of the group, a shrewd-faced boy and a sharp-featured girl, stood back and whispered together while they watched the visitor. Sammy was so much interested in the bountiful breakfast with which the housewife supplied him that he thought very little about the children peering in at the door and open windows. When he had eaten the last crumb he asked his hostess how much he should pay her. "Well, me bye, I'll not overcharge ye," she replied. "If yez have ten cents about ye we'll call it square--an' that's only for the mate, as I said before is so high, I dunno." Sammy produced the knotted handkerchief, put it on the table and untied it, displaying the coins it held with something of a flourish. The jingle of so many dimes brought a sigh of wonder in unison from the young spectators at door and windows. The woman accepted her dime without comment. Sammy thanked her politely, wiped his mouth on his sleeve (napery was conspicuous by its absence in this household) and started out the door. The smaller children scattered to give him passage; the older boy and girl had already gone out of the badly fenced yard and were loitering along the road in the direction Sammy was traveling. "Hullo! Here's raggedy-pants," said the girl saucily, when Sammy came along. "How did you get them holes in your breeches, kid?" added the boy. "Never you mind," rejoined Sammy gruffly. "They're _my_ pants." "Stuck up, ain't you?" jeered the girl and stuck out her tongue at him. Sammy thought these were two very impolite children, and although he was not rated at home for his own chivalrous conduct, he considered these specimens in the road before him quite unpleasant young people. "Ne'er mind," said the boy, looking at Sammy slyly, "he don't know everything. He ain't seen everything if he is traveling all by himself. I bet he's run away." "I ain't running away from you," was Sammy's belligerent rejoinder. "You would if I said 'Boo!' to you." "No, I wouldn't." "Ya!" scoffed the girl, leering at Sammy, "don't talk so much. Do something to him, Peter." Peter glanced warily back at the house. Perhaps he knew the large, red-faced woman might take a hand in proceedings if he pitched upon the strange boy. "I bet," he said, starting on another tack, "that he never saw a cherry-colored calf like our'n." "I bet he never did," crowed the girl in delight. "A cherry-colored calf," scoffed Sammy. "Get out! There ain't such a thing. A calf might be red; there _are_ red cows--" "This calf is cherry-colored," repeated the boy earnestly. "It's down there in our pasture." "Don't believe it," said Sammy flatly. "'Tis so!" cried the girl. "I tell you," said the very shrewd-looking boy. "We'll show it to you for ten cents." "I don't believe it," repeated Sammy, but more doubtfully. The girl laughed at him more scornfully than before. "He's afraid to spend a dime--an' him with so much money," she cried. "I don't believe you've got a cherry-colored calf to show me." "Gimme the dime and I'll show you whether we have or not," said Peter. "No," said the cautious Sammy. "I'll give you a dime _if_ you show it to me. But no foolin'. I won't give you a cent if the calf is any other color." "All right," shouted the other boy. "Come on and I'll show you. Come on, Liz." "All right, Peter," said the girl, quite as eagerly. "Hurry up, raggedy-pants. We can use that dime, Peter and me can." The bare-legged youngsters got through a rail fence and darted down a path into a scrubby pasture, as wild as unbroken colts. Sammy, feeling fine after the bountiful breakfast he had eaten, chased after them wishing that he had thought to remove his shoes and stockings too. Peter and Liz seemed so much more free and untrammeled than he! "Hold on!" puffed Sammy, coming finally to the bottom of the slope. "I ain't going to run my head off for any old calf--Huh!" From behind a clump of brush appeared suddenly a cow--a black and white cow, probably of the Holstein breed. There followed a scrambling in the bushes. Liz jumped into them with a shriek and drove out a little, blatting, stiff-legged calf. It was all of a glossy black, from its nose to the tip of its tail. "That's him! That's him!" shrieked Liz. "A cherry-colored calf." "What did I tell you?" demanded the boy, Peter. "Give us the dime." "You go on!" exclaimed Sammy. "I knew all the time you were story-telling. That's no cherry-colored calf." "'Tis too! It's just the color of a black-heart cherry," giggled Liz. "You got to give up ten cents." "Won't neither," Sammy declared. "I'll take it off you," threatened Peter, growing belligerent. "You won't," stubbornly declared Sammy, who did not propose to be cheated. Peter jumped for him and Sammy could not run. One reason why he could not retreat was because Liz grabbed him from the rear, holding him around the waist. She pulled him over backward, while her brother began to pummel Sammy most heartily from above. It was a most unfair attack and a most uncomfortable situation for the runaway. Although he managed to defend his face for the most part from Peter's blows, he could do little else. "Lemme up! Lemme up!" bawled Sammy. "Gimme the dime," panted Peter. "I won't! 'Tain't fair!" gasped Sammy, too plucky to give in. Liz had now squirmed from under the struggling boys. She must have seen at the house in which pocket Sammy kept the knotted handkerchief, for she thrust her hand into that pocket and snatched out the hoard of dimes before the owner realized what she was doing. "Hey! Stop! Lemme up!" roared Sammy again. "I got it, Peter!" shrieked Liz, and, springing up, she darted into the bushes and disappeared. "Stop! She's stole my money," gasped Sammy in horror and alarm. "She never! You didn't have no money!" declared Peter, and with a final blow that stunned Sammy for the moment, the other leaped up and followed his wild companion into the brush. Sammy, weeping in good earnest now, bruised and scratched in body and sore in spirit, climbed slowly to his feet. Never before in any of his runaway escapades had he suffered such ignominy and loss. Why! he had actually fallen among thieves. First his bag and all his chattels therein had been stolen. Now these two ragamuffins had robbed him of every penny he possessed. He dared not go back to the house where he had bought breakfast and complain. The other youngsters there might fall upon and beat him again! Sammy Pinkney at last was tasting the bitter fruits of wrong doing. Even weeding another beet-bed could have been no more painful than these experiences which he was now suffering. CHAPTER XI--MYSTERIES ACCUMULATE "And if you go to the store, or anywhere else for Mrs. McCall or Linda, remember _don't_ take that bracelet with you," commanded Agnes in a most imperative manner, fairly transfixing her two smaller sisters with an index finger. "Remember!" "Ruthie didn't say so," complained Dot. "Did she, Tess?" "But I guess we'd better mind what Agnes says when Ruth isn't at home," confessed Tess, more amenable to discipline. "You know, Aggie has got to be responsible now." "Well," muttered the rebellious Dot, "never mind if she is 'sponserble, she needn't be so awful bossy about it!" Agnes did, of course, feel her importance while Ruth was away. It was not often that she was made responsible for the family welfare in any particular. And just now the matter of the silver bracelet loomed big on her horizon. She scarcely expected the advertisement in the _Morning Post_ to bring immediate results. Yet, it might. The Gypsies' gift to the little girls was a very queer matter indeed. The suggestion that the bracelet had been stolen by the Romany folk did not seem at all improbable. And if this was so, whoever had lost the ornament would naturally be watching the "Lost and Found" column in the newspaper. "Unless the owner doesn't know he has lost it," Agnes suggested to Neale. "How's that? He'd have to be more absent-minded than Professor Ware not to miss a bracelet like that," scoffed her boy chum. "Oh, Professor Ware!" giggled Agnes, suddenly. "_He_ would forget anything, I do believe. Do you know what happened at his house the other evening when the Millers and Mr. and Mrs. Crandall went to call?" "The poor professor made a bad break I suppose," grinned Neale. "What did he do?" "Why, Mrs. Ware saw the callers coming just before they rang the bell and the professor had been digging in the garden. Of course she straightened things up a little before she appeared in the parlor to welcome the visitors. But the professor did not appear. Somebody asked for him at last and Mrs. Ware went to the foot of the stairs to call him. "'Oh, Professor!' she called up the stairs, and the company heard him answer back just as plain: "'Maria, I can't remember whether you sent me up here to change my clothes or to go to bed.'" "I can believe it!" chortled Neale O'Neil. "He has made some awful breaks in school. But I don't believe _he_ ever owned that bracelet, Aggie." * * * * * The first person who displayed interest in the advertisement in the _Post_ about the bracelet, save the two young people who put it in the paper, proved to add much to the mystery of the affair and nothing at all to the peace of mind of Agnes, at least. Agnes was busy at some mending--actually hose-darning, for Ruth insisted that the flyaway sister should mend her own stockings, which Aunt Sarah's keen eyes inspected--when she chanced to raise her head to glance out of the front window of the sewing room. A strange looking turnout had halted before the front gate. The vehicle itself was a decrepit express wagon on the side of which in straggling blue letters was painted the one word "JUNK," but the horse drawing the wagon was a surprisingly well-kept and good looking animal. The back of the wagon was piled high with bundles of newspapers, and bags, evidently stuffed with rags, were likewise in the wagon body. The man climbing down from the seat just as Agnes looked did not seem at all like the usual junk dealer who passed through Milton's streets heralded by a "chime" of tin-can bells. He was a small, swarthy man, and even at the distance of the front gate from Agnes' window the girl could see that he wore gold hoops in his ears. He was quick but furtive in his motions. He glanced in a birdlike way down the street and across the Parade Ground, which was diagonally opposite the old Corner House, before he entered the front gate. "He'd better go around to the side door," thought Agnes aloud. "He must be a very fashionable junkman to come to the front of the house. And at that I don't believe Mrs. McCall has any rags or papers to sell just now." The swarthy man came straight on to the porch and up the steps. Agnes heard the bell, and knowing Linda was busy and being likewise rather curious, she dropped her stocking darning and ran into the front hall. The moment she unlatched the big door the swarthy stranger inserted himself into the house. "Why! who are you?" she demanded, fairly thrust aside by the man's eagerness. She saw then that he had a folded paper in one hand. He thrust it before her eyes, pointing to a place upon it with a very grimy finger. "You have found it!" he chattered with great excitement. "That ancient bracelet which has for so many generations been an heirloom--yes?--of the Costello. Queen Alma herself wore it at a time long ago. You have found it?" Agnes was made almost speechless by his vehemence as well as by the announcement itself. "I--I--What _do_ you mean?" she finally gasped. "You know!" he ejaculated, rapping on the newspaper with his finger like a woodpecker on a dead limb. "You put in the paper--_here_. It is lost. You find. _You_ are Kenway, and you say the so-antique bracelet shall be give to who proves property." "We will return it to the owner. Only to the owner," interrupted Agnes, backing away from him again, for his vehemence half frightened her. "Shall I bring Queen Alma here to say it was her property?" he cried. [Illustration: "You have found it!" he chattered with great excitement.] "That would be better. If Queen Alma--whoever she is--owns the bracelet we will give it to her when she proves property." The little man uttered a staccato speech in a foreign tongue. Agnes did not understand. He spread wide his arms in a gesture of seemingly utter despair. "And Queen Alma!" he sputtered. "She is dead these two--no! t'ree hundred year!" "Mercy me!" gasped Agnes, backing away from him and sitting suddenly down in one of the straight-backed hall chairs. "Mercy me!" CHAPTER XII--GETTING IN DEEPER "You see, Mees Kenway," sputtered the swarthy man eagerly, "I catch the paper, here." He rapped the _Post_ again with his finger. "I read the Engleesh--yes. I see the notice you, the honest Kenway, have put in the paper--" "Let me tell you, sir," said Agnes, starting up, "_all_ the Kenways are honest. I am not the only honest person in our family I should hope!" Agnes was much annoyed. The excitable little foreigner spread abroad his hands again and bowed low before her. "Please! Excuse!" he said. "I admire all your family, oh, so very much! But it is to you who put in the paper the words here, about the very ancient silver bracelet." Again that woodpecker rapping on the Lost and Found column in the _Post_. "No?" "Yes. I put the advertisement in the paper," acknowledged Agnes, but wishing very much that she had not, or that Neale O'Neil was present at this exciting moment to help her handle the situation. "So! I have come for it," cried the swarthy man, as though the matter were quite settled. But Agnes' mind began to function pretty well again. She determined not to be "rushed." This strange foreigner might be perfectly honest. But there was not a thing to prove that the bracelet given to Tess and Dot by the Gypsy women belonged to him. "How do you know," she asked, "that the bracelet we have in our possession is the one you have lost?" "I? Oh, no, lady! I did not lose the ancient heirloom. Oh, no." "But you say--" "I am only its rightful owner," he explained. "Had Queen Alma's bracelet been in my possession it never would have been lost and so found by the so--gracious Kenway. Indeed, no!" "Then, what have you come here for?" cried Agnes, in some desperation. "I cannot give the bracelet to anybody but the one who lost it--" "You say here the owner!" cried the man, beginning again the woodpecker tapping on the paper. "But how do I know you own it?" she gasped. "Show it me. In one moment's time can I tell--at the one glance," was the answer of assurance. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!" These "yeses" were accompanied by the emphatic tapping on the paper. Agnes wondered that the _Post_ at that spot was not quite worn through. Perhaps it was fortunate that at this moment Neale O'Neil came in. That he came direct from the garage and apparently from a struggle with oily machinery, both his hands and face betrayed. "Hey!" he exploded. "If we are going to take Mr. Pinkney out on a cross-country chase after that missing pirate this afternoon, we've got to get a hustle on. You going to be ready, Aggie? Mr. Pinkney gets home at a quarter to one." "Oh, Neale!" cried Agnes, turning eagerly to greet the boy. "Talk to this man--do! I don't know what to say to him." The boy's countenance broadened in a smile. "'Say "Hullo!" and "How-de-do!" "How's the world a-using you?"'" quoted Neale, and chuckled outright. "What's his name? What does he want?" "Costello--that me," interposed the strange junkman. He gazed curiously at Neale with his snapping black eyes. "_You_ are not Kenway--here in the pape'?" Again the finger tapped upon the Lost and Found column in the _Post_. Neale shook his head. He glanced out of the open door and spied the wagon and its informative sign. "You are a junkman, are you, Mr. Costello?" "Yes, yes, yes! I buy the pape', buy the rag and bot'--buy anytheeng I get cheap. But not to buy do I come this time to Mees Kenway. No, no! I come because of this in the paper." His tapping finger called attention again to the advertisement of the bracelet. Neale expelled a surprised whistle. "Oh, Aggie!" he said, "is he after the Gypsy bracelet?" The swarthy man's face was all eagerness again. "Yes, yes, yes!" he sputtered. "I am Gypsy. Spanish Gypsy. Of the tribe of Costello. I am--what you say?--direct descendent of Queen Alma who live three hunder'--maybe more--year ago, and she own that bracelet the honest Kenway find!" "She--she's dead, then? This Queen Alma?" stammered Neale. "_Si, si!_ Yes, yes! But the so-antique bracelet descend by right to our family. That Beeg Jeem--" He burst again into the language he had used before which was quite unintelligible to either of his listeners; but Neale thought by the man's expression of countenance that his opinion of "Beeg Jeem" was scarcely to be told in polite English. "Wait!" Neale broke in. "Let's get this straight. We--we find a bracelet which we advertise. You say the bracelet is yours. Where and how did you lose it?" "I already tell the honest Kenway, I do _not_ lose it." "It was stolen from you, then?" "Yes, yes, yes! It was stole. A long ago it was stole. And now Beeg Jeem say he lose it. You find--yes?" "This seems to be complicated," Neale declared, shaking his head and gazing wonderingly at Agnes. "If you did not lose it yourself, Mr. Costello--" "But it is mine!" cried the man. "We don't know that," said Neale, somewhat bruskly. "You must prove it." "Prove it?" "Yes. In the first place, describe the bracelet. Tell us just how it is engraved, or ornamented, or whatever it is. How wide and thick is it? What kind of a bracelet is it, aside from its being made of silver?" "Ah! Queen Alma's bracelet is so well known to the Costello--how shall I say? Yes, yes, yes!" cried the man, with rather graceful gestures. "And when Beeg Jeem tell me she is lost--" "All right. Describe it," put in Neale. Agnes suddenly tugged at Neale's sleeve. Her pretty face was aflame with excitement. "Oh, Neale!" she interposed in a whisper. "Even if he can describe it exactly we do not know that he is the real owner." "Shucks! That's right," agreed the boy. He turned to Costello again demanding: "How can you prove that this bracelet--if it is the one you think it is--belongs to you?" "She belong to the Costello family. It is an heirloom. I tell it you." "That's all right. But you've got to prove it. Even if you describe the thing that only proves that you have seen it, or heard it described yourself. It might be so, you know, Mr. Costello. You must give us some evidence of ownership." "Queen Alma's bracelet--" began Costello. The junkman made a despairing gesture with wide-spread arms. "Me? How can I tell you, sir, and the honest Kenway? It has always belong to the Costello. Yes, yes, yes! That so-ancient bracelet, Beeg Jeem have no right to it." "But he was the one who lost it!" exclaimed Neale, being quite confident now of the identity of "Beeg Jeem." "Yes, yes, yes! So he say. I no believe. Then I see the reading here in the pape', of the honest Kenway"--tap, tap, tapping once more of the forefinger--"and I see it must be so. I--" "Hold on!" exclaimed Neale. "You did not lose the bracelet. This other fellow did. You bring him here and let him prove ownership." "No, no!" raved Costello, shaking both clenched hands above his head. "He shall not have it. It is mine. I am _the_ Costello. Queen Alma, she give it to the great, great, great gran'mudder of _my_ great, great, great--" "Shucks!" ejaculated Neale. "Now you are going too deep into the family records for me. I can't follow you. It looks to me like a case for the courts to settle." "Oh, Neale!" gasped Agnes. "Why, Aggie, we'd get into hot water if we let this fellow, or any of those other Gypsies, have the bracelet offhand. If this chap wants it, he will have to see Mr. Howbridge." "Oh, yes!" murmured the girl with sudden relief in her voice. "We can tell Mr. Howbridge." "Guess we'll have to," agreed Neale. "We certainly have bit off more than we can chew, Aggie. I'll say we have. I guess maybe we'd have been wiser if we had told your guardian about the old bracelet before advertising it. And Ruth has nothing on us, at that! She did not tell him. "We're likely," concluded Neale, with a side glance at the swarthy man, "to have a dozen worse than this one come here to bother us. We surely did start something when we had that ad. printed, Aggie." CHAPTER XIII--OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY Costello, the junkman, could not be further ignored, for at this point he began another excitable harangue. The Queen Alma bracelet, "Beeg Jeem," his own sorrows, and the fact that he saw no reason why Agnes should not immediately give up to him the silver bracelet, were all mixed up together in a clamor that became almost deafening. "Oh, what shall I do? What _shall_ I do?" exclaimed the Corner House girl. But Neale O'Neil was quite level-headed. Like Agnes, at first he had for a little while been swept off his feet by the swarthy man's vehemence. He regained his balance now. "We're not going to do anything. We won't even show him the bracelet," said the boy firmly. "But it is mine! It is the heirloom of the Costello! I, myself, tell you so," declared the junkman, beating his breast now instead of the newspaper. "All right. I believe you. Don't yell so about it," said Neale, but quite calmly. "That does not alter the fact that we cannot give the bracelet up. That is, Miss Kenway cannot." "But she say here--in the paper--" "Oh, stop it!" exclaimed the exasperated boy. "It doesn't say in that paper that she will hand the thing out to anybody who comes and asks for it. If this other fellow you have been talking about should come here, do you suppose we would give it up to him, just on his say so?" "No, no! It is not his. It never should have been in the possession of his family, sir. I assure you _I_ am the Costello to whose ancestors the great Queen Alma of our tribe delivered the bracelet." "All right. Let it go at that," answered Neale. "All the more reason why we must be careful who gets it now. If it is honestly your bracelet you will get it, Mr. Costello. But you will have to see Miss Kenway's guardian and let him decide." "Her--what you call it--does he have the bracelet?" cried the man. "He will have it. You go there to-morrow. I will give you his address. To-morrow he will talk to you. He is not in his office to-day. He is a lawyer." "Oh, la, la! The law! I no like the law," declared Costello. "No, I presume you Gypsies don't," muttered Neale, pulling out an envelope and the stub of a pencil with which to write the address of Mr. Howbridge's office. "There it is. Now, that is the best we can do for you. Only, nobody shall be given the bracelet until you have talked with Mr. Howbridge." "But, I no like! The honest Kenway say here, in the paper--" As he began to tap upon the newspaper again Neale, who was a sturdy youth, crowded him out upon the veranda of the old Corner House. "Now, go!" advised Neale, when he heard the click of the door latch behind him. "You'll make nothing by lingering here and talking. There's your horse starting off by himself. Better get him." This roused the junk dealer's attention. The horse was tired of standing and was half a block away. Costello uttered an excited yelp and darted after his junk wagon. Agnes let Neale inside the house again. She was much relieved. "There! isn't this a mess?" she said. "I am glad you thought of Mr. Howbridge. But I _do_ wish Ruth had been at home. She would have known just what to say to that funny little man." "Humph! Maybe it would have been a good idea if she had been here," admitted Neale slowly. "Ruth is awfully bossy, but things do go about right when she is on the job." "We'll have to see Mr. Howbridge--" "But that can wait until to-morrow morning," Neale declared. "We can't do so this afternoon in any case. I happen to know he is out of town. And we have promised Mr. Pinkney to take him on a hunt for Sammy." "All right. It is almost noon. You'd better go and wash your face, Neale," and she began to giggle at him. "Don't I know that? I came in here just to remind you to begin to prink before dinner or you'd never be ready." She was already halfway up the stairs and she leaned over the balustrade to make a gamin's face at him. "Just you tend to your own apple cart, Neale O'Neil!" she told him. "I will be ready as soon as you are." At dinner, which was eaten in the middle of the day at this time of year at the old Corner House, Agnes appeared ready all but her hat for the car. "Oh, Aggie! can we go too?" cried Dot. "We want to ride in the automobile, don't we, Tess?" "We maybe want to go riding," confessed the other sister slowly. "But I guess we can't, Dot. You forget that Margie and Holly Pease are coming over at three o'clock. They haven't seen the fretted silver bracelet." "That reminds me," said Agnes firmly. "You must not take that bracelet out of the house. Understand? Not at all." "Why, Aggie!" murmured Tess, while Dot grew quite red with indignation. "If you wish to play with it indoors, all right," Agnes said. "Whose turn to have it, is it to-day?" "Mine," admitted Tess. "Then I hold you responsible. Not out of the house. We have got to get Mr. Howbridge's advice about it, in any case." "Ruth didn't say we couldn't wear the bracelet out-of-doors," declared Dot, pouting. "I am in Ruth's place," responded the older sister promptly. "Now, remember! You might lose it anyway. And _then_ what would we do if the owner really comes for it?" "But they won't!" cried Dot, confidently. "Those Gypsy ladies gave it to us for keeps. I am sure." "You certainly would not wish to keep the bracelet if the person the Gypsies stole it from came here to get it?" said Agnes sternly. "Oh--oo! No-o," murmured Dot. "Of course we would not, Sister," Tess declared briskly. "If we knew just where their camp is we would take it to them anyway. Of course we would, Dot!" "Oh, of course," agreed Dot, but very faintly. "You children are so seldom observant," went on Agnes in her most grown-up manner. "You should have looked into that basket when you bought it of the Gypsies. Then you would have seen the bracelet before the women got away. You are almost _never_ observant." "Why, Aggie!" Tess exclaimed, rather hurt by the accusation of her older sister. "That is what your Mr. Marks said when he came into our grade at school just before the end of term last June." Mr. Curtis G. Marks was the principal of the High School which Agnes attended. "What was Mr. Marks doing over in your room, Tess?" Agnes asked curiously. "Visiting. Our teacher asked him to 'take the class.' You know, visiting teachers always _are_ so nosey," added Tess with more frankness than good taste. "Better not let Ruth hear you use that expression, child," laughed Agnes. "But what about being observant--or _un_observant?" "He told us," Tess went on to say, "to watch closely, and then asked for somebody to give him a number. So somebody said thirty-two." "Yes?" "And Mr. Marks went to the board and wrote twenty-three on it. Of course, none of us said anything. Then Mr. Marks asked for another number and somebody gave him ninety-four. Then he wrote forty-nine on the board, and nobody said a word." "Why didn't you?" asked Agnes in wonder. "Did you think he was teaching you some new game?" "I--I guess we were too polite. You see, he was a visitor. And he said right out loud to our teacher: 'You see, they do not observe. Is it dense stupidity, or just inattention?' That's _just_ what he said," added Tess, her eyes flashing. "Oh!" murmured Dot. "Didn't he know how to write the number right?" "So," continued Tess, "I guess we all felt sort of hurt. And Belle Littleweed got so fidgety that she raised her hand. Mr. Marks says: 'Very well, you give me a number.' "Belle lisps a little, you know, Aggie, and she said right out: 'Theventy-theven; thee if you can turn that around!' He didn't think we noticed anything, and were stupid; but I guess he knows better now," added Tess with satisfaction. "That is all right," said Agnes with a sigh. "I heartily wish you and Dot had been observant when those women gave you the basket and you had found the bracelet in it before they got away. It is going to make us trouble I am afraid." Agnes told the little ones nothing about the strange junkman and his claim. Nor did she mention the affair to any of the remainder of the Corner House family. She only added: "So don't you take the bracelet out of the house or let anybody at all have it--if Neale or I are not here." "Why, it would not be right to give the bracelet to anybody but the Gypsy ladies, would it?" said Tess. "Of course not," agreed Dot. "And _they_ haven't come after it." Agnes did not notice these final comments of the two smaller girls. She had given them instructions, and those instructions were sufficient, she thought, to avert any trouble regarding the mysterious bracelet--whether it was "Queen Alma's" or not. The junkman, Costello, certainly had filled Agnes' mind with most romantic imaginations! If the old silver bracelet was a Gypsy heirloom and had been handed down through the Costello tribe--as the junkman claimed--for three hundred years and more, of course it would not be considered stolen property. The mystery remained why the Gypsy women had left the bracelet in the basket they had almost forced upon the Kenway children. The explanation of this was quite beyond Agnes, unless it had been done because the Gypsy women feared that this very Costello was about to claim the heirloom, and they considered it safer with Tess and Dot than in their own possession. True, this seemed a far-fetched explanation of the affair; yet what so probable? The Gypsies might be quite familiar with Milton, and probably knew a good deal about the old Corner House and the family now occupying it. The little girls would of course be honest. The Gypsies were shrewd people. They were quite sure, no doubt, that the Kenways would not give the bracelet to any person but the women who sold the basket, unless the right to the property could be proved. "And even if that Costello man does own the bracelet, how is he going to prove it?" Agnes asked Neale, as they ran the car out of the garage after dinner. "I guess we are going to hand dear old Mr. Howbridge a big handful of trouble." "Crickey! isn't that a fact?" grumbled Neale. "The more I think of it, the sorrier I am we put that advertisement in the paper, Aggie." There was nothing more to be said about that at the time, for Mr. Pinkney was already waiting for them on his front steps. His wife was at the door and she looked so weary-eyed and pale of face that Agnes at least felt much sympathy for her. "Oh, don't worry, Mrs. Pinkney!" cried the girl from her seat beside Neale. "I am sure Sammy will turn up all right. Neale says so--everybody says so! He is such a plucky boy, anyway. Nothing would happen to him." "But this seems worse than any other time," said the poor woman. "He must have never meant to come back, or he would not have taken that picture with him." "Nonsense!" exclaimed her husband cheerfully. "Sammy sort of fancied himself in that picture, that is all. He is not without his share of vanity." "That is what _you_ say," complained Sammy's mother. "But I just feel that something dreadful has happened to him this time." "Never mind," called Neale, starting the engine, "we'll go over the hills and far away, but we'll find some trace of him, Mrs. Pinkney. Sammy can't have hidden himself so completely that we cannot discover where he has been and where he is going." That is exactly what they did. They flew about the environs of Milton in a rapid search for the truant. Wherever they stopped and made inquiries for the first hour or so, however, they gained no word of Sammy. It was three o'clock, and they were down toward the canal on the road leading to Hampton Mills, when they gained the first possible clue of the missing one. And that clue was more than twenty-four hours old. A storekeeper remembered a boy who answered to Sammy's description buying something to eat the day before, and sitting down on the store step to eat it. That boy carried a heavy extension-bag and went on after he had eaten along the Hampton Mills road. "We've struck his trail!" declared Neale with satisfaction. "Don't you think so, Mr. Pinkney?" "How did he pay you for the things he bought?" asked the father of the runaway, addressing the storekeeper again. "What kind of money did he have?" "He had ten cent pieces, I remember. And he had them tied in a handkerchief. Nicked his bank before he started, did he?" and the man laughed. "That is exactly what he did," admitted Mr. Pinkney, returning hurriedly to the car. "Drive on, Neale. I guess we are on the right trail." CHAPTER XIV--ALMOST HAD HIM Neale drove almost recklessly for the first few miles after passing the roadside store; but the eyes of all three people in the car were very wide open and their minds observant. Anything or anybody that might give trace of the truant Sammy were scrutinized. "He was at that store before noon," Agnes shouted into Neale's ear. "How long before he would be hungry again?" "No knowing. Pretty soon, of course," admitted her chum. "But I heard that storekeeper tell Mr. Pinkney that the boy bought more than he could eat at once and he carried the rest away in a paper bag." "That is so," admitted Mr. Pinkney, leaning over the forward seat. "But he has an appetite like a boa constrictor." "A _boy_-constrictor," chuckled Neale. "I'll say he has!" "He would not likely stop anywhere along here to buy more food, then," Agnes said. "He could have gone off the road, however, for a dozen different things," said the missing boy's father. "That child has got more crotchets in his head than you can shake a stick at. There is no knowing--" "Hold on!" ejaculated Neale suddenly. "There are some kids down there by that pond. Suppose I run down and interview them?" "I don't see anybody among them who looks like Sammy," observed Agnes, standing up in the car to look. "Never mind. You go ahead, Neale. They will talk to you more freely, perhaps, than they will to me. Boys are that way." "I'll try," said Neale, and jumped out of the car and ran down toward the roof of the old ice-house that the afternoon before had so attracted Sammy Pinkney--incidentally wrecking his best trousers. As it chanced, Neale had seen and now interviewed the very party of boys with whom Sammy had previously made friends. But Neale said nothing at first to warn these boys that he was searching for one whom they all considered "a good kid." "Say, fellows," Neale began, "was this an ice-house before it got burned down?" "Yep," replied the bigger boy of the group. "And only the roof left? Crickey! What have you chaps been doing? Sliding down it?" For he had observed as he came down from the car two of the smaller boys doing just that. "It's great fun," said the bigger boy, grinning, perhaps at the memory of what had happened to Sammy Pinkney's trousers the previous afternoon. "Want to try?" Neale grinned more broadly, and gave the shingled roof another glance. "I bet _you_ don't slide down it like those little fellows I just saw doing it. How do their pants stand it?" The boys giggled at that. "Say!" the bigger one said, "there was a kid came along yesterday that didn't get on to that--_till afterward_." "Oh, ho!" chuckled Neale. "He wore 'em right through, did he?" "Yes, he did. And then he was sore. Said his mother would give him fits." "Where does he live? Around here?" asked Neale carelessly. "I never saw him before," admitted the bigger boy. "He was a good fellow just the same. You looking for him?" he asked with sudden suspicion. "I don't know. If he's the boy I mean he needn't be afraid to go home because of his torn pants. You tell him so if you see him again." "Sure. I didn't know he was running away. He didn't say anything." "Didn't he have a bag with him--sort of a suitcase?" "Didn't see it," replied the boy. "We all went home to supper and he went his way." "Which way?" "Could not tell you that," the other said reflectively, and was evidently honest about it. "He was coming from that way," and he pointed back toward Milton, "when he joined us here at the slide." "Then he probably kept on toward--What is in that direction?" and Neale pointed at the nearest road, the very one into which Sammy had turned. "Oh, that goes up through the woods," said the boy. "Hampton Mills is over around the pond--you follow yonder road." "Yes, I know. But you think this fellow you speak of might have gone into that by road?" "He was headed that way when we first saw him," said the boy. "Wasn't he, Jimmy?" "Sure," agreed the smaller boy addressed. "And, Tony, I bet he _did_ go that way. When I looked back afterward I remember I saw a boy lugging something heavy going up that road." "I didn't see that that fellow had a bag," argued the bigger boy. "But he might have hid it when he came down here." "Likely he did," admitted Neale. "Anyway, we will go up that road through the woods and see." "_Is_ his mother going to give him fits for those torn pants?" asked another of the group. "She'll be so glad to see him home again," confessed Neale, "that he could tear every pair of pants he's got and she wouldn't say a word!" He made his way up the bank to the car and reported. "I don't know where that woods-road leads to. I neglected to bring a map. But it looks as though we could get through it with the car. We'll try, sha'n't we?" "Oh, do, Neale," urged Agnes. "I guess it is as good a lead as any," observed Mr. Pinkney. "Somehow, I begin to feel as though the boy had got a good way off this time. Even this clue is almost twenty-four hours old." "He must have stayed somewhere last night," cried Agnes suddenly. "If there is a house up there in the woods--or beyond--we can ask." "Right you are, Aggie," agreed Neale, starting the car again. "Sammy Pinkney is an elusive youngster, sure enough," said the truant's father. "Something has got to stop him from running away. It costs too much time and money to overtake him and bring him back." "And we haven't done that yet," murmured Agnes. The car struck heavy going in the road through the woods before they had gone very far up the rise. In places the road was soft and had been cut up by the wheels of heavy trucks or wagons. And they did not pass a single house--not even a cleared spot in the wood--on either hand. "If he started up this way so near supper time last evening, as those boys say," Mr. Pinkney ruminated, "where was he at supper time?" "Here, or hereabout, I should say!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil. "Why, it must have been pretty dark when he got this far." "If he really came this far," added Agnes. "Well, let us run along and see if there is a house anywhere," Mr. Pinkney said. "Of course, Sammy might have slept out--" "It wouldn't be the first time, I bet!" chuckled Neale. "And of course there would be nothing to hurt him in these woods?" suggested Agnes. "Nothing bigger than a rabbit, I guess," agreed their neighbor. "Well--" Neale increased the speed of the car again, turned a blind corner, and struck a soft place in the road before he could stop. Having no skidding chains on the rear wheels of course, the car was out of control in an instant. It slued around. Agnes screamed. Mr. Pinkney shouted his alarm. The car slid over the bank of the ditch beside the road and both right wheels sank in mud and water to the hubs. "Some pretty mess--I'll tell the world!" groaned Neale O'Neil, shutting off the engine, while Agnes clung to his arm grimly to keep from sliding out into the ditch, too. "Now, you _have_ done it!" shrilled the girl. "Thanks. Many thanks. I expected you to say that, Aggie," he replied. "M-mm! Well, I don't suppose you meant to--" "No use worrying about how it was done or who did it," interposed Mr. Pinkney, briskly getting out of the tonneau on the left side. "The question is, how are we going to right the car and get under way again?" "A truer word was never spoken," agreed Neale O'Neil. "Come on, Agnes. We'll creep out on this side, too. That's it. Looks to me, Mr. Pinkney, as though we should need a couple of good, strong levers to pry up the wheels. You and I can do that while Agnes gets in under the wheel and manipulates the mechanism, as it were." "You are the boss, here, Neale," said the older man, immediately entering the wood on the right side of the road. "I see a stick here that looks promising." He passed under the broadly spreading branches of a huge chestnut tree. There were several of these monsters along the edge of the wood. Mr. Pinkney suddenly shouted something, and dropped upon his knees between two outcropping roots of the tree. "What is it, Mr. Pinkney?" cried Agnes, running across the road. Their neighbor appeared, erect again. In his hand he bore the well-remembered extension-bag which Sammy Pinkney had so often borne away from home upon his truant escapades. "What do you know about this?" demanded Sammy's father. "Here's his bag--filled with his possessions, by the feel of it. But where is the boy?" "He--he's got away!" gasped Agnes. "And we almost had him," was Neale's addition to the amazed remarks of the trio of searchers. CHAPTER XV--UNCERTAINTIES The secret had now been revealed! But of course it did not do Sammy Pinkney the least bit of good. His extension-bag had not been stolen at all. Merely, when that sleepy boy had stumbled away the night before to the spring for a drink of water, he had not returned to the right tree for the remainder of the night. In his excitement in the morning, after discovering his loss, Sammy ran about a good deal (as Uncle Rufus would have said) "like a chicken wid de haid cut off." He did not manage to find the right tree at all. The extension-bag was now in his father's hands. Mr. Pinkney brought it to the mired car and opened it. There was no mistaking the contents of the bag for anything but Sammy's possessions. "What do you know about that?" murmured the amazed father of the embryo pirate. He rummaged through the conglomeration of chattels in the bag. "No, it is not here." "What are you looking for, Mr. Pinkney?" demanded Agnes, feeling rather serious herself. Something might have happened to the truant. "That picture his mother spoke of," the father answered, with a sigh. "Hoh!" exclaimed Neale O'Neil, "if the kid thinks as much of it as Mrs. Pinkney says, he's got it with him. Of course." "It looks so," admitted Mr. Pinkney. "But why should he abandon his clothes--and all?" "Oh, maybe he hasn't!" cried Agnes eagerly. "Maybe he is coming back here." "You think this old tree," said Mr. Pinkney in doubt, "is Sammy's headquarters?" "I--don't--know--" "That wouldn't be like Sammy," declared Neale, with conviction. "He always keeps moving--even when he is stowaway on a canalboat," and he chuckled at the memory of that incident. "For some reason he was chased away from here. Or," hitting the exact truth without knowing it, "he tucked the bag under that tree root and forgot where he put it." "Does that sound reasonable?" gasped Agnes. "Quite reasonable--for Sammy," grumbled Mr. Pinkney. "He is just so scatter-brained. But what shall I tell his mother when I take this bag home to her? She will feel worse than she has before." "Maybe we will find him yet," Agnes interposed. "That's what we are out for," Neale added with confidence. "Let's not give up hope. Why, we're finding clues all the time." "And now you manage to get us stuck in the mud," put in Agnes, giving her boy friend rather an unfair dig. "Have a heart! How could I help it? Anyway, we'll get out all right. We sha'n't have to camp here all night, if Sammy did." "That is it," interposed Sammy's father. "I wonder if he stayed here all night or if he abandoned the bag here and kept on. Maybe the woods were too much for his nerves," and he laughed rather uncertainly. "I bet Sammy was not scared," announced Neale, with confidence. "He is a courageous chap. If he wasn't, he would not start out alone this way." "True enough," said Mr. Pinkney, not without some pride. "But nevertheless it would help some if we were sure he was here only twelve hours ago, instead of twenty-four." "Let's get the car out of the ditch and see if we can go on," Neale suggested. "I'll get that pole you saw, Mr. Pinkney. And I see another lever over there." While Mr. Pinkney buckled the straps of the extension-bag again and stowed the bag under the seat, Neale brought the two sticks of small timber which he thought would be strong enough to lift the wheels of the stalled car out of the ditch. But first he used the butt of one of the sticks to knock down the edge of the bank in front of each wheel. "You see," he said to Agnes, "when you get it started you want to turn the front wheels, if you can, to the left and climb right out on to the road. Mr. Pinkney and I will do the best we can for you; but it is the power of the engine that must get us out of the ditch." "I--I don't know that I can handle it right, Neale," hesitated Agnes. "Sure you can. You've got to!" he told her. "Come on, Mr. Pinkney! Let's see if we can get these sticks under the wheels on this side." "Wait a moment," urged the man, who was writing hastily on a page torn from his notebook. "I must leave a note for Sammy--if perhaps he should come back here looking for his bag." "Better not say anything about his torn trousers, Mr. Pinkney," giggled Agnes. "He will shy at that." "He can tear all his clothes to pieces if he'll only come home and stop his mother's worrying. Only, the little rascal ought to be soundly trounced just the same for all the trouble he is causing us." "If only I had stayed with him at that beet bed and made sure he knew what he was doing," sighed Agnes, who felt somewhat condemned. "It would have been something else that sent him off in this way, if it hadn't been beets," grumbled Mr. Pinkney. "He was about due for a break-away. I should have paid more attention to him myself. But business was confining. "Oh, well; we always see our mistakes when it is too late. But that boy needs somebody's oversight besides his mother's. She is always afraid I will be too harsh with him. But she doesn't manage him, that is sure." "We'd better catch the rabbit before we make the rabbit stew," chuckled Neale O'Neil. "Sammy is a good kid, I tell you. Only he has crazy notions." "Pooh!" put in Agnes. "You need not talk in so old-fashioned a way. You used to have somewhat similar 'crazy notions' yourself. You ran away a couple of times." "Well, did I have a real home and a mother and father to run from?" demanded the boy. "Guess not!" "You've got a father now," laughed Agnes. "But he isn't like a real father," sighed Neale. "He has run away from me! I know it is necessary for him to go back to Alaska to attend to that mine. But I'll be glad when he comes home for good--or I can go to him." "Oh, Neale! You wouldn't?" gasped the girl. "Wouldn't what?" he asked, surprised by her vehemence. "Go away up to Alaska?" "I'd like to," admitted the boy. "Wouldn't you?" "Oh--well--if you can take me along," rejoined Agnes with satisfaction, "all right. But under no other circumstances can you go, Neale O'Neil." CHAPTER XVI--THE DEAD END OF NOWHERE Mr. Pinkney and Neale went to work to hoist the motor-car into the road again. No easy nor brief struggle was this. A dozen times Agnes started the car and the wheels slipped off the poles or Neale or Mr. Pinkney lost his grip. Before long they were well bespattered with mud (for there was considerable water in the ditch) and so was the automobile. Neale and their neighbor worked to the utmost of their muscular strength, and Agnes was in tears. "Pluck up your courage, Aggie," panted her boy friend. "We'll get it yet." "I just feel that it is my fault," sobbed the girl. "All this slipping and sliding. If I could only just get it to start right--" "Again!" cried Neale cheerfully. And this time the forewheels really got on solid ground. Mr. Pinkney thrust his lever in behind the sloughed hind wheel and blocked it from sliding back. "Great!" yelled Neale. "Once more, Aggie!" She obeyed his order, and although the automobile engine rattled a good deal and the car itself plunged like a bucking broncho, they finally got all the wheels out of the mud and on the firm road. "Crickey!" gasped Neale. "It looks like a battlefield." "And we look as though we had been in the battle all right," said Mr. Pinkney. "Guess Mamma Pinkney will have something to say about _my_ trousers when we get home, let alone Sammy's." "Do you suppose the car will run all right?" asked the anxious Agnes. "I don't know what Ruth would say if we broke down." "She'd say a-plenty," returned Neale. "But wait till I get some of this mud off me and I'll try her out again. By the way she bucked that last time I should say there was nothing much the matter with her machinery." This proved to be true. If anything was strained about the mechanism it did not immediately show up. Neale got the automobile under way without any difficulty and they drove ahead through the now fast darkening road. The belt of woods was not very wide, but the car ran slowly and when the searchers came out upon the far side, the old shack which housed the big, red-faced woman, who had been kind to Sammy, and her brood of children, some of whom had been not at all kind, the place looked to be deserted. In truth, the family were berry pickers and had been gone all day (after Sammy's adventure with the cherry-colored calf) up in the hills after berries. They had not yet returned for the evening meal, and although Neale stopped the car in front of the shack Mr. Pinkney decided Sammy would not have remained at the abandoned place. And, of course, Sammy had not remained here. After his exciting fight with Peter and Liz, and fearing to return to the house to complain, he had gone right on. Where he had gone was another matter. The automobile party drove to the town of Crimbleton, which was the next hamlet, and there Mr. Pinkney made exhaustive inquiries regarding his lost boy, but to no good result. "We'll try again to-morrow, Mr. Pinkney, if you say so," urged Neale. "Of course we will," agreed Agnes. "We'll go every day until you find him." Their neighbor shook his head with some sadness. "I am afraid it will do no good. Sammy has given us the slip this time. Perhaps I would better put the matter in the hands of a detective agency. For myself, I should be contented to wait until he shows up of his own volition. But his mother--" Agnes and Neale saw, however, that the man was himself very desirous of getting hold of his boy again. They made a hasty supper at the Crimbleton Inn and then started homeward at a good rate of speed. When they came up the grade toward the old house beside the road, at the edge of the wood, the big woman and her family had returned, made their own supper, and gone to bed. The place looked just as deserted as before. "The dead-end of nowhere," Neale called it, and the automobile gathered speed as it went by. So the searchers missed making inquiry at the very spot where inquiry might have done the most good. The trail of Sammy Pinkney was lost. Neale O'Neil wanted to satisfy himself about one thing. He said nothing to Agnes about it, but after he had put up the car and locked the garage, he walked down Main Street to Byburg's candy store. June Wildwood was always there until half past nine, and Saturday nights until later. She was at her post behind the sweets counter on this occasion when Neale entered. "I am glad to see you, Neale," she said. "I'm awfully curious." "About that bracelet?" "Yes," she admitted. "What has come of it? Anything?" "Enough. Tell me," began Neale, before she could put in any further question, "while you were with the Gypsies did you hear anything about Queen Alma?" "Queen Zaliska. I was Queen Zaliska. They dressed me up and stained my face to look the part." "Oh, I know all about that," Neale returned. "But this Queen Alma was some ancient lady. She lived three hundred years ago." "Goodness! How you talk, Neale O'Neil. Of course I don't know anything about such a person." "Those Gypsies you were with never talked of her?" "I didn't hear them. I never learned much of the language they use among themselves." "Well, we got a tip," said the boy, "that the bracelet belonged to this Queen Alma, and that there is a row among the Gypsies over the ownership of it." "You don't tell me!" "I am telling you. We heard so. Say, is that Big Jim a Spaniard? A Spanish Gypsy, I mean?" "I don't know. Maybe. He looks like a Spaniard, or a Mexican, or an Italian." "Yes. I thought he did. He comes of some Latin race, anyway. What is his last name?" "Why--I--I am not sure that I know." "Is it Costello? Did you hear that name while you were with the Gypsies, June?" "Some of them are named Costello. It is a family name among them I guess. And about that Jim. Do you know that I saw him yesterday driving down Main Street in an automobile?" "You don't mean it? Gypsies are going to become flivver traders instead of horse swappers, are they?" and Neale laughed. "Oh, it was a big, seven-passenger car," said June. "Those Gypsies have money, if they want to spend it." "Did you ever hear of a Gypsy junkman?" chuckled Neale. "Of course not. Although I guess junkmen make good money nowadays," drawled June Wildwood, laughing too. "You are a funny boy, Neale O'Neil. Do you want to know anything else?" "Lots of things. But I guess you cannot tell me much more about the Gypsies that would be pertinent to the bracelet business. We hear that the Costello Gypsies are fighting over the possession of the heirloom--the bracelet, you know. That is why one bunch of them wanted to get it off their hands for a while--and so gave it into the keeping of Tess and Dot." "Mercy!" "Does that seem improbable to you, June?" "No-o. Not much. They might. It makes me think that maybe the Gypsies have been watching the old Corner House and know all about the Kenways." "They might easily do that. You know, they might know us all from that time away back when we brought you home from Pleasant Cove with us. This is some of the same tribe you were with--sure enough!" "I know it," sighed June Wildwood. "I've been scared a little about them too. But for my own sake. I haven't dared tell Rosa; but pap comes down here to the store for me every evening and beaus me home. I feel safer." "The bracelet business has nothing to do with you, of course?" "Of course not. But those Gypsies might have some evil intent about Ruth and her sisters." "Guess they are just trying to use them for a convenience. While that bracelet is in the Corner House no other claimant but those Gypsy women are likely to get hold of it. Believe me, it is a puzzle," he concluded. "I guess we will have to put it up to Mr. Howbridge, sure enough." "Oh! The Kenways's lawyer?" cried June. "Their guardian. Sure enough. That is what we will have to do." But when Neale and Agnes Kenway, after an early breakfast, hurried downtown to Mr. Howbridge's office the next morning to tell the lawyer all about the Gypsies and Queen Alma's bracelet, they made a surprising discovery. Mr. Howbridge had left town the evening before on important business. He might not return for a week. CHAPTER XVII--RUTH BEGINS TO WORRY Oakhurst, in the mountains, was a very lovely spot. Besides the hotel where Luke Shepard had worked and where he had met with his accident, there were bungalows and several old-fashioned farmhouses where boarders were received. There was a lake, fine golf links, bridlepaths through the woods, and mountains to climb. It was a popular if quiet resort. Ruth and Cecile Shepard had rooms in one of the farmhouses, for the hotel was expensive. Besides, the farmer owned a beautifully shaded lawn overlooking the lake and the girls could sit there under the trees while the invalid, as they insisted upon calling Luke, reclined on a swinging cot. "Believe me!" Cecile often insisted, "I will never send another telegram as long as I live. I cannot forgive myself for making such a mess of it. But then, if I hadn't done so, you would not be here now, Ruthie." "Isn't that a fact?" agreed her brother. "You are all right, Sis! I am for you, strong." Ruth laughed. Yet there were worried lines between her eyes. "It is all right," she murmured. "I might have come in any case--for Mr. Howbridge advised it by this letter that they remailed to me. But I should not have left in such haste, and I should have left somebody besides Mrs. McCall to look after the girls." "Pooh!" ejaculated Luke. "What is the matter with Agnes?" "That is just it," laughed Ruth again, but shaking her head too. "It is Agnes, and what she may do, that troubles me more than anything else." "Goodness me! She is a big girl," declared Cecile. "And she has lots of sense." "She usually succeeds in hiding her good sense, then," rejoined Ruth. "Of course she can take care of herself. But will she give sufficient attention to the little ones. That is the doubt that troubles me." "Well, you just can't go away now!" wailed Cecile. "You have got to stay till the doctor says we can move Luke. I can't take him back alone." "Now, don't make me out so badly off. I am lying here like a poor log because that sawbones and you girls make me. But I know I could get up and play baseball." [Illustration: The girls could sit under the tree while Luke reclined on a swinging cot.] "Don't you dare!" cried his sister. "You would not be so unwise," said Ruth promptly. "All right. Then you stop worrying, Ruth," the young fellow said. "Otherwise I shall 'take up my bed and walk'--you see! This lying around like an ossified man is a nuisance, and it's absurd, anyway." Ruth had immediately written to Mr. Howbridge asking him to look closely after family affairs at the Corner House. Had she known the lawyer was not at home when her letter arrived in Milton she certainly would have started back by the very next train. She wrote Mrs. McCall, too, for exact news. And naturally she poured into her letter to Agnes all the questions and advice of which she could think. Agnes was too busy when that letter arrived to answer it at all. Things were happening at the old Corner House at that time of which Ruth had never dreamed. Ruth was really glad to be with Cecile and Luke in the mountains. And she tried to throw off her anxiety. Luke insisted that his sister and Ruth should go over to the hotel to dance in the evening when he had to go to bed, as the doctor ordered. He had become acquainted with most of the hotel guests before his injury, and the young people liked Luke Shepard. They welcomed his sister and Ruth as one of themselves, and the two girls had the finest kind of a time. At least, Cecile did, and she said that Ruth might have had, had she not been thinking of the home-folk so much. Several days passed, and although Ruth heard nothing from home save a brief and hurried note from Agnes, telling of their unsuccessful search for Sammy--and nothing much else--the older Kenway girl began to feel that her anxiety had been unnecessary. Then came Mrs. McCall's labored letter. The old Scotchwoman was never an easy writer. And her thoughts did not run to the way of clothing facts in readable English. She was plain and blunt. At least a part of her letter immediately made Ruth feel that she was needed at home, and that even her interest in Luke Shepard should not detain her longer at Oakhurst. * * * * * "We have got to have another watchdog. Old Tom Jonah is too old; it is my opinion. I mind he is getting deaf, or something, or he wouldn't have let that man come every night and stare in at the window. Faith, he is a nuisance--the man, I mean, Ruth, not the old dog. "I have spoke to the police officer on the beat; but Mr. Howbridge being out of town I don't know what else to do about that man. And such a foxy looking man as he is! "Neale O'Neil, who is a good lad, I'm saying, and no worse than other boys of his age for sure, offers to watch by night. But I have not allowed it. He and Aggie talk of Gypsies, and they show me that silver bracelet--a bit barbarous thing that you remember the children had to play with--and say the dark man who comes to the window nights is a Gypsy. I think he is a plain tramp, that is all, my lass. "Don't let these few lines worry you. Linda goes to bed with the stove poker every night, and Uncle Rufus says he has oiled up your great uncle's old shotgun. But I know that gun has no hammer to it, so I am not afraid of the weapon at all. I just want to make that black-faced man go away from the house and mind his own business. It is a nuisance he is." * * * * * "I must go home--oh, I must!" Ruth said to Cecile as soon as she had read this effusion from the old housekeeper. "Just think! A man spying on them--and a Gypsy!" "Pooh! it can't be anything of importance," scoffed Cecile. "It must be. Think! I told you about the Gypsy bracelet. There must be more of importance connected with that than we thought." She had already told Luke and Cecile about the mystery of the silver ornament. "Why, I thought you had told Mr. Howbridge about it," Cecile said. "I did not. I really forgot to when the news of Luke's illness came," and Ruth blushed. "That quite drove everything else out of your head, did it?" laughed the other girl. "But now why let it bother you? Of course Mr. Howbridge will attend to things--" "But he seems to be away," murmured Ruth. "Evidently Mrs. McCall and Agnes have not been able to reach him. Oh, Cecile! I must really go home." "Then you will have to come back," declared Cecile Shepard. "I could not possibly travel with Luke alone." The physician had confided more to the girls than to Luke himself about the young man's physical condition. The medical man feared some spinal trouble if Luke did not remain quiet and lie flat on his back for some time to come. But the day following Ruth's receipt of Mrs. McCall's anxiety-breeding letter, Dr. Moline agreed to the young man's removal. "But only in a compartment. You must take the afternoon train on which you can engage a compartment. He must lie at ease all the way. I will take him to the station in my car. And have a car to meet him when you get to the Milton station." The first of these instructions Ruth was able to follow faithfully. The cost of such a trip was not to be considered. She would not even allow Luke and Cecile to speak about it. Ruth had her own private bank account, arranged for and supervised, it was true, by Mr. Howbridge, and she prided herself upon doing business in a businesslike way. Just before they boarded the train at Oakhurst station she telegraphed home that they were coming and for Neale to meet them with the car, late though their arrival would be. If on time, the train would stop at Milton just after midnight. When that telegram arrived at the old Corner House it failed to make much of a disturbance in the pool of the household existence. And for a very good reason. So much had happened there during the previous few hours that the advent of the King and Queen of England (and this Mrs. McCall herself said) would have created a very small "hooroo." As for Neale O'Neil's getting out the car and going down to the station to meet Ruth and her friends when they arrived, that seemed to be quite impossible. The coming of the telegram was at an hour when already the Kenway automobile was far away from Milton, and Neale and Agnes in it were having high adventure. CHAPTER XVIII--THE JUNKMAN AGAIN When Ruth started home with Luke and Cecile Shepard several days had elapsed since Neale O'Neil and Agnes had discovered that Mr. Howbridge was out of town. The chief clerk at the lawyer's office had little time to give to the youthful visitors, for just then he had his hands full with a caller whom Neale and Agnes had previously found was a person not easily to be pacified. "There is a crazy man in here," grumbled the clerk. "I don't know what he means. He says he 'comes from Kenway,' and there is something about Queen Alma and her bracelet. What do you know about this, Miss Kenway?" "Oh, my prophetic soul!" gasped Neale O'Neil. "Costello, the junkman!" "Dear, me! We thought we could see Mr. Howbridge before that man came." "Tell me what it means," urged the clerk. "Then I will know what to say to the lunatic." "I guess he's a nut all right," admitted Neale. He told the lawyer's clerk swiftly all they knew about the junkman, and all they knew about the silver bracelet. "All right. It is something for Mr. Howbridge to attend to himself," declared the clerk. "You hang on to that bracelet and don't let anybody have it. I'll try to shoo off this fellow. Anyway, it may not belong to his family at all. I'll hold him here till you two get away." Neale and Agnes were glad to escape contact with the junkman again. He was too vehement. "He'll walk right in and search the house for the thing," grumbled Neale. "We can't have him frightening the children." "And I don't want to be frightened myself," added Agnes. They hurried home, and all that day, every time the bell rang or she heard a voice at the side door, the girl felt a sudden qualm. "Wish we had never advertised that bracelet at all," she confessed in secret. "Dear, me! I wonder what Ruth will say?" Nevertheless she failed to take her older sister into her confidence regarding Queen Alma's bracelet when she wrote to her. She felt quite convinced that Ruth would not approve of what she and Neale had done, so why talk about it? This was the attitude Agnes maintained. Perhaps the whole affair would be straightened out before Ruth came back. And otherwise, she considered, everything was going well at the Corner House in Milton. It was Miss Ann Titus who evinced interest next in the "lost and found" advertisement. Miss Ann Titus was the woman whom Dot called "such a fluid speaker" and who said so many "and-so's" that "ain't-so's." In other words, Miss Titus, the dressmaker, was a very gossipy person, although she was not intentionally unkind. She came in this afternoon, "stopping by" as she termed it, from spending a short sewing day with Mrs. Pease, a Willow Street neighbor of the Corner House girls. "And I must say that Mrs. Pease, for a woman of her age, has young idees about dress," Miss Titus confided to Mrs. McCall and Agnes, who were in the sewing room. Aunt Sarah "couldn't a-bear" Miss Ann Titus, so they did not invite the seamstress to go upstairs. "Yes, her idees is some young," repeated Miss Titus. "But then, nowadays if you foller the styles in the fashion papers nobody can tell you and your grandmother apart, back to! Skirts are so skimpy--and _short_!" Miss Titus fanned herself rapidly, and allowed her emphasis to suggest her own opinion of modern taste in dress. "Of course, Mrs. Pease is slim and ain't lost all her good looks; but it does seem to me if I was a married woman," she simpered here a little, for Miss Titus had by no means given up all hope of entering the wedded state, "I should consider my husband's feelings. I would not go on the street looking below my knees as though I was twelve year old instead of thirty-two." "Maybe Mr. Pease likes her to look young," suggested Agnes. "Hech! Hech!" clucked Mrs. McCall placidly. "Thirty-twa is not so very auld. Not as we live these days, at any rate." "But think of the example she sets her children," sniffed Miss Titus, bridling. "Tut, tut! How much d'you expect Margie and Holly Pease is influenced by their mother's style o' dress?" exclaimed the housekeeper. "The twa bairns scarce know much about that." "I guess that is so," chimed in Agnes. "And I think she is a pretty woman and dresses nicely. So there!" "Ah, you young things cannot be expected to think as I do," smirked Miss Titus. "I take that as a compliment, my dear," said the housekeeper comfortably. "And I never expect tae be vairy old until I die. Still and all, I am some older than Agnes." "That reminds me," said Miss Titus, more briskly (though it did not remind her, for she had come into the Corner House for the special purpose of broaching the subject that she now announced), "which of you Kenways is it has found a silver bracelet?" "Now, _that_ is Agnes' affair," chuckled Mrs. McCall. "Oh! It is not Ruth that advertised?" queried the curious Miss Titus. "Na, na! Tell it her, Agnes," said the housekeeper. But Agnes was not sure she wished to describe to this gossipy seamstress all the incidents connected with Queen Alma's bracelet. She only said: "Of course, you do not know anybody who has lost such a bracelet?" "How can I tell till I have seen it?" demanded Miss Titus. "Well, we have about decided that until somebody comes who describes the bracelet and can explain how and where it was lost that we had better not display it at all," Agnes said, with more firmness than was usual with her. "Oh!" sniffed Miss Titus. "I hope you do not think that _I_ have any interest--any personal interest--in inquiring about it?" "If I thought it was yours, Miss Titus, I would let you see it immediately," Agnes hastened to assure her. "But of course--" "There was a bracelet lost right on this street," said Miss Titus earnestly, meaning Willow Street and pointing that way, "that never was recovered to my knowledge." "Oh! You don't mean it?" cried the puzzled girl. "Of course, we don't _know_ that this one belongs to any of those Gypsies--" "I should say not!" clucked Miss Titus. "The bracelet I mean was worn by Sarah Turner. She and I went together regular when we were girls. And going to prayer meeting one night, walking along here by the old Corner House, Sarah dropped her bracelet." "But--but!" gasped Agnes, "that must have been some time ago, Miss Titus." "It is according to how you compute time," the dressmaker said. "Sarah and I were about of an age. And she isn't more than forty years old right now!" "I don't think this bracelet we have is the one your friend lost," Agnes said faintly, but confidently. She wanted to laugh but did not dare. "How do you know?" demanded Miss Ann Titus in her snappy way--like the biting off of a thread when she was at work. "I should know it, even so long after it was lost, I assure you." "Why--how?" asked the Corner House girl curiously. "By the scratches on it," declared Miss Titus. "Sarah's brother John made them with his pocketknife--on the inside of the bracelet--to see if it was real silver. Oh! he was a bad boy--as bad as Sammy Pinkney. And what do you think of _his_ running away again?" Agnes was glad the seamstress changed the subject right here. It seemed to her as though she had noticed scratches on the bracelet the Gypsies had placed in the basket the children bought. Could it be possible-- "No! That is ridiculous!" Agnes told herself. "It could not be possible that a bracelet lost forty years ago on Willow Street should turn up at this late date. And, having found it, why should those Gypsy women give it to Tess and Dot? There would be no sense in that." Yet, when the talkative Miss Titus had gone Agnes went to the room the little folks kept their playthings and doll families in, and picked up the Alice-doll which chanced that day to be wearing the silver band. She removed it from the doll and took it to the window where the light was better. Yes! It was true as she had thought. There were several crosswise scratches on the inside of the circlet. They might easily have been made by a boy's jackknife. "I declare! Who really knows where this bracelet came from, and who actually owns it? Maybe it is not Queen Alma's ornament after all. Dear, me! this Kenway family is forever getting mixed up in difficulties that positively have nothing to do with _us_. "The silly old bracelet! Why couldn't those Gypsy women have sold that basket to Margaret and Holly Pease, or to some other little girls instead of to our Tess and Dot. Mrs. McCall says that some people seem to attract trouble, just as lightning-rods attract lightning, and I guess the Kenways are some of those people!" Neale did not come over again that day, so she had nobody to discuss this new slant in the matter with. And if Agnes could not "talk out loud" about her troubles, she was apt to grow irritable. At least, the little girls said after supper that she was cross. "Ruth doesn't talk that way to us," declared Tess, quite hurt, and gathering up her playthings from the various chairs in the sitting room where the family usually gathered in the evenings. "I don't think I should like her to be away all the time." This was Tess's polite way of criticising Agnes. But Dot was not so hampered by politeness. "Crosspatch!" she exclaimed. "That's just what you are, Aggie Kenway." And she started for bed in quite a huff. Agnes was glad, a few minutes later, that the two smaller girls had gone upstairs, even if they had gone away in this unhappy state of mind. Mrs. McCall had come in and sat down at some mending and the room was very quiet. Suddenly a noise outside on the porch made Agnes raise her head and look at the nearest window. "What is the matter wi' ye, lassie?" asked Mrs. McCall, startled. "Did you hear that?" whispered the girl, staring at the window. The shade was not drawn down to the sill, and the curtains were the very thinnest of scrim. At the space of four inches below the shade Agnes saw a white splotch against the pane. "Oh! See! A face!" gasped Agnes in three smothered shrieks. "Hech, mon! Such a flibbertigibbet as the lass is." Mrs. McCall adjusted her glasses and stared, first at the frightened girl, then at the window. But she, too, saw the face. "What can the matter be?" she demanded, half rising. "Is that Neale O'Neil up tae some o' his jokes?" "Oh, no, Mrs. Mac! It's not Neale," half sobbed Agnes. "I know who it is. It's that awful junkman!" "A junkman?" repeated Mrs. McCall. "At this time o' night? We've naethin' tae sellit him. The impudence!" She rose, quite determined to drive the importunate junkman away. CHAPTER XIX--THE HOUSE IS HAUNTED "Why do ye fash yoursel' so?" demanded Mrs. McCall in growing wonder and exasperation. "Let me see the foolish man." She approached the window and raised the shade sharply. Then she hoisted the sash itself. But Costello, the junkman, was gone. "There is naebody here," she complained, looking out on the side porch. "But he _was_ there! You saw him," faintly declared Agnes. "He was nae ghost, if that's what you mean," said the housekeeper dryly. "But what and who is he? A junkman? How do you come to know junkmen, lassie?" "I only know that junkman," explained Agnes. "Aye?" The housekeeper's eyes as well as her voice was sharp. "And when did you make his acquaintance? Costello, d'you say?" "So he said his name was. He--he is one of the Gypsies, I do believe!" "Gypsies! The idea! Is the house surrounded by Gypsies?" "I don't know, Mrs. McCall," said Agnes faintly. "I only know they are giving us a lot of trouble." "Who are?" "The Gypsies." "Hear the lass!" exclaimed the troubled housekeeper. "Who ever heard the like? Why should Gypsies give us any trouble? Is it that bit bracelet the bairns play wi'? Then throw it out and let the Gypsies have it." "But that would not be right, would it, Mrs. McCall?" demanded the troubled girl. "If--if the bracelet belongs to them--" "Hech! To this junkman?" "He claims it," confessed Agnes. "Tut, tut! What is going on here that I do not know about?" demanded the Scotch woman with deeper interest. She closed the window, drew the shade again, and returned to her seat. She stared at Agnes rather sternly over her glasses. "Come now, my lass," said the housekeeper, "what has been going on so slyly here? I never heard of any Costello, junkman or not. Who is he? What does he want, peering in at a body's windows at night?" Agnes told the whole story then--and managed to tell it clearly enough for the practical woman to gain a very good idea of the whole matter. "Of course," was her comment, grimly said, "you and that Neale could not let well enough alone. You never can. If you had not advertised the bit bracelet, this junkman would not have troubled you." "But we thought it ought to be advertised," murmured Agnes in defense. "Aye, aye! Ye thought mooch I've nae doot. And to little good purpose. Well, 'tis a matter for Mr. Howbridge now, sure enough. And what he'll say--" "But I hope that Costello does not come to the house again," ventured the girl, in some lingering alarm. "You or Neale go to Mr. Howbridge's clerk in the morning and tell him. He should tell the police of this crazy man. A Gypsy, too, you say?" "I think he must be. The bracelet seems to be a bone of contention between two branches of the Gypsy tribe. If it belonged to that old Queen Alma--" "Fiddle-faddle!" exclaimed the housekeeper. "Who ever heard of a queen among those dirty Gypsies? 'Tis foolishness." The fact that Costello, the junkman, was lingering about the old Corner House was not to be denied. They saw him again before bedtime. Uncle Rufus had gone to bed and Linda was so easily frightened that Mrs. McCall did not want to tell her. So the housekeeper grabbed a broom and started out on the side porch with the avowed intention of "breaking the besom over the chiel's head!" But the lurker refused to be caught and darted away into the shadows. And all without making a sound, or revealing in any way what his intention might be. Mrs. McCall and the trembling Agnes went all about the house, locking each lower window, and of course all the doors. Tom Jonah, the old Newfoundland dog, slept out of doors these warm nights, and sometimes wandered away from the premises. "We ought to have Buster, Sammy Pinkney's bulldog, over here. Then that horrid man would not dare come into the yard," Agnes said. "You might as well turn that old billy-goat loose," sniffed Mrs. McCall. "He'd do little more harm than that bull pup--and nae more good, either." They went to bed--earlier than usual, perhaps. And that may be the reason why Agnes could not sleep. She considered the possibility of Costello's climbing up the porch posts to the roof, and so reaching the second story windows. "If he is going to haunt the house like this," Agnes declared to the housekeeper in the morning, "let us make Neale come here and stay at night." "That lad?" returned the housekeeper, who had no very exalted opinion of boys in any case--no more than had Ruth. "Haven't we all troubles enough, I want to know? This is a case for the police. You go tell Mr. Howbridge's clerk about the Gypsy, that is what you do." But Agnes would not do even that without taking Neale into her confidence. Neale at once was up in arms when he heard of the lurking junkman. He declared he would come over and hide in the closet on the Kenways' back porch and try to catch the man if he appeared again at night. "He is a very strong man, Neale," objected Agnes. "And he might have a knife, too. You know, those Gypsies are awfully fierce-tempered." "I don't know that he is," objected Neale. "He looked to me like just plain crazy." "Well, you come down to the office with me," commanded Agnes. "I don't even want to meet that excitable Costello man on the street when I am alone." "I suppose you are scared, Aggie. But I don't think he would really hurt you. Come on!" So they went down to Mr. Howbridge's office again and interviewed the clerk, telling him first of all of the appearance of the junkman the night before. "I had fairly to drive him out of these offices," said the clerk. "He is of a very excitable temperament, to say the least. But I did not think there was any real harm in him." "Just the same," Neale objected, "he wants to keep away from the house and not frighten folks at night." "Oh, we will soon stop that," said Mr. Howbridge's representative. "I will report it to the police." "But perhaps he does not mean any harm," faltered Agnes. "I do not think he does," said the man. "Nevertheless, we will warn him." This promise relieved Agnes a good deal. She was tender-hearted and she did not wish the junkman arrested. But when evening came and he once more stared in at the windows, and tapped on the panes, and wandered around and around the house-- "Well, this is too much!" cried the girl, when Neale and Mrs. McCall both ran out to try to apprehend the marauder. "I do wish we had a telephone. I am going to _beg_ Ruth to have one put in just as soon as she comes back. We could call the police and they would catch that man." Perhaps the police, had they been informed, might have caught Costello. But Mrs. McCall and Neale did not. The latter remained until the family went to bed and then the boy did a little lurking in the bushes on his own account. But he did not spy the strange man again. In the morning, without saying anything to the Kenway family about it, Neale O'Neil set out to find Costello, the junkman. He certainly was not afraid of the man by daylight. He had had experience with him. From Mr. Howbridge's clerk he had already obtained the address the junkman had given when he was at the office. The place was down by the canal in the poorer section of the town, of course. There were several cellars and first-floors of old houses given up to ragpickers and dealers in junk of all kinds. After some inquiry among a people who quite evidently were used to dodging the answering of incriminating questions, Neale learned that there had been a junkman living in a certain room up to within a day or two before, whose name was Costello. But he had disappeared. Oh, yes! Neale's informant was quite sure that Costello had gone away for good. "But he had a horse and wagon. He had a business of his own. Where has he gone?" demanded the boy. He was gone. That was all these people would tell him. They pointed out the old shed where Costello had kept his horse. Was it a good horse? It was a good looking horse, with smiles which seemed to indicate that Costello was a true Gypsy and was not above "doctoring" a horse into a deceiving appearance of worthiness. "He drove away with that horse. He did not say where he was going. I guess he go to make a sale, eh? He will come back with some old plug that he make look fine, eh?" This was the nearest to real information that Neale could obtain, and this from a youth who worked for one of the established junk dealers. So Neale had to give up the inquiry as useless. When he came back to the old Corner House he confessed to Agnes: "He is hiding somewhere, and coming around here after dark. Wish I had a shotgun--" "Oh, Neale! How wicked!" "Loaded with rock-salt," grinned the boy. "A dose of that might do the Gyp. a world of good." CHAPTER XX--PLOTTERS AT WORK The adventures of the Corner House girls and their friends did not usually include anything very terrible. Perhaps there was no particular peril threatened by Costello, the Gypsy junkman, who was lurking about the premises at night. Just the same, Agnes Kenway was inclined to do what Mrs. McCall suggested and throw the silver bracelet out upon the ash heap. Of course they had no moral right to do that, and the housekeeper's irritable suggestion was not to be thought of for a serious moment. Yet Agnes would have been glad to get rid of the responsibility connected with possession of Queen Alma's ornament. "If it is that Costello heirloom!" she said. "Maybe after all it belongs to Miss Ann Titus's friend, Sarah Whatshername. Goodness! I wonder how many other people will come to claim the old thing. I do wish Ruth would return." "Just so you could hand the responsibility over to her," accused Neale. "M-mm. Well?" "We ought to hunt up those Gypsies--'Beeg Jeem' and his crowd--and get their side of the story," declared Neale. "No! I will not!" cried Agnes. "I have met all the Gypsies I ever want to meet." But within the hour she met another. She was in the kitchen, and Linda and Mrs. McCall were both in the front of the house, cleaning. There came a timid-sounding rap on the door. Agnes unthinkingly threw it open. A slender girl stood there--a girl younger than Agnes herself. This stranger was very ragged, not at all clean looking, and very brown. She had flashing white teeth and flashing black eyes. Agnes actually started back when she saw her and suppressed a scream. For she instantly knew the stranger was one of the Gypsy tribe. That she seemed to be alone was the only thing that kept Agnes from slamming the door again right in the girl's face. "Will the kind lady give me something to eat?" whined the beggar. "I am hungry. I eat nothing all the day." Agnes was doubtful of the truth of this. The dark girl did not look ill-fed. But she had an appearance of need just the same; and it was a rule of the Corner House household never to turn a hungry person away. "Stay there on the mat," Agnes finally said. "Don't come in. I will see what I can find for you." "Yes, Ma'am," said the girl. "Haven't you had any breakfast?" asked Agnes, moving toward the pantry, and her sympathies becoming excited. "No, Ma'am. And no supper last night. Nobody give me nothing." "Well," said Agnes, with more warmth, expanding to this tale of woe, as was natural, "I will see what I can find." She found a plate heaped with bread and meat and a wedge of cake, which she brought to the screen door. The girl had stood there motionless, only her black eyes roved about the kitchen and seemed to mark everything in it. "Sit down there on the steps and eat it," said Agnes, passing the plate through a narrow opening, as she might have handed food into the cage of an animal at a menagerie. She really was half afraid of the girl just because she looked so much like a Gypsy. The stranger ate as though she was quite as ravenously hungry as she had claimed to be. There could be no doubt that the food disappeared with remarkable celerity. She sat for a moment or two after she had eaten the last crumb with the plate in her lap. Then she rose and brought it timidly to the door. "Did you have enough?" asked Agnes, feeling less afraid now. "Oh, yes, Lady! It was so nice," and the girl flashed her teeth in a beaming smile. She was quite a pretty girl--if she had only been clean and decently dressed. She handed the plate to Agnes, and then turned and ran out of the yard and down the street as fast as she could run. Agnes stared after her in increased amazement. Why had she run away? "If she is a Gypsy--Well, they are queer people, that is sure. Oh! What is this?" Her fingers had found something on the under side of the plate. She turned it up and saw a soiled piece of paper sticking there. Agnes, wondering, if no longer alarmed, drew the paper from the plate, turned it over, and saw that some words were scrawled in blue pencil on the paper. "Goodness me! More mysteries!" gasped the Corner House girl. Briefly and plainly the message read: _Do not_ _give the bracelet to Miguel. He is a thief._ Agnes sat down and stared almost breathlessly at the paper. That it was a threatening command from one crowd of Gypsies or the other, she was sure. But whether it was from Big Jim's crowd or from Costello, the junkman, she did not know. Her first thought, after she had digested the matter for a few moments, was to run with the paper to Mrs. McCall. But Mrs. McCall was not at all sympathetic about this bracelet matter. She was only angry with the Gypsies, and, perhaps, a little angry with Agnes for having unwittingly added to the trouble by putting the advertisement in the paper. Neale, after all, could be her only confident; and, making sure that no other dark-visaged person was in sight about the house, the girl ran down the long yard beyond the garden to the stable and Billy Bumps' quarters, and there climbed the board fence that separated the Kenway yard from that of Con Murphy, the cobbler. "Hoo, hoo! Hoo, hoo!" Agnes called, looking over the top rail of the fence. "Hoo, hoo, yerself!" croaked a voice. "I'd have yez know we kape no owls on these premises." The bent figure of Mr. Murphy, always busy at his bench, was visible through the back window of his shop. "Is it that young yahoo called Neale O'Neil that yez want, Miss Aggie?" added the smiling cobbler. "If so--" But Neale O'Neil appeared just then to answer to the summons of his girl friend. He had been to the store, and he tumbled all his packages on Con's bench to run out into the yard to greet Agnes. "What's happened now?" he cried, seeing in the girl's face that something out of the ordinary troubled her. "Oh, Neale! what do you think?" she gasped. "There's been another of them at the house." "Not one of those Gypsies?" "I believe she was." "Oh! A _she_!" said the boy, much relieved. "Well, she didn't bite you, of course?" "Come here and look at this," commanded his friend. Neale went to the fence, climbed up and took the paper that Agnes had found stuck to the plate on which she had placed the food for the Gypsy girl. When he had read the abrupt and unsigned message, Neale began to grow excited, too. "Where did you get this?" Agnes told him about it. Of course, the hungry girl had been a messenger from one party of Gypsies or the other. Which? was Agnes' eager question. "Guess I can answer that," Neale said gravely. "It does look as though things were getting complicated. I bet this girl you fed is one of Big Jim's bunch." "How can you be so positive?" "There are probably only two parties of Gypsies fighting over the possession of that old bracelet. Now, I learned down there in that junk neighborhood that Costello--the Costello who is bothering us--is called Miguel. They are all Costellos--Big Jim's crowd and all. June Wildwood says so. They distinguish our junkman from themselves by calling him by his first name. Therefore--" "Oh, of course I see," sighed Agnes. "It is a terrible mess, Neale! I do wish Mr. Howbridge would get back. Or that the police would find that junkman and shut him up. Or--or that Ruthie would come home!" "Oh, don't be a baby, Aggie!" ejaculated Neale. "Who is the baby, I want to know?" flashed back the girl. "I'm not!" "Then pluck up your spirits and don't turn on the sprinkler," said the slangy youth. "Why, this is nothing to cry about. When it is all over we shall be looking back at the mystery as something great in our young lives." "You can try to laugh if you want to," snapped Agnes. "But being haunted by a junkman, and getting notes from Gypsies like that! Huh! who wouldn't be scared? Why, we don't know what those people might do to us if we give up the bracelet to the wrong person." "It doesn't belong to any of the Gypsies, perhaps." "That is exactly it!" she cried. "Maybe, after all, it is the property of Miss Ann Titus' friend, Sarah." "And was lost somewhere on Willow Street--about where your garage now stands--forty years ago!" scoffed Neale. "Well, you are pretty soft, Agnes Kenway." This naturally angered the girl, and she pouted and got down from the fence without replying. As she went back up the yard she saw Mrs. Pinkney, with her head tied up with a towel, shaking a dustcloth at one of her front windows. It at least changed the current of the girl's thought. "Oh, Mrs. Pinkney!" she cried, running across the street to speak to Sammy's mother, "have you heard anything?" "About Sammy? Not a word," answered the woman. "I have to keep working all the time, Agnes Kenway, or I should go insane. I know I should! I have cleaned this whole house, from attic to cellar, three times since Sammy ran away." "Why, Mrs. Pinkney! If you don't go insane--and I don't believe you will--I am sure you will overwork and be ill." "I must keep doing. I must keep going. If I sit down to think I imagine the most horrible things happening to the dear child. It is awful!" Agnes knew that never before had the woman been so much disturbed by her boy's absences from home. It seemed as though she really had lost control of herself, and the Corner House girl was quite worried over Mrs. Pinkney. "If we could only help you and Mr. Pinkney," said Agnes doubtfully. "Do you suppose it would do any good to go off in the car again--Neale and me and your husband--to look for Sammy?" "Mr. Pinkney is so tied down by his business that he cannot go just now," she sighed. "And he has put the search into the hands of an agency. I did not want the police to get after Sammy. But what could we do? And they say there are Gypsies around." "Oh!" gasped Agnes. "Do you suppose--?" "You never can tell what those people will do. I am told they have stolen children." "Isn't that more talk than anything else?" asked Agnes, trying to speak quite casually. "I don't know. One of my neighbors tells me she hears that there is a big encampment of Gypsies out on the Buckshot Road. You know, out beyond the Poole farm. They have autovans instead of horses, so they say, and maybe could carry any children they stole out of the state in a very short time." "Oh, dear me, Mrs. Pinkney! I would not think of such things," Agnes urged. "It does not sound reasonable." "That the Gypsies should travel by auto instead of behind horse?" rejoined Sammy's mother. "Why not? Everybody else is using automobiles for transportation. I tell Mr. Pinkney that if we had a machine perhaps Sammy might not have been so eager to leave home." "Oh, dear, me!" thought Agnes, as she made her way home again, "I am sorry for Mr. Pinkney. Just now I guess he is having a hard time at home as well as at business!" But she treasured up what she had heard about the Gypsy encampment on the Buckshot Road to tell Neale--when she should not be so "put-out" with him. The Buckshot Road was in an entirely different direction from Milton than that they had followed in their automobile on the memorable search for Sammy. Agnes did not suppose for a moment that the missing boy had gone with the Gypsies. CHAPTER XXI--TESS AND DOT TAKE A HAND Up to this time Tess and Dot Kenway had heard nothing about the Gypsy junkman haunting the house at night, or about other threatening things connected with the wonderful silver bracelet. Their young minds were quite as excited about the ornament as in the beginning, however; for in the first place they had to keep run exactly of whose turn it was to "wear" the Gypsies' gift. "I don't see what we'll do about it when Alice grows up," Dot said. She was always looking forward in imagination to the time when her favorite doll should become adult. "She will want to wear that belt, Tess, for evening dress. You know, a lady's jewelry should belong to her." "I'm not going to give up my share to your Alice-doll," announced Tess, quite firmly for her. "And, anyway, you must not be so sure that it is going to be ours all the time. See! Aggie says we can't take it out of the house to play with." "I don't care!" whined Dot. "I don't want to give it back to those Gypsy ladies." "Neither do I. But we must of course, if we can find them. Honest is honest." "It--it's awful uncomfortable to be so dreadful' honest," blurted out the smaller girl. "And I think they meant us to have the bracelet." "All right, then. It's only polite to offer it back to them. Then if they don't want it we'll know that it is ours and even Ruth won't say anything." "But--but when my Alice-doll grows up--" "Now, don't be a little piggie, Dot Kenway!" exclaimed Tess, rather crossly. "When your wrist gets big enough so the bracelet won't slip over your hand so easy, you will want to wear it yourself--just as I do. And Agnes wants it, too." "Oh! But it's ours--if it isn't the Gypsy ladies'," Dot hastened to say. Two claimants for the ornament were quite enough. She did not wish to hear of any other people desiring to wear it. As it chanced, Tess and Dot heard about the Gypsy encampment on the Buckshot Road through the tongue of neighborhood gossip, quite as had Sammy's mother. Margaret and Holly Pease heard the store man tell their mother; and having enviously eyed the silver bracelet in the possession of the Kenway girls, they ran to tell the latter about the Gypsies. "They've come back," declared Margaret decidedly, "to look for that bracelet you've got. You'll see them soon enough." "Oh, Margie! do you think so?" murmured Tess, while Dot was immediately so horror-stricken that tears came to her eyes. "Maybe they will bring the police and have you locked up," continued the cheerful Pease child. "You know they might accuse you of stealing the bracelet." "We never!" wailed Dot. "We never! They gave it to us!" "Well, they are going to take it back, so now!" Margaret Pease declared. "I don't think it is nice of you to say what you do, Margie," said Tess. "Everybody knows we are honest. Why! if Dot and I knew how to find them, we would take the bracelet right to the Gypsy ladies. Wouldn't we, Dot?" "But--but we don't know where to find them," blurted out the youngest Corner House girl. "You can find them I guess--out on the Buckshot Road." "We don't know that _our_ Gypsy ladies are there," said Tess, with some defiance. "You don't dare go to see," said Margaret Pease. It was a question to trouble the minds of Tess and Dot. Should they try to find the Gypsies, and see if the very ladies who had given them the bracelet were in that encampment? At least it was a leading question in Tess Kenway's mind. It must be confessed that Dot only hoped it would prove a false alarm. She was very grateful to the strange Gypsy women for having put the silver ornament in the green and yellow basket; but she hoped never to see those two kind women again! The uncertainty was so great in both of the small girls' minds that they said nothing at all about it in the hearing of any other member of the family. Had Ruth been at home they might have confided in her. They had always confided everything to their eldest sister. But just now the two smaller Corner House girls were living their own lives, very much shut away from the existence Agnes, for instance, was leading. Agnes had a secret--several of them, indeed. She did not take Tess and Dot into her confidence. So, if for no other reason, the smaller girls did not talk to Agnes about the Gypsies. The Kenways owned some tenement property in a much poorer part of the town than that prominent corner on which the Corner House stood. Early in their coming to Milton from Bloomsburg, the Corner House girls had become acquainted with the humble tenants whose rents helped swell the funds which Mr. Howbridge cared for and administered. Some of these poorer people, especially the children near their own age, interested the Kenway girls very much because they met these poorer children in school. So when news was brought to Agnes one afternoon (it was soon after lunch) that Maria Maroni, whose father kept the coal, wood, ice and vegetable cellar in one of the Stower houses and who possessed a wife and big family of children as well, had been taken ill, Agnes was much disturbed. Agnes liked Maria Maroni. Maria was very bright and forward in her studies and was a pretty Italian girl, as well. The Maronis lived much better than they once had, too. They now occupied one of the upstairs tenements over Mrs. Kranz's delicatessen store, instead of all living in the basement. The boy who ran into the Kenway yard and told Agnes this while she was tying up the gladioli stems after a particularly hard night's rain, did not seem to be an Italian. Indeed, he was no boy that Agnes ever remembered having seen before. But tenants were changing all the time over there where Maria lived. This might be a new boy in that neighborhood. And, anyway, Agnes was not bothered in her mind much about the boy. It was Maria's illness that troubled her. "What is the matter with the poor girl?" Agnes wanted to know. "What does the doctor say it is?" "They ain't got no doc," said the boy. "She's just sick, Maria is. I don't know what she's got besides." This sounded bad enough to Agnes. And the fact that the sick girl had no medical attention was the greater urge for the Kenway girl to do something about it. Of course, Joe and his wife must have a doctor for Maria at once. Agnes went into the house and told Mrs. McCall about it. She even borrowed the green and yellow basket from the little girls and packed some jelly and a bowl of broth and other nice things to take to Maria Maroni. The Kenways seldom went to the tenements empty-handed. She would have taken Neale with her, only she felt that after their incipient "quarrel" of the previous morning she did not care immediately to make up with the boy. Sometimes she felt that Neale O'Neil took advantage of her easy disposition. So Agnes went off alone with her basket. Half an hour later a boy rang the front door bell of the Corner House. He had a note for Mrs. McCall. It was written in blue pencil, and while the housekeeper was finding her reading glasses the messenger ran away so that she could not question him. The note purported to be from Hedden, Mr. Howbridge's butler. It said that the lawyer had been "brought home" and had asked for Mrs. McCall to be sent for. It urged expedition in her answer to the request, and it threw Mrs. McCall into "quite a flutter" as she told Linda and Aunt Sarah Maltby. "The puir mon!" wailed the Scotch woman who before she came to the old Corner House to care for the Kenway household had been housekeeper for Mr. Howbridge himself for many years. "There is something sad happened to him, nae doot. I must go awa' wi' me at aince. See to the bairns, Miss Maltby, that's the good soul. Even Agnes is not in the hoose." "Of course I will see to them--if it becomes necessary," said Aunt Sarah. Her idea of attending to the younger children, however, was to remain in her own room knitting, only occasionally going to the head of the back stairs to ask Linda if Tess and Dot were all right. The Finnish girl's answer was always "Shure, Mum," and in her opinion Tess and Dot were all right as long as she did not see that they were in trouble. To tell the truth, Linda saw the smaller girls very little after Mrs. McCall hurried out of the house to take the street car for the lawyer's residence. Once Linda observed Tess and Dot in the side yard talking to a boy through the pickets. She had no idea that the sharp-featured boy was the same who had brought the news of Maria Maroni's illness to Agnes, and the message from Hedden to Mrs. McCall! The boy in question had come slowly along the pavement on Willow Street, muttering to himself as he approached as though saying over several sentences that he had learned by rote. He was quite evidently a keen-minded boy, but he was not at all a trustworthy looking one. Tess and Dot both saw him, and that he was a stranger made the little girls eye him curiously. When he hailed them they were not quite sure whether they ought to reply or not. [Illustration: "They want that silver thing back. It wasn't meant for you."] "I guess you don't know us," Tess said doubtfully. "You don't belong in this neighborhood." "I know you all right," said the boy. "You're the two girls those women sold the basket to. I know you." "Oh!" gasped Tess. "The Gypsy ladies!" murmured Dot. "That's the one. They sold you the basket for forty-five cents. Didn't they?" "Yes," admitted Tess. "And it's _ours_," cried Dot. "We paid for it." "That's all right," said the boy slowly. "But you didn't buy what was in it. No, sir! They want it back." "Oh! The basket?" cried Tess. "What you found in it." The boy seemed very sure of what he was saying, but he spoke slowly. "They want that silver thing back. It wasn't meant for you. It was a mistake. You know very well it isn't yours. If you are honest--and you told them you were--you will bring it back to them." "Oh! They did ask us if we were honest," Tess said faintly. "And of course we are. Aren't we, Dot?" "Why--why-- Do we have to be so dreadful' honest," whispered the smallest Corner House girl, quite borne down with woe. "Of course we have. Just think of what Ruthie would say," murmured Tess. Then to the boy: "Where are those ladies?" "Huh?" he asked. "What ladies?" "The Gypsy ladies we bought the basket from?" "Oh, _them_?" he rejoined hurriedly, glancing along the street with eagerness. "You go right out along this street," and he pointed in the direction from which he had come. "You keep on walking until you reach the brick-yard." "Oh! Are they camped there?" asked Tess. "No. But a man with an automobile will meet you there. He is a man who will take you right to the Gypsy camp and bring you back again. Don't be afraid, kids. It's all right." He went away then, and the little girls could not call him back. They wanted to ask further questions; but it was evident that the boy had delivered his message and was not to be cross-examined. "What _shall_ we do?" Tess exclaimed. "Oh, let's wait. Let's wait till Ruth comes home," cried Dot, saying something very sensible indeed. But responsibility weighed heavily on Tess's mind. She considered that if the Gypsy women wished their bracelet returned, it was her duty to take it to them without delay. Besides, there was the man in the automobile waiting for them. Why the man had not come to the house with the car, or why he had not brought the two Gypsy women to the Corner House, were queries that did not occur to the little girls. If Tess Kenway was nothing else, she was strictly honest. "No," she sighed, "we cannot wait. We must go and see the women now. I will go in and get the bracelet, Dot. Do you want your hat? Mrs. McCall and Agnes are both away. We will have to go right over and tend to this ourselves." CHAPTER XXII--EXCITEMENT GALORE When Agnes Kenway reached the tenement where Maria Maroni resided and found that brisk young person helping in the delicatessen store as she did almost every day during the busy hours and when there was no school, the Corner House girl was surprised; but she was not suspicious. That is, she was not suspicious of any plot really aimed at the happiness of the Corner House family. She merely believed that the strange boy had deliberately fooled her for an idle purpose. "Maria Maroni! What do you think?" Agnes burst out. "Who could that boy be? Oh, I'd like to catch him! I'd make him sorry he told me such a story." "It is too bad you were troubled so, Agnes," said Maria, when she understood all about it. "I can't imagine who that boy could be. But I am glad you came over to see us, never mind what the reason is that brings you." "A sight you are for sore eyes yet," declared the ponderous Mrs. Kranz, who had kissed Agnes warmly when she first appeared. "Come the back room in and sit down. Let Ikey tend to the customers yet, Maria. We will visit with Agnes, and have some tea and sweet crackers." "And you must tell me of somebody in the row, Mrs. Kranz, who needs these delicacies. Somebody who is ill," said Agnes. "I must not take them home again. And Maria looks altogether too healthy for jelly and chicken broth." Mrs. Kranz laughed at that. But she added with seriousness: "There is always somebody sick here in the tenements, Miss Agnes. They will not take care themselfs of--no! I tell them warm flannels and good food is better than doctors yet. But they will not mind me." She sighed. "Who is ill now?" asked Agnes, at once interested. She loved to play "Lady Bountiful"; and, really, the Kenway sisters had done a great deal of good among their poor tenants and others in the row. "Mrs. Leary. You know, her new baby died and the poor woman," said Maria quickly, "is sick of grief, I do believe." "Ach, yes!" cried Mrs. Kranz. "She needs the cheerful word. You see her, Miss Agnes. Then she be better--sure!" "Thank you!" cried Agnes, dimpling and blushing. "Do you really think I can help her?" "And there is little Susie Marowsky," urged the delicatessen shopkeeper. "That child is fading away like a sick rose. She iss doing just that! If she could have country eggs and country milk--Ach! If we were all rich!" and she sighed ponderously again. "I'll tell our Ruth about her," said Agnes eagerly. "And I'll see her, too, before I go home. I'll give her the broth, yes? And Mrs. Leary the jelly, bread, and fruit?" "No!" cried Mrs. Kranz. "The fruit to Dominic Nevin, the scissors grinder. He craves fruit. You know, he cut his hand and got blood poisoning, and it was so long yet that he could not work. You see him, too, Miss Agnes." So altogether, what with the tea and cakes and the visits to the sick, Agnes was away from the Corner House quite three hours. When she was on her way home she was delayed by an unforeseen incident too. At the corner of Willow Street not far from the brick-yard a figure suddenly darted into Agnes' path. She was naturally startled by the sudden appearance of this figure, and doubly so when she saw it was the Costello that she knew as the junkman, and whose first name she now believed to be Miguel. "What do you want? Go away!" cried the girl faintly, backing away from the vehement little man. "Oh, do not be afraid! You are the honest Kenway I am sure. You have Queen Alma's bracelet," urged the little man. "You will give her to me--yes?" "I--I haven't it," cried Agnes, looking all about for help and seeing nobody near. "Ha!" ejaculated the man. "You have not give it to Beeg Jeem?" "We have given it to nobody. And we will not let you or anybody have it until Mr. Howbridge tells us what to do. Go away!" begged Agnes. "I go to that man. He no have the Queen Alma bracelet. _You_ have it--" "Just as sure as I get home," cried the frightened Agnes, "I will send that bracelet down to the lawyer's office and they must keep it. It shall be in the house no longer! Don't you dare come there for it!" She got past him then and ran as hard as she could along Willow Street. When she finally looked back she discovered that the man had not followed her, but had disappeared. "Oh, dear me! I don't care what the children say. That bracelet goes into Mr. Howbridge's safe this very afternoon. Neale must take it there for me," Agnes Kenway decided. She reached the side door of the Corner House just as Mrs. McCall entered the front door, having got off the car at the corner. The housekeeper came through the hall and into the rear premises a good deal like a whirlwind. She was so excited that Agnes forgot her own fright and stared at the housekeeper breathlessly. "Is it you home again, Agnes Kenway?" cried Mrs. McCall. "Well, thanks be for _that_. Then you are all right." "Why, of course! Though he did scare me. But what is the matter with you, Mrs. McCall?" "What is the matter wi' me? A plenty. A plenty, I tellit ye. If I had that jackanapes of a boy I'd shake him well, so I would!" "What has Neale been doing now?" cried the girl. "Not Neale." "Then is it Sammy?" "Nor Sammy Pinkney. 'Tis that other lad that came here wi' a lying note tae get me clear across town for naething!" "Why, Mrs. McCall! what can you mean? Did a boy fool you, too?" "Hech!" The woman started and stared at the girl. "Who brought you news of that little girl being sick?" "But she wasn't sick!" cried Agnes. "That boy was an awful little story-teller." "Ye was fooled then? That Maria Maroni--" "Was not ill at all." "And," cried Mrs. McCall, "that boy who brought a note to me from Hedden never came from Mr. Howbridge's house at all. It nearly scar't me tae death! It said Mr. Howbridge was ill. He isn't even at home yet, and when Mr. Hedden heard from his master this morning he was all right--the gude mon!" "Oh, Mrs. McCall!" gasped Agnes, gazing at the housekeeper with terrified visage. "What can it mean?" "Somebody has foolit us weel," ejaculated the enraged housekeeper. "But why?" The woman turned swiftly. She had grown suddenly pale. She called up the back stairs for Linda. A sleepy voice replied: "Here I be, mum!" "Where are the children? Where are Tess and Dot?" demanded Mrs. McCall, her voice husky. "They was in the yard, mum, the last I see of them." "That girl!" ejaculated the housekeeper angrily. "She neglects everything. If there's harm happened to those bairns--" She rushed to the porch. Uncle Rufus was coming slowly up from the garden, hoe and rake over his shoulder. It was evident that the old colored man had been working steadily, and for some time, among the vegetables. "Oh, Uncle Rufus!" cried the excited woman. "Ya-as'm! Ya-as'm! I's a-comin'," said the old man rather querulously. "Step here a minute," said Mrs. McCall. "I's a-steppin', Ma'am," grumbled the other. "Does seem as though dey wants me for fust one t'ing an' den anudder. I don't no more'n git t'roo one chore den sumpin' else hops right out at me. Lawsy me!" and he mopped his bald brown brow with a big bandanna. "I only want to ask you something," said the housekeeper, less raspingly. "Are the little ones down there? Have you seen them?" "Them chillun? No'm. I ain't seen 'em fo' some time. They was playin' up this-a-way den." "How long ago?" "I done reckon it was nigh two hours ago." "Hunt for them, Agnes!" gasped the housekeeper. "I fear me something bad has happened. You, Linda," for the Finnish girl now appeared, "run to the neighbors--all of them! See if you can find those bairns." "Tess and Dottie, mum?" cried the Finnish girl, already in tears. "Oh! they ain't losted are they?" "For all _you_ know they are!" declared Mrs. McCall. "Look around the house for them, Uncle Rufus. I will look inside--" "They may be upstairs with Aunt Sarah," cried Agnes, getting her breath at last. "I'll know that in a moment!" declared Mrs. McCall, and darted within. Agnes ran in the other direction. She felt such a lump in her throat that she could scarcely speak or breathe. The possibility of something having happened to the little girls--and with Ruth away!--cost the second Corner House girl every last bit of her self-control. "Oh, Neale! Neale!" she murmured over and over again, as she ran to the lower end of the premises. She fairly threw herself at the fence and scrambled to her usual perch. There he was cleaning Mr. Con Murphy's yard. "Neale!" she gasped. At first he did not hear her, but she drubbed upon the fence with the toes of her shoes. "Neale!" "Why, hullo, Aggie!" exclaimed the boy, turning around and seeing her. "Oh, Neale! Come here!" He was already coming closer. He saw that again she was much overwrought. "What has happened now?" "Have you seen Tess and Dot?" "Not to-day." "I--I mean within a little while? Two hours?" "I tell you I have not seen them at all to-day. I have been busy right here for Con." "Then they are gone! The Gypsies have got them!" For Agnes, without much logic of thought, had immediately jumped to this conclusion. Neale stared. "What sort of talk is that, Agnes?" he demanded. "You know that can't be so." "I tell you it is so! It must be so! They got Mrs. McCall and me out of the house--" "Who did?" interrupted Neale, getting hastily over the fence and taking the girl's hand. "Now, tell me all about it--everything!" As well as she could for her excitement and fear, the girl told the story of the boy who had brought her the false message about Maria Maroni, and then about the message Mrs. McCall had received calling her across town. "It must be that they have kidnapped the children!" moaned Agnes. "Not likely," declared the boy. "The kids have just gone visiting without asking leave. In fact, there was nobody to ask. But I see that there is a game on just the same." He started hastily for the Corner House and Agnes trotted beside him. "But where _are_ Tess and Dot?" she demanded. "How do I know?" he returned. "I want to find out if there is something else missing." "What do you mean?" "That bracelet." "Goodness, Neale! Is it that bracelet that has brought us trouble again?" "It looks like a plot all right to me. A plot to get you and Mrs. McCall out of the house so that somebody could slip in and steal the bracelet. Didn't that ever occur to you?" "Goodness me, Neale!" cried Agnes again, but with sudden relief in her voice. "If that is all it is I'll be glad if the old bracelet is stolen. Then it cannot make us any more trouble, that is one sure thing!" CHAPTER XXIII--A SURPRISING MEETING Tess and Dot Kenway, with no suspicion that anything was awaiting them save the possible loss of the silver bracelet, but otherwise quite enjoying the adventure, walked hurriedly along Willow Street as far as the brick-yard. That they were disobeying a strict injunction in taking the bracelet out of the house was a matter quite overlooked at the time. They came to the corner and there, sure enough, was a big, dusty automobile, with a big, dark man in the driver's seat. He smiled at the two little girls and Tess remembered him instantly. "Oh, Dot!" she exclaimed, "it is the man we saw in this auto with the young Gypsy lady when we were driving home with Scalawag from Mr. Howbridge's the other day. Don't you remember?" "Yes," said Dot, with a sigh. "I guess it is the same one. Oh, dear, me!" For the nearer the time came to give up the silver bracelet, the worse Dot felt about it. The big Gypsy looked around at the two little girls and smiled broadly. "You leetle ladies tak' ride with Beeg Jeem?" he asked. "You go to see the poor Gypsy women who let you have the fine bracelet to play with? Yes?" "He knows all about it, Tess," murmured Dot. "Yes, we will give them back the bracelet," Tess said firmly to the Gypsy man. "But we will not give it up to anybody else." "Get right into my car," said Big Jim, reaching back to open the tonneau door. "You shall be taken to the camp and there find the ones who gave you the bracelet. Sure!" There was something quite "grownupish" in thus getting into the big car all alone, and Tess and Dot were rather thrilled as they seated themselves on the back seat and the Gypsy drove them away. Fifteen minutes or so later Agnes came to this very corner and had her unpleasant interview with Miguel Costello. But of course by that time the children were far away. The big Gypsy drove them very rapidly and by lonely roads into a part of the country that Tess and Dot never remembered having seen before. Whenever he saw anybody on the road, either afoot or in other cars, Big Jim increased his speed and flashed by them so that there was little likelihood of these other people seeing that the two little girls were other than Gypsy girls. He did nothing to frighten Tess and Dot. Indeed, he was so smiling and so pleasant that they enjoyed the drive immensely and came finally in a state of keen enjoyment to the camp which was made a little back from the highway. "Well, if we have to give up the bracelet," sighed Tess, as they got out of the car, "we can say that we have had a fine ride." "That is all right. But how will my Alice-doll feel when she finds out she can't wear that pretty belt again?" said Dot. There were many people in the camp, both men and women and children. The latter kept at a distance from Tess and Dot, but stared at them very curiously. They kept the dogs away from the visitors, too, and the little girls were glad of that. "Where can we find the two ladies that--that sold us the basket?" asked Tess politely, of Big Jim. "You look around, leetle ladies. You find," he assured them. There were four or five motor vans of good size in which the Gypsies evidently lived while they were traveling. But there were several tents set up as well. It was a big camp. Timidly at first the two sisters, hand in hand, the silver bracelet firmly clutched inside Tess's dress against her side, began walking about. They tried to ask questions about the women they sought; but nobody seemed to understand. They all smiled and shook their heads. "Dear me! it must be dreadful to be born a foreigner," Dot finally said. "How can they make themselves understood _at all_?" "But they seem to be very pleasant persons," Tess rejoined decidedly. The children ran away from them. Perhaps they had been ordered to by the older Gypsies. By and by Tess, at least, grew somewhat worried when they did not find either of the women who had sold them the yellow and green basket. Dot, secretly, hoped the two in question had gone away. Suddenly, however, the two Kenway girls came face to face with somebody they did know. But so astonished were they by this discovery that for a long minute neither could believe her eyes! "Sammy Pinkney!" gasped Tess at last. "It--ain't--_never_!" murmured the smaller girl. The figure which had tried to dodge around the end of a motor van to escape observation looked nothing at all like the Sammy Pinkney the Kenway girls had formerly known. Never in their experience of Sammy--not even when he had slipped down the chimney at the old Corner House and landed on the hearth, a very sooty Santa Claus--had the boy looked so disgracefully ragged and dirty. "Well, what's the matter with me?" he demanded defiantly. "Why--why there looks to be most _every_thing the matter with you, Sammy Pinkney," declared Tess, with disgust. "What _do_ you s'pose your mother would say to you?" "I ain't going home to find out," said Sammy. "And--and your pants are all tored," gasped Dot. "Oh, that happened long ago," said Sammy, quite as airy as the trousers. "And I'm having the time of my life here. Nobody sends me errands, or makes me--er--weed beet beds! So there! I can do just as I please." "You look as though you had, Sammy," was Tess's critical speech. "I guess your mother wouldn't want you home looking the way you do." "I look well enough," he declared defiantly. "And don't you tell where I am. Will you?" "But, Sammy!" exclaimed Dot, "you ran away to be a pirate." "What if I did?" "But you can't be a pirate here." "I can be a Gypsy. And that's lots more fun. If I joined a pirate crew I couldn't get to be captain right away of course, so I would have to mind somebody. Here I don't have to mind anybody at all." "Well, I never!" ejaculated Tess Kenway. "Well, I never!" repeated Dot, with similar emphasis. "Say, what are you kids here for?" demanded Sammy, with an attempt to turn the conversation from his own evident failings. "Oh, we were brought here on a visit," Tess returned rather haughtily. "Huh! You _was_? Who you visiting? Is Aggie with you? Or Neale?" and he looked around suddenly as though choosing a way of escape. "We are here all alone," said Dot reassuringly. "You needn't be afraid, Sammy." "Who's afraid?" he said gruffly. "You would be if Neale was with us, for Neale would make you go home," said the smallest Kenway girl. "But who brought you? What you here for? Oh! That old bracelet I bet!" "Yes," sighed Dot. "They want it back." "Who want it back?" "Those two ladies that sold us the basket," explained Tess. "Are they with this bunch of Gypsies?" asked Sammy in surprise. "I haven't seen them. And I've been here two whole days." "How did you come to be a Gypsy, Sammy?" asked Dot with much curiosity. "Why, I--er--Well, I lost my clothes and my money and didn't have much to eat and that big Gypsy saw me on the road and asked me if I wanted to ride. So I came here with him and he let me stay. And nobody does a thing to me. I licked one boy," added Sammy with satisfaction, "so the others let me alone." "But haven't you seen either of those two ladies that sold us the basket?" demanded Tess, beginning to be worried a little. "Nope. I don't believe they are here." "But that man says they are here," cried Tess. "Let's go ask him. I--I won't give that bracelet to anybody else but one of those ladies." "Crickey!" exclaimed Sammy. "Don't feel so bad about it. Course there is a mistake somehow. These folks are real nice folks. They wouldn't fool you." The three, Sammy looking very important, went to find Big Jim. He was just as smiling as ever. "Oh, yes! The little ladies are not to be worried. The women they want will soon come." "You see?" said Sammy, boldly. "It will be all right. Why, these people treat you _right_. I tell you! You can do just as you please in a Gypsy camp and nobody says anything to you." "See!" exclaimed Tess suddenly. "Are they packing up to leave? Or do they stay here all the time?" It was now late afternoon. Instead of the supper fires being revived, they were smothered. Men and women had begun loading the heavier vans. The tents were coming down. Clotheslines stretched between the trees were now being coiled by the children. All manner of rubbish was being thrown into the bushes. "I don't know if they are moving. I'll ask," said Sammy, somewhat in doubt. He went to a boy bigger than himself, but who seemed to be friendly. The little girls waited, staring all about for the two women with whom they had business. "I don't care," whispered Dot. "If they don't come pretty soon, and these Gypsies are going away from here, we'll just go back home, Tess. We _can't_ give them the bracelet if we don't see them." "But we do not want to walk home," her sister said slowly in return. "And we ought to make Sammy go with us." "You try to _make_ Sammy do anything!" exclaimed Dot, with scorn. Their boy friend returned, swaggering as usual. "Well, they are going to move," he said. "But I'm going with them. That boy--he was the one I licked, but he's a good kid--says they are going to a pond where the fishing is great. Wish I had my fishpole." "But you must come back home with us, Sammy," began Tess gravely. "Not much I won't! Don't you think it," cried Sammy. "But you might get my fishing tackle and jointed pole and sneak 'em out to me. There's good kids!" "We will do nothing sneaky for you at all, Sammy Pinkney!" exclaimed Tess indignantly. "Aw, go on! You can just as easy." "We can, but we won't. So there! And if you don't go home with us when the man takes us back in his car we certainly will tell where you are." "Be a telltale. _I_ don't care," cried Sammy, roughly. "And I won't say just where we are going from here, so you needn't think my folks will find me." One of the closed vans--something like a moving van only with windows in the sides, a stove-pipe sticking out of the roof, and a door at the rear, with steps--seemed now to be ready to start. A man climbed into the front seat to drive it. Several women and smaller children got in at the rear after the various bales and packages that had been tossed in. The big man suddenly shouted and beckoned to Tess and Dot. "Here, little ladies," he said, still smiling his wide smile. "You come go wit' my mudder, eh? Take you to find the Gypsy women you want to see." "But--er--Mr. Gypsy," said Tess, somewhat disturbed now, "we must go back home." "Sure. Tak' you home soon as you see those women and give them what you got for them." He strode across the camp to them. His smile was quite as wide, but did not seem to forecast as much good-nature as at first. "Come now! Get in!" he commanded. "Hey!" cried Sammy. "What you doing? Those little girls are friends of mine. You want to let them ride in that open car--not in that box. What d'you think we are?" "Get out the way, boy!" commanded Big Jim. He seized Tess suddenly by the shoulders, swung her up bodily despite her screams and tossed her through the rear door of the Gypsy van. Dot followed so quickly that she could scarcely utter a frightened gasp. "Hey! Stop that! Those are the Kenway girls. Why! Mr. Howbridge will come after them and he'll--he'll--" Sammy's excited threat was stopped in his throat. Big Jim's huge hand caught the boy a heavy blow upon the side of his head. The next moment he was shot into the motor-van too and the door was shut. He heard Tess and Dot sobbing somewhere among the women and children already crowded into the van. It was a stuffy place, for none of the windows were open. Although this nomadic people lived mostly out of doors, and never under a real roof if they could help it, they did not seem to mind the smothering atmosphere of the van which now, with a sudden lurch, started out of the place of encampment. "Never you mind, Tess and Dot, they won't dare carry you far. Maybe they are taking you home anyway," said Sammy in a low voice. "The first time they stop and let us out we'll run away. I will get you home all right." "You--you can't get yourself home, Sammy," sobbed Dot. "Maybe you like it being a Gypsy, but we don't," added Tess. "I'll fix it for you all right--" One of the old crones reached out in the semi-darkness and slapped Sammy across the mouth. "Shut up!" she commanded harshly. But when she tried to slap the boy again she screamed. It must be confessed that Sammy bit her! "You lemme alone," snarled the boy captive. "And don't you hit those girls. If you do I--I'll bite the whole lot of you!" The women jabbered a good deal together in their own tongue; but nobody tried to interfere with Sammy thereafter. He shoved his way into the van until he stood beside Tess and Dot. "Let's not cry about it," he whispered. "That won't get us anywhere, that is sure. But the very first chance we get--" No chance for escape however was likely to arise while the Gypsy troop were en route. The children could hear the rumble of the vans behind. Soon Big Jim in his touring car passed this first van and shouted to the driver. Then the procession settled into a steady rate of speed and the three little captives had not the least idea in which direction they were headed nor where they were bound. * * * * * Back at the old Corner House affairs were in a terrible state of confusion. Linda had returned from her voyage among the neighbors with absolutely no news of the smaller girls. And Agnes had discovered that the silver bracelet was missing. "It was Tess's day for wearing it, but she did not have it on when she went out to play," the older sister explained. "Do you suppose the house has been robbed, Neale O'Neil?" Neale had been examining closely the piece of paper that Agnes had found stuck to the plate on which she had fed the beggar girl the day before and also the note Mrs. McCall had received purporting to come from Mr. Howbridge's butler. Both were written in blue pencil, and by the same hand without any doubt. "It's a plot clear enough. And naturally we may believe that it was not hatched by that Miguel Costello, the junkman. It looks as though it was done by Big Jim's crowd." "But what have they done with the bairns?" demanded the housekeeper, in horror. "Oh, Neale! have they stolen Tess and Dot, as well as the silver bracelet?" was Agnes' bitter cry. "Got me. Don't know," muttered the boy. "And what would they want the children for, anyway?" "Let us find out if any Gypsies have been seen about the house this afternoon," Agnes proposed. "You see, Neale. Don't send Linda." Linda, indeed, was in a hopeless state. She didn't know, declared Mrs. McCall, whether she was on her head or her heels! Neale ran out and searched the neighborhood over. When he came back he had found nobody who had set eyes on any Gypsies; but he had heard from Mrs. Pease that Gypsies were camped out of town. The store man had told her so. "Oh!" gasped Agnes, suddenly remembering. "I heard about that. Mrs. Pinkney told me. They are on the Buckshot Road, out beyond where Carrie Poole lives. You know, Neale." "Sure I know where the Poole place is," admitted Neale. "We have all been there often enough. And I can get the car--" "Do! Do!" begged Mrs. McCall. "You cannot go too quickly, Neale O'Neil. And take the police wi' ye, laddie!" "Take me with you, Neale!" commanded Agnes. "We can find a constable out that way if we need one. I know Mr. Ben Stryker who lives just beyond the Pooles. And he is a constable, for he stopped the car once when I was driving and said he would have to arrest me if I did not drive slower." "Sure!" said Neale. "Agnes knows all the traffic cops on the route, I bet. But we don't _know_ that the children have gone with the Gypsies." "And we never will know if you stand here and argue. Anyway, it looks as though the silver bracelet has been stolen by them." "Or by somebody," granted the boy. "Ne'er mind the bit bracelet," commanded the housekeeper. "Find Tess and Dot. I am going to put on my bonnet and shawl and go to the police station mysel'. Do you children hurry away in the car as you promised." It was already supper time, but nobody thought of that meal, unless it was Aunt Sarah. When she came down to see what the matter was--why the evening meal was so delayed--she found Linda sobbing with her apron over her head in the kitchen and the tea kettle boiled completely dry. That was nothing, however, to the condition of affairs at one o'clock that night when Ruth, with Luke and Cecile Shepard, arrived at the old Corner House. They had been delayed at the station half an hour while Ruth telephoned for and obtained a comfortable touring car for her visitors and herself. Agnes did not have to beg her older sister to put in a telephone. After this experience Ruth was determined to do just that. The party arrived home to find the Corner House lit up as though for a reception. But it was not in honor of their arrival. The telegram announcing Ruth's coming had scarcely been noticed by Mrs. McCall. Mrs. McCall had recovered a measure of her composure and good sense; but she could scarcely welcome the guests properly. Aunt Sarah Maltby had gone to bed, announcing that she was utterly prostrated and should never get up again unless Tess and Dot were found. Linda and Uncle Rufus were equally distracted. "But where are Agnes and Neale?" Ruth demanded, very white and determined. "What are they doing?" "They started out in the machine around eight o'clock," explained Mrs. McCall. "They are searching high and low for the puir bairns." "All alone?" gasped Ruth. "Mr. Pinkney has gone with them. And I believe they were to pick up a constable. That Neale O'Neil declares he will raid every Gypsy camp and tramp's roost in the county. And Sammy's father took a pistol with him." "And you let Agnes go with them!" murmured Ruth. "Suppose she gets shot?" "My maircy!" cried the housekeeper, clasping her hands. "I never thought about that pistol being dangerous, any more than Uncle Rufus's gun with the broken hammer." CHAPTER XXIV--THE CAPTIVES That ride, shut in the Gypsy van, was one that neither Tess nor Dot nor Sammy Pinkney were likely soon to forget. The car plunged along the country road, and the distance the party traveled was considerable, although the direction was circuitous and did not, after two hours, take the Gypsy clan much farther from Milton than they had been at the previous camp. By eleven o'clock they pulled off the road into a little glade that had been well known to the leaders of the party. A new camp was established in a very short time. Tents were again erected, fires kindled for the late supper, and the life of the Gypsy town was re-begun. But Sammy and the two little Corner House girls were forbidden to leave the van in which they had been made to ride. Big Jim came over himself, banged Sammy with his broad palm, and told him: "You keep-a them here--you see? If those kids get out, I knock you good. See?" Sammy saw stars at least! He would not answer the man. There was something beside stubbornness to Sammy Pinkney. But stubbornness stood him in good stead just now. "Don't you mind, Tess and Dot," he whispered, his own voice broken with half-stifled sobs. "I'll get you out of it. We'll run away first chance we get." "But it never does _you_ any good to run away, Sammy," complained Tess. "You only get into trouble. Dot and I don't want to be beaten by that man. He is horrid." "I wish we could see those nice ladies who sold us the basket," wailed Dot, quite desperate now. "I--I'd be _glad_ to give 'em back the bracelet." "Sh!" hissed Sammy. "We'll run away and we'll take the bracelet along. These Gyps sha'n't ever get it again, so there!" "Humph! I don't see what you have to say about _that_, Sammy," scoffed Tess. "If the women own it, of course they have got to have it. But I don't want that Big Jim to have it--not at all!" "He won't get it. You leave it to me," said Sammy, with recovered assurance. The van door was neither locked nor barred. But if the children had stepped out of it the firelight would have revealed their figures instantly to the Gypsies. Either the women bending over the pots and pans at the fires or the children running about the encampment would have raised a hue and cry if the little captives had attempted to run away. And there were a dozen burly men sitting about, smoking and talking and awaiting the call to supper. This meal was finally prepared. The fumes from the pots reached the nostrils of Tess, Dot, and Sammy, and they were all ravenously hungry. Nor were they denied food. The Gypsies evidently had no intention of maltreating the captives in any particular as long as they obeyed and did not try to escape. One young woman brought a great pan of stew and bread and three spoons to the van and set it on the upper step for the children. "You eat," said she, smiling, and the firelight shining on her gold earrings. "It do you goot--yes?" "Oh, Miss Gypsy!" begged Tess, "we want to go home." "That all right. Beeg Jeem tak-a you. To-morrow, maybe." She went away hurriedly. But she had left them a plentiful supper. The three were too ravenous to be delicate. They each seized a spoon and, as Sammy advised, "dug in." "This is the way all Gypsies eat," he said, proud of his knowledge. "Sometimes the men use their pocket knives to cut up the meat. But they don't seem to have any forks. And I guess forks aren't necessary anyway." "But they are nicer than fingers," objected Tess. "Huh? Are they?" observed the young barbarian. After they had completely cleared the pan of every scrap and eaten every crumb of bread and drunk the milk that had been brought to them in a quart cup, Dot naturally gave way to sleepiness. She began to whimper a little too. "If that big, bad Gypsy man doesn't take us home pretty soon I shall have to sleep here, Sister," she complained. "You lie right down on this bench," said Tess kindly, "and I will cover you up and you can sleep as long as you want to." So Dot did this. But Sammy was not at all sleepy. His mind was too active for that. He was prowling about the more or less littered van. "Say!" he whispered to Tess, "there is a little window here in the front overlooking the driver's seat. And it swings on a hinge like a door." "I don't care, Sammy. I--I'm sleepy, too," confessed Tess, with a yawn behind her hand. "Say! don't _you_ go to sleep like a big kid," snapped the boy. "We've got to get away from these Gyps." "I thought you were going to stay with them forever." "Not to let that Big Jim bang me over the head. Not much!" ejaculated Sammy fiercely. "If my father saw him do that--" "But your father isn't here. If he was--" "If he was you can just bet," said Sammy with confidence, "that Big Jim would not dare hit me." "I--I wish your father would come and take us all home then," went on Tess, with another yawn. "Well," admitted Sammy, "I wish he would, too. Crickey! but it's awful to have girls along, whether you are a pirate or a Gypsy." "You needn't talk!" snapped Tess, quite tart for her. "We did not ask to come. And you were here 'fore we got here. And now you can't get away any more than Dot and I can." "Sh!" advised Sammy again, and earnestly. "I got an idea." "What is it?" asked Tess, without much curiosity. "This here window in front!" whispered the boy. "We can open it. It is all dark at that end of the van. If we can slide out on to the seat we'll climb down in the dark and get into the woods. I know the way to the road. I can see a patch of it through the window. What say?" "But Dot? She sleeps so hard," breathed Tess. "We can poke her through the window on to the seat. Then we will crawl through. If she doesn't wake up and holler--" "I'll stop her from hollering," agreed Tess firmly. "We'll try it, Sammy, before those awful women get back into the van." Fortunately for the attempt of the captives their own supper had been dispatched with promptness. The Gypsies were still sitting about over the meal when Sammy opened that front window in the van. He and Tess lifted Dot, who complained but faintly and kept her eyes tightly closed, and pushed her feet first through the small window. The driver's seat was broad and roomy. The little girl lay there all right while first Tess and then Sammy crept through the window. It was dark here, and they could scarcely see the way to the ground. But Sammy ventured down first, and after barking his shins a little found the step and whispered his directions to Tess about passing Dot down to him. They actually got to the ground themselves and brought the smallest Corner House girl with them without any serious mishap. Sammy tried to carry Dot over his shoulder, but he could not stagger far with her. And, too, the sleepy child began to object. "Sh! Keep still!" hissed her sister in Dot's ear. "Do you want the Gypsies to get you again?" She had to help Sammy carry the child, however. Dot was such a heavy sleeper--especially when she first went to sleep--that nothing could really bring her back to realities. The two stumbled along with her in the deep shadows and actually reached the woods that bordered the encampment. Suddenly a dog barked. Somebody shouted to the animal and it subsided with a sullen growl. But in a moment another dog began to yap. The guards of the camp realized that something was going wrong, although as yet none of the dogs had scented the escaping children exactly. "Oh, hurry! Hurry!" gasped Tess. "The dogs will chase us." "I am afraid they will," admitted Sammy. "We got to hide our trail." "How'll we do that, Sammy?" gasped Tess. "Like the Indians do," declared the boy. "We got to find a stream of water and wade in it." "But I've got shoes and stockings on. And Mrs. McCall says we can't go wading without asking permission." "Crickey! how you going to run away from these Gypsies if you've got to mind what you're told all the time?" asked Sammy desperately. "But won't the water be cold? And why wade in it, anyway?" "So the dogs can't follow our scent. They can't follow scent through water. Come on. We got to find a brook or something." "There's the canal," ventured Tess, in an awed whisper. "The canal, your granny!" exclaimed the exasperated boy. "That's over your head, Tess Kenway." "Well! I don't know of any other water. Oh! Hear those dogs bark." "Don't you s'pose I've got ears?" snapped Sammy. "They sound awful savage." "Yes. They've got some savage dogs," admitted the boy. "Will they bite us? Oh, Sammy! will they bite us?" "Not if they don't catch us," replied the boy, staggering on, bearing the heavier end of Dot while Tess carried her sister's feet. They suddenly burst through a fringe of bushes upon the open road. There was just starlight enough to show them the way. The dogs were still barking vociferously back at the Gypsy camp. But there seemed to be no pursuit. "Oh, my gracious! I've torn my frock," gasped Tess. "Do wait, Sammy." The boy stopped. Indeed he had to, for his own breath had given out. The three fell right down on the grass beside the road, and Dot began to whimper. "You stop her, Tess!" exclaimed Sammy. "You said you could. She will bring those Gypsies right here." "Dot! Dot!" whispered Tess, shaking the smaller girl. "Do you want to be a prisoner again? Keep still!" "My--my knees are cold," whined Dot. "Je-ru-sa-lem!" gasped Sammy explosively. "_Now_ she's done it! We're caught again." He jumped to his feet, but not quickly enough to escape the outstretched hand of the figure that had suddenly appeared beside them. A dark face bent over the trio of frightened children. "He's a Gyp!" cried Sammy. "We're done for, Tess!" CHAPTER XXV--IT MUST BE ALL RIGHT As Mrs McCall told Ruth Kenway when she arrived with Luke and Cecile at the old Corner House, the other Kenway sister and Neale O'Neil had not started out on their hunt for the Gypsy encampment alone. Mr. Pinkney, hearing of the absence of the smaller girls, had volunteered to go with the searchers. "Somehow, my wife feels that Sammy may be with Tess and Dot," he explained to Neale and Agnes. "I never contradict her at such times. And perhaps he is. No knowing where that boy of mine is likely to turn up, anyway." "But you do not suppose for one instant, Mr. Pinkney, that Sammy has come and coaxed my sisters to run away?" cried Agnes from the tonneau, as the car started out through Willow Street. "I am not so sure about that. You know, he got Dot to run away with him once," chuckled Mr. Pinkney. "This is nothing like that, I am sure!" declared Agnes. "I am with you there, Aggie," admitted Neale. "I guess this is a serious affair. The Gypsies are in it." Between the two, the boy and the girl told Mr. Pinkney all about the silver bracelet and the events connected with it. The man listened with appreciation. "I don't know, of course, anything about the fight between the two factions of Gypsies over what you call Queen Alma's bracelet--" "If it doesn't prove to be Sarah Turner's bracelet," interjected Agnes. "Yes. That is possible. They may have just found it--those Gypsy women. And the story Costello, the junkman, told us might be a fake," said Neale. "However," broke in Mr. Pinkney again, "there is a chance that the bracelet was given to Tess and Dot for a different purpose from any you have suggested." "What do you mean by that?" asked Neale and Agnes in unison. "It is a fact that some Gypsies do steal children. Now, don't be startled! It isn't commonly done. They are often accused without good reason. But Gypsies are always more or less mixed up with traveling show people. There are many small tent shows traveling about the country at this time of year." "Like Twomley & Sorber's circus," burst out Agnes. "Smaller than that. Just one-ring affairs. And the shows are regular 'fly-by-nights.' Gypsies fraternize with them of course. And often children are trained in those shows to be acrobats who are doubtless picked up around the country--usually children who have no guardians. And the Gypsies sometimes pick up such." "Oh, but, Mr. Pinkney!" cried Agnes, "we are so careful of Tess and Dot. Usually, I mean. I don't know what Ruth will say when she gets home to-night. It looks as though we had been very careless while she was gone." "I know what children have to go through in a circus," said Neale soberly. "But why should the Gypsies have selected Tess and Dot?" "Because, you tell me, they were playing circus, and doing stunts at the very time the Gypsy women sold them the basket." "Oh! So they were," agreed Agnes. "Oh, Neale!" "Crickey! It might be, I suppose. I never thought of that," admitted the boy. He was carefully running the car while this talk was going on. He soon drove past the Poole place and later stopped at a little house where the constable lived. Mr. Ben Stryker was at home. It was not often that automobile parties called at his door. Usually they did not want to see Mr. Stryker, who was a stickler for the "rules of the road." "What's the matter?" asked the constable, coming out to the car. "Want to pay me your fine, so as not to have to wait to see the Justice of the Peace?" He said it jokingly. When he heard about the missing Kenway children and of the reason to fear Gypsies had something to do with it, he jumped into the car, taking Mr. Pinkney's place in the front seat beside Neale. "I've had my eye on Big Jim Costello ever since he has been back here," Stryker declared. "I sent him away to jail once. He is a bad one. And if he is mixed up in any kidnapping, I'll put him into the penitentiary for a long term." "But of course we would not want to make them trouble if the children went to the camp alone," ventured Agnes. "You know, they might have been hunting for the two women who sold them the basket." "Those Gypsies know what to do in such a case. They know where I live, and they should have brought the two little girls to me. I certainly have it in for Big Jim." But as we have seen, when the party arrived at the spot where the Gypsies had been encamped, not a trace of them was left. That is, no trace that pointed to the time or the direction of their departure. "Maybe these Gypsies did not have a thing to do with the absence of Tess and Dot," whispered Agnes. "And maybe they had everything to do with it," declared Neale, aloud. "Looks to me as though they had turned the trick and escaped." "And in those motor-vans they can cover a deal of ground," suggested Mr. Pinkney. Agnes broke down at this point and wept. The constable had got out and with the aid of his pocket lamp searched the vicinity. He saw plainly where the vans had turned into the dusty road and the direction they had taken. "The best we can do is to follow them," he advised. "If I can catch them inside the county I'll be able to handle them. And if they go into the next county I'll get help. Well search their vans, no matter where we catch them. All ready?" The party went on. To catch the moving Gypsies was no easy matter. Frequently Mr. Stryker got down to look at the tracks. This was at every cross road. Fortunately the wheels of one of the Gypsy vans had a peculiar tread. It was easy to see the marks of these wheels in the dust. Therefore, although the pursuit was slow, they managed to be sure they were going right. From eleven o'clock until three in the morning the motor-car was driven over the circuitous route the nomad procession had taken earlier in the night. Then they came to the new encampment. Their approach was announced by the barking of the mongrel dogs that guarded the camp. Half the tribe seemed to be awake when the car slowed down and stopped on the roadway. Mr. Stryker got out and shouted for Big Jim. "Come out here!" said the constable threateningly. "I know you are here, and I want to talk with you, Jim Costello." "Well, whose chicken roost has been raided now?" demanded Big Jim, approaching with his smile and his impudence both in evidence. "No chicken thievery," snapped Stryker, flashing his electric light into the big Gypsy's face. "Where are those kids?" "What kids? I got my own--and there's a raft of them. I'll give you a couple if you want." Big Jim seemed perfectly calm and the other Gypsies were like him. They routed out every family in the camp. The constable and Neale searched the tents and the vans. No trace of Tess and Dot was to be found. "Everything you lay to the poor Gypsy," said Big Jim complainingly. "Now it is not chickens--it is kids. Bah!" He slouched away. Stryker called after him: "Never mind, Jim. We'll get you yet! You watch your step." He came back to the Kenway car shaking his head. "I guess they have not been here. I'll come back to-morrow when the Gypsies don't expect me and look again if your little sisters do not turn up elsewhere. What shall we do now?" Agnes was weeping so that she could not speak. Neale shook his head gloomily. Mr. Pinkney sighed. "Well," the latter said, "we might as well start for home. No good staying here." "I'll get you to Milton in much shorter time than it took to get here," said the constable. "Keep right ahead, Mr. O'Neil. We'll take the first turn to the right and run on till we come to Hampton Mills. It's pretty near a straight road from there to Milton. And I can get a ride from the Mills to my place with a fellow I know who passes my house every morning." Neale started the car and they left the buzzing camp behind them. They had no idea that the moment the sound of the car died away the Gypsies leaped to action, packed their goods and chattels again, and the tribe started swiftly for the State line. Big Jim did not mean to be caught if he could help it by Constable Stryker, who knew his record. The Corner House car whirred over the rather good roads to Hampton Mills and there the constable parted from them. He promised to report any news he might get of the absent children, and they were to send him word if Tess and Dot were found. The car rounded the pond where Sammy had had his adventure at the ice-house and had ruined his knickerbockers. It was a straight road from that point to Milton. Going up the hill beside the pond in the gray light of dawn, they saw ahead of them a man laboring on in the middle of the road with a child upon his shoulders, while two other small figures walked beside him, clinging to his coat. "There's somebody else moving," said Mr. Pinkney to Agnes. "What do you know about little children being abroad at this time of the morning?" "Shall we give them a lift?" asked Neale. "Only I don't want to stop on this hill." But he did. He stopped in another minute because Agnes uttered a piercing scream. "Oh, Tessie! Oh, Dot! It's them! It's the children!" "Great Moses!" ejaculated Mr. Pinkney, forced likewise into excitement, "is that Sammy Pinkney?" The man carrying Dot turned quickly. Tess and Sammy both uttered eager yelps of recognition. Dot bobbed sleepily above the head of the man who carried her pickaback. "Oh, Agnes! isn't this my day for wearing that bracelet? Say, isn't it?" she demanded. The dark man came forward, speaking very politely and swiftly. "It is the honest Kenway--yes? You remember Costello? I am he. I find your sisters with the bad Gypsies--yes. Then you will give me Queen Alma's bracelet--the great heirloom of our family? I am friend--I bring children back for you. You give me bracelet?" Tess and Dot were tumbled into their sister's arms. Mr. Pinkney jumped out of the car and grabbed Sammy before he could run. Costello, the junkman, repeated his request over and over while Agnes was greeting the two little girls as they deserved to be greeted. Finally he made some impression upon her mind. "Oh, dear me!" Agnes cried in exasperation, "how can I give it you? I don't know where it is. It's been stolen." "Stolen? That Beeg Jeem!" Again Costello exploded in his native tongue. Tess nestled close to Agnes. She lifted her lips and whispered in her sister's ear: "Don't tell him. He's a Gypsy, too, though I guess he is a good one. I have got that bracelet inside my dress. It's safe." They did not tell Costello, the junkman, that at this time. In fact, it was some months before Mr. Howbridge, by direction of the Court, gave Queen Alma's bracelet into the hands of Miguel Costello, who really proved in the end that he had the better right to the bracelet that undoubtedly had once belonged to the Queen of the Spanish Gypsies. It had not been merely by chance that the young Gypsy woman who had sold the green and yellow basket to Tess and Dot had dropped that ornament into the basket. She had worn the bracelet, for she was Big Jim's daughter. Without doubt it was the intention of the Gypsies to engage the little girls' interest through this bracelet and get their confidence, to bring about the very situation which they finally consummated. One of the women confessed in court that they could sell Tess and Dot for acrobats. Or they thought they could. The appearance of Miguel Costello in Milton, claiming the rightful ownership of the silver bracelet, made the matter unexpectedly difficult for Big Jim and his clan. Indeed, the Kenways had much to thank Miguel Costello for. However, these mysteries were explained long after this particular morning on which the children were recovered. No such home-coming had ever been imagined, and the old Corner House and vicinity staged a celebration that will long be remembered. Luke Shepard had been put to bed soon after his arrival. But he would not be content until he got up again and came downstairs in his bathrobe to greet the returned wanderers. Agnes just threw herself into Ruth's arms when she first saw her elder sister, crying: "Oh! don't you _dare_ ever go away again, Ruth Kenway, without taking the rest of us with you. We're not fit to be left alone." "I am afraid some day, Agnes, you will have to get along without me," said Ruth placidly, but smiling into Luke's eyes as she said it. "You know, we are growing up." "Aggie isn't ever going to grow up," grumbled Neale. "She is just a kid." "Oh, is _that_ so, Mr. Smartie?" cried Agnes, suddenly drying her eyes. "I'd have you know I am just as much grown up as you are." "Oh, dear, me, I'm so sleepy," moaned Dot. "I--I didn't sleep very well at all last night." "Goodness! I should think Sammy and I ought to be the ones to be sleepy. We didn't have any chance at all!" Tess exclaimed. As for Sammy, he was taken home by an apparently very stern father to meet a wildly grateful mother. Mrs. Pinkney drew the sting from all verbal punishment Mr. Pinkney might have given his son. "And the dear boy! I knew he had not forgotten us when I found he had taken that picture with him. Did you, Sammy?" "Did I what, Mom?" asked Sammy, his mouth comfortably filled with cake. "That picture. You know, the one we all had taken down at Pleasant Cove that time. The one of your father and you and me that you kept on your bureau. When I saw that you had taken that with you to remember us by----" "Oh, crickey, Mom! Buster, the bull pup, ate that old picture up a month ago," said the nonsentimental Sammy. THE END Charming Stories for Girls THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SERIES By Grace Brooks Hill Four girls from eight to fourteen years of age receive word that a rich bachelor uncle has died, leaving them the old Corner House he occupied. They move into it and then the fun begins. What they find and do will provoke many a hearty laugh. Later, they enter school and make many friends. One of these invites the girls to spend a few weeks at a bungalow owned by her parents, and the adventures they meet with make very interesting reading. Clean, wholesome stories of humor and adventure, sure to appeal to all young girls. 1 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS. 2 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL. 3 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS. 4 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY. 5 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND. 6 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR. 7 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS GROWING UP. 8 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SNOWBOUND. 9 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A HOUSEBOAT. 10 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AMONG THE GYPSIES. 11 CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON PALM ISLAND. 12 THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS SOLVE A MYSTERY. BARSE & HOPKINS New York, N.Y., Newark, N.J. "THE POLLY" SERIES By Dorothy Whitehill Polly Pendleton is a resourceful, wide-awake American girl who goes to a boarding school on the Hudson River some miles above New York. By her pluck and resourcefulness, she soon makes a place for herself and this she holds right through the course. The account of boarding school life is faithful and pleasing and will attract every girl in her teens. Cloth, large 12 mo. Illustrated 1 POLLY'S FIRST SUMMER YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 2 POLLY'S SUMMER VACATION 3 POLLY'S SENIOR YEAR AT BOARDING SCHOOL 4 POLLY SEES THE WORLD AT WAR 5 POLLY AND LOIS 6 POLLY AND BOB 7 POLLY'S RE-UNION 8 POLLY'S POLLY BARSE & HOPKINS Publishers New York, N.Y., Newark, N.J. 
45045	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_. On page 50, "race ruffles" should possibly be "lace ruffles". BY THE SAME AUTHOR. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK. HANNAH ANN: A SEQUEL. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BOSTON. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD WASHINGTON. _SHERBURNE STORIES._ SHERBURNE HOUSE. LYNDELL SHERBURNE. SHERBURNE COUSINS. A SHERBURNE ROMANCE. THE MISTRESS OF SHERBURNE. THE CHILDREN AT SHERBURNE HOUSE. SHERBURNE GIRLS. THE HEIR OF SHERBURNE. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD WASHINGTON BY AMANDA M. DOUGLAS AUTHOR OF "A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK," "SHERBURNE STORIES," ETC., ETC. NEW YORK DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY 1900 COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY. THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, RAHWAY, N. J. JAQUELINE BAKER BEALL: To you, whose ancestors made worthy efforts in the earlier history of the South, and lived romances, this little story is affectionately inscribed. AMANDA M. DOUGLAS. NEWARK, N. J. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. A New Home, 1 II. The Pineries, 15 III. Apples of Discord, 28 IV. A New President, 42 V. Roger Carrington, 56 VI. A Touch of Nature, 70 VII. The Beginning of a Love Story, 86 VIII. An Angry Father, 99 IX. The Weaker Vessel, 116 X. A Christmas Augury, 130 XI. The Thorns that Beset Love, 148 XII. A Talk of Weddings, 161 XIII. Lovers and Lovers, 175 XIV. Jaqueline, 191 XV. A Small Hero, 207 XVI. In Old Washington, 219 XVII. The Flag of Victory, 240 XVIII. Of Many Things, 253 XIX. In the Midst of War, 265 XX. The Old Story Ever New, 283 XXI. Annis, 298 A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD WASHINGTON. CHAPTER I. A NEW HOME. "But you will have to take sides," declared Jaqueline Mason, "and it would be ungrateful if you did not take our side. You are going to live here; you really belong to us, you know. Your mother was own cousin to our dear mother, and Patty was named after her----" "I don't see why I should be called Patty when you've given up Jack and make such a fuss!" interrupted a slim, unformed girl, who was nearly as tall as the first speaker. "Well, Miss Patty, I am sixteen and in long gowns; and next winter I expect to go to balls and parties, and be presented at the White House. Oh, I wish it was a court!" A young fellow, astride the low window seat, laughed with a teasing, bantering sound in his voice, and his deep eyes were alight with mirth. "You think you are a great patriot, Jacky, but you hanker after the fleshpots of Egypt and royalty, when we have fought for our freedom and gained our independence and set a noble example to the downtrodden nations of Europe. Sighing for a king and a court!" "I'm not sighing. One can think of a thing without wishing it----" "And he called you Jacky!" cried Patty, with a certain triumph ringing in her tone. "Father said you were not to." Jaqueline Mason raised her head with dignity. "I used to think it rather funny when I was romping round, and it teased Aunt Catharine; but I hate it now, and I've given up romping. There is a great difference." "And Cousin Annis is eager to hear about _her_ side. You hardly know which side you are on yourself." She gave him a withering look, and turned to the little girl who stood in a shrinking attitude, and whose eyes had a certain lustrousness, as if tears were in their limpid depths. "I wish you wouldn't interrupt, Louis Mason! I am trying to explain. Grandfather Floyd isn't our very own grandfather--he married grandmother--and he believes we shouldn't really have separated from England, or at least we should have modeled our government upon hers and had a king. He thought Washington ought to have stood up for some grandeur and state, and he is afraid now we shall all go to ruin. He never did like President Jefferson. But you are too little to understand politics, Annis, and I was going to explain--father and Aunt Catharine are _own_ brother and sister; then there are five Floyd children, uncle and aunt's too. You really are not related to them. You are on our mother's side." "Jaqueline, you will be qualified to write the genealogy of Virginia," and Louis laughed mockingly. The girl colored with vexation. "Well, everybody is married to almost everybody else; and now your mother has married our father, and that in a way makes us sisters." The little girl standing by the window, where the sunshine sifted flecks of gold through the green clustering vines, looked up wistfully. She had wished out in Kentucky that she had a sister, and now that three had welcomed her and taken possession of her, she was not sure that she wanted sisters. She had slept with Varina, who was about her own age, but who had not taken to her very cordially. There was a still younger child, a boy, curled upon the next window ledge, poring over an old copy of Froissart, dog-eared and well worn. Varina was petting two doves, who arched their necks and strutted about. "Yes, people get queerly married, up or down or crosswise. I mean to marry someone quite new and strange. But we were glad that father chose a cousin of our own dear mother's, and I am sure we shall all like her. What do you suppose they are about! Why don't they come to breakfast?" This was the great dining room. Four windows faced the east, two the south, shaded by the wide porch roof and the vines. There was a massive sideboard and a china closet with glass doors, wherein were many family heirlooms. The antlers and head of a great buck were suspended over the mantel, which was graced by a pair of silver candlesticks with several branches and a snuffers and tray. There was a large, roomy sofa and some high-backed chairs, quite stiff enough for the dames of early eighteen hundred. The floor was bare, but laid with various-colored woods. It had a hospitable air, altogether, in spite of its massive furnishing. The table was set for breakfast, and a tall silver coffee urn graced one end of it. There was a stir in the hall, and the sound of servants' voices mingling with a mellow masculine greeting. The little girl made a rush for her own dear mother, and ran into Chloe, but her new father rescued her from harm, since the woman was carrying a dish of savory fried fish, followed by other servants with numerous viands. He lifted her in his arms and kissed her, and her mother bent over to give her another caress. Then he stood her down, and she almost buried her face in her mother's gown and impeded her progress. "Well, chicken," and the round, cheery voice sounded as if a laugh was at the back of it, ready for the slightest provocation, "how does it seem with all these brothers and sisters? For that's what you are to be. Children, here is your new mother, by daylight. Take a good look at her and love her, though she will be more like a big sister than a mother. I could have been her father. For when I first saw her she was no older than you, Patty." The children thronged about her. Second marriages were quite common occurrences, and the children of those days were expected to accept and make the best of them. Miss Catharine Mason had taken excellent care of her brother's household, and now gone to Williamsburg to take charge of the Rev. William Conway's rectory and be a mother to the three children. There had been a governess, a certain Miss Betts, from farther North, who somehow could not easily adapt herself to Southern ways, and a rather turbulent household. There had been numerous complaints, and at the summer vacation she had resigned. Miss Jaqueline had in a measure taken the head of the house, with Maum Chloe and Mammy Phil, who had brought up the younger part of the flock and comforted the elders in times of difficulty and trouble. The new mother held out her arms. Jaqueline and Patty gave her a warm embrace. Louis shook hands with the grace of a gentleman, and smiled out of fine soft-brown eyes. A very good-looking young fellow of eighteen, home from his first college year. "Oh, children, I hope you will all love me, for I have had a sad, lonely time for the last five years. It seems so good to get to a real home, and have a corner in your father's big heart. And we will all try to make each other happy." She was rather tall and slim, this new Mrs. Mason, with light-brown hair and blue eyes, and a sweet, wistful smile. Nine years before this, she and her husband and baby had gone out to Kentucky with a colony, and though the valley was extraordinarily beautiful and fertile they had known many hardships and more than one Indian skirmish. Still, they were young and happy and prospering when death came to Philip François Bouvier, and for five years she had been full of perplexity and sorrow, when the coming of her dead cousin's husband had brought a glimpse of rest and the proffer of a haven of delight. "And this little one." She reached out her hand to Varina. "You and Annis cannot be far apart in age, and will be excellent friends, I trust. Was there not----" glancing around. "Charles, put up your book and come and speak to your new mother. And then to breakfast. I shouldn't blame Chloe if she put us on short commons this morning, we are shamefully late. Your mother and I had several points to discuss. We will do better to-morrow, Chloe. I hope you have not allowed these marauders to tear down the house nor tear up the garden. Ah, good-morning, Homer." Homer was the tall, stately major-domo. The Indian blood in his veins showed in his erect stature, his straight nose, and his hair, which, though quite frosty and curly, was not kinky. And Homer felt as proud of his blood as any of the Rolfe descendants. They were all settled about the table presently--a household to be proud of. Mrs. Mason took her place at the urn; Annis had a seat beside her. Varina was on one side of her father, Charles on the other. A fine-appearing flock, truly; Jaqueline and Patricia giving promise of much beauty. Louis was tall and manly, though one could see he had been bitten with the follies of early youth by a certain aspect of finery that young men affected. The meal was long and entertaining to the partakers. There was so much to tell. Many things had happened in the six weeks' absence of the head of the house, and everybody running wild. True, the overseer was a man of judgment and foresight, and of wide experience, and the estate had not suffered. Chloe had managed to keep what she called the "whip hand" of the house servants. It was the children who had suffered most. Indeed, if Aunt Catharine could have looked upon them now she would have thought them demoralized beyond redemption. But Squire Mason was an easy-going man, and had a feeling that most things come out right if you give them a chance. Prosperity is apt to make one buoyant and cheerful. And though the country was in a bad way and the rulers in high places were disputing as to whether it could hold together, and there were no end of sinister predictions even among those who had borne the strain and burden of making a country. But crops had been excellent, and on the large estates everything needful was raised, so there was no stint. The Virginia planter, with his broad acres, had a kingdom in virtue of this plenteousness. Mrs. Mason watched the two chattering girls, the little Varina, who held whispered confidences with her father, the abstracted boy Charles, surprising herself with a sort of desultory conversation with the young man who was explaining the many changes in men and events and places in nine years. "And we have brought the Capitol to Washington," he said, with the dignity of his eighteen years. "You know there was a tremendous attempt to locate it at Baltimore." "Yes. Baltimore is dear to me. All my young life was passed there." "I suppose there were some good reasons, but we Southerners made a grand fight. We had Mr. Jefferson on our side. I think Virginia never had full credit for her brave share of the war. At all events we had the crowning victory, the surrender of Cornwallis." "I have quite a desire to see Washington." "It is so hard to get grants to go on with the buildings and improvements. The country ought to have more enthusiasm. But the eastern States are not over-cordial yet. Why, there could have been next to nothing done when you went away!" "There had been some trouble with Major l'Enfant, I believe. And everybody was counting on a fortune for the ground." "As they are yet," and the young man laughed. "Father has a tract of swamp and elder bushes. When the streets reach out to us and the population increases, we may go in. At least some of us younger ones. I don't suppose anything would induce father to give up the estate here?" "You are right there, Louis. This old Randolph place will last my time out," said his father, who had caught the last of the sentence. "We are near enough, and can get over to see the shows, while we keep out of the quarrels. Some day it will be a fine town, and the country at large may be proud of it. But there must be no end of money sunk in the bogs. We will go over and inspect it." "I hope Mrs. Madison finds more for her comfort than Mrs. Adams did," said Mrs. Mason, with a smile. "I can appreciate pioneer life." "Mrs. Madison isn't lady of the White House absolutely, but she is sent for to receive everybody. And she entertains delightfully herself. You know," Jaqueline said this to her new mother, "that Aunt Jane lives in the City----" "She has not yet made Aunt Jane's acquaintance, or, if she did, it was when Aunt Jane was a mere child. You were here on a visit--when, Patricia?" "Just before I was married, fifteen years ago, or nearly. And Jaqueline was a little yellow-haired baby." "Oh, how queer!" cried Patty. "You see, mother was a widow some years, and her second family is still quite young. Yes, Jane has married very well, a surveyor and civil engineer. But it will not do for us to sit over the breakfast table all day if we are going to mother's," and the squire rose, pulling himself together with a sort of shake. "Must we go to-day?" Mrs. Mason's voice was beseeching. "Oh, mother would consider it an unpardonable slight! She is a great stickler for deference and attention, and all that. Yes, and it is a good long drive. We can return home by moonlight, however." He was coming around to his wife's side. "We must take this little one and show her to her grandparents. Rene, do you not want to go along?" Varina looked undecided. She was not quite sure she wanted a new sister so near her own age. She had been the pet and the plaything of the household, and last night Mammy Phillis went over to the newcomer, who had gone to bed for the first time in her life without being cuddled by her own dear mother. The squire pinched his new little girl's cheek softly. She leaned it gently down in the hollow of his hand in a mute caress. He was very fond of children. There was the confusion of everyone rising, and all of them talking at once, it seemed. After her good night's sleep and her week of happiness Mrs. Patricia Mason looked both young and pretty, though now she was not much past two-and-thirty. "I want to ride over," declared Jaqueline; "I have not been in ever so long. And Marion is to have a party on her birthday, early in September. What a pity Louis will be gone! She's desperately sweet on Louis." The young man flushed scarlet. "You can't marry your aunt any more than you can marry your grandmother," said his father in a teasing tone. "Jack is always thinking about marrying," flung out the brother. "It's a nasty way girls have." "There! there! No disputing, or the new mother will think she has fallen into a hornets' nest. Go and get ready. I'll take a glance at the stables and see Dixon for a moment," and he turned away. But Louis caught his arm and kept step with him. "Well, what is it?" he asked rather impatiently. "Money again? You young people think the well is exhaustless." "No, it isn't money." His tone was a little husky. "Jerry is lame. I rode him rather hard one day----" The squire smothered an oath. He had promised his young wife he would not swear at everything. It _was_ a bad habit, a bad example to his boys. "How did that come about? I told you Jerry was not to be taken on tramps. You young fellows have no sense." "I was over to Kenyon's one day. They bet her against Kenyon's mare. I tried to get out of it----" "And you were beaten! Served you right! My poor Jerry!" with a touch of desperate anger in the tone. "No, I won!" There was a ring of elation in the young voice. "He came in five seconds ahead. There was a great time, you may be sure, and Kenyon was for trying it again. He thinks nothing can beat the mare. I think Jerry trod on something. His foot and leg have been swollen. Cato has him almost well, though." "I meant to keep shady and enter him next year. I do believe if you hadn't beat I should just take it out of your hide," and the squire laughed. "Now it will go abroad that I have a crack horse. Well--and what did Cato say?" "He was lame the next morning, but Cato thought it wouldn't be much, and when he grew worse Cato worked over him faithfully. He is sure he will be all right." "You are beginning early, young man. Next time you let my especial horse alone. Well, I'm glad it's no worse. But I won't have you turning out a horse jockey." They had reached the stables, where two or three old men and half a dozen negro boys were making a pretense of being busy, but they rushed to welcome the squire. Cato and Jerry were both interviewed, and when the master emerged with a pleasant face and scattered a handful of coppers for the small fry to chase about, Louis felt quite relieved, for, truth to tell, he had had several rather wretched days about his father's favorite. The squire ordered up the carriage, and Julius came down with missy's commands. Annis had followed her mother up the broad staircase to the large, light room where a slim young colored girl was putting away various articles in drawers and closets. The small wardrobe had been increased during the brief time spent in Baltimore, but was not very extensive yet. When Randolph Mason had gone to Baltimore to settle the estate of one of his wife's cousins, as he had been named executor, he found Patricia Bouvier mentioned among the heirs. He recalled the pretty, attractive girl his wife had taken such an interest in, who had married an enthusiastic young French Huguenot, and some time after joined a colony of emigrants to the "New Countries," as the Middle West was then called. "She was left a widow some years ago," said one of the relatives. "She did write about coming back, but it is a long journey for a woman and a little child. Latterly we have not heard. I dare say she is married again." There was a company going out to settle some boundary question and make surveys, and on the spur of the moment the squire's adventurous blood was roused and he joined them. They had magnificent summer weather, and his enjoyment was intense. He found the little settlement and Mrs. Bouvier, who had known varying fortunes since her husband's death. She had been kindly cared for, and more than one man would gladly have married her, but her heart yearned for her own people. To take the journey alone seemed too venturesome, and she well knew the perils of frontier travel. So she had waited with a longing soul for some deliverance. She would go back gladly. There was no difficulty in disposing of her claim in the settlement. She bade good-by to the grave it had been a sad, sweet pleasure to tend, and with her little girl and her delightful guide and convoy set out on the journey. Before they reached Baltimore a new tie had sprung up between them. True, Squire Mason had thought occasionally during the last year of marrying again. His sister Catharine had said to him before her departure: "The best thing you can do, Randolph, is to marry soon. The girls will need someone to supervise them and see that they make proper marriages. Mrs. Keen would be admirable, as she has no children. And there are the Stormont girls; any of them would be suitable, since even Anne is not young. I wish I had taken this in hand before." "I wish you were not going away, Catharine. My girls ought to be nearer to you than Mr. Conway's," he said ruefully. "I will still do what I can for them. There is excellent society at Williamsburg, and I can give them pleasant visits. But I never saw a man more in need of a wife than Mr. Conway. It's a good thing clergymen wear a surplice, for I am sure he never could tell whether he was decent or not. Surely it is a plain duty." "And you leave me in the lurch?" "But, you see, a clergyman needs a person well fitted for the position, which, I must say, every woman is not," with an air of complacency. "And you think anyone will do for me!" "How foolish you are, brother! I think no such thing. You certainly have sense enough to make a wise choice." But he had not chosen, and now he thought he should like this sweet, sorrowful, tender Patricia. How bright he could make her life! He was so strong, so sincere and cheerful. He made friends with shy Annis, who sat on his knee and was intensely interested in his girls--he always called them little. And before they reached Baltimore he had asked Patricia to marry him, and Annis had consented to be his little girl. Mrs. Bouvier's small patrimony was to be settled on the child. But, then, she could not have imagined Mr. Mason being mercenary. Word had been sent to the household of the marriage. They had not thought of objecting. In the great drawing room there was a portrait of their mother in a white satin gown, with pearls about her neck. It had been painted during a visit to London. They all went and looked at it, and wondered if the cousin Patricia would be anything like that! "I don't believe she is as beautiful," declared Jaqueline. There had been several delays on the latter part of the journey, and it was evening when the travelers reached home. The welcome had been a hearty one, and when supper was over Annis was nodding. It was past Varina's bedtime. Charles had already stolen off. "Take the children to bed, Phillis," said the master. "They're to be sisters, so they may as well begin by sharing the same room. You won't feel lonesome, little Annis?" "I'll go with her," said the mother in her soft voice. "Nay." Randolph Mason put his hand on his wife's arm and kept her a prisoner. "Phillie is the best of mammies. And you belong in part to me. You have had a hard time, and now there is someone to wait upon you and ease you up. Good-night, little ones." He kissed both children. Annis wanted to cling to her mother, for even through these three days of her married life her mother had heard her little prayer and put her to bed, so she had not felt really separated. But when Philly took her hand it came with a sudden wrench. She dared not cry out in the face of them all. But, oh, was her own dear mother not hers any more? Did she truly belong to father Mason? And all these large children? Had she given herself away when father Mason had put a ring on her finger and called her his wife? She was out in the hall--being led upstairs, and Phillis' hand was as soft as a crumpled rose leaf. Her voice was soft and sweet too. There were two small white-covered beds, and when they were undressed and within them Phillis crooned a low melody, and the little girl, being very tired and sleepy, forgot her sorrows. Then in the morning Phillis came and dressed them both and curled Annis' soft, light hair. Jaqueline seized on her the moment she entered the breakfast room. "I hardly had a look at you last night," she began. "I do hope you won't feel strange and that you will like us all. And there are ever so many other relations. Did you never have any brothers or sisters?" "No," answered Annis, with a kind of wistful regret, raising her eyes shyly. "We have another lot out at the Pineries. It's queer, but we don't call them uncles and aunts, except Aunt Jane, because she is married and the oldest. And we always dispute--it's very funny and queer. Grandfather is a Federal--well, a sort of Tory, too--and father's a Republican. People who live in a republic ought to be Republicans. That's what we fought for." Annis stared. "Out home--there," indicating the West with her head, "they fought the Indians." "Well--it is all about the same thing, only there are not many Indians around here. And we don't _fight_ each other." "I don't know about that!" and the young man who was toying with the ears of an English hound laughed. Then had come the puzzling question, and Annis Bouvier wondered what side she must take and was sadly mystified. CHAPTER II. THE PINERIES. Annis ran and threw her arms around her mother's neck and kissed her fervently. "Are you glad to come here and do you like them all?" she asked when she found her breath. "And it is so queer, with all the black people and the great house and--and everything!" "It is a little strange. You will like it better by and by," glancing tenderly down in her child's eyes. "And you--must you be mother to _all_ the children? Am I never to have you any more?" "You have me now. Yes, you will always have me. Don't you remember you used to wish for a sister like Sallie Reed? Her mother loved all the children." "But she had them when they were cunning little babies," was the decisive reply. "Dear,"--her mother knelt down and put her arms around the child,--"it is this way. We have come to this lovely home which is to be ours, and all the pleasant things a good friend can give--a kindly, generous friend. I used to feel anxious and worried about your future. There was no good school. The life was very narrow. And if I had been taken away----" "But they never would let the Indians take you. Oh, mother dear!" with a fervent embrace. She had not meant that, but she would not give the other explanation. "And all these children are going to share their father's love with you. He will give you this beautiful home, clothe you, educate you, and he puts me in the place of their dear mother who is dead. He is going to care for me and keep me from toil and sorrows and perplexities. When you are older you will understand better. I hope you will try to love them all, and this good dear friend who will be a father to you." "But I shall love you the best." "Yes, dear," with a proud certainty. "And you will love me better than anyone else?" and Annis clasped her mother with a child's unreasoning exclusiveness. "Yes, dear." A merry voice went lilting through the hall. Jaqueline paused a moment at the door. She was in her pretty green riding habit, and her straw hat had a bunch of iridescent cock's-plumes. She held her riding whip in one gloved hand, and she really was a picture good to look at. "Oh, are you ready?" Mrs. Mason asked. "Yes, and the carriage has come, but father is still down at the stables. Rene doesn't want to go, from some queer freak, and Patty does. I don't believe father would mind--would you?" "Why, of course not," in a cordial tone. "Rene is queer sometimes." Jaqueline studied Annis, and smiled in an odd fashion, for Varina had just declared she "wouldn't go anywhere with that new girl, and that she did not mean to like her, for after all she was not a real sister, and they had done very well without any mother, and she just wished father had not brought her home." "It's the big carriage," said Patty, "and I could go if Rene did not want to. I hate to stay home all alone." Jaqueline understood that this would be the easiest way of settling the matter, for Varina had a streak of obstinacy that was conquered soonest by "giving her her head," as Phillis said. "Never mind about the box," as one of the men had come in with hatchet and hammer. "I won't unpack it this morning," began Mrs. Mason. "Is Patricia getting ready?" She tied Annis' hat in a big bow under her chin, and then putting on her own they walked downstairs while Jaqueline went for Patty. Varina was nowhere to be seen. Mrs. Mason had hardly noted her new home in the dusk of the evening, except to be aware that it was very large. The broad veranda was like a hall. Four fluted columns ran up to the second-story windows, with vines trained on trelliswork in between. The house had but two stories, and an extensive observatory on the top that really was a delightful room during the spring and autumn. A lawn filled with clumps of shrubbery and well-grown trees stretched down to the road, the drive winding around in a half-curve. From the front there was nothing to mar the handsome outlook where the ground lay in a line of curves to the Potomac. The stables, the workshops, and the negro quarters were cut off by a tall, thick hedge. Mr. Mason came around the corner of the house. Jaqueline was feeding Hero lumps of sugar, to the amazement of Annis. Patty flew across the veranda in a whirl, and her father merely nodded to her explanations as they were put on the back seat. Jaqueline waved her hand, and Hero started off at a sharp canter. Patty could not keep still very long, and began to question Annis as to what the Kentucky home was like, and if she was glad or sorry to leave it. There had been only Seth Bowers, who worked the farm, and an Indian woman to help about the house, but just across a little yard space the Browns had lived, and beyond were the stockade and the blockhouse. Then the log houses were ranged around. "But were you not afraid?" asked Patty. "Suppose the Indians had come?" "All the Indians about were friendly. We were not afraid of them." "But what did you spend your time at--if you didn't go to school?" "Mother taught me. Sally Brown came in when she wasn't too busy, and we studied. Mrs. Brown spun and knit, and Adam Dodge had a loom where he wove cloth. Oh, there were a great many things!" "A hard life it was for you," and Mr. Mason glanced at his wife's countenance, which had fallen into thoughtful lines. "There have been many pioneers," she returned with a half-smile. "Virginia is full of their graves. And the northern coasts. Our people were wiser. They chose a less rigorous clime." "True. The story North and South is full of romance. But, then, what country is not? The old Romans colonized, sometimes very cruelly, tearing people from their homes. We came of our free will, except such as were redemptioners." "And slaves," in a low tone. "That is a serious question," and the squire's rugged brows knit. "That they are better off is beyond cavil. In their own land they fight and destroy each other, make slaves, and many tribes are no doubt cannibals. The President has always considered it bad for the country. But we have needed labor. And in Bible times men were permitted to enslave other nations. The dominant race gets the upper hand, and it is right that knowledge and improvement should have a chance against ignorance and degeneracy. But this is a somber talk for such a fair day. Look! Over yonder is the Capital." She saw the gleam of the white buildings, and here and there an imposing mansion. It was in truth a magnificent day; the balmy breath of forests and the coolness of the river tempering the heat. In and out by dainty edges fringed with grasses, some standing sentinel-like, some dallying coquettishly with the breeze, flowed the broad river. There were innumerable little islets of rank greenness looking as if they were set asail on its bosom, and here and there a spike of blossom. All this great marsh the hand of man and the wit of his brain were to transform into one of the great cities of the world before the century ended. Long, straight barren places were to be beautiful streets, but now they were gray and dreary in the sunshine. She liked the woods better, the winding road that now was in a dense shade from the overarching trees, and now came out to broad spaces of sunshine. Squirrels chattered and ran about, whisking their feathery tails like a fan; bird notes, clear and sweet, dying to most exquisite softness, made melody in the air; bees hummed and crooned, secure of their hidden sweets. Patricia Mason drank it all in with a great feeling of gladness. It was so unlike the primeval solitudes where the few clung together, when the darkness fell, with a nameless terror, or listened to the great shivering woods, wondering if an enemy lay in ambush. God had watched over her and her child and raised up kindly friends, and had now given her home and rest--and, yes, love. How could she do otherwise than love this large-hearted, generous man! And she must train Annis to pay him something more than mere respect. The pretty young rider put her horse through his various paces. Now and then she was lost to sight by some turn in the road, then she waited with a laughing face and paced demurely alongside of the carriage, chatting gayly with her father or Patricia. She was not quite at home yet with her new mother. The day grew warmer. They drew up in a densely shaded place. "Let us get out and rest," said the squire. "There are some fruit and a little luncheon, for we shall be late at the Pineries. It is too warm to drive fast. But it will be delightful coming back after sundown." Jaqueline slipped off her horse. Patricia sprang out with the litheness of a kitten. But the squire took Annis in his arms and as he stood her down, kissed her, which brought a quick blush to her cheek. They found a fallen tree and a great flat rock that looked as if Nature had set her table for travelers coming by. They spread out their lunch. The girls had the ready hunger of youth. Annis went round by her mother. It was all so new and strange. She could not feel afraid of this second father, and yet she did grudge his claim upon her mother a little, the mother who was now in a rather gay conversation with the two young girls. Jaqueline _was_ amusing in her descriptions of the Pineries, and though her father checked her rattling tongue now and then, she did not greatly heed it. Aunt Catharine had been rather free in her strictures on people and events, and the family at the Pineries had not escaped. Then they resumed their journey, and the road grew wilder. Washington and Georgetown were left behind, the houses were less frequent, but the river still ran along by their sides, and now and then a boat of some kind passed them. Then they came to a clearing and a great stretch of tobacco plantations, a winding drive through giant pines that rustled like a river hurrying over a rocky bed. In the midst of a woods, it seemed, so close were the trees, with a fine open space in the front, stood the mansion. On the wide porch sat an elderly man with flowing silvery hair, inclined to curl at the ends, but not fastened in the fashion of the day. His frame was large, but one could see there had been a gradual shrinking of the flesh, for his face and his long thin hands were much wrinkled. Still, there was a tint of pink in his cheeks, and his eyes were very blue, rather piercing. "Randolph Mason!" he exclaimed, standing his big volume down on the porch floor and taking the flight of steps deliberately. "This is indeed a surprise! You have been a great truant, and I hope your quest was satisfactory. When did you return? We have heard nothing for at least a fortnight. Your mother was wondering----" "Last night. I spent a few days in Baltimore. And I have brought home a new wife, so we came at once to pay our respects to my mother." "Jack, summon Madam and Marian. Allow me to give you congratulation," and he held out his hand to Mrs. Mason with impressive dignity. "You will have a good husband, madam, though we have for some time considered him proof against woman's charms. But we all succumb sooner or later. I was quite a bachelor when Mrs. Mason conquered me. Jaqueline, how do you do? And, Patricia? Why----" He stared at Annis. "This is my new little daughter Annis Bouvier. We have not had time to change her name yet. I found Mrs. Bouvier without much difficulty, and persuaded her to return to her relatives at Baltimore, and to the small fortune awaiting her. There I suddenly was seized with a new mind and persuaded her to marry me." Squire Mason laughed with a kind of boyish gayety. Mr. Floyd looked scrutinizingly at the two girls, as if wondering how they had taken this unexpected new mother. But the brilliant faces showed no disapprobation. They had reached the porch, and the master rang his bell loudly for some servants and began to berate them all for a lazy, worthless lot, pushing chairs hither and thither and inviting the guests to be seated, and in the midst of the confusion a dignified woman crossed the room and came out to them. Even now Madam Floyd, halfway between sixty and seventy, was a fine, imposing woman, stately and rather stout. Her petticoat of embroidered satin was displayed by the skirt of her gown being drawn aside and edged with lace that made cascades of the creamy stuff as she walked. Her sleeves came to the elbows and her round arms were white and plump, and the bit of neck left by the stomacher of lace showed scarcely any sign of age. On her head was a large turban-like cap of fine sheer muslin much affected by the elderly woman of that time. She was of course surprised at her son's marriage, and said rather sharply that "it might have been done with less haste," but to the new wife--"You will find men have not over-much consideration. And I suppose it was a matter of satisfaction to leave that wild land behind you and return to the home of your childhood? But you found many changes, doubtless. You were of the Moore branch, I believe, kin to my son's first wife?" Jaqueline and Patty had gone to hunt up Marian. Dolly had gone off in the mountains visiting. So Madam had the guest to herself, and between them they picked out all the descent of the family from the coming of Lord de la Ware down to the present time. Even the Huguenot Bouvier was not wanting in good birth, so that matter was satisfactorily settled. Then Madam bethought herself that the travelers must have gone without dinner, and ordered a table set out on the porch, with cold chicken, tempting slices of fresh bread, and wine, and gave charges for a high tea at an early hour, since the guests had not come to stay. Mr. Floyd and his stepson were already deep in politics and growing quite heated. The country was all astir, as in the autumn there would be a Presidential election. "There will be no chance for the Federals," said the elder man sharply. "The President will have things all his own way and put in his man, who, if he shilly-shallies, as they have been doing, will give England another chance. She beats us out of everything, you may as well admit. And this embargo hasn't hurt her, and it will not. There will be no French to call upon this time for help. And you mark my words, we shall go back like whipped hounds! I knew the Colonies never could hang together. The East wants one thing, the middle States another; and they demand the freedom of coming in and regulating our affairs. No, there will never be a settled peace until England has really conquered us and put us back in our proper place." Squire Mason laughed. "That will never be. We have had too long a taste of freedom, of ruling ourselves. And if we could not be conquered before, it would be the wildest folly to attempt it now. Besides, she has her hands full." "She and the other nations will join to finish that upstart Napoleon. And the country will be foolish enough to just throw itself at her, and she won't take that! Two kings can't govern a country, and we have a dozen different kings, with their panaceas, and they have brought the country to the verge of ruin. Washington had some wisdom, I will admit, and Adams some sense, but since then, with this half-infidel who believes in every man having his own religion, and no state church to rally about, and considers that one man has just as much rights as another, and that drivel that all men are born free and equal! They are not, I tell you. And I believe in a state church and the power to make it respected." "Don't get so excited, father," admonished his wife. "Come, Randolph, have a bite of something and a glass of wine. You must be half famished, Mrs. Patricia--the name come in very handy, you see. And the little girl. Annis is quite out of the family lines. I don't remember hearing it. It has a Puritan sound. I think myself it is a shame the world should be so mixed up on religion. There is but one Bible, and there should be but one way, and the scoffers and unbelievers be set by themselves." "Where are the girls?" asked their father. "They have looked up Marian, I dare say; and she has Sukey Martin and two of the maids taking apart gowns and fashioning them over in modern style. A friend sent Jane some patterns from Philadelphia, and she passed them on. Did you see much that was new in Baltimore, Madam Patricia? Though this flightiness of dressing is much to be deprecated, and fills the minds of young people with vanity. But Jane has insisted that Marian shall come and make her a long visit this winter. They are to get in their new house in September. I do hope son Jettson is not going on too fast." "He may as well make the money as anyone," subjoined grandfather. "The quicker they build up the quagmire the better it will be for the permanency of the Capital. And if some time those canting Puritans want a separate government of their own, they can take New York or Philadelphia for their center." "They are improving rapidly," said the squire. "It will be a fine city. Daniel Carroll's mansion is an ornament, and the Van Ness house is planned for much gayety and large companies. And there are many others in process of erection." Annis sat beside her mother and thought of the talk with which the day began. If she had to take sides it would be that of her new father, who was smiling and good-humored and did not bring his fist down on the table or the edge of the chair with such a thump that it frightened you. She did not like the grandfather, she decided. Yet he was a handsome old man, with his ruffled shirt front, his flowered waistcoat, his velvet smallclothes, with silver buckles in a bow just below his knee and others set with brilliants on his shoes. The ladies discussed the bringing up and the education of girls. They were to be good housewives, trained in all useful arts, and their chief business in life was to make good marriages. And Madam Floyd admitted that she had sent Dolly away because there was an undesirable in the neighborhood, a young Mr. Sears who had been abroad and who played high and drank more than was seemly--a degenerate son of a good family. Dolly was very light and trifling. "Catharine was a very good, steady girl, but her lover, a most worthy young man, died, and she lost all heart for gayety. And when I married Mr. Floyd"--she bent her head over and spoke in a lower tone--"I thought he had some feeling--men are given to jealousy, you know, and as Catharine was fond of staying with her brother, and the new family increased so rapidly that somehow we were weaned away. I was almost struck dumb when she came and told me about her marriage--a settled old maid such as she was! However, I hope it is for the best, and that really made it necessary for Randolph to marry." The men had gone at politics again. "Marian and Dolly were too young to go and look after such a family, even if their father would have spared them. And I think my son has made a wise choice, though I can't tell you how surprised I was, with no notice beforehand." "It was very sudden. I could not have done it with--with a stranger," and Patricia colored. "I had been very fond of my cousin. And Mr. Mason was so kind, so thoughtful----" "He and Catharine hardly seem like my children," and their mother gave a faint smile. "I have been Mr. Floyd's wife twenty-five years." Mrs. Floyd summoned a servant presently and said she would show her new daughter the house, so they left the men to their pipes and their disputes. The old house had been built long ago and had many rare belongings, for one ancestor had been a seafaring man and brought home no end of curiosities. The wide hall went straight through the middle, but the kitchens were not detached. There were a great storeroom and linen press and bedding chests crowded to the brim. Drawers were sweet with napery laid in lavender and rose leaves. The very air was delicious with old-time fragrance. "In the new countries one has little time to lay up stores," Madam said, "and I suppose there are no instructed maids. It is the story of Jamestown and the eastern Colonies over again. But we have been civilized this many a year, and kept in touch with the mother country as well, though I am not so sure that we would be better off under her government. My forebears made a brave struggle, and I would not have it go for nothing. But one finds it idle work contradicting one's husband," and she smiled faintly. "There are ways to get along more peaceably. Though it seems as if we may all go to pieces yet." She opened the next door, where three slaves were spinning piles of carded wool for winter wear, and the hum of the wheels had the rush of water over gentle descents. Then they went up another broad staircase to the sleeping chambers. "My daughters will have a good outfit," she said proudly. "Jane is a notable housekeeper and the others are being trained. A woman needs to know all suitable things." The sound of girls' voices and merry laughs reached them, and Madam Floyd frowned sharply. They inspected the sleeping chambers, where most of the furniture was massive and dark with age, in vivid contrast to white hangings and blue-and-white spreads. When they went down to the drawing room Madam Floyd sent a servant rather sharply for her daughter. A young girl of nineteen or so entered with a somewhat demure aspect. "You seem to have forgotten your duty to your brother's wife, Marian! I am ashamed of you, since you knew she was here! Your head is so filled up with finery there is no room for manners," the mother exclaimed shortly. "I am sorry. I thought you and my father would want them both a while." She held out her hand to Patricia and gave her a welcome and good-wishes. "And now order the tea at once. Randolph thinks he cannot remain all night, and it is a long ride home. But it will be much pleasanter than the journey hither." When they went out on the porch--where most of the time was spent in the warm weather--they found the men had gone to inspect the crops and the stock. "You will find Randolph rather easy-going," Madam Floyd said to her new daughter. "And the children have grown quite lawless this year, though I cannot say Catharine kept them with a firm hand. Those two have their father's ways in a great measure. I hope you will not find it too hard, Mistress Patricia, and in any perplexity I will try to give you good counsel. I hope we shall be the best of friends." "I am thankful for your kindliness toward me," returned the daughter-in-law. "I feel quite alone in the world. So many of the Baltimore cousins are dead. And I lost my own mother when I was so young." "The little girl seems a nice quiet child," the elder said presently. "Girls are more manageable when they are small, but troublesome enough when the time of lovers begins." Annis sat on the step watching the great peacock strutting about and the meek peahens seemingly lost in admiration of their lord's grandeur. Then there was a bountiful supper and a fine ride home in the moonlight and the deliciously fragrant air. Annis leaned down on her new sister's shoulder and fell asleep. CHAPTER III. APPLES OF DISCORD. It was very hard for Annis Bouvier to give up so much of her mother. Her new father teased her a little, but when he saw she was really pained and the tears came into her eyes he would stop and give her a caress and a kiss. He was a very kindly master, and the overseer grumbled a little at times and made up by undue severity. Then he certainly was an indulgent father. Patricia despaired at times of establishing any authority. The house was so large, the servants so numerous, the confusion so great after the quiet life she had led in the far-away settlement. And at first not a day passed without some visitors, who came to pay their respects to the new mistress. Jaqueline ordered her pony and rode off with a mere announcement to anyone standing near. She seemed to have no end of girl friends and was mostly a law unto herself. She and her sister had numerous squabbles that never degenerated into quarrels. Annis liked Patricia very much, but she and Varina looked askance at each other, with considerable jealousy at the bottom. Mrs. Jettson came over with her nurse and two babies, and Annis was delighted with them. "But they are not yours in any way," said Varina. "They belong to us and Grandma Floyd." "That is being a selfish little girl, Rene," said Aunt Jane. "Annis is to be like a sister to you." "But I don't want her for a sister. I have enough sisters. She shall not ride on my pony nor feed my pigeons nor have any of my books." Annis' heart swelled within her. "I don't want any of them," she made answer. "And I wish mamma and I could go away. She belongs to me and--and a little to your father, but most to me. But I wish she didn't belong to any of you!" and the soft, deep eyes overflowed with tears. "Oh, Annis! what is this all about?" Patricia flew in and clasped the little girl in her arms in spite of a protest. "I'm beginning to love your mother very much. You see, she _does_ belong to us, and now you can't take her away. And we are glad to have you----" "I'm not glad." Varina stretched up every inch of her size. "I'm sure we were well enough before." "It's mostly Rene's dispute," began Aunt Jane. "Annis was enjoying the babies. Come here, dear." Annis rushed out of the room sobbing. Where was her mother? "Rene, you naughty little girl!" and Patricia gave her a shake. "Why, Jane, we have all been getting along in the very nicest manner. And _she's_ just lovely. We couldn't quite resolve at first whether we would call her mother; but father wanted us to, and now it seems natural enough. Louis likes her ever so much. And Jack says she's like a big sister. She's nicer than Aunt Catharine was at the last, she fretted at us so. I hope her little girls are pretty bad, and then she won't think we are the worst." Aunt Jane laughed. "I dare say Aunt Catharine will have some trials. That is a funny wish. Rene, you must learn to like this little girl. I think her very nice and sweet. I shall ask her to come over and visit me." "Then I won't come." Varina's eyes flashed. "But why do you not like her?" "She sits on father's knee, and--and Charles read to her yesterday and showed her pictures in his book and said she understood better than I did. And Mammy said her hair was beautiful." Varina began to cry. "So her hair is beautiful," said Aunt Jane decisively. "And perhaps she _is_ smart. You are dull at your book, Varina, and if you are going to be cross and jealous your father will not like you. Fie, for shame!" "If you are going to roar like the bull of Bashan you will have to go upstairs by yourself. And I must find little Annis," declared Patricia. Annis had seen her mother walk down the path under the mulberry trees, and she ran swiftly, sobbing as if her heart would break with a strange, yearning homesickness for the home in the forest and her mother all to herself once more. Then she caught her foot in the root of a tree that had pushed up out of the ground, but two friendly arms clasped her, and sitting down on the bole of a tree that had been sawed off to thin the dense shrubbery, he held her tenderly. "What is it, little Annis? What has happened to you?" "I want my dear mother," the child sobbed. "I want her to go away and take me. I can't stay here. I'd rather have Sally Brown to play with, and the great woods. I think I shouldn't even mind Indians, nor dark nights." "Has Charles been cross to you?" "No, I like Charles. Let me go find mamma." "You can't have her just now," said Louis in a soothing tone. "Father has to have her on a little matter of business." "You _all_ have her!" resentfully. "That is because she is so charming and sweet." Annis looked up into the face that was smiling and sympathetic. "Tell me the trouble. Surely Patty or Jacky have not been scolding you? For you couldn't have done anything bad. You are such a shy, quiet little thing." "I was playing with the babies----" "Surely it wasn't Aunt Jane?" "No." She had stopped sobbing and raised her sweet eyes, the tears still beading the lashes. "Why do you want to go away, then?" There was no answer. Did she really want to go? The arm about her was very friendly. She had felt almost afraid of this big brother, but his voice went to her heart. "I think we cannot spare you. I know we cannot spare your mother." "Annis! Annis!" called the clear girl's voice. "Here, Patty," answered her brother, and the young girl ran down to them. She smiled at Annis. "What happened?" Louis asked. "It was that little cat Rene! She didn't scratch, though. Rene has been spoiled by everybody, and she believes now that no one has any rights but herself." "And we'll stand by Annis. Come--you do like us a little, do you not?" He put both hands on her shoulders and smiled in a very winsome manner. "Of course she does." Patty stooped and kissed her. "You must not mind Rene when she gets in a temper. See, there's Jacky and I, two girls on your side, and Louis and Charles, I am quite sure. Don't you know Jack told you we were always taking sides?" "But--what will--Rene do?" The tone was so half-reluctant, pity fighting against inclination, that Louis could not forbear smiling while he hugged her to his heart. "Rene must be punished. It isn't the first time she has been snappy, Louis. She quarreled with Charles the other day because----" Patty finished the sentence with raising her brows and making very big eyes. "Because," said Annis in a low tone, "he was reading to me and would not leave his book to go and play." Annis looked very pretty with her downcast eyes and the softened truth in her tone. "Charles was a gentleman. All Virginia boys should be. And now, little Annis, isn't it all made up? You will not want to go away?" "I like you both," Annis said simply. "Come back and see the babies," and Patricia held out her hand. Louis bent down and kissed her. Of course no one would ever grudge her any love, not even Rene when she understood. It was a mere childish ebullition. Jaqueline had come in and heard the story, and, as she was quite accustomed to authority, Rene had been handed over to Mammy Phillis with strict injunction to keep her a prisoner for the next two hours. Jane had come out on the lawn and little Floyd was rolling over the short turf in the care of a laughing darkey boy, while Arthur lay on his back crowing and chewing his fat fists for an interlude. There was her mother with some needlework in her hand, and Annis flew to her, hiding her face in the little hollow between neck and shoulder, with a great heart-throb of thankfulness. No one remarked on Rene's absence at the dinner table. It was a jolly family gathering, and there was a great deal of talk about what was going on in the City and the coming election and the return of Louis to college. Jaqueline would go with him and pay Aunt Catharine her first visit, that she was very urgent about. She missed the young people sadly, she admitted. They also discussed a tutor for the younger children. Although education had not taken a very wide range for girls as yet, the necessity was beginning to be felt. Ministers appointed abroad would want intelligent wives, and even now, in Washington, foreigners appeared in society, and it was considered an accomplishment to talk French and to be entertaining. The elders went to take an afternoon nap, a favorite habit with the squire when he could. "Come," Charles said to Annis, "let us go down under the pines and read," and she was nothing loath. The old heroes of Froissart were like fairyland to the children. Then there were marvelous pictures, the roughest kind of woodcuts, but they picked out their heroes with great satisfaction. Annis had seen few books. There were some old French volumes belonging to her father, and Patricia had begun to teach the little girl as a solace for her long and often weary hours. This was a garden of delight, even if Charles did puzzle over the long words and miscall them. Jane took Varina home with her, which was a great source of elation after the enforced seclusion of the day. She gave Annis an indifferent nod as she stepped into the carriage. "You must be a good little girl and mind Aunt Jane," said her father. "Children's tiffs are natural," he remarked to his wife. "Varina has been the baby so long she cannot tolerate a rival. Years ago she crowded Charles out of his place." He was not quite sure but the winsome little Annis, with her shy sweet ways and ready interest, was the more companionable. Yet he must not be disloyal to his own. Were they all on her side? Annis wondered. And would she need to take sides anywhere? She was very happy and content. Louis took her out riding on Varina's pony. She demurred at first, but the squire promised to look up a suitable one for her in a day or two. The new wife soon became settled in her agreeable surroundings. She had not an aggressive nature, and the house servants soon learned that her rule was not as severe as Miss Catharine's, while quite as wise. She really desired to win the affection of her husband's children. Neighbors were near enough for pleasant rides and drives. There was much hearty sociability among these Virginian people. There had grown up a certain ease and carelessness since the strenuous days of the war. Though finances had been troublesome and grave questions, as well as bitter disputes, had come to the forefront of the young republic--in spite of all there had been a certain degree of prosperity on the large estates, where nearly everything was raised and much made for home consumption. Georgetown was rather a thriving and fashionable place. Bladensburg was quite a summer resort, on account of a mineral spring many thought efficacious for numerous diseases. Vessels laden with tobacco still sailed from its wharves down the Anacostia. There was the noted dueling-ground also, where proud-spirited men went to satisfy their "honor." Around, in many directions, were handsome Colonial mansions with picturesque grounds. Washington was slowly emerging from the chaos of unfinished streets and buildings, but had not yet outgrown the flings of the envious and disappointed. The Capitol shone in its white glory. The President's mansion was imposing and habitable, though, through the administration, it had been graced largely by Mrs. Madison, the charming wife of the secretary of state, and one of her sisters. When Annis Bouvier went over with her mother and stepfather to bring home Rene, who had tired of the babies and was longing for her pony and the larger liberty, and, perhaps, her disputes with Charles and the teasing of Louis, as well as the merriment of her sisters, the child stared at the stately row of buildings that quite met her idea of a palace. The long and wide avenues running off into unfinished spaces, the trees already beginning to make a brave show, the handsome dwellings here and there were a fair augury of things to come, and seemed wonderful to her. Out in the settlement it had been vaguely speculated upon. Was it not a dream? They drove about in some of the most passable streets. People were out for an airing this pleasant afternoon; numbers of men stood in groups in eager discussion, some gesticulating quite as fiercely as Grandfather Floyd had done. There were pretty young women on horseback, with their attendant cavaliers, laughing and jesting, and a few boys running about. The broad river, with its curves, receiving in its bosom the springs and rivulets and edged with swaying grasses topping into feathery fronds, while multitudes of wild flowers sprinkled the verdure that, from its moisture, still kept the greenness and fresh aspect of spring. "Now you can take a good look at everything," said the squire, leaning over to Annis. "We hurried through so, and it was nearly dark when we came from Baltimore. It is the palace of our republic." Annis was to see it under various phases and to spend a night of terror in it, then to watch it arise from the ashes of destruction. But she could always recall this lovely afternoon and the birds flashing hither and thither in flame-color and gold--the Maryland yellow-throat, the redbird, with his high cockade and his bold, soldier-like air. Child as she was, the beauty of all things touched her deeply, and she hardly heard Varina's chatter about what she had done and where she had been, and the spinet at Aunt Jane's house, "which I do think more refined than a fiddle," declared the little miss disdainfully. "A lady can play on it. Of course fiddling is the right thing to dance by, and it seems proper enough for the slaves. And some of the real elegant people come to Aunt Jane's. Your mother hasn't any gown half as pretty as they wear." "No," returned Annis, without a touch of envy. "Jaqueline is to have some new gowns to go to Williamsburg. Oh, I just wish I was a big girl and could have fine things! I hate being little! You get sent out of the room when the ladies are talking, and you have to go to bed early, and you can't come to the table when there is company. I am going to try my very best to grow and grow." Annis wondered whether she would like being a young lady. Jacky was nice, to be sure. Jaqueline seemed to enjoy it very much. The new tutor, who was a Mr. Evans, a young man, was to take charge of the girls' studies, as well as those of Charles. Patricia quite envied her sister, and declared French was the greatest nuisance that had ever been invented. "You don't invent a language," corrected Charles. "It grows by slow degrees and is improved upon and perfected----" "It was just sent upon the world at the Tower of Babel," interrupted Patricia. "After all," laughing--and a laugh always came to end Patty's spurts of temper--"it must have been very funny. Think of a man asking for--what were they building the tower out of? Bricks, wasn't it? and water, and the other man not understanding. And I suppose bread had a dozen new queer names, and everything! What a jabber it was! And that's where the languages came in, Master Charles," with a note of triumph in her clear, breezy voice. "Just wait until you study Latin and Greek!" "Girls don't have to, thank fortune! The French will destroy my constitution, and, unlike the United States, I haven't any by-laws, so I shall be finished out." "There have been some learned women and wonderful queens." "I can't be a queen. I don't want to. Think of poor Marie Antoinette!" and Patty shivered. "I _might_ marry someone who would be President, but it is doubtful. No, like Jacky, I shall go in for the good time." Charles thought there was not much comfort talking to girls, except Annis, who listened with attentive eyes, and asked such sensible questions--as if she really wanted to know things. The very first day the boy warmed to his tutor, and Mr. Evans was quite delighted with this small scholar. But, as the trend of the day was then, he also had no very exalted opinion of girls, and considered their highest honor that at the head of the household. The great trunk in the storeroom that Aunt Catharine went through religiously once a year, to see that no corrupting influences, such as moth or rust, should gain surreptitious entrance, was to be opened now, and Jaqueline's portion of her dead mother's treasures bestowed upon her. Aunt Catharine had divided them as equally as possible, and done them up in separate parcels for each girl. In her early married life Mrs. Mason had made a visit to Paris, while Franklin was still abroad. There had been a sojourn in London as well, and she had brought home enough to last her brief life and to descend to her children. Mrs. Conway specified which gowns should be refashioned a little for her niece and what of her mother's jewels it would be proper for her to wear. Jaqueline would fain have confiscated all. "Do as your aunt advises," said her father, with a sound of authority in his tone not to be gainsaid. "She was always a woman of good sense until she took up with those ultra views of religion, and Conway. She was so settled in her ways, too, that no one would have dreamed it, either; but there's no telling what a woman will do until she's past doing. And it's natural for them to marry. But Catharine could have had her pick in her youth. She held her head mighty high then." There was no little confusion getting the two young people ready. Louis brushed up some studies with Mr. Evans, for his summer had been one of careless fun and good-fellowship with the neighboring young men. Still, he was ambitious to stand well and not drop behind his last year's record. Then they had to go up and bid grandmother good-by, and there were neighborhood gatherings quite as important as if these young people were going to the unexplored wilds of Africa. Their departure made a sudden hiatus. With so many people in the house and on the plantation, it did not seem as if two could be so sincerely regretted. Every slave, from Homer down to the rollicking pickaninnies, bemoaned "Mas'r Louis"; and Mammy Phil, who had nursed every one of the "chillens," had a double dose of sorrow, and so many reminiscences that Patricia was provoked. "As if there were never any children in the world but Louis and Jaqueline!" she flung out with some vexation. "Mammy, you wouldn't make as much fuss if I was going to be buried." "'Fore de Lord, chile, dat would break Mammy's heart cl'ar in two! You can't 'member how de joy went roun' in all de cabins when young mas'r had a son born to be de heir. Why de 'clar' o' peace wan't nuffin to it!" "I shouldn't think I could remember that!" said the girl, with great dignity and a withering accent, "seeing as I was not in the rejoicing. You are getting old and doted, mammy!" The old slave woman wiped her eyes. But to her comfort she had found a delightful listener in little Annis, who never wearied of the family legends, and who studied the portraits in the great drawing room with a mysterious sort of awe. There was a cavalier of the times of the first Charles, with his slashed doublet, his Vandyke collar and cuffs of what had been snowy linen and elegant lace, and his picturesque hat with its long plume: a sharp-featured, handsome face in spite of a certain languid indifference. There was another in a suit of green camlet, richly laced, and the great periwig of close-curled rings. The hand, almost covered with costly lace ruffles, rested lightly on the jeweled hilt of the rapier that hung at his side. There were two plainer men: one suggestive of Puritan times; one, round, rosy, quite modern in the half-Continental costume, that one would easily guess was the squire in his youth. Beside it was Mistress Mason in her wedding gown of satin trimmed with a perfect cloud of Venice point, a stomacher set with precious stones, and a brocaded petticoat. Like a soft mist a veil floated about her exquisite shoulders, fastened at the top with a diamond clasp. There was the beauty of the Verneys and the Carringtons in her face. "That is our own mother," said Varina as she was showing Annis the ancestors of the house. "She is a great deal handsomer than your mother, and yours has no such fine gowns. This has been laid away, and we shall all wear it as a wedding gown when our turn comes. Aunt Catharine said once there was a fortune in the lace. Has your mother nothing?" "She has a string of pearls and some beautiful rings, but I have never seen any gowns." "And she is not handsome," declared the young miss with a decisive air. "She is beautiful to me, and sweet and kind, and loves me," replied Annis with a swelling heart. "Well--our mother loved us. It was very cruel in God to take her away. I would a hundred times rather have her than your mother." "I am sorry she is gone. Everybody must love her own mother the best." The tone was sweet at the beginning and confident at the end, yet it hardly suited the daughter of the house. "You would not have been here, then," triumphantly. "No. But we should have left the settlement and come to Baltimore. I liked it there. And there was a kindly old lady who begged mother to leave me with her, but your father said 'Nay' quite sharply. And at first she would not consent to the marriage." There had been some jesting discussion at the Carringtons'. Annis had not clearly understood it. "But she would have had to. Father makes people do his way. He is the master of everything." Annis was silent. She did not yet clearly understand the mystery, but she sometimes thought she would be glad to go back to the settlement and have her mother all to herself. Something seemed to come between continually. There were numerous cares for the housewife on so large a plantation, with children and servants, visitors and a rather exigent husband. There were many beautiful articles and curiosities in the great drawing room. But Annis liked Charles better as a guide. They never jarred upon each other, and he had no jealousy. Then, he really liked his new mother. Varina cared little for books. Besides the worn Froissart there was a copy of Captain John Smith's adventures, which were wonderful to both children, and here Annis could supply many queries about the Indians, who were rapidly disappearing from this vicinity. Gentle and quiet as Charles was, he had a great desire for adventure, and a soldier's life appeared very heroic to him. But the War of the Revolution seemed ages ago to the younger people, though the slaves often gathered about the brushwood fires and related stirring scenes almost as if they had been eyewitnesses. Christmas was a great festival. At nearly every plantation there was a gathering of neighbors and friends, and in some houses visits of days, when extra guests were invited to dinner and a dance given for the young people. And though the exchange of gifts had none of the costly features of the present day, there was much real affection and generosity. Annis thought it delightful. There was an influx of cousins, with some little girls who were very merry and who found Annis quite charming. It had been planned for Jaqueline to return, but no reliable acquaintance seemed ready to undertake the journey. Truth to tell, Jaqueline was tasting the sweets of incipient bellehood, and was quite a prize to the young collegians. His parish duties not being very onerous, the Reverend Conway added to them a professorship in the college, and the rectory was quite a center of society. What with frequent guests and the care of two small girls, Mrs. Conway found her hands quite full, and unable to restrict her nieces' pleasures to her own ideas of what was advisable. Then, she was glad to have the gay, lively girl, who was ready to sing at anyone's bidding, and had a gracious way with the elders as well as the young. She had often longed for the children of this first motherhood, though she accepted her new duties in a satisfactory manner. CHAPTER IV. A NEW PRESIDENT. The inaugurations at New York and Philadelphia had been marked with a certain degree of pomp and stateliness. The first one in Washington had been simple almost to indifference. There had preceded it a bitter campaign, and the Federalists kept the peace with a silent dignity that was chilling in the extreme. Mr. Adams left Washington at once. And the city then was in a dismal stage, with few improvements perfected. There was really no accommodation for visitors, and many still believed the Capital would be removed. They delighted to call it "The Wilderness City," "Capital of Miserable Huts," and "A mudhole almost equal to the great Serbonian bog." Mrs. Abigail Adams had not been charmed with the White House nor the city. The great marsh stretched out in a most forbidding and discouraging manner. Piles of rubbish and heaps of stone, with unsightly masses of timber, gave the place anything but a homelike aspect. There was no accommodation for the wives of congressmen if they had chosen to come. Gay New York and charming Philadelphia disdained Washington. Eight years had changed much of this. True, Georgetown was more attractive and growing faster, but streets were beginning to be cleared up, mudholes filled in, walks laid, and handsome houses erected. The wife of the secretary of state, charming Dolly Madison, had healed many differences, and Mrs. Madison's drawing room was a favorite resort for senators, ministers, and diplomats. She was often asked to preside at the White House. Mrs. Randolph, the President's daughter, on her very first visit had been delighted with her, and the two became lifelong friends. Her bright and vivacious sister, Anna Payne, had added no little zest to social life, and her marriage had been quite an event in the slowly growing city. The Van Ness mansion was also the scene of much gayety. Old Virginia belles came up for a few weeks, and there were balls and parties at Georgetown, and no end of tea drinkings. The young women found plenty of cavaliers, and when riding was possible gay parties sallied out, stopping at some country inn for midday refreshments. And though there were many grave questions pending, this promised to be a day of unwonted satisfaction. For the first time great preparations were made. Washington and Georgetown people invited friends, as in those days people were given to hospitality. Mrs. Jettson had kept her sister Marian a large part of the winter, much to Dolly's discomfiture, but Mr. Floyd had sent for Marian and refused them both the anticipated pleasure of the inauguration. Jaqueline had come home an undeniable young lady, with her hair done high on her head and sundry touches in her attire that made her very attractive and coquettish. There was great rejoicing, from least to greatest, much envying on Patricia's part, much delight on Varina's and Charles', and a pretty, shy, winsome admiration from Annis. There was of course the duty visit to the Pineries. Then Jaqueline came down to her Aunt Jane's. "I'd planned such a delightful time!" declared Mrs. Jettson, between satisfaction and vexation. "There is to be a gay season, with balls and parties and dinners. And, really, the young men are getting to be quite factors in society. I wanted both the girls and you; and, Jaqueline, you've grown monstrously pretty, and your manners have improved so much that you might be fresh from London or Paris. There have been so many fine people here the last two or three years, and building is going on at a rapid rate. Philadelphia and New York will not be able to look down on us much longer. I meant to give you young people a dance and supper, and father won't let the girls come. Marian was mad as a hornet, and poor Dolly stamped around. Father grows queerer about them. But _I_ wanted the company as well. I'm not an old woman, if I have two babies. And I'm quite sure it will be a success if you will come." "Of course I shall be delighted. Why, it's just charming!" and the pretty face was alight with smiles. "I shall ask all the folks up for the grand event. You see, brother Randolph is a true Madison man. And, do you know, I like your new mother wonderfully. She is quite like an elder sister, and you'll have a fine time. You'll be just spoiled," laughingly. "But you're not to call me Aunt Jane any more. I won't have it from a tall girl like you, who will no doubt be married herself next winter. How many disconsolates did you leave at Williamsburg?" "None, I think, so deeply smitten but that a course of Greek and Latin will restore them. I did have a splendid time, though Aunt Catharine would persist in considering me about twelve. It was positively funny. But I had Louis to manage for me. Oh, Jane, I'm awfully sorry about the girls! They cried with disappointment. And they did not know about the party!" "No, I hadn't the cruelty to speak of that. But I'll whisper to you, Jaqueline, and you must not breathe it. Somebody here has taken a tremendous fancy to Marian. He is well connected, a young civil engineer, and a militia lieutenant; but we are afraid father will blaze out and perhaps refuse to listen. He has quite set his heart on Marian marrying their next neighbor, that Mr. Greaves who lost his wife last summer and has no one to look after his four children but the slave mammy. And Marian just hates him. The idea! Oh, Jaqueline, it is just comforting to have someone to talk to, a young person that you can say anything to!" "Marian told me. Of course there is the fine estate and the slaves. I do suppose old people think a great deal of that," and there was a touch of regretful wisdom that sat oddly upon the young girl. "And four children! I wouldn't want 'em." "A young girl has no business with another woman's children. I want you to see this young man. And I want to get your father interested. I think after a little I'll bring it about." "Mr. Greaves doesn't seem very"--Jaqueline knit her pretty brows, thinking of the fervent tones and impassioned glances that had marked her victorious sway--"very deeply smitten. He and grandfather talked politics and war all the evening." "But he means business. He has asked for her. He thinks it only respectful to wait a year before beginning his new addresses. So we have until July." "I wouldn't marry him," declared Jaqueline with much vigor. "I dare say your father will be easy enough about lovers if they are of the right kind. Don't be in a hurry. Have a good time first. You are so young." Mrs. Jettson had insisted upon taking in the whole family, and they came the evening before, being comfortably stowed away, although some of Mrs. Mason's relatives who had lately come to Washington insisted upon sharing the honors. Annis and Charles had been much interested, and questioned Mr. Evans in every conceivable manner as to what it was for, and why America did not have a king or an emperor. Patricia was bubbling over with delight. Fortunately the day was fair, and everything seemed auspicious. Salutes of cannon were fired from the navy yard at dawn, and responded to from Fort Warburton. The militia from Alexandria and Georgetown, in fine array, marched into the city to escort the new President to the Capitol. Thousands of people gathered along the way, and there was a great hurrahing, emphasized by the waving of hats and handkerchiefs. Mr. Mason and his wife and the two younger children were in a carriage, while the two girls went with Mr. and Mrs. Jettson. Annis looked out curiously at the scene. There was the tall form of Mr. Jefferson, quite in contrast with the smaller one of his friend, who bore himself with becoming dignity. At twelve Mr. Madison reverently took the oath of office and made his inaugural address, when the cheers and enthusiasm became deafening. It was the first really grand ceremony of the kind that Washington had witnessed. And now the new President reviewed the array of soldiers, and eager interest marked every step. It was indeed a gala day. Many people were driving around in their carriages, enjoying the sunshine and the crowd. Then the President, with most of the officers and senators, returned to his home, where Mrs. Madison had prepared tables of refreshments for all who chose to call and pay their respects to the new magistrate. A fine young fellow in Continental uniform paused at the carriage of the Jettsons, and greeted them cordially. "This is something like," he said. "Simplicity may be very good in its way, when one cannot help himself, but the nation ought to honor its ruler. I am proud to be in it." Mrs. Jettson turned and introduced Mr. Ralston to the girls, who smilingly acknowledged his presence. "Then you could not persuade Miss Floyd?" and he glanced up wistfully. "Father is not quite in accord with the administration, and he would not consent to her return." "I am desperately sorry. I managed at the eleventh hour, which was early this morning, to get a ticket to the ball. Some dear friends of mine would have been delighted to chaperone Miss Floyd, if she could have consented to so short a notice. And there will be so many festivities!" "I regret it deeply," returned Mrs. Jettson. "What a shame!" she said to her husband when Mr. Ralston had left them. "At Long's there could be only a given number accommodated. And to have missed such a fine array of people! I should like to be there myself." The ball was considered quite a sumptuous affair. A host of beautiful women in their most elegant attire, military men who had not laid aside their trappings "in the piping times of peace," and the brilliant uniforms of the different legations, made a picture quite worthy of the young Capital. Mrs. Madison, in her robe of yellow velvet, her Paris turban with its bird-of-paradise plume, her neck and arms adorned with pearls, dispensed her smiles and greetings with the wonderful tact and sweetness which were never to desert her; jest and repartee ran round the circle; and Mr. Jefferson shone in his genial cordiality. Someone remarked upon his gayety, and the gravity of the new incumbent. "Can you wonder at it?" he asked. "My shoulders have just been freed from a burden of cares; he is just beginning to assume them." Yet he gave his friend a glance of sympathy and tenderness that indicated a continuance of the lifelong friendship. Some glowing accounts of the ball found their way to different papers, and it seemed as if Washington was suddenly looming into conspicuousness. The children were tired with the day's pleasures and ready to go bed. But the next morning they were eager to inspect the Capitol. Mrs. Adams' plaint about it still held good in many respects. The wings alone had a finished aspect. There were the Senate Chamber and House of Representatives, the nuclei of many things to come. But to Charles and Annis, who looked at it through the romantic eyes of childhood, enlarged by their rather narrow reading, it was grand. The two elder girls were more interested in Jane's party. There were some of the younger representatives, not averse to dancing with pretty girls and having a merry time while they were off duty. If Philadelphia and New York rather disdained the social pleasures of the newer city, it was a great favorite with the more southern States; and Virginia did all honor to her fine line of Presidents. For, after all, the provincialism was not so marked. There were people who dared the voyage to Europe with as much complacency as the steam traveler of to-day, and who studied the best Europe had to offer. Young men were sent abroad for education; not a few young women had a year or two of finishing abroad. There were noted foreigners, too, who left an impress on society: Albert Gallatin and his charming wife, the learned Swiss scholar and the American girl who had grafted some delightful foreign ways on a very thorough foundation of patriotic culture. Mrs. Monroe was a famous New York beauty who had lost her heart to Virginia, and the Vice President was from the northern State that was slowly accepting the new city. There were foreign ministers and their wives who accepted the republican methods and the dignified simplicity, if it did lack the stately elements of the courts abroad. Mr. Arthur Jettson was one of the enthusiasts, and already saw great possibilities for the infant city. On the staff of engineers and largely interested in building, he laid the plans of the future before new acquaintances and had the good fortune to interest many. Old David Burns had already made a great fortune in shrewd land speculations. And although the Presidential mansion was toward the eastward, there were many who argued that the trend would be more westward. There was Georgetown, a really thriving place, whose gravity did not depend on Congress in session. He had already persuaded Mr. Mason to make some investments, though the elder man shook his head rather ruefully at the unpromising aspect as they drove around. Jaqueline and Patricia were much more interested in the invitations to the party. But the day after the inauguration Lieutenant Ralston came in, though now in citizen's attire, with an eager manner and sparkling eyes. "I wonder if you could be induced to take the young ladies to a reception to-morrow evening?" he inquired. "It will be rather informal and a crush, to be sure, but they will be able to see both Presidents, though not the White House. That will come later on. Next week the Madisons will no doubt be domiciled there. If you would prefer waiting----" "Oh, no!" replied Mrs. Jettson. "The crowd will be well worth seeing. I do not despise crowds," laughingly. "Did you go to the ball?" "Yes, with some brother officers, and wishing all the while your sister could have been there. It was an elegant scene, I assure you. I am proud of the beauty of my countrywomen. Mrs. Madison has been accustomed to honors, to be sure, but this was in a new rôle, as chief lady in her own right. And she graced the occasion. She is charming. We shall have a brilliant administration in spite of the perplexities. Well--you will go, then?" "We cannot afford to miss it. Mr. Mason talks of returning in a day or two." "I have hardly seen the young ladies. Can you not lay an embargo on them?" "I shall try, for my own sake," she returned laughingly. "Thanks for your trouble." "It is a pleasure to me." The party had gone out for views of Washington and an inspection of the Capitol. When they returned Jaqueline ran up to Jane's room, her face beaming with interest, since she had been introduced to several representatives. Mrs. Jettson looked up from a pile of finery. "You suggest a hollyhock in brilliant array," said Jaqueline mirthfully. "Are you going to hold an auction?" Jane gave a half-amused sigh. "You have had an invitation out, and there is very little time to prepare. I am trying to think what can be altered. There is my pink paduasoy with the race ruffles. I cannot get into the waist any more, but you are so slim. Just try it on. Anything will do for a child like Patty." "But where to in such fine feather?" "To the Madisons'. Not a regular levee--something much more informal. Lieutenant Ralston has it in hand. I have my new brocade and the embroidered petticoat. We can take this gown over to Mrs. Walker's, and coax her to make it more youthful. I haven't worn it since Floyd was a baby." Jaqueline hurried off her woolen frock and slipped into the pretty silken garment. The skirt answered, but the bodice needed considerable alteration. "And I thought I was slim; Jack, you have an elegant figure. Now we must go at once to Mrs. Walker's, or it may be too late. It's just down Pennsylvania Avenue. Scipio will take it for us, and we will go over and do the marketing. You will like the pink, won't you? It's very becoming." "Oh, how good you are! Yes, I just adore it. Do you really mean me to have it? How can I thank you?" Jaqueline patted and caressed it with her soft fingers. "I did mean it for Dolly, but father is so queer about things--and gowns. He and mother keep in the same little round, with the same friends, and think that it is all-sufficient for the girls. And I'm so afraid Marian will give in to the constant dropping that is said to wear away the stone. Jacky dear," in an almost plaintive tone, "won't you be--that is--I mean--I can't think just how to put it--only you won't try to win away Lieutenant Ralston, will you, dear? I've set my heart on his making a match with Marian. _You're_ so pretty and coquettish!" The color came and went in Mrs. Jettson's face, and her voice dropped to a pleading cadence. "Why, no! But what has he to do with----" "Oh, he brought the invitation! He knows just how to bring about everything. And the Ralstons are delightful people--well-to-do and all that. Marian would be so happy! It is a shame she isn't here. But we must not dawdle. Get into your coat and hat again." Scipio, the butler and upper servant, came with his best bow and put the parcel carefully into the big basket, covering the delicate stuff with a napkin. Then he trotted along behind the two ladies, looking as if weighty matters devolved upon him. Mrs. Walker kept three rooms upstairs. In the front one she displayed her goods: silks, velvets and laces, flowers and feathers. She had laid in a new and extensive stock. Two or three women were chaffering. But Mrs. Walker left them presently, and when she heard the errand summoned them into the adjoining room. Jaqueline hated to leave the beautiful show on which her eyes had feasted. And though women were fond enough of gay attire shipped from London and Paris, and Belgium frippery and laces when they could get them, they were beginning to think it was not always necessary to send to Philadelphia or to New York. And to her stock of materials Mrs. Walker had added a workroom, not so much for the making of garments as the altering and refurbishing of party gowns, caps, and turbans. Jaqueline was put in the pink gown again, and when Mrs. Walker looked her over she decided upon the sort of bodice there must be for a young girl, and promised to have it done the next afternoon. Scipio would come for it. Center Market was the only place of account to household purveyors. They went thither followed by the slave, meeting other ladies with an obsequious attendant. Marketing was one of the duties of a good housewife. Some had come in their carriages. There was an exchange of friendliness, as is often the case in the infancy of towns, and some bits of family gossip, some references to the ball at Long's Hotel. All the others had come in when they returned. Charles had his brain full of marvels. Varina was tired and cross. "I shall have to send you back home," declared her father. "Indeed, perhaps we had all better go to-morrow. We are to take supper to-night with the Carringtons, over at Georgetown. Jaqueline and Patty, you must go with us--that was Madam Carrington's orders. She has not seen you in a long while." Annis crept around to her mother and took her hand, looking up wistfully. It seemed as if everyone wanted her mother. "No, you can't go to-morrow," said Mrs. Jettson. "At least, the girls cannot. They have a state invitation, and I have been to get a proper gown for Jaqueline," and she laughed mischievously. "Jane!" said the squire sharply; "what nonsense! Jaqueline has gowns and frocks and fal-lals enough. You will make her vainer than a peacock. What is this invitation, pray?" "To pay our respects to Mr. and Mrs. Madison. Dear me, Randolph, think how father would rail at such republican crowds as have haunted the place to see plain Mr. President! They are to move to the White House early next week, when Mr. Jefferson goes to Monticello; and then, no doubt, there will be more state. But the Madisons have always kept such an open, hospitable house, and welcomed guests so charmingly." "Jane, you are getting to be an astute politician. No doubt Arthur has his eye on some street or creek or stream for improvement, and is engineering a grant through the House. Not but what Washington needs it badly enough. There's muddy old Tiber, and lanes full of pitfalls, and last year's weeds like battalions of an army. Well, I must not grumble, for I have a finger in the pie. Virginia Avenue, for all its high-sounding name, is a disgrace to the State standing sponsor for it; and I am quite sure my money is buried in bogs. So you and Arthur try your best with the new administration. I'm too old a dog to be apt at new tricks." "But it isn't Arthur's doings. Lieutenant Ralston is to convoy us thither," returned Jane. "Well, go and get ready, girls. We will start soon after dinner and return early. Lucky the fandango wasn't to-night, or the brave lieutenant would have to content himself with Jane." Annis kept close to her mother. After dinner she followed her to her dressing room. "I suppose, mamma, I couldn't go with you?" she asked wistfully, as her mother was making great puffs out of her abundant hair. "My dear--there will be all grown people, and nothing to interest a little girl," was the soft reply. "But I don't mind interest. I could sit very still and watch the rest of you. I----" The child's voice faltered. Her mother bent over and kissed her, endangering the structure of hair she was piling up. "Oh, my dear, to-morrow perhaps we will go home and you will have me altogether. It will be only a little while. You see, people do not ask little girls out to tea." "But you always took me before. Oh, mamma, I can't like all these people, there are too many of them! I do not want anyone but you." The child clung convulsively to her mother. Patricia Mason's heart was torn between the two loves. For each day she was learning to love her generous, large-hearted husband with a deeper affection, and taking a warmer interest in the children. The hurt and jealous feeling of Annis was very natural; she could hardly blame her little daughter. Indeed, it would have pained her sorely if the child had been easily won away. Yet scenes like this smote the very depths of her soul. As Annis grew older she would understand that nothing could change a mother's love, though circumstances might appear to divide it. Patricia kissed her tenderly, unclasped her arms, and went on with her preparations. The slow tears coursed each other down the soft cheek in the grave quiet harder to bear than sobs. "Patty! Patty!" called the good-humored voice up the stairs, "don't prink all the afternoon, or you will outshine your old husband and put him out of temper. Girls, come! The horses are tired of waiting." A quick footfall sounded on the stair, and Jaqueline's voice was heard laughing gayly. Then Patty the younger, peered into the room. "Oh, I thought I was the last! Can I do anything for you? Here is your cloak. We are not in summer yet. It really is warmer at home; but I'm glad to be here, all the same. Why, madam mother, you look so pretty and young father will have to introduce us as sisters--the Three Graces. Here are your gloves. Good-by, little Annis. Charles will look after you." Mrs. Mason kissed her little girl. "Will you not come downstairs?" she whispered. Annis shook her head. She heard the merry voices, and presently the sound of the wheels. Then she leaned her head down on a chair, and felt more solitary than in the Kentucky forests. CHAPTER V. ROGER CARRINGTON. "Wasn't it queer that Lieutenant Ralston should happen in!" exclaimed Jaqueline at the breakfast table. "We were just going in to supper, and Madam Carrington would have him join us. She is a charming old lady, and Mrs. Carrington, the daughter-in-law, is bright and entertaining. They're some way back connections of our own mother's, of both mothers," with a bright blush, nodding over at Patricia. "And there are two sons, fine young men--one is private secretary to Colonel Monroe. We shall see him to-night. Only what do you think? He advises us to wait until Mrs. Madison is in the White House. And Mr. Ralston said, See her in her own house." "Jack," said her father, using the detested cognomen, "your tongue is hung in the middle and swings both ways. Jane, Mrs. Carrington sent her regards to you, and would like very much to meet you, since both of her grandsons are acquainted with Arthur. The relationship seems to puzzle most people, and they take you for my daughter. Do I really look old enough for a grandfather?" Mrs. Jettson laughed at that. It was rather confusing at times. "And they begged us to come over and make a visit. Both ladies are so fond of girls. Madam Carrington said they tried to keep someone with them all the time. And, Annis, they were so much interested in hearing about you, and wished you had been brought along." Annis raised her eyes to her mother with a soft reproach in them. "But I am the oldest," said Varina with jealous dignity. "When next I go out to supper I shall have to take a caravan," declared Mr. Mason humorously. "Jane, _do_ you think you can manage these girls for a few days and keep them out of the clutches of the young men? You will have your hands full. But I am needed at home, and I feel that we must go. So after breakfast we will gather up the small fry. Charles, have you seen enough of Washington?" "Not half enough, but I'll come back some time. And I think I'll be a senator." "What--not President!" "I should have to be Vice President first," he returned gravely, at which they all laughed. "I do not see why you should hurry!" exclaimed Jane. "The house is large enough for you all." "There's a storm brewing, for one thing, and it's a busy season. Then we do not desire to drive you into insanity." "My brains are on a more solid foundation than that would imply," retorted Jane. There was quite a confusion when they rose. The squire was always in a hurry when any arrangement was settled upon. And since Jane was like an elder sister to the girls---- "You will have to keep them over to next week," he began. "I shall not be able to get away before--well, the very last. You might let them spend a day or two with the Carringtons." "Oh, we shall get along all right, never fear!" "They're only children, you know," and the squire knit his brow over a phase of fatherhood he could not make plain to himself, much less explain to another. "I had an idea Catharine would sober Jaqueline down a little, being a clergyman's wife and all that, but she's just as much of a child as ever." "Oh, you need not feel worried about Jaqueline. And it will be very nice for them both to see the President and Mr. Jefferson, who is sure to be there. Everybody is rushing to do them honor. I wish you could stay." "I've seen them both many a time, Jane, and every other President. Your father is right in one thing, Washington _was_ a grand man. There--do not let the girls run wild." Annis scarcely let her mother out of her sight. Mrs. Jettson kissed her and said she was a nice little thing and must come again. Charles was enthusiastic over his good time, and had much to talk about on the homeward journey. "You have used your eyes to some purpose," said his mother with smiling commendation. Mr. Evans thought so, as well. He was very proud of his pupil. Annis enjoyed the great world out of doors more than she did her lessons. When they were over she and Charles rambled about the beautiful country-sides, gathering armfuls of flowers, listening to the singing birds that filled the woods. The whole plantation was astir with life. Corn and tobacco, wheat and oats, were the great staples, but there was much besides in fruit and vegetables, in flocks and herds. Slaves were busy from morning to night; it seemed as if the place was dotted with them. Randolph Mason was an easy master. Mrs. Mason found the care of so large a household no light thing. It was truly a colony of people depending upon them for advice and training of all sorts, for comfort in sorrow or death, for a willing ear in all troubles. It was a full fortnight before Mr. Mason could find time to go for his girls. Jaqueline had sipped pleasure continually. The reception had indeed been a crush and an informal affair, a mere calling upon the head of the nation in a congratulatory way. Yet there were beautifully gowned women, and famous men, and Mrs. Madison was cordial and affable. In the dining room the table was replenished continually, and the smiling waiters seemed at everyone's elbow. After that Mr. Jefferson had gone to his beloved Monticello, although there was no wife to welcome him, and only one daughter now. And the new President was established at the White House. First there was a state dinner to the ministers and the official family, and then a levee. Jaqueline and Patricia were surprised by a call from Mrs. Carrington, who had driven over with her son to give her invitation in person and take them back with her to Georgetown. A quaint old house full of nooks and corners, and a garden laid out with curious winding walks, full of old-fashioned flowers and shrubs, some having been brought from the royal gardens of Paris, and one queer space with clipped yews and a great tulip bed, so sheltered from the wind and with such a sunny exposure that it was showing color in the buds already. Patricia, with her girlish eagerness, went to the heart of Madam at once. She was so frank and chatty, and laughed with such an inspiriting sound, that it gave the quiet house ripples of gayety. Jaqueline and Mrs. Carrington fraternized in a delightful manner. She was a rather small, fair woman, whose education abroad and whose family had been her chief virtues in the eyes of her mother-in-law, who was a great stickler for birth. She had made a good wife and mother, though it must be confessed that when Madam Carrington lost her son she took complete possession of her grandsons. In spite of strong patriotism Roger had been sent to Oxford for three years, and had taken his degree at law in Baltimore. Ralph was quite a bookworm, but extremely fond of agriculture. The longing of both women had been for a daughter. Though they seldom compared notes on the subject, Roger's wife was a matter of much speculation to them. Early marriages were the rule rather than the exception; and though they were ready to invite relatives and friends for visits and select admirable girls, Roger was single at twenty-four, an admirer of the sex and quite fond of pleasure, and ever ready to make himself agreeable. Squire Mason had insisted that his girls were but children, but Jaqueline was assuming the graces of womanhood rapidly. Mrs. Carrington admired her slim, lithe figure, her pretty face with its fine complexion and laughing eyes that often twinkled from an overflow of mirth. There was in the young people of that day a very charming deference to elders, and with all Jaqueline's wildness and love of fun there was the innate touch of good breeding, the debt it was considered one positively owed to society. Mr. Ralph had gathered quite a menagerie of small pet animals; and, as no one was allowed to disturb the birds, the garden and strip of woods still remaining were filled with their melody. There was a summerhouse that, while it looked light and was overrun with blossoming vines, was secure from rain and had one furnished room which was a great favorite with the young man. The little eminence gave a fine view of Rock Creek and the wilder country to the northward. When improvements begin, as is often the case, an estate not large enough for a farm becomes unprofitable. The town was growing rapidly; indeed, it had been a refuge when the first Congress met in Washington, as there were so few houses in the Capital. The patrician resort, where men of note had mingled and discussed the interests of the country over their choice Madeira and before the blazing fire of their host, was Suter's tavern, which kept its old reputation, being one of the historic places while history was yet so new. And the Convent of the Visitation was still a favorite with those who did not want to send their daughters away from home, or were of the same faith. Maryland had been settled largely by Roman Catholics, and Virginia was the first State to insist on equal rights for all denominations, while her people were generally stanch Churchmen. There was a cordial, attractive, and refined element in Georgetown, and much gayety among the young people. It was quite a common thing for foreigners to sneer at the lack of courtly usage in the Colonies, and the want of fine distinctions one found in foreign life, which were the outgrowth of years of training and experience, and where common people were held in awe by the "divinity that doth hedge a king." But the men who had fought side by side, slept on the ground, endured all kinds of hardships for the sake of a free country, were imbued with that sense of equality quite different from the mushroom adjustment of the French Revolution. There was a more generous culture of the soul, and much more intelligence than the period is credited with. When one looks back at the long line of statesmen, all more or less identified with the great struggle and the pioneer mode of life, one finds a galaxy of noble men that few lands can equal, and who built an enduring name for themselves in building their country. Many of the young people had been educated abroad, but Harvard, King's College, Nassau Hall, and William and Mary were even now taking a high stand in educational matters. And both Boston and Philadelphia had some finishing schools, while the Moravian Seminary was already quite celebrated for the repose and refinement of manner young girls acquired within its nun-like seclusion. But the ideal training of women had not gone far beyond what was considered the strictly feminine boundary: to be graceful and attractive, with a certain freshness of repartee, to dance well, to entertain, and to order a household. For in the higher circles one might have to receive a count or a traveling lord or a French marquis, or be sent abroad as the wife of some minister. Georgetown had the advantage of more stability than Washington, and had grown up around home centers. Representatives came and went, often not considering it worth while to bring their families. Senators were still largely interested in the welfare of their own States, rather than that of the distant Capital. Thus it came to pass that Georgetown was really attractive and rapidly improving. Streets had a more finished look. Gardens were large and well kept, as there was no need of crowding. The Carrington young men had seen the progress of advancement and yielded to it with a sense of foresight. The outlying land had been cut up into squares--some places sold, some rented. Roger had many excellent business traits. Enough was left for beauty and a boundary of fine forest trees on two sides, a third a prettily diversified space sloping down to the creek, the other commanding a fine view of the town. "You ride, of course?" Roger had said the next morning after their arrival. "What Virginia girl does not?" Jaqueline returned with a gay smile. "It bids fair to be a pleasant, sunny day, mother. What is that despondent song you sing so much? "'Many a bright and sunshiny morning Turns dismal'-- and he paused---- "'Turns to be a dark and dismal day.' "Well, don't sing it to-day, and I will come home early if I can get away, and take Miss Jaqueline out. Ralph, you might invite Patricia. We will go up the creek road. The birds are out in force already; the shore larks and the thrush are making melody that would rejoice the heart of Robin Hood." "But--I have no habit," replied Jaqueline, her bright face shadowed with disappointment. "Oh, mother can look you up something. We have attire that came over with my Lord de la Ware's ships. Why shouldn't we be as proud as of old _Mayflower_ tables and cups and cloaks that the New Englanders dote on?" "I can find something, I am sure," was the motherly reply. "Come out and take a breath of this delicious air." That was meant for Jaqueline, who followed the young man out on the porch, down the steps, and then they loitered through the garden walk. The old white-haired gardener was clearing up the garden beds. "Mornin', massa and young missy," he said, with a touch of his hand to his head, that looked like a wig of crinkly wool. Roger paused and gave some orders. Then he gathered a few wild violets and gave them to the girl with a graceful gesture. His mother was watching. "If he only would come to care for someone!" she mused. He was a general admirer of the sex, as the young men of that day were wont to be. "And the Masons are a fine family. I would like nothing better." How many times she had given anticipatory consent! Jaqueline sent him off with a pretty smile that he forgot all about when Ajax whinnied and thrust his nose into his master's hand. He had been waiting the last fifteen minutes for the well-known voice. "Fine old fellow!" his master said, with a caressing touch of the hand. "And now we must be off, or the colonel will be in a fume." "I'll go up in the storeroom," began Mrs. Carrington, glancing the young girl over. "Mother, I do believe that green velvet jacket would fit Miss Jaqueline. You wouldn't believe that I was once quite as slim as you?" to the young girl. "I'm sure you're not to be called stout now," said the madam, who despised a superabundance of flesh and yet hated leanness. She was a fine, perfectly proportioned woman, straight as an arrow, in spite of her more than seventy years. "But it always was tight in the shoulders. You see, my dear, when things are ordered abroad there's not an inch to alter them with--and then I went in mourning. Would you like to come upstairs with me?" Patricia had gone off to look at the guineas and peacocks who had stoutly insisted upon early broods. Madam had gone over to the open window with some fine needlework. Jaqueline followed her hostess up the broad stairway, through the spacious hall lighted by the cupola above, and into an ell where the main storeroom was snugly hidden. What big old chests, with brass and iron clamps and binding and hinges! A row of deep drawers that held the best family linen and napery, some of it saved from destruction thirty years ago in the war that was already half forgotten. There was a sweet scent about the room, made by bunches of lavender, rosemary, and a sweet clover, much cultivated in gardens, and the fragrance of dried rose leaves. "There have been so many things laid by. We hoped there would be girls to take them," and Mrs. Carrington gave a soft sigh. "What a merry household you must be! There are younger girls----" "Yes, Varina, our own sister, and Annis, mother's little girl." "I am much interested in your new mother. She seems a very kindly, amiable person. Back some distance she was connected with the Carringtons, you know." "And she was our own mother's cousin. Oh, we are all in love with her, I assure you. And it is quite delightful for father to have someone to consider him first of all. It's funny what marriage does to a woman," and Jaqueline gave a light laugh. "I suppose we _did_ try Aunt Catharine, but she used to nag at father until sometimes he would lose his temper. And now she is always quoting and admiring Mr. Conway, and runs around after him as if he was a child. I am sure father is much more delightful to live with, he is so merry and full of fun. Not but what Mr. Conway is a gentleman and kind of heart." "But your aunt was no longer a young girl." "And falling in love is a queer happening. Love is writ blind," and Jaqueline laughed daintily. "The little girl of your mother's?--I was sorry not to see her. Is she like her mother?" "She is a shy, dainty little thing, with a sweet temper and a kind of homesick way now and then, as if she longed to fly away somewhere with her mother. Of course we all like her, and father has taken her to his heart. Charles thinks her a nonesuch, since she is never weary of hearing him read aloud. And though Charles is the youngest, Varina has always been the baby, and I think she is jealous. It is very amusing at times." "I am glad you get along so well together. It must be a great pleasure to your father to have a companion of his very own. And you girls will presently marry." "I mean to have a good, merry time first. What a pity the winter is gone just as we have a new President! Congress will soon be adjourned, and Jane says Washington is dismal in the summer." She opened a box, where the garment had lain many a year, being taken out at the annual cleaning, brushed carefully, and laid away again. It had a high collar and lapels worked with veritable gold thread that had not tarnished. "Yes--many people do go away. The town has not improved as we all hoped it would. But there is an old adage that Rome was not built in a day. And we are a comparatively new country. Oh, here is the jacket!" "Oh, how lovely!" cried Jaqueline. "The buttons want rubbing up. We will take it to Betty, who can tell if it needs altering. I keep the sleeves stuffed out with cotton so it will not wrinkle or mat. A London tailor made it, yet it looks fresh as if it had just been sent over." They found Betty, who was supervising some of the sewing girls. Most of the ordinary wearing clothes of the family and the servants' belongings were made in the house. There was fine mending and darning, and much drawn work done by some of the better-class house slaves. Jaqueline tried on the pretty jacket, and there was not much alteration to be made in it. The young girl felt curiously gratified as she studied her slim figure in the mirror. She had never owned anything so fine, and certainly it was most becoming. "Then, Betty, alter the band of my black cloth skirt. That is the best we can do just now." "Oh, you are most kind!" and Jaqueline took both hands in a warm clasp, while the glancing eyes were suffused with delight. "And now if you both like we will go out for an airing, as I have some errands to do." Jaqueline was ready for any diversion. Ralph proposed to drive them, as he had a little business to attend to. There were several attractive shops in Georgetown, and the hairdressing seemed to be brisk, judging from numerous signs. In one window were wigs of various colors from fair to dark. Indeed, there had been a great era of wigs for both men and women, and especially among the fair sex, who thought even two wigs much cheaper than the continual bills of the hairdresser, when they were crisped into curls, pinned up in puffs, and a great crown laid on top of the head, built up in the artifices known to fashion, to be surmounted by feathers. The wide hoop was diminishing as well, and graceful figures were likely to be once more the style. The dinner-hour in most society families was at two, and at the Carringtons' it was quite a stately meal, with often an unexpected guest, made just as welcome as if by invitation. And to-day a Mr. and Mrs. Hudson had driven up from Alexandria--old friends who had many things to inquire about after a winter of seclusion, and most eager to learn how the new President had been received, and whether there would really be war. No one was in a hurry. People truly lived then. Patricia thought it rather stupid, as no one referred to her with any question or comment; even Mr. Ralph, who had proved so entertaining all the morning, scarcely noticed her, as he had to play the host. But Jaqueline quite shone. When Mrs. Hudson heard she had been at the reception, she must describe not only the ladies and their gowns, but whether Mr. Jefferson was as ready to lay down the cares of state as most people said, and if Mrs. Madison had not aged by the continual demands that had been made upon her. "For she is coming quite to middle life," said Mrs. Hudson. "And could discount fully ten years," returned Ralph. "They all paint and powder, I have heard. So much dissipation cannot be good for women. But, then, she has no children to look after. Her son is at school. It does make a difference if one brings up half a dozen children and has to think of getting them settled in life." She had had her share, good Mistress Hudson. Three daughters to marry, which she had done well; one son to bury; one rambling off, whether dead or alive no one knew; and one still left, a prop for declining years, but his mother was as anxious to keep him single as Mrs. Carrington was that her sons should marry. They had risen from the table, and the horses had been ordered when Mr. Carrington came in. He saw how Jaqueline's face lighted up. "The days are a little longer, and we will have our ride yet," he said in a whispered aside. But there was still some talking to do. Jaqueline made her adieus and went to put on her habit. Standing in the hall above, she waited until patience was a lost virtue. Then Roger Carrington called to her. "I thought they would never go, they prosed and prosed so!" "We shall be old ourselves some day," he returned with a smile, "and perhaps prose while young people are waiting." Then he turned her around with gentlemanly grace, admiration in his eyes. "Is it the jackdaw that appears in borrowed plumes--some bird I have heard tell of. Why birds should borrow plumes--I am shamefully ignorant, am I not?" raising her eyes with a spice of mischief. "Let us go and ask Ralph," he said with assumed gravity. "It will not take him long to run through two or three tomes." "And ride by moonlight?" "There is no moon." "Does she not look well, Roger? A tailor could not have fitted the habit better. Do not go very far, for the air might grow chilly again." "We will go up the creek a short distance." Then he mounted her upon the pretty mare, his brother's favorite, for Ralph had not cared to ride. Patricia looked on a little disappointed, yet she did not really wish to go, for Madam Carrington had been telling her a curious love story about a little maid who had been sent over with a number of redemptioners, as those who were bound for a number of years were called. She had attracted the pity of a kindly man, who had purchased her years of service for his wife. Then the son had fallen in love with her, which had roused the mother's anger, when she sent her son to England to be educated and perhaps fall in love with a cousin. The little maid was rather hardly treated, when someone came to the colony in search of her, and it turned out that she was well born and heiress to a grand estate, held by a relative who had formed a villainous plot against her and reported her dead. Now that he was dying without heirs, he was desirous of making tardy reparation. There were few story books to fall into girls' hands in those days. Swift and Sterne and Smollett were kept out of reach. Miss Burney was hardly considered proper, and Miss Austen had not been heard of in the Colonies. Patricia was fond of old legends and ghost stories, with which the plantation was rife, and which had grown up about old houses. Unhappy lovers had a weird, fascinating interest for young girls, even if the lives of the day were the reverse of sentimental. All through the dinner she had been wondering if the little maid met her lover again; but that she came back to America, she knew, for her portrait hung in the hall among the Carrington ladies. Ajax and Daphne rubbed noses, flung up their heads, and started off. Tame enough now is the winding creek, which was rough and rapid then, and which traveled from the upper edge of Maryland, gathering in many a little stream, rushing along in some places over great stones, winding about placidly in others, and then joining the Potomac. CHAPTER VI. A TOUCH OF NATURE. There had been a breath of spring in the air for a day or two, and all nature welcomed the softness, with the numerous sounds of awakening life. Wild bees were out foraging. The catkins of the alders had swelled to bursting, the maples were showing red, tufts of grass were assuming the peculiar hazy, suggestive green through the furzy deadness of winter, while here and there a field of grain displayed the brilliance of a velvet carpet. The trees had that dreamy purplish tint of springtime, and waved their leafless branches with wooing softness. The road ran alongside of the brook and was in fair order for the time of the year. Now and then some bird flung out a note of rejoicing. They went by degrees down a valley until they struck a wild gorge with overhanging rocks, where a multitude of crows were holding council, and suddenly wheeled off, making a dark shadow over the path. "A month later it will be beautiful," Roger Carrington said. "But I suppose you have a surfeit over the Potomac?" nodding his head to the southward. "Or perhaps you would have liked it better about Georgetown. I fancied my mother had shown you everything worth seeing. Few people know how fine the road is up this way." He looked a little doubtfully at his companion. Perhaps she was too young to appreciate it. "I have never been this way before. We were out on the Potomac last summer when we were visiting my sister, the first time we came to Washington. Regulation philosophy considers home the best place for children," and she smiled archly. "I like large families. You can't think how your father interested us in the description of you all. How many are there?" "Five of us and the sister of adoption." "Mrs. Mason quite charmed us. She has had a rather eventful life. There is a brother----" "We begin and end with boys. Charles would delight your brother Ralph. Louis is in college. He has some aspirations for the law or political life, but his present desire runs the way of pleasure and fun. The college boys are quite adepts at mischief." "You were down there?" "My aunt married and went to Williamsburg, you know. And Uncle Conway is connected with the college. Yes, I had a good, gay time. And I like--fun." She looked it, with the sparkle in her eye and the changing color on her cheek. She was very pretty, but an eager child. "And if we had some girls to make merry! Real girls, I mean, like Patty, who is charming to have about. Suppose we keep her for the next year or two?" "You will have to settle that with Patty and father. And Patty has a way of breaking out of bounds that might startle you. She is on her best behavior now." "And we cannot always keep up to the mark--is that what you mean me to infer?" "I couldn't, I am sure, if the mark was set high," and she laughed. "It is, up to grandmamma's. And Dolly, who really is my aunt, you know, is not much older than I am. We have royal times when she comes to the plantation. But grandpapa is very strict and of the old--there's a French word I ought to use," and she blushed. "My French will not always come to the front; and so, you see, I cannot put on grand airs." Carrington laughed. Her frankness was so piquant. "_Régime_--that I think is the word you want." "Yes. A man who believes we have had no manners since the days of Washington and Mr. John Adams. Oh, do you truly think the country will go to ruin and split up into fragments?" "No, I really do not. Young countries, like young people, make mistakes. Well, older countries do likewise. There have been many changes in the policies of all governments, many rulers. I've quite decided this will last my time out." "I don't understand about the Non-Intercourse Act and all that. Father thinks it would be good for the women not to get so much finery from abroad. But, then, if we sell tobacco and other things to England and France--why, it seems to me it is a good thing, a sort of give and take. And grandpapa thinks Mr. Madison will finish what Mr. Jefferson began, and that England will get hold of us again. Are you to go to the levee?" "Oh, yes." "I am so glad! I am to make a real bow to Mrs. Madison. Oh, no; I suppose it is a courtesy. I like to see people dressed up in pretty clothes, and I have not been to the White House yet. And to see all the grand men nearby, not simply in a jostling crowd. Don't you sometimes feel a little afraid of them?" There was a charming half-curiosity in her eyes, and a pretty smile quivered about her red lips. What a child she was! If he was to ask her to marry him both mother and grandmother would be quite content. As for him--well, he had no drawing toward matrimony, but that innate chivalry and admiration for all women so common in the men of that day, who were trained to pay the highest respect to their mothers. "I find myself wishing I was as wise and as experienced, and had the clear insight that some of our best men have had, nay, have to-day. But that comes with age and profound knowledge." "Oh, don't get any older! I like the young men. And as for wisdom----" She paused and colored, turning her face half away, but the roundness of the young cheek and the graceful curve where it softly lost itself in the white neck were truly lovely. "We will dismiss wisdom and age," laughingly. "Oh, where are we going!" She reigned her horse in sudden alarm. "This is the last of the ravine. I wanted you to see the picture beyond. Nay, there is nothing to fear." The frowning rocks and overhanging trees on both sides almost shut out the daylight. It did quite in summer when the foliage was thick. Then it lightened, and the clear whistle of a bird rang out as if heralding the end. The break was almost a level. The creek broadened out here. The westward sun struck it and made beautiful reflections on the undulating stretches of land. The leafless trees showed golden and brown-red tints through the dun haze, the birches wore a rosy silver light. Back of it the hills rose with the mysterious suggestiveness of coming spring, full of quivering lights as the wind made perceptible waves in the air. "It is wonderful!" she said softly. "It is like those emotions one can never describe, that penetrate every nerve, that make you feel half awed. Oh, the world is beautiful!" The eager, yet chastened, expression of her face moved him. She sat her horse finely, girl as she was, her head proudly erect, her shoulders in the velvet coat shaped exquisitely, the sleeve showing the arm's perfect roundness at the top and the slope down to the slender waist. He had meant to call her attention to this scene, but her quickness of vision gratified him. "It is my favorite prospect," he said. "I have watched it many a time just at this hour in the afternoon. From early spring to midwinter the sun makes a picture of it. We are rich in beautiful scenery, and when we are done fighting and quarreling we should be a nation of artists. So far we have only been inspired to portraits." "It would be curious to be able to paint a picture. I never thought of it before." "That is genius, I suppose. Now, here is a nice clear bit of road. Let us have a sharp canter out to that bend in the creek and back, then we must hasten home before the evening dampness sets in." Daphne threw up her head at the touch of the whip, and was off like a flash. Roger Carrington allowed her to reach the bend first, to the discomfiture of Ajax. Jaqueline turned her bright, rosy face, full of smiling triumph. "I accept," nodding with gallantry. "We should have been timed to a second. You are an excellent rider." "Seeing that I have been trained from babyhood it would be disgraceful if I were not. Oh, what crazy things we have done--Louis and I! And then we would bind ourselves by a solemn promise not to betray each other. Children must have charmed lives!" "You are hardly out of childhood yet." "Wait until you see me in the gorgeousness of a train and a top-knot. You will wonder at my dignity. Perhaps you will not recognize me. The gown is pink. That may be some help." "Pink. The pink roses are the sweetest, I believe." She nodded with a spice of coquetry. "And now are we to crawl through this dismal glade? Think of Indians lying in ambush!" "Nay, do not spoil a pleasant ride by such a grewsome suggestion." He led the way, and they soon emerged to the open again. The Capital loomed up; the scattered houses made quite a show, after all. That evening Roger and she were partners at whist against his mother and grandmother, and the ladies won. The next day the girls went over to Washington. "I wish your visit could have been longer," Mrs. Carrington said. "I should have enjoyed asking in the young people about here and having a dance." Patricia was very sorry. She had been on the extreme confines of young-ladyhood. "It was just delightful!" Jaqueline explained to Mrs. Jettson. "Both ladies are lovely, but Madam is grand and holds you in a little awe. She looks like some old picture stepped out of a frame. And they are just crazy over girls--no, you cannot imagine such stately ladies being crazy over anything. They made so much of Patty that she put on airs." "I'm almost as tall as you, Miss Jaqueline!" "But you would look ridiculous with a train and your hair done up high, and a mincing step----" "I didn't think that you minced very much!" interrupted the younger. "I saw you run down the garden walk, and Mr. Ralph said----" making a sudden halt. "Well, _what_ did he say?" Patty paused, for she recalled the fact that Mr. Ralph's comment had been distinctly complimentary. "Don't dispute, girls. Patty, you are nothing but a child, if you are tall, and you know you wouldn't like to give up racing and climbing and dancing to old Sam's fiddle. You girls do have the best of everything, while poor Dolly and Marian----" "I'm glad grandpapa isn't any real relation to me!" exclaimed Patricia. "I like father a million times better." "That comes of being a bachelor when you are married. I'm sure an old maid couldn't be any queerer. But then Mr. Madison is said to be very indulgent to his wife, and I'm sure he treats her like a prince. And father seems to be just as bitter against him as he was against Mr. Jefferson. It seems to me the world goes around just the same, no matter who is President. Mr. Ralston came in this morning and begged me to send for Marian. I couldn't tell him exactly _why_; and I'm sure I wish Mrs. Greaves was back again, and there wouldn't be any look for Marian." "Lieutenant Ralston was over to the Carringtons' a while last evening," said Jaqueline, and somehow she flushed in a quick manner that surprised herself, then added--"Mr. Carrington will be at the levee." "Oh, of course. It will be a fine affair. And Congress will adjourn so soon, I doubt if there will be another. There are to be state dinners to the Cabinet and the diplomats, but next winter there will no doubt be many gayeties. Jaqueline, you must run to bed and get your beauty sleep, there is no knowing how late we will be up to-morrow night." "I think Jane might feel a little sorry that I can't go," said Patty lugubriously, as they were preparing for bed. "It's Marian all the time." "You don't understand, Patty----" "Yes I do. That handsome young Mr. Ralston is in love with her, and grandpapa is going to make her marry that old Mr. Greaves because he has a big farm next to his. I'd marry the man I liked." "Nonsense! I'm not thinking about marrying." "Jaqueline, would you marry Mr. Roger?" "I've understood that it was good manners to wait until you were asked," turning to hide a blush. "I mean to marry someone," answered the younger. "Sleep on it first, Patty." The next afternoon the hairdresser came and added much state to Mrs. Jettson's appearance. There was pearl powder, a luxury to be indulged in only on great occasions. And though rouge was used, Mrs. Jettson had enough color of her own, and Jaqueline was resplendent with youth and health. This affair was in the state drawing room, which had grown rather shabby. Congress was considering an appropriation of five thousand dollars for refurnishing. The sofas were stiff, faded, and worn threadbare, and the window hangings were limp and had lost their color. But the light from the numerous candles softened and relieved the impairment of time. Mrs. Madison was in the yellow velvet; new gowns were not considered necessary for every occasion. Her beautiful neck and arms, which still kept the roundness of early womanhood, were adorned with strings of pearls, the short puffed sleeves rendered still prettier by a fall of exquisite lace. The skirt was drawn aside and displayed a white satin petticoat embroidered with gold thread, and her slippers were adorned with buckles that almost covered her dainty feet. About her were arranged the members of the official family, the ladies on one side, the gentlemen on the other. It was quite a little court. Most of the senators and the wives who were brave enough to give up home comforts to spend a winter in Washington had already met Mrs. Madison; indeed, by this time there were not many among the strangers who had not been presented. And so Miss Jaqueline Mason made her bow to the first lady of the land and glancing up with a quick rift of color caught the cordial smile that came with a warm clasp of the hand. "You have a good old Virginian name," she said. "Many of us are proud to call it home. It is my second home, the first in my affection now," and she gave the child another sweet smile. Jaqueline was more abashed than she had thought possible. She stepped aside in a little confusion. "Ah, here is Mr. Carrington. Shall I commend this young lady to your care? There are some places she might like to see and some curiosities. You are so much at home here." Roger Carrington bowed. Mrs. Jettson had found a friend in the wife of one of the more recent senators, and they were having a little chat, as it was that lady's first visit to Washington to attend the inauguration. So Roger slipped the fair hand within his arm, and they began a tour of the still unfurnished White House, though much nearer completion and in a better state than Abigail Adams had found it in her brief sojourn. Mrs. Madison's tact and grace had brought about a more congenial state of affairs even while wife of the secretary of state. There was in the conduct of both men and women a trifle of formality verging to a certain grandeur, yet gracious and truly courteous. There was no mad rush then for the first places. Presently the company broke up into chatty little groups. Jaqueline found herself quite a center in the midst of other centers. Here were two or three elderly men who had known her father. She saw a young neighbor in the throng whose eyes expressed so much amazement that she could not help smiling. Lieutenant Ralston had come in his soldier trappings, and there was quite a sprinkling of military men, with others in the Continental costume that gave such a picturesque aspect. Jaqueline had a fresh, girlish charm, and to-night she certainly looked lovely. Women and girls, when they were admitted to society, were expected to make themselves agreeable. No abstruse learning was required, and though they might have strong political preferences they were delicately veiled. Mrs. Madison had gone through four years of unusual stress, and the few enemies she had made were only those who envied her popularity. She had been discretion itself outwardly, and her opinions, her conferences, and her advice had been lodged only in her husband's bosom. Jaqueline had no care, no experience to conceal, and she had already tried her prentice hand on the students at Williamsburg. And that natural art of making men pleased with themselves, that charming deference, so great a factor in that day, was hers in an eminent degree. Roger Carrington watched her as she caught up the merry badinage and returned it with gay sparkles, and the pretty air that was half girlish demureness, the other half the indefinable charm of budding womanhood. Lieutenant Ralston took her in to the refreshment table set in the large dining room. "I wonder when you will see Miss Floyd?" he began in a low tone. "I hoped to the last moment that Mrs. Jettson could persuade her parents to let her sister come for a few days. You go to the Pineries quite often?" "Why, yes--some of us. Father has a truly fervent regard for grandmamma, and the girls come down frequently. They like better to come to us, I think. There is no real fun in staying at the Pineries. Of course when we were children we went dutifully." She gave a soft, light laugh. Ralston was considering. "Mrs. Jettson would be likely to know--of a visit?" hesitatingly. "She might--if we sent her the word." "I wonder if you will ever feel friendly enough to invite me? I like your father extremely. I was very glad to have the opportunity of meeting him. And your mother. You know we are all interested in Kentucky just now." "I think my parents would give you a very pleasant visit," Jaqueline said with a grave yet encouraging smile. The sort of conspiracy interested her. It was quite tempting to be able to hold out a hand of encouragement to Marian, who hated the dull life at the Pineries and did so enjoy amusement. Then, a real love affair thrilled Jaqueline with a delightful sensation. He was considering how to obtain the invitation honorably, when she furnished the key. "I think you would like my brother Louis," she remarked with a becoming shade of diffidence that went to his heart, it wore such a charming air of innocence. "He will be home in the early summer, and he always comes up to Mrs. Jettson's at once. Arthur takes a great interest in him. He is to study law and the science of government, if there is such a science. Father has an eye to the Presidency for him, I think." They both laughed at that. "The summer is a long way off," he commented rather despondingly. "The robins are singing and violets are in bloom. At home, no doubt, I shall find trailing arbutus." "They are spring indications." "You are hard to satisfy." "Am I? Well, I would rather have that reputation than one of being pleased with trifles." "Sometimes the trifles prove very agreeable." Mr. and Mrs. Cutts, Mrs. Madison's favorite sister, came sauntering slowly down with a bevy of friends, greeting many of the guests. She paused and glanced at Jaqueline. There was some of the charming affability about her that characterized the wife of the President. Indeed, she had been trained on the same lines. "I should like to be certain of this young lady's name. I did not quite catch it when she was introduced," Mrs. Cutts said in a tone that was complimentary in itself. Lieutenant Ralston presented his companion, who in turn was presented to several other notables. "Mason," she repeated. "Yes, I should guess you were a Virginian. My sister, you know, adores her home at Montpellier. Are you anywhere in her vicinity? That is, when she is in her true home? Though we have both become endeared to this ugly, unfinished Washington that we all have to look at by the eye of faith, and not only that, but make our friends see through the same lenses. Lieutenant Ralston, shall we ever have a Capital worthy of the nation?" "That knowledge is not quite in my line," he returned laughingly. "If war should come it will be my business to fight for it. And you can recall the old adage that Rome was not built in a day. Is it a historical fact or a Shaksperean apothegm? If the fact, we can take courage and go on." "Why, of course it took centuries to build imperial Rome," and Mrs. Cutts' eyes twinkled with amusement. "But they were always tearing down, you remember. Every emperor demolished so much that his predecessor had done. There must have been a good deal to start with." "And we started with nothing. I wonder anyone had the courage to leave lovely, refined, and gay Philadelphia for this desert! Now, if the tent had even been pitched in Baltimore it would have been more appropriate." "But, you see, when we built a country we wanted to try our hand at building a Capital to match. It will be fine enough when it is done, in a dozen years or so. And it unites the warring factions. One city cannot be jealous of another." "Miss Mason, this young man bewilders me and leads me astray. See what it is to be a soldier and a patriot. Now I am going to carry you off and introduce you to some girls. Are you going to stay long enough to go to a ball? Every Virginia girl dances." She was so bright and pretty that Mrs. Cutts was oddly interested in her. "Oh, I adore dancing and riding! But I am afraid--my father is to send for me in a few days. If he were coming himself I might beg off. Your suggestion is so tempting." "Perhaps you can. Now, here are some young people you must know," and turning away from the elders she introduced Jaqueline to a merry group. "Miss Mason and I are old friends," declared Roger Carrington with a smile. "She has been visiting with us and left us inconsolable." "Quite a compliment to your charms." Jaqueline blushed. "Or to the delightful hospitality of Madam and Mrs. Carrington. My sister was with me, and she was quite melancholy. We did have a charming visit. I am afraid we shall be so spoiled that our Virginia wilds will prove desert wastes." "Mr. Carrington, you must manage to keep Miss Mason over. The Dearborns are to give the young people a ball. We want it to be the event of the season, and that will soon be ended, alas! And we must gather the beauty and the chivalry." There was quite a gay little whirl for some moments and more merry badinage. More than one envious eye was cast upon the young girl, for Roger Carrington was considered one of the prizes in the matrimonial market. Sir Augustus Foster, who was secretary of the English Legation some years before, had said there was no lack of handsome women, and that he never saw prettier girls anywhere, and that the City was one of the most marrying places on the whole continent. "We missed you so very much," Roger began, when he had detached her a little from the group. "I had half a mind to come and confiscate one of you." "Patty would have been glad enough." "But _you_ were full of pleasure! Perhaps we seemed dull to you? We are rather quiet folk." He uttered the pronoun quite decisively, so much so that it brought the color to her cheek. "Oh, no, it was not dull! I enjoyed it extremely." "And if you stay for the ball will you not come over again? Mother liked you both so much. You will find it delightful at the Dearborns'. And I shall claim some dances." "You will hardly be crowded out, in that happy event," she returned brightly. Then there were some other introductions to noted people. Colonel Monroe was standing by, and shared them. Mrs. Madison came presently, leaning on Mr. Clinton's arm. "I hope you have had a pleasant time," the lady said graciously; "and that we shall see you frequently. I am very fond of young people." "I felt as if I ought to kiss her hand," Jaqueline whispered, with a scarlet face, to her companion. "That is the obeisance people are expected to pay to a queen." "Not in a republic. And every lady is a queen to a man at some period of her life." "Oh, Mr. Carrington! no one would suspect you of such a pretty speech." "Wouldn't they? Do I look as if I had no courteous speeches at my command?" He looked very handsome and winning at that moment. The company was breaking up. People came and went early on these occasions. Mrs. Jettson hunted up her charge. "I declare, Jaqueline, you have been one of the belles of the evening. Such a mere chit, too! And you looked very grand parading around with Ralston and Mr. Carrington. Poor Marian! It is a shame she couldn't have been here. And, Jaqueline, please don't forget that Lieutenant Ralston in a way belongs to her." The tone was rather sharp, but Jaqueline was too happy to resent it. Other young men had noticed her, as well. "He does not forget it. He was very sorry she was not here," Jaqueline replied after a moment. The well-trained maid helped them on with their wraps, and the footman found their carriage. Yes, Jaqueline was a pretty girl, Jane ruminated; but so much attention would soon turn her head. She was proud of her, and yet a little jealous for her sister's sake, who could enjoy pleasure quite as well. And Lieutenant Ralston was in the way of promotion, if he was not rich. The very next day a message came from Mr. Mason. A friend would be in Washington on Monday, and Tuesday morning they must be ready to start home with him. It was too late to get word back, and Jane took it for granted that they must go. Jaqueline gave a sigh and was minded to shed a few tears, but on Saturday Mrs. Carrington drove over for the girls to spend the Sunday with them. "Try and not be too coquettish, Jaqueline. It makes a young girl seem very forward," Mrs. Jettson advised. "Jane is growing unpleasant," Jaqueline thought to herself. "She wants Marian in everything." However, after the ball and one more levee there was not much gayety in the City. Congress adjourned, senators and representatives went home to consider at their leisure the grave questions pending. Mrs. Madison was much engrossed in the judicious use of the grant Congress had made. There were some new mirrors set, some dining-room furniture and china, new curtains and hangings, and upholstery done in gorgeous brocaded yellow satin. Still further, there was added a pianoforte; and the President ordered a chariot in Philadelphia for his wife, and the two horses were increased to four. The White House was to make a character for itself. CHAPTER VII. THE BEGINNING OF A LOVE STORY. "Why, you can just ask him down as you do any other friend," said Jaqueline with an air of innocence. "I half promised he should have the invitation. You will like him ever so much. _I_ like him," laughingly. "But Polly is coming----" "Don't ever let grandfather hear that 'Polly,' or he won't even leave you enough to buy a mourning ring. He thinks so highly of old English customs. What a chum he would have been for Sir Charles Grandison! Are people born too late or too early! What are you smiling at?" "The way you leap from one thing to another." "Which shows a variety of wit and knowledge, young collegian. Didn't Shakspere call it nimble wit? I have learned a great many things since I saw you last." "In an hour?" incredulously, and Louis raised his fine brows. "One might learn many things in an hour. And now, Mr. Tender Conscience, don't worry about Polly, as you have taken to calling her. She may come, and she may not. And if she comes she may be sent for the very next day. The Fairfaxes are sure to come; they have accepted. I warn you that Betty is a dreadful coquette. And Georgie Baker, and the Carringtons--at least Roger. And he is great friends with Mr. Ralston." "But we must not get in a row with grandfather. And a girl who hasn't spunk enough to stand up for the man she loves----" "Perhaps she isn't really in love with him. That ought to give any girl courage--to run some risks." "Well--I'm off. A long and sad farewell," and the young man assumed a tragic air. "Very good," she returned gravely. "Does a young man appreciate his inestimable privileges when he has a sister on whom he can practice?" He laughed and kissed her. Jaqueline went to her room and wrote a very properly worded letter to Marian. Maum Chloe had two new pudding recipes that were delicious. She had the latest sleeve pattern, and Madam Weare had been to spend the day, and wore such a lovely cap that she was quite sure grandmamma would like it. They had concocted one out of some old mull, the torn breadth of a gown, and Marian could take it home. Then Elizabeth Fairfax was making some of the prettiest darned lace, a Vandyke cape that was just coming in, and she would be here for a few days next week. If Marian could come down, even if she could only stay one night. The week afterward there would be an influx of company. It would be just delightful to have her and Dolly then--perhaps they _might_ be able to come--but Marian had better come and stay over. They would not want to be poking over lace-making and all that when there was lots of fun going on. Shrewd as Grandmother Floyd was she fell into the trap so adroitly set by this flighty young person. "Madam Weare is very genteel in her tastes and is not given to foolish things because they are new. I hardly know anyone who dresses so suitably. I do think Louis or Jaqueline might have ridden up. And I do not see what Patricia is about, or your uncle either, to let Jaqueline have her head so much. She ought to be learning something useful. The Fairfaxes are well enough, a nice family, and Elizabeth is a very well-behaved girl--industrious, too. But I'd like to see the lace Jaqueline will make!" with a strong touch of scorn in her voice, and a slight lifting of the nose to make it more emphatic. "The Vandyke capes are very pretty and graceful. Mrs. Lee brought one from Paris, and it cost a fortune," remarked Marian. "And darned net----" "I think I know what it is. Of course it is the pattern and the amount of work that makes it valuable. You might do one through the course of the summer, Marian." "If I knew how"--and the girl gave a little sigh. "Let me see the letter." Marian had been reading it aloud. "I don't know but you _might_ go, but I don't care to have you in the rabble of the week after. It would be a grand thing if that young Carrington would fancy Jaqueline and she would have sense enough to accept him. But such girls go through the woods and take a crooked stick at last." Nothing more was said for a day or two. Marian found an old engraving of a Vandyke collar and cuffs, only they were done in point lace. What kind of net was used, she wondered. And then her mother decided she would go down for the day and leave Marian for a night or two. But grandfather had a poorly spell, and she thought it best not to leave him. Marian rode her horse down, attended by old Cato, who had to go to Alexandria on some business and would escort her home on the third day. "Oh, good gracious!" cried Jaqueline; "if she _had_ come! For the rabble is here already, and someone _you_ will like to see. They've gone off fishing. Betty and Hester Fairfax and Georgie Baker are out on the west porch. We're in for a good time. Mr. Ralston and Roger Carrington came down with Louis, and to-night we are going to have a little dance." "Mother approves of Elizabeth Fairfax. And I _do_ want to know about the Vandyke cape and the cap pattern. Oh, Jacky!" Marian clasped her arms about her cousin, and the obnoxious name was forgiven. For the warm pressure was full of gratitude. "You are so wise about things, Jaqueline. Of course mother sees all our letters----" "As if I didn't know that," laughed Jaqueline. "But I wonder--oh, Jaqueline, do you suppose I will have to marry Mr. Greaves? You see, father has set his heart upon it. And I should be so near them, and so----" "The idea! A man double your age, and four children! You don't even like him. What is youth for but a time to be merry and glad and to have good times? And it was a shame you could not come to Washington! Lieutenant Ralston would have taken you everywhere, and Jane was up to white heat about it. It was all splendid. You're not engaged--you can't have been so foolish!" "Oh, Jaqueline! I wish I had your----" "Spunk!" Jaqueline exclaimed with a laugh, while Marian was considering. "You see, no one really governs you. Your father is so indulgent." "Oh, I don't have quite everything my own way, I assure you! But what have _you_ done in this matter?" "Why, Mr. Greaves has explained to father and mother. Of course he will not say anything to me until the year is up. He is very punctilious, and I am so glad he believes in the year. He comes over and we have a game of whist, which I hate, and get out of when there is other company. But father expects me to stay in the room. Occasionally he questions me about something--household affairs generally. Mrs. Greaves was an excellent housekeeper--much superior to his sister, he thinks." "Oh, Marian! I should die if I had to marry such a man. Come, let us go down to the girls and forget all about him. Cassy will put away your things." Marian lingered. "Well--what else?" impatiently. "You don't really want to tell me that you have a fancy for this wretched old fellow?" "Oh, no, no! But, Jaqueline--of course I did not know Mr. Ralston would be here, yet I had a sort of presentiment that you had planned something. And is it quite fair, do you think? I mean honest to--to enjoy it all? I am afraid he likes me." "I am quite sure he does. But I wasn't sure of his coming. Louis met him at Jane's, and likes him immensely. There are other girls here--it isn't at all as if you were the only guest. Don't worry, but let matters take their course. Come and see the lace-making." The three girls welcomed Marian warmly. Elizabeth Fairfax was nearly her own age, Hester younger, and Georgie Jaqueline's compeer and near neighbor. Elizabeth had a sweet Madonna face, with large, downcast eyes and a soft, deferential voice, but the eyes did ready execution on the hearts of the young men. She was always busy about something, and it was a study to watch her hands, they were so shapely and beautiful. Georgie was recounting amusing episodes, and in a few moments they were all laughing and talking. A table near by was loaded with fruit and cake, and a pitcher of homemade "shrub" gave them a delectable nectar. Betty had attended the inauguration, and as Marian listened her heart grew hot and rebellious that she should have been kept from the pleasure. She and her sister had been trained to a sharp obedience, kept in bonds like very children. Mr. Floyd had never cordially approved of his son-in-law. He considered it almost a crime to have been born north of Baltimore, and Mr. Jettson had grown up in northern New York, and to some extent made his own fortune. Jane had gone to Philadelphia for a year's schooling with an old friend of Mrs. Floyd's and come home engaged. Mr. Jettson had a business proffer in Washington, and somehow the marriage was pushed through in haste. Mr. Floyd had an objection to new people, to business people, to the manner in which things were being conducted at Washington, and to the Jefferson party generally. But he was fond of his daughter, and though he would not have confessed it he did admire her style, her knowledge of the City, and the fact that she was in the best society. But, after all, a large landed estate gave a man true dignity. Mr. Greaves agreed with him in politics, was of good old stock, and had aristocratic tastes, while Arthur Jettson really was plebeian. Since there was an opportunity Marian should marry to his liking. "I've been telling about your cape, Betty, and Marian wants to know how to do it. Spread it out. There, isn't that lovely?" The Brussels net was fine, and the flowers were made in outline and filled in with stitches that seemed a little raised, they were so close together, and had a satin-like effect. The shape was very graceful, with the points at the shoulders and in front. Fine needlework and lace-making were much esteemed. For years imported articles had been very high, besides the difficulty of getting them unless one went abroad. Beautiful specimens have come down to us, and one wonders at the patience and taste, when there were so many cares to life. Occasionally a slave woman evinced a peculiar genius for this delicate work, and the family considered her quite a treasure. "It is exquisite!" declared Marian, who was no mean needlewoman herself. Indeed, the work rather bewitched her. "Oh, I really must have one! But it will take a great deal of time." "Why, you see I have mine three-quarters done, and I take it up at odd spells and when I go visiting. And it is very easy when you once get started. You see, you follow the pattern in outlining. Then, some of my leaves and flowers are not wholly filled, and it has a very pretty effect, making a variety and less work. Jaqueline, can't you find a bit of lace; and Marian may outline this end of the pattern, and I can show her some of the stitches before the boys come home. We are going to ride then, I believe, and dance in the evening. We improve all our time when we are over here." "I shall be delighted," returned Marian. Jaqueline found some lace, and Marian went at the work eagerly. They spiced the employment with merry gossip and laughter and bits of teasing. The squire and Mrs. Mason came home from a business drive to a neighboring town. They had taken the two little girls for to-day; Varina had been in a most amiable mood. Then the fishermen returned, rather disgusted with their want of luck. "You know we did not want you to go," and Elizabeth raised her soft, reproving eyes. Mr. Ralston came around to Marian's side. "This is a pleasant surprise. I was hoping all the time. Only Miss Mason is such a torment. She was quite sure you wouldn't come. We almost quarreled about it this morning. And yet she is a charming girl. This house is the very embodiment of comfort and delight. I suppose you know I met the Masons at the inauguration? Oh, you can't think how disappointed I was! I had counted so on seeing you." Marian Floyd glanced in the speaker's eyes and hers fell, while a fluttering color crept up her face and her whole body seemed to thrill as at the touch of some subtle magnetism. She suddenly wished he would go away; he seemed to take the strength out of her. "Are you glad to see me?" in a breathless sort of way that seemed to demand an affirmative. "Yes." She did not mean to say it. The word came of its own accord. It was almost as if she had answered it to another question. "Come, fellows," began Louis, "let us drop our plebeian garb, with its ancient, fishlike smell." "That's good, considering there wasn't fish enough to make any sort of smell. Keep truth on your side." "And misquoting Shakspere, when it has been presented to us all winter in every aspect! Williamsburg has had a feast or a surfeit from college exercises to strolling players--some very good ones, too. Jaqueline, have you ordered the horses?" "Why, no!" "Then go at once, while we make ourselves beautiful. We shall not have too much time." Mr. Carrington had gone immediately to his room, and came down as Jaqueline was going through the hall. "The fishing was not much of a success. I would rather have sat under the trees and talked to you. Ah, here is your father." When they had greeted each other Jaqueline explained her errand. "Let us all go out together!" exclaimed Mr. Carrington. "My poor fellow will be glad to see me." "Marian must have a fresh horse; she rode hers all the way down. Oh, there are the Johnsons! Just in time for the fray," and she nodded over to two young men sauntering up the avenue. "Jaqueline, you ride the mare and give Marian your pony. I will go out and see to things." Jaqueline turned back, and the two young men gallantly dismounted, escorting her to the porch, where soon the five girls assembled in equestrian array, and the five cavaliers were at their service. "Do not stay out too late," admonished the squire. Marian hesitated. Louis led off with Elizabeth, who was much amused at the young collegian's aplomb. Hester was supposed to have a more than friendly interest in the elder Johnson brother. Mr. Carrington kept close to Jaqueline, and Ralston wheeled his horse around to Marian's side. "I wonder if there is a little fate in that?" and the squire nodded to the last couple. "Father has other plans for Marian." "You don't mean that he is in real earnest about that widower and the houseful of children?" inquired Mrs. Mason. "And you did not hesitate at five!" smiling humorously. "I _did_ hesitate. I think you can never know how much. But I was older and more experienced, and a good deal in love with the father of the children," flushing girlishly, "while Marian shrinks from Mr. Greaves. I do not think he would attract any young girl. Jane feels dreadfully about it. I like Lieutenant Ralston very much myself." "He is a fine fellow, but not really abounding in this world's goods, and that goes a great way with father." "Suppose it were Jaqueline?" "I had rather it would be Carrington." "But if she loved him?" "I do not think Marian is in love with anybody. I suppose I am too lax, but father Floyd is too rigid. And mother upholds him. The girls have been trained to obey. What will you do when Jaqueline refuses some nice, suitable, prosperous young man and sets her heart on a spendthrift--a ne'er-do-well?" "Turn her over to her father." Mr. Mason shrugged his shoulders, and his eyes twinkled. "And Annis?" "That is going a long way off." "But it isn't wisdom to throw Marian in temptation's way when it can only bring about trouble." "If Marian really fell in love that would solve the difficulty. Youth ought to mate with youth. Then both have the springtime of love. Did not you find it sweet? Answer truly." He smiled, and was silent a moment. Then he bent over and kissed her. "The summer has a richness as well. A cold, untoward spring never makes a fruitful summer." Then Mrs. Mason turned away to household cares. Charles was walking under the larches with his arm about Annis' waist. He was suddenly shooting up--a Mason trick--and was taller than the little girl and very devoted to her. Varina was upstairs trying on three different newly ironed white frocks. Patricia had gone to visit Aunt Catharine. "Chloe, have you made preparations for a host at supper, and a hungry host again about nine o'clock? I should call it a party." "Supper's all right. Dere's biskit 'nuff for a regimen'. And cake by de bushel. Chloe see company afore in dis ole house. De ham pink as a rose and de col' chicken 'nuff to make yer mouf water. An' cream an' jells an' fruit. De young folks no need to go to bed hungry." The mistress smiled. "Jest take a peep at de table." The snowy cloth, ironed to perfection, the quaint old silver service, the sparkling glass and china of various dates, and the great bowls of flowers made a picture. Through the open windows came the soft low caroling of birds calling each other home, and the tranquil noises of a country evening were like wafts of music. How delightful to be amongst it all, and at home! Yes, love was the great evangel of human life. The ride was most delightful. Gay young people seize every salient point of enjoyment. They were a little late to supper, which was a mirthful meal; then Sam and Darius began to tune their fiddles on the porch, and some young neighbors were added; and as no night was ever too warm to dance, they had a merry time. There was another long day of enjoyment to Marian Floyd. They went down to the bank of the Potomac on a picnic, with loads of provisions. They rambled about; they had a lazy, drifting sail adown the shadiest bank; they sang and jested, and went home gay, tired, happy, full of the gladness of youth. Marian was sharing Jaqueline's room from choice. The latter had grown into young-ladyhood so rapidly that it hardly seemed as if there was much difference in their ages, even though Marian was so much more sedate, and latterly had become rather timid. "I have had such a good time!" she said with a sigh. "I don't know when I have enjoyed anything so much. There are so few young people around the Pineries. Mother will be just delighted with that pudding, but she will think I ought to have done more lacework. I wonder if I will have time to finish that flower in the morning?" "You can get up early," suggested Jaqueline. "Very early--for we are going for a canter before breakfast." "Well--Cato can't get here before ten, I think. That will be after breakfast." "Then you can come to bed with a clear conscience. I think I am asleep everywhere but the tip of my tongue and a little spot in my brain." "And--I wanted to talk to you." Jaqueline tumbled into bed and squeezed up her pillow. "Talk fast," she said good-humoredly. Marian sat down on the side of the bed, combing her hair and twisting it up in two soft coils. Then she put on her nightcap, a dainty bit of lawn and ruffling, and looked pretty enough to charm anyone. "I don't know what to do! Oh, Jacky, I am the happiest girl and the most miserable girl alive!" Jaqueline raised on her elbow, quite wide awake at the admission. "Did you guess that Lieutenant Ralston cared? It is so--so wonderful to have a real lover, who can put his meaning in his eyes and in the clasp of his hand, and make you feel it all about you, just that way your father loves your mother. All day to-day I have been in that curious tremble; I wanted to look and I did not dare, and then I looked in spite of myself. And this evening----" "Yes--I managed that you should go off by yourselves. And now, Polly, you won't marry that Mr. Greaves?" "Oh, what can I do? You see, father is set upon it. And Mr. Ralston wants to come up and ask father, and I didn't dare tell him about it, and don't know what to do." "Why, let him come up. And if grandpapa won't give in, I'd run away, that's all. Oh, Polly, I am so glad! It must be just lovely! Though I do not want to be engaged just yet. I like fun. And there are so many fine gentlemen in Washington who say such pretty complimentary things and dance so beautifully, and Mrs. Carrington expects me to make her a long visit next winter. I'd rather have a dozen lovers than just one. But it is different with you, and you are older; and at home grandmamma treats you like a little child. Yes, I'd let him come and have it over." "But it would be awful. I never could get the courage to tell; and if father was taken by surprise----" "Why, I should say that a friend was coming----" "But he knows that Mr. Ralston paid me a good deal of attention when I was at Jane's, and that was why he would not let me go to the inauguration. And if I were to say he had been here two days, and I had ridden and walked with him, and he had said--he did not ask me to be engaged of course, until he had seen father." "And what did you say? You couldn't refuse altogether?" "I am afraid I said too much--that is, I let things go. I love him and I don't dare to, all in the same breath. And I know father will never let me marry him." "But Jane married the man of her choice." "There wasn't anyone else just then. And he thinks Jane might have done much better. You see, Mr. Greaves is there on the spot. And July will soon be here. Oh, dear!" Marian leaned down on Jaqueline's shoulder and cried softly. "Oh, I should be spunky! You are very sweet, Marian, and you give up too easily. You haven't any fight in you. They cannot force you to marry Mr. Greaves. Fathers might have done that years ago; and if you are firm and say you won't----" "Jaqueline, don't talk all night," said an admonishing voice. Marian was very shy and reserved the next morning during the ride, but more deliciously sweet to her lover, as the men of those days expected to really win their sweethearts. After breakfast she packed up her recipes and the cap pattern, and sewed industriously at her lacework. Louis drove Georgie home, and then was to do an errand for his father. The two young men were to go to Washington presently. Roger Carrington planned for the visit his mother was to make, and then they were to return it and bring Annis. He had taken a great fancy to the child. There was only time for a brief farewell when Cato came. "Shall I write to your father, or come?" the lover inquired in a decisive tone. "Oh, wait--I will tell you!" Marian answered hurriedly, frightened at the thought of the future, yet deliciously happy. CHAPTER VIII. AN ANGRY FATHER. Jaqueline was very busy paying visits and having a good time. They had been up to the Pineries twice without her. Truth to tell, she was a little afraid of her own counsel, and hoping Marian would have spirit enough to assert herself. One day she was very much surprised by the advent of Mr. Ralston. "Yes, honey; he jes' done ask to see you, not yer mar ner ennyone! And he looks jes laik a lover comin' to de house," announced Julia, one of the waiting-maids. Jaqueline went down with a deeper flush on her cheek and a beating heart. There was a courteous greeting, and then a touch of embarrassment. Ralston was first to surmount it. "Miss Mason," he began abruptly, "when have you seen Miss Floyd?" "Not since she was here. I have been away from home. Papa and part of the family were up last week." "Will you read this note?" It was from Marian--very brief and cold. She had considered the matter, and felt that it would be impossible to keep up the acquaintance. It would be useless either to come or to write. "If Miss Floyd was merely amusing herself, of course that is the end of it. Do you know whether she has a lover? There was some mystery about her I could not quite fathom. I may have been misled, but I thought she cared for me. Indeed," he added, flushing a little and softening his tone, "it seemed a case of mutual attraction at first sight. We became such friends while she was at her sister's." Jaqueline considered a moment. Then she said: "I had better tell you the whole story. And if you knew grandpapa--he is as arbitrary as a king. He looks like one too." She recapitulated the advances of Mr. Greaves, and admitted that Marian was yielding and stood in awe of her father. "But I am quite certain she loves you," declared the incautious girl. "I felt rather certain," with a satisfied half-smile. "And I can understand that Mr. Greaves is a rival not to be despised. I have no broad acres nor ancestral home, but youth and ambition and a good profession. Surely when Mr. Floyd comes to understand, he cannot force his daughter's inclinations! I will devote my whole life to her, my best energies. I am sure I shall succeed." "Marian never could resist him if she saw him now," Jaqueline thought, he looked so proud and so in earnest. But Grandpapa Floyd! "You give me hope. You are young to advise anyone in a love affair," and he laughed in a genial, amused fashion. "I came here because you knew about those two days, and I thought you might be more in Miss Floyd's confidence than her sister, though I can count on Mrs. Jettson's influence and approval, I am certain. Do you think Miss Floyd may have told her father?" "Oh, no; I am sure she has not. Only I do think some influence has been brought to bear upon her, and she has felt afraid----" Jaqueline looked very pretty and spirited, standing up straight and slim, her dark eyes aglow with earnestness and eager interest. She would not be afraid to stand up for her lover. "Shall I go or write?" "Oh, I am afraid to advise!" She turned pale then. "And it is unmanly to ask it." "Perhaps papa could tell better." "I wonder if I might see him?" "Oh, yes. Will you amuse yourself while I find him? Louis is away, and the children are having a picnic down in the grove." Mr. Mason was ensconced in a willow easy-chair, with a high back and a cushion, while his wife was reading aloud from the pages of Oliver Goldsmith. He glanced up, and Jaqueline suddenly realized the gravity of the matter in hand. "Mr. Ralston is here, and would like to see you, papa!" she exclaimed persuasively. "Ah--can't you bring him out here?" "It is quite important and----" hesitatingly. "Yes, I'll come." He reached for his coat, and sighed at the added warmth. Jaqueline slipped her hand through his arm. "It's about--Marian." "I was afraid there would be trouble. Jack, was their meeting here pure accident? Tell me the truth. Or did you have mischief in your mind?" "It wasn't _quite_ that. But Marian did not know. And I did not really promise Mr. Ralston." "I wish you had kept out of it, my girl." "But Marian _does_ love him. And surely grandpapa will never make her marry that stupid old Mr. Greaves!" "Take care. I am getting old." "But you will never be stupid." She reached up and kissed him. "You know grandfather is very fond of having his own way. Mr. Greaves isn't so bad, when all is said." "You wouldn't make me marry him?" "I am afraid I would have a tough job," and he laughed. "Now I shall leave you to your own wisdom." The squire nodded. The young lover presented his case in a very straightforward, honorable fashion. Mr. Mason's heart went out to him, but he understood his stepfather's obstinacy and his dislike to be meddled with or thwarted. His mother was in favor of the marriage also, which would make it harder for Marian. "If you write to Mr. Floyd you will receive a polite but decided dismissal. If you see him I am afraid the result will be the same, and less pleasant to remember." "Do you suppose I am coward enough to relinquish the woman I love in such an emergency as this? If I heard from her own lips that she did not care for me, that would influence my conduct. But I am certain she does care, and I want her to know that I am ready to take any step for her happiness. I am too much of a soldier to give up without an effort, even if I have seen only fair-weather service. What would you have done in your youth?" "Made a good fight," smiling at the other's eagerness. "Then I shall go. To be merely dismissed would be mortifying. And any woman would despise such a tame lover! Thank you for your cordial reception. In any event I shall count on your friendship." He shook Mr. Mason's hand warmly. "But you will stay and have some supper with us? And why not accept our hospitality for the night?" "Thank you. I have some important matters on hand to-morrow morning. I am truly sorry not to have a delightful evening with you, and I am indebted to you for this kindly attention on a troublesome subject. I sincerely trust that some day I shall stand in a nearer relation. You can wish me success--I hope?" The truth and honor in the lines of the face appealed to the elder man. He had found so many charms in his new wife, so much sweetness in the daily love, that he could be generous in his wishes. "Yes, I hope you will succeed," and the squire said it from the depth of his heart, although his latent judgment was not so hopeful. "He will go to the Pineries," he said as he rejoined his wife and daughter. "It will not do any good, and I am afraid we are in for a family fracas. Marian may refuse to marry Mr. Greaves, but her father will not accept Ralston. I am sorry. They would make a nice, happy young couple." "But she might wait a year or two." "It isn't easy waiting when there is no real hope, and the influence is all on the other side. You see, Grandfather Floyd has trained his children to habits of obedience. He isn't turned about with every wind of doctrine, as I am. Not a child stands in awe of me. And when I pick out my future son-in-law, Miss Jaqueline, I expect you will turn up your pretty nose and utterly refuse him." "I shall if he has four children belonging to another woman." Her father raised his brows. The young girl turned scarlet and clasped her arms about Mrs. Mason's neck. "Mother dear, forgive that awkward speech. We are all glad to have you, as you must be aware by this time, and since you are such a comfort and pleasure to papa it would be the height of jealous unamiability not to love you. But if _you_ had left four children you wouldn't want me for their stepmother, would you, now? Confess the truth." She looked very arch and pretty, and her voice had a persuasive cadence that amused her father. "They might fare worse, my dear girl," returned Mrs. Mason. "I should trust Annis anywhere with you. And Marian would make a charming mother, but I do think she is entitled to some young, sweet life of her own. I cannot help thinking how one extreme begets another. Your grandparents are very authoritative----" "Domineering is better," interposed the squire laughingly. "You are great for picking out the softer words, Patty. Mr. Floyd is of the old school, and his beliefs intensify with age. His children were put in the world to honor and obey him. Brandon married an heiress with an estate and no end of slaves. Jane slipped through with the man of her choice, but you can notice that he is rather captious about Arthur, who is doing very well and will be a rich man if he doesn't blunder in the Washington bogs. I think myself Marian and Dolly are kept in very narrow bounds. Dolly has a way of slipping out, but Marian is rather timid." "The system has made her so, but I should think she would have inherited a good deal of spirit and force of character." "I think I shall turn over a new leaf myself," declared the squire, with a twinkle of humor in his eye. "In the future, Miss Jaqueline, I wish you to consult me about your goings-out and comings-in. You are to say 'Sir' to me in the most respectful fashion. Perhaps your mother would like you to address her as 'Madam.' You are to take no hand in the affairs of foolish young lovers. You are not to go careering about the plantation on horseback, but to be sober, discreet, and industrious with your needle. Perhaps it would be well for you to keep a journal. Is there anything else? I must consult Aunt Catharine. Your mother is quite too easy." There was a laugh in every dimple and line in the young girl's face. Any pretense of austerity sat oddly enough on the squire's round, humorous countenance. There was a sudden interruption of the three younger children racing up the patch in a breathless fashion. Annis went straight to her mother's arms, Charles halted at his father's side and snatched his hand. "Is Annis my sister truly, papa?" "But it's just the same," interrupted Varina, whose tone indicated that she had been in a warm discussion. "And, papa, can he marry her?" "More family difficulties!" declared the squire. "Is the world going crazy? And, Varina, marriages do not begin with the babies of the family." "I'm not a baby." Charles straightened himself up to his tallest. "I said when I was a grown man I should marry Annis. I am going to study hard and go to Congress; perhaps I shall be sent abroad on some mission." "And isn't the husband always the oldest, papa? Charles is almost two years younger than Annis." "One year and eight months," corrected Charles. "I don't see what difference it can make. I shall be the tallest and earn the money. And she isn't my own sister. She isn't any real relation. But if she was my cousin I could marry her." The squire laughed heartily, which rather disconcerted Varina. "Truly," he said, "love seems to have broken out as a distemper. And so you want Annis for a sweetheart, Charles? What does Annis say to all this?" Annis was caressing her mother's hand. "She likes me better than anybody except her mother." "Oh, little Annis, have you thrown me over? And after the pony, too!" The squire's voice was whimsically upbraiding, and his glance touched her tender heart. She flew over to him. "Oh, I do love you!" she cried. "But you have mamma, and I know I can never get back all of her." "Do you want all of her back? Would you take her away?" "I wouldn't have any home to take her to. And she likes it here and all the children and you, and I like it too now. I don't mind giving part of her away." "And next she likes me." Charles went around and stood by her side in his manliest pose. They made a pretty picture. "I thought you loved _me_ a good deal," interposed Jaqueline. "Oh, I love you all!" said the child, though she glanced doubtfully at Varina. "But, then, girls don't marry ever, no matter how much they love each other," said the young admirer. "And she _is_ our sister," persisted Varina. "Not in that sense, my little girl. And the age makes no difference. So she can be Charles' sweetheart until he goes to college and gets another one." "But I do not mean ever to get another one. And we were playing keep house under the big hemlock. Dinah had made us some cookies. And Rene was the company----" "I shall not be company any more," returned the child, with a toss of the head. "If you want Annis, take her then." "There, children, no quarreling. Aren't the cookies good enough to be peacemakers?" "But we've eaten them all up." Varina marched off in a huff. Jaqueline was laughing. Mrs. Mason looked annoyed. The stepfather kissed Annis tenderly. "There," he said, "run off and finish your play. Be the best of friends, and have the best times you can. The world will look different to you a dozen years hence, and love will settle perplexities." Jaqueline had followed her sister, though she knew Varina was generally the marplot in their play. "Oh, Randolph, how could you!" exclaimed Mrs. Mason, with a touch of upbraiding. "Such matters are too grave and serious for children's plays." "Yet I suppose we have all taken a hand in it. When I was a boy of nine or ten I was very much in love with a young relative who used to visit us. She taught me to dance, and I remember I wrote some verses to her. She must have been at least fifteen, for two years later she married, and I was so surprised and hurt that I think I always hated her husband until I was nearly grown and fell in love again. And after that I met your cousin." Mrs. Mason still looked unconvinced. "It won't hurt Charles. I like to see boys chivalrous and devoted, and Annis is such a darling. It would delight me if they were old enough to have it all in sober earnest. There, do not look so grave over a little childish nonsense. Let us rather be fortifying ourselves for the avalanche that is to descend on our devoted heads. One can hardly blame Jaqueline, but I am afraid poor Marian will have a hard time. Presently _we_ shall begin to be plagued with lovers." Mrs. Mason gave a little sigh. It had been quite a task at first to induce Annis to be really friendly with the children; now she and Charles were inseparable. At first Varina had tormented them with childish jealousy, though there were not many of their enjoyments she wanted to share. Boisterous games and frolics were more to her fancy than books, but Annis could have listened forever. They were both extravagantly fond of flowers and rambling about. Mrs. Mason had so many duties to the household and the slaves, that she was often relieved when the little girl found amusement elsewhere. And Charles was an admirable companion, with his even temper, his heroic romances, his innate love for whatever was noble and true, his courtesy and kindliness. In the earlier years Varina had quite tyrannized over him, but as their tastes began to differ he quietly emancipated himself with the rare art born in some people. The tutor had given him a dignity of position. Annis appreciated this quiet side of his nature, though she enjoyed the songs and dances and frolics of the pickaninnies, and often joined in a game of romps. Just now the mother had a half-jealous feeling that her child should find satisfaction elsewhere. There were so many years between her and womanhood that it was foolish to pay heed to the child's play, she knew. From various causes they had not made their usual weekly visit to the Pineries. Jaqueline half wished Patricia would insist upon going, but she did not. As for herself, she hardly dared venture, lest some untoward questions might be asked. And so one day the old-fashioned yellow coach with driver and footman turned up the avenue. There had been a recent rain, and the air was cool and fragrant. Mr. and Mrs. Mason were out on the wide porch at the northern end. Dinner was over, and the squire had tilted back his chair where he could lean against the great square column, and prepared for his siesta. Mrs. Mason was sewing. The girls were in the big swing under some great sycamore trees, and Louis was lounging on the grass. "Randolph, your mother and Mr. Floyd," said his wife, startled. Mr. Mason rose, but the footman had helped out Mr. Floyd, who sat nearest, and Mr. Mason clasped his mother's hand after she had alighted. "This is a great surprise and pleasure, but the air is magnificent, just the day for driving. I was over to the courthouse most of the morning. I've had that bother of the Chaffee estate on my hands, but we are getting it into shape. It has taken a good deal of my time." "We had looked for you up," returned his mother, with a touch of asperity in her tone. "Scipio, see that the horses are put out----" "The horses have been attended to. We stopped at Rhoby's and had a little rest and a bite of something." "But you will have dinner----" "No, no!" Mr. Floyd waved his long white hand impressively. "We have not come to stay, and will drive back presently." Mrs. Mason had come forward and greeted her guests. But she felt the storm in the air, and caught the perplexity in her husband's eye. "Shall we go within?" "No; it is so much pleasanter here. There is enough time in winter to be shut up in rooms. Give me the great world out of doors, when it is neither too hot nor too cold." "All are well, I suppose?" asked Mrs. Mason. "Brandon's little son is quite ill--the second child. We only heard last evening. Some kind of a fever. I hope it will not be severe. They are fine boys," declared their grandmother with pride. "We have escaped wonderfully on the plantation. Very little sickness so far," Mr. Mason remarked, and there was an ominous pause. "Mr. Mason," began the old gentleman, clearing his voice, "I had a visitor a few days ago, who, I understood, had your countenance in a very impertinent matter. I was amazed that you should for a moment entertain the thought that anything he might say would be acceptable to me--to us," glancing at his wife. Randolph Mason met the issue squarely. "You mean Lieutenant Ralston?" "That ill-bred puppy who, if he wants to do his country any service, had better go out against the Indians and protect the border people from their depredations instead of flirting around after women. I wonder that you sent him on such a fool's errand. You knew my plans concerning my daughter Marian?" "I advised him to write to you, but he was very much in earnest and thought he could plead his cause better." "The fellow is a silly, insufferable idiot! Yes--I know," waving his hand authoritatively, "the kind of people Jane consorts with, and I might have been certain the society there would do the girls no good. But that you should not only aid and abet him, but allow your home to be made the scene of an intrigue, is treating your mother and myself shamefully, and exposing your young sister to the machinations of an unprincipled fellow! If you choose to allow your daughters to consort with such cattle----" "Hold, Mr. Floyd! I will not have an honorable young man accused in that manner, neither will I allow you to traduce my household. There was no intrigue, but an accidental meeting here----" Mr. Floyd rose in a passion, his eyes sparkling, his face flushed. "Do you dare to tell me there was no underhand plan in all this? Jaqueline's adroitly worded note, that might have aroused suspicion if we had not considered you above such a scheme. It was atrocious, sir! We had refused to have her visit her sister on that account. She had met the young man there. And how was it _he_ should come at this particular juncture?" "My son brought him down from Washington. He is in the habit of asking his friends. Another friend was coming, Mr. Roger Carrington." "Where is Louis? Let me see him. Let him deny his part of the plan, if he can, with truth." "Mr. Floyd, do common justice to the young man. He is a fine, highly esteemed person, in a good position, and numbers his friends among the best. His attentions would be no insult to any woman. That a pretty young girl should be admired is no uncommon thing; that more than one man should want to marry her is nothing derogatory. You may not care to accept him for a son-in-law----" "She should not marry him if she never married at all!" thundered the irascible old man. "I had other and better plans for her. Some months ago one of our most estimable neighbors, a man of large property and unsullied reputation, asked for her hand. Being a widower, he would make no advances until the year of mourning had expired, which certainly evinced a delicacy worthy of all commendation. Marian knew she was as good as betrothed. Ha! Louis!" as the young man crossed the porch. "Tell me the truth, sir? Did you not bring that scheming adventurer down here to meet Marian?" "I have no idea to whom you refer. I have no such person on my list of acquaintances," declared Louis haughtily. "That beggarly lieutenant! Don't tell me he wouldn't be glad enough to marry a girl with a good dower." "I certainly asked Lieutenant Ralston to come with Mr. Carrington. I knew the Fairfax girls were to be here, but Marian was a surprise to me." "You are not telling the truth, young man." "Very well. Believe as you like." Louis turned on his heel and walked off indignantly. "Father," said Mrs. Floyd reprovingly, "Jaqueline must have known. It was her letter that made all the trouble. I dare say Louis was not in the plot." Mrs. Floyd was proud of her fine-looking grandson. He had always been a favorite. "Yes; where is that deceitful girl? I warn you, Randolph Mason, that you will have trouble with one so headstrong and lawless." "You forget you are speaking of my daughter." "I don't care whose daughter she is!" the old man roared in his anger. "I want to tell her that her schemes have fallen through, that she has only made Marian a miserable, disobedient girl in encouraging this wicked fancy when she was on the eve of an engagement with her parents' approval and sanction." Jaqueline walked across the path and up the steps with her head held haughtily erect. "I am here to answer for any crime I may have committed," she said in a clear, cutting tone. "Papa allows us some liberty in choosing our friends, and certainly as guests in the house they are under his supervision. The Fairfaxes were old neighbors. The Carringtons were old friends of my own mother and her dear cousin. Mr. Ralston is held in high esteem in Washington. I was not at all sure Marian would come when I wrote, but I thought it a good opportunity----" "For that fellow to turn her head with his wretched nonsense, to make her silly and disobedient and full of romantic notions. But it will do no good, I tell you! She has been proposed to in due form by Mr. Greaves, and you may notify your friend that she is engaged. And, Miss Jaqueline, I warn you not to write her any letters upholding your views, which are certainly most pernicious and shocking for a young girl. Until she is married you are not to meet again. I call you a dangerous girl." "That will do," said Randolph Mason, coming and taking his daughter's hand in his. "I think you quite forget yourself, Mr. Floyd. If Marian had not cared for this young man there would not have been any trouble. Beware how you compel her to marry one man while her heart is another's!" "My daughter has been trained to habits of obedience and respect for her parents' opinions," returned the old gentleman loftily. "You will find that you have made a great mistake in the rearing of yours. But, on the other hand, they have been bereft of a mother's wisdom and care, such as _your_ mother has given to mine," and he bowed in a courtly fashion to Mrs. Floyd. "I am afraid that you, madam," turning to Mrs. Mason, "will find your way a thorny one indeed, if you have any regard for the probity and welfare of these children you have undertaken to train." "We will not go into a discussion of methods," returned Mr. Mason with a sort of dry austerity. "I am sorry that Marian's meeting Lieutenant Ralston here should have led to such an unpleasant culmination. Young people of to-day do have more liberty than the older generation, yet I should have taken it very hard if Jaqueline Verney's father had compelled her to marry a man she did not like when she loved me. So we cannot blame the young man for trying----" "That was a suitable, sensible match," interrupted Mr. Floyd. "This is a foolish, sentimental affair. And I have to say if it receives any more encouragement from this house, it will make a lasting breach. If Marian should dare to leave her home and throw herself on this fellow's protection we should cast her out altogether, and she would be no daughter of ours." "Father, father!" entreated Mrs. Floyd, placing her hand upon his arm. "I mean it. This is my warning. I will not be interfered with." Mr. Mason had been standing beside his wife's chair. Now he advanced toward his stepfather. "I have made my apology. I am sorry such a thing should have happened here, though I cannot find it in my heart to blame the young people. And now let us heal the difference. Have a glass of wine and some refreshments." "We must return at once. It is a long ride. But I wanted you to know what your daughter's meddling had led to, and my unalterable determination. Come, Elizabeth," holding out his hand to his wife. "We shall be glad to see you and Mrs. Patricia, but for the present I insist there shall be no communication with the young people." He glared at the group and turned away. Mr. Mason offered no further entreaty, but went around to his mother's side. "Twice you have married the man of your choice," he said in a low tone. "I suppose you have been very happy. Try and deal gently with Marian and persuade rather than force." "You will understand when your girls want to make unsuitable and willful marriages. You had better look sharply after Jaqueline. When Marian is left alone she will soon recover her tranquil frame of mind. Jane is interdicted as well. Jane has grown very frivolous since she has had so much Washington society. And Mrs. Madison is extremely worldly and vain, and not to be compared with Mrs. Adams or Mrs. Washington." Mrs. Mason rose and bade her guests a formal adieu. Mr. Mason walked down the broad steps and saw them seated in the coach. When it had turned into the winding part of the avenue Jaqueline made a rush and flung her arms around her father's neck. "Oh, papa, dear!--I never supposed it would make any trouble. And I wasn't sure Mr. Ralston would come, or Marian either, for that matter, and I never said a word to Marian. Jane is so much interested in the matter, and both she and Mr. Jettson like Mr. Ralston so very much. But grandpapa grows more and more arbitrary----" "Of course he was very much vexed. I am afraid I am a foolish fellow and let you children run over me. You don't even seem to stand in awe of your stepmother. I shall have to get my backbone stiffened by some process." CHAPTER IX. THE WEAKER VESSEL. They came up the steps with their arms about each other. Mrs. Mason stood there, Annis clinging to her skirt, Patricia and Varina looking on in curious expectancy. Louis ventured out of his retreat. "We don't want papa changed any, do we?" placing her other arm over her mother's shoulder, and glancing fondly into her eyes. "I wouldn't live with grandpapa for all the world!" began Patricia. "There, children!" exclaimed their father; "we will not discuss the matter. Mr. Floyd feels sure he is right, and I am very sorry it should have happened, though I can't see that any of you were out of the way----" "I knew Ralston cared a great deal for Marian," said Louis, "and I never imagined that old Mr. Greaves would stand in the way. Do you suppose he would if he knew it? And I admire Ralston bearding the lion in his den. It's a shame that poor Polly should have to suffer, but I hope she will be spunky and not give in." "Do you mean to make us marry whoever you like?" Patty edged up to her father and raised a saucy face with laughing eyes. "You will find me terrible when you reach that period," declared their father. "At present there are enough things for you to consider and learn about without taking up marriage." "Do you suppose grandpapa is in real earnest? He looked very resolute, didn't he? I've seen him angry with the slaves, and I shouldn't like to belong to him, I really shouldn't. And do you think he actually doesn't want any of us to come up----" "Not at present. I trust the matter will blow over. Marian will give in after a while and, no doubt, be very comfortable. Ask your mother if she is sorry. I know little Annis wants to go back to Kentucky," and he pinched the child's cheek. "You'll have to go alone," declared Louis. "But I can't go alone; I should get lost. And I don't want to go away from you all." Mrs. Mason flushed and smiled at the raillery. "But, you see, we are old enough to appreciate mamma," began Jaqueline. "And those Greaves children are all little, and they are very plain too. One of the boys has a squint eye. It looks so queer, as if he always saw two ways. And poor Marian will have to settle to playing whist, and she does love so to dance. She had such a good time here, and in Washington with Jane." Dixon, the overseer, came up the path. Mr. Mason was wanted to settle some matter. Patty and Jaqueline sat down on the step by their mother and Annis leaned against her knee, while Varina hung over Patty's shoulder, rather to her sister's discomfort. And, in spite of their father's request, they went on talking of Marian. Their mother said they were too young to know what was really best in such matters; but they thought they did, and she could not lead them to other subjects. They were very happy, and not difficult to get along with, if they were rather lawless. To be sure, Jaqueline did evince a tendency to admiration, and often gave dangerous glances out of eyes that could look languishing as well as laughing. Louis did not hesitate to express his indignation to both of his sisters. "Grandpapa is an old tyrant!" he declared; "and I dare say we'll never hear. It's like someone taking off your book when you are at the most interesting part." "Do you suppose we'll be asked to the wedding?" wondered Patty; "and what a farce congratulations would be? 'I hope you will be very happy.' 'I wish you much joy.'" Patty pirouetted round, shaking an imaginary hand and using a most affected tone, at which they all laughed. But Marian surprised them all with a letter, written the day her parents were away. How she sent it was a mystery. It excited them all beyond measure. "It was dreadful," she wrote. "Oh, Jaqueline! if I could have known Lieutenant Ralston was there I should have rushed into the room and told him that I loved him, and that I should never, never marry anyone else, if father shut me up in a dungeon and kept me on bread and water! But I did not know until he was sent away, and I can't know all that father said to him, but I do know he was very fierce and unreasonable. And I was so frightened when father went at me that I had to confess about those two delicious days. He was sure it was a plot on your part, and he taxed me with having known all about it. I didn't dream of such a thing at first, but I am afraid it was so. "I never saw anyone so angry. At first I was dreadfully frightened. But when he accused me of duplicity and forwardness, and said I had run after Mr. Ralston, it roused me, and I said I loved him and I never would marry anyone else. I know he would wait years for me. And when Mr. Greaves asks me I shall tell him plain out how I feel about it, and I am quite sure he will not want to marry me. I hate the prosy old fellow! I wish Mr. Ralston could know how much I care for him. I expect you are having a terrible time to-day with father. Oh, I wish he could be like brother Randolph! Oh, Jaqueline, do you know how delightful it is! And your mother is so sweet, just like another girl. Such old people as father and mother forget they ever were young." There was much more youthful and romantic protest and resolve. "I really didn't think Marian had so much force of character," said Louis. "I do wonder if it would be wrong to give Ralston an inkling of how the case stands? It seems as if she almost expected us to do it." "I think papa ought to see the letter," returned Jaqueline soberly. "And I almost know he will not want us to stir further in the matter. Marian must have someone she can trust, or she would not have dared to write the letter. Oh, I hope she will be true and brave, and some time it may come out right!" "Mis' Jettson's come," said Julia. "And your pa and ma have gone over to Middle Creek." "Oh, Jane!" They all made a rush to the great front piazza, Jaqueline with her letter in hand. "Oh, girls!" cried Jane, "did you have a dreadful time when father was down here? He wrote me a letter. But Lieutenant Ralston had been in, and he told me of his call at the Pineries. You see, he thought they were as good as engaged; only he meant to begin honorably, and ask father's sanction to his addresses. But father was--yes, really outrageous--if he is my father! I've always felt he would be a gentleman under any circumstances, but this was insulting, abusive; and Lieutenant Ralston is well bred and well connected, and is in the way of getting a fine position. And, in any event, there was nothing derogatory to Marian in his falling in love with her. Why, he is invited almost everywhere, and the girls are pulling straws for him. Then father writes me a very cross and irritating note, and says for the present Marian is to hold no communication with me--my own sister, too!--and that I am not to mention nor in any way refer to Mr. Ralston, but that any letter of mine will be read by him first. Why, we might as well go back to the Dark Ages, or be Puritans at once! I believe those old Puritan fathers compelled their daughters to marry to their liking. If I _could_ only know how Marian feels! Why do you all look so queer? Jaqueline, who is your letter from?" "From Marian," said the girl, with rising color. "Oh, I _must_ see it." She took it from Jaqueline's hand. "Oh, poor, dear Marian! If she loves him it will be all right. And she does. I think father won't have such an easy time persuading her to marry Mr. Greaves. Why, he could have been her father; he's old enough! And none of us can write to her. It is too cruel! Now tell me what was said the day they were down here." The scene lost nothing by repetition. They all agreed about the injustice. Then Jane decided she would return at once. The baby was teething and rather fretful. They were to go to Bladensburg for a fortnight. "And, Jaqueline, I wish you could come. It is really quite gay there, and the water is said to be so good. Arthur is too busy to leave, and often has to spend his evenings drafting and making plans. Patty might come too, if she liked." So the word of encouragement went its way to the lover, and was a great comfort and delight. "I hope you will all respect grandfather's wishes," said Mr. Mason, when he read his young sister's letter. "I shall trust you not to hold any communication with Marian." "But if Jane does?" commented Louis. "That is not strictly our affair. And, Louis, do not be too ready to give young Ralston the encouragement of this letter, even. Mr. Floyd is very tenacious and----" "Oh, you might as well call it obstinate," laughed Louis. "Perhaps Marian may inherit some of the same characteristics, when it comes to the point. And I fancy we are all on her side. It is as you once said, Jack, we _do_ have to take sides!" "And I'm going to be on Marian's side," said Varina proudly. "I don't like grandpapa very much. Annis, what will you do?" "I like Marian," she replied a little timidly. "Now we must go and see what side Charles will take. The old knights fought for the ladies." "I see you are all arrayed in rebellion," and the squire shook his head. "I am afraid I have not brought you up properly." Jaqueline and Patty went to Bladensburg, which was quite a resort. Louis joined a party who were going down the Chesapeake in a sailing vessel, and the three young ones played and disputed and made up friends. The elders essayed several duty visits to the Pineries, but they saw the girls only in the presence of their parents, so Marian had no opportunity of explaining how matters were going with her; but she was thinner and heavy-eyed, and had lost her spirits. Mr. and Mrs. Floyd held their heads high and were rather captious. What had happened when Mr. Greaves' year of mourning had expired was that he went over to the Pineries one afternoon dressed in a new suit and gotten up quite in the style of the day. After Marian entered the room he made a formal proposal for her hand and asked her father's consent. "You have mine, most cordially," said Mr. Floyd in his grandest manner. "It is my wish that my daughter should accept you as her future husband. It is natural and womanly that she should have some misgivings on the subject, as it is a grave one and full of responsibility. But we have reared her to do her duty in that state of life to which it shall please God to call her. And her mother and I hope to see her fill this place in your home and your affections, and become a happy wife at the proper time. We are in no hurry to part with her, but until that time you will be a most welcome guest." Marian shivered, but her tongue clung to the roof of her mouth when she would have spoken. It seemed to her as if she should scream if he touched her hand, but he contented himself with making a rather elaborate speech to her mother, and pressing the elder's hand to his lips. There was some wine and cake brought in, and healths were drunk. After some desultory conversation supper was announced, a very high tea befitting a festive occasion. There was the inevitable game of whist afterward. This was Thursday, and Sunday Mr. Greaves walked over to the Floyds' pew, and down the aisle with Miss Marian, Mrs. Floyd having taken Dolly under her wing. And the matter seemed to be settled without any voice from Marian either way. "But it is dreadful! I never, never will marry him!" sobbed the girl on Dolly's neck in the quiet of their own chamber. "If I _could_ run away! And if I only knew about Mr. Ralston!" "If we could only hear from Jane! You will have to let things go on and hope for some way out of it. I wonder who will come along for me? And we might be having such a delightful time with Jane! I sometimes wish Mr. Ralston had not come to hand and spoiled it all." "But you can't think, Dolly, how deliciously sweet those two days were! A whole lifetime of that!" sighingly. "But men only love that way a little while. Then it gets to be an old story and is merely respect," returned the wise younger sister. "I am sure Arthur is fond of Jane and proud enough of her too, and look at brother Randolph! Oh, I just envy Jaqueline! What a nice time she will have!" Dolly had said so many times, "It's just awful, Marian," that she had nothing more left to say. Then, it was hard to be watched and questioned and not allowed any liberty on Marian's account. She didn't see how Marian could run away, for she was never trusted to go anywhere alone. And no well-bred girl would throw herself at her lover without a very urgent invitation. The clergyman and his wife came in to tea, and found Mr. Greaves there, and congratulated them both. Then the neighbors took it up as a settled thing, and poor Marian felt the net closing about her. There had been a vague half-expectation that Lieutenant Ralston would make some effort to assure her of his constancy. Or if some word could come from Jane! Louis went back to Williamsburg, and Patricia was sent for some educational advantages. There was a new little girl at the Jettsons', and Jaqueline was to be one of the godmothers. Afterward Jane pleaded so hard for her to remain. She could go on with her French and her singing, as she had a very pretty voice and singing was one of the accomplishments of the day. Then, too, the Carringtons were very glad to have her. Indeed, Jaqueline was a great favorite for her vivacity and her charming manner, which was so pretty and deferential to her elders, so bright and winsome to her compeers. Mrs. Mason took up the education of the two little girls with Charles' help. He went over to the house of the clergyman every morning, who was a graduate of Oxford and quite ready to piece out his salary with a class of five small boys in the neighborhood. Charles was a born student, delighted with all kinds of knowledge. Annis was always interested as well. "You will make the child a regular bookworm," declared the squire. And then he would take her and Varina off for a canter over the hills. "I don't see why girls and women shouldn't love to learn," Charles said to his mother. "But they can't be doctors, nor ministers, nor judges, nor politicians," smilingly. "They could help their husbands if they knew how." "But they help them by keeping the house in good order, and watching the servants, and sewing, and making their husbands comfortable and happy." "I want Annis to learn a great many other things, for you know I am to marry her when we are grown up," said the little boy gravely. Mrs. Mason smiled at his earnestness. A messenger had been sent down from the Pineries early in December to invite all the family to a Christmas dinner. Mrs. Floyd had not been in her usual health for some weeks back, and now that the cause of disagreement had been removed she was anxious to receive all the family that could come together. She had hoped to have Mr. and Mrs. Conway, but he could not leave his parish at such an important time. So, if they would waive their own family gathering and join her she would be most grateful. She realized that she and Mr. Floyd were getting to be old people, and they could not tell how much longer they might be spared. "Then it is all settled that Marian will marry Mr. Greaves," said Mr. Mason. His wife gave a little sigh. Jaqueline came home to hear the verdict and vent her indignation. Jane had received a letter from her father announcing that Marian had accepted the husband selected for her and given up her rebellious attitude. So the family, he hoped, would meet in amity once more. Mrs. Floyd had not been well of late, and was desirous of seeing her new little granddaughter. "Marian can't have given up so easily! And all this time Mr. Ralston has been so confident! What an awful disappointment it will be to him! He has gone up to Philadelphia to consult with some engineers. Oh, papa, can't something be done? Jane is almost wild about it." "My dear girl, if Marian is satisfied----" "But I cannot think she is. She did love Mr. Ralston so!" "A girl's fancy. How many lovers have you had? See how indulgent I am to trust you to Jane, who really hasn't much more sense than you." "Why, I haven't any real lover. And I do not want one for ever so long." Yet she flushed and dropped her eyes. Perhaps he would not have trusted his daughter in the giddy whirl of society if he had not known of someone every way worthy and acceptable, who was watching her and waiting for the right moment to speak. When she had taken her fling of gayety, she would be the more ready to listen. And he would not mar what he really desired by seeming to bias her inclinations. She was not a girl to be forced into a step or have her patience worn out, as he suspected was the case with his young sister Marian. "Of course Jane means to join the family party?" "Oh, yes. Jane has been almost heartbroken over the matter. She is very fond of Marian and Dolly. Oh, papa, I hope you won't get cross and queer as you grow older!" He laughed and patted her shoulder. "Grandfather thinks you will all come to grief from over-indulgence." "We are all going to come out magnificently in the end, just to prove him a false prophet and you the very dearest of fathers." "You are a sad flatterer, Jack. I'm afraid you learn too much of it in the gay circles. But you must be on your best behavior at the Pineries, and not stir up any disaffection. Family differences are very disagreeable things; and, after all, age is entitled to a certain indulgence and respect. I shouldn't wonder if you were a queer, arbitrary old lady yourself." "Oh, papa!" reproachfully. Patricia thought it very hard that she could not come home for Christmas, which was the great holiday of all the year. But Louis was not coming; he had some arrears to make up, and was also very much interested in one of a certain household of girls, and was to attend their Christmas-Eve ball. Patty grumbled a good deal. Aunt Catharine treated her like one of the children. She was not allowed to go to parties, and she had to learn all kinds of fancywork and cooking, and making sauces and everything. "And I've made up my mind if keeping a house is so much work I shall never get married," declared the much-tried girl. "And I think aunt was much nicer as an old maid than a married woman. Though she's a great personage now, and everybody comes to her for advice and patterns and stitches in lace-making and recipes for everything. If I ever did marry, I wouldn't be a clergyman's wife." Mrs. Conway wrote a rather stilted, but very affectionate, letter to her mother and Marian. She congratulated the latter warmly. Gray Court was certainly a fine old place. Four children were a great responsibility; she found her three a continual care, but Mr. Conway was so devoted to his study, his classes, and his sermons she could have no help from him. As they wanted certainly to come to the marriage in the spring, it was better to wait until then, as it was quite impossible to get away now. She sent Marian a piece of fine old lace that she had bought from a parishioner in very reduced circumstances, and who was the last of her line. The Pineries wore a welcome aspect for the guests. Great fires were kept blazing in the wide chimneys, and the Franklin stove in the hall sent out pleasant cheer. Brandon the son, his wife, and three children were among the first guests. The Masons added six, and Mrs. Jettson came with her three babies, but her husband was not to join them until Christmas morning, on account of some engagements. There was staying at the house a young Mr. Floyd, a distant relative from South Carolina. It was plain to be seen that he was very sweet on Dolly, and grandfather was highly elated. Mr. Greaves had certainly thawed a little. He was quite lover-like in a courtly and formal fashion, and made himself very much a son of the house. In arranging for the guests Mrs. Floyd had brought her two daughters next to her own room so there should be no chance for nightly gossips or confidences over dressing. Marian had begun to think a home of her own desirable. With the unreason of womankind she felt that Mr. Ralston ought to make some effort to learn her true sentiments. As he had not, as also her mother persisted that young society men of that class thought it entertainment to make love to every woman they met, she had yielded reluctantly. Then, too, Gray Court was a fine old place. It had not suffered much during the Revolution, though the treasures of plate and fine china had been buried out of harm's way. Marian found that she was the envy of the elder spinsters, and even the younger girls thought her lucky. So she had given in on condition that the marriage should not take place until May. "Honey, dat's an awful onlucky month!" said her old nurse. "Then it shall be June," returned the prospective bride. "And suppose I should be married at the same time! This is Preston Floyd's second visit, and he and father hit off wonderfully well. They agree in politics, and I wonder why it is such a pleasure to have the country go to ruin. However, I don't think it will; it has stood many storms. And Charleston must be an agreeable city to live in, if all be true that is said about it. I would like Philadelphia or New York, but I see no prospect of getting there. So if Preston asks me to marry him I shall accept. I don't suppose father would ever trust us to visit Jane again. And when you are gone it will be dismal. Marriage seems the right and proper thing. I wonder if Jaqueline has a lover!" A modern girl would have complained that Jaqueline made "big eyes" at Preston Floyd. Before she had been an hour in the house there was a different atmosphere. She was not aggressive, and her rather hoydenish ways were toned down to a certain fearless elegance. She was bright and vivacious and had bits of merry wit at her tongue's end, yet it was not so much what she said as her manner of saying it. "I can't get a word alone with Marian," complained Jane to the young girl. "But I must say that Mr. Greaves acquitted himself wonderfully well last evening. Only Mr. Ralston is so sure Marian will be faithful through everything. He gave me so many messages for her, and mother makes a great point of not mentioning his name. What shall I do?" "It's horrid! I do believe Marian has ceased to care for him. And now that everything is settled it would seem dreadful to stir it all up again. Papa insisted that I should let the matter entirely alone." "But Mr. Ralston will be so dreadfully disappointed. He was so proud of his new position for her sake. And Marian really puzzles me. She _seems_ content. Oh, did you see that exquisite lace Aunt Catharine sent her? Of course it _is_ all settled, and if Marian is satisfied--oh, Jaqueline, I hope you will really fall in love! I adore lovers, even if I am the mother of three children. I mean that my little girl shall have a delightful time when she is grown up." The children were having a gay time. Varina was the leader, and Annis, with her soft ways, the peacemaker, when anything went wrong. The two Jettson boys adored her. Charles roamed over the old house, and pleased grandfather by his interest in family legends and the history of various articles of furniture and plate. It was grandfather's boast that there wasn't a stick of Yankee furniture in the house. Charles longed to have Annis with him, but though grandfather said "she was a nice little thing," he did not take very fervently to little girls, and had more than once regretted that Jane and Marian had not been boys. "I don't see what you find interesting about those babies," Charles said rather disdainfully. "They're always wanting to tumble over you and make a noise, and they're never as funny as the little slave children, who _can_ amuse you if you want that sort of fun. I wish you'd come and hear grandfather talk about the Indians and when the settlers first came to Virginia." "I don't think he quite likes me," Annis said hesitatingly, with a nervous little laugh. "As well as he likes any child girls. I think he likes them better when they are big enough to play whist. But you could listen, all the same." "I get tired of just listening. I like the children because they are alive and can laugh and talk. The other people who have been dead so long----" "But you liked Captain John Smith, and the Froissart men who were so brave. And King Arthur----" "But Grandfather Floyd said there never was any such King Arthur, nor Merlin, nor ever so many other people." "Grandfather is wrong about some things. And it isn't polite to contradict him, because he is an old man. Oh, do come!" "Annis! Annis!" called two or three eager baby voices. "Oh, yes, I would rather be with them. And when we get home you may tell me all these things. They'll sound so much better than in grandpapa's voice. It sometimes gets shaky and seems cold, while yours is soft and sweet and fine when you come to the grand places." That mollified the boy, who certainly had become grandfather's favorite, and was pronounced sensible. CHAPTER X. A CHRISTMAS AUGURY. The slaves at the Pineries were kept with a rather strict hand. Very few were sold off the plantation, and then for the gravest misconduct, when whipping had ceased to be efficacious. But they had increased largely, and were often hired out, those for the year at Christmas or the beginning of the year. Christmas Eve there was a general gathering, and they were allowed a sort of ball in the great kitchen, where most of the rough work was done. There were music and song singing, charms were tried, and they ended with dancing. All the autumn it was looked forward to eagerly. The supper in the main house was early, and the smaller children were put to bed. The three Masons and young Archibald Floyd, who had his grandfather's name, were to be allowed at the "grand occasion." There were a number of guests, and seats around the outside were prepared for them. "And we used to open the dancing," said Jane. "How proud they were about young missy! And we tried some of the charms. Looking for your future husband in a pail of water with a mirror at the bottom. And jumping over the candles--do you remember that, Polly? What fun we used to have with the girls! Why, it is three or four years since I have been here at Christmastide." "Oh, will they jump over the candles?" cried Jaqueline. "They did it at the Fairfaxes' last year, and Betty put the very first one out." "Why, Betty must be two and twenty," said Jane. "It would be queer if the sign came true." "It doesn't really," laughed Jaqueline. "It is like tipping your chair over and tumbling up stairs." "I want to try it," declared Dolly. "If you go over the whole seven you are going to be married soon. The others count for years. And if you put the first one out you will surely be an old maid." Some of the songs were very pretty, some ridiculously funny, several embellished by pantomime. Then the charms began. The first few were rather simple, and caused an immense amount of giggling among the young Phillises. The shadow faces were pursued with a certain awe, as if they really were something uncanny. Dolly, Jaqueline, and a young lady guest were the only ones of the "quality" who cared to look. "It is as much your own shadow as anything," declared Jaqueline, "and it quivers so that you can hardly make it out." The candles were lighted and placed in a row at even distances. The young lads tried them first. There were no skirts in the way, and they went over them triumphantly. "But men can get mah'ied when they like," said Rose, Marian's pretty young maid, in her soft half-lisping tone, "but girls can't always." "Try, Rose!" exclaimed Jaqueline. "I doan know anyone I want. An' I'm promised to go over to Gray Court with Miss Mayan." "You'll find someone there, perhaps." Bathsheba, tall and supple, with the figure of a Greek sculpture, went over the seven triumphantly. Sam caught her by the hand, and a shout went up, echoing in a laughing chorus. Others tried it with varying luck, evident mortification, and disappointment. There were some who had been practicing in secret the whole week, and were well prepared. "Now I am going to try," said Dolly; and there was a general applauding among the slaves. The space was made a little larger, though eyes were eager and necks were craned; and broad smiles illuminated black and brown faces. "Way for Miss Dolly now. She goin' ober de whole row. Whoop, now!" and Jep gave his knee a resounding slap. Dolly gathered up her skirts. The first jump was a success, the candle only flaring a little. The second--then some clapping began. The third dainty leap brought more applause, then on and on until she had cleared the mystical number. Shouts and laughter almost shook the roof. "I knew you could do it, Miss Dolly," said Rose, in exultation. "And Miss Mayan can, too." "Now you will see my luck," and Jaqueline stepped out on the floor. "One--two." Out went the third candle, but Jaqueline kept on and put out the fourth. She had half a mind to be angry. "Well, two years isn't long to wait," remarked Dolly consolingly. "It isn't the waiting. I don't see how I could have been so stupid, for I can jump almost anything." Miss Marshall was a little timid, but went through the ordeal successfully, amid bravos. "Marian, try your luck," said Dolly, as Preston Floyd squeezed her hand so hard it brought a flush to her cheek. "Ought she not, Cousin Preston? She's the only remaining single girl here." "Yes, she must," insisted Jaqueline. "You'll all have time to get good and ready for my wedding." Jaqueline had recovered her spirits, and caught Marian's arm, laughing gayly. "Yes. Why it's rare fun! Come, Marian. Then I'll try. I shall go the whole seven," declared Preston. Marian hung back, but they all persisted. If Mr. Greaves had been there, or her mother, but the elders had settled to whist, there being enough for two tables. Some sudden spirit roused her. She had done it times before. She would be young and gay just for five minutes. "Come." Preston was leading her out, to Jane's utter surprise. Marian had been so dignified for the last twenty-four hours; ten years older, it seemed, than last winter. And how girlish then! "Marian!" Preston laughed. "Now, Cousin Marian. The whole seven, for the honor of the house of Floyd." There were two graceful, successful leaps. Her hand trembled, half a yard of skirt dropped, and out went the third candle. There was a general cry of disappointment. "That was an accident," declared Preston. "Light the candle. Marian, you shall have another chance." "No, no, no!" She caught Jane's arm. "It was very silly," but her voice had a strained, broken sound, and she looked frightened. "Take your turn, Cousin Preston, then let them go to dancing. The fiddlers are tuning up." Jane drew her sister a little aside, while Preston Floyd won the acclaim of the crowd. "Are you happy and satisfied, Marian, or miserable?" she asked in a rapid tone, just under her breath. "You are so queer and changed." "Don't," Marian entreated. "Of course I shall marry Mr. Greaves. That was girlish foolishness, you know. And the candles really didn't mean anything. Jaqueline," as the girl had come up to her, "we were both in the same boat for awkwardness. I think I must be growing old, but you did not have so good an excuse. Do you want to stay for the dancing? Had we not better all return to the drawing room?" The younger group demurred. "Then Jane will stay and play propriety." Marian turned swiftly, and was gone before Jane could utter a word. But she paused in the hall and leaned up against the door jamb that was almost like a column. Her breath came quick and hard. "It is too late," she said breathlessly, to herself. "And he doesn't care. I have passed my word, and to break it would call down a judgment upon myself. Then--I couldn't," and she shuddered. "I am not daring like Jaqueline, or even Dolly. But Dolly thinks it best." When she entered the room her mother glanced up with sharp inquiry that softened as she motioned her to her side. "Did you get tired of the nonsense?" she asked, in an approving tone. "My hand is most played out, and you shall take my place." Mr. Greaves sat over opposite. He raised his serious, self-complacent face. She could recall another,--eager, warm with rushing emotions,--and it stood back of this one like a shadow. But, somehow, it did not beckon her. She was only a commonplace girl, rather straitly and strictly reared, with obedience impressed upon her from babyhood. Her father and mother always kept their promises, and she must do the same. The fun was fast and furious out in the great kitchen. But at ten the mistress appeared and made them a little speech. They were to go to their cabins in an orderly manner, and any disturbance would be reported. To-morrow morning they would come for their gifts, and the week would be one of holidays. "T'ankee, missus; t'ankee, missus!" came from voices still full of jollity; and woolly heads bobbed in a tumultuous manner. Christmas Day was made festive by a grand dinner, to which all the gentry round were invited. The children had theirs in a smaller room, with quite ornate serving, and afterward there were games until dark, when the visitors were sent home in the different carriages. Everybody was tired from the festivities, and the day had certainly been a success. "I suppose the lieutenant is quite crowded out of it all?" inquired Mr. Jettson of his wife. "Really, Mr. Greaves isn't so bad. But Ralston will take it mightily hard. He'd wait seven years for a woman. And Marian seems, somehow, years older, and is beginning to have some of your mother's dignity." "It is all settled, certainly. As a topic it is interdicted, and one doesn't get a chance at Marian. Mother and father are elated, only that isn't quite the word to apply to them. And there is the Floyd cousin, very much smitten with Dolly, and I suppose that will be a match. I feel as if I had lost both of the girls. I had planned to do so much for Marian, and keep her near to me." Mrs. Jettson sighed plaintively. "You poor girl! Then you will have to comfort yourself with Jaqueline." "It's queer," continued Jane retrospectively, "but Randolph's family seem nearer to me since they are growing up than my own sisters and brother. Brandon is so bitter against the administration, and such a tremendous aristocrat, while Randolph is always jolly and good-humored, if he can't quite approve of what is done. And Jaqueline is so diverting and attractive, while Mrs. Patricia is charming. If Dolly should go away----" "Preston Floyd is an agreeable young fellow. Of course the family is all right, and the money, I suppose. Your father will look out for that." "I know Marian isn't happy----" "It's a sad piece of business, but it is too late to move in it now." Jane felt this was true. Could her father have made _her_ give up her lover? Certainly he was not as arbitrary then. Or was it her salvation that no rich lover came to hand? There was another day of festivity, and a dinner to some who could not come on Christmas Day. Miss Greaves was present with the two elder children, who were stiff and proper. She did not altogether approve of the young wife, when there were more suitable women ready to take her brother. The Masons gathered up their flock and drove home immediately afterward, Mr. Jettson going with them, and the others were to follow the next day. "There wasn't much fun at grandpapa's, except on Christmas Eve," declared Varina. "Archie Floyd thinks he owns the whole world. If grandpapa should die they will come there to live, and Uncle Brandon own the slaves and everything." "Children must not discuss such matters," said her father rather peremptorily. "But Archie said----" "No matter about Archie." Varina frowned and twitched her shoulders. "Papa," said Charles after a pause, "shall you leave the plantation and everything to Louis because he is the oldest?" "My son, I warn you that I shall live a long, long while. You will all have a chance to make your own fortunes and marry and have homes of your own. So don't trouble about any such foolishness. And you are all too young to consider the point." "But people do in England." "We are not in England," commented his father dryly. "What a mess of nonsense has been talked at the Pineries!" he said to his wife with some vexation afterward. "Mr. Floyd has grown very grasping, and thinks so much of money. And that boy puts on airs enough for three grown-up fellows. Let children be children, say I, and not bother their heads about the affairs of older people. I'm sorry for Marian. Anyone can see that her heart is not in this marriage. She's changed beyond everything. But it is set for the spring. Dolly will be more like to have her own way, as the Fates have sent her an acceptable lover." Jaqueline was all in a flurry to go to Washington, and started at the first opportunity. The Carringtons had begged for a week, as some cousins were coming, and they were to give the young people a ball. "You are a sad gadabout," sighed her father. "But you keep the house astir here with your coming and going. It is time you began to learn something useful. I shall look up a nice steady-going man of forty or thereabouts, and marry you out of hand some day." "Let me see--is there anyone near here that answers the requirements?" and she laughed saucily as she put her soft arms around her father's neck. "He must have an estate, of course,--it will not do for me to fall behind-hand in family dignity,--and a long pedigree. Do you know whether the Masons, like the old Scotch woman's ancestors, had a boat of their own at the time of the flood?" "I am pretty sure there must have been Masons," he replied gravely. Mrs. Jettson received her with open arms. "Jaqueline, have you any idea of how fortunate you are? Congress is in session, and I have never known Washington so gay. And the White House is fine in its new array, while Mrs. Madison is as charming as ever. And Mrs. Van Ness is giving the most elegant entertainments. Roger Carrington was in here last evening to see if you really were coming." "Mrs. Carrington gives a ball next Tuesday evening for some young visitors. And I am invited over to Georgetown for a week. So I just coaxed to come up here a few days, for you would know about suitable gowns. I don't suppose you have heard from Marian?" "Not a word. But Arthur told Lieutenant Ralston. Really, my dear, he had half a mind to go up there and tear her out of the family bosom by main force. He couldn't believe it at first. He wrote a letter to Marian, but I am certain no one could get it to her, although he sent by a special messenger. I have given up. And Dolly's engagement is announced. Mr. Floyd spoke before he went away. I had such a complacent letter from mother. It made me angry, it really did. Well, her whole duty is done, unless she lives to marry off her granddaughters." "I suppose Dolly is really in love?" Jaqueline had not considered her very enthusiastic. She had a girl's romantic ideal of love, fostered by the attention and affection her father gave her stepmother. Had he loved her own mother in that fashion? "Dolly is a little ninny!" declared the elder sister in disdain. "They all thought she was going wild over that young Chase, but she seemed to drop him easy enough. He is going to the bad as fast as possible, though I don't believe in a woman wrecking her whole life to save a man, for, after all, she rarely does it. And I'm sorry to have Dolly go so far away. Oh, I _do_ wonder if I shall ever be glad to have baby Jaqueline marry and go out of my sight! Yet I suppose having old maids on your hands is rather mortifying. There are some new shops on Pennsylvania Avenue, with such pretty things, although there is so much talk about the difficulty of getting goods from abroad. And everybody complains of money being scarce, but there seems a good deal to spend, some way." Washington was certainly looking up. Handsome houses were being built, and famous men were to be seen in the streets and at the different entertainments. There were weekly dinner parties at the White House, managed with such tact that no one was affronted, those left out knowing their turn would come next. Jane and Mr. Jettson had an engagement that evening--"a dinner where they are going to talk improvements and the best way of getting a grant from Congress; no dancing and no nice young men to flatter a lady," declared Mr. Jettson. "Jane thinks them tiresome, but she can put in a word now and then, since it is our bread and butter." "Oh, I'd rather stay at home! There is that 'Lay of the Last Minstrel' to read. Who is this wonderful new poet? Aunt Catharine made me read 'The Course of Time' when I paid her my visit; aloud, too, so I couldn't skip much, but it was dreadfully tiresome. This goes along with a rush." So Jaqueline settled herself in the easiest chair she could find, and put her feet on the rounds of another. The candles gave a softened light; but in spite of interest she was getting drowsy when there was a hasty knock and a discussion in the hall. Then Sam opened the door and ushered in Lieutenant Ralston. "I hope you won't think me a nuisance," as Jaqueline was straightening herself up in some confusion, and feeling if the knot of abundant hair was on the top of her head or pushed over one side. "I'm sorry Mrs. Jettson is out, and I recall the fact now that she had an engagement. But I am very glad to see you, selfishly glad. Do I interrupt anything important?" "Oh, no!" She held out her hand cordially. "You were up to the Pineries," he began abruptly. "Did Marian seem----" "We didn't think her real happy." Jaqueline hesitated. How much ought she to admit? "I wrote her a letter. I wanted to know the truth. You see, I have been perfectly honorable. I told her I would wait seven years or twice seven years, and she promised to do the same. I couldn't believe she accepted this man of her own free will. And then I wrote, taking precautions to have it reach her. It has been opened and returned to me without a word. Here it is. That is not Miss Floyd's handwriting." "It is grandpapa's." "Do you suppose she gave the letter to him?" "I am afraid she must have. You see, the engagement has been announced everywhere, and they sit together in church. The neighbors give little companies for them, and Mr. Greaves acts as if he had full right to her." Ralston dashed the letter to the floor. "Then she is weak and false!" he cried in a passion. "I could wait with very little encouragement, so long as it _was_ waiting. We are both young, and I have my fortune to make. But when she engages herself to another, when--Mrs. Jettson said there was talk of a marriage in the spring! Even if she had written to explain--I think I could have stood being given up by her if she had said it was a mistake, and she had found she was over-hasty. It was sudden--done in those two days; but then I had seen her frequently during her visit to Mrs. Jettson, and I was sure she cared for me. She had a kind of shy way--looking back and forth; do you remember it? But perhaps the glances are only meant for a lover's eyes," smiling faintly in spite of the anger. "Either she loved me or she was a coquette." "She is not a coquette!" exclaimed Jaqueline decisively. "And she never had a real lover until----" Then the girl stopped and flushed. "What I can't understand is her accepting this man if she loved me, taking his caresses and his plans for a life together----" "Oh, he isn't the caressing sort!" interrupted Jaqueline. "And yet I don't see how she could, if she loved you. I wouldn't have been forced to accept him. I wouldn't have promised anybody. I would just have waited. But Grandfather Floyd is very arbitrary, and when he makes up his mind, there is no relenting. Oh, I am afraid you can't understand! You don't know him." "The time is past when a woman is compelled to marry a man she doesn't want," he said with an angry sneer. "I know the old adage says that a continual dropping will wear away a stone. But this has been such a little while. There may be shaly natures that the dropping disintegrates rapidly. And you girls never talked with her about it, which seems strange to me." "We scarcely saw her alone. And we were strictly forbidden to speak of it." "Then he must have felt afraid of your influence." Ralston looked eagerly at the girl, as if he was searching for some ground of hope. "It can't be changed any way, I think. Marian has accepted it, and the whole neighborhood has congratulated her. The wedding has been put down as a certainty." "If I pity her I shall keep on loving her and thinking something _may_ happen. And if I believe her weak and false I shall despise her and get over it. One couldn't respect such a weak woman!" Jaqueline wanted to make a protest. It was very hard to be despised, and she thought Marian hardly deserved that. "I suppose this wouldn't have happened if I had been the rich man," and there were lines of scorn about his mouth. Jaqueline knew it wouldn't. Did not money measure most of the things in this life? And Lieutenant Ralston was young, energetic, very good-looking, and delightful; Mr. Greaves was thin, with a large nose, and high, narrow forehead, his hair sprinkled with gray at the temples. He was gentlemanly, but rather pompous; and there was nothing entertaining about him, unless it was to old Mr. Floyd. Marian had always seemed so young. "If I knew who returned that letter! If I knew _she_ had seen it!" He was walking back and forth, and just touched it with the toe of his boot. It would have a curious sacredness if it had been in her hands; her father's hands and eyes made it a thing to be despised. Had he sneered over it? "I am quite sure she never saw it," returned Jaqueline decisively. He picked it up and threw it into the fire. "You see," he began apologetically, "that I have come to you and Mrs. Jettson because you were near to her and knew her best. I dare say I have made myself quite ridiculous, prating of love----" "Oh, no, not that!" she interrupted quickly. "And I am so sorry it has come out this way. I was so interested in it all, and even papa liked you so much." That was comforting. He would be proud of the esteem of such a man as Randolph Mason. Other men had failed to win their first loves. Even Mr. Madison, as the story went, had been positively engaged to a charming young woman who had changed her mind and married another. And where would one find a more devoted couple than the President and his wife, who had had her youthful love and misfortunes and sorrows? "When a man resolves to put a thing out of his mind he can do it if he has any force of character." Ralston held his head up very erect now, though he still kept pacing the floor. "That would be best," advised Jaqueline. "Oh, yes; there is no use going about the world crying for the moon, when the sun shines as much again, and there is a good deal to do. So I shall not be a lovelorn swain, but go on with an earnest effort, for I have some ambitions, and though the times may seem tame by contrast with the stirring events of our fathers', there are still grave questions to study. It is not all froth and amusement. I hope you are going to remain a while. You're like a sister to Mrs. Jettson." "I am invited to Georgetown for a week. And I think I shall stay quite a while. It's so delightful here, and rather dull at home. I do miss Patricia very much." "And there is a ball at the Carringtons'. I am glad you are to be there. Roger and I are fast friends. And now have I not bored you enough? I will try to make amends in the future. Will you tell Mrs. Jettson the result of my letter? She warned me. Your father warned me; but I suppose willful youth will have its own way. Good-night. Let me see--there is a levee to-morrow evening, and you have not seen the new plenishings yet. We are very grand in yellow satin and damask. If Mrs. Jettson is not engaged you must go." "Poor Marian!" Jaqueline sighed, in relating the interview to Jane and contrasting the lovers. "I don't believe grandpapa could compel me, and she is so much older, too. And when she sees Dolly's delight and happiness!" "I have given her up," confessed Mrs. Jettson. "She may be comfortable, and perhaps happier than at home. Oh, Jaqueline, be thankful that your father doesn't belong to the Floyd branch! For Brandon will be his father right over again. There must be a sort of Puritan strand in them. When you find me so stiff and strenuous you had better banish me at once." Jaqueline met some people at the levee who remembered her, which was quite flattering to the young girl. She hardly knew which of her cavaliers she admired most, the fine-looking lieutenant or Mr. Carrington. Both were made much of by the ladies, and cordially recognized by the men of the period who were to be the heroes of succeeding generations. The ball was quite delightful. Though it was given for the young people, there were mothers and aunts, and not a few fathers who dropped in later in the evening. Young people were not left to themselves, and the elders enjoyed seeing the pretty triumphs of their daughters and telling little anecdotes of their own youth and their conquests. It was true that Lieutenant Ralston did not wear the willow outwardly. Yet as time went on and his love for Marian having nothing to feed upon chilled the warm exultation of hope, he grew a trifle bitter at heart, and indulged in some cynical reflections that had stings of wit. Indeed, wit and repartee were largely cultivated then. There were few books to talk about, except among the learned men, who still affected classic lore. And it was not considered a womanly accomplishment for the fair sex to be versed in politics. It seems strange to us now that there should have been so much talk in letters and journals about finery and fashion, and who was paying his addresses to this or that young damsel, and the furnishing of someone's new house. Perhaps the women of that time were more discreet. For Mrs. Madison must have been close in her husband's confidence all those trying years, and known how to leave a good deal unsaid. But general society then was for the entertainment of all, and each one was expected to do his or her share. Good-breeding was a virtue. Jaqueline was gay enough. Virginian girls had a charm and attractiveness besides mere beauty of feature. So week by week her return home was put off, until a visit from Dolly Floyd was announced. Mr. Floyd was quite ailing, and his wife could not leave him. Mrs. Mason was asked to consult with Mrs. Jettson and see what was proper, and have the wedding trousseau prepared, since Dolly was to go away, and there was hardly time to send abroad. Mr. Floyd had insisted upon a wedding just after Easter, as he was to go to New York to attend to some business for his father, and he would be delighted to have Dolly bear him company. "But Marian?" exclaimed Mrs. Mason, when Dolly had unfolded her budget. "Marian insists that she won't be married until June. And mother has given her that beautiful pearl-satin gown in which she was married to papa, and after that she grew so stout she could never wear it. But mother prefers that she shall be married in white. Marian has grown to be quite an old woman already; you can't think how queer she is!" Mrs. Mason's heart went out with sympathy to her young sister-in-law, who was trying in such a rigid fashion to fit herself for her new life. Mrs. Jettson felt rather hurt at first that the matter was not delegated wholly to her, since the shopping and the work must be done in Washington. "But, you see, I am to get some things in New York afterward, and Mrs. Marshall brought over some patterns that her sister sent from Paris, and she is to send us her mantua-maker. You know she had Sarah trained, when they were over, to make frocks and caps and mantles. She is to sew for Marian." "And is Marian as happy as you?" asked Mrs. Jettson, studying the young girl. Dolly shrugged her shoulders. She was a flippant little thing, occupied mostly with herself. Her own pleasure came first. "I don't see how she can be, with that stick of a lover. I'm sure you can't compare him with Preston. But if he suits her--and she's trying to take an interest in the children. I think they're hideous. Oh, Jane, it is a great shame the lieutenant hadn't been better off! He's such a delightful fellow. There was a dreadful time about him. But, good gracious! I was not to say a word," and Dolly turned pale. "Do you know whether Marian had a letter from him soon after the holidays?" "Did he write? Why, that was romantic! No--I do not believe it reached her. And if it had, it couldn't have altered anything. Mr. Greaves is very much in earnest, and Marian will have one of the finest houses in the county. Then he talks of going to England and leaving the two older children for their education. Some cousin or uncle or relative died a while ago; and if someone else should die he would come in for a title and a fine estate. Father is quite elated over that. Father should have been born an English aristocrat," and Dolly laughed. "But if I wasn't so in love with Preston I might be captured by the young soldier or some of the beaus with which Washington abounds. Oh, dear! if we could have come to the inauguration! I'm glad to go away, for it's wretchedly dull all about the Pineries. And Charleston is quite gay, Preston writes." The shopping was done, and the gowns and coats and pelisses left at Mrs. Sweeny's, who was quite celebrated for her taste. Then Dolly was suddenly summoned home. Her father had a poorly spell, and Mr. Greaves had met with an accident. As he was going to mount his horse one morning to ride over to the Pineries, an owl that had been nesting in a tree near the house made a flight across the lawn, at which the horse shied and knocked down his master, whose head struck the stepping-stone, and he had lain unconscious ever since, but no bones were broken. They had a hope that it would not prove serious, since Mr. Greaves had an excellent constitution and had never been ill a day in his life. CHAPTER XI. THE THORNS THAT BESET LOVE. The spring was late this year, but when it came everything burst into bloom and beauty as if by magic. Even the marshy ends of the streets in Washington were covered with verdure and the curious delicate bloom of the different sedge growths. Congress kept on. There were many perplexing questions, and war loomed in the distance. The festivities at the Pineries were quite interrupted. When Mr. Greaves recovered consciousness it was found that his right side had been partially paralyzed. His speech was affected, and the doctor spoke doubtfully of his mind. Consequently all thoughts of Marian's marriage must be given up for the present. But Dolly's went on, and the last week in April the impatient lover presented himself, and the family relatives and friends were gathered to celebrate the occasion. It was considered most proper for Louis Mason to attend Marian, who was to be the first bridesmaid. Jaqueline was next in order, and there were three others. Weddings were quite sumptuous affairs in those days. There was a great supper and dancing; one of the bride-cakes held a ring, put in by the hand of the bride-elect, and great was the interest to see who would get it. This fell to Jaqueline. And when the bride was escorted upstairs by her bevy of maidens she paused on the landing and scattered her half-dozen roses which had been sent from Washington, and cost extravagantly. The first one did not go far, and caught in Jaqueline's shoulder-knot. There was a general laughing exclamation. "And I haven't even a lover!" cried the girl with dainty mock regret. There was a grand breakfast the next morning--a real breakfast, not a noon luncheon. Many of the guests had remained all night. Mirth and jollity reigned, good-wishes were given, healths were drunk, and at noon the young couple started on their long stage-coach journey. Tours were hardly considered then, though the bride often journeyed to the house of her husband's nearest relatives. But to take in Baltimore and Philadelphia was enough to set one up for life, and Dolly was very much elated. The return trip would be made by water, so she would be quite a traveled bride. Marian had been the sedate elder sister. She was not old, but she had grown much older and lost the aspect of girlhood that she had kept her three-and-twenty years. There was much kindly sympathy expressed for her. Mr. Greaves grew more helpless instead of improving, and his mind had never been quite clear. But no one suggested an interrupted engagement except among the slaves, who recalled that she had put out her candle on Christmas Eve, and the ring in the cake had not come to her, nor a single rose. "Looks laik she cut out fer 'n ole maid," declared a gray-haired mammy. "En she mought 'a' bin a gret lady, goin' ober to de ole country. But young missy goin' to be happy as de day is long. De house'll never seem de same." "Grandfather Floyd has begun to break," said Mr. Mason when they had started on their homeward journey. "One can hardly decide whether to be glad or sorry about Marian. Anyway, it is hard on the poor girl." "And you can't decide whether she is sorry or not. I never saw anyone change so. She has grown curiously close about herself," declared Jaqueline. The interrupted intimacy between the two families was taken up again. Even Jane and her three children were invited to the Pineries for a hot month in the summer. Grandfather was quite deaf, which made him more irritable, and Marian played piquet with him for hours together. Mrs. Floyd managed the plantation, though she had always taken her share of that. Patricia came home a slim, pretty, and piquant young woman, refined and finished, and Louis was an attractive young collegian. The house was filled with guests, and there was much merriment, until one day the word came that surprised them all. Grandfather had been found dead in his chair on the porch where he took his usual afternoon nap. Family funerals were almost as grand occasions as marriages at this period. The great house was filled with guests, and there was no unseemly haste to bury the dead out of their sight. The funeral procession might have been that of a famous man. When they returned the relatives were gathered in the darkened parlor where the candles stood lighted on a table, and Archibald Floyd's will was read in a dry, decorous tone by the little old lawyer who had made wills for half a century. As was expected, the Pineries and slaves and appurtenances of all kinds went to Brandon, who was the only son. The girls had an equal money portion. The widow was provided with a home; certain rooms were set apart for her, certain slaves were bequeathed to her with the bed and table linen and some of the furnishings that she had brought with her; and Brandon was to pay her a regular income out of the estate, which was to cease at her death. A very fair and just will, it was agreed on every side. Meanwhile there had been no perceptible change in Mr. Greaves. He did not suffer much; he was fed and cared for like a child. Some days he brightened and talked with encouraging coherence, but it was mostly about his early life, and he now and then mistook his sister for his dead wife. And though Marian had gone over several times, he had not seemed to recall her specially. Miss Greaves was in her element. She had not taken kindly to the prospect of being deposed, though the training of women in her day led them to accept the inevitable without complaining. She was rather proud, too, that her brother had won a young woman; and Marian's sudden gravity after her engagement had given her considerable satisfaction. "The doctor holds out very little hope of perfect recovery," she said to the younger woman at one call. "He thinks brother's mind will never be quite right again. He has a good appetite now and sleeps well, but it is very sad to be stricken down in the very prime of life. On our mother's side we are a long-lived race. I had an aunt who lay paralyzed for seven years, and was eighty when she died." Marian shuddered. Her father's failing health had demanded most of her attention. Was she in any way relieved? She tried not to think of it. No one referred to the marriage, except now and then some of the slaves, who counted up all the bad signs in an awesome fashion. Dolly had enjoyed everything to the uttermost, and was delighted with her new home and her new relatives. Communication between even the most important cities was tardy at that time, and often sent by private messenger. Yet the political interest of the States was kept up keenly, almost to rivalry. New England, whose commerce had been injured the most, complained loudly. The States were between two fires. England was bringing all her power to bear upon the Emperor Napoleon. Neither country paid any attention to the rights of neutrals. There was the old romantic remembrance of France coming to our assistance in our mighty struggle with the mother country; but there were a hundred relationships with England where there was one with France, and Napoleon's ruthlessness had alienated the noblest sense of the community. Yet living went on in the lavish, cordial Virginian fashion at the old plantation, if it was not quite so full of gayety. There were two attractive young women now, and the young men were haunting the house, planning riding parties and a day's outing to some grove or wood, a sail down or up the Potomac, and a three-days' visit to some neighbor who rather regretfully gave up dancing on account of the recent death. Louis had been putting in law with his other studies, and was not to graduate for another year. Roger Carrington was now a steady visitor, and all the household knew he was young missy's lover. Her father's assent had been cordially given. Her own was still in abeyance. Jaqueline had a willful streak in her nature. If someone had opposed, she would have sided at once with her lover. But everybody agreed. Mrs. Carrington treated her as a daughter already, and longed to have the engagement announced. Roger pleaded. "I want to be quite sure that I love you better than anybody," she would say with a kind of dainty sweetness. "If one _should_ make a mistake!" "But we are such friends already. We have been for a long time. Surely if you disliked me you would have found it out before this." "But I don't dislike you. I like you very much. Only it seems that things which come so easy----" She let her lovely eyes droop, and the color came and went in her face. How exquisite her rose-leaf cheeks were! He wished he had the right to kiss them fifty times an hour. A husband would have. But there was a fine courtesy between lovers of that day. And there was always some curling tendril of shadowy hair clustering about her fair temples. Her ear, too, was like a bit of sculpture, and the lines that went down her neck and lost themselves in the roundness of her shoulders changed with every motion, each one prettier than the last, and were distractingly tempting. "I'm sure it doesn't come easy to me," he said in a rather curt tone. "Oh, doesn't it? I thought there really was no mistaking the grand passion on a man's part--that he was convinced in the flash of an eye." "It is when he wishes to convince that his doubt arises. If I could persuade you----" longingly. "I am always afraid I shall be too easily persuaded," she returned plaintively. "I sometimes wonder if I really have a good strong mind of my own. Do you know, I should like to be one of the heroic women; then in case war should come--there are such talks about it, you know--and I _had_ to send you away----" She looked so utterly bewitching that he had much ado not to clasp her to his heart. "You are heroic enough. And you are tormenting to the last degree. I wonder sometimes if you even like me!" "Oh, you know I like you," carelessly. "If you would once say 'I love you.' You like so many people--young men, I mean." "Why, when you have been brought up with them, so to speak----" and she looked up out of large, innocent eyes. "There are the Bakers, you know. Georgie, Rob, Teddy, and I have played together always. Would you have me turn haughty now?" "I don't mind the Bakers, and Teddy is as good as engaged to Hester Fairfax, who really does adore him." "Yes, I think she does," gravely. "He is always describing her perfections and her sweetnesses, as if we hadn't quarreled and declared we wouldn't speak to each other and done little spiteful tricks that girls always do, and--and gotten over it, and know all about each other." "I don't believe you were ever very spiteful. That takes a small nature." She looked furtively from under her long lashes, as if considering. "Well--Patty and I quarrel. You must know that I haven't the most amiable temper in the world when I am roused." "Yes." She could be very tormenting. "And I like to have my own way. Papa generally gives in. And sometimes I feel self-condemned that mamma is so good to me." "Then you have a conscience?" "I don't believe my own mother would have been so easy. And there's grandmamma----" "Who would have led you to find out your mind in short order," he commented quickly. "_Her_ mind, you mean. And if she had resolved that I shouldn't marry you, you would have been sent to the right-about at once. And that reminds me--Lieutenant Ralston is coming down next week. But I suppose you are not afraid of him, since his heart is--oh, can you tell where it is? Sometimes I think he still cares for Marian, and then he is so bitter and sharp. She won't ever marry Mr. Greaves now." She looked so eager and earnest, as if this was the main question of her life. He turned away with a pang at his heart. Was she anything but a volatile, teasing girl, with no deep feelings? "You shan't! I say you shan't! Annis belongs to me. You shan't take her away. We're going to row round the pond----" Louis laughed with a soft sound of triumph. "But you promised to ride with me, didn't you, Annis? And I don't see how Annis belongs to you especially. You're too old for that boyish foolishness. Why, you couldn't marry her in years and years, and then she'd be an old woman, queer and cross. Hillo!" in a surprised tone. They faced Mr. Carrington and Jaqueline. "Oh, Louis, why do you tease the children so?" exclaimed Jaqueline in disapprobation. "I'm not teasing you, Annis, am I? We were to go for a ride, and her pony is all ready, when Charles flew into a passion." "I told you Scipio was getting the boat ready----" "But I didn't think you meant to-day. You said it leaked and had to be repaired, and this morning----" She glanced up at Louis entreatingly. "This morning I told her we would go down to the creek and see the great flock of ducks Julius has been raising. Annis belongs as much to me as to you. She belongs to us all. And how do you know but that I'll marry her myself? I'm very fond of Annis. And I'm grown up. In a few years I may be a judge, or be sent abroad to smooth out some quarrel or make a treaty, while you will be in school studying your Cicero. Annis will be a big girl, old enough to marry. And you like me, don't you, Annis?" He had his arm around the child. He had been very sweet to her of late, partly to tease Varina, and partly because she interested him curiously. She said such quaint things; she could seem to understand almost everything. And when he declaimed a fine Latin poem with vigor and loftiness, her eyes would follow him, her face would glow and change with emotion and appreciation. Then he had been teaching her some pretty songs. "I like you both," she returned in a tender, entreating voice, as if begging each one to be content with the regard. Yet she made no motion to leave him, and both slim hands were clasped around the young man's arm. "But you must like me the best," and now he put his arm about her, drawing her closer to his side. "It's this way. First your mother--always; then father, who is very fond of you, little Annis; then me, then Jaqueline, and you see Charles stands way down at the bottom of the line. Of course you can't love him quite so much; it wouldn't be fair to the rest of us." Annis looked perplexed with the reasoning. She glanced at Charles, then hid her face in the elder brother's coat. He made a rush at her, but Louis caught him and held him off at arm's length. "You're a mean--mean skunk, that's what you are!" The boy's face was scarlet with passion, and his voice choked. "She won't love you best, will you, Annis? For he likes all the girls, the big ladies, and I don't care for anyone but just you." "Louis, do stop! You ought to be ashamed. Charles----" But Louis let go of his little brother's arm, who ran a few steps with the impetus and then tumbled over. Louis caught the little girl in both arms,--she was slim and light,--and ran swiftly with her. Jaqueline picked up Charles, who was crying now in a passion of anger, exclaiming between the sobs: "I just hate him, I do! He shan't take away Annis. She belongs to me." "Charles, don't be so foolish. You can't have Annis every hour in the day, and if you go on this way she'll just hate you. Why, I am ashamed of you! And here is Mr. Carrington." "I don't care. I made Scip mend the boat, 'n' he said Dixon would be awful mad and maybe have him flogged. Where's father? I'll go and tell him how it was, and Scip may tear the old boat to pieces, but he shan't be flogged. Louis thinks he's great shakes because he's older and bigger----" "But he will be married before you and Annis are grown up, so don't worry. He loves to tease you. Now go and find father." "He is taking love early and hard," said Mr. Carrington. "It's such ridiculous nonsense! Mamma doesn't like it a bit, but father thinks it a good joke. It makes Charles appear silly. But he will go away to school and have new interests. And in a few years Annis won't want to be claimed in that masterful fashion." They walked along silently. Mr. Mason sat out under a great tree, smoking his pipe and listening to Charles. "Let them finish their confidence. I'll take the hammock, and you may read to me." She did not want to discuss love any more just now. Annis was borne triumphantly to her pony. Louis placed her in the saddle. "You do love me, little Annis, do you not?" and he kissed her tenderly. He had a very sweet way that you could not gainsay when it was turned upon you, and a child certainly could not resist. "Now we will have a nice gallop, and then a rest down by the creek where it is shady, ever so much nicer than the sunny pond and the old boat. You know I asked you first." "I didn't think Charles meant this very afternoon," she said regretfully. "And I'm so sorry he----" "Never mind about a boy's temper. Look at that fire bird--isn't he gorgeous? There's where the lightning struck that great pine tree the other night and split it in two." "Oh, poor tree! Do you suppose it hurt very much! And the half stands up as if nothing could ever make it afraid. There are the branches all withering on the ground. Were you very much frightened? It kills people sometimes, doesn't it?" "Very seldom. And a great many things kill them. Accidents and falls, and sickness, so the few struck by lightning are hardly to be taken into account." "Oh, look at the great field of corn! It is like a sea." The tassels had turned yellow, and the wind stirred them, making golden waves. "What do you know about the sea?" "Why, when we went down the Potomac. You were not home." "I've been down there though, and out on the ocean." "Would you be afraid to go to England?" "Not of the ocean, but I might be of the privateers. And I should not want to be caught and impressed, and made to fight. But I mustn't fill my little lady-love with frightful subjects." The child's cheek warmed with a dainty color. Could anyone be a lady-love to two persons? That was what Charles called her. Squirrels were scurrying here and there. The goldenrod was nodding on tall stalks, and some asters starred the wayside. Afar was a broad stretch of tobacco fields in their peculiar deep-green luxuriance. Birds were calling to each other, insects were droning, the monotony broken by a shrill chirr as a grasshopper leaped up from the path or a locust predicted a hot to-morrow from his leafy covert. They crossed broad sunny patches that looked like a dried-up sea, they lingered under fragrant pines and great oaks and maples that shaded the road, and Annis laughed at her companion's comments and the merry stories he told. She had been used to standing somewhat in awe of him, but this summer he had quite overcome her shyness. Sometimes she did get a little tired of the knowledge Charles poured into her ears. Latin orations had not much charm for her, in their unknown tongue, and only the inflections of the boy's musical voice rendered them tolerable. She liked the deeds of heroes rather than what they said, and their loves rather than their fighting or their harangues. At home Charles had thrown himself on the half-dried turf and given way to another burst of passion such as seldom moved him. That Louis should take Annis away from him, his chosen friend and companion, and that she should go without a protest! Was she really liking Louis, who was grown up and who could have his pick of the pretty young women always coming to the house. Why should he want Annis? It was the boy's first experience with a rival, and as he had never dreamed of such an untoward event, he could not understand the pain. It was like a storm that had been threatening in the southeast while the west was still clear, and now had suddenly blown up and enveloped the whole sky. Though he was not much given to tears, or anger, for that matter, the tempest surged over him now, and as it was furious it was the shorter lived. Presently a laugh stung him, and he raised his head, but he knew the sound of the voice. "Do go away, Varina!" he exclaimed sharply. "Can't I walk where I like? When you get a house and a plantation of your own, you may order me off. Or you may even set the dogs on me." "Don't be so silly, so hateful." He was shocked at her last remark, and sprang up, brushing off the twigs and bits of dried grass. "It is you who are silly, making a dunce of yourself over Annis. Of course she cares for you when there is no one else by. That's just the way with girls. Look at Jaqueline. When Mr. Tayloe or Mr. Bedford are here she's sweet to them, then comes the lieutenant and she sends the others to the right-about-face, then he goes and it's all Mr. Carrington. When he is gone she will take up with Mr. Bedford. I like him. He's so funny and sings such splendid songs." Charles was standing up very straight. Indeed, he seemed to stretch out his slim figure, and the gravity of his face had scarcely a boyish line in it. "Do you mean that Jaqueline doesn't care for any of them? Patty said she was as good as engaged to Mr. Carrington, and that we could have a nicer wedding than Dolly Floyd's." Varina shrugged her shoulders. There was always an eerie flavor about the child's strictures. "She cares for them all when they are here. Oh, gracious! Suppose they should all come together!" and she laughed. "But she'd rather take them one by one, and have a good time. That's the way I mean to do. You have more good times." "Annis isn't a bit like you!" the boy flung out hotly. He could not understand; it had not come time for analysis or fine gradations; he only suffered, without the power of reasoning. "Annis is a girl; and girls are all alike. And there's Mr. Carrington alone. I wonder if Jacky's been cross to him. I shall go and walk with him." She ran down the little side path. Mr. Carrington had started with the intention of finding Charles and comforting him, for it had been with him as Varina surmised, but the talk between them had arrested him. Was it true that a girl found pleasure in variety rather than constancy? He was amused at Varina's wisdom, and yet it had in it a savor of sad truth. Annis' little winsome face as Louis caught her came back to him. "The Sabine women learned to love their husbands," he mused, when Varina called to him. He had to exercise some ingenuity to parry the child's curiosity, since he was by far too gentlemanly to take advantage of it. Charles was a little sullen that evening, and took no notice of the timid little olive branch Annis held out. Presently, warm as the night was, he went off to his books. "Louis, you tease him too much," said his father. "It's high time someone took him in hand. He is getting to be a regular little prig! You ought to send him away to school." "He doesn't seem quite the boy for that. We'll see as he gets older. But I won't have any quarreling about Annis. Annis belongs to me, don't you, little girl? And we'll marry off all the rest of them, and you and I and mother will live together the remainder of our lives," kissing her with tenderness. When they all went away--and she loved them all--how lonesome it would be! CHAPTER XII. A TALK OF WEDDINGS. "You must decide and answer me, Jaqueline. You know I love you. The marriage would be pleasing to both sides of the family. My holiday is over, and I must rejoin my chief. I want the matter settled. If you are not convinced that you can love me, I shall take it as a sign that there is very little hope for me--none at all, in fact--and go my way." There was something rather stern in the tone, and the pretty girl's humor protested. She liked the tender wooing, the graceful compliments, the sort of uncertainty when she could salve her conscience by saying she was not really engaged and feel compelled to hold herself aloof from certain attentions. For whatever coquetries a Virginia girl might indulge in, an engagement was sacred. "I do wonder if you really love me?" She longed to temporize. There was always something happening, and now there was to be a week's party at Annapolis and a ball and several sailing excursions. Business would interfere with his going. If she could keep free until after that! He looked at her steadily. "If you doubt it after my year of devotion, I hardly know how to convince you. Words will not do it. You _must_ believe it." "For it would be a sad thing for either of us to make a mistake," she returned plaintively. "You asked for three months to consider. And yet you admitted that you cared for me even then. If your love has not increased any in that time it certainly argues ill for me. And now it must be a plain answer, yes or no. It is foolish to trifle this way. Which is it, Jaqueline?" He took both her hands in his and impelled her to meet his eyes. Her face was scarlet, her eyes drooped, her expression was so beseeching that it almost conquered him as it had times before. But he was going away with Mr. Monroe, and it would be a month before he saw her again. "Yes or no!" "You are cruel." Her eyes filled with tears. She felt his hands tremble, strong as they were. "Then it must be no, if you cannot say yes. Jaqueline, I am more than sorry. You are the first girl that ever roused in me the sweet desire to have her for my very own. I may never find another to whom I can give the same regard. But I want no unwilling bride." He dropped the hands reluctantly. He half turned, as if that was final. "Roger----" She so often evaded his name. What an entrancing sound it had! And it softened him. "You are so masterful," and her voice had a little break in it. "I am afraid I could not be a meek, silly wife with no mind of her own, but a mocking-bird echo of her husband's. When I feel quite sure I love you----" "Is there any such blessed moment?" He took her in his arms. "I have sometimes felt in my inmost soul there was, and this certainly pays for hours of doubt. I do not care to have you meek; and silly women I abhor. I only want this one point settled. After that you will find me devoted to your slightest whims." "Then I suppose I must----" with a fascinating reluctance. "There is no compulsion. You either give me your sweet, fresh girl's soul to bloom in the garden of manhood's unalterable love, freely and rejoicingly, or I go my solitary way." "Do not go. I could not spare you. Are you quite sure you will not prove a tyrant?" For answer he kissed her, then held her in a gentle yet strong embrace. "And you love me?" "Oh, how hard you are to satisfy!" "Still, you will say it?" "I love you. Will that satisfy your lordship? Now if I were a princess you could not be so hard to satisfy. A nod would answer." "You are _my_ princess. Now let us go and find your father. I am afraid he has had a rather low opinion of my powers of persuasion." They were under the great plane tree. Annis was taking a lesson in hemstitching at her mother's knee. "We have come for your blessing," began the happy lover. "Which I give gladly. I could not have chosen better for Jaqueline if I had gone half over the world, or at least a son-in-law more acceptable to myself. If I wish you as much happiness as I have had, your cup will be full." Mrs. Mason rose and kissed the girl with fervent affection. "We all like him so," she whispered to Jaqueline. "Your father will be as happy as your lover." "Come and give us joy, little Annis. I hope Charles won't protest at your having a new brother." "But he likes you so," answered the child simply. "And you never tease him." "Charles must learn not to be such a ninny," declared his father. The supper was almost a betrothal feast. For a wonder, there were no guests. But before bedtime every slave on the plantation knew it, and great was the rejoicing. And the next morning numerous little gifts were brought for Jaqueline's acceptance. And now Roger hated to go away. How could he be content with this one brief sup of happiness? "We must go up to the Pineries," Mr. Mason said. "Your grandmother would feel hurt if she were not informed at once. And--are you going next week?" "Oh, of course. I even asked Mr. Carrington. Was not that dutiful?" Her father laughed. "Jaqueline, you need a strong hand. You have had your way too much." "I don't know why everyone thinks I ought to be ruled like a baby," she pouted. "Jack, you are going to have one of the best husbands. Remember that." It was not until afternoon that they started, and were to remain all night. As there was room for one more, Annis went with them. It hardly seemed like the same place, Jaqueline thought, and she decided she liked grandpapa much better than Uncle Brandon. He insisted upon the relationship having the right name, and was quite as great a stickler for attention as his father had been; but where Mr. Floyd's was really a fine old-fashioned dignity, Brandon's seemed more pretentious. His wife was one of the ordinary women of that day, whose duty under all circumstances was to her husband. Master Archie put on many consequential airs. "I am glad you are going to do so well," said grandmother. "The Carringtons are a good family, and their father left a nice property, which must be very valuable. I must look among my treasures and see what I can spare for you. Dolly had my rubies--they were her choice; and my pearls were for Marian. That was a sad and sore disappointment to us all. There seems very little hope of amendment in the case." Jaqueline and Marian walked up and down in the fragrant twilight. "You don't mean that you still consider yourself engaged?" queried the young girl in surprise. "But nothing has been said, and I don't know what can be said now. You see, papa made his will quite a long while ago, and when there was the talk about Lieutenant Ralston he said if I encouraged him--if I married against his wishes--he would not leave me anything, and everybody should know it was because I had been a disobedient, ungrateful child. Think of having it read out before all the relatives! And you know he did not alter the will. He gave Jane less because he had given her part of her portion on her wedding day. Jane had it very easy, I think, considering that Mr. Jettson had no fortune to speak of except those Washington marshes. But Jane's had a nice time and plenty of friends. Only, you see, now I feel bound by the will. Papa trusted me. He had a feeling that Mr. Greaves might recover--he was so strong, and had always been well. But we never talked it over, for no one really was thinking of papa's death." "Do you know, Marian, I consider you a very foolish girl--superstitious, as well? No one can expect you to marry Mr. Greaves," said Jaqueline emphatically. "Of course not now. But if he should have his mind a little while and give me up, I should feel quite free, you know." "And you mean to wait for that?" indignantly. "I am not _waiting_. Papa has been dead such a little while that it would be indecent to traverse his wishes at once. And Mr. Greaves loved me, he really did; you need not look so incredulous! Not like--a younger man, perhaps," making a little halt. "He planned so many things for my pleasure. We were to go to England. He and papa agreed so well on politics." "And you are an American girl! Please don't forget that grandmother's father was at the surrender of Cornwallis, and we are all proud of it! He is your ancestor, too. And the Masons were all on the side of liberty and a country for ourselves." "I think women are not much concerned in politics," she replied evasively. "But it _is_ pleasanter to have all your people of one belief. It does seem as if the Church should have something to do with the government. I don't understand it, but it appears Christian and proper." "After all, it is the people who make the country, and the Church too. And it ought to be what the people want, the majority of them." Jaqueline's tone carried a penetrating conviction, yet Marian steeled her heart against it. The people certainly were an aggregate of individuals; and if everyone insisted upon having his own way, anarchy must ensue. But she could not reason on the subject, even in Jaqueline's girlish fashion. Argument was reprehensible in women. "Then you just mean to wait!" There was an accent of disappointment in Jaqueline's tone. "There is nothing else to do. I certainly must respect papa's wishes." "You've changed so, Marian." "Remember, Jaqueline, I am years older than you," she replied with dignity. "And now I have to be mother's companion. She misses father very much. I'm glad to have you happy, and everyone is pleased with your engagement. It is a very excellent one." "The excellence wouldn't go very far if it did not please me," returned the younger girl. "My happiness and pleasure are a personal affair, not simply the satisfaction of others." "I hope you will be very happy," reiterated Marian. "Dolly is. Mother thinks her letters are quite frivolous; they are all about dinners and visits and parties. She doesn't go to the very gay ones, but she writes about them. Charleston must be quite as fashionable as Washington, to judge from the gowns and entertainments. But Dolly is not keeping house, though she has her rooms and her maid." Then the two girls lapsed into silence as they walked up and down. Jaqueline was thinking that next week Lieutenant Ralston would be her cavalier, and she had ardently wished to reawaken hope in his breast, in the place of the disesteem in which he held Marian--indeed, nearly all women; though he occasionally said: "I can't imagine you or Mrs. Jettson doing such a thing!" That was really flattering. Of course she should tell him of _her_ engagement, and they would still be friends. Louis was to be of the party, and they started off in high spirits. "Jaqueline ought to sober down a little," said her father. "And there is no need of a long engagement. The Carringtons will be anxious for the marriage--well," laughingly, "more anxious than we. But I think most men are pleased when their daughters marry well. And we have four." "We need not think of the younger ones for several years," Mrs. Mason said with a smile. "Varina ought to go to school somewhere, or to Aunt Catharine. Patty improved wonderfully. And Charles----" "I think Charles is doing very well. Louis admits that he studies beyond his years. And he seems to me not over-robust. I would certainly wait another year." Jaqueline begged her brother to say nothing about the engagement. It was so recent, and she would not be married in some time. "You'll be flirting with everybody." "Oh, don't grudge me a week's pleasure! After that I will be as staid as any grandmother." "Carrington isn't the fellow to stand much nonsense when the rights are all on his side. I advise you to be careful." "Why, I am going to be, even now. Of course Mr. Ralston is different from the others. We have been friends so long." Ralston was safe enough, Louis thought. And one couldn't quite blame Jaqueline. She did not flirt openly like Betty Fairfax; and now Betty was devotion itself to her lover, and she was to be married in the early autumn. In fact, Louis had not felt satisfied to be so entirely crowded out when he had been one of Betty's favorites. Girls were queer, he mused. Then he threw himself into the round of pleasures, which in those days were really made for enjoyment. No one thought of being bored. The world was fresh and young, and had not been traversed by theories and sciences and experiences of tired generations. Everyone felt he or she had a right to at least one draught of the nectar of youth. Lieutenant Ralston had come with the hope that Jaqueline would bring him some message to light the future. Of course if Marian had been married that would have been the end of all things. He had too fine a sense of honor to covet another man's wife. But it seemed as if Providence had intervened. Mr. Floyd was dead and Mr. Greaves out of the lists by a stroke of fate. And since Marian was free, he was at liberty to give his fancy unlimited play once more. Jaqueline was indignant that Marian had not gladly grasped her liberty, but still hugged the chain of another's selecting. Perhaps her feelings colored her words, although she strove to be fair and make allowance for the superstitious reverence in which the girl seemed to hold her father. Or was it really fear? "I thought I had not hoped any, but circumstances coming out this way seemed an interposition in my behalf," admitted Mr. Ralston. "And I found it very easy to go back to that delightful experience. Even now that you have a lover, Miss Jaqueline, I think you hardly understand how a man loves and how willing he is to pick up the faintest shred of hope and dream that it may blossom anew, or rather that the bud, having been crushed by another's ruthlessness, has still in it strength enough to unfold in fragrance when nursed carefully by the man who thinks no other bloom could ever be so sweet. Perhaps I was a fool for this second dream. I tried to shut it out, but it stole in unawares. She hasn't been worth it all, nor any of it, I see that plainly now." "Poor Marian!" The love moved the girl with infinite pity for the woman who had lost it and was trying to feed on husks. "No, don't pity her; she isn't worth it," and his tone was bitterly resentful. "I could have overlooked the weakness that made her yield to her tyrannical father; but now when she could be free, when she knows there awaits her the sacred welcome of love, it is plain that she does not care. Perhaps she is still counting on a fortune coming to her as if by a miracle, for she has no great deal of her own." "No, no; it is not that," protestingly. "It looks mightily like it." "Marian has a queer conscience. You don't know----" Did she really know Marian herself? "Well, we will dismiss her now. Perhaps she has a high order of constancy that will keep her faithful to someone who is helpless and cannot appreciate it. She may be a too superior person for me. That is the end of it. I shall never mention her again. You have been very good to find so many excuses for her, and to keep alive my regard. But I cannot afford to lose your friendship. Carrington won't grudge me that, I know." Jaqueline smiled. She was rather proud that he asked her friendship. There were belles who were eager to gain his attention. Jaqueline resolved to keep the best of her friend to herself, and smiled a little at the curiously obedient manner in which he returned to her when she had sent him to dance with someone. She liked the pretty ordering about of her admirers, the sense of power at once fascinating and dangerous. "I shall try to get off for a few days and pay you a visit," Ralston said. "Louis will be going back to college, and next year we shall have him in Washington. And you will be up often this winter? Mrs. Jettson seems deserted by both of her sisters. She is so fond of young people." "Oh, yes; I shall be up a good deal." "And the visit?" tentatively. "We shall be delighted to see you. You will have an admiring audience from father down." "Thank you. You can never know what a comfort you have been to me. And these few days have quite restored me to myself. Have I been a very foolish, love-stricken swain?" "Oh, I do not think you have been foolish at all! I was afraid you would grow hard and cynical, and I don't like people who are classing everybody in the same category and looking on the worst side." She was very young, but she had a charm that touched his heart. Did he half envy Roger Carrington? But, then, he would be madly jealous of anyone who lavished her smiles in that fashion. One or two choice friends might be admissible. He was safe, for he would never be so easily caught again by any woman. Friendship was all he desired, and in the years to come she would resemble Mrs. Jettson, no doubt, who was very proud of her husband, and fond of him too. He liked women who were proud of their husbands. For wifely devotion had not gone out of fashion. There was a gay and busy autumn for Jaqueline. Betty Fairfax had a great wedding that befitted the old mansion where she had reigned a queen for more years than usually fell to the lot of a handsome Virginian girl. She had seen two younger sisters married and made much merriment over it, and now she was going to be the wife of the newly elected Governor of one of the more southern States. Consequently there was a grand time all through the county, and there were six bridesmaids to wait upon my lady, one of them being Jaqueline. So there was a week to be spent with Betty, Miss Elizabeth Fairfax, as she was called now. "And what a shame your cousin's affairs should have come to naught!" Betty declared. "To give up a fine young soldier, and then to have her second lover come to grief. It is a case of the two stools, and one coming to the floor. If I had not heard of your engagement, Jaqueline, I should have asked him to stand with you. If I had known him better I should have invited him, anyhow. There are several guests coming from Washington." "If I had only known you cared!" cried Jaqueline. "You see, I want to make as brave a show as possible," and Betty laughed. "I desire to let my liege-lord see that I have been accustomed to the best, and a good deal of it, so he won't consider me an ignoramus when he is inaugurated Governor later on." "Then let us have Mr. Ralston!" Jaqueline's eyes were alight with eagerness and amusement. "I will write to Mr. Carrington, and you shall inclose an invitation. I'll send a few lines too, so that he can see it is really meant." "That's quite delightful of you. Maybe he will find some balm to mend his broken heart among the pretty girls." "He is not heartbroken now, although he took it very hard at first. Grandpapa was bitterly opposed to it, you know. And Marian is in mourning and goes nowhere, because grandmamma thinks she ought not to be left alone." "But Mr. Greaves will never recover. Doctor Leets said so." "Oh, no! No one expects it, I think." "Well, I suppose the devotion to a lost cause looks very pretty and constant. Only she will not be a widow, more's the pity, for widows soon pick up husbands. Now about the invitation." It was so prettily worded that Lieutenant Ralston accepted it at the first reading; and the two journeyed together to the grand festivity. Old people and young attended, in fashions of various kinds, from the Continental to more modern date. The Governor of Virginia honored Betty's nuptials, and several of the Washington grandees. The _Gazette_ had a brilliant account of it, and it was the boast of the county for many a year afterward. The next morning the newly wedded pair started in a coach drawn by six white horses, ornamented with wedding favors. And there was, as usual, much merry-making afterwards, as there was still one daughter to lead in the gayety. "And when are you coming up to Georgetown?" Carrington asked of his sweetheart. "Oh, there is another wedding on the carpet! And then a birthday ball at the Lees'. Then Patty is to have a birthday celebration. She thinks thus far all the festivities have been for me, and this time the invitations are to go out in her name." "And then Christmas, I suppose," in a rather disappointed tone. "To get my share of you I shall have to marry you, Jaqueline. Come, think about that. When is it to be?" "In a year. That will give me time to fulfill my engagements and get ready." "A year!" in dismay. "You ought not grudge me that when you think of the years and years we shall have to live together." "Shall have to!" he re-echoed. "That I believe is customary when one is married," she said with teasing archness. "Unless one happens to have the Emperor of the French for a brother." "Wifehood is a woman's highest prerogative----" "Not to be entered into hastily or unadvisedly," she interrupted with a mischievous smile. She was a pretty, fascinating torment! His mother had said: "One wedding follows another among the bridesmaids. I hope you will come home with your day set." "I am going to learn to cook and to keep house this winter," she began gravely. "And it takes a long time to make wedding clothes." "Nonsense! There are cooks enough in the world. As for housekeeping, that is a woman's birthright. And at first you know we need not keep house. You will be in Washington with me, and then we can go over home--for I shall hardly let you out of my sight. Yes, let it be soon after Christmas." "I can't be hurried in that fashion," she returned petulantly. "And I should get tired of you if you were such a jailer as never to let me out of your sight." "You do not love me as I love you!" "But you know I told you I was not quite sure I loved you enough. Love grows with some people, and with some it comes in a moment of time. Would you not rather have it grow year after year, and get richer and truer----" Her voice fell to an exquisite softness, and touched him deeply. "There can be only one truth to love," he said solemnly. Then he took her in his arms and pressed a kiss upon her forehead in a reverent manner. "I must go away and leave you here," he said presently. "I am always leaving you to some scene of gayety." "But you take the two most tempting young men, the lieutenant and Dr. Collaston. Why, he will add quite a grace and interest to Washington. And the goodly company will be scattered, leaving behind the old people, who are always talking of their young days. I promised Betty I would stay a whole week with her sister. There--I think they are calling you." "Carriage ready, sah. Jes' time to meet de stage," said the black servant, who still wore his wedding favor proudly. Were most girls reluctant to marry? Roger Carrington wondered. Miss Fairfax had gone away joyfully. CHAPTER XIII. LOVERS AND LOVERS. Jaqueline found herself very much engrossed. There was another young lady to attract visitors, and Patricia soon became a favorite. She was vivacious and ready to take her part in any amusement, could dance like a fairy, and sing like a bird. "You'll have to look to your laurels, Miss Jaqueline," said old Mr. Manners, their next neighbor. "Patty will carry off all the lovers in no time. I hope you have made sure of yours." Jaqueline blushed and tossed her head. "He would marry me to-morrow," she returned. "I'm in no haste to be married." At the next wedding she had another attendant, the brother of the bride. Roger was too busy to come for the mere pleasure. When the birthday ball was at the Lees' Mr. Monroe had sent him to Philadelphia on some important business. So Lieutenant Ralston was cavalier for both girls; and certainly Patty was one of the belles of the evening, and could have danced with two partners every time. After that came Patty's birthday, and a grand affair it was. Mrs. Jettson ran down to look on and help a little, as she said, but not to take an active part. Ralston begged that Dr. Collaston might be invited. He had graduated from the Philadelphia school, but was a Marylander by birth; and, having a private fortune, had decided to spend the winter in Washington. A bright, fine-looking young fellow who played the flute delightfully and sang all the songs of the day, and, what was of still more importance to social life, could dance with zest and elegance. Jaqueline was in some degree the hostess, and distributed her favors impartially, so Roger had very little of her. Varina and Annis felt as if they were in fairyland, and were entranced with delight. Mrs. Jettson insisted that after Christmas she should have her turn with the girls. "There are to be some famous visitors, I hear, and Washington is getting to be quite a notable place. Not quite St. James; but Mrs. Madison is our queen, and it is like a little court, as Philadelphia used to be in Mrs. Washington's time. The debates will be worth hearing, or rather seeing, for the famous speakers who will take part. Dolly writes about Mr. Calhoun, and there is a Mr. Henry Clay, who is very eloquent. I can't give regular parties, but you girls can go out, and Patty must attend a levee and be presented to Mrs. Madison." Patricia was very much elated. "Why, it will be something like the English stories,"--there were a few novels even then that girls were allowed to read,--"going up to London or to Bath with a trunk full of finery. I don't suppose you ever will take us to London, papa?" "I'm getting too old. You will have to get a husband to take you to London." "'Where the streets were so wide and the lanes were so narrow?'" sang Patty. "But I won't have a wheelbarrow. I'll have a coach, or nothing." "I wish you were not going away," Annis sighed. "It's so bright and merry when you are here, and so many ladies come in their pretty frocks, and they laugh and talk. I can hear you upstairs when I am in my bed. And the fiddles sound so gay, and then I know you are dancing. Oh, I wish Christmas and birthdays could come oftener!" "The birthdays might do for little people who are anxious to grow old fast," said Jaqueline, patting the child's shoulder. "But the rest of us wouldn't want two or three in a year. And it won't be very long before you'll be going to Washington to see the queen, pussy cat." "But I want you, not the queen. It will be so lonesome when you are gone!" "You are a little sweet!" Jaqueline bent over and kissed her. "I hope you'll stay just sweet, nothing else. Everybody will love you." "I'm afraid I don't want quite everybody," she returned in a hesitating tone. "Yes, one can even have too much of love," laughed the elder sister. She thought she sometimes had too much of it. She was proud of Roger Carrington, and she was quite sure she did not care for anyone else in the way of wishing that some other person stood in his place. Why, then, was she not ready to step into his life and make it glad with a supreme touch of happiness? Annis glanced up wistfully to the beautiful face bent over her, which was more engrossed with its own perplexities than considering her little sister. Then suddenly she laughed, a low musical sound with much amusement in it, and Annis smiled too. "You are having love troubles early, Annis dear," she said gayly. Charles' _penchant_ increased rather than diminished, and Annis found it somewhat exacting and troublesome. When there were other young visitors Varina appropriated them, much to Charles' satisfaction, and he invariably turned the cold shoulder to other little girls. "But Charles is going to school presently, and he will get interested in boys and plans for the future, so you may stand a chance of being forgotten; how will you like that?" "Why, I shall have mamma always. Jaqueline," hesitatingly, "does anyone love you too much? Is it Mr. Ralston? And doesn't he love Marian any more?" "My dear, when Marian was engaged Mr. Ralston gave her up, which was right and honorable. Little girls can't understand all about such matters." "I like Mr. Ralston very much," Annis remarked gravely. "Varina thinks Patty will marry him." "What nonsense! Varina is quite too ready with her tongue. Come, don't you want a little ride with me before I go to town?" The child was delighted, and ran off for her hat and coat. Her father had suggested a little caution in regard to Mr. Ralston. They were simply friends. He had never uttered a word that could be wrongly construed. She had a kind of safe feeling with him. Was there any real danger? But he was Roger's friend as well? There were already some invitations awaiting the two girls when they arrived at Mrs. Jettson's. Patricia was much elated with her first levee. Certainly there was a group of distinguished women entertaining--Mrs. Cutts and Mrs. Lucy Washington, now a charming young widow; Mrs Gallatin, and the still handsome Mrs. Monroe, who had been an acknowledged New York beauty; and among the men the very agreeable young Washington Irving, who was to leave a lasting mark on American literature. "But you feel almost afraid of the wisdom and genius and power," said Patricia to Dr. Collaston. "Now, there is Mr. Clay, with his sharp eyes under the overhanging eyebrows that look as if they might dart out at you and somehow set you in a blaze. I am to go hear one of his speeches, my brother insists. And my cousin Dolly is wild about Mr. Calhoun. Don't you think they might both have been made handsomer without any great detriment to the world? And Mrs. Calhoun is charming. She knew some of the Floyds and heard about Dolly's marriage." "Patrick Henry wasn't a handsome man, if accounts are reliable. Genius and good looks do not always go together," and Collaston smiled. "There is Mr. Irving. He talks delightfully. And it is a pleasure to look at him." "Call no man happy until he is dead. I mean it is not safe to predict how much fame one will win until----" "Until he has won it. But it is a kind of cruel thing to wait until you are dead, when you can't know anything about it. I mean to take my delight as I go along. But, then, women are not expected to be addicted to longing for fame." "Still they may be famous for beauty. I think there have been a number of famous women. Queen Elizabeth----" "Don't instance the Empress Catherine nor Catherine de Medicis. If you do, I shall never forgive you. Nor Joan of Arc--I can't remember any more." "Nor the Pilgrim mothers! They deserved a good deal of credit to set up housekeeping on bleak Plymouth Rock. Why doesn't someone talk about them! Housekeeping is a womanly grace or virtue or acquirement--which do you call it?" "I suppose it is an acquirement when you work hard to obtain it, a grace when it comes natural. Do you imagine they kindled the fire on the rocks and boiled the kettle as we do when we go off in the woods for a day's pleasure?" "They wouldn't let you do it now. Plymouth Rock has become----" "The palladium of liberty! Isn't that rather choice and fit and elegant? It is a pity that I can't take the credit of inventing it. And what a shame we haven't a few rocks about here! I have a dreadful feeling that the Capital may sink down in the slough some day and disappear. Every street ends in a marsh." "You see, this is rightly called the New World--it is not finished yet." "Dr. Collaston, we can't allow you to monopolize the beauties of the evening. Here are some guests anxious to meet Miss Mason," and thereupon Patricia was turned slightly around to face a group of young people. But it was not all gayety or compliments, though men were gallant enough then, and ready with florid encomiums. There was the dreaded topic of war, which was touched upon with bated breath; there were muttered anathemas concerning the impressment of sailors; there were fears of France and a misgiving that we were not strong enough to cope with England while our resources were still slender. And already there were undercurrents forming for the Presidential election more than six months hence. But the younger people chatted nonsense, laughed at trifles, and made engagements for pleasure as well as for life; or the more coquettish ones teased their lovers with vain pretenses. Mrs. Van Ness entertained with ease and brilliance, and was as fond of gathering the younger people about her as those more serious companies where the responsible party men met and in a veiled way touched upon the graver questions. At Mrs. Gallatin's one met the more intellectual or scientific people. There was a feeling in the air that the country ought to consider an advancement in literature. Boston was already pluming herself upon a certain intellectual standing. There were Harvard and a Law Club, and a kind of literary center that had issued a magazine, and there were several papers. New York had some poets, and there had been a few novels written. But what could anyone say about such a new country? There were no famous ruins, though there were battlefields that were to be historic ground when men could look at them from a distance. Many a brave story lurked in the fastnesses of Virginia, and old James River held a romance in almost every curve of its banks. But people were busy about the currency and the debts, and the laws the young nation must have for her safety, and the respect she must demand from other nations. For this is one of the things nations give grudgingly; perhaps individuals do it, as well. Even now Mr. Adams' administration was criticised, and Mr. Benjamin Franklin was accused of spending his time flirting with French women, who were great flatterers, all the world knew. And some people were still berating the Jefferson policy, and sneered at little Jemmy Madison. Washington had not really taken hold of the hearts of the people. Gouverneur Morris had said wittily that "it only lacked cellars and houses and decently paved streets and a steady population, and that it was a fine city for future residences." Georgetown was more settled and prosperous, and there was much going back and forth, if coaches did now and then get stuck in the mud; and young gentlemen not infrequently adopted the Philadelphia custom of drawing on long leggings when they went on horseback to keep their handsome stockings and their velvet smallclothes from being injured. The South was well represented in these early days. Newspaper letters found their way to other cities, with enthusiastic descriptions of the principal beauties, their charms and fascinations. Mrs. Madison and her two sisters perhaps set the pace for delightful hospitality, and that still more engaging and agreeable quality of giving guests a pleasant time and a lasting remembrance to take away with them. But it was not all pleasure. There were housewifely duties; and more than one visitor saw the first lady of the land in her morning gown of gray stuff and a big white apron, for servants were not always equal to the state dinners. There were some charities too, when the younger people met to sew, and gossip about new fashions and new admirers. And the first real work of benevolence was undertaken about that time by some of the more notable women. This was the City Orphan Asylum, for already there were homeless waifs at the Capital. They met once a week to cut out clothing, or cut over garments sent in. Mrs. Van Ness kept up her interest in it through a long life, after Mrs. Madison retired to her Virginian home to nurse her husband's invalid mother, and finally devote herself to the years of dependence that befell the husband of her love. Certainly the record of her later life reads like a charming romance. But the young people were not interested in policies, and could not believe in war, except Indian skirmishes and among the European nations hungering for power. Patricia was eager for fun and delight, and dearly loved a dance. And, like more modern girls, she had a desire to be settled in life, to have a home of her own. To her that seemed the chief business to be undertaken through these early years. She liked Ralph Carrington very much. "But perhaps one in a family ought to suffice," she remarked to Jane. "Then he is so grave and bookish, and his wife will be expected to come home. I dare say Jack and I would always dispute about husbands. Ralph has the best temper. Roger is dreadfully jealous. I can't see how Jack dares to go on so." "She'll go too far some day," and Jane gave her head a slow, ominous shake. "And she'll be very foolish! You mark my words, Roger Carrington will be sent abroad before he dies of old age. It's a great honor, I suppose, but I'd rather go on living here." "I really don't think I'll take Ralph," after some consideration. "Do you suppose this gold-thread embroidery will look like that imported stuff?" holding up her work, as if that was more important. "Well, it's pretty enough for a queen. There's that New York judge, Patty----" "I'd rather have someone first-hand. I can't take another woman's children to my palpitating bosom and have it palpitate as sweetly as Marian's did. But, la! there's a talk that Mrs. Washington smiles on Judge Todd, who is her shadow! But he's in the Supreme Court." "And ever so much older." "Well, so was Mr. Madison." "I like young men best." "Peyton Lee is over here half his time." "But, then, I've known him always. And he is too easy. Why, I could run right over him! Because a man cares for a girl he shouldn't be wishy-washy," and Patty tossed her dainty head. Jane laughed. "And the doctor?" "Oh, I dare say he will want to go back to Philadelphia and turn Quaker. I couldn't wear those hideous straight gowns and horrid scoop hats without a bow!" "He has been investing in Washington property. He talks of building several houses to rent for the winter. It would be quite a scheme, if they were furnished. Senator Macy would have brought his family if he could have found a comfortable place for them to live. There ought to be some decent hotels and boarding-houses. Men can manage to squeeze in, but it gives permanency to a city to have homes and wives and children. And Washington is kind of shifty. Look how prosperous Georgetown is!" Patty nodded. The doctor had discussed this property scheme with her. She was seriously considering him in her own mind. He had not quite asked her to marry him, but he was keeping a very watchful eye over her. They went up to Arlington for a three-days' visit and a dance. There was a week at Bladensburg and a sleigh-ride, a rather infrequent occurrence, which made no end of fun and frolic. By this time the doctor had laid his case before Mr. Mason. He had decided to cast in his lot with the new city, to set up a home, and desired permission to address charming Miss Patricia on the subject. He presented his worldly prospects to the elder gentleman in a very frank manner, and referred him to some well-known residents of the Quaker City. Patty had been engrossed a good deal with her own affairs, although she had laughed and danced with the gayest. Jane had been much interested in watching the outcome of the adventure. She had an elder-sisterly feeling for these girls, who had been so much nearer since Marian's defection. She should be rather proud of their both doing so well under her supervision. So Jaqueline had been going her own gait pretty well, and developed an inordinate fondness for pleasure and flattery. She was too wise to believe all the pretty speeches, all the earnest speeches even. But they had a rosy fragrance, and perhaps the good thing about some of them was that they faded. She was not an inborn coquette, hungry for lasting power over men's hearts, but the present moment satisfied her. The variety fascinated her. Roger Carrington, watching this, was at first rather amused, then a little hurt, and finally, when he began to ask himself seriously how much true regard Jaqueline had for him, grew passionately jealous. If she had said, "I have made a sad mistake; I find that I have a deeper regard for Lieutenant Ralston than I imagined; will you give me back my freedom?" he would have been manly to the heart's core, and released her, though it had wrenched away the beautiful dream of his life. But she affected to treat this merely as a friendship. Could she not see? When other attentions became troublesome she sheltered herself behind Ralston. He was engrossed in the affairs of the country. He had a feeling at times that he was only playing a part in life, that instead of being merely an ornamental soldier he should go out on the frontier and take an active part in the struggles. He was not meant for a statesman, though he listened, fascinated, to Marshall and Randolph and Clay and Calhoun, and envied them their power of moving the multitude. Then, it did not seem very heroic to be getting the level of a street and calculating the filling in, to consider Tiber Creek and Darby Marsh, to superintend rows of trees and dikes and blind ditches. But when he confessed his dissatisfactions to Jaqueline, she said with a wise, earnest, sisterly air: "Oh, do not go away! There will be an election in the coming autumn, and how do you know but we may be plunged into war and need you for our own defense? Arthur thinks so much of your advice and counsel." That was very true. The thing was to build up Washington. Other cities had grown by slow accretion, and been a hundred and more years about it. Congress had ordered a city on a slender purse. There had been magnificent plans and a half-finished Capitol, a Presidential residence that Mrs. Adams had not inaptly termed a "great castle"; there were scattered beautiful houses, and though more than a dozen years had passed it was not yet a city of homes; but there was a new _amour propre_ awakening. The poverty of those days can scarcely be understood in these times of lavishness. So energetic young men like Arthur Jettson and Dr. Collaston found scope for all their energies, and were warmly welcomed. The latter had hardly decided where to make his home until he met Patricia Mason. And now he adopted his nation's Capital at once. His answer was favorable, and he hurried to his sweetheart with all impatience, though he had been cool enough before. And she accepted him, as any sensible girl with a strong liking for a young man every way worthy of her regard was likely to do. Jane was called in presently to rejoice with them. "Oh, Patty!" she exclaimed afterward, kissing her enthusiastically, "it's just a splendid marriage! I'm so glad to keep you in Washington! You and Jaqueline and I will have such good times--we think alike on so many subjects. I am happy for you, my dear. And I do wonder if you'll want to spin out your engagement----" "He won't," returned Patty, her pretty face red as a rose, and her eyes suffused with a kind of prideful love. "Why, he spoke of it and thought a month would do! The idea! And all the wedding clothes to get and make! And he never once suggested that we should go to New York, as Preston Floyd did!" Patty drew her face in comical lines, as if indicating disappointment; but the laugh spoiled it all, and the waves of joy dancing in the lines were fascinating. "I do wonder what grandmamma will give me? The pearls and the rubies are bespoke, and she has a diamond cross that has been in the family--how long?" "And the diamond ring father Mason gave her. You know Aunt Catharine claims that. I ought to have the cross, being the oldest girl, though it did come from the Verney side." "Jaqueline is to have our own mother's pearls. There's a beautiful string of them, and eardrops. But I think the doctor has some diamonds belonging to his mother. Oh, I wish there were some brothers and sisters! I shall not gain any new relations! Father wrote him a delightful letter; I wish I had kept it to show you. And he says Jaqueline and I must come home soon. Perhaps he will be up next week." So they chatted, and when Mr. Jettson came in to dinner it was all gone over again. If girls did not exactly "thank Heaven fasting" for a good husband, they were glad and proud of their great success. They were not ashamed of loving and being loved; there was a kind of sacredness to most women about this best gift of life. For in those days it was for life. If it did not begin with the maddening fervor of some later loves, it kept gathering sweetness as the years went on. Patty was still at her needlework when Mr. Carrington came in. "Mother has just sent a servant over to say that I am to bring you and Jaqueline to tea and to spend the night. Some Baltimore relatives have come, and she is anxious you shall meet. They go to Alexandria to-morrow, and then to Stafford, which accounts for the short notice." "Oh, Jaqueline went over to the Bradfords' this morning. They're going to have a little play, and want her to take part. She can do that so splendidly, you know. Lieutenant Ralston came for her, and said she was to stay to dinner." Carrington frowned and bit his lip. "I think I'll send over to the Bradfords'. I can't go myself," as if he were considering. "I'm sorry, Roger, but perhaps _I_ ought not go. And I hate to disappoint your mother when she has been so kind to us. But Dr. Collaston is coming in this evening----" There was a flood of scarlet leaping to her face as she gave a half-embarrassed laugh. "Oh, Patty! you don't mean--I mistrusted he was in love with you, but it doesn't always follow that a girl is in love. Shall I give you my best, my most heartfelt wishes? For I know your father will approve. He is a fine fellow, and a fortune is no detriment." He took her hand in a tender clasp and then pressed it to his lips. "Yes, the approval was sought beforehand. He heard from papa this morning, and came at once. And I'm not good at secrets," with a joyous laugh. "And you are very happy? I need not ask it of such eyes as those." Their great gladness gave him a pang. "It was so sudden. You see, I wasn't quite sure," the color fluttering up and down her sweet face. "I kept saying to myself, 'There are plenty of others,' and now I know there was just one, and I could never be so glad about any other. I am a silly girl, am I not, but you are almost a brother----" "I wish I were quite, in the way that marriage gives you a brother. I shall shake hands most cordially with the doctor. Perhaps we might go as a party--would you mind?" "Oh, no! If you could find Jaqueline." "I'll see at once, and send you word. And get word to the doctor also." "Oh, thank you!" Roger Carrington dispatched a messenger to the Bradfords. The party had just gone to Mount Pleasant on horseback. It was doubtful if they would be home before supper. They were not sure, and there was a beautiful full moon. Then Carrington was angry. She thought nothing of going off with Ralston, and she might at least have consulted him about the play. That she had not known of it last evening did not at that moment occur to him. All the grievances and irritations of the past few weeks suddenly accumulated, accentuated by the joyous face he had left behind. Did Jaqueline really love him? Had she not put off the marriage on one pretext and another? She had taken admiration very freely, quite as if she were not an engaged girl. It had annoyed him, but he did not want to play the tyrant, and she had so many pretty excuses. How sweet and coaxing the tones of her voice were! Her smiling eyes had ever persuaded him; and when tears gathered in them they were irresistible and swept away judgment. He had been too easy. After all, a man was to be the head. He did not find the doctor either, but sent word to Patricia that he was most sorry to take such a disappointment to his mother. They would all go some other time. And he went home rather out of temper inwardly, but courteous to his mother's guests outwardly. They were quite disappointed at not seeing Roger's betrothed. All the next day and evening he was so closely engaged that he could not even run down to the Jettsons' until after nine; and then they were all out. That did not improve the white heat of his indignation, and convinced him that Jaqueline cared more for her own pleasure than for him. Then when he called the day following she was over at the Bradfords' practicing. "It's too bad!" cried Patricia. "They never came home from their ride until after ten. Jaqueline looked for you yesterday. The play is to be on Monday night, and father is coming up on Wednesday, though now Jaqueline is in it she will have to stay. It is to be quite an event. And a dance afterward." Occasionally a theatrical company strayed into Washington, but private plays were a treat to the actors as well as to the invited guests. The Bradfords' house was commodious, and the tickets were to be sold for the benefit of the orphan asylum, so there was no difficulty in disposing of them. CHAPTER XIV. JAQUELINE. "I thought I should never see you again." It was almost dusk of the short day, as it had been cloudy and was threatening a storm. Roger had overtaken Jaqueline on her homeward way. "How many days has it been?" turning a smiling face to him. "I have sold all my tickets, and I had meant to keep two for you. Come home to supper with me. Of course you know what has happened! Patty acts as if no girl ever had a lover before. It is amusing." Her light tone angered him. "Walk a little ways with me. I have something to say to you." He drew her hand through his arm and strode on. She braced herself for a storm. "What--down to the marsh? The frost is coming out of the ground, and we shall be swamped." That was true enough. He turned suddenly. "Let us go home. It looks like rain. I believe I felt a drop on my face," she began. "Not until I have said my say," in a resolute tone of voice. "Jaqueline, I cannot have this manner of going on. It is very unjust to me, and you will not be the more respected by parading Lieutenant Ralston's devotion to you when you have an acknowledged lover." "His devotion to me? Why, everybody knows--at least, we all know----" "That figment is only a cover for flirting." "But--he is your friend." Her tone was quite resentful, and her temper was rising. "_Was!_" with emphasis. "But this shall no longer be a cover for you. You choose between us. If you like him so much better----" "Roger, he has never uttered a word of love to me." She stopped short in indignation. "Oh, no! He has some lingering remnant of honor. But you will see how soon he will ask you to marry him when I have given you up." Given her up! There was a white line about her mouth, and her eyes seemed to hold the depth of midnight. He had not meant to utter the words, though they had been in his mind for days. At the first inception of such a suspicion he had said he would never give her her liberty and see her married to another man, and then as he had seen her dispensing her smiles to a group of young men and bending her dainty head first to one and then to another, as if what the present speaker was saying was of the utmost moment, a curious revulsion of feeling swept over him. Yes, let Ralston take her, with all her love for the admiration of everybody! Perhaps he did not care for one supreme love. She was silent from sheer amazement. That any man who was her real lover should talk of such a possibility stung her to the quick. "Jaqueline, I cannot go on this way," and his voice dropped to a softer key. "I want all the tenderness of the woman I love, and some of the attention, I must confess. If she cares for me I do not see how she can be continually occupied with others. You give me just the fragments. You make engagements, you go out without the least thought that I might have something in view; you have put off our marriage from time to time, and now you must decide. If you love me well enough to marry me----" "Out of hand!" She gave a scornful little laugh. "I thought it was a girl's prerogative to appoint her own wedding-day. I will not be hurried and ordered about as if I had no mind of my own. I will be no one's slave! I will not be watched and suspected and lectured, and shut up for fear someone will see me!" "Jaqueline!" She was very angry now, and it seemed to her as if she had a curiously clear conscience. She had not expected to stay at the Bradfords' until just after dinner, but there were still some points to settle, then someone proposed the ride. Ralston had not remained to dinner, and had not gone out to Mount Pleasant with them, but a servant had been sent in with several invitations for gentlemen. Impromptu parties were of no infrequent occurrence among young people. Jaqueline did not know of the invitations until after the messenger had been sent; and from some oversight no one had mentioned Mr. Carrington. She could have explained this. But when she glanced at the erect figure, the steady eyes, the set lip, he looked so masterful. She was used to her father's easy-going ways, and Ralston's persistence in the matter of Marian had a heroic aspect to her. If Roger was so arbitrary beforehand, what would he be as a husband! She forgot how many times she had persuaded him from the very desire of his heart. "It is just this, Jaqueline--I am tired of trifling. If you do not care to marry me, say so. I sometimes think you do not, that you care for lovers only, admirers who hover about continually, glad of a crumb from a pretty girl. I am not one of them. You take me and let my attentions suffice, or you leave me----" She had an ideal of what a lover should be, and he looked most unlike it in this determined mood. Why, he was almost as arbitrary as grandfather! "Suppose I do not care to be hurried by a fit of anger on your part? If you had asked an explanation like a gentleman----" "I do not want explanations. You take me or leave me. I have danced attendance on you long enough to no purpose." "I certainly shall not take you in this dreadful temper!" "Very well." He turned slowly. If he really cared for her he would not go. She stood dignified and haughty. Of course he would come around, for if he truly loved her he could not face the future without her. But the door shut between them. It was very ungenerous for him to be jealous of Ralston, and foolish of him not to like her part in the little play. She was not the heroine who had two lovers adoring her, but a pretty maid who had made her election and was pestered by someone she did not care for, and the story turned on her quick wit in extricating her mistress from a dilemma. Ralston was the lover to whom her sympathies went, and the one her mistress secretly favored. Mrs. Carrington came over that day to take the girls out for a drive and to try to persuade them to come over for a Sunday visit. She congratulated Patricia warmly on her prospects. "Perhaps we shall have a double wedding," with a soft, motherly smile. "Oh, don't plan for that!" ejaculated the elder girl with a shiver. "Grandmamma did, you know, and such misfortunes happened." "But it would be lovely!" Patricia exclaimed longingly, wondering at her sister's vehemence. "And you think you cannot come?" Mrs. Carrington said as they drove back to Mrs. Jettson's. "It would be such a great pleasure to us all!" "We have a Saturday-night engagement at the Hamiltons'," Patricia replied. "And Sunday there are to be some guests to dinner." "And the play Monday evening," added Jaqueline in a voice she tried to keep steady. "I don't wonder you two girls have delightful times and are full of engagements," said the elder woman with a smile of admiration. "But my turn will come presently. Good-by, my dears." Jaqueline felt confident she should meet her lover at the Hamiltons', but she did not. Sunday passed without him. "Whatever is the matter?" inquired Patty. "A little lovers' tiff," and Jaqueline gave an airy toss of the head, with a rather disdainful smile. "You never do mean to quarrel with Roger Carrington!" exclaimed Patty in surprise. "It was of his own making." "Jack, now that I have a lover of my very own, I don't see how you can be so fond of--of other men. You haven't treated Roger at all well." "I won't be called that detestable _Jack_! And I am not man-crazy!" "No, they are crazy about you. I shouldn't think Roger would like it. No lover would stand it." Jaqueline made no reply. Monday there was a rehearsal, and Jaqueline remained to tea. There was a very enthusiastic audience, and the play was charmingly acted. Of course Roger was there, and chatted with Patricia and the doctor. Jaqueline in her heart acted for him alone. She was so eager and interested in furthering Margaret Bradford's love for Lieutenant Ralston that she thought he must see how frankly and freely she could relinquish him. But Roger, knowing that Margaret Bradford had a real lover, looked at it from a different point of view. "Will you give my congratulations to your sister?" he said to Patricia, rising, as the curtain fell for the last time. "There is some important business at Mr. Monroe's, and I am to be there at ten." "Are you not going to stay to the supper?" Patty cried in surprise. "I know Jaqueline expects you." If she had sent ever such a little note to bid him come! But she had made no sign. Then Jaqueline Mason was very angry. She would not believe any man actually in love could so hold aloof. It was an insult! And while her passion was at white heat the next morning she penned a sharp note of dismissal. He should not plume himself upon having given her up. Mr. Mason came to Washington according to agreement, and was very well satisfied with his prospective son-in-law. "But do not go on too fast," he advised. "Matters look squally ahead. And if we should have war----" "It will hardly invade us, when there are more important cities open to attack. And I cannot really think it. As the capital of the nation we must plan and build for the future. L'Enfant planned magnificently; it is for us to carry it out. And we younger men, who have not had our tempers so tried with all the disputes, will continue it with greater enthusiasm. It must be the grandest place in the whole country." Mr. Mason smiled thoughtfully. "I hope it may be. We had a hard fight for it in the beginning. I want the wisdom of our choice apparent." "It will be the city of my adoption, and I shall bend all my energies, and whatever money I can spare, to its advancement. Having won my wife here, it will always keep a charm for me. I should like to be married as soon as is convenient. Patricia will be very happy here, I am sure." Patricia was a fortunate girl, her father thought. Fathers had their daughters' interests at heart in those days, when there was time to live. "What is this?" he asked of Jaqueline on the morning of their departure, holding a brief note before her eyes. "You don't mean that you have dismissed Mr. Carrington?" Jaqueline flushed deeply, then turned pale. For a moment it seemed as if her tongue was numb with terror. Had he really accepted her desire without a protest? Was it her desire? "There was--oh, I cannot tell you now! Wait until we get home," she pleaded. "But he says--it is your wish! Jaqueline, my child, you never could have been so foolish as to throw over a man like that!" "Oh, papa--don't, don't! When you hear all----" and she clasped her arms about his neck. "I can't imagine him doing an ungentlemanly act. And if you have learned anything to his detriment--there are malicious tongues, you know. Yet I cannot bear to think you were to blame." The girl was silent, and swallowed hard over the lump of condemnation in her throat. For she had thought he would offer her some opportunity to rehabilitate herself. She could not believe she had given such bitter offense. It seemed to her that she would have forgiven almost anything to Roger. Suppose he had wanted to take part in a play with a girl she had not liked? But, then, he and Ralston had been warm friends. Roger went to places where she was not acquainted, at the houses of some of the senators. The Monroes invited him. Yes, he met some very charming women at dinners. But she knew she held his inmost heart, as far as other women were concerned. And why could he not have the same trust in her? Dr. Collaston treated it as a mere lovers' tiff. "They will make up again," he said to Patricia. "And no doubt we'll be married at the same time. Carrington is a fine fellow." For the first day Patricia's affairs occupied everybody, to the farthest slave cabin. Big and little wanted a peep at Miss Patty's lover. Comparisons were drawn between him and Mr. Carrington, and a doctor was looked upon as something rather uncanny. But he soon made himself a favorite. Mrs. Mason was consulted about the wedding. "What are Jaqueline's plans?" she asked. "I must get to the bottom of that matter," the father remarked with a sigh. "Something has happened between them." "And we all like Roger so much." It was a fine day in early spring, with the breath of new growing things making the air fragrant. Jaqueline was walking with Annis and telling over the pretty ways and whims of the Jettson baby, and how fond the boys were of their little sister. "Jaqueline!" called her father. "No, don't come with me, dear. I'll be back in a few moments." Annis sat down on a flat stone where a bit of trailing moss dropped from a tree, swinging to and fro. She amused herself trying to catch it. And then she heard a voice raised in tones that were not pleasant. Without exactly meaning to make it harder for her sister, Patricia had admitted that Roger had some cause to find fault. Jacky had been very much admired, and she had not paid due attention to Roger. There had been something about the play, but she didn't think Jaqueline cared any more for Ralston than for half a dozen others. From it all Mr. Mason gathered that his daughter had not been blameless. To break an engagement without excellent reasons was considered very reprehensible. A girl might have lovers by the score; and though she might lay herself open to the accusation of flirting--this was easily forgiven. But when one's word had once been passed, it was the sacred honor of womanhood, and to break it left a stigma not easily overcome. To Mr. Mason, with his strict sense of justice, this was a severe blow. He had been proud of Jaqueline going back into the Carrington family, and her warm welcome from both ladies. Dr. Collaston had a much larger fortune and was of good family, but the Carringtons had some of the proudest Maryland and Virginian blood in their veins, heroes who had made their mark, women both brave and beautiful. And there was no doubt but that Roger would make some sort of a high record and be called upon to fill an important position. "You have been a foolish and wicked girl!" he said angrily to his daughter. "You have disgraced yourself and us, and broken up a lifelong friendship just to gratify a silly vanity and a spirit of contumacy that is despicable in a woman! I am sure Roger had some rights in the case. If he had come to me I should have appointed a wedding-day at once. And now you will be the laughing-stock of the county." That was the mortifying point. Patricia would be married before her, with a great flourish of trumpets. She felt almost as if she would make some effort to recall Roger. But that brief note to her father, explaining that he had given her her liberty because she wished it, being quite convinced it was better for them to separate, seemed to cut off every avenue of promise. "Father is awful mad at Jaqueline," said Varina to Annis. "He's scolded her like fun! And she isn't going to marry Roger. The slaves say when the eldest lets her sister get married first that she will have to go and dance in the pigpen. Do you suppose she will?" "No, she won't!" exclaimed Annis indignantly. "And I'm sorry. Poor Jaqueline!" "Oh, you needn't be sorry! Jack can get ever so many lovers. But I'd like them both to be married. They're always saying, 'Run away, Rene,' or 'Go get this and that,' when they know you can't find it. And Patty is going to live in a beautiful big house in Washington, ever so much bigger than Aunt Jane's, and she will give balls and parties and go to Mrs. Madison's every day. I mean to coax papa to let me live with her." That was all very grand. Annis liked Dr. Collaston, too. Patty had grown curiously sweet, and everybody was coming to wish her happiness. Jaqueline was evidently in disgrace. Even grandmother, who came down to spend a few days and hear the plans, read her a severe lecture. Mrs. Mason was sorry, for she felt in her heart that Jaqueline cared more for Roger than she admitted. But the sympathy from little Annis was the sweetest. She had a way of patting Jaqueline's hand and pressing it to her soft cheek, of glancing up with such tender eyes that it moved the elder's heart inexpressibly. There was a world of excitement on the old plantation. Madam Floyd had been married there in grand state and dignity, but "Miss Cassy" had missed a wedding in her youth, and now that one of the household, born under the roof-tree and reared among them all, one of the true "chillen at de big house," was to be wedded with a gay bevy of bridesmaids and an evening of dancing to bridal music, the whole place was astir. Dr. Collaston would wait no later than June. "After all," declared Patty, "much of the work can be done afterward. The house will not be finished until August; meanwhile we shall stay wherever we can, and spend a month at Bladensburg. So there need be no hurry about anything but gowns." The doctor had ordered some things abroad, for, although duties were high and the risks great, vessels came and went in comparative safety. Immediately upon the adjournment of Congress Mr. Monroe decided upon a visit to New York, ostensibly on his wife's account, who had been the famous Miss Kortwright of that city. Political matters were kept in the background. It was known that there was an undercurrent at work for De Witt Clinton as the next occupant of the Presidential chair. Mr. Monroe determined to visit several of the larger cities, and Roger Carrington was glad of the opportunity to go away. Ralston had been sent with a corps of engineers to examine the defenses of several important points. Jaqueline was relieved, and yet strangely disappointed. Did Ralston know that he had been considered a sort of marplot? Yet when Carrington went carefully over the ground, he thought if there was any fault between them it really was Jaqueline's appropriation of the young man. Mrs. Carrington had been deeply disappointed; but, mother-like, she blamed Jaqueline for the trouble. The answer to Patricia's wedding invitation had been a brief note in which Madam and Ralph joined her in congratulations. The elder lady was now quite an invalid, so it would not be possible for them to leave home. Jaqueline felt curiously bewildered in those days. At times she decided that she really hated Roger for his jealous, overbearing disposition, and was thankful she was not to be his wife. Then a wave of the old love and longing would sweep over her. Would a line from her bring him back? But he was quite wrong about Ralston. So there was a grand wedding, and young and old were invited, with numerous guests from Washington. Annis and Varina brought up the rear of the bridesmaids, with Charles and a neighboring lad, dressed in the pretty French-court style. "You are more beautiful than the bride," said Charles gallantly. "When you are married you must be dressed just that way." It was a summer of gayety, and there were times when everyone allowed Jaqueline to forget her naughtiness, and she almost forgot it herself. Louis came home crowned with honors and very proud of his success, and pleased Patricia by his admiration of her husband. "How tall and pretty Annis is growing!" he said to her mother. "But try to keep her a little girl, and let Rene have full swing first and marry off. Though I shall rather pity her husband, her temper is so capricious. Annis is sweetness itself. She seems to be the peacemaker always." "Don't flatter her too extravagantly. I think you all torment Varina so much that it makes her irritable." "Varina and Charles bicker constantly. Charles must go to school next year and get the nonsense shaken out of him. Varina ought to try it too. There is a very excellent girls' school at Williamsburg, and a little of Aunt Catharine's discipline would do her good. We are a rather lawless set, and you have been very kind to us." "I have not found any of you troublesome," and the stepmother smiled upon her tall son. "Charles is anxious to go away now." "He is a smart, queer chap, and will be a professor of some kind. At present he is simply omnivorous; it makes little difference what, so long as he learns. And I really did not like to study." "You have given your father a great deal of pleasure by your perseverance," she said sweetly. Varina was jealous that both brothers should haunt Annis so continually and be so ready to plan pleasures for her. She quite decided now that Annis might marry Charles. "And if no one marries me I shall go and keep house for Louis in Washington," she announced. There was a houseful of grown people one afternoon, when Annis took her sewing and went down to the creek to a shady spot the children were very fond of. Louis had made a kind of swinging seat with a wild grapevine, and it was a favorite haunt of hers, though when she found Varina in it she never disturbed her or disputed her claim. Charles often sat and read to her. "Do, Rene, go away or find something to do!" exclaimed Jaqueline presently, when the younger had been especially tormenting. "You are worse than a gadfly!" "There's no one to amuse me. I don't care for those folks on the porch talking politics." "Then go down to the quarters and set the darkies to dancing or order up Hornet." "I don't want to ride alone. It was mean in Charles to go off without saying a word." "Papa sent him over to the Crears' on an errand." "I wouldn't have spoiled the errand." "I am going down to listen to the politics, and learn who will be next President." "Then I'll hunt up Annis." Jaqueline hoped Annis had gone wandering in the woods. But Varina went straight to the retreat. Yes, there was Annis swinging in her shady nook with a very slow movement that did not hinder her from sewing on her strip of gay embroidery. And Charles sat on his horse in his delicate, high-bred manner. They all said he resembled the old courtier in the parlor. The little creek purled over the stones, crooning its way along. The air was sweet with innumerable fragrances, the sunshine veiled with a soft haze that deepened the shadows all about. Charles enjoyed the brooding atmosphere and the picture Annis made. His horse had taken a few steps in the creek and quenched his thirst, and now seemed enjoying the fine prospect. Varina made her complaint at once. "I didn't want you to go with me," he answered. "Papa had nothing to do with it." "Oh, you might have made me Jack at a pinch, if Annis could not go." "I didn't ask Annis. And I didn't want any pinches," laughingly. Varina roamed up and down, interrupting the talk. Charles had stumbled over his brother's copy of Shakspere, that had opened a new world to him. Louis laughed a little at his enthusiasm, but Annis never laughed. "I mean some day to go and see all these places," he was saying. "You know, they are real places, and some of the people were real people. Perhaps they all were. Varina, don't you splash the water over Annis." Varina had picked up a slender dead branch, and was beating up waves in the little creek. The spray went quite a distance. "No matter," said Annis. "A little water doesn't hurt. But tell me, did they really put out Prince Arthur's eyes? How could they be so cruel?" "I don't see how you can take an interest in such people. You're always talking about wars and all manner of terrible things." Varina brought her stick down with emphasis. Sam had been stepping softly about the edge of the creek, the cool water laving his hoofs. He had not minded the sprinkling on his sides, but this gave him a drench in the face. He threw up his head and turned to walk out. Charles had dropped the bridle rein, but Sam was gentle enough. As he reached the edge he stepped on a rolling stone, stumbled, tried to regain his poise, but both horse and boy went over. Sam righted himself in a moment, but Charles lay quite still. "Oh, if you have killed him!" cried Annis. Varina was white with an awful fear, too much alarmed to make a sound. It was Annis who flew to his side. She bathed his face and head with her handkerchief. Sam came and looked on with a human expression in his eyes. Charles stirred and sighed. "Oh, he isn't dead!" cried Annis joyfully. "No, I'm not dead." Charles sat up, wincing a little. "What happened?" Varina pushed Annis aside and knelt down with her arms around him. "I'm so sorry!" she began. "But that little douse didn't make Sam stumble. What can I do? Shall I run up to the house for anything?" "Just help me up. No, I haven't any broken bones. Be thankful for that, Rene," and the boy tried every limb. There were twinges in his back and a queer, half-dizzy feeling in his head. "I'll be all right in a moment." Sam seemed to feel reassured, and went to cropping the sedgy grass. "There, don't cry, Rene. It wasn't all your fault. Sam trod on something that rolled--a stone, I think." "And I do love you so--ever so much more than you love me! And it gives me a heartache to see you all take in Annis and crowd me out." Varina began to sob. "I don't mean to crowd anyone out," declared Annis in a tone that sounded as if it came over tears. "And you all have a part of my own mamma." "Annis is so good and sweet, and ready to give up any point, and you want always to take things whether or no. Perhaps you'll grow up like Jaqueline or Patty, and Patty's awful sweet to everybody since she's had a husband. There, don't cry any more; I'm not killed. I'll sit here and rest a little. And, Rene, if you would only give over tormenting people when they tell you to stop!" Varina was still a good deal alarmed. She could see Charles' white face without a bit of color in the lips as he lay on the ground. He was pale still, as he leaned back in the swing. "And, Rene, you will never, never get a husband unless you do change. You'll be a cross and queer old maid, and not one of us will be willing to have you about. And you can be real nice." "Oh, don't scold her so!" Annis went and clasped her arms about Varina's neck. "She is going to be sweet and good because nothing dreadful did happen. God, you know, kept it from happening. And when one is very grateful one tries hard to do one's best. Sometimes I think you don't love Rene enough, and it makes her hurt and sore." Then the children made resolves all around, and Charles walked between the girls up to the house. If the making up could only last! "Don't say a word about it," he cautioned them. "Father would make a fuss." Then he turned and kissed Varina, a caress he seldom offered her. "I'm going to try, I really am. But it is so hard not to be loved." "But we do love you," declared both in a breath. The trouble was they loved each other as well. And she wanted to be loved best. CHAPTER XV. A SMALL HERO. Dr. Collaston and his wife opened their new house early in September with quite a grand gathering of friends. It was really very handsome for the times, and the young wife was considered quite an acquisition to society, which was rather fluctuating. Louis Mason esteemed himself very fortunate to obtain a place in the office of Judge Todd of the Supreme Court. Charles and Varina went to Williamsburg to school, and Annis had her mother all to herself once more, for Jaqueline was in great demand at her sister's. She was not long in meeting Roger Carrington, but they might have been the merest acquaintances. And as if to help the family get over the disappointment, Ralph married a daughter of one of the neighbors, an amiable, home-loving girl, an excellent housekeeper, and quite up in the demands of the society of the day. She came home to live, and Mrs. Carrington had her coveted daughter, who was entirely satisfied with her position. "We were all very sorry when the difference happened between you and Roger," Mrs. Carrington said gently to Jaqueline the first time they met. "But it was better to learn then that you could not agree than to have to live unhappy afterward. Still, I hope we shall remain friends, and I want a visit from your parents very much." Jaqueline thanked her gracefully. Truly, it seemed to make little difference. Roger looked older and more dignified, and was in great demand with the inner circle of both men and women. There were many pressing questions, both in the City and country. The Napoleonic conquests had shaken Europe to its very center, and the first disaster to the man regarded as invincible produced a thrilling sensation. Mr. Barlow, author of some quite important pamphlets, was sent to France to observe affairs, which were in a rather critical state. The party clamoring for war with England made itself heard more loudly. The right of search, the interference of trade, the insolent and overbearing manner of England roused the whole country. Through all the turmoil Mrs. Madison moved serenely, and if her heart quaked with forebodings, it was not allowed to disturb her efforts at making Washington a social center. Then her pretty widowed sister, Mrs. Washington, married Judge Todd, and so became permanently settled in the City. Every year saw a little improvement made in the Capitol and the President's mansion. Streets began to have a more finished appearance. Jaqueline was not less a belle than she had been the previous winter. Arthur Jettson was prospering, and Jane was bright and gay in spite of three babies; so between the two homes and the outside world she was kept full of engagements. She was rather surprised when Lieutenant Ralston made her a proposal of marriage. The friendly feeling had been so strong, and on her part so unlike love, that there could be but one answer. He did not seem deeply disappointed, but begged that they might remain friends. Only a few days after she received a note from her mother. They had been up to the Pineries, for grandmother was quite poorly and went downstairs only to her dinner. "She misses the stir and activity of being mistress of the house, and her son's ideas are different in many respects from hers. But there comes a time when the old must give way and step aside for the young. Marian is devoted to her. I do not know now what your grandmother would do without her. Did you hear that poor Mr. Greaves is dead at last? But it has been a living death for six months or more; indeed, he has never had his mind and memory clearly since the first stroke, and now for weeks he has been barely conscious. He must have had an iron constitution. I think your grandmother is very thankful that this happened before the marriage rather than afterward. Miss Greaves wants to close the house, dispose of the slaves by hire or leasing, and go to England to educate the children. Brandon is as bitterly opposed to war as ever his father could have been. Marian is sweet and kindly, but has fallen into an apathetic state. Dolly is prospering, and from all accounts very gay. She has written repeatedly to Marian. I wish the poor girl could make the visit. It is sad to see her youth fading away." "Poor Marian! Oh, Patty, do you remember our first visit here? It seems ages ago, doesn't it? and so much has happened. What girls we were!" "And Mr. Madison was inaugurated! You went to a levee. How I did envy you! Now I curtsey to Mrs. Madison every day or two, and gossip with Mrs. Cutts, and am asked to meet this one and that one. Well, we're the Virginian part of the Capital," laughing. "And how you schemed for Marian! Jaqueline, you don't mean to marry Lieutenant Ralston yourself, after all? Jane was so afraid you might attract him." "Oh, no! He seems just like a brother." But she did not confess she had answered the momentous question. She gave a great throb of thankfulness. True, he insisted that Marian had never really loved him, and a man would be foolish enough to go mooning about such a woman. It was June of that year, after a stormy session of Congress, that the word spread like wildfire through every State, first announced in the _National Intelligencer_, that war had been declared against Great Britain. And on June 21 the strongest naval force the country could muster, a squadron of four warships, was fitting out at Norfolk. Charleston was astir; New York, Boston, and Salem were busy transforming merchant vessels that had lain idly at the wharves into fighting ships. Young men hurried to Annapolis and placed themselves in training, for the war must be largely fought out on the seas. The efforts of England to harass and break up the commerce between the United States and other countries, notably France, had exasperated the pride and sense of justice of the country. The war-cry was taken up: "Free trade and the rights of sailors. America must protect her own." And although times had been hard and trade poor, out of it had grown a knowledge of the young country's power and possibilities. Now the nation was compact and had a centralized government. There had been many improvements since old Revolutionary times, and the population had nearly doubled. Not that the country was a unit on this subject. The Federalists were extremely bitter, and denounced the war as unnecessary and suicidal. England, out of one war, was ready with her ripened experience to sweep us from the seas. And what then? On the frontier the campaign opened badly. At the disgraceful surrender of Hull at Detroit not only was the commander blamed for treachery and cowardice, but the Cabinet and the President held up to execration. As an offset, naval victories suddenly roused the waning enthusiasm: the _Wasp_ and the _Frolic_, the _Hornet_ and the _Peacock_, and the _Constitution's_ splendid escape from the _Guerrière_, that was to drive the "insolent rag of bunting" from the seas, the chase from New York to Boston, the brief fight of an hour and a half, when the bunting was left to wave over the wreck, and Captain Dacres and the part of his crew not in a watery grave made prisoners. No wonder Boston had a day of rejoicing! This was followed by other victories. The country began to draw a free breath, and the conquest on the lakes crowned it with new courage and rejoicing. But in the Capital a fierce battle was raging. Whether Madison should again be the candidate and succeed himself was a hotly disputed question. But if the President came in for so much animadversion, it was admitted that Mrs. Madison bore herself with steady courage and cheerfulness. There was no distinction made between parties at her receptions. No one was treated with coolness because he had reviled the administration. Perhaps it was the charming courtesy that upheld Mr. Madison through the stress of the times. Then Jaqueline and Dr. Collaston were summoned suddenly to Cedar Grove. Charles had been brought home in a rather alarming condition. There had been spells of fainting and headaches that were thought to come from overstudy, and at last Uncle Conway was seriously alarmed, and sent the boy home in the care of a trusty slave and an old mammy. He was very much exhausted by the journey, and Dr. Collaston saw at once that it was something more serious than overwork. "But I'll be sure to get well, won't I?" he asked wistfully. "There is so much going on, and so much to do and to learn in this big world. How grand it is! And if we should beat England again, wouldn't it be magnificent? Do you feel sure that we will?" "Never mind the war. Tell me when the headaches began. And the pain in your back. You used to be such a bright, healthy little lad. Did you take enough exercise?" There was a faint flush creeping over the pale face, and the eyes looked out on the distance as if taxing his memory, but instead he was trying to elude a curious consciousness. "The headaches? Oh, I used to have them sometimes at home. They're girlish things, and it doesn't seem as if boys ought to fret over them," with a touch of disdain. "And you haven't been trying your strength leaping over five-barred gates or jumping ditches, or perhaps riding too much?" "I had my pony, you know, but I didn't ride very much. And latterly it seemed to take away my strength. Aunt Catharine was sure it hurt me, and then I didn't ride at all. So I left it for the children and Varina. Aunt Catharine was wonderfully kind, but she isn't quite like mamma, and father is so good and strong. I'm going to get well now. I think I was homesick too, and that's babyish for a great boy. How Louis would laugh at me!" But no one laughed. Everybody spoke hopefully, to be sure, and treated the matter lightly. Annis read to him, but he sometimes stopped her and said: "Tell me about your visit to Patty. Doesn't it seem funny to have Patty among the big people and going to the White House to dinner? Why do you suppose Jacky didn't marry Mr. Carrington? I like him so much." Then it was the old Froissart, with the queer pictures, or the war news. The young people around came in, the boys ruddy, laughing, and sunburned. The little darkies did their funniest tricks and sang songs for young mas'r; but though he seemed a little stronger, he did not get well. It had not been altogether the hard study. "You are quite sure you can't remember any fall down there at Williamsburg?" the doctor queried. "Oh, I might have had little tumbles; boys often do," he said with an air of indifference. "But nothing to hurt." He caught a look on the face of Annis, who was standing by the window idly drumming with her fingers on the sill, and frowned. "What was that for?" The doctor intercepted the glance, and looked from one to the other. "Please don't drum, Annis," he said gently. "Did I frown?" to the doctor. Dr. Collaston studied him sharply. "If you young people have any secret that bears on the case, you'd better reveal it. Working in the dark isn't always advisable. Annis, why do you change color?" Annis flushed deeply now, and her eyelids quivered as if tears were not far away. "Let Annis alone," said the boy in as gruff a tone as so gentle a voice could assume. "I suppose we _did_ both think of one thing when you so insisted upon a fall. It was a long while ago, before I went to school. We were down by the creek. I was on Sam, who had been drinking and wading in the stream. He turned to step out, and a stone rolled and he stumbled. I went over his head, as I didn't have the rein in my hand. It knocked the breath out of me for a moment. But I had been tumbled off before, when I was learning to ride, and that really didn't--wasn't of much account, only Annis was so frightened. Now shall I go further back and tell you of all the downfalls I have had? I wasn't very daring--Annis, wasn't I something of a babyish boy?" "No, you were not." Annis smiled a little then. "How did he fall?" Annis could not recall that. "After a little I walked home. No, I wasn't much hurt. I had a lame thumb, I remember; but afterward there used to come what Phillis calls a 'misery' in my back. The headaches did not come until in the winter." The doctor nodded. "But I'm bound to get well," added the boy. "I don't want to die. I should have to be dead such a long, long while." The doctor laughed. "No, we're not going to have you die. That is the least of the trouble. But you may be an invalid quite a while." "I shouldn't even mind that, if I could study some. I hate to fall behind. And, you see, father is so proud of Louis that I couldn't bear people saying about me 'Poor Charles!' in a pitying way." "We won't even have them saying that," was the confident answer, as he went out to add a note to the memoranda he had made of the case. Charles held out his hand to Annis, who came over and gave it a little convulsive clasp. "Girls are queer," he said in a soft, slow tone that had no reproach in it. "And Dr. Collaston turned you inside out. I do suppose doctors know pretty generally what is going on inside of your body, and sometimes they guess what is in your brain, or your mind, or whatever thinks. I was so afraid he'd get it all out of you!" "Oh, do you think it was _that_?" Annis' eyes overflowed, and he could feel the quiver of her fingers. "There--don't cry. It wasn't your fault. It wasn't even Varina's fault. Sam would have turned and gone out, anyhow. And you can't think how nice Varina is growing--pretty, too. I am sure it vexed her a good deal to think she was not as pretty as the older girls, or even you. You're so fair and sweet, with your clouds of light hair and your skin that looks like transparent pearl. You know she was very sorry." "Oh, we both thought you were dead!" Annis tried hard not to sob. "Boys take a good deal of killing. You see, I wasn't anywhere near dead. But I did give my back a hard wrench, and I felt it for a week or two, then it all went away; and it was somewhere about the holidays--we were getting greens for the church, and I fainted dead away. After that the ache came back. It's dull and aggravating, not a sharp pain that makes you feel as if you could get up and fight, but sometimes you are wild to run away, to the very ends of the earth! Then it would creep up to my head like some stealthy thing you couldn't put your finger on. Aunt Catharine was good, but she fussed so much, and she's always saying, 'Now, don't you think you ought to do this, or give up doing that? I'm sure it hurts you.' And wanting to find out the cause of everything and settle it on some particular point. It's queer that Rene should get along so well; you know she has a fractious temper! But the little girls just adore her, and at home she was teased a good deal." He leaned back on the pillow, and his face was very white. "Oh, you are so tired!" cried Annis. "Yes. I have just a little bit to say, then you may read to me. I don't want anything said about Varina. She would be almost killed if she thought she was to blame for it. And she wasn't, you know. That little splash in Sam's face wasn't anything. He enjoyed having a bucket of water thrown over him. He's almost a water dog," laughing. Annis tried to be convinced. If Varina had not persisted when Charles asked her to stop! But, then, Sam _had_ stepped on a rolling stone. "That's just a little bit between ourselves, not to be talked about, for it can't do any good, and would make Rene so very unhappy, now when she's growing sweeter. I've thought I ought to tell the doctor, but I didn't want to believe the fall had anything to do with it. Whatever happens, you will always love me, Annis?" "Yes," bending over to kiss the white forehead, her heart full of sympathy and dread for an unknown future. "And Jack's so lovely! Only I'm awful sorry she didn't marry Mr. Carrington. Patty and her husband are so happy, so are mother and father. There, I am tired. Get a book and read. That about Uncle Toby, who had such a big, sweet, foolish heart." The children had a great way of picking out parts they liked and skipping the rest. Then Dr. Collaston had to go up to Washington for a week or two, and sent for Jaqueline also. For Patty had a little baby girl, and they all laughed merrily about being uncles and aunts. What was happening to the country was a minor consideration. When the doctor came down again he had a well-digested plan. "If it wasn't for running the risk on the ocean I should say take the boy over to London at once and have the best medical skill there. But there are some excellent physicians in Philadelphia and New York. Old Dr. Rush does little in practicing now, but he is still ready and generous with advice. You know, I am young in the profession, and as yet we cannot boast much medical talent in our young city. Let Mrs. Mason stay with him three months or so, and have the best treatment. I think it quite a serious matter." Mr. Mason was aghast at first. "He is so young now, and the injury may not be as bad as I anticipated; but it will need excellent skill to take him through without leaving permanent marks and much suffering. So it had better be attended to at once." Jaqueline was alarmed at the seriousness of the case. If she could go---- "No; it must be some person of experience, and one whom Charles loves and trusts and would obey. He will make a good patient, for he is anxious to get well; and though he does not whisper such a thing, he has an awful fear of deformity----" "Oh, you do not think----" in a tremulous tone. "Hush! I have mentioned it to no one but your parents. It is not to be discussed. It is a spinal trouble, and that covers the ground. And he must have immediate care. You and Annis will come with us, for it would be too lonely to have you here on the plantation, even if your father is back and forth." Mrs. Mason discussed the plans with Jaqueline at once, and the girl was full of the warmest sympathy. "If we could take Annis! but the doctor thinks it would be bad for the child, and an added care." "Oh, mamma, you may trust her with me! I am not as gay and volatile as I was a year ago, nor so frivolous." "She ought to go to school! Perhaps in the fall----" "Mamma, that suggests something. A Madame Badeau, a very charming French refugee, has started a school for children and young ladies just a short distance from the doctor's. She is trying to get scholars enough to insure her support. And she teaches the pianoforte. It is quite coming into vogue since Mrs. Madison makes so much of the grand one at the White House, where ladies are often asked to play. Annis is such a little home girl that she would be very unhappy away. We all love her so dearly. And I will look after her clothes, and the doctor after her health, and Patty and the baby will be so much entertainment. Patty is making a very charming woman, and much admired," said the elder sister heartily. "That is an admirable plan, and you are kind to take so much interest in the child. It relieves me of considerable anxiety, and she has run wild long enough, though she has picked up an odd conglomeration of knowledge from Charles. I know your father will be glad and thankful." "To let you go quite away--to stay!" ejaculated Annis, when she heard of the plan. "Mamma, I have given up part of you a good many times, but I can't give up all," and the soft lips quivered. "Why can I not go? I will be very good, and not make any trouble. And I could help you with Charles, and read to him. He is so fond of me." "It would not be possible to take you, dear," she replied tenderly. "You would add to my care. The doctor thinks this plan the best, the only one." Annis clung to her mother. "Philadelphia is ever so much farther than Baltimore!" she cried despairingly. "And--you are _my_ mother!" "But, if Charles should be ill a long while! And think how lonesome he would be with just a nurse! You can write quite well, and you can send me letters about everything. Jaqueline knows of a delightful school you can go to. It is time you were learning something, as well as Varina. There, dear, don't make it harder for me." Annis was crying on her mother's shoulder. She had thought a three- or four-days' separation very hard--how would she stand weeks and months? To be sure, they all loved her mother, and Charles was especially fond of her; but, after all, she was _her_ mother. Then Mr. Mason came in, but for once she would not sit on his knee nor listen to his bright predictions. At first Charles refused utterly to go without Annis. He was sure she couldn't be in the way. He loved mamma very much, but he had found it lonely at school without Annis to tell things over to. She was different from the other girls--and, then, they were grown women, except Varina; and he could not stand it without her. "I want to get well and grow up to manhood, and then none of you shall take her away from me!" he cried. Mrs. Mason gave a soft sigh, hoping he would have no greater heartache in the days to come. Dr. Collaston finally persuaded him that this would be the best arrangement, as quiet and a darkened room might be necessary. "And it would be like keeping her a prisoner," he said. "Her mother could not take her out, and she could not go about a strange city alone, so it would be rather selfish to ask so much of her." "And I don't mean to be selfish. If you all think so, it must be right; but I am sorry, all the same." "You may get home by Christmas," the doctor said hopefully. CHAPTER XVI. IN OLD WASHINGTON. There were many arrangements to make. Only Mr. and Mrs. Mason knew how really serious the case might be, and Mrs. Mason felt that she could not accept the responsibility alone. Dixon, the overseer, was a good manager and a trusty man, and his wife a very efficient woman. Indeed, the older house slaves could have run the place without supervision, but it was well to have a responsible head. Louis would come down now and then and inspect the financial affairs, and bring Jaqueline occasionally. It would not be quite like going to London, and Mr. Mason might return if really needed. So they packed up and put things in order, and went up to Washington to settle Annis. Charles seemed really stronger, but the doctor knew it was only excitement. Patty's house was so pretty and the office so handy, the boy did not see why he could not remain with her. The house was quite fine for the times. Land was abundant, and houses did not have to crowd. There were spacious rooms, for people were hospitably inclined. Southern women made charming hostesses. In an ell part the doctor had an office, for he was quite ambitious in his profession, if he had one eye on the advancement of the City. He had rented one of his houses, and another was likely to be sold. There were people who shook their heads dubiously and feared an invasion; others reasoned there was so little prospect of booty in Washington compared to the commercial cities, there could be no possible danger. Jaqueline had a pretty corner room. Opening into it was a smaller one devoted to Annis, with its dainty bed curtained with white muslin and fringe that nodded in the slightest breeze. The floor was painted, and a rug made by the slaves at home lay at the bedside. Grandmother had sent Patty the mahogany furnishing of one room that she had brought from the Mason house when she was married, and it was quite an heirloom. This was in Jaqueline's room. The baby went far toward reconciling Annis. A pretty, plump little thing, with great dark eyes and a fringe of dark hair over a white forehead, she looked like a picture. Judy, one of the slaves from home, was her nurse. Yet the parting was very hard for Annis. The doctor had taken Charles in his own carriage. They were to go to Baltimore and rest a day or two and visit some of the connections. Annis felt at first as if she must be visiting. "And do you remember we came up to Mr. Madison's inauguration and went to the Capitol? It seems as if it must have been years and years ago, so many things have happened since then. And everybody seems grown up except Charles and I." "You were a tiny little girl then. I hope you will not be very homesick; there are so many things to see. And when the horses are sent up we can take beautiful rides." Annis swallowed over a lump in her throat. "The baby will grow and be very cunning. And every week you are to write to mamma." "And to Charles. I am not to mind not getting answers from him; it makes his head ache to write." "And, then, there are the children at Aunt Jane's. Her baby talks everything in the funniest crooked fashion. To-morrow we will call on Madame Badeau. I hope you will like school. It is only in the morning." "I am fond of learning things if they are not too hard." "Some of us have to learn quite hard lessons," and Jaqueline sighed. Madame Badeau lived in a rather shabby-looking rough stone house, quite small in the front, but plenty large enough for her and a serving-man and maid, and running back to a pretty garden, where she cultivated all manner of beautiful flowers, and such roses that lovers of them were always begging a slip or piece of root. There was a parlor in the front filled with the relics of better days, and draped with faded Oriental fabrics that were the envy of some richer people. There was always a curiously fragrant perfume in it. Next was the schoolroom, entered by a side door, where there were small tables in lieu of desks, wooden chairs, and a painted floor that the maid mopped up freshly every afternoon when the children were gone. Back of this were the living room and a very tiny kitchen, while upstairs were two rooms under the peaked roof, where Madame and Bathsheba slept. Madame was small, with a fair skin full of fine wrinkles. She wore a row of curls across her forehead, a loosely wound, soft white turban that gave her a curious dignity, and very high heels that made a little click as she went around. She was quite delicate, and had exquisite hands, and wore several curious rings. Her voice was so finely modulated that it was like a strain of music, and she still used a good many French words. She had been at the French court and seen the great Franklin and many other notables, and had to fly in the Reign of Terror, with the loss of friends and most of her fortune. Bathsheba, the maid, was nearly six feet tall, and proud of some Indian blood that gave her straight hair and an almost Grecian nose. She was proud of her mistress too, and was in herself a bodyguard when Madame went out. The old man who kept the garden clean and did outside work was a slave too old for severe labor, and was hired out for a trifle. At night he went home to sleep at the cabin of a grandchild. Annis was attracted at once by the soft voice that ended a sentence with a sort of caressing cadence. And when Jaqueline wrote her name in full Madame said: "Bouvier. That is French. Your mamma's maiden name, perhaps?" "No," returned Annis, with a little color. "It was my own papa, who is dead. And he could read and talk French. I knew a little, but I was so young when he died." "And our father married Mrs. Bouvier some years ago," said Jaqueline, "so Annis and five of us Mason children constitute the family. Mrs. Bouvier was cousin to our own mother." "I shall take great pleasure in teaching you French. Poor France has had much to suffer. And now that detestable Corsican is on the throne, with no drop of royal blood in his veins! but you can tell what he thinks of it when he divorces a good and honorable woman that his son may inherit his rank. But my nation did not take kindly to a republic. They are not like you," shaking her turbaned head. The distance to school was not great, so in fair weather it was a nice walk. Now the place is all squares and circles and rows of beautiful houses, but then people almost wondered at the venturesomeness of Dr. Collaston and Mr. Jettson building houses in country ways; for although streets were laid out and named, there was little paving. The Mason tract was on Virginia Avenue, but the others had gone back of the Executive Mansion, on high ground, and had a fine view of the whole country; and Georgetown being already attractive, it seemed possible the space between would soon be in great demand. Out beyond them were some fine old mansions belonging to the time of plantations and country settlements. The very last of the preceding century the Convent of the Visitation had been erected, for so many of the Maryland gentry were Roman Catholics. There was a school for girls here, mostly boarding scholars. Then Rock Creek stretched way up on the heights, threading its path in and out of plantations where fields were dotted with slaves at their work, often singing songs with the soft monotonous refrain that suggested the rhythm of the distant ocean. Occasionally you met a silvery lake that bosomed waving shadows; then stretches of gigantic oaks, somber pines, and hemlocks; and now and then a little nest of Indian wigwams whose inhabitants preferred quasi-civilization. To the southeast, on the Anacostia River, was the navy yard, active enough now. And there was Duddington Manor, with its high wall and stately trees overtopping it, built by Charles Carroll, to be for a long while a famous landmark in solitary grandeur. But the Van Ness mansion, nearer the Potomac, was always alight, and often strains of music floated out on the night air to the enjoyment of the passer-by. Annis had been living in a kind of old world, peopled with the heroes of Homer, the knights of Arthur, and the pilgrims of Chaucer, as well as Spenser's "Faërie Queene." She had a confused idea that Pope's garden was in some of these enchanted countries, and that Ben Jonson and Shakspere were among the pilgrims who sang songs and told tales as they traveled on, or stopped at the roadside and acted a play. Charles had learned where to place his heroes and who of them all were real. Annis left the realm of imagination and fancy and came down to actual study. At first she did not like it. "But you must know something about modern events," declared Jaqueline, "to read well and write a nice letter; and to understand the history of our own country, which is all real. And to keep accounts--every housekeeper ought to be able to do that. Grandmamma had to look after the big plantation until papa came of age; and women have to do a good many different things." "I think I shall like learning them, or most of them," and Annis' eyes shone. "There is dancing, too; you must go in a class next winter. You can embroider nicely, so you needn't bother about that. And I have been in a painting class where there were some quite small girls. Some ladies paint fans and flower pieces beautifully. And Patty thinks she will have a pianoforte, which would be delightful. Singing classes are in vogue, too." "Oh, dear, can one learn so much?" and the child looked perplexed. "You do not have to learn it all at once," returned the elder with a smile. Very few people had any thought of vacations then. True, Washington had a dull spell when Congress was not in session, and some of the people retired to country places or went to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, or to Bladensburg to drink medicated waters. But Madame Badeau kept her school going from eight to twelve for the children's classes. They were all composed of girls, for while Madame admired well-bred young men very much, she could not tolerate growing boys. The afternoons were devoted to what were called fancy branches. Young women came to learn embroidery and lace-making, the duties on foreign goods were so high, and now the risk of importing was so great. There began to be a different feeling about education. Intelligent women were coming to the fore. To be sure, science was considered unwomanly, but handsome and well-bred Mrs. Gallatin knew enough on many subjects to entertain her husband's guests charmingly. Everybody would have been horrified at the thought of a woman's college, and if a woman's convention had been announced it would have created more indignation than the war was raising. Yet women with but few early advantages went to Madame Badeau to be trained in conversation and the art of writing polite notes, and some who had a facility for verse-making to learn how an acrostic was put together, or an anagram, and the proper fashion for congratulatory verses. A few women poets had appeared, but the French "blue stockings" were quoted in derision. Still, it had occurred to other women beside Mrs. Adams that the mothers of sons trained for perilous times needed to be intelligent, at least. For the first time Annis was thrown with a variety of girls near her own age. None of them were like Varina--but, then, they were not like each other. How strange there should be so many different kinds of people in the world! It amazed her. Jaqueline was much interested in her unfolding. There was a delicious quaintness about her that contact with Madame Badeau brought out. She had some very clear ideas too, and there was so much to write about. "I shall have to send a letter to mamma one week and to Charles the next," she said sagely. "Then I shall not tell the same things over." "That is an excellent idea. You are a bright little girl," returned Jaqueline with a smile. "And it will save my own time. Jaqueline, can't we go to Washington some time and really see it? One of the girls called me a country lass because I did not know about the streets and the way everything ran. And how queer they should be named after the letters and numbers! What will they do when the letters are exhausted?--and there are but twenty-six." "There are the numbers, you know." "But the numbers run criss-cross. Do you suppose they will go on as we work a sampler, make little letters and then Old-English text? One girl has the most beautiful Old-English alphabet worked in red silk, but it is very hard to tell the letters." Jaqueline laughed. "No! I think they will take names then." "They make up parties and go to Analostan Island. And, do you know, there are beautiful falls up the Potomac, ever so far!" "Yes; they are beautiful, indeed; and we will get the doctor to take us up some time." "Everything is so"--glancing around for a word--"so interesting. And there are so many people. I like it very much. Only if we could have mamma and Charles and papa! Then, it would be mean to crowd out Varina." "We'll have the whole household at Christmas." Louis was very much interested in the surprise and pleasure over everything, and he found Annis quite a delightful companion for walks. She was so eager to hear about the founding of the City. "It has only come of age," said Louis. "For the cornerstone was laid in 1793." "And there are cities in Europe over a thousand years old! Oh, what an old world it must be!" "But we are a new country altogether. Then, we have much older cities." "After all," she said reflectively, "the ground was here. And some of the houses and the people." They were still working on the Capitol. Stonecutters and marble-dressers in their little sheds were a common sight. A great many people went to Christ Church, which had been erected soon after the laying out of the City. Then there was old St. Paul's, that had stood nearly a century, built, as many other places were, of brick brought from England. Since that day many a secret had been learned, and during the last three years the United States had manufactured largely, though many people sighed for foreign goods. There were two weeks in August when Madame Badeau went away for a little rest and change of air. Mrs. Collaston decided to spend a fortnight at Bladensburg, and though Aunt Jane cheerfully offered to keep Annis, Jaqueline insisted upon adding her to the party. Little Elizabeth Patricia, commonly called Bessie, and by her father Queen Bess, was thriving wonderfully. Jaqueline had changed a good deal, but she was a greater favorite than ever, it seemed, and had no end of admirers. One of them, a very popular and well-to-do gentleman, made her an offer of marriage. "Are you really going to stay single forever?" exclaimed her sister. "I wouldn't take Roger Carrington now if he asked me again. A man who cannot overlook a little tiff--though you did flirt shamefully, Jaqueline! But it doesn't much matter. I observe the men are just as ready to be flirted with again. Only don't wait too long, and don't pass by the good chances." Having made an excellent marriage herself, she considered that her counsel and advice were worth a good deal to her unmarried friends. Roger Carrington seemed to have passed out of Jaqueline's radius, whether purposely or not. Ralston spent much of his time out of Washington, inspecting and planning fortifications. Jaqueline kept up a friendly, occasional correspondence with him, and he had been strongly interested about Charles' mishap. She was much too proud to allow herself to think she still cared for Roger, yet she admitted in her secret heart she had seen no one to put in his place, though there might be men quite as worthy. Dr. Collaston went up to Philadelphia for a few days, and learned that his worst fears in regard to Charles had been realized. The most celebrated surgeon at that time, who bade fair to do quite as much for the advancement of medicine as Dr. Benjamin Rush had done in his day, a Dr. Physic, had been noting the case carefully, and decided that only an operation could prevent a settled deformity. Charles was growing stronger in some respects, and when the weather became cooler this would be undertaken. He told the elders, but they kept Annis in ignorance. She went back to school; and, though she had been small for her age, seemed suddenly to shoot up and outgrow everything. "And I shall not be little Annis any longer. I suppose everybody does grow taller and older. And now I am past thirteen. When shall I be old enough to curtsey to Mrs. Madison?" "Oh, you can do that at any time. And since Varina has gone to Charleston to visit Dolly Floyd, you ought to have some indulgence. She has been to a reception at the Governor's." The election of Madison for a second term had been largely the result of the victories that had thrilled the nation. The navy was springing into existence as if by magic. Some fine English ships had been captured and graced by the Stars and Stripes, and were doing brilliant work under their new colors. The _Constellation_ came up the Potomac, gayly decorated with flags and bunting, and Captain Stewart gave a grand dinner, at which the President and his wife and Mrs. Madison's son, then a handsome and elegantly bred young man, were among the most distinguished guests. Louis had obtained cards for himself and lady through Judge Todd. "You look pretty enough to be married," said Annis when she saw Jaqueline in her pretty pink gauze gown, the lace on it run with silver threads, and her dainty slippers with silver buckles set with brilliants that certainly did twinkle. The dinner was spread with every luxury the season afforded, and enhanced by the brilliant lights and profusion of cut-glass with its sparkling points. While the elders sat on the quarterdeck surrounded by some of the chief men of the nation, beneath an awning of red, white, and blue danced the belles and beaus. Lieutenant Ralston had come late, but he was in time for the dancing. When he caught sight of Jaqueline he made his way over to her. "It has been so long since I have seen you!" he exclaimed. "And I really had not thought of meeting you to-night, but I shall be in Washington for a fortnight or more. And gay, pretty Patty has settled into a pattern wife and mother! Does she read you lectures?" "Sometimes," returned Jaqueline, smiling. "Tell me about all the others. It seems an age since I have heard of any of you." "Then if you make such a little account of my letters I shall not write you any more." "Nay, do not be so cruel. You can hardly call them letters, they are so brief. Still, I am glad to get them, and feel anxious about the poor little boy. You think he will recover?" "Dr. Physic holds out hopes of a successful termination. But it will be very slow." "And that dainty little Annis? You are mothering her? Do you know, your charming solicitude made me smile. Was she much homesick after her mother?" "Only a little at first. She goes to school and is wonderfully interested." "And Varina? Our little wasp?" laughingly. "Varina is spending the winter with Dolly. You know she married a Floyd connection. He has been elected a member of the State legislature this winter. Varina is quite a young lady. We Masons have a trick of growing up soon." "And your grandmother? How fares it with her?" Jaqueline smiled inwardly at this mark of respect, and retailed the little happenings at the Pineries. He listened attentively when Marian's name was mentioned, and made no bitter comment. Was it utter indifference? "This is our dance," he said, offering his hand; and they glided down the polished deck. Then someone else came for her, and she saw very little more of him until he marched up to bid her good-by and assure her he should call speedily. "What a fine fellow Ralston has made!" Louis said as they were returning home. "He has half a mind to go in the navy, he tells me. They are winning all the glory. But he is very eager about the defenses of Washington. I do wonder if there is any real danger?" "Oh, I hope not!" anxiously. "No; we do not want the war brought to our door." "New York or Boston will offer greater attractions. The enemy is raging over the loss of the _Guerrière_, and threatens desperate revenge. Oh, we are safe enough!" Annis was eager to hear all about the ball. Was it prettier because it was on a ship? And wasn't Jaqueline glad to see Lieutenant Ralston again? Did anyone have a more beautiful frock? "Oh, yes!" laughed Jaqueline. "But no one was any prettier, I am sure," she said confidently. The enthusiasm over the victories was running high. The news came of Commodore Decatur's famous victory off the Canary Islands, when he captured the _Macedonian_ after an hour and a half of terrific fighting, with the loss of only five men killed and seven wounded. The _United States_ brought her prize into New York amid great rejoicing. The news was hailed in Washington with the utmost enthusiasm. It so happened that the evening had been selected for a brilliant naval ball, to celebrate the two other victories, and as a compliment to Captain Stewart. Ralston had been in a few days before with invitations for the Collaston household. "I almost wish I was grown up," said Annis wistfully. "Can't little girls ever see anything?" "Why, she ought to go," declared Ralston. "There may not be such another event until peace is declared, and if we go on this way, it must be, ere long. But it will be a great thing to remember in years to come. Think of the old ladies who saw our beloved Washington and the heroes of the Revolution, how glad they are to talk it all over! Oh, Annis must go, by all means!" "But such a mere child!" said Patty. "Well, she has eyes and ears. I will take her myself. Mistress Annis Mason, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to the grand naval ball? It will give me a great deal of pleasure, I assure you. I am a bachelor, fancy free, so no one's heart will be broken." He rose as he said this, and crossed the room to where Annis was sitting, leaning her arm on Jaqueline's knee. The child colored and glanced up in a puzzled manner. "Well--why do you not answer?" said Patty in amusement. "Madame Badeau ought to train you in polite deportment." "Can I say just what I should like?" a little timidly, glancing from one sister to the other. "Yes," answered Patty laughingly. "Yes," said Jaqueline a little more gravely. Annis rose and made a formal little courtesy, holding the side of her skirt with charming grace. "It will afford me the greatest pleasure to accept your invitation, Lieutenant Ralston," she said in a stately and dignified manner. "Thank you! That is very handsomely done. After this show of proper and ceremonious behavior you cannot refuse her permission?" turning to the elders. "We are vanquished, certainly," admitted Patty. "Now you may be good enough, perhaps, to tell us what she must wear." He glanced her over. "Some simple white frock," he said. "Then you might tie a red ribbon in her hair, and put on her a blue sash, and she will be the national colors." "Luckily her hair isn't golden or red or black, so we shall not startle anyone." "Now, remember there is no white feather to be shown," said the lieutenant. "You may be a soldier's wife some day." Annis blushed. Later, when she was alone with Jaqueline, she put her arms about the elder's neck. "Dear Jaqueline," she said with a tender accent, "do you think you will like my going to the ball? If it isn't quite right I will stay at home. And are you sure the lieutenant was in earnest?" "There is no reason why you should not go, except that children are not generally taken to balls. And it will be a grand thing for you to remember." Annis kissed her, much relieved. "I do so want to go," she returned after a little pause. And that morning the news was announced by an extra from the office of the _National Intelligencer_. People went about in high spirits. As soon as the twilight appeared illuminations sprang up at many important points. Private houses were aglow from every window, and more than one flag waved. Washington was full of gayety and rejoicing. And some who did not go to the ball had strains of patriotic music to cheer the passer-by. Entertainments began early. Tomlinson's Hotel was soon filled with guests, the beauty and fashion of the city. The captured flags of the _Alert_ and _Guerrière_ were arranged over a sort of dais where Mrs. Madison and the Cabinet ladies sat, while the secretaries stood about them. There was a host of military and naval men. Gold lace and epaulettes and swords gleamed with every movement, while women were lovely in satins and velvets and laces. Mrs. Madison wore a handsome gray velvet, trimmed with yellow satin and lace, and on her head a filmy sort of turban with some short white plumes. A neckerchief of fine soft lace rested lightly on her shoulders, but displayed the still beautiful throat and neck. The little curls across her forehead were still jet-black, and though women powdered and rouged, she was one of the few who "wore a natural complexion," said a newspaper correspondent. One and another made a bow to her and passed on. Dr. Collaston and his wife, Jaqueline and a handsome young naval officer, and then Lieutenant Ralston and his young charge. Annis was a little bewildered. She had seen Mrs. Madison in the carriage, and at times walking about the grounds at the White House; but this really awed her, and a rush of color came to her fair face. Mrs. Madison held out her hand, and gave her a kindly greeting. "What a pretty child!" she said to one of the ladies. "The American colors, too. How proud the lieutenant was of her! I remember now that Miss Jaqueline Mason is quite a belle. Perhaps it is her sister." "That was beautifully done, Annis," whispered the lieutenant. "Now there is a friend of mine, a young midshipman, that you must meet. Will it be out of order for you to dance, I wonder? And there is Captain Hull. You must see all the heroes, so you can tell the story over your grandchildren." It seemed to Annis that everyone must be a hero. There was the young middy, a Mr. Yardley, who did not look over sixteen, and who was going out on his first cruise next week. "Has Miss Mason any relatives in the war?" How queer "Miss Mason" sounded! She looked about to see who was meant. The young man complimented her on her colors. He had a brother, a lieutenant on the _Constitution_, and two cousins in the army on the frontier. We should gain the victory again, as we did in the Revolution. As a boy he used to be sorry he had not lived then, but this made amends. Only, nothing could compensate for not having seen Washington, the hero of them all. Presently the dancing began. Mrs. Collaston and Jaqueline were both engaged, but Jaqueline put Annis in charge of a charming middle-aged woman whose daughters were dancing, and who, being a Virginian and residing at Yorktown, could recall all the particulars of the surrender of Lord Cornwallis. Then Annis had her promised dance with the lieutenant. It was like a bit of fairyland. She thought Cinderella could not have been any happier with the prince. Afterward Mr. Yardley came, though by this time the floor was pretty well crowded. He was about to lead her back to Jaqueline, who was talking with Mrs. Todd, when she stopped suddenly and put out her hand. "Oh!" she cried, then turned rosy-red. "Is it--why, it is little Annis Bouvier! Child, how you have grown! Do they let you go to balls as young as this?" "I wanted to so much. And it is beautiful! They are all here----" There was a sudden commotion. Half a dozen gentlemen cut off their retreat. Then a whisper went round the room, growing louder and louder, and cheers sounded in the hallway. "Ensign Hamilton with the captured flag!" Secretary Hamilton rose, and the throng made way for him. Just at the doorway they met, the son with dispatches from Commodore Decatur and the captured colors of the _Macedonian_. A cheer almost rent the room. And as he advanced his mother met him with a clasp of wordless joy. The President had been detained on some important business. But the procession made its way to the dais where the ladies were sitting, and the trophy of victory was unfurled amid loud acclamations. The band played "Hail, Columbia!" and when it ceased the young man modestly made a brief speech. The dispatches were for the President; the flag he laid at Mrs. Madison's feet--the flag that was next of kin to that of the _Guerrière_. The enthusiasm was so great that the dancing stopped. The flag was raised to a place beside that of the other two trophies. Old veterans wiped their eyes, the ladies waved their handkerchiefs, and more than one voice had a break in it. Annis stood breathless. Mr. Carrington towered above her, and he could barely see; but he had heard the story in the hall, and was repeating it. The clasp of her soft hand touched him. "If you want to go nearer," he said to Mr. Yardley, "I will take care of Miss Annis. I am an old friend of the family." "It would be hopeless to think of getting her to her sister's just now. Yes--I should like to see young Hamilton." "That is excuse enough for anyone," and Carrington smiled, bowing a polite dismissal. "I am so glad to find you!" Annis said with childlike simplicity. "We have missed you so much. Where have you been all this long time?" "We? Who?" He bowed his head a little. "Charles and I. And do you know Charles is ill and in the doctor's hands at Philadelphia?" "No; I have been away three months--up on the northern frontier and in Boston. Poor Charles! Is he likely to recover?" "He was to come home at Christmas, but he can't now," and she sighed a little. "And papa too," irrelevantly thinking of his earlier question. "We were all sorry." "I don't think everybody could have been," after a little pause. She raised her soft, beseeching eyes. "Are you still angry with Jaqueline?" she asked. "I am sure she is sorry. Patty teases her and says she will be an old maid because----" Then Annis hung her pretty head. "What makes you think she was sorry?" He looked down into the eyes with an infinite persuasion, and his voice had an accent hard to resist. "Oh!--because--she was sometimes so sad and sweet, and used to go walking by herself in the twilight. Occasionally she would let me come. I can't quite tell--there are some things you feel. And it isn't right to keep angry forever." The child's tone was more assured. She was on firmer moral ground. "Then you think I have been angry long enough?" It had seemed years to him. "Papa was very angry and scolded Jaqueline, but didn't keep angry. Charles and I have been so sorry! Oh, you will make up friends?" "You love Charles as much as ever, then? Happy Charles! When you have love you have all the best of life." "Then why don't you ask Jaqueline to love you again? Oh, I am sure she would!" There was a sweet seriousness in the face and the tone, the innocence of the child. "And why didn't you go to Philadelphia?" he asked presently. "I wanted to. Don't you think it hard for a little girl to be giving up her mother continually? But if it is best----They could not take me, and Jaqueline said she would be like mamma, and love me and care for me. She is ever so sweet. And Patty and the baby are delightful. I like Dr. Collaston too. And I am going to school to a queer, delightful little French woman, Madame Badeau. And the French I used to know out in Kentucky all comes back to me." "Yes," smilingly. "I have seen Madame Badeau." The throng was beginning to move. "Suppose we go up and have a look at this wonderful flag? I think war terrible; but it is good to be on the winning side, and certainly our poor sailors have suffered long enough. When we are a terror to our enemies they will learn to respect us. But, thank Heaven, you know nothing about the terrible side here! May God keep you safely!" She raised her eyes with a grave half-smile as if to thank him for his benison. The President had come in now. The band was playing patriotic tunes, several inspiriting Scotch pieces, for just now no one seemed anxious to dance. Ensign Hamilton was one of the heroes of the occasion, and the pretty women were saying all manner of complimentary things to him. There in the throng stood Lieutenant Ralston and Midshipman Yardley, and, yes, there were Dr. and Mrs. Collaston. Jaqueline was out of the group, listening to a vivid account of the taking of the _Guerrière_ and the gala time there had been in old Boston Town. Patricia turned and espied Annis, who held her head up proudly and looked as if she were used to going to balls every week of her life. "Oh, Mr. Carrington!" reaching over a cordial hand. "What a stranger you are! I felt I ought to go in search of Annis, but I knew she was in good hands. Thank you for your care of her. Wasn't it all grand? Are you not proud of your country?" "We have worked wonders on the sea, considering how unprepared we were and the strength of the enemy. I am no croaker, but we are not through yet. Heaven grant that we may be successful to the end! After all, we are a young nation; and we have fought in almost a new cause, the enlightenment of the people, not the glory or gain of kings." "Annis, come and curtsey to some of these heroes. She is over-young for such a place as this, but it will be a proud thing to remember." The throng shifted again. Ralston stepped aside and encountered Mr. Carrington. "Roger, old fellow,"--and though his tone was low it had a cordial heartiness,--"in this time of gratulation private feuds ought to be buried. You were wrong in your surmise, as I told you then. Between myself and Miss Mason there has never been anything but the sincerest friendliness. Still, I asked her to marry me and she declined. Hearts are not so easily caught in the rebound, after all. And though she has many admirers she has not been won. Let us be friends again in her honor, for her sake." "For our own sake, Ralston. If we are ever to make a grand country we must be united man to man. There is need enough of it. A scene like this will go far toward healing many dissensions, public and private. And I beg you to pardon what I said out of a sore and desperate heart." "Friends!" repeated Ralston joyously. CHAPTER XVII. THE FLAG OF VICTORY. It was true that the victories did go far toward healing dissensions. While the indignation against England had run high, there was a bitter opposition in some quarters to every act of the administration. There was jarring in the Cabinet as well as outside. The larger cities had never cordially approved of the Capital at Washington. They had had rejoicing over successes, and now it was the turn of the newer city. Mrs. Madison's drawing room always presented a gay and beautiful aspect. Many strangers came to the city. Washington Irving paid a second visit, and was most graciously received and became a great favorite. Society took on a finer aspect. Poets appeared, mostly patriotic ones; and though to-day we may smile over them, their sincerity moved the hearts of their readers and won applause, inspired enthusiasm. Jaqueline Mason had taken another ramble around the room when she saw Roger Carrington talking to her sister. The band played a grand march, and everybody fell into line, as this seemed to befit the occasion. Then some of the guests began to disperse, as the President, who looked very weary, and his smiling, affable wife, with so many more years of youth on her side, set the example. Carrington loitered with the Collaston party, debating whether he should meet Jaqueline. It would break the ice, perhaps. Patty had been so cordial. She had taken on so many pretty married airs that were charming. She talked about her house and her lovely baby, how Annis had grown, and how sweet it was of her to be content without her mother, and how sad it was about Charles. Louis joined them, full of enthusiasm. And at last Jaqueline and her escort came up. "We thought we should have to go home without you," Patty said gayly. "Come; it is late. The carriage has been here waiting ever so long." Jaqueline bowed to her old lover. Major Day, in his military trappings, was quite an imposing figure, and how beautiful she was! She had been a pretty young girl when he first met her; she was young still, in that early dawn of womanhood before the bud had quite unfolded. Had he expected to see her faded and worn in this brief period? They all wished each other good-night. Why did he not "ask Jaqueline to love him again"? He was not as sure as Annis had been. And now everything was different. Patty was already quite a figure in society, and Jaqueline could have her choice of lovers, husbands. Annis longed to tell over her little episode of the meeting, but there seemed no time. Jaqueline was always going out and having company. Louis teased Annis when he saw her. "Two conquests in one night for a little girl!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I saw you dancing with the young midshipman, and then on high parade with Mr. Carrington, who looked grave and grand, as if he was escorting about a lady of high degree. I am afraid Madame Badeau will make a woman of you too fast. Do you not think it would be better to send her over to the convent to steady her, Patty?" "Oh, I don't want to be shut up! I should run away. And I like the girls so much. The convent looks dreary. And they can walk only in that high-walled garden. I want the whole big outside world." Louis laughed and pinched her cheek. If Mr. Carrington wouldn't come and ask Jaqueline again, no one could do anything. Annis sighed in her tender heart, and felt that it was better not to retail the confidence. Mrs. Madison's dinners were quite the events of the winter, and her levees were delightful entertainments. All parties began to harmonize more warmly; perhaps it was the gracious tact and affability of the hostess. The _National Intelligencer_ espoused the cause of the Madisons enthusiastically, and congratulated the nation on his re-election. Roger Carrington began to haunt the entertainments he had so long shunned, or at the utmost merely devoted a few moments to them. Of course he met Jaqueline, who was simply indifferent, a much harder condition to overcome than if she had shown hauteur or resentment. And, then--in a worldly point of view she could do better. For Washington, in a certain way, was prospering in spite of the war and privations. There was a feeling of permanence, as if the Capital really would be great some day. Houses were springing up, streets lengthening out, mudholes being filled up, pavements placed, and every year a little was added to the home of the nation. The time ran gayly around. The winter had seemed unusually brief. March came in again, and with it the second inauguration of James Madison, when the Capitol grounds were thronged as never before. The President was paler and thinner, and though it had been a triumph for his party, he sighed often for the quiet and rest of Montpellier. Mrs. Madison, in rose-colored satin and ermine, looked "every inch a queen," said the papers of the day. And happier than some of the queens off or on European thrones, even if she had carried a great burden the last two years. And the ladies of the republican court certainly were not lacking in beauty or grace. The foreign ministers and their wives, in all their brave array, hardly excelled them; and the army and navy were in force. Annis went to the levee. It was quite a crush, but a pleasure to the child to see the brilliant throng. Louis was her escort, and he was proud of her refined and lady-like manners. The French grace in her nature had been assiduously cultivated by the woman who still thought there was no place like France. "We will go home early," Patty said. "Jaqueline is to stay and help entertain. She's getting to be such a grand lady that I suppose she will be marrying a senator or a secretary next, and perhaps be Mrs. President herself. She and Mrs. Seaton are hand and glove." Mrs. Seaton was the pretty wife of the editor of the _National Intelligencer_. "But I am tired, and the doctor will be out all night, so we will get some beauty sleep." She sent the servant for the carriage. One of the guests escorted them through the spacious hall and out on the portico. A merry party were coming up, and Annis, turning aside for them, slipped, landing in a little heap on the stone pavement. Patty uttered a cry. A gentleman at the foot of the steps picked her up before Patty or Mr. Fenton could reach her. "Oh, Mr. Carrington!" cried Patty; and now the other guests ran down to see what injury they had done, quite alarmed at the incident. Annis drew a long sigh and flung her arms about her rescuer's neck, quite ignorant who it might be, but still frightened. "No, I do not think I am hurt," in a shaken voice. "Take her to the carriage, please," entreated Patty. "And, Mr. Fenton, do not mention it to my sister nor my brother, if you see them. Good-night, and thanks." Mr. Carrington carried her to the edge of the walk and then put her down. "I feel shaky," she began, with a tremulous laugh. "But I am quite sure I have not broken any bones." Patty stepped in first. Mr. Carrington assisted Annis, and then studied the pale face. "Do you not think I had better accompany you?" he asked solicitously. "But you were just going in to pay your respects to Mrs. Madison----" declared Patty. "I shall have four years more to do it in," he returned. "Where is the doctor? Yes, I had better be sure of your safety." "He is out on business. Really, he is getting to be quite hard-worked. And if you would not mind. I should take it as a favor. Then we can see if Annis is really injured." He sprang in, and the coachman closed the door. "It was very funny to take that flying leap, as if I were a bird," and Annis could not forbear laughing. "What did I look like, dropping at your feet? I was so bundled up that I couldn't save myself. There is a bump swelling up on my forehead." "Lucky if there is nothing worse," responded Patty. Annis was carried up the steps and deposited on the drawing-room sofa. Patty took off her wraps, and made her stand up and try all her limbs. She began to feel quite natural and over her fright. There was a lump on her forehead, but her hood had protected the skin. "I am delighted to think it is no worse," the gentleman said. "And it is a pity to have disturbed you. But the doctor being out, I felt nervous; and a friend is so good at such a time. I am sure we are much indebted for your kindness." Annis put out her hand and clasped his. "I am glad it was you," she said with simple thankfulness. Then they talked of Charles. He had been put in a plaster jacket. Dr. Collaston was quite sure the best was being done, but it would be spring before he could be brought home. Patty was very cordial at the parting, and invited him to call. "And see what happens to me next," said Annis. "You may be sure I shall want to know." He did not go back to the levee. Jaqueline was there, being admired and flattered. Now and then he heard complimentary things said about her, and young men sent her verses, quite an ordinary event at that time. She had forgotten, and he remembered only too well. Annis must have been wrong, yet he had hugged the child's innocent prattle to his heart. He knew now he had not ceased to love her, yet he had thought in his pride that if she could love Ralston he would not stand in the way. His jealousy had been of the larger, finer type. With all these opportunities she had accepted no lover. Her attractions were of a more refined kind than when she had made her first plunge into gayety. Was there something----No, he hardly dared believe it. He had been imperious and arbitrary. He had not the courage to go the next day and inquire after Annis. He knew it was a polite duty. He walked down past Madame Badeau's little gray house when school was being dismissed. There was no Annis among the girls. What if she had been injured more than they thought! He would stop and inquire at the office. There were several men talking eagerly with the doctor, so he strolled around the corner. Yes, that was Jaqueline sitting with her face turned from the window, chatting to someone. The proud poise of the head, the shining dark curls just shadowing her white neck, the pink ear like a pearly sea shell, and then her slim white hand held up in some gesticulation, and the smile that made a dainty dimple. No, he would not interrupt her; so he walked on. If she had turned her head--but she did not. He was very busy the next day. When he left the office a carriage full of young girls passed him. Some of them nodded; he was not quite sure whether _she_ did or not. Now was his opportunity. The day had been rather raw, with a fitful sunshine, but now it was clouding over. He walked briskly, and held his head erect, although he felt rather cowardly at heart. Why should he not put his fate to the touch, like a man, or dismiss her from his mind? He sauntered up the stoop and touched the knocker lightly--so lightly, indeed, that Julius, amid the clatter of Dinah's pots and pans, did not hear it. The carriage stopped. It was rather dusky now, and a tree hid the figure at the door until Jaqueline was coming up the steps. His heart beat furiously. He turned, and they faced each other. Her hat, with the great bow on the top, was tied under her chin with rose-colored ribbons. A satin collar edged with swan's down stood up around her throat and almost touched the pink cheeks. The great soft, dark eyes glanced out in surprise--they could flame in anger too, he knew that. He had thought more than once how gradually he would lead up to that old time, and learn if she still loved him. And she had resolved upon a becoming humility on his part. He should admit that he had misjudged her, that he had been selfish, arbitrary, suspicious, jealous, and--oh, how many faults she had counted upon her white fingers! "Jaqueline," he said almost under his breath--"Jaqueline!"--and it seemed as if his voice had never been so sweet, a fragrant shower falling on a long-parched heart. He was trying to find her hand; did it come out of the great muff quite as broad as her slim figure, all soft and warm, to be pressed to his lips? "Are you very angry still?" she inquired in the dearest, most beseeching tone. "Angry?" He had forgotten all about it. He had been fatuous, senseless, to think of such a thing! "Because--" in a fascinating cadence of pardon. "I have not had a happy moment." His voice was husky with emotion, with the love that he had told himself a hundred times was dead, and a hundred times had disbelieved. "I had given you up. Not that I had ceased--to care. And that night of the ball, when the flags came, I was quite sure you loved me no longer." "I shall love you always. I was mad, foolish, jealous----" "And I did flirt. Oh, I was such a vain little thing then! I am better now. I do not think it so fine to have a host of men making love to you. Only you were wrong about----" "Ralston? Yes." "But you must know, he _did_ ask me to marry him. I do not think it was for love." "I am glad it was not. I told him he owed you an offer of marriage." "But he did not. There had never been any foolish softness between us. A Virginian girl may flirt, but she doesn't give away the sweetness that only a lover is entitled to. And what if I _had_ loved him?" "If you had loved him I should have wished you Godspeed, after a while." "But you couldn't have done it at first?" "No, I couldn't." The hearty tone was convincing. It was quite dark now. He put his arm about her and drew her nearer, nearer, and ceased to kiss her hand. "Oh, my darling; here I am keeping you out in the cold! Are you almost frozen? And I came to hear about Annis. I have been wondering if I should ever meet you where I could say a word----" "Annis is your very good friend. So was Charles. And papa was fearfully angry at my folly. They were all on your side." "And now you are on my side?" "Yes," with a soft, happy little laugh. Then he knocked again. This time Julius heard, and answered. Annis was sitting on the floor, playing with the baby, who was laughing and cooing. "I thought you wouldn't come--ever!" she said vehemently. "I had a headache yesterday, and Patty wouldn't let me go to school, but the doctor said it didn't amount to anything. It was funny, though. Jaqueline, where did you find him?" "On the stoop," and Jaqueline gave a queer little laugh. How soft and shining her eyes were, and her cheeks were like pink roses just in bloom. Annis felt something mysterious stirring in the air. Then Jaqueline ran away. "Did you ask her?" Annis raised her clear eyes with a sweet, solemn light. "Yes. Annis, you are to be my little sister." "I shall grow big, more's the pity," she said sententiously. "And I hate to be big!" He laughed at that. The doctor had taken his wife over to Arlington, for he disliked to ride alone except when he was in great haste; and just as Dinah had begun to fume about supper they came in. Mr. Carrington had a warm welcome from them, and they all laughed over Annis' mishap. But when Jaqueline entered the story was told, as love stories always are; and they kept Roger to tea. No one came, for a cold, drizzling rain set in, and he had Jaqueline to himself. "Still, she might have done a great deal better," said Dr. Collaston. "Jaqueline ought to go to some foreign court as the wife of a minister, she is so elegant. Or the wife of a secretary of state." He had his desire years afterward, when Jaqueline and her husband went to the French court. Napoleon had been swept away by the hand of fate, and royalty sat on the throne. Roger said they must go over and tell his mother the joyful news. Ralph's wife was a sweet home body, and she had a thriving son that was his great-grandmother's pride. But the mother's heart was strongly centered in her firstborn, and she had suffered keenly in his sorrows, though they had never talked them over. They had been too deep, too sacred. "Only love him, my dear," she said to Jaqueline. "There are some people who think you can love a person too much; but when they have gone beyond your ken you are most glad of the times you gave them overflowing measure." The young girl knew then she was forgiven. Jaqueline was not less a favorite in society because she was an engaged young lady, but she was more circumspect; and certainly now Roger had nothing to complain of. Only life seemed too short ever to make up the lost months. Annis was as happy as the lovers themselves. She was very companionable and never in the way. There was a curious ingrained delicacy about her. Dr. Collaston declared he was jealous. He and little Bessy ought to outweigh the regard for Mr. Carrington. "But I knew him first. It's the longest friendship," glancing up archly. "I have taken you to my heart and home--doesn't that count? And Mr. Carrington has no home." Annis was not prepared for that argument. She could not seem ungrateful. Spring came on apace. What a lovely season it was! Beautiful wild flowers sprang up at the roadsides, the trees and shrubbery put on infinite tints of green. The river, really majestic then, making a broad lake after its confluence with the eastern branch; the marshy shores, dotted with curious aquatic plants that had leave to grow undisturbed and bloom in countless varieties, if not so beautiful; the heights of Arlington, with the massive pines, hemlocks, and oaks, and flowering trees that shook great branches of bloom out on the air like flocks of flying birds, and filled every nook and corner with fragrance. And as the season advanced the apricot, pear, and peach came out, some of them still in a comparatively wild state, finer as to bloom than fruit. There lay pretty Alexandria, with the leisurely aspect all towns wore at that day. Great cultivated fields stretched out as far as the eye could see. Diversified reaches in hill and woodland broke the surface into a series of beguiling pictures, as if one could wander on for ever and ever. And then, at the bend of the river, Mount Vernon in its peaceful silence; a place for pilgrimages even at that time, and destined, like Arlington, to become more famous as the years rolled on. But while the former was shrouded in reverent quiet, Arlington was the scene of many a gay gathering. If Mrs. Madison sometimes wearied of the whirl of pleasure so different from her Quaker girlhood and early married life, the ease with which she laid down the trappings and ceremonies of state and adapted herself to the retirement of Montpellier showed that she had not been wedded to the glitter and adulation, and that the ease and comfort of country life were not distasteful to her. While not a strongly intellectual woman, nor the mother of heroes, there is something exquisitely touching in her devotion to her husband's mother in her old age, and then to her husband through the years of invalidism. It seems a fitting end to a well-used life that in her last years she should come back to the dear friends of middle-life, still ready to pay her homage, and to the new city that had run through one brief career, to be as great a favorite as ever. And now, when balls and assemblies began to pall on the pleasure-seekers,--and one wonders, in the stress of the war, how so much money could have been spent on pleasure and fine-dressing,--excursions up the Potomac to the falls, so beautiful at that time, were greatly in vogue. Carriages and equestrians thronged the road, followed by great clumsy covered wagons and a regiment of slaves, who built fires and cooked viands that were best hot, or made delicious drinks, hot and cold. About fifteen miles above were the Great Falls. In the early season, when spring freshets gathered strength and power in the mountain range of the Alleghanies, the river swelled by the affluents in its course, and bursting through the Blue Mountains at Harper's Ferry, swept onward with resistless force until it came to this natural gorge, where it fell over a declivity of some thirty to forty feet. Indeed, this was one of the great natural curiosities of the time, and foreigners made the pilgrimage with perhaps as much admiration as Niagara elicits from more jaded senses. Nearer the City, and convenient for an afternoon drive, were the Cascades, some five or six miles above Georgetown--a series of rushing streams divided by rocks, tumbling, leaping, quivering in the sunshine, and sending out showers of spray full of iridescent gleams and bits of rainbows that danced around like fays in gorgeous robes. Here merry parties laughed and chatted, ate, and drank each other's healths, and tripped lightly to the inspiriting music of black fiddlers, who threw their very souls as well as their swaying bodies into the gay tunes. Others, lovers most frequently, rambled about in the shady dells and exchanged vows--gave promises that were much oftener kept than broken, to their credit be it said. Though at that time there was much merry badinage and keen encounters of wits. Reading was not so greatly in vogue; women spent no time at clubs or over learned essays. "A new-fashioned skirt of emerald-green sarcenet faced with flutings of white satin with pipings of green, and a fine white mull tunic trimmed with fringes of British silk, with green satin half-boots and long white gloves stitched with green," filled many souls with envy at one of the assemblies, says an old journal. Patterns were borrowed, and poor maids sometimes were at their wits' ends to copy them. Most households had two or three women who were deft with the needle, and who were kept pretty busy attending to their mistresses' wardrobes. Occasionally a happy blunder brought in a new style. Privateers sometimes captured cargoes of finery and smuggled them into some unguarded port, and already manufacturers were beginning to copy foreign goods with tolerable success. As for the living, there was an abundance of everything in the more southern provinces. Fruits of all kinds seemed to grow spontaneously, crops were simply magnificent, poultry, game, fish, and oysters were used without stint. They were wise, these people who had not drifted to the bleak New England shores, where the living was wrested from the soil and consciences were not yet sufficiently free to unite happiness with goodness. CHAPTER XVIII. OF MANY THINGS. "Oh, where is mamma?" cried Annis, as she was clasped in Mr. Mason's arms one morning. "Can't you give me mamma's welcome also?" inquired the kindly voice. "Why, Annis, what a large girl you are! It seems as if we must have been away an age for you to change so." "Am I changed?" She laughed cheerfully. "Isn't it time I grew? Varina said in her last letter that she was five feet four inches. And I am not five feet yet. And Rene has been to assemblies, in long gowns. I went to two balls, and that of the flags was--magnificent." "I shall have to look after my flock more sharply. You will all run wild." "But mamma?" Then he told her that although the operations had been a success, and there was now no danger of Charles growing crooked, he was still in a very delicate state of health, and the doctor had ordered him a cool climate for the summer. They were to go farther north and travel about a bit. A sea voyage was supposed to be the best, but that was quite impossible in the present state of affairs and the dangers of the ocean. "Oh, I thought you were sure to come home!" she exclaimed disappointedly. "We are sure of nothing, it seems. Are you very homesick?" A quick rift of color flashed up in her face. "I'm not homesick at all. I like Washington so much. There are so many beautiful places, and the sails on the rivers and queer nooks where the Indians used to live, and the Capitol and the Senate where the great men talk, and so many lovely people in fine clothes, and the officers, and the French minister's carriage that spins along like a great butterfly, and handsome Mrs. Madison and the grand ladies----" "You will hardly want to go back to the plantation." "Jaqueline is going to live in Washington," she said, evading the question. "I am afraid you are getting off with the old love," half reproachfully. "Not mamma, not--oh, I love you all just the same!" clasping his arm vehemently. Her cheeks were very bright. She experienced a curious feeling about Charles. Perhaps it was because she had seen these grown lovers so much, and she herself was growing out of childish things. Mr. Mason was on his way to the plantation, and then to the Pineries. His mother had missed his visits very much through the winter, and she was becoming more feeble. They all felt disappointed that Charles was not really well. "It is probably the best thing you can do," said Dr. Collaston. "He needs bracing up after this trying ordeal. I was afraid he would sink under it." "The doctors consider it quite wonderful. When I think how narrow his escape has been from lifelong deformity----" The father's voice broke a little. Not an hour ago he had been talking to Louis, straight, tall, vigorous, with clear eyes and skin pink with the rich blood coursing through his veins; and the contrast between him and the poor pale lad had been great indeed. "It will be all right. Surgery is making rapid strides. So is everything. I am glad not to be any older, and I hope to live to see a great and grand country. Why, I may reasonably count on fifty years!" laughing light-heartedly. Yet he would have been shocked if he could have looked at Washington fifty years from then--with a gift of prescience. Mr. Mason was gratified to meet Roger Carrington again in the relationship to which he had once so cordially welcomed him. Jaqueline was sweet and tender and very happy. But what a fine young woman she had become! And Patty was as matronly and motherly as if she had been married half a century. But Randolph Mason gave a little sigh as he thought how children grow up and out of the old home nest. The plantation was in good shape. There had been some unimportant deaths, a number of marriages, and many births. Virginia slaves were a prolific race, and added to the wealth of the master. They were all overjoyed to see him, and full of regret that "missus" wasn't with him. "'Pears laik everybody been daid and buried but Mas'r Louis," said old Chloe. At the Pineries nothing seemed changed. Brandon Floyd was beginning to look like his father, and was taking on the same important airs. He was very bitter about "Madison's war, that no doubt would last as long as the other war, by the looks of things, and leave us in the same plight." When Mr. Mason thought of his own blooming girls his heart really ached for Marian. After all, there was nothing like a home of her own and a love of her own for a woman. He was glad Jaqueline had come back to hers. But it brought about a rather perplexing point, not so easily settled, it would seem. Mr. Carrington importuned for an early marriage. Jaqueline had bidden him wait until her father came. The lover pleaded his cause so well that the father could hardly say him nay. "What do you most desire?" to Jaqueline. "We may not be back until quite in the autumn. I have been seized with a strong inclination to see a little of our own big land," laughingly. "We are proud of our share in the old war, but other States had a hand in it as well. It makes a man feel more a citizen of the whole country--and a grand place it is. So we shall not hurry." He gave her a wistful glance, as if to read her wish in the matter. "I would quite as lief wait. Everything would have to be so different. But," blushing, "it was the rock on which we went to pieces before." Her father nodded. "There would be great disappointment on the old place. But you might go down and stay a week or so. Varina is so in love with Dolly and Charleston that we settled she should remain until autumn, when Dolly and her husband are coming up for a visit. That young Floyd seems to be quite somebody. I always thought Dolly flighty, but she appears to have some common sense, after all." "And Varina is quite a woman. I hope she won't be utterly spoiled. Of course," tentatively, "it would be a quiet wedding. I think I would like it in church." Then, she had really considered it. "Why not?" said Patty. "So many of the girls around home are married and gone, and unless you could have a crowd it would be dismal. Then, you have so many friends in Washington. To be sure, it would be queer for a girl to be married without all her family about her. Mamma and Charles and Varina! Well, we've one more than half of them. Jaqueline, if you hadn't made that fuss before----" "Yes," returned Jaqueline meekly. Mrs. Jettson added her voice in favor of the marriage. It had to be so speedily arranged. There were friends ready enough to be bridesmaids; indeed, the subject was taken up in such earnest that Jaqueline was likely to be married out of hand. All that was really needed was a wedding gown and an appearing-out dress; all the rest could be done afterward, and there was her mother's bridal gown waiting for her. When it came to the point, instead of a simple wedding it was a very grand one. One of the Cabinet ladies sent her a veil to wear because it was luck to be married in something borrowed, and the veil had been worn at the coronation of King George. Mrs. Sweeny worked night and day altering over the wedding gown, which was a mass of satin, sheer gauze, and lace, with a train carried by a daintily attired page. Annis held her prayer book and her glove when the ring was put on her finger. Christ Church was crowded with the _élite_ of Washington, said a journal of the day. Mrs. Madison graced the scene, and Mrs. Cutts, with whom Jaqueline was a great favorite, while Judge and Mrs. Todd were warm in congratulations. It was really quite an event, and Roger felt almost as if he had married a princess of the blood royal. Such parties and dinners as were showered upon the young couple, and such compliments as the handsome bride received, were almost enough to turn one's head. Annis was kept busy writing journal-like letters to mamma and Charles. And what treasures the old journals and letters are to-day! How Mrs. Carrington went to Christ Church Sunday morning in "a violet satin gown trimmed with fine silk ruffles edged with lace, and a white satin petticoat with embroideries in violet silk and gold thread. A fine-wrought lace scarf that her own mother had brought from Paris, white satin boots with gold lacings, long white silk gloves embroidered in lavender, and a white Neapolitan hat with a wide fluted rim, trimmed with a drawn silk lining and rows of piping, and a great cluster of lilies and violets and ostrich plumes." The wedding veil was returned. Annis was to wear the wedding gown later on, and at a very modern entertainment quite late in the century Jaqueline's grand-daughter won no end of admiration in it. So when Randolph Mason had given his eldest daughter away, and kissed her good-by with a thousand tender wishes, he went back to the pale little son and his dear nurse, as if he had had some sort of a gala dream mixed up with a whirlwind. "I wish Jacky had waited," said Charles with a sigh. "I should like to have seen it." "It wouldn't have been half so grand at home. Washington is a fine place for such a thing." "Finer than Philadelphia?" "Oh, no!" Mr. Mason smiled, remembering the simple church. There were grander ones here. And, except the Capitol, the White House, and parts of several public buildings, there was nothing so very grand. But the concourse of people could hardly have been matched. "Didn't Annis want to come with you?" "She did at first. Then the wedding drove all other desires out of her mind. I was afraid she would make a time when I started. But everything was in such a bustle!" "Couldn't she have come here for a week or two, before we start?" "How would we have sent her back?" "We wouldn't have sent her back then," said the boy triumphantly. His father smiled. "She has grown so, and changed some way. Her hair is not quite so light. And she can chatter in French like a native. Patty thinks her very smart." "And I have not grown any!" he subjoined in a disconsolate tone. "I am not allowed to study. She will get way ahead of me. But she doesn't know Latin, and she can't go to college." And perhaps he could marry her. He was not so sure of that now. Perhaps he would never marry anyone. But he was glad Roger Carrington had Jaqueline. Annis tried very hard to be sorry at not seeing her mother. She was frightened because she did not want to cry over it as she had at first. She had given up mamma to Charles, and to be sorry and want her back was selfish. Then there were so many things to do, and so many pleasures. There was not time enough to run over to Aunt Jane's every day, yet the children were so fond of her. She knew some girls, too, who were asking her to supper every few days, or to join some party to the woods, or to sail up or down the river. It was such a lovely thing to be alive and well! When that came into her mind her very heart melted in pity for Charles. Then, it was queer, but Louis had taken to calling her his little girl. He teased her sometimes, but he came to take her riding when she had any spare hours. She could hardly decide which was the handsomer, Louis or Mr. Carrington, and she thought it rather disloyal. Jaqueline said Roger was, by far. And then came the plans for housekeeping. Roger and she inspected some houses. It would be more convenient in Washington, but Georgetown was much prettier. And there were suburban districts. "But think of the winter nights in the rain and the mud, and sometimes sleet, and the time wasted going back and forth. Isn't it a bit of patriotism to want to build up one's own city? We are a small people as yet, compared to some other places. If we don't increase and multiply and spread out, and fill up our vacant squares, our honor may be taken from us." "After so noble an argument I shall have to agree with you that it is our bounden duty to remain," replied Jaqueline with an arch smile. "Mother would like us at Georgetown, but she has Ralph and his wife." "Oh, do stay!" cried Annis. "I like Washington so much!" "The casting vote. We remain. Annis, you are to come with us. We couldn't give you up now." "Until mamma comes home. Of course I belong to her." They went down to the old plantation, and the house slaves made a big feast; the field hands had an illumination of lanterns and big pine knots. But Annis thought the great house lonely. Then she recalled what her father once said--when all the children were married she would stay there with her mother and him. Jaqueline and Patty and Varina would have husbands and children, and Annis shivered at a strange consciousness of solitude. Jaqueline had been instructed to take her outfit, and anything she wanted, her father said. Chloe knew all about the bed and table linen: didn't she bleach it up every spring in May dew? Such a packing, such a rejoicing time over missy's husband "that she got at last," which meant nothing derogatory nor that she had made a great effort; only most of the slaves had great faith in first loves for white folks, and a happy ending to an engagement. There was the house to put in order and the "house-warming" to give, a grand dinner for married friends and a dance for the young people, when Louis was master of ceremonies, and bright eyes grew still brighter with pleasure at his notice. Almost before one had noted, there were cool nights and ripening foliage, house-cleaning, and preparation for winter. Ah, how lovely the banks of the Potomac were, and Rock Creek! Jaqueline begged that they should take their first ride over again. There were various first things to do. The mother over at Georgetown claimed them frequently. Ralph's wife was very nice and sweet, but Jaqueline brought a curious stir and dazzle in the house, and an atmosphere as of a spring morning. Charles had improved wonderfully. There were some remarkable springs up the Hudson that had wonderful health-giving properties. And when they came back to New York he was so taken with the advantages that he begged to remain. The doctor in whose charge he had been, promised to watch over him and not allow him to study too severely, and a nice boarding place had been found for him with a charming motherly woman. "Oh, Annis!" cried her mother, holding her off after the first fond embrace, "let me look at you. I have lost my little girl!" "Mamma, I couldn't stay little always. But the part that loves and thinks doesn't change, and I have tried very hard sometimes not to want you when I knew Charles needed you. I am so glad to get you back! Oh, you _do_ believe that? But there is a queer thing I don't understand. When we first came to Virginia it was very hard to try to love the others when they took so much attention." She was studying her mother with large, earnest, lustrous eyes. "Yes," said Mrs. Mason, with a fond embrace. "And now I love them all so much. I'm not quite sure about Varina--I have not seen her in so long. But I love you the best." The mother kissed her fondly. No one, not even her husband, who was so grateful for the sacrifice she had made, knew how hard a trial it had been to her. Just as they were considering whether they could leave Annis at school and do without her, word came from the Pineries. Mrs. Floyd had a sudden stroke, not so very severe, but at her time of life a serious matter. Young Mrs. Floyd and her husband and Varina came North a few days after this. There was a month of slow wasting away. Mrs. Brandon Floyd had a new baby, Marian was almost worn out, and Mrs. Mason found herself the comforter again, and much needed. Then grandmamma slipped out of life, and was laid by the side of Mr. Floyd; and Mr. Mason, seconded warmly by his wife, insisted that Marian should spend the winter with them and rest, perhaps make it her future home. Varina was a tall, rather distinguished-looking girl who had blossomed somewhat prematurely into womanhood. Annis was still a little girl beside her. She was gay and bright, and full of her own good times. Jaqueline's marriage was delightful; they had enjoyed the account in the paper. Charles was well again, but what a sad time it had been for him! As for herself, she and Dolly were the dearest of sisters, and had had the best of times. She should coax papa to let her return to Charleston. She knew so many people there, and it would be just horrid to go back to the old plantation. There were all the others, and surely papa could spare her. Dolly was very exigent as well. Mr. Mason realized that it would be dull for a young girl, with the household in mourning, and Marian half an invalid and dispirited. But he insisted upon a family gathering at Christmas, as Charles was to come home. Mrs. Carrington would fain have had Roger and his wife, and Mr. Brandon Floyd sent a formal invitation for Jane and her family at the Pineries, but she chose the Masons instead. Marian was pale and grave, but improving under the fostering care of Mrs. Mason, who was the kindest of sisters. Bessy Collaston had a new little brother; and, with Dolly's one and Mrs. Jettson's four, there was quite an array of children. But the most joyous of all was the welcome to Charles. Now he showed his real improvement. He had some color in his cheeks and his eyes were bright and lustrous; his voice rang with a clear sound. Curiously enough, he seemed almost a stranger to Annis, and not the little boy with whom she had poured over Froissart. She had outgrown him; and as for Varina, she patronized him in a most uncomfortable fashion. They were all so glad to see him well once more that no one thought of teasing him, even when he aired his new-found knowledge unduly. Perhaps he was most flattered by the friendliness of his big brother-in-law Roger. Then followed the dispersion. It was best that Annis should stay at school the coming year, and Jaqueline declared she could not do without her. Truth to tell, what with her school friends and her various amusements, Annis began to feel as if Washington was her real home, and the plantation a place to visit. Her mother had so many long-neglected duties to take up, and Marian to nurse back to health and better spirits. She had done without her little girl so long, and clearly this was to the child's advantage. Meanwhile the war had gone on with varying fortunes, but the navy of the country had gained various accessions by capture from the British and alterations from the merchant vessels. None of the coast cities had been attacked. Boston, New York, and Philadelphia had been making their defenses more secure. There was a fine fort at Baltimore. But Washington made no advances. Congress wrangled over a hundred points. The country at large was losing faith in the administration. There was a growing party in favor of suing for peace on the best terms we could get; another clique were quite certain we would wear out England, as, after all, she had made no real gains, and we had become quite formidable on the high seas. General Armstrong, secretary of war, was confident Washington would not be attacked; and though he admitted that defenses should be strengthened, very little was done. The downfall of Napoleon and his abdication, and the peace with France, had released the flower of the British army, and many warships. It was supposed Bermuda was their objective point, but they were ready to harass the coast line from Florida to Maine, and filled many of the towns with apprehension. CHAPTER XIX. IN THE MIDST OF WAR. The summer of 1813 was destined to rouse the legislators at Washington from their supineness. Some fishermen discovered a large fleet of sail sweeping in between the royal capes and settling at anchor, as if undetermined what course to pursue. They gave the alarm; and as the ships sailed up the Chesapeake, Baltimore was believed to be the objective point. Commodore Barney's little fleet was chased up the Patuxent. General Armstrong's orders were to burn it if there was danger of its falling into the hands of the enemy. Then with his men he was to join General Winder for the defense of Washington. The vessels were fired without a single blow, and the men made a forced march across the peninsula. There were no forts for protection, and only a few hundred regulars and several militia companies. With fatuous obstinacy it was still believed Baltimore would take the brunt of the attack, giving time to rally the troops to the defense of Bladensburg if there should be an inland march. All the adverse opinions and counsel delayed what might have been done for the protection of the City. But that August night, when the intentions of the enemy were beyond all doubt, a courier spurred post-haste over the heavy, sandy roads and through long stretches of somber pines and giant oaks, a very prophet of evil. At the little post-towns of Nottingham and Marlborough the stentorian tones roused the people from their sleep. "The British have landed at Benedict and are marching inland. To arms! to arms!" At Bladensburg he stopped at the ancient tavern, and the quiet town was thrown into a panic. Everybody was called out for defense. Then on to Washington, and the startled rulers looked into each other's faces in dismay. And then Colonel Monroe admitted that though there were no great treasures in Washington, the moral effect of capturing the enemy's capital would be equivalent to a greater victory. There were state papers that must be at once sent to a place of safety, and those who had valuables had better fly with them. General Armstrong still believed no large army would march forty miles from its base of supplies and run the risk of being cut off, since Admiral Cockburn could not know how well able the City was to defend itself. All was wildest panic. Everything in the shape of cart or wagon was loaded with cherished possessions, and the road to Georgetown looked like a universal moving day. It was decided to meet the enemy at Bladensburg and oppose the march into Washington, if that was their object. Everybody--a motley throng, indeed--was hurried to the front, the women and children left to the care of servants. The Carrington household had for days been in the deepest anxiety. A fortnight before Jaqueline's little son had been born, to the great joy of them all. Mrs. Mason and Marian had come up to the City--the first time Marian had visited the place since her joyous girlish winter and its ill-fated consequences. All had gone on well, when a sudden and utterly unexpected turn had filled them with alarm. A fever had set in, and for several days it had been a fierce fight between disease and skill, but there had grown up a faint hope in the night, to be met with tidings of such terrible import. Mrs. Jettson had come, wild with affright. "We are going at once," she said. "What can the wretched little army do against four thousand trained British soldiers? And Admiral Cockburn, it is said, has sworn to be revenged for the treatment of the English minister, and that he will compel Mrs. Madison to entertain him and his staff at the White House. Can Jaqueline be moved?" "Only at the risk of her life," said Dr. Collaston. "All the news has been kept from her, though she could not have taken it in. I have sent Patty and the children and some valuables over to Arlington. We must stay here." "But Marian and--Annis--can they not join us?" entreated Jane. "Annis will not leave her mother. Marian may be of great service. She is a most excellent nurse. Even the servants are panic-stricken, and cannot be depended on." "Where is Roger?" "At the capital. We men may be needed to defend our homes. Admiral Cockburn is said to be ruthless. General Winder has started for Bladensburg. Heaven grant the battle may be decided there! But you had better go at once, for the children's sake." "Oh, poor dear Jaqueline!" "We can only trust the very slender reed," and the doctor's voice was husky with emotion. "If I could do anything----" "No, you cannot. Thank you for all your kindness in the past." Mrs. Madison has been handed down by history as the one serene figure in the turmoil and danger. She moved quietly to and fro, securing valuables and state papers and sending them away by trusty servants. The President and several members of the Cabinet had started for the scene of action. Mrs. Mason and Marian watched by the bedside with minutest instructions, while the doctor went out on some pressing business. "A soger gemmen say he must see Miss Annis," announced the new butler, who had been but a month in his place. "I jus' done fergit de name. Dar's flustration in de berry air." "To see me?" asked the child in surprise. "He want de doctor awful much. Den he say send Miss Annis." Annis held out her hand to Marian. "Come with me!" she exclaimed. "We will not disturb mamma." They went down together. The man in the hall was covered with dust and grime, and purple-red with the heat. A soldier, sure enough; but the first moment Annis drew back. "Oh, little Annis, don't be afraid!" and she knew the voice. "Marian----" And so the two met who had just touched their lips to the cup of joy in the spring of youth. A grave woman half a dozen years older, a man whose life might be ended this very day. All these years he had been bitter and resentful, but if he were dying---- "Can you not fly at once? The battle has been disgraceful, but what could such an army do against overwhelming odds. The whole thing has been a piece of shameful imbecility in our rulers. The British are marching into Washington." "Then you have not heard----" Something in Marian's tremulous voice awed him. He wiped the sweat and grime from his face. "I have not been in Washington for three months." "Mrs. Carrington is lying at the point of death." Annis began to cry, and caught his hand. "Then Heaven help you! No one can tell what the end will be. Now I must away to warn all who can fly, and then do the best we can to protect those who remain. If possible, I will send a guard. Little Annis, good-by, if I should never see you again." She threw her arms about his neck with a convulsive sob. He held out his hand to Marian, but neither spoke. Then he rushed away. There was not a moment to lose. He strode over to the White House, where all was still uncertain, and Mrs. Madison had given orders for the dinner. To procure wagons was a labor of love and infinite persuasion, to say nothing of money. Then the messenger came shouting that General Armstrong had ordered a retreat. Daniel Carroll had sent his carriage, but Mrs. Madison refused to go until the President arrived. "It will not do for you to fall into the hands of the British," declared an officer. "That would crown the triumph." Pale and weary from his fruitless journey, the President and his wife stepped into the carriage to be driven across to Georgetown, where further difficulties awaited them. The opposition journals made merry over the undignified flight, yet there is no doubt but that it was the aim of both the Admiral and General Ross to crown their victory by the capture of the most conspicuous figures of the Capital. The British marched steadily on the heels of the flying foe, leaving their dead and wounded exposed to the pitiless sun, and proceeded at once to the Capitol, which they ransacked and then set on fire, striking down anyone who dared to raise a voice in its behalf. Then they marched along Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House, chagrined to discover only a few servants left, but gratified to find a banquet awaiting them. There had been covers laid for forty guests. Dishes of all kinds were ready in the kitchen to be served. Wines were in the cooler, handsome cut-glass and silver trays of delicious fruit stood on the sideboard. The hungry officers and men, scorning ceremony, feasted until the place became the scene of the wildest orgie. The wine cellar was broken open and its contents passed around, rooms were ransacked and combustibles piled up; and as they found little worth carrying off, the match was applied, and the house that had been the scene of so many joyous occasions was soon in flames. From thence to the Treasury Department, and then to the office of the _National Intelligencer_, whose editor had denounced Cockburn unsparingly for his acts of vandalism on the coast and among defenseless towns; and the houses of some of the more noted citizens were added to the conflagration. Women flying for refuge were insulted, wagons stopped and despoiled of their goods. The few regiments could make no stand against the wanton destruction. Suddenly there came a strange darkness over the city. From the far-off hills the wind began to roar like another ravening army. There were sullen mutterings of thunder. The order was given to retreat, and by the lurid light the ranks re-formed, though many, wearied out, straggled behind. The red blaze was made visible a moment by the lightning, when the town seemed in a molten glow, and then dense smoky blackness. As if this was not enough, a frightful tornado seemed hurled from the hills on the doomed City. The roar of the elements was terrific. Trees were uprooted and houses blown from their foundations, crashing down in the general ruin. All day they had watched between hope and fear. Jaqueline's fever had abated, and she lay half unconscious. After the soldiers marched into the City, and he had seen Mrs. Madison started on her perilous journey, Roger felt he could be of no farther service. The enemy would wreak his vengeance unopposed. He found there was a guard in citizens' clothes keeping watch over his house in an inconspicuous manner. But when the flames started at the Capitol his anxiety was harrowing. What if they should continue their work of devastation in this direction? "Oh, do you think we shall all be burned up?" cried Annis in terror, dreading the sight and yet running from window to window. No one could guess the power or purpose of the enemy. And no one could measure nature's devastation. Dr. Collaston was in and out. Jaqueline lay, unheeding the tumult and danger. "She does not really lose," he said. "Ross has gone over to the White House. Oh, the poor doomed City! And relief is needed for the wounded at Bladensburg. Half the women are crazy at their husbands being sent to the front. And all this might have been avoided!" Indeed, it transpired afterward that Mrs. Madison had been refused shelter by a shrieking virago because her husband had been enrolled for the defense of the City. "They are going to the White House. Perhaps they may not molest us, after all." This proved true. The ravages were continued over eastward. They watched one building after another. The public rope-walk was devoted to the flames. The dockyards and arsenal and naval stores, powder magazine, and a fine frigate just ready to be launched were fed to the devouring element that roared in devastating hunger. But that seemed nothing to the tornado. Annis flew to her mother's arms, and could not be pacified. Marian and Mrs. Mason would not go to bed, and Annis drowsed with her head on her mother's shoulder, asking now and then if morning had come. It dawned presently over the ruined City. Rock Creek was a rushing torrent. The Potomac had overflowed its banks. Tiber Creek was swollen out of bounds. Cellars were submerged, boxes and bales and furniture floated out. The British left their wounded behind, and when they reached Bladensburg there were more than could be cared for. Heartlessly trusting them to the mercy of the beaten enemy, they marched on, striking terror to the smaller towns through which they passed, and then attacking Baltimore, the heroic defense of which is a matter of history. General Ross was killed in the first skirmish, and Admiral Cockburn forced to withdraw, and was condemned even by his own government for his ruthless vandalism, which had won nothing. But the attack on Fort McHenry gave us one of our most beautiful and deathless songs, and indeed seemed the turning-point of misfortunes in a campaign that had been conducted with so little foresight and sagacity. But even this disaster may have been needed to bring the warring factions together, and convince them that to keep a country intact the strength of all is the salvation of each one, of every home. Dr. Collaston could hardly call it hope in the morning, but Jaqueline had not lost anything through the terrible night. Roger was nearly worn out with anxiety and the work that had devolved upon him. Wounded men were lying in the streets, and had been brought in from Bladensburg. "I must get a message over to Patty," the doctor said. "The end of the bridge is burned, but there are some boats. Something must be done for the relief of our poor men who turned out so bravely for the defense of our homes." Certainly it was a ruined city. Twenty years of labor and interest and expenditure laid waste, many of the inhabitants homeless, some lying wounded, not a few dead. A deserted place, indeed; and it was not until the British were before Baltimore that the panic really subsided. The President and Mrs. Madison were among the earliest to return. Mrs. Cutts opened her house, for the White House was a charred and blackened ruin. Everybody vied with attentions. The Tayloe mansion, called The Octagon, on New York Avenue, and built in the latter part of the preceding century, by a wealthy planter of Mount Airy, was chosen for the present home. Indeed, Mrs. Madison was never to go back to the White House as its mistress, but she made a not less notable center elsewhere. Slowly people returned with their goods and stores. The inhabitants of the adjacent towns were generous with assistance. For a month or more Washington had a continual moving-day. Meanwhile the victories at Plattsburg and the surrender of the fleet on Lake Champlain, as well as the signal victory at Fort Bowyer, put heart into the Americans, and England seemed not indisposed to discuss terms of peace, convinced perhaps a second time that here was an indomitable people, whose friendship was possible, but whose conquest could never be achieved. Slowly Jaqueline Carrington came back to life. The intense heat had given way to cooling breezes, the sun was often veiled by drifting clouds. For a week there were alternations, then a steady improvement. Temporary hospitals had been secured. Some of the wounded had found shelter within their own homes or those of friends. Louis came in one morning. He had been among the volunteers so hastily enrolled, taken prisoner, and then allowed to go, as General Ross did not want to be hampered. "Collaston, has anything been heard of Ralston? He came into Washington the morning of the battle. Now that things are cleared up a little, he is reported missing. The British did not stop to bury their dead, and he certainly would have been noted." "I thought it strange we did not hear. We must make inquiries at once. We have been most fortunate, except for pecuniary losses, and since Jaqueline is likely to be restored to us we have no right to complain. I must set out to find Ralston, though. The country has need of such men." It was true that Arthur Jettson and the doctor were likely to be considerable losers by the misfortunes that had overtaken Washington. But they were young, and could recover. Patty and the two babies returned, and she declared the losses were really not worth thinking of, since everybody had been spared. When Jaqueline was well enough to sit up a little, she insisted on being taken to her favorite window, which commanded a fine view of the City. "While you have had one trouble, you have escaped another," said her husband gravely. "Our beautiful Washington--for it had grown beautiful to us, partly by the eye of faith, I suppose--is no more. We have had war and devastation of the elements, and must begin over again. We can tell our children about Old Washington, if she was not ancient in years; but a new one must arise on its ruins." "War!" Jaqueline cried in amazement. And then she glanced at the destruction, bursting into tears. "Never mind, my darling wife. We have you and the boy, thanks to your mother and Marian and Dr. Collaston's skill. He was faithfulness itself through all that trying time. When you are stronger you shall hear the whole story." "And Louis--is everybody safe?" "Louis shouldered a musket and marched like a trained soldier. Oh, we have some brave men left, I assure you! The enemy came; and what we were unable to do the storm did--forced them to retreat before we had been laid quite in ruins." "It is terrible!" said Annis. "I have been driving about with the doctor. The beautiful White House is gone, and ever so many places. And the storm was terrific. Oh, dear! what a horrible time it was! I sat up all night long with mamma and Marian." "Dear Marian! How good you have been to me! You and mother have taken such excellent care of my baby." Marian glanced up with a grave smile. "And no dear ones are lost? I suppose Lieutenant Ralston was in the thick of the fight?" "Yes," answered her husband, "like many another brave man. I think we owe him something also." Everything was so changed. Marian often mused over it. She felt like quite an old woman. She was hardly likely to marry now. She had put her candle out, she remembered. But her heart gave a quick gasp when she thought of Ralston. "Evangeline" had not yet been written, but daily she felt moved to enact the romance, to go in search of him. Somehow she felt sure she could find him. And if he was among the dead she would have a right to cherish his memory, and that happy episode, the one brief romance of her life. Dr. Collaston came in. Yes, his patient was doing nicely. When she could be moved with safety, the air of the old plantation, with its rich autumnal fragrance and ripeness, would do her good. Patty should go with her for a holiday. Annis was hanging to the doctor's arm. "Won't you take me out with you?" she said coaxingly. "I like so to go with you, there are so many things to see." "I am going to take Roger out on a little business, if everybody can spare him. Your turn may come to-morrow." She nodded good-humoredly. Carrington followed his friend downstairs. "We have news about Ralston," the doctor said. "There is a messenger here with tidings. There is no time to lose. You can hear the story as we go along." A pale, large-eyed young fellow with an anxious face was awaiting them; and as they were driving over the old road that had been traversed many a time in pleasure, and was to be historic, Carrington listened to the young man's tale. A British soldier, he had been wounded and left on the field, and someone had paused to give him a drink of water, when the stranger had been struck by a stray shot and wounded in the leg. They had made their way slowly to a deserted negro hut, where he had fainted. His new friend had dressed his wound, which was more painful than serious, but both were weak from exhaustion and loss of blood. The storm coming on, they had been glad of shelter. The next day his new-found friend could not walk, and his leg was terribly swollen. They waited in the hope that someone would find them out. But on the third day the American was ill and delirious. A negro woman had discovered them, and visited them daily with food, and had attended to both their wounds as well as she knew how. Now his companion had come to his right mind, and he was a Lieutenant Ralston. He had begged him, Eustace Stafford, to find his way into the City and hunt up a certain Dr. Collaston and tell him the story. "He is still very ill," declared Stafford. "And he must be taken out of that wretched hole at once. Still, we have been very glad of the shelter." "You look ill yourself----" "You should have seen this young fellow half an hour ago," declared the doctor. "You would have thought him a ghost. He has a bad wound in his shoulder that has not been properly treated, and healed up on the outside too soon. I have a carriage here at the door. When Patty heard the story she insisted that I should bring Ralston home at once. We have plenty of room, and, after all, have not been so hard hit." Young Stafford, they found, had a cousin who was a major in the English army. He had been quite enamored of a soldier's life, had been attached to the staff, and was a sort of private secretary to his cousin. But the romance of war had been driven from his youthful brain by his first battle, that of Bladensburg. "But you must have better soldiers than those raw recruits," he exclaimed, "when you have done such wonderful things! Still, everything is so strange----" He glanced furtively at the two men, not knowing how far it was safe to confess one's feelings. The ruin at Washington had filled him with shame and dismay, and he did not wonder that people on every hand were execrating the British. Even the old negro woman had denounced them bitterly. "Most of our real soldiers were elsewhere. There is a great stretch of country to protect. We have the Indians for enemies, the French occasionally, but we shall come out victorious in the end," said the doctor confidently. "Where are the Admiral and General Ross?" asked Stafford. "At Baltimore now, where there is a prospect of their being defeated. We were not prepared as we should have been, to our shame be it said." Then they lapsed into silence. "I am afraid I have forgotten my way," the youth admitted as they passed a partly overgrown branch road, used mostly for the convenience of farmers. "I tried to mark it by some sign. There was a tree that had been struck by lightning. And a clump of oaks." "There is a clump of oaks farther on." "You see, that day--it was horrible with the groans of the wounded and dying. And the awful heat! I tried to crawl to a little stream, but fainted. And this soldier came along presently, when I begged him for a drink." "These are the oaks, I think," said the doctor, who knew the road well. "Then it is a little further on." They turned into a cart-path. In a sort of opening stood a blackened pine that had been grand in its day. After several curves they left this road and soon found the hut. Lieutenant Ralston was in a bad condition, indeed--emaciated to a degree, his eyes sunken, his voice tremulous, his whole physique so reduced that he could not stand up. Stafford had made a bed of fir and hemlock branches, and the little place was fragrant, if otherwise dreary. "We will not stop for explanations!" exclaimed the doctor briskly. "The best thing is to get you to some civilized place and attend to you." "And the lad, too. I should have died without him and poor old Judy. She will think the wolves have eaten us, only she won't find any bones." He was lifted carefully into the carriage, and they journeyed homeward as rapidly as circumstances would permit. Patty had cleared the sitting room on the lower floor, and a cot had been spread for Ralston. They laid the fainting man upon it, and the doctor proceeded to examine his injuries. The bone in the leg had been splintered, and a jagged wound made. Judy's simples had kept it from becoming necessarily fatal, but the fever and the days that had elapsed rendered it very critical. "I only hope he won't have to lose his leg," said Roger. "That would be terrible to him." "We will try our utmost." It was a painful operation, but at last it was over. Then Stafford's shoulder was looked after, and had to be probed. Roger proved an invaluable assistant. "We may as well have a hospital ward, and let the enemy and the patriot lie side by side. They can't fight, and I do not believe either of them has the vigor for a quarrel." So another cot was brought in. Patty was quite important, and full of sympathy for Ralston. It was mid-afternoon when Carrington returned, and they were all anxious to hear the story. For Jaqueline's sake he made as light of it as possible, dwelling considerably upon the heroism of both men, "although the English lad is a mere boy, not twenty yet. What distorted ideas they get over the water!" nodding his head. "As if we had not been of one race in the beginning, equally courageous, equally proud and resolute, and animated by the same love of liberty. Think how they have waged war with tyrants and wrested rights from kings!" Marian waylaid him in the hall. "I was listening inwardly to what you did not say," she began tremulously. "Does the doctor think he _will_ recover?" "He is in a bad way, of course. But the leg is the worst feature. Oh, let us all hope! Things have gone so well with us that I am filled with gratitude, and cannot despair." Marian's eyes were downcast, her face pink to the very roots of her hair; and her lips quivered. That evening Roger was sitting beside his wife alone, caressing the thin hand that returned the fond pressure. "Marian is in love with Philip Ralston," he began abruptly. "Jaqueline, can't you think of the magic touch that will bring these two together? You found it easy enough before." "And bungled and made no end of trouble," she returned with a sad smile. "It was old Mr. Floyd who made the trouble. Why couldn't he have given his daughter to the young fellow who loved her? What I am afraid of now is that he has ceased to care. Still, he has been a favorite with women, and no one has captured him. An attractive man has to quite run the gauntlet. And when he thinks a woman's love has failed----" "Do you speak from experience?" inquired Jaqueline archly, her eyes in a tender glow. "Yes." There was a rising color and a half-smile hovering over his face. "It _is_ true that hearts are caught in the rebound." "But no one caught you." "Because, month after month, I waited. I said at first, 'She will marry Ralston.' Then there were other admirers--you know there were a host of them more attractive than I, but I could have forgiven you for marrying Ralston. If it had been someone else I should have turned bitter, and that would have been the danger-point. I might have wanted to convince you "That, Miss Jacky Mason, I care as little as ye care for me," paraphrasing an old ballad and substituting her own name, while she glanced up laughingly. "Since we found the making-up process so delightful," returned Jaqueline, "we are anxious to pass it around. You see, now, Marian has no interest in life but to play the part of maiden aunt. Jane will absorb a good deal of her with the most generous intentions. She is a lovely nurse, and I think grandpa's and Mr. Greaves' influence has mostly died out. They were both so narrow and dogmatic about women that they reduced her to a sort of slavery. Mamma has brought her out to a sense of freedom. Single women may be heroic, yet, as I remember, the Revolutionary heroines were married and mothers, most of them, and it is the wife and mother who has the most exquisite happiness." "What a long speech! We will try and get Ralston well, and then trust good-fortune. There will be no one to interfere this time." While Ralston lay tossing on a bed of pain, his leg in splints and bandages, events moved on rapidly. The bold exploits and undying courage that had won such brilliant successes on the seas had settled the question of sailors' rights. England virtually admitted this while still haggling with commissioners. And from having no position among nations, from being considered feeble and disunited, and possessing no innate right to establish a commerce of her own, the United States had won the respect of the countries abroad, and to a great degree harmonized the jarring factions at home. The crowning battle of the war was that of New Orleans, with Jackson's brilliant victory, though some of the preliminaries had been settled before this. And one day a messenger came rushing into town, swinging his three-cornered hat in one hand and holding the bridle-rein in the other, and cried out in stentorian tones, "Peace! peace! Peace has been declared! Mr. Carroll, American messenger, has arrived with the Treaty of Peace!" In spite of blackened ruins and heaps of débris, there was a great time in Old Washington. For, indeed, it seemed old now, since it could boast of ruins. Flags were hung out. Neighbors called to one another. Then a coach came thundering along the avenue, another and yet another, and stopped at the Octagon House. Congress presented themselves, at least all who could be gathered on a short notice, to take the news to the President, who had suffered considerably from the exposure and fatigue, and perhaps from the mortification of having been a fugitive flying from the enemy. The circular vestibule, the white winding stairway that was open to the top, and the drawing room to the right were crowded with guests, felicitating their chief and one another. Animosity, coldness, and blame were forgotten. Peace! peace! like the refrain of some sweet music, went floating around all the space, and Mrs. Madison was much moved with emotion. Strong men thanked God with softened hearts. The conflict was over, and now they knew the bitterness of war. For this year young Daniel Webster was in the House, and Clay and Calhoun and men who were to have much to do with the nation's destinies later on. Houses were illuminated, tar barrels were burned, and the streets seemed fairly alive with people. Voices rang with joy. True, the Treaty was to be discussed and signed, the British troops were to go home, the news to be carried about on the high seas. Ports were to be opened, and "Madison's nightcaps"--barrels that had been hung to protect the rigging of ships--were removed with shouts of joy. There was a lull in Europe. Prussia drew a long breath. Russia plumed herself on giving the famous Corsican his first blow, while the Battle of Waterloo was the last. France had a king of royal blood again. Spain was repairing her fortunes; while England was counting up her losses and gains, and preparing to shake hands in amity with the young country across the ocean and grow into friendship with it. CHAPTER XX. THE OLD STORY EVER NEW. Jaqueline Carrington's heart ached the first time she was taken out to drive, when destruction met her on every side. There was another sorrowful aspect. Men were getting about on crutches, sitting on the Capitol steps sunning themselves. There was an empty coat-sleeve, some scarred faces, others pale and wan. Yes, they had all escaped marvelously. She thought herself the happiest woman in the world. No one, she was quite sure, had such a tender and devoted husband or splendid baby. Mother Carrington found her affections quite divided, and the days when Jaqueline came over to Georgetown were gala days. True, Preston Floyd had been already talked of as a member of the House of Representatives. Roger Carrington had been appointed to an excellent position in the Treasury Department, though he was still a great favorite with Mr. Monroe, and Jaqueline was not jealous. Arthur Jettson had come to be consulting architect, and had still greater plans for the new city. Annis had resumed her school, but she was quite an important little body, and sometimes her mother felt almost as if she had lost her. Lieutenant Ralston found himself an admired hero. He had been cool and level-headed through those days of the panic; and it was admitted that many of his plans for the defense of the City would have been excellent. A new commission was made out, bearing the name of Captain Ralston; and a position was ready for him, when he could fill it, where his genius would have full scope. There were many anxious days over his leg. One of the doctors said the wound would never heal, and that presently it would be amputation or his life, and considered the delay a great risk. "Oh, Collaston," he begged, "don't have me going around on a wooden stump! If I was an admiral, now, I shouldn't mind it, as it would add to the glory. But a poor fellow who can't retire on his fortune----" "We'll fight to the very last, Phil. If you could have been found sooner!" "And some poor fellows were found altogether too late. Well, the country has learned a lesson, and perhaps with Paul Jones we have taught other nations a lesson, not to tread on us! Do your very best." The doctor did it in fear and trembling. For if he cost his patient his life, he knew it would be a great blow to his reputation. As for the young lad, he soon began to improve. He seemed quite stranded, for his cousin's regiment had re-embarked and was coasting southward. No inquiries had been made about him--indeed, he knew afterward that the cousin had written home that he had been killed at the Battle of Bladensburg and buried on the field. He was a stranger in a strange land. Ralston had grown very fond of him, and he proved himself an excellent companion. He was one of quite a large household, and his father was a baronet, Sir Morton Stafford. One brother was in the army at home, one in the Church, two sisters were married, and there were four younger than himself to provide for. As soon as he could use his arm he wrote to his father, and Dr. Collaston said cordially, "Consider my house your home until you hear." "You are very good to take in a stranger this way," he returned with emotion. Marian remained with Jaqueline when Mrs. Mason went home. "I have been such a gadabout of late years," Mrs. Mason said, "that father hardly knows whether he has a wife and a home. I must think a little of him." "I wish you _could_ stay, mamma!" pleaded Annis. "Why can't you move up to Washington? I like it ever so much better. There is so much to see and to do, and we are all together here." "There is Charles. And Varina." "But Patty and Jaqueline and the babies seem like a great many more. And the rides and drives----" "But you have your pony. And papa would take you any time with him." "I like the crowds of people, and the pretty ladies in their carriages, and the foreign ministers are so fine, and to hear the men when they talk in the House, and the girls give little parties. Oh, mamma, I love you, and I want you here, but----" Her mother smiled. Yes, life on the plantation was dull. And the jealous little girl was being weaned away. "We are losing our children fast," she said to her husband. Marian and Jaqueline by slow degrees slipped into the interchange of thought that real friendship uses. It had not the girlish giddiness of youth; both had learned more of the realities of life. "But did you ever love Mr. Greaves, Marian?" Jaqueline ventured one afternoon, as she sat with her baby on her lap. He was so lovely that she envied the cradle when she put him in it, and liked to feel his soft warm body on her knees. "I didn't at first. Oh, Jaqueline, brother Randolph is so different from father! We never begged or teased or coaxed things out of him as you children used to. And mother expected us to obey the instant we were spoken to. Then--I did not know that Lieutenant Ralston had been up until some time afterward. Dolly found out that he had been insultingly dismissed. Papa questioned me about the acquaintance and my visit to brother's, and was awfully angry. Jack, _did_ you plan it?" "I put things in train, simply. I did not know how they would come out." "Papa accepted Mr. Greaves for me. I meant to tell him the story and decline his hand. But it was quite impossible. I could never talk freely to him. He did not ask me if I loved him. He had certain ideas about wives. But he was gentlemanly and kind, and I had no liberty at home. I began to think it would be nice to be free, to go out without watching, to write a letter, to have some time of my very own. I had said to papa that I would never marry him, and he replied that I should never marry anybody, then. Suddenly I gave in. I begged papa's pardon for all the dreadful things I had said, and accepted Mr. Greaves as my future husband. But I felt as if I had been turned into stone, as if it was not really my own self. That self seemed dead. I went round as usual, and tried to take an interest in everything, but nothing really mattered. Did you think me queer and strange that Christmas?" "You certainly were cold, apathetical." "That is just the word. Papa was formal and dogmatic and arbitrary,--poor papa! it is unfilial to say these things about him,--but mamma always seemed to get along. Mr. Greaves was more gentle, and used to ask what I would like; and I do believe he loved me; pitied me; and I couldn't help feeling grateful. Then when he had the first stroke papa said it would be dishonorable to withdraw, and he should be very angry if I contemplated such a thing. Dolly's marriage was on the carpet. She seemed so young, so--yes, silly," and Marian half hid her blushing face. "Could I ever have been so silly, Jaqueline?" "We all go through the rose-path of sweetness when we are in love," returned Jaqueline. "I'm silly myself at times. Marian, did you know that Mr. Ralston wrote again?" "Wrote again--then he did not forget?" She raised her soft eyes, suffused with exquisite surprise. "He wrote when he thought you were free again. I always felt sure you did not get the letter. He took some precautions, and was confident you must have had it, though grandpa returned it without a word!" "I never heard from him. Jane said when your engagement was broken----" Marian paused and flushed. "That he would marry _me_." Marian nodded. It had given her a heartache, she remembered. So long as he married no one he did not seem so completely cut off that she must cast him utterly out of her life. "Well, you see he did not. I think now I could not have married anyone but Roger, if I had waited ten years." "Then, you know, came Mr. Greaves' death and father's, and mother's failing health. I feel quite like an old woman." "At five-and-twenty! Nonsense! See how young mamma is!" "She is lovely, Jaqueline!" with enthusiasm. "I don't know what papa would do without her." What a beautiful thing it was to be so dear to anyone that he or she could not do without you! "You saw Ralston that dreadful morning?" "Yes." Marian buried her face in her hands. Some feeling of unknown power connected with her youth shook her, thrilled her; yet she strove to put it aside. "I prayed I might not go back to that time," and her voice was tremulous; "then when we all thought him dead I--I let myself go. It is shameful for a woman when a man has forgotten her." "He has made tremendous efforts to forget--I know that," and the sound like a smile in her voice made Marian's face crimson again. "But I am sure he has not succeeded any better than Roger did. And if he should be unfortunate for life----" "Then I should want to go to him. No one has any right to order my life now. Would it be very unwomanly?" "No. And you must go to Patty's. She thinks it so queer, but I said you hated to leave me. Marian, if it comes a second time you will not refuse?" "I think I hadn't the courage to really refuse the first time," and she smiled. Jaqueline had more delicacy than to repeat what Annis had said, and had forbidden her to carry anything like gossip, "for a little girl who gossips will surely be an old maid. And you will want a nice husband, I am certain." "Oh, yes!" cried Annis. "And a lot of pretty babies." "Then never carry tales." "But he is always asking me about Marian, and why she doesn't come?" So they sent word they might be expected on a certain day, and baby and nurse and Annis, as soon as school closed. How many times, lying here, Philip Ralston had lived over that sweet, foolish, incomprehensible love episode--the obstinate regard, the indignation that had followed it, the hard thrusts with which he had pushed her out of his memory. She had gone only momentarily. Her sweet youth had been spent in devotion to her self-indulgent, inexorable father,--he knew how acrimonious Mr. Floyd could be,--and, then, her stern, rigid mother. Had they taken all her sweetness? He had half looked for some sign when she had finished all her duties. Mrs. Jettson had outlived the romance of it, and lost patience with Marian. Besides, she was absorbed with her own family. There were so many pretty girls, and Marian was getting to be quite an old maid, in the days when girls married so young. And when he had met her that eventful morning he had probable death before him, and was tongue-tied. Did she think he had forgotten all? They trooped in together, Patty leading the procession; Jaqueline, still a little pale, but lovelier than ever, with her boy in her arms, and Marian with the lost youth back of her. She was too sincere to affect astonishment; and he had improved--was neither so gaunt nor so ghastly as when he first came. She took his hand--did she make a confession in the pressure? He felt suddenly self-condemned, as if he had misjudged her some way, and humble, as if he had nothing good enough to offer her. But he glanced up in the soft eyes--her life had not been very joyous, she was by no means a rich woman, and if she cared most for home and happiness---- She did not hear what they were saying at first. There was a sound as of rushing water in her ears. "Oh, yes!" he answered, with an hysterical laugh, "I am to keep my own two legs to go upon. I owe it all to Collaston, who stood between me and surgeons' knives, and brandished his war club until they retreated. I shall lie here in supreme content until he bids me arise and walk." What was it went over Marian's face. Not disappointment, but an inexplicable tenderness, as if she could have taken up the burden cheerfully, as if she were almost casting about for some other burden. "Poor girl!" he said to himself; "she has devoted her sweetest years to others, and someone ought to pay her back in love's own coin." Stafford had improved greatly and gained flesh. He had a fair, rather ruddy English complexion and light hair, with the unusual accompaniment of dark-brown eyes; and, though rather unformed, had a fine physique, which was as yet largely in the bone, but would some day have muscle and flesh. The loss and ruin of Washington had been news to Ralston, though he had known the march of the vandals was inevitable. Annis interested and amused him in her talk. She was a very pronounced patriot in these days. Eustace Stafford seemed quite bewitched with her. He came over every afternoon to bring word of Ralston, and perhaps to have an encounter of words with Annis. This day, while there were so many to entertain his friend, he stole off to school to walk home with her, though there was not a cloud in the sky that could give him a shadow of excuse. She was going to walk some distance with one of her mates. "Perhaps it would tire you," she said mischievously. "I have been in the house all the morning," was the reply. "Did they bring the baby? It's the most beautiful baby in the world, isn't it?" "I haven't seen all the babies in the world----" a little awkwardly. "But he ought to be able to tell whether one is pretty or not, oughtn't he, Eliza?" Eliza, thus appealed to, hung her head and said, "Perhaps----" frightened and yet delighted to comment on a young man's taste. "Perhaps British babies are different," was Annis' rather teasing comment. "I think babies are a good deal alike----" "No, they are not," and she put on a pretty show of indignation. "I think you are not capable of judging." "I am sure I am not," he said with alacrity. "They're kept in a nursery at home, you know, and have a playground out of the way somewheres." "I am very glad I am not an English child, aren't you, Eliza? Poor things! to be stuck out in a back yard!" "My aunt and cousin are going to England as soon as traveling is safe," said Eliza, with a benevolent intention of pouring oil upon the troubled waters. "He is going to some college." "There are fine colleges in England. There are very few here." "We haven't so many people. Charles--that's my brother--went through Harvard, which is splendid, when he was spending some time in Boston. And he may go to Columbia. That's in New York, where he is at school." "New York is a large city. The English held it in the Revolutionary War." "But they had to march out of it," said the patriot. "And they had to march away from Baltimore. And now they will have to march away from the whole United States, after they have done all the harm they could and killed off the people and almost murdered poor Lieutenant Ralston." "But that is war. I'm sorry there should ever be war. I wouldn't have it if I was a king. But your people declared war," remembering that. "How could we help it, when our poor sailors were snatched from their own vessels and made to fight against us or be beaten to death? Do you suppose we can stand _everything_? We were altogether in the right, weren't we, Eliza?" Eliza glanced furtively at the very good-looking face, scarlet with anger and mortification, and wondered how Annis could get in such a temper with him. "I don't know about the causes of war," she said hesitatingly. "Some people blame Mr. Madison----" "There are Tories always. I've heard papa tell how many there were in the Revolutionary War. But, you see, we wouldn't have won if we had not had right on our side," she added triumphantly. "But Napoleon won in a great many battles," Stafford ventured. "Perhaps he was right _then_," with emphasis. This casuistry nonplussed the English boy. If Annis wasn't so sweet and pretty---- Eliza had to say good-by reluctantly. "Let us go this way," proposed Annis. "This way" brought them to the defaced and injured Capitol. Annis' scarlet lip curled. "It is a shame," he acknowledged. "And--if it will do you any good, I'm awfully sorry that I came over to fight. But, you see, we don't understand. So many people think that after all England did for the Colonies, they had no right to rebel, and that she still has some claims----" "All she did!" exclaimed the fiery censor. "She persecuted the Puritans, and they came over to a horrid wilderness. She took New York away from the Dutch. And she sent shiploads of convicts over to Virginia to be a great trouble to the nice people who had grants of land. And she said we shouldn't trade anywhere----" "If the heads of government could understand; or if the people could see how fine and heroic and noble the Americans are, I think they would refuse to come over and fight them. I am glad they are going away. And when I get home I shall tell everybody how brave they are, and of the splendid homes they have made. And perhaps if Captain Ralston hadn't stopped to give me a drink and bandage my wound he might have found a better place of refuge. I know _my_ father will be grateful, for I think he saved my life, and came mighty near losing his own. I shall always be glad I didn't really fight. I was struck before I fired my musket. And Dr. Collaston is just like a brother. I like you all so. I shall hate to go away." The words poured out with confused rapidity. "I hope you will have the courage to tell the truth," she replied severely. "I have heard that some of the English think we are black, like the slaves they brought over to us. And, do you know, they have been stealing them again and carrying them off to the Bermudas. Or they believe we have turned into wild Indians." "They don't know," he said again weakly. "Wasn't Mr. Adams over there a long while--and the great Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and Mr. Jay, and ever so many others? We send a minister to them--not a real preacher," in a gracious, explanatory way that made her more fascinating than ever, "but to discuss affairs; so they ought to know whether we are black or white." "Oh, they do at court! If I could make you understand----" his boyish face full of perplexity. "I think I _do_ understand when I see Washington in ruins. And I shall be glad when every Englishman goes back. We don't go over to England and burn and destroy." He had a vague idea there was something to be said for his side, but he did not just know what. It seemed rather ungrateful, too, as he was a pensioner on the hospitality of her brother-in-law. It was extremely mortifying, since his cousin had been intrusted with money for him. So he was silent, but that did not suit the little lady, who enjoyed the warfare like a born soldier. She was always "saving up" disgraceful incidents she heard, to tell him. "You are pretty hard on the young fellow," Roger said to her one day. "We must forgive him a good deal for his devotion to Ralston." "But think how you and doctor brother went out and gathered up the wounded, and there were some British among them as well. _He_ ought to be very grateful." "I think he is. And he is a nice lad." Their skirmishes were very amusing to the family. Patty really admired the young fellow, he seemed such a big, innocent-hearted boy; but she enjoyed posting Annis as to her side of the argument. "Are you going?" Captain Ralston said to Marian as they were making preparations for departure. "You--you do not need me," she murmured as, holding her hand, he drew her down nearer the pillow. "I suppose everybody else does," he declared pettishly. "You never considered me. You did not really care----" There were tears in her eyes as she tried to turn away. "Perhaps when the others are all dead and gone, and I am an old man, you may remember what you confessed those two blessed days. Or you may recall it over my grave." "I deserve it all," she returned meekly. "I tried--oh, yes, I did; but I _was_ weak----" "Is it too late to go back?" "Come, Polly!" cried Jaqueline. Sukey, the general factotum at the Carringtons', called Marian "Miss Polly." "Can't be boddered wid no sech outlandish name as Miss Ma'yan--dat kinks my tongue up like a bit a 'yalum,'" she declared. "Polly--you will come to-morrow?" "Yes--yes," with a scarlet face. "If you want me." "I want you. I have a great deal to say to you." But it took many to-morrows to get it all said. There were rough places and doubts, intensified by the experiences Ralston had gone through, and the nervous strain of not only the long illness, but the almost certainty there had been at one time of his losing his leg. That danger was really over, but a great deal of carefulness had to be observed. And few indeed can bring back the sparkle to the cup of youth, when the freshness is no longer there. Marian grew more girlish, as if the hands of time were running the other way. The force that had impelled her to middle life was removed. She had gained a certain experience, quite different from the man who had been mixing with the world. But what mattered when they came back to the level of love? Congress held its session at Blodgett's Hotel. It is true there were heated discussions on the terms of peace, contradictions, and dogmatic assertions. Perhaps the meetings at the Octagon House, and the sweet, affable mistress had much to do with softening asperities. Everybody, it seemed, came, and it was conceded that we had gained a good deal in the respect of foreign nations. Commerce took on a brisk aspect. War vessels came into port, and though they did not lay aside all their defenses,--for the high seas were still infested with privateers,--they took on the cargoes of industry instead of munitions of war. It was found now that we had made strides in manufacturing ordinary goods, though women were delighted with the thought of once more procuring silks, satins, velvets, and lace without extraordinary risks. Eustace Stafford spent much of his time exploring Washington, taking long walks and numerous drives with the doctor. The beautiful Potomac, the towns along its edge, the falls that in a cold spell had just enough ice to make them wonderful and fairy-like, Port Tobacco that had once been a thriving place, the inlets and creeks and the fine and varied Virginia shore, and the magnificent Chesapeake dotted with islands. And there was Annapolis, destined to grow more famous as years went on. He had not half explored the country when word came from his father, inclosing a draft to bring him home and reimburse the friends who had sheltered him with such cordiality. "I am sorry enough to leave you," he said with deep emotion. "I feel like becoming an out-and-out American, but I shall never be a soldier." "Not in case of necessity?" said Patty with charming archness. "Of course if I had a home here I should defend it to the last drop of blood in my veins--yes, even against my own kindred," and he blushed with a feeling akin to ardent patriotism that surprised himself. "I think we only need to understand each other's governments better to be good friends. There is something grand here. It may be the largeness of everything, and the aspirations, the sense of freedom, and--well, that certain equality. You are not bound about by rigid limits." Mr. Carrington said Stafford must go to one levee, though that there were such throngs now that it was hardly comfortable. Ralston insisted that he also must pay his respects to Mrs. Madison, for now he could get about on crutches, but it was not considered safe to bear any great weight upon his injured limb as yet. It was quite a fine scene, Stafford admitted. There was a great variety in dress, the older men keeping to the Continental style largely, with flowing frills to their shirt fronts and lace ruffles at their wrists, velvet smallclothes and silk stockings, and hair tied with a black ribbon or fastened in a small silk bag. Some of the younger men wore their hair curling over their shoulders. There were gorgeous waistcoats, the upper part flowered satin, and then a finishing of scarlet that came halfway to the knee, the coats turned back and faced with bright colors. Mrs. Madison was resplendent in her red turban, with nodding ostrich plumes, and the row of short black curls across her white forehead, and her gown of cream satin, of so deep a tint as to be almost yellow, with its abundant trimming of scarlet velvet. Ralston was quite a hero for his misfortunes and his counsels, which had averted some disaster and would have saved much more if they had been followed. Everybody could see the blunders and the supineness that had really invited such a catastrophe. But peace had softened many of the animadversions, and the charming sweetness of the first lady of the land healed many differences. It was true that the two later years of the administration went far toward redeeming the mistakes of the earlier part. Annis had plead hard to go, but Jaqueline had not thought it best. "You and Mr. Stafford will be sure to get in a quarrel," she said laughingly. "There will be plenty of levees for you to attend when you are older. And the Octagon House has not the room of the poor burned mansion. It is always crowded." Then Eustace Stafford said good-by with great grief to the people he had come to fight, and found among them the warmest of friends. He had not been alone in his experience. Before Congress adjourned a bomb was thrown into the camp. Since Washington was a heap of ruins and would have to be rebuilt, why not remove it to some more advantageous location? CHAPTER XXI. ANNIS. How near the Capital City came to be handed down in history as Old Washington its denizens of to-day will never know. There were many cogent reasons for changing it. It had grown so slowly; it would require an immense amount of money to rebuild it; the place had never taken root in the affections of the whole country. But, then, it was the city of Washington and the old worthies who had made the country. There was Florida for the southern point, as well as Maine for the north-eastern; there were the great Mississippi and Louisiana, as well as the lake countries. Was it not nearly the center? Men like Arthur Jettson set about retrieving their fortunes and showing their faith in the place. Mrs. Madison made it as agreeable as possible to foreign ministers and their wives, and guests from the more important cities. Colonel and Mrs. Monroe added to the attractions. The Capitol was repaired slowly, but it was two years before the White House was undertaken. The scars were all healed long ago. The broad avenues stretch out with handsome residences, and the streets that little Annis thought so funny because they were "like the A B C of the spelling book one way, and the first lesson in the arithmetic the other way," have filled up the vacant spaces with rows of houses. Tiber Creek is no more, and Rock Creek, which rushed and brawled and overflowed its banks in a freshet, is a dull little meandering stream. Where the Lees and Custises held sway and entertained in a princely manner there is a grave, decorous silence and a City of Heroes, who, having done their duty for liberty and country, sleep well under the green turf. Georgetown has enlarged her borders, and is beautiful. Mount Vernon, with its two hundred years of history, is the nation's heritage. Old Washington is almost forgotten, with here and there a relic and a few old maps one can pore over in the grand Congressional Library. And now it is indeed the City of the Nation, with its many treasures, even if they are modern, its handsome legations, its beautiful circles to commemorate the heroes of later times. And Dolly Madison lived to see many of the improvements, and to be the historic link between the old and the new. As for Annis Mason, she found it undeniably dull when Eustace Stafford had gone. Even knowledge seemed to lose its charm, and the babies grew commonplace. But, then, in the spring Miss Polly and her lover were married and set up a cozy little home of their own, and really wanted Annis in it. Then Varina came home--a tall, slim girl, quite vivacious and ever so much better tempered than in her youth; and really rather patronized Annis, who was not a year younger, but quite a little girl, not come to trains nor a great pile of hair on the top of her head, and a cascade of puffs in front, and a comb so big it had to be carried in a bag when you went out of an evening. Then she had a lover, too--a fine young South Carolinian, who had an immense plantation and no end of slaves, and was going into the new industry of raising cotton. There was a very general demur. Varina was so young, if she was tall. But, then, Southern girls grew up soon, and many of them were wives at fifteen. "There must be a year's engagement," her father said. Varina must learn how to manage a household; and girls had a good deal of instruction in housewifely arts in those days, even if there was a regiment of slaves to do everything. "I'll coax off six months," Varina declared to her lover, and he went away with that comfort. She was surprised and amused at Annis' book-learning, and teased her considerably. Did she mean to be a schoolmistress? Charles returned in capital health and spirits and full of ambitious plans. He had not _quite_ decided what he would be, either a chief justice or a minister abroad. He was not sure now that he wanted to be President. "For people do say such dreadful things about you. And you don't seem to suit anyone. I don't wonder Mr. Madison looks old and thin and careworn." "Do you remember," said Varina laughingly, "that I used to oppose a marriage between you and Annis? I wasn't going to let her have everything. I used to consider that you belonged to me." "You had a great way of appropriating everybody." "What a ridiculous thing I was! And now I have made up my mind that you are just suited to each other. You can still sit on the window ledge and pore over the same book." "Annis is well enough, but I am sure she wouldn't find Latin and Greek interesting. And by the time I want to marry, Annis will be--well, quite an old woman." "If you don't marry until you are forty-nine she will have turned the half-century. That would be rather old. I shall be a grandmother before that time." "All you girls think about is getting married," returned the youth disdainfully. "We think to some purpose, too, don't we? I wouldn't be an old maid for a fortune!" Annis was not sure she liked the defection on Charles' part. He assumed a rather lofty air. Louis said he was still a prig, that all the nonsense had not been knocked out of him. But he was a very nice boy, for all that--gentlemanly, refined, and extravagantly fond of his stepmother. There were times when Annis felt inclined to jealousy. He was going to enter college at Williamsburg. "It ought to make me proud of my own State, as well as the whole country," he explained impressively to Annis. "And then I shall go to Oxford maybe, or some of the old English places that have the years of antiquity back of them, and stand for all that is highest in knowledge, that have romance and story and grandeur woven into their very stones. Cloistered shades! Think how beautiful they must be. And all the riches of Europe at one's command!" "If you like that kind of riches," disdainfully. "Wars and bloodshed, rapine and cruelty, grasping and persecution----" Annis paused, out of breath from indignation. "That's like a girl! You can't distinguish between physical and intellectual progress. All nations have begun on the low round. It is the capability of ascending in the scale that gives them the real grandeur." "I think they have not ascended very much in the scale," returned Annis rather haughtily, the blackened ruins of the beloved Washington and the day and night of terror before her eyes. "You are not capable of judging. It is what nations have done in the aggregate. A thousand years have witnessed marvels." "Still, we haven't gone back to 'Solomon in all his glory.' And Job, you know, had the names of the stars, and understood almost everything." She had been reading the book of Job aloud to her stepfather, who was always interested in the historical parts of the Bible. "No one has really settled as to who Job was," said the youth with calm superiority. "Well, the knowledge is all there," returned Annis. "Some day, thousands of years hence, someone may express doubts about Columbus and John Smith and Washington, but the country will be here." Girls were not made for argument, and if you went on forever they would have the last word, no matter how inane it might be. Charles thought Annis much changed for the worse, just like other girls, because she no longer hung on his words and paid him a loving deference. Her worship had been something new to the boy, for Varina claimed by force, and was the superior power herself. The others simply petted him. Annis understood and appreciated. But he had outgrown the boyish fervor, and she no longer paid homage to him. He was too young to know that it was simply lack of admiration, and vanity crying out with the wound. Annis had quaffed the sweets of admiration herself. A nature less fine and wholesome would have been spoiled by the warm and fond approval of her brothers-in-law, and the preference of others she had met. She was coming to have the dawning self-appropriation of womanhood, and no longer offered her choicest gifts, but felt they must be sought with a certain humility. And there was no humility at all about Charles at that period. They were both too near parallel lines. Yet it was a busy, happy, engrossing time. Varina took possession of Louis, who was developing much of his father's easy-going nature, but with the ambitions of the new generation and the times; then, his associations had been cast on different lines. It was whispered, too, that a friend of Patty's with whom Annis was a great favorite had cast a glamour over the young lawyer. Annis solaced herself with the thought that Varina would marry and go away, but all the others would be left, and her dearly beloved Washington. Roger said she would do for an archæologist, she was so fond of exploring ruins. She insisted that Marian and Captain Ralston should make pilgrimages to the little old hut where he had so nearly died, and they found many marks of the battle, that if it had been an ignominious rout, still had in it the better part of valor, when the enemy were overwhelming. Baltimore was glorying in her splendid defense of Fort McHenry, and a girl who could not sing "The Star-spangled Banner" was considered half a Tory. Though Annis was so young, hardly fifteen, she and Varina had so many invitations to Washington that Mr. Mason suggested they should engage board by the month. Varina was making the best of her time, for she had "coaxed off" six months of the engagement, and her lover was to come soon after Christmas. In the spring Louis was to set up a home of his own. Varina's marriage was in the old home, which was crowded with relatives and guests. Her mother's wedding gown did duty again, and then it went to Jaqueline as an heirloom. Mr. Woodford was tall and really fine-looking, with a good deal of character in his face, and of good family, ten years older than Varina, which brought him to the prime of young manhood. "Really!" exclaimed Patty, "I do not see what remarkable grace or virtue in Varina captured so substantial and devoted a lover--though she _has_ improved in temper, and is better-looking; but she will never have the Verney beauty--hardly the Mason. Well, one can't explain half the queer happenings in this world." Besides the cotton, Mr. Woodford had extensive rice fields. Long ago rice had been brought from Madagascar. In both the Carolinas many industries had been established. Seventy years before, General Oglethorpe had carried to England from Georgia eight pounds of silk to be made into a dress for the queen. It was no wonder England hated to lose her promising colonies. Varina's marriage was extremely satisfactory. Patricia's had been just a little shadowed by Jaqueline's broken engagement, and the half-superstitious feeling that it brought the best luck to the house for the eldest girl to be married first. But Miss Jaqueline had her own true lover after all, and was happy as a queen. So Varina took her portion and the family blessing, even that of Aunt Catharine, who was growing stout and felt that she had the burden of half the world on her shoulders, and William and Mary College thrown in. She didn't see how anything could go on without her. Perhaps to feel of use is one of the great incentives to earnest living. "And you are to come and make me a long visit, Annis," Varina said cordially. "I shall be sorry for you, left all alone here; and I'll write and tell you everything. And there's Dolly, too, who has the gayest of gay times! They are quite certain to nominate Cousin Preston for representative next year. You see we are getting to be rather famous people." It was very lonely when they all went away. And now Annis had her mother all to herself. No, _not_ all--that could never be again. For now that there were no children whose future must be considered, and Charles had planned out his own, Randolph Mason, who had always been easy-going, dropped into the softened and indolent ways of prosperous elderly life, and became his wife's shadow. True, his heart was large enough to take in Annis at every step. But he had grown stout, and was not such an enthusiastic horseman, though the yearly races inspired all Virginians to keep some fine horses. He liked the carriage better, with his wife beside him; and then Annis was alone on the back seat. Of course he had the best right, Annis recognized that. She sewed and did drawn work and made lace, worked embroidery in gold and silver thread, and helped with her "fitting out." "But if I should never marry?" she said to her mother. "Girls do, mostly," was the mother's quiet reply. "And your father insists you shall have as much as the other girls." So there was spinning, and weaving in the loom room, and bleaching to be considered in the spring, as May dew was esteemed a wonderful whitener of linens and cottons, though they were mostly woven in the Eastern towns. Now and then came gossipy notes from Varina. Charles wrote dutiful letters to his mother, and sent love to Annis. But the Washington households were begging for Annis continually. "Yes, I would go," said her mother. "It is dull for one girl alone here on the plantation." "Mamma--don't _you_ want me?" There was a lustrousness like tears in her eyes. "My dear!" Her mother kissed her fondly. "Of course I want you. But I have so many cares and occupations, and father takes a good deal of my time, and you have so few amusements. It is the difference, dear, between young people and old people. I want your young life to be pleasant." "I wish we lived in Washington. Why can't papa build on Virginia Avenue, and have a nice garden, and keep horses, and----" What else was there for him to do? "He has become settled in this life. He was born and reared here, and has his friends and neighbors about him. It would make him unhappy to go away. The slaves are all fond of him, and it is his pride to be a good master. No; he couldn't leave everything. It is the young people who go out and settle in new homes. And that is the way the Lord has ordered it. 'For this cause'--that is, love--'shall a man leave father and mother, and cleave unto his wife.' And the wife does the same thing." "Mamma," with a faint tint of color, "I do not think I shall ever be married." Her mother gave a soft little smile. "You know Varina was always planning, and Patty used to say 'When I am married,' but I feel curious, and--alone. Perhaps I shall stay with you and father always," and she gave a tender little sigh. "Would you want an old maid?" "Perhaps I shall need you to take care of me, as grandma did Marian." "But I don't want you to die." She clasped her arms about her mother's neck convulsively. "Dear, that would give us thirty-odd years. And grandmother was not a very old woman. A great many things may happen in that time. I think you are a little out of spirits and lonesome. You had better go up to Jaqueline's to-morrow. Cato and Jim are going up with a load. Cato can escort you, and they can take a portmanteau in the wagon. Captain Ralston complains that you have quite deserted him." "And desert you!" half reproachfully. "I shall have papa. Yes, little girlie, you must go and have a nice time. I shall think of all the pleasure you are enjoying. And we may come up for a few days." "Oh, mamma--if you will! It would be strange to love anyone better than one's own mother." But such things had been heard of in the history of womankind. Annis went up to her beloved Washington. Three homes opened their hospitable doors, and Louis took her to see his new house, just above the ruined pile that was full of storied incident already. "They are sure to rebuild it," he said. "There is a grant being considered. We have had to fight against considerable odds, but we shall keep our own Washington. Forty or fifty years from this I shall be telling my grandchildren how men flew to arms in her defense, whether they were soldiers or not. And though the treaty has omitted some things, we shall take them and keep them. France is our good ally again. And John Quincy Adams has gone to St. Petersburg to make friends of the Russians." "Oh, that's the man Charles talks about, who went abroad with his father when he was such a little lad, and had such a hard time, and studied and studied, and went to Holland and everywhere." "And is a fine diplomat. For a young country we have raised a magnificent crop of men! I hope to be chief justice myself some day." "And not President?" "I'll leave that for Charles. A chief justice is appointed for life, and stands on his good behavior. Do you think they will be likely to discharge me, Annis?" "Oh, I know they won't!" laughingly. The house was being built only to half of the plan. The rest of the ground was to remain a garden until Louis had increased in wealth. But it was very nice, with spacious rooms. Miss Marcia Ellicot was something of an heiress. Annis found a difficulty in dividing herself around. "There ought to be two or three of me," she said. "And you are not to give me the cold shoulder," declared Mrs. Jettson. "I do believe I was the first one to take a real fancy to you; and do you remember how Rene quarreled with you about the babies? Arthur and Floyd are such big boys now." A new boy had been added to the household. Babies were warmly welcomed in those days. She liked Marian's quiet home. Captain Ralston was very fond of her. He had discarded his crutches, but still used a cane. "And what do you think, Annis?" he said, his eyes alight with amusement. "I've had a letter from someone--just guess!" "You know so many people," returned Annis with a curious heat in her cheeks. "Someone you know, too. Your old enemy. My good nurse and friend." "Oh, that--young Englishman who came over here to fight us," she answered with an indifferent air, though she had been certain in her mind when he first told her to guess. "Yes; Stafford. He is coming over here to settle. He was converted at the Battle of Bladensburg, and is a ranting, tearing, out-and-out American. Why, you never knew a more ardent patriot! He is going to take the oath of allegiance at once, and find something to do, and do it bravely, earnestly. That is the kind of citizens we want. I think he has had something of a time to convince his people, but his father has given him a small sum of money to start him in life--nothing to what it would cost his father if he stayed at home, he says. Strange how these men keep their sons at home, thinking trade disgraceful, when England would swoop up all the commerce of the earth, forgetting what manner of men make commerce possible." Annis was silent, yet there was a little heart-beat of exultation. Why she could not have told. "Well--will you bid him welcome and Godspeed?" "Why, it is nothing to me," with a pretty air of indifference. She did not see the dainty flush on Marian's cheek, that came in moments of embarrassment, as if she were still sixteen. "But, then, you have your country's good at heart?" "I wish the country well," and she made a pretentious courtesy, drawing up her brows. Marian had read all the letter. It was proud and manly, but a pretty girl had inspired a part of the resolve. "I shall take him in hand. He is ready for work--if he has a long line of ancestors with titles." "Yes." Annis gave a provoking laugh. "You know he does not like fighting." There was pleasure enough to make her forget all about him, but now and then she caught herself wondering. Jaqueline was quite restored to health and beauty, and was a favorite with society. Roger was certainly a rising man. The undercurrent of political feeling was that Mr. Monroe would succeed his chief, who would be quite as glad to resign his honors and the flood of criticisms as Mr. Jefferson had been. And though the conduct of the war was caviled at, it was admitted on all sides that it had raised the country in the rank of nations. So Annis flitted back and forth like a dainty bird, that did not forget the home nest. She did her hair high on her head and had a fringe of fascinating little curls; she wore French heels to her slippers, and a train on grand occasions. She was not handsome, as the elder Mason girls had been, not tall or stately, but sweet and pretty, with just enough of the coquette to make her arch and winsome. One night at an assembly, where naval men were out in force, someone caught her hand in the change of partners. A young officer, a first lieutenant, she saw by his insignia of rank. "Oh!" he cried, "you have forgotten me, but I remember you. I saw you across the room, but I was engaged for this dance. I was coming immediately after. It was at the naval ball when Ensign Hamilton came in with the flag. What a night it was! And I was Midshipman Yardley, going out on my first cruise. There--the next figure is waiting." He handed her gallantly to her new partner. She went back to Jaqueline. "Oh, Roger!" she cried, "do you remember the young midshipman at the naval ball when there was such an excitement? He is here to-night. I have just been dancing with him. There he is, coming hither." The smiling young fellow was glad to see Mr. and Mrs. Carrington. Annis excused herself from her next partner, she was so eager to hear him talk. Perhaps he would not have lent dignity to the position of an admiral, for he was not tall nor imposing, but bright and eager and full of spirit and ambition. "After all, it has been a glorious war," he declared. He had been in a number of victories, and quite distinguished himself, they heard afterward; and one sad defeat, when he had been taken prisoner with some other men and made a daring escape, landing on the coast of France, and worked and begged his way home. Now he was stationed at Annapolis for some time. Annis had to go and dance in the middle of the story, and then he begged the honor. Was she staying with her sister? He should be in town a few days. Could he not call on her? Jaqueline gave him the invitation. Captain Ralston was eager to see him, as well. There were so many things to talk over. Such wonderful victories, some such sad defeats, many brave men who had given their lives and left imperishable names behind them. How proud the young fellow was of his country! And they had to tell the story of Washington with the _verve_ that people do who have lived through an event. They looked at the ruins, they rode up the Potomac, they went again to Bladensburg. Everything was so near, so vivid. Lieutenant Yardley decided that Annis was the most charming young girl he had ever met. "I am a little afraid of most women," he admitted. "You can't always tell just what to say, and sometimes when they praise you you feel silly all over. And some women never rouse to patriotism. But _we_ find so much to say to each other. Oh, I wish I were going to stay in Washington a month! Won't you make some of your relatives bring you over to Annapolis? You have such a splendid lot. Only, do you know, I like your own name, Annis Bouvier, better than I do Annis Mason. It just suits you." She blushed a little. What a pretty way he had of saying Annis! But alas! the delight came to an end, and for several days Annis thought Washington as dull as the plantation. "I am afraid my poor fellow won't stand any chance," said Ralston, with a slow shake of the head. "The lieutenant is delightful, certainly quite dangerous enough to turn any girl's brain." The "poor fellow" reached Washington one morning, having landed at New York, and spent half a lifetime on the post-roads, he declared. They were all a little startled. It seemed as if he must have grown, he was so tall and manly and fine-looking, and so overjoyed to see them again, so happy at the thought of being an American citizen. "It is as I said when I was here before--the people do not understand each other. When they come to a time that they can work side by side in anything, you will see something grand accomplished. There is a fine, free air over here that inspirits one. You can begin without being hampered by a thousand petty restrictions. And I am going to prove myself a man." Dr. Collaston and Patty gave him the warmest welcome, quite as cordial as that of Ralston. But it was queer that when he went there Annis had gone to Jaqueline's; and finally Ralston asked her boldly to come to tea and give Eustace Stafford a word of welcome. "There isn't anything left for me to say," and the rosy lips pouted as if offended. "You have all been so--so extravagant--or is it exuberant?--in your demonstrations, that I shall seem tame. And why should I be so desperately glad? He would have killed you, Philip, or anyone else, if he hadn't been wounded at once. I'd like you to go and thank the soldier who did it." "You are a briery little body where he is concerned, Annis. Why, peace would never have been signed if both parties had held out as you do! I think it fine in him to come out so frankly and own he was on the wrong side. Even if you have no Indian blood in your veins, you might come and smoke a figurative pipe of peace--that is, drink a cup of tea and wish him well." "You know I don't like tea. I should think they would have wanted to throw it overboard. Another of England's tyrannies!" "I thought you had a tender place in your heart for Marian and me." "Oh, I can come!" she said pettishly. "I am not afraid of your Englishman." "I began to think you were," teasingly. And so she came. But when she greeted Mr. Stafford, who had nothing of the boy left about him, but who met her eyes steadily until hers fell, and whose voice had lost the old deprecating, beseeching tone, a sudden half-terror took possession of her, an indefinable fear that made her angry and yet disarmed her. Oh, she was sure she liked Lieutenant Yardley a hundred times better! Afterward she said she was tired of all the gayeties, and wanted to go home. The plantation was at its loveliest, and there would be such rides with papa, and she was sure her mother was longing to see her. But when bees once get a taste for the sweetest honey flowers, they haunt the spot. And Annis Bouvier was no longer a little girl. She felt the strange solemn capabilities within her. Sometimes she clung to her mother, as if not daring to meet them. The mother knew what it meant, and gave her the wordless comfort mothers can give, in a kiss or a clasp of the hand, as one crosses the bridge to womanhood. Neighboring young men began to haunt the house. The Mason girls had always been favorites. And then down came the young Englishman, who resolved not to lose the prize if earnest wooing could avail. They were both so young. True, he had his fortune to make, but some of the noblest Virginian families had sprung from penniless young sons who had come to the new countries and won not only wealth, but fame. Captain Ralston had found a place for him, and he should live in fair sight of everybody. If he did not make the sort of man they could approve, he should never blame them for refusing him their treasure. All he asked for was time and a fair field. "He has the making of a man in him," the father conceded to himself, but aloud he said--a little weakly: "Annis is too young to decide. In the end it will be as she desires." "And I can come now and then as a friend?" "It may make trouble for Annis later on, but I could not refuse," he said to his wife afterward. Annis came and sat on his knee in the soft Virginian twilight, dusky sooner than that farther north. The whip-poor-wills called to each other, the mocking bird flung out a note now and then as if he said saucily, "_Did_ you think I was asleep?" and the frogs in the marsh were far enough off to send a strain of quivering music. She put her arms about his neck, and her soft warm cheek touched his. "Were you very cross and stern, papa?" in the most coaxing of tones. "No, dear. He is a fine fellow." "But he came to fight against us." "Yes. It was a great crime." "He was sent, and he didn't know any better. Some day we shall know a good deal more about each other." "Annis, do you love him? Child, don't make a mistake! And don't trifle with him." "No, I don't _love_ him. We quarreled dreadfully at first. I can't help liking and admiring him. He is so strong and earnest. There are a good many grand men in the world, are there not? And some of them have been poor and have had hard times. I didn't want him to think it was because he was poor." "No, dear," as she waited for some reply. "And you know I can't help meeting him at Marian's, and Patty likes him so much, too. It would be very disagreeable to be bad friends?" "Yes," assented the elder. "So we are going to be _just_ friends until--well, until I am twenty, perhaps." "Yes--if you will wait until then." Annis kissed him. But that was not the end of love affairs. Lieutenant Yardley insisted upon telling his story. He had carried about with him a child's sweet face, and resolved that if he should survive the deadly strife he would come home and find her. He thought his claim far the best. Had he not fought for the country, _her_ country? She liked him too. It was hard to decide. And then the lieutenant, being rather fiery, went at his rival in a fierce manner. Dueling was still in vogue. Annis was alarmed. She sent for the big Englishman. It was curious, but she knew she could make him obey her slightest behest, big and strong as he was. "You are not to quarrel about me," she began with wonderful dignity. "I do not think I shall marry either of you, or anybody. But if there _was_ a dispute, and you did anything reprehensible, I should never, _never_ see you or speak to you again. Lieutenant Yardley is one of the country's heroes, and you----" How should she put it? "I am here on sufferance, until I earn the right. Yes, I understand." She flushed scarlet. "You are bound over to keep the peace." "Here is my hand in token of it. I shall never do anything to make you sorry or ashamed of me." "Papa," she said in a plaintive tone a day or two after Stafford's visit, "should you be very sorry if I--were to--stay single--always?" "Why, no, dear," and he smiled. "Don't you remember, when Louis and Charles used to dispute about you, I said we would marry off the others, and you should stay here with mother and me?" "I must be very naughty, to have people disputing about me," and she sighed in a delicious sort of manner. "But I have quite resolved that I will not marry anybody." They all went up to Washington to attend the wedding of the eldest son. There was only one lover present, and Annis was sincerely glad. There was much going back and forth, as there always is when families branch out and set up new homes. And presently Charles came home, quite a tall boy, but still delicate-looking, and so much improved that Annis insensibly went back to her old regard for him. He was broader-minded, and took a livelier interest in everything. He soon found that Annis was a great favorite with all the young people. She wasn't as handsome as Jaqueline, nor as bright and overflowing with fun as Patty; indeed, he could not decide what the charm was. He heard about the two real lovers, and met them both. Secretly he favored Stafford and felt sorry for the lieutenant. One day they were lounging in the old nook by the creek. He was telling over his plans. He was not anxious now to be President, or even a minister abroad, but he was eager for all the knowledge he could grasp, for all the discoveries that were looming up on the horizon. Uncle Conway had advised him to enter an English university after the coming year. She was in the low swing, which was a tangle of vines now, and he was curled up in the grass at her feet, as they talked over the past and the future. Then there was a long, sweet silence, such as comes nowhere but in country nooks. "Annis," he exclaimed regretfully, resignedly, "I do not suppose you ever could marry me?" She started in surprise. "Oh, Charles!" she cried in pain, "I thought that foolishness was at an end." "Has it been foolishness? Annis, I don't believe you could understand that boyish passion. I don't understand it myself. You fitted into my life. You liked my old heroes. You never laughed or teased me about them. They were my life then. That was the country I always lived in. And it was very sweet to have you. How jealous I was of Louis! Some of the great intellectual heroes have had just such a love. Last summer I was half ashamed of it; I was growing out of childhood. And now I have gone back to it again." "Oh, Charles, I am so sorry!" There was anguish in her tone. "You see, I am older, and you will have four or five years abroad, and grow and develop as men do----" "Yes. I couldn't ask so much of you. And maybe, then, we wouldn't suit. Don't you know how the old slave women put pieces of gowns in their best quilts and cherish them because this was young missy's, and this someone else's? And I'd like to be the piece that you'd go back to in memory, and think how sweet the old times were, even when you have a husband, proud and strong, and that you loved devotedly. And how you bade me hope through all that trying time, and gave me your mother when you loved her so, and kept my little secret, for we never can think it was Varina's fault." She bent over. Their arms were about each other's necks, and both were crying--tender, loving tears. The ensuing winter in Washington was one long talked about. The President removed to a place forming part of the notable "Seven Buildings," which had been fitted up for its greater spaciousness. It was the last winter of Mrs. Madison's reign, as in March Colonel Monroe was to be inaugurated. There was a great stir and intellectual activity, a broadening of political life; and as we look back it seems as if there were giants in those days. Thither came the hero of the Battle of New Orleans, General Jackson, with his wife, and many another worthy; even curious visitors from abroad, who acknowledged the grace of Mrs. Madison's brilliant hospitality. Thenceforward it was to be a new Washington, more truly American perhaps, crystallizing around the points that gave strength and dignity, and proving false many an evil prophecy. A few, very few, of the old places are left. But the Capitol is the nucleus of a great nation, and the White House reared on the old superstructure holds many memories the country will always cherish. I suppose I hardly need tell you that after a while Annis broke her resolve and married the man of her choice, living a long and happy life in the newer Washington. That when her sons were grown there was nothing they enjoyed more than visiting the commander at Fortress Monroe and listening to the stirring events of 1812. He thought there never could be such battles and victories again. But the girls were most fond of their delightful bachelor uncle Charles, whose pen was making a name and fame in the intellectual world. THE END. 
38939	----	Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic text is shown by _underscores_. [Illustration: Cover] THE LITTLE COLONEL AT (Trade Mark) BOARDING-SCHOOL Works of ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON The Little Colonel Series (_Trade Mark, Reg. U. S. Pat. Of._) Each one vol., large 12mo, cloth, illustrated The Little Colonel Stories $1.50 (Containing in one volume the three stories, "The Little Colonel," "The Giant Scissors," and "Two Little Knights of Kentucky.") The Little Colonel's House Party 1.50 The Little Colonel's Holidays 1.50 The Little Colonel's Hero 1.50 The Little Colonel at Boarding-School 1.50 The Little Colonel in Arizona 1.50 The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation 1.50 The Little Colonel: Maid of Honor 1.50 The Little Colonel's Knight Comes Riding 1.50 The above 9 vols., _boxed_ 13.50 _In Preparation_--A New Little Colonel Book 1.50 The Little Colonel Good Times Book 1.50 Illustrated Holiday Editions Each one vol., small quarto, cloth, illustrated, and printed in colour The Little Colonel $1.25 The Giant Scissors 1.25 Two Little Knights of Kentucky 1.25 Big Brother 1.25 Cosy Corner Series Each one vol., thin 12mo, cloth, illustrated The Little Colonel $.50 The Giant Scissors .50 Two Little Knights of Kentucky .50 Big Brother .50 Ole Mammy's Torment .50 The Story of Dago .50 Cicely .50 Aunt 'Liza's Hero .50 The Quilt that Jack Built .50 Flip's "Islands of Providence" .50 Mildred's Inheritance .50 Other Books Joel: A Boy of Galilee $1.50 In the Desert of Waiting .50 The Three Weavers .50 Keeping Tryst .50 The Legend of the Bleeding Heart .50 Asa Holmes 1.00 Songs Ysame (Poems, with Albion Fellows Bacon) 1.00 L. C. PAGE & COMPANY 200 Summer Street Boston, Mass. [Illustration: "SHE STOOD THERE ON THE PLATFORM, WAVING HER HANDKERCHIEF." (_See page 300_)] The Little Colonel at Boarding-School By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON Author of "The Little Colonel Series," "Big Brother," "Ole Mammy's Torment," "Asa Holmes," etc. Illustrated by ETHELDRED B. BARRY "_This learned I from the shadow of a tree, Which to and fro did sway upon a wall, Our shadow selves--our influence--may fall Where we can never be._" [Illustration] BOSTON * L. C. PAGE & COMPANY * PUBLISHERS _Copyright, 1903_ BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY (INCORPORATED) _All rights reserved_ Published, July, 1903 Thirteenth Impression, March, 1909 TO All the Girls WHO, LIKE THE LITTLE COLONEL, ARE "STANDING WITH RELUCTANT FEET WHERE THE BROOK AND RIVER MEET, WOMANHOOD AND CHILDHOOD SWEET." CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. OFF TO BOARDING-SCHOOL 11 II. A NEW FRIEND 27 III. IDA'S SECRET 48 IV. THE SHADOW CLUB 69 V. AT THE BEECHES 89 VI. UNINVITED GUESTS 101 VII. THE HALLOWE'EN MASQUERADE 123 VIII. THE PRINCESS OF THE PENDULUM 139 IX. ONE RAINY AFTERNOON 158 X. A PLOT 176 XI. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING 190 XII. GHOST OR GIRL 213 XIII. THE SHADOW CLUB IN DISGRACE 228 XIV. THE THREE WEAVERS 246 XV. THANKSGIVING DAY 275 XVI. CHRISTMAS GREENS AND WATCH-NIGHT EMBERS 287 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE "SHE STOOD THERE ON THE PLATFORM, WAVING HER HANDKERCHIEF" (_See page 300_) _Frontispiece_ "SHE TURNED HER WHITE FINGERS IN THE MOONLIGHT" 61 "'THIS LITTLE KNAVE MUST BE MY PARTNER'" 130 "SHE COULD HEAR EVERY WORD OF THE CONVERSATION" 167 "HE HELD IT ASIDE FOR THEM BOTH TO PASS THROUGH" 199 "MITTIE SAT UP IN BED, TOO STARTLED TO UTTER A SOUND" 220 "'IT'S LIKE A BIT OF HOME TO SEE YOU AGAIN'" 283 "MALCOLM, LEANING ON HIS GUN, STOOD WATCHING HER" 293 THE LITTLE COLONEL AT (Trade Mark) BOARDING-SCHOOL CHAPTER I. OFF TO BOARDING-SCHOOL SOMETHING unusual was happening at Locust. Although it was early in September, and the heat and dust of a Kentucky summer still lingered in every corner of Lloydsboro Valley, the great house with its vine-covered pillars was being hastily put in order for winter closing. Rob Moore, swinging his tennis racket as he sauntered down the avenue under the arching locust-trees, stopped short with a whistle of surprise. The tennis net was down. He had come at the Little Colonel's invitation for a farewell game, as they were both to start to school on the morrow, she in the Valley, and he in town. He could not understand the sudden removal of the net. Then he noticed that every hammock and garden-chair had disappeared from the lawn. Not even the usual trail of magazines and palm-leaf fans was left on the grass, to show that somebody had been spending a comfortable hour in the shade. Usually at this time in the afternoon there was a flutter of ribbons and white dresses somewhere back among the trees; but the place was deserted now. The wicker tea-table was gone from its corner on the piazza. The rugs and cushions which had filled the cosy corners behind the vines were packed away. The lace curtains were down in the long drawing-room, and, peering through the windows which opened to the floor, he saw a coloured man, busily shrouding the handsome old furniture in linen covers. "What's the matter, Alec?" asked Rob. "What has become of everybody?" "Done had bad news from Ole Colonel las' night," answered the man. "Walkah telegraphed from Hot Springs that ole Marse's rheumatiz is wuss, and Mis' Sherman she's gwine down to stay with him awhile, an' the young ladies is gwine to bo'din'-school. We all's fixin' to shet up the place till Chris'mus." Rob gave another long whistle, shrill and loud. "Boarding-school!" he exclaimed. "Well, this is the biggest surprise out!" His whistle was answered from the upper hall by a clear high trill, which had been the Little Colonel's signal for him since the first summer they had played together. Giving the answering call he stepped inside the hall, and standing at the foot of the stairs peered up anxiously at the laughing face leaning over the banister-rail above him. "Come down, Lloyd, and tell me all about it," he demanded. "I can't now," she replied, in an important tone, smiling tantalizingly at the tall, broad-shouldered boy who shook his racket at her with a threatening gesture. "Mothah has gone to town, and Mom Beck is packing my trunk. I have to show her what things to put into it. Betty is down there somewhere. She'll take the edge off yoah curiosity. Betty," she called, catching sight of a pink dress whisking through the lower hall, "don't tell Rob what school we are going to. Make him guess." "All right," answered Betty, with a mischievous light in her brown eyes, as she tossed back her curls and led the way out to the stone steps. "We'll have to sit out here. All the hammocks and porch-chairs are packed away in the attic," she explained, as she spread out the pink skirt and leaned comfortably back against one of the white pillars. "Seems to me you've been in a howling hurry with your planning and your packing," said Rob, in an aggrieved tone. "I didn't hear a whisper of all this when I was here yesterday evening." "The telegram didn't come until after you had gone," answered Betty. "But I think godmother must have been expecting it, for in half an hour her plans were all made, and the packing began early this morning. As Papa Jack's business will keep him away nearly all fall, there was nothing to do but close the house and send Lloyd and me to boarding-school. You can't imagine how busy we've been. We are to leave to-morrow morning." "So are we," answered Rob. "Oaklea looks nearly as deserted as Locust. I always hate this breaking-up time at the end of every summer." As he spoke, a delicious odour of hot gingerbread was wafted around the corner of the house from the distant kitchen, and he stopped to look at Betty and smile. "What does that make you think of?" he asked. "Of a lovely September afternoon just like this," answered Betty, dreamily, half-closing her eyes and drawing in the fragrance with a slow, deep breath. "Of long shadows on the lawn and the sunshine flickering down through the locust leaves like gold, just as it is doing now. Of Malcolm MacIntyre sitting over where you are, thrumming on his banjo, and of Keith and you and Lloyd and me all singing 'My Old Kentucky Home.' Is that what it makes you think of?" "Yes, that and the chase we gave old Aunt Cindy. Wasn't she mad when I made off with that gingerbread! I can hear her old slipper soles yet, flopping down the path after me." "How long ago that seems," mused Betty, "and yet it's only two years." "It surely must be longer than that," exclaimed Rob. "No, don't you remember, it was just after Lloyd's house party, when she was eleven and I was twelve. I went abroad that fall with Cousin Carl and Eugenia, and stayed with them a year. And I've only been living at Locust a year. Now I'm a little over fourteen and Lloyd's thirteen; so that just makes it." "Thirteen yeahs and foah months exactly, if you're talking about me," said the Little Colonel, coming out on the porch with a plate in her hands. "I smelled the gingahbread, so I told Mom Beck I'd have to stop for refreshments, and she could finish packing by herself. I've piled everything on the bed that I thought I could possibly need at bo'ding-school, and that's neahly everything I own. One needs so many things going off from home this way. Have some?" She passed the plate to each one, and then, sitting down on the top step beside it, helped herself to a slice of the hot, spicy cake. "Oh, Rob, we're going to have _such_ larks!" she began. "I've always wanted to go away to school, and have midnight suppahs and do the things you read about in stories. I've heard mothah talk about the funny things that happened at the seminary when she was a girl, till I was simply wild to go there, too. And now it seems too good to be true, that we are really going, and are to have the very same room that she had one term when grandfathah was away from home, and she boahded there in little old Lloydsboro Seminary just as we are going to do. There!" she added, ruefully, clapping her hand over her mouth. "I've gone and told you, and I intended to keep you guessing for an hou'ah. I knew you'd nevah think that we were going to stay right here in the Valley." "Of course not," answered Rob. "You've been a day pupil at that old seminary for the last five years, ever since you started to school. I'd naturally suppose that when you packed up all you owned and started off to school you'd at least go out of the sight of your own chimney smoke. I don't see where the fun is coming in. I can't think of anything more stupid. Instead of tearing around the country on horseback after lessons, as you've always done, riding where you please, you'll have to take walks with a gang of other girls with a teacher at the head of the procession. It's great exercise, that, taking steps about an inch long and saying nothing but prunes and prisms." "Don't you believe that's all!" cried Lloyd. "We'll have to take the walks, of co'se, but think of the time we'll have for basket-ball. We'll be able to play the Anchorage girls by Thanksgiving, and I couldn't have been on the team if I'd been only a day pupil." "Of course we'll miss the ponies," Betty added. "Godmother tried to make some arrangement with President Wells to let us ride every day; but he said he couldn't make an exception in our case without being accused of partiality. If we came as regular pupils we must conform to the regular rules, and could not have even the liberties we always had as day pupils." "Except in one thing," corrected Lloyd. "We can still go to the post-office for our mail, instead of having all our lettahs pass through the principal's hands. Mothah thought it wouldn't be worth while to change the address for just one term, especially as she wants me to forward the mail that comes to our box for Papa Jack. He changes his address so often on these business trips that he couldn't keep notifying the postmistress all the time, so I am to do it." "Well, I pity _you_!" exclaimed Rob, teasingly, tapping his racket against the toes of his tennis shoes. "Boarding-schools are a bad lot, all that I've ever heard of. Scorched oatmeal and dried apples, with old cats watching at every keyhole! Ugh!" Both girls laughed at his scowl of disgust, and Betty hastened to say, "But we'll have Aunt Cindy to fall back on if the fare gets too bad. That's the beauty of staying so near home. Mom Beck is to come every Monday to get our clothes to launder, and every Saturday to bring them back and see that we are all right, and you know she'll not let us starve. And there aren't any old cats in this school, Rob. Miss Edith is a dear. The girls fairly love the ground she walks on, and I'm sure that nobody could be nicer and more motherly than Mrs. Gelling." "How about Miss Bina McCannister?" asked Rob, with a wry face. "She is cross enough to stop a clock, sober and prim and crabbed, with eyes like a fish. I went up there one day with a note from grandfather to Professor Fowler, and she gave me such a stony glare because I happened to let a door bang, that I had cold shivers down my spine for a week." "Oh, Rob," laughed Lloyd. "Aren't you ashamed to talk so? Anyhow, Miss McCannister will not bother us, because we are not in any of her classes." "But she'll take her turn in trotting you out to walk, just the same. Then think what a glad procession that will be. You'll feel like prisoners in a chain-gang." "Talk all you want to, if it amuses you any," said Lloyd, passing the gingerbread around once more. "It won't keep us from having a good time at bo'ding-school." "Well, I'm coming out again at Thanksgiving. There's to be a big family reunion at Oaklea this year, and if you've stood the storm and still think that boarding-school life is funny, I'll stand treat to a five-pound box of Huyler's best. You can let that thought buoy you up through all the hungry hours between that time and this." "Mercy, Rob, don't throw cold water on all our bright hopes like that," cried Betty, springing up as she heard her name spoken in the hall. "Mom Beck wants me. She is ready to begin packing my trunk." "I must go in a few minutes," said Rob, "so if you're disappearing now, I'll say good-bye till Thanksgiving." Betty held out her warm little hand. "Good-bye. 'Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever,'" she quoted, as Rob gave it an awkward shake. "Practise what you preach, Grandma Betty," he said, in a severe tone, but his blue eyes were smiling into her brown ones with a softened light in them. She had been a merry little comrade in the summer just gone, and then there was something in the brown eyes that made everybody smile on Betty. As she turned to go she saw that the last crumb of gingerbread had disappeared, and stooping, picked up the plate. She recognized it as her godmother's pet piece of Delft ware. "I'll take this in before anybody steps in it," she said. "Thanks," said Lloyd, lazily, without looking around, but she turned to Rob as soon as they were alone. "Betty is always so thoughtful about such things. I wouldn't know how to get along without her now, and to think, when she first came heah to live, I wasn't suah that I wanted her! I had nevah had to divide with anybody befoah, and I was afraid I should be jealous. But nobody could be jealous of Betty. She seems like a real suah enough sistah now, and bo'ding-school will be twice the fun because she can go with me." "Betty's a brick," agreed Rob emphatically, "the nicest girl I know, except you, but I can't imagine her planning scrapes. She's too much afraid of hurting somebody's feelings for that." "She's not planning scrapes. Neithah of us want to do anything really bad. We only want to stir the seminary up a bit, and make it lively. We're growing up so fast that if we don't have some fun soon, it will be too late. In only a few moah yeahs I'll be through school, and then I'll have to be a débutante and settle down to be propah and young ladified. Mom Beck always used to be telling me to 'sit still and be a little lady,' and if there's anything I despised it was that." "How fast the shadows grow long these afternoons," said Rob, presently, looking at his watch. "It's nearly time for me to go. Come on down to the measuring-tree. We mustn't forget our good-bye ceremony." Seven Septembers were marked on the tall locust that they called their measuring-tree. It towered above a rustic seat half-way down the avenue. Lloyd laid one finger on the lowest notch and another on the next mark a few inches above it. "There wasn't neahly so much difference in our heights when I was five and you six as there is now," she said, with a little sigh. "You're almost as tall as Papa Jack, and I'm only up to yoah shouldah. You're growing away from me so fast, Bobby." Rob threw back his shoulders complacently. "Daddy says that is why I am so awkward; that my height is too much for a fourteen-year-old boy to manage gracefully. I'll soon be through growing at this rate. Maybe after a couple of years more I'll not have to change the mark on the tree." "I should certainly hope so," cried Lloyd, "unless you want to be a giant in a side-show. Heah! Measuah me." She stiffened herself against the trunk of the tree, standing as erect as possible, while he stuck the blade of his knife into the bark, so close to the top of her head that he almost pinned a lock of the light hair to the tree. "You've grown a lot too, this last year, Lloyd," he said, looking down at her approvingly. "Oh, Rob," she cried, with a quick, wistful look upward into his face. "I don't want to grow up. It would be so much nicah if we could stay children always." "We have had a lot of fun under these old locusts, that's a fact," he admitted, as he began cutting the date opposite the measurements he had just taken. Then he became so absorbed in trying to make the figures neatly that he said nothing more until the task was done. Lloyd, kneeling on the rustic bench to watch him, was silent also, and for a few minutes the only sound in all the late afternoon sunshine was the soft rustling of the leaves overhead. "If they could only stay children always!" the locusts were repeating one to another. "Children always! That is the happiest time!" Rob, intent on his carving, never noticed the stirring of the leaves, but the Little Colonel, who in a vague way always seemed to understand the whisperings of these old family sentinels, looked up and listened. As if she were one of them, she began recalling with them the scenes they had looked upon. How long ago seemed those summer days when she measured up only to the first notch. Mom Beck and Rob's faithful old nurse, Dinah, sat on the bench where she was now kneeling, and watched the two children that the locusts were whispering about, romping up and down the avenue. How well she remembered the little blue shoes she wore, and the jingling of the bells on the gay knitted bridle, as they played horse, with Fritz barking wildly at their heels. The locusts had watched them in all the playtimes that lay between the first and last of those seven notches, eight it would be when Rob had finished; for it was in their friendly shade they had rolled their hoops and spun their tops and played at marbles and made their kites. Here, too, they had set their target when he taught her to shoot with his air rifle, and up and down in the winter holidays they had passed with their skates over their shoulders, with their sleds dragging after them, or their arms piled high with Christmas greens. Here they had tramped, shoulder to shoulder, whistling like two boys; here they had raced their ponies; here they had strolled and played and sung together, the strong, deep friendship yearly growing stronger between them, as they yearly cut a higher notch in the bark of the old measuring-tree. "If they could only stay children always!" whispered the locusts again, with something so like a sigh in the refrain, that Lloyd felt the tears spring to her eyes, she scarcely knew why. "There," said Rob, closing his knife and slipping it into his pocket. "I must go now." As usual, Lloyd walked down to the gate with him. He whistled as he went, a musical, rollicking negro chorus, and she joined in with an accompaniment of little trills and calls, in clever imitation of a mocking-bird. But just before they reached the gate her whistling stopped. Her quick eyes spied a four-leafed clover in the grass, and she sprang forward to get it. "And heah's anothah!" she cried, triumphantly. "One for you too, Rob. That means good luck for both of us. Put it in yoah pocket." Rob took the little charm she held out, with a skeptical smile, yet he had imbibed too great a belief in such omens from his old coloured nurse not to regard it with respect. "Thanks," he said, "I have a safer place than my pocket. I'll need all the luck this or anything else can bring me in my Latin this year, so I'll carry it to every recitation." Opening the back of his watch he carefully smoothed the green petals and laid them inside, then closed the case with a snap. "Now I'm fixed," he said, with a nod of satisfaction. At the gate they did not shake hands, but parted as they had done so many times before, as if they expected to begin their playtime on the morrow. "Good-bye, Lloyd," was all he said, with a slight lifting of his cap as he walked away. "Good-bye, Bobby," she answered. She stood for a moment shading her eyes from the sunset, with the hand that held the four-leafed clover, as she watched him go striding down the road toward Oaklea, switching with his tennis racket at the asters and goldenrod along his path. Then she went slowly back to the house, thinking how tall he looked as he strode away. As she passed the measuring-tree she looked up at the old locusts overhead, and sure of their sympathy, said, half-aloud, "Oh, I _wish_ we didn't have to grow up!" CHAPTER II. A NEW FRIEND LLOYDSBORO SEMINARY was not an especially attractive place viewed from the outside of the high picket fence, which surrounded its entire domain. The fence itself was forbidding. Its tall pickets, sharp-pointed and close together, seemed to suggest that strict rules were to be found inside; rules like the pickets, too firm and pointed to be easily broken through or climbed over. The building was old and weather-beaten, but in its prime the school had been one of the best in the State, and many a woman remembered it loyally in after years when she had daughters of her own to educate. So it happened that some of the pupils came long distances, and from many parts of the country, to sit at the same old desks their mothers sat at, to study the same old lessons, and to learn to love every rock and tree on the seminary grounds, because of their associations with all the warm young friendships formed there. A group of maples and cedars stood between the seminary and the high green picket gate in front, with a score of rustic seats and wooden swings scattered about in their shade. On the east an old neglected apple orchard sloped away from the house, where during the first few weeks of school, hard juicy winesaps, russets, and bellflowers lay in hiding from the hungry schoolgirls, who searched for them in the tall grass, waving knee-deep among the trees. On the other side, the high fence separated the grounds from the closely clipped lawn of Clovercroft, one of the hospitable old homesteads of the Valley, whose wide porches and vine-covered tower made a charming picture from the western windows of the seminary. The opening day of school was always a sort of gala occasion. No regular work could be done, for pupils were continually coming in on the various trains to be registered and assigned to classes. After chapel exercises the day pupils were at liberty to go home, but it was a time-honoured custom for them to adjourn to the apple orchard, to hold a reunion with all the last year's boarders who had returned. The swings and seats in front of the seminary were left for the newcomers. Many a longing glance was cast toward the orchard by the strangers, who, left thus inhospitably alone, made shy advances toward acquaintance among themselves. On the morrow they, too, might be included in the friendly little groups exchanging confidences with their heads close together, and walking with their arms around each other under the gnarly old trees; but that they should be ignored the first day was as binding as the unwritten "laws of the jungle." From her seat in the swing nearest the house, a new girl watched the others swarming out from chapel, laughing and talking and calling to those ahead to wait. The primary grades went racing through the warm morning sunshine, down to their playhouses by the spring. The seniors and juniors strolled off in opposite directions in dignified exclusiveness, to different parts of the orchard. Each group as it passed attracted the new girl's attention, but her interest centred in a dozen or more girls lingering on the front steps. Their ages seemed to range from twelve to fifteen years. They were evidently waiting for some one. "Why don't they hurry?" asked an impatient voice. "What's the matter?" "The matron stopped them," some one answered. "I heard her asking about some bedding that was to be sent from Locust." It was nearly five minutes before some one interrupted a discussion that had begun, to call "Here they come!" Then a chorus of calls began most confusing to the girl in the swing, who did not know the names of the newcomers who seemed to be so popular. "I bid to walk with the Little Colonel!" "Come on, Elizabeth Lloyd Lewis, I'm waiting for you." "Hurry up, Betty! I've got something to tell you!" "Lloyd! Lloyd Sherman! Can't you hear? Is it really true that you are going to board here?" With the two girls in their midst, trying to explain to a dozen different questioners in the same breath, when and why they had become resident pupils, the noisy procession moved on. Only one was left behind, a pale-faced child in spectacles, who, in spite of all their protests, stood looking after them, insisting she must wait for Sue Bell. As the others moved away, the new girl beckoned to her with a friendly smile. "You're Janie Clung, aren't you?" she asked, as the little girl advanced a few steps, and then stood awkwardly rubbing one foot against the other. "You see I couldn't help hearing your name. They spoke it so often. I am Ida Shane, from Clay County. Won't you sit here in the swing with me until the girl you are waiting for comes out, and tell me something about the school? It's so hard," she added, plaintively, "to be a stranger in a place where everybody else has so many friends. You seem to know every one here. From the way they all begged you to go with them, I imagine you must be very popular." Much flattered by this last remark from one so much older than herself, Janie climbed into the seat in the swing, opposite the girl from Clay County, and scrutinized her shyly. Ida Shane was very pretty, she decided. She must be nearly sixteen, or maybe more, for she wore her dresses long and her hair in a soft, fluffy pompadour. Then Janie's gaze wandered from her hair to a bewitching little dimple that came at the corner of Ida's mouth when she smiled, and she thought to herself that the slow, soft drawl in which Ida spoke was exceedingly musical and ladylike. She found herself talking in a lower tone than usual, and quite slowly, when she answered. "You know, I think it is always best to be very particular in choosing friends when one goes to a new place," Ida remarked, in a confidential tone, which seemed to insinuate that Janie could be safely chosen. "I don't want to take up with everybody. That's why I want you to tell me which are the first families here in the Valley, and which are the girls whose friendship is worth while having." Simple little Janie, who considered friendship with everybody worth having, looked puzzled. "Well, for instance, who were those two girls in white duck dresses whom you were all waiting for so long? The one with the lovely long light hair that they called Lloyd and the Little Colonel? Now _she's_ aristocratic-looking, and all the girls seem to regard her as a sort of leader. Tell me about her." "Oh, that's Lloyd Sherman," answered Janie. "I reckon you might say she belongs to one of the first families. She lives in a perfectly beautiful place called Locust. The Valley is named after some of her ancestors, and old Colonel Lloyd is her grandfather. 'Little Colonel' is just one of her nicknames. She's had everything that heart could wish, and has been to Europe. When she came back she brought a magnificent St. Bernard dog with her that had been trained as a Red Cross war-dog for the ambulance service in the German army. They called him Hero, and he acted in a play they gave here last fall, called the 'Rescue of the Princess Winsome.' I was one of the flower messengers in the play. Lloyd was the Princess. She looked exactly like one that night. The dog saved her life while they were in Switzerland, and when he died the family made as much fuss over him as if he had been a person. He was buried with military honours, and there is a handsome monument over his grave. I'll show it to you sometime, when we walk past Locust." Janie paused with a long breath. It was more of a speech than she was accustomed to making, but Ida had listened with such flattering attention that it was easier to talk to her than to any one whom she had ever known. "I thought she was like that," remarked Ida, in an I-told-you-so tone. "I rarely make mistakes in people. Now that other one they call Betty. She has a sweet face." "I should say she has!" cried Janie, warmly. "She's the dearest girl in school. Everybody loves Betty Lewis. She is Mrs. Sherman's goddaughter, and lives at Locust too. She writes the loveliest poetry. Why, she wrote that whole play of the Princess Winsome, and every one thought it was wonderful. Mr. Sherman had several copies of it printed and bound in carved leather. He gave one copy to the seminary library, so you can read it if you want to." "That'll be the first thing I shall draw from the library," said Ida, nodding approvingly at the account of Betty. "Then there's some one else I want to ask about," she continued. "I was told that General Walton's family lives here, and that his daughters go to this school. I don't mind telling you, in confidence, you know, that that is what made my aunt finally decide to send me to this school instead of the one in Frankfort. Were they here this morning?" "Yes, and they are Lloyd's best friends. Maybe you noticed two girls in pink, with great dark eyes, lovely eyes, who walked off with her, one on each side." "Yes, I wondered who they were." "The larger one was Allison and the other one Kitty. They live at The Beeches. We walk past there nearly every day. Once, last year, Miss Edith took some of us in there, and Mrs. Walton showed us all her curios and relics. It is a fascinating place to visit. There are things from all over the world in every room, and a story about each one." "How interesting!" smiled Ida, showing a glimpse of her dimple and passing a slim hand, glittering with many rings, over her pompadour. "You can't imagine how entertaining you are, Janie; tell me some more." With a slight movement of the foot she started the swing to swaying, and, leaning back in the seat with an air of attention, waited for Janie to go on. With such a listener, Janie was in a fair way to tell all she knew, when Sue Bell appeared in the doorway, beckoning to her. She even felt a decided sense of annoyance at the interruption, although Sue Bell was her dearest friend, so much was she enjoying Ida as an audience. "That new girl is perfectly lovely!" she declared to Sue Bell, as they moved off together. She repeated the opinion so often after she reached the orchard, and had so much to say about Ida Shane's hair and Ida Shane's dimple, and the stacks of rings she had, and the stylish clothes she wore, that some of the girls exchanged amused glances. Kitty Walton remarked in a teasing tone that she believed the new girl must have hoodooed Janie Clung, so that she couldn't do anything but sing her praises. "You ought to be ashamed to talk that way, Kitty Walton," cried Janie, in angry defence of her new friend, "especially when she said such nice things about your family being celebrities, and that was one reason her aunt sent her to this school, because the daughters of such a famous general were pupils here. And she thinks Lloyd is so aristocratic-looking, and Betty awfully sweet, and so smart to write that play. And she said, even if you all are lots younger than herself, she'd rather have you for her friends than any of the seniors, because she could tell just by looking at you that you belong to the best old families in the place." "What did she say about the rest of us?" cried Mittie Dupong, mockingly, winking at her nearest neighbour. Janie, turning in time to see the wink, answered shortly, "Nothing. She doesn't intend to make friends with _everybody_." It was an indiscreet speech, and the moment it was made she realized that it would be counted against Ida, instead of in her favour, as she had intended it to be. Significant glances passed among those who had not been included in Ida's classification of celebrities or first families, and Mittie Dupong retorted, with a shrug of her shoulders, "Hm! Miss Shane may find that there are people in the world as particular as herself. Who is _she_, anyway, that she should give herself such airs?" No one answered the question, but there was sown at that moment in more than one girl's mind a little seed of dislike which took deep root as the days went by. But if Ida's thoughtlessly repeated speech worked her ill in one way, it had an opposite effect with those whose favour she wished most to gain. Allison and Kitty met her with especial friendliness when Janie stopped them at the swing, as they started home at noon. It was pleasant for them to feel that she had been drawn to the school partly on their account. It gave them a sense of importance they had never experienced before. Lloyd, too, unconsciously influenced by the flattering recollection that she had been singled out from all the others as aristocratic-looking, took especial care to be gracious when she found herself seated across from Ida at the dinner-table. The old pupils had been given their usual places, but Betty and Lloyd were among the newcomers. "Now I feel for the first time that I'm really away at bo'ding-school," Lloyd said, with a smile, which included Ida in the conversation, as she glanced down the long table, stretched the entire length of the dining-room. "It seems as if we might be hundreds of miles away from home instead of one. I can hardly believe that we are still in Lloydsboro Valley. Betty, isn't it time for us to begin to feel homesick?" "Not till dark comes," answered Betty. "Twilight is the regulation time in boarding-school stories." Lloyd smiled across at Ida. "Do you think you are going to be homesick?" "Oh, no, indeed!" answered Ida, in her slow, sweet voice. The dimple which had charmed Janie flashed into sight. "This is the fourth boarding-school I have been sent to. I am used to going to new places." "The fo'th!" exclaimed Lloyd, with surprised emphasis. A curious "Why?" almost slipped off her tongue, but she stopped it politely in the middle, and managed to stammer instead, as she salted her soup, "Wh-what fun you must have had!" "I have," answered Ida, with a glance toward the end of the table where Miss Bina McCannister sat grim and watchful. "Sometime I'll tell you about some of my adventures." As the dinner progressed, both Lloyd and Betty felt themselves yielding to the soft charm of manner which had won little Janie Clung's admiration, and by the time they had finished their dessert they were ready to join in Janie's most enthusiastic praises of the new girl. "Do you know that my room is in the same wing with yours, just next door?" Ida asked, as they rose from the table. "At least, I think so, for as I came down to dinner I saw some trunks being carried in there, marked E. L. L. and L. S." "I am so glad!" exclaimed Lloyd. "I wondered who we should have for neighbahs. Betty and I ran up there a few minutes this mawning, but the beds and things mothah wanted us to use hadn't been sent ovah from Locust, and it was so topsy-turvy we didn't stay." "I came yesterday," said Ida, as the three went up the stairs together, "so I've had time to investigate. I imagine we shall be able to do about as we please. You see, this wing of the house was added several years after the main part was built, so there are four rooms on this floor, nicely cut off by themselves." She opened the door from the main corridor, and led the way into the narrow side-hall which separated the four rooms from the rest of the house. "Several nights in the week the three of us will be here alone," she said. "This tiny room at the end belongs to that queer little Magnolia Budine whom everybody laughed at this morning. She lives near enough the seminary to go home every Friday night and stay till Monday morning. The three Clark sisters have this big room next to hers, and they go home to spend Sundays, too. By the way, wasn't it ridiculous the way Miss McCannister got their names all balled up this morning in the history division, trying to say _Carrie Clark_, _Clara Clark_, _Cora Clark_?" "It was funny," laughed Lloyd. "Kitty Walton whispered to me that they ought to be called the triplets, because every one trips and stuttahs ovah their names. It's as bad as trying to say 'Six slim, slick, silvah saplings.'" They had reached the third room by this time, the door of which stood open. "This is ours," said Lloyd. "The very same one mothah had one term when she was a girl." She paused on the threshold, looking around the large, airy apartment, well pleased. "I wonder if the outside stairway was built when she was here," said Ida. "I discovered it yesterday." "I nevah heard her say anything about it," said Lloyd. "Where is it?" "This way," answered Ida, leading them past her own room, which came next, and pushing aside a heavy portière which covered a door at the opposite end of the hall from Magnolia Budine's room. "The matron told me that a slight fire in the school, one time, led to the building, of this extra means of escape, but the girls are forbidden to use the stairs for any other purpose." "Let's open it," proposed Lloyd, daringly, fumbling with the bolt, which had lain so long unused that it had rusted in its socket. It moved stiffly with a grating sound as she pushed it back. The door swung open on to a small, uncovered landing, from which an open staircase descended to the rear of the kitchen. "I've often seen these steps from the outside," said Lloyd, "but I didn't know where they led to. No, I nevah heard mothah speak of them. Isn't it fun to have a secret stairway of our own! Why do you suppose they have a curtain ovah the doah?" "To hide it," said Betty, wisely, "so that the daily sight of it will not put it into our naughty heads to make use of it, and prowl around at nights. They evidently think 'How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done.' So they cover it up." "That's from Shakespeare, isn't it?" asked Ida. "I'd give anything if I could make appropriate quotations like that, but I never think of the right thing till it's too late. But then, I suppose it comes easy to any one smart enough to write as you do. I am so anxious to read that play of yours, 'The Rescue of the Princess Winsome.' I was told that there is a copy in the library. Your room ought to be called 'Sweet Peas,' since it belongs to a princess and a poetess." Betty blushed with pleasure. They had bolted the door again and were standing in front of their room, as Ida proposed the name of Sweet Peas. "It is kind of you to give us such a sweet name for our room," said Lloyd. "Will you come in while we unpack?" "No, thank you," was the answer. "I have some letters to write before four o'clock. That is the time, I believe, when we all have to turn out together for a walk." She turned away, but came back to ask, hesitatingly, "There's one thing I'd like to ask, Lloyd; do you mind if I call you Princess instead of Lloyd? The Princess Winsome? That name seems to suit you so well. The first thing I noticed about you was the proud little way you lift your head. You carry yourself like one." A bright colour swept across Lloyd's face. "Of co'se I don't mind," she said, "and it is deah of you to care to call me that." When Ida went back to her own room, it was with the comfortable feeling that she had left a very agreeable impression behind her. "Isn't she a darling!" exclaimed Lloyd, enthusiastically, when she and Betty were alone, with their door closed. "She is pretty and stylish, and certainly has lovely mannahs. Besides, she is as sma'ht as can be, and mighty entahtaining. I've taken a great fancy to her." "So have I," admitted Betty. "I love to sit and watch her. The least thing she says in that soft, slow way sounds sweet. I am so glad that her room is next to ours." Mrs. Sherman had advised taking few furnishings to the seminary, but Lloyd insisted that they could not feel that they were really away at boarding-school unless they had all that goes to equip a modern college girl's room. So pictures and posters, sofa-pillows and book-racks were crowded into the overflowing trunks. A chafing-dish, a well-furnished tea-basket, a dainty chocolate-pot, and a mandolin were brought over in the carriage that took Mrs. Sherman to the depot. Both girls were kept busy until four o'clock, finding places to put their numerous possessions. Neither one realized how far she had passed under the spell of the new pupil, but unconsciously every picture they hung and every article they unpacked was located with a thought of her approval. Once as Lloyd passed the mirror, when Betty's back was turned, she paused to look at her reflection with the pleased consciousness that Ida had spoken the truth; that she did hold her head proudly and carry herself well. And Betty several times passed her hand up over the brown curls on her forehead, recalling the graceful gesture of the white, heavily ringed hand. While she tacked up posters and put away clothes, she chattered busily with Lloyd, but through her thoughts, like an undercurrent to their conversation, ran a few musical lines suggested by the white hands and low voice. An "Ode to Ida" had already begun to weave itself into shape in her busy little brain. A few minutes before the gong sounded, summoning the girls to the first of their daily walks, Ida tapped on the door. She had only stopped to ask a question about the rules, she said, and must run back and put on her hat; but catching sight of a picture of the long avenue at Locust, which hung over Lloyd's bed, she crossed the room to examine it. "You've made a perfect love of a room with all these handsome things," she said, looking around admiringly. "But"--she scanned the few photographs on the mantel, and the two on the dressing-table in their frames of beaten silver--"it seems so queer, you know. You haven't the picture of a single boy. Didn't you bring any?" "No!" answered Lloyd, in surprise. "Why should I?" "But you have some at home, haven't you?" persisted Ida. "Yes, I have lovely ones of Allison Walton's cousins, Malcolm and Keith MacIntyre, taken in the costumes they wore as 'two little knights of Kentucky.' And I have one of Ranald Walton taken in his captain's uniform, and nearly a dozen of Rob Moore. He's given me one whenevah he's had them taken, from the time he wore kilts and curls." "My _dear_!" exclaimed Ida. "Why didn't you bring them? They would have been such an addition." "Because I don't want any boy's pictuah stuck up on my dressing-table. I like to have them, because they've been my playmates always, and when we're grown up I'd like to remembah just how they looked, but that's no reason I want my walls plastahed with them now." "What an original little thing you are, Princess," exclaimed Ida, with a laugh, which would have nettled Lloyd had not the compliment and the title taken away its sting. "Come into my room and see how my walls are plastered, as you call it." Lloyd stared around in astonishment when Ida threw open her door. Boyish faces looked back at her from every side. Handsome ones, homely ones, in groups, in pairs, framed and unframed, strung together with ribbons, or stuck in behind Japanese fans. Added to all the other pictures of girls she had known in the three boarding-schools which she had attended, it gave the room the appearance of a photograph gallery. "Well!" exclaimed Lloyd, at length, after a long, slow survey, "I don't see what you want them for." Unconsciously her head took the haughty uplift which Ida had admired. "For the same reason that an Indian hangs up all the scalp-locks he takes, I suppose," drawled Ida, sweetly. "Of course, you're young yet. You don't understand. But you'll look at things differently when you are as near 'sweet sixteen' as I am, Princess." Again that flattering title took the sting out of the patronizing manner which Lloyd otherwise would have resented. Was it only the afternoon before, she wondered, that she had cried out to the friendly old locusts her longing to be a child always? As Ida crossed the room with a graceful sweep of long skirts, and settled her hat with its clusters of violets jauntily over her fluffy pompadour, there stole into the Little Colonel's heart, for the first time, a vague desire; a half-defined wish that she, too, were as near the borders of grown-up land as "sweet sixteen." CHAPTER III. IDA'S SECRET "BETTY," said Lloyd, one morning, the third week of school, as she sat on the edge of her bed lacing her shoes, "you know that little glove-case you embroidered for my birthday present; would you feel hurt if I were to give it away?" "No," answered Betty, slowly, turning from the mirror, brush in hand. "I made it to please you, and if you can find more pleasure in giving it away than in keeping it, I'd be glad for you to give it away." "Honestly, Betty?" "Yes, honestly." The brown eyes turned with truthful directness toward Lloyd. "Oh, you are such a comfortable sort of person to live with, Betty Lewis," exclaimed the Little Colonel, with a sigh of relief. "Most girls would think that I didn't appreciate all those fine stitches you put into it, and didn't care for eithah the gift or the givah if I was willing to part with it; but I was suah you would undahstand. You see, the violets on it make it such a perfect match for everything on Ida's dressing-table, that it seems as if it ought to belong to her. I can't look at a violet now without thinking of her. She is so much like one, don't you think? Refined and sweet, and her eyes are such a dark blue, and have such a shy, appealing way of looking out from undah those long lashes. And have you evah noticed what delicious sachet she uses? So faint it's not much moah than the whispah of a smell, but there's always a touch of it about everything belonging to her. I call her Violet all the time now." Only the mirror saw the bored expression that shaded Betty's face for an instant. For the last week, morning, noon, and night, she had heard nothing from Lloyd but Ida's praises. A sudden intimacy had sprung up between the two which threatened to eclipse all Lloyd's other friendships. Betty began brushing her hair vigorously. "Will you promise not to feel hurt if I give you a piece of advice?" she asked. Lloyd nodded, lazily wondering what was coming, as she reached down to pick up her other shoe. She did not put it on, however, but sat with it in her hand, staring at Betty, scarcely believing that she heard aright, the advice was so different from anything she had expected. "Then don't call her Violet before the other girls. And if I were in your place I don't believe I'd talk about her to them, quite as much as you do. You see," she hurried on, noticing the quick flush of displeasure on Lloyd's face, "I don't suppose you realize how much you do talk about her, or how you have changed lately. Last year you were good friends with all the girls, ready for any fun they proposed. They liked that independent, bossy little way you had of deciding things for them. That was one thing that made you so popular. But now you always wait to find out what Ida thinks, and what Ida wants, and they feel that you've not only dropped your old friends for a stranger whom you've known only three weeks, but that in some sort of a way--I can't explain it--you've dropped your old self too. Really, I believe that they are as jealous of the influence she has over you, as of the way she monopolizes you." Betty did not see the gathering storm in the Little Colonel's face, and went serenely on brushing her hair. "You know she's so much older than you. They always smile so significantly when she calls you Princess, as if they thought she was doing it to flatter you. While they wouldn't say it openly to me, of course, I've heard them whispering among themselves that Ida had hoodooed you as she had Janie Clung, so that all you live for nowadays is to wait on her and buy her candy and violets." Bang! went Lloyd's shoe against the wall. She had sent it spinning across the room with all her force. Betty, turning in dismay, saw that the advice which she had given with the kindest of motives, had aroused the Little Colonel's temper to white heat. "The mean, hateful things!" she cried. "They've no right to talk about Ida that way! The idea of her stooping to such a thing as to flatter any one for what she could get out of them! It's an outrageous--" "But Lloyd, dear," interrupted Betty. "Listen a minute. You promised that you wouldn't get mad, or I wouldn't have said a word." "I'm not mad with you, but Mittie Dupong and some of the rest of them have been hateful to Ida from the very first." There was something like a sob in her voice. "And she's so alone in the world, too. She's told me things about her life that almost made me cry. Her aunt doesn't undahstand her at all, and she has a misa'ble time at home." "But she needn't feel alone in the world here," insisted Betty. "Every girl in school would have been her friend, if she hadn't said at the start that she didn't care for anybody but us and the Walton girls. They'd be only too glad to take her in, even now, for the sake of having you back again. Oh, it was so much nicer last year." Lloyd faced her indignantly. "Betty Lewis!" she exclaimed. "You're against her too, or you wouldn't say that." "No, I'm not," insisted Betty. "I like her now just as much as I did the first day I saw her. I think she is sweet and lovable, and I don't wonder that you are very fond of her; but I must say that I'm sorry that she's in the school, for you don't seem to care for anything now but being with her, and that spoils all the good times we had planned to have." Dead silence followed Betty's speech. The Little Colonel walked across the room, picked up her shoe and put it on, jerking the laces savagely. It was the first time that she had ever been angry with Betty, and her wrath was more than Betty could endure. "Please don't feel hurt, Lloyd," she begged. "I can't bear to have you angry with me. I wouldn't have said a word, only I thought that if it was explained to you how we all felt, you'd be willing to spend a little more time with the others, and gradually they'd get interested in Ida and be nice to her for your sake, and things would go on as they used to, when we all had such good times together." Again the painful silence, so deep that Betty felt as if a wall had risen between them. "Please, Lloyd," she begged, with tears in her eyes. But Lloyd, with an air of injured dignity, went on dressing, without a word, until the last bow was tied, and the last pin in place. "And she knew all the time that Ida is my dearest friend," Lloyd kept saying angrily to herself, as she moved about the room. "I could have forgiven her saying mean things about _me_, but for her to stand up and say to my very face that she is sorry Ida is in the school, and that her being here spoils all the good times, when she _knows_ what I think of Ida, that is simply a plain insult, and I can nevah feel the same to Betty Lewis again!" By the time the breakfast-bell rang, both the girls were almost in tears; for the longer Betty's speech rankled in Lloyd's mind the worse it hurt, and the longer the angry silence continued the worse Betty felt. "It is not like Lloyd to be so unfair," thought Betty. "She's just so blinded by her infatuation for Ida that she can't see my side of the matter at all." It was on the point of her tongue to speak her thought, but realizing that it would only add fuel to the flame, she checked the impulse, and in the same uncomfortable silence they marched stiffly down the stairs to breakfast. It was a miserable day for both. To peace-loving Betty it seemed endless. She could hardly keep the tears back when she stood up to recite, and instead of joining the other girls at recess she wandered off with a pencil and note-book. Sitting in one of the swings she wrote some verses about broken friendships that made her cry. They began: "Dead are the snowy daisies! Dead are the flowers of May! The winds are hoarse and voiceless, The skies are cold and gray!" And yet a more gloriously golden October day had never shone in the Valley. The sun on the sumach bushes and sweet gum-trees turned their leaves to a flaming red that the heart of a ruby might have envied, and the dogwood berries, redder than any rose, glowed like living fire in the depths of the woods. For the last week Lloyd and Ida had spent every recess together, wandering off by themselves to a far corner of the apple orchard, where the trunk of a fallen tree provided them with a seat, and its twisted branches with a rustic screen; but this day when Lloyd needed sympathy and companionship more than on any other, it was suddenly denied her. Ida had a worried, absent-minded air when she came out at recess after the distribution of the morning mail. She came up to Lloyd in the hall with a grave face. "I am in trouble, Princess," she said, in a low tone. "I'll explain sometime before long, but I must go to my room now. I have an important letter to write." With heavy forebodings Lloyd wandered back to her desk and sat looking listlessly out of the open window. She could hear laughter and merry voices in conversation outside. Nuts rattled down from the old hickory-tree by the well, and an odour of wild grapes floated in from the vine that trailed over it, where some belated bunches hung too high for any fingers but the frost's to touch. She took no interest in anything. The afternoon recess passed in the same way. Miss Bina McCannister led the procession when they went for their afternoon walk. Ida had been excused from joining them, so Lloyd walked beside Janie Clung, in stony silence. Betty was in front of them, and Lloyd, almost stepping on her heels, could think of nothing but the remark that had changed her whole day to gall and wormwood. She resented it doubly, now that poor Ida was in some mysterious trouble. Betty occasionally cast an anxious glance backward. "She'll surely make up before the sun goes down," she thought. But the sun went down as they strolled homeward, the moon came up, and lights twinkled from all the seminary windows. The supper-bell rang, and a horde of hungry girls poured into the dining-room, but through all the cheerful clatter of dishes and hum of voices, Lloyd kept her dignified silence toward Betty unbroken. Ida had evidently been crying, and had little to say. She left the table before the others were through. When Betty went to her room for the study hour, she found Lloyd sitting with her elbows on the table before the lamp, seemingly so absorbed in her history lesson that she did not notice the opening of the door. With a sigh Betty sank into a chair on the opposite side of the table, and drew her arithmetic toward her, but she could not fix her mind on the next day's problems. She was rehearsing a dozen different ways in which to open a conversation, and trying to screw her courage to the point of beginning. While she hesitated there was a slight tap at the door and Miss Edith looked in. It was her evening to make the round of inspection. Seeing both girls apparently absorbed in their books, she closed the door and passed on. Five minutes went by, in which Betty kept glancing at Lloyd, almost on the point of speaking. There was another tap at the door, and before either could call Come, Ida opened it and beckoned. With an answering nod as if she understood, Lloyd gathered up her books and joined her in the hall. There was a whispered consultation, then Betty heard them go into Ida's room and close the door. Feeling that the breach between them was growing wider every hour, and that Lloyd never intended to be friendly with her again, Betty laid her head down on her arms and began to cry. Not since she had lain ill and neglected in the bare little room at the Cuckoo's Nest, the time she had the fever, had she felt so miserable and lonely. Not once in all the time since she had been at Locust had she cried like that, with choking sobs that shook her whole body, and seemed to come from the depths of her poor little aching heart. She was crying so bitterly that she did not hear Ida's door open again or light footsteps go cautiously down to the end of the hall. Somebody slowly and carefully slipped back the bolt that barred the door leading to the outside stairway. Then the knob turned, and two muffled figures stood outside in the moonlight. "Hurry!" whispered Ida, catching Lloyd by the hand. Like two shadows they tiptoed down the stairs and across a little open space in the rear of the kitchen, till they reached the cover of heavier shadows, under the protecting trees. Then they ran on as if pursued, keeping close to the high picket fence. Down in the old apple orchard, in the far corner where the fallen tree lay, they stopped at last, and Ida dropped breathlessly to a seat on the log, and leaned back among the twisted branches. "There!" she exclaimed, throwing off the heavy golf-cape in which she had muffled herself. "Now I can breathe. Oh, I've been so upset all day, Princess. I felt as if I should choke if I stayed in that old building another minute. Besides, walls do have ears sometimes, and I wouldn't have anybody find out what I am going to tell you for worlds! It would get me into no end of trouble, and aunt would take me out of school again." She paused a moment, and Lloyd, waiting expectantly, felt the witchery of the moonlighted night stealing over her. She had been Ida's confidante often of late. She knew the history of each friendship represented by each boy's photograph in Ida's collection, and she had found them all interesting, even when told in prosaic daylight. Beyond the shadowy old orchard a row of yellow-leaved maples gleamed a ghostly silver in the moonlight, and from the direction of Clovercroft stole the music of a violin. Some one was playing Schubert's Serenade. It stirred her strangely. "Will you promise that you'll never tell a living, breathing soul?" asked Ida, finally, in a low voice. "Of co'se I wouldn't tell," said Lloyd. "You know that perfectly well, Violet." "Well, _I'm engaged_." "You're what?" exclaimed Lloyd, with such a start of astonishment that she nearly slipped off the log. "Sh!" whispered Ida. "Somebody'll hear us if you talk so loud." [Illustration: "SHE TURNED HER WHITE FINGERS IN THE MOONLIGHT."] Feeling as if a chapter of some thrilling romance had suddenly opened before her, Lloyd sat up straight, waiting for the heroine to speak again. The moonlight gave Ida's face an almost unearthly whiteness, and there were dark shadows under her eyes. She had been crying. "Aunt never wanted me to have anything to do with Edwardo," she began, in a low tone. "That isn't his real name, but I always call him that. She took me out of the Lexington school because he lived near there. She thought that sending me down here would put an end to our correspondence, but it didn't, of course. We kept on corresponding, just the same. Some way she has found it out. She doesn't know that we are engaged. I don't know what she would be tempted to do if she knew. She is angry enough just about the letters. I had one from her this morning, and I saw one on the table addressed to President Wells, in her handwriting. There is no mistaking it. I am sure she has written to him to watch my mail and intercept his letters. I wouldn't have her get hold of them for anything, because she scorns anything like sentiment. She seems to think it is something wicked for young people to care for each other, and Edwardo's letters simply _breathe_ devotion in every word." The faint strains of the distant violin swelled louder as Ida held out her hand from which she had taken all the rings but one. She turned her white fingers in the moonlight, to show the glimmer of a pearl. "He has told me so many times that that is what my life seems like to him," she said, with a sob in her voice, "--a pearl. I know he has been awfully wild and fast, but when he tells me that only my influence over him can make him the man I want him to be, and that if it were not for my love and prayers he wouldn't care what became of him, or what he did, do you blame me for disregarding aunt's wishes? Don't you think it is cruel of her to interfere?" Lloyd, listening with breathless interest to the friend whom she loved with all a little girl's adoring enthusiasm for an older one whom she has taken as her model, gave a passionate assent. "Oh, I knew you'd feel that way about it," said Ida, reaching out to clasp Lloyd's hand with the white one on which glimmered the pearl. "It is _so_ good to have some one to talk to who can understand and sympathize." An eloquent silence fell between them, broken only by the rustle of the dead leaves and the wailing voice of the violin, repeating its plaintive refrain like a human cry. The music and the witchery of the moonlight laid an ever-deepening spell on the listening child, till she felt that she was part of some old tale in which Ida was the ladye fair, and Edwardo the most interesting of heroes, held apart by a cruel fate. She drank in every word eagerly, seeing in her imagination a tall, handsome man with a haughty, dark face, who stood with outstretched hands, murmuring, "Oh, my Pearl, you can make of my life what you will!" When Ida took a tiny locket from a chain around her neck and opened it to show her his picture, Lloyd felt a distinct twinge of disappointment. It was not at all like the face she had pictured. But Ida explained that it was not a good likeness, only a head cut from a group picture in which he had been taken with the members of his football team. She had a fine photograph of him in her trunk, but had to keep it hidden, not knowing what day her aunt might swoop down upon her for a visit of inspection. "Seems to me as if I had seen that face befoah somewhere," said the Little Colonel, studying it intently in the dim light. There was a familiarity about it that puzzled her. Ida slipped the locket back and gathered up her cape about her. "We won't dare stay here much longer," she said. Then she hesitated. "Princess, I have told you all this because I need your help and am going to ask a great favour of you. Your mail doesn't have to go through the principal's hands. Will you be willing to let Edwardo address my letters to you? It couldn't do you any harm, simply to take them from the post-office box and hand them to me, and it would make a world of difference to me--and to him," she added, softly. "If I were to refuse to let him write to me, as aunt wants me to do, and were to break off our engagement, I think it would make him so reckless that he would do something desperate. Knowing that, I feel so responsible for him. Princess, I'd give my life to keep him straight." As Ida rose in her earnestness, the tears glistening in her eyes, she seemed to Lloyd like some fair guardian angel, and from that moment she was set apart in her imagination as if she had been a saint on a pedestal. With such a noble example of devotion to one in need, it seemed a very small thing for Lloyd to consent to the favour she asked, and she gave her promise gladly. "I shall do everything I can to keep any one from suspecting that he is sending letters to me through you," said Ida, as they strolled slowly back toward the house. "I can't let your friendship for me get you into trouble. They'll watch me very closely now, so maybe it will be as well for me not to appear so intimate with you as I have been. We'll not come off here alone any more at recess. By and by, when I feel that I can, I'll try to interest myself in the other girls. We'll still have our little confidential meetings just the same, but no one must suspect us. "I wish Mrs. Walton would invite me to her house sometimes," she said, impulsively, when they had walked a few minutes in silence. "If I could fill up a long letter to aunt about that, it would make her feel that I was interested in something besides Edwardo, and would appease her wonderfully." "I'll ask her to," said Lloyd, eagerly. "Mrs. Walton told mothah she intended to have Betty and me at The Beeches very often while she was away. The first time she invites us I'll ask her to have you too. She's so kind and sweet, that I'd as soon do it as not. All she seems to live for is just to make othah people happy." "Oh, Princess, if you only would!" exclaimed Ida, giving her a delighted hug. "Aunt would be so pleased, for it would be in all the home papers that I had been entertained at the home of the late General Walton. She would consider it such an honour, and feel that in one way, at least, I was a credit to her. Aunt thinks so much of attentions from distinguished people. It is one of her hobbies. I would like to please her as much as possible in every way I can, as long as I have to disregard her wishes about--what I just told you, you know. Sh! We're too near the house to talk any more." The rest of the way they slipped along in silence under the shadow of the trees. Up the creaking stairway they crept, pausing a moment before they opened the door. Then they shot the rusty bolt noiselessly back in place, dropped the portière, and listened again. "It's all right," whispered Ida, giving Lloyd's hand a reassuring squeeze as they tiptoed down the hall. "Oh, you're _such_ a comfort! You'll never know what a load you've taken off my mind. Good night!" In those few moments of silence between the orchard and the house, Lloyd's thoughts travelled rapidly. Her quarrel with Betty had faded so far into the background, that it seemed ridiculously trivial now. She had forgotten her grievance in listening to the tale of larger trouble. And since Ida had made it clear to her that it would be to her interest to be friendly with all the girls, she was eager to enlist Betty's sympathies and help. She wished fervently that she could share her secret with her. She burst into the room, her eyes shining with excitement, and blinking as they met the bright lamplight. Betty was standing in her nightgown, ready for bed. She saw at the first glance that Lloyd's anger was over, and she drew a great sigh of relief. "Oh, Betty," began Lloyd, impetuously, "I'm awfully sorry I made such a mountain out of a mole-hill this mawning and got into a tempah about what you said. You were right, aftah all. Ida thinks just as you do, that we oughtn't to go off by ourselves all the time, and she wants to be friends with the othah girls if they'll let her. I'm going back to the old ways to-morrow, and try not to let anything spoil the good times you talked about. Ida is so unhappy. I wish I could tell you, but I haven't any right--what she told me was in confidence. But if you only knew, you'd do all you could to help make it easiah for her with the girls." "I'll do anything on earth you want me to!" exclaimed Betty. "This has been the longest, miserablest day I ever spent." "Oh," cried the Little Colonel, a look of distress in her face. "Then I've spoiled 'The Road of the Loving Heart' that I wanted to leave in yoah memory. I haven't been true to my ring." She looked down at the talisman on her finger, the little lover's knot of gold, and turned it around regretfully. "No, you haven't spoiled anything!" cried Betty. "It was my fault too. You're the dearest girl in the world, and I'll always think of you that way. Let's don't say another word about to-day. That's the best way to forget." Lloyd began undressing, and Betty knelt down to say her prayers. The gong rang presently for all lights to be put out. The seminary settled itself to silence, then to sleep. But long after Betty's soft, regular breathing showed that she was in dreamland, Lloyd lay with wide-open, wakeful eyes. The moonlight streaming through the open window lay in a white square on the floor by her bed. She heard the clock in the hall toll eleven, twelve, and one before she fell asleep. The spell of the orchard was still upon her; the moonlight, the faint strains of music, Ida's white face with the tears in the violet eyes, and the glimmer of the pearl on her white hand came again and again in her fitful dreams, all through the night. CHAPTER IV. THE SHADOW CLUB LLOYD'S return to the old ways came about so naturally next morning, that no one seemed to notice her sudden desertion of Ida. Just after the morning recess began, little Elise Walton came running up to Allison, crying excitedly, "Oh, sister! Give me your handkerchief! Quick! Somebody has upset a bottle of ink on Magnolia Budine's hair, and it's running all over everything!" Before Allison could fish her handkerchief from her sleeve, where she had thrust it during recitation, Lloyd seized a basin of water and hurried out to the back hall door. There stood Magnolia, her head craned forward like a turtle, as far as possible over the steps, to keep the ink from dripping on her dress. Half a dozen little girls were making excited passes at it with handkerchiefs, slate-rags, and sponges. "Heah!" cried Lloyd, putting the basin down on the step. "Bend ovah, Magnolia, and dip yoah head in! Anna Louise, you run and get anothah basin in the hall, and Marguerite, ask some of the big girls to bring a bucket of watah. It'll take a tubful to soak this out." Whatever the Little Colonel undertook was thoroughly done, and when Magnolia emerged from the last vigorous rinsing, only a faint green tinge remained on the flaxen hair. But that would not wash off, Lloyd declared. She had had a similar experience herself when she was in the primary grade. It would simply have to wear off, and that process might take days. Kitty and Allison with all the girls of their set had crowded around to see the amusing sight, offering advice and laughing all the time the performance lasted. As she worked Lloyd related her own experience. Rob Moore had tipped the bottle of ink on her head one day, when they were writing letters to Santa Claus, and Mom Beck had washed her hair every day for a week to get it out. Finally, turning her charge over to the primary girls with a couple of towels and directions to rub her dry and leave her in the sun to bleach, Lloyd led the way to the swing, where they sat laughing and joking over Magnolia's accident until the bell rang again. The school had laughed at Magnolia from the first day, when an old carryall stopped in front of the seminary and she climbed out with a huge carpet-bag in her hand. It was the most old-fashioned of carpet-bags, an elaborate pattern of red roses on each side. And she was the most old-fashioned of little girls, buttoned up in a plain-waisted bright blue merino dress, with many gathers in the full skirt. It was such a dress as her grandmother might have worn when she was a child. Her light hair was drawn back tightly behind her ears, and braided in two little tails. She was fat and awkward and shy, and so awed by the strange surroundings that a sort of terror took possession of her when she found herself alone among so many unfamiliar faces. It was Lloyd Sherman who came to the rescue when she saw tears of fright in the round, blue eyes. Lloyd had begun the school term with a resolution to keep true to the talisman she wore, the little ring that was to remind her constantly of the "Road of the Loving Heart" which she wanted to build in every one's memory. This was her first opportunity. She led the little stranger to the principal's room, and stayed beside her until she was delivered safely into the matron's hands. Later it was Lloyd who saw her in chapel looking around in bewilderment, uncertain where to go, and beckoned her to a seat near her own. And again at roll-call, when somebody tittered at the unusual name, and the child's face was all afire with embarrassment, Lloyd's friendly smile flashed across to her was like a rope thrown to a drowning man, and she could never forget to be grateful for it. As she was in the primary department, she could only worship Lloyd from afar during the day, but as rooms were assigned irrespective of classes, and hers was in the same wing and on the same floor with Lloyd's, she often left her door ajar in the evening, in the hope of seeing her pass, or hearing her voice in the hall. Once she heard Ida call her Princess. The name struck her fancy, and as "_The Princess_" Lloyd was henceforth enshrined in her adoring little heart. Lloyd often caught her admiring glances in chapel, and several times found little offerings in her desk on Monday mornings, when the old carryall came back from the Budine farm with the little girl and the huge carpet-bag. There was an enormous red apple one time, polished to the highest degree of shininess; several ears of pop-corn at another, and once a stiff little bunch of magenta zinnias and yellow chrysanthemums. There was never any name left with them. Lloyd guessed the giver, but she did not realize what a large place she occupied in Magnolia's affections, or how the child choked with embarrassment till she almost swallowed her chewing-gum, whenever Lloyd chanced to meet her in the hall with a friendly good morning. "Let's go down to the playhouses and see if the green is bleaching out of Magnolia's hair," proposed Lloyd at the afternoon recess, with all her old-time heartiness; and again the girls forgot to wonder why she stayed with them instead of wandering off with Ida to the orchard. Just as they reached the spring a shout went up from the circle of little girls gathered around Magnolia. She was facing them defiantly, her fat little face red with mortification. "What's the matter, Elise?" asked Allison, in a big-sister tone. "Why are you all teasing Magnolia?" "I'm not teasing her," cried Elise, indignantly. "I told her just now not to mind anything they said, and I'd lend her my paper-doll bride to play with till next Friday afternoon." "She said that she learned to read in a graveyard, off of the tombstones," giggled Anna Louise, "and it seemed so funny that we couldn't help laughing." Magnolia hung her head, twisting a corner of her apron in her fat little fingers, and wishing that the earth would open and swallow her. She had seen the amusement in the Little Colonel's face, and it hurt worse than the ridicule of all the others combined. She felt that she must die of shame. "That's nothing to laugh at," said Betty, seeing the distress in her face, and divining what the child was suffering. "I used to have lovely times in the old graveyard at the Cuckoo's Nest. Don't you remember how peaceful and sweet it was, Lloyd?" she asked, turning to the Little Colonel, who nodded assent. "Davy and I used to walk up there every afternoon in summer to smell the pinks and the lilies, and read what was carved on the old stones. And we'd sit there in the grass and listen to the redbirds in the cedars, and make up stories about all the people lying there asleep. And Davy learned most of his letters there." "That's the way it was at Loretta, wasn't it, Maggie!" exclaimed Elise, encouragingly. "Tell them about it." But Maggie hung her head and twisted the toes of her stubby shoes around in the dust, unable to say a word. "I'll tell them, then," said Elise, turning to the larger girls. "They used to live near the convent at Loretta, and one of their neighbours, a girl lots older than Maggie, used to take her up to the graveyard nearly every day. There wasn't any place else to go, you know, and it was lonesome out there in the country. This girl was named Corono, after one of the Sisters who was dead. She had been awfully good to both their families, when they were sick, and Corono and Maggie used to make daisy-chains and crowns out of the honeysuckles and roses, 'cause Corono means crown, and put them on her grave. And every time they would go, Maggie would learn a new letter off one of the tombstones, and after awhile she got so she could read." "How interesting!" exclaimed Lloyd, all unconscious of the way her words set Maggie's heart to beating with pleasure. Elise turned toward her with a motherly air that seemed very funny considering that she was smaller than the child whom she was championing so valiantly. "I'm going to ask them about that album right now, Maggie. You run back to school and get it." Glad of any excuse to make her escape, Maggie started off to the house as fast as her fat little legs would carry her. Deprived of their sport, the smaller girls returned to their playhouses and the older ones strolled leisurely back toward the seminary. Elise tagged along beside Lloyd and Allison. "Maggie has gone to get her autograph-album," she explained. "It used to be her mother's when she went to school at the convent, but now it's Maggie's. Not more than half the leaves are written on, and her mother said she could use it if she'd be very careful. She wants you girls to write in it. She has had it in her desk for two weeks, trying to get up her courage to ask you, Lloyd, but she was afraid you would laugh. I told her I wasn't afraid. _I'd_ ask you. She wants all the big girls to write in it, but she said 'specially '_The Princess_.'" "The Princess!" echoed Lloyd, in surprise. "Yes, that's what she calls you all the time. 'Cause you were that in the play, I suppose. She thinks you are the loveliest person she ever saw, and says if she could just look like you and be like you for one day, she'd die happy. And once"--Elise lowered her voice confidentially--"she told me that when she says her prayers every night, she always prays that some day she'll grow nice enough for you to like her." "The poor little thing!" cried Lloyd, much touched. "To think of her caring like that! You tell her, Elise, that of co'se we'll all write in it. I shall be glad to." Elise ran on after Maggie, happy in the accomplishment of her kindly assumed mission, and presently came back with the book which she left in Lloyd's hands. "Look, girls, what a funny old-fashioned thing it is!" cried Lloyd, turning to Katie Mallard, who with Betty and Kitty were just behind them. All the others came crowding around also. "Heah is 'Album of the Heart' in gilt lettahs on the back, with such funny plump little cupids sitting in the rose-wreath around it." "And, oh, see!" cried Betty, glancing over her shoulder at the delicately traced names of the gentle nuns, and the girls who had been playmates of Maggie's mother in a far-away past. "They are all dated over forty years ago." "Of course," answered Katie. "Nobody is old-fashioned enough nowadays to have an autograph-album. They are _so_ old-timey and out of date." "Wait a minute, please," said Betty, as Lloyd slowly turned the leaves. "What is that verse signed Sister Corono? Oh, it is an acrostic. See? The initial letters of each line, read downward, spell Martha. That must be Mrs. Budine's name." Several voices read the verse in unison: "_M_ay thy life be ever led _A_long the path of duty, _R_ich in deeds of helpfulness, _T_hat fill sad hearts with beauty. _H_appiness shall then attend thee, _A_nd all the blessed saints befriend thee." "Isn't that sweet?" cried Betty. "I'm going to write one for Magnolia. There's something pathetic about that child to me. She looks so wistful sometimes. She's dreadfully odd, but it's mean of the girls to laugh at her." "I'll do something extra nice, too," said Lloyd. "I can't write poetry, but I'll copy a bar of music from one of the Princess Winsome songs. I think notes look so pretty copied in pen and ink." "I'll paint a magnolia blossom in water-colours," said Allison, not to be outdone by the others. "And I--oh, I'll draw a kitten for her to remember my name by," said Kitty, laughing. As both Allison and Kitty had real talent for drawing, the girls who saw the pages they decorated were moved to envy; and when Betty added an acrostic on the name Magnolia, nobody had a word of ridicule for the little Album of the Heart, that was serving two generations as a storehouse of sentiment. Betty's verse was passed around the school: "_M_ay our friendship be as sweet _A_s the flower whose name you bear. _G_irlhood days are fleet. _N_o others are half so fair. _O_ like a violet pressed, _L_et my name on this page long dwell, _I_n after years to recall _A_ schoolmate who wished you well." When the girls read that, an autograph-album fever broke out in the school. Every one came to Betty for an acrostic. She spent all her playtime writing them. She ate all her meals struggling inwardly with the hard initials in such names as Pinkie, Ursula, and Vashti. She even dreamed rhymes in her sleep. Lloyd copied music until her fingers ached, for everybody requested a verse of a Princess Winsome song. Kitty drew whole colonies of kittens, and Allison, finding it impossible to paint a flower typical of each name presented, took to painting a single forget-me-not above her name. The teachers, too, suffered from the epidemic, and even people outside the school, until the principal found twenty-three letters in the mail-bag one morning, all addressed to a well-known writer of juvenile stories, whose books were the most popular in the school. An investigation proved that because one girl had received his autograph, twenty-three had followed her example in requesting it, and not one of them had enclosed a stamp; nor had it occurred to them that an author's time is too valuable to spend in answering questions, merely to satisfy the idle curiosity of his readers. "One stamp is of little value," said the principal, "but multiply it by the hundreds he would have to use in a year in answering the letters of thoughtless strangers, who have no claim on him in any way." Twenty-three girls filed out into the hall after the principal's little talk that followed, and slipped their letters from the mail-bag. Ten of them threw theirs into the waste-basket. The others, who had asked no questions and were more desirous of obtaining their favourite author's autograph, opened theirs to enclose an envelope, stamped and addressed; but few more letters of the kind went out from Lloydsboro Seminary after that. Kitty, Katie, Allison, Betty, and Lloyd all pounced upon Miss Edith one morning before school, each with an album in her hand. Miss Edith clutched her hair in mock despair. "These make the seventh dozen I have been asked to write in this week," she declared. "Life is too short to hunt up a different sentiment for each one. I must use the same verse for everybody." The girls perched on the desks around the rostrum, as she spread out the books before her and began to write. They always loved the few moments they could snatch in Miss Edith's room before school, and felt that her autograph would be one of the most valuable in the collection. "This is one of my favourite verses," said Miss Edith, as she passed the blotter over the last page, and read it aloud: "This learned I from the shadow of a tree That to and fro did sway upon the wall: Our shadow-selves--our influence--may fall Where we can never be." "I want to tell you a little incident that fastened it in my memory. I have a friend teaching in one of the mountain schools of Kentucky, who told me of two girls who came to the door one day, asking to be admitted as students. Each carried a bundle of clothes wrapped in a newspaper. That was all they had--no money to pay their tuition, no way of paying their board unless they were allowed to work for it. They had walked forty miles to get to that school. Their home was twice the distance away, but their uncle, who was a tin pedlar, took them half-way in his wagon. They were a week on the road after they left him, where his route branched off from theirs. They stopped at night in some village or farmhouse to which he directed them. "Nobody had the heart to tell them that there was no room for students who could not pay their way, neither could any one turn away such ambition. But the school was poor. It is kept up by donations from benevolent people, and it was only by great self-sacrifice that the teachers could take them at all. "The following vacation, while I was at the sea-shore, I had a letter from this friend, and happened to speak of it and the two girls to a wealthy lady whom I met there. She seemed so interested that I read her my friend's letters. They were so full of the struggles and hardships of those mountain people that she was greatly interested and touched, and began corresponding with the principal of the school herself. The outcome of it was that she sent a check for ten thousand dollars to endow scholarships. Of course these two girls were the first to be benefited by the gift, and next June they will be graduated from the school with honour, fitted to become teachers themselves, far in advance of the time it would have taken had they been obliged to work their way through. Instead of plodding along, using the greater part of their time and strength in laundry work or sewing, they could go on with the college course uninterrupted. They are going to start a school themselves in the mountains, nearer their own home. "Now that lady never saw those girls, and they were as unconscious that their influence was touching a life a thousand miles away as that tree out yonder, throwing its shadow across on the Clovercroft lawn. They simply stood in their places and reached out as far as they possibly could after what was good and high and worthy in life; but for years and years to come, students who profit by that endowment will be grateful for the shadow cast by those two ambitious girls." Miss Edith never preached. She did not go on to tell them, as Miss McCannister would have done, that they were responsible not only for the influence of their daily living upon others, but for the effect their shadow-selves might cast on others far beyond their reach. She only pointed to the flaming red leaves of a gum-tree outside the window, and the shadow swaying partly on the high picket fence, and partly across the Clovercroft lawn, then passed the albums back with a smile. Then the girls filed slowly out to chapel. It was a warm October day, and as Allison took her seat by an open window in the history class an hour later, she found it hard to fix her thoughts on the old French and Indian wars. It was so much pleasanter to look with dreamy eyes through the haze of the Indian summer, which Mom Beck said was the ghost-smoke from the peace-pipes of old dead and gone chieftains. She watched the slow fluttering to earth of the pale yellow maple leaves, and listened to the soft rustling of the gorgeous red leaves on the gum-tree to which Miss Edith had pointed. Once or twice she started, recalling her thoughts to the history lesson with an effort as she remembered the girls who were hungry enough for an education to walk forty miles for it and work for their board. She thought vaguely how eagerly they would have improved their opportunities had they been in her place. They would have taken a lively interest in the old wars, instead of sitting in idle day-dreams. All at once, as Allison watched the swaying of the gum-tree's shadow on the fence and lawn, a thought came to her that made her seize a pencil and a piece of paper. Writing notes was forbidden in Miss McCannister's classes, but Allison could not wait until recess to share her brilliant thought with Lloyd. With her big eyes fixed innocently on Miss Bina's fishy ones, she scribbled slowly on the paper without once looking down: "_Let's form a Shadow Club, with Miss Edith's verse for a motto. A. W._" It took much manoeuvring to succeed in passing the slip of paper to Lloyd, who sat several seats in front. When it finally reached her she did not dare turn round to nod a pleased assent, but Allison knew that her suggestion was received favourably, for Lloyd's hand at once went up to readjust the bow at the back of her hair, and two fingers wagged violently for an instant out of Miss Bina's sight. Had it been her thumb, Allison would have interpreted the signal to mean no; but from the rapid wagging of the two fingers she knew that Lloyd was much pleased with the idea. Allison's plan, as she outlined it to Betty, Lloyd, and Kitty at recess, in one of the swings, was to form a club that should be not only fun for themselves, but of some real benefit to the girls of the mountain districts. The Christmas before, the little circle of Busy Bees, to which Elise belonged, had sent two barrels of clothes and toys to them, under Mrs. Clelling's supervision. She had organized the circle, and was deeply interested in the work. Now Allison proposed that the club should earn money for the same purpose. She grew quite enthusiastic planning the fair they could hold in the spring. "Kitty and I could paint calendars and sachets and paper dolls, you know, Lloyd, and you and Betty could embroider things." "Katie Mallard crochets the cunningest little doll-caps you ever saw," suggested Kitty. "Of course we'll have her in it." A warm glow came into the Little Colonel's heart. Here was her chance to do something for Ida. "Let's have just a little bit of a club," she urged; "not more than half a dozen. If we begin to invite generally, it's impossible to draw the line where we can stop. We can't ask all the school, for if we have refreshments, for so many, each meeting will be like giving a big pa'hty. But half a dozen of us could get together whenever we felt like it, and have the cosiest kind of a time with our chafing-dishes, without the rest finding it out. Then nobody would feel hurt." "Here's four of us to begin with," said Kitty, "and if we have Katie there's five. Shall you ask Corinne?" "I wish we could," said Betty, "but that would leave Margery out, and it would never do to ask them and not have Anna Louise and Marguerite. It must be all or none in that crowd." "I wish you all would be willing to ask Ida," said Lloyd, imploringly. "She does such beautiful leather-work, and that brings better prices than anything we can make." "I am sure I'm willing," said Betty, cordially. "I have no objection," said Allison, remembering the pleasant things Ida had said about her, and Kitty, who cared little who was in the club or out of it, so long as she had Katie Mallard, echoed her sister's consent. "As it is a Shadow Club, we'll keep dark about it," said Kitty. "The girls need never know we've formed one. We ought to meet in the dark to carry out the idea of its name. How would it do to have the haunted house of Hartwell Hollow for our meeting-place?" "Mercy, no!" exclaimed Lloyd, with a shiver. "That's too spooky, but if you and Allison and Katie can make some excuse to spend the night at the seminary some time, we'll have a midnight suppah." "I think we might tell mother and Mrs. Mallard about the club," said Allison. "They can keep a secret, and we'll have lots nicer times and better refreshments if we let them into it." "Well," agreed Lloyd, "but we mustn't let a single girl find it out. They'd be mad as fiah to be slighted this way. Cross yoah heart and body now, every one of you, that you'll not breathe it to a soul." Three hands instantly imitated her solemn gesture. "We'll have the first meeting at The Beeches," said Allison, "because I got up the club. I'll get mother to telephone to the principal to let you and Betty and Ida come over to supper Saturday." Lloyd danced away to recitation so happy that her face fairly beamed. She managed to spell across to Ida on her fingers that the invitation she had coveted was hers at last. CHAPTER V. AT THE BEECHES "HOW good it feels to be free!" exclaimed the Little Colonel, as she pushed open the high green picket gate in front of the seminary, and held it ajar for Ida to pass through. "This is the first time that I have been out on the road without a teachah and a flock of girls, for a whole month. I despise the way we have to line up two by two and go mah'ching through the Valley as if we were pah't of a circus parade, or inmates of an asylum, out for an airing." Ida laughed as they started down the path, along the road leading to The Beeches. It was one of those perfect days in mid-October when it is easy to laugh; when all outdoors seems filled to the brim with a great content, and even the woods and fields, all autumn-clad, are keeping holiday. Besides it was Saturday afternoon, and they were on their way to their first club meeting. This was their first appearance together since the night of their stolen visit to the apple orchard, a week ago. It had cost Lloyd many a pang to give up her intimacy with Ida, but she had never shown such unselfishness as she did in this devotion to her friend. Since Ida's interests demanded that she should go off with the other girls no matter how much she longed to stay, she went obediently. Although Ida no longer wore her violets, she kept her room sweet with fresh bunches of them. Although her name was constantly in her thoughts, she rarely mentioned it, even to Betty. A few whispered words in the hall, an adoring glance toward her now and then at the table, was all she could snatch in the daytime. She even allowed the school to surmise what it pleased; that Ida had quarrelled with her or had grown tired of her; for her love was of the kind that "endureth all things." But every night she lay awake, living over that scene in the moonlit orchard, happy in the consciousness that she was making Ida happy, and dreaming of the romance that she was helping on its way. Betty had hurried on up the road to call by for Katie Mallard, with the agreement that the couple which reached the post-office first should wait there for the other. "Let's cut through Clovercroft," suggested Lloyd. "Mrs. Marks won't care, and it is much shortah that way. The path below her ice-house will bring us out at her woodland gate, just across the road from the depot." "Anything to get to the post-office first," agreed Ida. "I'm sure that there'll be a letter in your box for me to-day. I can just _feel_ that there's one there." From the depot it was but a few steps to the post-office. One had only to cross the road, pass the country store, and stroll a short distance along the shady avenue. There it sat by the wayside, a little box of a room, that always made Lloyd think of a dove-cote; for the first time she had been taken there her grandfather had explained that all the little square places where Miss Mattie was putting the letters were pigeonholes. Presently when Miss Mattie opened the window and handed him a letter from one of those places, she cried out with a little squeal of delight which made every one smile, "Oh, white pigeon wing flied out fo' you, grandfathah!" Afterward it grew to be a byword that they always used between themselves, when one carried home a letter for the other. "Pigeon wing for grandpa's baby," he would call fondly, even when she had grown to be a tall girl; and "White pigeon wing flied out fo' you, grandfathah deah," was the cry if she were the bearer of the missive. From the post-office door, looking across the road to a grassy ridge beyond, one could see the big inn that the year before had been turned into a home for old Confederate soldiers. Farther on was the wide green slope of the churchyard, and the little stone church with its ivy-covered belfry. The manse stood just behind it. Next to that was the cottage with the high green gables and diamond-shaped window-panes, where the Waltons had lived one summer while their new house was being built. And next to the cottage was the new house itself, set away back in the great grove of trees which gave to the place the name of "The Beeches." Ida stood outside the door while Lloyd went in for the mail. She was afraid that Miss Mattie might suspect that she had an interest in the letters if she went in too, so she busied herself in looking for four-leaf clovers along the path. She could not have seen one, however, had they been growing on every grass-blade, she was in such a nervous flutter of expectancy. When Lloyd came out with two letters in her hand, her face flushed crimson at sight of the familiar handwriting on one envelope. "This is mine," she exclaimed, in a low tone, snatching it eagerly. "Let's sit down here on the step while I read it." "I'm mighty glad it wasn't the only one," said Lloyd, glancing back over her shoulder to see if Miss Mattie still stood at the delivery-window. Peeping through the glass which covered the partition wall of pigeonholes, Lloyd saw that she had gone back to her desk by the rear window. So she continued, in a low tone: "Suppose that had been the only letter, and Betty had asked me if I got one?" "You would have said no, of course," said Ida, looking up from the page, impatient at the interruption. "This is not for you." "But it is addressed to me," persisted Lloyd. "Suppose Miss Mattie heard me say no to such a question, or that Betty saw me take it out of the box?" Again Ida looked up impatiently, but seeing the distressed expression of Lloyd's face, said, soothingly, "I know what you are thinking, Princess. It has just occurred to you that your helping me to carry on this correspondence under cover of your name seems a little bit underhanded. But if you could just read this letter you'd never be troubled by such a thought again. It makes me feel that I am carrying out the motto of our club in the very highest way possible. "'Our shadow-selves--our influence--may fall Where we can never be.'" she quoted, softly, looking dreamily away toward the ivy-grown belfry. "I cannot be with Edwardo, but at least half of this letter is taken up with telling me how much my letters have helped and influenced him. That the thought of me off here, true to him in spite of all that has been done to separate us, is keeping him straight as nothing else could do. Somehow it seems a good omen for the club that I should get such a letter on my way to the first meeting." Ida's manner was convincing, and Lloyd's face brightened as she listened, but she breathed more freely when she saw the envelope bearing her name torn into little bits too small to tell tales, and dropped down the crack behind the doorstep. Betty and Katie joined them presently, and two by two they rustled along through the fallen leaves which filled the path, to The Beeches. Long before three o'clock the six members of the Shadow Club were assembled around the big table in the dining-room, with their materials spread out for Mrs. Walton's inspection. Piles of brightly coloured tissue-paper, embroidery silks, zephyr, and ribbon, made a gay showing. Mrs. Walton entered into their plans for the fair enthusiastically, as she helped wind a skein of Iceland wool for Katie's crocheting. "The beauty of this club," remarked Kitty, as she opened her paint-box and carefully selected a brush, "is that there's no fuss and feathers about it. No election of officers, no dues, no rules, no tiresome minutes to read. All we have to do when we begin is to begin." "And to remember our motto," suggested Betty, to whom the purpose of the club appealed strongly. "Ida has made something to help us do that," said Lloyd. "Give them to us now, Ida, while Mrs. Walton is here to see them, please," she urged. Ida, who had delayed showing them for that very reason, glanced shyly toward her hostess, and then hesitatingly opened the case which held her pyrography outfit. "It's only some little blotting-pads for your writing-desks," she said, with a blush. "It seems to me that the verse is especially appropriate at letter-writing time, when we consciously cast our shadow-selves where we cannot be." There was a chorus of delighted exclamations as she passed the packages around. Only two narrow slips of white blotting-paper held together by a white silken cord, but the cover was of soft gray kid, on which she had burned with her pyrography needle the club's motto in old English letters. Mrs. Walton leaned over the table to read the one on Allison's: "=This learned I from the shadow of a tree That to and fro did sway upon a wall, Our shadow-selves--our influence--may fall Where we can never be.=" "It is beautifully done, my dear," she exclaimed, smiling down into the shy violet eyes raised gratefully to hers in acknowledgment of her lavish praise. "The club is certainly to be congratulated on having a member who can not only make such pretty things, but who can think of such sweet, suggestive ways in which to keep its purpose always in view." Lloyd's hand, groping along under the table, found Ida's and gave it a squeeze of sympathetic delight. "There's something to write to your aunt," she whispered. While the girls were still admiring their blotters, the maid came in to announce a visitor for Mrs. Walton in the library. Several minutes after she had left them to themselves, Kitty exclaimed, "Oh, mamma forgot to give me those little brass clamps to fasten the candle-shades, and now she has company, and I haven't the faintest idea where to look for them." "They may be in the hat-rack drawer in the hall," suggested Allison. "I think I saw them in there this morning, but I am not sure." Kitty skipped out of the room to look for them, and a few minutes later came back, her black eyes shining teasingly. "I have a trade-last for you, Ida," she said. "Mrs. Mallard is in the library, discussing our club, and I heard mother say something awfully nice about you." "Tell it!" demanded Lloyd. "No, I said a trade-last." "Oh, fishing for a compliment!" sang Katie. "Don't tell her, Ida, even if you have heard one. It will make her vain." "Besides," put in Allison, "Miss Bina McCannister said it was common and silly to play trade-last." "Oh, bother old Miss Bina!" said the disrespectful Kitty. "Well, I'll tell you, anyhow. I heard mother tell Mrs. Mallard that she thought you were a charming girl, one of the sweetest that she had met in a long time. She said she was glad we had chosen you in the club instead of a younger girl, for she thought you would have a quieting, refining influence on us, especially _me_! Think of that now! Me! And she said on that account she would like to have you here often." Again Lloyd's hand met Ida's under the table in a quick squeeze. "Something else to write to your aunt," she whispered. Several pretty candle-shades, two doll tam-o'-shanter caps, and three calendars in water-colours were laid aside finished, as the result of that afternoon's work. Besides, Lloyd and Betty had each made considerable progress on the centrepieces they had undertaken to embroider, and the magazine-cover Ida was burning in an elaborate design of dragons was half-done. Allison packed the finished articles away in a hat-box after supper, and put them up on a shelf in her closet. "Our first meeting has surely been a success," she exclaimed. "At this rate we'll have enough things made by Easter to hold a splendid big fair. We ought to be able to cast our shadows quite a distance with the money we'll make, if we do this well every time." "Come cast your shadows on this sheet, girls," called Mrs. Walton from the next room, where she had pinned some strips of white paper to a sheet hung on the wall, and placed a lamp at the proper distance for making silhouettes. "The name of your club suggested an old amusement of ours. Come, see how clever you are at drawing each other's shadows." It proved to be an amusing undertaking, for whenever they laughed during the process, it changed their profiles into all sorts of ridiculous outlines. But finally some very creditable silhouettes were made, and each member of the club carried home her own shadow as a souvenir of the first meeting. Katie's father called for her at half-past eight, and escorted the seminary girls as far as the high green gate. "What a perfectly lovely time we've had!" exclaimed Betty, as she and Lloyd and Ida strolled slowly on toward the house, when they had bidden Katie and Mr. Mallard good night. "And what a delicious suppah we had!" sighed Lloyd. "Oh, if we could only have shaded candles, and pretty silvah, and flowahs at bo'ding-school! I'm so tiahed of that long bare table. Everything tasted so good to-night. Those deah little beaten biscuit made me homesick. I haven't had any since I left Locust." "The club is certainly an inspiration to do something and be something worth while," said Betty. "What Mrs. Walton said at supper, and afterward when she was showing us the general's sword, made me feel that way. Somehow, to-night, the world seems so much lovelier to be in than ever it did before; so full of opportunities, when one little person can cast such a tremendously long shadow." She looked back at hers, stretching down the path behind her, in the light from the hall lamp, till it seemed the length of a giant. They passed on into the house, and up the stairs together. As Betty went ahead to light the lamp in their room, Ida caught Lloyd impetuously around the waist and gave her a grateful hug. "Oh, Princess," she exclaimed, "I've had such a happy day, and I owe it all to you! If it hadn't been for you I'd have had neither the visit to The Beeches nor Edwardo's letter. You're _such_ a comfort!" CHAPTER VI. UNINVITED GUESTS "THIS is the last day of October," announced Betty, one morning, tearing a leaf from the calendar, as was her habit as soon as she finished dressing. "To-night will be Hallowe'en." "Do you realize," answered Lloyd, "that we have been at school six whole weeks without doing a single thing we had planned? We have been painfully good. Yestahday when I passed the music-room where Professah Steinwig was giving a violin lesson, I heard him say, 'Ach, you must let down der strings when you have feenish playing. If you keep him keyed to von high pitch alway, some day bif! He go break!' That's just the way I feel this morning; that I've been thinking so much about my shadow-self, and the work we've undehtaken for the mountain people, that it's kept me keyed up to too high a pitch of goodness. I've got to let down and get into some sort of mischief, or bif! I'll go break!" Betty laughed. "Maybe the changes in the atmosphere affect people as well as fiddle-strings, and it is because it's Hallowe'en, and witches are in the air, that you feel so." It may have been that the faculty were of Betty's opinion, and felt the spell lurking in the atmosphere. Warned by some mysterious "pricking of the thumbs" of coming wickedness, they sought to avert it. It was announced at breakfast that the usual rules would be suspended that night, and that from seven until eleven the resident pupils would be at liberty to observe the customs of Hallowe'en anywhere in the building, and that a spread of nuts, gingerbread, and apples would be furnished in the gymnasium. "Headed off again!" exclaimed one of the larger girls who sat near Lloyd. "It's good of them to grant us such privileges, but we won't have half the fun that we could have had if they hadn't put us on our honour this way. I had planned to slip out and go over to Julia Ferris's to-night. Some of the cadets from the Lyndon military school are coming up. I wouldn't have hesitated a moment if they had shut down on our having some fun here, but now they've treated us so handsomely, even to furnishing a spread, of course I can't go. Hallowe'en is stupid with just a lot of girls--the same old set we've been going with straight along." "We might have a masquerade," suggested Susie Figgs. "That would make us feel as if we were meeting strangers." The suggestion ran along the table like wild-fire, and was so enthusiastically received that Susie felt herself a public benefactor, and beamed with importance the rest of the day. "Oh, what shall _I_ go as?" was the despairing question immediately heard in every quarter, for the time was short in which to improvise costumes. The matron was besieged by distracted borrowers with requests for everything, from a blanket for Pocahontas, to a sunshade and watering-pot for "Mistress Mary, quite contrary." Lloyd's costume cost her little trouble aside from borrowing a horn from one of the children in the neighbourhood; for Mom Beck, coming in with the laundry before school, volunteered her services. In an old chest in the linen-room at Locust were many odds and ends left over from private theatricals and fancy-dress occasions. Mom Beck remembered an old blue velvet skirt that she thought could be made into a suit for Little Boy Blue before night, if Aunt Cindy's daughter would help her with the knickerbockers, and hurried away to begin, carrying Lloyd's measure and a Zouave jacket belonging to one of her summer suits, for a pattern. From that same chest came a dress and hat which Mrs. Sherman had worn in a tableau years before as a Dresden shepherdess, which transformed Betty into the prettiest little Bo-Peep that could be imagined. Allison and Kitty, taking advantage of the relaxed rules, slipped up the stairs before going home after school, to look at the costumes lying spread out on Lloyd's bed. "I think it's a shame that day pupils can't come, too," said Allison, wrathfully. "We're left out all around, for we're not old enough to be invited to Julia Ferris's party. We were going to have a party at our house, but mother and auntie had to go to town to stay all night. Aunt Elise is entertaining some old army officer's wife. So we can't have any fun." "Don't you think that for a moment!" exclaimed Kitty. "Mrs. Mallard said that Katie might come and stay all night with us. Mother telephoned to her just before she started to town." A daring thought popped into Lloyd's mind. "Why don't you come to-night? It's a masquerade. You could slip in heah to our room befoah they unmask, and nobody would evah find out who you were. It couldn't be moah fortunately arranged. Little Elise is in town with yoah mothah, and you could easily slip away from Barbry and the cook. You could sleep in heah with us, and run home early in the mawning befoah anybody was up. I'll unlock the doah at the head of the outside stairs, and you can sneak in back way while we are at suppah." "Oh, how I'd love to!" began Allison, "but I'm sure that mother and Mrs. Mallard wouldn't like it, and--" "Now, Allison," interrupted Kitty, "you know that nobody ever told us _not_ to come, did they? It wouldn't be disobeying unless we'd been forbidden." "All sorts of larks are allowed on Hallowe'en," urged Lloyd. "Not a soul outside of the Shadow Club will know who you are, and it will be such fun to set everybody to guessing who you are and where you've gone, when you suddenly disappear." "Yes, we'll come," said Kitty, seizing Allison by the waist and dancing her toward the door. "I'll take the blame if there is any. Hurry up, old Grandma Prim, we'll have to hustle. We've barely time to run home and eat our supper and get dressed and back here before the affair begins." Kitty's enthusiasm, like an energetic young whirlwind, swept away every objection her sister could offer, and a few minutes later they were on their way home, eagerly discussing with Katie Mallard what costumes they could get ready in an hour. Lloyd, who had followed them to the head of the stairs, turned back to her room with a naughty thrill of enjoyment. This escapade would add a spice of excitement to the evening, and she already tingled with the anticipation of it. There was a mischievous smile on her face as she walked down the hall. But it disappeared as she caught the muffled sound of some one sobbing. She stood still to listen. It seemed to come from Magnolia Budine's room, the door of which stood ajar. Since the day that the old autograph-album had been put into her hands, Lloyd had felt a peculiar interest in the child who prayed every night that some day she might "grow nice enough for the Princess to like her." She had showed this interest by many little attentions which kept Magnolia in a flutter of happiness for hours afterward. Although she still coloured with embarrassment to the roots of her flaxen hair when the Princess stooped to speak to her, she no longer choked and swallowed her chewing-gum. In fact, she no longer chewed, since she noticed that the Princess disdained the habit. It was Elise who confided this fact to Lloyd, and many other things which not only flattered her vanity, but aroused a real affection for the ardent little soul who showed her admiration by copying her in every way possible. "She looks up to me as I look up to Ida," thought Lloyd. "I ought to be good to the poor little thing." As she paused an instant in the hall, wondering whether it would be kinder to go in and offer comfort or to go away showing no sign of having overheard her sobs, it suddenly occurred to her what was the cause of Magnolia's grief. Probably she had no costume for the masquerade. Nothing the huge carpet-bag held could be made into one. There was no one to help her, and she felt left out of the Hallowe'en frolic. Lloyd hesitated no longer. The next moment she was wiping Magnolia's eyes, and restoring her to her usual blushing cheerfulness. "I'll tell you what we'll do," she said. "We'll run over to Clovercroft, and ask Miss Katherine to lend us something. I have to go, anyhow, to borrow a horn. Mrs. Marks told me that I could have one that Buddy left there last summah. He's one of her grandchildren. Miss Katherine is an artist. She has a great big camera in her studio, and takes bettah pictuahs than any professional photographah could, because she thinks of all sorts of beautiful things to pose people for. She gets a medal or a prize every time she places a pictuah on exhibition, and I'm suah she can think of something for you to be." In such a state of rapture that she felt she must be dreaming, Magnolia followed Lloyd down-stairs to ask the principal's permission to go over to Clovercroft. "I know a place where there are two pickets loose," said Lloyd, as they hurried across the lawn. "If you can squeeze through the fence we'll save time. Every minute is precious now." Breathless and panting from their run, the children reached the side door just as the coloured man opened it on his way out for an armful of wood. "Frazer, we want to see Miss Katherine," announced Lloyd, who was enough at home at Clovercroft to know all the servants. "She's in the music-room, Miss Lloyd," he answered. "You all kin walk right in." "Is there any company there? We want to see her alone," said Lloyd, with a dignified air that made Magnolia look at her admiringly. "No'm, jes' she an' her maw, listenin' to Miss Flora play." He held the door open for them to enter, and motioned toward the music-room door, which stood ajar. A bright fire blazed on the white tiled hearth. On one side sat a gentle, sweet-faced lady in black; "Buddy's grandmother," thought Magnolia, as she noticed her gray hair. On the other side, on a low stool, with her hands clasped over her knees, sat Miss Katherine, looking into the embers. The firelight shone on her red dress, and cast a rosy glow to every part of the cheerful room. Both were listening so intently to the soft nocturne that Miss Flora was playing, that Lloyd's knock made them start with surprise. "Well, well! It's the Little Colonel!" exclaimed the lady in black, holding out her hand to welcome her. "Come up to the fire, my dear. Both of you." She smiled reassuringly at Magnolia, who leaned against a chair by the door, staring around her with big blue eyes, like a frightened kitten. Lloyd plunged into her story at once, for the time was too short to stand on ceremony. At the mention of costumes Miss Katherine was all attention, and turned to Magnolia with critical interest. "Suppose you take her hair out of those tight little tails," she suggested "and let me see how long it is." Lloyd obeyed instantly, and the soft, light hair, released from its plaits, stood out in a short, frizzy crop, reaching only a little below her collar. It was very becoming. Lloyd was amazed at the change it made in the child's appearance. "The very thing I want for my Knave of Hearts!" cried Miss Katherine, clasping her hands enthusiastically, and turning toward her mother. "I am illustrating that old jingle about the Queen of Hearts who made some tarts upon a summer day. I've a lovely picture for the queen, but I haven't been able to find a suitable boy for the knave 'who spied those tarts and stole them all away.' But there she stands. Her hair is exactly the right length, and she's so fat and cute that if I can just get her to roll those round blue eyes the way I want them, it will make a perfect love of a picture." "But the costume," suggested Mrs. Marks. "It is so elaborate, and the time is short." Miss Katherine looked at the clock. "One can do wonders in an hour," she said, and burying her face in her hands a moment, she thought intently. "Genius burns," she announced in a moment, looking up at her sister. "Where's that little white duck suit that Lucien outgrew and left here one summer? I saved it for just such an emergency. I'm sure it will fit her." "Packed away in the tower-room," answered Miss Flora. "I know just where to put my hand on it, though. Is there anything else you want while I am up there?" "Yes, some scraps of red velvet if there are any left in the piece-bag. I have everything else we'll need, in the studio. That red canton flannel I sometimes use for draping backgrounds, will make a long flowing cape to hang from the back of his neck and sweep the ground behind him." Magnolia felt as if she were a big doll as she was handed around from one to another in the trying on process, when Miss Flora came back with the suit. It did fit her passably well, and she and Lloyd were set to work at once, cutting out dozens of red velvet hearts. "Makes me think of the time that I was the Queen of Hearts at Gingah's valentine pah'ty, and the old bear that the boys tied to the bedpost frightened us neahly to death," said Lloyd. Snip, snip went both pair of scissors, and as fast as the hearts were cut, Miss Katherine and Miss Flora sewed them on to the little white duck blouse and knickerbockers. Even Mrs. Marks helped, fastening frills of black ribbon and great gilt buckles on some old red house-slippers of Buddy's. It grew dark while they worked. Frazer lighted the lamps and piled more wood on the fire, and Lloyd began to think uneasily that the supper-bell would be ringing at the seminary soon. But in shorter time than seemed possible, everything was done. When Magnolia was led to the long hall mirror to look at herself, she was unable to believe that what she saw was her own reflection. It looked like some bright-coloured illustration taken from a lovely picture-book. Red hearts dotted the white duck suit, and white hearts the long red cape which trailed gracefully from her shoulders. A funny little crown copied in red and white pasteboard from the one they found on the Jack of Hearts in a deck of cards, rested on the short, light hair, curling up around her ears. There were lace ruffles at her wrists, and a tin sword at her side, and in her outstretched hands a little pie-tin, borrowed from the cook. "Turn your head to one side, as if you were looking over your shoulder," commanded Miss Katherine, "and hold the tart up high in front. Now lift your feet and sway back as if you were cake-walking. There, mamma, isn't that a perfect reproduction of the picture in our old Mother Goose? I'm charmed!" The dropping of the tight-waisted, old-fashioned blue dress for this story-book attire changed the child's appearance so completely that she looked into the mirror half-frightened, feeling that her old self had run away from her. But there were Mrs. Marks and Miss Flora exclaiming "How pretty!" and the Princess clapping her hands and fluttering around her, calling out that she was perfectly lovely, and made the darlingest little Knave of Hearts that ever was seen, and Miss Katherine saying that if she would come over the next day at noon she would take her photograph. No one had even called her pretty before, and she had never had her picture taken. Her eyes sparkled and her face lighted up as she turned again to the mirror. "You and Betty come over to-morrow, too," said Miss Katherine to Lloyd, as she buttoned up the blue dress again, so that Magnolia could go back to supper. "I'd like to add Boy Blue and Bo-Peep to my Mother Goose gallery." It was dark when Lloyd and Magnolia squeezed through the fence again and ran up the stairs to the room. As Lloyd passed the portière at the end of the hall she pushed it aside and drew back the bolt, as she had promised Kitty to do. They had barely time to lay their bundles on Magnolia's bed when the supper-bell rang, and they ran down to the dining-room. Lloyd was all aglow with excitement and pleasure over the success of the last hour's work, but Magnolia had shrunk back into the same timid little creature she was before her transformation. She had put her hair back into the tight little tails again before leaving Clovercroft, so that her disguise would be the more complete when she unloosed it and appeared as the little knave. Meantime, Allison and Kitty, hurrying home with their guest, had delighted Norah by a demand for early supper. She and Barbry were expecting some friends from Rollington, a little Irish village near the Valley, and would be glad to be through with their work an hour earlier than usual. "And you needn't light up for us down-stairs, except in the dining-room," said Allison, "for we're going straight to our rooms after supper, and we don't want to be disturbed till to-morrow morning." "Very well, miss," answered Barbry, who, a middle-aged woman, was the most trustworthy of well-trained maids. Mrs. Walton never felt any hesitancy in leaving the children in her care. "And--oh, Barbry," said Allison, as she turned to leave the room. "To-night is Hallowe'en, and they say the witches are out and ghosts rise out of their graves. What is that tale they tell about a ghost that used to be seen about the seminary grounds?" "Sure, an' your mother would be afther gettin' angry if I filled your heads with such nonsense. Who said there was ever a ghost at all in the Valley?" But after much teasing Barbry allowed herself to be persuaded into telling a tale that had been afloat for years, of the little woman in gray who had once owned the land on which the seminary was built. She lived all alone, and was an odd character. Her peculiar mode of living, and the mystery surrounding her death, gave rise to the rumour that her spirit still haunted the seminary grounds. It was said that the little woman never appeared in public without a gray veil, and her wraith was recognized by the long gauzy covering floating loosely back from its face, not gray but white, as more becoming a spirit. No sooner had Barbry finished her tale than Allison beckoned the girls to follow, and led the way up-stairs to the sewing-room. "I thought at first I'd just put a pillow-case over my head and wrap up in a sheet, but I'm going to make the girls think I'm the real article. How will this do?" Taking a roll of cotton from one of the shelves, she pinned it over her hair to make a short white wig, powdered her face till it was as white as the cotton, and over it all threw a long piece of tulle, which she brought from a bureau drawer in her room. "Aunt Elise gave it to me last time I was in town," she said. "She had yards and yards of it that had been used some way in decorating with lilies for a luncheon. Wait till I wrap a sheet around me. Now how do I look?" "Perfectly awful!" exclaimed Kitty, gazing at her in fascinated wonder that flesh and blood could look so truly ghost-like. Katie hid her eyes with a little scream. "Don't look at me that way," she begged. "If you are this terrifying in daylight to people who know who you are, what will you be at night?" Well satisfied with the effect she had produced, Allison folded up the veil, carefully removed the wig, and washed the powder from her face, while Kitty and Katie rummaged in the drawers for some old, long-sleeved gingham aprons that had been discarded long ago. They had decided to go as rag dolls, as that would be the most complete disguise they could think of. Even their hair would be covered, and they would not need to speak. "It will be terribly hot with all that cotton stuffed about our heads and necks," said Katie. "But we'll look _so_ funny. And we must hold ourselves limp and lean up against things or flop over, just as real rag dolls do." "Here are the aprons," cried Kitty, at last. "See? They'll fit up close around the neck and hide the place where the muslin that covers our head is tied on." "I'll paint the faces on you the last thing before we start," said Allison. "Mercy me! Allison!" exclaimed Katie. "We can't walk down past the depot and the store rigged up that way, even if it is dark. Somebody might think we were escaped freaks, and chase us. We ought to wait till we get to the seminary before we dress." "No, there won't be time then, and everybody will know it's only a Hallowe'en frolic. If Kitty wears her golf-cape and you wear mine, and pull the hoods away over your faces, nobody will notice. I'll not dress till afterward, for I'm not going to appear till the middle of the evening. I'm not going to go up to the gymnasium at all, but just glide around on the outskirts and lay a cold finger on some one now and then. I'll get a lump of ice out of the cooler if I can manage to slip into the dining-room. Now if you'll bring me the scissors I'll cut the muslin and fit it over your heads." Mrs. Walton, sorry that her absence would deprive the girls of their anticipated Hallowe'en party, compensated for their disappointment as far as possible by ordering an unusually delicious little supper for them and their guest. "Isn't it too tantalizing!" exclaimed Kitty, when Barbry had left the room for some hot biscuits. "Here's everything I like best, and I'm in such a hurry and so excited that I can hardly choke down a mouthful." "Don't talk, then," commanded Allison. "Just _eat_!" The meal proceeded in silence for a few moments, but the silence itself grew funny as they thought of the ludicrous figures they would soon present, and they began to giggle. The giggles grew into shrieks of laughter a little later, when they had gone up-stairs, and the two rag dolls, all stuffed, painted, and dressed, leaned limply against the wall and leered at each other. Even their hands looked comical, covered in white woollen gloves, each finger held stiffly out from the other. After one glance Allison rolled on the bed, holding her sides, laughing and gasping in turn. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, finally, sitting up and wiping her eyes and then going off into a fresh paroxysm of laughter as she looked at them again. "I never saw anything so funny in my life. The girls will simply shriek when they see you." Norah and Barbry, sitting over their own supper, heard the laughing far down in the kitchen. They looked at each other and smiled, and then, as the contagious sound continued, laughed themselves. The merriment was irresistible. But a little later, busy with their preparations for their coming friends, they did not notice that the house grew strangely still, and that not another sound came from the rooms above all that evening. Kitty's room adjoined Allison's. Bolting the door which opened into her mother's, on the inside, she passed through Allison's with Katie, and out into the hall. Then Allison locked her door on the outside and hid the key under the hall rug. Creeping down the stairs, they stole out at the side door, locked it after them, and hid the key inside a large flower-pot on the porch. "That's safer than carrying it," said Allison. "We'd be sure to lose it, and then we would be in a pretty pickle." The moon, overcast by shifting clouds, was just beginning to throw a faint, ghostly glimmer over the Valley as the girls hurried out. "Let's go back way until we are past grandmother's gate," said Kitty. Edgewood, Mrs. MacIntyre's place, was just across from The Beeches, and some one was strolling up the avenue toward it. "Uncle Harry," whispered Allison, crouching down in the shadow of a tree until he had gone in. Rustling along in the dry leaves, they passed the rear of the cottage next door, the manse, and the little stone church. That brought them out into the wide, open space below the ridge, where the lights gleamed from every window in the Soldiers' Home. The girls drew their hoods closer over their faces as they hurried across the churchyard, out through the iron gate into the road. "It makes me think of the night we had a Hallowe'en party at the haunted house of Hartwell Hollow," said Katie, looking up at the bare branches overhead, which were beginning to toss in the rising wind. Then she clapped a white-gloved hand over her rag mouth to choke back a giggle. Kitty had begun holding her arms in the aimless fashion peculiar to rag dolls, and was walking along as if she had no bones. "For goodness' sake, behave yourself," begged Allison. "Don't get us to laughing out here on the road!" Kitty straightened up as they passed the deserted post-office, and they quickened their pace until they were safely beyond the store and the depot. A moment later they had passed through the woodland gate of Clovercroft, raced along the path below the ice-house, and were squeezing through the gap in the picket fence to the seminary grounds. "They must be almost through supper," whispered Katie, peeping in at one of the dining-room windows, over which the blind had not been entirely drawn. "With all that laughing and talking they'll never hear us go up the stairs. We can make as much noise as we please." A dim light burned in the upper hall, but no lamp was lighted in Betty and Lloyd's room. "Let's not make any," suggested Allison. "They'll think we haven't come. Let's hide and see what they do when they suddenly discover us." As she spoke there was a sound of many feet in the lower hall, then on the stairs, and an unusual buzz of voices. The girls were scattering to their rooms to dress for the masquerade. "Hurry!" gasped Allison, stooping down behind a tall rocking-chair. Kitty rolled under one bed and Katie under the other, and there they lay waiting, trying to stifle the giggles which nearly choked them. CHAPTER VII. THE HALLOWE'EN MASQUERADE "I'LL make a light," said Betty, groping across the room with a handful of matches which she had taken from the box in the hall. Lloyd started to follow, but, stumbling over a footstool, felt her way to the bed and sat down on the edge of it to wait for a light. On the way up from supper she had started to repeat a funny story which she had heard at Clovercroft that afternoon, and she kept on with it as Betty, having found her way to the table, struck a match. But she stopped again, as the match went out with a sudden puff, as if a strong draught had blown it. "There! It never fails to do that when I'm in a hurry," exclaimed Betty, striking another match as she spoke. It was extinguished as suddenly as the first. She tried another and another with the same result. "How strange!" she said, wonderingly. "There isn't a window open anywhere, is there?" "It's the witches," declared Lloyd, laughing. "There must be one standing there by yoah elbow." The laugh ended in a piercing shriek as she felt something clutch her ankle. "Murdah! Murdah!" she yelled. "Ow! There's something awful undah the bed! It grabbed me by the foot! Ow! Ow!" "Hush up, goosey!" commanded a familiar voice, and as Betty struck her fifth and last match, which burned steadily, they saw Allison dashing to the door to lock it. Doors were opening all along the corridors, and footsteps hurrying from every direction in response to Lloyd's terrified cry. "Tell them that it's all right! That it's only a Hallowe'en scare," demanded Allison, in a stage whisper. "Don't let them in. I blew out the matches, and it's only Kitty and Katie under the beds." "It's all right," called Lloyd, in a quavering tone, but the matron's knock was imperative, and Betty, beckoning the girls frantically toward the closet, fumbled with the bolt until they had whisked into hiding. The one brief glimpse of the rag dolls, falling over each other in their mad haste to escape, was so comical that both Lloyd and Betty were choking with laughter when the matron entered. They could hardly control their voices while they tried to tell her how the matches had gone out and Lloyd had imagined that there were witches in the room. Smiling indulgently at their foolishness, which she attributed to the excitement of the occasion, the matron withdrew. She could hear them still laughing when she passed through the hall again, several minutes later, for the rag dolls, coming out of the closet as soon as she disappeared, began taking one ridiculous pose after another, in the middle of the floor. The solemn silence in which they struck their limp, boneless attitudes, made the scene all the funnier, and as the girls looked at the surprised expressions Allison had painted on the flat muslin faces, they went into such hysterical laughter that the tears streamed down their faces. "Oh, girls, _do_ stop!" begged Lloyd, finally, wiping her eyes. "I've laughed till I ache, and it's time for me to dress, for I promised Magnolia to help her into her costume." Katie and Kitty subsided into a heap on the divan. "Could you have told who we were if you hadn't known we were coming?" asked Katie. "Never in the world," answered Betty. "I couldn't tell which is which now, if it were not for your voices." "We're not going to say a word to any one," said Katie. "We oughtn't to talk, you know, if we carry out our part as it should be. We'll slip up into the gymnasium pretty soon, and be sitting on the floor in a corner when the others come up. We'll lop around and watch the fun till the unmasking begins, then we'll come down here and wait for the rest of you." All the time they had been performing, Allison had been busy before the mirror, and now turned around in her spectral attire. "The ghost of the veiled lady!" cried Lloyd. "Oh, Allison, yoah make-up is splendid. You're enough to freeze the blood in one's veins. There couldn't be anything moah spooky-looking than that thin tulle veil. I wish Mom Beck could see you. I've heard her talking about that queah little woman whose house used to stand where the seminary cellah is dug now, till I couldn't close my eyes at night. All the darkies believe she still haunts the place." Betty had never heard the story, so Allison repeated it while she dressed, adding, "You two must do all you can to spread the report that I'm lurking around. You have seen me yourself, you know. If I had my lump of ice, you'd soon feel the touch of my clammy fingers. I wish you'd give me a piece of newspaper to wrap it in, Betty. Then it won't drip." "I wish we could carry a lump of ice around with us," gasped Kitty. "All this cotton packed around my head and neck makes me so hot I can scarcely breathe." * * * * * Miss Edith and Mrs. Clelling, putting the finishing touches to the decorations in the gymnasium, looked around, well pleased. A score of jack-o'-lanterns grinned sociably from the brackets between the windows. Two more kept guard on each side of the piano, and at least a dozen lighted the long table stretched across one end of the room, on which the spread was arranged. Graceful sprays of bittersweet-vine trailed their bright berries over the white cloth. A huge pumpkin-bowl piled with grapes formed the centrepiece. A pitcher of sweet cider stood at each end, and nuts, persimmons, pop-corn balls, gingerbread, and apples filled all the space between. "It is well worth the trouble," said Miss Edith, lighting the last candle. "The girls will enjoy it thoroughly." Some one called both teachers from the room just then, and in their absence two uninvited guests, who had been waiting behind the door, hurried in and seated themselves on the floor in the dimmest corner. "I should say it _is_ worth the trouble," whispered one rag doll to the other, as they looked around the room at the fantastic decorations. "It's lots more fun coming here this way, than having the party at home, and it's more fun than if we'd been invited." "I'm nearly roasted," panted the other one, "but I'm glad I'm here. Oh, how pretty!" It was the entrance of one of the older girls in court train and powdered hair that caused the exclamation, and while they were trying to guess who it could be, the others began to arrive. Old King Cole and Pocahontas came in arm in arm, followed by Red Riding Hood and a brownie, while Puss in Boots proudly escorted Aladdin with his lamp. Little Bo-Peep and Boy Blue were soon recognized, for Betty had made no attempt to hide the brown curls which helped to make her such a pretty little Dresden shepherdess; and while Lloyd had gathered up her long, light hair under the wide-brimmed hat with its blue ribbon, every graceful gesture and every step she took, holding herself erect with a proud lifting of the head, proclaimed the Little Colonel. For once in her short life, little Magnolia Budine tasted the sweets of social success, for no one there was more popular or more admired than the saucy Knave of Hearts. With the putting on of the costume she had put on a courage and self-possession that never could have been assumed with the old-fashioned tight-waisted blue merino and the stiff short tails of hair. Grasping the stolen tart firmly in her chubby hands, and lifting the little slippers with their huge bows and buckles in the high, mincing step Miss Katherine had taught her, she swaggered coquettishly up and down the room, her red mantle sweeping behind her. Wherever she went a flock of admiring girls crowded around her. For many a month afterward her red and white crown hung over her mirror, not only as a souvenir of the jolly revel, but as a token that for one night, at least, she had found favour in the eyes of the Princess. Not only had Lloyd circled around her when she was dressed, exclaiming again that she looked perfectly lovely, but when they chose partners for the ghost-walk, to march solemnly through the halls to the slow music of the Dead March, the Princess had chosen her. Lloyd had looked around for Ida, who had come as a Puritan Maid; but the cap and kerchief were nowhere to be seen. She had evidently grown tired of the affair and gone to her room. [Illustration: "'THIS LITTLE KNAVE MUST BE MY PARTNER.'"] Magnolia did not know that she was second choice. Her cup of happiness was overflowing when Boy Blue turned away from Aladdin and Red Riding Hood, who were both trying to claim her, and said, "No, this little Knave must be my partner. He has stolen my heart as well as the queen's tarts." In their corner near the piano Kitty and Katie sat stiffly against the wall, seemingly incapable of moving themselves. Several times some of the larger girls made an attempt to lift them, and in whatever position they fell when they were dropped, they lay with hands thrust out and heads lolling to one side. There was a laughing crowd around them continually. "Oh, my country!" gasped Katie, as the first solemn chords of the Dead March struck her ear and all light in the room was suddenly extinguished except what gleamed from the eyes and mouths of the jack-o'-lanterns. "They've gone and dragged in old Sally, the skeleton. It's bad enough to hear her bones rattle in the physiology class in the daytime; but this is more than I bargained for." "Now is the time for us to go," whispered Kitty. "They'll unmask soon. We've seen how they all look and set them to guessing, and we'd better miss the refreshments than run the risk of being discovered." Katie eyed the table wishfully. "It seems a pity to miss all that spread. Couldn't we creep around the wall to the far side and slip something into our apron pockets? The cloth is so long it would hide us." "What's to hinder our getting under the table and staying through the whole performance?" suggested Kitty. "The cloth comes nearly to the floor, and I don't believe anybody would think of looking under it. Then we could hear them wonder who we are and where we've disappeared to when they unmask and we are missing." "Quick, then, while their backs are turned!" exclaimed Katie, not waiting to consider consequences or means of escape later in the evening. Slowly, solemnly, with measured tread, the long procession filed by, and, wheeling to the music, started back toward the other end of the long gymnasium. Creeping on hands and knees, fearful lest some backward glance might discover them should they stand erect, the two girls, like wary mice, scuttled across the room and disappeared under the sheltering table-cloth. Grown bold with their successful venture, Kitty proposed that each time the procession turned away from them, they should reach out and grab something from the table. It was an exciting performance. Time after time, as the motley figures turned their backs, two ludicrous heads popped up above the table, and four white woollen gloves clawed hastily at different dishes. When the marauders dropped from sight the last time, there was a goodly store of provisions gathered up in each gingham apron. "I wouldn't have missed this for anything," giggled Katie some time later, when the unmasking began, and the girls crowded around the table for nuts and apples with which to try their fortunes. In such a babel of voices there was no danger of being overheard. "Listen! we can tell from the different remarks who every one represented," they whispered to each other. "Oh, Evelyn Ward, I knew all the time that you were the court lady. I recognized your rings." "That's what fooled me about Aladdin. Susie Figgs had changed rings with Ada." "Well, I guessed nearly everybody the first half-hour, except those ridiculous rag dolls. Does anybody know where they have gone?" That started the discussion the two under the table had been waiting for, and the various guesses, falling wide of the mark, were so amusing that their mirth nearly betrayed their hiding-place. Once they thought their discovery was certain. They had been feeding themselves from the store of provisions in their aprons as well as the size of their muslin mouths would allow. The mouths had been only small slits at first, but they had stretched and torn them with their fingers until they were large enough to allow them to take a good-sized bite of apple. As they sat there, munching nuts and pop-corn, Kitty whispered, "We're like the man in the verse: "'There was a young man so benighted, He never knew when he was slighted. He went to a party, And ate just as hearty As if he'd been really invited.'" Katie tried hard not to laugh, but the effort ended in a snort, and she almost choked on a grain of pop-corn. If some one had not upset a jack-o'-lantern just then and started a wild scramble to put out the candle before it burned the cloth, the unbidden guests must certainly have been discovered. Gradually the crowd around the table dwindled away, as little groups gathered in different parts of the room, intent on various ways of fortune-telling. Having eaten all they could, and not being able to hear anything more of interest, the girls under the table began to grow tired of their position. Moreover, the heat of their costumes seemed to grow more unbearable every minute. "We're in a trap," groaned Katie. "How we are ever going to make our escape is--" Kitty never heard the rest of the sentence, for half a dozen girls, who had ventured down the cellar steps with candle and looking-glass, came bursting into the room almost hysterical with fright. Breathless from their headlong race up three flights of stairs, they gasped out their news in broken sentences, each voice in a different key. "Oh, a real ghost! None of your sheet and pillow-case affairs!" "White hair and a face like marble and a long floating veil!" "And it clutched Mary Phillips with fingers that were like the dead! Didn't it, Mary?" "No, it didn't come out of the cellar. It just _appeared_!" "The most awful wail as it vanished!" "The cook saw it earlier in the evening, floating away toward the graveyard, not walking, you know, but _floating_! About a foot above the ground!" "Allison has evidently had as much fun as anybody," whispered Kitty. "Oh, will you listen! There goes Lloyd vowing it's the spirit of the veiled lady, and that she saw it twice this evening." "And Betty, too! That will convince them if anything could. Betty is always so serious in the way she tells things." "Now is the time to go, while they're all so excited and in the other end of the room," whispered Kitty. "Let's make a wild dash for the door nearest us, bang it behind us, and blow out the hall light. Then we can slide down the banister, put out the light in the lower hall, and be safe in the west wing before they come to their senses. Now, ready!" It was a daring move, but it proved successful. Every one heard a scramble, and turned in time to see two crouching figures dash into the hall. They were too startled to know whether they were human or not. Somebody screamed when the door banged violently, and Mary Phillips, who had been in a tremble ever since her flight from the cellar, was nearly paralyzed with fright. She clutched her nearest neighbour, wailing, "Oh, what is it?" By the time matches were brought and the lamps were relit, Katie and Kitty were safely locked in Lloyd's room, tearing off their disguises and wiping the perspiration from their flushed faces. For a few minutes they waited, half-expecting that a search would be made, but as time went on and no one ventured into that part of the house, they began to try the Hallowe'en charms that they could not take part in up-stairs. When Allison came in half an hour later, she found them whirling apple parings around their heads and flinging them over their shoulders, to see what initials they would form in falling. By the time Allison had washed the powder from her face and picked the cotton from her hair, Lloyd and Betty came in. It seemed as if they could never settle down enough to think of sleep. There was so much to talk over. Allison curled up on the divan, announcing that it was not worth while to undress, as it would soon be time for them to start home. Kitty and Katie followed her example, appropriating Lloyd's single bed. Lloyd and Betty took the other one, and they lay whispering until midnight. Just as the clock struck twelve Lloyd got up and lighted a candle. Five eggs, which she had boiled in the chafing-dish earlier in the evening, lay on a plate on the table. The yolks had been removed and the space filled with salt. According to a previous agreement, each girl got up and took one of the eggs. Standing in the middle of the floor in solemn silence they ate them stoically, although the salt burned and choked them. Then without a drop of water afterward, they walked backward to bed. According to the charm, whatever they dreamed after that performance would come true, and unless they were to be old maids, some one would appear in their dreams bearing a cup of water. That one would be their "fate." None of the five slept soundly that night. The salt made them thirsty, the crowded quarters restless. Allison wakened every time a rooster crowed or a dog barked, because she felt that the responsibility of getting home before Barbry wakened rested upon her. Once when she was about to sink into a delicious doze, the shrill whistle of a locomotive aroused her to the consciousness that the early freight-train was rumbling past the depot. Opening her eyes she saw that the gray dawn was beginning to steal over the Valley. With a groan she sat up and stumbled across the room to arouse the others. She had to shake Kitty several times, and when she at last staggered to her feet she yawningly quoted old Aunt Cindy's expression, that she was "as tired as a thousand of dawgs," and vowed she could never get home unless she was dragged there. Katie complained of a headache and a miserable "after the ball" feeling. It was a sorry-looking little trio which finally stumbled down the back stairs and out into the frosty dawn. Not a word was spoken on the way home. In silence they slipped up the stairs at The Beeches; in silence they undressed and crept into bed, and three hours later, when Barbry came as usual to call them, she knocked half a dozen times before she succeeded in arousing them. CHAPTER VIII. THE PRINCESS OF THE PENDULUM THERE were literary exercises in the chapel the following Friday afternoon. It was the day for the reading of the _Seminary Star_, a monthly paper to which all the grades contributed. As a humourous account of the Hallowe'en celebrated was to be one of the chief features, spiced by many personal allusions, its appearance was looked for eagerly. Little Magnolia Budine was the only one in the room impatient for the exercises to close. She sat near a front window looking out at every sound of approaching wheels, to see if the old carryall had stopped at the high green gate in front of the seminary. She had been hoping all afternoon that her father would come for her earlier than usual, and she half-expected that he would. The chill November days were short, and she knew that he would want to reach home before dark. It was not that she failed to appreciate the interesting articles in the _Star_, but she was in a hurry for the ten-mile drive to be over. The reason for her impatience was packed away in the old carpet-bag, waiting outside in the hall. Unless she reached home before dark, a certain pleasure she had in store would have to be delayed till morning. So intent was she on listening for the sound of wheels, that she failed to hear the title of a short poem, which one of the editors announced as written by E. L. L. When Elise nudged her, whispering, "That's about you, Maggie," she turned with a start and blush to find every one looking at her. She was so confused she heard only the last verse: "Not only did he steal the tarts Made by the gracious queen, He captured all the schoolgirls' hearts-- That little knave--on Hallowe'en." The applause which followed was loud and long. Her heart gave a proud, glad throb at this public compliment, but her face felt as if it were on fire, and she longed to drop under her desk out of sight. It was just at this moment that Mrs. Clelling told her in a low tone that her father had come and she might be excused. How she ever got to the door with all those eyes fastened on her was more than she could tell. She felt as if each foot weighed a ton, and that she was an hour travelling the short space. Snatching her hat from the cloak-room and pinning a big gray shawl around her, she caught up the carpet-bag and ran down to the gate. An occasional snowflake, like a downy white feather, floated through the air. The wind was raw and damp, and she was glad to climb in behind the sheltering curtains of the old carryall and lean up against her father's rough, warm overcoat. "Well, Puss, how goes it?" he asked, pulling an old bedquilt up over his knees and tucking it well around her. "_Fine_, daddy!" she answered, squeezing his arm in both her mittened hands and snuggling up to him like a contented kitten. "I think now it's the nicest school in the world, and I like it better and better every day." "Got a good report this week?" "Yes, I haven't missed a single word in spelling. Mrs. Clelling had to show me nearly two hours about borrowing in subtraction, but I don't have any more trouble with it now, and I had a longer list of adjectives on my language-paper than anybody else in the class." There was a look of pride in the old farmer's weather-beaten face. He had had little education himself. He had barely learned to read and write in the few short terms he had been able to attend school when he was a boy. He couldn't have told an adjective from any other part of speech, and his wonder at her amount of learning was all the greater on that account. He patted her hand affectionately. "That's right! That's right!" he exclaimed. "The family's dependin' on you, Puss, to do us all credit." Then he began repeating what she had heard a hundred times before. He never failed to tell her the same story as they jogged homeward every Friday night and back again the following Monday morning. She had heard it so often that it sounded in her ears like the familiar refrain of an old song to which she need pay no heed. She only waited patiently until he had finished. "The older children didn't have no chance when they was young like you. We were too far away from the public schools to send 'm except just a spell spring and fall, and we couldn't afford the pay schools, but after we moved up here and Marthy got married and Tom and Hilliard was big enough to do for 'emselves and getting good wages, times was easier. Ma says to me, 'We'll give the baby a fair start in the world, anyhow,' and I says, 'She'll have the best diplomy that Lloydsboro Seminary can give if I have to carry her there and home again on my back every day till she gets it.'" There was much more in the same strain to which Magnolia listened, waiting for her turn to speak, as one would wait for an alarm clock to run down when it was striking. The moment he paused she began, eagerly, "I've got something right now that mammy will be proud to see." Diving under the quilt for the carpet-bag, she opened it and took out a book which lay on top of her clothes. "Now put on your spectacles, daddy," she ordered, gaily, "or maybe you won't be able to tell who it is." She slipped a photograph from the book and held it up before him. Holding the reins between his knees, he pulled off one glove, felt in various pockets, and finally fished up a pair of steel-bowed spectacles, which he slowly adjusted. "Miss Katherine Marks took it," she explained, "and she painted it afterward, so you can tell exactly how I looked at the masquerade-party." "If it ain't my little magnolia blossom!" exclaimed the old man, proudly, holding the beautifully tinted photograph off at arm's length for a better view. "Wherever did you get all those fine gew-gaws? Why, Puss, you're prettier than a posy. Sort of fanciful and trimmed up, but that's your little face natural as life. I should say your mammy will be proud!" It took all the time while they were driving the next six miles for Magnolia to tell of that memorable afternoon and night. How Lloyd Sherman had taken her over to Clovercroft, and all the Marks family had helped to make her costume. How beautiful it was, and how the girls had praised it, and even published a poem about her in the _Seminary Star_; and next day Miss Katherine had taken her picture, and the day after that had sent for her to come over to her studio, and had given her a copy of it to take home. "Seems to me as if we ought to do something nice for those people who have been so kind to you," said her father, musingly, when she had told him the whole story. "You say if it hadn't been for Miss Katherine you'd have had to miss the party. If you'd have missed that you wouldn't have had that poetry about you in the paper. I'm proud of that, Puss. Seems as if my little girl is mighty popular--a sort of celebrity, to get into the paper. I'd like to show that young lady that I appreciate what she's done to make you happy. I wonder how she'd like a crock of your mammy's apple butter. There ain't no better apple butter in all Oldham County, and I should think she'd be glad to get it. I'll speak about it when we get home, and if your mammy's willing, I'll carry a crock of it to the young lady when I take you back to school Monday morning." Magnolia was not sure of the propriety of such a gift, and he turned the matter over in his slow mind all the rest of the way home. They jogged along in silence, for she also was busy with her thoughts. She was thinking of another picture in the library book which she had not showed her father. It was an unmounted photograph of Lloyd Sherman which Miss Katherine had taken the year before. She had photographed all the children who took part in the play of the "Rescue of the Princess Winsome," and they were arranged on a panel on her studio wall. There were several of Lloyd; one at the spinning-wheel, one with her arms around Hero's neck, and one with the knight kneeling to take her hand from the old king's. But the most beautiful one of all was the one of the Dove Song. That picture hung by itself. It was just a little medallion, showing the head of the Princess with the white dove nestled against her shoulder. The fair hair with its coronet of pearls made a halo around the sweet little face, and Magnolia stood gazing at it as if it had been the picture of an angel. She had no eyes for anything else in the studio, and Miss Flora, seeing her gaze of rapt admiration, looked across at her sister and smiled significantly. "Haven't you a copy of that you could give her, Katherine?" she asked, in a low tone. "I never saw a child's face express such wistful longing. It makes me think of some of the little waifs I have seen at Christmas time, gazing hungrily into the shop windows at the toys and bon-bons they know can never be for them." Miss Katherine opened a table drawer, and, after searching a few minutes among the unmounted photographs it contained, took out one, regarding it critically. "This was a trifle too light to suit me," she said, "but too good to destroy." She crossed the room and held it out to Magnolia, who still stood gazing at its duplicate on the wall. Such a look of rapture came into the child's face when it was finally made clear to her that she was to have the picture to keep that no one noticed the omission of spoken thanks. She was too embarrassed to say anything, but she took it as if it were something sacred. "I suppose because Lloyd happens to be the goddess just now to whom she burns incense," said Miss Katherine when she had gone. "These little schoolgirl affairs are very amusing sometimes. They're so intense while they last." Maggie could not have told why she did not show the picture of the Princess to her father. In an undefined sort of way she felt that he would look at it as he would look at the picture of any little girl, and that he would not understand that she was so much finer and better and more beautiful and different in every way from all the other girls in the world. But Corono would understand. For two days Magnolia had looked forward to the pleasure of showing it to her. "Can't you get old Dixie out of a walk, daddy?" she exclaimed at last. "I'm mighty anxious to get home before sundown. I want to stop at Roney's with this library book, and show her the picture, too." Aroused from his reverie the old farmer clucked to his horse, and they went bumping down the stony pike at a gait which satisfied even Maggie's impatient desire for speed. "I reckon Roney will be mighty glad to see you," he remarked, as he stopped the horse in front of an old cabin a short distance from his own home. "She's been worse this week. You'll have half an hour yet before sundown," he added, as he turned the wheel for her to climb out of the carryall. "I'll stay till supper-time," she called back over her shoulder, "for I have so much to tell her this week." With the library book tucked away under the old gray shawl, she ran down the straggling path to the little whitewashed cabin. Roney would understand. Roney had always understood things from the time they had first been neighbours on a lonely farm near Loretta. That was when Magnolia was a baby, and Corono, six years older, without a playmate and without a toy, had daily borrowed her and played with her as if she had been a great doll. It was Corono who had discovered her first tooth, and who had coaxed her to take her first step, and had taught her nearly everything she knew, from threading a needle and tying a knot, to spelling out the words on the tombstones in the nuns' graveyard. Corono could often tell what she was thinking about, even before she said a word. She was the only one at home to whom Magnolia ever mentioned the Princess. Several years before the two families had moved away together from the old place. In that time Corono's mother had died, and her father had become so crippled with rheumatism that he could no longer manage to do the heavy work on the farm he had rented. They were glad to accept their old neighbour's offer of an empty cabin on his place. After that, when Corono was not at the farmhouse helping Mrs. Budine with her cleaning or sewing or pickle-making, Magnolia was at the cabin, following at the little housekeeper's very heels, as she went about her daily tasks. But now for several months Corono had been barely able to drag from one room to another. Whether it was a fall she had had in the early summer which injured her back, or whether it was some disease of the spine past his skill to discover, the doctor from the crossroads could not decide. Her father had to be housekeeper now, and they would have had meagre fare oftentimes, had not a generous share of every pie and pudding baked in the Budine kitchen found its way to their table. The weeks would have been almost unbearably monotonous to Corono after Magnolia started to school had she not looked forward to the Fridays, when her return meant the bringing of a new library book, and another delightfully interesting chapter of her life at the seminary. These glimpses into a world so different from her own gave her something to think about all week, as she dragged wearily about, trying to help her father in his awkward struggles with the cooking and cleaning. She thought about them at night, too, when the pain in her back kept her awake. Betty and Lloyd and Allison, Kitty and Elise and Katie Mallard, were as real to her as they were to Maggie. They would have stared in astonishment could they have known that every week a sixteen-year-old girl, whom they had never seen, and of whom they had barely heard, was waiting to ask a dozen eager questions about them. Maggie ran in without knocking, bringing such a breath of fresh air and fresh interest with her that Corono's face brightened instantly. She was lying on the bed with a shawl thrown over her. "I've been listening for you for more than an hour," said Corono, propping herself up on her elbow. "I thought the time never would pass. I counted the ticking of the clock, and then I tried to see how much of Betty's play I could repeat. I've read it so many times this week that I know it nearly all by heart." She picked up the book which lay beside her on the bed. It was the library copy of "The Rescue of the Princess Winsome," which Maggie had brought to her the previous Friday. It had been in such constant demand since the opening of school that she had been unable to obtain it earlier. Maggie, about to plunge into an account of her Hallowe'en experiences, checked herself as Corono winced with pain and her face grew suddenly white. "What's the matter?" she asked, sympathetically. "Do you feel very bad?" To her astonishment Corono buried her face in her pillow to hide the tears that were trickling down her cheeks, and began to sob. "I'll run get mammy," said the frightened child, who had never seen Corono give way to her feelings in such fashion before. "No, don't!" she sobbed. "I'll be all right--in a minute. I'm just nervous--from the pain--I haven't slept much--lately!" Maggie sat motionless, afraid to make any attempt at consolation, even so much as patting her cheek with her plump little hand. Roney was the one who had always comforted _her_. She did not know what to do, now that their positions were suddenly reversed. She was relieved when Roney presently wiped her eyes and said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, "There! You never saw me make a baby of myself before! Did you! But I couldn't help it. Sometimes when it gets this way I wish I could die. But I've just _got_ to keep on living for daddy's sake. I don't suppose any one ever told you, and you couldn't understand unless you knew. "It's this way. My mother's family never wanted her to marry daddy, and they disowned her when she did, because he wasn't educated and rich and all that, as they were. They never spoke to her afterward, but when my grandfather came to die, I reckon he was sorry for the way he'd done, for he wanted to send for her. It was too late, though. She had died that spring. Then he tried to make it up in a way, by being good to me, and he left me an annuity. I can't explain to you just what that is, but every year as long as I live his lawyer is to pay me some money. It isn't much, but it is all that daddy and I have had to live on since he hasn't been able to work. When I die the money will stop coming, so I feel that I _must_ keep on living even when every breath is agony, as it is sometimes. I don't think I can stand it much longer. There are days when I just have to grit my teeth and say I _won't_ give up! I will hang on for poor daddy's sake. Sometimes I believe that is all that keeps me alive." She stopped abruptly, seeing the tears of distress in Maggie's eyes, and made an attempt to laugh. "There!" she exclaimed. "Now that I've poured out all my troubles and eased my mind, I feel better. Tell me about the girls. What have they been doing this week?" Much relieved, Maggie produced the photograph of herself, and began an enthusiastic account of her Hallowe'en experiences. She began with the visit to Clovercroft, and as she described the handsomely furnished music-room, with its luxurious rugs and grand piano, and the priceless pictures that had been brought from over the sea, its lace curtains and white tiled hearth and andirons that shone like gold, it seemed to her that the little cabin had never looked so bare. Its chinked walls and puncheon floor stood out in pitiful contrast. The only picture in the room was an unframed chromo tacked above the mantel. As she described the masquerade frolic, she contrasted Roney's lonely shut-in life with her own and the other girls' at the seminary. A realization of its meagreness and emptiness stole over her till she could hardly keep the tears back. A great longing sprang up in her warm little heart to do something that would compensate as far as possible for all that she had missed. Acting on that impulse, as she reached the climax of her story and drew out the cherished photograph of the Princess, she thrust it into Roney's hand, saying, hurriedly, "Here, you can have it, Roney. I'd rather you would have it than me." Corono held the picture eagerly, studying every detail of the beautiful little medallion. The fair hair with its coronet of pearls, the white dove nestled against her shoulder, as she had held it when she sang "Flutter and fly, flutter and fly, bear him my heart of gold,"--all seemed doubly attractive now with the play fresh in her mind. Besides, it was the most beautiful picture she had ever seen in all the sixteen years of her lonely, unsatisfied life. The intuition that always helped her to understand her little friend made her understand now in a way that the gift meant a sacrifice, and she exclaimed, impulsively, "Oh, Maggie! I don't feel as if I ought to take it from you. You keep it, and just lend it to me once in awhile." "No, I want you to have it," said Maggie, drawing the old shawl up around her. "Goodness me! It's getting dark. I'll have to run," and before Corono could make another protest she rushed away. As she ran along the path that crossed the pasture between the cabin and the farmhouse, there was a tremulous smile on her face, but the faint twilight also showed tears in her eyes. The smile was for the joy she knew she had given Roney, but the tears were for herself. Nobody knew how much of a sacrifice she had made in giving up the picture of the Princess. Even Roney had not guessed how great it was. But she had no regret next morning when she came back to the cabin. Roney greeted her eagerly. "Look!" she cried, pointing to the old wooden clock which stood on the mantel. "I didn't have a frame to put the picture in, and I was afraid it would get spoiled without glass over it. While I was looking around the room wondering what to do, I happened to notice that it was the same size as the pendulum. Daddy lifted it down for me, and I fastened the picture on that. So there it is all safe and sound behind the glass door, and I can see it from any part of the room. "And, oh, Maggie, you don't know how it helped me last night. It made the play seem so real to me. As I lay here watching the pendulum, it stopped saying 'Tick tock, tick tock.' It seemed to me that the Princess was looking straight at me, saying, instead, '_For love--will find--a way!_' Then I knew that she meant me. That love would help me bear the pain for daddy's sake; that my living along as bravely as I could was like spinning the golden thread, and that I mustn't think about the great skein that the weeks and months were piling up ahead for me to do; I must just spin a minute at a time. I can stand the pain when I count it with the pendulum. Even when the fire died down and I couldn't see her any longer, I could hear her saying it over and over, 'For love--will find--a way.' And I lay there in the dark and pretended that I was a princess, too, spinning love's golden thread, and that my dove was a little white prayer that I could send fluttering up to God, asking him to help me find the way to be brave and patient, and to hang on to life as long as I possibly can for daddy's sake." Little did the Shadow Club dream that day how far their shadow-selves were reaching. But Betty's song brought comfort and courage for many an hour into Roney's lonely life, and the greatest solace in her keenest suffering was the smiling face of the Princess, swaying back and forth upon the pendulum. CHAPTER IX. ONE RAINY AFTERNOON THAT same Saturday afternoon following the Hallowe'en frolic, while Maggie rehearsed the whole affair once more in the cabin, the Shadow Club discussed it at the seminary. They had met early, for Lloyd and Betty had asked permission to make candy in their room, and in order to finish the amount of work they had planned to do at each meeting, it was necessary for them to begin immediately after dinner. It was a dull November day, cloudy and damp, and while they were settling themselves to work, the rain began to patter against the window-panes. "How cosy and shut-in it makes you feel!" exclaimed Katie, looking around on the bright, comfortable room. "We are shut in," answered Lloyd. "The Clark girls and Magnolia have gone home to stay ovah Sunday, and we have this whole wing to ourselves. Nobody can heah us, no mattah how loud we talk." "Let's put up the sign, 'No admittance. Busy,' on the corridor door leading into our hall," suggested Ida. "On a rainy afternoon like this, when the girls can't get out-doors, they're more apt to go visiting, and we don't want to be interrupted." "That's so," agreed Lloyd. Hastily scribbling the notice on an envelope, she ran out and fastened it on the door with a pin. "Now we're safe," she announced on her return, and settled herself comfortably among the cushions of the window-seat. For half an hour their needles and brushes were plied rapidly, as they chattered and laughed over the various remarks they had heard about the mysterious Hallowe'en guests. Who they were still remained an unsolved riddle in the school. Presently Ida dropped her embroidery-hoops and leaned back in her chair yawning. "Oh, I'm in no mood for work of this kind! My silks snarl, my needle keeps coming unthreaded, and I stick myself nearly every time I take a stitch. I'm making such a mess of it I'd stop only I don't want to shirk my part when you are all working so faithfully. When my embroidery acts this way it makes me so nervous I could scream." "Why don't you do some more burnt-work instead?" suggested Katie. "I'm out of leather. The last lot I sent for hasn't come." "You might read to us while we work," suggested Betty. "There's a new _St. Nicholas_ on the table." "Yes, do," insisted Allison. "Mother said this morning that she thought it would be a fine plan for us to take up some good book and read it in turn while we work." As all the girls agreed, Ida picked up the magazine and began turning the leaves. "What will you have?" she asked. "This scientific article doesn't look very entertaining, and this football story wouldn't interest anybody but boys. We can't plunge into the middle of this serial without having read the first chapters, and, judging from the illustrations and the name of this girl's story, it is anything but wildly exciting." She glanced hastily over the remaining pages, and then laid the magazine aside. "I wonder," she said, hesitatingly, "if any of you have ever read a book I have in my room, called 'The Fortunes of Daisy Dale.' It's the sweetest thing; I nearly cried my eyes out over part of it. Of course it's a novel, and some people object to them unless they're by some great writer like Thackeray or Scott. I know my aunt does. But I don't see how this could hurt anybody. It's about a dear little English girl whose guardian kept her almost like a prisoner, so that he could use her money. She had such a hard time that she ran away and got a place as a governess when she was only sixteen. She had all sorts of trouble and misunderstandings, but it ends happily. All the way through she has such a beautiful influence on young Lord Rokeby and Guy Wolvering, the squire's son, who is so wild that his father threatens to disinherit him. It is his love for her that finally reforms him. Her influence over him is a living illustration of the motto of our club." "Then let's read it," proposed Allison, eagerly. "Oh, yes, go get it, Ida," called Lloyd and Kitty in the same breath. "That is, if you don't mind reading it twice yourself," added Betty. "No, indeed!" answered Ida, rising. "I could read it a dozen times and never tire of it." In a moment she was back from her room, carrying the book in one hand and dragging a rocking-chair behind her with the other. She drew it up to one of the windows, and pushing the curtains farther aside, sat down and began to read, to the pattering accompaniment of the rain-drops on the pane. She was a good reader, the best in the seminary, and her well modulated voice would have lent a charm to any story; but the expression she threw into this made it seem as if she were recounting her own personal troubles. She had not read half a chapter before Lloyd understood why it seemed so. Ida was putting herself in Daisy Dale's place. Instead of the unjust guardian there was the unreasonable aunt. Instead of the squire's son, Edwardo; and the stolen meetings and the smuggled letters and the pearl Daisy wore in secret recalled the confidences of the night in the orchard, and many that had been whispered to her since. The Shadow Club forgot where they were presently. They ceased to notice that the cold rain drove faster and faster against the windows. They were treading a winding path across a sunny English meadow with Daisy and her lover. It was June-time where they wandered. The hawthorn hedges were budding white, and even the crevices of the old stone wall flaunted its bloom wherever a cluster of "London pride" could find a foothold. In a little while Katie's crochet-work slipped into her lap unheeded. With chin in hands and elbows on her knees, she leaned forward, listening with rapt attention. Betty laid down her embroidery-hoops, and Kitty and Allison stopped painting. It was a wild, stormy night now, and they were suffering with Daisy, as with clasped hands and streaming eyes she turned her back on her old home, driven out to seek her own living by her guardian's unbearable tyranny. Lloyd's cheeks burned redder and redder as the story went on, and Daisy Dale, established as governess at Cameron Hall, again met Guy Wolvering and listened to his vows of deathless devotion. She wondered how Ida could read on so calmly when some of those scenes had been her own experience. She wondered what the girls would say if they knew all that she knew. Then she wondered how it would feel to be the heroine in such scenes, and be the idol of some one's whole existence, as Daisy Dale was of Guy Wolvering's, as Ida was of Edwardo's. "Oh, don't stop!" begged five eager voices, when Ida finally laid down the book. "I must. It's nearly dark, and my throat is tired. Do you realize I have been reading all afternoon?" "Oh, it didn't seem more than five minutes!" exclaimed Katie. "I never was so interested in anything in my life. I am wild to hear the end." "Girls!" cried Allison, tragically, starting up from her chair. "I wish you'd look at that clock! We haven't made the candy, and we've scarcely worked at all this whole afternoon, and now it's time to go home." "But how can we?" queried Kitty. "It's simply pouring. Look at those windows. The rain is coming in torrents." "We'll have to stay all night," laughed Katie. "Wouldn't it be fun if we could?" "You can," cried Lloyd, seizing the suggestion eagerly. "I'm sure that the matron would be willing. There's plenty of extra rooms on Satahday night; there's two right heah in this wing. All you have to do is to telephone home and ask yoah mothahs. I'm suah they'll let you, because it's such dreadful weathah. Come on, let's go and ask now. Then we can make the candy befoah suppah, and finish the book befoah bedtime." With the pouring rain as an excuse, it was easy to obtain the matron's permission for them to stay, and she herself telephoned to Mrs. Walton and Mrs. Mallard, explaining the situation and assuring them that the girls would be well taken care of. Both mothers gave consent so thankfully that the matron turned away from the telephone feeling that her hospitable insistence had made these ladies her friends for life; and she bustled away well pleased with herself, to put fresh sheets on the beds in the empty rooms in the west wing. The Clark sisters' room, next to Lloyd and Betty's, had a closet built opposite theirs into the same partition-wall, in the deep space beside the chimney. When both doors were closed no sound penetrated from one room to the other, but if either were left ajar, any one happening to step into either closet could hear quite distinctly what was said on the other side. The matron, opening the closet door on her side of the wall to fold away some blankets that she had just taken from the beds, heard Lloyd on the other side hunting for the bottle of alcohol for the chafing-dish. Then Katie's voice came piping through high and shrill: "Wasn't it sweet of Mrs. Bond to telephone herself and insist on our being allowed to stay? If I had been at the telephone mamma would have said that she would send the carriage and I needn't get wet, and could come home just as well as not. But she was willing to accept an invitation from headquarters. I'm going to save Mrs. Bond some of my fudge. She's just the dearest thing that ever was." [Illustration: "SHE COULD HEAR EVERY WORD OF THE CONVERSATION."] "I shall save her some, too," said Kitty. "I'd like to give her a good big squeeze for being so kind to us." Mrs. Bond stepped out into the room again with a pleased smile on her motherly face. As she went down-stairs she began revolving a plan in her mind for the evening entertainment of these appreciative little guests which she thought would give them still greater pleasure. Scarcely had she gone when another listener took her place. This time the eavesdropping was intentional. Mittie Dupong, crossing over to the west wing to borrow a magazine from Betty, saw the sign on the corridor door. Knowing what such signs usually mean at five o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, she softly turned the knob and stepped into the narrow hall. A delicious smell of boiling candy came floating down toward her from Lloyd's room, and a peal of laughter, in which she distinguished first Allison's voice, then Kitty's and Katie's. She felt a trifle piqued at being left out of the merry-making. "I wonder who else is in there," she thought, slipping on toward the keyhole. Just as she was about to stoop and peep in, a sudden noise inside as of some one coming toward her made her draw back. The door into the Clark girls' room stood open. She darted in and waited breathlessly. Lloyd was coming out into the hall, saying, "Never mind about the lamp-chimney; I'll get Cassie's." Mittie had barely time to spring into the closet when Lloyd entered, took the lamp from the table, and carried it back to her own room. Crouched down in her dark hiding-place Mittie discovered that the closet was a far better situation for eavesdropping than the keyhole. She could hear every word of the conversation without the risk of being detected. Evidently the girls were discussing some story that they had been reading, and a very sentimental one at that. A wicked little gleam of triumph came into Mittie's eyes as she listened. For here were Lloyd and Allison and Kitty and Katie Mallard and Betty, actually teasing each other about the boys they liked best. And it hadn't been a week since Lloyd had said, with a scornful little toss of her head, "Oh, Mittie, you make me ti'ahed! Always talking about the boys!" and the four of them had walked off with their arms around each other as if quite disgusted. "Oh, won't I get even with them now for turning up their noses at me!" exclaimed Mittie to herself, and she pressed her ear closer to the thin partition wall that divided the two closets. Katie's voice came first: "If I'd been Daisy Dale I'd have fallen in love with Lord Rokeby instead of the Squire's son, because he was tall and fair and blue-eyed." "Like Charlie Downs," put in Kitty, mischievously. "Oh, girls! Look at her blush!" "I'm not blushing," protested Katie, wildly. "But you can't deny that he's the one," insisted Kitty. "Even when we were little and used to play 'lady come to see' you always played that you were Mrs. Downs, you know you did." "I don't care," pouted Katie. "I don't do it now, and anyhow I don't keep an old dead rose and a valentine and a brass button all tied up in a fancy box with blue ribbon, the way you do, because Guy Ferris gave them to you. N-ow, who's blushing?" "Katie Mallard, that's something you promised you'd never tell as long as you live!" cried Kitty. "I didn't think you'd be so mean as to go back on your promise." She turned away with such an offended air that Katie saw that her teasing had gone farther than she intended. She hastened to make amends, for she couldn't be happy while there was the slightest misunderstanding between her and her best friend. "I didn't think you'd care, Kitty. Truly I didn't. I wouldn't have teased you before the other girls, but just here, in our own little club, it oughtn't to make any difference. Why, I don't mind one bit telling you girls that I like Charlie Downs better than any boy I know, and that I felt glad when my apple parings made his initials every time I threw them over my shoulder on Hallowe'en. I don't think it's anything to confess that much, or to care for things a boy gives you as you do for the valentine and the rose. That's a very different matter from talking about the boys as Mittie Dupong does about Carter Brown." "Well I should think so!" exclaimed Lloyd, in a tone that made Mittie, on the other side of the wall, set her teeth together angrily. "But Mittie isn't like the girls we've always gone with. She's so _common_! She plays _kissing-games_. I've nevah had any use for her since Cartah Brown's birthday pahty. When they played Pillow and Post-office, every boy in the room kissed her, and Lollie Briggs and all that set of girls that she goes with. I couldn't undahstand it. Some of them seemed so nice; Flynn Willis, you know, and Caddie Bailey. I wouldn't have thought it of them." "I think they are all nice girls," said Betty, "even Mittie. It's just because they have been brought up that way. They've all come from little towns where such games are the custom, and they really don't know any better. Don't be so fierce about it, Lloyd. One of the girls at our table ate with her knife when she first came, and took her soup out of the end of her spoon, and picked her pie up in her fingers. But she's as ladylike in her manners as anybody now. She simply hadn't been taught how to eat. Those girls will change, too, probably in time." "But this is different," persisted Lloyd. "I know whom you mean. It was that little Prosser girl. But for all her bad table mannahs she was a lady at heart. _She_ didn't take part in those games, and she wouldn't allow a boy to take such a liberty with her as to kiss her, any moah than one of us girls would, that had been brought up heah in the Valley. I'll always be glad we didn't ask Mittie or any of that set to join our club. They may be all right, but if they don't want to be considahed common they oughtn't to do things that make them seem so, and that are considahed so by the best society." The blue blood of an old patrician family, proud of its traditions and proud of its generations of gentle breeding was coursing hotly through the Little Colonel's veins as she spoke. Mittie could imagine how she looked as she stood there passing judgment, her head haughtily lifted, a flush on the high-bred little face. The mortified eavesdropper could not feel that she had really done anything wrong at the party, for as Betty had said, such games were always played in the country place where she came from, even in the presence of grown people. And the sport was often rough and boisterous, as it is among the peasant class of the older countries. But measuring herself by Lloyd's exacting standard, she somehow felt that she had been found sadly wanting, and she angrily resented the verdict of this little patrician, who, dainty and refined to the very finger-tips, made her seem less of a lady, less worthy of respect than herself. The next instant Lloyd's scornful tone changed to one of cheerful sweetness, as she called, "Bring the buttered plates, Betty, please. The fudge is ready to pour out." Hiding there in the dark closet, Mittie heard many things during the next half-hour, which she stored away in her memory for future repetition. The secret of the Shadow Club was one, for they discussed it freely, regretting that they had accomplished so little that afternoon, and discussing the place of the next meeting. With the curtains drawn, and the red lamp-shade casting a soft rosy glow over the room, it seemed a time for confidences. The rain came harder and harder in stormy gusts against the windows, but the curtains that shut out the night seemed to shut them in with the warmth and cheer of the cosy room. As they drew their chairs around the table, rocking comfortably back and forth, with the candy passing from hand to hand, they felt more closely drawn together themselves than they ever had before. And they talked of things they had never mentioned to each other before. "The Fortunes of Daisy Dale" had turned their thoughts toward the far-off future, and standing before its closed gate as if it were the portal to some unexplored Paradise, they questioned each other with eager wondering, as to what might lie in store for them on the other side. "Well," exclaimed Katie, at length, "when I grow up, I hope the man who proposes to me will do it just as Guy did. I think it's so pretty, that scene in the cherry lane." She quoted, softly: "'The cherry lane is all in bridal white, my Marguerite, and when it blooms again I'll come to claim my bride--my pearl.'" "I wonder if they all talk that way," mused Kitty. "Of course not," said Betty, with a laugh. "It wouldn't fit in most cases. Imagine old Mr. Andrews calling his little black skinny wife his Jane Maria, his pearl! I suppose most people do it in as commonplace a way as Laurie proposed to Amy, in 'Little Women.'" "I'm going to ask papa what _he_ said," declared Katie. Then the supper-bell rang, and Mittie heard no more. As soon as it was safe to venture from her hiding-place, she followed them down to the dining-room. Anxious to get back to the reading of the book, the members of the Shadow Club could hardly conceal their disappointment when Mrs. Bond invited them into her parlour after supper, to try some new games which she thought would interest them. Under the circumstances they felt it would be impolite to refuse. They whispered to each other that they would slip away early, but one thing after another kept them, and it was bedtime before they started up-stairs. "Oh, I'm so dreadfully disappointed!" wailed Katie; "I won't be able to sleep a wink to-night for wondering how that story is going to end." "We'll never have such a good chance to finish it again," said Allison, "and even if Ida should loan us the book, we'll not enjoy it as much as if she could read it to us. Her reading adds so much to it." Kitty expressed the same opinion, and openly envied Lloyd and Betty, who, being in the same building, might have future opportunities which would be denied them. At last Ida proposed that they finish the book after the curfew signal, and preparations were hastily made. As soon as Kitty and Katie were ready for bed, they took possession, as before, of Lloyd's bed. Lloyd and Betty climbed into the one on the other side of the room. Allison carried blankets and pillows from the next room to the divan, where she made herself comfortable, and Ida, putting a heavy woollen bathrobe over her night-dress, and stretching out in a steamer-chair with a shawl over her, began to read. There was a golf cape draped over the transom. Paper was stuffed in the keyholes, the outside shutters were tightly closed, the blinds drawn, and the curtains pinned together over them, so that not a single telltale ray of light could betray them to the outside world. Three lamps stood in a row on the table, so that they might be burned in turn, and no one of them be found with the oil entirely consumed in the morning. Everywhere in the big building was silence and sleep, save in that one room in the west wing. There Ida's voice went musically on, and, with eyes wide open and every sense alert, the girls lay and listened. The rain still poured on, and the wind rattled the casements. Down-stairs the clock struck ten, eleven, twelve; but not till the bride-bells rang out in the last chapter from the steeple of the little stone church in the English village did they lose interest for a moment in the "Fortunes of Daisy Dale." The beautiful ending was something for them to dream over for weeks. It was Sunday morning before Ida and the three guests stole to their rooms, and crept shivering between the cold sheets. CHAPTER X. A PLOT "IF there's anything I _loathe_ it's a sneak and a telltale!" The Little Colonel's voice rang out so clearly that the girls in the cloak-room stopped to listen. It was Monday morning, and the pupils were assembling in the chapel for opening exercises. Lloyd stood near the door, the centre of an indignant little group, which cast scornful glances at another little group, whispering together by one of the windows. "It's the most contemptible thing that evah happened in the seminary," Lloyd continued. "It's a disgrace to have such a girl in school." Katie, who had been anxiously watching the cloak-room door for the last five minutes, for the appearance of Allison and Kitty, suddenly exclaimed, "There they are now, hanging up their wraps. Let's hurry and tell them before school begins!" The next instant the two late comers found themselves in a corner, hemmed in by Betty, Katie, and Lloyd, all so indignant that they could scarcely make themselves understood. "Girls," began Lloyd, in a voice quavering with anger, "you nevah heard anything so outrageous! Satahday aftahnoon, all that time we were making fudge up in our room, somebody was hiding in the closet next to ours, listening to every word we said!" "How do you know?" gasped Kitty, remembering with dismay several speeches she had made, which would sound decidedly foolish if repeated. "Lollie Briggs said so. We'd hardly got into the room this mawning when some of the girls began to laugh and repeat every word we had said." "It's all over the school about our Shadow Club," chimed in Betty, "and think how hard we tried to keep it secret! And the very girls who would have been glad to join, if they had been invited in the first place, are making fun of it. They keep pointing to the ground behind us, and pretend to be amazed at what they see there. Of course they are referring to our shadows, for they make all sorts of spiteful little side remarks about them." "But there's something worse than that," added Katie, almost tearfully. "I'll never hear the last of the speech I made about Charlie Downs and the apple-paring initials. Oh, you just wait! They've got hold of every foolish little thing we teased each other about that afternoon; Guy Ferris' valentine and brass button, and the little silver arrow Malcolm Maclntyre gave Lloyd years ago, and all we said about the way we'd like to be proposed to, you know--when we were talking about the 'Fortunes of Daisy Dale.' They're telling it all over the school, and making us appear too ridiculous for any use." "Who could be mean enough to hide and listen?" exclaimed Allison, indignantly. "The sneak!" "Say snake, while you're about it," hissed Kitty. "They're spelled with the same letters." "We haven't any idea," answered Betty, "or why the girls who are doing the most teasing and talking should take such a spiteful pleasure in it. They've seemed so friendly always, until this morning." "Come, girls," called Mrs. Clelling, in passing. "It's time for the silence bell." Hurrying out of the cloak-room, they took their places in chapel, and obediently opened their song-books at the signal, but it is doubtful if any member of the Shadow Club could have told afterward what was sung that morning. The letter in Ida's chatelaine-bag, which Lloyd had smuggled to her soon after breakfast, on her return from the post-office, absorbed all her thoughts. The other five girls were busy with the one question: "Who could have been such a sneak as to listen and tell?" There were six bad records in every recitation that the club made that morning. Notes flew back and forth, and anxious eyes watched the clock, eager for recess to come. At the first signal, Lloyd flew to Ida, but before she could outline the plan of action she and Allison had decided upon in the history class, Ida said, hurriedly, "Oh, Princess, that letter has upset me so I don't know whether I'm walking on earth or air. I'll tell you to-morrow--something awfully important, but I've got to plan something now, so I must go off by myself and put on my thinking-cap. Oh, I'm all in a flutter." Wondering what news the letter could have contained to bring such a becoming flush to Ida's face, and such a glow of happiness in the beautiful violet eyes, Lloyd turned away disappointed. But she forgot both the wonder and the disappointment a few minutes later, as she and Allison walked up and down in front of the seminary arm in arm. Kitty and Katie were just behind them. Betty had not yet come out, having stopped at the sight of Janie Clung's tears to explain a problem in arithmetic. Lollie Briggs, Flynn Willis, and Caddie Bailey stood on the front steps, and each girl who came out of the hall was called into their midst, and told something with many significant glances toward the four pacing back and forth past them in a fine unconcern. Presently Caddie called out in a voice intended for them to hear, "I wonder if anybody can guess this conundrum. Nell, can you?" The question was addressed to one of the older girls who came out of the front door just then, without a wrap around her. It was a frosty morning, and every one else had either a jacket or cloak. "Wait till I run back and get my golf cape," she cried. "I didn't know it was so cold." "Now look out," whispered Allison to Lloyd. "They're going to say something to her to try to set her against us. They're stopping everybody who comes out. That makes eight already they've set to whispering and looking at us, all standing there in that crowd on the steps." Nell came out again, hugging her golf cape around her, and stood on the top step. "Well, what's your conundrum?" she asked, good-naturedly. Caddie slightly raised her voice. "What's the difference between a person who wouldn't stoop to 'anything so common as a kissing-game,' and a person who would get up a goody-goody club, pretending it was for the benefit of the poor, and yet all the time be using it simply as an excuse to meet and read silly novels on the sly, and talk about the boys, and roast the other girls behind their backs, whom they considered 'too common' to associate with them?" In a flash Lloyd realized what had offended Caddie, and what was the cause of her covert sneers. Whoever it was who had played the sneak had taken pains to report every word she had said about the girls who had played Pillow at Carter Brown's party. She looked around to see who had been the most active in denouncing the club. There they were on the steps, Flynn Willis, Caddie Bailey, Lollie Briggs, all but Mittie Dupong. The same girls she had called common, because they had allowed the boys to take a liberty which she thought cheapened them. She knew now why they were so spiteful in their remarks. Before Nell could gather her wits together for a reply, Lloyd sprang forward, her eyes flashing. "Why don't you come straight out and say what you mean, Cad Bailey?" she cried. "You're only telling part of the truth. Now I'll tell it all. I did say behind your backs that I thought it was common to play kissing-games, and now I say it to yoah faces. I can't help thinking it. I've been brought up that way, and if you've been brought up differently, then you've a right to think yoah way. If I've hurt yoah feelings, I beg yoah pahdon, but I have a right to express my opinion in my own room to my best friends. We were _not_ 'roasting' anybody. We only made a criticism that you must expect to have made on you, whenevah you do things that are common. And what are you going to say about the person who hid and listened all aftahnoon? _Somebody_ was sneak enough not only to hide in a closet and betray secrets that no girl of honah would have listened to, but she misrepresented the club in repeating them." Lloyd's temper was rapidly getting the best of her, but in the middle of her anger she seemed to hear her father saying, in the playful way in which he used to warn her long ago, "Look out, little daughter, the tiger is getting loose." She stopped short. "Who did that?" cried Nell. "I didn't suppose there was such a dishonourable girl in the school." "Neither did I," answered Flynn Willis, quickly. "I never stopped to ask how the report started. I was so mad at being talked about that I did just what Cad Bailey told me to do, repeated everything I was told, just to tease the club and get even." All eyes were turned inquiringly to Caddie Bailey. "I don't know how it started," she cried. "Honestly I don't. Lollie Briggs told me. She and several girls were talking about it this morning before breakfast, out in the hall. They were all furious, and they told me lots of things to say that would tease Lloyd and the rest of them nearly to death. I was mad, too, but I don't know who told in the first place." "It was you, Lollie Briggs, who told me that somebody had hid in the Clark girls' closet," cried Lloyd. "You know you did, when I demanded to know who had started all this talk. Who was it?" "I promised I wouldn't tell," said Lollie, sullenly, "and I won't. You needn't ask, for no power on earth could drag it out of me. So there!" "It's like the story of Chicken Little," laughed Nell. "'Who told you, Goosey-Lucy? Ducky-Lucky. Who told you, Ducky-Lucky? Henny-Penny. Who told you, Henny-Penny?' Seems to me I'd make it my business to find out who this particularly contemptible Chicken Little happens to be, before I'd report any more of her tales." Nell swept back into the hall, and, as the four girls started to resume their walk, Betty knocked on the cloak-room window, beckoning violently for them to come inside. They ran in pell-mell and shut the door behind them. "I've found out!" cried Betty, in a tragic whisper. "It was Mittie Dupong! Cassie found her class-badge on their closet floor, and just now brought it down to her. She denied it was hers, but there's no mistaking that queer little stick-pin and chain fastened to it that she uses as a guard. She's the only one in school who has one like that--an owl's head in a wishbone, you know. Besides, there were her initials, M. D., on the under side of the badge. Cassie turned it over and showed them to her. She took it, then, but denied having been in the closet, and was so confused and contradicted herself so many times that anybody could see that she felt caught and was telling a story. She even vowed that she hadn't been near the west wing for a week. Then she ran out and banged the door, but Janie Clung said, 'Oh, what a story! I met her coming out of there Saturday night, on the way down to supper.'" "What do you think we ought to do about it?" asked Katie. That was a question no one could answer. In the first flush of their indignation, it seemed to them that nothing they could do to Mittie would be sufficient punishment for such an act of meanness. They felt that she was a disgrace to the school, and decided that they would be conferring a benefit on the seminary if they could succeed in getting rid of her. Even Betty failed for the time to remember the "Road of the Loving Heart" she was trying to leave behind her in every one's memory; and, if the little talisman on her finger pricked her tender conscience once or twice, she silenced it with the reflection that it was her duty to help punish the doer of such a contemptible deed. The name of the club finally suggested the means. "She told all the secrets of the Shadow Club, and spoiled it," said Katie. "Now we just ought to shadow _her_. Haunt her, you know, like the Ku Klux Klan, or the White Caps, so she'll leave school and be afraid to listen again as long as she lives." "Yes," agreed Kitty. "We'll _hoodoo_ her. That is the way." Such a plan never would have been thought of in a Northern school. Even in this little Kentucky seminary it is doubtful if it could have been carried out had not previous events paved the way. There was scarcely a pupil in the school whose earliest impressions had not been tinged in some degree by the superstitions of some old coloured nurse or family servant. Even Lloyd had not escaped them entirely, in spite of all her mother's watchful care. Mom Beck knew better than to talk of such things openly before her, but she had hinted of them to the other servants in her presence, till Lloyd had a vague uneasiness when she dreamed of muddy water, or spilled the salt, or saw a bird flying against a window. From babyhood such happenings had been associated in her mind with Mom Beck's portents of ill-luck. There was not a coloured person in the neighbourhood who could have explained why so many graves in the negro cemetery had bottles or fruit-jars placed upon them, inside of which were carefully sealed the whitest of chicken feathers. Undoubtedly they were the relic of some old African fetish, and a reverence for them had been handed down from grizzled grandsire to little pickaninny since the beginning of the slave-trade. In the same way had come all those other superstitions at which white people laughed, but which influenced many of them also to some extent. For many a man who scoffed most, felt more comfortable when he saw the new moon in an open sky than when he caught first sight of it through the trees; and more than one, having once started on a journey, would not have turned back, no matter what important thing was left behind, preferring to do without at any cost or inconvenience rather than risk the ill-luck the turning back would bring. Lloyd knew more than one housekeeper in the neighbourhood who, for the same reason, would not allow the ashes emptied after sundown, or an umbrella to be raised in the house; and who would turn pale if a mirror was broken or a picture fell from the wall or a dog howled in the night. Probably not a pupil in the school would have admitted that she believed in ghosts, yet few would have been brave enough to venture into the cellar at night after Mary Phillips' encounter with the spirit of the "veiled lady" on Hallowe'en. That had been a frequent topic of conversation since that night, and had done much to prepare the way for the plot the club concocted. So Kitty's proposition was received with enthusiasm. The performance began next day when she slipped up behind Mittie in the cloak-room, and solemnly touched her three times in quick succession on the left ear with something she held in her hand. It felt soft and furry, and Mittie, who had a horror of caterpillars, gave a little shriek as she put up her handkerchief to brush it away. Kitty had already disappeared into the chapel, but Katie was waiting, ready to begin her part of the performance. "Did you see that?" she said to Janie Clung, in an awed tone, just loud enough for Mittie to hear, and yet low enough to seem confidential. "I know people who would go stark, raving crazy if that was done to them. What for? I thought everybody knew what for. My old nurse used to say that to be touched three times on the ear by the left hind foot of a rabbit that had been killed in a graveyard in the dark of the moon by a cross-eyed person, was the worst luck anybody could have." She lowered her voice a trifle. "_It's a hoodoo-mark! You're marked for the haunts to follow you!_" "The what?" asked another girl who stood near. "The haunts--ghosts--you know. Jim Briddle calls them 'ha'nts.' Nobody could be more cross-eyed than he is, and he's the one who gave that rabbit's foot to Ranald Walton, and Ranald gave it to Kitty. I should think that Mittie Dupong would feel mighty creepy if she knew what's ahead of her." Mittie heard and did feel creepy, although she shrugged her shoulders and tried hard to appear unconcerned. The fact that the club seemed to place so much reliance in the hoodoo made a strong impression on Janie Clung, and gave it a weight it would not have possessed otherwise when the occurrence was repeated to the other girls. Before the week was over it was whispered around the school that the charm was really working. CHAPTER XI. A WOLF IN SHEEP'S CLOTHING EVERY day since the first of November there had been a letter for Ida in the Sherman's post-office box, under cover of Lloyd's address. Lloyd had grown to dread the afternoon walks with the school, for she was in a flutter of nervousness from the moment they came in sight of the post-office until the letter was safe in Ida's possession. There was always the fear that Betty might get to the window first, or that she might catch sight of the envelope, addressed with many flourishes in a big, bold hand; or that that letter might be the only one, as it often was, and Betty might wonder why Lloyd's face should grow so red when she answered, "No, nothing for us this time." It was easier to manage after the weather turned cold enough to furnish an excuse for carrying a muff, but even then she fancied that Miss Mattie looked at her curiously sometimes, when she thrust the daily letter hastily out of sight without a second glance. She never went through the performance without wishing that it might be the last time that she should be placed in such an uncomfortable position; but afterward she always reproached herself for making such a wish. It seemed a very poor friendship that could not stand a little test like that. It was such a small thing to do when the happiness of her friend's whole life was at stake. Then she had her reward in the evenings, when Ida, with her arms around her, whispered her undying gratitude, or read her extracts from her letters, which gave her glimpses into a romance far more beautiful than the "Fortunes of Daisy Dale," or the "Heiress of Dorn," or any of the others they had read since. A sort of circulating library had started since the rainy night the Shadow Club read its first volume. Ida had a pile of paper-covered books in her closet which she pronounced fully as interesting as the one she had read aloud; so "Elsie's Wooing," "Fair but False," and the "Heiress of Dorn" began passing in turn from the covers of Katie's geography to Kitty's, and from Lloyd's history to Betty's and Allison's. They read at recess, they read before school, and more than once some exciting chapter proved too interesting to be laid aside in study time for the work of the hour. After a few volumes of such tales, Betty became fired with an ambition to write one herself, and soon became so absorbed in her pastime that she could think of little else. Eugene was the name of her hero, and Gladys was the maiden who combined all the beauty and virtues possible for one mundane creature to possess. The whole club was consulted as to the colour of her eyes and hair, and many points about which the little author was undecided. They came in time to regard Eugene and Gladys as real personages, in whom they had a family interest. Lloyd had bits of the story read to her sometimes when they were getting ready for bed. Betty lost interest in everything to such an extent that she ceased to be sociable, and spent most of her time alone, dreaming out different scenes in the story, which filled her mind to the exclusion of even her lessons. One afternoon, near the middle of November, Lloyd, hurrying through the lower hall with an open letter in her hand, met the president. "Oh, Doctah Wells!" she exclaimed. "I was just going to yoah room. Heah is a note mothah sent you in the lettah that came to-day. She has written for some things she needs, and wants Betty and me to walk up to Locust aftah school with a message to the servants about packing them, if you'll excuse us from the regulah promenade." "Certainly," he answered, glancing over Mrs. Sherman's gracefully written request. "But Betty has such a bad cold," continued Lloyd, "that the matron thinks she oughtn't to go out to walk to-day, and it's lonely going back home by myself, when it's all shut up. May I take Ida Shane with me instead? She's nevah seen Locust from the inside, and I'd love to show it to her. You know," a little smile dimpling her face as she spoke, "I can't help being proud of the old place." "You have good reason," said the professor, smiling back at her kindly. "It is certainly a beautiful old homestead. Yes, I have no objection to Ida's going with you." "Oh, thank you!" cried Lloyd. She hurried up the stairs to Ida's room, calling excitedly as she reached the door, "Yes, he says you may go. Hurry and put on your things so that we can have as long time as possible up there." Betty had gone into the matron's room in her absence. It took Lloyd only a moment to slip into her hat and coat. Then catching up her muff and thrusting it under her arm, she started back to Ida's room, buttoning her gloves as she went. Ida had taken down her hair and was deliberately rearranging it before the mirror. "Oh, what did you do that for?" cried Lloyd, half-impatiently. "It looked all right as it was. We're not going to see any one but the servants. There's no use wearing your best hat." She glanced at the mass of velvet and plumes lying on the bed. "Just pin your hair up any fashion and stick on your mortar-board. That'll do." "Shut the door, please," said Ida, in a low tone. "I have something to tell you." She bent nearer the mirror, drawing the comb through the fluffy pompadour. "We _are_ going to see some one this afternoon. _Edwardo is in the Valley._" Lloyd dropped her muff at this surprising announcement, but Ida went on, calmly. "I've been expecting him for several days. He comes to Lloydsboro sometimes to visit his cousin. I've lain awake nights trying to arrange some way to see him. This is a thousand times better than any way I could think of. I'm the luckiest girl that ever lived to have such a friend as you to plan for me, Princess." "I don't know what you mean," exclaimed Lloyd. "I haven't planned anything." "No, not intentionally, but look how easy you have made it for me to have an interview. He'll be on the watch for the seminary girls to pass by the store, for I was to manage to leave a note there for him, telling him where I can see him. All I have to do now is to signal him to follow, and we can have a good long talk at Locust while you are giving the servants their orders. You don't mind, do you?" she asked, as Lloyd continued to stare at her without saying anything. "No. Oh, no! Of co'se not," answered Lloyd, with a confused laugh. "Only it makes me feel so que'ah to think that I'm really going to see him. It's just as if Lord Rokeby or the squire's son had stepped out of the book. I feel as if I were in a book myself since you told me that. This is the way it would be on the page, if we could stand off and read about ourselves: 'And Violet's little friend led the way down the long avenue, and there on the threshold of her home, after months of cruel separation, the reunited lovers kept their tryst.'" Ida laughed happily. "You'll have a book written before Betty is half-started if you go on at that rate. Now tell me. Do I look all right?" She was settling the big picture-hat in place over her soft hair as she anxiously asked the question. Lloyd regarded her critically, tipping her head a trifle to one side as she looked. "Put your hat a hairbreadth farther over your face," she exclaimed. "There! That's lovely. Oh, Violet, that shade of velvet is _so_ becoming to you. It's just the colah of yoah eyes. I nevah saw you look so beautiful." A becoming pink flushed Ida's cheeks. She bent her head over the bunch of violets pinned on the lapel of her coat. "It's dear of you to think so," she said, "and it's dear of you to send me these violets every week. These are unusually sweet. I'm so glad I have a fresh bunch for to-day--this happy day." Lloyd took the keenest delight in watching the graceful girl sweep down the hall ahead of her. From the plumes of the picture-hat to the hem of her stylish gown she thoroughly satisfied Lloyd's artistic instinct for the beautiful. She gave her arm an adoring little squeeze as they passed down the stairs together. Out on the road she glanced up at Ida again. Happiness had not made her radiant, as it did Daisy Dale, but there was a soft light in the violet eyes which made Lloyd think of a picture she had seen of a vestal maiden on her way to guard the holy altar fires. Lloyd's heart began to beat faster as she realized that every step was taking them nearer to Edwardo. She pictured him again in her imagination, as she had done so many times before. She would know that pale, serious face with its flashing eyes anywhere she might meet him, she was sure. Neither of them spoke as they hurried along the path through the lower part of Clovercroft and pushed open the woodland gate. But as they stepped up on the platform in front of the depot, Lloyd said, "Let's cross the track heah, and go up on the othah side of the road. Then we'll not have to pass the waiting-rooms. There's always so many people loafing around the window of the telegraph-office." Instinctively she felt that while a little girl like herself would attract no attention, Ida in her long sweeping dress that she held up so gracefully, and the big hat drooping over her pretty face, and the stylish fur collar, and the violets on her coat, made a picture that any one would turn to look at twice. She could not bear to think of the bold glances that might be cast after her by the loafers around the depot. It seemed to her little short of sacrilege, although she could not have put the feeling into words, for any eyes but Edwardo's to rest upon her as she went on her way to this meeting with that vestal-maiden look upon her face. "Very well," assented Ida. "You know we want to stop at the store. I want to get some chocolate creams if they have any fresh ones." [Illustration: "HE HELD IT ASIDE FOR THEM BOTH TO PASS THROUGH."] Lloyd's heart gave a frightened thump as she remembered that it was in the store that Edwardo would be watching presently for the seminary girls to go by. It was half an hour earlier than they usually passed, but there was a possibility that he might be there. In less than a minute she might be face to face with the live hero of a real romance. It was with an odd feeling of mingled relief and disappointment that she glanced around the store and saw only familiar faces. A young man whom she knew by sight was perched on the bookkeeper's high stool at the back of the store, so absorbed in the Louisville evening paper which the last mail-train had brought out that he did not look up. A small coloured boy stood patiently by the stove waiting for his coal-oil can to be filled. One of the clerks was tying up a package of groceries for Frazer to carry over to Clovercroft, and the other was showing ginghams to Mrs. Walton's Barbry. "Be with you in a moment, please," called the first clerk as the girls entered. Lloyd stopped in front of the show-case near the door, and began idly examining the various styles of jewelry and letter-paper displayed within. She had almost decided to invest in a certain little enamelled pin which she knew would delight Mom Beck, and take it up to her as a surprise, when Barbry stepped beside her with a polite greeting and an inquiry about her grandfather's health. While she was still talking with Barbry, Ida came up flushed and excited. She thrust her bag of chocolates into her muff, and, catching up her skirts, said, hurriedly, "Come on, I'm ready." Lloyd started at once to follow her to the door, but looked back to nod assent to Barbry's last remark, and in turning again almost ran into the young fellow who had been reading at the bookkeeper's desk. He was hurrying after Ida to open the door for her. He held it aside for them both to pass through, and a flush of displeasure dyed Lloyd's face as she saw the admiring glance he cast boldly at Ida. "He needn't have gone so far out of his way to have done that," exclaimed Lloyd, as they started up the road toward Locust. "It was the clerk's place to open the doah, and he nearly knocked him down, trying to get there first." "Who?" inquired Ida, innocently. She was several steps in advance, and could not see Lloyd's face. "That horrid Mistah Ned Bannon. I can't bea'h him. Papa Jack told mothah she must nevah invite him to the house, undah any circumstances, because he wasn't fit for Betty and me to know, and--" She stopped abruptly, for Ida turned with a white, pained face. "Oh, Lloyd!" she cried. "How can you hurt me so? Don't believe any of those dreadful things you hear about him!" Then, seeing from Lloyd's amazed expression that she failed to understand the situation, she added, in a distressed tone, "_He_ is _Edwardo_." If Ida had struck her on the face she could not have been more amazed. She stood staring at her helplessly, unable to say a word. "I must be dreaming all this," she thought. "After awhile I'll surely wake up and find I've had a horrible nightmare." But the distress in Ida's voice was too real to be a dream. She was biting her lips to keep back the tears. After one look into Lloyd's dismayed face she turned away and began moving slowly on toward Locust. Lloyd walked beside her, mechanically. She could not shake off the feeling that she must be in a dream. From time to time she cast a half-frightened glance toward Ida. She felt that she had wounded her so deeply that nothing she might say could ever make amends. When she saw a tear course slowly down her cheek and splash down on the bunch of flowers on her coat, she clasped her arm impulsively, saying, "Oh, Violet, deah, _don't_ cry! I wouldn't have hurt you for worlds. I didn't have the faintest idea that _he_ was the one." "It isn't so much what you said," answered Ida, controlling her voice with an effort, "but I'd counted so much on your friendship for him. And now to know that people have prejudiced you against him before you've had a chance to meet him and find out for yourself that they're mistaken--" She stopped with a sob. "Under all his wild ways he's good and noble and true at heart, and it isn't fair for everybody to condemn him for what he has done, and stand in his way when he's trying so hard to do better." One little hand in the muff was bare, and Lloyd saw the gleam of the pearl on it as Ida took out her handkerchief and dabbed it hastily across her eyes. It brought back all that scene in the moonlighted orchard, and Ida's blushing confession: "He says that is what my life means to him--a pearl. That if it wasn't for my love and prayers he wouldn't care what became of him or what he did. Do you blame me for disregarding aunt's wishes?" And again as on that night the Little Colonel's heart swelled with an indignant "No!" Again she arrayed herself beside her friend, ready to do battle for her against the whole world if necessary. Wonderfully comforted by Lloyd's protests of sympathy and understanding, Ida dried her eyes and looked back over her shoulder, saying, "He's not in sight yet. I told him not to start for fifteen minutes, and then to come the long way, around through Tanglewood, so nobody could think he was following us. That will give you time to show me over the house." As Lloyd swung open the entrance gate and started down the long avenue, a queer feeling crept over her that she could not have expressed had she tried. It seemed to her that the old trees were almost human, and stretched out their bare branches toward her with an offering of protection and welcome that was like the greeting of old friends. Yet at the same time she felt the silent challenge of these old family sentinels, and involuntarily answered it by a slight lifting of the head and a trifle more erectness of carriage as she passed. They seemed to expect it of her, that she should walk past them, as all the Lloyds had walked, with the proud consciousness that none could gainsay their countersign of gentle birth and breeding which spoke even in their tread. It was the first time she had been back to Locust since the beginning of school, and Ida felt some subtle change in her as soon as they passed inside the great gate. The Little Colonel's personality asserted itself as it had not at the seminary. There she was Ida's adoring little shadow, completely under the spell of her influence. Here, swayed by the stronger influence of old associations, she was herself again; the same well-poised, imperious little creature that she was when she first coolly "bearded the lion in his den, the Douglas in his hall," and brought the old Colonel to unconditional surrender. Mom Beck came up from the servants' cottage and unlocked the house for them, and after reading her the list of articles to be packed, Lloyd left her in the linen-room and began a tour of the house. In the pleasure of acting as hostess and showing Ida the attractions of Locust, she would have forgotten that an unwelcome guest was on his way, had not Ida's restless glances from every front window they passed, reminded her. The quarter of an hour was almost over when she led the way into the long drawing-room, which she had reserved until last. "Of co'se it doesn't look as it does when we are living heah. It makes such a difference having the curtains down and the furniture covahed; but I want you to see my harp." She I began slipping the cover from the tall burnished frame. "It belonged to my grandmothah Amanthis, and I am proudah of it than anything I own. That's her portrait ovah the mantel. Isn't she beautiful? Somehow I nevah can call her just grandmothah, as if she were an old lady. She nevah lived to be one, you know. I always have to add her name, Amanthis, and I think of her as she looks there in the pictuah, the young girl she was when grandfathah first saw her, a June rose in her hair and anothah at her throat. 'The fairest flowah in all Kentucky,' he told me once. That's always seemed such a sweet romance to me. She wasn't much oldah than you when he brought her here a bride. He always talks about her when the locusts bloom, for they were in blossom then, and the avenue was white with them." Lloyd had expected more outspoken admiration from Ida when she showed her the portrait, and was disappointed to have her barely glance up at it, murmuring, "Yes, she is lovely," in an absent-minded way, and then hurry to the window, exclaiming, "Oh, there he is. I can see him just coming in at the gate." Lloyd's glance followed Ida's, and, stepping back from the window, she began hastily drawing the cover over the harp. "Oh, don't put it on yet," said Ida. "I want to show it to him." Lloyd hesitated an instant, then stammered confusedly, "But--but--oh, Ida, I'm _so_ sorry, but don't you see, I can't ask him into the house." "Why not?" cried Ida. "You promised on the way up here you'd do anything you could for me." Tears of distress gathered in the Little Colonel's eyes. It was impossible to answer Ida's question without wounding her deeply, for it was in this very room she had heard her grandfather say: "It's a pity Cy Bannon's youngest boy is such a profligate. Why, sir, he isn't worth the powder and shot that would put an end to his worthless existence. I wouldn't let him darken my doors, sir!" And it was in this room also that she had heard her father say: "No, Elizabeth, for the judge's sake I'd like to show Ned some attention, and some families do receive him. But his unprincipled conduct bars him out here. He's a fellow whom I never could permit Lloyd to know." Ida repeated her question. "Oh, Violet," cried Lloyd, "it's just breaking my heart to refuse you, but I can't let him come in. It isn't my house, and I've no right to when grandfathah and Papa Jack have both forbidden it. But it's warmah on the poa'ch than it is in the house with no fiah, and I'll put some chairs out for you, and wait for you in heah." "Won't you even come out and be introduced?" "Oh, Violet, _don't_ ask me!" begged the Little Colonel. "I'd like to for your sake, but I can't. I simply can't!" "Why not? Are you going to let your father's prejudices stand in the way? He doesn't know him as I do. He's just taken a dislike to him as aunt has done on account of things he's heard. It's unfair! It's unjust to condemn him on account of other people's mistaken opinions and prejudices." The Little Colonel wavered. Ida's absolute trust made it seem possible that she might be right and everybody else mistaken. She peered out of the window again. He was half-way up the avenue now, sauntering along at a leisurely gait with a cigarette in his mouth. "Besides," continued Ida, "nobody need ever know you have met him. It's easy enough to keep it secret, so what's the difference--" She stopped in the middle of her sentence, surprised by the change in the Little Colonel's manner. She had drawn herself up haughtily, and in her fearless scorn bore a strong resemblance to the portrait of the soldier-boy in gray in the frame above her. "I hope," she said, slowly, "that I have too much respect for the family honah to do such an undahhanded thing as that. Do you think that I'd be willing to be the only one of all the Lloyds who couldn't be trusted?" "Why, Princess, I don't see what's changed you so suddenly," said Ida. "I haven't asked you to do anything more than you've been doing all along, by letting me use your post-office box." "But I nevah would have done that" cried Lloyd, "if I'd have known who yoah Edwardo was, and now I've found out that it is some one that Papa Jack disapproves of, of co'se I can't carry yoah lettahs any moah." "Oh, Princess, I thought _you'd_ stand by me against the whole world!" sobbed Ida. "I had counted so much--just these few days he'll be here in the Valley--on seeing him up here. I didn't think _you'd_ be unreasonable and unjust. It seems as if it would break my heart to have my only friend fail me now." The tears were streaming down Lloyd's face, too, but she clenched her hands and shook her head stubbornly. "No, tell him he can't come heah again, and that he mustn't send any moah lettahs to my address." Without another word Ida turned and walked out to the porch, where she stood waiting behind the bare vines that twined the pillars for Edwardo to come to her. All the pretty colour had died out of her face, and Lloyd felt in a sudden spasm of remorse that she was responsible for the tears in the beautiful eyes and the look of trouble on the face that only a little while before had been aglow with happiness. The odour of a cigarette floated in through the hall. Then Ida closed the door, and the two sat down on the step outside. Lloyd paced up and down the long room with her hands behind her back. There was an ache in her throat. She was so miserably disappointed in Edwardo, so miserably sorry for Ida. More than all, she was miserably sorry for herself; for the friendship which she had counted one of the most beautiful things of her life lay in ruins. For a moment she doubted if she had done right to shirk the obligations it had laid upon her, and wondered if it were not a greater sacrifice than her father ought to expect her to make for him. The temptation pressed sorely upon her to go to Ida and tell her she would stand by her as she had promised, and for a few days longer, at least, be the bearer of their letters. She even started toward the door; but half-way across the room some compelling force drew her eyes toward the portrait of Amanthis, and she stood still, looking into the depths of the clear, true eyes which had given counsel to more than one troubled heart. Years before, the old Colonel, standing with his head bowed on the mantel, had murmured, brokenly, "Oh, Amanthis, tell me what to do!" and, obedient to the silent message of that straightforward gaze, had started off through the falling snow to be reconciled to his only daughter. And now Lloyd, looking up in the same way, no longer had any doubts about her duty. "It wouldn't be right, would it!" she murmured. "_You_ nevah did anything you had to hide. _You_ wouldn't stoop to anything clandestine." She straightened herself up proudly, and wiped her eyes. "Neithah will I, no mattah what it costs me not to!" Then she went on, brokenly, as if talking to a living presence: "Oh, it's so pitiful for her to be so deceived in him; for of co'se grandfathah and Papa Jack and her aunt and everybody put togethah couldn't be mistaken. And I love her so much; I wish mothah were here, or Papa Jack--but I'll promise _you_, Grandmothah Amanthis, I'll nevah make you ashamed of me again. I wouldn't have carried the lettahs if I had known, and you can trust me always aftah this, for evah and evah." It seemed to Lloyd that an approving smile rested on the girlish face, and a red streak of light from the wintry sunset, stealing in through the uncurtained window, shone across the June rose at her throat till it burned for the moment with the live red of a living rose. She slipped the cover on the harp again, and taking one more look around the room at every familiar object grown dear from years of happy associations, she closed the door softly and stole up-stairs to rejoin Mom Beck. She felt as if she had been to a funeral and had suddenly grown very old and worldly wise--years older and wiser than when she started blithely up to Locust an hour or two before. It was late when she and Mom Beck came down-stairs again. The sunset glow had almost faded from the sky. They bolted the front door and went out the back, Mom Beck taking the key again. "Ida is waiting for me on the front poa'ch," Lloyd explained. "Good-bye, Mom Beck. I'm mighty homesick to come back to you all." "Good-bye, honey," responded the faithful old soul. "I'm going to bring you some prawlines in the mawnin'. Ole Becky knows what'll cheer up her baby." Lloyd paused at the corner of the porch. "I think we ought to go now," she called. "In a minute," answered Ida. "I'll catch up with you." Lloyd walked on slowly by herself, down the avenue, through the gate, beside the railroad track. She was in sight of the depot before Ned Bannon struck off across a field and Ida joined her. She did not speak as they hurried on toward the seminary, and Lloyd felt, with a desolate sinking of the heart, that the old intimacy could never be resumed. CHAPTER XII. GHOST OR GIRL ALLISON, struggling into her jacket as she ran, hurried along the path through Clovercroft to overtake Kitty and Katie on their way home at noon. "Wait!" she called, waving her gloves frantically to attract their attention as they looked back from the woodland gate. "I have some news for you." She was almost breathless when she caught up with them. "What do you think of this? Ida and Lloyd have had a falling out of some kind. Neither one will say what it's about, but they don't have anything more to do with each other, and Ida has resigned from the Shadow Club. She told me just now to tell you all that she couldn't come any more, and that we might as well invite somebody else to join in her place. She didn't give any reason for leaving, and you know when she puts on that dignified, grown-up air of hers, one doesn't feel at liberty to ask questions. I told her I was sorry, and started to beg her to change her mind, but she wouldn't listen; just smiled in a mournful sort of way as if she had lost her last friend, and hurried past me. "I asked Betty if she knew what was the matter, and she said it must be a quarrel of some kind, for Lloyd was dreadfully unhappy. After she came back from Locust yesterday evening she threw herself across the bed and cried, and cried, and wouldn't tell what for. She wouldn't go down to supper, either, and afterward, when Betty fixed her something on the chafing-dish, she barely tasted it." "We'll have a gay old club meeting to-morrow," said Katie, "with Ida gone and Lloyd in the dumps and Betty unable to come, on account of her cold--" "And her head so full of the book she's writing that she can't take any interest in anything else," interrupted Kitty. "It's too bad that there's only half a club left. Three of us can't get enough things ready to have a fair by Easter." "That isn't the worst of it," answered Katie. "The three of us alone never can get even with Mittie Dupong and carry out our hoodoo plot to punish her, because we are all outside of the seminary. I'm tired of having the girls laugh whenever they see me eating an apple and make remarks about C. D." "And I'm tired of hearing everlastingly about that old valentine!" chimed in Kitty. "If the other girls won't help us I think we ought to act on Ida's suggestion and take in some new members who would." "Lucy Smith would be glad to join in Ida's place," said Allison. "She rooms across the hall from Mittie, and she'd dare do anything that we would suggest." "And Retta Long's room is just above, and she's a good friend of ours," added Kitty. "Let's talk it over with Betty and Lloyd as soon as we get back to the seminary after dinner, and if they're willing we'll swear in the new members at recess." "All right," assented Katie. "I'll hurry back and meet you here at the depot as soon as I get through dinner. We'll settle this before night." But much running back and forth and consulting and discussing was necessary before the new addition to the club was in full working order. Lloyd and Betty were willing to admit Retta and Lucy, but Retta and Lucy were not willing to join unless their roommates were included in the invitation; and their roommates, Dora Deersly and Rose Parker, were not willing to spend any time in making fancy articles for the fair. It was too near the holidays, they said. They needed all their spare time for the presents they were trying to finish before Christmas. "Couldn't they be sort of honorary members, and not have to work?" suggested Kitty. "They needn't even meet with us on Saturdays, if they'll help us play ghost to scare Mittie." "Yes, there are some secret societies, like the Masons, that have different orders," Allison said. "Why couldn't we have, too? We'll be one kind of shadow, the kind that casts the influence, and the other four can be another kind and do the mischief. We can call ourselves the G. G.'s for good ghosts. Betty, can't you fix up something for the others?" "Yes," answered Betty, "if you'll give me enough time." She turned to the little note-book she always carried, and began looking over a list of words on the last page. The girls often laughed at Betty's devotion to the dictionary. Frequently they found her poring over its pages, picking out new words that pleased her fancy, as they would pick out the kernels of a nut, and jotting them down for future use. "Here it is," she cried, presently, "wraith! It means spirit or apparition. They can be the wicked wraiths--the W. W.'s. No," she added, as another chosen word caught her eye. "They can be the W. V.'s. Wraiths of Vengeance; that sounds better. That will fit in with the story of the veiled lady who haunts the seminary, because it is supposed she comes back to try to wreak vengeance on the people who wronged her. Allison, you tell little Elise that story to-night, and let her spread it among the primary grades, and it'll be all over the school by the time the girls are ready to perform, that the Wraith of Vengeance has been seen again, floating near Mittie Dupong's door." There was no regular meeting of the Shadow Club that Saturday. Mrs. Walton had not been taken into the secret of the Wraiths of Vengeance, and when it was explained to her that Betty had a cold and could not come, and Lloyd and Ida had had a misunderstanding and were not on good terms, she was quite willing to compensate the girls for their disappointment by inviting Lucy Smith and Retta Long to tea. Some of the neighbours came in to spend the evening, so Allison and Kitty took their guests up-stairs to make some experiments with a magic lantern which had often afforded them amusement. Little Elise, who had seen all the pictures many times before, went back to the library, and Barbry soon finished her evening duties up-stairs; so no one ever knew just what those experiments were. Among the slides was a picture of Lot's wife; a tall, white figure with a half-lifted veil, turning for a backward look. The lurid flames of burning Sodom glowed in the background the first time Lucy and Retta saw it thrown upon the wall, but the last time it was changed into a ghostly figure that made those Wraiths of Vengeance dance for joy. Allison, with a thick coat of black paint, had carefully covered all the background, blotting out everything in the circle except the figure itself, which stood out with startling distinctness. Then from the top of a step-ladder they practised throwing it from the transom of Allison's room through the opposite transom of the room across the hall. "It will be even easier than this at the seminary," said Lucy, "for the hall between Mittie's room and mine is narrower, and the transoms are lower. That will throw the figure directly above the foot of Mittie's bed. I think it will be all the better that we have to throw it high, for it will give the floating effect the veiled lady is famous for, to have the head so near the ceiling. I'll have to lay in a stock of provisions so that I need not go down to supper Monday night. Then while everybody is in the dining-room I'll hide the step-ladder under my bed, and experiment with the lantern from my transom to get exactly the right position." "What if Mittie shouldn't wake up when you flash it in?" suggested Allison. Retta was equal to providing for such an emergency. "I'll set my watch with Lucy's," she said, "and at exactly the moment we agree upon, I'll tap on Mittie's window just below mine with a bottle let down on a string. I'll give three sepulchral knocks, then wait a minute and give three more. I should think that an empty bottle knocking against the glass would give a hollow sort of sound. That's the window we always keep open at night." "When it's time for Barbry to take you home," said Allison, "we'll go, too, and help carry the lantern. Now this is a case of our shadow-selves being where we can not. We can't do the actual scaring, but it's our lantern that's going to cast the shadow that will make Mittie Dupong afraid to listen again as long as she lives." It took considerable self-denial on Lucy's part to forego supper when the time came to carry out the plan, but the spirit of mischief was stronger than her appetite. She was rewarded by finding the daintiest of luncheons in the box Allison left upon her table, and as she sat down to enjoy it after bringing in the step-ladder from the chambermaid's supply-closet and making her experiments, she thought the Order of Wraiths was a most excellent thing to which to belong. Although midnight is the prescribed time for all ghostly visitants, these wraiths had arranged for a much earlier appearing. It would cost too great an effort to keep awake until that witching hour. It was not more than half-past ten, although the seminary had been in darkness and silence for an hour, when Retta leaned out of her window, dangling an empty shoe-polish bottle on the end of a long string. It swung against Mittie's window just below with three hollow knocks. Ten seconds after by Lucy's watch the knocking was repeated. She could not hear it from her room, but her faith in Retta's punctuality in carrying out her part of the programme made her send a dazzling circle of light from the lantern she was manipulating, to rest on the wall above the foot of Mittie's bed. Mittie sat up in bed, too startled to utter a sound. The light instantly disappeared and a white-veiled figure took its place. To her horror she could distinctly see the dark wall-paper through its ghostly outlines. She buried her face in the bedclothes with a moan of terror. [Illustration: "MITTIE SAT UP IN BED, TOO STARTLED TO UTTER A SOUND."] "What's the matter, Mittie?" asked her roommate, from the opposite bed, who had been aroused by the knocking and the light, but had not opened her eyes until she heard the moan. The sound of a human voice gave Mittie courage to look out again. The apparition was gone. "Oh," she quavered, "I must have been dreaming. I thought there was a knocking at the window, then there was a blinding light, and the next instant the veiled lady seemed to float across the room at the foot of my bed. I never was so frightened in my life. My tongue is stiff yet, and I am all in a shiver. Oh, it was awful!" "It must have been the potato salad you ate for supper," answered Sara, drowsily; but as she spoke the three slow knocks sounded again at the window, and she raised herself on her elbow to listen. "Oo-oo-oh! There it is again!" wailed Mittie, burrowing under the bedclothes again. The hair fairly rose on Sara's head as the outlines of a veiled figure appeared above the foot of Mittie's bed, floating hesitatingly a little space, and then vanished. In a flash Sara had disappeared from view also, and lay almost smothered under the blankets, so rigid with fear that she dared not move a muscle. She held herself motionless until she began to ache. It seemed hours before either one dared look out again, although it was barely five minutes. "It was the hoodoo beginning to work," gasped Sara, in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, if I ever live through this night I tell you I'll get out of this room in the morning, Mittie Dupong. I'll never spend another night with a girl that's marked for the haunts to follow." It was hours before they fell asleep, for they kept opening their eyes to assure themselves that the apparition had not reappeared. Even in broad daylight the memory of their fright was not a pleasant thing to think about. It required all the persuasion that Mittie could bring to bear, and the gift of a coral fan-chain to prevail upon Sara not to go to the teachers with the matter. She finally consented to room with Mittie one more night, but announced in case the ghost came back she'd certainly alarm the seminary. "But if the teachers found out that I really was marked that way," sobbed Mittie, "they'd go to investigating, and find out about my eavesdropping, and they wouldn't let me stay in the school, if the spirits made such a disturbance about it." Sara promised secrecy, but while no hint of the appearance reached the faculty, every girl in the seminary heard of it before night. Nothing was talked of but table-tippings and spirit-rapping and "appearances." No ghostly visitant disturbed Mittie's and Sara's slumbers the second night. The Shadow Club, in secret session, decided it would not be safe to venture again so soon. But a spirit of unrest seemed to pervade the whole seminary. Mischievous girls knocked on the walls to see their roommates turn pale. Cold hands reached suddenly out of dark corners to clutch unwary passers-by, and a panic spread in a single evening among the pupils, more contagious than mumps or measles. Every one not infected with the fear seemed infected with a desire to make some one else afraid. Even gentle little Jean Wilson, whose deportment was always perfect, and who was too tender-hearted to watch a spider killed, so the girls declared, felt moved to do something. Her roommate, Ada Day, loudly proclaimed that _she_ was not afraid of spooks, and she didn't have any patience with girls who were silly enough to believe such tales. Nothing could frighten _her_! While Ada was in the bath-room that evening, Jean emptied a tin box of talcum powder, slipped a spool of thread inside, and drawing the end of the thread through one of the holes in the perforated lid, hid the box in the springs of Ada's bed. The black thread trailing across the carpet to Jean's pillow was not visible in the dimly lighted room when Ada came back and found Jean lying with her eyes closed. She did not turn up the lamp, but began undressing as quietly as possible, and was soon in bed herself. Both girls were wakeful that night. Both heard the clock strike several times. Ada tossed and turned whenever she roused, but Jean lay as quiet as possible, breathing regularly, so that Ada thought she was asleep and did not venture to speak. As the clock in the lower hall stopped striking twelve, Jean reached for the thread fastened to her pillow by a pin, and gave it several quick uneven jerks. The spool rattling in the tin box sounded like the mysterious rappings at which Ada had turned up her nose. To hear it thus in the dead of night was a different matter to Ada. "Jean!" she called, in a hoarse stage-whisper. "Jean! Did you hear that? What do you suppose it is?" Jean gave the thread another tweak, and then answered, in the same loud whisper, "It sounds to me as if something was trying to spell your name by tapping. It comes from under your bed, but then of course you don't believe in such things. It may be a warning." "I wish I dared put my foot out of bed," said Ada, her teeth chattering. "I'd get up and make a light. You do it, Jean. I'd do that much for you if the noise was under your bed." "Sh!" warned Jean. "I believe something is really calling you. It's certainly spelling your name. Now count. One knock--that is A. One, two, three, four--D. One again--A. Yes, that spelled Ada. Now it's beginning again. One, two, three, four--D. One--A." The knocks followed in rapid succession until Ada, realizing that they were going all the way to Y, was almost paralyzed with terror. "Oh, Jean!" she wailed. "Stop it! Stop it! Get up and make a light, or call the matron, or something! I can't stand it a minute longer! I'll be a gibbering idiot if you don't stop that awful knocking!" Jean still continued to jerk the thread, till she heard Ada spring up desperately as if to jump out of bed. Then she said, "Oh, do be still, Ada Day. It's nothing but a spool in a tin box. See! I'll strike a match and show you. I was only playing a trick on you because you boasted nothing could frighten you. Don't rouse the house, for mercy's sake." It took much time and much pleading on Jean's part to convince Ada that there was really no spirit under her bed, and then it took more time and pleading to appease her anger. The sound of voices and the striking of a match aroused the matron. She lay for a moment, wondering what was the matter; then, thinking that some one might be ill and in need of her services, she got up, slipped on a warm bathrobe and her felt bedroom slippers, and stepped out into the hall to investigate. All was quiet, but she had a feeling that some mischief was afloat. An inkling of the disturbing element in the school had reached her early in the day, and although she had said nothing to the teachers, she had made a careful round of inspection just before going to bed. Some rumour of the doings of the Shadow Club which had come to her made her go to the west wing and push aside the portière hanging over the door that led to the outside stairway. The bolt was in place, but it slipped easily in its sheath as if it had lately been oiled. Selecting a key on the ring at her belt, she locked the door. "I'll risk a fire for one night," she thought, "but I can't risk some other things." Although the hall was quiet when she stepped out now in the midnight silence, some feeling that all was not right made her slip on down the front stairs. There was no light, excepting a faint starlight, that served to show where the windows were. As she stood there listening, about to strike a match, something in white brushed down the stairs past her. Half in a spirit of mischief, thinking to pay the girl or ghost, whichever it was, back in her own coin, the matron threw her arms around the sheeted figure. There was a muffled scream of terror. But, holding her captive fast with one strong hand, the matron struck a match with the other. "Hush!" she said. "There's no use in disturbing everybody." Then as the match flared up she saw that it was no Wraith of Vengeance she held. The sheet fell to the floor, revealing Ida Shane, dressed even to hat and furs, and carrying her leather travelling-bag. CHAPTER XIII. THE SHADOW CLUB IN DISGRACE "THE president wishes to see the members of the Shadow Club in his office immediately. They will please pass out before we proceed with the opening exercises." That was the announcement Professor Fowler made in chapel next morning, and a clap of thunder from a clear sky could not have been more unexpected or more startling in its effect. A frightened silence pervaded the room so deep that every girl could hear her heart beat. A message to Doctor Wells's office at that hour was almost unheard of. He always conducted the chapel exercises himself. It must be a matter of grave importance indeed that would cause his absence now, and the sending of such a message. Lloyd and Betty exchanged startled glances, then slowly rose, followed by Allison and Kitty. Katie stood up next and looked back with a giggle at Lucy, Retta, Rose and Dora, who, being only of the Order of W. V.'s, hesitated to follow. But emphatic beckonings brought them to their feet, and they filed out into the hall after the other girls, their heads held high, and smiling as if indifferent to the whisperings around them. But the instant the door closed upon them and they found themselves alone in the hall outside, they began demanding of each other the reason for the summons. "You needn't ask _me_!" exclaimed Lucy. "We didn't do a thing last night on our side of the building. I've no more idea than a chipmunk why we were sent for." "Nothing happened in our wing," protested Betty and Lloyd, in the same breath. "Oh, girls, I'm all in a shake!" exclaimed Retta Long, almost in tears. "It frightens me nearly to death to think of being called up before the president. Such a thing never happened to me before, nor to any of our family." "Oh, boo!" exclaimed Kitty, with a reassuring smile. "We haven't done anything so killing bad that we need care. We've only had a little fun. Come on! I'm not afraid of all the king's horses and all the king's men." But in spite of her brave words she sat down as shyly as the rest of them when Doctor Wells, tall and commanding, motioned them to seats in front of his desk. He looked so big and dignified, standing before them erect and silent, while he waited for them to be seated, that her courage failed her. But when he sat down in his armchair and looked gravely from one frightened face to the other, Kitty saw a twinkle in the kind eyes behind the spectacles which reassured her. "We caught a ghost in the seminary last night, young ladies," he began, abruptly, with a smile twitching an instant at the corners of his mouth. It was only for an instant. His face was unusually grave as he proceeded. "It was just in time to prevent a very serious occurrence which would have been a great calamity to the school. It made a partial confession which implicated some one in your club, and I have sent for you in order that you may clear yourselves at once. Most of your mischief has been only innocent amusement, I know, but I must have a complete history of the club, from the beginning six weeks ago, up till twelve o'clock last night." At mention of a ghost, they looked at each other with startled faces, wondering how much he already knew. Evidently some one outside of the club had been playing their own game, and they wondered who could have made a confession which could truthfully have included them. Instinctively they turned to Betty to be their spokesman. With her truthful brown eyes looking straight into the doctor's, Betty clasped her hands in her lap and gave a simple account of the club. She began with the verse Miss Edith had written in their albums, and the story she had told them of the girls who walked forty miles to the mountain school. She told of the impulse it had awakened in them to do something for the mountain people, and the club that had grown out of that desire. "We didn't intend to play any pranks in the beginning," she said; "all we wanted to do was to cast our shadow-selves where we could never be. But just after Hallowe'en we met in our room one Saturday afternoon, and a girl hid in the closet next to ours and heard all our secrets and went and told them, and we decided to shadow _her_ awhile, to punish her for being so mean. But one-half of the club lived outside the seminary, and Ida Shane resigned about that time, so we established a new order, and took these four girls in as Wraiths of Vengeance." She nodded toward the new members. A grim smile flitted across the doctor's face as he listened to her explanation of their duties, and heard the use they had made of Lot's wife and the magic lantern. But he smoothed his white moustache to cover his amusement, and when she finished he sat in deep thought a moment, his brows drawn closely together. "If there was any ghost around last night, we weren't responsible for its doings," she added. "It didn't belong to the club." "Why did Ida Shane resign?" he asked, suddenly. "I don't know, sir," answered Betty. "She wouldn't tell." "There must have been a reason," he continued, sternly. "Do you know, Kitty?" "No, sir." "Do you, Katie?" "No, sir." The same question and the same answer passed down the line until it came to Lloyd. She blushed a vivid scarlet and hesitated. "Yes, I know," she exclaimed. "But I am not at liberty to tell." The president held out part of a torn envelope, on which was written with many flourishes in a bold, masculine hand, "Lloydsboro Seminary. Kindness of bearer." "Have any of you seen this handwriting before?" he asked. The envelope was passed from hand to hand, each girl shaking her head in denial, until it came to Lloyd. With a sick sinking of heart she recognized the familiar penmanship that had been such a bugbear, and which she had hoped never to see again. All the colour faded from her face as she faintly acknowledged that it was familiar. "That is all," he said, carelessly tossing the paper back on the desk. "I am glad to find that the club, as a club, is in no way accountable for the affair that I mentioned. I shall have to forbid any more games of ghost, however, and must ask the owners of the magic lantern to take their property home." He kept them a moment longer, with a few earnest words which they never could forget, they were so fatherly, so helpful, and inspiring. They went away with a higher value of the motive of their little club and its power to influence others; and an earnest purpose to measure up to the high standard he set for them, made them quiet and thoughtful all that morning. "Just a moment, please, Lloyd," he said, as she was about to pass out with the others. "There's another matter about which I wish to speak to you." She dropped into her seat again. When the last girl had passed out, closing the door behind her, he picked up the scrap of envelope again, saying, "I must ask you one more question, Lloyd. _Where_ have you seen this handwriting before?" She looked up at him imploringly. "Oh, please, Doctah Wells," she begged, "don't ask me! I'm not at liberty to tell that, eithah. I promised that I wouldn't, on my honah, you know." "But it is imperative that I should know," he answered, sternly. "You are here in my charge, and I have the right to demand an answer." "I am in honah bound not to tell," she repeated, a trifle defiantly, although her lips quivered. "It would get some one else into trouble, and I have to refuse, even if you expel me for it." The doctor and the old Colonel had been friends since their youth, and he recognized the "Lloyd stubbornness" now in the firmly set mouth and the poise of the head. "My dear child," he said, kindly, seeing a tear begin to steal from under her long lashes. "It is for your own sake, in the absence of your parents, and for the sake of the school's reputation, that I am obliged to make these inquiries. The somebody whom you are trying to shield is already in trouble, and your telling or not telling can make no difference now." Lloyd looked up in alarm. "Yes, it was Ida Shane whom the matron discovered trying to steal out of the seminary last night. Ned Bannon was waiting outside to take her on the fast express to Cincinnati. They were to have been married there this morning at his cousin's had they not been interrupted in their plans." Lloyd gave a gasp, and the tree outside the window seemed to be going round and round. "We have telegraphed for her aunt. She will be here this afternoon to take her home, and the affair will be ended as far as the seminary is concerned. Now what I must know, is just what connection have you had with it. Ida confessed that a member of the Shadow Club had helped her carry on a clandestine correspondence for awhile, but for some reason suddenly refused to be the bearer of their letters any longer. It was for that reason, she said, feeling that her only friend had failed her, that she consented to the elopement, which happily has been prevented." "Oh, Doctah Wells! Do _you_ think I am to blame for it?" cried Lloyd, wishing that the ground would open and swallow her if he should say yes. "It was so hard to know what to do! It neahly broke my heart to refuse her, but--it was this way." With the tears running down her face she poured out the whole story, from the beginning of her devotion to Ida, to the day when, under her grandmother's portrait she fought the battle between her love for her friend and loyalty to the family honour. "There wasn't anybody to tell me," she sobbed at the last. "And if I was wrong and am to blame for Ida's running away, nobody will evah trust me again!" A very tender smile flashed across the doctor's stern face and the eyes gleamed through the spectacles with a kinder light than she had ever seen in them, as he leaned forward to say: "I have known George Lloyd many, many years, my child, and I want to say that he has never had more reason to be proud of anything in his life than that his little granddaughter, under such a test, recognized the right and stood true to the traditions of an old and honourable family when it cost her a friendship that she held very dear. Just now Ida feels that she has been cruelly used, and that her happiness is wrecked for life; but in time she will see differently. Poor mistaken child! I talked with her this morning. Ned is only a selfish, overgrown boy, with many bad habits, and like many another of his kind knows that the plea that she is reforming him is the strongest argument he can use in influencing her. He tells her she is doing that, but to my certain knowledge he has not given up a single vice since he has known her. She thinks that it is her duty to cling to him. I admire her devotion in one way, but it makes her blind to every other duty. She is too infatuated to be able to judge between the right and wrong, and at present feels bitter toward the whole world. "But by and by, when she grows wiser and learns that the judgment of a sixteen-year-old girl in such matters cannot safely be trusted, she will be glad that you helped bring the affair to a crisis. When she has outgrown her infatuation she will see that you have done her a kindness instead of a wrong, and she will thank you deeply." Lloyd had not felt so light-hearted for days, as when she left the president's office, both on her own account and Ida's. When she went into the class-room it was with such a bright face that every one felt the message to the Shadow Club must have been some mark of especial honour. When Doctor Wells thought the affair ended as far as the seminary was concerned, he had not taken the newspapers into account. No one could guess where they got their information. Friday morning a Louisville paper came out to the Valley with startling headlines: "_Pretty Schoolgirl at Lloydsboro Valley Attempts to Elope with Son of Prominent Judge! Granddaughter of Well-Known Kentucky Colonel Plays Important Part! Shadow Club in Disgrace! Ghosts and Lovers vs. Good Behaviour and Learning!_" No names were mentioned, but the badly garbled account made a buzz of wonder and criticism in the Valley. Doctor Wells came into chapel looking worried and haggard. He simply stated the facts of the case and held up the paper with the false account, speaking of the effect such a report would have on the school. "It puts us in a bad light," he said. "The public will say we should have been more watchful. This will be copied all over the State before the week is out. One girl has already been ordered home by telegraph on account of it." Lloyd did not see the paper until noon. She read it hastily, standing in the hall, and then ran up to her room to throw herself across her bed in a violent spell of crying. "Oh, how could they tell such dreadful stories!" she sobbed to Betty. "They might as well have published my name in big red lettahs as to have described Locust and grandfathah so plainly that every one will know who is meant. He and mothah will be so mawtified! I nevah want to look anybody in the face again, aftah having such lies copied all ovah the State about me, as Doctah Wells says they will be. I can't follow them up and prove to everybody that they are not true, and it's such an awful disgrace to be talked about that way in the papahs. If grandfathah or Papa Jack were home I believe they'd shoot that horrid editah!" The matron came in and tried to comfort her, but she would not listen. She was in a nervous state when trifles were magnified into great troubles, and she persisted in thinking that she was too disgraced by the false report to ever appear in public again. Betty could not coax her down to dinner, and it was not long before she had cried herself into a throbbing headache. Toward the middle of the afternoon, exhausted by her crying, she fell into such a sound sleep that she did not hear the girls go tramping out for their daily walk. Betty stole in and looked at her and went sorrowfully out again. Magnolia Budine, passing the door with her carpet-bag on the way to the old carryall waiting at the gate, stopped a moment and listened. It was an exciting tale she was carrying home to Roney this Friday afternoon. She was glad the sobs had ceased. She had heard them at noon, and had gone around with the cloud of Lloyd's trouble resting on her like a heavy burden. It was nearly dark when Lloyd awoke. Some one was tapping at the door. Before she could find her voice to say Come in, Mrs. Walton was standing beside her. It was as if a burst of sunshine had suddenly brightened the dull November twilight. Lloyd started to scramble up, but Mrs. Walton insisted on her lying still. Sitting down on the side of the bed, she began stroking her hot forehead with soft, motherly touches. "I had a conversation with Doctor Wells over the telephone about that affair in the paper," she began. "He told me what a state you were in about it, so I immediately wrote to your mother a full explanation and sent it off on the two o'clock train, stamped 'special delivery.' She'll get it as soon as the paper, so put your mind at rest on that point. Now I've come over to tell you something I found out about you the other day. You don't even know it yourself. You'll be surprised and glad, I'm sure. It's quite a story, so I shall have to begin it like one. "One blustery day last week an old farmer stopped at Clovercroft and asked to see Miss Katherine. It proved to be Magnolia Budine's father. He had been there once before with a crock of apple-butter, which he brought as a sort of thank-offering to Katherine because she had made Magnolia so happy about the costume and the picture she took of her in it. "Katherine said he would have made a striking picture himself as he stood there with his slouched hat pulled over his ears, a blue woollen muffler wound around his neck, and an enormous bronze turkey gobbler in his arms. He wouldn't go in at first, but finally stepped inside out of the wind, still holding the turkey in his arms. "It seems that there is a man living on his place who used to be an old neighbour of the Budines when they lived near Loretta. This man has been unable to work for some time, and is occupying the cabin free of rent. He has a daughter about sixteen who is very ill. She is Magnolia's best friend, and the child was afraid that Roney, as he called her, was going to die. She wanted her picture above all things, and anything that Magnolia wants the old fellow evidently makes an effort to get for her. He seems completely wrapped up in her. So there he stood with his best bronze gobbler in his arms and tears in his eyes, wanting to know of Katherine if it would be a sufficient inducement for her to drive over with him and take the sick girl's picture. "She told him she never took pictures for pay, and said she would be glad to do it for nothing if it were not such a bleak day that she was afraid to ride so far in the cold. He was greatly distressed at his failure to persuade her to go, for he was afraid that Roney might die before the weather changed, and then his little girl would be so grieved that she would never get over it. Katherine was so touched by the old fellow's disappointment that she relented, and told him she would risk the cold if I would be willing to go with her. They came by for me, and I went. "Oh, Lloyd, I wish you could have seen that poor, bare room where Roney was lying. It was clean, but so pitifully bare of all that is bright and comfortable. I looked around and saw not a picture except an unframed chromo tacked over the mantel, till my eyes happened to rest on the old wooden clock. There behind its glass door, swinging back and forth on the pendulum, was _your_ picture; the Princess with the dove." Lloyd raised herself on one elbow. "_My_ pictuah!" she cried, in astonishment. "How did it get there?" "That is what I couldn't help asking Roney. I wish you could have seen her face light up as she looked at it. 'That's my Princess, Mrs. Walton,' she said. 'Magnolia gave it to me. You don't know how she has helped me through the long days and nights. Of course I can't see her in the dark, but every time the clock ticks I know she is swinging away there, saying, "For love--will find--a way."' "I found that Roney's case is one for the King's Daughters to take in hand. She has a small annuity left her by her mother's family; that is all her father and she have to live on. That will stop at her death, and it is her one anxiety that in spite of all her pain she may hang on to life in order that her father may be provided for. The King's Daughters sent for a specialist to come out and examine her. He says she can be cured, so next week we are to move her into Louisville to a hospital for treatment. "You never saw such a happy face as hers when we told her. 'Oh,' she cried, 'I almost gave up last week. The pain was so terrible. I couldn't have borne it if I hadn't watched the pendulum and, every time it ticked, said, "I'll stand it one more second for daddy's sake, and one more, and one more; I'm spinning the golden thread like the Princess, and love _will_ find a way to help me hang on a little longer!"' "So you see, dear," said Mrs. Walton, with a playful pat of the cheek, "your face and Betty's song brought hope and strength to a poor suffering little soul of whom you never heard. Your shadow-self reached a long, long way when it brought comfort to Roney and helped keep her brave. What do you care for this trifle you are crying about? The whole affair will blow over and be forgotten in a short time. Get up and go to counting the pendulum with Roney, and sing like the real princess you are. '_Love_ will find a way' to make us forget the unpleasant things and remember only the good." Lloyd sat up and threw both her arms around Mrs. Walton's neck. "You're the real princess," she said, softly, with a kiss. "For you go about doing good all the time, like a real king's daughtah." "Now run along, little girl," said Mrs. Walton, gaily, as Lloyd slipped off the bed. "Bathe your eyes and pack your satchel. I am going to take you and Betty home with me to stay until Monday morning." CHAPTER XIV. THE THREE WEAVERS NO better cure could have been found for Lloyd's dejection than her visit to The Beeches. It was impossible for her to brood over her troubles while Allison and Kitty were continually saying funny things, and rushing her from one interesting game to another. After a good night's sleep the events of the previous day seemed so far away that what she had considered such a disgrace had somehow lost its sting, and she wondered how she could have suffered so keenly over it. Katie Mallard came over soon after breakfast, and they spent nearly the entire day outdoors. The air was frosty and bracing, and when Mrs. Walton saw them come running into the house just before sundown with bright eyes and red cheeks, she felt well pleased with the success of her plan. She was sitting in her room by a front window writing letters when the girls came rushing up the stairs into the adjoining room. Kitty carried a basket of apples, and Allison some pop-corn and the popper, and presently an appetizing odour began to steal in as the white grains danced over the open fire. As the girls hovered hungrily around, waiting for the popping to cease, they began a lively discussion which caught Mrs. Walton's attention. She paused, pen in hand, at the mention of two names, Daisy Dale and the Heiress of Dorn. They were familiar names, for only the day before Miss Edith had showed her the pile of books found in Ida's closet, and she was waiting for a suitable time to speak of them to the girls. As she folded her letter and addressed it, she decided she would call them in a little later, when they were through with their apples and their corn, for a quiet little twilight talk. A golden afterglow gleamed above the western tree-tops, and, leaning back in her rocking-chair, she sat watching it fade out, so absorbed in a story she was thinking to tell them that she ceased to hear the girlish chatter in the next room till Lloyd's voice rang out clearly: "I've made up my mind. I'm _nevah_ going to get married!" "Then you'll be an old maid," was Kitty's teasing rejoinder, "and people will poke fun at you and your cats and teacups." "I'll not have any," was the prompt reply. "I nevah expect to have any moah pets of any kind. Whenevah I get to loving anything, something always happens to it. Think of all the pets we have had at Locust. Fritz, and the two Bobs, and Boots, and the gobblah, and the goat, and the parrot, and deah old Hero! Something happened to every one of them. The ponies are the only things left, and the only kind of a pet I'd evah have again. If Tarbaby should die, I'd buy me a hawse, for I don't expect to be the kind of an old maid that sits in a chimney-cawnah with a tabby and a teapot. I expect to dash around the country' on hawseback and have fun even when I'm old and wrinkled and gray. I'll go to college, of co'se, and I'll have interesting people to visit me, so that I'll keep up my interest in the world and not get cranky." "I'll come and live with you," said Allison. "I'll have a studio and devote my life to making a great artist of myself. We could buy Tanglewood, and make a moat all around the house so that we could pull up the drawbridge when we wanted to be alone or were afraid of burglars." "Maybe it would be better for me to be an old maid, too," said Betty, musingly. "I'd have more time to write books than if I had a husband and a family to look after. And, besides, while I like to read about lovers and such things in stories, it would make me feel dreadfully foolish to have any man fall on his knees to me and say the things that Lord Rokeby and Guy said to Daisy Dale. I don't even like to write those speeches when I'm in a room by myself. I've tried lots of times, and I've about decided to skip that part in my story. I'll put some stars instead, and begin, 'A year has passed, and Gladys and Eugene,' etc." "I was going to ask mothah how Papa Jack did it," said Lloyd, "but aftah all that's happened, somehow I'd rathah not say anything about such things to oldah people. Miss McCannister was so horrified when she found we had talked such 'sentimental foolishness,' as she called it. I'll nevah forget the way she screwed up her lips and said, 'It wasn't considahed propah, when I was a child, for little girls to discuss such subjects.' I felt as if I had been caught doing something wicked. It mawtified me dreadfully, and I made up my mind that I'd nevah get to be fond of anybody the way Ida was, for fear I might be mistaken in them as she was." "Everything seems to be a warning lately," said Betty. "Even the literature lessons this week. If the _Lady of Shalott_ hadn't left her weaving to look out of the window when Sir Lancelot rode by, the curse wouldn't have come upon her." "There!" cried Allison, scrambling to her feet. "That reminds me that I haven't learned the verses that Miss Edith asked us to memorize for Monday." She took a worn copy of Tennyson from the table, and began rapidly turning the leaves. "I learned the whole thing yesterday," said Betty. "I can say every word of part first." "It's easy," remarked Kitty. "I know part of it, although I'm not in the class. I learned it from hearing Allison read it: "'Four gray walls and four gray towers Overlook a space of flowers. And the silent isle embowers The Lady of Shalott.' Isn't that right?" "Yes, but that isn't Monday's lesson. It's part second we have to learn." "Let's all learn it," proposed Katie. "It's so pretty and jingles along so easily I'd like to know it, too. You line it out, Allison, as Frazer does the hymns at the coloured baptizings, and we'll run a race and see who can repeat it first." "There she weaves by night and day," read Allison, and then the five voices gabbled it all together, "There she weaves by night and day." The concert recitation went on for some time, and presently the lines of the familiar old poem began weaving themselves into the story Mrs. Walton was thinking about. The red gold of the afterglow had not entirely faded from the sky when she left her seat by the window and went into the next room. The five girls on the hearth-rug were still chanting the lesson over and over. "Come hear us say it, mother," called Kitty, drawing up a chair for her. "Betty learned it first." Allison deposited the bowl of pop-corn in her lap and passed her the basket of apples, and then flourished the popper like a drum-major's baton. "Now all together!" she cried, and the five voices rang out like one: "There she weaves by night and day A magic web with colours gay. She has heard a whisper say A curse is on her if she stay To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she. The Lady of Shalott. "And moving through a mirror clear That hangs before her all the year, Shadows of the world appear. There she sees the highway near, Winding down to Camelot. There the river eddy whirls, And the surly village churls And the red cloaks of market-girls Pass onward from Shalott. "Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, An abbot on an ambling pad, Sometimes a curly shepherd lad Or long-haired page in crimson clad Goes by to Camelot. And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two by two. She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott." "Why, she was an old maid! Wasn't she!" said Katie, so plaintively as they finished that they all laughed. "That's what Allison and Betty and Lloyd are going to be, mother," said Kitty, teasingly. Lloyd, with a very red face, hastened to change the subject. She snuggled up against Mrs. Walton's knee, saying, as she looked into the glowing fire, "This is the best time of the day, when the wind goes 'Whooo' in the chimney, and it's cold and dark outdoahs and cheerful and bright inside. It's just the time for story-telling. Don't you know one, Mrs. Walton?" "Of course she does," Kitty answered for her. "And if you don't know one, you can make one up to order. Can't you, mamsie?" "Your poem suggested a story," answered Mrs. Walton, and with one hand smoothing Lloyd's fair head as it rested against her knee, and the other stroking Kitty's dark one in her lap, she began: "Once upon a time (the same time that the Lady of Shalott wove her magic web, and near the four gray towers from which she watched the road running down to Camelot), there lived three weavers. Their houses stood side by side, and such had been their equal fortunes that whatever happened under the roof of one had always happened under the roofs of the others. They wove the same patterns in their looms, and they received the same number of shillings for their webs. They sang the same songs, told the same tales, ate the same kind of broth from the same kind of bowls, and dressed in the same coarse goods of hodden gray. "But they were unlike as three weavers could possibly be. The first insisted on weaving all his webs a certain length, regardless of the size of the man who must wear the mantle. (Each web was supposed to be just long enough to make one mantle.) The second carelessly wove his any length that happened to be convenient, and stretched or cut it afterward to fit whomsoever would take it. But the third, with great painstaking and care, measured first the man and then the web by the inches and ells of his carefully notched yardstick. "Now to each weaver was born a daughter, all on the same day, and they named them Hertha, Huberta, and Hildegarde. On the night after the christening, as the three men sat smoking their pipes on the same stoop, the father of Hertha said, 'Do not think me puffed up with unseemly pride, good neighbours, but wonderful fortune hath befallen me and mine this day. Clotho, the good fairy of all the weavers, was present at my Hertha's christening, and left beside her cradle a gift: a tiny loom that from beam to shuttle is of purest gold. And she whispered to me in passing, "Good fortune, Herthold. It is written in the stars that a royal prince shall seek to wed thy child."' "But Herthold's news caused no astonishment to his neighbours. What had happened under the roof of one had happened under the roofs of all, and the same good fortune was written in the stars for each, and the same gift had been left by each child's cradle. So the three friends rejoiced together, and boasted jestingly among themselves of the three kings' sons who should some day sit down at their tables. "But presently Hildgardmar, the father of Hildegarde, said, 'But there may be a slip twixt cup and lip. Mayhap our daughters cannot fulfil the required condition.' "At that they looked grave for a moment, for Clotho had added in passing, 'One thing is necessary. She must weave upon this loom I leave a royal mantle for the prince's wearing. It must be ample and fair to look upon, rich cloth of gold, of princely size and texture. Many will come to claim it, but if it is woven rightly the destined prince alone can wear it, and him it will fit in all faultlessness, as the falcon's feathers fit the falcon. But if it should not be ample and fine, meet for royal wearing, the prince will not deign to don it, and the maiden's heart shall break, as broke the shattered mirror of the Lady of Shalott.' "'Oh, well,' said Herthold, when the three had smoked in silence a little space. 'I'll guard against that. I shall hide all knowledge of the magic loom from my daughter until she be grown. Then, under mine own eye, by mine own measurements that I always use, shall she weave the goodly garment. In the meantime she shall learn all the arts which become a princess to know--broidery and fair needlework, and songs upon a lute. But of the weaving she shall know naught until she be grown. That I am determined upon. 'Tis sorry work her childish hands would make of it, if left to throw the shuttle at a maiden's fickle fancy.' "But Hubert shook his head. 'Why stew about a trifle!' he exclaimed. 'Forsooth, on such a tiny loom no web of any kind can well be woven. 'Tis but a toy that Clotho left the child to play with, and she shall weave her dreams and fancies on it at her own sweet will. I shall not interfere. What's written in the stars is written, and naught that I can do will change it. Away, friend Hildgardmar, with thy forebodings!' "Hildgardmar said nothing in reply, but he thought much. He followed the example of the others, and early and late might have been heard the pounding of the three looms, for there was need to work harder than ever now, that the little maidens might have teachers for all the arts becoming a princess--broidery and fair needlework and songs upon the lute. "While the looms pounded in the dwellings the little maidens grew apace. They played together in the same garden and learned from the same skilled teachers their daily lessons, and in their fondness for each other were as three sisters. "One day Huberta said to the others, 'Come with me and I will show you a beautiful toy that Clotho left me at my christening. My father says she gave one to each of us, and that it is written in the stars that we are each to wed a prince if we can weave for him an ample cloak of cloth of gold. Already I have begun to weave mine." "All silently, for fear of watchful eyes and forbidding voices, they stole into an inner room, and she showed them the loom of gold. But now no longer was it the tiny toy that had been left beside her cradle. It had grown with her growth. For every inch that had been added to her stature an inch had been added to the loom's. The warp was Clotho's gift, all thread of gold, and it, too, grew with the maiden's growth; but the thread the shuttle carried was of her own spinning--rainbow hued and rose-coloured, from the airy dream-fleece of her own sweet fancies. "'See,' she whispered, 'I have begun the mantle for my prince's wearing.' Seizing the shuttle as she had seen her father do so many times, she crossed the golden warp with the woof-thread of a rosy day-dream. Hertha and Hildegarde looked on in silent envy, not so much for the loom as for the mirror which hung beside it, wherein, as in the Lady of Shalott's, moved the shadows of the world. The same pictures that flitted across hers, flitted across Huberta's. "'See!' she cried again, pointing to the mirror, 'That curly shepherd lad! Does he not look like a prince as he strides by with his head high, and his blue eyes smiling upon all the world? He carries his crook like a royal sceptre, forsooth. Well you may believe I am always at my mirror both at sunrise and sunset to see him pass gaily by.' "'Yon long-haired page in crimson clad is more to my liking,' said Hertha, timidly. 'Methinks he has a noble mien, as of one brought up in palaces. I wonder why my father has never said aught to me of Clotho's gift. I, too, should be at my weaving, for I am as old as thou, Huberta.' "'And I also,' added Hildegarde. "'Ask him,' quoth Huberta. 'Mayhap he hath forgot.' "So when Hertha reached home, she went to her father Herthold, and said, timidly, with downcast eyes and blushes, 'Father--where is my loom, like Huberta's? I, too, would be weaving as it is written in the stars.' "But Herthold glowered upon her grimly. 'Who told thee of aught that is written in the stars?' he demanded, so sternly that her heart quaked within her. 'Hear me! Never again must thou listen to such idle tales. When thou art a woman grown, thou mayst come to me, and I may talk to thee then of webs and weaving, but what hast thou to do with such things now? Thou! a silly child! Bah! I am ashamed that ever a daughter of mine should think such foolishness!' "Hertha, shamed and abashed, stole away to weep, that she had incurred her father's scorn. But next day, when they played in the garden, Huberta said, 'Thy father is an old tyrant to forbid thee the use of Clotho's gift. He cannot love thee as mine does me, or he would not deny thee such a pleasure. Come! I will help thee to find it.' "So hand in hand they stole into an inner room by a door that Herthold thought securely bolted, and there stood a loom like Huberta's, and over it a mirror in which the same shadows of the world were repeated in passing. And as Hertha picked up the shuttle to send the thread of a rosy day-dream through the warp of gold, the long-haired page in crimson clad passed down the street outside, and she saw his image in the mirror. "'How like a prince he bears himself!' she murmured. 'My father is indeed a tyrant to deny me the pleasure of looking out upon the world and weaving sweet fancies about it. Henceforth I shall not obey him, but shall daily steal away in here, to weave in secret what he will not allow me to do openly.' "At the same time, Hildegarde stood before her father, saying, timidly, 'Is it true, my father, what Huberta says is written in the stars? To-day when I saw Huberta's loom I pushed back the bolt which has always barred the door leading into an inner room from mine, and there I found the loom of gold and a wonderful mirror. I fain would use them as Huberta does, but I have come to ask thee first, if all be well.' "A very tender smile lighted the face of old Hildgardmar. Taking the hand of the little Hildegarde in his, he led the way into the inner room. 'I have often looked forward to this day, my little one,' he exclaimed, 'although I did not think thou wouldst come quite so soon with thy questions. It is indeed true, what Huberta hast told thee is written in the stars. On the right weaving of this web depends the happiness of all thy future, and not only thine but of those who may come after thee. "''Tis a dangerous gift the good Clotho left thee, for looking in that mirror thou wilt be tempted to weave thy web to fit the shifting figures that flit therein. But listen to thy father who hath never yet deceived thee, and who has only thy good at heart. Keep always by thy side this sterling yardstick which I give thee, for it marks the inches and the ells to which the stature of a prince must measure. Not until the web doth fully equal it can it be safely taken from the loom. "'Thou art so young, 'tis but a little mantle thou couldst weave this year, at best. Fit but to clothe the shoulders of yon curly shepherd lad.' He pointed to the bright reflection passing in the mirror. 'But 'tis a magic loom that lengthens with thy growth, and each year shall the web grow longer, until at last, a woman grown, thou canst hold it up against the yardstick, and find that it doth measure to the last inch and ell the size demanded by a prince's noble stature. "'But thou wilt oft be dazzled by the mirror's sights, and youths will come to thee, one by one, each begging, "Give _me_ the royal mantle, Hildegarde. _I_ am the prince the stars have destined for thee." And with honeyed words he'll show thee how the mantle in the loom is just the length to fit _his_ shoulders. But let him not persuade thee to cut it loose and give it him, as thy young fingers will be fain to do. Weave on another year, and yet another, till thou, a woman grown, canst measure out a perfect web, more ample than these stripling youths could carry, but which will fit thy prince in faultlessness, as falcon's feathers fit the falcon.' "Hildegarde, awed by his solemn words of warning, took the silver yardstick and hung it by the mirror, and standing before old Hildgardmar with bowed head, said, 'You may trust me, father; I will not cut the golden warp from out the loom until I, a woman grown, have woven such a web as thou thyself shalt say is worthy of a prince's wearing.' "So Hildgardmar left her with his blessing, and went back to his work. After that the winter followed the autumn and the summer the spring many times, and the children played in the garden and learned their lessons of broidery and fair needlework and songs upon the lute. And every day each stole away to the inner room, and threw the shuttle in and out among the threads of gold. "Hertha worked always in secret, peering ever in the mirror, lest perchance the long-haired page in crimson clad should slip by and she not see him. For the sheen of his fair hair dazzled her to all other sights, and his face was all she thought of by day and dreamed of by night, so that she often forgot to ply her needle or finger her lute. He was only a page, but she called him prince in her thoughts until she really believed him one. When she worked at the web she sang to herself, 'It is for him--for him!' "Huberta laughed openly about her web, and her father often teased her about the one for whom it was intended, saying, when the village lads went by, 'Is _that_ thy prince?' or, 'Is it for this one thou weavest?' But he never went with her into that inner room, so he never knew whether the weaving was done well or ill. And he never knew that she cut the web of one year's weaving and gave it to the curly shepherd lad. He wore it with jaunty grace at first, and Huberta spent long hours at the mirror, watching to see him pass by all wrapped within its folds. But it grew tarnished after awhile from his long tramps over the dirty moors after his flocks, and Huberta saw other figures in the mirror which pleased her fancy, and she began another web. And that she gave to a student in cap and gown, and the next to a troubadour strolling past her window, and the next to a knight in armour who rode by one idle summer day. "The years went by, she scattering her favours to whomsoever called her sweetheart with vows of devotion, and Hertha faithful to the page alone. Hildegarde worked on, true to her promise. But there came a time when a face shone across her mirror so noble and fair that she started back in a flutter. "'Oh, surely 'tis he,' she whispered to her father. 'His eyes are so blue they fill all my dreams.' But old Hildgardmar answered her, 'Does he measure up to the standard set by the sterling yardstick for a full-grown prince to be?' "'No,' she answered, sadly. 'Only to the measure of an ordinary man. But see how perfectly the mantle I have woven would fit him!' "'Nay, weave on, then,' he said, kindly. 'Thou hast not yet reached the best thou canst do. This is not the one written for thee in the stars.' "A long time after a knight flashed across the mirror blue. A knight like Sir Lancelot: "His broad clear brow in sunlight glowed. On burnished hooves his war-horse trode. From underneath his helmet flowed, His coal-black curls, as on he rode As he rode down to Camelot." "So noble he was that she felt sure that he was the one destined to wear her mantle, and she went to her father, saying, 'He has asked for the robe, and measured by thy own sterling yardstick, it would fit him in faultlessness, as the falcon's feathers fit the falcon.' "Hildgardmar laid the yardstick against the web. 'Nay,' he said. 'This is only the size of a knight. It lacks a handbreadth yet of the measure of a prince.' "Hildegarde hesitated, half-pouting, till he said, beseechingly, 'I am an old man, knowing far more of the world and its ways than thou, my daughter. Have I ever deceived thee? Have I ever had aught but thy good at heart? Have patience a little longer. Another year and thou wilt be able to fashion a still larger web.' "At last it came to pass, as it was written in the stars, a prince came riding by to ask for Hertha as his bride. Old Herthold, taking her by the hand, said, '_Now_ I will lead thee into the inner room and teach thee how to use the fairy's sacred gift. With me for a teacher, thou canst surely make no mistake.' "When they came into the inner room there stood only the empty loom from which the golden warp had been clipped. "'How now!' he demanded, angrily. Hertha, braving his ill-humour, said, defiantly, 'Thou art too late. Because I feared thy scorn of what thou wast pleased to call my childish foolishness, I wove in secret, and when my prince came by, long ago I gave it him. He stands outside at the casement.' "The astonished Herthold, turning in a rage, saw the long-haired page clad in the mantle which she had woven in secret. He tore it angrily from the youth, and demanded she should give it to the prince, who waited to claim it, but the prince would have none of it. It was of too small a fashion to fit his royal shoulders, and had been defiled by the wearing of a common page. So with one look of disdain he rode away. "Stripped of the robe her own fancy had woven around him, the page stood shorn before her. It was as if a veil had been torn from her eyes, and she no longer saw him as her fond dreams had painted him. She saw him in all his unworthiness; and the cloth of gold which was her maiden-love, and the rosy day-dreams she had woven into it to make the mantle of a high ideal, lay in tattered shreds at her feet. When she looked from the one to the other and saw the mistake she had made and the opportunity she had lost, she covered her face with her hands and cried out to Herthold, 'It is thy fault. Thou shouldst not have laughed my childish questions to scorn, and driven me to weave in ignorance and in secret.' But all her upbraiding was too late. As it was written in the stars, her heart broke, as broke the shattered mirror of the Lady of Shalott. "That same day came a prince to Hubert, asking for his daughter. He called her from the garden, saying, gaily, 'Bring forth the mantle now, Huberta. Surely it must be a goodly one after all these years of weaving at thy own sweet will.' "She brought it forth, but when he saw it he started back aghast at its pigmy size. When he demanded the reason, she confessed with tears that she had no more of the golden warp that was Clotho's sacred gift. She had squandered that maiden-love in the bygone years to make the mantles she had so thoughtlessly bestowed upon the shepherd lad and the troubadour, the student and the knight. This was all she had left to give. "'Well,' said her father, at length, ''tis only what many another has done in the wanton foolishness of youth. But perchance when the prince sees how fair thou art, and how sweetly thou dost sing to thy lute, he may overlook the paltriness of thy offering. Take it to him.' "When she had laid it before him, he cast only one glance at it, so small it was, so meagre of gold thread, so unmeet for a true prince's wearing. Then he looked sorrowfully into the depths of her beautiful eyes and turned away. "The gaze burned into her very soul and revealed to her all that she had lost for evermore. She cried out to her father with pitiful sobs that set his heartstrings in a quiver, 'It is _thy_ fault! Why didst thou not warn me what a precious gift was the gold warp Clotho gave me! Why didst thou say to me, "Is _this_ the lad? Is that the lad?" till I looked only at the village churls and wove my web to fit their unworthy shoulders, and forgot how high is the stature of a perfect prince!' Then, hiding her face, she fled away, and as it was written in the stars, her heart broke, as broke the shattered mirror of the Lady of Shalott. "Then came the prince to Hildegarde. All blushing and aflutter, she clipped the threads that held the golden web of her maiden-love, through which ran all her happy girlish day-dreams, and let him take it from her. Glancing shyly up, she saw that it fitted him in all faultlessness, as the falcon's feathers fit the falcon. "Then old Hildgardmar, stretching out his hands, said, 'Because even in childhood days thou ever kept in view the sterling yardstick as I bade thee, because no single strand of all the golden warp that Clotho gave thee was squandered on another, because thou waitedst till thy woman's fingers wrought the best that lay within thy woman's heart, all happiness shall now be thine! Receive it as thy perfect crown!' "So with her father's blessing light upon her, she rode away beside the prince; and ever after, all her life was crowned with happiness as it had been written for her in the stars." There was a moment's silence when Mrs. Walton ceased speaking. The fire had died down until only a fitful glimmer lighted the thoughtful faces of the girls grouped around her on the hearth-rug. Then Kitty said, impulsively: "Of course Hertha means Ida, and you want us all to be Hildegardes, but who is Huberta?" "Mittie Dupong, of course!" answered Allison. "And Flynn Willis and Cad Bailey and all that set we were so disgusted with at Carter Brown's party. Didn't you mean them, mother?" "Yes," said Mrs. Walton, well pleased that the tale had been interpreted so quickly. "I must confess that I told the story solely for the moral I wanted to tack on to the end of it. You do not know how my heart has ached for Ida. Poor misguided child! From what I have heard of her aunt I think she must be like Hertha's father, and made Ida feel that she had no sympathy with her childish love-affairs. Then Ida made the mistake that Hertha did, wove her ideals in secret, and fitted them on the first boy who pleased her fancy. Once wrapped in them she was blind to all his faults, and could not judge him as other people did. She made a hero of him. I blame her aunt as much as I do her, because she did not teach her long ago, as Hildgardmar did his daughter. "Little girls begin very early sometimes to dream about that far-away land of Romance. The teasing questions older people ask them often set them to thinking seriously of it. They call their little playmates their sweethearts, and imagine the admiration and fondness they have for them is the love that is written in the stars. Nobody explains to them that they will outgrow their early ideals as they do their dresses. "I can remember how my ideals used to change. When I was a little girl, about as old as Elise, I thought that my Prince Charming would be like the one in the story of the Sleeping Beauty. I dreamed of sitting all day beside him on a crystal throne, with a crown on my head and a sceptre in my hand. But as I grew older I realized how stupid that would be, and I fashioned him after the figures that flitted across my mirror in the world of books. He was as handsome as a Greek god, and the feats he performed could have been possible only in the days of the Round Table. "Then I outgrew that ideal. Others took its place, but when a woman grown, I held up the one that was the best my woman's heart could fashion, I found that my prince measured just to the stature of an honest man, simple and earnest and true. That was all--no Greek god, no dashing knight, but a strong, manly man, whose love was my life's crown of happiness." She glanced up at the portrait over the mantel, and there was an impressive pause. Lloyd broke the silence presently, speaking very fast in an embarrassed sort of way. "But, Mrs. Walton, don't you think there was some excuse for Ida besides her being blinded to Mistah Bannon's faults? He made her believe she had such a good influence ovah him that she thought it was her _duty_ to disobey her aunt, because it was moah important that he should be reformed than that she should be obeyed in a mattah that seemed unreasonable to Ida." "Yes," was the hesitating answer. "But Ida was largely influenced to take that stand by the books she had been reading. That's another matter I want to speak about, since my little girls have confessed to the reading of 'Daisy Dale' and the 'Heiress of Dorn.' While there is nothing particularly objectionable in such books in one way, in another their influence is of the very worst. The characters are either unreal or overdrawn, or they are so interestingly coloured that they are like the figures of the shepherd lad and the long-haired page in the mirrors of Hertha and Huberta. In watching them a girl is apt to weave her web 'to fit _their_ unworthy shoulders, and forget how high is the stature of a perfect prince.' Such books are poor yardsticks, and give one false ideas of value and measurement. "Ned's plea is what nearly every wild young fellow makes, and nine times out of ten it appeals to a girl more than any other argument he could use. 'Give _me_ the mantle, Hildegarde. It will help me to live right.' So she takes him in hand to reform him. Nothing could be purer and higher than the motives which prompt her to sacrifice everything to what she considers her duty. I had a schoolmate once who married a bright young fellow because he came to her with Ned's plea. Her father said, 'Let him reform first. What he will not do for a sweetheart, he will never do for a wife.' But she would not listen, and to-day she is living in abject poverty and cruel unhappiness. He is rarely sober. "In olden times a man didn't come whining to a maiden and say, 'I long to be a knight, but I am too weak to do battle unaided. Be my ladye fair and help me win my spurs.' No, she would have laughed him to scorn. He won his spurs first, and only after he had proved himself worthy and received his accolade, did she give him her hand. "Oh, my dear girls, if you would _only_ do as Hildegarde did, ask first if all be well before you clip the golden web from the loom and give it to the one who begs for it! He is not the one written for you in the stars--he does not measure to the stature of a true prince if he comes with such a selfish demand as Ned did." "That is a story I'll nevah forget," said Lloyd, soberly. "I think it ought to be printed and put in the seminary library for all the othah girls to read." "And some of the fathers and mothers, too," added Betty. "Ida's aunt ought to have a copy." "No, it is too late," remarked Katie. "It's a case of what grandpa would call 'locking the stable after the horse is stolen.'" There was a knock at the door. "Supper is served," announced Barbry's voice in the hall. CHAPTER XV. THANKSGIVING DAY ONE might have thought, watching the pillow-fight which went on that night at bedtime, that the fairy-tale had been told too soon. The five girls, romping and shrieking through halls and bedrooms as the sport went on, fast and furious, seemed too young for its grave lessons. But "the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts," even when its actions are most childish and careless, and the little tale made a deeper impression than the teller of it realized. For one thing, Betty laid aside the book she was writing, although she had secretly cherished the hope of having the story of Gladys and Eugene published sometime during the coming year. "I might be ashamed of it when I am grown," she explained, quoting old Hildgardmar: "''Tis but a little mantle thou couldst weave this year, at best, fit but to clothe the shoulders of yon curly shepherd lad.' If I am to outgrow my ideals as I do my dresses, I ought to wait. I want the critics to say of me 'Thou waitedst till thy woman's fingers wrought the best that lay within thy woman's heart.' So I'll lay the book aside for a few years, till I've learned more about people. But I'll write it some day." It was that same night, while they were getting ready for bed, that the Shadow Club was disbanded. "I nevah want to heah that name again," exclaimed Lloyd, shaking out her hair and beginning to brush it. "It was so disgraced by being dragged into the newspapahs with such a lie, that it almost makes me ill whenevah I think of it." "Oh, you don't want to give up the work for the mountain people, do you?" asked Allison, in dismay. "No, but I'd like to stop until aftah the holidays. We have so much to do getting ready for Christmas. Besides, I'd like to be able to tell the girls that there wasn't such a club any moah. The next term we could make a fresh start with a new name, just the five of us." "Oh, let's call it 'The Order of Hildegarde!'" cried Betty, enthusiastically. "And all the time we are doing 'broidery and fair needlework' to sell for the mountain people, we can be trying to weave our ideals as Hildegarde did, so that we may not miss the happiness that is written for us in the stars." "I'd like that," exclaimed Allison, entering into the new plan eagerly. "We could have club colours this time, gold and rose, the colour of the warp and woof, you know." "Yes, yes! That's it!" assented Kitty, with equal enthusiasm. "Streamers of narrow gold and rose ribbon, pinned by a tiny gilt star, to remind us of what is written in the stars. Don't you think that would be lovely, Katie?" "Yes," answered Katie, "but I think if we want to keep the order a secret we oughtn't to wear such a badge in public. It would be safer to keep them in our 'inner rooms.' But we could use them in all sorts of ways, the ribbons crossed on our pincushions, or streamers of them to tie back our curtains, or broad bands on our work-baskets and embroidery-bags." Lloyd gave ready assent. "That would suit me, for my room at home is already furnished in rose colah. All I would have to do is to add the gold and the sta'hs." "And mine is a white and gold room," said Betty. "I'll only have to give it a few touches of rose colour." A few more words settled the matter, as the girls hovered around the fire in their night-dresses, and then the establishment of the new Order of Hildegarde was celebrated by a pillow fight, the like of which for noise and vigour had never before been known at The Beeches. In the hard work that followed after their return to school, time slipped by so fast that Thanksgiving Day came surprisingly soon. Nearly all the pupils and teachers went home for the short vacation, or visited friends in Louisville. Even the president and his wife went away. Only six girls besides Lloyd and Betty were left to follow the matron to church on Thanksgiving morning. It was a lonesome walk. A Sabbath-like stillness pervaded the quiet Valley, and the ringing of the bell in the ivy-grown belfry of the little stone church, and the closed doors at the post-office, gave the girls the feeling that Sunday had somehow come in the middle of the week. As they crossed the road toward the iron gate leading into the churchyard, Lloyd looked up past the manse toward The Beeches, hoping for a glimpse of the Walton girls. Then she remembered that Allison had told her that they were all going to town to celebrate the day with her Aunt Elise, and the feeling of being left out of everybody's good times began to weigh heavily upon her. No smoke was coming out of any of the chimneys, either at The Beeches or Edgewood. When she thought of Locust, also cold and empty, with no fire on its hospitable hearths, no feast on its ample table, no cheer anywhere within its walls, and her family far away, a wave of homesickness swept over her that brought a mist over her eyes. She could scarcely see as they went up the steps. Mrs. Bond, with her usual dread of being late, had hurried them away from the seminary much too soon. Not more than half a dozen carriages had driven into the grove around the little country church when they reached the door, and only a few people were waiting inside. As Lloyd sat in the solemn silence that was broken only now and then by a stifled cough or the rustle of a turning leaf, she had hard work to battle back the tears. But with a sudden determination to overcome such a feeling, she sat up very straight in the end of the pew, and pressed her lips together hard. "It's almost wicked of me," she thought, "to feel so bad about the one thing I can't have when there are a thousand other things that ought to make me happy. It's only a pah't of my bo'ding-school experiences, and will be ovah in a little while. I don't suppose anybody in church has moah to be thankful for than I have." She glanced furtively across the aisle. "I'm thankful that I'm not that old Mistah Saxon with his wooden leg, or that poah little Mrs. Crisp in the cawnah, with five children to suppo't, and one of them a baby that has fits." Her gaze wandered down the opposite aisle. "And I'm suah it's something to be thankful for not to have a nose like Libbie Simms, or such a fussy old fathah as Sue Bell Wade has to put up with. And I'm glad I haven't such poah taste as to make a rainbow out of myself, wearing so many different colahs at once as Miss McGill does. Five different shades of red on the same hat are enough to set one's teeth on edge. I believe I could go on all day, counting the things I'm glad I haven't got; and as for the things I have--" She began checking them off on her finger-tips. There was a handful before she had fairly begun to count; home, family, perfect health, the love of many friends, the opportunities that filled every day to the brim. The organist pulled out the stops and began playing an old familiar chant as a voluntary. As the full, sweet chords filled the church Lloyd could almost hear the words rising with the music: "My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me All the days of my life." As the music swelled louder, her counting was interrupted by the opening of the door and the entrance of several generations of the Moore family, who had come back to Oaklea for a Thanksgiving reunion. It seemed good to Lloyd to see the old judge's white head gleaming like silver in its accustomed pew. His benign face fairly radiated cheerfulness and good-will as he took his place once more among his old neighbours. Rob walked just behind him, so tall and erect, it seemed to Lloyd that he must have grown several inches in the three short months since they had cut the last notches in the measuring-tree. As he turned to throw his overcoat across the back of the seat, his quick glance spied Lloyd and Betty several pews in the rear, and he flashed them a smile of greeting. At the same time, so quickly and deftly that Mrs. Bond did not see the motion, he held up a package that he had carried in under his overcoat, and instantly dropped it out of sight again on the seat. Then he straightened himself up beside his grandfather, as if he were a model of decorum. [Illustration: "'IT'S LIKE A BIT OF HOME TO SEE YOU AGAIN.'"] Lloyd and Betty exchanged a meaning glance which seemed to say, "That five-pound box of Huyler's best he promised us;" and Lloyd found herself wondering several times during the long service how he would manage to present it. That problem did not worry Rob, however. As the congregation slowly moved down the aisles and out into the vestibule, he elbowed his way to Mrs. Bond, standing beside her eight charges like a motherly old hen. "Good morning, Mrs. Bond," he exclaimed, in his straightforward, boyish way. "You're going to take me under your wing and let me walk to the gate with Betty and Lloyd, aren't you! I'll be as good as grandfather if you will, and I'll even take him along if it's necessary to have anybody to vouch for me." His mischievous smile was so irresistible that she gave him a motherly pat on the shoulder. "Run along," she exclaimed, laughingly. "I'll follow presently. There are several people I want to speak to first." "Oh, Rob," exclaimed Lloyd, as he started down the avenue beside her and Betty. "It's like a bit of home to see you again. Talk fast and tell us everything. Do you think you'll pass in Latin? Is it decided whethah you're to go East to school aftah Christmas? Did you see that awful piece in the papah about our club?" She poured out her questions so rapidly that they were half-way to the seminary before he could answer all her catechism, and then he had so many to ask her that she almost forgot to tell him about the box they had received from Locust that morning. "A suah enough Thanksgiving-box!" she exclaimed gleefully. "Just as if we'd really been away off from home at school, with all the good things that Mom Beck could think of or Aunt Cindy could cook, from a turkey to a monstrous big fruit-cake. Mothah planned the surprise before she went away. Think of the gay midnight suppahs we could have if we hadn't turned ovah a new leaf and refawmed." "So you've reformed!" he repeated. "Then boarding-school life can't seem as funny to you as you thought last September it was going to be." "Yes, it does," protested Betty. "I'll be glad when the next four weeks are over so that we can go back to Locust, but excepting only two or three things that happened, I've enjoyed every minute that we've been at the seminary. I'll always be glad that we had this experience." "And it wasn't at all like you said it would be," added Lloyd, laughingly, "'scorched oatmeal and dried apples and old cats watching at every keyhole.' There was some eavesdropping, but it wasn't the teachahs who did it, and we had moah fun getting even with the girl who did than I could tell in a week. I'll tell you about our playing ghost, and all the rest, when you come out Christmas." "Then I'll have to hand over the candy," he said. "You've earned it, if you've stood the strain this long and kept as hale and hearty as you look." They had reached the high green picket gate by this time, and, delivering the box to the girls, with a few more words he left them. Dinner was to be early at Oaklea, he said, as they were all going home on the five o'clock train. "Oh, it was just like having a piece of home to see him again," exclaimed Lloyd, looking after him wistfully as he lifted his cap and walked rapidly away. "I can hardly wait to get back now. Wouldn't you like to walk up to Locust aftah dinnah, Betty?" "No, I believe not," was the hesitating reply. "It would make me feel more homesick than if I stayed away altogether. Mom Beck will be off keeping holiday somewhere, and everything will be shut up and desolate-looking. Probably all we'd see would be Lad and Tarbaby out in the pasture. Let's walk over to Rollington instead, after dinner, and take a lot of things to that poor little Mrs. Crisp out of our box from home." "How funny for you to think of the same thing that I did this mawning in church!" exclaimed Lloyd. "The text made me think of it, and when I looked across at her in that pitiful old wispy crape veil, and thought of the washing she has to do, and the baby with the fits, I was so thankful that I was not in her place that I felt as if I ought to give her every penny I possess." It was a very quiet day. A better dinner than usual, and the long walk over to Rollington late in the afternoon was all that made it differ from the Sundays that they had spent at the seminary. But as the two little Good Samaritans trudged homeward over the frozen pike, swinging their empty basket between them, Lloyd exclaimed, "I've had a good time to-day, aftah all, and I would have been perfectly misah'ble if I'd gone on the way I stah'ted out to do--thinking about the one thing I wanted and couldn't have. I just _made_ myself stop, and go to thinking of the things I did have, and then I forgot to feel homesick. Counting yoah blessings and carrying turkey to poah folks doesn't sound like a very exciting way to spend yoah holidays, but it makes you feel mighty good inside, doesn't it! Especially when you think how pleased Mrs. Crisp was." "Yes," answered Betty. "I don't know how to express the way the day has made me feel. Not happy, exactly, for when I'm that way I always want to sing." She held her muff against her cold face. "It's more like a big, soft, furry kind of contentment. If I were a cat I'd be purring." CHAPTER XVI. CHRISTMAS GREENS AND WATCH-NIGHT EMBERS THERE is a chapter in Betty's Good Times book which tells all about that last day at the seminary, before the Christmas vacation; of the hurried packing and leave-taking; of her trip to town with Lloyd to meet Papa Jack and come out home with him on the five o'clock train, laden with Christmas packages like all the other suburban passengers; of the carriage waiting for them at the depot, just as if they had been away at some school a long distance from the Valley, and then the crowning joy of seeing her godmother on the platform, waving her handkerchief as the train stopped in front of the depot. They had not expected her back from Hot Springs until the next day, and all the way out on the train had been discussing the reception they intended to give her. There had been a twinkle in Mr. Sherman's eyes as he listened, for he knew of this surprise in store for them, and had had a hand in planning it. It is all in Betty's Good Times book, even to the way they rolled down the steps and fell over each other in their haste to reach her, and the welcome that made it seem more than ever as if they were coming home from a long journey to spend their Christmas vacation, just as thousands of other schoolgirls were doing all over the country. Then the drive homeward in the frosty, starlit dusk to find Locust all a-twinkle, a light in every window and a fire on every hearth; the great front door swinging wide on its hospitable hinges to send a stream of light down the avenue to meet them, and the spirit of Christmas cheer and expectancy falling warm upon them as they crossed the threshold. The memory of it would be something to be glad for always, Betty thought, as she danced into the long drawing-room after Lloyd, and saw the old Colonel start up from his chair before the fire and come forward to meet them, the candle-light falling softly on his silver hair and smiling face. Although Betty had laid aside her unfinished romance of Gladys and Eugene, she could no more help writing than a fish can keep from swimming, and that is why her Good Times book held so many interesting pages. All the energy and time that would have been put into the silly little novel went instead to the description of real scenes and real people, which in after years made the little white books the most precious volumes in all her library. As fast as one was filled she began another. The one now on her desk had the number IV. stamped in gold on the white kid cover, under her initials. There were few pages in this fourth volume more interesting than the ones she found time to write on Christmas Eve. She had gone with Lloyd and Allison and Kitty that afternoon in search for Christmas greens with which to decorate the house. Malcolm and Keith Maclntyre, Rob Moore, and Ranald Walton had met them in Tanglewood, their guns over their shoulders, and had joined them in their quest. The mistletoe they wanted grew too high to be climbed for or to be dislodged by throwing at, but Ranald, an expert marksman, volunteered to shoot down all they could carry. He was just home from military school on his vacation, and Rob Moore had been out for two days hunting with him. Malcolm and Keith had been at their grandmother's several days, tramping long distances over the frosty fields, and coming in well satisfied each evening with the contents of their game-bags. Malcolm and Rob were to leave for the same college-preparatory school after the holidays, and as they were going back to town on the five o'clock train they had but a short time left to spend in the Valley. So the party, after some discussion, divided into three groups, agreeing to meet at the depot. Ranald strode away across the woods as fast as his long legs would carry him to the trees where the mistletoe hung. Kitty and Katie kept close in his wake, swinging the baskets between them that he was to fill. Keith and Betty hurried on to the place where the bittersweet grew thickest, while Rob and Allison, Malcolm and Lloyd strolled along, filling their baskets from the occasional trees of hemlock, spruce, and cedar they found on their way among the bare oaks and beeches. Now and then they found a pine with the brown cones clinging to the spicy boughs. Only Betty's part of that quest is in the little white record; how they ran along through Tanglewood that afternoon, she and Keith, in the late December sunshine, breathing in the woodsy odour of the fallen leaves and the crisp frostiness of the air, until the blood tingled in their finger-tips and their cheeks grew red as rosy apples. It was a pretty picture she left on the page, of the winter woods, of the old stile leading into the adjoining churchyard, where in almost a thicket of bare dogwood-trees and lilac-bushes stood the little Episcopal church, built like the one next the manse, of picturesque gray stone. The walls were aglow with the brilliant red and orange berries of the bittersweet, which hung even from the eaves and cornices, and from every place where the graceful vines could trail and twist and clamber. Lloyd kept no record of that afternoon, but she never forgot it. She walked along, her eyes shining like stars, her cheeks glowing. Her dark blue cap and jacket made her hair seem all the fairer by contrast, and there was a glint of gold in it, wherever the sun touched it through the trees. Rob and Malcolm were full of their plans for the coming term, and talked of little else all the way through the woods, but as they reached the stile, over which Keith and Betty had passed some time before, Rob exclaimed: "I forgot to tell you, Lloyd! When we were out hunting yesterday we stopped at a cabin ever so far from here, to rest and warm. And what do you suppose we saw on the pendulum of an old clock, swinging away on the mantel as big as life? _Your picture!_ The one of the Princess, you know, with the dove. I couldn't believe my eyes at first. The old man told us it had been given to his daughter, and when he found out who Ranald was he sent a message to Mrs. Walton about her. She's in a hospital and will soon be well enough to come home. Mrs. Walton told us all about it last night, how the girl imagined every time the clock ticked that you were saying, 'For love will find the way.' It made quite a pretty story, but you can't imagine how queer it was to stumble across your picture in such an out-of-the-way place, and fixed up in such odd shape, on a pendulum, of all things!" [Illustration: "MALCOLM, LEANING ON HIS GUN, STOOD WATCHING HER."] "It helped Corono ever so much, mother said," remarked Allison. "That's one good thing our Shadow Club led to, if nothing else." She climbed up on the stile and stood looking over, exclaiming at the beauty of the old gray walls, draped in the masses of brilliant bittersweet; then, springing down, ran across the churchyard to join Betty and Keith on the other side and make her own selection of vines. Rob leaned his gun against the fence and took out his watch. "Only half an hour longer," he announced. Then, opening the back of his watch-case, he held it out toward Lloyd. "Do you remember that?" he asked, nodding toward a little four-leaf clover which lay flat and green inside. "Your good-luck charm worked wonders, Lloyd. It helped me through my Latin in such fine shape that I intend to carry it through college with me all the way. It's like the picture on the pendulum, isn't it? only this says, 'For _luck_ will find the way.'" As Lloyd began some laughing reply about his being superstitious, Betty's voice called from the vestry door, "Oh, Rob! Come around here a minute, please! Here's the loveliest bunch of berries you ever saw, and it's too high for any one but you to reach!" With one leap Rob was over the stile hurrying to Betty's assistance. Lloyd had filled both pockets of her jacket with hickory-nuts on her way through Tanglewood, and, seating herself on the top step of the stile, she began cracking them with a round stone which she had picked up near the fence. Malcolm, leaning on his gun, stood watching her. "You never gave _me_ any four-leaf clover, Lloyd," he said, in a low tone, as Rob strode away. "You nevah happened to be around when I found any," answered Lloyd, carelessly. "Have a nut instead." She nodded toward the pile on the step beside her. Malcolm flushed a trifle. He was nearly sixteen, tall and broad-shouldered, but the colour came as easily to his handsome face now as when a little fellow of ten he had begged her to keep his silver arrow "to remember him by." "No, thanks," he answered, stiffly. There was a jealous note in his voice as he added, "And you wouldn't let me keep the little heart of gold that night after the play." "Of co'se not! Papa Jack gave me that. I think everything of it." "You wouldn't even lend it to me," he continued. "Because we'd come to the end of the play. You were not Sir Feal any longah, and you didn't have any shield to bind it on, so what good would it have done?" "But we haven't come to the end of the play," he insisted. "I've thought of you ever since as my Princess Winsome, and it has been more than a year since that night. Yesterday, when I saw your picture on the pendulum, and heard how it had influenced that girl in the cabin, I wished that I could make you understand how much more your influence means to me; and I made up my mind to ask you for something. Will you give it to me, Lloyd? It's just the tip of that little curl behind your ear. It shines like gold, and I want to put it in the back of my watch as a talisman, like they used to carry in old times, you know--a token that I am your knight, and that I may do as it says in the song, come back to you 'on some glad morrow.' I want to carry it with me always, as I shall always carry your shadow-self wherever I go." Lloyd bent her head so far over the nuts as she chose one with great deliberation that her hair fell across the cheek nearest him, and he could not see how red her face grew. How handsome he was, she thought. How deep and clear his eyes looked as they smiled into hers. If she had never known of Ida's mistake--if she had never heard the Hildegarde story--there might have crept into her girlish fancy, young though she was, the thought that this was the love written for her in the stars. But like a flash came the recollection of old Hildgardmar's warning: "_And many youths will come to thee, each begging, 'Give me the royal mantle, Hildegarde. I am the prince the stars have destined for thee!'_" And then his words of blessing: "_Because even in childhood days thou ever kept in view the sterling yardstick as I bade thee, because no single strand of all the golden warp that Clotho gave thee was squandered on another, because thou waitedst till thy woman's fingers wrought the best that lay within thy woman's heart, all happiness shall now be thine._" "Please, Lloyd," he asked again, in a low, earnest tone. "I--I can't, Malcolm," she stammered, giving the nut she had chosen a sudden blow that completely smashed it. "Why not? You gave Rob the clover to carry in _his_ watch." "That was different. Rob doesn't care for the clovah on my account. He carries it for the good luck it brings; not because I gave it to him." "But he'll get to caring after awhile," said Malcolm, moodily. "He couldn't help it. Nobody could who knew you, and I don't want him to." Then, after a long pause in which Lloyd attended so strictly to her nut-cracking that she did not even glance in his direction, he asked, jealously: "Would you give _him_ the curl if he asked for it?" Something in his tone made Lloyd look up with a provoking little smile. "No," she answered, "not even the snippiest little snip of a hair, if he asked for it the way you are doing, and wanted it to mean what you do--that he was my--my chosen knight, you know." "Is there _anybody_ you would give it to, Lloyd?" His persistence only made her shake her head the more obstinately. It did not take much teasing to arouse what Mom Beck called "the Lloyd stubbo'ness." "No! I tell you! And if you keep on talking that way I'm going home!" "Why won't you let me talk that way? This is the last time I'll see you until next summer, and I'm dreadfully in earnest, Lloyd. You don't know how much it means to me. Don't you care for me at all?" A dozen things came crowding up to her lips in answer. She wanted to tell him the story of Hildegarde's weaving and old Hildgardmar's warning. She wanted to say that she could not trifle with the happiness that was written for her in the stars by giving away even a strand of Clotho's golden thread before she was old enough to choose wisely the one on whom to bestow such a favour. But she knew that he would not understand these allusions to a story of which he had never heard. She did not know how to put into words the vague, undefined feeling that she had, that he must not come to her with such speeches until he had won his spurs and received his accolade. It was her helplessness to answer as she wished that made her spring up impatiently and say in her most imperious, Little Colonel-like way, "Didn't you heah me tell you to stop talking that way, Malcolm Maclntyre? Of co'se I care for you. I've always liked you, and I think you're one of the nicest boys I know, but I won't if you keep on that way when I tell you to stop. You might at least wait till you come back from college and let me see what sawt of a man you've turned out to be!" "I'll be whatever you want me to be, Lloyd," he began, but just then the mistletoe gatherers came running down the path toward them, and Ranald's whistle brought the others from the churchyard with their bittersweet. Lloyd flung away her nut-shells, and standing on the top of the stile brushed her dress with her handkerchief. Malcolm, swinging his gun to his shoulder, picked up her basket and walked beside her in conscious silence, as the merry party strolled on toward the depot. Several times she glanced up shyly at him, saying to herself again that he was certainly one of the nicest boys she knew, the most courteous, the most attractive, with the same beauty of face and polish of manner that had made him such a winning little Knight of Kentucky. But the little pin he had worn as the badge of that knighthood, that stood for the "wearing the white flower of a blameless life," was no longer on the lapel of his coat. He had laid it aside more than a year ago, saying that he had outgrown that child's play, and that it was impossible for a fellow of his age to live up to it. As Lloyd noticed its absence she was glad that she had answered him as she did. But almost with the same breath came the recollection that he had said, "I'll be whatever you want me to be, Lloyd," and she wondered with a quicker heart-throb if it were really so that she had power to wield such an influence over him, and she wondered also, if she had given him the curl as he asked, and told him that she wanted him to wear the white flower again and live up to its meaning, if he would have done it for her sake. Keith rushed on ahead to see if the man had brought their suit-cases down to the waiting-room, and the others crossed over to the store for some hot pop-corn. There were several holly wreaths hanging in the window, and although Lloyd knew that a number of them had already been sent out to Locust from town, she could not resist the temptation of buying the largest one there, it was so unusually bright and full of berries. They had barely reached the waiting-room again when the train came thundering along the track. With hasty good-byes the three boys hurried up the steps. Keith and Rob hung on to the railing on the platform of the rear car, swinging their caps and calling back various messages about Christmas and next week and after the holidays, but Malcolm, after one long look into the Little Colonel's eyes, turned and went into the car. He wanted to carry away with him undisturbed the picture she made as she stood there on the platform, waving her handkerchief. She was all in dark blue, her fair hair blowing in the wind, her cheeks a delicate wild rose pink. At her feet was the basket of Christmas greens, and on her arm hung the glowing wreath of Christmas holly. * * * * * It was the last night of the old year. Watch-night, Mom Beck called it, and as soon as dinner was over she and Aunt Cindy and Alec hurried away to Brier Creek Church, where the coloured people were to hold services till midnight, watching the old year out and the new year in. It had been a busy week for Lloyd and Betty. The happiest of Christmas Days had been followed by neighbourhood parties, entertainments, and merrymakings of all descriptions. The old Southern mansion rang with many gay young voices, and overflowed with life, for there were guests within its hospitable gates from morning until night. But now a lull had come in the festivities. The last guest had departed on the evening train, and ten o'clock found the house strangely still. The servants were all out. Betty, locked in her room, busy with embroidery silks, was finishing a little New Year's gift with which to surprise her godmother on the morrow. Mrs. Sherman had gone up-stairs to sit with the old Colonel awhile. She had not been able to give him much of her time since their return to Locust, and to-night, with the waning year, he seemed to want her to himself to talk to him of his "long, long ago," and listen to his tales of old days which grew dearer with each passing holiday season. Only Lloyd and her father were left in the long drawing-room. She had begged to be allowed to keep Watch-night with him. "It's only two houahs moah, mothah," she said, beseechingly. "I'll sleep late in the mawning to make up for it. I've scarcely seen Papa Jack since we came home, and he's going away so soon again. Besides, I nevah did sit up to watch a new yeah come in." So she had her way, and, sitting on a low stool at his feet, with his hand softly stroking her hair, they talked of many things. He began in a teasing, playful way, "You haven't told me what you learned at boarding-school, Little Colonel. You must have absorbed a vast amount of knowledge, when even your nights were passed in such a learned institution." The face she turned toward him was a very serious one, for the time had come for confession. Yet after all confession did not seem as hard as she had thought it would be. The very touch of his hand on her hair made it easier, it was so kind and sympathetic. She had always gone to him with all her childish troubles as freely as she had to her mother. Presently she had poured out the whole story, her part in the clandestine correspondence, Edwardo's coming to Locust, her struggle in that very room to be loyal to the family honour and her father's trust in her. Allison's Christmas present to her had been an autograph copy of the story of "The Three Weavers." It was bound in water-colour paper, tied in the rose and gold ribbons of the Order, and bore on the cover a design of Allison's own painting, a filmy spider-web held by a row of golden stars. Lloyd showed it to him as she told of the forming of the Order of Hildegarde to take the place of the old Shadow Club, and then, spreading the book open across his knee, read it aloud--the little tale which was destined to play such an important part in her life, and which already had influenced her far more than she was aware. When she had finished she sat idly turning the leaves and gazing into the fire. "You see," she said, presently, "this is a story for fathahs and mothahs, too, and--and--I want you to give me my yah'dstick, Papa Jack." As she glanced up at him with a roguish smile dimpling her face, she was astonished to see tears in his eyes. He had been very silent while she read the story. "My precious little Hildegarde!" he exclaimed, drawing her to his knee and folding his arms around her. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he began: "I don't suppose you can understand how I feel about it, Lloyd. It breaks me all up to think that my Little Colonel is near enough grown to come to me with such a request. If I could have my way I would be selfish enough to want to keep you a little girl always. I hate to think that a time can ever come when any one may ask to take you from me. But, Lloyd darling, it takes all the sting out of that thought to know that you are willing to come to me so freely with your questions--to know that there is such perfect confidence between us that you do not feel the embarrassment that most girls feel in talking with their fathers on such a subject. Let me think a moment, for I want to answer as wisely as old Hildgardmar did, if that be possible." It was a long time before he spoke again. Then he said, slowly, "There are only three notches on the yardstick which I am going to give you, Lloyd. The prince who comes asking for you must have, first, a clean life. There must be no wild oats sowed through its past for my little girl to help reap, for no man ever gathers such a harvest alone. Next, he must be honourable in every way which that good old word implies. The man who is that will not ask anything clandestine, nor will he ask to take you from a comfortable home before he is able to provide one for you himself. Then, if he would measure up to the third notch, he must be strong. Strong in character, in purpose, and endeavour. There are many things that I might ask for my only child, many things that I would gladly choose for her if the choice were left to me: family, position, wealth--but they are nothing when weighed in the balance with the love of an honest man. If his life be clean and honourable and strong, then choose as you will, my blessing shall go with you!" Instantly there flashed into Lloyd's thoughts the recollection of a boyish figure standing beside the old stile, and she wondered how far he would measure up to that standard. Clean in life and habit? He had always seemed so, but a little doubt disturbed her as she thought of the white flower he no longer wore, and what he had said about it. Strong in purpose and in effort? It was too soon to tell. He was only a boy with all his uncertain future before him, with all the temptations of his college days still unmet and unconquered. As she felt her father's protecting arm around her, she nestled closer in that safe, sure shelter, and sat considering what he had said. Once she glanced up at the portrait over the mantel, and met the gaze of the beautiful eyes of the young girl beside the harp--Amanthis, who had made no mistake in her choosing, whose girlish romance had bloomed as sweetly as the June roses that she wore. Presently Lloyd's arm stole up around her father's neck, and she softly repeated the words of Hildegarde's promise: "'_You may trust me, fathah. I will not cut the golden warp from out the loom until I, a woman grown, have woven such a web as thou thyself shalt say is worthy of a prince's wearing!_'" "Dear child," he answered, huskily, "you have crowned not only this year for me, but all the years, with that promise. God grant that you may find all happiness written for you in His stars!" The candles were burning low in their silver sconces now. The fire on the hearth was only a mass of glowing embers, and as the clock ticked on toward midnight, they sat in happy silence, awaiting the dawn of the untried new year. THE END. BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE THE LITTLE COLONEL BOOKS (Trade Mark) _By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative, per vol. $1.50 =The Little Colonel Stories.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated. Being three "Little Colonel" stories in the Cosy Corner Series, "The Little Colonel," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," and "The Giant Scissors," put into a single volume. =The Little Colonel's House Party.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by Louis Meynell. =The Little Colonel's Holidays.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. =The Little Colonel's Hero.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel at Boarding School.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel in Arizona.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel's Christmas Vacation.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel, Maid of Honour.= (Trade Mark) Illustrated by E. B. Barry. =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark) =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= =The Giant Scissors.= =Big Brother.= Special Holiday Editions Each one volume, cloth decorative, small quarto, $1.25 New plates, handsomely illustrated, with eight full-page drawings in color. "The books are as satisfactory to the small girls, who find them adorable, as for the mothers and librarians, who delight in their influence."--_Christian Register._ These four volumes, boxed as a four-volume set $5.00 =In the Desert of Waiting:= THE LEGEND OF CAMELBACK MOUNTAIN. =The Three Weavers:= A FAIRY TALE FOR FATHERS AND MOTHERS AS WELL AS FOR THEIR DAUGHTERS. =Keeping Tryst.= =The Legend of the Bleeding Heart.= Each one volume, tall 16mo, cloth decorative $0.50 Paper boards .35 There has been a constant demand for publication in separate form of these four stories, which were originally included in four of the "Little Colonel" books. =Joel: A Boy of Galilee.= By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. Illustrated by L. J. Bridgman. New illustrated edition, uniform with the Little Colonel Books, 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth decorative $1.50 A story of the time of Christ, which is one of the author's best-known books. =Asa Holmes;= OR, AT THE CROSS-ROADS. A sketch of Country Life and Country Humor. By ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON. With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery. Large 16mo, cloth, gilt top $1.00 "'Asa Holmes; or, At the Cross-Roads' is the most delightful, most sympathetic and wholesome book that has been published in a long while."--_Boston Times._ =The Rival Campers;= OR, THE ADVENTURES OF HENRY BURNS. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 Here is a book which will grip and enthuse every boy reader. It is the story of a party of typical American lads, courageous, alert, and athletic, who spend a summer camping on an island off the Maine coast. "The best boys' book since 'Tom Sawyer.'"--_San Francisco Examiner._ =The Rival Campers Afloat;= OR, THE PRIZE YACHT VIKING. By RUEL PERLEY SMITH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This book is a continuation of the adventures of "The Rival Campers" on their prize yacht _Viking_. An accidental collision results in a series of exciting adventures, culminating in a mysterious chase, the loss of their prize yacht, and its recapture by means of their old yacht, _Surprise_. =The Rival Campers Ashore.= by RUEL PERLEY SMITH, author of "The Rival Campers," "The Rival Campers Afloat," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Rival Campers Ashore" deals with the adventures of the campers and their friends in and around the town of Benton. Mr. Smith introduces a new character,--a girl,--who shows them the way to an old mill, around which the mystery of the story revolves. The girl is an admirable acquisition, proving as daring and resourceful as the campers themselves. =The Young Section-Hand;= OR, THE ADVENTURES OF ALLAN WEST. By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Marathon Mystery," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by L. J. Bridgman $1.50 Mr. Stevenson's hero is a manly lad of sixteen, who is given a chance as a section-hand on a big Western railroad, and whose experiences are as real as they are thrilling. =The Young Train Dispatcher.= By BURTON E. STEVENSON, author of "The Young Section-hand," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 The young hero has many chances to prove his manliness and courage in the exciting adventures which befall him in the discharge of his duty. =Captain Jack Lorimer.= By WINN STANDISH. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by A. B. Shute $1.50 Jack is a fine example of the all-around American high-school boy. He has the sturdy qualities boys admire, and his fondness for clean, honest sport of all kinds will strike a chord of sympathy among athletic youths. =Jack Lorimer's Champions;= OR, SPORTS ON LAND AND LAKE. By WINN STANDISH, author of "Captain Jack Lorimer," etc. Square 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 All boys and girls who take an interest in school athletics will wish to read of the exploits of the Millvale High School students, under the leadership of Captain Jack Lorimer. Captain Jack's Champions play quite as good ball as do some of the teams on the large leagues, and they put all opponents to good hard work in other summer sports. Jack Lorimer and his friends stand out as the finest examples of all-round American high school boys and girls. =Beautiful Joe's Paradise;= OR, THE ISLAND OF BROTHERLY LOVE. A sequel to "Beautiful Joe." By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe." One vol., library 12mo, cloth, illustrated $1.50 "This book revives the spirit of 'Beautiful Joe' capitally. It is fairly riotous with fun, and as a whole is about as unusual as anything in the animal book line that has seen the light. It is a book for juveniles--old and young."--_Philadelphia Item._ ='Tilda Jane.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS. One vol., 12mo, fully illustrated, cloth decorative $1.50 "It is one of those exquisitely simple and truthful books that win and charm the reader, and I did not put it down until I had finished it--honest! And I am sure that every one, young or old, who reads will be proud and happy to make the acquaintance of the delicious waif. "I cannot think of any better book for children than this. I commend it unreservedly."--_Cyrus Townsend Brady._ =The Story of the Graveleys.= By MARSHALL SAUNDERS, author of "Beautiful Joe's Paradise," "'Tilda Jane," etc. Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated by E. B. Barry $1.50 Here we have the haps and mishaps, the trials and triumphs, of a delightful New England family, of whose devotion and sturdiness it will do the reader good to hear. =Born to the Blue.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The atmosphere of army life on the plains breathes on every page of this delightful tale. The boy is the son of a captain of U. S. cavalry stationed at a frontier post in the days when our regulars earned the gratitude of a nation. =In West Point Gray.= By FLORENCE KIMBALL RUSSEL. 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 West Point forms the background for the second volume in this series, and gives us the adventures of Jack as a cadet. Here the training of his childhood days in the frontier army post stands him in good stead; and he quickly becomes the central figure of the West Point life. =The Sandman; His Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. With fifty illustrations by Ada Clendenin Williamson. Large 12mo, decorative cover $1.50 "An amusing, original book, written for the benefit of very small children. It should be one of the most popular of the year's books for reading to small children."--_Buffalo Express._ =The Sandman: More Farm Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 Mr. Hopkins's first essay at bedtime stories met with such approval that this second book of "Sandman" tales was issued for scores of eager children. Life on the farm, and out-of-doors, is portrayed in his inimitable manner. =The Sandman: His Ship Stories.= By WILLIAM J. HOPKINS, author of "The Sandman: His Farm Stories," etc. Large 12mo, decorative cover, fully illustrated $1.50 "Mothers and fathers and kind elder sisters who put the little ones to bed, and rack their brains for stories, will find this book a treasure."--_Cleveland Leader._ "Children call for these stories over and over again."--_Chicago Evening Post._ =Pussy-Cat Town.= By MARION AMES TAGGART. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors $1.00 "Pussy-Cat Town" is a most unusual delightful cat story. Ban-Ban, a pure Maltese who belonged to Rob, Kiku-san, Lois's beautiful snow-white pet, and their neighbors Bedelia the tortoise-shell, Madame Laura the widow, Wutz Butz the warrior, and wise old Tommy Traddles, were really and truly cats. =The Roses of Saint Elizabeth.= By JANE SCOTT WOODRUFF, author of "The Little Christmas Shoe." Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 This is a charming little story of a child whose father was caretaker of the great castle of the Wartburg, where Saint Elizabeth once had her home. =Gabriel and the Hour Book.= By EVALEEN STEIN. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Adelaide Everhart $1.00 Gabriel was a loving, patient, little French lad, who assisted the monks in the long ago days, when all the books were written and illuminated by hand, in the monasteries. =The Enchanted Automobile.= Translated from the French by MARY J. SAFFORD. Small quarto, cloth decorative, illustrated and decorated in colors by Edna M. Sawyer $1.00 The enchanted automobile was sent by the fairy godmother of a lazy, discontented little prince and princess to take them to fairyland, where they might visit their story-book favorites. =The Red Feathers.= By THEODORE ROBERTS, author of "Brothers of Peril," etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 "The Red Feathers" tells of the remarkable adventures of an Indian boy who lived in the Stone Age, many years ago, when the world was young, and when fairies and magicians did wonderful things for their friends and enemies. =The Wreck of the Ocean Queen.= By James Otis, author of "Larry Hudson's Ambition," etc. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.50 This story takes its readers on a sea voyage around the world; gives them a trip on a treasure ship; an exciting experience in a terrific gale; and finally a shipwreck, with a mutineering crew determined to take the treasure to complicate matters. But only the mutineers will come to serious harm, and after the reader has known the thrilling excitement of lack of food and water, of attacks by night and day, and of a hand-to-hand fight, he is rescued and brought safely home again,--to realize that it's only a story, but a stirring and realistic one. =Little White Indians.= By FANNIE E. OSTRANDER. Cloth decorative, illustrated $1.25 The "Little White Indians" were two families of children who "played Indian" all one long summer vacation. They built wigwams and made camps; they went hunting and fought fierce battles on the war-trail. A bright, interesting story which will appeal strongly to the "make-believe" instinct in children, and will give them a healthy, active interest in "the simple life." _BOOKS FOR YOUNG PEOPLE_ =PHYLLIS' FIELD FRIENDS SERIES= By _LENORE E. MULETS_ Six vols., cloth decorative, illustrated by Sophie Schneider. Sold separately, or as a set. Per volume $1.00 Per set 6.00 =Insect Stories.= =Stories of Little Animals.= =Flower Stories.= =Bird Stories.= =Tree Stories.= =Stories of Little Fishes.= In this series of six little Nature books, it is the author's intention so to present to the child reader the facts about each particular flower, insect, bird, or animal, in story form, as to make delightful reading. Classical legends, myths, poems, and songs are so introduced as to correlate fully with these lessons, to which the excellent illustrations are no little help. =THE WOODRANGER TALES= By _G. WALDO BROWNE_ =The Woodranger.= =The Young Gunbearer.= =The Hero of the Hills.= =With Rogers' Rangers.= Each 1 vol., large 12mo, cloth, decorative cover, illustrated, per volume $1.25 Four vols., boxed, per set 5.00 "The Woodranger Tales," like the "Pathfinder Tales" of J. Fenimore Cooper, combine historical information relating to early pioneer days in America with interesting adventures in the backwoods. Although the same characters are continued throughout the series, each book is complete in itself, and, while based strictly on historical facts, is an interesting and exciting tale of adventure. THE LITTLE COUSIN SERIES The most delightful and interesting accounts possible of child life in other lands, filled with quaint sayings, doings, and adventures. Each one vol., 12mo, decorative cover, cloth, with six or more full-page illustrations in color. Price per volume $0.60 By _MARY HAZELTON WADE (unless otherwise indicated)_ =Our Little African Cousin= =Our Little Alaskan Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Arabian Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Armenian Cousin= =Our Little Brown Cousin= =Our Little Canadian Cousin= By Elizabeth R. Macdonald =Our Little Chinese Cousin= By Isaac Taylor Headland =Our Little Cuban Cousin= =Our Little Dutch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little English Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Eskimo Cousin= =Our Little French Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little German Cousin= =Our Little Hawaiian Cousin= =Our Little Hindu Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Indian Cousin= =Our Little Irish Cousin= =Our Little Italian Cousin= =Our Little Japanese Cousin= =Our Little Jewish Cousin= =Our Little Korean Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Mexican Cousin= By Edward C. Butler =Our Little Norwegian Cousin= =Our Little Panama Cousin= By H. Lee M. Pike =Our Little Philippine Cousin= =Our Little Porto Rican Cousin= =Our Little Russian Cousin= =Our Little Scotch Cousin= By Blanche McManus =Our Little Siamese Cousin= =Our Little Spanish Cousin= By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet =Our Little Swedish Cousin= By Claire M. Coburn =Our Little Swiss Cousin= =Our Little Turkish Cousin= COSY CORNER SERIES It is the intention of the publishers that this series shall contain only the very highest and purest literature,--stories that shall not only appeal to the children themselves, but be appreciated by all those who feel with them in their joys and sorrows. The numerous illustrations in each book are by well-known artists, and each volume has a separate attractive cover design. Each 1 vol., 16mo, cloth $0.50 By _ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON_ =The Little Colonel.= (Trade Mark.) The scene of this story is laid in Kentucky. Its heroine is a small girl, who is known as the Little Colonel, on account of her fancied resemblance to an old-school Southern gentleman, whose fine estate and old family are famous in the region. =The Giant Scissors.= This is the story of Joyce and of her adventures in France. Joyce is a great friend of the Little Colonel, and in later volumes shares with her the delightful experiences of the "House Party" and the "Holidays." =Two Little Knights of Kentucky.= WHO WERE THE LITTLE COLONEL'S NEIGHBORS. In this volume the Little Colonel returns to us like an old friend, but with added grace and charm. She is not, however, the central figure of the story, that place being taken by the "two little knights." =Mildred's Inheritance.= A delightful little story of a lonely English girl who comes to America and is befriended by a sympathetic American family who are attracted by her beautiful speaking voice. By means of this one gift she is enabled to help a school-girl who has temporarily lost the use of her eyes, and thus finally her life becomes a busy, happy one. =Cicely and Other Stories for Girls.= The readers of Mrs. Johnston's charming juveniles will be glad to learn of the issue of this volume for young people. =Aunt 'Liza's Hero and Other Stories.= A collection of six bright little stories, which will appeal to all boys and most girls. =Big Brother.= A story of two boys. The devotion and care of Steven, himself a small boy, for his baby brother, is the theme of the simple tale. =Ole Mammy's Torment.= "Ole Mammy's Torment" has been fitly called "a classic of Southern life." It relates the haps and mishaps of a small negro lad, and tells how he was led by love and kindness to a knowledge of the right. =The Story of Dago.= In this story Mrs. Johnston relates the story of Dago, a pet monkey, owned jointly by two brothers. Dago tells his own story, and the account of his haps and mishaps is both interesting and amusing. =The Quilt That Jack Built.= A pleasant little story of a boy's labor of love, and how it changed the course of his life many years after it was accomplished. =Flip's Islands of Providence.= A story of a boy's life battle, his early defeat, and his final triumph, well worth the reading. _By EDITH ROBINSON_ =A Little Puritan's First Christmas.= A Story of Colonial times in Boston, telling how Christmas was invented by Betty Sewall, a typical child of the Puritans, aided by her brother Sam. =A Little Daughter of Liberty.= The author introduces this story as follows: "One ride is memorable in the early history of the American Revolution, the well-known ride of Paul Revere. Equally deserving of commendation is another ride,--the ride of Anthony Severn,--which was no less historic in its action or memorable in its consequences." =A Loyal Little Maid.= A delightful and interesting story of Revolutionary days, in which the child heroine, Betsey Schuyler, renders important services to George Washington. =A Little Puritan Rebel.= This is an historical tale of a real girl, during the time when the gallant Sir Harry Vane was governor of Massachusetts. =A Little Puritan Pioneer.= The scene of this story is laid in the Puritan settlement at Charlestown. =A Little Puritan Bound Girl.= A story of Boston in Puritan days, which is of great interest to youthful readers. =A Little Puritan Cavalier.= The story of a "Little Puritan Cavalier" who tried with all his boyish enthusiasm to emulate the spirit and ideals of the dead Crusaders. =A Puritan Knight Errant.= The story tells of a young lad in Colonial times who endeavored to carry out the high ideals of the knights of olden days. _By OUIDA (Louise de la Ramée)_ =A Dog of Flanders:= A CHRISTMAS STORY. Too well and favorably known to require description. =The Nurnberg Stove.= This beautiful story has never before been published at a popular price. _By FRANCES MARGARET FOX_ =The Little Giant's Neighbours.= A charming nature story of a "little giant" whose neighbours were the creatures of the field and garden. =Farmer Brown and the Birds.= A little story which teaches children that the birds are man's best friends. =Betty of Old Mackinaw.= A charming story of child-life, appealing especially to the little readers who like stories of "real people." =Brother Billy.= The story of Betty's brother, and some further adventures of Betty herself. =Mother Nature's Little Ones.= Curious little sketches describing the early lifetime, or "childhood," of the little creatures out-of-doors. =How Christmas Came to the Mulvaneys.= A bright, lifelike little story of a family of poor children, with an unlimited capacity for fun and mischief. The wonderful never-to-be forgotten Christmas that came to them is the climax of a series of exciting incidents. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired. Page 265, "Hie" changed to "His" (His broad clear brow) 
5631	----	PATTY'S SUITORS BY CAROLYN WELLS Author of The Patty Books, The Marjorie Books, etc. Illustrations by E.C. Caswell CONTENTS I A VALENTINE PARTY II ON THE TELEPHONE III THE HEPWORTHS AT HOME IV A PERFECTLY GOOD JOKE V THREE PICTURES VI PRINCESS POPPYCHEEK VII SUITORS VIII A HOUSE PARTY IX EDDIE BELL X QUARANTINED XI MEETING IT BRAVELY XII A SURPRISE XIII SISTER BEE XIV KENNETH XV AN INVITATION XVI BELLE HARCOURT XVII MAY-DAY XVIII MOONLIGHT XIX IN THE RUNABOUT XX THE RIDE HOME ILLUSTRATIONS "BEWARE, TAKE CARE, SHE IS FOOLING THEE" AFTER DINNER THE WHOLE PARTY WENT TO THE OPERA "NOW, WHAT WOULD YOU DO IN A CASE LIKE THAT?" "BILL!" SHE CRIED, "LITTLE BILLEE!" CHAPTER I A VALENTINE PARTY "It IS a boofy frock, isn't it, Nansome?" Patty craned her head over her shoulder, as she waited for her stepmother's response, which was only, "Yes." "Oh, my gracious, Nan! Enthuse! Don't you know half the fun in life is enthusiasm?" "What shall I say?" asked Nan, laughing. "Oh, say it's a peach! a hummer! a lallapaloosa!" "Patty, Patty! what language!" "Oh, yes; I forgot I meant to stop using slang. But when any one is so lukewarm in her admiration as you are, forcible language is called for." "Well, it certainly is a lovely gown, and you never looked prettier. There! since you are fishing for compliments, are you pleased now?" Patty was far from being conceited over her pretty face, but she honestly liked admiration, and, indeed, she was accustomed to receive it from all who knew her. At the present moment, she was standing before a long mirror in her boudoir, putting the last touches to her new party toilette. Louise, the maid, stood by, with a fur-trimmed wrap, and Patty drew on her long gloves with a happy smile of anticipation. "I just feel sure I'm going to have a good time to-night," she said; "it's a presentiment or premonition, or whatever you call it." "Don't flirt too desperately," said Nan, not without cause, for pretty Petty was by nature a coquette, and as she had many admirers she merrily led them a dance. "But it's so interesting to flirt, Nancy. And the boys like it,--so why not?" Why not, indeed? thought Nan. Patty's flirtations were harmless, roguish affairs, and prompted by mischief and good nature. Patty was a sweet, true character, and if she teased the young men a bit, it was because of her irrepressible love of fun. "And this is St. Valentine's night," went on Nan, "so I suppose you think yourself privileged to break all the hearts you can." "Some hearts are so brittle, it's no fun to break them," returned Patty, carelessly, as she adjusted her headdress. She was going to a Valentine party, where the guests were requested to come in appropriate costume. So Patty's gown was of white lace, softly draped with white chiffon. On the modish tunic were love-knots of pale blue velvet, and a border of tiny pink rosebuds. The head-dress, of gold filigree, was a heart pierced by a dart; and on Patty's left shoulder, a dainty little figure of Cupid was wobbling rather uncertainly. "You'll lose that little God of War," said Nan. "I don't care if I do," Patty answered; "he's a nuisance, anyway, but I wanted something Valentinish, so I perched him up there. Now, good-bye, Nancy Dancy, and I expect I'll be out pretty late." "I shall send Louise for you at twelve, and you must be ready then." "Oh, make it one. You know a Valentine party is lots of fun." "Well, half-past twelve," agreed Nan, "and not a minute later!" Then Louise wrapped Patty in a light blue evening cloak, edged with white fur, and the happy maiden danced downstairs. "Good-bye, Popsy-Poppet," she cried, looking in at the library door. "Bless my soul! what a vision of beauty!" and Mr. Fairfield laid down his paper to look at his pretty daughter. "Yes," she said, demurely, "everybody tells me I look exactly like my father." "You flatter yourself!" said Nan, who had followed, and who now tucked her hand through her husband's arm. "My Valentine is the handsomest man in the world!" "Oh, you turtle-doves!" said Patty, laughing, as she ran down the steps to the waiting motor. Unless going with a chaperon, Patty was always accompanied by the maid, Louise, who either waited for her young mistress in the dressing-room or returned for her when the party was over. "Shall you be late, Miss Patty?" she asked, as they reached their destination. "Yes; don't wait for me, Louise. Come back about half-past twelve; I'll be ready soon after that." Louise adored Patty, for she was always kind and considerate of the servants; and she thought Louise might as well have the evening to herself, as to be cooped up in a dressing-room. The party was at Marie Homer's, a new friend, with whom Patty had but recently become acquainted. The Homers lived in a large apartment house, called The Wimbledon, and it was Patty's first visit there. Miss Homer and her mother were receiving their guests in a ballroom, and when Patty greeted them, a large crowd had already assembled. "You are a true valentine, my dear," said Mrs. Homer, looking admiringly at Patty's garlanded gown. "And this is a true Valentine party," said Patty, as she noted the decorations of red hearts and gold darts, with Cupids of wax or bisque, here and there among the floral ornaments. Marie Homer, who was a pretty brunette, wore a dress of scarlet and gold, trimmed with hearts and arrows. "I'm so glad to have you here," she said to Patty; "for now I know my party will be a success." "I'm sure your parties always are," returned Patty, kindly, for Marie was a shy sort of girl, and Patty was glad to encourage her. As soon as the guests had all arrived St. Valentine appeared in the doorway. It was Mr. Homer, but he was scarcely recognisable in his garb of the good old Saint. He wore a red gown, trimmed with ermine, and a long white beard and wig. He carried an enormous letter-bag, from which he distributed valentines to all. They were of the old-fashioned lace paper variety, and beautiful of their kind. Mrs. Homer explained that on the valentine of every young man was a question, and the girl whose valentine had an answer to rhyme with it, was his partner for the first dance. The young men were requested to read their valentines aloud in turn, and the girls to read their responsive answers. This proceeding caused much hilarity, for the lines were exceedingly sentimental, and often affectionate. When it was Roger Farrington's turn, he read out boldly: "Where's the girl I love the best?" and Marie Homer, who chanced to hold the rhyming valentine, whispered, shyly: "I am sweeter than the rest!" "You are, indeed!" said Roger, as he offered his arm with his courtliest bow. Then Kenneth Harper read: "Who's the fairest girl of all?" and Mona Galbraith read, with twinkling eyes: "I'll respond to that sweet call!" Then it was Philip Van Reypen's turn. He glanced at his valentine, and asked: "Who's a roguish little elf?" Everybody laughed when a tall, serious-faced girl responded: "I guess I am that, myself!" It was toward the last that Clifford Morse asked: "Who's the dearest girl I know?" and as Patty's line rhymed, she said, demurely: "Guess I am,--if YOU think so!" "I'm in luck," said Clifford, as he led her to the dance. "You're such a belle, Patty Fairfield, that I seldom get a whole dance with you." "Faint heart never won fair lady," laughed Patty, shaking her fan at him. "I always accept invitations." "Accept mine, then, for the next dance," said Philip Van Reypen, who overheard her words as he was passing. "No programmes to-night," returned Patty, smiling at him. "Ask me at dance time." As no dances could be engaged ahead, except verbally, Patty was besieged by partners for every dance. "Oh, dear," she cried, as, at the fourth dance, five or six eager young men were bowing before her; "what shall I do? I'd have to be a centipede to dance with you all! And I can't divide one dance into six parts. And I can't CHOOSE,-that would be TOO embarrassing! Let's draw lots. Lend me a coin, somebody." "Here you are," said Van Reypen, handing her a bright quarter. Patty took it, and put both hands behind her. "You may try first, Phil, because you put up the capital. Right or left?" "Right," said Philip, promptly. Patty gaily brought her hands into view, and the quarter lay in her left palm. "Next!" she said; "Mr. Downing." "Left," chose that young man, as Patty again concealed her hands. But that time she showed the coin in her right hand. "My turn now," said Ken Harper, "AND, you'll please keep your hands in front of you! You don't do it right." "Do you mean that I cheat?" cried Patty, in pretended rage. "Oh, no, no! nothing like that! Only, this game is always played with the fists in view." So Patty held her little gloved fists in front of her, while Kenneth chose. "Right!" he said, and her right hand slowly opened and showed the shining coin. "Were you going to take me, anyway?" asked Kenneth, as they walked off together. "And why did you turn down poor Van Reypen? He was awfully cut up." "Ken Harper, do you mean to insinuate that I didn't play fair?" "Yes, my lady, just that. Oh, cheating never prospers. You have to put up with me, you see!" "I might do worse," and Patty flashed him a saucy glance. "I wish you meant that." "Oh, I do! I DO, Ken. Truly, there are lots of worse people than you in the world." "Who?" "Well,--there's Eddie Perkins." "Oh, Patty! that fop! Well, I'll bet you can't think of another." "No; I can't." "Patty, how dare you! Then you'll sit right here until you can." Laughingly Kenneth stopped dancing, and led Patty to an alcove where there were a few chairs. As they sat down, Philip Van Reypen came toward them. "Oh, Ken," Patty cried, "I've thought of a man worse than you are! Oh, EVER so much worse! Here he is! And I simply adore bad men, so I'm going to dance with him." Naughty Patty went dancing off with Van Reypen, and Ken looked after them, a little crestfallen. "But," he thought, "there's no use being angry or even annoyed at that butterfly of a girl. She doesn't mean anything anyway. Some day, she'll wake up and be serious, but now she's only a little bundle of frivolity." Kenneth had been friends with Patty for many years; far longer than any of her other young men acquaintances. He was honestly fond of her, and had a dawning hope that some time they might be more than friends. But he was a slow-going chap, and he was inclined to wait until he had a little more to offer, before he should woo the pretty butterfly. And, too, Patty would never listen to a word of that sort of thing. She had often proclaimed in his hearing, that she intended to enjoy several years of gay society pleasures, before she would be engaged to any one. So Kenneth idly watched her, as she circled the room with Van Reypen, and took himself off to find another partner. "Oh, Valentine, fair Valentine," said Van Reypen to Patty, as they danced. "Wilt thou be mine, and I'lt be thine," returned Patty, in mocking sing-song tones. "Forever may our hearts entwine," improvised Philip, in tune to the music. "Like chickwood round a punkin-vine," Patty finished. "Pshaw, that's not sentimental. You should have said, Like sturdy oak and clinging vine." "But I'm not sentimental. Who could be in a crowded ballroom, in a glare of light, and in a mad dance?" "What conditions would make you feel sentimental?" "Why,--let me see. Moonlight,--on a balcony,--with the right man." "I'm the right man, all right,--and you know it. And if I'm not greatly mistaken, here's moonlight and a balcony!" Sure enough, a long French window had been set slightly ajar to cool the overheated room, and almost before she knew it, Patty was whisked outside. "Oh, Philip! Don't! you mustn't! I'll take cold. I ought to have something around me." "You have," said Van Reypen, calmly, and as he had not yet released her from the dance he held his arms lightly round her shoulders. Patty was angry. She knew Philip loved her,--several times he had asked her to marry him,--but this was taking an unfair advantage. The February wind itself was not colder than the manner with which she drew away from him, and stepped back into the ballroom. "My dear, my dear," exclaimed Mrs. Homer, who chanced to be near, "how imprudent! You should not go out without a wrap." "I know it, Mrs. Homer," and Patty looked so sweetly penitent that her hostess could but smile at her. "But, truly, I just stepped out a single second to get a tiny breath of air. The room IS warm, isn't it? May I stay here by you a few moments?" "Yes, indeed," and Mrs. Homer drew the girl down beside her on the sofa. "You're not robust, my child, and you mustn't run foolish risks." "You're quite right, and I won't do it again. But on a night not quite so cold, that balcony, flooded with moonlight, must be a romantic spot." "It is, indeed," said Mrs. Homer, smiling. "My young people think so; and I hope you will have many opportunities in the future to see it for yourself." "Your young people? Have you other children besides Marie?" "Yes; I have a daughter who is away at boarding-school. And, also, I have a nephew, whose home is in this same building." "Is he here to-night?" "No; Kit hates dances. Of course, that's because he doesn't dance himself. He's a musician." "Kit? What a funny name." "It's Christopher, really, Christopher Cameron; but he's such a happy-go-lucky sort of chap, we naturally call him Kit." "I think I should like him," said Patty. "Would he like me?" "No," said Mrs. Homer, her eyes twinkling at Patty's look of amazement. "He detests girls. Even my daughters, his cousins, are nuisances, he says. Still he likes to come down here and sit on my balcony, and tease them. He lives with his parents in the apartment just above us." "He sounds an interesting youth," said Patty, and then, as Roger came up and asked her for a dance, she promptly forgot the musical nephew. At supper-time, Patty's crowd of intimates gathered around her, and they occupied a pleasant corner of the dining-room. "What'll you have, Patsums?" asked Roger, as a waiter brought a tray full of dainty viands. "Sandwiches and bouillon," said Patty, promptly; "I'm honestly hungry." "The result of exercise in the open air," murmured Philip Van Reypen, as he took a seat directly behind her. Patty gave an involuntary giggle, and then turned upon Philip what she meant to be an icy glare. He grinned back at her, which made her furious, and she deliberately and ostentatiously ignored him. "Hello, you two on the outs?" inquired Kenneth, casually. "Oh, no!" said Philip, with emphasis; "far from it!" So, as Patty found it impossible to snub such cheerfulness, she concluded to forgive and forget. "There's something doing after supper," remarked Roger. "Miss Homer dropped a hint, and even now they're fixing something in the ballroom." "What can it be?" said Elise, craning her neck to see through a doorway. "It's a game," said Marie Homer, who had just joined the group. "I told mother, you all considered yourselves too grown-up for games, but she said she didn't want to have the whole evening given over to dancing. So you will play it, won't you?" "Sure we will!" declared Kenneth, who admired the shy little girl. Marie was new in their set, but they all liked her. She was timid only because she felt unacquainted, and the good-natured crowd did all they could to put her at ease. "Games!" exclaimed Philip; "why, I just love 'em! I'll play it, whatever it is." "I too," said Patty. "It will be a jolly change from dancing." CHAPTER II ON THE TELEPHONE When the young people returned to the ballroom, it presented a decidedly changed appearance. Instead of an interior scene, it was a winter landscape. The floor was covered with snow-white canvas, not laid on smoothly, but rumpled over bumps and hillocks, like a real snow field. The numerous palms and evergreens that had decorated the room, were powdered with flour and strewn with tufts of cotton, like snow. Also diamond dust had been lightly sprinkled on them, and glittering crystal icicles hung from the branches. At each end of the room, on the wall, hung a beautiful bear-skin rug. These rugs were for prizes, one for the girls and one for the boys. And this was the game. The girls were gathered at one end of the room and the boys at the other, and one end was called the North Pole, and the other the South Pole. Each player was given a small flag which they were to plant on reaching the Pole. This would have been an easy matter, but each traveller was obliged to wear snowshoes. These were not the real thing, but smaller affairs made of pasteboard. But when they were tied on, the wearer felt clumsy indeed, and many of the girls declared they could not walk in them at all. And in addition each one was blindfolded. However, everybody made an attempt, and at a given signal the young people started from their opposite ends of the room and endeavoured to make progress toward the goal as they blindly stumbled along. Patty concluded to move very slowly, thinking this the surest way to make a successful trip. So she scuffled along among the other laughing girls, now and then stumbling over a hillock, which was really a hassock or a sofa cushion under the white floor covering. It was great fun, and the girls cheered each other on as they pursued their blinded way. And then about midway of the room they met the boys coming toward them. Then there was scrambling, indeed, as the explorers tried to get out of each other's way and follow their own routes. It was a very long room, and Patty hadn't gone much more than halfway, when she concluded to give up the race as being too tiresome. She made her way to the side of the room, and reaching the wall she took off her blinding handkerchief and kicked off the snowshoes. To her great surprise she found that many of the other girls and some of the boys had done the same thing, and not half of the original contestants were still in the race. And, indeed, it proved to be much greater fun to watch those who were still blindly groping along, than to stay in the game. At last the game was concluded, as Roger Farrington proudly planted his flag at the very spot that designated the North Pole, and not long after, Clementine Morse succeeded in safely reaching the South Pole. So the beautiful rugs were given to these two as prizes, and every one agreed that they had earned them. Then, amid much laughter, everybody was unblindfolded, and they all sat around on the snow mounds waiting for the next game. A big snow man was brought in and set in the centre of the room. Of course it was not real snow, but made of white plaster, gleaming all over with diamond dust. But it was the traditional type of snow man, with a top hat on, and grotesque features. In the mouth of the figure was a cigarette, and each guest was presented with a few snowballs, made of cotton wool. The game was to knock the cigarette from the snow man's mouth with one of the snowballs. Of course the cigarette was so arranged that the lightest touch of a ball would dislodge it, and as one cigarette was displaced, Mr. Homer supplied another. The guests had been divided into two parties, and each side strove to collect the greater number of cigarettes. Some balls flew very wide of the mark, while others with unerring aim would hit a cigarette squarely. The game caused great hilarity, and everybody was anxious to throw balls. They threw in turn, each having three balls at a time. Patty was especially deft at this, and with true aim succeeded several times. Then when they tired of this play, a few more dances followed before it was time to go home. Some attendants came in and whisked away the snow hillocks and floor covering, leaving the ballroom once again in order for dancing. "Makes me feel young again, to play those kiddy games," said Kenneth, as he was dancing with Patty. "I like them," returned Patty; "I hate to think that my childhood is over, and I love games of any kind." "Your childhood will never be over," returned Kenneth; "I think you are the incarnation of youth, and always will be." "I'm not so much younger than you." "Five years,--that's a long time at our age. By the way, when are the Hepworths coming home?" "Next week; and we're planning the loveliest reception for them. You know their apartment is all ready, and we're going to have just a few people to supper there, the night they return." "Shall I be one of the few?" "Well, rather! The best man at the wedding must surely be at the home-coming. Doesn't it seem funny to think of Christine as mistress of her own home? She'll be perfectly lovely, I know. My goodness gracious! Ken, what time is it? I'm afraid I'm staying too late. I promised Nan I'd leave at half-past twelve." "It's not much more than that. Can't you stay for another dance?" "No, I can't possibly. I must run right away, or my motor car will turn into a pumpkin, and Louise into a white mouse. Take me to Mrs. Homer, please, and I will say good-night to her." But as they crossed the room, they met Van Reypen coming toward them. "Our dance, I think," he said, coolly, as he took Patty's hand. The music had just started, and its beautiful rhythm was too tempting for Patty to resist. "I'm just on my way home," she said, "but we'll go around the room once, and then I must go." "Once indeed!" said Philip, gaily; "we won't stop until the music does." "Yes, we will; I must go now," but somehow or other they circled the room several times. Patty loved dancing, and Philip was one of the best of partners. But at last she laughingly protested that she really must go home, and they went together to say good-night to their hostess. And then Patty said good-night to Philip, and ran away to the dressing-room, where Louise was patiently waiting for her. And soon, muffled up in her furs, they were rapidly spinning along toward home. "I didn't keep you waiting very long, did I, Louise?" said Patty, kindly. "No, Miss Patty, you're right on time. I expect you would have liked to stay longer." "Yes, I should, but I promised Mrs. Fairfield not to." When at last Patty reached her own little boudoir, she declared she was more tired than she had realised. So Louise took off her pretty frock, and Patty sat in her blue silk dressing gown while the maid brushed her hair. Then she brought her a cup of hot milk, and left her for the night. Patty wasn't sleepy, and she dawdled around her room, now and then sipping the milk, and then looking over her engagements for the next day. "Oh," she thought, suddenly, "I've left my fan at the party. I'm sorry, for it's my pet fan. Of course it will be safe there, but I think I'll telephone Marie to look it up and put it away." Knowing that the Homers would not yet have retired, Patty picked up her telephone and called the number. A masculine voice gave back a cheery "Hello!" "Is this Mr. Homer?" said Patty. "No, indeed. I'm Kit Cameron. Who are you, please?" "Isn't this The Wimbledon apartment house?" "It sure is." "Isn't this 6483?" "No, it's 6843. Please tell me who you are?" A spirit of mischief entered into Patty. She knew this must be Marie Homer's cousin, who lived on the floor above the Homers, and who, Mrs. Homer had said, detested girls. "But I have the wrong number," she said. "I didn't mean to call you." "But since you did call me, you must tell me who you are." "I'm a captive princess," said Patty, in rather a melancholy tone. "I'm imprisoned in the dungeon of a castle." "How awful! May I get a squad of soldiers and come to your rescue, oh, fair lady?" "Nay, nay, Sir Knight; and anyway you do not know that I am a fair lady." "Your voice tells me that. Surely such musical tones could belong only to the most beautiful princess in the world." "Oh, yes, I am THAT," and Patty laughed, roguishly; "but a well-behaved princess would not be talking to a strange man. So I must say good-bye." "Oh, no, no! wait a minute; you haven't told me your name yet." "And I don't intend to. You detest girls, anyway." "Yes, I always have, but you see I never met a princess before." "You haven't met me yet." "But I shall! Don't make any mistake about that." "How can you? I'm going to ring off now, and you have no way of tracing me." "I can find out from Central." "No, you can't." "Why can't I?" "Because I forbid you to do so." "All right; then I can't find out that way, but I'll find out some other way. I'll go on a quest." "Goodness, what is a quest?" "Oh, it just means that I henceforth devote my whole life to finding you." "But you can't find me, when you don't know my name." "I'll make up a name for you. I'll call you Princess Poppycheek." "How could you guess I'm a brunette?" "I can tell it from your voice. You have snapping black eyes and dark curly hair, and the reddest of red cheeks." "Exactly right!" exclaimed Patty, giggling to think how far this description was from her blonde pink-and-white type. "I knew it was right!" exclaimed the voice, exultantly; "and I shall find you very soon." "Then I shall await your coming with interest. You prefer brunettes, do you?" "Well, as a matter of fact, I have always admired blondes more, but I'm quite willing to change my tastes for you. Do you sing?" For answer, Patty sang softly into the telephone, the little song of "Beware, take care, she is fooling thee." Although she did little more than hum it, Mr. Cameron was greatly impressed with her voice. "By jove!" he exclaimed. "You CAN sing! Now, I can find you easily. There are not many voices like that in this wicked world." "Do you sing yourself? But I don't want to know, I haven't the least interest in a stranger, and besides, I'm going to ring off now." "Oh, wait a minute! I don't sing, but I do something better. Don't ring off, just listen a minute." Patty listened, and in a moment she heard a violin played softly. It was played by a master hand, and she heard an exquisite rendition of the "Spring Song." "Beautiful!" she exclaimed, as the last notes died away, and then suddenly realising that she herself was acting in a most unconventional manner, she said abruptly, "Thank you; good-bye," and quickly hung up her receiver. For some time she sat thinking about it. Curled up in a big easy chair, her blue silk boudoir gown trailing around her, she sat giggling over her escapade. "It's all right," she assured herself, "for of course I know who he is, though he doesn't know me. He is Mrs. Homer's nephew, so it's just the same as if I had met him properly. And, anyhow, he hasn't an idea who I am, and he never can find out from the description he has of me!" Still giggling over the episode, Patty went to bed and to sleep. The next morning, as she thought it over, she realised that she hadn't succeeded in securing her fan, and she determined to go around and see Marie that afternoon, and get it. So that afternoon she went to make her call. "It was a beautiful party," she said to Marie, as the two girls chatted together. "I love games for a change from dancing, and the games you had were so novel." "I'm glad to hear you say that," said Marie, "for I was afraid they would seem too childish." "No, indeed," returned Patty; "and now put on your hat and come out with me for a little while. I'm going to a picture exhibition, and I'd love to have you go too. But first, did I leave my fan here last evening?" "There was a beautiful fan left here,--an Empire fan. Is this yours?" Marie produced the fan and Patty recognised it as her own. "But I can't go this afternoon," said Marie, "because Cousin Kit is coming down to practise some new music. Won't you stay and hear him play? He is really a very good violinist." Patty considered. She rather wanted to meet this young man, but she was afraid he would think her forward. So after a little further chat, she rose, saying she must go. And it was just as she was going out that Mr. Cameron came in, with his violin under his arm. Patty was obliged to pause a moment, as Marie presented her cousin, but the young man, though courteous, showed no interest whatever in Miss Fairfield. Patty's pretty face was almost invisible through her motor veil, and as Mr. Cameron had no idea that she was the girl who had talked to him the night before, and as he really had no interest in girls in general, he merely made a very polite bow and went directly toward the piano. "I wish you'd stay and hear some music," said Marie, but Patty only murmured a refusal, not wanting Mr. Cameron to hear her voice, lest he recognise it. He was an attractive looking man of fine physique and handsome face, but he looked extremely dignified and not very good-natured. "All musicians are cross," Patty thought to herself as she went down in the elevator, "and I wasn't going to have that man think that I went around to Marie's to see him!" She decided to call for Elise to go to the art gallery with her, and she found that young woman ready and glad to go. "I hadn't a thing to do this afternoon," said Elise, as they started off, "and I love to go anywhere with you, Patty. Shall we have a cup of tea afterwards?" And so it was after they had seen the pictures, and as they were sitting in a cosy little tea-room, that Elise said suddenly: "Do you know Mr. Cameron? He's a cousin of Marie Homer's." "I don't know him," said Patty, smiling, "but I've been introduced to him. Just as I was leaving Marie's to-day, he came in. But he was very abstracted in his manner. He merely bowed, and without a word he went straight on to the piano and began fussing with his music." "You were just leaving, anyway?" "Yes; but I would have remained a few moments, if he had been more sociable. But, of course, I couldn't insist on his talking to me, if he didn't want to." "He doesn't like girls," said Elise, but as she spoke she smiled in a self-conscious way. "So I've heard," said Patty, smiling herself. "He seems young to be what they call a woman-hater. I thought only old bachelors were that. Well, he has no interest for me. There are plenty of boys in our own set." "Don't you tell, if I tell you something," and now Elise looked decidedly important. "What is it? I won't tell." "Well, it's the funniest thing! That Mr. Cameron wants to meet me, though he never has seen me." "What!" exclaimed Patty, in astonishment. "Why does he want to meet you?" "I don't know, I'm sure. But he was at Marie's this morning, and asked her if she knew any girl who was gay and merry and had a sweet voice, and had dark hair and eyes and rosy cheeks. And Marie says she knows he means me, and I think he does too! Isn't it exciting?" "Yes," said Patty, drily. "But you don't sing much, Elise." "Oh, of course I don't sing like you do, but I have a fairly decent voice." "But how mysterious it is. What does he know about you?" "I don't know. It IS mysterious. He wouldn't tell Marie anything except that he wanted to know the name of the girl he described; and he said she must be friendly enough with Marie to call her up on the telephone in the middle of the night." "But did you do that?" asked Patty, who was really shaking with laughter. "Yes; I called her up last night after I got home from the party, because I'd left my spangled scarf there, and I wanted her to put it away safely for me." "I always leave things at a party, too," said Patty, looking innocent. "I left my fan at Marie's last night. So I went there to-day and got it." "Well, I thought I'd better telephone, for so many girls leave things and they get scattered or lost." "Well, what did your telephoning have to do with Mr. Cameron?" "I don't know; that's the queer part of it. Perhaps the wires were crossed and he heard me talking." "H'm," said Patty, "perhaps he did. When are you going to meet him, Elise?" "I don't know; but Marie says she'll have a few friends to tea some day soon, and she'll ask him. She says it'll have to be a very small tea, because he hates to meet people." "Why doesn't she have just you two? I think it would be more romantic." "Oh, nonsense. This isn't romance. I think Mr. Cameron is a freak, anyway. But it's all amusing, and I hope you'll be at the tea, yourself, Patty." "I will if I'm asked," said Patty. CHAPTER III THE HEPWORTHS AT HOME It was the day of Christine's home-coming, and Patty was busy as a bee preparing for the great event. The pretty apartment where the Hepworths were to live was all furnished and equipped, but Patty was looking after the dainty appointments of a party. Not a large party, only about a dozen of their own set. Nan was there, too, and Elise Farrington, and they were arranging flowers in bowls and jars and vases, till the rooms were a bower of blossoms. "What time will they arrive?" said Elise. "We expected them about six o'clock," returned Patty; "but I had a telegram, and their train is delayed, so they can't get here until nine. So I want the party all assembled when they come. It's five now, and everything's about done, so we can scoot home and get some dinner and get dressed, and be back here before they arrive. I'll be here by half-past eight, for the caterers are coming then, and I want to see about the table." So they all went home to dress, and before half-past eight Patty was back again. There were two maids already installed, but Patty found plenty to do in superintending matters, and she hadn't much more than completed the decorations of the table, when the guests began to come. "Isn't the apartment lovely?" exclaimed Mona Galbraith, as she went through the rooms. "This music-room, or living-room, or whatever you call it, is just dear! Who selected the furnishings?" "Oh, Mr. Hepworth and Christine," said Patty; "two artists, you know; of course the rooms ought to be beautiful. It is a lovely place, and just the right setting for that darling of a Christine." The whole merry crowd were assembled in the living-room, when the bride and groom arrived. A shout of welcome went up from the young people, and Christine was smothered in girlish embraces, while the men vigorously shook Mr. Hepworth's hand, or clapped him on the shoulder, in their masculine way of congratulation. Christine looked very sweet and smiling, in a pretty travelling gown, but Patty carried her off at once and insisted that she get into a house gown. "The idea," said Patty, "of a hostess in a high-collared frock and all her guests in evening dress!" So Christine quickly changed to a little chiffon gown of pale green and Patty tucked a pink rose in her hair and some more in her belt. "Now you look like a bride," said Patty, nodding approval at her, and leading her to a mirror; "look at that vision of beauty! Aren't you glad I made you change?" "Yes, ma'am," said Christine, in mock humility; "it's much better so." The evening was a merry one. They danced and they sang and they chatted and finally they had the delightful supper that Patty had ordered. Christine, blushing prettily, took the head of the table, while Gilbert Hepworth, with a proud air of proprietorship, sat at the other end. Patty, as guest of honour, sat at the right hand of her host. "It has always been my aspiration," she said, with a beaming smile at Christine, "to have a married friend to visit. I warn you, Christine, I shall spend most of my time here. There's one little nook of a bedroom I claim as my own and I expect to occupy it very frequently. And, besides, I have to give you lessons in housekeeping. You're a great artist, I know, but you must learn to do lots of other things beside paint." "I wish you would, Patty," and the little bride looked very much in earnest; "I truly want to keep house, but being an artist and a Southern girl both, I don't believe I'm very capable." "You're a blessed dear, that's what YOU are"; and Patty turned to Hepworth, saying, "Isn't she?" "Yes, indeed," he returned; "I've only just begun to realise the beautiful qualities in her nature. And it is to you, Patty, that I owe my happiness. I shall never forget what you did in order that Christine might come to New York." "And now we are surprised at the result," said Patty, who never could be serious for long at a time. "Come on, people, you've had enough supper, let's have one more dance and then we must go home and leave these turtledoves to their own nest." But the one dance proved to mean several, until at last Patty said, "This will never do! Christine is all tired out, and as the superintendent of this party I order you all to go home at once." The others laughingly agreed, except Philip Van Reypen, who came near Patty and murmured, "You haven't danced with me once to-night, and you've been awful cruel to me lately, anyway. Now let us have one more dance in honour of the bride's home-coming." "No," said Patty, firmly, "not another dance to-night." "Just a part of one, then," begged Philip; but Patty was inexorable. And so the merry crowd dispersed, Patty lingering a moment to give Christine a good-night kiss and wish her every blessing and happiness in her new home. "And I have you to thank for it all, Patty dear," said Christine, her blue eyes looking lovingly into Patty's own. "Nonsense, thank your own sweet self. You well deserve the happiness that has come to you. And now good-night, dear; I'll be over some time to-morrow." The laughing group went away, and as it had been planned, Mona took Patty home in her car. "I wish you'd go on home with me, Patsy," said Mona, as they rolled along toward Patty's house. "Can't possibly do it. I've a thousand and one things to look after to-morrow morning." "But it isn't late; really it's awfully early. And I'll send you home early to-morrow morning." "No, I mustn't, really, Mona. I have to look after some things for the Happy Saturday Club, which it won't do to neglect. And I want to run over to Christine's to-morrow morning, too. I have some things to take to her." "Do you know, Patty, I think they're an awfully humdrum couple." "Who? The Hepworths? Oh, I don't think humdrum is the right word,--they're just serious-minded." "But Mr. Hepworth is so old and prosy, and Christine seems to me just a little nonentity." "Now, Mona, that isn't fair. Just because you are a frivolous-headed butterfly of fashion, you oughtn't to disdain people who happen to have one or two ideas in their heads." "Well, the only ideas they have are about pictures." "Pictures are good ideas." "Yes, good enough, of course. But there's no fun in them." "That's the whole trouble with the Hepworths. They haven't any fun in them. Neither of them has a sense of humour. But that's good, too; for if one had and the other hadn't, they'd be miserable for life. But as it is they don't know what they miss." "No, they don't. Patty, don't ever marry a man without a sense of humour." "Trust your Aunt Patty for that. But I don't propose to marry anybody." "Of course not; he'd propose to you." "Funny Mona! Don't let your sense of humour run away with you. Well, this facetious 'he' that you conjured up in your imagination may propose all he likes; I sha'n't accept him,--at least not for many years. I mean to have a lot of fun before I get engaged. Can you imagine me settled down in a little apartment like Christine's, devoting myself to domestic duties?" "No; but I can fancy you married to a millionaire with two or three country houses and yachts and all sorts of things." "Good gracious, Mona. I don't aspire to all that! Just because YOU're a millionairess, yourself, you needn't think everybody else longs for untold wealth. After I get pretty well along in years,--I think I shall marry a college professor, or a great scientist. I do love brainy men." "Well, there are no brainy men in our set." "Oh, Mona, what a libel! Our boys,--somehow I never can think of them as men,--are quite brainy enough for their age. And at the present day, I'd rather have fun with Ken or Roger, just talking foolishness, than to discourse with this wise professor I'm talking about. But of course, I wouldn't marry Ken or Roger even if they wanted me to, which they don't." "Oh, yes, they do, Patty; everybody wants to marry you." "Don't be a goose, Mona; you know perfectly well that Roger is over head and ears in love with you. Of course, I'm mortally jealous, for he was my friend first, and you stole him away from me. But I'll forgive you if you'll let up on this foolish subject and talk about something interesting." "I will, Patty, if you'll tell me one thing. Don't you like Mr. Van Reypen very much?" "Phil Van Reypen? Of course I do! I adore him,--I worship the ground he walks on! I think he's the dearest, sweetest chap I ever knew!" "Would you marry him?" "Not on your life! Excuse my French, Mona, but you do make me tired! NOW will you be good? We're nearly home and I had a lot of things I wanted to ask you, and here you've been and went and gone and wasted all our time! Foolish girl! Here we are at my house, and I thank you, kind lady, for bringing me safely home. If you'll let your statuesque footman see me in at my own door, I'll promise to dream of you all night." The girls exchanged affectionate good-nights, and Patty ran up the steps and Louise let her in. "Nobody home?" asked Patty, noting the dim lights in the rooms. "No, Miss Patty," answered Louise, "Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield are not in yet." "Well, I'm not a bit sleepy, Louise, and I'm not going to bed now. I shall stay in the library for awhile,--perhaps until they come home." Louise took Patty's wraps and went away, and Patty wandered around the library selecting a book to read. The girl was a light sleeper, and she often liked to read a while before retiring. But after she had selected a book and arranged a cosy corner in a big easy-chair by a reading light, she still sat idle, with her book unopened. "I don't feel a bit like reading," she thought to herself; "I do hate to come home from a party so early. Of course I could write some letters, but I don't feel like that, either. I feel like doing something frisky." She jumped up and turned on more lights. Then, chancing to see herself in the long mirror, she bowed profoundly to the pretty reflected figure, saying: "Good-evening, Miss Fairfield, how well you're looking this evening. Won't you sing a little for us?" Then she danced into the music-room, and sitting down at the piano, sang a gay little song. Then she sang another, and then looking over some old music she came across the little song, "Beware," that she had sung over the telephone to Kit Cameron. Naturally her thoughts turned to that young man, whom she had almost forgotten, and she wondered if he had met Elise yet. "That was quite a jolly little escapade," she said to herself; "that young man certainly thought I was a little black-eyed beauty, and when he does see Elise, of course he'll think she's the one. I believe I'll call him up and mystify him a little more. It's all right, because I've really been introduced to him, and if he doesn't remember me, _I_ can't help it! Probably he'll be out anyway; but I'll have a try at it." Returning to the library, Patty sat down at the telephone and called up Mr. Cameron's number. His own gay, cheery self answered "Hello," and Patty said in a shy little voice, "Is this you, Mr. Cameron?" "Bless my soul! if it isn't my fair Unknown, again!" "Why do you call me, fair, when you know I'm dark?" "Oh, fair in this case means bewitching and lovely. It doesn't stand for tow hair and light blue eyes! and neither do I!" "But you said you liked blondes." "I used to, before I knew you." "But you don't know me." "Oh, but I do! I know you a whole heap better than lots of people who have seen you. There's something in a telephone conversation that discloses the real inner nature. It was dear of you to call me up to-night. You don't know how it pleases me!" "Oh, I didn't do it to please you. But I'm all alone in my dungeon tower--" "Wait a minute; what IS a dungeon tower?" "Oh, don't quibble. Anyway, I'm all alone, and I simply had to have some one to speak to." "How did you know I'd be here?" "Be there! Why, I assumed that you sat at your telephone every evening, waiting to see if I would call you!" "You little rascal! That's exactly what I have done, but I don't see how you knew it. Are you still a captive princess?" "Yes; they keep me on bread and water, and not very much of that." "Couldn't I come and try to liberate you?" "No, Sir Knight. Alas, you would but be captured yourself." "But to be captured in such a cause, would be a glorious fate!" "Oh, aren't you romantic! I really wish it were the Fifteenth Century, and you could come on a dashing charger, and rescue me with a rope ladder! I'm simply dying for an escapade!" "All right; I'll be there in a few minutes!" "No, no! it's just five centuries too late. Now, one can only meet people in humdrum drawing-rooms." "And do you think there's no romance left in the world?" "_I_ can't find any." Naughty Patty put a most pathetic inflection in her voice, which touched Mr. Cameron's heart. "Look here, my lady," he said, "there IS romance left in this old world, and we're IT! Now, this telephoning is all very well, but I'm determined to meet you face to face. And that before long, too." "Oh, you've been making inquiries about me. You know I forbade that." "No, you didn't; you only said I mustn't ask Central who telephoned. There was surely no harm in asking my cousin who called her up the other night. And very naturally she told me. So she's going to be the Fairy Godmother who will bring us together by the touch of her magic wand." "Oh, if you know who I am, the fun is all gone out of our escapade!" "Not at all; the fun is only about to begin." "Then Marie did tell you all about me?" And Patty's tones betokened disappointment. "She didn't need to tell me much about you. She told me your name, and the rest I want to know about you, I either know already or I shall learn for myself." "If you know my name, why don't you call me by it?" And Patty had great difficulty to stifle her laughter. "May I call you by your first name?" "Not as a regular thing, of course. But if you know it, you may use it just once. But you can only use it to say good-night. For this session is over now." "But I don't WANT to say good-night. I want to talk to you a long time yet." "Alas, that may not be. It is even now time for my jailers to visit my dungeon, and if they catch me at this foolish trick, they will probably reduce my allowance of bread and water. And so, if you're going to call me by name, you must do it quickly, for I'm going to hang up this receiver, as soon as I say good-night!" Patty's positive tones apparently carried conviction that she would do just as she said, for Mr. Cameron sighed deeply and responded, "It is such a beautiful name it seems a pity to use it only once. But I know you mean what you say, so as your liege knight, fair lady, I obey. Good-night--Elise--" The name came slowly, as if the speaker wished to make the most of it, and Patty fairly thrust the receiver back on its hook as she burst into laughter. It surely was a joke on the young man! He had asked Marie who was her pretty brunette friend, and Marie had honestly thought he must mean Elise Farrington. Patty was still giggling when her parents came in from a concert they had been attending. "What IS the matter, Patty?" asked Nan. "Why do you sit up here alone, grinning like a Chessy cat, and giggling like a school-girl? Were the Hepworths so funny that you can't get over it?" And then Patty told Nan and her father the whole story of Kit Cameron and the telephone. Nan laughed in sympathy, but Mr. Fairfield looked a little dubious. "And I thought you a well-brought up young woman," he said,--half in earnest and half in jest. "Do you think it's correct to telephone to strange young men? I'm shocked! that's what I am,--SHOCKED." "Fiddlesticks, Fred," said Nan; "it's perfectly all right. In the first place, the man HAS been introduced to Patty. She met him at Miss Homer's." "But she telephoned BEFORE she met him," stormed Mr. Fairfield, for Patty had told the whole story. "But she didn't do it purposely," said Nan, impatiently. "She got him on the wire by mistake. She couldn't help THAT. And, anyway, when he said he was Miss Homer's cousin, that made it all right. I think it's a gay little joke, and I'd like to see that young man's face when he meets Patty!" "I shan't meet him," said Patty, pretending to look doleful; "he hates tow-headed girls." "Well, you're certainly that," said her father, looking at her with pretended disapproval. "I have to tell you the truth once in awhile, because everybody else flatters you until you're a spoiled baby." "Tow-headed, am I?" and Patty ran to her father, and rubbed her golden curls against his own blond head. "And, if you please, where did I inherit my tow? If I hadn't had a tow-headed father I might have been the poppy-cheeked brunette that everybody admires. It isn't fair for YOU to comment on MY tow-head!" "That's so, Pattikins; and I take it all back," for Mr. Fairfield could never resist his pretty daughter's cajolery. "You are a pretty little doll-faced thing, and I expect I'll have to forgive your very reprehensible behaviour." "I'm NOT a doll-face," said Patty, pouting; "I shan't let you go until you take THAT back." As Patty had her arms tightly round her father's neck, he considered it the better part of valour to take back his words. "All right," he said, "rather than be garroted,--I retract! You're a beautiful and dignified lady, and your notions of convention and etiquette are above reproach." "They're above YOUR reproaches, anyhow," returned Patty, saucily, and then she ran away to her own room. CHAPTER IV A PERFECTLY GOOD JOKE Patty decided to do nothing in the matter of meeting Kit Cameron. She dearly loved a joke, and this seemed to her a good one. But she thought it would spoil it, if she made any move in the game herself. So she bided her time, and it was perhaps a week later that Marie Homer came to call on her. As Marie hadn't the slightest notion that Patty was the girl her cousin had in mind, the subject was not mentioned until just before Marie left, when she asked Patty if she would come to her home the next week to a little musicale. "Not a big party," said Miss Homer, "just a dozen or so really musical people to spend the evening. And I want you to sing, if you will. My cousin will be there,--the one who plays the violin." "I thought he detested society," said Patty, her eyes twinkling a little. "I don't know what's come over Kit," returned Marie, looking perplexed. "He's been the funniest thing of late. He has some girl in his mind--" "A girl!" exclaimed Patty; "I thought he scorned them." "Well, I can't make this out. It's awfully mysterious. I think I'll tell you about it." "Do," said Patty, demurely. "Two or three weeks ago,--in fact, it was the day after my valentine party,--Kit asked me which of my friends had telephoned me late the night before. You know he lives in the apartment just above ours, and it seems the wires were crossed or something, but he heard this girl's voice, and now he insists he wants to meet her. I don't think Elise Farrington has such a fascinating voice, do you?" "Elise!" exclaimed Patty, in pretended surprise; "what has SHE to do with it?" "Why," explained Marie, "Elise did call me up that night, to say she had left her scarf. But how Kit discovered that she was a red-cheeked brunette, is more than _I_ can understand. You can't know that from a voice, now, can you?" "No," said Patty, decidedly, "you CAN'T!" "Well, then, a week or two went by, and I told Elise about this, but somehow I couldn't manage to get them together. Every time Elise came to our house, Kit would be away somewhere. But a few days ago I did manage to have them meet." "Did you?" exclaimed Patty; "for gracious sake, WHAT happened?" Marie looked a little surprised at Patty's excited interest, but she went on: "Oh, it was AWFULLY funny. Elise looked lovely that day. She had just come in from skating, and her cheeks were red and her eyes sparkled, and her furs were SO becoming! I introduced Kit, and I could see he admired her immensely. There were several people there, so I left these two together. They were getting on famously, when Kit said to her, 'Are you still a Captive Princess?' "I didn't know what he meant, and Elise didn't either, for she looked perfectly blank, and asked him why he said that. And Kit told her she knew well enough why he said it, and Elise thought he must be crazy. However, they got along all right until Kit asked me to get Elise to sing. Now, you know Elise doesn't sing much; she has a nice little contralto voice, but she never sings for people. But do you know, she was perfectly willing, and she sang a little lullaby or something like that, rather sweetly, _I_ thought. But such a change came over Kit's manner! I don't know how to express it. He was polite and courteous, of course; but he seemed to have lost all interest in Elise." "But your cousin IS a sort of a freak, isn't he?" said Patty, who was deeply interested in Marie's story. "Why, no, he isn't a freak. He's a musician, but he's an awfully nice chap, and real sensible. He hates society as a bunch, but he often likes an individual here and there, and when he does he can be awfully nice and friendly. But this whole performance was so QUEER. He wanted to meet Elise, and when he did, he admired her, I could see that; but when she sang, the light all went out of his face, and he looked terribly disappointed. The girl isn't a great singer, but why in the world should he expect her to be, or care so much because she isn't?" "It IS strange!" murmured Patty; "how did Elise take it?" "Oh, I don't think she minded much; she thinks the boy half crazy, anyway; asking her if she was a captive princess! And, of course, he didn't let HER see that he was disappointed in her voice. But I know Kit so well, that I can tell the moment he loses interest in anybody. I'm awfully fond of Kit,--we've grown up more like brother and sister than cousins." "What's he like? Has he any fun in him?" "Well, he loves practical jokes,--that is, if they're not mean. He couldn't do a mean or unkind thing to anybody. But he likes anything out of the ordinary. Escapades or cutting up jinks. He and Beatrice,--that's my younger sister,--are always playing tricks on us, when she's at home. But it's always good-natured fun, so we don't mind. Oh, Kit's a dear; but you never can tell whether he's going to like people or not. He likes so very few." "But he liked Elise?" "Oh, yes; in a general way. But, for some reason I can't make out, he was terribly disappointed in her." "And he's going to play at your musicale?" "Yes; and I want you to sing. We have two or three other musicians, and it will really be rather worth while." Patty hesitated. If she went to this party, and met Kit, all the mystery of her little romance with him would be ended. He would be more disappointed in her than he had been in Elise, for at least she conformed to his favourite type of beauty, and Patty was quite the reverse. She could sing, to be sure, but probably her voice would not charm him, when robbed of the glamour lent by the telephone. "Oh, DO say yes," Marie urged; "it will be a nice party, and if I've left out any people you specially want, I'll invite them." But Marie's list included all of Patty's set, and as she rather wanted to go, she finally decided to say yes. "Good for you!" exclaimed Marie; "now I know the party will be a success!" "You always say that to me," said Patty, laughing. "_I_ don't make parties a success." "Yes, you do," said Marie, in a tone of firm conviction; "you're so nice, and pretty, and smiling, and always seem to have such a good time, that it makes everybody else have a good time." "What do you want me to sing?" "I don't care at all. Make your own selections. I like you best, I think, in some of those sweet, simple ballads." "I rarely sing anything but ballads or simple music," said Patty, "my voice isn't strong enough for operatic soaring." "Well, sing what you like, Patty, if you only come," and Marie went away, greatly elated at having secured Patty's consent to sing at her musicale. Patty at once went to the piano, and began to look over her music. She smiled as she came across "Beware," but she concluded that would not do for a regular program, though she might use it as an encore. She made her selections with care, as she honestly wanted to do credit to Marie's musicale, and then, taking several pieces of music, she ran up to Nan's room to ask her final judgment in the matter. "You'll have a lot of fun out of this, Patty," said Nan, laughing, as she heard the whole story. "When is it to be?" "Friday night. Do you know, Nan, I'd like to play a joke on that boy, between now and then." "I think you are playing a joke on him,--and, besides, he isn't a boy." "No; Marie says he's about twenty-four. He's a civil engineer, besides being a musician. But, anyway, I've got him guessing. I'm glad Elise didn't take it to heart, that she wasn't the right girl,--but Marie says Elise thinks he's a freak, anyway. And, too, I believe he's not very nice to girls as a rule, so of course Elise won't want him. Oh, _I_'M the only girl in the world for him!" Patty pirouetted about the room on the tips of her toes, waving a sheet of music in either hand. "What a silly you are, Patty, with your foolishness!" Patty dropped on one knee at her stepmother's side, and clasping her hands, looked up beseechingly into the smiling face over her. "But you love silly, foolish little girls, don't you, Nancy Nan?" "Yes, when they're you," and Nan patted the shining head at her knee. "Well, very few of them ARE me!" "Thank goodness for that! I don't know what I'd do if you were a half a dozen!" "You'd have just six times as much fun in your life!" and Patty jumped up and began to sing the songs she had brought. Then together they decided on the ones she should sing at the musicale. Although Patty's voice was not very strong, it was sweet and true and had been carefully cultivated. She sang with much charm, and her music always gave pleasure. She never attempted anything beyond her powers, and so her songs, while selected with good taste, were not pretentious. That evening, while Patty was fluttering around her room, pretending to get ready for bed, but really dawdling, she was moved to telephone once again to the young man who was fond of jokes. "It's you, is it?" he almost growled, in response to her call. "Yes," said Patty, in a meek little voice; "shall I go away?" "Great jumping cows! NO! Don't go away, stay right where you are!" "But I'm going away for ever," said Patty, moved by a dramatic impulse; "my captors have found out that I'm holding communication with you, and they're going to take me away to another castle, and imprison me there." "Stop your fooling; I want to know who you are, and I want to know it quick! Do you hear THAT?" "Yes, I hear," returned Patty, saucily, "but I don't have to answer! And if you talk to me like that, I shall hang up this receiver." "I won't talk like that any more. But, do you know, I thought I had found you, and you turned out to be somebody else." "But I can't be anybody else. I'm only myself." "Be serious a minute, won't you? I went to my cousin's and met a beautiful, poppy-cheeked princess; but she wasn't you." "How do you know she wasn't?" "Because she couldn't sing a LITTLE bit! And you can." "I can sing a LITTLE bit! Oh, thank you!" "Now, I want to ask you something. You know my cousin, don't you?" "Have you sisters and cousins, whom you reckon up by dozens?" "It doesn't matter if I have. I mean my cousin, Marie Homer, to whom you telephoned, or tried to, on the fourteenth of February. But you got me, instead, and that means we're each other's valentine. See?" "No, I don't see at all. I only like pretty valentines." "Oh, I'm as pretty as a picture! That part is all right. Now, I've tried my best to find out who you are, from Marie. But either she can't or won't tell. But I've found out one thing, for certain. You're NOT Miss Farrington." "No, I'm not; but I never said I was." "I know you didn't, but you told me you were a pretty brunette, with poppy cheeks,--and Miss Farrington is that." "Did I tell you I was PRETTY? Oh, I'm SURE I didn't!" "You didn't have to. I know that myself. Now, if you'll keep still a minute, _I_'D like to speak." "If I can't talk, I may as well hang up this receiver, for I'm sure I don't want to sit here and listen to you." "Chatterbox! Now, listen; Marie is having a musicale next Friday night, and I want you to come." "Without an invitation!" Patty's voice sounded horrified. "Yes;" impatiently. "Marie would invite you fast enough if she knew who you were." "Perhaps she HAS invited me." "No, she hasn't; I saw her list. It's a small party, not more than twenty. And I asked her about each one, and not one of the ladies seemed to correspond to your description." "Who's going to sing?" asked Patty, calmly. "Only two ladies; a Miss Curtiss and a Miss Fairfield." "Perhaps I'm one of those." "No; I asked Marie, and she says Miss Fairfield is a pretty little blonde, and Miss Curtiss is a tall, brown-haired young woman." "Don't you know either of these ladies?" "No; that is, I've never seen Miss Curtiss, but Marie says I met Miss Fairfield one day, for a moment." "Don't you remember her?" "Hardly; she seemed an insignificant little thing." "Pretty?" "How do I know! She was all wrapped up in motor togs, and acted like a gawky schoolgirl." "She did! Why, _I_ know that Fairfield girl, and she isn't gawky a bit! She's a fascinating blonde." "No blonde can fascinate ME! MY girl is a poppy-cheeked brunette, and I'm going to catch her before long. Ah, DO come to Marie's party,--won't you?" "I've never yet gone where I wasn't invited, and I don't propose to begin now. But if you can get Marie to invite me, I'll go." "Don't be so cruel! I can't do more than I have in the matter. I've teased Marie to death over this thing, and she can't think who you can be, unless you're a Miss Galbraith. You're not, are you?" "Gracious, no! I'm not Mona Galbraith!" "I knew you weren't; Marie says SHE can't sing. Oh, dear, you're a perfect torment! Pretty princess,--pretty Princess Poppy-cheek, WON'T you take pity on your humble slave and adorer, and tell me your name?" "No; but I'll tell you what I will do. I'll send you my photograph." "Oh, you heavenly angel! You dear, beautiful princess! When will you send it? Don't wait for the morning; call a messenger, and send it to-night!" "I'll do nothing of the sort. I'll send it to-morrow morning,--by messenger, if you like,--and if you'll promise not to ask the messenger who sent it." "I'll promise that if you so ordain. I guess I can play cricket!" "All right then; now listen, yourself. I shall send you three pictures. You pick out the one you think I am, and take it to Marie, and if you are right, she'll invite me. She knows me well enough, but she can't recognise me from your description." "I don't think it's fair for you to play that way; but I'm dead sure I can pick out your picture from the three." "All right then; good-night!" And Patty hung up the receiver with a snap. Then she lay back in her big chair and indulged in a series of giggles. "Sam Weller says," she said, to herself, "that the great art of letter writing is to break off suddenly and make 'em wish they was more,--and I expect that applies equally well to telephoning." And she was quite right, for the impatient young man at the other end of the wire was chagrined indeed when the connection was cut off. He was too honourable to use any forbidden means of discovering Patty's identity, and so would not ask to see any telephone records, and was quite willing to promise not to quiz a messenger boy. And so, he could do nothing but wait impatiently for the promised photograph. Meanwhile Miss Patricia Fairfield was looking over her portrait collection to see what ones to send. She had a box full of old photographs, but she wanted to select just the right ones. But at last she tumbled them all on the table in a heap, and wisely decided to leave the decision till morning. And so it happened, that when Nan came to Patty's room next morning, as she often did, she found that coquettish damsel, sitting up in bed, wrapped in a blue silk nightingale, and with a flower-decked lace cap somewhat askew on her tumbled curls. Her breakfast tray sat untouched on its little stand, while on the counterpane were spread out some twoscore portraits of more or less beautiful maidens. "What ARE you doing?" said Nan; "playing photograph solitaire?" "I'm playing a game of photographs," said Patty, raising a pair of solemn blue eyes to Nan, "but it isn't exactly solitaire." "You needn't tell ME! You're cutting up some trick with that new man of yours." And Nan deliberately brushed away some pictures, and sat down on the side of the bed. "You're a wizard!" and Patty gazed at her stepmother. "You could have made your fortune, Nan, as a clairvoyant, telling people what they knew already! But since you're here, DO help me out." And Patty told Nan the scheme of the three photographs. Now, Nan was only six years older than Patty herself, and she entered into the joke with almost as much enthusiasm as the younger girl. "Shall you send one of your own, really?" she inquired. "No; I think not. But I want to get three different types, just to fool him." After much consideration the two conspirators selected a picture of a dark-eyed actress, who was pretty, but of rather flashy effects. Next they chose a picture of an intellectual young woman, with no pretension to beauty or style, and whose tightly drawn black hair and stiff white collar proclaimed a high brow. It was a picture of one of the girls in Patty's class, who had been noted for her intellect and her lack of a sense of humour. "He'll know that isn't you, Patty," said Nan, objecting. "No," said Patty, sapiently; "he's pretty clever, that young man, and probably he'll think I'm just that sort. Now for the third, Nancy." It took a long time to select a third one, for Nan was in favour of a pretty girl, while Patty thought it would be more fun to send a plain one. At last they agreed on a picture of another of Patty's school friends, who was of the willowy, die-away kind. She was a blonde, but of a pale, ashen-haired variety, not at all like Patty's Dresden china type. The pose was aesthetic, and the girl looked soulful and languishing. "Just the thing!" cried Patty. "If he thinks I look like THAT, I'll never speak to him again!" And so, amid great glee, the three pictures were made into a neat parcel, and addressed to Mr. Christopher Cameron. "Now, for goodness' sake, Patty, eat your breakfast! Your chocolate is stone cold. I'll go down and call a messenger and despatch this precious bundle of beauty to its destination." "All right," returned Patty, and, with a feeling of having successfully accomplished her task, she turned her attention to her breakfast tray. CHAPTER V THREE PICTURES It was Tuesday morning that Patty had sent the pictures, and that same evening she was invited to dine and go to the opera with Mrs. Van Reypen. Patty was a great favourite with the aristocratic old lady, and was frequently asked to the Van Reypen home. It is needless to say that Mrs. Van Reypen's nephew, Philip, usually managed to be present at any of his aunt's affairs that were graced by Patty's presence. And, indeed, it was an open secret that Mrs. Van Reypen would be greatly pleased if Patty would smile on the suit of her favourite and beloved nephew. But Patty's smiles were uncertain. Sometimes it would suit her caprice to smile on Philip, and again she would positively snub him to such an extent that the young man was disgruntled for days at a time. "But," as Patty remarked to herself, "if I'm nice to him, he takes too much for granted. So I have to discipline him to keep him where he belongs." The dinner at the Van Reypen mansion was, as always, long and elaborate, and perhaps a trifle dull. Mrs. Van Reypen's affection for Patty was of a selfish sort, and it never occurred to her to invite guests of Patty's age, or who could be entertaining to the girl. And so to-night the other guests were an elderly couple by the name of Bellamy and a rather stupid, middle-aged bachelor,--Mr. Crosby. These with the two Van Reypens and Patty made up the whole party. Patty found herself assigned to walk out to dinner with Mr. Crosby, but, as Philip sat on her other side, she had no fear of being too greatly bored. But to her surprise the elderly bachelor turned out to be exceedingly interesting. He had travelled a great deal, and talked well about his experiences, and it was soon discovered that he and Patty had mutual friends in Paris, where Patty had spent the winter several years before. "I do love to hear you talk," Patty declared, ingenuously, after Mr. Crosby had given her a thrilling and picturesque description of an incident in his trip to the Orient. "Oh, thank you," Mr. Crosby returned, a little bewildered by this outright compliment, for he was unaccustomed to talking to young girls. "But, you see," Patty went on, "I mustn't monopolise you. You know, it's etiquette to talk fifteen minutes to your neighbour on one side and then turn to your neighbour on the other." "Bless my soul! you're quite right,--quite right!" and Mr. Crosby stared at Patty over his glasses. "How do you know so much, and you such a young thing?" "Oh, I'm out," returned Patty, smiling, "and of course, when a girl comes out, she has to learn the rules of the game." So Mr. Crosby turned to talk to the lady on his other side, and Patty turned to Philip, who looked a trifle sulky. "Thought you were going to talk to that chap all evening," he growled, under his breath. "I should like to," said Patty, sweetly, "he's SO interesting. But I can't monopolise him, you know. As I don't want to talk to a growly bear, I think, if you'll excuse me from polite conversation, I'll meditate for awhile." "Meditate on your sins; it'll do you good!" Patty opened her blue eyes wide and stared at the speaker. "Why," she said, "to meditate, one must have something to meditate on!" "And you think you haven't any sins! Oh, would some power the giftie gi'e us!" "To see ourselves as ithers see us," Patty completed the rhyme. "But you see, Philip, as I don't see any sins in myself, I can't meditate on the sins that ithers see in me, if I don't know what they are." "Well, I'll tell you a big, black one! You simply ignored me for half an hour, while you jabbered to that duffer on the other side! Now meditate on THAT!" Patty obediently cast down her eyes, and assumed a mournful expression. She continued to sit thus without speaking; until Philip exclaimed: "Patty, you little goose, stop your nonsense! What's the matter with you to-night, anyway?" "Honestly, Philip," said Patty, very low, "your aunt's parties always make me want to giggle. They're heavenly parties, and I simply ADORE to be at them, but her friends are so--well, so aged, you know, and they seem to--well, to be so interested in their dinner." "_I_'m my aunt's guest, and _I_'m not a bit interested in my dinner." "Well, you may as well be, for I'm going to talk to Mr. Crosby now." Seeing that Mr. Crosby's attention was unclaimed for the moment, Patty turned to him, saying, with great animation: "Oh, Mr. Crosby, MAY I ask you something? I'm AWFULLY ignorant, you know, and you're so wise." "Yes, yes, what is it?" And the great Oriental scholar looked benignly at her over his glasses. Now naughty Patty hadn't any question to ask, and she had only turned to her neighbour to tease Philip, so she floundered a little as she tried to think of some intelligent enquiry. "What is it. Miss Fairfield?" prompted Mr. Crosby. Patty cast a fleeting glance toward Philip, as if appealing for help, and that young man, though engaged in a desultory conversation, whispered under his breath, "Ask him about the Aztecs." "Oh, yes, Mr. Crosby," said Patty, "it's about the--the Aztecs,--you know." "Ah, yes, the Aztecs,--a most interesting race, MOST interesting, indeed. And what do you want to know about them, Miss Fairfield?" Patty was tempted to say ALL about them, for her knowledge of the ancient people was practically nothing. "Did they--did they--" "Eat snails," said Philip, in a whisper. "Did they eat snails, Mr. Crosby?" And Patty's big blue eyes were innocent of anything, save an intense desire to know about the Aztec diet. "Snails?--snails?--well, bless my soul! I don't believe I know. Important, too,--most important. I'll look it up, and let you know. Snails--queer I DON'T know. I made a study of the Aztecs, and they are most interesting,--but as to snails--" Apparently Mr. Crosby's mind was wrestling with the question. "He's gone 'way back and sat down with the Aztecs," Philip murmured to Patty, "so you ask questions of me." "You don't know anything that I want to know." "Then _I_'ll ask a question of YOU." Philip's voice was full of meaning, so Patty said hastily: "No, no; it isn't polite to ask questions in society; one should make observations." "All right, observe me. That's what I'm here for. Observe me early and often, and I'll be only too well pleased." "But that isn't what _I_'m here for. Your aunt invited me to be a pleasant dinner guest and so I have to make myself entertaining to my Aztec friend." And then Patty turned again to Mr. Crosby, and by a few skilful hints she soon had him started on another description of his travelling experiences, and this time it proved so thrilling that all at the table were glad to listen to it. After dinner the whole party went to the opera and occupied Mrs. Van Reypen's box. Patty was passionately fond of music, and never talked during a performance. Between the acts, she was a smiling chatterbox, but while the curtain was up, she behaved in most exemplary fashion. Mrs. Van Reypen knew this, or she would not have asked her, for that lady was old-fashioned in her ways, and had no patience with people who chattered while the great singers were pouring forth their marvellous notes. [Illustration: After dinner the whole party went to the opera] When the final curtain fell, Mrs. Van Reypen invited her guests to return to her house for supper, but Patty declined. "Very well, my dear," said her hostess, "I think, myself, you're too young to be out any later than this. We will set you down at your own door, and you must hop right into bed and get your beauty sleep. Young things like you can't stay young unless you take good care of your pinky cheeks." "But I don't want Patty to go home," Philip grumbled, to his aunt. "Your wishes are not consulted, my boy; this is my party. You're merely my guest, and, if you don't behave yourself, you won't get invited again." "That scares me dreadfully," and Philip lightly pinched his aunt's cheek. "I will be good, so I'll be asked again." The big limousine stopped at Patty's door, and Philip escorted her up the steps. "I think you might have come to supper," he said, reproachfully, as he touched the bell. "It's too late," said Patty, decidedly; "and, besides, I have other plans for the rest of the evening." And with this enigmatical announcement Philip was forced to be content, for Patty said good-night and vanished through the doorway. "And, indeed, I HAVE other plans," Patty said, to herself. "I'm simply consumed with curiosity to know which of those three beauties that ridiculous Kit man likes the best. I'm going to call him up and see. I wish he could call me up,--it would suit me far better. But I suppose nobody can call anybody else up if nobody knows anybody else's name." "Do you want any supper, Miss Patty?" asked Louise, as she unhooked Patty's frock. "No, thank you, I'm not a bit hungry. You might bring me a cup of milk and a biscuit, and then give me a kimono. I'm not going to bed just yet." So Louise arranged everything just as Patty wanted it, and finally went away. "May as well be comfortable," said Patty, as she tucked herself into a favourite big chair, with the telephone on a little stand beside her. "I suppose I'll run up a fine bill for extra time, but, after all, it's less extravagant than a good many other things. Wonder how much they charge for overtime. I must ask Daddy." With a smile of anticipation Patty picked up the telephone. "Hello!" said Mr. Cameron's eager voice. "I thought you'd never come. I've been waiting since ten." "I've been to the opera," said Patty, nonchalantly. "And you've NO reason to sit and wait for me! I'm not a dead certainty, like the sunrise or the postman." "You're more welcome than either." "Now that's a real pretty speech. Are you a poet?" "Only to you." "Did you get the pictures?" Patty was unable longer to restrain her impatience. "Of course I got the pictures. I knew yours at once! You needn't think you can fool ME." "Which was mine? The girl with the black curls?" "Mercy, no! I know you're not THAT type. She looks like an actress, and hasn't a brain in her silly head. And you're not that lackadaisical lily-like one, either. Oh, I know YOU! You're that delightful, sensible, really brainy girl with the smooth black hair." "Oh, I AM, am I?" "Yes; and I'm SO glad you're not a rattle-pated beauty! What's a pretty face compared to real mind and intellect!" Patty was furious. She didn't aspire to nor desire this great mind and intellect, and she was quite satisfied with the amount of brains in her pretty, curly head. "I don't think much of your taste!" she exclaimed. "Why! you don't want me to be disappointed because you're not pretty, do you?" "But I AM pretty." "Yes; as I said, the beauty of deep thought and education shines from your clear eyes. That is far better than dimples and curls." Patty shook her curls at the telephone and her dimples came and went with her varying emotions. "Why, I shouldn't like you half as well if you were pretty," Mr. Cameron went on. "The only things I consider worth while are seriousness and scholarship. These you have in abundance, as I can see at once from your picture." "And how do you like the way I dress?" "It suits your type exactly. That large black-and-white check denotes a mind far above the frivolities of fashion, and that stiff white collar, to my mind, indicates a high order of mentality." "I think you're perfectly horrid!" And this exclamation seemed wrung from the depths of Patty's soul. A ringing laugh answered her--a laugh so hearty and so full of absolute enjoyment that Patty listened in astonishment. "Poor little Princess Poppycheek! It's a shame to tease her! WAS she maligned by a bad, horrid man that she doesn't even know? There, Little Girl, don't cry! I know perfectly well that stiff old schoolmarm isn't you! Now, will you tell me who you are, and what you really look like?" Patty had to think quickly. She had supposed that Cameron meant what he said, but after all he was fooling her. And she had thought she fooled him! "Which is me, then?" she said, in a small, low voice. "None of 'ern! You goosie! To think you could fool ME. In the first place, I knew you wouldn't send your own photograph; and when I saw those three charming specimens, in out-of-date clothes, I knew you had ransacked your album to find them. However, I took the whole bunch down to Marie, and she vowed she had never laid eyes on one of them before. So there, now!" "Then we're just back where we started from," said Patty, cheerfully. "Yes; but, if you'll come to the musicale on Friday night, we can make great progress in a short time." "I told you I'd go, if you would persuade Marie to invite me." "Nonsense! I believe she HAS invited you. I believe you're Miss Curtiss. SHE has dark hair." "Why not that other singer, Miss Fairfield?" "Oh, Marie says she's a blonde. The 'raving beauty' sort. I detest that kind. I know she's vain." "Yes, she is. I hate to speak against another girl, but I know that Patty Fairfield, and she IS vain." "Well, never mind about Patty Fairfield She doesn't interest me a bit. But what about you? Will you come to the party? Oh, DO-ee, DO-ee,--now,--as my old Scotch nurse used to say. Come to your waiting knight!" Kit's voice was very wheedlesome, and Patty was moved to encourage him a little. "Do you know,--I almost think--that maybe--possibly--perhaps, I WILL go." "Really? Oh, Poppycheek, I'm SO glad! I do want to see My Girl!" "YOUR girl, indeed!" "Yes; mine by right of discovery." "But you haven't discovered me yet." "But I will,--on Friday night. You'll TRULY come, WON'T you?" "Honest, I've never been where I wasn't invited--" "But this is different----" "Yes,--it IS different----" "Oh, then you will come! Goody, GOODY! I'm so glad!" "Don't break the telephone with your gladness! Suppose I DO come, how will you know me? How will you know that it is I?" "Oh, I'll know! 'I shall know it, I shall feel it, something subtle will reveal it, for a glory round thee hovers that will lighten up the gloom.'" "Oh, you ARE a poet." "I am a poet, but I didn't write that. However, it was only because the other fellow got ahead of me." "Who was he? Who wrote it?" "I'll tell you Friday night. Come early, won't you?" "No; I always get to a party late." "Don't be too late. I want to play to you. And will you sing?" "Mercy, gracious! I might go to a party without being invited, but I can't SING without being asked. You tell Marie I'm coming, will you?" "You bet I will. What shall you wear?" "What's your favourite colour?" "Red." "Red is becoming to brunettes; but I haven't any red evening gown. How about yellow?" "All right, wear yellow. I shall adore you in any colour." "Well; perhaps I'll come, and perhaps I won't. Good-night." Patty hung up the receiver with a sudden click, and Mr. Kit Cameron was left very much in doubt as to whether the whole thing was a joke or not. CHAPTER VI PRINCESS POPPYCHEEK On the night of the musicale at Marie Homer's, her talented cousin arrived long before any guests were expected. "I couldn't wait, Aunt Frances," he said, as Mrs. Homer greeted him. "I'm so impatient to see My Girl." Kit had told the Homers of the telephone conversations, because he was so anxious to find out his lady's name. Of course, he had not told all they said, and from his incoherent ravings about a black-haired beauty Marie never guessed he could mean Patty. "You're a foolish boy, Kit," said his Aunt. "I don't believe that girl is any one we know, but is some mischievous hoyden who is leading you a dance. You won't see her to-night,--if you ever do." "Then I shall think up the easiest death possible, and die it," declared Kit, cheerfully. "Why, you know, Aunt Frances, I never took any interest in a girl before, except of course Marie and Bee, but this girl is so different from everybody else in the world. Her voice is like a chime of silver bells,--and her laugh----" "There, there, Kit, I haven't time to listen to your rhapsodies! You're here altogether too early, and you'll have to excuse me, for I have some household matters to look after. Marie isn't quite dressed yet, so you'll have to amuse yourself for awhile. Play some sentimental music on your violin, if that fits your mood." With a kindly smile at her nephew, Mrs. Homer bustled away, and Kit was left alone in the music-room. He played some soft, low music for a time, and then Marie came in. "You're an old goose, Kit," she remarked, affectionately, "to think that mysterious girl of yours will be here to-night. There isn't anybody who knows me well enough to come without an invitation, that I haven't already invited. I've added to my list of invitations until it now numbers about thirty, and that's all the really musical friends I have. If this girl of yours sings as well as you say, she's probably a soubrette or a chorus girl." "Nothing of the sort!" Kit exclaimed. "She's the sweetest, daintiest, refinedest, culturedest little thing you ever saw!" "How do you know? You haven't seen her." "No, but I've talked with her. I guess I know." And Kit turned decidedly sulky, for he began to think it WAS rather doubtful about his seeing his girl that evening. And then the guests began to arrive, and Mr. Kit put on a smiling face and made himself agreeable to his cousin's friends. Patty came among the latest arrivals. She looked her prettiest in a filmy gown of pale-blue chiffon, with touches of silver embroidery. An ornament in her hair was of silver filigree, with a wisp of pale-blue feather, and her cheeks were a little pinker than usual. Kit glanced at her as she came in, and, though he noticed that she was an extremely pretty girl, he immediately glanced away again and continued his watch for the black-eyed girl he expected. The room was well filled by this time, and Patty took a seat near the front, where sat a group of her intimate friends. They greeted her gaily, and Kit, on the other side of the room, paid no attention to them. The programme began with a duet by Kit on his violin, and his Cousin Marie at the piano. The man was really a virtuoso, and his beautiful playing held the audience spellbound. Patty watched him, enthralled with his music, and admiring, too, his generally worth-while appearance. "He does look awfully jolly," she thought, to herself, "and it's plain to be seen he has brains. I wonder if he will be terribly disappointed in me, after all. I've a notion to run away." For the first time in her life Patty felt shy about singing. Usually she had no trace of self-consciousness, but to-night she experienced a feeling of embarrassment she had never known before. She realized this, and scolded herself roundly for it. "You idiot!" she observed, mentally, to her own soul; "if you want to make a good impression, you'd better stop feeling like a simpleton. Now brace up, and do the best you can, and behave yourself!" Miss Curtiss sang before Patty did. She was a sweet-faced young woman, with a beautiful and well-trained contralto voice. Patty cast a furtive glance at Kit Cameron, and found that he was looking intently at the singer. She knew perfectly well he was wondering whether this might be the girl of the telephone conversations, and she saw, too, that he decided in the negative, for he shook his head slightly, but with conviction. Suddenly the humour of the whole situation struck Patty. The incident was not serious, but humorous, and as soon as she realised this her shyness disappeared, and the spirit of mischief once again took possession of her. She knew now she would do herself credit when she sang, and when her turn came she rose and walked slowly and gracefully to the platform which had been temporarily placed for the musicians. Marie was to play her accompaniment, and Patty had expected to sing first a somewhat elaborate aria, using "Beware" as an encore. But as she reached the platform, and as she noticed Kit Cameron's face, its expression politely interested, but in no wise enthusiastic, she suddenly changed her mind. She put the music of "Beware" on the piano rack, and murmured to Marie, "This one first." Marie looked puzzled, but of course she couldn't say anything as Patty stood waiting to begin. For some reason Patty was always at her prettiest when she sang. She thoroughly enjoyed singing, and she enjoyed the evident pleasure it gave to others. She stood gracefully, her hands lightly clasped before her, and the added excitement of this particular occasion gave a flush to her cheek and a sparkle to her blue eyes that made her positively bewitching. And then she sang the foolish little song, "Beware," just as she had sung it over the telephone, coquettishly, but without artificiality or forced effect. She scarcely dared look at Kit Cameron. A fleeting glance showed her that he was probably at that moment the most nonplussed young man in existence. She looked away quickly, lest her voice should falter from amusement. Luckily, all the audience were regarding Patty attentively, and had no eyes for the astonished face of Kit Cameron. He had taken no special interest in the blonde singer, but when her first notes, rang out he started in surprise. As the voice continued he knew at once it was the same voice he had heard over the telephone, but he couldn't reconcile the facts. He caught the fleeting glance she gave him, he saw the roguish smile in her eyes, and he was forced to believe that this girl was his dark-eyed unknown. "The little rascal!" he said, to himself. "The scamp! the rogue! How she has tricked me! To think she was Patty Fairfield all the time! No wonder Marie didn't know whom I was talking about! Well!" As the song finished no one applauded more enthusiastically than Kit Cameron. But Patty would not look toward him, and proceeded to sing as an encore the aria she had intended to sing first. She was in her best voice, and she sang this beautifully, and, if the audience was surprised at the unusual order of the selections, they were unstinted in their applause. Leaving the stage, instead of returning to her seat, Patty stepped back into the next room, which was the library. Cameron was there to receive her. He had felt sure she would not return to the audience immediately, and he took the chance. He held out both hands and Patty laid her hands in his. "Captive Princess," he murmured. "My Knight!" Patty whispered, and flashed a smile at him. "Can you EVER forgive the things I said?" he asked, earnestly, as he led her across the room and they sat down on a divan. "There's nothing to forgive," she said, smiling; "you detest blondes, I know, but I'm thinking seriously of dyeing my hair black." "Don't! that would be a sacrilege! And you MUST remember that I told you I always adored blondes, until you told me you were brunette." "But I didn't," said Patty, laughing. "Somehow you got the notion that I was dark, and I didn't correct it. Are you TERRIBLY disappointed in me?" Naughty Patty raised her heavenly blue eyes and looked so like a fair, sweet flower that Kit exclaimed: "Disappointed! You are an angel, straight from heaven!" "Nonsense! If you talk like that, I shall run away." "Don't run away! I'll talk any way you like, but now that I have found you I shall keep you. But I am still in depths of self-abasement. Didn't I say most unkind things about Miss Fairfield?" "No unkinder than I did. We both jumped on her, and said she was vain and horrid." "_I_ never said such dreadful things! I'm sure I didn't. But, if I did, I shall spend the rest of my life making up for it. And I called you Poppycheek!" Cameron looked at Patty's cheeks in such utter dismay that she laughed outright. "But you know," she said, "there are pink poppies as well as scarlet. Incidentally there are white and there are saffron yellow." "So there are," said Cameron, delightedly. "How you DO help a fellow out! Well, yours are just the colour of a soft, dainty pink poppy that is touched by the sunlight and kissed by a summer breeze." "I knew you were a poet," said Patty, smiling, "but I don't allow even a summer breeze to kiss my cheeks." "I should hope not! A summer breeze is altogether too promiscuous with its kisses. I hope you don't allow any kisses, except those of your own particular swansdown powder puff." "Of course I don't!" laughed Patty, and then she blushed furiously as she suddenly remembered how Farnsworth had kissed both her cheeks the night of Christine's wedding. "I see you're blushing at a memory," said Cameron, coolly; "I suppose the powder puff was too audacious." "Yes, that's it," said Patty, her liking for this young man increased by the pleasantry of his light banter. "And now we must return to the music-room. I came here a moment to catch my breath after singing; but how did you happen to be here?" "I knew you'd come here; ostensibly, of course, to catch your breath, but really because you knew I'd be here." "You wretch!" cried Patty. "How dare you say such things! I never dreamed you'd be here; if I had, I shouldn't have come." "Of course you wouldn't, you little coquette! It's your nature to be perverse and capricious. But your sweet good-humour won't let you carry those other traits too far. Oh, I know you, My Girl!" "I object to that phrase from you," Patty said, coldly, "and I must ask you not to use it again." "But you ARE my girl, by right of discovery. By the way, you're not anybody else's girl, are you?" "Just what do you mean by that?" "Well, in other words, then, are you engaged, betrothed, plighted, promised, bespoke----" Patty burst out laughing. "I'm not any of those things," she said, "but, if ever I am, I shall be bespoke. I think that's the loveliest word! Fancy being anybody's Bespoke!" "Of course, it's up to me to give you an immediate opportunity," said Cameron, sighing. "But somehow I don't quite dare bespeak you on such short acquaintance." "Faint heart----" "Oh, it isn't that! I'm brave enough. But I'm an awfully punctilious man. If I were going to bespeak you, now, I should think it my duty to go first to your father and correctly ask his permission to pay my addresses to his daughter." "Good gracious! How do you pay addresses? I never had an address paid to me in my life." "Shall I show you how?" And Cameron jumped up and fell on one knee before Patty, with a comical expression of a make-believe love-sick swain. Patty dearly loved fooling, and she smiled back at him roguishly, and just at that moment Philip Van Reypen came into the room. In the dim half-light he descried Patty on the divan and Cameron kneeling before her, and, as Mr. Van Reypen was blessed with a quick temper, he felt a sudden desire to choke the talented Mr. Cameron. "Patty!" Philip exclaimed, angrily. "Yes, Philip," said Patty, in a voice of sweet humility. "Come with me," was the stern command. "Yes, Philip," and Patty arose and walked away with Van Reypen, leaving Kit Cameron still on his knee. "Well, I'll be hammered!" that gentleman remarked, as he rose slowly and deliberately dusted off his knee with his handkerchief; "that girl is a wonder! She's full of the dickens, but she's as sweet as a peach. I always did like blondes best, whether she believes it or not. But if I hadn't, I should now. There's only one girl in the world for me. I wonder if she is mixed up with that Van Reypen chap. He had a most proprietary manner, but all the same, that little witch is quite capable of scooting off like that, just to tease me. Oh, I'll play her own game and meet her on her own ground. Little Poppycheek!" With a nonchalant air, Mr. Cameron sauntered back to the music-room, and seated himself beside Miss Curtiss, with whom he struck up an animated conversation, not so much as glancing at Patty. Patty observed this from the corner of her eye, and she nodded her head in approval. "He's worth knowing," she thought; "I'll have a lot of fun with him." The programme was almost over, but Kit was to play once again. With Marie, he played a fine selection, and then, as he was tumultuously encored, he went back to the platform alone. Without accompaniment he played the little song, "Beware," that Patty had sung, and, improvising, he made a fantasia of the air. He was clever as well as skilled, and he turned the simple little melody into thrilling, rollicking music with trills and roulades until the original theme was almost lost sight of, only to crop up again with new intensity. Patty listened, enthralled. She loved this sort of thing, and she knew he was playing to her and for her. The strains would be now softly romantic, now grandly triumphant, but ever recurring to the main motive, until one seemed fairly to see the fickle maiden of the song. When it was ended, the room rang with applause. Cameron bowed simply, and laying aside his violin, went straight to Patty and sat down by her, coolly appropriating the chair which his cousin Marie had just left. "I made that for you," he said, simply. "Did you like it?" "Like it!" exclaimed Patty, her blue eyes dancing; "I revelled in it! It was wonderful! Was it really impromptu?" "Of course. It was nothing. Any one can play variations on an old song." "Variations nothing!" remarked Patty. "It was a work,--a chef d'oeuvre,--an opus!" "Yes; Opus One of my new cycle." "What are you two talking about?" said Marie, returning. "Have you found your girl, Kit? What do you think, Patty?--Kit's crazy over a black-eyed girl whom he doesn't know!" "Is he?" said Patty, dropping her eyes demurely. "I found My Girl, Marie," Cameron announced, calmly; "I find I made a trifling mistake about her colouring, but that's a mere detail. As it turns out, the lady of my quest is Miss Fairfield." "Good gracious, are you, Patty?" said Marie, impetuously; "are you Kit's girl?" "Yes; I am," and Patty folded her hands with a ridiculous air of complacency. "Patty!" growled Van Reypen, who was sitting behind her. "Yes, Philip," said Patty, sweetly, turning partly round. "Behave yourself!" "I am behaving, Philip," and Patty looked very meek. "Of course you are," said Marie; "you're behaving beautifully. And you look like an angel, and you sang like a lark, and if you're Kit's Girl, I'm glad of it. Now come on, everybody's going to supper." "You come along with me," said Philip Van Reypen, as he took Patty by the arm. "Why?" And Patty looked a little defiant at this command. "Because I want you to. And I want you to stop making up to that Cameron man." "I'm not, Philip; he's making up to me." "Well, he'd better stop it! What was he doing on his knees before you in the library?" "I don't remember," said Patty, innocently. "Oh, yes, he was telling me my cheeks were red, or some foolishness like that." "And your eyes were blue, I suppose, and your hair was yellow! Didn't you know all those things before?" "Why, Philip, how cross you are! Yes, I've known those things for nineteen years. It's no surprise to me." "Patty, I'd like to shake you! Do you know what you are? You're just a little, vain, silly, babbling coquette!" "I think that's a lovely thing to be! Do you want me to babble to you, Philip, or shall I go and babble to somebody else?" "Don't babble at all. Here's a chair. You sit right down here, and eat your supper. Here's another chair. You lay your shawl and bonnet on that, to keep it for me, and I'll go and forage for some food." Patty laid her scarf and fan on the chair to reserve it for Philip, but she was not unduly surprised when Mr. Cameron came along, picked up her belongings, and seated himself in the chair. "That's Mr. Van Reypen's chair," said Patty; "if he finds you there, he'll gently but firmly kill you." "I know it," said Kit, placidly; "but a Knight is always willing to brave death for his Lady." "But I don't want you killed," said Patty, looking sad, "I wouldn't have anybody to telephone to." "If I run away then, to save my life, will you telephone me to-night?" "Indeed I won't! that's all over. But please, Mr. Cameron, run away, for here comes Philip, with both hands full of soup, and I know he wouldn't hesitate to scald you with it." Mr. Cameron arose, as Mr. Van Reypen came in, and with an air of willingly relinquishing his seat to Philip, he said, "My Girl's Orders." Philip didn't hear it, but Patty did, and she blushed, for Cameron's departure that way showed greater deference to her wishes than if he had stayed with her. "What did he say?" Philip asked, as he offered Patty a cup of bouillon, and then sat down beside her. "He said you were such a sweet-tempered man, he didn't wonder I liked you," and Patty beamed pleasantly. "I would be sweet-tempered, Patty, if you didn't tease the very life out of me!" "Now, Philip, you wouldn't be much good if you couldn't stand a little teasing." "Go ahead, then; tease me all you like," and Van Reypen looked the personification of dogged endurance. "I will!" said Patty, emphatically, and then some others joined them, and the group began to laugh and talk together. "Your cousin is stunning, Marie," said Mona Galbraith; "why have we never met him before?" "He's a freak," Marie said, laughingly. "I couldn't persuade him to come to my valentine party, and to-night I couldn't keep him away! All musicians are freaks, you know." "He's a musician, all right," said Kenneth Harper. "The things he did to that simple little song must have made some of the eminent composers turn in their graves!" "He's awfully clever at that sort of thing," said Marie; "sometimes when we're here alone, he'll take a simple little air and improvise the most beautiful melodies from it." "Is he amiable?" asked Mona, casually. "Not very; or rather, not always. But he's a dear fellow, and we're all fond of him. How did you like him, Patty?" "I thought he was lovely," said Patty, and Van Reypen glared at her. CHAPTER VII SUITORS After supper the whole party went to the large drawing-room to dance. Kit Cameron made a bee-line for Patty. "You'll give me the first dance, won't you?" he said, simply, "because I've stayed away from you all supper time." Patty hesitated. "I'm willing, Mr. Cameron," she said, "but for one thing. I'm awfully exacting in the matter of dancing, and if you're not a good dancer it would go far to spoil our pleasant acquaintance. Suppose we don't risk it." Cameron considered. "I am a good dancer," he said, "but Marie has told me that you're something phenomenal in that line. So I daresay you will be disappointed in me. All right, suppose we don't risk it." Cameron half turned away, as if he had relinquished the idea of dancing with Patty, and that young woman was somewhat taken aback. She had assumed her new friend would insist on dancing with her, and she had no mind to let him escape thus. She was just about to say, impulsively, "Oh well, let's try it, anyway," when she caught a gleam from the corner of his eye, and she realised in a flash that he felt sure she would call him back! This was enough for capricious Patty, and she turned away from him, but not so quickly but that she saw his face suddenly fall, proving that she had been quite right in her diagnosis of the case. She smiled on Van Reypen, who was hovering near, and he came to her at once. "Our dance, Patty?" he said, eagerly, holding out his hand. "Yes, Philip," she answered simply, laying her hand in his, and in a moment they were circling the room. "Don't be cross to me, will you, Philip?" said Patty with an appealing note in her soft voice. "No; you little torment, you. I'll never be cross to you, if you won't flirt with other men." "Philip," and Patty spoke quite seriously, "I'll be cross with you, if you don't stop taking that attitude with me. It isn't for YOU to say whether I shall flirt with other men or not!" "No, I know it;" and Philip was unexpectedly humble. "I wish it was for me to say, Patty." "Stop talking nonsense, or I'll stop dancing with you! By the way, Phil, you're an awfully good dancer." "I'm glad there's something about me that pleases your ladyship." "Yes; so am I. It certainly isn't your temper!" And then Philip smiled into Patty's eyes, and peace was restored, as it always was after their little squabbles. The dance over, they sat for a few moments, and then Kenneth Harper asked to be Patty's next partner. "All right, Ken," said Patty; "but sit down here just a minute; I want to watch the others." What Patty really wanted was to see Mr. Cameron dance; and in a few moments he went past them with Elise. "That man's all round clever," commented Kenneth. "He dances just as he plays the violin, exquisitely. Why, Patty, he's a poem in patent leathers!" Sure enough, Kit Cameron was an unusually fine dancer, and Patty felt a slow blush rising to her cheeks, as she remembered what she had said to him, and realised he must have thought her vain of her dancing. For once, Patty felt honestly ashamed of herself. She had implied that she was such a fine dancer she didn't care to dance with any one unskilled in the art. But after all, this was not quite Patty's attitude. When a stranger was introduced to her, she was quite willing to dance with him, whether he danced well or not. But as to Mr. Cameron, Patty liked him so much and so enjoyed his beautiful music, that she really felt it would be a shock to their friendship if he danced awkwardly. And, too, she never for a moment supposed he would take her at her word. She had supposed he would insist upon the dance, even after her hesitation. "What's the matter Patty?" said Kenneth; "you look as though you'd lost your last friend!" "I'm not sure but I have," said Patty, smiling a little. For certainly Mr. Cameron was the last friend she had made, and it was very likely that she had lost him. "Well, never mind, you still have me left. I'm gentle and I'm kind, and you'll never, never find a better friend than your old Ken." "I believe you're right," and Patty smiled at him. "We've been friends a long time, haven't we, Ken?" "We sure have. When I look at your gray hair and wrinkled cheeks, I realise that we are growing old together." Patty laughed and dimpled at this nonsense, and then declared she was ready to dance. All through the evening, Patty was gaily whisked from one partner to another, but Kit Cameron never came near her. She was decidedly chagrined at this, even though she knew she had only herself to blame for it. She had been really rude, and she was reaping the well-deserved consequences. Often she passed Cameron in the dance, as he whirled by with another girl. He always smiled pleasantly as they passed, and the fact that he was a magnificent dancer only made Patty feel more angry with herself at having been so silly. Just before the last dance, Patty stood, gaily chatting with several of her friends, when the music struck up, and both Kenneth and Philip claimed the dance. "You promised it to me, Patty," said Kenneth, reproachfully. "Why, Ken Harper, I didn't do any such thing!" and Patty's big blue eyes gazed at him in honest surprise. "Of course you didn't, you promised it to me," said Van Reypen, equally mendacious. "Why, I didn't promise it to anybody!" declared Patty; "I haven't promised a dance ahead this whole evening." As she stood, with the two insistent applicants on either side of her, Cameron walked straight toward her. He said not a word, but held out his arm, and calmly walking away from her two disappointed suitors, Patty was at once whirled away. "Well, Princess Poppycheek,--Princess Pink Poppycheek,--I had to surrender," Cameron said, as they floated around the room. "After your cruel aspersion on my dancing, I was so enraged I vowed to myself I'd never speak to you again. But I'm awful magnanimous, and I forgive you freely, from the bottom of my heart." "I haven't asked to be forgiven," and Patty shot him a saucy glance; "but," she added, shyly, "I'm truly glad you do forgive me. I was a pig!" "So you were. A Poppycheeked piggy-wig! But with me, what is forgiven is forgotten. And, by the way, you dance fairly well." "So I've been told," returned Patty, demurely. "And I find I can get along with you." This sounded like faint praise, but each knew that the other appreciated how well their steps suited each other and how skilful they both were. Van Reypen and Ken Harper stood where Patty had left them, for a moment, as they watched their hoped-for partner dance away. "There's no use getting mad at that child," said Ken, patiently; "she WILL do as she likes." "Well, after all, why shouldn't she? She's a reigning belle, and she's a law unto herself. But she has a lot of sense inside that golden curly head." "Yes," returned Kenneth, "and not only sense, but a sound, sweet nature. Patty is growing up a coquette, but it is only because she is beset by flattery; and, too, she IS full of mischief. She can't help teasing her suitors, as she calls them." "She can tease me all she likes," said Van Reypen, somewhat seriously, and Kenneth answered simply, "Me, too." Next morning, Patty told Nan all about Mr. Cameron, and that gay little lady was greatly interested in the story. "I knew he would be nice," said Nan, "from what you had already told me about him. Is he good-looking, Patty?" "Yes,--no,--I don't know," returned Patty; "I don't believe I thought about it. He has an awfully nice face, and he's tall and big, and yet he's young-looking. At least, his eyes are. He has dark eyes, and they're just brimming over with mischief and fun, except when he's playing his violin." "Then I suppose he has the regulation 'far away' look," commented Nan. "Well, he doesn't look like a dying goat, if that's what you mean! but he looks like a real musician, and he is one." "And a woman-hater, I believe?" "Oh, it's rubbish to call him that! He's not crazy over girls, but it's because he thinks most of them are silly. He likes his two cousins,--and, Nan, don't breathe it, but I have a faint inkling of a suspicion of a premonition that he's going to like me!" "Patty, you're a conceited little goose!" "Nay, nay, my ducky stepmother, but I'd be a poor stick if I couldn't fascinate that youth after our romantic introduction." "That's so; and I think you'll not have much trouble bringing him to your feet." "Oh, I don't want him at my feet. And I don't want him to fall in love with me. I hate that sort of thing! I want him for a nice, chummy, comrade friend, and if I can't have him that way, I don't want him at all. There's Philip and Kenneth now; they've always been so nice. But lately they've taken to making sheep's eyes at me and flinging out bits of foolishness here and there that make me tired! A debutante's life is not a happy one!" Patty drew such a long, deep sigh, that Nan burst into laughter. "I would feel sorry for you, Patty," she said, "but I can't help thinking that you're quite able to look out for yourself." "'Deed I am! When they talk mush, I just giggle at 'em. It brings 'em down pretty quick from their highfalutin nonsense!" The two were sitting in Patty's boudoir, which was such a bright, sunny room that many a morning hour was pleasantly passed together there by these two friends. Patty was fortunate in having a stepmother so in sympathy with her pursuits and pleasures, and Nan was equally fortunate in having warm-hearted, sunny-natured Patty with her. Jane came in, bringing an enormous box from a florist. "My prophetic soul!" cried Patty. "My efforts were not in vain! I feel it in my funnybone that my latest Prince Charming has sent me a posy." Nor was she wrong. The box contained a bewildering array of spring flowers. Delicate blossoms of jonquils, hyacinths, lilacs, daffodils, and other dainty, fragile flowers that breathed of spring. "Aren't they lovely!" And Patty buried her face in the fragrant mass of bloom. "Here's a card," said Nan, picking up a white envelope. Patty drew out Mr. Cameron's card, and on it was written: "To Princess Poppycheek; that they may tell all that I may not speak." "Now that's a real nice sentiment," Patty declared; "you see, it doesn't commit him to anything, and yet it sounds pretty. Oh, I shall end by adoring that young man! Bring me some bowls and things, please, Jane; I want to arrange this flower garden myself." Jane departed with the box and papers, and returned with a tray, on which were several bowls and vases filled with water. Patty always enjoyed arranging flowers, and she massed them in the bowls, with taste and skill as to color and arrangement. "There!" she said, as she finished her task; "they do look beautiful, though I say it as shouldn't. Now, I think I shall sit me down and write a sweet gushing note of thanks, while I'm in the notion. For I've a lot on to-day, and I can't devote much time to this particular suitor." "Suitor is a slang word, Patty; you oughtn't to use it." "Fiddle-dee-dee! if I didn't use any slang, I couldn't talk at all! And suitor isn't exactly slang; it's the word in current fashion for any pleasant young gentleman who sends flowers, or otherwise favors any pleasant young lady. Everybody in society knows what it means, so don't act old fogy,--Nancy Dancy." Patty dropped a butterfly kiss on Nan's brow, and then pirouetted across the room to her writing desk. "Shall I begin, 'My Dear Suitor'?" she said, and then giggled to see the shocked look on Nan's face. "It wouldn't matter; he would understand," she said, carelessly, "but I think I can do better than that." "Well, I'll leave you to yourself," said Nan; "not out of special consideration for your comfort, but because it doesn't interest me to watch anybody write letters." "By-by," and Patty waved her hand, absentmindedly, as Nan left the room. Then she applied herself to her task. "Most Courteous Knight," she began; "The flowers are beautiful,--and they are saying lovely things to me. They say they are fresh and young and green. Oh, my goodness! I forgot that you said they were speaking for you! Well, then, they are saying that they are just the sort I like, and they are sure of a welcome. With many, many thanks, I am very sincerely yours, Patricia Poppycheek Fairfield." And then Patty dismissed her Knight from her mind, and turned her attention to other matters. That afternoon about five o'clock, Mr. Cameron called. "I scarcely hoped to find you at home," he said, as Patty greeted him in the drawing-room. "It isn't our day," she returned, "but I chanced to be in, and I'm glad of it. Nan, may I present Mr. Cameron?" And Nan accorded a pleasant welcome to the visitor. "You see, Mrs. Fairfield," Cameron said, "I rarely go into society and I fear my manners are a bit rusty. So if I have come to call too soon, please forgive me." His smile was so frank and his manner so easily correct, that Nan approved of him at once. She was punctilious in such matters, and she saw, through Kit's pretence at rustiness, that he was not lacking in etiquette or courtesy. "Let's have tea in the library," said Patty; "you see, Mr. Cameron, we always invite people we like to have tea in there, rather than in this formal place." "That suits me; I want to be considered one of the family, and what's the use of wasting a whole lot of time getting up to that point? Let's make believe we've always known each other." So tea was served in the library, and a very pleasant informal feast it was. Mr. Fairfield came in, and soon the whole quartette were chatting gaily as if they had always known each other. Mr. Cameron was especially interested in Patty's club called "Happy Saturdays." "It's the kindest thing I ever heard of," he said, enthusiastically. "It does good to people who can't be reached by any organised charity. I don't want to intrude, Miss Fairfield, and I don't want to exploit myself, but if you ever give your Saturday friends a little musicale or anything like that, I'd jolly well like to play for you. I'll play popular stuff, or I'll play my best Sunday-go-to-meeting pieces, whichever you prefer." "That's awfully nice of you," said Patty, smiling at him. "I've often thought I'd get up something of that sort." "We might have it here," said Nan, "unless you mean to invite more people than we could take care of." "I'd like to have it here," said Patty; "the drawing-room would easily seat sixty or seventy in an audience,--perhaps more. And I don't believe we could find more than that to invite. Although I know of a girls' club that I'd like to invite as a whole." "It's a pretty big thing you're getting up, Pattikins," said Mr. Fairfield, smiling kindly at his enthusiastic daughter, "but if you think you can swing it, go ahead. I'll help all I can." "It would upset the house terribly," said Nan; "but I don't mind that. I'm with you, Patty. Let's do it." "If you're shy on the programme, I can get one or two fellows to help us out," said Cameron. "A chum of mine warbles a good baritone and I'm dead sure he'd like to help." "I'm really a perfectly good singer," said Mr. Fairfield, "but my voice is not appreciated nowadays. So I'm going to decline all requests to sing, however insistent. But I'll help you out this way, Patsy-Poppet. I'll set up the supper for the whole crowd." "Oh, daddy, how good you are!" and Patty leaned over to give her father's hand an affectionate squeeze. "It will be just lovely! We'll give those people a real musical treat, and a lovely supper to wind up with. Really, Mr. Cameron, you are to be thanked for all this, for you first suggested it. Our club has never done such a big thing before. I know the girls will be delighted!" Unable to wait, Patty flew to the telephone and called up Mona, who was one of the most earnest workers of the club. As she had fore-seen, Mona was greatly pleased, and they immediately planned a meeting for the next morning to perfect the arrangements. "And incidentally, and aside from giving a musical entertainment to your poor but worthy young friends, won't you go with me next week to enjoy some music yourself?" said Cameron to Patty, as he was about to take leave. "Where?" she asked. "I want to have a little opera party. Only half a dozen of us. The Hepworths will be our chaperons, and if you will go, I'll ask my cousin Marie and Mr. Harper." "Why not Mr. Van Reypen?" said Patty, mischievously. "Me deadly rival! never! nevaire! how could you cruelly suggest it?" "I didn't mean it. Forget it," and Patty smiled at him. "All right, it's forgotten, but don't EVER let such a thing occur again!" And then Mr. Cameron reluctantly took himself off. CHAPTER VIII A HOUSE PARTY Somehow or other Mr. Cameron immediately became a prominent factor in the Fairfield household. He appeared frequently, and even more frequently he telephoned or he wrote notes or he sent flowers or messages, until Patty declared he was everlastingly under foot! But he was so gay and good-natured, so full of pranks and foolery, that it was impossible to snub him or to be annoyed with him. He was a civil engineer, having already built up a good-sized business. But he seemed to be both able and willing to leave his office at any hour of the day or night for any occasion where Patty was concerned. But he apparently fulfilled her wishes as to being her friend and chum and comrade, without falling in love with her. "He's a thoroughly nice chap," Mr. Fairfield often said; "good-natured and right-minded, as well as clever and talented." So, as he was also a favourite with Nan, he dropped in at the Fairfield house very often, and Patty grew to like him very much. The opera party had duly taken place and had been a pleasant success. The musical entertainment was being planned for some weeks hence, as it was not easy to find a near-by date which suited all concerned. One morning, as Patty was fluttering around her boudoir and looking over her mail, the telephone rang and the familiar "Hello, Princess," sounded in her ear. "Hello, most noble Knight," she responded, "what would'st thou of me?" "A boon so great that I fear to ask it! Won't you promise it in advance?" "What I promise in advance, I never fulfil." "Don't do it, then! I'll ask you first. You see, it's this way. My angelic and altogether delightful sister Lora lives in Eastchester with her stalwart husband and a blossom-bud of a kiddy. Now it seems that there's a wonderful country-club ball up there, and she thinks it will be nice if you and I should attend that same." "And what do YOU think about it?" "Oh, I don't have any thoughts concerning it, until I know what YOU think. And then, of course, that's precisely what _I_ think." "When is it?" "To-morrow night." "Mercy me! So soon! Well, I haven't anything on for to-morrow night; but the next night Mr. Van Reypen is making a theatre party for me that I wouldn't miss for anything." "H'm! how LOVELY! Well, Princess, what say you to my humble plea?" "What are your plans? How do I get there?" "Why, thusly; my sister will invite you to her home, and incidentally to the ball. She will also ask my cousin Marie and Mr. Harper, who is not at all averse, it seems to me, to playing Marie's little lamb!" "Have you noticed that? So have I. Well, go on." "Well, then, I thought it would be nice if we four should motor out to Eastchester to-morrow afternoon, go straight to sister's, do up the ball business and motor back the next day. There's the whole case in a nutshell. Now pronounce my doom!" "It seems to me just the nicest sort of a racket, and if your sister invites me, I shall most certainly accept." "Oh, bless you for ever! Princess Poppycheek. I shall telephone Lora at once, and she will write you an invitation on her best stationery, and she will also telephone you, and if you wish it she will come and call on you." "No, don't bother her to do that. I've met her, you know, and if she either writes or telephones, it will be all right. What time do we start?" "About three, so as to make it easily by tea-time." "I'll be ready. Count on me. Good-bye." Patty hung up the telephone suddenly, as she always did. She often said it was her opinion that more time was wasted in this world by people who didn't know how to say good-bye, than from any other cause. And her minutes were too precious to be spent on a telephone, after the main subject of conversation had been finished. She danced downstairs to tell Nan all about it. "Very nice party," Nan approved; "I've met Mrs. Perry, you know, and she's charming. You'll be home Thursday, of course. You know you've a theatre party that night." "Yes, I know; I'll be home," said Patty, abstractedly. "What would you take for the ball, Nan? My pink chiffon or my yellow satin?" "They're both so pretty, it's hard to choose. The yellow satin, I think; it's a dream of a frock." Mrs. Perry wrote a most cordial invitation and also telephoned, saying how glad she would be to welcome Patty to her home. And so, the next afternoon, the young people started on their motor trip. It was easily accomplished in two hours, and then Patty found herself a very much honoured guest in Mrs. Perry's pleasant home. "It's dear of you to come," said the vivacious little hostess, as she took Patty and Marie to their rooms upon their arrival. "It's dear of you to ask me." returned Patty; "I love to go to parties, and I love to go into new people's houses,--I mean people's new houses,--oh, well, you know what I mean; I mean HERE!" "The house IS new," said Mrs. Perry, laughing, "but we're getting to be old people, and we want you young folks to liven us up." "Old people!" and Patty smiled at the pretty young matron. "Yes, wait till you see my baby. She's almost three years old! Fancy my going to balls, with a big girl like that." "You're just fishing," said Patty, laughingly, "and I shan't humour you. I know you young mothers! You go to a party, and you're the belles, and leave all us wall-flowers green with envy!" Mrs. Perry's eyes twinkled, and she looked so roguish that Patty exclaimed, "You're exactly like Mr. Cameron! I can well believe you're his sister." "Who's he? Oh, you mean Kit! I don't think I ever heard him called Mr. Cameron before, and it does sound so funny! Can't we persuade you to say Kit?" "I don't mind, if he doesn't," said Patty, carelessly. "What a darling room this is!" "Yes; this is one of my pet rooms. I always give it to my favourite guests." "I don't wonder," and Patty looked round admiringly at the dainty draperies and pretty appointments of the chamber. "Marie always has it when she's here; but, of course, she was glad to give it up to you, and I put her in the blue room just across the hall. Come now, powder your nose, we must run down to tea. Don't change your frock." Patty had worn a little silk house gown under her motor coat, so after a brief adjustment of her tumbled curls she was ready to go down. The Perrys' was a modern house of an elaborate type. There were many rooms, on varying levels, so that one was continually going up or down a few broad steps. Often the rooms were separated only by columns or by railings, which made the whole interior diversified and picturesque. "Such a gem of a house!" exclaimed Patty, as she entered the tea-room. "So many cosy, snuggly places,--and so warm and balmy." She dropped into a lot of silken cushions that were piled in the corner of an inglenook, and placed her feet daintily on a footstool in front of the blazing fire. "Awful dinky!" said Kit, as he pushed aside some cushions and sat down beside Patty, "but a jolly good house to visit in." "Yes, it is," said Marie, who was nestled in an easy-chair the other side of the great fireplace. "And it's so light and pleasant. We never get any sunlight, home." "Nonsense, Marie," said Kit, "our apartments are unusually light ones." "Well, it's a different kind of light," protested Marie. "It only comes from across the street, and here the light comes clear from the horizon." "It does," agreed Mrs. Perry, "but we're getting the very last rays now. Ring for lights, Kit." "No, sister, let's just have the firelight. It's more becoming, anyway." So Mrs. Perry merely turned on one pink-shaded light near the tea table and let her guests enjoy the twilight and firelight. "Country life is 'way ahead of city existence," remarked Kenneth, as he made himself useful in passing the teacups. "The whole atmosphere is different. When I marry and settle down, I shall be a country gentleman." "How interesting!" cried Patty. "I should love to see you, Ken, superintending your gardener and showing him how to plant cabbages!" "Dead easy," retorted Kenneth; "I'd have a gardener show me first, and when the next gardener came I could show him." "Well, I don't want to live in the country," said Kit; "it's great to visit here, that's what sisters' houses are for; but I couldn't live so far away from the busy mart. Back to the stones for mine." When their host, Dick Perry, arrived he came in with a genial, breezy manner and warmly welcomed the guests. "Well, well!" he exclaimed, "this IS a treat! To come home at night and find a lot of gay and festive young people gathered around! Lora, why don't we do this oftener? Nothing like a lot of young people to make a home merry. How are you, Marie? Glad to see you again, Miss Fairfield." Mr. Perry bustled around, flung off his coat, accepted a cup of tea from his wife, and then, coming over toward Patty, he ordered Kit Cameron to vacate, and he took his place. "You're not to be monopolised by that brother-in-law of mine, Miss Fairfield," he said, as he sat down beside her. "He's a clever young chap, I admit, but he can't always get ahead of me." Patty responded laughingly to this gay banter, and the tea hour passed all too quickly, and it was time to dress for dinner. "We'll put on our party frocks before dinner," said Mrs. Perry, as she went upstairs with the girls; "and then we won't have to dress twice. I'll send you a maid, Miss Fairfield." "Thank you," said Patty, "but I can look after myself fairly well,--until it comes to hooking up. I always do my own hair." "It can't be much trouble," said Mrs. Perry, looking admiringly at the golden curls, "for it looks lovely whatever way you do it." Patty slipped on a kimono and brushed out her shining mass of curls. As Mrs. Perry had rightly said, Patty's coiffure was not troublesome, for however she bunched up the gleaming mass it looked exactly right. She twisted it up with care, however, and added a marvellous ornament of a bandeau, which circled halfway round her head, and above which a gilt butterfly was tremblingly poised. It was too early to get into her frock, so Patty flung herself into a big chair before the crackling fire, and gave herself up to daydreams. She dearly loved to idle this way and she fell to thinking, naturally, of the home she was visiting and the people who lived there. Patty still sat dreaming these idle fancies, when there was a tap at the door and, in response to her permission, a maid entered. "I'm Babette," she said, "and I have come to help you with your gown." "Thank you," said Patty, jumping up; "it's later than I thought. We must make haste." With experienced deftness, the French maid arrayed Patty in the beautiful evening gown of yellow satin, veiled with a shimmering yellow gauze. Although unusual for a blonde, yellow was exceedingly becoming to Patty, and she looked like an exquisite spring blossom in the soft, sheath-like jonquil-coloured gown. Her dainty satin slippers and silk stockings were of the same pale yellow, as was also the filmy scarf, which she knew how to wear so gracefully. Her only ornament was a string of pearls, which had been her mother's. When she was all ready she went slowly down the winding staircase, looking about her at the interesting house. A broad landing halfway down showed an attractive window-seat, and Patty sat down there for a moment. There seemed to be no one in the hall below, and Patty concluded that she was early after all, though she had feared she would be late. In a moment Kit came down and spied her. "Hello, Princess!" he cried. "You're a yellow poppy to-night,--and a gay little blossom, too." "Not yellow poppyCHEEK!" cried Patty, rubbing her pink cheeks in mock dismay. "Well, no; only one who is colour-blind could call those pink cheeks yellow. May I pose beside you, here, and make a beautiful tableau?" He sat beside Patty on the window-seat, and they wondered why the rest were so late. "Prinking, I suppose," said Kit. "How did you manage to get ready so soon?" "Why, just because I thought I was late, and so I hurried." "Didn't know a girl COULD hurry,--accept my compliments." And Kit rose and made an exaggerated bow. "What's going on?" said Dick Perry, gaily, as he came downstairs and paused on the landing. "Only homage at the shrine of Beauty," returned Kit. "Let me homage, too," said Mr. Perry, and they both bowed and scraped, until Patty went off in a gale of laughter and said: "You ridiculous boys, you look like popinjays! But here comes Marie; now more homage is due." Marie came down the steps slowly and gracefully, looking very pretty in pale green, with tiny pink rosebuds for trimming. "Good for you, Marie!" exclaimed her cousin. "Your dress gees with Miss Fairfield's first-rate. You'll do!" And then the others came, and the merry group went out to dinner. After dinner they started at once for the country-club ball. It was to be a very large affair, and, as Patty knew no one except their own house party, she declared that she knew she'd be a wall-flower. "Wall-flower, indeed!" said Kit. "Poppies don't grow on walls. They grow right in the middle of the field, and sway and dance in the breeze." "I always said you were a poet," returned Patty, "and you do have the prettiest fancies." "I fancy YOU, if that's what you mean," Kit replied, and Patty gave him a haughty glance for his impertinence. Then Babette put on Patty's coat, which was a really gorgeous affair. It was what is known as a Mandarin coat, of white silk, heavily embroidered with gold, and very quaint she looked in it. "That thing must weigh a ton," commented Kit. "Why do you girls want to wear Chinese togs?" "It's a beautiful coat," said Mrs. Perry, admiringly. "Have you been to China, Miss Fairfield?" "No; I never have. This was a Christmas present, and I'm awfully fond of it. I'm afraid I'm barbaric in my love of bright, glittering things." "A very civilised little barbarian," said Mr. Perry, and then they all went off to the ball. "How many may I have?" said Kit, as he took Patty's programme from her hand after they were in the ballroom. "As I don't know any one else, I shall have to dance them all with you and Ken," returned Patty, demurely. "Never mind Harper; give them all to me." Patty looked at him calmly. "I'll tell you what," she said: "you put down your initials for every dance; then, if I do find any partners I like better, I'll give them dances; and, if not, you see I'll have you to depend on." Cameron stared at her, but Patty looked at him with an innocent smile, as if she were not asking anything extraordinary. "Well, you've got a nerve!" the young man exclaimed. "Why, it was your own proposition that you have all the dances;" and Patty looked almost offended. "Poppycheek, you shall have it your own way! You shall have anything you want, that _I_ can give you." And Cameron scribbled his initials against every one of the twenty dances on the programme. "You might have put K. C. to the first and then ditto after that," said Patty, as she watched him. "Nay, nay, Pauline!" and Kit gave her a shrewd glance. "Think what would happen then. You'd give a dance to some other man, maybe, and he'd set down his initials, and all the rest of the dittos would refer to him!" "Poor man! I never thought of that! But it isn't likely there'll be any others except Ken." "Oh, don't you worry! Everybody will want an introduction to you, after they see you dance." "I don't think much of that for a compliment! I'd rather be loved for my sweet self alone." "Have you never been?" "Many, many times!" and Patty sighed in mock despair. "But my love affairs always end tragically." "Your suitors drown themselves, I suppose?" "Do you mean if I encourage them?" "Do you know what a silly you are?" "Do you know what a goose YOU are?" "Children, stop quarrelling," and Mrs. Perry smiled at the chattering pair. "Miss Fairfield, several amiable young men of my acquaintance desire to be presented to you. May I?" Patty smilingly acquiesced, and in a moment half a dozen would-be partners were asking for dances. They looked rather taken aback at sight of Patty's card, but she calmly explained to them the true condition of things, and they accepted the situation with smiles of admiration for a girl who could command such an arrangement. Patty would not give more than one dance to each, as she wanted to find out which ones she liked best. Mr. Perry brought up some of his acquaintances, too, and shortly Patty's programme showed an astonishing lot of hieroglyphics scribbled over Kit's initials. "Here are twelve dances you may have for your other friends," said Patty, to Mr. Cameron. "Take the numbers as I call them off: one, two, three----" "Oh, wait a minute! Have you given them all away?" "No; only the first twelve, so far. But cheer up! I may be able to dispose of the others." "You're a naughty, bad, mean little princess; and I don't love you any more." Kit looked reproachfully at Patty, with his eyes so full of disappointment that she relented. "I didn't give away the first one, really," she said, softly. "I saved that for you." "You blessed, dear, sweet little Princess you! Now, don't give away any more, will you? I know you'll have thousands of requests." "I'll see about it," was all Patty would promise, and then the music began and they stepped out on to the dancing floor. CHAPTER IX EDDIE BELL "Which do you like best of all the boys you've met?" asked Kit, as they danced. "What a question! How can I possibly tell, when a dozen well-behaved and serious-looking young men stand up like a class in school and say, one after another, 'May I have the honour of a dance, Miss Fairfield?' They all looked exactly alike to me. Except one. There was one boy, who looks so much like me he might be my brother. I never had a brother, and I've a good notion to adopt him as one." "Don't! There's nothing so dangerous as adopting a young man for a brother! But I know who you mean,--Eddie Bell. He doesn't look a bit like you, but he HAS yellow curls and blue eyes." "And pink cheeks," supplemented Patty. "Yes, but not poppy cheeks; they're more the pink of a--of a--horsechestnut!" "I think pink horsechestnut blooms are beautiful." "Oh, you do, do you? And I suppose you think Eddie Bell is beautiful!" "Well, there's no occasion for you to get mad about it if I do. Do you know, Mr. Cameron, you flare up very easily." "If you'll call me Kit, I'll promise never to flare up again." "Certainly, I'll call you Kit. I'd just as lieve as not; anything to oblige." "And may I call you Patty?" "Why, yes, if you like." "Look here, you're altogether too indifferent about it." "Oh, what a boy!" And Patty rolled her eyes up in despair. "If I don't want him to call me Patty, he doesn't like it; and if I do let him call me Patty, he isn't satisfied! What to do,--what to do!" "You're a little tease,--THAT'S what you are!" "And you're a big tease, that's what YOU are! I've heard you're even fond of practical jokes! Now, I detest practical jokes." "That's an awful pity, for I mean to play one on you the very first chance I get." "You can't do it?" "Why can't I?" "Because I'd discover it, and foil you." "There's no such word as foil in my bright lexicon. I'll lay you a wager, if you like, that I play a practical joke on you, that you, yourself, will admit is clever and not unkind. That's the test of a right kind of a joke,--to be clever and not unkind." Patty's eyes danced. "You have the right idea about it," she said, nodding her head approvingly. "I don't so much mind a practical joke, if it is really a good one, and doesn't make the victim feel hurt or chagrined. But all the same, Mr. Kit, you can't get one off on me! I'm a little too wide-awake, as you'll find out." "Would you take a wager?" "I'm not in the habit of betting, but I'm willing for once. It's hardly fair, though, for I'm betting on a dead certainty." "You mean you THINK you are! And I think _I_ am, so the chances are even. What are the stakes?" "I don't care: candy or books or flowers or anything." "Nonsense, they're too prosaic. If I win, you're to give me a photograph of yourself." "Oh, I almost never give my picture to my suitors. It isn't good form." "But, if you're so sure that you will win, you needn't be afraid to promise it." "All right, I promise; and, if I win, you may give me a perfectly beautiful picture frame, in which I shall put some other man's picture." "How cruel you can be! But, as I'm sure of winning, I'm not afraid to take that up. A frame against a picture, then. But there must be a time limit." "I'll give you a month; if you can't do it in that time, you can't do it at all. And, also, I must be the judge,--if you do fool me,--whether your practical joke is clever and not unkind." "I'm quite contented that you should be the judge, for I know your sincere and honest nature will not let you swerve a hair's breadth from a true and fair judgment." "That's clever," returned Patty; "for now I shall have to be honest." The first dance over, Patty went on with a long succession of dances with her various partners. They were all polite and courteous young men, some attractive and agreeable, others shy, and some dull and uninteresting. Patty complacently accorded another dance to any one she liked, and calmly refused it to less desirable partners,--pleading an engagement with Cameron as her excuse. The one she liked best was Eddie Bell. As she had said, this young man did look a little like Patty herself, though this was mostly due to their similarity of colouring. "If I may say anything so impossible, it seems to me that I look like a comic valentine of you," said Mr. Bell, as they began to dance. Patty laughed outright at this apt expression of their resemblance, and said: "I have already told some one that you looked exactly like me. So, in that case, I'm a comic valentine, too. But, truly, you're enough like me to be my brother." "May I be? Not that I want to, in the least, but of course that is the obvious thing to say. I'd rather be most any relation to you than a brother." "Why?" "Oh, it's such a prosaic relationship. I have three sisters,--and they're the dearest girls in the world,--but I don't really feel the need of any more." "What would you like to be?" And Patty flashed him a dangerous glance of her pansy-blue eyes. But Mr. Bell kept his equanimity. "How about second cousin, once removed?" "I suppose you'll be removed at the end of this dance." "Then, may this dance last for ever!" "Oh, what a pretty speech! Of course, you wouldn't make that to a sister! I think a second cousinship is very pleasant." "Then, that's settled. And I may call you Cousin Patty, I suppose?" "It would seem absurd to say Cousin Miss Fairfield, wouldn't it? And yet our acquaintance is entirely too short for first names." "But it's growing longer every minute; and, if you would grant me another dance after I'm removed from this one, I'm sure we could reach the stage of first names." "I will give you one more," said Patty, for she liked Mr. Bell very much. So at the end of their dance they agreed upon a number later on the programme, and Mr. Bell wrote down "Cousin Ed" on Patty's card. It was just after this that Kit came back for his second dance. "Naughty girl," he said; "you've kept me waiting three-quarters of the evening." "I thought I saw you dancing with several visions of beauty." "Only killing time till I could get back to you. Come on, don't waste a minute." It was a joy to Patty to dance with Cameron, for he was by all odds the best dancer she had ever met. And many admiring glances followed them as they circled the great room. "How did you like your little brother?" Kit enquired. "He's a ducky-daddles!" declared Patty, enthusiastically. "Just a nice all-round boy, frank and jolly and good-natured." "That's what I am." "Not a bit of it! You're a musician; freakish, temperamental, touchy, and--a woman-hater." "Gracious! what a character to live up to,--or down to. But I hate YOU awfully, don't I?" "I don't know. I never can feel sure of these temperamental natures." "Well, don't you worry about feeling sure of me. The longer you live, the surer you'll feel." "That sounds like 'the longer she lives the shorter she grows,'" said Patty, flippantly. "Yes, the old nursery rhyme. Well, you are my candle,--a beacon, lighting my pathway with your golden beams----" "Oh, do stop! That's beautiful talk, but it's such rubbish." "Haven't you ever noticed that much beautiful talk IS rubbish?" "Yes, I have. And I'm glad that you think that way, too. Beautiful thoughts are best expressed by plain, sincere words, and have little connection with 'beautiful talk.'" "Patty Fairfield, you're a brick! And, when I've said that, I can't say anything more." "A gold brick?" "Not in the usual acceptance of that term; but you're pure gold, and I'm jolly well glad I've found a girl like you." There was such a ring of sincerity in Cameron's tone that Patty looked up at him suddenly. And the honest look in his eyes made it impossible for her to return any flippant response. "And I'm glad, too, that we are friends, Kit," she said, simply. The next dance was Mr. Bell's, and that rosy-cheeked youth came up blithely to claim it. "Come along, Cousin Patty," he said, and Cameron stared at him in amazement. "Are you two cousins?" he said. "Once removed," returned Eddie Bell, gaily; "and this is the removal." He took Patty's hand and laid it lightly within his own arm as he led her away. "Don't let's dance right off," he begged. "Let's rest a minute in this bosky dell." The dell was an alcove off the ballroom, which contained several palms and floral baskets and a deep, cushioned window-seat. "Let's sit here and watch the moon rise;" and he led Patty toward the window-seat, where he deftly arranged some cushions for her. "I believe the moon rises to-morrow afternoon," said Patty. "Well, I don't mind waiting. Sit here, won't you? These stupid cushions ought to be of a golden yellow or a pale green. However, this old rose does fairly well for our blond beauty. Isn't it nice we're of the same type and harmonise with the same furnishings? When we're married we won't have to differ about our house decorations." "When we are WHAT?" "Married, I said. You know, you're not really my second cousin and there's absolutely no bar to our union." This was quite the most audacious young man Patty had ever met. But she was quite equal to the situation. "Of course there isn't," she said, lightly. "And, when I think of the economy of our being able to use the same colour scheme, it IS an inducement." "And meantime we must get better acquainted, as you said when we were dancing. May I come to see you in the city? Where do you live?" "In Seventy-second Street," said Patty, "but I feel it my duty to tell you that there's already a long line awaiting admission." "Oh, yes, I've seen that line when I've been passing. It goes clear round the corner of the block. Do I have to take my place at the end, or can I have a special favour shown me?" "I'm sure your sense of justice wouldn't permit that. You take your place at the end of the line, and when your turn comes I'll be glad to welcome you." "Then that's all right," said Mr. Bell, cheerfully, "and you'll be surprised to see how soon I appear! Now, lady fair, would you rather go and dance or sit here and listen to me converse?" "It's pleasant to rest a little," and Patty nestled into her cushions, "and you really ARE amusing, you know. Let's stay here a little while." "Now, isn't that nice of you! Do you want to talk, too, or shall I do it all and give you a complete rest?" "You do it all," said Patty, indolently. "It will be like going to a monologue entertainment." "At your orders. What subject would you like?" "Yourself." "Oh, wise beyond your years! You know the subject that most interests a man." "That isn't pretty!" And Patty frowned at him. "There ought to be another subject more interesting to you than that!" "There is; but I don't dare trust myself with HER!" Mr. Bell's manner and voice were so exactly the right mixture of deferential homage and burlesque that Patty laughed in delight. "You are the DEAREST man!" she cried. He looked at her reproachfully. "You said I might do all the talking, and now you're doing it yourself." "I'll be still now. Avoid that subject you consider dangerous and tell me all about yourself." "Well, once upon a time, there was a beautiful young man who rejoiced in the poetic and musical name of Eddie Bell. I know he was a beautiful young man, because he was said to resemble the most beautiful girl in the whole world. Well, one evening he had the supreme good fortune to meet this girl, and he realised at once that he had met his Fate,--his Fate with a VERY large F. Incidentally, the F stood for Fairfield, which made his Fate all the more certain. And so----" "Patty, are you here?" and Ken Harper came through the palms toward them. "This is our dance." "Good gracious, Ken, is this dance the next dance? I mean is this dance over, or is this dance our dance." "You seem a little mixed, Patty, but this is our dance and I claim it. Are you RESTED enough?" Patty rose and, with a simple word of excuse to Mr. Bell, went away with Kenneth. "That's the first time, Ken, in all our friendship that I ever knew you to say anything horrid," and Patty looked at him with a really hurt expression. "I didn't say anything horrid," and Kenneth's fine face wore a sulky expression. "You did, too. You asked me if I were RESTED in a horrid, sarcastic tone; and you meant it for a reproof, because I sat out that dance with Mr. Bell." "You had no business to go and hide behind those palms with him." "We didn't hide! That's only a bay-window alcove,--a part of the ballroom. I have a perfect right to sit out a dance if I choose." "That young chap was too familiar, anyway. I heard him calling you 'Cousin Patty.'" "Oh, fiddlestrings, Ken! Don't be an idiot! We were only joking. And I'm not so old, yet, but what I can let a boy call me by my first name if I choose. When I'm twenty I'm going to be Miss Fairfield; but while I'm nineteen anybody can call me Patty,--if I give him permission." "You're a flirt, Patty." "All right, Ken. Flirt with me, won't you?" Patty's roguish blue eyes looked at Kenneth with such a frank and friendly glance that he couldn't scold her any more. "I can't flirt with you, Patty. I'm not that sort. You know very well I've only a plain, plodding sort of a mind, and I can't keep up with this repartee and persiflage that you carry on with these other chaps." "I don't carry on," said Patty, laughing. "I didn't say you carried on," returned Kenneth, who took everything seriously. "I meant you carried on conversations that are full of wit and repartee, of a sort that I can't get off." "Nobody wants you to, you dear old Ken! You wouldn't be half as nice if you were as foolish and frivolous as these society chatterboxes! You've got more sterling worth and real intellect in your make-up than they ever dreamed of. Now, stop your nonsense and come on and dance. But--don't undertake to lecture Patty Fairfield,--she won't stand for it!" "I didn't mean to lecture you, Patty," and Kenneth spoke very humbly. "But when I saw you tucked away behind those palms, flirting with that yellow-headed rattle-pate, I felt that I ought to speak to you." "You SPOKE, all right!" and Patty looked at him severely. "But you know perfectly well, Kenneth Harper, that I wasn't doing anything I oughtn't to. You know perfectly well that, though I like what you call 'flirting,' I'm never the least bit unconventional and I never forget the strictest law of etiquette and propriety. I'd scorn to do such a thing!" Patty's blue eyes were blazing now with righteous indignation, for Kenneth had been unjust, and Patty would not stand injustice. She was punctilious in matters of etiquette, and she had not overstepped any bounds by sitting out a dance in that alcove, which was a part of the ballroom and a refuge for any one weary of dancing. "And you know perfectly well, Kenneth," she went on, "that you DIDN'T think I was unconventional, or anything of the sort. You were only----" Patty paused, for she didn't quite want to say what was in her mind. "You're right, Little Patty," and Kenneth looked her straight in the eyes; "you're right. I WAS jealous. Yes, and envious. It always hurts me to see you laughing and talking in that darling little way of yours, and to know that _I_ can't make you talk like that. I wish I weren't such a stupid-head! I wish _I_ could say things that would make you play your pretty fooleries with ME." Patty looked at him in amazement. She had never suspected that serious-minded, hard-working Kenneth had anything but scorn for men of less mental calibre and quicker wit. "Why, Kenneth," she said, gently, "don't talk like that. My friendship for you is worth a dozen of these silly foolery flirtations with men that I don't care two cents for." "I don't want your friendship, Patty," and Kenneth's deep voice trembled a little; "I mean I don't want ONLY your friendship. And yet I know I can't hope for anything more. I'm too dull and commonplace to attract a beautiful butterfly like you." "Kenneth," and Patty gave him a glance, gentle, but a little bewildered, "you're out of your head. You have a splendid head, Kenneth, full of wonderful brains, but you're out of it. You get yourself back into it as quick as you can! And don't let's dance this dance, please; I am tired. I wish you'd take me to Mrs. Perry." In silence, Kenneth complied with Patty's wish, and took her to where Lora Perry was sitting. Then he went away, leaving Patty much more disturbed by what he had said than by all the gay fooleries of Eddie Bell or Kit Cameron. CHAPTER X QUARANTINED "Tired?" asked Mrs. Perry, as she welcomed Patty to her side. "A little; I love to dance, but a long program does weary me. Are we going home soon?" "Whenever you like, dear." "Oh, not until the others are ready. There goes Marie. She's having a lovely time to-night. Isn't she a pretty thing?--and so popular." Patty's admiration was sincere and honest, and Marie's dark, glowing beauty was well worthy of commendation. But seeing Patty sitting by Mrs. Perry, Marie came to them, when the dance ended, and declared that she was quite ready to go home, although the program wasn't finished. "What's all this about?" inquired Kit Cameron, coming up to them. "Go home? Not a bit of it! There are a lot of dances yet." "Well, you stay for them if you like, Kit," said his sister, rising. "I'm going to take these girls away. They've danced quite enough, and it's time they went home." "Whither thou all goest, I will go also," said Cameron. "Where's Harper?" Kenneth and Dick Perry came along then, and both men expressed their willingness to go home. Patty was rather silent during the homeward way, and indeed, as all were more or less weary, there was little gay conversation. As they entered the house, Nora, the parlour-maid, appeared to take their wraps. "Where is Babette?" asked Mrs. Perry, surprised to see Nora in place of her French maid. "Sure she's sick, Mrs. Perry; she do be feelin' that bad, she had to go to bed. So she bid me do the best I can for the young ladies." "I'm sorry to hear Babette is ill; I must go and see her at once." And Mrs. Perry went away toward the servants' quarters. She returned shortly, saying Babette had a bad cold and a slight fever, but that her symptoms were not alarming. "But I'm sorry you girls can't have her services to-night," Mrs. Perry went on. "It doesn't matter a bit," said Patty; "I'd be sorry for myself, if I couldn't get in and out of my own clothes! Don't think of it, Mrs. Perry." They all went up to their rooms, and though Nora did her best to assist Patty, her unskilful help bothered more than it aided. So she kindly dismissed the girl, and catching up a kimono went across to Marie's room. "You get me out of this frock, won't you, Marie?" she said. "It fidgets me to have Nora fumbling with the hooks. It's a complicated arrangement and I know she'd tear the lace." Marie willingly acquiesced, and then Patty slipped off the pretty yellow gown, and got into her blue silk kimono. "Stay here and brush out your hair, Patty," said Marie, "and we can have a 'kimono chat,' all by ourselves." So Patty sat down at Marie's toilet table, and began to brush out her golden curls. "Did you like the ball, Patty?" asked Marie, as she braided her own dark hair. "Lovely! Everybody was so nice to me. And you had a good time yourself, I know. I saw you breaking hearts, one after another, you little siren." "Siren, yourself! How did you like that Bell boy?" "Gracious! That sounds like a hotel attendant! In fact I think 'bellhop,' as I believe they call them, wouldn't be a bad name for Eddie Bell. I liked him ever so much, but he was a little,--well,--fresh is the only word that expresses it." "He is cheeky; but he doesn't mean anything. He's a nice boy; I've known him for years. He's an awful flirt,--but he admired you like everything. Though as to that, who doesn't?" "Oh, I don't think so much of this general admiration. I think if a young girl isn't admired, it's her own fault. She only has to be gay and pleasant and good-natured, and people are bound to like her." "Yes," agreed Marie; "but there are degrees. I'll tell you who likes you an awful lot,--and that's Mr. Harper." "Oh, Kenneth;" Patty spoke carelessly, but she couldn't prevent a rising blush. "Why, Marie, we've been chums for years. I used to know Ken Harper when I was a little girl and lived in Vernondale. He's a dear boy, but we're just good friends." "I like him," and Marie said this so ingenuously, that Patty gave her a quick look. "Don't you like anybody ESPECIALLY, Patty?" "No, I don't. All boys look alike to me. I like to have them to dance with, and to send me flowers and candy; and I don't mind make-believe flirting with them; but the minute they get serious, I want to run away." "Aren't you ever going to be engaged, Patty?" "Nonsense! Marie, we're too young to think about such things. After a few years I shall begin to consider the matter; and if I find anybody that I simply can't live without, I shall proceed to marry him. Now, curiosity-box, is there anything else you want to know?" "I didn't mean to be curious," and Marie's pretty face looked troubled; "but, Patty, I will ask you one more question: Couldn't you,--couldn't you like,--specially, I mean,--my cousin Kit?" "Marie, I've a notion to shake you! You little match-maker,--or mischief-maker,--stop getting notions into your head! In the first place, I've known your paragon of a cousin only a few weeks; and in the second place, there's no use going any further than the first place! Now, you go to sleep, and dream about birds and flowers and sunshine, and don't fill your pretty head with grown-up notions." "You're a funny girl, Patty," and Marie looked at her with big, serious eyes. "If it's funny to be a common-sense, rational human being, then I AM funny! Now, good-night, chickabiddy. Mrs. Perry says she'll send up our breakfast about nine to-morrow morning. Hop into my room and have it with me, won't you?" Marie agreed to this arrangement, and gathering up her belongings, Patty slipped across the hall to her own room. The wood fire had burnt down to red embers, and lowering the lights, Patty sat down for a few moments in a big fireside chair to think. She had told the truth, that she did not want to think seriously of what Marie called "an especial liking" for anybody; but what Kenneth had said that evening troubled her. Her friendship for Kenneth was so firm and strong, her real regard for him so deep and sincere, that she hated to have it intruded upon by a question of a more serious feeling. And she had never suspected that any such question would arise. But she could not mistake the meaning of Kenneth's spoken wish that he might be capable of the gay conversation in which Patty delighted. "Dear old Ken," she said to herself, "he's so nice just as he is, but when he tries to be funny, he--well, he CAN'T, that's all. It isn't his fault. All the boys can't be alike. And I s'pose Ken IS the nicest of them, after all. He's so true and reliable. But I hope to gracious he isn't going to fall in love with me. That would spoil everything I Oh, well, I won't cross that bridge until I come to it. And if I have come to it,--well, I won't cross it, even then. I'll just stand stock-still, and wait. I believe there's a poem somewhere, that says: "'Standing with reluctant feet Where the brook and river meet,-- Womanhood and childhood sweet.' "I s'pose I HAVE left childhood behind, but I feel a long way off from womanhood. And yet, in a couple of months I'll be twenty. That does begin to sound aged! But I know one thing, sure and certain: I'll wait till I AM twenty, before I think about a serious love affair. Suitors are all very well, but I wouldn't be engaged to a man for anything! Why, I don't suppose he'd let me dance with anybody else, or have any fun at all! No, sir-ee, Patricia Fairfield, you're going to have two or three years of your present satisfactory existence, before you wear anybody's diamond ring. And now, my Lady Gay, you'd better skip to bed, for to-morrow night you have a theatre party in prospect, and you want to look fairly decent for that." The fire was burnt out now, and Patty was so sleepy that her head had scarcely touched the pillow before she fell asleep. A light tap at her door awakened her the next morning, and Marie appeared, followed by Nora, with a breakfast tray. "Wake up, curly-head-sleepy-head," and Marie playfully tweaked Patty's curls. "Here, I'll be your maid. Here's your nightingale, and here's your breakfast cap." Marie deftly arrayed Patty in the pretty trifles, and poked pillows behind her back until she was comfortable. "Goodness gracious sakes! Marie," said Patty, rubbing her eyes, "you waked me out of the soundest sleep I have ever known! WHY bother me with breakfast?" "Had to do it," returned Marie, calmly, drawing up a big chair for herself. "Now keep your eyes open and behave like a lady. Your chocolate is getting cool and your toast is spoiling." The two girls were still discussing their breakfast, when Mrs. Perry came in. "How are you getting on?" she asked, cheerily; "Babette is still ill, so I had to send Nora to you." "Everything is lovely," said Patty, smiling at her hostess. "We're delightfully looked after. Nora is a jewel. But I hope your maid isn't seriously ill." "I'm afraid she is," and Mrs. Perry looked troubled. "She has a bad sore throat and she's quite feverish. Now you girlies dawdle around as much as you like. Although I'm commissioned to tell you that there are two young men downstairs just pining for you, and they asked me to coax you to come down at once." "Let them wait," said Patty; "we'll be down after a while. Mayn't we see the baby?" "Yes, indeed, if you like. I'll send her in." Soon a dainty little morsel of fragrant humanity appeared, accompanied by her nurse. The tot was a trifle shy, but Patty's merry smile soon put her at her ease. "Tell the lady your name, dear," said Marie. "Pitty Yady!" said the baby, caressing Patty's cheek. "Yes," said Marie, "now tell the pretty lady your name." "Baby Boo," said the child. "Baby Boo! What a dear name!" said Patty. "Her name is Beulah," Marie explained, "but she always calls herself Baby Boo, so every one else does." "It's just the name for her," said Patty, catching up the midget in her arms and cuddling her. "Pitty Yady," repeated the baby, gazing at Patty. "She's struck with your beauty, Patty, like everybody else," said Marie, laughing. "It's mutual, then," returned Patty, "for I think she's the prettiest baby I ever saw. And she does smell so good! I love a violet baby." And Patty kissed the back of the soft little neck and squeezed the baby up in her arms. "Now Baby Boo must go away," said Marie, at last, "for the Pitty Yady must get dressed and go downstairs." Patty had brought a morning frock, of pink linen with a black velvet sash, and she looked very trim and sweet as she at last declared herself ready. The two girls went downstairs, and found two very impatient young men awaiting them. "Whatever HAVE you girls been doing all the morning?" exclaimed Cameron; "you CAN'T have been sleeping until this time!" "Playing with the baby, and exchanging confidences," said Patty, smiling. "Both of which you might as well have done down here," Cameron declared. "I adore my baby niece, and Mr. Harper and I would have been more than glad to listen to your exchange of confidences." "Oh, they weren't intended for your ears!" exclaimed Marie, with mock horror. "Kimono confidences are very, VERY sacred. But it may well be that your ears burn." "Which ear?" asked Kenneth, feeling of both of his. "Fair exchange," said Marie, gaily. "Tell us what you said about us, and we'll tell you what we said about you." "We said you were the two prettiest and sweetest girls in the world," said Cameron. "And we said," declared Patty, "that you were the two handsomest and most delightful men in the world." "But we said you had some faults," said Kenneth, gravely. "And we said you had," retorted Marie. "Let's tell each other our faults. That's always an interesting performance, for it always winds up with a quarrel." "I love a quarrel," said Cameron, enthusiastically. "I dare anybody to tell me my greatest faults!" "Conceit," said Marie, smiling at her cousin. "That isn't a fault; it's a virtue," Kit retorted. "That's so," and Marie nodded her head; "if you didn't have that virtue, you wouldn't have any." "That's a facer!" said Kit. "Well, Marie, my dear, as you haven't THAT virtue, am I to conclude you haven't any?" "That's very pretty," and Patty nodded, approvingly; "but I want to stop this game before it's my turn, for I'm too sensitive to have my faults held up to the public eye." "But we haven't quarrelled yet," said Kit, who looked disappointed. "Why do you like to quarrel so much?" asked Patty. "Because it's such fun to kiss and make up." "Is it?" asked Patty; "I'd like to see it done, then. You and Ken quarrel, and then let us see you kiss and make up." "Harper is too good-natured to quarrel and I'm not good-natured enough to kiss him," said Kit. "I guess I won't quarrel to-day, after all. I can't seem to get the right partner. Let's try some other game. Want to go over to the club and bowl?" "Yes, indeed," cried Patty; "I'd love to." So the four young people bundled into fur coats, and motored over to the country club. They were all good players and enjoyed their game till Kit reminded them that it was nearly luncheon time, and they went back to the house. "How is Babette?" Patty inquired, as their hostess appeared at luncheon. "She's worse;" and Mrs. Perry looked very anxious. "I don't want to worry you girls, but I think you would better go home this afternoon, for I don't know what Babette's case may develop into. The doctor was here this morning, and he has sent a trained nurse to take care of the girl. I confess I am worried." "Oh, we were going this afternoon, anyway," said Patty. "I have to, as I have an engagement this evening. But I'm sorry for you, Mrs. Perry. It is awful to have illness in the house. What is it you are afraid of?" "I hate to mention it, but the doctor fears diphtheria. Now don't be alarmed, for there is positively no danger, if you go this afternoon. But I can't risk your staying an hour longer than is necessary. Nora will help you pack your things. And I'm going to send you off right after lunch." After luncheon the doctor came again, and Mrs. Perry went off to confer with him. "Excuse me," said Kit Cameron, as his sister left the room, "I must stand by Lora, and I want to find out from the doctor if there is really any danger. Perhaps my sister's fears are exaggerated." It was nearly half an hour before Kit came back, and then he looked extremely serious. "I have bad news for you," he said; "Babette's illness is diphtheria,--a severe case." "Oh, the poor girl!" said Patty, with impulsive sympathy. "Yes, indeed, little Babette is pretty sick. And, too, it's awfully hard on Lora. But that isn't all of it." "What else?" said Marie, breathless with suspense. "I hardly know how to tell you," and Cameron's face was very troubled. "But I suppose the best way is to tell you straight out. The truth is, we are all quarantined. We can't go away from here." "Quarantined!" cried Patty, who knew that this meant several weeks' imprisonment; "oh, NO!" "Yes," and Kit looked at her with pained eyes; "can you ever forgive me, Miss Fairfield, for bringing you here? But of course I could not foresee this awful climax to our pleasant party." "Of course you couldn't!" cried Patty;--"don't think for a moment that we blame you, Mr. Cameron. But,--you must excuse me if I feel rather--rather--" "Flabbergasted," put in Kenneth; "it's an awful thing, Cameron, but we must take it philosophically. Brace up, Patty girl, don't let this thing floor you." Patty gave one look into Kenneth's eyes, and read there so much sympathy, courage, and strong helpfulness, that she was ashamed of herself. "Forgive me for being so selfish," she said, as the tears came into her eyes. "Of course we must stay, if the doctor orders; I know how strict they have to be about these things. And we will stay cheerfully, as long as we must. It's dreadful to impose on Mrs. Perry so, but we can't help it, and we must simply make the best of it. We'll help her all we can, and I'm sure Marie and I can do a lot." "You're a brick!" and Cameron gave her a look of appreciation. "Poor Lora is heart-broken at the trouble it makes for you girls, and for Harper. She quite loses sight of her own anxieties in worrying about you all." "Tell her to stop it," said Marie; "I rather think that we can bear our part of it, considering what Cousin Lora has to suffer. Can Cousin Dick come home?" "I hadn't thought of that!" exclaimed Cameron. "Why, no; that is, if he can't go back to his office again. We'll have to telephone him to stay in New York until the siege is raised. There are many things to think of, but as I am responsible for bringing you people up here, naturally that worries me the most. I'm not to blame for the maid's illness or for Dick's enforced absence from home. But I AM to blame for bringing you girls up here at all." "Don't talk of blame, Mr. Cameron, please," said Patty's soft voice; "you kindly brought us here to give us pleasure and you did so. The fact that this emergency has arisen is of no blame to anybody. The only one to be blamed is the one who cannot meet it bravely!" CHAPTER XI MEETING IT BRAVELY "You're the most wonderful girl in the world!" exclaimed Cameron, in a burst of admiration at Patty's speech. But Kenneth looked steadily at Patty, with a thoughtful gaze. "You're keyed up," he said to her, gently; "and if you take it like that, you'll collapse." "Like what?" Patty snapped out the words, for her nerves were strung to a high tension. "Doing the hysterical histrionic act," and Kenneth smiled at the excited girl, not reprovingly, but with gentle sympathy. "Now take it standing, Patty,--face it squarely,--and you'll be all right. We're housed up here,--for how long, Cameron?" "I--I don't know," said Kit, looking desperate. "That only means you won't tell," declared his cousin. "Own up, Kit, how long did the doctor say?" "Three or four weeks." "Oh!" Patty merely breathed the word, but it sounded like a wail of despair. Then she caught Kenneth's eye, and his glance of steadfast courage nerved her anew. "It's all right," she said, almost succeeding in keeping a quiver out of her voice. "We can have a real good time. People can send us all sorts of things, and,--I suppose we can't write letters,--but we can telephone. Oh, that reminds me; may I telephone Mr. Van Reypen at once, that I can't"--Patty blinked her eyes, and swallowed hard--"that I can't be at my--at his party this evening?" Mr. Cameron looked a picture of abject grief. "Miss Fairfield," he began, "if I could only tell you how sorry I am--" "Please don't," said Patty, kindly; "I've accepted the situation now, and you won't hear a single wail of woe from me. Pooh! what's a theatre party more or less among me! And a few weeks' rest will do us all good. We'll pretend we're at a rest cure or sanitarium, and go to bed early, and get up late, and all that." "Oh, of course we must all telephone to our homes," said Marie; "and I must say, I think girls are selfish creatures! We've never given a thought to Mr. Harper's business!" "Don't give it a thought," said Kenneth, lightly. "I've given it one or two already, and I may give it another. That's enough for any old business." "That sounds well, Ken," said Patty, "but I know it's going to make you a terrific lot of trouble. And Mr. Cameron, too! A civil engineer--" "Can't be uncivil, even in a case like this," put in Kit; "or I'd say what I really feel about the whole business! It would be worse, of course, if one of our own people were ill; but to be tied up like this because of a servant is, to say the least, exasperating." "Babette's a nice little thing, and I'm awfully sorry for her," said Patty. "So am I," said Marie; "but I'm like Kit. I think it's awful for half a dozen of us to be held here, like this, because a maid is ill!" "But, Marie, what's the use of even thinking about it?" said Patty; "we can't help ourselves, we're obliged to stay here, so for goodness' sake, let's make the best of it. I shall send home for my pink chiffon,--that's always a great comfort to me in time of trouble." "Send for one for me," said Cameron, "if they're so comforting in trouble." "I've only one," returned Patty, "but you can share the benefit of its comforting qualities. Now we'll have to take turns at the telephone. Suppose I take it first, and break the news to Mr. Van Reypen, for he'll have to invite somebody in my place." "You're sure it's positive?" said Kenneth to Cameron; "you're sure there's no hope of a reprieve or a mistaken diagnosis?" "No," said Kit, positively; "I made sure, before I told you at all." "Of course you did," said Patty, trying to be cheerful. "I know you wouldn't have told us, until you were sure you had to. Now I'll telephone to Phil, and then to my home, and then, Marie, you can tell your people, and after that we'll let the men fix up their business affairs. What a comfort it is that we can telephone, for I don't suppose we'll be allowed to write letters, unless we fumigate them, and I won't inflict my friends with those horrid odours." The telephone was in the library, and as Patty crossed the hall, she met Mrs. Perry coming toward her. Mrs. Perry had her handkerchief to her eyes, and Patty went straight to her and put her arms around her. "Dear Mrs. Perry," she said, "I am SO sorry for you! To have Babette's illness, and then to have the burden of four guests at the same time! But, truly, we'll make just as little trouble as we can, and I hope you'll let us help in any way possible." "Oh, Patty," Lora Perry said, in a choked voice, "I feel dreadful about making you stay here in these circumstances! Just think of all your engagements,--and all the fun you'll miss. It's perfectly awful!" "Now don't think of those things at all. Just remember that your four guests are not complaining a bit. We know you're sorry for us and you know we're sorry for you, and we're all sorry for poor Babette. Now that part's settled, and we're all going to make the best of it. You don't go into Babette's room, do you?" "Oh, no; I couldn't go near the baby, if I did. And the patient has a trained nurse, you know. Honestly, Patty,--you don't mind my calling you Patty, do you?" "No, indeed, I like to have you." "Well, I was going to say, I don't really think there's a bit of danger of infection for any of us. But, of course, you know what a doctor's orders are, and how they must be obeyed." "Of course I know; now don't you think for a moment of any petty little disappointments we girls may have. Why, they're nothing compared to your trouble and Mr. Perry's, and the boys'." Patty telephoned Philip Van Reypen, and that young man was simply aghast. "I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Do you mean to say that you people are to be held up there for weeks? It's preposterous! It's criminal!" "Don't talk like that, Philip. We can't help it. The Perrys can't help it. And it isn't a national catastrophe. Honestly, a few weeks' rest will do me good." "Yes! With that Cameron man dangling at your heels!" "Well, Philip, if I have to stay here, you ought to be glad I have some one here to amuse me." "I'm not! I'd rather you were there alone! Patty, I won't stand it! I'm coming up myself, to dig you out!" "Don't talk foolishness! If you come up here, you'll have to stay! They don't let any one leave the house." "All right, then, I'll stay! That wouldn't be half bad." "Philip, behave yourself! Mrs. Perry has all the company she can take care of." "I'll help her take care of her company. One of 'em, anyway!" "I won't talk to you, if you're so silly. Now listen. You go ahead with your party to-night, and ask some other pretty girl to take my place." "Take your place!" Philip's growl of disgust nearly broke the telephone. "Yes," went on Patty, severely, "to take my place. And then, when we get let out, you could have another party for me. Don't you see, it will be a sort of celebration of my release from captivity." "I tell you I won't stand it! I'll have the confounded party to-night,--because I'll HAVE to, but to-morrow I'm coming straight, bang, up to Eastchester!" "Come if you like, but you won't be admitted to this house. And I think you're acting horrid, Philip. Instead of being sorry for me, you just scold." "I'm not scolding YOU, Patty, but I won't have you shut up there with that Cameron!" "And Kenneth." "Harper's all right, but that Cameron boy is too fresh,--and I don't want you to encourage him." "All right, Philip, I won't encourage him. Good-bye." Patty spoke in her sweetest tones, and hung up the receiver suddenly, leaving Mr. Van Reypen in a state of mind bordering on frenzy. Then Patty called up Nan, and explained the whole situation to her. "How awful!" said Nan, in deepest sympathy, "both for Mrs. Perry and for you." "Yes, it is; but of course there's nothing to do but make the best of it. Ken is splendid. If it weren't for his strength and courage I don't know how I'd bear it. But he won't let me give way. So I'm going to be a heroine and all that sort of thing, a real little Casablanca. Honestly, Nan, I feel ashamed of myself to think of my little bothers,--when the boys have their business matters to consider, and Mrs. Perry is in such deep trouble. So I'm going to do my best to be cheerful and pleasant. They say we may be here two or three weeks or more." "Good gracious, Patty!" "Yes, I know,--it's all of that! Now, Nan, I mustn't keep this telephone, for they all want to use it. But I'll call you up to-night or to-morrow, for a longer talk. I wish you'd send me up some clothes. Pack a suitcase or a steamer trunk with some little house-dresses and tea-gowns and lingerie, and send it along to-morrow. Then I'll tell you later what else I want. Tell father all about it, and ask him to call me up this evening. Good-bye for now." Patty hung up the receiver, and Marie took her turn next. "How did your people take it?" asked Cameron, as Patty came slowly back to the hall fireside, where they had all been sitting when the dreadful news was told. "I told my mother," said Patty, "but I didn't give her a chance to say much. She was appalled, of course, at the whole business, but she's going to send me some clothes, and get along without me for a few weeks,--although I can't help feeling 'they will miss me at home, they will miss me.'" Patty sang the line in a high falsetto that made them all laugh. "Mother's about crazy!" announced Marie, as she came back from telephoning. "Not that she minds my staying here, but she's sure I'll have the diphtheria!" "No, you won't, Marie," said Kit, earnestly. "I asked the doctor particularly, and he said there wasn't the least danger that any of us would develop the disease." "Then why do we have to stay here?" asked Marie. "Because the house is quarantined. By order of the Board of Health. You may as well make up your mind to it, cousin, and take it philosophically, as Miss Fairfield does." Kenneth telephoned to his office, and then Kit shut himself up in the library and telephoned for a long time. When he returned, he said, with an evident effort at cheerfulness, "Now let's pretend that we're not kept here against our will, but that this is a jolly house party. If we were here for a month, on invitation, we'd expect to have a bang-up time." "But this is so different," said Patty, dolefully. "A house party would mean all kinds of gaiety and fun. But it doesn't seem right to be gay, when Babette is dangerously ill." "But she isn't dangerously ill," said Kit, earnestly. "It may prove a very light case. But you see the quarantine laws are just as strict for a very light case as for a desperate one. Now, I propose that we try to forget Babette for the present, and go in for a good time." "But we can't do anything," said Marie; "we can't go to places or have any company, or see anybody or write any letters--" "There, there, little girl," said her cousin, "don't make matters worse by complaining. Here are four most attractive young people, in a perfectly lovely house, with all the comforts of home; and if we don't have a good time, it's our own fault. What shall we do this afternoon?" "Let's play bridge," said Patty; "that's quiet, and I don't feel like anything rackety-packety." "Bridge is good enough for me," said Kenneth, manfully striving to shake off the gloom he felt. He was really very much concerned about some important business matters, but he said nothing of this to any one. They sat down at the bridge table, but the game dragged. No one seemed interested, and they dealt the cards in silence. Cameron tried to keep up a lively flow of conversation, and the others tried to respond to his efforts. But though they succeeded fairly well, after the third rubber, Patty declared she could not play any longer, and she was going to her room for a nap. "Come on," said Marie, jumping up, "I'll go with you." "Yes, do, girlies," said Cameron, kindly. "A little nap will do you good. Come down for tea, won't you?" "I don't know," said Patty, doubtfully; "I think we'll have tea in our rooms, and not come down till dinner time." "As you like," returned Kit; "if we four have to live together for weeks, it won't do to see TOO much of each other!" "Then perhaps we won't come down to dinner, either," said Patty, with a momentary flash of her roguish nature. "Oh, you MUST!" exclaimed Kenneth, who couldn't help taking things seriously. "You two girls are the only bright spots in this whole business!" "Thank you," and Patty smiled at him, as she and Marie went away. "Come into my room," said Patty, "and let's talk this thing over." Soon the two girls, in kimonos, were sitting either side of the cheerful wood fire, discussing the outlook. "It's worse for you than for me, Patty," said Marie, "for you have more social engagements, and all that sort of thing, than I do. And besides, these are my relatives. But for you, almost a stranger, to be held up here like this, it's just awful! I can't tell you how bad I feel about it." "Now, Marie, let up on that sort of talk! It's no more your fault than it is mine, and the fact of the Perrys being your relatives doesn't make a scrap of difference. To be honest, the thing nearly floored me at first, for I never had anything like this happen to me before. But that's all the more reason why I should brace up to this first occasion,--and from now on, you won't hear another peep of discontent out of ME. If we have to stay here four weeks or eight weeks or twelve weeks, I'm going to behave myself like a desirable citizen. And I'm only sorry that I've acted horrid so far." "You haven't acted horrid, Patty." "Yes, I have; when we played bridge I sat around like an old wet blanket. Now I'll tell you what, Marie, let's plan something nice for this evening. Something that will cheer up Mrs. Perry, and incidentally ourselves. But isn't it strange how we can't make it seem like a house party? Really, you know, it IS one, and Babette isn't sick enough,--at least, not yet,--for us to be gloomy and mournful. And yet, for the life of me, I can't feel gay and festive. But I'm going to MAKE myself feel so, if it takes all summer! We've two awfully nice boys to entertain us, and you and I are good congenial chums. Mrs. Perry is a dear and the baby is an awful comfort. Now why, Marie, WHY can't we act just as if there wasn't any Babette? I mean, of course, unless she gets very much worse." "It isn't our concern for Babette that makes the trouble," said Marie, slowly; "it's our disappointment at our own inconvenience, and being kept here against our will." "You clever little thing! You've put your finger right on the truth. You're right! Our anxiety for Babette is real enough as far as it goes, but it's secondary. The primary cause of our gloom IS pure selfishness! and the amazing part is, that I never realised it until you showed me! Now I have always thought that the sin I abhorred most was selfishness, and here I am giving way to it at the first opportunity. Well, it's got to stop! Now, then, let's plan something real nice and pleasant for this evening, and have a good time." "I don't think anything would be nicer than music," said Marie. "Lora has a violin, and Kit and I will play, and you can sing--" "And we'll all sing choruses and things,--real jolly ones, and enter into it with some spirit." "Yes; Lora loves to have people sing, and she'll enjoy that." "And then other nights," Patty went on, bravely, "we'll get up some entertainment. Tableaux, you know, or theatricals." "Yes, and we can play games and things. Now shall we go down to tea?" "No," and Patty wagged her head, sagely; "it's perfectly true that we mustn't give those boys too much of our delightful society or they won't appreciate it! Let them wait for us till dinner time. We'll have our tea up here, and perhaps Mrs. Perry will be with us. Let the boys shift for themselves till dinner time, and then they'll be all the more glad to see us." Nora brought the tea tray up to the girls, and with it a note. "I thought they'd holler for us," said Patty, laughing as she read the note; "listen to this: 'Twin stars of light and joy, DO come down and illumine our dark and lonesome tea-table! We pine and languish without you! Oh, come QUICK, ere we fade away! Kit and Ken.' I thought they'd be lonesome," and Patty nodded her head, with a satisfied air. "Now you know, Marie, if we've got to take care of these boys for weeks, we must make them walk a chalk line." "Yes, of course, Patty; shall we go down, or send a note?" "Neither," returned Patty, with a toss of her head. "Nora, please say to the young gentlemen that the young ladies will be down at dinner time." "Yes, Miss Fairfield," said Nora, departing. A few moments later they heard the wailing strains of a violin, and listening at their door, heard Kit playing, with exaggerated effect. "Come into the Garden, Maud." CHAPTER XII A SURPRISE "Good gracious, Marie!" exclaimed Patty, popping her head in at Marie's door, just before dinner time, "we haven't any clothes! Are you going to wear your party frock or the dress you wore up here?" "'Deed I'm not going to put on my best gown for a little home dinner! The dresses we wore up here are all right. They're nice and pretty." "But they're day frocks. I DO like to dress up for dinner." "I'll help you out," said Lora Perry, who was present. "I've two or three trunkfuls of old-fashioned clothes, that ought to fit you girls fairly well. They're not antiques, you know; they're some I had before I was married,--but they're pretty. Go in the trunk room and rummage." So the two girls went to inspect the frocks. "Why, they're beautiful," said Patty; "I really think they're a lot prettier than the things we wear to-day. Oh, look at these big sleeves." "Yes, leg o' mutton they used to call them." "I know, but they're more the size of a side of beef! But these are street dresses. Where are the evening things?" "Here are some," said Marie, opening another trunk. "Oh, how lovely!" And Patty pounced on a white organdy, made with a full skirt and three narrow, lace-edged frills. There were wide, full petticoats to go with it, and Patty declared that was her costume. Marie found a dimity, of a Dresden-flowered pattern, with black velvet bows, which she appropriated, and they flew back to their rooms in triumph. The white dress proved very becoming to Patty, and the square-cut neck of the bodice suited the lines of her pretty throat and shoulders. She wore a broad sash of blue ribbon and a knot of blue ribbon in her hair. Marie's dress was equally pretty, and they laughed heartily at the full, flaring skirts, so different from the narrow ones of their own wardrobe. They went downstairs together, and found waiting for them two bored-looking young men, in immaculate evening clothes. "Good-evening," said Patty, dropping a little curtsy; "SO glad to meet you." "Thought you'd never come," returned Kit. "What are you, anyway? Masquerading as old-fashioned girls?" "Are they old-fashioned togs?" said Kenneth. "I thought they looked different, but I didn't know what ailed them." "They're perfectly beautiful evening frocks," Patty declared, "and you're not to make fun of them." "Far be it from me to make fun of anything so charming," returned Cameron. "Come along, Captive Princess, dinner is waiting." He tucked Patty's hand in his arm, and as they walked to the dining-room, he murmured: "You really are a Captive Princess now, aren't you?" "Yes, I am; and if you're my Knight, aren't you going to deliver me from durance vile?" "Of course I am. I will be under your window at midnight with a rope ladder and a white palfrey." "Well, if I'm awake I'll come down the ladder; but if not, don't expect me." "But if you want to be rescued, you must take the opportunity when it offers." "Oh, I'm not so sure I want to be rescued. I'm ready now to make the best of things and I'm planning to have a real good time while we stay here." "Nice little Captive Princess! Nice little Princess Poppycheek! And am I included in these good times?" "Yes, indeed. It will take the four of us; and Mrs. Perry, whenever we can get her, to have the good times I'm planning." All through dinner time Patty was her own gay, merry self. Babette was not mentioned, nor the fact that they were staying in Eastchester, under compulsion, and it might have been just a happy party invited there for pleasure. Mr. Perry's absence was, of course, painfully noticeable. But Patty knew that Mrs. Peny had telephoned him all about the case, and she made no comment. She was determined that she would not be responsible for any allusion to their trouble. After dinner Patty informed them all that a musicale would take place. Everybody agreed to this, and all joined in singing gay choruses and glees. Patty sang solos, and Kit and Marie played duets. Then Patty sang to a violin obligato, and altogether the concert was a real success. "We ought to go on the road," said Kit, as he laid down his violin at last. "I think as a musical troupe we'd be a screaming success. Now, who's for a little dance to wind up with?" "Do dance," said Mrs. Perry; "I'll play for you." "Just one, then," said Patty, "for this is a rest-cure, you know; and I'm going to bed very early. Six weeks in the country is going to do wonders for me." Though four weeks had been the extreme possibility of their stay, Patty whimsically kept calling it six weeks or eight weeks, because, as she said, that made four weeks seem less. Cameron turned to Patty, as his sister began to play, and in a moment they were dancing. "If we dance every night for twelve weeks," said Patty, "we ought to do fairly well together." "When I think of that, I'm entirely reconciled to staying here," returned Kit. "Poppycheek, you are a wonderful dancer! You're like a butterfly skimming over a cobweb!" "I don't dance a bit better than you do. You're almost like a professional, except that you're more graceful than they are." "DON'T, Princess! don't talk to me like that, or I shall faint away from sheer delight! But as we both are such miraculous steppers, we might give exhibitions or something." "Yes, or teach, and make our everlasting fortune." "Well, I think we won't do either. We'll just reserve our glorious genius for our own enjoyment. Just think of dancing with you every night, for goodness knows how long!" said Kit. "But you won't." "Won't? Why not?" "Because before we've been here many days we shall quarrel. I know we will. Four people can't be shut up inside four walls without quarrelling sooner or later." "Well, let's make it later. And, anyway, I'm so good-natured, you couldn't quarrel with me if you tried." "I couldn't quarrel with you while I'm dancing with you, anyway. But now this dance is over and there's not to be another one to-night. Good-night, everybody. Come, Marie," and taking Marie by the hand, Patty led her upstairs at once. "Oh, DON'T go!" cried the two young men, but Patty and Marie only leaned over the banisters, and called down laughing good-nights, and ran away to their rooms. Next morning, Patty declared they must adhere to the policy of keeping more or less to themselves. "I can put in a lovely morning," she said; "I shall visit the baby in the nursery and I shall read for awhile, and I'll have a long telephone conversation with Nan and perhaps some other people, and I'm not going downstairs till luncheon time. You do as you like, Marie." Marie declared her intention of doing whatever Patty did, so the two girls spent a pleasant morning upstairs. Mrs. Perry reported that Babette was no worse, and that the doctor had said nothing further than that. At luncheon time, the girls went downstairs and were greeted with reproofs for being so late. "We'll play with you this afternoon," said Patty, kindly, "but you can't expect to have our company all day. I've had a lovely time this morning; Baby Boo is an entertainment in herself." "Why didn't you let me come up to the nursery?" said Kit. "That Kiddy-baby loves me." "She does, indeed," said Patty, serenely; "she's been asking for Uncle Kit all the morning." "Cruel Princess!" said Cameron; "you're not a bit nice to your Knight!" "I'll make up for it this afternoon," and Patty flashed him a glance that seemed greatly to cheer him. After lunch they all went into the library. Patty threw herself into a big arm-chair. "Now, I want to be entertained," she said; "I'm perfectly amiable and affable and good-natured, but I wish to be amused. Will you do it, my Knight?" "Ay, Princess, that will I!" and Cameron made a flourishing and obsequious bow before her. "Would it amuse your Royal Highness to learn that you're going home this afternoon?" "That is but a cruel jest," said Patty, "and so, not amusing. If it were the truth, it would be good hearing, indeed." "But it IS the truth, fair lady." Cameron looked at his watch. "In about an hour, the speedy motor will convey us all back to the busy mart and to our homes." "What do you mean?" cried Patty, starting up; for she saw that it was not a mere jest. "May I make a speech?" and Cameron took the middle of the floor, while his hearers sat in breathless silence. Mrs. Perry had a twinkle in her eye, Kenneth looked hopeful, but the girls' faces expressed only blank wonder. "To begin with," said Mr. Cameron, in a cool, even voice, "we're not quarantined, and never have been. To proceed, Babette has not the diphtheria, and never has had. In a word, and I trust I shall not be flayed alive,--this whole affair is a practical joke, which I have had the honour to perpetrate on Miss Patricia Fairfield, and for which I claim the payment of a wager made by the fair lady herself!" Patty's blue eyes stared at him. At first, a furious wave of anger swept over her, and then her sense of justice made her realise that she had no right to be angry. It took her a few moments to realise the whole situation, and then she began to laugh. She jumped up and went to Cameron, and with her little fist she pounded his broad shoulder. "_I_--THINK--YOU'RE--PERFECTLY--HORRID!!" she exclaimed, emphasising each word by a pound on his shoulders. Then she stood back with dignity. "How DARE you do such a thing?" she cried, stamping her foot at him. "There, there, little Princess,--little Captive Princess,--don't take it so hard! Don't let your joy at your escape be marred by your chagrin at having been caught!" "Do you mean to say, Cameron," said Kenneth, rather sternly, "that you trumped up this quarantine business, and it's all a fake?" "Just exactly that," said Cameron, calmly, and looking Ken steadily in the eye. "You've made me a lot of trouble, old man," and Kenneth's voice was regretful rather than reproachful. "Oh, not so much," said Cameron, airily. "I took the liberty of telephoning your office after you did yesterday, and told them that it was probable you'd be back there this afternoon." Kenneth stared at him speechlessly, stupefied by this exhibition of nerve. "Did you know all about it, Lora?" demanded Marie, turning to Mrs. Perry. "Yes," said that lady, between spasms of laughter. "I didn't want to do it, but Kit just made me! You see, Babette did have an awful sore throat, and we did call a nurse, but the doctor said, that while it might turn toward diphtheria, there was small danger of it. And, this morning, he said even that danger had passed. Truly, girls, I didn't consent willingly, but Kit coaxed me into it. Of course, I telephoned Dick the whole story, and he stayed in town last night, but he's coming home this afternoon. You're not angry, are you, Patty?" "I don't know whether I am or not. I'm a little bewildered as yet. But I think, in fairness, I shall have to admit it was a most successful practical joke,--as such jokes go." "And it fulfilled all your conditions?" asked Cameron, eagerly. "I'm not sure of that. We agreed that it must be clever and not unkind. It was certainly clever, but wasn't it a little unkind to cause trouble to so many people? Mrs. Homer, for instance?" "No!" exclaimed Kit, hastily. "I telephoned last evening to auntie, and told her that there was probability that the quarantine would be lifted to-day. I telephoned the same thing to Mrs. Fairfield, but I told both ladies not to mention that to you girls, as I didn't want to raise false hopes. Oh, I looked out for every point, and you're not angry with me, are you, Princess?" He was so wheedlesome and so boyish in his enjoyment of the joke, that Patty hadn't the heart to scold him, nor was she sure she had any reason to do so. "I admit it," she said, "you certainly did play a practical joke on me successfully, though I didn't think you could. You have won the wager, and I shall of course pay my debt. But just now, I'm interested in the fact that we're going home. And yet," she added, turning to her hostess, "isn't it funny? Now that we CAN go, I don't want to go! Now it seems like a house party again." Patty beamed around on them all, and seemed a different girl from the Patty of the last twenty-four hours. "You were a brick!" said Kenneth, "through it all. I know how you suffered, but you bravely forgot yourself in trying to make it pleasant for the others." "Nonsense! I acted like a pig! A horrid, round, fat pig! But, truly, it was the most different sensation to be quarantined here or to be visiting here. I wouldn't believe, if I hadn't tried it, what a difference there is! Oh, it's just lovely here, now!" and Patty executed a little fancy dance, singing a merry little song to it. "Well, I'll tell you how to get even," said Mrs. Perry; "all of you come up here again soon, for a little visit, and leave Kit at home! Then I guess he'll be sorry." At this, Kit emitted a wail of grief and anguish, and then the girls ran away to pack their things for the homeward trip. Within the hour, they had started for New York. Patty had entirely forgiven Cameron, and was ready to enjoy the memory of the affair as a good joke upon herself. "I don't approve of practical jokes," she said, by way of summing up. "I never did, and I don't now. But I know that I brought it on myself by making that foolish bet, and it has taught me a lesson never to do such a thing again. And I forgive you, Mr. Kit Cameron, only on condition that you give me your promise never to play a joke on me again. I admit that you CAN do it, but I ask that you WON'T do it." "I promise, Princess," said Cameron. "Henceforward, there shall be no jokes between us,--of course, I mean practical jokes. But you will make good your wager?" "Certainly; I always pay my just debts." "May I come and collect the debt this evening?" "No, that's too soon; come to-morrow night, if you like. This evening I devote to a reunion with my family." "Nobody else?" "Possibly somebody else,--somebody who was defrauded by your precious joke." And then a sudden light dawned upon Patty. "WAS your quarantine idea worked up in order to keep me away from New York last night?" "Partly," said Cameron, honestly; "I didn't see any other way to cut out Van Reypen, and it fitted in with my whole plan, so why not?" "It wasn't very nice of you." "All's fair in love and war," and Cameron laughed so gaily, that Patty concluded it was wiser to drop the subject. "_I_ think it was awfully hard for poor Mr. Van Reypen to lose Patty from the party, because of your old joke!" exclaimed Marie. "I don't mind that part of it," said Kenneth; "he might as well have a little corner of the joke, as the rest of us. But if I've lost a five thousand dollar deal on this, I'll sue you for damages, Cameron." "Sue ahead," said the irrepressible Kit; "I've danced, and I'm willing to pay the piper." Kenneth and Marie were left at their homes, and the car went on to Patty's house. "May I come in?" said Cameron, as they reached it. "No, indeed!" said Patty, and then she added, "I don't know--yes--perhaps you'd better. If father storms about this thing, I think you ought to be there and face the music." "I think so, too," said Cameron, with alacrity; "I'd rather be there, and help my little Princess weather the storm." They found Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield both at home, and they created an immense surprise by suddenly appearing before them. "Why, Patty Fairfield!" cried Nan, "you DEAR child!" She wrapped Patty in her embrace as if welcoming one long lost. Nor was Mr. Fairfield less fervent in his demonstrations of welcome. They shook Cameron warmly by the hand, and Nan rang for tea and said: "Tell us all about it! How did you get out? Was it a false alarm? Wasn't it diphtheria? Oh, Mr. Cameron, you relieved us so greatly last night, when you told us it might be a mistaken diagnosis! What is the matter with you two? What are you giggling about?" And then the whole story came out. Cameron and Patty both talked at once, Cameron making a clean breast of the matter, and assuming all the blame, while Patty made excuses for him, and offered conciliatory explanations. Nan went off in peals of laughter and declared it was the best joke she had ever heard. But Mr. Fairfield hesitated as to his verdict. He asked many questions, to which he received straightforward answers. At last, he said: "It was a prank, and I cannot say I think it was an admirable performance. But young folks will be young folks, and I trust I'm not so old and grouty as to frown on innocent fun. To my mind, this came perilously near NOT being entirely innocent, but I'm not going to split hairs about it. I don't care for such jokes myself, but I must admit, Cameron, you played it pretty cleverly. And you certainly did your share toward lessening any anxieties that might have been caused to other people. So there's my hand on it, boy, but if you'll take an older man's advice, put away these childish pranks as you take on the dignity of years." "Thank you, Mr. Fairfield," said Cameron, "you make me feel almost ashamed of myself; but, truly, sir, I am addicted to jokes. I can't seem to help it!" The handsome face was so waggish and full of sheer, joyous fun, that they all laughed and the matter was amicably settled. "But I want my picture," Cameron said, as he rose to go. "And you shall have it," said Patty, running out of the room. She returned with a cabinet photograph, wrapped in a bit of tissue paper. "Please appreciate it," she said, demurely, "for never before have I given my photograph to a young man. They say it is an excellent likeness of me." Cameron removed the paper, and saw a picture of Patty taken at the age of two years. It was a lovely baby picture, with merry eyes and smiling lips. The quick-witted young man betrayed none of the disappointment he felt, and only said, "It is indeed a striking likeness! I never saw a better photograph! Thank you, a thousand times." Then, amid the general laughter that ensued, Cameron went away. The Fairfields discussed the whole matter, and Patty finally summed up the consensus of opinion, by saying: "Well, I don't care! It was an awfully good joke, and he's an awfully nice boy!" CHAPTER XIII SISTER BEE One afternoon Patty and Marie Homer were coming home from a concert. Patty had grown very fond of Marie. They were congenial in many ways, and especially so in their love of music, and often went together to concerts or recitals. It was late in March, but as spring had come early the afternoon was warm and Marie proposed, as the two girls got into the Homer limousine, that they go for a ride through the park. "A short one, then," said Patty, "for I must be home fairly early!" "Then don't let's go in the park," said Marie, "let's go to my house, instead. For I want you to meet Bee. She's just home for her Easter vacation." "I can only stay a minute; but I will go. I do want to see Bee. How long will she be at home?" "More than a fortnight. She has quite a holiday. Oh, there'll be gay doings while Bee's at home. She keeps the house lively with her pranks, and if she and Kit get started they're sure to raise mischief." "How old is Beatrice?" "She's just seventeen, but sometimes she acts like a kiddy of twelve. Mother says she doesn't know what to do with her, the child is so full of capers." As the two girls entered the Homer apartment, Beatrice Homer ran to meet them. "Oh, you're Patty Fairfield! I KNOW you are! Aren't you the loveliest thing ever! You look like a bisque ornament to set on a mantel-piece. Are you real?" She poked her finger in Patty's dimpled cheek, but she was so roguish and playful, that Patty could not feel annoyed with her. "Let me look at you," Patty said, holding her off, "and see what YOU'RE like. Why, you're a gipsy, an elfin sprite, a witch of the woods! You have no business to be named Beatrice." "I know it," said Bee, dancing around on her toes. "But my nickname isn't so bad for me, is it?" And she waved her arms and hovered around Patty, making a buzzing noise like a real bee. "Don't sting me!" cried Patty. "Oh, I don't sting my friends! I'm a honey-bee. A dear, little, busy, buzzy honey-bee!" And she kept on dancing around and buzzing till Patty put out her hand as if to brush her away. "Buzz away, Bee, but get a little farther off,--you drive me distracted." "That's the way she always acts," said Marie, with a sigh; "we can't do anything with her! It's a pity she was ever nicknamed Bee, for, when she begins buzzing, she's a regular nuisance." "Sometimes I'm a drone," Bee announced, and with that she began a droning sound that was worse than the buzzing, and kept it up till it set their nerves on edge. "Oh, Bee, dear!" Marie begged of her, "WON'T you stop that and be nice?" Bee's only answer was a long humming drone. Patty looked at the girl kindly. "I want to like you," she said, "and I think it's unkind of you not to let me do it." Bee stopped her droning and considered a moment. Then she smiled, and when her elfin face broke into laughter, she was a pretty picture, indeed. "I DO want you to like me," she said, impulsively, grasping Patty's hands; "and I will be good. You know I'm like the little girl,--the curly girlie, you know,--when she was good she was awful drefful good, and when she was bad she was horrid." "I'm sure you couldn't be horrid," and Patty smiled at her, "but all the same I don't believe you can be very, VERY good." "Oh, yes, I can; the goodest thing you ever saw! Now watch me," and sure enough during the rest of Patty's stay, Beatrice was as charming and delightful a companion as any one you'd wish to see. She was bubbling over with fun and merriment, but she refrained from teasing, and Patty took a decided liking to her. "I'll make a party for you, Bee," she said. "What kind would you like?" "Not a stiff, stuck-up party. I hate 'em. Can't it be a woodsy kind of a thing?" "A ramble through the park?" "More woodsy than that. The park is almost like the city." "Well, a picnic to Bronx Park, then, or Van Cortlandt." "That sounds better. But I'll come to any party you make,--I know it will be lovely. Oh, I'll tell you, Patty, what I'd like best. To go on one of your Saturday afternoon jinks; with the queer, poor people, you know." "They're not queer and they're not always very poor," returned Patty, seriously; "I'm afraid you'd tease them or make fun of them." "Honest Injun, I wouldn't! Please let me go, and I'll be heavenly nice to them. They'll simply adore me! Please, pretty Patty!" "Of course I will, since you've promised to be nice to them." "Oh, you lovely Patty! Don't you sometimes get tired of being so pink and white?" "Of course I do. I wish I could be brown and dark-eyed like you." "You'd soon wish yourself back again. Can't you combine the woodsy party and the Happy Chaps, or whatever you call them?" "I think we can," smiled Patty, who had already planned a Saturday afternoon picnic, and would be glad to include Bee. "But Bee has to learn to behave properly at formal parties," said Marie. "I'm going to give a luncheon for her, while she's at home, and it's going to be entirely grown-up and conventional." "Don't want it!" and Bee scowled darkly. "That doesn't matter. Mother says we must have it, and that you must behave properly. You have to learn these things, you know." "Oh, Bee will do just exactly right, I know," said Patty, as she rose to go. "If she doesn't, we can't let her come to the picnic. When is the luncheon, Marie?" "We haven't quite decided yet, but I must send out the invitations in a day or two." Patty went home, thinking about this sister of Marie's. "She's an awfully attractive little piece," she said to Nan, later, "but you never can tell what she's going to do next. I think if she had the right training, she'd be a lovely girl, but Mrs. Homer and Marie spoil her with indulgence and then suddenly scold her for her unconventionality. Perhaps the school she's attending will bring her out all right, but she's a funny combination of naughty child and charming girl. She would stop at nothing, and I don't wonder that they say when she and Kit Cameron get together, look out for breakers." A few days later, Patty received an invitation to Marie's luncheon for her sister. It was formally written, and the date set was Tuesday, April the eighth, at half-past one. Patty noted the day on her engagement calendar, and thought no more about it at the time. But a day or two later it suddenly occurred to her that she had heard that Beatrice was to return to school on the seventh of April. "I must be mistaken about her going back," Patty thought, remembering the luncheon on the eighth, and then, lest she herself might be mistaken in the date, she looked at the invitation again. It read "the eighth," and though Marie's handwriting was scrawly and not very legible, the figure eight was large and plain. "She ought to have spelled it out," said Patty, who was punctilious in such matters. "Yes," agreed Nan, "it's those little details that count so much among society people." "Well, the Homers are dears, but they lack just that little something that makes people know when to spell their figures and when not to. I think it's horrid when people spell a date in ordinary correspondence. But an invitation is another thing. But I say, Nan,--Jiminetty crickets!" "I'm not sure that date-spelling people ought to refer to those crickets," said Nan, lifting her eyebrows. "Well, Jerusalem crickets, then! and every kind of crickets in the ornithology or whatever they belong in. But, Nan, I've discovered something!" "What, Miss Columbus?" "Oh, I'm a Sherlock Holmes! I'm Mr. D. Tective! What DO you think?" "If you really want to know, I think you're crazy! jumping around like a wild Indian, and you a this season's debutante!" "Rubbish! most debutantes are wild Indians at times. But, Nan, I've discovered their secret! Hah! the vilyuns! but they shall be foiled! foiled!! FOILED!!!" Patty raged up and down the room, melodramatically clutching at her hair and staring at Nan with her blue eyes. "It is a deep-laid plot, but it shall be foiled by Patricia Sherlock,--the only lady detective in captivity!" "Patty, do behave yourself! What is the matter with you? You act like a lunatic!" "I'll tell you, Nan, honey," and Patty suddenly sat down on the couch, among a pile of pillows. "But first read that invitation and see if you see anything unusual or suspicious about it." "I can hardly read it; for this writing looks like that on the obelisk,--or at least it's nearly as unintelligible. But it seems to say that Mrs. Robert Homer requests the pleasure of your company at luncheon on Tuesday, April the eighth, at half-past one o'clock. Nothing criminal about that, is there?" "Is there! There is, indeed! Nan, you're the dearest, sweetest, loveliest lady in the whole world, but you can't see a hole through a ladder. So I'll tell you. The date of that party is really April the FIRST. I mean, Marie wrote April the first! And if you'll observe, somebody else has put a twisty line around that ONE and made it into an EIGHT! Why, it's as plain as day!" "It certainly is, Patty," and Nan looked at the girl in astonishment and admiration. "How did you ever happen to notice it?" "Why, it just jumped out at me. See, a different pen was used. The line is thicker. And nobody would make an EIGHT that way. They'd make it all with one pen mark. And this is a straight up-and-down ONE, and that rest of it was put on later. And, anyway, Nan, if there were any doubt, don't you see it isn't TH after it as it ought to be for the eight, it's ST?" "You can't tell which it is in this crazy handwriting," and Nan scrutinised the page. "Yes, you can," and Patty stared at it. "You wouldn't notice the difference, if you weren't looking for it, but it IS ST. I see it all, Nan! You know Bee didn't want this luncheon, and to get out of it, she changed that date before the invitations were sent! And you see, by the eighth, she'll be back in school!" "Are both dates Tuesday?" said Nan, thinking. "Yes, of course, they are. Isn't it clever? Oh, Bee never got this up all by herself,--that Kit helped her." "But, Patty, then nobody will go on the first, and the Homers will be all prepared--" "That's just what Bee wants! One of her practical jokes! Oh, Nan, I do detest practical jokes." "So do I! I think they're ill-bred." "But the Homers don't think that, and Kit Cameron doesn't, either. We've discussed that matter lots of times, and we never agree. And, besides, Nan," and Patty had a new inspiration, "don't you see, this party was planned for the first of April, and Bee and Kit will call this thing an April Fool joke, and therefore entirely permissible. April Fool's Day is their Happy Hunting Ground. But I'm going to foil this thing, and don't you forget it! Seems to me it would be a pretty good joke if I'd turn the tables on those two smarties." "How can you, Patty?" "I haven't quite thought it out yet, but I have an idea." "But, Patty, wait a minute. Perhaps they only changed the date on yours,--just to fool you, you know." "Good gracious, Nan! perhaps that's so! How did you come to think of it? But I'll soon find out." Patty flew to the telephone, and in a short time learned that both Mona and Elise were invited for the eighth, and she concluded that the plotters had changed the date on all the invitations. Next she called up Marie, and without letting her know why, asked for a list of the luncheon guests. Marie told her at once, without asking why she wanted to know. There were nine beside the Homers, and Patty was acquainted with them all. She called them up each in turn on the telephone, and explained carefully that a mistake had been made in the invitations, and she hoped they would come on the first instead of the eighth. Fortunately, all of them were able to do this, and Patty enjoined each one to say nothing about this change of date, until they should arrive at the party. To a few of her more intimate friends,--Mona, Elise, and Christine,--she told the whole story, and they fell in with her plans. And so it came about, that on the first of April preparations were going blithely forward in the Homer apartment, for Bee's elaborate luncheon. It was all true, exactly as Patty had figured it out; and Kit and Beatrice had planned what they considered a first-class and entirely permissible practical joke. They knew that Mrs. Homer would make elaborate preparations for the luncheon, but they agreed that there would be no other harm done. And to them, the fun of seeing the perplexity of Marie and her mother at the non-appearance of their guests, was sufficient reason for their scheme. Moreover, they fell back on the time-honoured tradition that any joke was justifiable on April Fools' Day. In addition to all this, Beatrice did not want to attend the luncheon party, and as by chance it had been left to her to seal up and address the invitations that Marie had written, and as Kit came in while she was doing it, their fertile brains had discovered that, as the dates fell on the same day of the week, the first could easily be changed to the eighth! And the two sinners chuckled with glee over the fact that another luncheon would have to be prepared the week following. As it neared one o'clock on the first of April, Kit strolled into the Homers' apartment. "Run away, little boy," said his aunt, gaily; "we're having a young ladies' party here to-day, and you're not invited." "Please let me stay a little while, auntie; I'll run away before your guests arrive. Mayn't I help you fix flowers or something?" "No, you're more bother than help; now be good, Kit boy, and run away." "Auntie," and Kit put on his most wheedlesome smile, which was always compelling, "if you'll just let me stay till the first guest comes, I'll scoot out at once." Bee nearly choked at this, for did she not know that the guests wouldn't arrive for a week yet! Mrs. Homer was called away to the dining-room then, and the two conspirators indulged in a silent dance of triumph over the success of their scheme. Not for a moment did it strike them as unkind or mean, because they had been used to practical jokes all their life, and this seemed to them the biggest and best they had ever carried off. At half-past one Patty appeared. She had laid her plans most carefully, and everything was going smoothly. Mrs. Homer and Marie greeted her warmly, and Beatrice and Kit were not much surprised to see her, because she was liable to come any day. Beatrice looked a little surprised at Patty's dressed-up appearance, but as no one else appeared, she had no suspicion of what Patty had done. They all sat in the drawing-room, and the clock ticked away until twenty-five minutes of two, but nobody else arrived. Mrs. Homer grew restless. She looked at the clock, and turning to Kit, asked him if the time was right by his watch. "Yes, auntie," replied that scapegrace. "It's almost twenty minutes of two. I thought you invited your friends for one-thirty." "I did," and Mrs. Homer looked anxious. "How strange that no one is here, except Patty!" Patty said nothing, but the enigmatic smile which she cast on Kit made him feel that perhaps she knew more than she was telling. "Do run away, Kit," urged his aunt. "I should think you'd be ashamed to come to a party where you're not invited." "Perhaps I shall be invited if I wait long enough," and Kit threw a meaning glance at Beatrice. "If your guests don't come, auntie, you'll be glad to have me to help eat up your goodies." "Not come! Of course they'll come!" cried Mrs. Homer, and Marie turned pale with dismay. "Well, it seems to me," went on Kit, "that it would be a jolly good April Fool joke on you all, if they didn't come. And"--he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling,--"something tells me that they won't." "What!" And Marie jumped up, her eyes blazing. Kit's roguish chuckle and Bee's elfin grin made Marie suddenly realise there was something in the air. But before Kit could reply, Patty rose, and said directly to him, "How strange! I wonder what it is that tells you the luncheon guests won't come. How do you know?"--and she smiled straight at him. "Something tells ME that they WILL come!" Then Patty herself stepped into the hall, threw open the door, and in came eight merry, laughing girls! Patty had arranged that Elise should stay downstairs and receive each guest, and keep them there until all had arrived. Then they were to come upstairs, and wait outside the Homers' door, until the dramatic moment. Although not in favour of practical jokes, Patty couldn't help enjoying Kit's absolutely paralysed face. He looked crestfallen,--but more than that, he looked so bewildered and utterly taken back, that Patty burst into laughter. CHAPTER XIV KENNETH Mrs. Homer and Marie were greeting the newcomers, and as yet had hardly realised the whole situation, but quick-witted Beatrice took it all in. "You Patty!" she cried, "oh, you Patty Fairfield!" Patty's beaming face left no doubts as to who it was that had circumvented their plan and carried off the honours of the day. "I'm so sorry you can't stay to luncheon," she said, turning to Kit; "must you really go now?" "You little rascal!" he cried, "but I'll get even with you for this!" "Please don't," and Patty spoke seriously. "Truly, Kit, I don't like these things. I'm awfully glad I could save Mrs. Homer and Marie the mortification and annoyance you and Bee had planned for them. But I haven't any right to talk to you like a Dutch aunt. If this is your notion of fun, I've no right even to criticise it; but I will tell you that if you 'get even with me,' as you call it, by playing one of your jokes on me, we'll not be friends any more." "Patty!" and Kit took both her hands with a mock tragic gesture, "ANYTHING but that! To lose your friendship, Poppycheek, would be to lose all that makes life worth living! Now, if I promise to get even with you, by never trying to get even with you,--how's that?" "That's just right!" and Patty, as the victorious party, could afford to be generous. "Now run away, Kit. You promised your aunt you'd scoot when her guests arrived." "Yes, I did, Princess, so off I go! I haven't told you yet what I think of your cleverness in this matter,--by the way, how did you get on to it?" "I'll tell you some other time; run away, now." So Kit went away, and Patty turned back to the laughing group who were merrily discussing the joke. Mrs. Homer and Marie were so horrified when they learned of their narrow escape from trouble, and so gratified that through Patty it had been an escape, that their feelings were decidedly mixed. Beatrice was by nature what is called a good loser, and she took her defeat gaily. "I had thought," she said, "that Kit and I were the best practical jokers in the world; but we've been beaten by Patty Fairfield! Now, that you're all here, I'm really glad of it, but I did think it would be fun to see mother and Marie hopping around, waiting for you!" Then they all went out to luncheon, and among the pretty table decorations and merry first of April jests, Patty managed to smuggle in at Bee's place a funny little figure. It was a bauble doll dressed like a Jester or Court Fool. And he bore a tiny flag in his hand, bearing the legend, April first. "I AM an April Fool!" Beatrice admitted, as she took her seat, "but I forgive Patty for making me one, if all of the rest of you will forgive me." Bee made this apology so prettily, and her roguish dark eyes flashed so brightly, that forgiveness was freely bestowed, and indeed, as one of the guests remarked, there was nothing to forgive. But the story was told over and over again, and Patty was beset with questions as to how she chanced to discover the fraud. "Why, I just happened to," she said, smiling; "I think I'm a detective by instinct; but there's not much credit due to me, for I knew Beatrice and Mr. Cameron were always planning jokes, and I couldn't believe they'd let the first of April pass by without some special demonstration. So I kept my eyes open,--and I couldn't help seeing what I did see." "You're a Seer from Seeville," declared Bee, "and I promise I shall never try to trick you again." "Which means," said Patty, calmly, "that you'll never cease trying until you accomplish it, and you say that to put me off my guard." The baffled look on Bee's face proved that this was true, and everybody laughed. It was that very same evening that Kenneth came to call, and Patty merrily told him the whole story. She was not much surprised that he disapproved heartily of the joke. "It isn't nice, Patty," he declared; "I may be dull and serious-minded, but I can't stand for jokes of that sort." "I either, Ken," Patty returned; "but we must remember that people in this world have different ideas and tastes. And especially, they have differing notions of what constitutes humour. So, just because WE don't like practical jokes, we oughtn't to condemn those who do. We may like some things that THEY don't approve." "What a just little person you are, Patty," and Harper looked at her approvingly. "For all your gaiety and frivolity you have a sound, sweet nature. And more than that, you have real brains in that curly-pate of yours." "Goodness, Ken, you overwhelm me with these sudden compliments! You'll quite turn my head; I never COULD stand flattery!" "It isn't flattery," and Kenneth spoke very earnestly; "it's the solemn truth. You are as wise and sensible as you are beautiful." "Heavens and earth! Ken, WHY these kind words? What do you want?" Harper looked at her a moment, and then said, steadily: "I want YOU, Patty; I want you more than I can tell you. I didn't mean to blurt this out so soon, but I can't keep it back. Patty, PATTY, can't you care for me a little?" Patty was about to reply flippantly, but the look in Harper's eyes forbade it, and she said, gently, "Kenneth, dear, PLEASE don't!" "I know what that means; it means you DON'T care." "But I DO, Ken----" "Oh, Patty, DO you? Do you MEAN it?" Kenneth took her hands in his and his big grey eyes expressed so much love and hope, that Patty was frightened. "No, I DON'T mean it! I don't mean anything! Oh, Ken, please DON'T!" "Don't say that, Patty, because I MUST. Listen, dear; I went to see your father to-day. And I asked him if I might tell you all this." Patty looked at him, not quite comprehending. "You went to see daddy?" she said, wonderingly; "he never told me." "Why should he? Don't you understand, dear? I went to him to ask his permission to tell you that I love you, and I want you for my wife. And your father said that I might tell you. And now,--darling----" "And now it's up to me?" Patty tried to speak lightly. "Exactly that, Patty," and Kenneth's face was grave and tender. "It's up to you, dear. The happiness of my whole life is up to you,--here and now. What's the answer?" Patty sat still a moment, and fairly blinked her eyes in her endeavour to realise the situation. "Ken," she said at last, in a small, far-away voice, "are you--are you--are you proposing to me?" "I sure am!" and Kenneth's head nodded a firm assent; "the sooner you get that fact into your head, the better. Patty, DEAR little Patty, tell me,--don't keep me waiting----" "But, Ken, I don't WANT to be proposed to,--and least of all, by YOU!" "Patty, do you mean that?" and Harper's strained, anxious face took on a look of despair. "Oh, no, NO, I don't mean THAT! At least, not in the way you think! I only mean we've been such good friends for so long, you're the last one I should think of marrying!" "And who is the first one you think of marrying?" Patty burst into laughter. "Oh, Ken, you're so funny when you're sarcastic! Don't be THAT, whatever you are!" "I won't; Patty, darling, tell me you love me a little bit,--or just that you'll let me love you,--and I'll NEVER be sarcastic! I'll only be tender, and gentle, and loving,--and anything and everything you want me to be!" "Can you?" The eager light faded from Kenneth's eyes, as he answered: "No, I'm afraid I can't, dear. I know as well as you do, that I haven't the kind of gaiety you like in a man. I've told you this before. But, Patty,--you've so much of that,--don't you think you've enough for two?" Patty smiled. "It isn't only that, Ken. Don't think that I care more for foolish, witty speeches than I do for a true, noble heart, like yours." "DON'T say 'true, noble heart'! It sounds as if you didn't care two cents for me! But my heart, Patty, such as it is, is all yours, and has been ever since Vernondale days. Have you forgotten those?" "No, indeed, and that's just what I say, Ken, we've been friends from the first,--and we're friends now." "But the time has come, Patty, to be more than friends. I have known it a long time. And I want you to know it too, dear. Patty,--can't you?" And then, all of a sudden, Patty KNEW she couldn't. Like a flash, she saw Kenneth just as he was, a strong, brave, true man, for whom she felt a warm friendship, but whom she knew she never could love. She might some time perhaps, in days to come, love somebody, but it would never, never be Kenneth Harper. The thought made her sad, not for herself, but she hated to give pain to this kind, honest man. She realised the depth of his love for her, and it broke her heart that she could not return it. "Kenneth," she began, "I can't love you the way you want me to,--I just can't. And, anyway, I'm too young to think about these things." "No, you're not, Patty. You're almost twenty and I'm twenty-four. That isn't too young,--it's just exactly the right age for lovers. It isn't too young, Patty,--if you love me." "But I don't, Ken. I'm sorry,--but I don't." "But you will. Oh, Patty, say you will try to!" "Kenneth, does love come by trying?" and Patty looked into Kenneth's face, with a wide-eyed, serious gaze. "I don't know why it shouldn't. Take time, dearest, to think about it, if you want to, but don't say no, irrevocably." "Is a woman's no ever irrevocable?" And a smile dimpled Patty's face. "Oh, Patty, you are so sweet when you smile like that! Please say you'll think about it." "It won't do any good to think about it, Ken. If ever I marry anybody, it'll be somebody that I know I'm in love with, without thinking about it." "There isn't anybody, is there, Patty, that you know you're in love with?" "No, there isn't," and Patty's honest eyes showed that she spoke the truth. "But I'll tell you what, Ken, YOU try to like somebody else. Marie Homer is perfectly lovely! or,--there is Elise----" "Hush, Patty, you don't know what you're talking about. I'm in love with you,--and you needn't suggest other girls to me." "They're a great deal nicer than I am," said Patty, thoughtfully. "Rubbish! You're the only girl in the world for me, and I want YOU. Are you sure there's nobody you like better than me, Patty?" Patty rested her dimpled chin on the backs of her clasped hands and seemed to ponder this question. At last she said: "There's nobody I like better than you, Ken; but I've counted up nine, that I like just exactly as well. Now, what would you do in a case like that?" [Illustration: "Now, what would you do in a case like that?"] "Patty, you're a torment! But if I have an even chance with the others, I shall get ahead, somehow. Are you sure you don't like that Cameron chap any better than me?" "Not a bit better. He's good fun, but I can't imagine anybody falling in love with him." "And--Van Reypen?" The pink in Patty's cheeks deepened, and the lids fell over her blue eyes at this question. Af-ter an instant's pause, she said: "I don't think it's fair, Ken, for you to quiz me like that. And, anyway, I can't tell. In some ways, I like you a heap better than Phil Van Reypen,--and then in other ways----" "You like him a heap better than me!" Kenneth's tone was accusing, and Patty resented it. "Yes, I do!" she said, honestly. "He's always ready for a good time and willing to give up things for other people. Why, Ken, when you've an important case on, you won't go skating or anything! I have to coax you to come to my parties. Now, Phil is always ready to go anywhere or do anything." "But he's a millionaire, Patty. He doesn't have to grub for a living, as I do." "It isn't that, Ken." Patty's quick perceptions had caught the flaw in Kenneth's argument. "It isn't that. It's because you're so absorbed in your work that you'd RATHER dig and delve in it, than to go to parties. That's all right, of course, and much to your credit. But you can't blame me for liking a man who is willing to throw over his business engagements for me." "That's just like you, Patty, to see through me so quickly. You're right. I don't care an awful lot for society doings. I only go to parties and things to see you. And it's mighty little satisfaction, for you're always so surrounded by rattle-pated men, that there's no getting near you." "Wait a minute, Ken; is it fair to call them rattle-pated, when you only mean that they enjoy the kind of gay chatter that you look down upon?" "Oh, Patty, I do love you so! And when you say things like that, that proves what a big, clear mind you have underneath your frivolity, I love you more than ever. Of course, as you saw at once, I call them rattle-pates out of sheer envy and jealousy, because they possess that quality we're speaking of, and I don't. Teach it to me, Patty; teach me to be a gay society man, dancing attendance on gay society girls----" Patty burst into a peal of laughter at this notion of Kenneth's. "I could do that, Ken, about as easily as you could teach me to be a quiet, demure, little person like Christine Hepworth. This is Christine:" Patty sat upright with her hands clasped in her lap, and drew down the corners of her mouth, and rolled her eyes upward with a saint-like expression. Then, "This is me!" she said. And jumping up, she pirouetted, whirling, around the room, waving her arms like a graceful butterfly skimming over flowers. Faster and faster she went, seeming scarcely to touch the tips of her toes to the floor, and smiling at Kenneth like a tantalising fairy. Harper gazed at her, fascinated, and then as she hovered near him, jumped up, and caught her in his arms. "You beauty!" he cried, but Patty slipped away from him. "You haven't caught me yet, Ken," she said, laughing, "not for keeps, you know." The rollicking dance had restored her gaiety, and relieved the seriousness of the situation. "You know perfectly well," she went on, standing across the room from him, and shaking a little pink forefinger at him, "you know perfectly well, Kenneth-boy, that we're not a bit suited to each other. I go through life the way I just flew around the room; and you go this way:" Patty dropped her arms at her side and marched stiffly around the room with a military air, gazing straight ahead of her. "Now, how COULD we ever keep step?" she said, pausing in front of him and looking up into his face. "I'm afraid you're right, Patty," and Kenneth looked at her with serious eyes. "But I WANT you so!" and he held out his arms. "Nay, nay, Pauline," and Patty danced away again. "Who gets me, I think, will have to swoop down in an aeroplane, and grabble me all up and fly away with me!" "Where do they keep aeroplanes for sale?" inquired Kenneth, looking at her meditatively. "You dear old Ken!" and Patty danced up to him again and laid her hand on his arm. "Isn't that just exactly like you! You'd go right off and buy an airship, I believe, and try to come swooping after me!" "Indeed I would, if it were practicable and possible." "Yes, that's your motto: practical and possible. But you see, Mr. Ken, I like the impractical and the impossible." "Supposing, then, that I take up those things as a serious study?" "Oh, yes, a SERIOUS study! Is everything serious with you?" "My love for you is very serious, Patty." But Patty was not willing to treat it so. "That's the trouble," she said; "now if your love for me were frivolous----" "Then it wouldn't be worth having, Patty." "Oh, I--don't--know! At any rate, Ken, can't you mix it? Say three parts seriousness to one part frivolousness? Though I'd rather have the proportions reversed." "Patty, you're incorrigible!" "Good gracious! what's that? It must be something awfully nice, if I'm it." "Well, you are it,--and I don't know what to do with you." "You mean, you don't know what to do without me!" "Same thing. But you'll promise me this, won't you? To think it over seriously and not decide at once." "Yes, I'll promise that. How long do you want me to think it over, Ken?" "The rest of your life, Patty." "Ken, if you say such clever things as that, I'm afraid I'll fall in love with you!" "Patty, darling,--don't tease me like that! If I thought you meant it---" "But, anyway, Ken, if I take the rest of my life to think this thing over, I can't give you an answer till my dying day! And that seems late----" "Patty, stop talking like that! You'll drive me crazy! Now listen, little girl, I'm going now. And you're going to think over what I've said to you. And--try to think kindly,--won't you?" "I've never thought of you any way but kindly, Ken." "Well, think more than kindly, then,--think lovingly. Good-night, Patty." Kenneth held out his hand and Patty put her little hand slowly into it. As she felt his strong, warm clasp, a mischievous impulse moved her to say, demurely: "I think it would be polite, Ken, if you kissed my hand, instead of squeezing it to pieces!" Kenneth gave her one look, dropped a light kiss on the back of her little hand, and with a courteous bow left the room. For a moment Patty stood where he had left her, then, as she heard the front door close, she looked curiously at the back of her hand, almost as if expecting to see a mark there. "Dear old Ken," she said, softly, to herself, and then she went upstairs. CHAPTER XV AN INVITATION Notwithstanding the experience of the evening, Patty slept dreamlessly all night, and was only awakened, when Jane came in the morning with her breakfast tray. "Hello, Jane," she said, sleepily, opening her eyes, "will you ask Mrs. Fairfield to come up here right away?" "What is it, Patty?" said Nan, appearing a moment later; "are you ill? Jane said you wanted me right away." "No, I'm not ill," and Patty gave her stepmother a quizzical glance. "Sit down, Nan, and brace yourself for a shock. In me you behold a charming young debutante who has received her first proposal from a most worthy young man." "Good gracious, Patty! Kenneth?" "None other!" And Patty waved her hand dramatically. "Naturally, I'm not overcome with amazement, as he spoke to Fred about it first. Kenneth always has good manners. Well, and what did you say, Patty?" Patty eyed Nan, provokingly. "What do you think, Nancy?" "Honestly, Patty, I haven't the slightest idea. Ken is splendid, I think,--but----" "But what, Nan?" And Patty looked deeply interested. "First, what did you say?" "I won't tell you, until you tell me what you meant by 'but.'" "Why, I only meant that Kenneth is,--well he's a dear and all that, but he's so----" "Oh, fiddlesticks, Nan, say it out! Dull, prosaic, old-fogy, poky, slow." "Patty, Patty! those words are too strong! Ken isn't all those things! He's only,--just a little bit----" "Just a day and a half behind the times. Or else I'm a day and a half ahead of them. Well, Nan, that's what I told him." "What! that he was dull and old-fogy?" "Not exactly those terms; but in a few well-chosen words I gave him that impression, or tried to. By the way, Nan, I danced all round the room while he was proposing. Was that correct?" "Patty, stop your nonsense! Will you never be grown-up? You shall not make fun of Kenneth." "Oh, Nan, I only wish I could! You might as well try to make fun of the Public Library. Kenneth is an institution. I always feel like saying to him, 'Sail on, sail on, oh, Ship of State!' or something like that. Now, wait a minute, Nan; don't you think I don't appreciate his sterling qualities. Like a Ship of State, he's made of pure granite,--oh, NO, they don't make ships of granite, do they?--I mean like the Public Library, you know. And he has solid foundations,--mental, moral, and physical. But he hasn't any fancy work about him. Even the Public Library has flags flying,--but Ken never thinks of anything as gay as a flag." "Patty, you're talking a lot, but I do believe you know what you're saying;--it's true, dear. And are you going to marry him?" "Marry him!" And Patty looked distinctly aggrieved. "Why, Nan, do you think for a moment I'd accept my first proposal? No, sir-ee! After I've had half a dozen, I may take one seriously, but not before. How can I tell until I've seen various sorts? Why, Nan, Kenneth didn't go down on his knees at all! I thought they always did. Didn't father, when he asked you?" "Oh, Patty, I thought you were up-to-date! Kneeling proposals went out with the Colonials! It's only a tradition, now." "Gracious, Nan, how experienced you are! But I don't think I shall accept anybody until he kneels to me. But don't tell anybody that, for I don't want them all doing it on purpose." "Patty," and Nan spoke seriously, "it's all very well for you to rattle on like this, but you mustn't treat Ken's proposal lightly. He's a splendid man and he's terribly in love with you----" "Wait a minute, Nan," and Patty was quite as earnest as the other. "Ken isn't TERRIBLY in love with me. I'd like it better if he were. He's deeply in love, even earnestly,--almost solemnly, but----" "That's the best sort, Patty. Remember, dear, flirtation is all very well; but in the man you marry you want those qualities you've just mentioned." "Oh, Nan, don't you be serious, too! Ken's seriousness almost finished me. And I suppose father will take the same tack! Oh, I don't want to be grown-up,--I think it's HORRID!" Nan looked sympathetically at Patty. "I suppose, right here," Patty went on, "I ought to burst into tears. Don't girls always cry over their first proposal? But, Nan, I feel more like giggling. I can't help it. It seems so ridiculous for Kenneth and me to go through that scene we had last evening. We've been friends so long, and then for him, all of a sudden----" "It wasn't sudden with him, Patty. He's been in love with you for years." "Yes, so he says. Well, Nan, I don't HAVE to marry him, do I?" "No, of course not." "Well, then, I'm not going to! And I don't want to be treated as if I were an ingrate because I don't! Ken is a splendid man, noble souled and all that, but I don't love him and never shall. Now please, Nan, be nice to me." "Why, Patty, dear, I never dreamed of NOT being nice to you! I do want you to realise what you're throwing away, but if you couldn't be happy with Ken, of course, you mustn't marry him. He's a very different temperament from you, and I think myself he would be a sort of a weight on your buoyant nature. And if you're sure of your own heart, that's all there is about it. But you must tell Ken so, just as kindly as possible, for I know it will be an awful blow to the poor fellow. Did you tell him?" "Yes, I did, but he insisted that I should think it over." "Well, think it over. It won't hurt you to do that. And if you keep getting more and more certain that you don't love Kenneth and never will, then you'll know you're right in your decision. You're a dear girl, Patty, and I want you to marry some time, and just the right man." "As you did." "Yes, as I did," and Nan gave a happy smile. "You will probably marry some one nearer your own age, Patty, but you can never be any happier than Fred and I are." "I believe you, you dear old thing! Oh, here's the mail, and I have not touched my breakfast yet." Jane came in with a lot of letters, and Patty pounced upon one in particular. "Here's a letter from Adele," she cried. "I hope she's coming to the city, she's been talking of it." But instead of that news, the letter contained an invitation for Patty to come up to Fern Falls for a visit. "Come to spend May-day," Adele wrote. "I'm having a small house party; in part, a reunion of our Christmas crowd. Daisy is here and Hal, of course, and we all want you. Invite one or two of your beaux, if you like, but don't bring any more girls; for we have two or three new neighbours with a superfluity of daughters. Come as soon as you can, and stay as long as you will, and bring your prettiest frocks. Oceans of love from me and Jim. Adele." "That's good," said Nan, as she read the letter. "Why don't you start right off, Patty? Adele says to invite some young men if you like. You might ask Kenneth!" "No, thank you. I don't want any of the boys. I'll be glad to get away from them for awhile. I must have some new frocks, Nan. Something Springy, you know." "Yes, we'll go and order them to-day. I'd love to." Nan spoke absentmindedly, for she was reading her own letters, and Patty proceeded to open the rest of her mail. That evening Kenneth came for his answer. Patty had talked it over with her father, and had concluded the kindest thing was to tell Kenneth frankly, no. The scene was not as difficult as Patty had feared, for Kenneth took the cheerful attitude of believing that she would yet relent. "So long as there is no one else, Patty, girl," he said, very gently, "I'm going to hope that you will yet learn to love me. I shall never despair, until you tell me yourself that you have given your heart to some one else." "And we'll be good friends, Ken?" "You bet we will! You needn't think I'm down and out because you've said no, once! I'm not awfully swift, Patty, but I'm terribly persistent,--and I'm just going to keep on loving you, in hope that some day you'll come to me because you want to." "But there's no promise, Ken." "No, dear, no promise. Only a hope in my heart, too deep to be rooted out, that some day--" "So--me day! So--ome day!" chanted Patty in a trilling voice, and Ken smiled in his old, friendly fashion. "He is awfully nice," Patty said to Nan, afterward, "when he isn't proposing. There's something about Ken you can't help liking." And Nan smiled and said, "That's so." The days flew along, the spring frocks materialised and the grass and flowers began to be beautiful up at Fern Falls. Patty went up there a few days before the first of May, and was welcomed by the Kenerleys with vigorous and jubilant greetings. "You dear!" exclaimed Adele, as after a rapturous hug she held Patty off to look at her. "I do believe you're prettier than ever!" "It's the happiness of coming up here," said Patty, smiling. "I'm so glad to come, Adele. The country in spring,--and all that, you know." "Yes," said Adele, laughing. "You know what the Boston girl said: 'Oh, I just LOVE nature! It ADDS so!' You're like that, aren't you, Patty?" "Exactly! but spring is all over the city, too. They're selling flowers on every street corner, and all the pedestrians wear big bunches of violets or daffodils or magnolias or something. Daisy, you're looking fine! How long have you been here?" "I came last week," said Daisy Dow, "and I'm awfully glad to see you again, Patty." And then Patty was whisked off to her room, and not until tea-time did she see the rest of the house party. Then her host, Jim Kenerley, appeared, and Hal Ferris, Adele's brother, and, greatly to Patty's surprise, Philip Van Reypen. "I didn't expect to see you here, Phil," said Patty, after she had greeted the men of the house. "I'm only here for a short time," returned Philip; "Mrs. Kenerley invited me to stay as long as I behaved myself; but you know, Patty, I can't do that very long." "No, indeed! You'll be starting to-morrow morning at that rate!" "Now, Patty, that's unkind of you. However, under your angelic influence, I may behave well enough to stay till the afternoon train." "You're a beautiful behaver, Mr. Van Reypen," declared his hostess, "and I shan't let naughty Patty cast aspersions." "What are those things, Adele?" asked Patty; "I'm sure I never cast anything like that at anybody, and I wouldn't hit him if I did. I can't hit the side of a barn." "I know they say that about women," said Hal Ferris; "but I believe it's a base libel. At least, I think they could be taught to accomplish such a feat. I believe I'll organise a class of young ladies and teach them how to hit the side of a barn." "But why hit it at all?" asked Daisy; "what has the poor barn done to be hit?" "Lots of people get hit when they don't deserve it," said Kenerley. "But don't use our barn, Hal, use the neighbour's. Because under your tuition, your pupils might get proficient enough to hit it." "I'm so glad to be here when it isn't winter," said Patty, looking around her. They were having tea on one of the wide verandas, which, though still enclosed with glass, had many panes open to the spring air. "From now on, it's lovely here," said Adele; "almost every day we have one more sash open and then pretty soon we take them all out." "It was lovely last winter, when we had tea by the hall fireplace, but this is better still," and Patty leaned back in her Japanese wicker easy-chair and nibbled contentedly at her plate of little cakes. The tea hour at the Kenerleys' was always a pleasant affair, and in warm weather neighbours from the nearby country houses were apt to stroll over. On this occasion two or three came and Patty became acquainted with several young ladies. "You know what I told you," said Adele to Patty, after they had left. "We have plenty of girls around here, but not many men. So for the May-party, I want you to ask a few of your friends to come up." "All right, I will; the boys will all be glad to come. Which ones do you want?" "I've already asked Roger Farrington, and we'll see about the others later." "All right," said Patty, carelessly; "I've one or two new friends whom I'm sure you will like." The next day Patty had a brilliant idea for a joke on Kit Cameron. It popped into her head quite suddenly, and she gleefully told her scheme to Adele and Daisy, as they sat together in Adele's own pleasant sitting-room. "Doesn't Mr. Cameron know you're up here?" asked Adele. "No; I haven't seen him for a week or two. He went South with the Homers and only came home the day I left." The plan was carefully thought out, amid giggling and laughter, and the final result was achieved by Patty in the form of a much scribbled letter. "Now I'm going down to copy this on Jim's typewriter," she said. And she flew downstairs to the library, from which opened a small office fitted up for Mr. Kenerley's home use. Jim Kenerley had gone to business, and Van Reypen and Hal Ferris were playing golf, so Patty had the place to herself; and by dint of slow but persevering pounding on the typewriter, she picked out the following missive: "Mr. Christopher Cameron: DEAR MR. CAMERON, A few weeks ago I heard you play the violin at a concert! Oh, if I could tell you the raptures that thrilled my soul at the floods of melody you drew from the insensate strings! Only a poet's spirit, only a high-strung heart could accomplish such strains! I, too, am of a musical spirit; I, too, thrill to the notes of the great masters, if interpreted as they are by you! May I hope that you will not spurn this outburst of a sympathetic nature, and accept this tribute to your genius? Could I look for a line,--just a word,--in response to this, saying that you are glad of my appreciation? Never before have I written to a stranger. That is why I dare not use my own penmanship. Please do not seek to find out who I am, but send just a line that I may know you do not scorn my praise. Address Miss Belle Harcourt, Maple Bank, Conn." The conspirators had decided upon the Maple Bank Post-office as being safer than Fern Falls, if Kit should by any chance hear that Patty had gone to the Kenerleys'. "You know," said Patty, as she sealed the letter, "it might be mean to play this trick on anybody else, but Kit plays so many jokes on other people, he deserves it. And while he's not over-conceited, yet he's just vain enough to be tickled to death with this appreciation of his music. 'Miss Harcourt' will get an answer, all right! Come on, girls, let's get ready to go to Maple Bank." And in a short time the three plotters were motoring over to the adjoining village to post the precious document. Of course, they did not tell the men about this, and the three kept it an inviolate secret. "We can hardly expect an answer for two days," said Patty, "but if I know Mr. Kit, he'll reply about as quickly as possible." And sure enough, when the next day but one the three again invaded the little Maple Bank post-office, there was a letter from New York City for Miss Belle Harcourt. "Read it, read it!" cried Daisy as they started homeward with their prize. The three sat side by side in the motor, with Patty in the middle, and they all giggled, as Patty read the letter aloud. "DEAR MISS HARCOURT: I cannot tell you what pleasure your letter gave me. It is so delightful to learn that a stranger is interested in my poor attempts at making music. And--may I say it?--the personal charm of your letter has thrilled my heart! Only a pure, sweet, young nature could write as you do. May I not see you? Or at least will you not send me your photograph? I know I have no right to ask this, but I would so love to meet one so sympathetic and appreciative of the great art which is the ideal of my life. With many, many thanks for your welcome letter, I am, Very sincerely yours, CHRISTOPHER CAMERON." "I knew he'd do it!" cried Patty. "I knew he'd fall for that flattery! Kit's a perfect dear, but he IS vain of his music, and I don't blame him. He's a wonderful violinist." "What are you going to do next, Patty?" asked Adele. "Answer that letter?" "Sure!" returned Patty; "but I'm not running this thing alone. We must all help make up the letter. And, Adele, haven't you some photograph that will be just right to send?" As soon as they reached home they hunted over Adele's collection of photographs, and finally found one that Patty declared just right. It was a picture of one of Adele's cousins, a girl of about sixteen, whose sweet young face wore an expression so soulful and languishing that it was almost comical. "Hester hates that picture," said Adele; "she never looks that way really,--like a sick calf,--but somehow the photographer managed to catch that expression." "She wouldn't mind if she knew, would she?" said Patty. "Oh, mercy, no! She'd think it the best joke in the world. She lives in California, so there's little chance of Mr. Cameron ever seeing her. Now let's write the letter." After much agony of composition and much gay fooling, the plotters produced this: "DEAR MR. CHRISTOPHER: I must modify your more formal name a little,--for it seems now as if I almost knew you. I tremble with fear lest some one should discover that I write to you. But I cannot help writing. I am impelled by a feeling in my soul. I send my picture and I wish it were more beautiful. For I know you love only what is good and beautiful. We must not meet, that would be TOO dangerous. But will you not write me one more precious letter that I may keep it forever? BELLE." There had been much discussion over the signature. Adele preferred "Yours devotedly"; Daisy wanted "Yours adoringly"; but Patty stood out for the name alone, saying that it meant more that way. And so the letter enclosing the picture was despatched to Kit, who received it duly. CHAPTER XVI BELLE HARCOURT As quickly as possible the answer came back. It was a rainy day, and Adele sent the chauffeur to Maple Bank after it. The three gathered in Patty's room to hear it read, and were not surprised that it ran after this manner: "BELLE: How could you know the dearest way to sign yourself? Any other word would have spoiled it! But Belle! My beautiful one! I MUST see you! The picture is just what I anticipated, only more sweet and soulful. You are an angel, and I must see you or die. Do not make me wait. May I fly to Maple Bank at once? Meet me somewhere. No one will know it,--but I must look once into those dear eyes! Your own CHRISTOPHER." "Oh, Kit, Kit!" exclaimed Patty, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes; "I didn't know you COULD be such an idiot! Adele, we must have him come up here." "Oh, of course. How shall we arrange a meeting?" "I'll tell you," said Daisy, "write him that Belle will meet him in front of the Maple Bank post-office. Then let Patty meet him, you know, and we'll sit in the car and see the fun." "All right," Patty agreed. "WON'T he be mad when he sees ME!" So they wrote: "MY CHRISTOPHER: I knew we were made for each other. I, too, feel that I must see you. But our meeting must be secret. I cannot risk my people knowing about it. So, will you meet me in front of the Maple Bank post-office at four o'clock on Thursday afternoon? I would like a more secluded place, but I dare not. The post-office is on a beautiful maple-shaded street and we can meet casually, as if we were ordinary passersby. You must only speak with me a few moments, and let me look once deep in your eyes, and then you must pass on,--out of my life forever! But I shall have at least one moment of blissful rapture! You will know me, because I shall wear white, with pink roses in my hat, and a pink parasol. I can hardly wait for Thursday! Come soon to Your BELLE." "I rather guess that'll fetch him," observed Patty, complacently, as she sealed the envelope. "I knew Kit was a romantic goose, but I didn't suppose he'd be up to these tricks." "Of course we'll bring him home with us, Patty," said Adele. "Yes, he'll come fast enough." "If he isn't too mad at you," put in Daisy. "Oh, he won't be mad," returned Patty; "he'll be terribly cut up at first, to think I tricked him so, but he'll get over it. And I warn you, Adele, if he comes here he'll play some fearful joke on us to get even." "I don't mind," said Adele, "I like a joke once in awhile as well as anybody else. Now if he comes Thursday, Patty, will he stay over Saturday? That's May-day, you know, and I'd like to have him here for the celebration." "He'll be here if you ask him; even if he has to go back to the city Friday and come up again for Saturday. Phil and Roger come Saturday, you know." Van Reypen had gone back to town for a few days, and Hal Ferris was also away on business, which was one reason why the girls had plunged so interestedly into their merry scheme. Thursday afternoon they started for Maple Bank in time to be at the post-office before four o'clock, and witness the arrival of Mr. Cameron. Patty looked her dainty best, in a white linen, with a broad-brimmed hat wreathed with pink roses. Her pink parasol was flounced with chiffon and adorned with a bunch of pink roses, and two rose blooms were tucked in her belt. "Rather summery garb, for the last of April," said Patty, gazing at herself in Adele's long mirror; "but I said I'd wear white before I thought. However, it's a lovely day, and with my motor coat I'll be warm enough going over." They started off in high spirits, and reached the post-office at quarter before four. Kit was already there, walking calmly up and down the maple-shaded village street, and apparently waiting with properly concealed impatience. In accordance with directions, the chauffeur drove right past the post-office and around a corner, where the three conspirators might indulge in a burst of laughter. "I shan't appear until a few minutes after four," said Patty; "it isn't feminine to keep an appointment on time." So they went up and down some other streets until just the right time, and then Patty got out of the car, as she intended to walk to the tryst. The car, with Adele and Daisy, whizzed away and took up a position exactly opposite the post-office, stopping there to watch the show. Of course Cameron paid no attention to this car, and continued to patrol the sidewalk with slow, even steps. At last, as he walked along, he saw a girl in white coming toward him. Her pink parasol completely concealed her face, but Cameron knew it was his "Belle." He walked on slowly, and Patty did too, until they met and both stopped. Gently he raised the intruding parasol and turned it to one side. But even then, he could not see Patty's face, for she had arranged her broad-brimmed hat to droop over it, and she hung her head as if in extreme shyness. But she put out her hand and Cameron clasped it in his own. "Belle," he murmured, "MY Belle! Look at me, please!" Suddenly Patty lifted her head, and smiled into Kit Cameron's face. He took a step backward, and staggered almost as if he would fall. "Patty Fairfield!" he exclaimed, "what does this mean? Why are you here? I expected--oh, I beg your pardon--I--I'm aw-awfully glad to see you." Adele and Daisy, watching them, were convulsed at Cameron's baffled surprise. They could almost hear what he said. They could see how he tried to pull himself together, and they could see Patty speechless with laughter, as she enjoyed the joke on Kit. "What are YOU doing in Maple Bank?" she said, as soon as she could speak for laughing. Kit looked at her gravely. "I came expressly to meet a girl in a white frock and pink roses. I don't see any other around, so--it might as well be you!" "You needn't try to turn it off so carelessly," said Patty. "Own up that you're caught! What was your girl's name?" "Belle--My Belle--" And Cameron rolled his eyes in such soulful manner, that Patty went off in another paroxysm. "Oh, you Joke King, you! Nobody can trick you, can they? Do you own up?" "Own up what? that I'd rather see you than any other belle? Certainly, I'll own that. But my time is up. You know we were only to gaze once into each other's eyes and then part forever!" And Kit gazed into her eyes as if it were indeed the last time. "That'll do," said Patty, laughing again. "The farce is over. Now come and be real. Your own beautiful real self. Come and meet my friends." "Who?" said Kit, as he accompanied Patty across the street. "Here he is," sang out Patty, as they reached the car. "Mrs. Kenerley,--Miss Dow,--may I present Mr. Cameron, the celebrated violin virtuoso." Adele greeted him warmly, and Daisy smiled on him, and Cameron's own delightful manner soon made them all friends. "Jump in and go home with us, Mr. Cameron," said Adele, turning down a side seat in the car. "But my stay in Maple Bank is limited," said Kit. "I'm due to take the next train back to New York." "Come back with us to tea, anyway," said Adele. "You can stay to dinner, too," said Patty, "and take a late train down from Fern Falls." "But you see, though I dressed with particular care to meet a very charming young lady, I didn't expect to dine with her." "Oh, no matter," said Adele; "we won't be formal to-night. But if you will, Mr. Cameron, we'd like to have you come back on Saturday for our May-day celebration." "Will I!" said Kit; "you're awfully good to ask me, Mrs. Kenerley, after you've discovered what a wicked young man I am, thus to follow up invitations from strange ladies. But you see the photograph that came to me was so charming that the temptation was irresistible." "If you'd known it was only me, you wouldn't have come, would you?" asked Patty. Kit regarded her solemnly. Then he waved his hand, as if dismissing a question of no moment. "It doesn't matter," he said, "all young ladies in pink and white look alike to me." "Then I'm glad I'm not in pink and white," said Daisy, who was looking very pretty in a blue linen frock, with wide black ribbons. "So am I," and Kit smiled at her approvingly. "You look so different, it's a pleasure to observe you." Cameron had a charming way of talking nonsense, and before they reached home both Daisy and Adele had taken a decided liking to the gay young man. They had tea on the glass-paned veranda, and it was not until they were all comfortably seated, with their teacups in hand, that Cameron said, casually: "Oh, by the way, Patty, I have a note for you from Mrs. Fairfield, and a parcel." He took from his pocket a letter and a little box. "Oh, thank you," said Patty, taking them "May I?" she added, as she opened the note. As Patty read, her face grew longer and her eyes grew bigger. As she finished, she looked at Cameron, who was gazing at her with his eyes full of laughter. "You Kit!" she exclaimed; "oh, you Kit Cameron! Can nobody EVER get ahead of you? Girls, listen to this! It's a note from Nan, and she says: 'Dear Patty: Mr. Cameron says he's going to see you to-morrow. Has Adele invited him to Fern Falls? How nice for you all. He won't tell me how she happened to do so, but I suppose it was through you. I'm sending you by him your pearl pin, which you forgot. Oceans of love, from Nan.' Now, how in the name of common sense, did you happen to tell Nan that you were coming to see me?" "Why, I was there last night, and I knew I was coming up here to-day; so I told her, and she asked me to bring your pin. And I said I would. That's all." "But how did you know you were coming here?" persisted Patty. "I didn't know I was coming here, and I didn't tell Mrs. Fairfield I was. I only told her I should see you. I can't help what she assumed,--and I have delivered the pin in safety." "But how did you know you were going to see me?" "My dear child, do you suppose for one minute that I fell for that Belle Harcourt business? Didn't you know that I would know that that very first letter was written by your fairy fingers?" "Why, Mr. Cameron!" exclaimed Adele, "weren't you really fooled?" "You WERE!" exclaimed Daisy. "You were at first, anyway." "Not for a minute, Miss Dow," and Kit smiled lazily at her. "I'm not over-modest about my wonderful musical genius, but somehow I couldn't believe that a stranger appreciated me so highly. I just COULDN'T believe it, and something told me that it wasn't quite all it sounded. Then, says I to myself, if it isn't a real Belle Harcourt it's most probably Patty Fairfield. I had no idea you were away, but I telephoned the house, and some of your menials told me you were at Fern Falls. I had never heard of Fern Falls, but it was me for the atlas, and after much study, I unearthed Fern Falls and found it to be very decidedly adjacent to Maple Bank. So I put away my atlas, got down my arithmetic, and by its artful aid I managed to put two and two together. If I had found any one else but Patty Fairfield under that pink parasol, I should have been the most surprised man under the Stars and Stripes!" "I think you're perfectly horrid!" cried Patty; "just per-fect-ly hor-rid!" "You don't really, you know," and Kit smiled at her, calmly, "you're just as ready to admit yourself tricked, as I was." Patty went off into a peal of laughter at the thought of how she had insisted that Kit should own up to being tricked, when they met; but she felt a little chagrined that her joke had fallen through. "I'm glad of it," declared Adele, "for I may as well confess, Mr. Cameron, it had prejudiced me against you to think you would write those letters to a stranger." "Oh, I wouldn't, Mrs. Kenerley," said Kit, with exaggerated earnestness. "Honest and truly, I wouldn't! I NEVER write letters to strangers, unless I'm SURE the strangers are Patty Fairfield. And I'm sure I shouldn't dare to write a letter to the young lady of the photograph that came to me. She looked like an angel in the last stages of nervous prostration." "That's exactly what she did look like," said Adele, laughing. "I must tell Hester that! She's a school-girl cousin of mine, Mr. Cameron, and if she were here, she'd enjoy this two-story joke as well as any of us." Cameron stayed to dinner, as he said, to make his peace with Mr. Kenerley when he came home, but really because he wanted to remain with the pleasant house party. Hal Ferris came home at dinner time, too, and was greatly diverted by the whole story of the Belle Harcourt joke. After dinner, it was warm enough to sit out on the veranda till time for Kit to go to the train. At last the chauffeur brought the little runabout to the door, and Kit took leave of the merry group. "Be sure to come back on Saturday morning," said Adele, as she shook hands with him. "Trust me for that, Mrs. Kenerley. I'm so delighted with the invitation, I'm afraid I'll get here too soon." "Come up on the noon train. The May party's at four o'clock. And now you must fly or you'll lose your train." "Parting is SUCH sweet sorrow," said Kit, as he took Patty's hand, to say good-bye to her last. Patty followed him down the steps of the veranda, and he was about to step into the car, when he said, "Come on down to the station with me." "I will," said Patty, impulsively, and as there was no time to discuss the matter, she sprang into the car. Kit jumped in after her, and slammed the door and they were off. "We've eloped," Cameron called back, as they whizzed away. "All right," Adele called after them; "send Patty back by the chauffeur. There are extra wraps under the seat." "What a duck you are to come!" said Kit, as they swung out through the gate. "I didn't mean to; but I jumped in before I thought." "Always jump in before you think,--that is, if I'm around. If there's any danger of drowning, I'll pull you out." "Oh, I can swim. Kit, I don't see how you knew I wrote that letter." "Patty, it was plain as day on the face of it. Why, it sounded just like you from start to finish. Of course, if you had been in New York, I should have tried to suspect somebody else, but when I found you were staying only about six miles from Maple Bank, I knew it was you." "Never mind, some day I'll play a joke on you." "Thought you didn't approve of them." "I don't, for other people. But you're so fond of them I feel as if I ought to do all I can for you." "All right, joke away, little girl. I don't mind. I say, Poppycheek, what's this May-day business? An old-fashioned picnic?" "Not exactly. It's a new-fashioned picnic. But they crown a May-queen, and all that sort of foolishness." "And who is to be queen?" "Belle Harcourt." "MY Belle! Oh, I'm glad of that. And so Princess Poppycheek is going to be made a queen! Well, so long as you're my Belle, you may be anybody's queen you like." "I like an awful lot of people." "Mostly men." "No, sir! The men mostly like me. I like mostly girls. Don't you think Daisy Dow's charming and pretty?" "Yes, she is a very pretty girl. You're fond of her?" "I am now. I didn't like her at first, but I think it was because I didn't understand her. But now we're awfully good chums." "And so you don't like the men?" "Nonsense! Of course I do. I adore them. But not as much as I do my girl friends. And sometimes I think I like my married friends best of all. Aren't the Kenerleys just dear?" "Then you'd like me better if I were married?" "Yes, indeed. Will you get married, to please me?" "Oh, anything to oblige. Will you pick out the lady?" "Why, yes, if you want me to. There's Daisy Dow." "Yes, there's Daisy Dow. But here's Patty Fairfield. I'd ever so much rather marry her! How about it, Poppycheek?" "Nonsense, Kit, don't be silly." "It isn't silly. You said you wanted me to be married and I'm awfully anxious to please you." "Oh, do you want to marry me just to please me?" "Well, I'm interested in the scheme on my own account, too." "Well, don't bother me about it, now. I hate to answer questions in a speeding motor-car." "Shall I tell him to slow down?" And Kit leaned forward toward the chauffeur. "Mercy, no! you'll hardly catch your train now. A little faster, Jacques." "Yes, Miss," and the chauffeur threw on a little more speed. "Poppycheek, you rascal, I intended to miss that train." "Well, you don't do it! see? We've enough to do to-morrow, without you bothering around. You can come up Saturday, but to-morrow we're going to be awfully busy." "Van Reypen coming?" "Of course. A party isn't a party without Phil." "Huh! I'm not afraid of him. I can cut Van Reypen out any day in the week!" "Not Saturdays. That's his great day." And Patty laughed tantalisingly. "Just you wait and see! I'm not afraid! Bye-bye, Poppycheek." They had reached the station just as the train was drawing out. Kit sprang from the car, slammed the door after him, and striding across the platform, swung on to the moving steps. He waved his hand at Patty and was gone. "Home, Jacques," she said. CHAPTER XVII MAY-DAY May-Day, contrary to its custom, was a perfectly beautiful, balmy, sunshiny day. Adele drew a long sigh of relief when she opened her eyes to this fact, for as the hostess of a large and elaborate garden party she had no care so great as the question of weather. And as all outdoors was a mass of warm sunshine, she felt sure of the success of her fete. After luncheon she ordained that Patty should go to her room for a nap, as she had worked hard all the morning, and must not look fagged at her coronation. "Make Daisy go too, then," said Patty, pouting, as she started upstairs. "No, Daisy can do as she likes. She isn't tired and you are." "But then Daisy will be here when the boys come, and I won't." "You insatiable little coquette! You go right straight to your room and go to bed! You hear me?" "Yes, ma'am, but I can't sleep. I'm too 'cited!" "Well, you can rest. Get yourself into a kimono,--and I'll come up in a minute and tuck you up." Adele went up in a few moments and found Patty leaning far out of her window. "What ARE you doing, child? Don't lean out so far; you'll fall!" Patty proceeded to draw herself back into the room. "Of course I won't fall, Adele! I was only trying to breathe all this whole May-day into my lungs at once. It's so beautiful." "It is, I know; but, Patty, darling, you MUST behave yourself. Lie down and take a little sleepy-by till three o'clock. Then you can get dressed for the party." "'I will be good, dear mother, I heard a sweet child say,'" trilled Patty, as she took down her hair and put on a kimono. Then Adele tucked her up on the couch, in a nest of pillows and under a soft down quilt. "Of course I trust you," she said, as she patted her shoulder, "oh, OF COURSE I trust you! but all the same, my lady, I'm going to lock you in!" "What!" cried Patty. But even as she spoke, Adele had scurried across the room, drawn out the key, and was already locking the door from the other side. "Well!" thought Patty, "that's a high-handed performance! I don't really care, though. Now that I'm here, so comfy, I realise that I am tired." And in about two minutes Patty was sound asleep. It was nearly an hour before she opened her eyes, and then with a little yawn she lazily wondered if it were time to get up. She glanced at the clock on her dressing-table, and as it was only half-past two, she felt sure that Adele would not come to her release until three o'clock. She lay there, her eyes wandering idly about the room, when she saw a startling sight. The floor, near her couch, was fairly strewn with sprays of apple blossoms. At first she thought she must be dreaming, and rubbed her eyes to be sure she was awake. Putting her hand down outside the silken coverlet, she touched a spray of blossoms, and picking it up looked at it wonderingly. There could be no doubt. They were real apple blossoms, and they were really there! What could it mean? "Of course," she said to herself, "either Adele or Daisy came in while I was asleep and brought me these flowers, and sprinkled them on the floor for fun. It must have been Daisy, for Adele is too busy. How much nicer Daisy is than she used to be. And maybe that's not fair. Probably she always was just as nice, only I wasn't nice to her. Or I didn't know how to take her. Oh, my gracious!" The last words were spoken aloud, and in a very surprised voice, the reason for which was, that a lot of apple blossoms had come flying through the open window and landed on the floor beside her. "It must be Daisy," she thought, "Adele won't let her in here, and she's trying to get my attention this way!" Patty scrambled off the couch, her long golden hair a tangled mass around her shoulders, and her blue silk negligee edged with swansdown draped about her. She went to the window, which was a long French one, opening like doors onto a tiny balcony. She stepped out on the balcony and looked down. [Illustration: "BILL!" she cried, "Little Billee!"] And then, in her surprise, she almost fell over the railing, for down below on the lawn, with his smiling face looking up into hers, stood,--Bill Farnsworth. Patty gave a squeal of delight. "BILL!" she cried, "Little Billee" "Look out, Apple Blossom!" he called back, in his big, cheery voice, "don't fall out of that balcony, and break your blessed neck! But if you want to jump, I'll catch you," and he held out his arms. "No! I don't want to jump! Oh, Little Billee, I didn't know you were coming! Did you throw in the apple blossoms?" "No, no, oh, NO! A passing highwayman threw those in! Why, what made you think _I_'d do such a thing?" "Only because you still have a few left in your pockets," said Patty, laughing, for, sure enough, Bill had ends of blossom sprays sticking out of all his pockets. "You see I didn't know how many it would take to wake you up," he said. "How did you know I was up here?" "Daisy told me. Adele wouldn't tell me,--said you must sleep, or some such foolishness. Get into your togs and come down, won't you?" For the first time Patty realised that her hair was hanging about her shoulders and her costume was, to say the least, informal, and with another little squeal, she sprang back into her room and closed the window doors. Then she went and looked at herself in the mirror. "Well, you don't look an absolute fright," she said, to the smiling reflection she saw there. "But to think of Bill being here! Little Billee! Bless his old heart!" And then Patty flew at her toilet. Everything had been laid in readiness, and she began to draw on her white silk stockings and dainty slippers. She was sitting before her mirror, doing her hair, when the key turned and Adele came in. "For goodness' sake, Patty Fairfield! WHERE did all these flowers come from?" "They came in at the window, ma'am, before I closed it," said Patty, demurely. "Came in at the window! Nonsense, how could they do that?" "Oh, the breeze was awful strong, and it just blew them in." "Silly child! But I say, Patty, hurry up and get dressed!" "I AM hurrying!" and Patty provokingly twisted up her curls with slow, deliberate motions. "You're NOT! you're dawdling horribly! But you wouldn't, if you knew who was downstairs!" "Who?" "Oh, you're very indifferent, aren't you? Well, you wouldn't be so indifferent if you knew who's downstairs." "Not, by any chance, Bill Farnsworth?" "Yes! that's just exactly who it is! How did you ever guess? Are you glad?" "Yes, of course I am," and Patty's pink cheeks dimpled as she smiled frankly at Adele. "I'm just crazy to see Bill again!" "Look here, Patty," and Adele spoke somewhat seriously, "I want to say something to you,--and yet I hate to. But I feel as if I ought to." "My stars! Adele, what IS the dreadful thing?" Patty paused in her hairdressing and, with brush in one hand and mirror in the other, she stared at Adele. "Why, you see, Patty, I know you do like Bill, and--I don't want you to like him too much." "What DO you mean?" "Oh, nothing. It even sounds silly to say it to you, as a warning. But, dear, I feel I MUST tell you. He's engaged." "Oh, is he?" Patty tossed her head, and then went on arranging her hair, but the pink flush on her cheek deepened. "Are you sure?" she said, carelessly. "Well, I'm not sure that he's engaged, really," and Adele wrinkled her pretty brow, as she looked at Patty; "but he told me last winter that all his life was bound up in Kitty, and he loved her with all his heart, or something like that." "Kitty who?" "I can't remember her other name, although he told me." "How did Bill happen to tell you this, Adele?" "He was here, and I was chaffing him about one of the Crosby girls, and then he told me that about Kitty. And somehow I thought you ought to know it." "Oh, fiddlesticks, Adele, as if I cared! I can't understand why you should think _I_ would care if Mr. Farnsworth were engaged to forty-'leven girls. It's nothing to me." "Of course I know it isn't, Patty; but I just wanted to tell you." "All right, honey; I'm glad you did. Now go on downstairs, and I'll be down in a few minutes." Adele ran away and Patty proceeded to don her royal robes. The coronation gown was of white chiffon, having no decoration save tiny bunches and garlands of flowers. It was not made in the prevailing fashion, but copied from a quaint old picture and was very becoming to its wearer. Her golden curls were loosely massed and a few flowers adorned them. Patty sat a moment in front of her mirror, talking to herself, as she often did. "Of course Little Billee is engaged," she said to herself; "he's too nice a man not to be. And I hope his Kitty is a lovely, sweet, charming girl. I don't think, as an engaged man, he had any business to throw flowers in at my window, but I suppose that was because we've always been good friends. I don't see how he could tear himself away from the charming Kitty long enough to come East, but he's always flying across the continent on his business trips." Daisy came into Patty's room then, and the two girls went downstairs together. The guests had gathered for the garden party, and were dotted over the lawns or grouped on the veranda. "Thank goodness it's a warm day," said Patty, as they went down the stairs. "Sometimes on May-day we have to go around in fur coats." At the foot of the staircase Bill Farnsworth waited to greet Patty. He came forward with an eager smile and took her two hands in his. "Little Apple Blossom!" he exclaimed; "Patty Pink-and-White!" For the life of her, Patty could not be as cordial as she would have been if Adele had not told her what she did. But though she tried to speak a genuine welcome, she only succeeded in saying, "How do you do, Mr. Farnsworth?" in a cool little voice. Big Bill looked at her in amazement. "You gave me a better greeting than that from your window," he said, in laughing reproach. "I still have an apple blossom left. May I give it to you?" and Bill produced a small but perfect spray which he proceeded to pin on the shoulder of Patty's gown. "My costume is complete," said Patty, with a smiling dissent; "it doesn't need any additional flower." "It needs this one to make it perfect," said Farnsworth, calmly, and indeed the pretty blossom was no detriment to the effect. "Oh, Phil, how gorgeous you look!" and Patty abruptly turned from Farnsworth to admire Van Reypen's get-up. "Me, too!" exclaimed Hal Ferris, stepping up to be admired. The men's decorations consisted of garlands draped across their shoulders and tied with huge bows of ribbon. On their heads they wore classic wreaths which Daisy and Hal had made, and which were really not unbecoming. The procession formed in the hall, and went out across the lawn to the May Queen's throne. Hal Ferris and Van Reypen headed the line, Hal being the sceptre-bearer and Philip the crown-bearer. Daisy followed these, carrying a silk banner which waved in the breeze, and she was followed by Baby May, carrying a basket of blossoms, which she scattered as she went along. Patty came next, and surely a fairer May queen never went to her coronation. Patty's blonde beauty was well suited to the costume and floral decorations she wore, and she looked like a vision of Spring, incarnate, as she walked smilingly along. Behind her came Kit and Roger, who were Court Jesters. Their costumes were most elaborate, of the recognised style for jesters, and they carried baubles which provoked great merriment. As Farnsworth had not been expected, there was no part for him on the program, but he calmly declared that he would be the band. He had brought a cornet, upon which he was a really fine performer, and he took up his place at the end of the line and played gay and merry music to which they marched. The affair was exceedingly informal, and those in the procession chatted as they passed the guests who were mere lookers-on. Baby May, indeed, left her place to run to her mother and give her a flower, and then dutifully returned to escort Patty. The throne was under a bower made of evergreen boughs and trailing vines, interspersed with apple blossoms and other flowers. As the procession neared the throne, Ferris, with his long gold sceptre, struck an attitude on one side, and Van Reypen, who carried the crown on a white satin cushion, took his place on the other side. Daisy as Maid of Honour and Baby May as Flower Girl took their stand, and the two Court Jesters danced to their appointed places. This left Patty alone, and, as there had been no rehearsal, she was a little uncertain what to do, when Farnsworth stepped forward and took her hand and gracefully led her to the throne, where he seated her in state. Then he made a profound bow and stepped away to one side. Van Reypen came forward, and with a gay little impromptu speech, put a floral crown on Patty's head, and Ferris presented her with the long gilded sceptre. Patty made a little speech of humorous greeting, and the coronation was declared over, and Patty was Queen of the May. The guests came thronging around to talk to the pretty queen, and then they all went to the tea-tent. This gay and festive place was decorated with flowers and flags, and a delightful feast was served. "Will you have an ice, Patty?" asked Farnsworth, "or something more substantial?" "Here you are, Patty; I know what you want." and Kit Cameron came up with a cup of hot bouillon and a sandwich. "Yes, indeed, Kit, I'm famishing. Thank you so much," and Patty ignored Farnsworth's remark entirely, and beamed pleasantly on Kit. Farnsworth looked at her curiously for a moment, and then walked away. He sat down by Daisy Dow, and said abruptly: "What's the matter with Patty, that she doesn't like me any more?" "Nonsense, Bill; she does like you." "No, she doesn't. She's cool as a cucumber. She used to like me, but she's changed all through. I s'pose she likes those other fellows better--and I don't blame her." "They're both awfully gone on her," and Daisy looked at Cameron and Van Reypen hovering around Patty, who seemed to be sharing her favours equally between them. "I don't belong here," said Farnsworth, gloomily. "I'm out of my element. I belong out West, riding over the plains and untrammelled by conventions." "Don't be a goose, Bill," and Daisy looked at him kindly. "You've better manners than lots of these Eastern men, and you have a whole lot more innate kindliness." "That's good of you, Daisy," and Bill flashed her a grateful look. "But I know the difference myself; I'm uncouth and awkward where those chaps are correct and elegant. I'm going back to Arizona and stay there." "All because Patty Fairfield didn't welcome you with open arms!" A flush rose to Big Bill's handsome face. "It is partly that, Daisy, but I can't blame her. There's no reason why that exquisite little piece of humanity should want to have anything to do with me,--a big bear of a man." "Honestly, Bill, you ought not to belittle yourself like that. I'm ashamed of you. But I'll tell you one thing: Patty is sometimes a little perverse. She can't seem to help it. She's a perfect dear, but she is a coquette. If you ask me, I think the more glad she is to see you, the more likely she is to be cool to you." "Nonsense, Daisy! what sort of talk is that! Why should she act that way?" Bill's straightforward gaze of blank amazement made Daisy laugh, but she only said: "I can't tell you why she does such things, but she does all the same." Just then Hal Ferris came up and monopolised Daisy's attention, and Farnsworth, imagining himself in the way, strolled off. He joined the laughing group that was gathered around Patty, but he stood moodily silent, listening while she chaffed the others. "It's getting chilly," Patty said, at last, "and I think it's too late to stay outdoors any longer. May parties are all very well while the sun shines. But as queen, I issue a royal mandate that now we all go in the house and dance." "And as First Goldstick-in-Waiting, I claim the first dance with the queen," and Philip Van Reypen tucked Patty's hand through his arm and led her away to the house. "And I claim the Maid of Honour," and Kit Cameron led Daisy away. "Hold on," cried Hal Ferris, "the Maid of Honour is my partner." "Possession is nine points of the law," and Hal gaily retained Daisy's hand in his own, lest she should escape him. But there were plenty of other gay and merry maidens of the court, and soon several couples were whirling up and down through the great hall. Farnsworth stood apart, not joining in the dance, and presently Adele came up to him. "Dance with me, Bill," she said, with the freedom of long acquaintance. "Thank you," said Farnsworth, and in a moment they had joined the other couples. Bill was a perfect dancer, and when they stopped, Adele said: "Why don't you dance with Patty? She is a lovely dancer. I'd like to see you two dance together." Still with a grave face, Bill crossed the room to where Patty was standing. "Miss Fairfield," he said, politely, "our hostess has ordained that I dance this dance with you." He clicked his heels together, and made a low military bow. "Indeed," said Patty, coolly, "but the Queen of May takes no one's orders, not even those of her beloved hostess." "Then you refuse?" and Farnsworth looked Patty straight in the eyes. "Of course I refuse," and she gave her little head a disdainful toss. "This dance belongs to Mr. Van Reypen." Philip was just passing, and as Patty laid her hand on his arm, he stopped. "Certainly it does," he said, but it was easy to be seen that the dance was as much a surprise to him as it was a pleasure. Farnsworth looked after the two, as they danced away. And then he turned on his heel and went in search of Adele. CHAPTER XVIII MOONLIGHT The May party was over, but a few of the guests, besides those staying in the house, remained for dinner. "Shall I change my frock, Adele, or keep on this toggery for dinner?" said Patty. "Oh, keep that on. You may as well be Queen of May as long as you can." So Patty kept on her pretty, picturesque costume, and when dinner time came she made up her mind to ask Adele to seat her next to Farnsworth. But as the company paired off to go to dinner Big Bill was nowhere visible. "Where's Mr. Farnsworth?" asked Patty, casually, of Jim Kenerley. "Oh, he's gone. We expected him to stay the week-end, but he said he was due at another country house party, farther on somewhere, and he couldn't even stay for dinner." Patty was sorry she had acted so rude to Bill, and sorry that he had gone. "But," she said to herself, by way of extenuation, "I didn't want to dance with anybody who asked me to because his hostess commanded him! He never even said he wanted to dance with me himself, but only that Adele said he must. But I do think he was mean to go away without saying good-bye to me!" However, it was not Patty's nature to let her mind dwell on a disappointment, and she promptly proceeded to forget all about Mr. Farnsworth, and to turn her mind to her present partner. This happened to be Kit Cameron, and as he was in his gayest mood she responded and their conversation was of the merriest sort. After dinner, Kit persuaded Patty to walk on the veranda for a bit of exercise. There was a large swing-seat, upholstered in red, which he declared was just the place for a tete-a-tete. "But it's too cold," objected Patty. "I'll get you a wrap," and Kit flew into the house and procured a long cloak, in which he enveloped Patty, and they sat in the swing together. "What became of the Colossal Cowboy?" said Kit; "I thought he was here for the weekend." "I thought so, too," returned Patty, "but it seems he had another engagement." "I'm glad of it. You're altogether too fond of him." "Fond of him! What do you mean? I'm nothing of the sort. Why, I scarcely spoke to him." "I know it. That's what gave you away." "Don't be a silly! I haven't the slightest interest in Mr. William Farnsworth, or his comings and goings." "You'd rather have me here, wouldn't you?" "Oh, EVER so much rather!" And Patty spoke with such intense enthusiasm that she was very evidently joking. "But really, Patty, let's be in earnest just for a minute. Wouldn't you rather have me around than anybody?" "Why, I don't know; I never thought about it." "Think about it now, then. Honest, I mean it." "Oh, don't mean things. It's too heavenly a night to talk seriously." "Isn't it a wonderful night? Do you know a house party like this and moonlight on a veranda, like this, always goes to my head. I think week-ending is apt to go to one's head, anyway. But let it go. Let it go to your head, too." "I don't think I'd better," and Patty spoke hesitatingly; "I might say something foolish." "Oh, do, Patty! DO say something foolish! If you don't, I shall." "Well, go on, then." "May I, Patty? May I tell you that I've simply lost my heart to you,--you beautiful little May Queen!" "And is that what you call foolish?" Patty pouted, adorably. "Yes, it's foolish, because I know there's no hope for me. I know you don't care one least scrap of a speck for me! Now, do you?" "If you're so positive yourself, why ask me?" "Oh, I MIGHT be mistaken, you know. Oh, if I only MIGHT! Patty, DEAR little Patty, couldn't you be my princess? My own Princess Poppycheek." "I've been your Belle," and Patty laughed merrily at the recollection. "There you go, laughing at me! I knew you would. That shows you don't care anything for me. If you did, you wouldn't laugh at me!" "Oh, yes, I would! the more I care for people the more I laugh at them,--always." "You must be simply crazy over me then! If you don't stop laughing I won't swing you any more." "Oh, yes, do, it's lovely to swing back and forth in the moonlight like this. The May party was pretty, wasn't it?" "You're just trying to change the subject. But I won't have it changed. Let's go back to it. Patty, couldn't you stop laughing at me long enough to learn to care for me a little?" "How can I tell? I don't know how long it would take to learn to care for you a little. And, anyway, I do care for you a little,--but only a very, very little." "Yes, I know that. You don't fool me any. You wouldn't care if you NEVER saw me again." "Why, Kit Cameron, I would SO! If I though I'd never see you again--I'd--I'd--I'd drown myself!" "YES you WOULD! You little witch, how can you trifle with me like that, when my heart is just breaking for you?" "Oh, come now, Kit, it isn't as bad as that! And let me tell you something. Do you know I think you are one of the very nicest friends I ever had, and I'm not going to have our friendship spoiled by any foolishness! So you might as well stop right where you are now. That is, if you're in earnest. If you're just talking foolishness on account of the moonlight--and all,--I don't mind. But I won't have you serious about it." "All right, Poppycheek. I'm pretty serious, or I would be if you'd let me, but if you don't want it you shan't have it." "Well, I don't. I don't want seriousness from anybody. And, anyway, Kit, I'd be afraid of seriousness from you." "Why, Patty?" "'Cause it would probably turn out to be a practical joke." "Joke nothing! The regard I have for you, Miss Poppycheek Fairfield, is too everlasting real to have any joke about it!" "And the friendship I have for you, Mr. Kit Cameron, is so nice and real, that I'm going to keep it up." Patty knew from the undertones of Kit's voice that he was very much in earnest, and as she felt no interest in him beyond that of a good friend, she shrank from wounding his feelings by letting him go on further. And so she determinedly led the conversation further and further away from personal matters, and soon she gaily declared that it was getting too late for moonlight chat and she was going in the house. Kit followed her in, and though he showed in no way the appearance of a rejected suitor, he was quieter than usual and less inclined to merriment. "He'll get over it," said Patty to herself, after she reached her room that night. "I s'pose all girls have to go through with these scenes, sooner or later. But I didn't mind Kit so much, because he was nice and sensible about it." Then Daisy came in for a kimono confab, and perched herself on the edge of Patty's bed. "What's the matter between you and Bill Farnsworth, Patty?" she asked without prelude of any sort. "Nothing," said Patty, as she took the hairpins from a long shining strand of hair. "There is, too. He asked me why you were so cool to him." "He did! Well, I'm sure I don't know what he meant, for I wasn't cool to him,--or anything else. I treated him politely, as I would any casual friend." "Politely! I saw you refuse to dance with him, myself. If you call THAT polite!" "If you want to know, Daisy, that was because he didn't want to dance with me. He said he only asked me because Adele insisted upon it." "Patty, it's none of my business, but I do think you might be nicer to Bill, for I know he thinks an awful lot of you." "Why, Daisy Dow! why should he think a lot of me when he's as good as engaged to another girl?" "Engaged! Bill Farnsworth engaged! nothing of the sort. I know better." "But he is. Adele told me so. Or, if he isn't engaged, he's very much in love with a girl named Kitty. Do you know her?" "Kitty who? Where is she?" "I don't know, I'm sure. But he told Adele his whole heart and life were bound up in this Kitty Somebody. So I'm sure I don't see any reason why I should be running after him." "I can't imagine you running after anybody, Patty. You don't need to, for the boys all run after you. But it's very queer I never heard of this Kitty. I've known Bill for years. Let me see; there was Kate Morton,--but I never thought Bill cared especially for her. And anyway, I can't imagine calling HER Kitty! She's as tall and straight as an Indian!" "Well, Bill calls her Kitty; Adele said so." "Oh, is it Kate Morton, then? Did Adele say that?" "No, Adele said she couldn't remember the girl's last name. And I don't care if it's Kate Morton or Kathleen Mavourneen! It's nothing to me what kind of a girl Bill Farnsworth likes." "Of course it isn't. I know you never liked Bill." "I did SO! I DO like him, but just the same as I like all the other boys." "Then what makes you turn pink every time Bill's name is mentioned, and never when you speak of anybody else?" "I don't! And if I did, it wouldn't mean anything. I'm not specially interested in anybody, Daisy, but if I were, I wouldn't sit up and blush about it. You like Bill an awful lot, yourself." "I do like him," said Daisy, frankly; "and I always have. He's a splendid man, Patty, one of the biggest, best natures I know. Why, at school we used to call him Giant Greatheart,--he was so thoroughly noble and kind to everybody." "Well, I'm sick of hearing his praises sung, so you'll please change the subject." Daisy was quite willing to do this, for she had no wish to annoy Patty, and the girls chatted of other matters until Adele came along and sent them both to bed. The next day was Sunday, and Patty didn't come downstairs until time for the midday dinner. "I think you might have come down earlier," said Van Reypen, reproachfully, as Patty came smilingly down the staircase. "I wanted you to go for a walk this morning; it's simply great out in the sunshine." "I'll go after dinner," said Patty; "isn't it funny why people have dinner at one o'clock, just because it's Sunday?" "I'm glad of it. It'll give us the whole afternoon for our walk." "Good gracious! if I walk the whole afternoon you'll have to bring me home in a wheelbarrow!" "We won't walk far enough for that. If you get tired, we'll sit on a mossy mound in a bosky dell, or some such romantic spot." After dinner, Philip held Patty to her promise of going for a walk. She didn't care about it especially, really preferring to stay with the gay group gathered on the veranda, but Philip urged it, and Patty allowed herself to be persuaded. The country all around Fern Falls was beautiful, and a favourite walk was down to the Falls themselves, which were a series of small cascades tumbling down a rocky ravine. Philip turned their steps this way, and they sauntered along the winding footpath that followed down the side of the falls. "It is lovely here," said Patty, as she sat down on a rock for a short rest. "But I wouldn't want to live in the country all the year around, would you, Philip?" "Not if you didn't like it, dear. Suppose we have two homes, one in the city and one in the country?" "Homes for lunatics, do you mean?" and Patty favoured the young man with a wide-eyed gaze of inquiry. "You know very well what I mean," and Philip returned her gaze with one of calm regard. "You know why I brought you out here this afternoon, and you know exactly what I'm going to say to you. Don't you?" "Not EXACTLY," and Patty drew a roguish frown; "they all word it differently, you know." "It is a matter of utter indifference to me how the others word it," and Philip leaned up comfortably against a rock as he looked at Patty. "The only thing that engrosses my mind, is whether I myself can word it persuasively enough to make you say yes. Do you think I can?" "You never can tell till you try," said Patty, in a flippant tone. "Then I'll try. But, Patty, dearest, you know it all; you know how I love you, you know how long I have loved you. Aren't you ever going to give me the least little encouragement?" "How can I, Phil, when I don't feel encouraging a bit?" "But you will, dear, won't you? You remember last winter when we went on that sleighride after the butter and eggs? Why, Patty, you ALMOST said yes, then." "Why, Philip Van Reypen! I didn't do anything of the sort! I had no idea of saying yes, then,--I haven't now,--and I'm not sure that I ever shall have!" "I'll wait, Patty," and Van Reypen spoke cheerfully. "I'll wait, Little Girl, because I think a love like mine is bound to win at last. And I know you're too young yet to make up your mind. But, Patty, there isn't anybody else, is there?" "Anybody else what?" "Anybody else who likes you as much as I do. Is there?" "Now, Phil, how could I tell that? When people say they love you heaps and heaps, you never know quite how much to believe, or quite how much is just the influence of the moonlight." "Well, there's no moonlight here now. So when I tell you how much I love you, it's all true. You believe that, don't you, Little Girl?" "Yes, I believe it. But, Philip, I wish you wouldn't talk about it to-day. I'm tired of--" "Of having men tell you how much they love you? Poor little Patty! I'm afraid you'll have to put up with that all your life." "Oh, horrible!" and Patty made a wry face. "I suppose some girls like it, but I don't." "I'll tell you a way to avoid it, Patty. Be engaged to me, now,--even if you won't marry me right away, and then, you see, other men can't propose to you." "Do you mean be engaged to you, Phil, without intending EVER to marry you!" "Well, don't consider the second question at present. Just be engaged to me, and then we'll see about it." "No, I don't think that would be fair. You make it seem as if being engaged to a man doesn't mean anything." "Patty! dearest! DON'T talk like that! It would mean all the world to me. And I'm sure I could make you love me enough to want to marry me, after awhile. If you knew how much I loved you, I'm sure you'd agree that you couldn't resist that love for long." Van Reypen looked very handsome and very earnest as he gazed into Patty's eyes. And Patty looked very sweet and dear as she gazed back at him with a troubled expression on her lovely face. Then with a sudden, impulsive gesture she put out both her hands and Philip took them in his own. "Don't make me decide now, Phil," she said, and she looked at him with a pathetic smile. "I don't know what I want. I know I DON'T want to marry you,--or anybody else,--for a long time. And I don't think I want to be engaged to anybody just yet, either." "Of course you don't, you dear little girl," and Van Reypen's tone was hearty and genuinely helpful. "You've only just begun to have your little fling, and enjoy yourself in your own sweet, butterfly way. And I'm not going to tease you or cause you one moment's worry. But, oh, Patty, darling, if ever you have a moment when you want to think about these things, think about me, won't you, dear? and remember that my whole heart is yours and my whole life is devoted to you. You don't understand now, what the whole love of a man means, but some day you will, and then, if your heart can turn to me, let it do so, won't you,--little sweetheart?" Patty was thrilled, not only by Philip's words, but by the deep and sincere love shining in his eyes, and which she could not mistake. "You are very dear to me, Philip," she said, with absolute sincerity; "and I do want you to know how much I appreciate what you have said,--and how grateful I am--" "Hush, Patty," and Philip smiled gently at her; "I don't want that. I don't want your appreciation nor your gratitude for what I feel for you. When you are ready to give me your love, in return for the love I offer you, I want it more than I can tell you. But until then, I want your friendship, the same good comradeship we have always had, but not any gratitude, or foolishness of that sort. Do you understand?" "I do understand, Phil, and I think you're splendid! I want to keep on being your friend,--but I don't want you to think---" "No, dear; I promise not to think that you are giving me undue encouragement,--for that is what you're trying to say. And you mustn't let my hopes or desires trouble you. Always treat me just exactly as you feel toward me, with gay comradeship, with true friendliness, or whatever is in your heart. But always remember that I am still loving you and waiting and hoping." Philip gave Patty one long look deep into her eyes, and then, with an entire change of manner, he said lightly, "Now, my lady fair, if you are rested, suppose we walk back to the house?" "I am rested," and Patty jumped up, "so you won't have to do what I feared,--take me home in a wheelbarrow." Van Reypen looked at her quizzically. "Do you remember," he said, "the classic poem from which that quotation is taken?" "It's from Mother Goose, isn't it?" "Yes; but if you recollect, it was a bachelor gentleman who went to London. And when he returned he brought a WIFE home in a wheelbarrow. I'm not having quite THAT experience." "No," said Patty, demurely, "but you haven't any wheelbarrow." CHAPTER XIX IN THE RUNABOUT When they reached the house, Patty went straight up to Mr. Kenerley, and said in a low tone, "Jim, I want to ask a favour of you." "Anything at all, Patty Pink; anything, to the half of my kingdom!" "Well, I want the little car, the runabout; and I want to go off for a little while, all by myself." "Patty! You amaze me! Does this mean a clandestine meeting with a rustic swain? Oh, my child, I thought you were well brought up!" "Don't tease me, Jim," and Patty looked really serious. "If you must know, though, it's because I want to get away from the rustic swains. I want a little time to myself. And if I stay here, the boys are all around; and if I go to my room, the girls won't give me any peace, and, oh, Jim, DO help me out!" "Why, of course, you Blessed Infant. Trust all to your Uncle Jim! Come along with me." The two started down the walk toward the garage, and Adele called out, "Where are you going?" "Going to elope," Kenerley returned gaily over his shoulder, and they went on. He took out the little car, which Patty could easily run herself, and putting her in, he jumped in beside her. "I'll go with you, past the porch," he said, "and see you outside the gate." So they dashed by the group on the veranda, not heeding their chaff and once outside the grounds, Jim said, "Are you sure you want to go alone, Patty?" "Yes, please, Jim. I want to think a little." "Oh, you GIRL! you needn't tell ME! some chap's been making love to you!" "Nonsense!" but Patty's blush belied her words. "I hope it IS nonsense, Patty, dear. You're too young to have a serious affair yet awhile. Take an old friend's advice and say no this time." "Of course I shall. Don't worry about me, Jim." "No, indeed. You've good common sense in that curly golden pate of yours. I'll get out here, and you go along, Patty, and have a nice little maiden meditation all to yourself, and come back fancy free, but don't stay out too late." Kenerley got out of the car and went back to the house, and Patty drove on alone. It was just what she wanted, an opportunity to think over what Philip had said. And she was fond of motoring alone, and an experienced driver. She went slowly at first, enjoying the beautiful country with its serene air of Sunday afternoon calm. The trend of her thoughts was not a question of whether or not she should accept Van Reypen; but more a dreamy recollection and living over the scene at the Falls. She pictured in her mind how really noble and handsome he looked, and she almost wondered at herself why she had only a friendly feeling toward him. "But I like him better than Kenneth," she assured herself; "that is, I like him MORE than I do Kenneth. Ken is an old dear, but he IS slow; and Philip has all the nice ways and mannerisms that I do like in a man. He's always equal to any occasion, without any effort. He's just born so. He's an aristocrat like his aunt, but he hasn't a bit of her,--well,--it is really a kind of snobbishness. She's intolerant of people not in her own set. But Phil is kind and courteous to everybody. And he has a sense of humour. I suppose that's what's the matter with Ken. The poor boy hasn't a spark of fun in him except what I've banged into his blessed old head. There's Kit Cameron now, he has too much fun in him. He'd make anybody's life a practical joke. I don't believe he half meant what he said to me in the swing last night. I think he would have said the same to any girl, sitting there in the moonlight. Well, I do seem to be growing up. I wish I had Nan here. She's so nice to talk things over with. Not that I want to talk anything over. I believe it isn't considered correct to tell about the proposals you have, but I guess a mother wouldn't count,--even if she is a stepmother. And Nan is such a duck of a stepmother! I'll certainly tell her about these proposals I've had. I don't believe I'll ever have any more. But all the same, I'm not going to get engaged yet! I'd rather be an old maid than to take the first man who asks me. But there's one thing certain, I do like Philip the best of the bunch!" Patty went on along the highway, stopping now and then to gather a particularly beautiful branch of wild rose, or a few spring beauties. She had on a simple little frock of pink linen, with a sailor collar of fine white embroidery, and a big black velvet bow at her throat. She wore no hat but her golden hair was partly confined by a band of black velvet. She had a light dust coat of pongee silk, though Jim had told her there was a warmer coat in the car if she should want it. When Kenerley returned to the group on the veranda a wild shout greeted him, inquiring where Patty was. "I told you she was going to elope," returned Jim; "I was merely helping her along. I left her just outside the gate on her way to meet her rustic swain." "Nonsense, Jim," said his wife, "where did she go? Over to the Crosbys'?" "She didn't say anything to me about the Crosbys. In fact, Adele, she didn't tell me where she was going, and I wasn't so inquisitive as to ask her. I let my guests do as they like and go where they choose. Patty asked me for the runabout and I gave it to her. If she had wanted the touring car she could have had it,--or the limousine,--or the wheelbarrow." A smile passed over Van Reypen's face at the chance reference to the last-named vehicle, and his intuitions told him that Patty had gone for a solitary drive to get away from other people for a little while. "Oh, LOOK who's here!" cried Daisy, suddenly, as a motor car came whizzing up the steps and out jumped Bill Farnsworth. "I just stopped for a minute," he said to Adele, "to see how you all are after your party." "All quite well," said Adele, "but sorry you couldn't stay here with us instead of going on." "Sorry, too," said Farnsworth. "Where's Miss Fairfield?" and he looked about inquiringly. "Gone for a drive," replied Adele, and Farnsworth made no further reference to Patty. But his call was short and soon he was again starting his car. "Which way did Miss Fairfield go?" he murmured in a low voice to Kenerley, as his car moved off. "East," said Jim, with a teasing smile at Farnsworth, and then Bill was gone. He swung out on to the broad highway and turned east. There were no bypaths near and he had an intention of following and overtaking Patty. He wanted to see her, and with Bill Farnsworth to want to do anything was to do it. Now it chanced that Patty had had a detention. Though an expert driver, and a fairly good mechanician for her own car, she was not entirely familiar with the car she was driving, and when it stopped stock-still at the side of the road, she found herself unable to discover the exact difficulty. She was not overanxious, for it was a frequented road and she felt sure some car would come along, in whose driver she might feel sufficient confidence to ask help. But it so chanced that she sat for some time before any car came. The sun was warm and she threw off her coat, really enjoying basking in the sunshine while she waited. And it was this sudden apparition of a golden head shining in the sunlight that gave Farnsworth a shock of surprise as he came up behind Patty's car. "By Jove!" he exclaimed, "there she is! In trouble, too. Jolly well I came along, bless her heart! But it's funny if she can't manage the car. I believe she's sitting there purposely." For a few moments Bill sat looking at the yellow head and smiling gently at it. Then he had an inspiration to drive right past her and see if she would speak to him. She had been far from cordial the day before and Farnsworth was uncertain whether she wanted to see him or not. So, driving slowly, he passed by Patty in her motionless car. Patty jumped at the sound of some one coming, and intending to ask help, held out her hand and said, "Please--" before she realised who it was. Farnsworth turned his head, stopped his car, whipped off his cap and jumped out, saying, as he walked toward Patty's car, "An accident, ma'am? Can I help you?" A spirit of perversity rose in Patty's heart. Without knowing why, she desired to inflict a hurt on the man who was smiling at her. "I beg your pardon," she said, coldly, "I thought you were a stranger." "I'll be a stranger, if you like," and Farnsworth bowed profoundly. "Very well, I wish you would. Pray proceed with your journey," and Patty bowed, and turned her head toward the opposite landscape. "But you would ask a stranger to help you," said Farnsworth, feeling a strong desire to shake the exasperating little pink figure. "Not every stranger," said Patty. "I am waiting to select the one I want." "Oh, DO select me! I'm an awfully nice stranger, and incidentally, I could fix that car of yours in a jiffy." "Did Adele order you to fix this car?" and Patty's blue eyes gave Bill a look of withering scorn. "No, she did not." "Then I can't think of allowing you to do it. I don't want you to do ANYTHING for me except at Adele's orders!" "You little goose! I've a notion to kidnap you, wild roses and all, and take you off in my car." "Did Adele order you to do THAT?" "Patty, stop this nonsense! Of course I know what you mean, that I asked you to dance in Adele's name, instead of in my own." "Yes; I admit I prefer to be asked to dance, personally, and not vi-vike--" "Vicariously is the word you are floundering over," said Farnsworth with utmost gravity; "well, now, I'll fix your car vicariously, or personally, or any old way you like,--if you'll just behave yourself and smile upon me." "I don't want my car fixed." "You prefer to stay here?" "I do." "Alone?" "Alone." Patty tried very hard to look like a stone image but only succeeded in looking like a very pretty pink-cheeked girl. However, at her last word, and when Patty was just about to break into a dimpled smile, Farnsworth achieved a most dignified and conventional bow, replaced his cap, and without another glance at Patty, deliberately got into his car and drove away. He passed Patty, continuing east, and in a few moments was lost to sight, as he flew down the road at a swift pace. "Well!" remarked Miss Patricia Fairfield, aloud. "Well! Hooray for you, Little Billee! I didn't know you had it in you to act like that! But"--and her face clouded a little--"I suppose your head is so full of Kitty Morton that you don't care what becomes of Patty Fairfield! H'm." Patty sat still for some time, thinking over this new episode. She had been rude to Farnsworth, and she had done it purposely. But she was accustomed to having young men laugh at her pertness and chuckle over her sauciness. One or two cars passed her, but as she scrutinised the drivers, they did not seem to be just the type of whom she cared to ask help; but presently a small car came toward her, driven by a frank-looking, pleasant-faced young man. "Hello," he called out with the camaraderie of the road; "had a breakdown? Want some help?" "Yes, sir," and Patty spoke in a timid, subdued voice. "Then I'm your man," he said, as he jumped out and came over to her car. "My name's Peyton," he went on, "Bob Peyton, and very much at your service. What's the matter?" "I don't know, sir," and Patty surrendered to a mischievous impulse; "I'm Mrs. Hemingway's maid; Mrs. Hemingway, sir, she can run the car, but I can't." "Where is Mrs. Hemingway?" "When the car broke down, sir, she said she would go for help. I think she went to that house over there." "H'm! And so you're her maid. Personal maid, do you mean?" "Not exactly, sir. I'm her new waitress, she was just taking me home, sir." Patty didn't know why she was talking this rubbish, but it popped into her head, and the young man's eyes were so twinkly and gay, she felt like playing a joke on him. She thought he would fix her car, and then she would thank him and ride away, without having given her real name. "Ah, my good girl," Mr. Peyton said, "and so you are a waitress. What is your name?" "Suzette, sir. I'm French." "Yes, I can see that by looking at you! Well, Suzerte, are you an experienced waitress?" "Oh, yes, sir. I've worked in the best families and in,--and in hotels and--and--" "And on oceans liners, I presume! Well, Suzette, here's a proposition. My sister wants a waitress, awfully. Hers has just left. If you will go along with me to my sister's house, she will pay you twice what your previous mistress did." Patty appeared to consider the question. "Who is your sister, sir?" "Mrs. Brewster; she lives in that next place, where you see the red brick chimneys." Now Patty knew all about the Brewsters, although she had never met them. They were great friends of the Kenerleys, and indeed the whole house party was invited to dine at the Brewsters' the next night. Adele, too, had spoken about Bob Brewster's brother, and Patty realised they were friends and neighbours. In her present mood, Patty was simply aching for an escapade. And she thought it would be a pretty good practical joke if she should go to Mrs. Brewster's and pretend to be a waitress. She would telephone Adele what she was up to, and they would send another car for her that evening. Perhaps if she had thought another moment she wouldn't have done it, but on the impulse she said. "I'd love to get double wages, sir, and I will go to your sister's, but what about Mrs. Hemingway's car?" "I will take you over to my sister's first,--it's only a short jump, and then I'll come back and see about this car." So Patty got out of her own car and into Bob Peyton's, and in a moment they were spinning along toward the red chimneys. The young man said not a word on the way, and Patty's spirits fell as she began to think she had undertaken a foolish prank, with no fun in it. But she realised that in her role of waitress she could not expect the young man of the house to talk to her, so she sat demurely silent, trying to look as much like a waitress as possible, and succeeding not at all. On reaching the house, which proved to be a large and elaborate affair, Mr. Peyton drove around to a side door. He ushered Patty into a small waiting-room, and went in search of his sister. Patty heard much gay laughter from the drawing-rooms, and suddenly felt that her joke was not as funny as she had expected. But she determined to carry it a little further and see what might happen. A charming young woman soon came to her, and said with a pleasant smile, "Is this Suzette?" "Yes, madame," and Patty's manner was quite all that was to be desired in a waitress. "I am Mrs. Brewster. My brother has told me the circumstances of his finding you. I am not sure that I'm doing right in taking you away from your present employer, but I'm going to be selfish enough to ask you to help me out for a short time, anyway. I have guests for dinner, and my waitress has gone. My guests are really important people and I was at my wits' end how to manage, until you appeared. If you will only stay and wait on my table at dinner, I will let you do as you choose afterwards,--return to Mrs. Hemingway or remain with me." The plan seemed to promise some fun to Patty. She would privately telephone Adele, who would tell Jim. It was to be a joke on the rest of them, especially Kit who had said Patty could never fool him. And ever since the Belle Harcourt joke, which had not fooled Kit after all, she wanted to try again. She would make Adele pretend she thought Patty was lost, and both Kit and Philip would be greatly alarmed. "I will stay for dinner, madame," she said, at last, "and afterward we can decide. You may not like my work." "I'm sure I shall; you seem capable, and my brother tells me you are experienced. I fear though, your gown is a little,--a little--" "I understand, madame. You see, this is my Sunday afternoon frock. If I stay with you, I will send for my black ones. Perhaps, if I took off the lace collar now." "Yes, and the black bow. It is those things that make your garb inappropriate. I will, of course, provide you with an apron and cap. Will you come with me now to the dining-room, and I will show you about your duties." Mrs. Brewster gave Patty full directions about the serving of the dinner and then provided her with a cap and apron. The trifle of muslin and lace, when perched on Patty's gold curls, was really most becoming; and though she removed her collar and bow, the frilled bretelles of the dainty apron were quite as effective, and Patty looked like the kind of waitress that is seen in amateur plays. "If not asking too much, madame," she said, "may I telephone to a friend?" "Is it necessary?" and Mrs. Brewster looked a little surprised. "It would be polite, I think, madame," returned Patty, with eyes cast down, "as it is to some people with whom I expected to take supper. They will wait for me, I fear?" "Ah, yes, Suzette, you are right. You may telephone, but I will tell you frankly, I do not like to have my servants make a practice of telephoning to their friends." "No, madame," and Patty's tone was most humble. To her great delight the telephone was in a small booth by itself, and Patty soon made Adele acquainted with the whole story. Adele was not altogether pleased with the prank, but as she couldn't help herself, she accepted the situation with a good grace, and promised to send for Patty later in the evening. CHAPTER XX THE RIDE HOME Patty stood in the butler's pantry when the guests entered the dining-room for dinner. She was determined to do her part perfectly, for she knew quite well how everything should be done, and she entered into the spirit of it as if it were a play. There were eight at the table, and as Patty tripped in to serve the soup she caught the approving glance of Mr. Bob Peyton. She quickly dropped her eyes and proceeded with her duties quietly and correctly. But as she set down the third soup plate, she chanced to look across the table, and met the calm, straightforward gaze of Bill Farnsworth! She didn't drop the soup-plate or make any awkward movement. Patty was not that sort. She looked down quickly, though it was with difficulty that she prevented the corners of her mouth from breaking into a smile. Immediately she suspected the whole truth. Farnsworth was a guest at this house,--of course he had sent Bob Peyton to her rescue! Or, hadn't he? Could it have been possible that Mr. Peyton found her unexpectedly? She didn't think so. She believed that Little Billee had sent Peyton to her aid, because she had refused his assistance. Of course, Bill had not foreseen the waitress joke, and doubtless he was as much surprised to see her now as she was to see him. Unless Mr. Peyton had told all the guests that he had found a waitress along the road in a stalled motor-car! Well, at any rate, Patty determined to go on with the farce to the best of her ability. If Farnsworth thought he could rattle her, he was very much mistaken. But she would not look at him again. If he should smile at her, she knew she should smile, for she was on the verge of laughing anyway. So the dinner proceeded. Patty did her part beautifully, serving everything just exactly right and doing everything just as it should be done. And not once during the long dinner, did she catch the eye of either Farnsworth or Mr. Peyton. Once or twice she looked at Mrs. Brewster with a note of inquiry in her eyes, and that lady gave an almost imperceptible nod of approval, so that Patty knew everything was going all right. At last it was time for Patty to bring in the finger bowls. They stood neatly ranged in readiness for her, and in each one was a pansy blossom. On the table near the doorway through which Patty went in and out of the dining-room, chanced to be a big bowl of apple blossoms, and Patty appropriated one of these and substituted it for the pansy in the finger bowl which she subsequently placed before Farnsworth. She did not glance at him, but she had the satisfaction of seeing him start with surprise, and then let his glance travel around the table as if assuring himself that he was the only one thus honoured. He tried to catch Patty's eye, but she resolutely refrained from looking at him. After dinner was over, and the guests returned to the drawing-room, Patty remained in the dining-room, wondering what would happen next. In a few moments Mrs. Brewster came running out to her. "You little brick!" she cried; "but, my DEAR child, what MADE you do it?" "What do you mean, madame?" asked Patty, in her most waitress-like voice. "What do I mean? You rogue! You scamp! Mr. Farnsworth has told us all about it! I don't know what you mean by this masquerade. But it's over now, and you must come into the drawing-room at once! Take off that apron and cap, and put on your collar and bow again." "Oh, Mrs. Brewster, I can't go into the drawing-room. All your guests have on their evening things, and this is a morning frock!" "Nonsense, child, come right along in. You look as sweet as a peach." "But I say, Ethel," and Bob Peyton bounced out into the dining-room, "Miss Fairfield hasn't had any dinner, herself," and he smiled at Patty. "You see I know all about you. Farnsworth told the whole story. You are miffed with him, I believe, and wouldn't let him help you. So he came right over here and sent me back to help a fair lady in distress. Why you got up that waitress jargon _I_ don't know." "I don't either," and Patty dimpled roguishly at him. "I have an awful way of cutting up any jinks that happen to pop into my head! You'll forgive me, won't you?" "I never should have forgiven you if you HADN'T!" and Peyton smiled admiringly into the big blue eyes that implored his forgiveness so sweetly. "You DEAR child," Mrs. Brewster rattled on, "to think you haven't had a mite of dinner! Now I will get you something." "No, no, thank you," laughed Patty, "I will confess that I ate all I wanted here in the pantry while the dinner was going on. Cook sent up special portions for me, and I had plenty of time to do justice to them." "I'm glad of that," said Mrs. Brewster, cordially, "and now, Miss Fairfield, come into the drawing-room. I want my guests to know what a little heroine it is who waited on us at dinner. What a girl you are! I've often heard Adele Kenerley speak of you, and I'm so glad to know you. You must come and make me a visit, won't you, to prove that you forgive me for letting you wait on my table?" "The pleasure was mine," returned Patty, dropping a pretty curtsy. Then they all went to the drawing-room, where Patty was praised and applauded till she blushed with confusion. Farnsworth stood leaning against the mantel as she entered the room. He waited till the introductions were over and until the hubbub roused by Patty's story had subsided. Then, as she stood beside her hostess, he went over to her, and said, "What is your greeting for me, Miss Fairfield?" "I gave you my greeting at the table," said Patty, and she flashed a glance at him from beneath her long lashes. "WAS it a greeting?" But before Patty could answer, Mrs. Brewster came to her and said in her enthusiastic way, "Oh, Miss Fairfield, I've been telephoning Mrs. Kenerley and telling her all about it! And what DO you think? She says that she and Jim are the only ones over there who know where you are, and they're pretending they don't know, and all the young people are crazy with anxiety!" "I suppose I ought to go right home," said Patty, "and relieve their anxiety. But I'd like to stay a little while longer. And, yet, I don't want them to know where I've been, until I get there, and tell them myself." "Let them wait," said Bob Peyton. "It won't hurt them to worry a little. Now, Miss Fairfield, we're going to have some music, and perhaps,--as you're such an angel of goodness to us anyway,--perhaps you'll sing for us." They all sang in chorus, and some sang solos, and after awhile it was Patty's turn. She had none of her elaborate music with her, so she told Mrs. Brewster she would sing any songs or ballads that she might happen to have. They found a book of old songs, which Mr. Brewster declared were his favourites, and Patty sang two or three of those. Among them was the old Scotch song of "Loch Lomond." Patty had never seen this, but as Mr. Brewster was fond of it he urged her to try it. The song was not difficult and Patty read easily, so she made a success of it. As she came to the lines, "I'll take the high road and you take the low road," she glanced at Farnsworth, with a half-smile. He did not return the smile, but looked at her steadily and with a slightly puzzled expression. When the song was over, Farnsworth crossed the room and stood by Patty's side. "Why do you want to take the high road, if I take the low road?" he asked her, abruptly. He took no pains to lower his tones, and Bob Peyton who stood near heard what he said. "Because I'm taking the low road, and Miss Fairfield will ride with me, though she won't with you." Peyton's manner was so light and his smile so gay, that Patty answered in the same key, ignoring Farnsworth's serious face. "I like to take the road with Mr. Peyton," she answered gaily, "because it leads to such pleasant places," and she smiled at Mrs. Brewster. "You dear child! You are perfectly fascinating," Mrs. Brewster declared. "There, there, Ethel, you mustn't tell Miss Fairfield what we all think about her," Peyton interrupted. And then Patty was called to the telephone. "You must come home, Patty," Adele's voice said. "All right, I will, Adele," Patty replied; "but tell me this, does Kit think I'm lost, or anything?" "No, Patty, he doesn't; but all the rest do. Kit pretends he thinks something has happened to you, but he told me privately that he knew perfectly well that you were all right, and that Jim and I know where you are! Oh, you can't fool HIM. But Mr. Van Reypen is nearly crazy. He says he doesn't think anything dreadful has happened to you, but he thinks you've had a breakdown and can't get home, and he insists on starting out to look for you. If you don't come right away, Patty dear, I can't keep him here much longer!" "All right, Adele, I'll start at once; truly, I will! Don't send for me. Somebody here will take me over. You know your little runabout is here. I'll come home in that." "Don't drive it yourself." "Of course not. Somebody will drive me. I'll be over in fifteen minutes. Good-bye." Patty hung up the receiver and returned to the drawing-room. "I must go right straight away," she said, smiling at her hostess. "My joke worked a little too well, and unless I appear they're going to send out a search party after me! I told Adele her little car was here. How did it get here, Mr. Peyton?" "I went after it and brought it here; instead of taking it to Mrs. Hammersmith's or whatever her name was!" "You mean Mrs. Hemingway," said Patty, laughing, "my former mistress, who left me in her car to go in search of help." "Yes," said Peyton. "Wasn't it lucky I came along? You little thought Farnsworth sent me, did you?" "Indeed I didn't!" and Patty smiled at him, "and will you take me home in that little car? for I promised Adele I'd go at once." "Of course I will," said Bob Peyton, "if you must go." So Patty was made ready for her drive and Mrs. Brewster insisted she should wear the warm coat as the evening had grown chilly. The whole crowd went out on the steps to see Patty off, and Mr. Brewster tucked her in, while Bob Peyton cranked the car. "All aboard," said Peyton, straightening himself up, at last; and then, somehow,--and Patty never knew how it happened,--somebody jumped into the seat beside her, somebody grasped the steering-wheel, and the little car flew down the road and out at the gate, and even before Patty looked up to see the face of the man beside her, she KNEW it was not Mr. Peyton! She looked up, and saw smiling at her the blue eyes of Bill Farnsworth. Mrs. Brewster had tied a chiffon scarf over Patty's hair, and as Patty looked up in Farnsworth's face, the moonlight illumined her own face until she looked more like a fairy than a human being. "Apple Blossom!" said Big Bill, under his breath. "I never shall find a more perfect name for you than that! Now, tell me what it's all about. Hurry up, we haven't much time." "But--but I'm so surprised! Why are YOU here, instead of Mr. Peyton?" "Because I wanted to ride home with you." "So did he." Farnsworth shrugged his broad shoulders, as if to say that what Peyton wanted was a matter of utter indifference to him. "Go on," he said briefly, "tell me what it's all about." "I don't know what you mean! What's all WHAT about?" "The way you're treating me. The last time I saw you was last winter; at the Hepworths' wedding, to be exact. We were friends then,--good friends. Then I came up here,--yesterday. I threw your own flowers in at your window, and you came and smiled at me and said you were glad to see me. Didn't you?" "Yes," said Patty, in a faint little voice. "Yes, you DID. And then,--then, Apple Blossom, when you came down stairs later, playing May Queen, you scarcely looked at me! you scarcely spoke to me! You wouldn't dance with me!" "But you only asked me because--" "Don't tell that story again! Because Adele told me to ask you, is utter rubbish, and you know it! That isn't why you wouldn't dance with me. No-sir-ee! You had some other reason, some foolish crazy reason, in your foolish crazy little noddle! Now out with it! Tell me what it is! Own up, Posy-Face. You heard something or imagined something about me, that doesn't please your ladyship, and I have a right to know what it is. At least, I'm going to know, whether I have a right or not. What is it or who is it that has interfered with our friendship?" Patty looked up at Bill and read determination in his face. She knew it was no time for chaffing or foolishness. So she only said, as she looked straight at him,--"Miss Morton." "Miss Morton! for Heaven's sake, what DO you mean?" "The girl you're engaged to." "The girl I'm engaged to! Patty, HAVE you taken leave of your senses?" "Well, anyway, if you're not engaged to her, you're terribly in love with her! Your whole life and love is bound up in her!" "Patty, I've heard there is a lunatic asylum over near Scottsville, and I'm going to take you right straight over there, unless you stop talking this rubbish! Now, if you're still possessed of the power of rational conversation, tell me who is this Miss Morton!" "Miss Kate Morton,--the lady you're in love with." Patty's spirits had begun to rise, and as she said this she looked up at Farnsworth, with demure face, but with a mouth dimpling into laughter. "Kate Morton! Why, I haven't seen her for ten years!" "Was it a hopeless affection, then? Are you only true to her memory?" "Patty, BEHAVE yourself! Who mentioned Kate Morton's name to you?" "Kitty! You always call her Kitty." Farnsworth chuckled. "Call her KITTY! why, I'd sooner call the Flatiron Building 'Kitty.' It would be about as appropriate." "Well, anyway, you told Adele that you loved Kitty with all your heart and soul." A great light seemed to break upon Farnsworth. He looked at Patty for a moment, with slowly broadening smile, and then he burst into irrepressible laughter. "Oh, Patty!" he exclaimed, between his spasms of mirth; "Kitty! oh, Kitty! Patty!" Patty sat looking at him in stern silence. "I should think, Mr. Farnsworth, if any one ought to go to a lunatic asylum it might as well be you! You sit there like an imbecile saying, oh, Patty! oh, Kitty!" "I don't know which I love most, you or Kitty!" and again Farnsworth went off in a roar of laughter. "I don't care to be mentioned in connection with Miss Morton," and Patty tried her best to look like a tragedy queen. "But it ISN'T Miss Morton, it's Kitty CLIVE." "Adele said she couldn't remember her last name. But it doesn't matter to ME whether it's Miss Morton or Miss Clive." "Oh, DON'T, Patty! You'll be the death of me! Why, Apple Blossom, Miss Clive,--Kitty Clive,--is--my horse!" Patty hesitated a moment, and then gave in, and laughed too. "You must be AWFULLY fond of your horse," she said at last. "I am; Kitty Clive is a wonder, and last summer we rode thousands of miles over the prairies. There NEVER was such a horse as my Kitty! And I remember I DID rave about her to Adele. But Adele MUST have known what I was talking about." "No, she didn't. She thought it was a girl, and she told me not to--not to--" Patty floundered a little, and then concluded her sentence, "not to interfere." "And, so, Apple Blossom, you were cool to me,--you were cruel to me,--you had no more use for me whatever; because you thought I liked another girl?" "Well--I didn't want to interfere." "You BLESSED Posy-Face! do you know what this MEANS to me? It means that you CARE--" "No, I DON'T, Bill! I don't care if you like all the girls in the world. Only, you mustn't like them better than you do me." "As if I COULD like anybody better than I do you!" "And then we're friends again?" "Friends!" "Yes, friends. Don't you want to be friends with me, Little Billee?" "Apple Blossom, I want to be to you anything and everything that you will let me be." "Then we will be friends. Chums and comrades and good, GOOD friends." Patty put a little pink hand out from the big coat sleeve and Bill clasped it in his great warm hand. "Chums,--Apple Blossom,--and comrades, and good, GOOD friends!" 
45908	----	PEGGY RAYMOND'S WAY _Or_ BLOSSOM TIME AT FRIENDLY TERRACE _The Friendly Terrace Series_ BY HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH [Illustration] _The Girls of Friendly Terrace_ $1.65 _Peggy Raymond's Vacation_ 1.65 _Peggy Raymond's School Days_ 1.65 _The Friendly Terrace Quartette_ 1.65 _Peggy Raymond's Way_ 1.75 [Illustration] THE PAGE COMPANY 53 Beacon Street, Boston, Mass. [Illustration: PEGGY RAYMOND] _The Friendly Terrace Series_ PEGGY RAYMOND'S WAY Or, Blossom Time at Friendly Terrace BY HARRIET LUMMIS SMITH Author of "The Girls of Friendly Terrace," "Peggy Raymond's Vacation," "Peggy Raymond's School Days," "The Friendly Terrace Quartette," etc. ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK T. MERRILL [Illustration] BOSTON [Illustration] THE PAGE COMPANY [Illustration] MDCCCCXXII _Copyright, 1922_, BY THE PAGE COMPANY _All rights reserved_ Made in U. S. A. First Impression, August, 1922 PRINTED BY C. H. SIMONDS COMPANY BOSTON, MASS., U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I WHAT'S IN A NAME? 1 II A TELEPHONE PARTY 22 III A TRIUMPH OF ART 39 IV AN AFTERNOON CALL 59 V THE RUMMAGE SALE 69 VI PRISCILLA HAS A SECRET 85 VII THE FRIENDLY TERRACE ORPHANAGE 98 VIII THE LONGEST WEEK ON RECORD 113 IX THE MOST WONDERFUL THING IN THE WORLD 129 X MISTRESS AND MAID 143 XI QUITE INFORMAL 156 XII GOOD-BY 169 XIII PEGGY GIVES A DINNER PARTY 186 XIV AT THE FOOT-BALL GAME 201 XV THE CURE 215 XVI DELIVERANCE 230 XVII PEGGY COMES TO A DECISION 241 XVIII A PARTIAL ECLIPSE 252 XIX THE END OF SCHOOL LIFE 268 XX A SURPRISE 284 XXI A MISSING BRIDE 296 XXII A JULY WEDDING 313 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE PEGGY RAYMOND _Frontispiece_ "'COME RIGHT IN,' SAID AMY WITH A MISLEADING AIR OF CORDIALITY" 9 "'A HUNDRED DOLLARS AIN'T ANY TOO MUCH TO PAY FOR HAVING YOUR LIFE SAVED'" 127 "SHE RAISED HER EYES AND MET HIS" 184 "PEGGY LOOKED AT HIM WITHOUT REPLYING" 247 Peggy Raymond's Way CHAPTER I WHAT'S IN A NAME? IT was the first day of the spring vacation, and Amy Lassell had spent it sewing. To be frank, it had not measured up to her idea of a holiday. Self-indulgence was Amy's besetting weakness. Her dearest friend, Peggy Raymond, was never happy unless she was busy at something, but Amy loved the luxury of idleness. Yet although indolence appealed so strongly to Amy's temperament, to do her justice she was generally able to turn a deaf ear to its call. The first summer after America's entry into the war she had enlisted in the Land Army along with Peggy and Priscilla, and then in the fall had taken up her work at the local Red Cross headquarters, serving in an unpaid position as conscientiously as if she had received a salary and was depending on it for her bread and butter. After a strenuous year with the Red Cross, Amy had entered college with Ruth Wylie. Neither girl had expected to enter till after the close of the war, and Amy was continually harping upon the respect which the young and unsophisticated Freshmen were bound to feel for classmates of such advanced years. But Nelson Hallowell's discharge from the service had altered the aspect of affairs. Ruth had pledged herself to keep Nelson's position for him till he should return, and Amy had promised to wait for Ruth. The wound which had kept Nelson in the hospital less than a month had nevertheless incapacitated him from military service. Heavy-hearted, he had returned to his job at the book store, while Ruth and Amy had immediately made their plans for entering college just two years behind Peggy and Priscilla. After her months of hard study, the first day of the spring vacation found Amy at the sewing machine, which in itself was sufficient proof that, whatever her natural bias in the direction of indolence, her will was more than a match for that tendency. As a matter of fact she was the only one of the Friendly Terrace quartette to spend the day in unremitting industry. Peggy and Ruth had gone off with Graham for the day. Priscilla was entertaining an out-of-town guest. But Amy, resolution manifest in every line of her plump little figure, was sewing for dear life. Though the armistice had been signed months before, there still remained foes to fight, as the girls had promptly discovered. The reaction from economy and hard work had come in the shape of an orgy of extravagance and frivolity. The high war prices were continually going higher, as dealers realized that people would get what they wanted regardless of price. The four Friendly Terrace girls, after an afternoon of shopping which had ended in the purchase of a box of hair-pins and two spools of thread, had returned home to hold a council of war. "The only way to bring prices down is to stop buying things," declared Peggy, with all the authority of a college Junior. "I don't know as I have anything to make over, but if I have, nothing new for me this spring." Amy sighed. "I'd just been luxuriating in the thought of a lot of new dresses," she said mournfully. "Don't you know how after you've been dieting, all at once you're hungry for creamed chicken and pineapple fritters, and chocolate with whipped cream, and strawberry sundaes, all rolled into one. And that's just the way I feel about clothes. But I suppose it will end in my making over my blue taffeta." "I've two or three summer dresses that will do very well if I make the skirts scanty," said Ruth. "They're too full for this season." They talked on seriously, planning their little economies as if they expected unaided to bring down the high cost of living. They were not the sort of girls who follow the crowd unthinkingly, nor had any of them contracted the fatal habit of asking, "What can one do?" The program they outlined would have resulted in a general lowering of prices in a month's time if every one had agreed to it. And it did not occur to them that public indifference excused them from doing their little part toward combating a serious evil. That was how it happened that Amy Lassell had spent the spring day sewing. The blue taffeta had been ripped and pressed in anticipation of the vacation leisure, and as soon as the breakfast dishes were out of the way Amy had commandeered the dining-room table as a cutting table. With the help of a paper pattern she had remodeled the taffeta according to the latest dictates of fashion. Caution suggested that it would be advisable to wait for assistance in the fitting, but having basted the breadths together and surveyed her reflection in the mirror, Amy had been so favorably impressed that she had gone to work energetically stitching up seams. Like many people whose natural tendency is in the direction of indolence, Amy was capable of relentless industry, almost as though she were afraid that if once she halted she might not get her courage to the point of starting again. She swallowed a hasty luncheon and rushed back to her sewing. Her eyes grew tired, her back ached. She became nervous and hot and impatient, so that breaking a thread or dropping a thimble seemed almost a calamity. And yet she did not stop. It was after five when she laid her work reluctantly aside. Amy's responsibilities for the day were not limited to the blue taffeta. As in many another household, the domestic service problem had become acute in the Lassell establishment during the last few years. Incapable servants demanding preposterous wages, had been replaced by others equally incompetent, and there had been interims when it had been difficult to secure so much as a laundress. Amy and her mother had learned a good many short cuts to achievement, and had accepted the frequent necessity of doing their own work with a philosophy of which they would have been incapable in pre-war times. On this first day of vacation Amy was without a servant, and without a mother, as well; for Mrs. Lassell had left home that morning not to return till nearly bed-time. At five o'clock the realization that she must prepare her father's supper forced itself on Amy's attention. It was not a formidable responsibility, for at breakfast that morning Mr. Lassell had informed her that he was to take a customer out to lunch and would be satisfied with very little for the evening meal. Amy meant to take him at his word. There was cold meat, quite enough for two, she thought; and some potatoes to fry, and her father did not care much for dessert. Accordingly, Amy had waited till five o'clock before she laid down her sewing, and then she realized for the first time how very tired she was. A glimpse of herself in the mirror emphasized her certainty that it was high time to stop. Amy's fair hair was disheveled, her plump cheeks brilliantly pink. There were dark lines under her eyes, eloquent of weariness. Amy regarded herself with extreme disfavor. "Looks as if I'd taken up rouge in my old age. And I positively must do my hair over. I can't ask even poor patient daddy to look at such a frowsy head all through supper. O, well, he won't mind, if I am a little late." Encouraging herself with this reflection, Amy bathed her burning cheeks, combed her hair hastily, and slipped into a little gingham gown which, if somewhat faded and passée, had at least the merit of being fresh and clean. It buttoned in the back, and by virtue of much twisting and stretching Amy finally succeeded in securing the middle button which for a time had defied her efforts. And just as she did so, the door-bell rang. [Illustration: "'COME RIGHT IN,' SAID AMY WITH A MISLEADING AIR OF CORDIALITY"] Amy went placidly downstairs. She had no apprehensions about the door-bell. She took it for granted that it was somebody to collect for the newspaper, or an old-clothes man, or else a friend so intimate that she could ask her into the kitchen while she made her supper preparations. As she reached the door she realized her mistake. Of the two young people waiting admission she had met the sister several times. The brother she knew merely by sight, for the family had moved into the neighborhood only recently. For a moment Amy's mood was one of unqualified dismay. She wanted to turn and run. With lightning-like rapidity she compared her faded gingham with the stylish frock setting off the girlish, graceful figure of Hildegarde Carey. And Hildegarde's brother, Robert, if looking a trifle bored, was immaculately attired. Amy recollected that in her absorption with the blue taffeta she had neglected to dust the living room that morning. Amy opened the door with a smile that poorly concealed her anguish of spirit. Her flickering hope that Hildegarde had made a mistake in the number was dissipated by the composure of Hildegarde's greeting. The two young people entered, as Amy realized, without waiting to be asked, and in the hall Hildegarde performed the ceremony of introduction. "Come right in," said Amy with a misleading air of cordiality. She wondered if she had better apologize for the undusted living room, but decided against it. Perhaps they would overlook it, though Robert Carey impressed her as one who would notice the least little thing out of the way. Amy decided that the young fellow's handsome face was almost spoiled by its discontented expression. Another shock came when she said to Hildegarde, "Let me take your coat." She expected Hildegarde to reply that the coat was light and that she did not mind it for the few minutes she had to stay; but on the contrary she not only removed her coat, but slipped off her gloves, unpinned her hat, and added it to the collection Amy carried into the hall with a growing sense of stupefaction. "Any one would think," she told herself, "that she was an old friend come to spend the day." Perhaps Amy's perplexity partly explained the fact that the next half hour dragged. Amy was not her usual entertaining self. She thought of the dust showing gray against the shining mahogany of the piano. She thought of her faded gingham. She heard herself talking stupidly, unnaturally, and chiefly about the weather. Robert Carey looked more bored than ever. At half past six her father came in. He glanced at the group in the living room as he entered, and Amy hastily summoned him. Her guests must realize that when the man of the house came home it was time to leave. Amy introduced her father, pulled out an arm chair invitingly, and Mr. Lassell seated himself. It was from him that his daughter had inherited her sense of humor, and on this occasion he made himself much more entertaining than Amy had done. The conversation became almost animated. The clock in the hall struck seven, tolling out the notes sonorously. Every one seemed to be listening to it, and Amy flushed. It was almost as if the clock had said, "Time to go home! Time to go home!" And then to her horror her father turned toward her inquiringly. "Hadn't you better put on the supper, my dear?" he asked. "Your friends will be getting hungry." For an agonized half minute Amy vainly tried to think of something she could say to soften the blow. She was magnanimous enough to acquit her father of all blame. Seeing them sitting there at that hour, especially as Hildegarde had taken off her hat, he had innocently assumed that they had been invited to dinner. And of course his blunder was equivalent to saying that they had stayed longer than was proper or desirable. Then Amy's head whirled again. Her guests did not spring to their feet as she had expected them to do, protesting that they had not dreamed it was so late. Instead they sat quite still, only murmuring a polite disclaimer of being hungry. With the force of a blow the realization came over Amy that they had accepted her father's tacit invitation. They were going to stay to supper. Amy rose, murmuring something unintelligible, and got out of the room quickly. O, if Peggy were only home, Peggy who had such a faculty for evolving something savory and appetizing from the least promising materials. Amy's cooking until recently had been confined to chafing-dish delicacies and candy. It was too late, she realized, to add to her scanty stores. She must feed four people with what had seemed barely enough for two, and must do it quickly. Mechanically she lighted the oven of the gas stove. She remembered there was a can of tomato soup in the house, and the cold meat, sliced very thin, might possibly pass muster. She herself would refuse meat. Luckily there was a generous plateful of potatoes. Creamed and with a little cheese grated over them, they would be appetizing--and filling. She could make baking powder biscuit,--Amy excelled in baking powder biscuit--and there was honey to eat with them. For dessert she would fall back on preserved peaches and some left-over fruit cake. It was a queer, hit-or-miss meal, not a company repast in any sense of the word, but the best she could do under the circumstances. It was while the biscuits were browning in the oven, and Amy was hastily setting the table for four, that her native common-sense re-asserted itself. "After all," her thoughts ran, "if people take pot luck, they can't expect to find things just as they would be if they were especially invited. They've seemed real friendly and if they like me well enough to stay to a pick-up supper, the first time they've ever set foot in my home, I ought to meet them half way. I can't give them much to eat, but I don't need to be quite as stupid as I've been for the last hour." And so it came about that when the guests were summoned to the dining room, they encountered a very different hostess from the one who had entertained them previously, a hostess who twinkled and sparkled and kept them laughing. It seemed to Amy that, when she had removed the soup plates and brought in the sliced meat and creamed potatoes, she had seen an expression of astonishment flicker across Hildegarde's face, but she resolutely put the thought aside and continued to make herself agreeable. The baking-powder biscuits had risen nobly to the occasion. Amy thought them the best she had ever made. And she saw with relief that the bored expression had disappeared from Robert Carey's face, and that he really seemed to be enjoying himself. Then suddenly into the midst of all this gaiety, Hildegarde dropped a bomb in the shape of a question. "What happened to detain Isabel?" "Isabel?" "Yes, Isabel Vincent, you know." "I'm afraid," Amy hesitated, "that I don't know any one of that name." Apparently the meal had come to a full stop. "Why," Hildegarde cried, "the Isabel Vincent who attended the Pelham school when I was there." She was so insistent that Amy unconsciously became apologetic. "I'm sorry but I can't say I remember such a girl. Did she ever say she had met me?" "Why," Hildegarde almost screamed, "didn't you ask us here to-night to meet her?" "To meet Isabel Vincent! Why, I never heard of her." "There's some mistake," exclaimed Robert. He had just helped himself to a fifth baking-powder biscuit, but he laid it down unbuttered. "You've made some mistake," he informed his sister. Hildegarde ignored him and addressed herself to Amy. "Didn't you telephone me this morning?" "I--why, to tell the truth, no I didn't." "Then it was a disgusting practical joke. Some one called me up about eleven o'clock and said she was Amy Lassell, and that Isabel Vincent was to stop here twenty-four hours on her way to New York from her home in Chicago. And then she invited Bob and me to dinner to meet Isabel. There wasn't anything in her manner to give me an idea it was a hoax." But Amy had found the clew. "O, did Isabel come from Chicago?" she cried. "Then I know. It was Avery Zall who telephoned you." "But I don't know her." "She went away to boarding school--yes, it was the Pelham school, I'm sure. And I know she has a friend from Chicago visiting her. Probably the Vincent girl spoke of knowing you, and Avery called you up. O, dear!" groaned Amy with a sudden change of countenance. "What's the matter?" demanded Bob Carey, still ignoring his biscuit. "I've cheated you out of a regular feast. The Zalls have a wonderful cook. You'd have had broiled chicken and fresh mushrooms and I don't know what beside, and I've given you cold meat and--" "You've given us the best biscuits I ever ate," said Bob, and buttered his fifth, but his sister had turned pale. "I don't believe any one ever did such a dreadful thing before. Here we descended on you without warning and simply forced you to invite us to stay--" "Happy escape, I think," said Bob. "If there's anything I hate, it's these social stunts Hildegarde's crazy about." "The only dreadful part," said Amy, reassuring the distressed Hildegarde, "is that you've exchanged a perfectly gorgeous dinner for a pick-up supper." "But what must Miss--Miss Zall think of me?" "She must know there's some mistake. Probably they're not waiting dinner any longer, for it's after eight o'clock." "O," groaned Hildegarde, "I never was so mortified. What am I going to do?" "It seems to me you'd better finish your supper, such as it is," suggested Amy. "And then you can call up Avery Zall and explain your mistake. She'll see that the names sound alike over the phone. And after that there'll be plenty of time to see your friends." "Seems to me," suggested Bob, "that as long as we've started the evening here, we might as well put it through." His eyes met Amy's with a twinkle that was like a spark to tinder. Amy struggled for a moment, then gave way to peals of laughter. "O," she gasped, when at length she could find her voice, "What must you have thought of me, inviting you to dinner and then coming down in this old, faded gingham." "And what must you have thought of _me_," Hildegarde cried, "coming at such an hour and calmly taking off my hat." "The dust was thick over everything," giggled Amy. "I've been sewing every minute all day long, and I warned father to expect a light meal." "I should have known I had made a mistake," Hildegarde lamented, "when you never said a word about Isabel. I don't know how I could have been so ridiculously stupid." But for all her dismay, she laughed. Indeed if laughter aids digestion, there was little danger that Amy's biscuits would disagree with any one, even Robert, who had dispatched such an extravagant number. While Amy cleared the table and brought in the dessert, Hildegarde went to the phone and explained matters to a young woman whose preliminary stiffness melted as Hildegarde reviewed the situation. And then Hildegarde hurried back to inform her brother that they must go over as soon as he had finished. "She was as sweet as she could be, but she said they had waited dinner an hour." "So it's up to you to 'gobble and git,'" quoted Amy, dishing out the preserves with a lavish hand. "I'm not going to be hurried over that fruit cake," declared Bob. "It carries me back to the merry Christmas time." "It ought to, for it's a Christmas cake, but it's been kept in a tin box with an apple and I hope it isn't dry. It was all I had in the cake line." Amy paused to laugh again. "I really must stop," she exclaimed, wiping her moist eyes. "They say that laughing at meal-time makes one fat, and I don't dare risk another pound." "Can't have too much of a good thing," declared Bob Carey with a significant glance at the flushed face. Strictly speaking, Amy was perhaps the least pretty of the four Friendly Terrace girls; but good humor has a charm, and a face radiant with fun can hold its own against discontented beauty any day. There was such frank admiration in the look the young man bent upon her, that Amy's cheeks grew hot with an unwonted self-consciousness. The brother and sister left with evident reluctance. "Now we've had dinner with you," said Hildegarde, "you must dine with us very soon." "Oh, this doesn't deserve to be counted," Amy laughed. "I'll ask you again some day and show you what I can do if I really try." "No, don't," pleaded Bob. "Have us again when you're going to have biscuit. It's so much jollier to be informal than to work the society racket." And then Hildegarde carried him off, protesting that, if they didn't hurry, Avery Zall would not believe a word of her excuse. Amy found her father clearing the table. She put on her long apron and joined him, chattering excitedly as she worked. "No full garbage can to-night, Daddy. Every dish is scraped clean. I suppose I ought to feel crushed over setting such a meal before people I hardly knew, but somehow I don't." Her father smiling, responsive to her high spirits, shook his head. "It isn't much to set good food before folks, Amy. Any waiter in a restaurant can do that. Give people the best of yourself and you don't need to worry about your bill of fare." CHAPTER II A TELEPHONE PARTY HOWEVER much the rest of the year may drag, the spring vacation always ignores the speed limit. What with dress-making and shopping, and going over one's bureau drawers and closets in anticipation of the spring cleaning, and trying to do the things one has been postponing till this week of leisure, and taking advantage of all the pleasures that start up like mushrooms, twenty-four hours in a day are all too few. When Priscilla dropped in on Peggy to suggest going out into the country for wild flowers, the Monday afternoon that closed the holiday season, Peggy hesitated. "I'd love it. I don't feel that spring is really here until I have picked a few violets and spring beauties. But I was thinking of going to see Mary Donaldson." "Why, is anything the matter?" Priscilla asked. Peggy stared, "Matter! You know that since that attack of inflammatory rheumatism she hasn't walked--" "But I meant anything new." "O, there's nothing _new_, not as far as I know. I haven't been in to see Mary since--O, dear, I'm afraid it's been an age." "I only meant," explained Priscilla reasonably, "that if Mary's no worse off than she has been for the last year and a half, there's no especial point in taking to-day to go to see her. You could go any afternoon." "I could," owned Peggy with a significant inflection. "And it's such a perfect day to go after wild flowers." Peggy looked from the window. The blue sky seemed to smile an invitation. Priscilla's argument all at once appeared unanswerable. "Yes, isn't it lovely!" Peggy drew a long breath. "Too lovely to stay indoors. I'll go to see Mary some stormy afternoon when she needs cheering up." And now that her decision was made, the thought of Mary Donaldson passed completely from Peggy's mind. She had never been particularly intimate with this class-mate, and had it not been for Mary's illness it is unlikely that the two girls would have seen much of each other after high school days. But the winter of Peggy's Freshman year, an attack of rheumatism had left Mary seriously crippled. Though now she was able to be dressed and to hobble from her bed to a chair by the window, getting downstairs was too difficult a process to be considered, except on very especial occasions. With all the yearnings for life and joy that characterize the normal girl, Mary was condemned to vibrate between her bed and chair. It was not strange that with all her sympathy Peggy had found it difficult to see much of her invalid friend. The demands made by the war upon the scanty leisure of a college student left her little time she could call her own. She had worked making surgical dressings under the Red Cross, and had given much time to collecting and mending worn garments for the destitute children of Belgium and France. She had subscribed for a bond in each of the Government loans, and to pay for these with her own earnings had required hard work and careful financing. On the whole, though Peggy was sorry not to have seen more of Mary Donaldson, her conscience acquitted her of neglect. The season was advanced and the girls had no difficulty in filling their baskets with the early arrivals among the wild flowers, and as their baskets filled, they feasted their eyes on the myriad indeterminate shades of a spring landscape, and drank in the exhilarating odors of damp earth, warmed by the April sun. When Peggy's wrist-watch warned them it was time to start for home, they went reluctantly, with an unreasonable feeling that in returning to town they were leaving the spring behind them. At their transfer point a sign in a drug store window caught Amy's eye. "Ice cream soda with fresh fruit," she read impressively. "I wondered what it was I wanted. I've lost a pound and a half since vacation began, so I dare to risk one." "I haven't been buying sodas, because I needed the money for something else," said Peggy. "But this is the last day of vacation and I believe I'll celebrate." They filed in and gave their orders. Peggy had just taken the first sip of a ravishing concoction, whose formula would have given a dyspeptic heart-failure, when at the opposite counter she spied a stout, middle-aged woman who was regarding her with savage intentness. Her features were familiar, in spite of a look of hostility Peggy was not accustomed to see on the faces that looked in her direction. For some minutes Peggy was frankly puzzled. Not till she was finishing her soda did she remember where she had seen that heavy, lowering face before. But with the recollection, she slipped from her stool and crossed to the opposite side of the room. "I've been trying to think where I've seen you before, but now I remember. You're the Miss Potts who takes care of Mary Donaldson, aren't you?" Rather ungraciously Miss Potts admitted her identity. She was not a trained nurse, for in Mary's case skilled hands were no longer necessary. Miss Potts was big and strong and kind of heart, though at the moment her expression was far from suggesting the latter characteristic. A little puzzled by the woman's manner, Peggy continued, "I've been wanting to see Mary for ever so long. How is she?" "Well, she ain't doing very well, and no wonder. Old folks get kind of used to the way things are in this world, and it doesn't surprise 'em none to be forgotten. But it's sort of hard on the young." Peggy flushed hotly. She realized that Miss Potts' disagreeable manner was a deliberate expression of resentment. "I'm sorry that I haven't been able to see more of Mary this last year," she said with gentle dignity, "but I've been very busy, and it's such a long way over here." "I s'pose it's a long way to your telephone, too." "Telephone!" Peggy repeated. She looked at Miss Potts so blankly that Mary's caretaker had no alternative but to explain. "Her pa had it put in for a surprise. It's right beside her bed, and the little thing it stands on moves 'round, so she can talk without any trouble. He thought it would be a comfort to her, for she could chat with all her friends, and sort of keep up with things." "Why, yes," said Peggy, feeling uncomfortable. "I should think she'd get lots of fun out of it." She was remembering that Mary had called her up--it was weeks or months, or was it fully a year before--to tell her about the new telephone. There had been an eagerness in Mary's voice that she remembered vividly. Peggy had agreed that it was "splendid," without realizing just what this link with the outside world would mean to a girl shut out from so much. Miss Potts indulged in an unmusical laugh. "Oh, yes," she said. "She gets lots of fun. Every now and then she gets a call. There's so many new girls on the telephone exchanges nowadays, that they're bound to give her number every little while. And then she tells 'em it's the wrong number and rings off." Peggy's face was a study. "Do you mean that she--that no one--" The aggressiveness suddenly disappeared from Miss Potts' manner. Her eyes filled with tears. "It's the heart-breakingest thing I ever want to see," she cried. "She was so hopeful at first. As soon as that telephone was put in, she called up everybody she knew, to tell 'em about it. And then she'd lie there smiling, watching that phone, as if it was something out of a fairy book and was going to bring her all kinds of happiness." Peggy's imagination was a vivid one. As Miss Potts spoke, she could almost see Mary's smiling, expectant face. A pang of sympathy stabbed her tender heart. "The very first time that telephone rang it was somebody that wanted the butcher; and the second time, a girl, who was coming over to spend the afternoon with her, rang up to say her aunt was in town and she was going to the matinée instead. I don't think Mary ever felt the same about her phone after that start-out. When it rang, she looked kind of scared, as if she was afraid she was going to hear something disappointing." "But surely," Peggy exclaimed, "she must have lots of calls from her friends. I--why, I know I haven't called very often, but that was because I was always hoping to get time to go over to see her." There was such genuine distress in her voice that Miss Potts was visibly melted. "It's a busy world," she said, "for young folks and old folks, too, and I guess on the whole it's lucky it is so easy for us to forget. But all the same," she ended, with a shake of her head, "it's pretty hard on the ones who get forgotten." The clerk brought out the prescription for which Miss Potts had been waiting, and Peggy rejoined her friends. For a moment she considered sending her flowers to Mary, but a fear that to Miss Potts this might seem an effort to evade a more exacting expression of sympathy led her to relinquish her purpose. Her crest-fallen manner revealed that something was wrong, and as they left the drug store her friends resentfully demanded an explanation. "Peggy, what was that woman saying to you?" Priscilla was bristling like a mother hen who sees one of her brood attacked. In a few words Peggy explained. Her three listeners exchanged conscience-stricken glances. "It seems rather mean that you should be the one to be scolded," said Amy, "when you have gone to see Mary oftener than all the three of us together." "That isn't saying much," Peggy stated gloomily. "I haven't been near her for months." "But you haven't had time," cried Ruth, slipping her hand through her friend's arm. "No, I think I really haven't," Peggy said frankly. "But I certainly have had time to go to the telephone." Then suddenly her face brightened. "I know what we'll do, girls; we'll give her a telephone party." "A telephone party," Amy repeated. "What do you mean by that?" The car for which they were waiting came along before Peggy could answer, and she finished her explanation hanging to a strap, while her three companions, similarly supported and swaying violently with each jerk of the car, listened absorbedly. "College opens to-morrow, and the first day is never so very busy, so we'll call Mary up every hour. My hour will be between nine and ten. Priscilla, you take the hour between ten and eleven; and Amy, you can have the next one. I think we'd better omit the hour between twelve and one, for she'll probably be eating luncheon then. Ruth, you may call between one and two." "But you said every hour, Peggy. Don't you think it would be rather over-doing it to call twice in one day?" "I'm going to get hold of some of the other girls who were in Mary's class in high school, Elinor Hewitt, and Anna Joyce, and Blanche Eastabrook--" "She's in New York." "Well, Marian O'Neil isn't. And I'll see Aimee Dubois at college and tell her about it. Mary's telephone is going to work overtime to make up for its long idleness." "What I don't understand," said Priscilla, "is if Mary was so lonely, why didn't she call us up?" "I can understand that easy enough," replied Peggy. "She called us up to tell us she had a phone, and after that, it was our move." "And I suppose," suggested Amy, "that there isn't a great deal to talk about, when you don't get out of an upstairs room from one month to another." "I suppose not," Priscilla acknowledged. Everything considered, it was a rather crest-fallen quartette of girls who returned from their afternoon's outing. It was just half past nine next day when Mary Donaldson's telephone rang. "I'm not too early, am I?" said a cheery voice. Mary, who had taken up the receiver with the air of uncertainty to which Miss Potts had referred, uttered a joyful exclamation. "Why, it's Peggy Raymond!" "Yes, it's Peggy. I wanted to tell you about something perfectly killing that happened to Amy the other day." Peggy had made up her mind to ignore the months of silence. Explanations would not help matters, for nothing could explain away the fact that in the whirl and rush of their over-full lives they had, for the time being, quite forgotten Mary. The story of Amy's impromptu dinner party proved as entertaining as Peggy had anticipated. Mary Donaldson laughed as she had not laughed for months. And in the next room Miss Potts, listening, made strange grimaces that seemed only distantly related to smiles. When the story was finished, Mary had some questions to ask. "Who are the Careys? There used to be a Carey girl in school--" "I'm pretty sure they aren't related to her. They come from some place in New York and they've lived in our neighborhood less than a year. And do you know, Mary, we think Amy must have made quite an impression on the brother--Bob. He's called on her twice since, and he's asked her to go to the Glee Club concert." "He has!" Romance dies hard in the heart of a girl. Poor Mary, shut away from contact with young life, was thrilled by the suggestion of an incipient love-story. "Is he nice looking?" she asked eagerly. "Well, I've not met him yet, but I've noticed him passing several times, and I thought he was quite handsome. And Hildegarde is an awfully stylish girl, though I'd hardly call her pretty." In ten minutes Peggy announced that she must go to a history lecture and rang off. She was smiling as she went to class, and wishing she could be an unseen listener to the conversations scheduled to take place in Mary's room every hour in the day. As Peggy had promised, the bell of Mary's telephone worked over-time. The Friendly Terrace girls were supplemented by former school-mates in sufficient numbers to keep up the excitement till half past eight that evening. Most of the girls, whose memories Peggy had undertaken to jolt, were conscience-stricken when they realized how they had neglected Mary. And they readily fell in with Peggy's suggestion. "Even if we can't get over there very often," urged Peggy, "we can use the telephone. Five minutes talk every few days will make Mary feel that she's in touch with us still. It doesn't seem to me I could bear feeling forgotten." Peggy did not realize that, even with Mary's disability, she would have made herself the center of some circle; and in her failure to understand that Mary's rather colorless personality was in part responsible for what had happened, Peggy was the more severe upon herself for what now seemed to her inexplicable and inexcusable neglect. Thanks to the sudden activity of Peggy's conscience, Mary Donaldson heard more outside news in one day than she had heard in the three months previous. And as the trouble with most young people is want of thought, rather than want of heart, few of the girls were satisfied with chatting five or ten minutes over the telephone. They promised to come to see her soon. They offered to lend her books or mail her magazines. One girl suggested that she would bring over some of her victrola records for Mary to hear, and another informed her that as soon as the lilies of the valley were out she should have a cluster. All at once Mary Donaldson's friends were remembering her in earnest. When Marian O'Neil rang off at twenty minutes of nine, Mary hesitated a moment and then called Peggy Raymond. And Peggy who was giving her studies that half-hearted attention customary on the first day after vacation, whether the student is in the primary grade or a college Junior, came running downstairs when Dick shouted her name. "Hello--Hello--Why, Mary!" The pleasure in her tone was unmistakable, and the shut-in, two miles away, thrilled responsively. "Peggy, I just wanted to tell you before I went to sleep that I've had such a lovely day." "Have you, dear? I'm glad. What happened?" The question took the guileless Mary aback. "I thought perhaps you knew something about it. My telephone has been ringing all day. It was queer if it was only a coincidence, for some girls called me up that I haven't heard from for years." "Must have been what they call a brain wave," suggested Peggy, audaciously. "Well, anyway, it was nice. I've heard so many things and talked with so many people that I feel as if I'd been to a party." "If that's all, Mary, I'll prophesy there'll be just as nice days coming as this." "Oh, do you think so, Peggy! Well, it's my bed time now, so I won't talk any longer. Good-night." "Good-night!" And as Peggy hung up the receiver, she reflected that she had never done justice to the possibilities of the telephone. CHAPTER III A TRIUMPH OF ART IT was one of those warm, summer-like days of early June, when lessons and college classes are forgotten in the enjoyment of thoughts of the summer vacation to come. Such a few days left, and the four girls would be free for all the reading and the tennis and the sewing and the tramping which the press of examination preparation had forced aside. And they would all be together again this summer, which gave promise of many Quartette larks. The day was so perfect that all four had, as if of one mind, discarded their lessons for the remainder of the day, and had drifted over to Amy's. "Do you know what I've been thinking about all week?" demanded Amy of the trio occupying her front porch. She did not wait for any of them to hazard a guess, but gave the answer herself, "Strawberries." A soft little murmur went the rounds. "We had strawberries for dinner last night," said Peggy, "the best I've tasted this year." "And we had strawberry short-cake." Priscilla smacked her lips reminiscently. "And I had some strawberry ice cream at Birds'," put in Ruth. "It was so warm along about nine o'clock, you know, and Nelson and I went down. My, but it was good!" Amy listened unmoved. "What I've been thinking about," she explained, "is strawberries in the patch, sticking their heads out from under the leaves, as if they were begging to be picked, warm from the sun, and sweet, and just spilling over with juice." The girls sat attentive. Something in Amy's manner indicated that there was a background of reality for this flight of fancy. "I've got a sort of relation living about ten miles out of town," Amy continued. "Aunt Phoebe Cummings, only that isn't her name. Five years ago she married a man named Frost." "How interesting to get a new uncle at your age," interjected Ruth. "I don't regard him as much of an addition to the family," retorted Amy drily. "When I talk about him, I call him, 'Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back.' But to his face, he's Mr. Frost. You see, Aunt Phoebe isn't exactly an aunt. I believe she's a second cousin of my grandfather's first wife, but she's nicer than lots of real aunts." "I do think you have the nicest relations, Amy Lassell," interposed Peggy. "Now Aunt Abigail, at Doolittle cottage, was a perfect dear." Priscilla showed signs of impatience. "What has all this to do with strawberries?" "Well, I'm coming to that. My Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back owns a little farm, and they've got strawberries to burn. And almost every year Aunt Phoebe says she wishes I'd come out when the strawberries are ripe and bring some of my friends." "Amy Lassell!" exclaimed Priscilla reproachfully. "Do you mean that Mrs. Philander has been begging you to do this for the last five years, and that this is the first we've heard of it?" "Well, as a rule she mentions it along about August, or October, and I forget it by June. But she came in town to shop the other day and took dinner with us, and when she left, she broached the subject again. She said the strawberries would be at their best by the middle of next week and she'd love to meet you all. What do you think of a trip to the country along about Wednesday?" There were certain subjects regarding which, in spite of their devoted friendship, the Friendly Terrace quartette could develop considerable diversity of opinion. But on this occasion, their unanimity would have gratified the hospitable instincts of Amy's Aunt Phoebe. Strawberries boxed and displayed in show windows, or even transformed into such delicacies as short cake and ice cream, seemed prosaic all at once. What they wanted was to be turned loose in a strawberry patch, to stain their fingers plucking the strawberries from the vines. Before leaving the porch the girls watched Amy pen a note to her relative, accepting her oft-repeated invitation in behalf of herself and friends, and suggesting the following Wednesday as a desirable time for their visit. A rather cloudy Tuesday awakened anxious apprehensions in the minds of the four girls, apprehensions dissipated, however, by the cloudless dawn of Wednesday. The height of the strawberry season is the most charming time of the year. The four ate an early luncheon at Peggy's home, and then took the trolley for the outskirts of the city. Once outside the city, the trolley car bowled along at an exhilarating pace, and in spite of the prospects ahead, the girls were almost sorry when the ten-miles were up, and the breezy ride was ended. Aunt Phoebe was a little old lady whose black skirt was quaintly full and showed signs of wear, partially concealed by a white ruffled apron of unusual size. She greeted them as affectionately as if they had all been nieces by adoption, and conducted them indoors to take off their hats. The living room through which they passed was large and pleasantly and immaculately neat, the unpainted floor having been scrubbed to a milky whiteness. The tapping of the girls' heels on the boards emphasized their bareness. "Got your rugs up for the summer, I see," remarked Amy casually. The comment was natural enough under the circumstances, but unluckily it opened the door of the closet which contained the Frosts' family skeleton. Aunt Phoebe reddened as if Amy's innocent remark had been a slap in the face. "My sitting room carpet's worn out," she said. "It was worn out when I came here. I patched it and I pieced it and I made it last a good three years after anybody else would have put it in the rags, and now he says there's no sense buying a new one." "Mr. Frost, you mean?" "Yes. He's got awful queer notions, Philander has. He talks about bare floors being healthy. Good gracious! It gives me a chill to think of this room in November without a carpet on the floor. I've done without lots of things in my life, but I never was too poor to have my floors carpeted." Amy was sorry she had broached the subject, for now that Aunt Phoebe was started, she seemed to find it difficult to stop talking about her grievance. Like many people who do not ask a great deal of life, she was the more insistent regarding the few things she counted essential. The bare floor, echoing noisily under the tread of her guests, stirred her indignation and almost spoiled her childlike satisfaction in entertaining Amy and her friends. But worse was coming. It appeared that Aunt Phoebe had a heaped glass dish of berries to be served in the conventional fashion with sugar and cream, but she suggested that first the girls might enjoy helping themselves from the patch. As this was really what they had come for, they acquiesced heartily, and Aunt Phoebe led the way. Her kindly old face lost its pensiveness as she watched the laughing girls picking the berries from the vines, their lips and fingers reddening as the feast proceeded. Then without any warning, a deep voice spoke out of the shrubbery, and only too much to the point. "The commission men," said the voice, "are paying twelve cents a box for them strawberries." Four berry-pickers straightened themselves and looked at one another aghast. Aunt Phoebe rushed furiously to their defense. "Philander Frost, this is my niece, Amy Lassell, and she's brought out some young friends to eat strawberries, because I asked her to." Her faded blue eyes emitted electric sparks as she defied him. "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," said Mr. Frost, still with an air of profound melancholy. "I don't grudge a few strawberries any more than the next man, but with them bringing twelve cents a box--" "Philander!" The little wrinkled wife was fairly beside herself with mortification. Her withered skin, suffused by a burning blush, rivalled the vivid coloring of youth. "Philander, I don't care if the strawberries are a dollar a quart--" "Oh, well," said Mr. Frost patiently. "I just thought I'd mention it." He turned away while four girls stood motionless in the strawberry patch, as if there had been a Medusa-like quality in his gaze, turning them all to stone. "Go right on, dearies," commanded Aunt Phoebe, raising her voice defiantly, so that it should reach the ears of her departing lord and master. "Eat all you want to." But though as a matter of principle, the girls attempted to obey, the sweetness had gone from the luscious fruit. They ate half-heartedly, ashamed to meet one another's eyes, calculating, in spite of themselves, how much Mr. Frost was out of pocket because of their visit. Aunt Phoebe was plainly disappointed when they declared that they had had enough. She tried to encourage them to think better of it, and when they still insisted, led the way to the house. "I don't think much of strawberries without trimmings, myself," she declared over her shoulder. "When you taste them with sugar and cream, I guess you'll find your appetites coming back." The porch at the side of the house was shaded and inviting. Aunt Phoebe insisted on their seating themselves, while she waited on them. Against the snowy covering of the small, round table, the big dish of choice berries made a fine showing. Then Aunt Phoebe brought out a pitcher of rich yellow cream, and the spirits of the crest-fallen group began to revive. The appearance of a heaping plate-full of cookies was hailed with appreciative smiles. "Plenty more cookies in the jar," said Aunt Phoebe, helping them with lavish hand. "And plenty more berries. Eat all you can." They had almost reached the point of forgetting Mr. Frost and his discomforting comments, when he again made his appearance. Peggy lost the thread of the story she was telling and stopped short, but as no one was listening, that made no difference. Mr. Frost seated himself and sighed heavily. "Some folks is afraid to eat too many strawberries," he said. "They're likely to cause a rash." The girls, not knowing what to say, went on eating mechanically. Aunt Phoebe, however, straightened herself over her saucer. "I don't mind a rash," she announced, "not in such a good cause." "It ain't that I care for the expense," Mr. Frost said feelingly, "though of course, with the cost of living so high, sensible folks ought to do without everything that ain't necessary. Now Phoebe's got an idea that she wants a new carpet for the sitting room--" "I've got an idea that I'm going to have one, too," said Aunt Phoebe, breathing hard. "I tell her that bare floors is all the rage," said Mr. Frost, looking from one to another of the girls, as if he hoped to find an ally in one of them. "Carpets are hiding-places for all sorts of germs. The swellest folks there is have bare floors nowadays, I tell her." "I guess their bare floors don't look much like mine," exploded Aunt Phoebe, "just common pine boards, not even painted." "I wouldn't mind letting you paint 'em," said Mr. Frost. "Of course paint is very expensive these days, but if it would make you feel any better--" "What I want," Aunt Phoebe was beginning wrathfully, when Amy interrupted. She addressed herself to Mr. Frost, and her manner was propitiatory. "A painted floor isn't so bad," she said. "Lots of folks have painted floors." "A body's feet would freeze in winter," exclaimed Aunt Phoebe, plainly bewildered at Amy's taking sides against her. "You want to wear good thick shoes and stockings," replied Mr. Frost, eyeing Amy approvingly. His manner indicated that as far as she was concerned, he did not grudge the strawberries. "I was going to say," continued Amy, returning his friendly gaze with interest, "that I wouldn't mind coming out and painting the floors for you some day." The other Friendly Terrace girls looked at one another in surprise. They could not understand Amy. Apparently she was trying to curry favor with Mr. Frost by taking sides with him against Aunt Phoebe, yet none of them considered this the real explanation. Whatever her intention, it was plain that Amy had made a conquest of Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back. For the rest of their stay, he addressed most his remarks to her, and though his conversation dealt largely with the high cost of living and the necessity for thrift, their inexplicable friend seemed highly edified. When they took their departure, Mr. Frost again brought up the subject of the floor. "If you should happen to feel like painting it some day--" "Oh, I'm coming," said Amy smiling up at him. "I'll get the other girls to help me, and we'll make short work of it." "I think I've got pretty near enough paint left from painting the barn--" Aunt Phoebe's accession of color suggested an attack of apoplexy, for the barn was the color of a ripe pumpkin. Amy hastily interposed, "Oh, I'll bring the paint." "Will you now? Well, I call that the right spirit. I like to see young folks appreciative," declared Mr. Frost. "Strawberries are bringing a good price this year, but I'm sure you're welcome to every one you et." On the way to the car Amy walked beside Aunt Phoebe, holding fast to her arm and chattering like a magpie. And as she kissed the old lady good-by, she pulled her close and whispered in her ear. It was impossible to know what she said, but Aunt Phoebe's lugubrious countenance showed an immediate improvement. She stared at Amy with an expression of incredulity which presently became a bewildered smile. The uncertainty of the other Friendly Terrace girls, as to whether or not Amy had intended her promise to be taken literally, was dissipated about a week later when she called on them to accompany her and assist in the painting of Aunt Phoebe's sitting-room floor. Thoughtlessly Amy had selected a date when Peggy had an imperative engagement. Peggy urged her to choose another day, but Amy found insuperable objections to a change. "But I don't like this," said Peggy. "I ate as many strawberries as anybody, and if you're painting the floor to pay your uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back, I want to do my share." And to this, Amy replied imperturbably that she need not worry, for Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back would be paid in full, without her assistance. "It really is a pity Peggy couldn't come." The trio was fairly on its way. "She knows more about such work than any of us." "I'm afraid Peggy wouldn't be much of a help to-day," replied Amy. "Peggy not a help? Why not?" Priscilla's manner indicated that if any criticism of Peggy were implied, she would not stand for it. "Peggy's conscience is such a Johnny-on-the-spot," Amy explained. "It never seems to take a vacation the way ours do, and I'm afraid it would be dreadfully in the way to-day." "Why, what do you mean?" demanded Priscilla and Ruth together. Amy opened the little grip she carried, produced a small-sized can of paint and handed it to Priscilla. A similar one was bestowed on the perplexed Ruth, and then Amy leaned back and looked from one to the other triumphantly. "What do you want me to do with it?" frowned Priscilla. Then with a violent start, "Why, Amy Lassell!" "Well?" "This paint is moss green." "And this," cried Ruth excitedly, "is yellow." "And in here," explained Amy, patting her bag tenderly, "are all the colors of the rainbow in half pint cans. Did you ever see an exhibition of cubist pictures?" "Yes, once," replied Priscilla mechanically, while Ruth too amazed for words, stared dumbly at her friend. "Well, that is the way Aunt Phoebe's floor is going to look when we are through with it." "Why, Amy," gasped Ruth, suddenly finding her voice. "You can't do anything like that. He wouldn't let you." "He won't be there. I've arranged for Aunt Phoebe to take him off for the day. The key to the house has been left hanging on the back porch." "Does she know?" "She doesn't, for I thought it was best for her to be able to say she didn't know a thing about it. But she suspects that something's in the wind." Priscilla hesitated. "I suppose your idea is--" "My idea is to make such a looking floor that he will be only too glad to buy a carpet to cover it." The three girls looked at one another, and then Ruth gave a little nervous giggle. After a minute Priscilla joined in. And then all three leaned back in the seats in a paroxysm of silent laughter, while their fellow passengers regarded them enviously. "Well, I don't know but you're right about Peggy," admitted Priscilla, at length, wiping her eyes. "I'm pretty sure she would not have approved." "I think it serves him just right," declared Ruth. "I detest stingy people." "It does serve him right," said Amy. "He has plenty of money, but he hates to part with any of it. Poor Aunt Phoebe has a little money of her own, and before she married him she got no end of fun out of doing things for other people. And now the dear old soul can't even treat her friends to strawberries without being humiliated. Anyway," concluded Amy with decision, "I'm bound she shall have a carpet for her living room next winter." They found the farm house on the hill silent and deserted, the back door locked, and the key hanging in such plain view that it seemed an invitation to enter. Indoors they found the living room made ready against their coming. All the furniture had been moved into adjoining rooms and the floor had been given an extra and quite unnecessary scrubbing. The girls hastily arrayed themselves for the work. Priscilla and Amy had brought along the outfits they had worn as farmerettes, while Ruth donned a worn-out bathing suit. Then Amy pried off the covers of her array of cans, and presented each of her friends with a small paintbrush. The fun began. Amy's suggestion that a striking design should be painted in the middle of the room, and at each of the four corners, was enthusiastically accepted, and Priscilla at once undertook the execution of a Chinese dragon in the corner of the room which was most in evidence to one standing in the doorway. Amy taking possession of the can of yellow paint, set herself to reproduce a sunrise in the center of the room, the yellow rays radiating from the central golden orb in the most realistic manner. Ruth, her imagination stimulated by the discovery of a can of black paint, promptly set about balancing Priscilla's dragon by a black cat in the opposite corner, its back arched like a bow, and its tail standing upright like an ebony plume. They splashed about, admiring one another's work enthusiastically and complacently accepting compliments for their own. And when the various masterpieces had been executed to the satisfaction of the artists, they fell to work filling in the remaining spaces with gaily colored rhomboids, red, yellow, green, black, and purple. Nothing more gorgeous than Aunt Phoebe's painted floor could possibly be imagined. Even the highly colored chromos on the wall paled before it. In some respects it suggested an old-fashioned crazy-quilt, though when the dragon and the black cat were taken into account, it was more like a bad case of nightmare. After the girls had finished, they withdrew to the next room and, gazing upon it, tried to imagine the sensations of Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back when its kaleidoscopic magnificence should break upon his astonished gaze. Suddenly they were panic-stricken for fear the occupants of the farm house should return before they had taken their departure. They dressed in such haste that they failed to get the full benefit of the bottle of turpentine Amy had brought along for cleansing purposes, and they went back to town with green and purple smudges on their fingers. As soon as they had reached home, they descended on Peggy to tell her of the manner in which they had fulfilled Amy's promise, and Peggy listened with amazement tinged with admiration. "I'm rather glad you didn't tell me, for I'm afraid I should have thrown cold water, and I can't help thinking it's exactly what Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back deserves. And if it really drives him into buying a new carpet, I shall feel satisfied that you've done the right thing." The four girls had agreed to play tennis Saturday of that week, but early Saturday morning Amy called Peggy up to ask to be excused. "Aunt Phoebe is coming in town for some shopping," she explained, and interrupted herself by an ecstatic giggle. "And she wants me to go with her. She wants me to help her select a carpet for the sitting room." CHAPTER IV AN AFTERNOON CALL PRISCILLA sat at her little dressing table, studying her reflection in the mirror with an absorbed intentness which would have impressed nine observers out of ten as a naïve exhibition of vanity. This verdict, however, would have been most unfair. Though many people considered Priscilla a really handsome girl, she had always been inclined to be unduly modest regarding her personal appearance. Her present scrutiny was solely for the purpose of discovering the blemish which she was sure must be apparent to all beholders. For a girl of her age, Priscilla had thought very little about the opposite sex. Her devotion to Peggy had been a sufficient outlet for her sentiment, while her contempt for those girls who could think and talk of nothing but the "boys" had, perhaps, led her to go needlessly far in the opposite direction. The youths who had fluttered mothlike about the tall, graceful girl had met such a baffling indifference that they had transferred their attentions to some more responsive luminary, while Priscilla went on her way unruffled. But this year things were different. The four Friendly Terrace chums were no longer sufficient to themselves. Peggy was engaged. Since Nelson Hallowell's return from the service, he had been a very frequent caller at Ruth's home. And on one or two occasions when Priscilla had run over to Amy's in the evening, she had found one of the porch chairs occupied by Robert Carey. Priscilla began to have a feeling of being left out, new in her experience and most unpleasant. She wondered what there was about her to differentiate her from other girls. She studied her reflection, dreading yet half expecting to see some flaw which would inevitably repel the beholder. On this particular afternoon as Priscilla faced herself in the glass and tried to discover the defects that kept admirers at a distance, affairs had reached a crisis. The University Field Day had long been a thrilling occasion to many of the young people of the city, not merely because of their interest in the various events, but because it was customary for each of the young fellows who attended to ask some girl to accompany him. Priscilla had taken it for granted that Peggy would go with Graham, and was not surprised to learn that Nelson had been promised the pleasure of Ruth's company on the important occasion. But when she had suggested to Amy that they should go together, and Amy after a moment's hesitation had replied, "Why, the fact is, Priscilla, Bob Carey has asked me to go with him," Priscilla was conscious of a distinct shock. Her subsequent dejection had nothing to do with the prospect of missing Field Day. But when she asked herself if she were really the least attractive girl in the world, she could see no escape from an affirmative answer. It was while she sat there, heavy-hearted and vaguely resentful, that the maid brought up a card, one of those small, inobtrusive slips of cardboard which proclaim the modesty of the socially inclined male. Priscilla took it, impressed in spite of herself. Though she was old enough to have become accustomed to such little conventions, the life of a college girl is so necessarily informal that few people who came to see Priscilla announced their presence in this fashion. And this was the first time a young man had sent up his card to Priscilla. "Mr. Horace Endicott Hitchcock," read Priscilla, and if the truth be told, she was conscious of an undefined disappointment. She had known Horace Hitchcock for a dozen years, ever since a smug little boy in a velvet suit, he had attended the children's parties which were her earliest social dissipations. As he was about three years older than Priscilla she had admired him extremely in those days when the velvet suit was much in evidence. But her attitude had altered long before she had considered herself too old to play dolls. Horace's boyhood had been a trying period. He had never had a boy friend, the lads of his own age agreeing with contemptuous unanimity that he was a "sissy." Perhaps for the same reason, the girls had found him as little appealing. But as he neared his majority, Horace had blossomed into a belated popularity. He was somewhat effeminate as far as his appearance went. He talked very rapidly, and used more gestures than is customary with young Americans. Horace dressed in excellent taste, and was somewhat of an authority on shirts and ties and matters equally important. Although he was supposed to be an insurance solicitor, he was never too occupied to attend any social affair at any hour of the day, and this gave him an advantage over the young men who were on duty till five o'clock or later. Priscilla had seen very little of him since she had entered college, and now as she looked at his card she only wondered if he had come to ask her to play for some entertainment. Priscilla gave a last dissatisfied glance at her reflection in the glass, captured a stray lock with a hairpin, and went downstairs. Sensible girl as she was, she found herself impressed by Horace's greeting. He bowed very low over her hand, like the hero of a picture play, and drew up a chair for her with great elegance of manner. To a girl suffering from lack of proper self-esteem, his air of deference was peculiarly soothing. Yet even then, it never occurred to Priscilla that this was a social call. She listened to Horace's voluble talk, made such replies as seemed necessary, noted approvingly the perfect fit of his light suit, and the fact that his tie matched his silk socks, and waited patiently for him to come to the point. Something like twenty minutes had passed when Priscilla reached a realizing sense of the situation. All at once, while Horace was describing minutely the country house where he had spent the previous week-end, Priscilla gave a little start and colored high. It had just dawned upon her that Horace had not come upon any utilitarian errand, that he was there for the sole purpose of seeing her. It took her a little time to adjust herself to the novel idea, and if Horace had asked her a point-blank question during the interval, she would not have known whether to answer yes or no, for she had not the least idea what he was talking about. Then Priscilla waked up. She exerted herself to be charming. She talked almost as fluently as Horace himself. She laughed delightedly at his little jests; though, if the truth be told, Horace's humor was decidedly anemic. She listened raptly to his stories of his achievements, and was ready with the expected admiring smile when the time arrived. A curious sense of unreality possessed her. She felt as if she were taking part in an exciting game. "Miss Priscilla," said Horace suddenly, "are you at all interested in Field Day?" "It's not so bad when one knows the men," Priscilla replied, and the answer showed the effect of Horace's influence in a little over half an hour. For Priscilla adored Field Day. When she watched the various events her heart pounded as if she herself were taking part in the hundred yard dash. At the close of an exciting race, she had often found herself on her feet, shrieking spasmodically, and waving her handkerchief, and feeling the smart of tears in her strained eyes. But instinctively Priscilla knew that Horace would not consider Field Day a legitimate cause for excitement, and so she answered as she did. "Sometimes I find it a deuce of a bore," Horace said. "The crowd and the noise, don't you know. But if you are willing to accompany me next Friday, Miss Priscilla, I'm sure this Field Day will prove a delightful exception." "Oh, thank you," Priscilla said carelessly. "I should enjoy going very much." Her nonchalant acceptance of the invitation gave no idea of her tumultuous excitement. She was no longer the odd one of the quartette of chums. She was no longer left out. Her misgivings regarding herself were instantaneously set at rest, for she knew that, had she been as unattractive as she had feared, Horace Hitchcock would never have invited her to accompany him on such an occasion. Her pulses throbbed, and there was a humming in her ears as she chattered on without any clear idea of what she was saying. Priscilla's feeling of elation had nothing to do with Horace's personality. Had he been any other young man, equally well dressed and well mannered, she would have felt exactly the same. Yet under the circumstances she experienced a not unreasonable sense of gratitude. She shut her eyes to the little affectations of manner which ordinarily she would have found amusing. She refused to acknowledge to herself that Horace was bragging. She had never liked him, and the Horace who had invited her to the Field Day exercises was in all essentials the Horace of the velvet suit; yet now, if she had heard him criticized, she would have rushed impetuously to his defense. In short, Priscilla was started on a course which many an older and wiser woman has followed to disaster. Priscilla was in no hurry to mention the fact that she expected to be a spectator of the Field Day events. The very intensity of her previous qualms made her the more inclined to treat the present situation nonchalantly. On Thursday evening, however, she remarked casually to Peggy that she hoped their seats would not be too far separated. Peggy looked up in pleased surprise. "Are you going, Priscilla? I'm awful glad. Who's taking you?" "Horace Hitchcock." "Horace Hitchcock!" Peggy repeated the name in such accents of astonishment that Priscilla flushed. "Why not?" she asked rather coldly. "I didn't know you saw anything of him." "I've known him as long as I've known you--almost as long as I've known anybody." "Why, of course, Priscilla. I remember when we used to see him at parties in a Fauntleroy suit. But I've lost track of him for an age and I thought you had, too, that's all." There was an underlying astonishment in Peggy's apology. She could not understand Priscilla's seeming readiness to take offense. And when Priscilla began to talk of something quite different, Peggy realized with fresh amazement that the peculiarities of Horace Hitchcock were, for the present, a tabooed topic between them. CHAPTER V THE RUMMAGE SALE SUMMER vacation! Although the Field Day exercises, and the few Commencement festivities to which undergraduates are invited, were only four days past, classes and lessons seemed to the Quartet never to have existed; or if so, only in a dream. And it would be the same way when college began again in the fall. Summer, of a few days before, would be a dim memory of the past. Though they had not heard from their examinations, they all felt reasonably confident of having passed successfully. At any rate, they had put the thought of them resolutely out of mind, following Peggy's, "one thing at a time, and when it's done, it doesn't do any good worrying about it." Those four days had been devoted to concentrated doing nothing. "'DULCE FAR NIENTE' is such a pretty phrase it makes a virtue of loafing," said Priscilla. And to this, for the time being, the other three agreed. It was indirectly through Horace Hitchcock that the Friendly Terrace girls became interested in the Rummage Sale. For at the Field Day exercises Horace and Priscilla had happened to occupy seats in the Grand Stand next to Mrs. Sidney Vanderpool, and Horace, who seemed a prime favorite with that influential lady, had introduced Priscilla. Mrs. Vanderpool was in charge of a rummage sale to be held for the benefit of a local charity, and recognizing Priscilla's efficiency at a glance, she had promptly enlisted her under her banner. Since whatever concerned one of the Friendly Terrace quartette concerned all, Mrs. Vanderpool in securing Priscilla's coöperation had gained four new assistants. It was Peggy, strange to say, whose enthusiasm it was hardest to kindle. "Somehow I never thought much of rummage sales," she owned. "Perhaps it is because _rummage_ always reminds me of _rubbish_." "But that's not fair, Peggy," Priscilla remonstrated. "Every family has a lot of things packed away that would be a blessing to people a little poorer." Peggy reflected. "I can't think of anything we could spare that would be much of a blessing to any one." "You haven't looked your things over with that thought in mind. Take Mrs. Vanderpool, for instance. Why, she'd discard a piece of furniture we would be proud to put in the parlor. A chair or sofa we'd think too shabby to have around would seem magnificent to your friends, the Bonds." "I suppose there's something in that," owned Peggy. "Of course there is. Thanks to the rummage sales, people get rid of a lot of stuff that's no further good to them; and other people get a great many things that they can use, and pay almost nothing for them." "If they pay so little, why does Mrs. Vanderpool expect to make such a lot of money!" demanded Peggy. "Look at the five-and-ten cent stores. Little profits count up, if you make sales enough. And in a rummage sale the expenses are so small that almost everything is profit." Peggy began to think that her prejudice had been unreasonable, and she hunted the house over to find something worth contributing. But her search was far from satisfactory to herself. Mrs. Raymond was not one of the house-keepers who make a practice of hoarding useless articles. If a piece of furniture broke down, she had it mended if it were worth repairing; if not, she either gave it to some poor family who could make use of it, or else had it carted away by the rubbish collector. When Peggy's exhaustive search ended, she had succeeded in collecting for the sale only a few pieces of crockery and a carpet-sweeper which had outlived its halcyon days, though still capable of picking threads off the carpet. The sale was to be held in a large vacant store in the down-town district, and was to last three days. All contributors had been asked to send their offerings several days in advance, and the Friendly Terrace girls, with a score of others, were on hand to assist in classifying the articles as they arrived, and were arranging them so as to make the best possible showing. As Peggy worked with the others, she was conscious of a return of her former misgivings. Undoubtedly among the contributions arriving by the wagon load there were many articles which would be useful to some one, but Peggy wondered who would be able to make use of the cracked pitchers and leaky kitchen utensils which were coming in such quantities. She looked disapprovingly at the loads of worn-out finery, displayed on the clothing table. In her opinion people who would buy second-hand evening dresses ought not to afford any. Of the flimsy evening frocks, most of them cut excessively low, some were spotted and soiled, while others were torn and generally bedraggled. Peggy made up her mind that under no circumstances would she be a saleswoman at that table. The array of bric-a-brac aroused similar qualms. Looking the collection over, Peggy wondered at the things people had once regarded as ornamental. And even though they now realized their error, and were glad to rid themselves of these offenses against good taste, it seemed to Peggy rather hard that they should encourage the unenlightened to purchase such monstrosities under the mistaken notion that they were beautifying their homes. She was glad to turn to the book table where, if nowhere else, really worth-while bargains were offered. There were piles of the best magazines, many of them with the leaves uncut. There were odd volumes of classic writers, the most of which seemed in excellent condition. Peggy set herself to make the book table as inviting as possible, in hopes that the sales would be gratifying. But while her original misgivings had returned in full force, Peggy said nothing about them. As far as she could see, they were unshared by any person present. The three girls who were her most intimate friends were working away enthusiastically, their bright faces unclouded by a doubt. Peggy had been a little startled by the discovery that Amy had deliberately left her out of the plot for painting Aunt Phoebe's sitting-room floor. It led her to wonder if perhaps she was over-particular. "No one else seems to see anything out of the way," Peggy reflected. "It seems as if it must be all right, if I'm the only one who thinks it isn't. Oh, dear, I hope I'm not getting so critical and fussy that I imagine that things are wrong when they're not." Again her thoughts turned to Aunt Phoebe's painted floor. If Amy had asked her coöperation, she would have refused, and would have done her best to dissuade Amy from her reckless scheme. But the results had been all that could be desired. Aunt Phoebe had her new carpet, and was radiantly happy, while Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back had undoubtedly been taught a lesson he sorely needed. Strange to say, he did not seem to hold any grudge against Amy for taking sides against him. Amy, who had been out to admire the new carpet, reported that he had received her without any display of animosity, and unprotestingly had allowed Aunt Phoebe to serve her with ice cream. "It must be that I'm getting too particular," thought Peggy. "This time I won't say a word." She broke her resolution, however, when the committee, who had been delegated to mark the prices of each article, set to work. Peggy had comforted herself by recalling Priscilla's assurance that everything would be sold at prices almost too small to mention. Instead, it seemed to the astonished Peggy that a good price was set on articles which from her standpoint were quite valueless. "O, don't you think that is too much?" She could not help exclaiming as one of the committee attached a price card to a three legged chair, which kept an upright position only by balancing itself against a rickety table. The lady smiled upon her. "We'll have the prices rather high the first day," she replied. "Of course we want to make all we can. Then we'll reduce them for the second day, and on the third we'll take anything we can get." Peggy did not return the smile. She was perplexed and troubled. She was beginning to realize that though these women were working for charity, they knew very little about the practical problems of the poor. She looked at the three-legged chair and wondered what she would do if she saw some reckless mother of a family preparing to squander real money on anything so worthless. Although Peggy had expressed a wish to be stationed at the book table, Mrs. Vanderpool had insisted on placing her among the household furnishings. "You've got such a winning way, my dear," she said, "and you would be wasted on the books. Nobody buys books at a rummage sale except the people who would buy them anyway. I'm expecting great things from that persuasive tongue of yours." Peggy blushed guiltily, even while she smiled. She was glad Mrs. Vanderpool had such a complimentary idea of her persuasive powers and hoped she would not disappoint her. From the hour of its opening, the rummage sale was crowded. Peggy's heart went out to the women who came pouring in as soon as the doors were opened to the public. Many of them had a distinctly foreign look. They came hatless, holding their money tightly, and looking about them with sharp, dark eyes in search of the bargains they coveted. In the evening the shop girls and factory workers were out in full force, and Peggy noticed uneasily how inevitably they gravitated toward the cast-off finery which had aroused her disapproval. She turned her back that she might not be a witness to the thriving business she suspected that department of doing. But resolving to allow events to take their course without a protest, Peggy had failed to reckon with her inborn inability to shirk responsibility. The formula which acts as a sedative to so many consciences, "It's none of my business," had never proved effective in her case. And though she stuck to her resolution on the first day, the developments of the second proved too much for her. It was late on that afternoon when she noticed a flutter at one of the adjacent counters, and discovered to her astonishment, that the occasion of the excitement was an acquaintance of her own, no other than the husband of Elvira Bond. Peggy had always felt a certain responsibility for Elvira, due to the fact that she had known the good-natured, slatternly girl ever since she could remember. Mrs. Bond had done the Raymonds' washing, off and on for many years, less because of her excellence as a laundress, than because she needed the work. Then Elvira had grown up, and taken her mother's place at the wash-tubs. The year of America's entry into the war she had unexpectedly married a young man considerably above her in the social scale, who had immediately been called to the colors. Elvira's romance had been her awakening. To Peggy's attentive ear she had confided her dawning aspirations. "Joe likes things neat and clean," she explained, a little wistfulness in her voice. "Not cluttered up the way Ma keeps 'em. And I'd hate to make him ashamed of me." "Of course you would," Peggy had cried. "And there's not a bit of need, Elvira. Why, of course you can keep your house as nice as anybody's. All you've got to do is to make up your mind that you will." In the absence of the young husband Peggy had a watchful eye on Elvira. She had done her best to keep alive the girl's newly awakened ambitions, in spite of the discouraging home atmosphere. And after Joe's return she had frequently gone to see Elvira in the little home the young couple had purchased, and were paying for on the installment plan. In view of the girl's bringing up, it is hardly surprising that she had her relapses; but on the whole, Peggy was proud of her. Elvira worked hard, was developing a commendable thrift, and was extremely proud of her little home and of her baby. It was at one of the bric-a-brac tables that Peggy discovered Elvira's husband, and he seemed, as far as she could judge from his manner and the manner of the women who were calling his attention to one thing after another, on the point of investing largely in the heterogeneous collection. But he happened to look over his shoulder in Peggy's direction, recognized her instantly, and came toward her, his face irradiated by a broad smile. "Afternoon, Miss Peggy," he exclaimed. "I'm looking around. I'm thinking of buying a few little things to take home to the wife." He slapped his pocket. "It's pay-day, Miss Peggy, and the best ain't none too good for Elvira and the kid, I'll swear it ain't." Peggy looked at him silently. It was the era of prohibition, yet an unmistakable odor radiated from Joe's person and confirmed the suspicion aroused by his unnatural manner. Peggy's heart sank. All unconscious of her dismay, Joe was examining her stock. "What's that, Miss Peggy?" He indicated by a gesture the object which had aroused his interest. "That is a churn, Joe." "Fine! Fine! I've been wanting a churn ever since I got married. What's the damage?" "But you can't want a churn, Joe; you don't keep a cow." "No telling, Miss Peggy, I might buy a cow 'most any day." But his vacillating attention went to a battered table and he gave it a seemingly close examination. "I'll take it, Miss Peggy," he declared with a wave of his hand, "Just the thing for our front room." "Why, Joe, Elvira has a table for the front room already." "Can't have too much of a good thing, you know," grinned Joe. "Say I like the looks of that." Peggy's eyes followed his extended finger and she frowned. "Why, Joe, that's a coffee urn, and it wouldn't be suitable for a small family. Besides, it leaks." "I'm bound to take home something, Miss Peggy," snickered Joe. "Nothing small about me. My pockets are pretty well lined, and you'll find me a good customer." "Joe," said Peggy desperately, "Listen to me. You don't want any of this stuff in your pretty little home. It's not good enough." "I guess I know what I want." "No, Joe. You must excuse me, but to-day you don't know what you want. If you were quite yourself you'd never think of taking Elvira home a rickety table or a churn." "You mean to tell me that I'm drunk." Joe's manner had lost its suavity. His eyes flashed as he regarded her. "No, Joe, you're not drunk, but you've been drinking and you're not yourself. And I know by to-morrow you'll feel awfully sorry if you have carried a lot of rubbish into your dear little home." For a moment Joe wavered between amiability and anger. His masculine pride was touched by the implication that he did not know his own mind, and alcohol had quickened his propensity to take offense. But on the other hand, there was something disarming in the way Peggy spoke of his wife and his home, and her smile was appealing. Mrs. Vanderpool had counted on her winning way and it was as effective as she had hoped, though Peggy did not apply it exactly as she had expected of her. After a moment's hesitation, Joe capitulated. "I guess you're right, Miss Peggy. When a fellow's had a few drinks, most anything looks like a bargain. Guess this is a lot of junk." "There's nothing here that you and Elvira want, I'm sure of that, Joe." "Good-by, Miss Peggy." "Good-by, Joe. Tell Elvira I'll be over to see her very soon." Peggy drew a breath of relief when she saw Joe leave the building. But her congratulatory mood was not to last. For not long after Joe's departure, she became aware of Mrs. Vanderpool at her elbow. "Well, you had a profitable customer at last," smiled the lady. "Wanted to buy you out, didn't he?" The possibility of evasion did not occur to Peggy. She lifted her frank eyes. "He talked about buying a lot of useless things," she answered, "but of course I wouldn't let him. You see, he'd been drinking and he didn't really know what he wanted. And besides, I know his wife." The blank expression with which Mrs. Vanderpool regarded her made plain the impossibility of their ever coming to an understanding. Peggy started to go on, and then lapsed into silence, realizing the uselessness of further explanations. Mrs. Vanderpool having relieved her mind by a long stare, turned majestically away, and Peggy heard her a little later, talking animatedly of some one who, it appeared, was totally lacking in the business instinct. Peggy thought she could come very near guessing the identity of the person referred to. But as she went on pointing out to possible purchasers the flaws in her wares, she made up her mind that the chance of being over-particular in matters of right and wrong was very trifling compared with the danger of not being particular enough. CHAPTER VI PRISCILLA HAS A SECRET PEGGY was worried about Priscilla. For the first time in their years of intimacy she could not understand her friend; and worst of all, it seemed out of the question to discuss the situation and come to an understanding. "Do you think she can like him?" Peggy asked the other Friendly Terrace girls despairingly. "Because he's always seemed to me almost a joke. I don't know how I could bear to have Priscilla fall in love with a man I wanted to laugh at." Though both girls would have been glad to reassure her, an ominous silence followed her outbreak. "There's no accounting for tastes," said Ruth at length, a suggestion of superiority in her tone. "Priscilla ought to have a good talking to," exclaimed Amy. "She's got plenty of sense, and to think of her letting Horace Hitchcock hang around! I'd like to tell her--" "You mustn't, Amy," Peggy interrupted. "It would never do to let her know how you feel about it. That's one of the things that make me so anxious--she's so awfully touchy on the subject of Horace. She won't have him criticized." Peggy had valiantly done her best to cultivate a liking for Horace Hitchcock. Since the fatal Field Day when he had acted as Priscilla's escort, his attentions had been unremitting. He had called several times a week. He had brought Priscilla flowers and boxes of candy, to say nothing of books of poems, from which he had read aloud to her by the hour. Peggy, assuming that since Priscilla was seeing so much of Horace, he must be quite a different person from what she supposed, had invited him to her home along with the others of her little circle, only to find it would not do. Horace and the others would not mix any more than oil and water. "For Heaven's sake, don't ask that Hitchcock here again," Graham implored Peggy, after an evening that had been a failure, socially considered. "He puts on airs as if he were the Prince of Wales--no, that's not fair to the prince. But Hitchcock is a snob and a sissy and he makes me tired." "But if Priscilla likes him, Graham--" "She can't," Graham had argued, not unreasonably. "She must see through him just as the rest of us do; and even while she's so pleasant to him, she must be laughing in her sleeve." But reasonable as Graham's stand had seemed, Priscilla was in no mood to laugh at Horace Hitchcock. Indeed, she was deliberately shutting her eyes to his weaknesses, and holding before herself such an idealized likeness of the real Horace that no one but herself would have recognized it. Horace's attentions flattered her vanity. Every call helped to reassure her anxiety in the matter of her own attractiveness. Moreover, Priscilla was a little dazzled by Horace's seeming familiarity with the people whose names were chronicled in the society columns of the daily paper. She had seen for herself that Mrs. Sidney Vanderpool regarded him with favor, and Horace had been at some pains to let her know that other ladies, some of them young and beautiful, held him in equally high esteem. That he should leave girls, who could not go to New York for a week without the fact brought to the public attention in the daily papers, in order that he might spend his evenings with her, gave Priscilla an intoxicating sense of power. But foolish as this all was, worse was to come, and all because Amy disregarded Peggy's prudent counsel. Peggy had discovered an undue sensitiveness in Priscilla, where Horace was concerned, and had been sensible enough to perceive that any criticism of her ardent admirer, instead of prejudicing Priscilla against him, was likely to have the opposite effect. It hardly need be said that Amy did not flout Peggy's advice, but in the course of a conversation with Priscilla she lost her temper and subsequently her head. It began with a most amiable intention on Amy's part. "Is Horace coming up to-night?" she asked Priscilla, as the two strolled along the Terrace in the hazy hush of a summer afternoon. "I--I shouldn't be surprised to see him," owned Priscilla, with a becoming blush. "Bob telephoned me this morning that he'd be up. If Horace comes, bring him over and I'll try to get Peggy and Ruth--" "Shall you ask Nelson Hallowell?" Priscilla inquired, a reservation in her tone which Amy did not understand. "I'll tell Ruth to bring him if he comes, and he's pretty sure to be on hand," laughed Amy. "He's making up for the chances he missed when he was in the service." "Then I'm afraid we can't come," said Priscilla. "Horace thinks Bob Carey is fine, and he rather likes Graham, but he draws the line at Nelson." Amy stopped short, her plump face crimson. "Please tell me what you mean by his drawing the line?" "Well, Amy, I've no doubt that Nelson is a very fine fellow, as far as morals go, but his social position, you know--" "What about it?" As the two girls were standing side by side, it was quite unnecessary for Amy to speak so loudly. Her defiant tone seemed to challenge the entire block. "Hush, Amy. I'm not deaf. Of course Nelson comes from quite an ordinary family, and he's only a clerk, and Horace really doesn't care to meet him socially." Amy burst into an angry laugh. "Horace Hitchcock said that. What a joke!" "I don't quite understand you, Amy." Priscilla spoke with extreme frigidity. "Why, there's enough in Nelson Hallowell's little finger to make several Horaces. To think of that dandified little manikin's turning up his nose at a fellow like Nelson." "Amy Lassell, how dare you?" "Oh, fudge, Priscilla, you know perfectly well what Horace Hitchcock is, and you needn't pretend to admire him, for I know better." "I won't listen to you any longer," cried Priscilla furiously, "slandering my friends." She turned abruptly and crossed the street. The two girls continued on their homeward way with the width of the Terrace between them, each looking steadily ahead, ignoring the other's presence. Before Amy reached home she was sorry. She saw she had been wrong as well as right. Her whole-hearted championship of Nelson had not necessitated sneering at Horace. Amy realized that Priscilla had good reason to be angry, and resolved on a whole-hearted apology next day. It was a pity she had not followed up her feeling of penitence by immediate action, for when Horace came that evening he found Priscilla in an unwonted mood. She had dramatized the whole affair to herself. Everyone was unjust to Horace. Even Peggy allowed her childish prejudices to influence her unwarrantedly. But she herself was Horace's friend and she would be loyal to that friendship, cost what it might. A few minutes after his arrival Horace suggested a walk in the neighboring park, which had been so little "improved" that walking through it was almost like strolling along country lanes. Though the night was warm, most of the populace preferred the movies, and Horace and Priscilla had the park practically to themselves. The night wind sighed languorously through the trees. The air was full of ineffable fragrances. "Oh, Priscilla," exclaimed Horace suddenly, and caught her hand. It seemed to Priscilla that her heart stood still. There was a note in Horace's voice she had never heard before. She was sure that something wonderful was happening. And the irritating part was that she could not do justice to it, for she kept thinking of something else. She should, she was sure, be entirely absorbed in what Horace was going to say; and right at that moment, she wondered if Ruth and Nelson were sitting on Amy's porch. "Oh, Priscilla," Horace was murmuring, "Do you not feel as I do, that we have met and loved before? You were mine, Priscilla, when the pyramids were building. You were mine in Babylon. Tell me that you have not forgotten. Tell me that you love me." It was only about half an hour from that impassioned speech before they were walking home decorously along the lighted streets, but Priscilla had a feeling as if she had been away for months and months. An unbelievable thing had happened. She was engaged. It was understood that the engagement was not to be mentioned at present, not even to Priscilla's father and mother. Horace had said something to the effect that to let outsiders into their secret would bruise the petals of the flower of love, and she had agreed to the postponement of that catastrophe, without asking herself why the flower of love should be so fragile. But the fact remained that she was the second of the quartette to become engaged, and she took a rather foolish satisfaction in the realization. She made up her mind that her former qualms as to her own unattractiveness were without foundation, for otherwise a social favorite like Horace would never have asked her to marry him. Priscilla's father and mother were on the porch when the young people reached home, and, as it was much too warm to stay indoors, the evening which had contained so thrilling an episode ended rather tamely. Mr. Combs and Horace exchanged ideas on local politics, and Mrs. Combs and Horace expressed themselves on the subject of the weather. Priscilla had nothing to say on either interesting topic. She was trying to realize that some day, instead of saying "Mr. Combs" and "Mrs. Combs," Horace would be addressing her parents as "father" and "mother." This seemed so extraordinary that she was almost inclined to believe that she had dreamed the whole thing, though the significantly tender pressure of Horace's fingers, as he said good-night, assured her to the contrary. Priscilla slept very poorly that night. Her dreams were troubled. And each time she woke, which was on the average of once an hour, she had a dreadful sense of impending disaster. On each occasion it took her several minutes to convince herself that nothing was wrong, that instead she was a very fortunate and happy girl, singled out of the world of girls by a most unusual young man. And thus reassured, she would drop off to sleep, to start again with troubled dreams, and to go again through the whole program. Owing to her restless night, Priscilla overslept and had to dress in a hurry to avoid being late to breakfast. By expedition she reached the dining room just after her mother had seated herself. Her father followed a half minute later, and leaning over her mother's chair kissed her cheek. "Know what day it is?" "Of course, silly," laughed Mrs. Combs. "But I'm astonished to hear that you do." Smiling broadly, Mr. Combs went around the table and took his seat. "We should have planned a celebration," he remarked. "What, and advertise our advanced age!" exclaimed his wife in mock consternation. "That's so," owned Mr. Combs with a chuckle. "I remember when a silver wedding seemed to me significant of extreme age. What do you think, daughter, of having parents old enough to have been married twenty-five years?" Then Priscilla knew what was the matter with her. She thought of sitting opposite Horace Hitchcock twice a day, year in and year out, for a quarter of a century, and her heart turned sick within her. All at once she knew how his affections of manner would grate on one who watched them for twenty-five years. He had a way of raising his eye-brows and pursing his mouth which, she was convinced, would drive her frantic in course of time. And then her relentless common-sense, awake at last, went on to assure her that the Horace Hitchcock who had made love to her in the park the previous evening was in all essentials the smug, vain little boy nobody liked. She watched her father and mother exchanging smiles and knew that such good comradeship between Horace and herself was unthinkable. She doubted if there would be a smile left in her after twenty-five years of his society. "You look tired this morning, Priscilla," said Mr. Combs. "And I can't say I wonder. That admirer of yours makes me rather--" "He's a very pleasant boy, I'm sure," interrupted Mrs. Combs hastily, "though I wish his manners were just a little simpler. But he always looks so neat that it's refreshing to the eye. And by the way, dear, I think you had better see your tailor and get samples for your fall suit. You've got to the point where you must have something." Priscilla did not notice her mother's dextrous changing of the subject. She was too absorbed in looking ahead twenty-five weary years. Of course, in view of her discovery, the only sensible thing to do was to get in touch with Horace, and tell him that the lady with whom he had been on such friendly terms in Babylon was an entirely different person. But that sane and simple way of escape never occurred to Priscilla. She had given her word. She must stand by it, no matter what it cost. Amy came over about eleven o'clock, looking very penitent. "Priscilla," she said, "I don't blame you a bit for getting angry yesterday. I'm ashamed of what I said. Of course," added Amy, her natural candor getting the better of her, "Horace Hitchcock doesn't appeal to me, but that doesn't excuse me for calling him a manikin, and you have a right to choose your friends to please yourself." Priscilla's acceptance of this apology took Amy by surprise. She dropped her head on her visitor's shoulder--as Priscilla was tall and Amy was short, this was a feat requiring considerable dexterity--and burst into tears. CHAPTER VII THE FRIENDLY TERRACE ORPHANAGE PRISCILLA'S engagement, instead of interrupting her intimacy with her chums on Friendly Terrace, seemed to intensify it. Up to the night that she had walked with Horace in the park, and he had claimed her on the score of an affection dating back to Babylon, Priscilla had rather enjoyed informing Peggy and others that she would be unable to join in their plans for the evening, as she was expecting a caller. But now all this was changed. Instead, when Horace called up to suggest coming out, he was very likely to hear that his sweetheart of Babylonian days had an imperative engagement with Peggy, or Ruth, or Amy, or more probably with all three. It was after an evening spent at a moving picture house that Peggy made a suggestion destined to have more momentous results than she dreamed. They had gone early to avoid the crowd which a popular film is likely to draw even in the warmest weather, and at nine o'clock they were occupying chairs on Peggy's porch, and discussing the heat. "How about ice cream?" inquired Amy, fanning herself with a magazine some one had left in the hammock. Before any one could answer, Peggy had interposed with her astonishing suggestion. "Girls, I move we adopt a French orphan." Amy forgot her interest in ice cream. "A French orphan," she gasped, "What for?" "Well, there are plenty of reasons from the orphan's standpoint, and several from ours, it seems to me. Do you know we're getting extravagant." "Oh, Peggy," Ruth reproached her. "Why, as far as clothes go, I never got along with so few in my life." "I didn't say we were extravagant in clothes. But do you know, we're getting to spend lots of money for little, no-account things. How many nights this week have we been to a movie?" The question was a rhetorical one, as Peggy knew the answer as well as any one. But nevertheless Amy replied, "We've been three times, but one night the boys took us." "It costs just as much, no matter who pays. There are four of us; and at twenty-five cents apiece, that makes a dollar an evening. Three dollars a week for movies, just for us four." "Goodness," exclaimed Amy in as astonished a tone as if this very simple arithmetical calculation had been beyond her. "That does seem a lot." "And that's not all," continued Peggy. "We've had ice cream, or ice cream soda, or something of the sort, at least three times this week, and these days you can't go near a soda fountain for less than fifteen cents, and you're more likely to pay twenty or twenty-five. If we call our bill two dollars, that's putting it pretty low. Five dollars, altogether." "That _is_ too much, Peggy," Priscilla agreed. "Unless you stop to count up, you wouldn't believe how much you can spend and all the time think you've been economical. But why the French orphan?" "Well, it's awfully hard work saving by main strength, and it's easy enough if you have something to save for. If I happen to feel hungry for ice cream--" Amy groaned. "Don't!" she said in a hollow voice. "If we're not going to have any, for pity's sake don't talk about it." Peggy heartlessly ignored her friend's protest. "If I'm hungry for ice cream, it doesn't do me much good to tell myself that I had a dish night before last. I'll just think, 'Oh, well, what's twenty-five cents!' But if I'm saving up for something, it's a different matter. We found that out when we were paying for our Liberty Bonds." "Won't it cost a great deal to adopt an orphan?" asked Ruth doubtfully. "Why, we won't have to pay all its expenses. But there are lots of French children left without fathers and mothers, who have some relative who can give them a home if they have a little extra to help them out. I think forty dollars will do it." "Forty dollars a year?" Amy exclaimed in amazement. "I'm pretty sure that's it. Mrs. Alexander was talking to me about it just the other day, and I'm certain she said forty dollars." "Then let's adopt an orphan right away," cried Amy. "And we'll have money enough left for sodas." "Why, of course I didn't mean we should give up all our good times," Peggy exclaimed. "Only it seemed to me we were getting a little too extravagant. Then if you all agree, I think I'll go and telephone Mrs. Alexander that we'll take an orphan. She's worried because people aren't as interested as they ought to be." It was while Peggy was at the telephone that a small girl appeared, carrying a large bundle. "I've brought home Mrs. Raymond's dress," she said shyly, looking from one to another of the occupants of the porch. "Mrs. Raymond isn't home, but Miss Peggy is. She's telephoning now, but she'll be out in a minute," said Priscilla. "You'd better sit down and rest while you wait for her," suggested Ruth kindly, pushing forward a porch rocking-chair. The small girl accepted the invitation and looked smaller than ever in the capacious depths of the big chair. Peggy came out beaming. "Mrs. Alexander is perfectly delighted, girls. She says--Why, hello, Myrtle!" "Hello, Miss Peggy," returned the girl with the bundle. "I brought home your mother's dress. Aunt Georgie couldn't get it finished any earlier." "Mother gave you up for to-night, Myrtle. She left at eight o'clock, but I think I know where she put the money." Peggy's conjecture proved correct. She brought out the amount of the dressmaker's bill, and having counted it before Myrtle's eyes, she folded the bills carefully and stuffed them into Myrtle's diminutive pocket book. "Shall you be glad when school opens, Myrtle?" she asked pleasantly. "I'm not going to school any more, Miss Peggy." "What! You're going to leave school?" "Aunt Georgie can't afford to keep me any longer. Everything is so high," sighed the child, with a worldly-wise air that would have seemed funny had it not been so apparent that she knew what she was talking about. "But you can't be nearly fourteen, Myrtle," protested Peggy. "And you were doing so well in school." "I'm twelve in September, but Aunt Georgie can get permit for me to work, if she can't afford to keep me in school." "Would you rather work than go to school?" asked Amy, rather tactlessly. The eyes of the little girl filled. She sniffed bravely as she fumbled for her handkerchief. "I like school better," she explained, a catch in her voice. "But I don't like to be a burden." There was a brief silence on the porch as the little figure went down the walk, and then Priscilla murmured pityingly, "Poor child!" "It's a shame," exclaimed Peggy warmly. "She's a bright little thing. She's not twelve till September, and she's ready for the high school already. If she could go to school four years more she'd probably be able to earn a good living, but she'll never do very well if she stops school now, for she's not strong enough for heavy work." "It almost seems a pity," Ruth suggested, "that we've just adopted a French orphan. It seems there are orphans right at home who need help just as much." Peggy sighed. "I'm not sorry about the French orphan. I suppose we can't imagine the need over there. But I do wish we could do something for Myrtle." "Peggy Raymond," warned Amy. "Don't let your philanthropy run away with you, and get the idea that we're an orphan asylum. One orphan is all we can manage." "Yes, of course," Peggy agreed hastily. "Only I was wondering--poor little Myrtle!" "Can't her aunt afford to give her an education?" Priscilla asked, "Or is she stingy?" "Oh, I suppose it's pretty hard for Miss Burns to get along with everything so expensive. She's not a high-priced dress-maker, and besides she's mortally slow; one of the puttering sort, you know. At the same time," added Peggy, "I mean to see her and have a talk with her about Myrtle." Peggy was as good as her word. As postponement was never one of her weaknesses, she saw Miss Burns the following day, and the faded little spinster shed tears as she discussed Myrtle's future. "Of course I know she ought to go on through high school," she sobbed. "She's been at the head of her class right up through the grades, and if she could finish high school, she wouldn't need to ask any odds of anybody. But I've laid awake night after night thinking, and I can't see my way to do it." "If you had a little help, Miss Burns, I suppose you could manage, couldn't you? What is the very least you could get along on and let Myrtle stay in school?" "Why she can't earn a great deal of course," said Miss Burns, wiping her eyes. "She's not old enough for a sales-woman, and she's not strong enough for any hard work, and she don't know anything about stenography." "And what is the very least you think you could take in place of having Myrtle go to work?" Miss Burns was one of the people who have a constitutional aversion to answering a direct question, but Peggy's persistence left her no loop-hole of escape. Cornered at last, she expressed the opinion that she could do with a hundred dollars. For some reason not quite clear in her own mind, Peggy had hoped it might be less, and her face showed her disappointment. "You think that is the very least you could get along on, Miss Burns." "I'm afraid it is, Miss Peggy. Maybe I should have said a hundred and fifty. Look at the price of coal." "Oh, I know," Peggy agreed. "Well, perhaps something will come up so Myrtle won't have to leave school. I'm sure I hope so." Peggy repeated the substance of her conversation with Miss Burns to her three chums that afternoon as they were on the way out to Amy's Aunt Phoebe's. For in their efforts to circumvent the high cost of living, the Friendly Terrace girls had begun making weekly or even semi-weekly visits to the country. The season had been a favorable one for all garden produce, but Mr. Frost was finding it difficult to get anything like the help he needed. The girls went out into the garden, picked and pulled what they wanted, paid a price which, compared with the charges in the retail markets, seemed extremely reasonable, and came home with loaded market baskets and a tinge of sunburn in their cheeks. The weekly saving paid their car-fare many times over, and the fact that they all were together lent a festive air to the enterprise. Peggy's three friends listened silently to their story of her visit to Miss Burns. Peggy's generosity was always leading her to attempt things far too big for her. The girls had stood by her loyally in the matter of the French orphan, but there they drew the line. A second orphan was too much. "I'm sorry," Amy said, with an air of dismissing the subject. "But I don't see that we can do anything for her." "You don't think, do you," Peggy hesitated, "that we could give a little entertainment--" "Oh, Peggy, people are bored to death with benefits and drives, and to try to raise money for a little girl nobody knows about would be hopeless, especially when she's no worse off than thousands of others." "I suppose that's so," Peggy replied, and reluctantly dropped the subject. Under her submission was a persistent hope that something might happen to aid her in the matter she had so much at heart. But the last thing she or any one else would have thought was that such assistance would come from Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back. Mr. Frost had been having an unusually hard time with help and was in an exceptionally bad humor. He was one of the men who, when out of sorts, invariable relieve their minds by criticism of the opposite sex. He had heard the girls chattering as they picked the lima beans, and doubtless that furnished the text for his ill-natured sermon. "Women's tongues do beat all," he declared, as the girls came to the house to pay their reckoning. "It's small wonder they don't count much when it comes to work. They get themselves all wore out talking." "I think we do some other things beside talking," declared Peggy, dimpling in a disarming fashion. "And I can't see that we say any sillier things than men do," added Amy. "O, men can talk or be quiet, just as they please, but a woman's got to talk or die. You couldn't pay her enough to get her to hold her tongue." "You could pay me enough," said Peggy with spirit. "Me, too," Amy cried. Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back sneered contemptuously. "Why, I'd give you four a hundred dollars to hold your tongues for a week." "Girls," cried Peggy turning to her friends, "I move we take him up on that." Had Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back been less disagreeable, less contemptuous, the girls might have hesitated, for a week of silence is an ordeal to the least voluble. But Mr. Frost's sneers, combined with Peggy's enthusiasm, swept them off their feet. "Yes, we'll take you up," Amy cried, and Priscilla and Ruth nodded approval. Uncle Philander was a little taken aback, and showed it. "You understand when I said hold your tongues, I meant it. If there's an _aye_, _yes_, or _no_ out of any of the four of you, it's all off." "Of course," agreed the four girls in chorus. Mr. Frost was plainly growing nervous. "Of course I haven't any way to keep tab on you." "Philander," cried his wife, bristling with indignation, "If you think Amy or any of her friends would lie for the sake of money--" "No, I didn't mean that," he half apologized. "I put all four of you on your honor. Not a word out of you, not so much as an _ouch_." "But we can write notes and explain to our families, of course," cried Peggy. "Of course," cried Amy, as Mr. Frost hesitated. "And talk on our fingers. All you said was _tongues_." "You can write all the notes you want to," conceded Uncle Philander generously. Now that he had time to think of it, he was convinced that the conditions he had imposed could not possibly be complied with. Who had ever heard of four lively girls maintaining an unbroken silence for a week? His hundred dollars was safe. After some discussion it was decided that the week should begin the following morning, to give the girls ample chance to explain their singular undertaking to their friends. And then the four started off with their heavy baskets, chattering excitedly, as if in the hopes of saying in the few hours remaining before bed time, all they would ordinarily have said in the next seven days. CHAPTER VIII THE LONGEST WEEK ON RECORD IT was a Thursday when the four Friendly Terrace girls entered on their remarkable contract with Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back, and Friday began the longest week recorded in the experiences of any of the four. According to the calendar, it contained only the usual seven days. According to the clock, each of these days consisted of the customary twenty-four hours. But the four chums knew better. It was at least a month long. They had spent Thursday evening explaining the situation to their friends and relatives and saying good-by as if for a week's absence. It was not to be expected that their news would meet the same reception in all quarters. Fathers and mothers, while not exactly approving, were on the whole rather amused, and inclined to take the attitude that girls will be girls. Among their friends outside, their announcement was received with a surprise that was sometimes suggestive of enjoyment, and again of indignation. Peggy found Graham particularly obdurate. "Not to speak to me for a week? Well, I like that!" "I can write you letters, dear." "Letters!" Graham's repetition of the word was anything but flattering to Peggy's epistolary efforts. "Of course," he went on in a milder tone, "I love your letters when I'm away from you. But to read letters instead of talking to you is like--like eating dried apple pie in October." "It's only a week," said Peggy, but she sighed. And her sigh would have been much more vehement had she dreamed how long that week would prove. Priscilla writing a little note to Horace Hitchcock did not sigh over the prospect that she could exchange no words with him for seven days. Indeed she was conscious of a profound relief. Recently Horace had taken up the philosophical style in conversation, and Priscilla, as she listened, frequently found herself unable to understand a word he was saying. At first she assumed that this was due to her not having given him sufficiently close attention, and she had chided herself for her wandering thoughts. But things were no better when she listened her hardest. Priscilla knew that she was not a fool. She had finished her junior year in college, and her class standing in all philosophical subjects had been excellent. If she could not understand what Horace was talking about, she felt reasonably sure that the explanation was not in her own intellectual lack but because Horace was talking nonsense. The polysyllables he used so glibly and the epigrammatic phrases which to the unthinking might have seemed indicative of erudition and originality, when Priscilla came to analyze them seemed to have no more relation to one another than glittering beads strung on a wire. Priscilla was driven to the conclusion that Horace had been reading literature considerably over his head, and that he was reproducing for her benefit a sort of _pot-pourri_ of recollections, blended without much regard to their original connection. But this was not the only reason why Priscilla had a sense of relief in writing to ask Horace not to call for a week. As the days went on, the thought of her silver wedding had been increasingly painful. Horace's affectations, to which for a time she had deliberately closed her eyes, were continually more glaringly in evidence. Once, when they were alone, Priscilla had tremulously hinted that perhaps they had been mistaken in supposing themselves fitted for each other, and Horace's reception of the suggestion had terrified her unutterably. He had addressed himself to the stars and asked if it were true that there was neither faith nor constancy in womankind. Then he had looked at Priscilla, with an expression of agony, and said, "I thought it was you who was to heal my tortured heart, and now you have failed me." But when he began to put his hand to his forehead and mutter that life was only a series of disappointments and that the sooner it was over the better, Priscilla, white to the lips, had assured him that he had misunderstood her. Her efforts to restore his serenity were not altogether successful and she did not feel at ease about him until, a day or two later, she saw his name among the guests at a dinner dance, at Mrs. Sidney Vanderpool's country house. But the interview had confirmed her certainty that there was no escaping the snare into which she had walked with eyes wide open. And for that reason a week free from Horace's society was more than welcome. The silent week starting Friday morning had seemed rather a joke to begin with. At four breakfast tables, four girls who contributed not a syllable to the conversation, contributed largely, nevertheless, to the family gaiety. But by noon the humorous phase of the situation had passed, at least for the four chiefly concerned. All of them went about with an expression of Spartan-like resolve, blended with not a little anxiety. For when people have been chattering animatedly every day for fifteen or twenty years, it is very easy for an exclamation to escape their lips in spite of resolutions to the contrary. Peggy probably had the hardest time of any one. For her brother, Dick, although fond of calling attention to a fuzzy excrescence which he denominated his mustache, was as fond of mischief as he had ever been. And while undoubtedly he would have been sorry to have Peggy break her vow of silence, and lose the hundred dollars which meant another year in school for little Myrtle Burns, he nevertheless subjected his sister to any number of nerve-racking tests. A crash as of a falling body in an upstairs room, a cry of anguish from the cellar, a loud knocking on the ceiling of her room apparently by ghostly fingers, were among the devices Dick used for the testing of his sister. On each occasion Peggy started convulsively, but somehow or other choked back the cry that rose to her lips, "Oh, what is it? What is the matter?" Though Dick was the only one of the Raymond family who made deliberate attempts to betray his sister into unguarded speech, Mrs. Raymond, innocent as were her intentions, was almost as much of a stumbling-block. "Now what do you think, Peggy," she would begin, "had we better try Turners again or--" And then catching sight of the Joan-of-Arc expression on Peggy's face, she would break off her question in the middle, and cry, "Oh, dear, I entirely forgot! I shall certainly be glad when this ridiculous week is over." There was one advantage in a week of silence. The girls were allowed to write letters, and they took full advantage of that permission. They wrote to aunts and uncles and cousins and all sorts of neglected relatives. They wrote to old friends, who had moved to other cities. They wrote to the girls they had come to know in their work as farmerettes. They wrote--all four of them--to Lucy Haines, a country girl they had helped one summer vacation, now a successful teacher. If all weeks had been like this one, the postman who collected the mail from the Friendly Terrace letter-box would have needed an assistant. Peggy also wrote to Graham every day, and she tried to make her letters as sprightly and entertaining as possible, so that he should not miss their daily talks so much. But under the circumstances there was not a great deal to tell, and if it had not been for Dick's machinations, which Peggy repeated in much detail, she feared that her missives would have proved dull reading. Every afternoon the four girls met at the home of one or the other of the quartette, bringing sewing or fancy work. They usually sat indoors, for if a neighbor conversationally inclined had happened to come along while they were occupying the porch the situation might have been embarrassing. Amy made a valiant effort to revive a finger alphabet they had used in school to carry on extended conversations across a school room. But though it had not taken long for the girls to refresh their memories of the letters, they found it much harder work to converse after the fashion of the deaf and dumb than it had seemed when they were younger, and for the most part conversation languished. They sat and sewed, each vaguely cheered by the proximity of her fellow sufferers, though all the time conscious that this was an abnormally long week. But long as the days were, each came to an end in time. Amy had fallen in the way of apprising Aunt Phoebe by post-card that another day had been passed in silence. "Tell Mr. Frost he might as well make out his check now," she wrote at the conclusion of the third day. "We haven't spoken yet, and now we've learned the secret, there isn't the least danger that any one will speak before the week is up." As the days went by, the vigilance of the girls increased instead of relaxing. Each realized that a single inadvertent exclamation from the lips of one would render vain the effort and sacrifice of all. This realization got rather on their nerves, and Ruth particularly, showed it. "It's the most absurd thing I ever heard of," declared Mr. Wylie at breakfast one morning, as Ruth came downstairs heavy-eyed. "You girls call yourselves college women, don't you? This affair is worthy of a bunch of high-school Freshmen." "I think Ruth wants me to remind you," said Mrs. Wylie, as her daughter looked at her appealingly, "that they mean to use the hundred dollars in sending a little girl to school." "But no man in his senses is going to pay good money for anything like this. Who is he, anyway?" "A sort of Uncle of Amy's, didn't you say, Ruth?" As Amy's relationship to Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was too complicated to explain without the assistance of language, Ruth contented herself with nodding. "Probably he was only joking. A hundred dollars is a hundred dollars, especially these days. You oughtn't to have taken him seriously, Ruth." "I think Peggy is really responsible," remarked Mrs. Wylie, with a rather mischievous smile, for Mr. Wylie's admiration for his son's fiancée was as outspoken as Graham's own. "Is that so, Ruth?" Ruth nodded. "Then all I can say," declared Mr. Wylie, pushing back his chair from the table, "is that in this matter my future daughter-in-law showed less than her usual good horse-sense." "I'm beginning to understand something that always puzzled me," Peggy wrote Graham, that same evening. "You know in mathematics they talk about an _asymptote_, something that something else is always approaching, but never reaches. That always seemed so foolish to me, to approach a thing continually and never get there. But now I understand. Thursday is an asymptote." But though Thursday loitered on the way, it arrived at last, and four girls woke to the realization that it was supremely important--the day that either made void or confirmed the success of the previous six. They spent the morning characteristically. Ruth, who had felt under the weather for a day or two, decided to stay in bed, this being a safe refuge. Priscilla took a basket of mending and retired to her room. Peggy spent her time at her writing desk and tried to collect some fugitive ideas into a theme for her college English work in the fall. Amy devoted herself to making a cake with a very thick chocolate frosting. It happened that this morning Amy had received a postcard from Aunt Phoebe, the first reply to her daily bulletins. "Glad to hear you are getting on so well," wrote the old lady. "P---- quite nervous." After the cake was finished and the frosting hardening, Amy resolved to take Aunt Phoebe's card over to Peggy. While they could not talk it over, they could exchange smiles, and probably a few ideas as well, through the medium of a lead pencil. The luckless Amy picked up the post card and started off in high spirits. It happened that one of the houses on the Terrace had been built with a slate roof, which at the present time was undergoing repairs. Amy, swinging lightly along the familiar way, gained rapidly on an old man ahead who walked very deliberately, apparently examining the numbers of the houses. Amy noticed that, although the sky was clear, he carried a massive cotton umbrella. The old gentleman was just opposite the house which was being repaired, when one of the workmen pulled out a broken slate and without even looking behind him, flung it to the street below. Amy saw the workman before the slate left his hand, and some intuition warned her of danger. "Look out!" she cried shrilly, "Look out!" The old man ahead dodged back. He was none too quick, for the piece of slate, flying through the air with the sharp edge down, dropped where he had stood an instant before. The old man took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair. Amy saw it was Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back. The discovery, interesting in itself, meant nothing to Amy at the moment. She uttered a heart-broken wail. She had spoken before the week was up. By her impulsive exclamation she had forfeited the hundred dollars. Though she knew acknowledgment must be made to her partners in the undertaking, since as she had broken the spell the others were automatically released from the obligation of silence, to face any of them at that moment seemed impossible. Without a word to Mr. Frost, Amy wheeled about and started for home, the tears running down her cheeks. Breathing hard, Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back trotted after her. What he meant to say does not matter, since the discovery that Amy was in tears resulted in the inquiry, "What are you crying for, hey?" "I lost it," Amy sobbed. "I spoke." Her companion seemed to be deliberating. "I s'pose you mean the hundred dollars." "Of course I mean the hundred dollars. But I don't see how I could have helped it. I couldn't walk on deliberately and see a sharp piece of slate drop on a man's head." [Illustration: "'A HUNDRED DOLLARS AIN'T ANY TOO MUCH TO PAY FOR HAVING YOUR LIFE SAVED'"] "I came in to-day thinking I'd have a talk with that friend of yours," said Mr. Frost, "seeing she seemed to be the head one in this thing. I was going to tell her that now I'd thought it over, my conscience wasn't quite easy about this agreement of ourn. I'm afraid it is too much like placing a bet." Amy's jaw dropped as she looked at him. Her tears dried instantly, the moisture evaporated by the fires of her wrath. But either because her usually ready tongue was out of practise after six days of idleness, or because the realization of the perfidy of the old man produced a momentary paralysis of her vocal chords, not a word escaped her parted lips. "Yes, it didn't look right to me," Mr. Frost continued. "It was the same as betting that you four girls couldn't keep from talking for a week. My conscience wouldn't let me be a party to anything of that sort. But--" The pause after the "but" was prolonged. Amy searched her vocabulary for words that would do justice to the occasion, but Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was continuing before she knew what she wanted to say. "Having your life saved is a different thing. That slate had an edge on it like a meat ax, and coming through the air the way it was, it would have cleft my head open like it had been an egg shell. My widow could have got damages all right, but that wouldn't have helped me out." They had reached Amy's door by now. "Got pen and ink handy?" asked Mr. Frost, with a marked change of manner. "Yes," said Amy tonelessly, and opened the door for him. She led the way to the writing desk, and pointed out the articles he required. Mr. Philander Frost, seating himself, wrote out a check for a hundred dollars, payable to Amy Lassell or order. "There," he said as he reached for the blotter. "Can't nobody no matter how sensitive their consciences are, find any fault with that. A hundred dollars ain't any too much to pay for having your life saved." And then the ink had a narrow escape from being overturned, for Amy flung her arms around the old gentleman's neck and hugged him. "Uncle Philander!" she screamed, "You're a prince." And that is how little Myrtle Burns was assured of her year in high school, and Uncle Philander-Behind-His-Back was adopted, unreservedly, by four unusually attractive nieces. CHAPTER IX THE MOST WONDERFUL THING IN THE WORLD NELSON HALLOWELL had something on his mind. Ruth had discovered it early in the evening. They had all gone over to Peggy's, and there had been the usual amount of talk and laughter, but Nelson had hardly spoken. Every time she looked in his direction, Ruth found his eyes upon her, and something in his manner said as plainly as words could have told it, that he was only waiting to get her alone to impart some confidence of more than ordinary importance. Ruth was not in the least inclined to be self-conscious, but for some reason his unwavering regard made her nervous. She was glad when the clock struck ten and she could take her leave. Though Graham had lingered for a little talk with Peggy, and Nelson and Ruth had the sidewalk to themselves, the young man seemed in no hurry to relieve his mind. Instead he walked at Ruth's side apparently absorbed in thought. Ruth, waiting, half amused and half vexed by his air of preoccupation, pinched her lips tightly shut as she resolved not to be the first to break the silence. At the door of her home Nelson suddenly roused himself. "May I come in for a little while, Ruth?" "Of course, Nelson. It's Friday. No classes to-morrow." "There's something I want to talk to you about," he said, and followed her indoors with an air of summoning his resolution. As Ruth turned on the lights in the living room, he drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. "I'd like to have you read that." Ruth seated herself by the drop light, and drew out the enclosure. It was folded so that her eye fell at once on the signature. "Why," she exclaimed, "that's the nice soldier you got acquainted with in the hospital." "Yes. The fellow from Oklahoma, you know." Ruth unfolded the letter and began to read. Immediately her expression underwent a noticeable change. One would have said that the letter annoyed her, though when at length she lifted her eyes and met Nelson's expectant look, she was laughing. "Did you ever hear of anything so absurd!" she exclaimed. Nelson cleared his throat. "If you look at it in one way, it's quite an unusual chance. You see he's willing to take me without any capital--" "I don't know what he ever saw in you to make him think you'd make a ranchman," Ruth exclaimed. "I can't imagine you as a cowboy. I suppose," she added excusingly, "that he's always been used to an out-door life and it seems rather dreadful to him for any one to be shut up in a book-store." "It is rather dreadful." Ruth gave a little start. For a moment she was under an impression that she had not heard Nelson aright, or else that he was joking. And yet his voice had no suggestion of humor. It was hoarse and curiously intense, and as she looked at him, she saw that his face was unnaturally flushed. "Why, Nelson," she cried, "What are you talking about? You can't mean that you don't like your work." Nelson looked at her appealingly. Without realizing it, Ruth had spoken in a rather peremptory fashion, and at once his sensitive face showed his fear of having offended her. "I used to think I liked it, Ruth." "Used to! Why, Nelson--" "But now it's like being in a strait jacket. I don't see how any fellow who was in the service can ever get back to standing behind a counter and be satisfied." Again Ruth noticed the curious intensity of his manner. She looked at the letter lying upon the table with a feeling of irritation she did not stop to analyze. "Nelson, you don't mean you want to take that offer? You wouldn't really like to go to Oklahoma, would you? Why it's the jumping-off place." He sat looking at the floor. "I wanted to know what you thought," he murmured. "I'd hate to say all I thought. Why, Nelson, I don't believe it's ever occurred to you what it would mean to your mother." Ruth herself had not thought of Mrs. Hallowell until that instant, and she made up for her tardiness by speaking very earnestly. "It would simply kill her to have you off at the ends of the earth." "Mother's pretty game, you know." Nelson smiled as if recalling something that had pleased him particularly. "She says she wouldn't mind a bit living in Oklahoma." Ruth swallowed hard. Something in his reminiscent smile added to her vexation. "I should think you would know better than to take her seriously. She'd die of homesickness. But of course, if you've really set your heart on going thousands of miles away from all your friends, I wouldn't want to put anything in your way." "Ruth, you know I don't mean that." He looked rather bewildered at her injustice. "I haven't answered the letter. I just wanted to know what you thought about it." "Well, I think the whole thing is absurd. I suppose you are a little restless after your army life, but you'll get over that." "I suppose I will," Nelson acknowledged. He was so humble about it that Ruth promptly forgave him for having given favorable consideration to the offer of his friend in Oklahoma, and was her usual pleasant self during the remainder of his stay. As far as Nelson was concerned, the matter was dropped, but unluckily for Ruth's peace of mind Peggy was yet to be heard from. The next day was Saturday and Peggy dropped in soon after breakfast. "Ruth, what was the matter with Nelson last evening? I never knew anybody to be so quiet. I was afraid that perhaps something was said that hurt his feelings. He's such a sensitive fellow." "No indeed, Peggy. It wasn't anything particular." Ruth hesitated, uncertain whether to let it go at that, or to explain the situation in full. Her life-long habit of confiding in Peggy proved more than a match for her undefined hesitation, and she went on to tell of the letter from Oklahoma with its preposterous offer. She finished with a little contemptuous laugh, but Peggy's face was grave. "Did he want to go, Ruth?" "Why, he--well, it seems, Peggy, that since he got out of the service he's been sort of restless. He got so used to outdoor life that he doesn't enjoy indoor work. But I tell him he'll get over that." "I suppose," said the downright Peggy, looking straight at her friend, "that you feel that you wouldn't want to live in Oklahoma." Ruth jumped. Then as the blood rushed tingling to the roots of her hair, she turned on Peggy a look of intense indignation. "Peggy Raymond, what on earth are you talking about?" Peggy sat without replying and Ruth continued vehemently, "Of course I like Nelson Hallowell; like him very much. I consider him one of my very best friends. But that's all. The very idea of your talking as if--" "I suppose," said Peggy, as Ruth came to a halt, "you'd miss him if he went out West." Ruth brightened. "Yes, that's just it. I'd miss him terribly. I really think he's one of the nicest boys I ever knew, and for all he's so quiet, we have dandy times together. But as for anything else--" "Don't you think," suggested Peggy, as Ruth halted again, "that it seems a little bit unfair to interfere with Nelson's future, just because you like to have him dropping in every day or two and because it's convenient to have an escort whenever you want to go somewhere?" Ruth found herself incapable of replying. She sat staring at Peggy with a resentment that she could not have concealed if she had tried. And Peggy, quite unmoved by her friend's indignation, continued judicially, "If you were going to marry Nelson, you would have a perfect right to help decide where he should be located. But it's considerable of a responsibility to persuade him to turn down an offer like that, just because you're afraid you're going to miss him if he goes away." Ruth found her voice. "Nelson Hallowell can do exactly as he pleases. He asked my advice and I gave it, but he doesn't have to take it unless he wants to." "That's not fair, Ruth. However you feel about it, you know perfectly well that Nelson wants to please you more than anything in the world. And besides, when a friend asks you your advice, you're supposed to think of what is best for him and not of what you want yourself." "Really, Peggy," said Ruth rather witheringly, "as long as Nelson is satisfied with my advice, I can't see that any one else need take it to heart." Peggy colored. It was a fact that, relying on long intimacy and close friendship, she had said more to Ruth than she would have been justified in saying to another girl. "Excuse me, Ruth," she answered quickly. "I'm afraid I was rather interfering." The effect of this apology was peculiar. Ruth burst into tears. "Oh, don't, Peggy," she sobbed. "Don't act as if it wasn't any business of yours what I did." "I'm afraid," owned Peggy, "that I'm too much inclined to think everything you do is my business." "No, you're not. We're just the same as sisters. And it would kill me if you washed your hands of me." Peggy burst into a reassuring laugh. "Small danger of that, dearie. I'm likely to remain Meddlesome Peggy to the end of the chapter, as far as you're concerned. And I don't know what you're crying for, Ruth." Ruth was not quite sure herself, but she continued to sob. "Do you think I ought to encourage Nelson to go, Peggy?" "I don't say that. But it seems to me you ought not to discourage him, unless you have a good reason. And though I don't know much about such things, it sounded to be like a wonderful offer. What does Nelson think?" "I--I guess he thought so, too, but I didn't give him a chance to say much." Ruth dropped her head upon Peggy's shoulder and sobbed. "Oklahoma is such a dreadful way off." "I know it is," Peggy patted her shoulder tenderly. "I'd nearly cry my eyes out if anybody I loved went there to live." "Nelson is so good, Peggy. He wanted to go, but he gave it up just as soon as he saw I didn't like the idea. And I know he hates that old book store." Peggy continued to smile rather wistfully and to pat the heaving shoulders while Ruth prattled on. "I'm awfully selfish, I know. It's just as you said. I never gave a thought to what was best for him." "I never said that, Ruth, I'm sure." "Well, it's so, anyway. I wonder if he's answered that letter yet. I'm going to call up and see." Ruth had no need to look in the telephone book to find the number of Flynn's book store. As the hour was early, Nelson himself answered the call. His politely interrogative tone changed markedly as in response to his, "Hello," Ruth said, "It's I, Nelson." "Ruth! Why, good morning!" "Have you answered that letter from Oklahoma?" "No, I haven't, Ruth. But never mind that letter. We won't talk about it any more." "I just wanted to ask you not to answer it till we'd talked it over again, Nelson." He hesitated a moment. "I don't see the use of that. I wanted to see how you really felt about it, and now I've found out." "Well, don't answer it right away. That's all. Are you coming up to-night, Nelson?" "Sure." Ruth smiled faintly at the emphatic syllable. "Good-by," she said, then sighed as she hung up the receiver. "Well, it's all right," she told the waiting Peggy. "I haven't done any mischief that I can't undo." But when Nelson came that evening he proved unexpectedly obdurate. He showed an extreme reluctance to re-open the subject of the Oklahoma proposition, and roused Ruth's indignation by hinting that the matter did not concern Peggy Raymond, and he could not see any reason for her "butting in." And when sternly called to order for this bit of heresy, he still showed himself unwilling to talk of Oklahoma. "What's the use?" he burst out suddenly. "I know how you feel about it. I--I--It's awfully hard explaining, Ruth, when I haven't any right to--to say how I feel--but the long and short of it is I wouldn't go to any place where you wouldn't live." He stopped, his face scarlet as he realized all his statement implied. Nelson was keenly conscious of his own disadvantages. Graham would soon be in a position to support a family, but the salary Mr. Flynn paid his competent clerk made a wife seem an impossible luxury. Nelson regarded Ruth as the bright particular star of the Friendly Terrace quartette. He considered her prettier than Peggy, wittier than Amy, and more talented than Priscilla. For him to aspire to be the first in her heart was the height of presumption, in Nelson's opinion, and yet he had just said to her in effect that he would not go to any place where she would not go with him. Despairingly he realized how poorly his presumptuous speech had expressed his attitude of worshipful humility. Then he became aware that Ruth was looking at him from the other side of the table, and that her manner lacked the indignation appropriate to the occasion. She held her head very high, and her eyes were like stars. Nelson suddenly experienced a difficulty in breathing. His heart was beating more rapidly than it had ever beaten under fire. He heard himself asking a question, the audacity of which astounded him. "You wouldn't think of it, would you, Ruth, going out to that rough cattle country, a girl like you?" He did not realize the desperation in his voice as he put the question, but its appeal went straight to Ruth's heart. She answered unhesitatingly. "The place wouldn't matter, Nelson. Everything would depend on the one--the one I went with." It was not an opportune time for Graham to walk into the room. And it argued him obtuse, that instead of realizing he was in the way, he seated himself in the easy chair, and proceeded to discuss a variety of subjects. Once or twice Nelson's answers suggested that his mind was wandering, and small wonder. For when the most wonderful thing in the world has just happened, it is hard on any young fellow to be held up and forced to give his views on universal training. CHAPTER X MISTRESS AND MAID A CAREWORN, anxious expression had come to be so much at home on Priscilla's countenance, that it did not surprise Peggy to look from her window one Saturday morning and see Priscilla approaching, her face so lined by worry as to suggest that the heaviest responsibilities rested on her shoulders. As she was quite unconscious of Peggy's observation, she did not make her usual effort to smile and appear natural. "I wish I knew what ailed that girl," thought Peggy, studying Priscilla's changed countenance with a heart-sick concern. "She looks years older than she did six months ago, and I can't make out whether she's sick or just unhappy. And the worst of it is that one can't get a thing out of her." But in this particular instance Peggy was to have no reason to complain of Priscilla's reticence. As Priscilla raised her heavy eyes and saw her friend's face at the window, her own face brightened and she quickened her steps. Peggy hurried to the door, and flung it open with an unreasonable hope that this interview would end the mystery which had baffled her for so long. But the perplexity Priscilla had come to confide was too recent to explain her worried air through the months past. She was hardly in the house before she burst out, "Peggy, I'm in an awful pickle." "What's the matter? Can I help!" "I wondered if you would lend me Sally." "Sally?" repeated Peggy in accents of astonishment. For the maid-of-all-work in the Raymond household was a possession of which few people were envious. Whether Sally was really weak minded was a question on which a difference of opinion was possible, but there was no possible doubt of her talent for doing the wrong thing at the right time or else, vice versa, the right thing at the wrong time. Her one redeeming feature was her amiability, but as this frequently took a conversational turn, it was not without its drawbacks. That any of her friends could want to borrow Sally, or that any household but their own would put up with the blundering, good-natured apology for a domestic servant, had never entered Peggy's head. "Sally," she repeated, still in a tone of mystification. "Of course you can have her if you want her, but whatever it is, she'll do it wrong." "I suppose she could open the door for a caller, couldn't she?" "Why, she can open a door, as a rule, but just now she's got a tooth-ache, and her head is tied up in a red flannel, so unless the callers are people of strong nerves, they may be startled." "O dear!" Priscilla's acceptance of this bit of information was so suggestive of tragedy that Peggy was more puzzled than ever. "Who is the caller?" she demanded. "And why in the world do you want Sally?" "Well, it's quite a story, Peggy. You know Mother's away this week and Martha's having her vacation, and Father and I are taking our meals at the Lindsays. And last evening Horace Hitchcock called, and it seems that an aunt of his is in town." "Oh!" said Peggy. She always made desperate efforts to act just as usual when Horace's name was mentioned, but under such circumstances she invariably felt as if a thick curtain had dropped between her friend and herself. "Horace Hitchcock's aunt," she repeated, trying valiantly to speak naturally. "Is she his mother's sister or his father's?" "Neither one. She's his father's aunt, and of course she is quite old and very rich, and it seems she's coming out to call on me." "To call on you," Peggy exclaimed. "How interesting!" But that adjective registered an exception to Peggy's usual frankness. Had she spoken her real feelings she would have said, "How dreadful!" For a call from the young man's great-aunt seemed to imply that the young man's intentions were serious, and recognized by the family. Horace and Priscilla! Peggy stifled a groan. "And you see the fix I'm in," Priscilla was explaining disconsolately. "Of course she's used to butlers and everything, and here I've got to go to open the door myself." Peggy listened wonderingly. For even if Horace Hitchcock had been an entirely different young man, the necessity for opening the door to his great-aunt would not have impressed her as a tragedy. Priscilla's intuition told her what was passing through the other girl's mind, and she spoke a little fretfully. "Of course it's silly to mind, Peggy, but I _do_ mind, just the same. Mrs. Duncan has a houseful of servants, and she thinks of women who answer their own door-bell as we think of women who take in washing." Priscilla's feeling of resentment at Peggy was enhanced by her own wonder at herself. The glamor which had surrounded Horace in the first renewal of their childish acquaintance had quite disappeared, and yet she could not bear the thought that Horace's great-aunt might look down upon her. "Sally wouldn't be the least bit of good," Peggy declared, "even if it wasn't for the red flannel. Just when I want Sally to be on her good behavior, she does some perfectly unheard-of thing. When do you expect Mrs. Duncan?" "Oh, sometime this forenoon. Horace thought about eleven. And that's another thing that puzzles me," exclaimed Priscilla unhappily. "Ought I to dress up, do you think, as long as I'm expecting a call?" "I'd wear my blue serge, if I were you. Blue serge is always safe and, besides, you look awfully well in that dress. And you need not worry about the maid. I'm it." "Why, Peggy, what do you mean?" "Don't insult me by asking for Sally, and then pretending that I won't do. I've got a black dress and a cute little ruffled apron, and I'm just aching to try my hand at one of those fetching caps the maids wear in the movies." "But, Peggy, suppose Horace should come with his aunt!" "You don't expect him, do you?" "No. I'm sure he didn't plan to come last evening. But he might change his mind." "We'll keep on the look-out. If we see a lady arriving with a young man in tow, I'll roll my cap and apron into a bundle and put them under my arm. Then I'll be your friend, Peggy Raymond, making a morning call. But if the lady is alone, I'm Margaret, the maid." Priscilla was hardly arrayed in her blue serge when Peggy arrived, and the two girls inspected each other admiringly. The Plainness of the blue serge set off the long lines of Priscilla's slender, graceful figure, while the little frilled, nonsensical cap gave a charm to Peggy's mischievous face. "You look like a queen," Peggy declared. "And you're darling in that cap. I'm afraid she'll suspect something the minute she sees you." Mistress and maid were sitting comfortably side by side in the dining-room when the door-bell rang. Peggy started to her feet, but Priscilla clutched her arm. "Don't go far, will you, Peggy." "I don't want to appear to be eavesdropping, ma'am." "Nonsense: you can pretend to be dusting something out here. I don't want you to go away." Priscilla was experiencing a panic at the thought of being left to the tender mercies of Horace Hitchcock's great-aunt. She needed the close proximity of Peggy to give her confidence. Horace had not accompanied Mrs. Duncan. She stood upon the steps, a little withered woman, rather elaborately dressed, and she inspected Peggy through her lorgnette. "Is Miss Combs in?" she inquired, after finishing her leisurely scrutiny. "I think so, Madame. Please walk in." Peggy ushered the caller into the front room and brought a tray for her card. Her cheeks had flushed under Mrs. Duncan's inspection. The small, beady eyes in the wrinkled face had a curiously piercing quality, and she wondered uneasily whether this remarkable old woman could possibly have recognized that she was only masquerading. She carried the card upstairs to Priscilla who had retreated to her room, the prey of nerves, and brought back word that Miss Combs would be down in a few minutes. Then she retired to the adjoining room and began on her dusting. She was not sorry Priscilla had insisted that she be near, for she was extremely curious to hear what the visitor was going to say. Priscilla followed Peggy in something like half a minute, and greeted her caller sweetly, though with some constraint. Mrs. Duncan looked her over approvingly. "You're not as pretty as I expected," was her disconcerting beginning. In the next room Peggy gasped. Priscilla drew herself up and blushed crimson. "What I meant to say," explained the terrible old woman, "is that you're not as pretty as I expected, but much handsomer. I took it for granted Horace would admire some namby-pamby with a doll's face. I suppose you know you're a very striking type, don't you?" "I can't say I've thought much about it," prevaricated Priscilla. "And you're going to college," continued Mrs. Duncan. "What's your idea in that? I suppose you know that if you marry Horace, you ought not to know too much." "Really, Mrs. Duncan--" But Priscilla's caller was off at a tangent. "You've got a nice-looking maid? Have you any brothers?" "No," replied Priscilla mechanically. "I'm an only child." "When you're married, Miss Combs, take an old woman's advice and never have an attractive maid about the house. My married life of twenty years was reasonably successful," explained Mrs. Duncan complacently, "and I lay it all to my habit of selecting maids who were either cross-eyed or else pock-marked." Priscilla felt that she hated her, but as she struggled to conceal her inhospitable emotion, her visitor inquired blandly, "What do you and Horace talk about?" "About--Oh, about all sorts of things." Priscilla wondered if ever in her life she had appeared as inane and stupid as on this momentous occasion. "I can't understand him, you know," explained Mrs. Duncan, rubbing her nose. "Sometimes I think it's because I'm a fool, and sometimes I think it's because he's a fool. I dare say you've felt the same uncertainty. But we'd better talk of something else, so you won't look to conscious when he arrives." "Arrives?" repeated Priscilla blankly. "Yes, he's to lunch with me down town. He suggested that I would enjoy taking him to--what's the name of the place? Oh, well, he'll know. Perhaps you'll join us." Priscilla declined fervently. Without saying it in so many words, she gave the impression that she had a most imperative engagement for the afternoon. As she voiced her stammering refusal, she felt like a criminal on the verge of exposure. For when the bell rang Peggy would answer it, and Horace would at once recognize that Priscilla's attractive maid was no other than Priscilla's bosom friend. But Peggy, dusting industriously in the adjoining room, had overheard the news that had carried consternation to Priscilla's soul, and acted upon the hint with characteristic promptness. A moment later she appeared in the doorway, waiting unobtrusively till Priscilla looked in her direction. And then she said respectfully, "Miss Priscilla." Priscilla struggled to play her part. "Yes--Margaret?" "I haven't done the marketing yet. If you can spare me for a little while, I'll attend to it." "Certainly, Margaret," replied Priscilla with boundless relief. As Peggy disappeared, Mrs. Duncan leaned forward and tapped Priscilla's knee. "I tell you she's too good to be true," she insisted. "She's too pretty, too well-mannered. There's something wrong somewhere. Don't trust her." And Priscilla had to conquer the impression that it was her friend Peggy who was being slandered, before she could assume the nonchalant manner suited to the statement that they had always found Margaret a most trustworthy girl. Horace arrived some fifteen minutes after Peggy's departure, and his apologies to his great-aunt were more profuse than his slight tardiness called for. Indeed, as Priscilla watched his manner toward the domineering old lady, she was unpleasantly reminded that Mrs. Duncan was a rich widow, and that Horace might cherish the hope of inheriting at least a portion of her wealth. Priscilla had all the contempt of a normal American girl for a fortune-hunter, and her lover had never appeared to less advantage in her eyes than in his obvious efforts to please his eccentric relative. In her revolt from Horace's methods she went a little too far in the other direction, and her manner as she parted from her guest was frigid rather than friendly. Mrs. Duncan's call was the first indication that Horace's people were aware of his intentions, and Priscilla had a not unreasonable feeling of resentment at being inspected to see if she would do. Although the door had been opened for Mrs. Duncan by a correctly appointed maid, Priscilla was miserably conscious that the call had not been a success, and that her unfavorable impression of Horace's great-aunt was probably returned by that terrible old person with something to spare. CHAPTER XI QUITE INFORMAL AMY'S memorable dinner party, which had resulted in making Bob Carey such a frequent caller, was responsible for another agreeable friendship. Bob's sister Hildegarde, if she did not fully share her brother's sentiments where Amy was concerned, acknowledged, nevertheless, to a thorough liking for the girl who had played the part of hostess under such trying circumstances. She saw considerable of Amy and, through her, had made the acquaintance of Amy's especial chums on Friendly Terrace. The girls all liked Hildegarde, and Hildegarde liked them, though she was continually accusing them of being old-fashioned in their ideas. Hildegarde had rather more spending money than was good for her, and her social ambitions were the bane of Bob's existence. Bob hated formality. He never put on his dress suit except under protest, and his popularity among his sister's friends, with the resulting invitations to all sorts of affairs, awakened his profound resentment. The simple good times of Amy's set where every one came at eight o'clock and went home at ten, exactly suited him. There was perhaps a spice of malice back of an invitation Amy received one morning. The previous evening Bob had accompanied his sister to the home of one of her friends. He had gone reluctantly, only yielding when Hildegarde had agreed to start for home promptly at ten. There had been other callers, however, and bridge had been suggested, so that it was quarter of one when the brother and sister reached home. Bob was frankly sulky. "I hate to go down to the office in the morning feeling like a fool because I haven't had sleep enough," he declared. "Bob Carey, any one would suppose you were an old grandfather to hear you talk. I don't know another fellow your age who thinks he has to go to bed with the chickens." "And knowing the hours some of your friends keep," returned Bob irritatingly, "I'm not surprised at their seeming lack of intelligence. They're practically walking in their sleep." "Please leave my friends alone. You wouldn't be particularly pleased if I began sneering at Amy." "Sneering at Amy!" Bob's tone was scornful as he repeated his sister's words. "If you did, it would be only to get even with me." "I don't suppose she's absolute perfection." "I don't know." "Oh, Bob, don't be so absurd." But though Hildegarde ended with a laugh, she was still resentful. She knew that Bob had planned to call on Amy that evening and shrewdly judged that, since she had thwarted his intention, he would go the following night. Accordingly she called Amy on the phone bright and early, and invited her to attend a down-town picture show; not an ordinary movie, but a special attraction with the seats selling at regular theater prices. Amy exclaimed delightedly, and then caught herself up. "I forgot that Peggy and Priscilla were coming over to-night. But I'm sure they'll let me off. I'll call them up and then call you. I'm crazy to see that picture, but I didn't expect to for a year or two till it got down to the twenty-five cent houses." "We'll ask Peggy and Priscilla to go, too," said Hildegarde. "Gorgeous," replied Amy, "and it's so near the end of vacation we can make it a final spree"; and Hildegarde, smiling a little, proceeded to call the two Sweet P's as she mentally designated them. Both girls were unqualifiedly delighted to accept, for one of the advantages of not possessing too much money is that the zest for simple pleasures remains keen. Hildegarde had friends who were blasé over a trip to Europe, and she always felt a little wonder, not without a tinge of patronage it must be admitted, over the thoroughness with which Amy and her friends could enjoy things. When Hildegarde announced casually at the dinner table that she would have to be excused before the desert, as she and Amy were to see the "Star of Destiny" that evening, her brother shot her a comprehending glance. "I'd have bought a ticket for you, Bob," Hildegarde explained teasingly, "Only I felt sure you meant to go to bed at nine, and make up the sleep you lost last evening." "You're always thoughtful, Hildegarde," said Bob with an irony so apparent that his mother stared. And Hildegarde hurrying through her dinner, felt cheerful certainty that as far as her brother was concerned, she had evened the score. The "Star of Destiny" proved quite as thrilling as any of the audience could have wished, and the accompanying comedy a trifle less inane than the average picture comedy. At ten o'clock the girls left the theater, while the crowd that had been standing in line scrambled to take the seats they had vacated. As they reached the sidewalk, Hildegarde slipped her hand through the arm of Priscilla, who happened to be nearest, "I'm on the point of starvation," she declared gaily. "I had to hurry through my dinner so, I feel as though I hadn't had a thing. Now we'll go over to the Green Parrot and get something to eat." The guests hesitated. "Is--do you think it is all right for girls to go there alone in the evening?" asked Peggy doubtfully. "Why of course. The name's rather lurid, but it's a perfectly nice place. Let's take this cross-street and then we'll save half a block." On the way to the popular restaurant, Hildegarde did most of the talking. None of her guests felt exactly comfortable over accepting the invitation; and yet to decline it, when Hildegarde declared herself half starved, seemed decidedly ungracious. None of the Friendly Terrace girls had been brought up to think a chaperone a necessary accompaniment to all youthful pleasures, but venturing into a down-town restaurant at ten o'clock in the evening, without either chaperone or escort, was rather too up-to-date to please any of them. Peggy pictured Graham's face when she told him of the climax of the evening's pleasures, and smiled rather ruefully. Once inside, it must be admitted, the spirits of all three revived. The big room was so lighted that it was more dazzling than the noon day. A space had been cleared for dancing, and several couples were revolving in time to a catchy popular air. The majority of the tables were occupied, but the head-waiter, who evidently recognized Hildegarde, led the way to a small round table at the side, and seated them with a flourish. No one had seemed to notice them, and Peggy hoped that their inconspicuous location would prevent any unwelcome attention. "After all," she thought sensibly, "it's a perfectly respectable place, and perhaps it's not considered queer for girls to come alone." Unconsciously her fear of arousing unfavorable comment rendered her unusually subdued, and the other girls took their cue from her, speaking in their lowest voices, smiling discreetly, and otherwise conducting themselves with as much decorum as if there had been a chaperone apiece. After some discussion they decided on welsh rarebit, and Hildegarde also ordered coffee and rolls. The rarebit came in due time, an island of toast in a seething lava-lake of rarebit. The girls sniffed appreciatively and exchanged smiles. "To think I didn't know I was hungry," Amy exclaimed. "I wish I could make my rarebits smooth like this," sighed Peggy. "It looks so wonderful that I hate to eat it." Their faces cheerful, but their manners still decorously subdued, the four girls attacked the dainty which has so undesirable a reputation in the matter of dreams. Though Hildegarde was the only one of the four who had not done justice to her dinner, all were young enough to feel hungry at the sight of the tempting dish. The islands of toast vanished as if submerged by a tidal wave. The miniature lava lakes gradually disappeared, and the big plate of rolls was so diminished by successive onslaughts that the few remaining had a lonely look. Priscilla was buttering the end of her roll when, in involuntary emphasis of something she was saying, she pressed it more energetically than she realized. As if determined to escape the fate of its comrades, the fragment flew from her fingers. It cleared the space between that table and the next as if it had been winged, and then made sure of escape by dropping in the coffee cup of a young man in eye glasses, who was composedly eating fried oysters. The young man looked up, startled as a splash of coffee on his cheek challenged his attention. He looked about in all directions and at length his inquiring gaze came to the table where sat the agonized Priscilla. Here, alas! it halted. For as she had seen the bewildering gyrations of the fragment of Priscilla's roll, Amy had burst into an astonished giggle and had continued to giggle without cessation. Hildegarde, too, had lost interest in the remnant of her meal, and sat leaning her head on her hand, speechless with laughter. As for Peggy and Priscilla, they were looking at each other in silent stupefaction, their flaming cheeks seemingly proclaiming their guilt. It was no wonder the young man in eye-glasses looked no farther. He had found the ones responsible. For an agonizing moment Priscilla sat uncertain what to do. Then summoning her common sense to her aid, she turned to the sole occupant of the next table. "I am very sorry," she said with that dignity that was Priscilla's own. "A piece of roll slipped from my fingers when I was buttering it, and flew across to your table. It--it is in your coffee cup." The young man looked into his cup and perceived the floating fragment. When again he lifted his eyes to Priscilla's he was smiling. "I thought some acquaintance had thrown something at me to attract my attention," he explained. "No," said Priscilla. "It was an unfortunate accident. I beg your pardon." And then she turned to her own coffee, and seemingly gave it her attention, though so intense was her excitement that she might as well have been drinking warm water as the coffee for which the Green Parrot was famous. Peggy was proud of the dignity with which Priscilla had met a difficult situation, but poor Priscilla was not to find it easy to preserve that dignity. Amy was still giggling, her face wearing an expression of suffering, due to the exhausting effect of continuous laughter. Across the table Hildegarde pressed her handkerchief to her eyes and moaned softly. And all at once it seemed to Priscilla that she must shriek with laughter or die. A moment later Peggy uttered an ejaculation of consternation, for the tears were running down Priscilla's cheeks. She sat perfectly erect, her eyes upon the table, and her only sign of emotion those tell-tale tears. Peggy was really alarmed. "Priscilla, you mustn't take it so to heart. It wasn't anything. Don't cry." "But I must do something," responded Priscilla in a strangled voice. "Oh, can't we get away?" Her laughing companions sobered at the discovery that Priscilla was in tears. Hildegarde called the waiter and demanded her check. But before they could get away, the young man in eye-glasses had risen and crossed to their table. "I hope you're not worrying about that roll," he said, looking down dismayed at Priscilla's tear-wet cheeks. "It's not worth thinking of twice, you know." Seeing that Priscilla was incapable of replying, Peggy came to her friend's assistance. "Of course it was only an accident," she said, "But it made her a little nervous." "So I see. I'm terribly sorry. If I could be of any service--" The young man's face was troubled, his manner earnest. Peggy appreciated the sincerity of his feeling, even while she longed to take him by the ear and lead him to the door. For heads were turning in their direction from all over the room. They were the observed of all observers. "Oh, thank you," said Peggy hastily, "she will feel all right as soon as she gets outside. This room is so warm," she added rather inanely. To her enormous relief the waiter appeared with Hildegarde's change. Hildegarde tipped him extravagantly, rammed her remaining bills into her purse, and all four girls started for the door. The young man with the eye-glasses remained standing, staring after them, and Peggy's cheeks crimsoned as she realized the attention they were attracting. She was quite sure she had a case of hysterics on her hands when, once outside, Priscilla began to laugh. It started in a little smothered giggle which soon had developed into peals of laughter. Peggy was terrified. "Priscilla," she cried, "for Heaven's sake--" But Amy who had begun laughing sympathetically, as soon as Priscilla started off, checked herself to remonstrate. "Let her alone, Peggy. All that ails her is she wanted to laugh and couldn't, and I don't know anything that hurts worse. Isn't that it, Priscilla?" Priscilla could not answer in words, but she nodded vehemently and laughed and wiped her wet eyes and laughed on till she sobbed. And then all at once she stopped short, drew a long breath, and exclaimed, "I feel better." They made their way to the street cars, discussing the late unpleasantness with much animation and making use of many lurid adjectives. It was Hildegarde who exclaimed, "Don't you wish you knew who he was?" She referred, of course, to the young man in eye-glasses. Priscilla stiffened. "Mercy, no! I hope he was a stranger in town, stopping over a train, and that I'll never lay eyes on him again." But that wish, though it came from the depths of Priscilla's heart, was not destined to come true. CHAPTER XII GOOD-BY COLLEGE had opened; but they had slipped into it so quietly that there hardly seemed to be a break. For Peggy and Priscilla, perhaps, there was a bit of a pang at the realization that this was the last year of what would probably be one of the sweetest periods in their lives to look back on; and they privately vowed to make it rich in experience and the beauty of living. Ruth and Amy, like Southey's brother who said that "no young man believes that he will ever die," felt that college life would never, could never, end. So a week after the beginning of classes found the four girls trying conscientiously to live in the present, and stifling vague, tantalizing memories of the past three months. A number of letters passed between Nelson Hallowell and his friend in Oklahoma before the great step was decided on. And it must be confessed that in the meantime Ruth's college work suffered. Nelson came almost every evening to pour into her attentive ears the story of his hopes and ambitions, and Ruth listened with the happy confidence that her approval meant more to him than to any one in the world. Ruth and Nelson were living in an enchanted world, where perfect understanding took the place of speech. Nelson did not feel himself at liberty to say to her the thing that was constantly in his thoughts. The salary Mr. Flynn had paid him had not enabled him to save any money, and his venture in Oklahoma, promising as he believed it, was, after all, only a venture, with a possibility of failure. Nelson knew that he himself was bound fast and irrevocably, but he wanted to leave Ruth free as air. Yet he talked to her with the assurance that she knew all he was in honor bound not to say, and her look, as she listened, confirmed that certainty. Those weeks during which the matter was being settled were a happy time for both of them. Youth has a way of making the most of a present joy, regardless of what the future has in store, and while this seems very short-sighted to some older people, who can always look ahead far enough to be miserable, the young will probably continue to enjoy to-day's sunshine--regardless of the weather prognosticator, who assures them of a storm in the middle of the week with a drop in temperature. Nelson and Ruth saw as much of each other as they could, and looked no further than a happiness born of a confidence and understanding. But the thing was settled at last, and the generous offer of Nelson's soldier friend definitely accepted. Nelson gave Mr. Flynn notice, and that irritable gentleman promptly lost his temper, and accused his reliable clerk of folly and ingratitude. Later he realized his mistake, and offered to raise his salary. But Nelson was as little moved by Mr. Flynn's smiles as he had been by his frowns, and Mr. Flynn promptly relapsed into his former irascibility. "The war spoiled a lot of you young fellows. You're sick of hard work. Loafing is the only thing that appeals to you." "I never heard," laughed Nelson, "that life on a cattle ranch was considered a soft snap." "Well, if it isn't, you'll soon give it up," said Mr. Flynn disagreeably. "An easy berth is what you're looking for, and it's my opinion that you'll look some time before you find it." The next two weeks fairly flew. Nelson was getting his necessary outfit, and every afternoon, on the way home, he stopped to exhibit to Ruth his latest purchases. And now the time had come when it was hard for Ruth to smile and show the proper interest. Sometimes when she remembered that the decision had been left to her, and that she had brought this on herself, her heart almost failed her. It would have been so much easier to have gone on in the old way. The thought of the thousands of miles that would soon stretch between Nelson and herself gave her a weak feeling in the knees. They had a great deal to say in those days about letters but each realized, only two well, that the best letter ever penned is a poor substitute for the exchange of speech and of smiles. The day of Nelson's departure Ruth went through the customary routine with a curious sense of unreality. She had suggested Nelson's coming to dinner, but he had declined, and she would never know what that refusal cost him. "I'd love to, Ruth. You don't know how I'd love to. But I think I should take my last meal with mother." "Yes, Nelson, I think so, too." "She says she won't go down to the station to see me off," Nelson went on. "She's been keen about my going from the start, but now that it's come to the point, it's harder than she thought." Ruth reflected that she could sympathize with Mrs. Hallowell perfectly. "The train goes at ten," Nelson continued with a sprightly air that would not have deceived the most gullible, "so I'll have plenty of time to bore you stiff before you see the last of me." Ruth forced the smile his jest demanded. "You know we're all going to the station with you," she said. "Even Bob Carey's coming." "I hope that Hitchcock won't show up," exclaimed Nelson apprehensively. Ruth laughed. "No, I don't think Horace expects to honor us. Isn't it the queerest thing," she added, "what Priscilla can see in him?" "I should say so. Priscilla's one of the finest girls you'd meet in a day's journey, and Hitchcock is a nut. I shouldn't think she could stand it to have him around. Though I suppose," concluded Nelson with customary modesty, "that Priscilla thinks just the same about you and me." "Priscilla! She wouldn't dare." Ruth's indignation was so intense that Nelson shouted with laughter, but it warmed his heart, nevertheless. In that last quick-moving Saturday, Ruth saw Nelson for a few moments in the morning, and again about three in the afternoon. His stay was short and rather unsatisfactory for he had some last errands to attend to, and his mind was so full of them that his thoughts wandered from what he was saying, and he left his sentences unfinished in the most irritating fashion. After he had answered a question of Ruth's in a way which showed he had hardly heard what she had said, he looked up quickly at her half-vexed exclamation, laughed, and jumped to his feet. "It's no use, Ruth," he said. "I'm one of the fellows who's good for only one thing at a time. I'll attend to these thousand-and-one things that have been left over, and I'll see you about eight o 'clock to-night. That will give us time for a nice little visit." Up till that time the hours had fairly flown. Now they dragged. Ruth watched the clock and waited for the tiresome, leisurely hour hand to point to eight. The clan was to gather at a little after nine, and she was thankful when Graham departed for Peggy's shortly after finishing dinner. Peggy would keep him till the last minute. Peggy would understand. Ruth had taken great pains in dusting the living-room that morning, and she looked around it thinking that it made a picture of cosy comfort Nelson might be glad to carry with him. It was eight o'clock at last. Ruth straightened a book on the table, brushed a speck of dust from her gown, and sat down facing the door. There were quick steps on the side walk, and she never doubted that they would come on up the walk, and then up the steps, and she meant to have the door open before he had time to ring. But the footsteps went on and the minute hand of the clock was also moving. At quarter past eight Ruth was nervous. She got up and down, adjusted the window shades, changed the arrangement of the chairs, fussed with the flowers on the mantel, looked at herself in the mirror, and did something to her hair. At half past eight she sat very still, frowning slightly and biting her lip. At quarter of nine her cheeks had reddened and she tapped the carpet with the toe of her shoe. And at nine o'clock her heart gave a jump and she forgot how near she had come to being angry. For the footsteps for which she had waited were coming up the walk. "Hello!" It was Priscilla's voice. "Don't tell me I'm the first one." "The others will be here in a minute," Ruth replied in an even voice. "Come right in and take off your coat, Priscilla, for this room's awfully warm." Priscilla complied with her friend's suggestion, and glanced at her admiringly. She thought she had never seen Ruth look so pretty. "You've got a lovely color to-night," she exclaimed. "It's just because it's so hot here. I always get flushed when I'm warm." Priscilla was looking around the room as if in search of something. "Why, where's Nelson?" "He'll be here right away. You know there are always so many things to be attended to in the last few minutes." But though Ruth gave this explanation with a matter-of-fact cheerfulness that deceived even Priscilla who knew her so well, she was seething inwardly. So this was all he cared. He had sacrificed their quiet hour together. Now there would be a crush and a crowd and everybody talking at once, and no chance to say any of the things she had saved up for their last evening. Not that she cared. Ruth flung up her head and laughed gaily at something Priscilla was telling. Her hands were cold and her mouth felt very dry, and her heart was pounding furiously. Nelson could come when he was ready, and so that he didn't miss the train, it made no difference to her. Amy and Bob were next to arrive. Then came Peggy and Graham. "Nelson's late, isn't he?" said Peggy with an uneasy glance at the clock. "He hasn't any time to spare." "I'll put on my things so we'll all be ready to start when he gets here," Ruth returned casually. She had put on a little blue frock, of which Nelson was especially fond, for the last evening, and she was glad to conceal it by a long coat. Her hand trembled as she pinned her hat in place. She hoped Nelson Hallowell wasn't conceited enough to suppose she cared whether he came at one hour or another. It was twenty minutes past nine when Nelson arrived, and he looked rather white and shaken. As he had left for camp two years before, his mother had stood smiling in the doorway to watch him go. When it was whispered that they were going across, and he had told her she was not likely to see him again till the war was over, she had kissed him with lips that did not tremble. But then she had been lifted above herself by the exalted spirits of the times. Now she had no sense of patriotic service to sustain her. She realized that she was no longer a young woman, that life was uncertain, and that her boy was going very far away. Over their last meal together she had broken down, and wept as Nelson had never seen his mother weep in all his life. It is not to Nelson's discredit that he had forgotten Ruth. Or if that is saying too much, his thought of her was vague and shadowy. Nelson's father had died when he was a little boy, and through the years that he was growing to manhood, his mother and he had been everything to each other. The sight of her grief was torturing. He had put his arms about her, and comforted her as best he could. He had offered to give up the whole thing, and had started to go out to telegraph his friend in Oklahoma that he was not coming. That, more than anything else, had helped her to regain her self-control. As mothers have been doing from time immemorial she wiped her wet eyes and tried to smile, that he might go on his great adventure without a shadow on his heart. Throughout that distressing, solemn, sacred time, it had never occurred to Nelson to look at the clock. The thought of Ruth had hardly crossed his mind. Even on his way to her homo, he was still thinking of the mother he had left. It was Graham who, hearing Nelson's step outside, rushed to admit him. Nelson entered, blinking a little in the bright light of the room, and speaking first to one and then another. Ruth in the corner by the fireplace was talking to Bob Carey, and was so interested that she only glanced in Nelson's direction, to toss him a smiling nod, and then resume her conversation with Bob. Nelson gave a little start as if some one had pinched him in the middle of a dream and he had suddenly awakened. "Well, old man," remarked Graham cheerfully, "you haven't left yourself much leeway. It's just about time to start." "I--yes, I suppose it is." Nelson looked in Ruth's direction and then looked quickly away. As for Ruth, she was so absorbed by what Bob Carey was saying, that her brother had to repeat his remark for her benefit. "Come, Ruth. Better get a move on. We haven't any time to waste." "Oh, is it really time to start?" Ruth asked carelessly. "I hadn't noticed." And with that fib on her conscience, she rose and joined the others. Fond as Peggy was of Ruth, that evening she could have shaken her in her exasperation. For on the walk to the street-car, Ruth clung to her arm and chattered unceasingly. As Graham stuck doggedly to Peggy's other side and Bob was with Amy, Nelson and Priscilla found themselves walking together. But since Nelson was too dazed for speech, and Priscilla was wondering what Horace would say to this juxtaposition, they walked in an almost unbroken silence. It was no better on the street car. Peggy maneuvered shamelessly to put Nelson and Ruth into the one vacant seat, but Ruth slipped past and took her seat beside a fat woman, who left so little space that Ruth was in imminent danger of falling into the aisle, whenever the car turned the corner. In Peggy's opinion such a catastrophe would have been no more than she deserved. Peggy had to take the place she had designed for Ruth, and did her best to be agreeable, but Nelson's wandering replies showed the futility of her efforts. A slight delay on the way brought them to the station less than ten minutes before train time. Nelson's tickets were bought, of course, and his reservations made. They stood in a group in the station waiting-room and said the aimless things people generally say five minutes before train-time. All but Ruth, that is. When Nelson looked at her he found her attention absorbed by an Italian family, whose bundles and babies occupied the nearest row of seats. It was Graham who again took on himself the ungracious duty of calling Nelson's attention to the flight of time. "I guess you'd better go aboard, Nelson. You don't want to stand right here in the station, and miss the train." Nelson started violently. "Oh, no," he replied, "certainly not." He turned to Bob Carey and shook hands with him, murmuring a mechanical good-by. Amy stood at Bob's side and Nelson held out his hand to her. Amy had shared Peggy's feeling of vexation with Ruth, and like Peggy had resented her sense of impotence. Neither one of them would have hesitated to take Ruth roundly to task for her conduct, but it was impossible to scold her in Nelson's presence, and after he had started on his long journey westward it would be too late. But as Amy looked into the young fellow's down-cast face, a brilliant inspiration came to her aid. She grasped his hand, pulled herself up on tiptoes, and kissed the astonished youth squarely on the lips. "Good-by, Nelson, and good luck." Peggy, the next in line, saw her friend's ruse, and seconded her admirably. It was impossible to tell whether Nelson blushed at the second kiss, for the flaming color due to Amy's salute still dyed him crimson. Priscilla pushed aside the obtrusive thought of Horace, and backed up the others. And then Nelson came to Ruth. For a moment Ruth had been in a quandary. After their warm friendship, to part with Nelson with a formal handshake when the other girls had kissed him, would be to proclaim publicly that she was angry, and Ruth did not wish to seem angry, but only indifferent. And yet if she kissed Nelson good-by, she had a suspicion that the barrier her pride had built between them would melt like mist in the sun. She raised her eyes and met his, those honest eyes in which she read bewilderment and grief and appeal and something greater than all. And then, all at once, her resentment seemed incomprehensibly petty. Whatever the reason that Nelson had come late, it was not because he did not care. And so their first kiss was exchanged in the garish light of a railway waiting-room, with the calls of the trainmen blending with the unmelodious crying of babies, with travelers coming and going, and a little circle of friends standing by and taking everything in. But there are some experiences it is impossible to spoil. [Illustration: "SHE RAISED HER EYES AND MET HIS"] "All aboard," cried Graham, and carried Nelson away. Ruth slipped her arms through Peggy's, and turned toward the door, swallowing hard at something that refused to be swallowed. "If ever a girl deserved a scolding!" said Peggy in the tenderest tones imaginable. "But I'm not going to do it now, because at the last minute you redeemed yourself--thanks to Amy." CHAPTER XIII PEGGY GIVES A DINNER PARTY RUTH moped after Nelson's departure. Just how much her depression was due to missing him, and how much was the result of self-reproach, she could not have told. Each time she realized his absence she remembered with a pang the hurt wonder of his face that night in the station. It did not help matters that Nelson seemed to consider himself entirely to blame for what had happened, and had written her from the train a most humble apology for failing to be at her home at eight o'clock as he had promised. In fact, his assumption that she could not possibly be in the wrong only made Ruth the more conscious of her pettiness. It was largely on Ruth's account that Peggy resolved on her dinner party. For after scolding Ruth soundly, and giving her to understand that she was very much ashamed of her, Peggy had set herself resolutely to cheer her despondent friend. On the Friday following Nelson's departure something went wrong with the heating plant at college, and the classes were dismissed at ten o'clock. At once Peggy determined to celebrate. "Father and mother have gone away for the week end, and Dick's going home with his chum after school, and I shan't see him till bed-time. Come to dinner all of you. We'll have an old-fashioned good time." The recipients of this invitation accepted promptly. They were in the rather hilarious mood which for some reason characterizes the most ambitious student when school is dismissed for the day, college seniors as well as kindergarten tots. "Only you must let us come over and help you," stipulated Ruth. "Yes, come on, and then if anything doesn't turn out well, I can blame some of you. I wonder--do you know, I've half a mind to invite Hildegarde Carey." The others approved, especially Priscilla who had a great admiration for Bob's attractive sister. "She took us out that evening, you know," Peggy continued. "She's always been awfully sweet to me and I've never done anything for her. The only thing--well, I feel a little bit afraid of her." "I'll testify that she can eat a very simple meal and seem to enjoy it." And Amy chuckled as she always did when she recalled the first time Hildegarde had sat at her table. Peggy laughed understandingly. "I think I'll ask her. I've always thought it was a sort of snobbishness to be ashamed to give your best to people who have more than you do. Though I'm not sure that a party of girls will appeal to her." Apparently she had misjudged Hildegarde. For the latter's tone, when she responded to Peggy's invitation given over the phone a few minutes later, was unmistakably enthusiastic. "A dinner party and just girls! How cute! I'd adore to come, Peggy, but would it put you out if I brought my friend Virginia Dunbar? She's a New York girl who's making me a little visit and she's perfectly fascinating." "Why, bring her of course. I shall love to meet her." Peggy's hospitality rendered her response sufficiently fervent, but as she hung up the receiver, her face wore a thoughtful expression. The little dinner party, which had seemed pure fun when her three chums were her prospective guests, had become a responsibility, as soon as Hildegarde was added to the number. And with a New York girl coming, it seemed distinctly formidable. It had not previously occurred to Peggy that the house was not in suitable order for the reception of guests, but now as she looked about the dining-room its shortcomings were painfully evident. She donned a long apron and a sweeping cap, and set resolutely to work. When the dining room was swept and garnished, the living room across the hall suffered comparison, and Peggy gave that equally careful attention. And as by this time she was on her mettle, she went to work cleaning the silver. The twelve o'clock whistles surprised her in this exacting task, and she swallowed a peanut-butter sandwich by way of luncheon, promising herself to make up for this abstemiousness at dinner, Peggy was not one of the temperamental cooks who cannot enjoy their own cooking. At half past one she hurried forth with her market basket to make the necessary purchases. She left by the back door and took the key with her. A little after two she was back again, the loaded basket on her arm. Peggy set her burden down, rubbed her aching muscles, and felt in her coat pocket for the key. Then she felt in the other pocket. Then she continued to search one pocket and then the other, with increasing evidences of consternation. But it was of no use. The key was gone. "I must have had it in my hand and laid it down on the counter somewhere," thought Peggy. "Was ever anything so exasperating." She left the basket outside the locked door, and hurriedly retraced her steps. The butcher, whom she had visited first, shook his head in answer to her question. No, he had not seen a stray door-key. It was the same at the grocer's, the same at the bakery where she had bought Parker-house rolls. Peggy walked home over the route she had traversed, her eyes glued to the side-walk, but she did not find the key. Ruth was waiting for her by the front steps. "I thought I'd come over and help you. I hope you haven't finished everything." "I haven't even started," replied Peggy in a hollow voice, and explained the situation. Ruth was a girl of resources and at once she had a bright idea. "Peggy, our front door key looks a good bit like yours. Perhaps it will open the door. I'll run over and get it." "Then, fly," pleaded Peggy, "It's simply awful to be locked out of your house when you have a million things to do." Ruth sped on her errand at a pace which satisfied even the impatient Peggy, and returned with a key which really did look like the latch key with whose appearance Peggy was most familiar. Hopefully she inserted it in the appropriate key-hole. Patiently she turned it this way and that. The latch key was like a great many people, encouraging one's expectations by almost doing what it was asked to do, but never quite succeeding. In the end Peggy mournfully relinquished all hope of entering the house by its aid. "I can't waste any more time on that key. It won't work, and I've got to get in." "How about the windows," suggested Ruth. "The windows on the first floor are all locked, for I made sure of that before I started out." "If we could borrow a ladder--" "I don't know anybody who owns a ladder. No, there's just one chance as far as I can see. I've always wondered if I could get in through the coal shute and now I'm going to see." "But, Peggy, it's so dirty." "I know, but it's got to be done." "You might get stuck," exclaimed Ruth, turning pale. "Wait a little, Peggy. Perhaps something will happen." "Unless an air ship comes along and takes me to a second story window, I can't think of anything that could happen that would be of any help to me." The narrow, inclined passage through which the coal was chuted from the side walk to the cellar bin, looked small enough and black enough to justify Ruth's forebodings. But Peggy's impatience had reached the point where anything seemed better than inaction. She lowered herself into the chute, and when she released her hold of the edge, her descent was so rapid that Ruth shrieked. But after a moment of suspense she heard an encouraging rattle of coal, and then steps slowly ascending the cellar steps. A little later the front door was shaken violently without opening, however, and Peggy's face presently appeared at one of the living-room windows. Regardless of the fact that her friend was attempting to tell her something, Ruth screamed with laughter, for Peggy's face was so begrimed as to suggest that her habitual occupation was that of a chimney-sweep. Ruth's laughter was short-lived, however, for raising her voice, Peggy made herself heard, and with an accent of authority by no means characteristic. "Stop laughing, Ruth, and help me. In fooling with your key I've done something to that wretched lock, and now I can't open the door even from the inside." "The front door?" "I can't open either door," cried Peggy. "I can't open _any_ door. The only way to get into the house is by the window, and Hildegarde Carey is coming to dinner and a girl from New York." "What do you want me to do, Peggy?" Ruth was so carried away by her friend's excitement that for the moment she was unable to see anything humorous in the situation. "Bring me my market basket, first. It's on the back steps. And then find a locksmith and bring him here. Don't be satisfied with having him say he'll come. Bring him with you." Ruth hurried to the back of the house, secured the heavy basket, and returned with it to the living room window. And then she astonished Peggy by setting the basket down and beginning to laugh hysterically. "What on earth--" "Oh, Peggy, please excuse me. I really didn't mean to laugh, but honestly you're the funniest sight I've ever seen. You're striped just like a zebra." Curiosity led Peggy to consult the mirror over the mantel. But instead of laughing as Ruth had done, she uttered a tragic groan. "It's going to take a terrible time to clean that off, if it ever does come off. Oh, Ruth, hurry! When I think of all that will have to be done before six o'clock, my head just whirls." Ruth took a hasty departure and Peggy, having carried the basket to the kitchen, rushed upstairs to remove all traces of her recent novel entry. As this necessitated an entire change of clothing and the use of a prodigious amount of soap and hot water, her toilet consumed more time than she could well spare. But at length, clean and extremely pink, and attired in a little frock not too good for getting dinner and yet good enough to pass muster at the table, she rushed downstairs and attacked her vegetables. And still no sign of Ruth, bringing the locksmith. About five o'clock Priscilla arrived ready to lend a hand. Peggy answered her ring at the window, instead of at the door, and after a brief conversation, the tall Priscilla made an unconventional entry. Amy arriving twenty minutes later was admitted by the same entrance. The girls made themselves useful and speculated on what was detaining Ruth. "I don't mind letting you girls in through the window," groaned Peggy. "But it's different with Hildegarde. And that New York girl. Oh, heavens!" At five o'clock they were all too nervous to know what they were doing. Peggy set skillets on the stove with nothing in them, and snatched them off again, just in time to avert disaster. She salted vegetables and then forgot and salted them all over again. Priscilla was trying to set the table, and making a poor job of it, as is generally the case when one is doing one thing and thinking of another. Amy, after going to the front window on the average of once in every two minutes to see if Ruth were coming, felt that she could bear inaction no longer. "Peggy, where's the latch key to your front door?" "Hanging on a hook over by the umbrellas. But you can't do anything with it. I've tried." "What a key has done a key can undo," replied Amy, sententiously; and possessing herself of the magic piece of steel, she climbed out of the window and set to work. For fifteen or twenty minutes she continued to fumble at the lock without results, and she was on the point of deciding that she might be putting in the time to better advantage, when something clicked encouragingly. Amy turned the knob, and squealed with delight; for the door opened. Before she could proclaim her success, Priscilla had made a discovery. Lying across a chair in the kitchen was a garment of some indeterminate shade between blue and black. "What's this?" asked Priscilla, pausing to examine it. "It's my old blue coat. But since I came down the coal chute, I don't know as I can ever wear it again. It isn't worth sending to the cleaner's, and I'm afraid it's beyond my skill." "I'll hang it in the laundry," said Priscilla, and lifted the smutty garment daintily by the tips of her fingers. The coat swung against the round of the chair with a distinct clink, and Peggy looked up quickly. "What was that?" "A button, wasn't it?" "The buttons are cloth. And that was such a queer sound--like metal." Priscilla had a brilliant idea. Disregarding the fact that the coal dust with which the garment was covered came off on her hands, she began eagerly feeling along the lower edge. And just as Amy heard the click that meant victory, Priscilla uttered an ecstatic cry. "The key, Peggy! I've found your key!" "What? Where? Oh, Priscilla, not really?" "There must have been a hole in your pocket," declared Priscilla. "The key slipped down between the outside and the lining. You can feel for yourself. There's a key all right, and it's not likely it's a different one." "Take a knife and rip up the lining at the bottom," ordered Peggy recklessly. "Yes, of course it's the key. I wonder if I'd rather have that New York girl come in by the back door or the front window." That query had hardly left her lips, when Amy rushed in. "I've done it, Peggy, I've done it." "You don't mean you've got the door open?" "Yes, I have. I was just ready to give up and then I tried again and something clicked and the deed was done." "And Priscilla's found the back-door key. Now Ruth will come with the locksmith." They heard footsteps even as she spoke, and then Ruth's voice explaining to the locksmith that the only way to get into the house was by the window. Peggy went to meet them, assuming a very dignified air that she might not look sheepish. "We succeeded in opening the doors that were troubling us, but there's a key broken off in a lock upstairs. Since you're here, you might as well attend to that. Will you take him upstairs Ruth? It's the door of the den." And then Peggy beat a retreat to the kitchen, leaving Ruth to propitiate the locksmith, who had left his shop reluctantly, yielding to her impassioned representations of the urgency of the case. Dinner was more than half an hour late, and failed to justify Peggy's reputation as a cook, for some dishes were over-salted and others entirely lacking that essential ingredient, while the pudding was so overdone that it was necessary to remove the top layer, and conceal deficiencies by a quite superfluous meringue. But since Peggy had planned her dinner party with the purpose of distracting Ruth's thoughts, she had every reason to consider it an unqualified success. CHAPTER XIV AT THE FOOT-BALL GAME THE foot-ball season was on. It had opened auspiciously when the university had crushingly defeated the visitors, and the attendance upon the second game showed that the public anticipated a similar victory. Priscilla, sitting demurely beside Horace Hitchcock, was a-tingle with excitement. Not for the world would she have allowed Horace to guess how momentous the occasion seemed. The tiers of seats gave a dazzling effect of color. Pennants and flags and the bright-colored hats of the girls made Priscilla think of terraces covered with flowers. Every one was talking, almost drowning out the noisy efforts of the 'varsity band. It seemed to Priscilla an unfitting time to quote Schopenhauer, but the Schopenhauer pose was Horace's latest, and it recognized neither time nor seasons. Priscilla leaned impulsively across Horace to wave to Amy, whose good-humored face had suddenly differentiated itself from the mass of surrounding faces. Horace interrupted in the midst of a peculiarly pessimistic utterance, looked frankly vexed, and Priscilla apologized. "Excuse me, I just happened to see Amy." "It is not a surprise to me, Priscilla, to find you uninterested. It is the fate of some souls to be solitary. Once I had hoped--but it doesn't matter." Priscilla's mood was a little perverse. "Perhaps the reason you're solitary is that you choose such unpleasant paths. If you'd only walk where it was nice and sunny, you'd have plenty of company." "Plenty of company! Heavens!" Horace shuddered. "That suggests the crowd. It is bad enough for the body to be jostled, but at least the spirit can command unhampered space. I had dreamed once that you might follow me to the heights where the atmosphere is too rare for the multitude, but--Why do we cling to life, when each hour that passes shatters another illusion?" "I'm sorry I'm such a disappointment, Horace," Priscilla bit her lip. She was young and eager. She wanted passionately to be happy. She longed to respond to the charm of the hour, to enjoy it ardently, and instead she was obliged to listen to quotations from Schopenhauer, and think of Horace's lost illusions. The thought crossed her mind that since she could not make Horace happy even for an afternoon, and since he was certainly not making her so, it promised ill for the future. If only Horace could be brought to see that they had made a mistake. A little flutter of hope stirred in Priscilla's heart. Horace was speaking in a tone of extreme bitterness. "Blessed is the man who expects nothing from life, for he shall not be disappointed." "Horace," began Priscilla firmly. "Don't you think that we--I mean wouldn't it be better--" A number of people were coming into the vacant places on her left. A young man seated himself beside Priscilla, and involuntarily she turned. Then she gave an impulsive start and her ready color flamed up. The young man, who wore glasses, also started and after an almost imperceptible hesitation lifted his hat. Simultaneously Priscilla bowed in the most unresponsive fashion possible, and looked away. Horace stared suspiciously at her flushed cheeks. Horace had never heard the story of the supper at the Green Parrot, and the fragment of roll that had sought to drown itself in the stranger's coffee-cup. If Priscilla had ever taken him into her confidence, he might have guessed the explanation of her present embarrassment. As it was, he leaned close and said in her ear, "Who is that fellow?" "Sh! I'll tell you afterward." Poor Priscilla! The game to which she had looked forward had become an impossible nightmare. Horace's philosophical pursuits had not freed him from that ready jealousy which is the characteristic of small natures. He sat glowering across Priscilla's shoulder at the young man seated on her left. As it was impossible to misunderstand Horace's expression, the young man, after his first recognition of Priscilla's presence, obligingly ignored her. The finishing of the first half was an enormous relief to Priscilla. The majority of the seats in the grand-stand were immediately vacated. The flower bed had become kaleidoscopic, with the bits of color continually rearranging themselves, as laughing girls and glowing youths moved about, excitedly discussing the points of the game they had witnessed. But though Priscilla was so ardent a fan, she knew little of the game and cared less. The young man at her left had been one of the first to rise. As he moved away, Priscilla turned to Horace, and without giving herself time to be frightened by his forbidding expression, she told him the story of her first and only visit to the Green Parrot. After she had finished, Horace seemed to be waiting for more. "Do you mean that is all?" he demanded at length. "All? Of course it's all." "Then why did you blush that way?" The red went out of Priscilla's cheeks. Even the color due to the frostiness of the outdoor air was replaced by an angry pallor. "Do you mean," she said in a level voice, "that you don't believe me?" "A fellow crowds in and sits down beside you, a fellow I've never seen. You recognize each other and then you turn crimson. You refuse to give me any explanation till enough time has elapsed for fabricating a story, plausible from your point of view--" "Horace!" "And you then tell me a yarn that is no explanation whatever. What if a piece of roll did fly out of your hand and fall into somebody's coffee cup! What is there in that to turn you all colors of the rainbow? You're stringing me, that's all." The Horace who quoted Schopenhauer, and talked like the hero of a society novel, had magically disappeared, and in his place was a slangy young man, very much like other young men in a bad temper. "Horace," said Priscilla, her lips trembling, "I've been afraid for a long time that we'd made a mistake. I can't seem to please you, no matter how hard I try, and probably it won't surprise you to know that I've been perfectly miserable for the last six months. And it seems to me the best thing we can do--" The people were beginning to come back to their seats. A couple just in front of Horace and Priscilla turned to scream something to a row of young people back of them. Priscilla tightened her grip on her self control and looked straight ahead. It was not the time nor place for breaking an engagement. She must wait till she could get away from this noisy, laughing crowd. Oh, if only the dreadful afternoon were over. The university triumphed again, as its friends had anticipated. There was the usual tumultuous cheering, the usual frantic demonstrations. Priscilla gave Horace the benefit of a frigid profile. Her sense of indignity kept her sternly silent. He had accused her of lying, and that meant all was over between them. Underneath her hurt and humiliation was a sense of relief she refused to acknowledge even to herself. Fortunately the young man in eye-glasses did not return to take the vacant place at Priscilla's left, and the situation was not further complicated by his embarrassing presence. She stood up as the crowd rose, thankful for the prospect of escape. Horace put his hand lightly on her arm. "Wouldn't you like something hot to drink?" he asked. "Chocolate or coffee?" His tone was caressing. "I don't want anything except to get home." "Then we'll go home, little girl. I only thought you might be chilled sitting here in the cold so long." He spoke with placid tenderness, as if their quarrel belonged to the Babylonian era of their acquaintance. Priscilla cast a frightened glance at him. She felt like a fly, partially disentangling itself from the spider's web, only to find itself again mysteriously ensnared. "Don't, Horace," she exclaimed impulsively. "Don't what, Priscilla?" "Don't talk as if nothing had happened. If you believe that I'm a liar--" "My dear girl, don't be absurd. We'd better not talk till you're calmer." "I'm as calm as I'm likely to be when I'm talking of this, Horace. If you think it a little thing to doubt my word, I don't agree with you." He took her arm and bent down till his face was very close to hers. "Can't you make allowances, Priscilla, for a man crazed with love and jealousy?" "You haven't any right--" Her voice broke in a sob. She fought desperately against the tears that placed her, she vaguely realized, at such a serious disadvantage, but they were too much for her. They splashed down on her white cheeks, and the couples crowding past glanced at her curiously. "Forgive me, Priscilla. I accept your explanation. I ask your forgiveness. I am at your feet." She was lost and she knew it, but she struggled nevertheless. "We've made a mistake. We're not happy, either of us. It's better to stop now than later." "Priscilla--are you in love with him?" Horace's tone had changed magically. It was no longer tenderly matter-of-fact, but tragic, desperate. She stared at him aghast. "In love--why, what, do you mean?" "With that man who sat beside you to-day, the man who did not dare come back and face me." "Horace,--why, Horace, you must be crazy. I told you I had never seen him but once before, and I told you what happened then." Her disclaimer did not afford him any especial relief. He was muttering to himself. She caught the words, "As well now as later," and fear gripped her heart. He did not directly address her till they had left the field behind, and were no longer surrounded by the laughing, buoyant throng. "I have foreseen this, Priscilla. I have known that happiness was not for me. But I have tried to shut my eyes to the truth, to hope for the impossible. Now you have thrown me away like a ripped glove--" "Horace, I didn't." Even at this tragic moment the thought crossed Priscilla's mind that instead of throwing away a ripped glove as worthless, she would sit down conscientiously to mend it. She brushed aside the reflection as unworthy the occasion and hurried on, "It isn't that. But if we can't be happy now, if we're always irritating and hurting each other--" "You don't need to say more, Priscilla. You are weary of me. I had dreamed I had found a soul capable of constancy--but no matter. This is good-by, Priscilla. I cannot live without you. When you take away your love from me, you take away all that makes life endurable. All I ask now is forgetfulness, and only death can promise me that--Good-by, Priscilla." Poor Priscilla! She should have known better. Long before she had discovered Horace's weakness for posing. It was no secret to her that he experienced the keenest satisfaction in contemplating the ravages wrought in his nature by successive disillusionments. Yet though she understood, at this crisis her good sense failed her. In spite of herself, she interpreted Horace's speech by her own sincerity, and a chill terror took possession of her. He would kill himself and she would be to blame. Although the law would not recognize her crime, at the bar of her own conscience she would be adjudged guilty of murder. "Horace," she wailed, "you did not understand me. I want to make you happy, that's all. If you think we haven't made a mistake, I'm satisfied." It took a long time to reassure Horace. It was so hard to explain matters satisfactorily that it almost seemed as if he were stupid or else wilfully perverse. Much of the time he stared blankly ahead, so lost in gloomy reflections that she had to speak his name twice, before she could attract his attention. His lips moved, too, but without a sound, as if he were saying things too dreadful to be heard. Altogether Priscilla suffered intolerably before she could bring the unhappy young man to reconsider his desperate purpose. At last she was partially successful. He became calm enough to listen to her repeated assurances that all she thought of was his happiness and, though his mood was still sober when they parted, he had given a half-hearted and reluctant promise that he would surrender, for the present at least, all thought of doing away with the life he valued so lightly. Priscilla was not sure how she got through the rest of the day. Her mother noticed her abstraction and speculated hopefully as to whether she had quarreled with Horace. While Priscilla's parents had never been let into the secret of the engagement, they could not be unaware of the significance of Horace's attentions. Like most American fathers and mothers, they believed a girl should be allowed to choose her own friends, unless there was some decided reason to oppose her choice. Although neither of them liked Horace, the reasons for their prejudice were too vague and too personal to constitute a ground for opposing the intimacy. Moreover, both of Priscilla's parents were of the opinion that if she saw enough of the young man she would tire of the mannerisms they found so objectionable. It was not till Priscilla was safe in bed that she dared relieve her over-burdened heart by tears. And as she lay sobbing with the coverlet over her head, she solemnly relinquished all hope of happiness in this world. "It was my vanity that got me into this," lamented Priscilla. "I didn't like to feel I was less attractive than the other girls and so I fairly snatched at Horace. Now I've got to stand by my promise if it kills me, but Oh, how am I going to bear it!" So Priscilla cried herself to sleep. And there was an added poignancy in her grief as she remembered that the Combs family was notably long-lived, boasting some distant ancestors who had rounded out a full century of existence. CHAPTER XV THE CURE THEY were out for a walk one Saturday evening, Peggy and Amy, with Graham and Bob in attendance, when in front of a little movie theater, Peggy stopped short. A young couple stood at the ticket booth, the girl giggling vacuously as the very slender youth fumbled in his pockets for the price of admission. Peggy's abrupt halt was not due to the charm of the flaring poster, representing a fat woman with a broom in pursuit of a thin man attired in a bath-robe. Her attention was absorbed by the young couple, who were planning to enjoy the show. For while she had never seen the girl before, the slender youth was her younger brother, Dick. As the two disappeared behind the swinging doors, Peggy turned to her companions. "Think you could stand it?" She indicated the poster by a gesture, and Bob Carey, who did not have the pleasure of Dick's acquaintance, looked surprised, while Graham's face wore an expression of doubt. "I've seen just as bad, Peggy, and still survive," Graham said. "But I hardly think--" "Of course we can stand it, if you'd like to go in, Peggy," interrupted Amy. And Bob, though evidently puzzled by Peggy's taste moved quickly forward to purchase the tickets, thus getting ahead of Graham who was still inclined to remonstrate. Graham understood that Peggy was not especially pleased to discover Dick in company with a girl she knew nothing about, especially since her manner had made anything but a favorable impression in the few seconds she had been under observation. But Dick, while considerably short of his majority, was old enough to resent interference in his affairs, and Graham could not see that Peggy would gain anything by trying to play detective. The film which constituted the evening's entertainment was exceptionally poor. The comedy was of the atrocious, slap-stick sort that moves the judicious almost to tears while the feature play, a melodrama only saved from being a tragedy by an inconsistently happy ending, was frequently so overdone as to be extremely funny. Peggy paid comparatively little attention to the drama as it unrolled before her eyes. First of all she set herself to locate Dick and his companion, and then to evolve a plan of action suited to the requirements of the case. Graham spoke confidentially in her ear. "Don't worry, Peggy. Every boy has his silly times. I did myself." Graham's manner suggested that he was speaking from the vantage-point of discreet middle age. "Yes, I know." Peggy did not mean her answer just as it sounded. She was simply thinking of something else. Graham stared at the inane chase, unfolding on the screen, where a procession of people ran into everything imaginable from a peanut vendor's cart to an express train, and presently tried again. "You want to be careful, Peggy. He's just at the age to resent your trying to manage him." "Yes, I know," whispered Peggy again. She was fully as alive as Graham to the necessity of tact. But she was aware, too, that all boys do not pass through the silly stage as unscathed as Graham had done. All the loyal sister in her was alert. They sat through the depressing comedy and the amusing tragedy, and then suddenly Peggy rose. She had seen Dick on ahead getting to his feet. In the darkness of the picture house there was no danger he would recognize her. Indeed it was unlikely that he would have seen her even if the lights had been turned on, so engrossed was he by the plump little person whose head barely reached his shoulder. Peggy and her party were outside first. All unaware of the ambush, Dick came blundering on. He was talking fast and the girl was giggling approval. Peggy saw that she was all she had feared. Her round cheeks were rouged so as to give an excellent imitation of a pair of Baldwin apples. Between the crimson circles her nose gleamed ludicrously white, suggesting a very recent use of her powder puff. Her bobbed hair, together with her diminutive frame, gave her a childish air, contradicted by the shrewdness of her eyes. Peggy guessed that Dick's friend was considerably his senior, probably not far from her own age. Dick was laughing rather boisterously at one of his own witticisms, when Peggy touched his arm. "Hello, Dick!" Her tone was nonchalant, but Dick started, straightened himself and flushed angrily. All his masculine pride was up in arms at the thought of coercion. But Peggy's matter-of-fact air partly allayed his suspicions. "We sat about six rows back of you," she explained. "Dick, you haven't met Mr. Carey, have you? My brother, Richard, Bob." The two shook hands and Dick realized that reciprocity was in order. Under the most favorable circumstances, performing the ceremony of introduction was to Dick an agonizing ordeal, and the present situation increased his inevitable embarrassment a hundred fold. He was the color of a ripe tomato as he blurted out, "Miss Coffin, let me introduce you to my sister--Miss Raymond--and Miss--Miss----" He had forgotten Amy's name after having known it all his life, and Peggy came to the rescue, and introduced the others. Whatever Dick's feeling in regard to the meeting, it was clear that Miss Coffin was not displeased. She fixed a hypnotic gaze on Bob Carey as she exclaimed, "Fierce name, isn't it! But take it from me, I'm no dead one, Coffin or no coffin." Peggy's smile gave no hint of her inward anguish. "We're just going home to have some oysters. Won't you and Dick come along, Miss Coffin?" Graham had difficulty in choking down an impatient exclamation. What was Peggy thinking of? It was bad enough for Dick to be associating with a girl of this sort, but for Peggy to encourage him in his folly by welcoming the girl to her home, the first time she had ever seen her, impressively illustrated the feminine incapacity to act reasonably in a crisis. While it was impossible to put his disapproval into words, Graham's manner left little unexpressed. Dick looked as if he agreed with Graham, but Peggy had not addressed herself to him. And as for Miss Coffin, Peggy's invitation was responsible for a marked increase in her sprightliness. "Eats!" she cried dramatically, "Oh, boy! Lead me to it!" They went down the street in the direction of Friendly Terrace, Miss Coffin chattering animatedly at Dick's elbow, and speaking loudly enough to be heard easily by the others. Indeed, there was ground for supposing that she was willing to allow her vivacious conversation to make an impression on more important listeners than Dick. Her youthful escort, stalking awkwardly at her side, was almost as silent as Graham who walked on ahead with Peggy. But the silence of her brother and her lover, even though it implied criticism and displeasure, seemingly failed to shadow Peggy's spirits. She turned her head every now and then to address a remark to Dick's companion, and Miss Coffin showed her appreciation of the friendly attitude by the request that she "cut out the formal stuff." "You kids are the kind that can call me Mazie," she chirruped, apparently under the impression that she was addressing some one at a considerable distance. It was perhaps as well for the success of Peggy's plan that neither her father nor her mother were at home. She ushered her guests into the living room and insisted on their laying aside their wraps. Mazie Coffin having removed her hat, went straight as a homing pigeon to the mirror over the mantel, and made an unabashed and quite unnecessary use of her powder puff. "You're coming out to help me, aren't you, Amy?" Peggy inquired casually. "I thought I'd fix little pigs-in-blankets, you know. They're awfully good, but rather fussy." "Why, of course I'll help," responded Amy, wondering if Mazie, also, would be called on to render assistance. But apparently Peggy's acquaintance with Mazie had not progressed to that point of informality. "We'll try not to be any longer than we can help," she smiled, "and we'll leave you to amuse one another till we're ready." Out in the kitchen as they wrapped fat oysters in blankets of bacon, pinning the latter in place with wooden tooth-picks, the two girls exchanged significant glances. "What's the idea?" Amy asked, with the frankness of long friendship. "Well, I'm not sure that it will do any good. But I've got an idea--Don't you know that the impression a thing makes on you depends a lot on the background?" "Hm! I don't quite understand what you mean." "Well, if you see a girl on the stage with a skirt nine inches long, it doesn't make the same impression on you that it would if you saw her in your own home." "No, it doesn't." "Dick's been used to nice people all his life," Peggy went on, plainly trying to encourage herself as well as to explain matters to Amy. "A girl like this might attract his attention if he saw her behind the counter of a cigar store--" "Does she work in a cigar store?" "I haven't the least idea. I only meant she wouldn't seem particularly out of place in a tobacco shop. But here in our home--Oh, it seems as though Dick must see how cheap and tawdry she is." Amy skewered a particularly juicy oyster with a vicious thrust of the tooth pick. "Hope so, anyway," she said, and felt an exasperated desire to box Dick's ears. But when Peggy had left the field to Mazie Coffin, she had builded better than she knew, Mazie had accepted the responsibility of entertaining the masculine portion of the company with extreme complacency. Never for a moment had she doubted her ability to make a favorable impression. As she gave her smiling attention to the trio, her late escort occupied a very small fraction of her thoughts. Dick was only a boy, a boy to whom shaving was still a novel art, and whose voice cracked ludicrously in moments of excitement. But Graham and Bob were young men, and good looking young men at that. Mazie hoped that the girls would not hurry with the oysters. As this young woman's methods were not characterized by subtlety, it was not long before Dick realized that he was being disregarded. Mazie had eyes only for his seniors. She had begun by saying, as the door closed behind Peggy and Amy, "Gee, but they're trusting! How do they know that I won't vamp you two guys!" And when Dick, resenting his new rôle of unnoticed on-looker, had attempted to bear his part in the conversation, Mazie had silenced him with a jocose, "What are you butting in for, kid? Children must be seen and not heard, you know." Dick Raymond was by no means a bad boy, and he was just as far from being a stupid boy. Mazie's conversational advances, as she had weighed out peanut brittle and caramels in quarter pound lots, had flattered his vanity. Dick was not accustomed to being regarded as a young man, and Mazie's manner of considering him worth-while game had naturally convinced him that she was a girl of exceptional insight. But now as she made eyes at Graham and smiled at Bob, the conviction seized Dick that her previous attentions had been due to the fact that he was the only one of his kind within reach. As was natural, the discovery made him critical. He noticed the harshness of Mazie's voice, the vacuity of her giggle. Her repetition of cheap slang began to jar on him, even though he was himself a similar offender. He looked distrustfully at the crimson cheeks, with the powdered nose gleaming whitely between. "I'll be 'jiggered if it doesn't look exactly like a marshmallow," he told himself. The possibility that Dick's mood was critical did not trouble Mazie. She had looked Peggy and Amy over with the complacent certainty of her superior charms. Dick's sister wasn't a bad looker, Mazie owned condescendingly, but she was slow, dead slow, and nowadays the fellows liked plenty of pep. Mazie prided herself, not without reason, on having an abundance of that essential quality. She was sorry when the fragrance of frying bacon and coffee greeted her nostrils. Though Graham was stiffly polite and Bob Carey plainly amused, she would have been glad of a little more time. The impromptu supper in the dining-room completed Dick's disillusionment. Determined not to yield any advantage she had gained Mazie continued to take the lead in the conversation. She gestured freely and frequently with the hand which held her fork, even with an oyster impaled on the tines. She drank her coffee noisily. Once, Dick was sure, he saw Bob choke down a laugh, though he made a pretence of coughing behind his napkin. And it was not, Dick was certain, because he found her amusing, but because he thought her ridiculous. Dick glared furiously at the averted shoulder of his erst-while charmer. Mazie had elected to treat him like a little boy, but if she had listened to him, thought Dick, he could have kept her from making a fool of herself. Mazie seemed willing to linger, even after Amy and Bob had taken their departure. "Guess we might as well be starting," suggested Dick, his thoughts upon the probable return of his father and mother, rather than on his responsibility as host. "Getting sleepy aren't you, little boy?" mocked Mazie. "Don't let me keep you from your downy. I can get home somehow," and she glanced significantly at Graham, whose good looks, for all his air of reserve, had made a strong impression on her susceptible temperament. When at length she left under the escort of a frankly sulky Dick, she turned back to remind Graham that he could always find her in Streeter's Sweet Shop between the hours of nine and five. And then she took Dick's arm, and went out the door, smiling back coquettishly over her shoulder. Graham hardly waited for them to be out of hearing before he exploded. The evening had been a great disappointment, and while Graham would have resented any outside suggestion that Peggy came short of absolute perfection, there were times when he felt himself quite capable of pointing out her errors in judgment. Peggy's painstaking explanation failed to enlighten him, and while Peggy thought Graham the most wonderful of men, in this instance she found him disappointingly slow of comprehension. They did not quarrel, but they kept on arguing the question long after it was clear that neither would be able to take the other's point of view. They were still arguing when Dick returned. Dick was in that state of irritation when scolding somebody seems an indispensable luxury. "See here, Peggy, just because you see me with a girl, you don't have to start right in and invite her to the house." "Why, Dick, I thought--" "Sometimes a fellow asks a girl out just so he can size her up. And if he finds that she's a blamed idiot, he don't want her mixed up with his family. You mean all right, Peggy, but you don't understand life the way Graham and I do. I don't want you to have anything more to do with Mazie Coffin, Peggy. She's not the sort of girl for you to associate with. You can ask Graham about it if you don't believe me." And as Dick stalked off to bed, ill tempered and aggrieved and abnormally dignified, even Graham was obliged to admit that it looked like a cure. CHAPTER XVI DELIVERANCE PRISCILLA had seen Horace only once since the football game, and then for a short and unsatisfactory interview. Immediately after, Horace had left town for one of those trips which so cleverly combined business and pleasure, a combination of which Horace seemed to have the secret. A long letter which might have been an excerpt from the Journal of Another Disappointed Man gave her no address to which to write him, and the best she could do was to promise herself to be very, very kind to Horace on his return. She owed him that for the wrong she had done him. The days went by without any further word from Horace, and Friday rounded out a full week since she had last seen him. Priscilla and Peggy walked home from class together with that sense of leisure Friday afternoon brings to each student, no matter how much must be done before Monday morning. They paused at Peggy's door and Peggy urged hospitably, "Come on in." "I think I'd better go home and see if mother's there, and if she wants anything. We haven't seen our maid for three days." "Well, we've _seen_ Sally, if that's any comfort," laughed Peggy. "But she's been about as much good as if she'd been at the North Pole. A woman she knows was knocked down by an automobile and taken to the hospital, and all Sally has been good for since is to dramatize the affair. First she's the automobile speeding recklessly on, and then she's the poor victim. You never saw anything so realistic as the way she drops on the kitchen floor." Priscilla laughed, but disapprovingly. "I don't see how you folks put up with her, Peggy. She'd drive me crazy." "Well, there's no denying she's a trial at times, but Sally has her good points. She's devoted to us all, for one thing, and that isn't very common these days. And besides," added Peggy simply, "if we didn't keep her I don't know how the poor thing would get along." The two girls had been together all day but they lingered, loath to separate. "Listen, Peggy," Priscilla exclaimed. "Come home with me. Like enough mother will have an errand for me to do and then we can go together. Don't you love outdoors when it's still and cold like this?" "Yes, love it. I'll go and see if we need anything in the way of groceries, and I'll join you in about a minute." Peggy hurried up the walk and Priscilla went on her way. The evening paper lay folded on the porch of her home and she picked it up and tucked it under her arm before she slipped her key into the latch. She found the kitchen empty and ran upstairs, calling her mother. But only the echoes answered, and Priscilla realized that except for herself the house was empty. Priscilla seated herself to wait for Peggy, picking up the paper she had thrown on the library table. Her eye ran mechanically over the columns. She turned the sheets, her thoughts still busy with the day's happenings, and with vague plans for the morrow. Then unexpectedly a familiar face flashed out at her from the page, set above head-lines that seemed fairly to shriek their news. YOUNG HITCHCOCK SURPRISES FRIENDS SOCIETY MAN MARRIES IN NEW YORK Priscilla, sitting motionless, read the news over several times. Then her eyes began moving down the column. Even when she saw Horace's name written out in full, her sense of unreality persisted. The reporter had treated the matter humorously, following the precedent which makes love and marriage the most popular theme for jests. That the lady in question had become Mrs. Hitchcock just three days after meeting her future husband furnished a partial excuse for the levity. "Mr. Hitchcock denies that there is anything hasty in his romantic marriage," wrote the reporter. "When asked if he considered a three days' acquaintance a sufficient prelude to matrimony, he smilingly replied that he preferred three thousand years. In explanation of his enigmatic remark, Mr. Hitchcock gave his views on reincarnation, while in the background Mrs. Hitchcock blushed assent. Both are convinced that, to quote Mr. Hitchcock, 'they were soul mates when the pyramids were in building, lovers in Babylon--'" Priscilla suddenly crumpled the paper in her hand. The familiar phrases were like a dash of cold water, rousing her from her daze. "I'm free," she cried, "I'm free! I'm free!" and broke into violent weeping. Peggy rang several times without attracting attention. When at length she put her finger to the button and held it there, Priscilla woke to the realization that there was some one at the door. She crept downstairs, unconsciously holding fast to the paper that had announced her release, and admitted a justly incensed Peggy. "I'm afraid you need some of those artificial ear-drums, Priscilla--Why, what's happened?" Peggy's attempted irony changed to affectionate concern, as she saw Priscilla with her tear-streaked cheeks and eyes inflamed and swollen. She threw her arms around her friend, her imagination running the gamut of possible calamities. "Oh, what is the matter?" she pleaded. It seemed to Priscilla that a verbal explanation was beyond her. Dumbly she held out the crumpled sheet. Peggy caught sight of Horace's smug smile, snatched the paper from Priscilla's hand, and read the incredible story at a glance. The blood rushed to her brain, dying even her ears crimson. Rage shook her. For the instant, the gentle Peggy was a silent fury. Priscilla roused herself to the need of explanation. "Peggy!" Peggy whirled upon her. "My dear, it is the most abominable thing I ever heard of, but you couldn't have cared for him, Priscilla. Oh, tell me you didn't." "We--well, we were engaged." "Engaged," choked Peggy. She took a backward step, looked at Priscilla's disfigured face, and dug her nails deep into her palms. "Oh, I wish I were a man," she breathed in a voice hardly recognizable. Priscilla uttered a choked laugh. Combined with the fact that the tears were still running down her face, this did not tend to allay Peggy's apprehensions. But as the laugh seemed to unlock Priscilla's tongue, her distressed friend was not long kept in suspense. "I suppose I looked as if I were heart-broken," exclaimed Priscilla, laughing and crying. "Yes, we were really engaged, Peggy, but you can't imagine what a nightmare it has been." "A nightmare," gasped Peggy. "Your engagement a nightmare!" She put her hands to her head as if the unexpected information acquired in the last few minutes had crowded it to the bursting point. "Wait, Peggy! I've had a dreadful time, but it's been my own fault. I blame myself for everything that has happened. If it hadn't been for my silly vanity--" "Vanity--" interrupted Peggy, and sniffed her scorn. "Oh, you can sneer, Peggy Raymond, but I've been a silly little fool. In the first place, I made myself miserable because nobody wanted me." "Priscilla," Peggy interrupted again, "I believe you ought to go to bed. You're talking as if you were delirious." "I know perfectly well what I'm saying, Peggy. You were engaged to Graham, and Nelson was in love with Ruth and Bob Carey was getting very attentive to Amy, and I was the only one left out and I resented it." "Do you mean," cried Peggy incredulously, "that you don't know that you're so handsome that people are always turning to look after you when you pass?" Priscilla laughed. "I won't choke you off, Peggy. After that news--" she nodded significantly toward the paper. "I fancy I can stand a little flattery and not be injured. But anyway I was sour and sore when Horace began to call. I knew exactly what Horace was, Peggy, but I shut my eyes to it. I wouldn't criticize him even in my thoughts. I wouldn't let you laugh at him--" "Don't I know it!" Peggy drew a long breath. "That was one of the things that made me anxious." "Well, when he told me--that he cared for me, I just snatched at him, Peggy. I was perfectly delighted that somebody thought I was attractive. And I was such a silly little fool that I actually gloated over being the second girl out of us four to get engaged. Peggy, I'm terribly ashamed to tell you all this, but now's the time to finish up the subject and be done with it." "Priscilla darling, I can understand everything except your feeling that way about yourself." "Of course I wasn't happy," Priscilla went on. "I don't know whether Horace was or not. He always talked in a dreadfully pessimistic fashion, but I rather think--" "Just a pose," interpolated Peggy witheringly. "Even when he was a little boy, Horace was always playing a part." "Once or twice I tried to tell him I thought we had made a mistake. When I thought of going on and on through the years it didn't seem as if I could bear it. And then he talked so dreadfully, Peggy, and I was afraid he'd kill himself." "No such luck," snorted Priscilla's audience. It was hard to believe that it was really Peggy making such a speech and looking so fierce and angry. Priscilla interrupted her story by a little hysterical laugh. "The last time was only two weeks ago at the foot-ball game. He was so disagreeable that I tried again to get out of it, and then he took it so to heart that I gave up all hope of ever being free. When I read that account today, and it came over me all at once that I needn't ever see Horace Hitchcock again, it seemed as if I'd die of joy. I believe I should have, too, if I hadn't begun to cry." Peggy was still scornful. "The idea of your sacrificing yourself for such a fellow as Horace." "Only because I was to blame, Peggy. As long as my silly vanity had got me into such a scrape, I thought nothing was too bad for me." "Didn't it ever occur to you that two wrongs didn't make a right? If you were wrong in getting engaged to Horace when you didn't love him, marrying him without love would be a million times wickeder." Priscilla took the reproof meekly. "Perhaps so. Anyway, I have learned my lesson. The wrong man is so much worse than no man at all that now I'm perfectly resigned to being an old maid." Peggy sniffed derisively. "You talk about your silly vanity. You certainly were silly enough, but when it comes to vanity, why, Priscilla Combs, you're the most painfully modest girl I know. The timid violet is a monster of arrogance compared to you. I adore Ruth and Amy, as everybody knows, but when it comes to looks, they're simply not in it alongside you. You're handsome, Priscilla, just as Horace's dreadful old aunt said, and you're talented and you're charming, and lots of men would fall in love with you in a minute if they thought they had the ghost of a chance." Priscilla clapped her hands over her ears and blushed till Peggy's eloquence lost itself in laughter. "I'm not going to be punished by having to marry Horace," she said, when at length she judged it safe to lower her defenses. "But I shan't get off scott-free. Just think, Peggy, how many people in this city will be sorry for me, because I've been jilted by Horace Hitchcock." CHAPTER XVII PEGGY COMES TO A DECISION IT was mid-afternoon on a crisp February day when Graham called Peggy on the phone. In his preliminary "Hello" she detected an unwonted note of excitement. "Hello, Graham. Yes, it's Peggy." "I want you to take dinner with me to-night." "Take dinner? Why, I can't possibly, Graham. I've got quite a lot of cramming to do for the mid-year examinations. And I haven't even looked at my lessons for to-morrow." "Hang your lessons." Peggy pricked up her ears. "What did you say?" she queried incredulously. "I said, 'Hang your lessons,' and I'll add, 'Hang your examinations.' I've got to see you and have a long talk." One of the advantages of habitual faithfulness to duty is that the rare relapse into irresponsibility comes as a delightful holiday. Peggy's face suddenly crinkled into a charming smile. It was a pity Graham could not see it. "Oh, well," she said demurely, "if it's terribly important--" "It is." "Then I suppose I must let you have your way." "I'll call for you at half past six and we'll dine at the McLaughlin." "The McLaughlin! You haven't happened to come into a fortune since last evening, have you!" "Not exactly. It's a celebration." "What for?" "That's telling. See you at six-thirty, Peggy darling. Good-by." And Graham rang off in a hurry, as if he feared her powers of persuasion, and suspected that if he gave her half a chance she would have the whole story out of him over the wire. Peggy went back to her books with a smile which proved her thinking of something very different from history or economics. She was well aware that she would go to the class next day without her usual careful preparation, but having made up her mind to accede to Graham's request, she had no intention of spoiling her pleasure by thinking of slighted tasks. And though she made a valiant effort at concentration in the short time left her for study, her attempt was not particularly successful. The dinner was a celebration, Graham had said. She racked her brain to recall some anniversary that had momentarily escaped her recollection, but without results. Peggy was dressed by six o'clock, having spent an unprecedentedly long time over her toilet. The McLaughlin, though not the largest hotel in the city, was one of the most exclusive, and the costumes seen in the dining-room were frequently of an elegance compared with which Peggy's little evening frock was almost dowdy. But neither at the McLaughlin nor elsewhere was one likely to see a face more charming than that which looked back at Peggy from her mirror, so that her haunting fear that Graham might be ashamed of her was entirely unfounded. Mrs. Raymond left the dining table to see the young couple off. "Have a good time, dears," she said, and was pleased but not surprised when Graham followed Peggy's example, and stooping kissed her. She stood at the window looking after them as they went down the street. What a dear boy Graham was! In the far-off, nebulous future when Peggy began to think of being married, she could trust her to Graham without a fear. And then they would live near, where she could see Peggy every day. Mrs. Raymond told herself she would not have anything different. "Mother," called Mr. Raymond's voice from the dining-room, "your dinner's getting cold." Meanwhile Peggy, tilting her head on one side like an inquisitive canary, was asking Graham, "What is it we are going to celebrate?" "Washington's birthday and the Fourth of July, Christmas and New Year's." "Now, Graham, really I want to know." "I'll tell you when the time comes. It's not the sort of thing to be sprung on the street." "Oh, how interesting!" But though Peggy stopped asking questions, her curiosity grew prodigiously. Silent as Graham was as to the occasion of this unwonted festivity, she realized that there was about him an atmosphere of suppressed excitement. Sometimes, when his eyes were on her, he seemed to be looking through her at something big in the distance. Peggy was at the age when thrills and mysteries are always welcome. She climbed aboard the street-car all a-tingle with pleasurable excitement. The dining-room at the McLaughlin impressed Peggy with its grandeur. The hour was still early for fashionable diners, and less than half of the tables were occupied. But the rows of waiters in black clothes and gleaming shirt fronts, and the scrape of violins in the background, gave Peggy an uneasy sense of being out of place. But Graham, convinced that he was escorting the queen rose of the rose-bud garden of girls, walked to his place as sure of himself as a young prince. And what he saw in Peggy's eyes was not of a sort to lessen his self-confidence. Peggy soon perceived that her customary little hints regarding economy were to have no weight on this particular occasion. Graham began with oysters and then appealed to Peggy as to her choice in soups. And perceiving that he was determined to be extravagant, for all she could say or do, Peggy gave herself up to enjoying the fruits of his extravagance. This was clearly Graham's night. Peggy decided not to ask again about his secret till he told her of his own accord. [Illustration: "PEGGY LOOKED AT HIM WITHOUT REPLYING"] As a matter of fact, Graham seemed in no hurry to take her into his confidence. The meal went on through its leisurely courses, the tables about them gradually filling, till the attentive waiter set their dessert before them--French pastries with small cups of deliciously fragrant coffee. Peggy tasted and sipped and smiled, and looked across the table with such an air of radiant happiness that if Graham had kept the smallest fragment of a heart in his possession, he would have been forced to surrender it on the spot. He laid down his fork and leaned toward her. "Peggy, I've got my promotion." "Oh, Graham!" "They want me to go to South America for two years," Graham continued, speaking with curious breathlessness. "They're not asking me to stay permanently, you understand. But they want a man here who's thoroughly familiar with conditions down there." Peggy looked at him without replying, all the radiant happiness drained from her face. South America! Her sensations were almost the same as when he went to France, except that now she had no patriotic ardor to sustain her. He was to be away two years, and yet his mood was exultant, and he seemed to expect her congratulations. Peggy rallied her courage and lifted her eyes with a wan little smile. "When--when do they want you to go?" Her fork clattered against her plate, and she laid it down. She conceived on the instant an intense loathing for French pastry. "In July." "Oh!" Peggy winked hard. It would be a shame to spoil that beautiful dinner by crying. And besides, it was a long time before Graham would have to go, from February to July. Then a dreadful thought wrung her heart. If six months was a long time, what of two years? Graham's face seemed to waver as he leaned toward her across the little round table. His voice sounded far-off and unfamiliar. "What do you say, Peggy? Shall we go?" "I--I--what are you talking about Graham?" "You're always saying how you'd love to travel. Don't you see this is your chance." "Do you--do you mean--" "Yes, of course I do. Won't you marry me, Peggy, and go along? I can't leave you for two years. I can't. When I came back from the other side I promised myself I'd never be separated from you again by anything less than a world war. If I went by myself, Peggy, it would be going into exile for two years. But with you along, it would be a two-years' honeymoon. Think what it would be to see those new countries together." "I suppose it would be a good thing for our Spanish," said Peggy, and the inane remark set them both to laughing, which undoubtedly was a good thing. When the paroxysm was over, Peggy wiped her eyes and struggled to be reasonable. "But, Graham, I don't graduate till the twelfth of June." "And I don't sail till the sixth of July. Loads of time." "But I always meant to earn my living for a few years after I graduated, before--" "I wouldn't have stood for that, Peggy, not if I was making enough to take care of you, and I shall be." Peggy was breathing fast. It was hard to realize that she and Graham were sitting there in the McLaughlin dining-room, discussing the question of whether or not they should be married in July. For except on one memorable occasion, when Graham had been on the point of going across and Peggy had been ready to marry him at a moment's notice, she had felt about her marriage much as her mother did, as if it belonged to the misty, distant, indeterminate future. And now the six months she had assured herself was a long time had dwindled down almost to nothing. July! It was incredibly, overwhelmingly near. "We'll have to see what father and mother think." She tried to make her voice matter-of-fact, but it had an unnatural tension. Graham on the other side of the little table, nodded agreement. "Of course we'll see what they think. But we know they can say only one thing. It's such a reasonable solution that only one opinion is possible. Don't you like your dessert, Peggy? Won't you have some ice-cream?" Peggy protested she liked her desert, and finished it without tasting a morsel. Then they went home and proceeded to bomb the peaceful Raymond household with Graham's astounding proposition. And while Mrs. Raymond began by pronouncing it out of the question, before the evening ended she was driven to admit the reasonableness of Graham's plan. It was true that Peggy's marriage would follow rather closely on the heels of her graduation, but thanks to common-sense hours of sleep, and an abundance of outdoor exercise, she had come through her four years' college course in radiant health. A separation of two years just now would be hard for both, and especially for Graham. Indeed Graham frankly declared that he would not go without Peggy, and yet to refuse such a chance was to prejudice his future success. When Peggy went to bed that night she knew the whole thing was settled. To be sure, both her father and mother had warned her against a hasty decision, insisting that she take plenty of time to think the matter over. But Peggy knew what the final verdict would be, and she was sure Graham also knew it, by the triumph in his eyes as he kissed her good night. Changes! She lay in her little white bed and thought of the new life opening before her, strange countries, unfamiliar tongues, alien customs, even the dear, friendly constellations replaced by unknown stars. And the queerest part of all was that she herself would no longer be Peggy Raymond, but a strange young woman, Margaret Wylie by name. Peggy gave a little incredulous laugh. It was astonishing how the world had turned upside down since morning. CHAPTER XVIII A PARTIAL ECLIPSE THE wedding day was set for the second of July, and after that decision had been reached, Peggy professed a complete loss of interest in the subject. When Graham consulted her on details more or less important, she gave him a reluctant attention. "I tell you, Graham, I don't want to think about it. I never did enjoy mixed flavors. I shall have years and years of being Mrs. Graham Wylie, fifty or sixty probably, and there's only a few months left of my college life." "If you feel so keenly on the subject," teased Graham, "we'd better postpone our wedding, and let you take a post-graduate course of ten years or so." "That won't be necessary. I know I shall love my wedding clothes, and my wedding day, and being married to you, and everything. But if I let myself think of that, I'll spoil this, don't you see? It would be like eating ice-cream with soup." "I suppose I shall be allowed to call occasionally." "Don't be silly! Of course I should be wretched if I didn't see you every day. But unless you have to settle something very important about South America, don't ask my opinion. Up to the twelfth of June, I'm a college senior, first, last and all the time." Peggy was as good as her word. As far as her conversation revealed, she never looked beyond Commencement Day. And if it was inevitable that her thoughts should be more unruly than her tongue, her mental excursions into the future were surprisingly few. Peggy had never been a girl to discount to-day in favor of to-morrow, and this life-long habit aided her in her determination to extract the full flavor from the present. While Peggy had thoroughly enjoyed her college life, college associations had naturally never meant to her what they mean to a girl who leaves home to complete her education. Although she was popular in her class, her closest friends were the girls who had been her intimates long before her high-school days, even, and she enjoyed her home so thoroughly that it never occurred to her to regret having missed the associations of dormitory life. But now she gave herself so unreservedly to her college interests that no on-looker would have dreamed that any event of special importance had been scheduled for early July. As a matter of fact, Peggy could hardly have done justice to her varied duties in connection with Commencement, had she brought to them a divided attention. Her knack at rhyming had resulted in her election as class poet, and the same gift, doubtless, had caused her to be chosen one of the editorial staff of the Annual, gotten out each spring by the senior class. Moreover she had a part, though a small one, in the class play that was to be given out-of-doors and promised to be one of the most interesting features of commencement week. Since even for seniors there were lessons to be learned, and examinations to be passed, it is no wonder that Peggy found herself quite occupied without giving thought to the great changes on ahead. While she struggled with her poem, which she was determined as all class laureates, to make a masterpiece, and scribbled off jokes for the Annual and practised for the play, and studied in her odd minutes, the days had a most disconcerting fashion of shooting by without regard to speed regulations. Every Saturday night awoke in Peggy's mind the same incredulity. Another week was gone--only it couldn't be, for it was no time at all since last Sunday morning. She had an unreasonable impulse to clutch at the flying hours and hold them fast. But the last spring of her college life was not to be altogether a season of flowers. One afternoon at the close of recitations, Peggy hunted up Ruth who had agreed to go with her for a call on Mary Donaldson. "Ruth, I'm sorry, but Priscilla and I are going to be busy until after dinner time, probably. It's the Annual again." "That old Annual takes so much time," scolded Ruth, objecting on principle to anything that separated her from Peggy for these few precious weeks. Poor Ruth was trying to imitate Peggy's example and not look ahead, but there were times when the coming desolation settled over her spirits like a chilling fog. With Peggy and Graham in South America, and Nelson in Oklahoma, Ruth felt that existence would be flat and flavorless. "Yes, I know it takes time." Peggy resolutely ignored the undertone of tragedy in Ruth's voice. "But somebody has to do it, and anyway, it's fun." It was due to her lingering to cheer the despondent Ruth that Peggy was the last of the Annual staff to reach the class room, which for that particular evening had been promoted to the dignity of an editorial sanctum. Peggy made her entry on a somewhat hilarious scene. Everybody was laughing, or so Peggy thought. Had she been more observant she would have noticed that Priscilla's face wore no smile, but a look of anxiety, bordering on distress. "What's the joke?" inquired Peggy, as she took her seat. Though the gathering was made up of college seniors and was therefore a dignified, deliberative assembly, its proceedings were sometimes as informal as if they had been merely a group of high-school girls. By way of answer, a sheet of card-board that evidently had made the rounds was put in her hand. Peggy looked at it curiously. At the top, under the heading, "The Misfit," was a clever caricature representing a small man attired in garments much too large for him. His broad-brimmed hat came down over his ears, his overcoat trailed on the ground, while the umbrella he carried was more than double his height. But the artist had avoided giving the impression that he was a masquerading child by bringing into prominence a somewhat scraggly mustache. Peggy smiled appreciatively at the undoubted humor of the drawing and gave her attention to the verses below. But though they showed quite as much ability as the illustration, the effect of reading them was to erase the smile from her lips, leaving her gravely attentive. The laughter had quieted. She was aware that the girls were all watching her, and though she did not raise her eyes, she knew instinctively that Priscilla's face wore a look of apprehension. The previous spring, one of the most popular men in the English department had resigned to devote himself to literary work, and his place had been nominally filled by a young man with good credentials but no experience. He had proved a great disappointment, for whatever his attainments, he lacked the ability to impart; while in contrast to the enthusiasm which Professor Baer's lectures had aroused, his classes seemed veritable refrigerating plants. Peggy knew that the seniors who had taken his courses were complaining bitterly that they had been "stung," and had congratulated herself that her own work in English had been continued with another member of the faculty. In the verses before her, all the resentment of the students toward an incompetent teacher, following an able and popular one, was expressed with diabolical cleverness. The fact that the present incumbent was named Fox, and that he followed Professor Baer, had already been the theme of innumerable jokes, and the author of the verses had used it as the motive of her lines, so that there was no chance that even the outsider would remain ignorant of the instructor satirized. Peggy read the verses over more than once in order to gain time. She was sorely tempted to say nothing. Peggy was under no illusions regarding the path of the reformer. It was vastly easier, vastly pleasanter, to let things go. It was not that she had any cowardly shrinking from hard knocks, but now, almost at the close of her college life, she was not in the mood to antagonize any one. She loved everything about the college, its gray stone buildings draped in ivy, its campus dotted with stately trees, the class-rooms and the laboratories, the dignified president, the professors and the girls--oh, most of all, the girls. She loved to believe in their affection, their admiration. Never in her life had popularity meant as much to her as now. And yet in spite of her distaste, she knew she had no choice. She must disagree, antagonize, anger. When she lifted her eyes, the room was very quiet, almost as if every one knew what she was going to say. "Awfully clever, aren't they?" Peggy spoke very deliberately. "What are they for?" A dark-eyed girl across the room took it on herself to answer, and as soon as her lips parted, Peggy knew her for the author. "I'd intended it for the _Atlantic Monthly_," she smiled with frank sarcasm. "But I think perhaps it's better suited to the Annual. What do you say?" "I'm afraid I don't think it's at all suited to the Annual." There was a little chorus of protests. "You never were in his classes, Peggy," cried some one from the rear seat. "If you'd endured what we have at the hands of that man, you'd love every line." A burst of approving laughter showed how completely the sympathies of this group of girls were with the speaker. Half-whispered comments were being exchanged. "The stupidest lectures!" "The greatest waste of time!" Peggy was perfectly able to understand this point of view. She struggled to make the girls see hers. "Of course that's not right. If I had been in his class I'd have been perfectly ready to go to President Eaton, and tell him how unsatisfactory everything was. But to take this way of doing it--" she looked down at the mocking lines and said with a visible effort, "Don't you think it seems a little bit cowardly--and cruel, too?" Priscilla came to her friend's assistance. "If the faculty knew about those verses, I'm sure we'd never be allowed to put them in the Annual." "How's the faculty to know?" demanded the criticized author, Ida Craig, with much asperity. "Don't you think," suggested Peggy with all the diplomacy she could muster, "that since they leave it all to us, we're put on our honor to see that nothing gets in that they could object to?" Ida smiled disagreeably. "After all," she said, "you're not the editor-in-chief, you know." The rudeness gave Peggy the courage that she needed. "No, of course. I haven't any more voice than any of the rest of you. But if the poem goes in, I shall ask you to accept my resignation." "In other words," exclaimed Ida, "If you can't have your own way, you'll take your dolls and go home." "No indeed," Peggy was trying to speak calmly, but her voice shook, "But if my name appears among the editors of the Annual, it'll be taken for granted that I approve of all that is in it. I'm not willing to stand for anything like this." "Nor I," said Priscilla. "I agree with Peggy." Ida Craig leaned toward the girl nearest her. "Miss Combs is nothing if not original," she said in an echoing stage-whisper audible to every one in the room. But the editor-in-chief, dismayed at the prospect of losing two of her most reliable aides, hastily interposed. "Now we mustn't get personal, girls," she said. "You know how the newspapers are always trying to make out that the members of women's organizations do nothing but quarrel. I think college graduates ought to disprove that sort of thing." She looked at Peggy rather appealingly. "I suppose you're willing to abide by the will of the majority," she said. "If the majority vote to include 'The Misfit,'" returned Peggy, "Of course that settles it." And then as the face of the editor-in-chief brightened, she added, "But I shall have to resign, because the vote of the majority can't decide a question of right and wrong for me." "Oh," said the editor-in-chief rather blankly, and then she quickly rallied. "We'll decide that question when we come to it," she said. "Will the meeting please come to order." The mooted question was not put to vote till the end of the hour. "All in favor of including 'The Misfit' in the Annual," said the editor-in-chief, after the motion had been duly made, "please signify it by saying 'aye.'" "Aye," chimed two defiant voices, that of the author and her dearest friend in the class. "Those opposed, 'No.'" There was a murmur of 'noes,' indicating that Peggy had won her fight, but she had none of the elation of the victor. She realized that several had not voted, and that those who had espoused her side had acted from motives of policy rather than conviction. Ida Craig was plainly offended, and as for the rest, Peggy suspected that they failed to make the fine distinction between standing up for one's principles and being determined to have one's way. Those closing weeks of college life were not all she had hoped. Peggy fancied a reserve in the friendliness of her friends. She became unnaturally sensitive, imagining slights where none existed. She was troubled by the thought that Priscilla shared in her partial eclipse of popularity, and inclined to regard her uncompromising conscience as a decided inconvenience, if nothing worse. But Peggy's stand was to have a tragic justification. Three weeks before Commencement the Annual came from the binders, looking very attractive in its cover of blue and white, the college colors. The editorial force had been called together to make the necessary arrangements for placing it on sale. Peggy and Priscilla had an early class Wednesday morning, and as they entered the hall on their way to the cloak-room, they encountered Phyllis Riordan, the Annual's editor-in-chief. Phyllis' greeting was more than cordial, but Peggy hardly noticed that, in her concern for the girl herself. "Why, Phyllis," she cried. "What's the matter? You're as white as a sheet." Phyllis looked from one to the other. "You haven't heard about Mrs. Fox?" "What about her?" The question came simultaneously from two pairs of lips. "She died last night." Peggy and Priscilla uttered a shocked exclamation. They were both but slightly acquainted with the girlish wife of the unpopular professor of English, but intimacy was not needed to point the tragedy of the news. Her voice curiously tense, Phyllis continued. "It seemed she had serious heart trouble, and the doctor thought she ought to live in a milder climate. Professor Fox has resigned, and they were to locate in southern California. And Oh, Peggy Raymond--" She turned suddenly toward Peggy, and caught both of her hands. "Since I heard the news last evening, I haven't been able to think of anything else. Peggy, do you realize what it would have meant if we had let that poem of Ida's go in? We'd have had to destroy the whole edition of the Annual. We couldn't have done anything else." Peggy changed color slightly, but did not speak. "You've saved our lives," declared Phyllis, her eyes bright with tears. "If it hadn't been for you, we'd have been in the worst box of any class since the college was founded. And when I think how brave you were, standing out against us all--" "Why, Phyllis," Peggy interposed, "I wasn't brave at all. This--this dreadful thing that has happened doesn't make me a bit more right than I was in the beginning. And I knew it, too, and yet I wasn't satisfied. I've been ready to wish I hadn't done it a hundred times. And when you call me brave, you make me desperately ashamed, for nobody knows as well as I do what a coward I've been." "If you're cowardly, Peggy," cried Priscilla, up in arms at once, "I'm sorry for the rest of us." "Heavens, I should say so," agreed Phyllis. And then as the signal bell sounded, the girls rushed for the cloak room. Blended with Peggy's sorrow and her sense of humility, was a gratifying certainty that the last three weeks of her college life would be all she had dreamed. CHAPTER XIX THE END OF SCHOOL LIFE THE senior banquet was the most intimate and, in the opinion of many, the most delightful festivity of Commencement. No guests were invited. The only member of the faculty present was the honorary member of the class, a charming woman, who taught Greek and talked slang--as an antidote, she was wont to say. And because it was so strictly a class affair, a great deal of fun was in order which would have been impossible before ever so limited an audience. "What I like about it is that it's frankly selfish," Peggy told Priscilla. And then noticing Priscilla's expression of incredulity, "I don't mean selfish in the mean sense, just the nice, comfortable, homey sort. All the rest of Commencement we're thinking about other people, the Board of Trustees, and the fathers and mothers, and the audience and the public. It's a comfort that there's one thing where we don't have to think of any one but ourselves, and we can be as silly as we please." The first class to graduate had established a precedent which every succeeding class had strictly followed, that all engagements were to be announced at the class banquet, Commencement week. If for any reason it was preferred that such announcements should be regarded as confidential, it was understood that the members of the class would be put to torture rather than reveal a word. So strictly had a few such items of news been guarded--in some instances for several years--that the ability of a woman to keep a secret had apparently been satisfactorily demonstrated by the graduates of Peggy's alma mater. As a rule, however, the graduate who announced her engagement at the class banquet was willing that all the world should know the joyful news. The banquet was held in the college gymnasium, the long tables being arranged in a hollow square. After the feasting was over, the waiters were dismissed and the doors closed to ensure perfect secrecy,--after which every girl engaged in the class was expected to take her stand in the central enclosure, carrying with her a photograph of her fiancé, the back of the said photograph being duly inscribed with her name and his. And as if this were not enough, each was required to state in a few well-chosen words the qualities which differentiated her particular young man from all the rest of mankind. At the conclusion of this unique ceremony, the photographs were passed about and duly inspected, and then a vote was taken to determine the handsomest. The gentleman so honored was presented with a stick-pin, which his betrothed took charge of until such time as she chose to deliver it. As the girls dispatched their deviled crabs and chicken salad and ice cream, and other incongruous and indigestible dainties, the thoughts of many turned expectantly toward the ceremony immediately following the banquet. It was true that some of the engagements were no secret. Graham Wylie, for instance, had been Peggy Raymond's devoted cavalier ever since she graduated from high school. And there were girls in the dormitories who heard so frequently and at such length from certain men friends that they were assumed to be engaged whether they admitted it or not. But on the other hand there were always surprises enough to render the occasion exciting. The ice cream was dispatched at last, along with the cakes and candies. The little coffee cups were emptied. The waiters cleared the tables and withdrew, closing the door according to instructions. And then from here and there in the long rows of diners, one laughing girl after another rose, and made her way into the vacant space enclosed by the tables. Priscilla's eye followed Peggy on her way, blushing, laughing, and looking to Priscilla's fond eyes the embodiment of girlish loveliness. And then some one called her name. "Why, Priscilla Combs!" Priscilla turned. A classmate that she knew only slightly was leaning across the table. "Why aren't you going with the others?" she cried. "I?" Priscilla colored to the roots of her hair. "I'm not eligible." "Oh, come!" retorted the other archly. "This isn't any time for prevarication, you know. You're expected to tell the truth." Some one caught the speaker by the arm, and as she turned, hissed a terse statement in her ear. Only too well did Priscilla know the import of that whisper. Inaudible as it was, its news might as well have been shouted. The girl who had innocently assumed Priscilla's engagement was now hearing that Horace Hitchcock, after paying Priscilla every attention, had met some one he liked better in New York, and had married her after three days' acquaintance. Priscilla held her head high. She saw her _vis-à-vis_ change color and lift startled eyes. When she found Priscilla regarding her, the girl lost her head. "Oh, excuse me," she gasped. "Why certainly," laughed Priscilla. "I'm like the man who was asked to change a twenty-dollar bill. I appreciate the compliment." But for all her cheerful air, the thing rankled. Would they never be done pitying her because she had been jilted by Horace Hitchcock. It was impossible to explain, but it really seemed to Priscilla that some of them might suspect what a relief the termination of that unacknowledged engagement had been. There were now a dozen girls in the enclosure. The appearance of some was greeted with loud cries, intended to convey reproach, or incredulity. Excited comments ran around the tables. "Look, there's Cynthia, after insisting that there wasn't a thing between them." "Why, there's Anne Gordon." "Now who in the world--" And while the eager inspection went on, the twelve girls in the middle stood rather close together as if each found it a help in that trying moment to feel she was not alone. The talk and laughter quieted when the president rapped for order. Eloise Hayden was the first to be called on to introduce her fiancé to her attentive classmates. Eloise was one of the girls who affect the modern pose of matter-of-factness. She was so afraid of undue sentimentality that she went too far in the other direction, like one who is so determined to be straight as to bend backward. As Eloise's name was spoken, she stepped out from the group, and held up to view the photograph she carried. "Friends and classmates, I am introducing John Mackenzie Rowe. As you see, he is no beauty, and he'll never wear the stick pin unless it's given for a consolation prize. But on the other hand, he isn't bad looking enough so he needs to wear a mask when he goes on the street." The momentary silence as Eloise stopped for breath was filled by a chorus of groans, Eloise's classmates disapproving her extreme lack of sentiment. Quite unabashed by this demonstration, Eloise continued. "John and I live in the country, as some of you know. The only thing between his father's place and my father's place is a privet hedge, not high enough to be a barrier. We've lived on the two sides of that hedge since he was thirteen and I eleven. I suppose if any other boy had lived there, I should now be engaged to him. And if any other girl had lived where I do, he would have been engaged to her." The signs of displeasure redoubled. Mingled with the groans were hisses, and Eloise, who liked nothing better than to stir her friends to protest against her nonchalant attitude, continued blithely: "Our engagement is in every way a sensible one. Neither of us thinks the other perfect, so we won't have the usual disillusionment and disappointment after we are married. I'm sorry I shan't be able to introduce John to you to-morrow, but he wrote me that if he came he would have to put off a business trip, and I wrote him, 'Business first.'" The demonstrations of disapproval were now so marked that Eloise considered this a good place to stop. She laid down the photograph for the girls' inspection and stepped back, seemingly very well satisfied with her performance. Judith West, a plump pink and white girl, looking, thanks to her bobbed hair and round face, not a day over fifteen, was next to be called on. Judith blushed rosily as she held up the photograph of a handsome young man in a lieutenant's uniform. "This is Philip Carpenter," she announced in a faint, frightened voice. "And all I can say is that he's as good as he looks." "He looks good enough to eat," encouraged an admiring voice from a side-table. "He is," declared Judith. "At least--well, you know what I mean. He's just as nice as he can be, and after I'd seen him once, nobody else in the world had the least chance." As this impressed the class as the proper attitude for an engaged girl, the applause was hearty, and the blushing Judith interpreted it as a _finish_ to her remarks, and retreated in charming confusion. But the applause dropped into instantaneous silence as Anne Gordon arose. Anne's appearance in the enclosure had surprised every one. "I haven't much of a photograph to show you," said Anne holding up a kodak picture in which three diminutive figures appeared seated under an apple tree. "The one in the middle is Elmer Wharton. He looks very tiny, but believe me, he's longer than our engagement." Anne stopped to laugh, and the class laughed with her. "I had a letter from Elmer yesterday," Anne continued, "a very particular letter. I can't say it was a great surprise to me, though you all seem so astonished. And in this letter Elmer told me a number of things he meant to say to me as soon as I got home. But I thought of to-night, and I couldn't see why I shouldn't be engaged the day before Commencement as well as the day after. So I telegraphed him, _yes_." Amid the shrieks of laughter due to this frank acknowledgment, Peggy was called, and she held up her photograph with an engaging pride. "I fancy there aren't many of you who need to be introduced to Graham Wylie, for he's been very much in evidence ever since I entered college. I don't know any way of doing justice to the subject, but when I feel strongly about anything, I'm very likely to drop into poetry, like Mr. Wegg." Peggy, who had been brought up on Dickens as if she had been a girl of the fifties, had forgotten how few of her contemporaries had ever heard of Mr. Wegg. Warned of her slip by the blank faces that looked back at her, she began to recite the lines she had written in sheer desperation the previous evening, after she was supposed to be in bed. "It isn't because he's six feet two With shoulders to match his height, That I'm happy and proud to be facing you On this very eventful night. "It isn't because his face is fine, Clear-cut, like a cameo, That I value the right to call him mine More than any one here can know. "It isn't because he's so very wise; We both could improve right there. His faults are plain to the kindest eyes, And I know that I have my share. "He's not perfection--to hint at this Would waken his scornful mirth. And yet he has made me--just as he is-- The happiest girl on earth. "I know he is built of the sterling stuff Of which manly men are made. And that glad certainty is enough To render me unafraid. "As we scatter to go our devious ways Like sparks from the anvil hurled, I want you to think of me all your days, As the proudest girl in the world." The applause that greeted Peggy's effort was not due chiefly to the quality of her verses, nor even to the charm of her undisguised happiness. The Editorial Staff of the Annual had leaked out. It had been whispered about that if it had not been for Peggy's protests, the Annual would have contained a satirical attack on a stricken man, which would have rendered its circulation impossible. The clapping died down, and then broke out again, as if to emphasize the fact that it was a personal tribute. And so one after another, the girls in the enclosure introduced the possessors of the names they themselves would some day bear, and having finished, went laughing back to their seats. The photographs were passed about for examination and the ballots distributed. The voting was a somewhat protracted process due, doubtless, to the fact that so much was at stake. But in course of time the ballots were collected and the judges retired to count them, the girls filling in the interval with college songs. The announcement of the result of the balloting came as a great surprise to Peggy. For the recipient of the stick pin was not Graham but Philip Carpenter. Judith, blushing very prettily, made the speech of acceptance in behalf of her fiancé, and took the pin. "I wish to say to you all," said the class president, "that twenty-five dollars is deposited with the treasurer for the purchase of a wedding-present for the first of our number to marry. I can only say it can't be spent too soon to suit me. It's time," she added severely, "that somebody was disproving the slander that college women care only for civic reform and settlement work and teaching school, and that home and husbands don't matter to them at all." Priscilla glanced discreetly in Peggy's direction, but Peggy was looking at the table. Indeed her expression remained thoughtful till the first toast was given, and she stood with the others to drink to her alma mater in a draught of fruit punch. It was not till they were on their way home that Priscilla discovered the reason for Peggy's temporary abstraction. For while they were talking of something entirely different, Peggy suddenly exclaimed, "Do you suppose it was the uniform that dazzled them?" "I don't quite understand you, Peggy." "Why, that vote, you know. Of course Judith's lieutenant is a very good looking fellow, but the idea of comparing him to Graham." Priscilla looked at her friend askance and said nothing. "I have a photograph of Graham in uniform," Peggy continued, "and now I wish I'd brought that. But I hadn't any idea it would count so much." "Peggy," began Priscilla faintly. "Will you promise not to be angry if I tell you something?" "Of course. Why should I be angry?" "Well, then, I voted for Philip Carpenter." Peggy looked at her in seemingly speechless amazement. "But why?" she asked at last. "Because--well, there could be only one reason for that, Peggy, because I thought him the handsomest man in the collection. His nose is wonderful." "And so is Graham's. I never saw a more perfect nose." "Philip's eyes are so big and beautiful." "A little _too_ big, it seems to me. It gives him a rather girly look. Now Graham's eyes are just large enough." Priscilla burst into an irrepressible shriek of laughter. "I wonder if it ever occurred to you, Peggy, that you might be a little bit prejudiced." It was plain that such an idea had never occurred to Peggy. She looked blank for a moment and then joined in Priscilla's helpless laughter. "I suppose," she owned when again she could find her voice, "that it's just as well that tastes differ." They parted at Priscilla's door, kissing each other good-night, a somewhat unusual ceremony, far they were not girls who made a parade of affection. Peggy, who had started toward her own home, suddenly turned back as if she had forgotten something. Priscilla hurried down the steps to meet her. "Priscilla, do you realize that to-morrow is Commencement Day? What a little time it seems since we entered as Freshman. Don't you remember how scared we were, and how in awe of the Seniors? And now, Priscilla our school life is over." And much to Priscilla's astonishment, and even more to her own, Peggy burst into tears. CHAPTER XX A SURPRISE RATHER to the surprise of those who knew her best, Peggy had decided on a church wedding. But when she came to give her reasons, the decision seemed characteristic, after all. "I think this is the dearest house in the world. When Graham and I come back from South America, I hope we can find one just like it--and on Friendly Terrace, too. But it's not what you'd call spacious. A dozen extra people crowd it, and it makes you uncomfortable to have a wedding and leave out so many." "Our wedding seems likely to be a unique affair," grinned Graham. "From the looks of Peggy's list, the guests will make up in variety what they lack in exclusiveness. What do you think of her asking the Bonds?" "Now, Graham, that's not fair. I haven't any idea of asking the Bond family. I only said that Elvira had improved so much that I felt like encouraging her by sending her an invitation." "And the Dunns. She's got them down." For all matrimonial responsibilities loomed so close, Graham's boyish fondness for teasing remained one of his most prominent characteristics. "Why, Graham Wylie! Not the Dunns at all. Just Jimmy! And he's doing so well and looks as nice as any boy." "And she says she's going to have her Sunday school class, one and all." "Well, I should think so. I've taught those girls ever since they came out of the infant room, and they're darlings. And it would break their hearts if I were married and they weren't there to see." Now that her college life was over, Peggy had thrown herself joyously into her planning for the next thing. Ruth, as Graham's sister, was to be the maid of honor, Priscilla and Amy bridesmaids. They decided on their gowns after hours and hours of delicious deliberation. For a July wedding, organdie was the thing--the sheerest pale pink organdie, with pink roses to match on their wide hats. "You'll be dreams," Peggy declared ecstatically. "Everybody'll say so." "Nonsense!" scoffed Amy, "As if people at a wedding ever looked at anybody but the bride!" "I had a letter from Alice, yesterday," exclaimed Peggy, changing the subject. "She thinks little Irma had better be the flower-girl instead of Dorothy. She says Dorothy has been shooting up so fast lately, that now she's lanky and self-conscious, and that Irma is plump and adorable. I only hope dear little Dorothy won't feel left out. That would spoil everything." Robert Carey was to be Graham's best man, a decision which pleased Peggy immensely. Most of the ushers were young men the girls knew more or less, though Graham had included in the number a comparative new-comer at the office, Kennedy by name, with whom he was on especially friendly terms. "You ought to bring him out some evening," suggested Peggy, "and not wait till just before the wedding to introduce him." "No, that's right. I'll ask him to-morrow to set a time." When Graham appeared shortly after dinner the following evening, Peggy and Priscilla were addressing invitations. Graham seated himself lazily in the arm chair and congratulated them on their industry. "Have you addressed all that pile to-day?" "Yes, sir. We've been working ever since I got back from the dressmaker's, about four o'clock. Priscilla stayed to dinner so as not to lose any time." There was a brief silence. Two pairs of pens scratched busily while Graham entertained himself by watching the anxious pucker of Peggy's mouth as she wrote each new address. "By the way," he remarked, "He's coming out to-night." "Who is?" "Kennedy." The scratching of the pens came to an abrupt stop. "Priscilla," Peggy cried in tones of horror, "Graham has asked that Mr. Kennedy to call and he's coming this evening." "You told me to ask him," Graham defended himself. "Of course, I want him to come. But I don't want him to descend on me without warning, and get the impression that you are going to marry a frump." "Why, I was just thinking how nice you looked--both of you," Graham declared, kindly including Priscilla, who scorned to acknowledge the compliment. She rose, returned her pen to the writing desk, and said briefly, "I'm off." "Put on your glad rags and come back, Priscilla," begged Peggy, who also was making preparations for a retreat. "Oh, I think not. Mr. Kennedy isn't coming to see me." "It'll be ever so much nicer if he meets some of you before the last minute. Ruth says she's got to put in this evening letter writing, and Amy and Bob are going somewhere." "Oh, very well. I'll be back after a little." Priscilla spoke nonchalantly, but as a matter of fact, she was glad of Peggy's insistence. Now that the time was growing so short, she grudged every hour she was away from her friend. As she left by the door, Peggy ran up the stairs, leaving Graham to the companionship of his own agreeable anticipations. Peggy was back in about twenty minutes, looking, in Graham's estimation, very much the same, except that her dress was a lighter blue than the other, and her hair, having been freshly combed, did not show as much of the curl. He expressed his opinion and Peggy smiled tolerantly. "I wore that old thing because a drop of ink more or less wouldn't matter. It's as old as the hills, and I made it when I didn't know as much about dress-making as I do now. Of course I like to have you think I look nice, no matter what I wear, but now you're going to be married, you'd better learn more discrimination in regard to clothes. It would be dreadful to have a new dress and you not able to see that it was any prettier than the old one." "Very well. Suppose you start on my education right away. Tell me the fine points about the rig you've got on." But before Peggy could begin, the bell rang, and Graham's education was left incomplete for the time being. Mr. Kennedy was a slender, pleasant-mannered young man, who looked considerably older than Graham, partly perhaps, because he wore eye-glasses. As Peggy greeted him, she was conscious of something hauntingly familiar in his face. "I haven't met you before, have I?" she asked. "It hardly seems that I could have met you and not remember it," said young Kennedy gallantly. "I'm very sure I've seen you before, however." "And I believe I've seen you, but I don't know where." "Hitchcock would say," remarked Graham, "that probably you had been well acquainted in Nineveh or Babylon or some other ancient burg." Mr. Kennedy smiled, and took the chair Graham had pulled forward for him. "Who's Hitchcock?" he asked. "Oh, a nut that Peggy used to have here till I told her she'd have to choose between us." "Graham, what a misleading thing to say." "Well, it might give the wrong impression, I confess. Peggy didn't care much about him herself, but one of her friends had a case on him." "Sh!" warned Peggy, in an agony as she heard Priscilla's footsteps outside. She filled the somewhat awkward pause by springing to her feet, crying as she ran to the door, "You needn't ring; I hear you." The results of the half hour Priscilla had given to vanity were more evident, Graham thought, than in Peggy's case. Peggy could be disheveled and still irresistible. Priscilla's rather stately beauty was more exacting in its demands. In her dress of pale green voile, which set off her clear pallor and the beauty of her smooth, dark hair, she looked the incarnate spirit of spring. Even Graham stared. Peggy, her arm slipped caressingly through Priscilla's, led her forward. "Priscilla, this is Graham's friend, Mr. Kennedy. Miss Combs--" Peggy stopped short. Priscilla had jumped. Mr. Kennedy's conventional smile had changed to startled recognition. "Why, you know each other," Peggy cried. "Only--why, surely, Peggy, you remember." Peggy's vague, irritating certainty of something familiar in Mr. Kennedy's face was suddenly transformed to recollection. "Oh, of course. The Green Parrot." "Oh, of course! The Green Parrot!" mocked Graham, who had risen on Priscilla's entrance, and now stood looking from one to another of the trio. "Makes it perfectly clear." They took their seats, and Peggy explained, helped out by suggestions from the others. As they recalled the absurd experience, the three narrators went off into fits of laughter, but the audience maintained a dignified calm. "Take my word for it, John, it's an inscrutable sex. Now, I would have sworn that this young woman hadn't a thought I didn't share, and look what she's been keeping from me, lo! these many months. When we're alone I shall expect you to give me a full account of what really happened." For some reason the discovery that Graham's friend, Kennedy, was the young man whose coffee cup had been invaded by Priscilla's roll seemed to put him at once on the footing of an old acquaintance. They had a very jolly evening, and it was not till after ten that Priscilla said, "Graham, I think you'd better take me home, now. I've got a busy day before me." "You have indeed, poor dear," Peggy cried. "I expect you to finish addressing those invitations and do any number of errands. These are trying times for my friends, Mr. Kennedy. They have hardly a minute in the twenty-four hours that they can call their own." The young man smiled at her in the abstracted fashion of one whose thoughts are on something else. "Won't you let me be your escort?" he asked Priscilla. "It would give me the greatest pleasure." "Thanks, but it's only a step, and my going early won't break up Graham's evening, for he'll come directly back." She softened her refusal by giving him her hand and saying pleasantly, "I'm glad to have met you properly at last, with a real introduction, you know." "I shall look forward to the next time," said young Kennedy, with rather more ardor than conventional courtesy required. "This is our third meeting, I believe." "Third?" exclaimed Peggy, pricking up her ears. "Why, when was the second?" "At one of the football games last fall," explained Priscilla. "I was there with Horace Hitchcock, and Mr. Kennedy sat next me." And then recalling the suspicious glances Horace had shot in the direction of the guiltless Mr. Kennedy, Priscilla began to blush. The worst of blushing is that it is much easier to start it than to call a halt. There were innumerable things connected with the thought of Horace that made Priscilla uncomfortable, and now she found herself blushing for them all. The tide of color flooded her smooth forehead and dyed her throat. Peggy's observant eyes detected an unmistakable shadow on Mr. Kennedy's erst-while radiant face. Later, when Graham and herself were alone, she scolded him a little. "You oughtn't to have said that a friend of mine had a case on Hitchcock. Now Mr. Kennedy knows you meant Priscilla." "Well, is that such a tragedy?" "Couldn't you mention to him some day that Horace did admire Priscilla, but that now he's safely married to another. You could bring it in in a casual way, you know." Graham looked at her hard. "My dear Peggy," he said, "Just because you yourself have been fortunate--unusually fortunate I might say--in your love affairs, don't let that lead you into trying your hand at matchmaking. Fooling with high explosives is child's play compared to that, believe me." But instead of seeming impressed by the warning, Peggy only answered dreamily, "When he doesn't see Horace at the wedding, he'll probably begin to suspect that it's ancient history. If only Priscilla could learn to speak of him without blushing." CHAPTER XXI A MISSING BRIDE IT was two days before Peggy's wedding, and in the front room downstairs Peggy was looking around complacently on her wedding presents. They were very much like the wedding presents of other prospective brides. A few were admirably suited to the needs of a young couple of moderate means, about to start house-keeping. Others would have been useful in the establishments of wealthy people who expected to do a great deal of entertaining. And there were still others whose use was problematical, anywhere and under any circumstances. Peggy's mood, however, was far from critical. Each gift as it came had given her the keenest pleasure, and if it were impossible to find anything admirable in the article itself, she could always say, "How awfully kind of them to send it. Everybody's being perfectly dear to me." She approached every newly arrived package with the same feeling with which she had once taken up a bulging Christmas stocking. The clock in the dining room, a pert little timepiece with a peremptory voice, struck three. It was characteristic of this particular clock always to strike the hour as if it were reminding somebody of something. On this occasion it reminded Peggy that she had an engagement with the dressmaker at half past three, and that she was to call for Ruth, who had promised to accompany her. As it was impossible to take along a crowd of girls to the dressmaker's rather cramped quarters, Peggy avoided hard feeling by inviting a different girl each day. Peggy had hardly reached the top of the stairs when the bell rang, and Sally came rushing from the kitchen to answer it. The prospect of a wedding in the family had so excited Sally that she was even less responsible for her conduct than usual. Almost the only thing she could be trusted to do was to answer the door-bell, but as the bell rang very often, she succeeded in making herself rather useful. On this occasion a swarthy woman stood outside, and in a quick, parrot-like fashion said something Sally did not understand. "You want to see Miss Peggy?" Sally demanded. Such wits as she possessed were not on duty, for ordinarily she would have recognized the stranger's errand, and sent her about her business. As the woman nodded, Sally at once admitted her, showing her into the room where the wedding presents stood about in picturesque confusion. "Miss Peggy," shrieked Sally, forgetting for the moment the lesson impressed on her on innumerable occasions that she was not to save her steps by calling up the stairs, "Somebody to see you." It was a minute or two before Peggy came down, and Sally had retreated to the kitchen in the meantime. Peggy who had naturally expected to see an acquaintance, was rather startled to be confronted by a dark-skinned woman with jet black eyes and an oily voice. "Buy lace, lady? Very cheap: three inch wide up to nine inch. Very cheap!" Peggy replied politely that she did not care for any lace, reflecting as she spoke that had the woman presented herself a few months earlier, she might have thought it worth while to examine her stock. Having had some experience in the persistence of her kind, she was surprised when the dark woman took her refusal as final, and meekly let herself out. Peggy stepped into the kitchen to warn Sally against her late indiscretion, and came back through the hall, reflecting that she must hurry, since the dressmaker did not like to be kept waiting. As she passed the open door of the room the vender of lace had so lately quitted, she stopped and stood transfixed. One of her wedding presents was missing. She knew exactly the place where it had stood on the center table, flanked on one side by a pair of book-ends, and on the other by a cloisonné vase. The gap left by its removal was as obvious to Peggy's startled eyes as the breach in a smile, due to a missing tooth. Instantly she understood that there was no mystery about its disappearance. She had seen it not ten minutes before, and the only person who had entered the room since then was the woman with lace to sell. The discovery went to Peggy's head. The stealing of any of her other possessions would not have affected her in just the same way. But these were her wedding presents, invested with a certain sanctity because of the goodwill they represented, and the occasion which led to their bestowal. It never once occurred to Peggy that she could submit to such an outrage. She ran out of the house, looking up and down the street, and immediately caught sight of the woman she wanted. Apparently she had suspended business for the day, for she was walking, rapidly and making no attempt to dispose of her wares in any of the houses she passed. Peggy promptly started in pursuit. Her idea was to follow the woman, keeping her in sight until she could encounter a policeman. Peggy had no desire to deprive any human creature, however erring, of her liberty. She hoped the officer of the law would force the surrender of her ill-gotten gains without formally arresting her. But whatever the consequences, she meant to recover her property. According to the calendar it was the last day of June, but the thermometer proclaimed it mid-July. The heated air quivered. The streets seemed as silent as the thoroughfares of a deserted village. A block from Peggy's home, the woman took the right-hand turning and went down Rossiter Street. Peggy followed, walking rapidly in her determination to gain on the quick-walking figure on ahead. Three blocks on Rossiter Street, and then the woman turned north, giving Peggy a clew to her plan. Friendly Terrace lay near the outskirts of the city. A walk of a mile from Peggy's home brought one into a section sparsely settled. It looked as though Peggy's quarry were making for the open country. Oh, for a policeman! Peggy rather unjustly resented the scarcity of officers of the law, forgetting how seldom their services were required in the law-abiding part of town. She discovered, too, that the woman pursued was uncannily aware of her pursuer. Though apparently she never looked back, she accommodated her pace to Peggy's, accelerating her speed, as Peggy quickened hers, so that the distance between them remained about the same in spite of Peggy's efforts to lessen it. Owing to the lack of policemen, had any reliable looking man passed her in a car, Peggy believed herself capable of stopping him and commandeering his services. But apparently the heat had driven every one indoors. Two or three delivery wagons passed with small boys handling the reins. One machine glided by, but the driver was a woman. After an hour's chase the two participants in the singular game of "Follow my Leader," came out upon the turnpike, stretching away to the north, white and dusty and hot in the brilliant sun. Here the houses were scattered and stood back from the road. The likelihood of encountering a policeman had become extremely faint. But Peggy set her teeth and pressed forward. Graham got off half an hour early this particular afternoon, and reached Peggy's a little before five. Irma, dimpled and sweet, a replica of Dorothy a few years earlier, rushed to meet him squealing with delight, while Dorothy smiled a welcome, her lips pinched tightly together. One of Dorothy's upper front teeth was missing and Dorothy was painfully conscious of the lack every minute that she was awake. Graham kissed his prospective nieces, greeted the older members of the family cordially, if less effusively, and put the inevitable question, "Where's Peggy?" "Oh, at the dressmaker's of course," sighed Mrs. Raymond. "I hope she won't keep the poor child very long. It's so dreadfully warm." The telephone tinkled, and Dick went to answer it. He scowled as he listened. "Who did you say it was? Oh, wait a minute!" He turned to his mother. "I thought you said Peggy had gone to the dressmaker's." "She has. She had a fitting at half past three." "Well, this is the dressmaker, and she says Peggy hasn't come." "Let me speak to her." Mrs. Raymond crossed to the phone, with an air of expecting to clear up the puzzle immediately. And hardly had she made herself known, when the door opened and Ruth appeared. "What's become of Peggy? She was to call for me a little after three, and I've had my hat on waiting for her nearly two hours." What had become of Peggy? She had not kept her engagement with the dressmaker, and Ruth knew nothing of her whereabouts. Mrs. Raymond called up Priscilla and Amy, each of whom disavowed having seen Peggy since noon. And then as there seemed nothing better to do, she went on calling neighbors and friends and trades-people, growing more and more puzzled, moment by moment. For no one had seen Peggy. It finally occurred to Peggy's sister, Alice, to make inquiries in the kitchen. Sally informed her that Miss Peggy had come into the kitchen with her hat on, and had said something about the dressmaker. The new girl, who had been engaged to help out for the few weeks before the wedding, confirmed Sally's story, adding that it was a little after three when Peggy left the house. Obviously Peggy had started out with the intention of keeping her appointment, and obviously she had not done so. Dinner was ready at six o'clock, but no one was ready for dinner. Peggy's failure to appear at meal-time added to the general consternation. Peggy was by nature prompt and methodical, and she had acted the rôle of cook too often not to realize how the best efforts of that important functionary are frustrated by late arrivals. At quarter past six Mr. Raymond went to the telephone and called up the hospitals one after another. But the hot sleepy day had not been productive of automobile accidents, and the only cases of sun-strokes reported were elderly people, four men and one old woman. Graham was very pale. A dreadful suspicion was taking shape in his mind. Could it be that, as the second of July drew near, Peggy had found herself unable to face the situation? Perhaps he had asked too much of her when he had urged her accompanying him to South America. He thought of the innumerable ties that bound her to her native land, and yet he had assumed that she would be ready to leave everything and every one she loved, and go with him to a land of strangers. Graham was no more troubled by excessive humility than other popular young men, but in the present emergency he seemed to himself to have put a most preposterous estimate on the value of his own society. He had a horrible conviction that, through his demanding too much, Peggy was lost to him forever. It hardly need be said that no one in the anxious company shared this particular apprehension. At seven o'clock Peggy's father made up his mind that it would be necessary to appeal to the police. But before he could bring himself to act on this conviction, the gate clicked and Irma, standing at the window, her nose flattened against the screen, exploded in a series of joyful shrieks. "Aunt Peggy! Aunt Peggy! Oh, it's Aunt Peggy!" And Peggy it was, though it took a second glance to be sure. The perspiration trickling over her dusty face had produced a curious piebald effect, and she walked with a noticeable limp. They rushed to the door, greeting her with mingled cries of joy and reproach. All but Graham. He sat down in the darkest corner of the living room and put his hands over his face. The intensity of his relief was almost too much for him. Peggy limped in, looking decidedly ashamed of herself. "Have you waited dinner for me? I'm awfully sorry." "Waited dinner," repeated Mrs. Raymond, and burst into tears. Peggy's sister Alice caught her by the shoulders and gave her a sharp little shake. "Peggy Raymond, where have you been and what have you been doing? Don't you understand that we've been frightened to death about you?" Peggy dropped into the nearest chair and began on her story. She told of the woman Sally had admitted to the house, the missing wedding present, and the purpose with which she had started in pursuit. They all listened breathlessly, Graham left his corner and stood back of the others, unwilling to miss a word. It was not till Peggy's recital brought her to the turnpike that she lost a little of her fluency. At this point she hesitated and seemed to appreciate the difficulty of making matters clear to her audience. "Of course I should have given up then. But somehow I couldn't. I kept hoping that somebody would appear, and it seemed such a shame when I'd followed that thief so far, to give up and go back. I'd made up my mind that as soon as an automobile came along, I'd ask for a lift. I felt if I could only catch up with her I could frighten her into giving me what belonged to me. But nobody passed me, and then when she got to the old toll-gate--" Mr. Raymond interrupted, "You don't mean you followed her to the toll gate?" "Yes, father. Or at least I was almost there. You know there's a cross-road just beyond the gate, and a Ford car came up that cross-road and turned north on the pike. And the woman stopped it--" "Confederates, I'll bet," cried Dick. "No, it looked as if she were just asking some stranger for a ride. And as far as they knew she was only a tired woman carrying a bag and they took her in. And then I saw it wasn't any use to go further." "You surprise me." Mr. Raymond's voice was satirical. "I can't understand why you didn't run after the machine." Peggy accepted the sarcastic rejoinder meekly. "Then I turned around and came home. But you see I had put on my new brown shoes because Mrs. Morley wanted to fit my brown dress with the shoes I was going to wear with it, and all at once they began to hurt me terribly. Instead of hurrying I had to slow up, and sometimes I had to stop and wait. I never had anything hurt so." "If you'd walked three blocks east," exclaimed Graham, speaking for the first time, "you could have got a car." "I knew it, but I'd come off without my pocket book. I didn't have a penny with me. That was the reason I didn't telephone." Peggy looked about her with a crestfallen air. While she was far from realizing the extent of the alarm her family had felt, and would not have believed Graham had he told her of the apprehensions that had tortured him through the terrible time of waiting, she understood that they had all been worried and that she had inconvenienced every one by making dinner late. "Don't wait for me any longer," she pleaded. "Have the dinner put on, mother, and I'll be down as soon as I've washed up a little." Mrs. Raymond put her arm about her. "Yes, come upstairs, darling. You must have something on those blisters right away. Alice, tell Sally to put on plates for Ruth and Graham." It was while they were eating lamb chops, which after an hour and a half in the warming oven might as well have been anything else, that some one thought to put the question Peggy had been dreading. "Do you know what present she stole?" Peggy took a hasty sip of her iced tea and looked appealingly at her questioner. But her reluctant manner only aroused the curiosity of every one. "I'll bet it was the silver teapot," exclaimed Dick. "It doesn't matter what's missing, as long as Peggy herself is here safe and sound," declared Mrs. Raymond fervently. "But what _did_ she take?" insisted Alice, eyeing her sister with suspicion. Again Peggy forfeited herself with iced tea, and her cheeks, flushed by heat and weariness, took on a deeper hue. "It--it really wasn't so valuable,--" stammered Peggy. "You know Elvira Bond gave me half a dozen teaspoons that she got by saving soap wrappers or something. They came in a neat little case, and I suppose the woman snatched the nearest thing without looking. I didn't chase her because the spoons were worth so much because--well, it was the principle of the thing." There was a long moment of silence, and then a roar of laughter. They laughed long and helplessly and wiped their eyes and started all over again. As a rule Peggy could appreciate a joke, even if it was against herself, but on this occasion a rather wry smile was the best she could do. She was beginning to realize that she had been very silly. "Well, Graham," remarked Mr. Raymond when he could make himself heard, "In my opinion you're assuming quite a responsibility in planning to take this young woman to South America." Graham's eyes met Peggy's and something in his look arrested her attention, a peculiar radiance as if he had just heard a wonderful piece of news. But all he said was, "I'm ready to take the risk, sir." CHAPTER XXII A JULY WEDDING PEGGY'S brother Dick had parodied an old rhyme to fit the occasion and sang it with gusto, in season and out of season. It was Dick's voice, caroling in a high falsetto, and breaking ludicrously on an average of once a line, that woke Peggy on the most eventful morning of her life. "A wedding day in May Is worth a load of hay. A wedding set for June Is worth a silver spoon. A wedding in July Isn't worth a fly." Peggy winked hard and sat up in bed, turning instantly toward the east windows. "Oh," she cried joyously, "what a glorious day!" And so indeed it was. Apparently the weather man had carefully selected whatever was best in all the year, and combined his selections into one perfect day in honor of Peggy's wedding. There had been a little rain the night before, and the air was as sweet as if perfumed by June's roses. There was a freshness that suggested early spring, and something in the breeze as exhilarating as October. Peggy reflected complacently that this was just her luck. She wondered, as she dressed, what she was to do with herself between the hours of eight and six. Her trunk was packed for going away, and the other trunks were ready except for a few articles to be added at the last minute. She had acknowledged every gift she had received. The dressmaker was through with her, and the wedding dress was hanging in Peggy's closet, with a sheet draped over it that no speck of dust should mar its immaculate whiteness. Peggy decided that her wedding day was to be characterized by elegant leisure. Of course this expectation was not realized. To begin with, there were more presents. They came by parcels post and by express. Deliverymen handed them over as nonchalantly as if they had been ordinary purchases. Others came by special messengers, who grinned knowingly when Peggy signed for them. Breakfast was hardly over when it was necessary to send for Graham, that he might assist in opening the packages. But Graham was not as satisfactory in opening packages as a number of other people, Priscilla and Amy, for instance. If Peggy cried "Isn't that beautiful?" he always looked straight at her as he said "yes," and then it was necessary to remind him that he was supposed to be admiring a piece of silverware or glass. Peggy always said, "How beautiful!" when a package was opened. And then if the article were something she really wanted, she would add, "Isn't it lucky, Graham, that some one thought of that? I don't see how we could have kept house without it." And if it were something quite unsuitable she would cry, "How kind everybody is. I never saw anything like it." The present from Peggy's college class came the morning of the wedding day, when it was practically certain that no one was to be married in advance of Peggy. It was a very attractive silver vase, with the class motto engraved about its base. Peggy's delight was marred by one characteristic reflection. "I have so many things. It's almost a pity this didn't go to some girl whose friends weren't so generous." "Any one could have had it," Graham reminded her, "who was ready to take the risk. This is in recognition of your courage, like the Victoria Cross." Of course the wedding presents were not going to South America, but were to be stored against the young people's return. "Don't you hate to go away and leave all these lovely things, Graham?" Peggy asked, stroking the gleaming sides of a copper bowl as if it had been a kitten. And then with her usual happy faculty for seeing the bright side, she added, "But think of coming home and finding them waiting for us! Why, it'll be like getting married all over again." Wedding presents, however, were not to occupy Peggy's thoughts to the exclusion of other matters. All sorts of affectionate messages kept coming, special deliveries, telegrams, telephone calls. A girl like Peggy, who for twenty-one years and over has been helping to make the world a happier place, is likely to be surprised when she comes to count up her friends. Elaine Marshall, who had moved from the city and now lived with her married sister, came down for the day. "I couldn't stand it, not to be at your wedding, Peggy," she declared. And Lucy Haines walked in about noon, looking so radiant that Peggy at once suspected an especial reason. There was a little pearl ring on the third finger of Lucy's left hand that Peggy had never seen before. Lucy blushed when she saw Peggy's contemplative gaze focused on it. "Yes, Peggy, it's--it's Jerry," owned Lucy, looking so proud and happy that she did not seem even distantly related to the disheartened girl who had once thought it was no use trying. "He's grown into such a splendid fellow. Everybody says I'm so lucky. And, Peggy, if it hadn't been for the summer you spent at Doolittle Cottage, it's not likely that either of us would ever have amounted to anything." Mary Donaldson called up to say that she was coming to the wedding. Her father and cousin had promised to carry her downstairs, and they were going early so she could be in her place before any one else arrived. "I don't believe you're a bit more excited than I am, Peggy," Mary laughed. And another surprise was when Uncle Philander and his wife drove into town, with a bushel or two of flowers piled about them in the buggy. "They're not such awful stylish flowers," beamed Aunt Phoebe. "Of course there's a few roses, but most of our bushes bloomed themselves 'most to death in June and haven't done much since. The rest are just everyday posies, so to speak, but they'll make little bright spots around the house, and anyway, you can't have too many flowers at a wedding." At four o'clock the bridesmaids went home to dress. The mother of the flower girl pounced on her and carried her upstairs. "Peggy, dear," said Mrs. Raymond warningly. "Just a minute mother. I want to tell Graham something." Peggy led her lover into a corner and whispered in his ear, "Don't you want to come back and get a glimpse of me after I'm dressed." "Well rather." "Because you know, if you don't like me," dimpled Peggy, "it's not too late to change your mind." She was inclined to be reproachful when Graham caught her in his arms and kissed her before everybody, but Graham insisted it was her own fault, and on reflection Peggy decided he was right. At six o'clock the little church was well filled. In spite of Graham's teasing, Peggy's humble friends could hardly be distinguished from their so-called betters. Hildegarde Carey, slender and elegant, sat in the pew behind Elvira Bond, and noticed nothing peculiar except that Elvira blew her nose oftener and with more emphasis than is customary on such occasions. It was either that or weep, and Elvira chose the least of the two evils. As for Jimmy Dunn, with his purple necktie and a large scarfpin that resembled a diamond, he was fairly resplendent. The march pealed out and the people rose. Up the aisle came the bridesmaids walking very slowly. The little flower girl, all smiles, seemed as unconscious as if weddings were an old story in her experience. And then came Peggy on her father's arm, and Elvira Bond was not the only one whose eyes brimmed over as she passed. A great deal can happen in five minutes. The organ pealed out again, and now Peggy was Mrs. Graham Wylie. She put her hand on her husband's arm and smiled up into his face, Peggy's own sunny smile. She had promised for better or for worse, but in her heart of hearts she was confident that the future held only good for the two of them. And as Graham was equally positive on that score, they went down the aisle with illumined faces. Only a few besides the two families came to the house from the church. These, with the out-of-town guests like Elaine and Lucy, and the wedding party, filled the cosy little house to overflowing. Mary Donaldson sat in a corner, radiant; and since she could not cross the room to kiss the bride, the bride crossed to kiss her. It was after the chicken salad had been disposed of, and they were passing the ice cream, that Peggy's attention focussed itself on her new friend, Mr. Kennedy. He stood by himself for the moment and his face was rather grave for a young man, a guest at a wedding. But as he caught her eye, he smiled resolutely and came over to her. "I'm sorry you're going away, Mrs. Wylie, just as I met you. It doesn't seem fair." "I'm sorry, too," said Peggy. "If we'd only known that night at the Green Parrot that you were a friend of Graham's it would have simplified matters so much." Mr. Kennedy's face again lost its smile. He turned and looked the company over. "Your friend Hitchcock isn't here to-night, is he?" Peggy was delighted. She had been wishing for a chance to bring Horace into the conversation, and here Mr. Kennedy had done it himself. When again the young man looked at her, he was almost startled by the radiant mischief of her face. "Horace Hitchcock here? Oh, dear, no! I can't think of anybody I'd be less likely to ask to my wedding." "That's one point, evidently, on which you and Miss Combs are not in agreement." Peggy pondered. "Priscilla might ask him to her wedding. I don't know. But it's certain he didn't ask _her_ to _his_." Young Mr. Kennedy's start was unmistakable. "You don't mean he's married?" "Yes indeed. There was quite an account of it in the papers. But if you didn't know his name, you wouldn't remember." "No, I wouldn't remember," agreed Mr. Kennedy. All at once he was beaming. "I shall be glad when the next two years are up, Mrs. Wylie," he cried boyishly. "I have a hunch that you and I are going to be great friends." A moment later he joined Priscilla, and from that time on followed her about like her shadow, and the observant Peggy smiled approval. She was not in the least discomfited by Graham's reference to high explosives. The most dangerous things in the world, in her estimation, were misunderstandings. At ten o'clock the bride went upstairs to change to her little going-away suit with the Eton Jacket, that made her look hardly older than the Peggy Raymond who entered college. And then the good-bys began. "We'll be back in a few days," said Peggy as she kissed each one, but even that assurance failed to give comfort. For though Peggy and Graham were coming back for twenty-four hours, they were to sail on the sixth. Peggy's friends returned her smiles bravely, but there was hardly one who did not struggle to keep back the tears. They crowded out on the porch to see her go. Some one hurled an old shoe as the taxi-cab glided away. Peggy leaned from the window to wave her hand, and then the darkness swallowed her up. Amy, Ruth, and Priscilla stood side by side. The tears were running down Ruth's cheeks, and Priscilla's eyes were wet. Amy had forced herself to smile during Peggy's protracted leave-taking and the smile persisted, though it had become a grimace. "Is this place called Friendly Terrace?" Amy demanded tragically, "Or is it the--the Dismal Swamp." "Or the desert of Sahara," suggested Priscilla, a quaver in her voice showing that the suggestion was not altogether a joke. "Girls!" for a moment Ruth struggled with a sob, but she conquered it and went on resolutely, "I don't know who named Friendly Terrace, but I do know it was Peggy who made the name fit. And we've got to keep it up. We can't let it become like other little streets where nobody cares for his neighbor. We've got to show what Peggy meant to us by--by--" "By keeping the home fires burning," interpolated Amy, and Ruth nodded as if the familiar phrase said all she had wished to say. As the others crowded indoors, declaring after immemorial fashion that there had never been a prettier wedding nor a lovelier bride, Peggy's three friends stood side by side; Ruth's hand was fast in Amy's, and Amy's arm was about Priscilla's waist. And while none of them spoke, each of them in her heart was silently pledging herself to keep Friendly Terrace what Peggy had made it. THE END MARK GRAY'S HERITAGE A Romance _By Eliot Harlow Robinson_ _Author of "Smiles: A Rose of the Cumberlands," "Smiling Pass," "The Maid of Mirabelle," etc._ _Cloth, 12mo, illustrated, $1.90_ "_What is bred in the bone will never come out of the flesh._" MR. ROBINSON'S distinguished success came with the acclaim accredited to his novel, SMILES, "_The Best-Loved Book of the Year_," and its sequel, SMILING PASS. With delicate humor and a sincere faith in the beautiful side of human nature, Mr. Robinson has created for himself a host of enthusiastic admirers. In his new book he chooses a theme, suggested perhaps by the old proverb quoted above ("Pilpay's Fables"). His setting is a Quaker village, his theme the conflict between grave Quaker ideals and the strength and hot blood of impulsive Mark Gray. Here is a book that is worthy of the reception accorded SMILES by all readers who appreciate a story of deep significance, simply yet powerfully built upon fundamental passions, wrought with a philosophy that always sees the best in troubled times. The enthusiastic editor who passed on MARK GRAY'S HERITAGE calls it--hardly too emphatically--"A mighty good story with plenty of entertainment for those who like action (there is more of that in it than in any other of Mr. Robinson's novels). The reading public will unquestionably call it another 'courage book'--which they called the SMILES books, you know. The language is both strong and smooth. The story has a punch!" POLLY THE PAGAN Her Lost Love Letters _By Isabel Anderson_ _With an appreciative Foreword by Basil King_ _Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.90_ ISABEL ANDERSON, who heretofore has confined her literary talents to writing of presidents and diplomats and fascinating foreign lands, contributes to our list her first novel, POLLY THE PAGAN, a story of European life and "high society." The story is unfolded in the lively letters of a gay and vivacious American girl traveling in Europe, and tells of the men whom she meets in Paris, in London or Rome, her flirtations (and they are many and varied!) and exciting experiences. Among the letters written to her are slangy ones from an American college boy and some in broken English from a fascinated Russian Prince (or was he disillusioned, when after dining at a smart Parisian café with the adorable Polly he was trapped by secret police?); but the chief interest, so far as Polly's _affaires d'amour_ are concerned, centers around the letters from a young American, in the diplomatic service in Rome, who is in a position to give intimate descriptions of smart life and Italian society. * * * * * The character drawing is clever, and the suspense as to whom the fascinating Polly will marry, if indeed the mysterious young lady will marry anybody, is admirably sustained. UNCLE MARY A Novel for Young or Old _By Isla May Mullins_ _Author of "The Blossom Shop" books, "Tweedie," etc._ _Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.75_ SINCE the great success of POLLYANNA there have been many efforts to achieve the "_GLAD_ BOOK" style of fiction, but none so successful Trade Mark as Mrs. Mullins' UNCLE MARY. Here is a story, charming in its New England village setting, endearing in its characters, engrossing in its plot, and diverting in its style. The PAGE imprint has been given to many books about beautiful characters in fiction,--Pollyanna, Anne Shirley, Rose Webb of "SMILES," and Lloyd Sherman of the "LITTLE COLONEL" books. To this galaxy we now add "Uncle" Mary's protégé, Libbie Lee. Mrs. Mullins is an author gifted with the ability to appeal to the young in heart of whatever age. Her characters are visually portrayed. Her situations have the interest of naturalness and suspense. The reader of UNCLE MARY will become in spirit an inhabitant of Sunfield; will understand the enjoyment of the sudden acquisition of wealth, a limousine, and--an adopted child (!), by the sisters, "Uncle" Mary and "Aunt" Alice; will watch with interest the thawing and rejuvenation of "Uncle" Mary, the cure of Alice, and the solving of the mystery of the wealth of sweet little Libbie Lee. THE RED CAVALIER Or, The Twin Turrets Mystery _By Gladys Edson Locke_ _Cloth decorative, 12mo, illustrated, $1.90_ HERE is a mystery story that is different! The subtlety and strangeness of India--poison and daggers, the impassive faces and fierce hearts of Prince Bardai and his priestly adviser; a typical English week-end house party in the mystery-haunted castle, Twin Turrets, in Yorkshire; a vivid and contrasting background. And the plot! Who is the mysterious Red Cavalier? Is he the ghost of the ancestral portrait, that hangs in Sir Robert Grainger's strange library? Is he flesh and blood, and responsible for the marauding thefts in the neighborhood? Is he responsible for Prince Kassim's murder? Or is it only coincidence that one of the guests at the masked ball happened to wear the costume of the Red Cavalier? Miss Locke has been able to weave a weird and absorbing tale of modern detective romance, the strangeness of India in modern England. There is Lady Berenice Coningsby, a bit _déclassé_; Ethelyn Roydon, more so; Princess Lona Bardai, "Little Lotus-Blossom," sweet and pathetic; Mrs. Dalrymple, the woman of mystery; Miss Vandelia Egerton, the spinster owner of Twin Turrets. There is dashing Max Egerton and the impeccable Lord Borrowdean; Captain Grenville Coningsby; Prince Kassim Bardai, with the impenetrable eyes, and Chand Talsdad, his venerable adviser. Which of them is the Red Cavalier? * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Obvious punctuation errors repaired while varied hyphenation has been retained. Page 11, "asumed" changed to "assumed" (assumed that they had) Page 75, the ligature was removed from "Phoebe" to conform to the numerous uses without it (turned to Aunt Phoebe's) Page 115, "epigramatic" changed to "epigrammatic" (epigrammatic phrases which) Page 172, "your're" changed to "you're" (what you're looking for) Page 180, "Rob" changed to "Bob" (absorbed by what Bob) Page 184, "publicity" changed to "publicly" (publicly that she was) Page 184, "incomprehensiblely" changed to "incomprehensibly" (incomprehensibly petty) Page 186, repeated word "the" removed from text. Original read (how much . was the the result of) Page 199, "upstair" changed to "upstairs" (upstairs Ruth? It's) Page 205, "fiinished" changed to "finished" (After she had finished) Page 207, "tumultous" changed to "tumultuous" (tumultuous cheering, the) Page 210, "forseen" changed to "foreseen" (have foreseen this) Page 238, repeated word "to" removed from text. Original read (four to to get engaged) Page 261, "rudness" changed to "rudeness" (The rudeness gave Peggy) Page 262, "af" changed to "of" (losing two of her) Page 271, "spare" changed to "space" (vacant space enclosed by) Page 272, "attenion" changed to "attention" (Priscilla every attention) Page 279, "emphazie" changed to "emphasize" (to emphasize the fact) Page 301, "There" changed to "Three" (Three blocks on Rossiter) 
45663	----	Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustration. See 45663-h.htm or 45663-h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45663/45663-h/45663-h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.org/files/45663/45663-h.zip) _Five minutes later these two joyful gypsies started away in a covered wagon._ (Page 233) NAN OF THE GYPSIES by GRACE MAY NORTH The Saalfield Publishing Company Akron, Ohio New York Copyright MCMXXVI The Saalfield Publishing Company Made in the United States of America CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. Gypsy Nan. 3 II. The Garden-all-aglow. 10 III. Good-bye Little Tirol. 17 IV. Nan Escapes. 24 V. Nan Revisits the Garden. 30 VI. Only a Gypsy-girl. 35 VII. Civilizing Gypsy Nan. 42 VIII. Nan's Punishment. 50 IX. The Lad Next Door. 56 X. "Lady Red Bird." 65 XI. The Doctor Takes a Hand. 73 XII. A Pleasant Call. 77 XIII. Mysterious Revelations. 85 XIV. The Mountain Ride. 93 XV. Sudden Changes. 103 XVI. School Girls. 110 XVII. Old Memories Revived. 115 XVIII. A Gypsy Camp. 123 XIX. An Enemy. 127 XX. Nan Disappointed. 133 XXI. The Power of Loving-kindness. 137 XXII. The Contest Recital. 143 XXIII. A Joyous Invitation. 147 XXIV. Nan's First Masquerade. 154 XXV. Nan's Decision. 161 XXVI. Nan's Eighteenth Birthday. 168 XXVII. Nan's Sudden Responsibility. 175 XXVIII. The Valedictorian. 179 XXIX. Faithful Friends. 183 XXX. Nan as Housekeeper. 190 XXXI. Nan's Problem. 194 XXXII. Surprising Things Happen. 201 XXXIII. The Thanksgiving Ride. 205 XXXIV. A Happy Surprise. 210 XXXV. An Unexpected Arrival. 220 XXXVI. Nan's Trousseau. 224 XXXVII. Nan's Wedding. 231 NAN OF THE GYPSIES CHAPTER I. GYPSY NAN. One glorious autumn day, when the pale mellow gold of the sunshine softened the ruggedness of the encircling mountains and lay caressingly on the gnarled live oaks, on the sky-reaching eucalyptus, and on the red-berried pepper trees, a tinkling of bells was heard on the long highway that led into the little garden village of San Seritos, half asleep by the gleaming blue Pacific. A gypsy caravan, consisting of three covered wagons drawn by teams of six mules, and followed by a string of horses, drew to one side of the road and stopped. A band of nut-brown, fox-like children scrambled down and began to race about, the older ones gathering sticks for the camp fire which they knew would soon be needed. Four men, aquiline nosed, and with black hair hanging in ringlets to their shoulders, and as many women, gaudily dressed, with red and yellow silk handkerchiefs wound about their heads, prepared to make camp for the night. It was a fittingly picturesque spot for a clump of gnarled live oaks grew about a spring of clear, cold water, which, fed from some hidden source, was never dry. A quarter of a mile away lay the first of the beautiful estates and homes of Spanish architecture, for which San Seritos was far famed. One of the gypsy women paused at her task to shade her eyes and gaze back over the highway as though expecting someone. A mis-shapen goblin-like boy tugged on her sleeve, and with a wistful expression in his dark eyes, he whispered, "Manna Lou, Nan hasn't run away again, has she?" "I don' no," the gypsy answered, drearily. "Maybe yes and maybe not." A moment later, when the woman had returned to her task, there was a screaming of delight among the fox-like children, and Tirol, the mis-shapen boy, cried in a thrill glad voice, "Here she comes, Manna Lou! Here comes Gypsy Nan." Toward them down the mountain drive, galloping on a spirited mottled pony, rode a beautiful young girl of thirteen, her long black hair, straight to her shoulders, suddenly broke into a riot of ringlets and hung to her waist. Her gown and headdress were as bright as maple leaves in Autumn, and her dark brown eyes were laughing with merriment and mischief. As she sprang from her pony, the gypsy children leaped upon her, uttering animal-like cries of joy, but Tirol, hobbling to her side, caught her warm brown hand in his thin claw-like one and looked up at her with adoration in his hungering black eyes as he said: "I was 'fraid, Sister Nan, 'fraid you had gone again, and maybe this time for good." The gypsy girl knelt impulsively and caught the mis-shapen boy in her arms, and her eyes flashed as she said passionately: "Little Tirol, Nan will never, never go for good as long as you need her to protect you from that wicked Anselo Spico. I hate him, hate him, because he abuses a poor boy who can't grow strong and defend himself, but he won't strike you again, little Tirol, unless he strikes me first." "Hush!" warningly whispered Cyra, a small gypsy girl. "Here comes Spico. He's been ahead to look over the village." It was evident by the suspending work in the camp that the approaching horseman was someone of importance in their midst. A Romany rye was he, dressed in blue corduroy with a scarlet sash at his waist and a soft scarlet ribbon knotted about his broad brimmed felt hat. His dark, handsome face, which, when in repose had an expression of either vanity or cruelty, was smiling as he dismounted from his spirited black horse. Gypsy Nan, who had been standing in the shadow of a live oak with protecting arms about the goblin-like Tirol breathed a sigh of relief, for the hated Spico was evidently in the best of spirits. He called gayly after the tall gypsy lad who was leading his horse away: "Soobli, where is Mizella, your queen? Call her forth, I have good news to tell." While he was talking the curtains of the largest van were pushed apart, an old hag-like gypsy appeared, and, with much groaning, made her way down the wooden steps to the ground. There she leaned heavily on a cane, and hobbling toward her son, asked eagerly: "What's the pickings like to be, Spico? Is it a rich gorigo town?" "Rich, Mother Mizella?" the handsome young rye repeated. "The gorigo around here has his pockets lined with gold and will spend it freely if he is amused. You women dress in your gayest and start out tomorrow with your tambourines. You will gather in much money with your fortune telling and we men in the village will not be idle." Then, going to the camp fire, over which a small pig was being roasted, he asked, looking around sharply. "Where is leicheen Nan? If she has run away again, I'll--" "No, no, Nan hasn't run away," the gypsy woman, Manna Lou, hastened to say. "She's here, Spico. Come Nan, dearie," she called pleadingly. "Come and speak pleasant." The girl, with a defiant flashing of her dark eyes, stepped out of the shadow of a low-branching live oak and stood in the full light of the camp fire. "Leicheen Nan," the Romany rye said, and his words were a command, "tomorrow you will go to the village and dance at the gorigo inn. You have idled long enough." It was the gypsy woman, Manna Lou, who replied. "Not yet, Spico," she implored in a wheedling tone--"Nan is only a little gothlin. Wait until she is grown." Before the angered young rye could answer, Mizella hobbled to the camp fire and snarled angrily: "I am queen. My word is law. That good-for-nothing leicheen Nan shall do as my son says." The girl stepped back into the shadow, her heart rebellious. She said nothing, but she was determined that she would not obey. The men then sat about the fire and were served by the women, who, with the children afterwards ate what was left. The moon came up, and Nan, nymph-like, danced up a grassy hill back of the camp. A throng of wild, fox-like little children scrambled up after her. "A story. Tell us a story, Nanny," they called. The girl paused, turned and seeing the crippled Tirol struggling to climb the hill, she ran back, lifted him to her strong young shoulder and carried him to the top of the knoll. There they all sat together, many bright black eyes watching while Nan told them a story. A fanciful tale it was of how a gypsy princess had been cruelly treated by a wicked man like Anselo Spico. How he had shut the princess and six other gypsy girls, who had defied him, in a van without horses and had let it roll down a cliff road into the sea. "But they were not drowned, for the spirits of the sea-spray carried them up to the sky, and any clear night you can see that gypsy princess and the six gypsy girls dancing in their bright crimson and gold shawls and you call it the sun-set." Tirol, always the most intense of Nan's listeners leaned forward and asked in a low whisper: "What did the sea-spray spirits do to--to that wicked Romany rye?" "That night," the gypsy girl said in a low voice of mystery, "he went to the top of a cliff to make sure the van had gone into the sea, and it had, for it lay broken in the surf. Then the sea-spray spirits lifted a wave as high as a hill and it swept over the cliff and that wicked Romany rye was seen no more." Tirol's black eyes glowed in the moonlight and his frail hand was trembling as Nan took it to lift him again to her shoulder. "Steal back soft-like, so he won't know we left camp," she warned. Crouching low, the file of little fox-like children crept back of trees and brush until the vans were reached, then darted between the flaps and crawled, without undressing, into their bunk-like beds, all but Nan and Tirol. The gypsy girl felt smothered if she slept in the van. CHAPTER II. THE GARDEN-ALL-AGLOW. Before day break, Gypsy Nan awakened the goblin-like boy. Rolled in blankets they had slept in the shelter of the live oak trees and close to the warm coals of the camp fire. "Come Tirol," she whispered, glancing at the wagons, to see if anyone was astir, "we must go now, for Nan isn't going to dance at the inn for the gorigo. And you must come, too, else that wicked Anselo Spico will make you stand on a corner and beg, making money out of your poor little bent body that's always a-hurting you." With many backward glances the two children stole away to where the mules and ponies were corralled. After carefully lifting the frail boy to the back of the mottled horse, Binnie, Nan mounted, and together they galloped down the coast highway. The last star had faded, the grey in the East was brightening, and then suddenly the sun, in a burst of glory appeared and the sky and sea flamed rose and amethyst. The dark eyes of the girl glowed with appreciation and joy, and she started singing a wild, glad song to a melody of her own creating. They had gone perhaps a mile from camp and away from the town when Nan suddenly drew rein and listened. She heard the beating of hoofs behind them, but the riders were hidden by the curve in the road. Whirling her pony's head she turned down into a canyon that led to the shore. There she concealed her horse and with Tirol she lay close to the sand. Two horsemen passed on the highway, and, as she had surmised, one was Anselo Spico. She thought they were hunting for her but she was mistaken. In the village the Romany rye had heard of a rich gorigo whose horses were of the finest breed and whose stables were but slightly guarded, and it was to inspect this place that they were going. True, Mizella's son had noticed Nan's absence that morning but he knew that she would return and he was planning a cruel punishment which he would administer for her defiance and disobedience. Nan remained in hiding until she could no longer hear the beating of the hoofs, then she said gaily--"Look Tirol, the sand is hard on the beach. I'll lift you up again, dearie, and we'll ride along by the sea." The boy laughed happily as they rode, so close to the waves that now and then one broke about the pony's feet, and the girl laughed, too, for it is easy to forget troubles when one is young. They soon came to a beautiful estate where the park-like grounds reached the edge of the gleaming white sand, but it was surrounded by a hedge so high that even on the small horse's back the children could not see over it. "Tirol," Nan exclaimed, "no one could find us here, and so close up to this high hedge, we'll have our breakfast." Leaping from the pony the girl, with tender compassion, carefully lifted down the mis-shapen boy, then opening a bundle tied in a red handkerchief, she gave him a thick slice of brown bread and a piece of roasted pig, which she had stored away the evening before. "Look! Look!" cried the boy, clapping his claw-like hands. "The birds are begging, Nanny, let Tirol feed them." Like a white cloud shining in the sun the sea gulls winged down from the sky. Gypsy Nan leaped to her feet and ran with outstretched arms to greet them, and the white birds fearlessly circled about her as she tossed crumbs into the air, and one, braver than the others lighted on Tirol's outstretched hand and pecked at his breakfast. When at last this merry feast was over, the sea gulls flew away, and Nan called merrily, "Tirol, maybe there's something beautiful behind the hedge that's so high. Let's go through it, shall we?" The deformed boy nodded. Many an exciting adventure he and Nan had when they ran away. But the gypsy children found that the hedge was as dense as it was high, and though it was glowing with small crimson flowers, it was also bristling with thorns and nowhere was there space enough for them to break through. Suddenly Nan, who had danced ahead, gave a little cry of delight. "Here's the gate, Tirol!" she called. "It opens on the beach." Eagerly the girl lifted the latch and to her joy the gate swung open. She leaped within and the boy followed her. Then for one breathless moment Gypsy Nan stood with clasped hands and eyes aglow, as she gazed about her. Never before had she seen so wonderful a garden. There were masses of crysanthemums, golden in the sunlight, and, too, there were banks of flaming scarlet. In the midst of it all, glistening white in the sunshine, was a group of marble nymphs, evidently having a joyous time sporting in the fern-encircled pool, while a flashing of rainbow colors showered about them from the fountain. A mockingbird sang in the pepper tree near the house but there was no other sound. "Let's find the gorigo lady that lives here," Nan whispered. "Maybe she'd let me tell her fortune. Anselo Spico won't be so angry if we take back a silver dollar." Up the flowered path, the gypsy children went, but, though Nan fearlessly lifted the heavy wrought iron knocker on the door nearest the garden and on the one at the side, there was no response. Returning to the garden, the girl stooped and passionately kissed a glowing yellow crysanthemum. "Nan loves you! Nan loves you bright, beautiful flower!" she said in a low tense voice, "Nan would like to keep you." "If you're wantin' it, why don't you take it?" t Tirol asked. "Spico an' the rest, they always take what they want when they can get it easy." The girl turned upon the small boy as she said almost fiercely. "Haven't I told you time and again that 'tisn't honest to steal? Don't matter who does it, 'tisn't right, Tirol. Manna Lou said my mother wouldn't love me if I stole or lied. An' I won't steal! I won't lie! I won't." Many a time Nan had been well beaten because she would not do these things which so often Anselo Spico had commanded. Then, noting how the small boy shrank away as if frightened, the girl knelt and held him close in a passionate embrace. "Tirol!" she implored, "Little Tirol, don't be scared of Nan. 'Twasn't you she was fierce at. 'Twas him as makes every-body and all the little ones lie and steal. All the little ones that don't _dare_ not because he would beat them." The girl felt Tirol's frail body trembling in her clasp. "There, there, dearie. You needn't be afraid. Anselo Spico don't _dare_ to beat you. He knows if he did, I'd kill him." Then there was one of the changes of mood that were so frequently with Nan. Kissing Tirol, she danced away, flinging her body in wild graceful movements. Up one path she went, and down another. Catching up the tambourine which always hung at her belt, she shook it, singing snatches of song until she was quite tired out. Then, sinking down on a marble bench, she held Tirol close and gazed up at the windows of the house. One after another she scanned but no face appeared. Had the proud, haughty owner of that house been at home, she would have felt that her grounds were being polluted by the presence of a gypsy. Suddenly Nan sprang up and held out her hand for the frail claw-like one of the mis-shapen boy. "No need to wait any longer. There's no lady here to get a dollar from for telling her fortune,--an' I'm glad, glad! Fortunes are just lies! I hate telling fortunes!" Down the path they went toward the little gate in the high hedge which opened out upon the beach. Turning, before she closed it, the girl waved her free hand and called joyfully. "Good-bye flowers of gold, Nan's coming back some day." CHAPTER III. GOOD-BYE LITTLE TIROL. The gypsy children returned toward the camp just as the sun was setting. "Aren't you 'fraid that Spico'll strike us?" the goblin-like boy asked, holding close to Nan as the small, mottled pony galloped along the coast road. "No; I'm not scared," Nan said. "If he strikes us, we'll run away for good." "Could we go back and live in that garden?" "I don't know where we'd go. Somewheres! Maybe up there." Nan pointed and the boy glanced at the encircling mountains where the canyons were darkening. Surely they would be well hidden there. They were close enough now to see the smoke curling up from the camp fire near the clump of live oaks. Leaving the small horse in the rope corral with the others, the children approached the wagons, keeping hidden behind bushes as best they could. Nan wanted to see who was about the fire before she made her presence known. The one whom she dreaded was not there and so she boldly walked into the circle of the light, leading Tirol. Then she spoke the gypsies' word of greeting: "Sarishan, Manna Lou." "Leicheen Nan, dearie, how troubled my heart has been about you," the gypsy woman said. "You ran away. I thought forever." "Where is Anselo Spico?" the girl inquired. "He hasn't come yet. Mizella's been asking this hour back. He said at high sun he'd be here sure, more than likely he's been--" "Hark!" Nan whispered, putting a protecting arm about the boy. "Hide, quick, Tirol, here he comes." But only one horseman appeared, galloping through the dusk, and that one was Vestor, who had ridden away with the Romany rye that morning. His dark face told them nothing and yet they knew that he had much to tell. They gathered about him, but before he could speak, the old queen pushed her way to the front. "Where's my son?" she demanded. "In jail for tryin' to steal a rich gorigo's horse." Then Vestor added mysteriously. "But he'll join us afore dawn, I'm tellin' you! Break camp at once," he commanded. "We're to wait for Spico in a mountain canyon on t'other side of town. I know where 'tis. I'll ride the leader." The supper was hastily eaten, the fire beaten out, the mules and horses watered and hitched. Just as the moon rose over the sea, the gypsy caravan began moving slowly down the coast highway. Nan, riding on her mottled pony, sincerely wished that Anselo Spico would not escape, but he always did, as she knew only too well. Two hours later the caravan stopped on a lonely mountain road and drew to one side. Half an hour later everyone was asleep, but in the middle of the night Nan was awakened by a familiar voice. Anselo Spico had returned. Long before daybreak the gypsy caravan was once more under way. The jolting of the wagon of Manna Lou roused the girl. She climbed from her berth and looked in the one lower to see if all was well with little Tirol. Two big black eyes gazed out at her and one of the claw-like hands reached toward her. Nan took it lovingly. "Little Tirol," she said, "you aren't feeling well." The goblin-like boy shook his head as he replied: "A crooked back hurts, Sister Nan. It hurts all the time." "I know--I know dearie!" the girl said tenderly gathering the little fellow close in her arms. "Wait, Nan will bring you some breakfast." But the boy turned away and wearily closed his eyes. The caravan had stopped long enough to make a fire and prepare the morning coffee. Soon Manna Lou entered the wagon. "Go out, Nan darling," she said. "Don't fear Spico. He only thinks of getting across the border in safety." The girl beckoned to the gypsy woman and said in a low voice, "Little Tirol's not so well. We'd ought to stop at the next town and fetch a doctor." "Poor little Tirol," the gypsy woman said kindly. "You'll be lonely, Nan, to have him go, but if the gorigo is right, if there is a heaven, then little Tirol'll be happier, for there's been no harm in him here. And there can't be anyone so cruel as Anselo Spico's been." Nan clenched her hands and frowned. Manna Lou continued. "Perhaps his own mother Zitha will be there waiting, and she'll take care of him. Before she died, she gave me little Tirol and begged me to keep watch over him and I've done my best." Impulsively Nan put her arms about the gypsy woman as she said, "Manna Lou, how good, how kind you are! You've been just like a mother to little Tirol and me, too. Some day you're going to tell me who my own mother was, aren't you, Manna Lou?" "Yes, leicheen Nan. When you're eighteen, then I'm going to tell you. I promised faithful I wouldn't tell before that." As the morning wore on, it was plain to the watchers that little Tirol was very ill and when at noon the caravan stopped, Nan, leaping from the wagon of Manna Lou confronted Anselo Spico as she said courageously: "Little Tirol is like to die. We've got to stop at that town down there into the valley and fetch a doctor." "Got to?" sneered the dark handsome man, then he smiled wickedly. "Since when is leicheen Nan the queen of this tribe that she gives commands? What we've got to do is cross over the border into Mexico before the gorigo police gets track of us." He turned away and Nan with indignation and pity in her heart, went back to the wagon. As she sat by the berth, holding Tirol's hot hand, she determined that as soon as the village was reached she herself would ride ahead and find a doctor. Manna Lou had tried all of the herbs, but nothing of which the gypsies knew could help the goblin-like boy or quiet his cruel pain. It was mid-afternoon when Nan saw that the winding downward road was leading into a valley town. It would take the slow moving caravan at least an hour to reach the village, while Nan, on her pony, could gallop there very quickly. Not far below was a dense grouping of live oak trees. She would slip among them on Binnie and then, out of sight of the caravan, she would gallop across the fields to the town. "Manna Lou," the girl said softly that she need not awaken the sleeping Tirol, "I'm going for a little ride." "That's nice, dearie," the kind gypsy woman replied. "It will do you good. The sunshine is warm and cheery." It was a rough road and the caravan was moving slowly. Many of the fox-like gypsy children were running alongside, and Nan joined them. She wanted to be sure where Anselo Spico was riding. As she had hoped, he was on the driver's seat of Queen Mizella's wagon which was always in the lead. Running back, she was about to mount her pony when she heard her name called softly. Turning, she saw Manna Lou beckoning to her. Springing to the home wagon, she went inside. "What is it, Manna Lou?" she asked. "You look so strange." "We thought little Tirol was asleep all this time, and so he _was_, but it's the kind of sleep that you don't waken from. Maybe he's in the gorigo heaven now with Zitha, his mother." The girl felt awed. "Why, Manna Lou," she whispered, "little Tirol looks happier than I ever saw him before. See how sweetly he's smiling." "Yes, dearie, he is happier, for his poor, crooked back was always hurting him, but he was a brave little fellow, cheerful and uncomplaining." The caravan stopped and Manna Lou went out to tell the others what had happened. The gypsy girl, alone with the boy who had so loved her, knelt by his side and kissing him tenderly, she said: "Little Tirol, darling, Nan has staid here and put up with the cruelty of Angelo Spico, just to be taking care of you, but now that you aren't needing Nan any more, she's going far away. Good-bye, dearie." * * * * * * * * That night while the caravan was moving at a slow pace over the moonlit road and all save the drivers were asleep, Nan, slipped out of Manna Lou's wagon, leaped to the back of Binnie and galloped back by the way they had come. CHAPTER IV. NAN ESCAPES. All night long Gypsy Nan, on the back of her small horse Binnie climbed the steep mountain road, a full moon far over her head transforming everything about her to shimmering silver. A bundle tied in a beautiful shawl of scarlet and gold contained all that belonged to her and food enough to last for several days. Nan was on the ridge of a mountain road when the sun rose, and to her joy saw the village of San Seritos lying in the valley below, and beyond was the gleaming blue sea. She drew rein and gazed ahead wondering where she should go, when her ears, trained to notice all of nature's sounds, heard the startled cry of some little ground animal. Dismounting, she bent over the place from which the sound had come and saw an evil-eyed rattle-snake about to spring upon a squirrel that seemed powerless to get away. Nan, whose heart was always filled with pity for creatures that were weak and helpless, threw a rock at the snake which glided into the underbrush. Then she lifted the squirrel, feeling its heart pounding against her hand. She carried the little thing across the road and placed it on an overhanging limb of a live oak tree. "There now! Nan's given you a chance to get away from the snake. That's what Anselo Spico is, a rattle-snake, an' I'm trying to get away." She was about to mount on her pony when she again paused and listened intently. This time she heard the galloping of a horse. Peering through the trees, back of her, she saw a black pony and its rider fairly plunging down the rough road on the opposite side of the canyon she had just crossed. In half an hour, perhaps less, that horse and rider would reach the spot where she was standing. Nan's fears were realized. She was being pursued. The rider she knew even at that distance, to be Vestor, a cruel man who would do anything his master Anselo Spico commanded. Where could she hide? It would have been easier if she had been alone, but it would not be a simple matter to conceal the pony. Mounting, the girl raced ahead. A turn in the mountain road brought her to a ranch. It was so very early that no one was astir. Riding in and trusting to fate to protect her, she went at once to a great barn and seeing a stack of hay in one corner, she wedged her pony back of it and stood, scarcely breathing, waiting for, she knew not what, to happen. But, although the moments dragged into an hour, no one came. At last, unable to endure the suspense longer, the girl slipped from her hiding-place, and, keeping close to the wall of the old barn she sidled slowly toward a wide door. She heard voices not far away. "You ain't seen nothing of a black-haired wench in a yellar an' red dress?" It was Vestor speaking and it was quite evident that he was snarling angry. Nan peered through a knot-hole, her heart beating tempestuously. The gypsy's gimlet-like black eyes were keeping a sharp lookout all about him as he talked. The rancher's back was toward the girl. He, at first, quietly replied, but when Vestor took a step toward the barn, saying he'd take a look around himself, the brawny rancher caught his arm, whirled him about and pointed toward the road. "I'll have none of _your_ kind prowlin' about _my_ place. You'd lake a look, all right, but I reckon you'd take everything else that wa'n't held down wi' a ton of rock. "I know the thievin', lying lot of you. I'd as soon shoot one of you down as I would a skunk, an' sooner, if 'twant for the law upholding of you, though gosh knows why it does." Then, as Vestor kept looking intently at the open barn door, the rancher, infuriated by the man's doggedly remaining when he had been told to be off, sprang toward a wagon, snatched a whip and began to lash the gypsy about the legs. With cries of pain, Vestor turned an ugly visage toward the rancher, but meeting only determination and equal hatred, he thought better of his attempt to spring at him, turned, went to his black pony, mounted it and rode rapidly back the way he had come. He didn't want to be too far behind the caravan fearing that the gorigo police might take _him_ up and put him in jail on Anselo's offense. The rancher stood perfectly still for sometime after the gypsy had ridden away, then he also turned and looked toward the barn. Nan had at once sidled to her place back of the hay stack and so she did not see that he slowly walked that way. Stopping in the door he listened intently. Then shrugging his shoulders, he went into the house to his breakfast. Half an hour later he again sauntered to the barn door. "Gal," he called. "Hi, there, you gypsy gal! That black soul'd critter's gone this long while. Don't be afeard to come out. Ma's waitin' to give you some breakfast." Surely Nan could trust a voice so kindly. Timidly she appeared, leading the pony who was munching a mouthful of hay. The rancher smiled at the girl in a way to set her fears at rest, at least as far as he was concerned, but once out in the open she glanced around wildly.--"Where is he? Where's that Vestor gone? Will he be back?" For answer, the rancher motioned the girl to follow him. He led her to a high peak back of the barn. "You kin see from here to all sides," he said: "You lie low, sort of, behind that big rock an' keep watchin'. The scoundrel rode off that a-way. If he keep's a goin', you'll see him soon. If he turned back, well, I'll let out the dogs." Nan did as she had been told and from that high position, she soon saw, far across the canyon, riding rapidly to the south, the black pony bearing the man she feared. She rose greatly relieved. "He's gone sure enough, Vestor has." Then, suspiciously she turned toward the man. "How did you know where I was?" "I saw you go in," the rancher told her, "an' I was settin' outside waitin for you to come out with whatever 'twas, you'd gone in to steal." A dark red mantled the girl's face, and she said in a low voice. "I don't steal an' I don't lie, but he does." She jerked her head in the direction Vestor had taken. "So do the rest, mostly, but, they don't all. Manna Lou don't steal and she don't lie. She fetched me up not to." The girl's dark eyes looked into the penetrating grey eyes of the rancher with such a direct gaze that he believed her. A woman appeared on the back porch and called to them. "Fetch the gal in for a bite of breakfast if she ain't too wild like." "Thanks, but I don't want any breakfast," Nan said. Then, noting that Binnie was still chewing on the hay he had pulled from the stack, she added,--"I haven't any money, or I'd pay for what he's had. I couldn't keep him from eating it." "Of course you couldn't, gal," the rancher said kindly. Then, as he saw that the girl was determined to mount her pony and ride away, he asked--"Where are you going to? I don't have to ask _what_ you're running away from? I _know_ that purty well." The girl shook her head and without a smile, she again said "Thanks." Then, quite unexpectedly, for the man had seen her make no sign, the pony broke into a run and she was gone. CHAPTER V. NAN REVISITS THE GARDEN. For half an hour Nan rode, bent low in her saddle possibly with the thought that she would be less noticeable. Each time that the winding road brought her to an open place where she could see across the valley, she drew rein and gazed steadily at the ribbon-like trail which appeared, was lost to sight, and re-appeared for many miles to the south. At last what she sought was seen, a horseman so small because of the distance that he appeared no larger than a toy going rapidly away. Sitting erect, the girl gazed down in the other direction and saw the garden city of San Seritos between the mountains and the sea. "Ho, Binnie!" she cried, her black eyes glowing. "I know where we'll go.--Back to that beach place where the flowers of gold are." And then, in the glory of the still early morning, with her black hair flying back of her, the girl in the red and yellow dress galloped down to the highway and rode around the village, that no-one might see her and arrest her because she was a gypsy. There were but few astir at so early an hour, but the sun was high in the heavens when at last she reached the little ravine that led down to the sea. This time she breakfasted alone in the shadow of the high hedge, and the shining white birds did not come. "Perhaps they only came for little Tirol," she thought. Then springing up, she stretched her arms toward the gleaming blue sky as she said: "I do want little Tirol to be happy." This was an impulse and not a prayer, for the gypsies had no religion, and Nan knew nothing really of the heaven of the gorigo. Then, telling Binnie to wait for her she opened the gate and entered the garden. The masses of golden and scarlet bloom, the glistening of many colors in the fountain, the joyous song of birds in the red-berried pepper trees fascinated the gypsy girl, and she danced about like some wild thing, up and down the garden paths, pausing now and then to press her cheek passionately against a big yellow crysanthemum that stood nearly as tall as she, and to it she would murmur lovingly in strange Romany words. She was following a path which she and Tirol had not found, suddenly she paused and listened. She had heard voices, and peering through the low hanging branches of an ornamental tree, she saw a pretty cottage by the side of great iron gates that stood ajar. Here lived the head gardener and his little family. A buxum, kindly faced young woman was talking to a small girl of seven. "Now, Bertha, watch Bobbie careful," she was saying. "Mammy is going up to the big house. The grand ladies is comin' home today an' every-thin' must be spic and ready." Nan darted deeper among the shrubs and bushes for the young woman passed so close that she could have touched her. The gypsy girl remained in hiding and watched the small children who looked strange to her with their flaxen hair and pink cheeks used as she was to the dark-eyed, black-haired, fox-like little gypsies. The baby boy was a chubby laughing two-year-old, "Birdie," as he called his sister, played with him for a time on the grass in front of their cottage. At last, wearying of this, she said--"Now Bobby, you sit right still like a mouse while Birdie goes and fetches out her dollie." Springing up, the little girl ran indoors. A second later a butterfly darted past the wee boy. Gurgling in delight, he scrambled to his feet and toddled uncertainly after it. Out through the partly-open iron gates he went, and then, tripping, he sprawled in the dust of the roadway. At that same instant Nan heard the chugging of an oncoming machine and leaping from her hiding place, she darted through the gates and into the road. A big touring car was swerving around a corner. The frightened baby, after trying to scramble to his feet, had fallen again. Nan, seizing him, hurled him to the soft grass by the roadside. Then she fell and the machine passed over her. The "grand ladies" had returned. The car stopped almost instantly, and the chauffeur lifted the limp form of the gypsy girl in his arms. "I don't think she's dead, Miss Barrington," he said, "and if you ladies wish I'll take her right to the county hospital as quickly as I can." The older woman spoke coldly. "No, I would not consider that I was doing my duty if I sent her to the county hospital. You may carry her into the house, Martin, and then procure a physician at once." "But, Miss Barrington, she's nothing but a gypsy, and yours the proudest family in all San Seritos or anywhere for that," the man said, with the freedom of an old servant. Then, it was that the other lady spoke, and in her voice was the warmth of pity and compassion. "Of course we'll take the poor child into our home," she said. "She may be only a gypsy girl, but no greater thing can anyone do than risk his own life for another." And so the seemingly lifeless Gypsy Nan was carried into the mansion-like home which stood in the garden-all-aglow that she had so loved. CHAPTER VI. ONLY A GYPSY-GIRL. When at last the girl opened her eyes, she looked about her in half dazed wonder. Where could she be? In a room so beautiful that she thought perhaps it was the gorigo heaven. The walls were the blue of the sky, and the draperies were the gold of the sun, while the wide windows framed glowing pictures of the sea and the garden. For the first time in her roaming life, Nan was in a luxurious bed. Hearing the faint rustle of leaves at her side, she turned her head and saw a grey-haired, kindly faced woman, who was gowned in a soft silvery cashmere; a bow of pink fastened the creamy lace mantle about her shoulders. It was Miss Dahlia Barrington, who was reading a large book. Hearing a movement from the bed, she looked up with a loving smile, and closing the book, she placed it on a table and bent over the wondering eyed girl. "Where am I, lady?" Nan asked. "You are in the Barrington Manor, dear. My sister's home and mine. Do you not recall what happened?" "Yes, lady, was the little boy hurt, lady?" "Indeed not, thanks to you," Miss Dahlia said. "Tell me your name, dear, that I may know what to call you." The girl's dark eyes grew wistful and she looked for a moment out toward the sea. Then she said in a very low voice. "I don't know my name, only just Nan." It was then she remembered that her race was scorned by the white gorigo, and, trying to rise, she added, "I must go now, lady. I must go back to Manna Lou. I'm only a gypsy. You won't want me here." "Only a gypsy?" the little woman said gently, as she covered the brown hand lovingly with her own frail white one. "Dearie, you are just as much a child of God as I am or Miss Barrington is, or indeed, any-one." Nan could not understand the words, for they were strange to her, but she could understand the loving caress, and, being weary, she again closed her eyes, but a few moments later she was aroused by a cold, unloving voice that was saying: "Yes, doctor, I understand that she is a gypsy, and that probably she will steal everything that she can lay her hands on, but I will have things locked up when she is strong enough to be about. I consider that she was sent here by Providence, and that it is therefore my duty to keep the little heathen and try to civilize and Christianize her." It was the older Miss Barrington who was speaking. Nan, who had never stolen even a flower, was keenly hurt, and she determined to run away as soon as ever she could. * * * * * * * * The chimes of the great clock in the lower hall were musically telling the midnight hour when the girl, seemingly strengthened by her determined resolve, sat up in bed and listened intently. She had heard a noise beyond the garden hedge, and her heart leaped joyously. It was Binnie, her mottled pony, calling to her. All day long he had been waiting for her. "I'm coming, Binnie darling," the gypsy girl whispered. Then, climbing from the bed, she dressed quickly, and, fearing that if she opened the door she might be heard, she climbed through the window and on a vine covered trellis descended to the garden. How beautiful it was in the moonlight, she thought, but she dared not pause. Down the path she sped and out at the gate in the hedge. Binnie, overjoyed at seeing his mistress, whinnied again. Gypsy Nan gave the small horse an impulsive hug as she whispered: "Binnie dearie, be quiet or some one will hear you. We must go away now, far, far away." The pony, seemingly to understand, trotted along on the hard sand with the gypsy girl clinging to his back, for the strength, which had seemed to come to her when she determined to run away, was gone and she felt weak and dazed. A few moments later she slipped from the pony's back and lay unconscious on the sand while the faithful Binnie stood guard over her. It was not until the next afternoon that she again opened her eyes and found herself once more in the beautiful blue and gold room and at her bedside sat the gentle Miss Dahlia gazing at her with an expression of mingled sorrow and loving tenderness. "Little Nan," she said, when she saw that the girl had awakened, "Why did you run away from me?" "Not from you, lady, from the other one, who called me thief." Miss Dahlia glanced quickly toward the door as she said softly, "Dearie, my sister, Miss Barrington, has had many disappointments, and she seems to have lost faith in the world, but I am sure that she means to be kind." Then the little lady added with a sigh, "I had so hoped you would want to stay with me, for I am very lonely now that Cherise is gone. She was nearly your age and this was her room, Shall I tell you about her?" "Yes, lady." Miss Dahlia clasped the brown hand lovingly as she began. "Long ago I had a twin brother, whom I dearly loved, but he married a very beautiful girl, who sang at concerts, and my sister, Miss Barrington, who sometimes seems unjust, would not receive her into our home, and my brother, who was deeply hurt, never communicated with us again. Many years passed and then one day a little girl of ten came to our door with a letter. She said that her name was Cherise and that her father and mother were dead. It was my dear brother's child. My sister, Miss Barrington was in the city where she spends many of the autumn months, and so I kept the little thing and told no one about her. Those were indeed happy days for me. This room, which had dark furniture and draperies, I had decorated in blue and gold just for her, and how she loved it. With her golden curls and sweet blue eyes she looked like a fairy in her very own bower. "Little Nan, you can't know what a joy Cherise was to me. We spent long hours together in the garden with our books, for I would allow no one else to teach her, but, when she was fourteen, her spirits slipped away and left me alone. I thought when you came that perhaps Cherise had led you here that I might have someone to love. I do wish you would stay, at least for a while." Nan looked into the wistful, loving face and then she turned to gaze out of the window. She was silent for so long that Miss Dahlia was sure that she would say no, but when the gypsy girl spoke, she said: "I'll stay until the gold flowers fade out there in the garden." "Thank you, dearie," and then impulsively the little lady added: "Try to love me, Nan, and I am sure that we will be happy together." The days that followed were hard ones for the gypsy girl, who felt as a wild bird must when it is first imprisoned in a cage, and her heart was often rebellious. "But I'll keep my word," she thought, "I'll stay till the gold flowers fade." The elder Miss Barrington began at once to try to civilize Nan, and the result was not very satisfactory. CHAPTER VII. CIVILIZING GYPSY NAN. The first day that Nan was strong enough to sit up Miss Barrington entered the room, followed by a maid, who was carrying a large box. The gypsy girl was seated by one of the windows, wrapped in a woolly blue robe that belonged to Miss Dahlia. "Anne!" the cold voice was saying, "that is the name I have decided to call you. Nan is altogether too frivolous for a Christian girl, and that is what I expect you to become. In order that you may cease to look like a heathen as soon as possible, I have had your gypsy toggery stored in the attic and I have purchased for you dresses that are quiet and ladylike." Then turning to the maid, she said: "Marie, you may open the box and spread the contents on the bed." There were two dresses. One was a dark brown wool, made in the plainest fashion, and the other was a dull blue. Nan's eyes flashed. "I won't wear those ugly things!" she cried. "You have no right to take my own beautiful dress from me." Miss Barrington drew her self up haughtily as she replied coldly,-- "You will wear the dresses that I provide, or you will remain in your room. It is my duty, I assure you, not my pleasure, to try to change your heathen ways." So saying Miss Barrington departed. As soon as they were alone Miss Dahlia went over to the side of Nan's chair, and smoothing the dark hair with a loving hand, she said, pleadingly: "Dearie, wear them just for a time. My sister will soon be going to the city and you shall have something pretty." Then, since the girl's eyes were still rebellious, the little lady opened a drawer and taking out a box she gave it to Nan. "Those ribbons and trinklets belonged to Cherise. She would be glad to have you wear them." The box contained many hair ribbons, some of soft hues and others of warm, glowing colors. Too, there was a slender gold chain with a lovely locket of pearls forming a flower. "Oh, how pretty, pretty!" the gypsy girl murmured, and then instinctively wanting to say thank you, and not knowing how, she kissed the wrinkled cheek of the dear old lady. That was the beginning of happy times for these two. When Nan was able to be out in the garden, she had her first reading lesson, and how pleased she was when at last she could read a simple fairy tale quite by herself from the beginning to the end. The elder Miss Barrington, who was interested in culture clubs, was luckily away much of the time, but one day something happened which made that proud lady deeply regret that she had tried to civilize a heathen gypsy. It was Sunday and the two ladies were ready to start for church. Nan was to have accompanied them. A neat tailored suit had been provided for her Sunday wear, a pair of kid gloves and a blue sailor hat. That morning when the gypsy girl went up to her room, she found a maid there who informed her that she was to dress at once as the ladies would start for St. Martin's-by-the-sea in half an hour. When she was alone, Nan put on the garment that was so strange to her and the queer stiff hat. She stood looking in the long mirror and her eyes flashed. She would not wear that ugly head dress. She was not a gorigo and she would not dress like one. She heard someone ascending the stairs, and, believing it to be Miss Barrington coming to command that she go to church with them, Nan darted out into the corridor and opening the first door that she came to, she entered a dark hall where she had never been before. A flight of wooden stairs was there and ever so quietly she stole up, and, opening another door at the top, she entered the attic. Then she stood still and listened. She heard faint voices far below. Evidently Miss Barrington was looking for her. Nan glanced about to see where she would hide if anyone came up the stairs but no one did, and soon she heard an automobile going down the drive. Darting to a small window, to her relief, she saw that both ladies were on their way to church. Then suddenly she remembered something! She had given her word to dear Miss Dahlia that she would attend the morning service and she had never before broken a promise, but she could not, she would not wear that ugly suit and that stiff round hat. As she turned from the window, a flash of color caught her eye. There was an old trunk near and a bit of scarlet protruded from beneath the cover. With a cry of joy, Nan leaped to the spot and lifted the lid. Just as she had hoped, it was her own beautiful dress. Gathering it lovingly in her arms, she started down the attic stairs, tiptoeing quietly lest she attract the attention of a maid. Once in her room, she locked the door and joyously dressed in the old way, a yellow silk handkerchief wound about her flowing dark hair, and the gorgeous crimson and gold shawl draped about her shoulders. No one saw the gypsy girl as she stole from the back door and into the garden-all-aglow. She picked a big, curly-yellow crysanthemum (for Miss Dahlia had told her to gather them whenever she wished) and she fastened it in the shawl. Then mounting her pony, she galloped down the highway. She was going to attend the morning services at the little stone church, St. Martin's-by-the-sea. At the solemn moment when all heads were bowed in prayer, Nan reached the picturesque, ivy covered stone church and stood gazing wonderingly in at the open door. Never before had this child of nature been in the portal of a church, and she felt strangely awed by the silence and wondered why the people knelt and were so still. Nan had never heard of prayer to an unseen God. Her first impulse was to steal out again and gallop away up the mountain road where birds were singing, the sun glowing on red pepper berries, and everything was joyous. The gypsy girl could understand Nature's way of giving praise to its creator, but she had promised Miss Dahlia that she would attend the morning service, and so she would stay. Gazing over the bowed heads with joy she recognized one of them. Her beloved Miss Dahlia and the dreaded Miss Ursula occupied the Barrington pew, which was near the chancel. Tiptoeing down the aisle, she reached the pew just as the congregation rose to respond to a chanted prayer. Unfortunately Miss Ursula sat on the outside, and there was not room for Nan. She stood still and gazed about helplessly. A small boy in front of Miss Barrington had turned, and seeing Nan, he tugged on his mother's sleeve and whispered: "Look, Mummie, here's a real gypsy in our church." Miss Ursula turned also, and when she beheld Nan in that "heathen costume," her face became a deep scarlet, and the expression in her eyes was not one that should have been inspired by her recent devotions. "Go home at once." she said, in a low voice, "and remain in your room until I return." Nan left the church. She was glad, glad to be once more out in the sunshine. She did not want to know the God of the gorigo if He dwelt in that dreary, sunless place. As she galloped down the coast highway, how she wished that she might ride up into the mountains and never return. Then she thought of Miss Dahlia. Just for a fleeting moment she had caught that dear little lady's glance when Miss Barrington was dismissing her, and Nan was almost sure that Miss Dahlia's sweet grey eyes had twinkled. "I will only have to stay until the gold blossoms fade," the girl thought a little later, as she wandered about the garden paths peering into the curly yellow crysanthemums, wondering how much longer they would last. With a sigh, Nan went indoors and up to her room. Undressing, she placed the gown that she so loved in a bureau drawer, and then, to please Miss Dahlia she put on the simple blue cashmere and sat with folded hands waiting to hear in what manner she was to be punished. CHAPTER VIII. NAN'S PUNISHMENT. Half an hour later Nan heard the automobile returning and she sighed resignedly. The gypsy girl's heart was rebellious, yet she would bear with it a little longer for Miss Dahlia's sake. The door was opening, but Nan, with folded hands still gazed out of the window. A severe voice spoke: "Anne, when I enter the room, I wish you to rise." "Yes, lady," was the listless reply as the girl arose. "And one thing more. I do not wish you to call me 'lady' in that gypsy fashion. If you wish to say Lady Ursula, you may do so. My English ancestry entitles me to that name." Miss Barrington and Miss Dahlia then seated themselves, but Nan remained standing. "Why don't you sit down?" the former asked impatiently. "Sister," a gentle voice interceded, "Nan can't know our parlor manners, when she has been brought up in the big out-of-doors." "She will soon have the opportunity to learn them, however," Miss Barrington said coldly, "for I have decided, since this morning's performance, to place Anne in a convent school. I find the task of Christianizing and civilizing a heathen more than I care to undertake." "Oh, Sister Ursula, don't send Nan away," the other little lady implored. "Let me teach her. I will do so gladly." "You!" The tone was scornful. "Do you suppose that you can succeed where I fail? No indeed, Anne shall tomorrow depart for a convent school which is connected with our church." Then rising, she added: "We will now descend to the dining room and we will consider the subject closed." Had the proud Miss Barrington glanced at the girl who was keeping so still, she might have seen a gleam in the dark eyes which showed that her spirit was not yet broken. As they went down the wide stairway, Miss Dahlia slipped her hand over the brown one that hung listlessly at the girl's side. Nan understood that it was an assurance of the little lady's love, and her heart responded with sudden warmth. * * * * * * * * All that afternoon Nan sat in a sheltered corner of the garden with a beautiful story that she was trying to read, but her thoughts were continually planning and plotting. She could not and would not be sent to a convent school. She was only staying to keep her promise to Miss Dahlia, but now that Miss Ursula was sending her away, she was freed from that promise. Just then a maid appeared, saying: "Miss Barrington wishes to see you in the library at once. She's got a telegram from somewhere and she's all upset about it." When Nan entered the stately library, she saw Miss Barrington standing near Miss Dahlia's chair, and the younger woman was saying: "But, Sister Ursula, it would be of no use for me to go. I know nothing of law and of things like that." "I am quite aware of the fact," the older woman said, "and I had no intention whatever of requesting you to go, but it is most inconvenient for me to spend several months in the East just at this time. I am president of the Society for Civic Improvements, and an active and influential member in many other clubs, as you know." Then, noting that Nan had entered the room, she turned toward her as she said coldly: "Anne, I shall be obliged to leave for New York on the early morning train. A wealthy aunt has passed away, leaving a large fortune to my sister and myself, but unfortunately, the will is to be contested, which necessitates the presence of an heir who has some knowledge of legal matters. I may be away for several months, and so I will have to leave you in my sister's care, trusting that she will see the advisability of sending you to a convent school as soon as a suitable wardrobe can be prepared. That is all! You may now retire." It had been hard for Nan to quietly listen to this glorious and astounding news. She did glance for one second at Miss Dahlia, and she was sure that she saw a happy light in those sweet grey eyes. The next morning the household was astir at a very early hour, and at nine o'clock the automobile returned from the station and Miss Dahlia was in it alone. Nan joyously ran across the lawn and caught the outstretched hands of the little lady. "Oh, Miss Dahlia," the girl implored, "you aren't going to send me to a convent, are you? Because, if you do, I am going to run away." "No, indeed, dearie," Miss Dahlia replied, as she sat on a marble bench near the fountain, and drew the girl down beside her. Then she laughed as Nan had never heard her laugh before. There was real joy in it. "Dearie," she said, "I begged my sister to permit me to do what I could to try to civilize you while she is away, and, because her mind was so much occupied with other and weightier matters, she gave her consent, but she made me promise that you would attend service with me wearing proper clothes, and that I would teach you to sew and also lady-like manners." "Oh, Miss Dahlia, I, will civilize fast enough for you, because I love you," the girl said, impulsively, as she pressed a wrinkled hand to her flush brown cheek. "And I love you, Nan, you don't know how dearly, and you needn't civilize too much, if you don't want to. I love you just as you are. I am going to engage masters to come and teach you piano, singing and the harp or violin as you prefer." The girl's dark eyes glowed happily as she exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Dahlia, how I love music; everything, every-where that sings; the brook, the bird, the wind in the trees! How glad I will be to learn to make music as they do." Two wonderful weeks passed. A little French lady came to teach Nan languages, for which she had a remarkable aptitude, and when she began to sing as sweetly and naturally as the wood birds, Miss Dahlia was indeed delighted, and in the long evenings she taught the gypsy girl the songs that she used to sing. Too, there had been a shopping expedition to the village, and Nan had chosen a soft cashmere dress, the color of ripe cherries with the sun shining on them. At the beginning of the third week something happened which was destined to do much toward civilizing Nan. CHAPTER IX. THE LAD NEXT DOOR. It was Saturday and lessons were over for the week. Of tutors and music masters there would be none all that glorious day. Miss Dahlia had awakened with a headache. Nan slipped into the darkened room and asked tenderly if there was something that she could do to help. "No, dearie," the little lady replied, "I will just rest awhile. Go for a ride on Binnie if you wish. I will try to be down so that you need not have luncheon alone." A few moments later the girl emerged from a vine-hung side entrance and stood looking about. She wore her cherry red dress and the yellow silk handkerchief, with its dangles, was about her head. In her hand she held a book, "Ivanhoe." Miss Dahlia had been reading it aloud the night before, and the gypsy girl was eager to continue the story. She would find a sheltered spot, she thought, and try to read it, although, as she well knew, many of the words were long and hard. The Barrington estate contained several acres. Nan had never crossed to the high hedge that bounded it on the farther side from town. Great old trees lured her and wondering what lay beyond the hedge, she started tramping in that direction singing a warbling song without words. A great old pepper tree with its glowing red berries stood on the Barrington side, and Nan, gazing up, saw one wide branch curving in a way that would make of it a comfortable seat. Scrambling up, she was soon perched there. Then she peered through the thick foliage, trying to see what might be in the grounds beyond. It was another picturesque home of Spanish architecture similar to the Barrington's with glowing gardens and artistic groupings of shrubbery and trees. There was no sign of life about the place, and then Nan recalled having heard Miss Ursula say that it was the home of Mrs. Warren Widdemere a beautiful young widow possessing great wealth, who was traveling in Europe trying to forget her recent bereavement. Mrs. Widdemere had a son who was in a military academy, and so, in all probability the place was unoccupied, the girl thought, as she opened her book, and began slowly and yet with increasing interest, to read. Half an hour later she became conscious that there were voices near, and on the other side of the hedge. Glancing through the sheltering green, she beheld a woman in nurse's uniform who was pushing a wheeled chair, in which sat a boy of about 16. His face was pale and his expression listless; almost discouraged, Nan thought. As they neared the tree, a bell rang from the house, and the nurse, leaving the chair, started up the garden path. "Don't hurry back," the boy called languidly. "This place will do for my sunbath as well as any other." Then he leaned back, and, closing his eyes, he sighed wearily. Nan, prompted by pity and a desire to be friendly, broke a cluster of pepper berries and tossed them toward the chair. They fell lightly on the boy's folded hands. He opened his eyes and looked about, but he saw no one. "Poor, poor boy!" Nan thought with a rush of tenderness. The gypsy girl always had the same pity when she saw anything that was wounded, and it was this tenderness in her nature that had compelled her to remain in the caravan for so long to protect the little cripple Tirol. The sick lad, believing that a cluster of pepper berries had but fallen of its own accord once more leaned back and closed his eyes, but he opened them almost instantly and again looked about. From somewhere overhead he heard a sweet warbling bird-song. "Perhaps a mocking bird," he was thinking when the note changed to that of a meadowlark. Gazing steadily at the tree ahead of him, he saw a gleam of red and then a laughing face peering between the branches. "I see you! Whoever you are, come down!" His querulous voice held a command. "Indeed sir. I don't have to," was the merry reply. "I am a bird with red and gold feathers and I shall remain in my tree." The boy smiled. It was the first time that he had been interested in the five months since his father had died. "I can see the glimmer of your plumage through the leaves," he called. Then changing his tone, he said pleadingly, "Lady Bird won't you please come down?" Nan dropped lightly to the ground on the Widdemere side of the hedge. The lad looked at the beautiful dark-skinned maiden, and then, little dreaming that he was speaking the truth, he said, "Why, Lady Bird, your dress makes you look like a gypsy." "I am one!" the girl replied. "My name is Gypsy Nan. I am staying with the Barrington's for a time." Then her dark eyes twinkled merrily as she confided. "Miss Ursula Barrington is trying to civilize me, but she had to go away, and oh I am so glad! It isn't a bit nice to be civilized, is it?" The boy laughed. "I know that I wouldn't be if I could help myself," he said. "I've always wished that I had been born a wild Indian or a pirate or something interesting." Nan seated herself on a stump that would soon be covered with vines. "I don't wonder you are sick," she said with renewed sympathy. "I would be smothered, I know, if I had to live all of the time in houses with so much velvet, and portieres shutting out the wind and the sun. Tell me what is your name?" "I am Robert Widdemere," he replied, and then a shadow crept into the eyes that for a moment had been gleaming with amusement as he added: "I'm never going to be well again. The doctor does not know what is the matter with me; no one does, but I can't eat, and so I might as well hurry up and die." The girl looked steadily at the lad for a moment and then she said, "Robert Widdermere, you ought to have more courage than that. Of course you'll die if you're just going to weakly give up. I don't believe that you're sick at all. I think you have been too much civilized. Now I'll tell you what you do. Eat all you can, and get strong fast, and then we will ride horseback over the mountains and I'll run you a race on the coast highway." "That would be great!" the boy exclaimed and again his eyes glowed with a new eagerness. The girl sprang up. "Hark!" she said, "the old mission bells are telling that it is noon. I must go or Miss Dahlia will be waiting lunch. "Good-bye, Robert Widdemere, I'll come again." The lad watched the gleam of red disappearing through a gate in the hedge which he had pointed out. Then a new determination awakened in his heart. Perhaps it was cowardly to give up and die, just because he was so lonesome, so lonesome for the dad who had been the dearest pal a boy could ever have. Robert's father had died five months before and his mother, a rather frivolous young widow, who had always cared more for society than for her home, had placed her sixteen-year-old son in a military academy and had departed for Paris to try to forget her loss in the gay life of that city, but Robert had been unable to forget, and day after day he had grieved for that father who had been his pal ever since he could first remember. These two had been often alone as the wife and mother had spent much time at week-end house-parties in the country places of her wealthy friends. No wonder was it that the boy felt that he had lost his all. At last, worn with the grief which he kept hidden in his heart, his health had broken and a cablegram from his mother had bidden him go with a nurse to their California home at San Seritos, adding, that if he did not recover in one month, she would return to the States, but since it was only the beginning of the gay season in Paris, she did hope that he would endeavor to get well as soon as possible. The lad had read the message with a lack of interest and to the attending physician he had said: "Kindly cable my mother to remain in France as I am much better, but that I shall stay in California for the winter." The kindly doctor wondered at the message. He had but recently come to San Seritos and he did not understand the cause, as the old physician whose place he had taken, would have understood it. Robert Widdemere, without the loving tenderness of a mother to help him bear his great loneliness, did not care to live until he met Gypsy Nan. When she had looked at him so reprovingly with those dark eyes that could be so serious or dancingly merry, and had said that it was cowardly for him to give up so weakly he had decided that she was right. He ought to want to live to carry out some of the splendid things that his father had begun if for nothing else, but now there was something else! He wanted to get strong soon that he might ride horseback with Nan over the mountains. When Miss Squeers returned to push the wheeled chair and its usually listless occupant back to the house she was surprised to note that he looked up with a welcoming smile. "Nurse," he said, "do you know, I am actually hungry. Don't give me broth tonight. I want some regular things to eat, beefsteak and mashed potatoes." A query over the wire brought a speedy reply from the physician: "Give the lad whatever he asks for and note the result." The next day Doctor Wainridge called and the lad asked: "Doctor, is there any real reason why I cannot walk?" "None whatever, son, that I know of," the gentleman replied, "except that you have been too weak to stand, but if you continue with the menu that you ordered last night, you will soon be able to enter the Marathon races. There is nothing physically wrong with you, lad. I decided that you had made up your mind that you did not care to get well." The boy looked around and finding that they were alone, he confided, "I did feel that way, doctor, but now I wish to get well soon, and be a pirate or a gypsy or something uncivilized." "Great!" the doctor said, as he arose to go. On his way home he wondered what had aroused Robert's interest in life, but neither he nor the nurse could guess. CHAPTER X. "LADY RED BIRD." Again it was Saturday. Every day during the past week Robert had walked, only a few steps at first, but each day going a little farther. Too, each afternoon he had eagerly watched at the pepper tree for the appearance of his Lady Red Bird, but she had not come. "Perhaps she only comes on Saturday," he thought as he sat alone in his wheeled chair waiting and watching. Suddenly a rose hurled over the hedge and fell on his book. "Oho, Lady Red Bird," he called joyously. "I can't see you, but I know that you are there. Please come over on this side." The gate opened ever so little and Nan peered through. Then skipping in front of him, she cried, with her dark eyes aglow, "Why, Robert Widdemere, you don't look like the same boy. What have you done? You look almost well." "I am," the lad replied, smiling radiantly. "I am going to be well enough to ride up the mountain road with you on Thanksgiving morning, and then I will surely have something to be thankful for." Gypsy Nan clapped her hands. "And we'll ride a race on the hard sand close to the sea." "Great!" ejaculated the lad. "That will be two weeks from to-day. I'll have to order my portion of beefsteak and mashed potatoes doubled, I guess." Then he added with a merry twinkle, "Promise me that you'll wear the gypsy-looking dress." "Oh, I will," Nan cried, "for I love it." Then she added, "Robert Widdemere, you don't believe that I am truly a gypsy, do you?" The lad shook his head and his brown eyes were laughing. "Why, of course not Lady Red Bird! Gypsies are interesting enough, in their way, but they are not like you. They are thieves--" The girl sprang up from the stump on which she had been seated, and her eyes flashed. "They are not all thieves, Robert Widdemere," she cried, "and many of them are just as good and kind as gorigo could be. Manna Lou was a beautiful young gypsy woman long ago, when I first remember her, and she could have had a much happier life if she had hot chosen of her own free will to care for that poor little cripple boy Tirol, and for the motherless Nan. I wish I had not run away from the caravan now. I hate the gorigo, who always call my people thieves!" Then turning to the amazed and speechless lad, she inquired with flashing eyes, "Are there no thieves among your people? Indeed there are, but they are not _all_ called thieves! My Manna Lou taught me not to steal, and I have never taken even a flower that did not belong to me. I'm going back, Robert Widdemere! I'm going back to Manna Lou." The girl burst into a passion of tears as she turned toward the gate. The lad, deeply touched, forgetting his weakness, was at her side and placing a hand on her arm, he implored, "Oh Lady Red Bird, forgive me. I see now how wrong it is to condemn a whole race because of the few. Promise me that you won't go back. It is knowing you that has helped me to get well, and if you go away, I will be lonelier than ever." The boy had returned to his chair and he looked suddenly pale and tired. Nan's heart was touched, and she said, "Robert Widdemere, now that you know I am really a gypsy, do you still care for my friendship?" "I care more to be your friend, than for anything else in the whole world," the lad said sincerely. "Then I'll not go back to the caravan," she promised, a smile flashing through the tears. "Goodbye, Robert Widdemere. I'll come again tomorrow." These two little dreamed that the nurse, Miss Squeers, hidden behind a clump of shrubbery, had seen and heard all that had passed, nor could they know that upon returning to the house, she had at once written to the lad's mother. When on the day following, Nan returned to the little gate in the hedge, Robert Widdemere was not seen. The nurse, having overheard the planned meeting had ordered the horses hitched to the easiest carriage and had insisted that the lad accompany her on a drive. He was restless when he realized that they were not to return at the hour he had expected his Lady Red Bird to visit him, and indeed, when at last, they did turn into the long winding drive leading to his handsome home, he was so worn and weary from having fretted because he had been forced to do something he did not wish to do, that he had a fever and had to go at once to bed. Miss Squeers sent for the doctor and drawing him aside, she confided all she had found out. If she had expected an ally, she was greatly disappointed. "That's great!" Doctor Wainridge exclaimed, his kindly face shining. "Nothing could be better. A tonic is powerless compared to a lad's interest in a lassie. But if he was so much better only yesterday, because of this friendship, what has caused the set-back?" Miss Squeer's thin lips were pressed together in a hard line. "Doctor Wainridge, you evidently do not realize that this young person is a real gypsy. You wouldn't have doubted it if you could have seen her black eyes flash yesterday when Robert Widdemere spoke disparagingly of the race." The physician looked interested, and somewhat amused. "Indeed, I could imagine it!" he said with assurance. "I had a gypsy boy for a patient once and a fiery tempered lad, he was, but I liked him. The fact is, I admire much about their life, not everything of course. They do a little too much horse trading, and sometimes they even trade without the owners being aware of it." At that he laughed, appearing not to notice that a ramrod could not be standing stiffer or more erect than was Miss Squeers. He continued as though amused at the memory. "It was down south when I was practicing there. One of the southern colonels had a thoroughbred horse. He boasted about it on all occasions, but when the gypsies came and passed they had traded an old boney nag with the colonel. He found it in the paddock where his prize racer had been locked in securely the night before." "Well," Miss Squeers snapped, "I hope you are not upholding such conduct." The good-natured physician shook his head, but his eyes were still twinkling. "No, indeed not!" he said emphatically. "That manner of horse trading is not to be condoned in the slightest degree." "Trading?" With biting sarcasm Miss Squeers spoke the word. "Stealing, you mean. That's what they all are, thieves and liars." Then with a self-righteous expression on her drawn, white face, the woman continued: "Mrs. Widdemere puts her entire trust in _my_ judgment and until she comes to relieve me, I shall not permit her son to again speak to that gypsy girl." The doctor narrowed his eyes, gazing thoughtfully at the speaker. When she paused he exclaimed "Good Lord, Miss Squeers, what possible harm could a girl of thirteen or fourteen do a sixteen year old boy? I have heard the story of the protege of the Misses Barrington. Indeed it has been rumored about that she is very beautiful and rarely talented. My wife is well acquainted with the woman who is instructing the girl on the harp and she has only enthusiastic praise for the gifts with which she has been endowed. Nature is the mother of us all, and is no respector of persons." "Then you advise me to permit this friendship to continue even though I _know_ it would greatly displease Mrs. Widdemere who is among the proudest of proud women?" The doctor thoughtfully twirled the heavy charm on his watch chain. "If we have to choose between losing our patient and displeasing a vain mother, I prefer the latter. You can see for yourself that the boy has had a set-back. This is most discouraging to me. And, as his physician, I shall have to ask, as long as I have the case, and the boy's mother cabled me to take it, that he be given his freedom in the matter. Do not again force him to go for a drive with you unless it is his wish to do so. I will call again tomorrow." The nurse watched him go with a steely expression in her sharp green-blue eyes. Next she walked to a calender and marked on it the probable day when she might expect a response to the letter she had written Mrs. Widdemere. Then she went upstairs and found her patient tossing restlessly. After all, she decided it might be better for her to follow the doctor's orders. She would not have long to wait for orders from one higher in authority. CHAPTER XI. THE DOCTOR TAKES A HAND. Doctor Wainridge had done a little thinking on his own part and he arrived at the Widdemere home early the next morning. Finding that the boy was in a listless state, from which he had been aroused only by his interest in his new friend, the physician, after dismissing the nurse, sat down by the bed-side and took the thin hand in his own. "Robert, lad," he began in a low voice that could not possibly be overheard by an intentional or unintentional eavesdropper, "I hear that you have made the acquaintance of that little gypsy lady who is staying next door." The boy looked up with almost startled inquiry. He had not supposed that their meeting had been observed. Then a hard expression shadowed his eyes. "Huh, I might have known that sly cat would pry around. I suppose she told you." The good-natured doctor wanted to laugh aloud. He quite agreed with the boy's description of the nurse, but, of course, it would not be ethical to permit the patient to know this and so he said, assuming an expression of professional interest merely: "Miss Squeers mentioned it to me, Robert, and of course, in her capacity as nurse, she feels, in the absence of your mother, that she should try, if possible, to influence you against a friendship that your mother might not wish you to make." The boy's eyes flashed and he drew himself to a sitting posture. "Doctor Wainridge," he said vehemently, "how can I ever get well if I am kept a prisoner with a jailor whom I hate, hate, hate! Can't you dismiss Miss Squeers from my case and just look after me yourself. Gee whiz, Doctor Wainridge, aren't there servants enough around this place to make me some broth and give me a bath." The doctor glanced at the closed door and put his fingers on his lips as a suggestion that the boy speak in a lower voice. "I cannot dismiss Miss Squeers," he said, "because in your mother's cable to me she asked that she be called, but, of course, as you know, a doctor's orders must be carried out, and so I now order, that, until your mother dismisses _me_, you are to see as much of the little gypsy girl as possible, if you find her companionship amusing. You are merely children and as such need young companionship." Then, after feeling the lad's pulse and taking his temperature, he said loud and cheerily, "Well, Robert Widdemere, you feel pretty well I judge. Fever's all gone and you look rested." "There wasn't anything the matter with me yesterday only I was mad, mad clear through." The boy cast a vindictive glance at the closed door on the other side of which they could both visualize a wrathful nurse, trying, if possible, to hear the conference she had been barred from. Then the boy confessed. "It was this way, Doctor Wainridge, that nice girl, Lady Red Bird, the one next door, told me that she would come back to the hedge yesterday afternoon to ask how I was getting on, and that nurse must have heard, for she took me driving and kept me away until I was so angry that it wore me all out, and I had a fever. Now, what worries me is, will Lady Red Bird ever come back again? It isn't a bit likely that she will. Girls have too much pride to chase after a fellow, if he isn't there when he says he will be. She'll think I'm a cad. I just know she won't come again, and I wouldn't blame her if she didn't." "Neither would I blame her, Robert," the doctor agreed. "Now, laddie, listen to me. If you will rest all this morning and eat a good lunch and not be wrathful at your nurse whatever she may say or do, I'll come over this afternoon and take you to call on your new friend. I've been planning for ever so long to drop in and see Miss Dahlia. I've been their family physician more years than I like to remember. Well, sonny, how does, that plan strike you." The boy looked up brightly. "Bully," he ejaculated. Then anxiously he inquired, "Shall you tell the nurse?" "I'll tell her to get you ready for a drive as I shall call for you at two. Then I will let Miss Dahlia know that I am to call on her at two-thirty and would like to meet her protêge." The old doctor was indeed pleased to see how quickly his suggestion brightened the lad's face. Reaching out a thin hand, he took the big brown one as he said; "Doc, you're a trump! I needn't feel that I haven't a friend when you're at the wheel. Now I'm going to rest hard until noon." CHAPTER XII. A PLEASANT CALL. Miss Squeers found it hard to follow orders that were so against her own judgment. She well knew Mrs. Widdemere, for had she not been in that home during the illness of Robert's father and had she not found his mother a woman after her own heart! "If a person is born an aristocrat," the nurse told herself, "she ought to act like one and be haughty and proud. How would a peacock look trying to put herself on a social footing with a pullet?" All the time that she was assisting Robert Widdemere to dress for the drive that he was to take with Doctor Wainridge, the woman's thin colorless lips grew tighter and thinner. The physician had not told where he was going to take their patient, but she knew, as well as if she had been able to hear through the closed door. She consoled herself with the knowledge that her turn to triumph would come in time. They did not know, however much they might suspect it, that she had written the mother all that she knew of this disgraceful friendship. Doctor Wainridge would be peremptorially dismissed, of that Miss Squeers was certain. For that matter the doctor was sure of the same thing, but what he hoped was that his patient should by that time be so far along on the road to recovery that he would not be harmed by his mother's anger or subsequent action. That Mrs. Widdemere would forbid the friendship, he well knew. But his office, at present, was to help the lad to rouse himself from the indifferent stupor into which he had fallen since his father's death. The doctor arrived at two, and for half an hour they drove about the picturesque country lane on either side of which were the vast estates of the wealthy dwellers of the far famed foot-hill section. At length they left the highway and turned into the drive leading to the Barrington home. The physician was saying:--"I was up in the big city when it all happened and so another doctor was called when the accident occured. I am referring to the accident which brought the gypsy girl into the home where I presume she is to remain." Then he laughed. "It is well for the girl that the haughty older sister has gone away for an indefinite stay for she had undertaken, so the story goes, to civilize and Christianize this little heathen." The boy nodded. "Lady Red Bird told me. She said she was just ready to run away because they were going to put her in a convent school, when a telegram came and Miss Ursula Barrington left at once for the East." As they neared the house, they saw a very pretty sight. The girl of whom they had been talking, looking more then ever like a gypsy in the costume she had worn when she had first arrived, was dancing up and down the paths of the glowing garden shaking her tambourine, as she had danced on that never-to-be-forgotten day when she had been there with little Tirol. Nearby on a bench the younger Miss Barrington sat with her lace crochet now and then dropping it to her lap to smile at the girl. Suddenly she called. "Nan, dearie, the company has come." The girl dropped to a marble bench, but a side glance toward the drive showed her that both the doctor and the boy had witnessed her performance. "I don't care, Miss Dahlia," she said, tossing her dark hair back and out of her eyes, "I put this dress on purposely that Robert Widdemere might see I'm not ashamed that I am a gypsy. I'm proud, proud, proud because I belong to Manna Lou." "Of course you are, dearie," the gentle little woman rose and advanced to greet the newcomers. "Doctor Wainridge," she said, "I'm so glad that you have come to meet our dear adopted daughter. It was a real regret to me that you were out of town at the time of the accident, if something which results in great joy and happiness can be called by so formidable a name. And this," she held out a slender white hand toward the glowing girl, "is our Nan." The doctor, whose broad-brimmed black felt was under one arm, shook hands with Miss Dahlia and then with the girl. Turning, he beamed on the lad as he said, "Surely, Miss Barrington, you remember this boy, although you may not have seen him recently." "Indeed I do! Robert, how you have grown." Then noting his pale face, she said with kindly solicitude, "You are not yet strong. Shall we go into the house? Would it not be more comfortable there?" But the doctor, after glancing at his watch replied: "I fear that I cannot remain today, as I have other patients to see, but if you are willing to entertain your young neighbor, I will return for him in just one hour." Robert's face brightened. "That's great of you, doctor, to leave me in so pleasant a place." Then turning to Miss Dahlia who was looking at him pityingly, he confessed. "I'm bored to death at home with that specter of a nurse watching over me for all the world like a vulture swinging around the head of some poor creature that it expects is soon to die." The doctor had been glancing about. There was a summer house near in which there were comfortably cushioned rustic chairs and a table. It was where Miss Dahlia and Nan had their daily lessons. "That would be a pleasant place for you children to go for a real visit, isn't it?" he suggested. Miss Dahlia nodded smilingly and Nan led the way to the summer house. Miss Dahlia then walked at the doctor's side toward his car as she wished to ask his advice about her headaches. "Isn't he a great sport?" Robert looked after his friend and ally admiringly, then he blurted out:--"Lady Red Bird, that sly cat of a nurse was trying to keep us apart. That's why I wasn't at the gate in the hedge yesterday. If I'd been strong enough I would have walked over here when I reached home and explained, but I was lots worse." The lad glanced anxiously into the flushed face of the girl. He feared she was hurt with him. "I say, Miss Nan, you'll forgive my not being there. I wouldn't be such a cad, if I could help it. You know that, don't you?" He was greatly relieved with the reply which was, "I wasn't there myself, Robert Widdemere. Miss Dahlia had one of her headaches and was so sick I didn't wan't to leave her. I was sure you would understand." Then, quickly changing the subject, she added. "This is a real comfortable chair. It's where Miss Dahlia sits when she teaches me to read. Oh, I love reading," she exclaimed, "and stories. I used to make them up out of my head to tell Little Tirol and the other children. Little wild foxes I called them." There was a sudden far away wistful expression in the girl's dark eyes as she gazed out of the vine-hung door of the summer house, and the lad watching her, wondered that he had ever doubted that she was truly a gypsy. Surely, in that costume, there could be no question about it. He said gently, "Lady Red Bird, I believe you sometimes wish you could go back to the old life." She turned wide startled eyes toward him as she replied in a tense voice, "I'm going back when the black dragon comes again. I won't stay here with her. I won't be civilized for her. She doesn't love me like Miss Dahlia does." "But doesn't the wild gypsy life lure you?" the boy leaned forward interested. "I always imagine it as romantic and carefree." Again the girl looked at him startled, then replied in a low voice. "Would you think it was romantic to have to do everything that a cruel, black-hearted Anselo Spico and his demon mother said to do? Would you call it being carefree when you were thrashed till the blood came if you wouldn't dance at the gorigo inns? "I staid till little Tirol died. Anselo Spico had to beat me first, before he could get at that poor little cripple. I staid to take little Tirol's beatings, but when he was dead, I ran away and came here." Robert Widdemere hardly knew what to say. "Lady Red Bird, I thought you told me you were proud of being a gypsy and that you loved the life." There was an instant change and springing up she flung her arms wide with almost a wistful cry--"I love living out in the open, with only the starry sky for a roof, and the branches of trees swaying, swaying over my head when I sleep. I love to ride on my pony Binnie away, away, away, to feel my hair blowing in the wind and to have nothing to do but live." Robert sighed. "I'd like right well to be that kind of a gypsy," he said. "I'd like to wander away, away, away from nurses and houses and routine studies." Miss Dahlia appeared in the door and she was followed by a maid with a tray. "I thought you children might like a tea party," she said, "and if you do not mind, I will join you." The hour was soon up and the doctor bore away a very thoughtful lad. "Lady Red Bird _is_ a real gypsy," he was thinking, "and I don't believe she will civilize." CHAPTER XIII. MYSTERIOUS REVELATIONS. That was the beginning of a series of visits. Sometimes these two planned to meet on the beach and always Nan wore her gypsy dress. Somehow she was determined that her new friend should not forget who she really was. A week had passed and they were becoming well acquainted. Being constantly questioned about her past life, Nan had told many stories of the gypsies and adventures. They were sitting in the sun on the sand one morning and Nan was being especially thoughtful. "A penny for your thoughts, Lady Red Bird?" the boy asked. "I was wondering where I will find the caravan when I run away." She looked up, a strange eagerness in her expressive dark eyes. "I must find them when I am eighteen for Manna Lou is to tell me then about my own mother." Hesitatingly the boy suggested: "Would you be greatly disappointed if she were to tell you that you are not a real gypsy?" He almost feared that she would flare at him wrathfully as she had that first time, when he had scoffed at the idea of her being one. But instead, she turned toward him dark eyes in which there was the light of a simple conviction. "There is no question about that. I asked Manna Lou, and she said--'It is real gypsy blood that has given you that dark skin Leichen Nan.' But more, she would not tell. Manna Lou _never_ lied." The boy leaned forward eagerly. "But she promised to tell you more when you were eighteen?" "Yes." "Then there _is_ something to tell." "Yes. But I _am_ a gypsy." The boy smiled. "I believe you would be disappointed if you found that you were not." "But I am! Manna Lou said so. Manna Lou does not lie." It was always like arguing in a circle. From whatever point they started, they swung back to that same statement which was final in the mind of the girl. Suddenly the boy asked; "Have you always lived in California?" "Oh no, no!" Nan replied. "We fled from Rumania. That is my country. There are many gypsies in that land across the sea. Manna Lou said there are more than 200,000 gypsies." One word had attracted and held the attention of the lad. "Lady Red Bird, why did you say 'fled?' Did your band _have_ to leave Rumania?" She gleamed at him quickly, suspiciously. Then she replied dully, "I don't know. I suppose so! Anselo Spico and his queen mother Mizella, they do wrong things. They steal--" she paused, and the boy put in suggestively: "Do they steal white children?" Scornfully the girl flung back. "No, never! Horses here in this country, but over there it was more--I never knew, something that made Anselo Spico afraid. We traveled day and night." The boy said nothing but sat poking at the sand with a stick. It looked very mysterious to him. "You don't know what that Spico, or whatever it is you call him; you don't know what crime he had committed that he left your native country so suddenly?" The girl shook her head. "And we didn't stop in the East where we landed, but we came right on and on and on till we reached California." The boy was thinking aloud. "It seems strange to me that the authorities where the boats stop would permit wandering bands of gypsies to land in this country without knowing what they come for, or why they are leaving their own native land." "What do you mean, authorities? What are they?" The girl was plainly perplexed. "Why when a big vessel arrives at Castle Garden in New York, every passenger has been given a permit to land from Ellis Island where they first stop. Oh, there's a lot of red tape before anyone can come ashore, and I should think a whole band of gypsies would have considerable difficulty passing the examiners, that is what I mean by authorities." Still the girl looked at him blankly as one who did not understand. "We landed in the night on a lonely marshy shore. Florida they called it. The sailing barge that brought us across the sea left before daybreak, and when the sun came up we were in our caravans riding across a flat lonely country. We saw very few people because we slept days and passed through the villages at night. The gorigo police sometimes followed us to see that we kept going until we were out of the town but nobody stopped us. Then, for weeks and weeks we were crossing the wide sandy desert. We camped a long time in the Rocky Mountains. I never did understand that, I mean why we seemed to be hiding. I thought maybe Anselo Spico had stolen something and we were waiting until it would be safe to go on, but I heard Vestor report one night, when he came back from town that there had been no mail from Rumania and so I supposed that we had been waiting there long enough for Anselo Spico to write someone in Rumania and that we were waiting for the reply. At last it came and the message in that letter angered him terribly. He seized a whip and began to lash poor little Tirol. I threw myself on the child and he began to beat me. It was his Queen Mother Mizella, who stopped him by saying. I never forgot the words though they meant nothing to me. 'Bedone with that! You're like to kill her as may line your purse yet.' He snarled an answer, but he let us both alone after that or at least he never beat me again." Robert Widdemere was more than ever convinced that Nan had been stolen as a child and that the gypsies were hoping someday to receive a rich reward for her, but what he could not understand was why, if that were true, it had been so long in coming. If she had own relations in Rumania, they surely would have been glad to pay the ransom money as soon as they found the whereabouts of the child. But of his thoughts, he said nothing. After a few moments, he asked; "What did you do next, Lady Red Bird?" "Our caravan left the mountains and we traveled slowly westward. Manna Lou was kinder to me than ever before, and she taught me to play on a banjo which she said had belonged to my father. She did not know much about it, but I was so glad, glad to have it." The girl's face darkened. "That was the last mean thing Anselo Spico did to me. He found me playing the banjo, and it seemed to anger him, or some memory was called up by it that he did. Anyhow he seized it and smashed it to pieces on a rock. How I've hated him ever since!" Again there was one of the swift changes, and Nan turned toward the boy a face softened and beautified with tender memories. "My father played before the Queen of Rumania once and received a medal. Manna Lou told me." The boy was indeed puzzled. "It's all a mystery and I'm afraid I won't be able to fathom it," he told himself. "And now I am to be a musician, and I shall play before a queen," the girl leaped to her feet and was dancing about on the hard sand, startling to flight a flock of shining winged white-gulls that circled in the air over the sea. The boy also rose and feeling much stronger, he tried to dance, but was soon out of breath and laughingly sank back on the sand higher up where it was dry and warm. "What I need," he said to himself, "is a costume to match Lady Red Bird's. Then I will be able to dance with her." The idea pleased him, and he thought of it, smiling to himself. At last the hour came for their parting. "Remember our agreement. Tomorrow will be Thanksgiving and we are to go for a horseback ride." Then catching both hands of the girl, the boy looked into her laughing eyes as he said with sincere earnestness. "If I have indeed regained my strength, I have no one to thank but Lady Red Bird." "Oh, yes you have. It was Doctor Wainridge who brought you here. You must thank him as well." "And also dear gentle Miss Dahlia," the lad concluded, "Good-bye until tomorrow." CHAPTER XIV. THE MOUNTAIN RIDE. Thanksgiving came and at the appointed hour Nan was waiting at the beach gate when she saw a gypsy riding toward her. Nan's first thought was one of terror, for the approaching horseman looked as Anselo Spico had when arrayed in his best, a blue velvet corduroy suit, a scarlet silk sash and a wide felt hat edged with bright dangles. "Oh, Robert Widdemere!" Nan cried, when she saw who it really was. "You looked so like Anselo Spico as you rode along by the sea, that I was about to run and hide. Where did you get that costume?" "At a shop in town where one may procure whatever one wishes for a masquerade," the laughing lad replied as he leaped to the ground and made a deep, swinging bow with his gay hat. "I like it, Lady Red Bird," he enthusiastically declared, "and I do believe that I will purchase this outfit. Won't we create a stir in the countryside as we ride together down the Coast Highway." Nan laughed joyously. "It becomes you, Robert Widdemere," she said. It was hard for the girl to believe that the handsome, flushed youth at her side was the same pale sickly lad whom she had first met less than a month before. During that time these two had become well acquainted, taking short walks together and reading Ivanhoe while they rested. Miss Dahlia found that her pupil was making remarkable progress under her new tutor, moreover she liked the youth with his frank, good-looking face and she was glad to have Nan companied by someone near her own age. Miss Dahlia appeared at the beach gate to see them off on their long planned ride and she called after them, "Robert, lad, be sure to come back and share our Thanksgiving dinner." "Thank you, Miss Dahlia, I would like to," the youth replied doffing his hat. Then the little lady watched them ride away and turn up the mountain road. In her heart there was a strange misgiving that she could not understand. "What if her sister, Miss Ursula, should suddenly return," she thought. Then indeed would Miss Dahlia be censored for having permitted Nan to again assume the raiment of a heathen. Never before had Nan seemed more charming to the lad than she did on that glorious morning when side by side they rode up a narrow canon road leading toward the mountains. "See, Nan," the young philosopher called, "life is full of contrasts. Now we are in a blaze of warmth and sunlight, and, not a stone's throw ahead of us, is the darkness and dampness of the canon, where the pine trees stand so solemn and still, like sentinels guarding the mysteries that lie beyond." The girl drew rein and gazed with big dark eyes at the boy. During the past month she had learned his many moods. In a serious voice she said. "I sometimes wonder how we dare go on, since we do not know the trail that is just ahead. I don't mean here," she lifted one hand from her horse's head and pointed toward the high walled canon in front of them. "I mean, I wonder how we dare go along life's trail when it is, so often, as though we are blind-folded." The boy's face brightened. "Nan," he said, with a note of tenderness in his voice which the girl always noticed when he spoke of his father. "Did I ever tell you how my father loved the writings of Henry Van Dyke? It didn't matter what they were about, fishing, or hiking, or philosophising. My father felt that they were kin, because they both so loved the great out-of-doors. Just now, when you wondered how we dare go ahead when we cannot know what awaits us on life's trail, I happened to recall a few lines which Dad so often used to recite. They are from Van Dyke's poem called 'God of the Open Air.'" The boy gazed at the girl as though he were sure of her appreciation of all he was saying. "It is a long poem and a beautiful one. I'll read it to you someday, but the part I have in mind tells just that how everything in nature has, planted deep in its being, a trust that the Power that created it will also care for it and guide it well. This is it: "By the faith that the wild flowers show when they bloom unbidden; By the calm of the river's flow to a goal that is hidden. By the strength of the tree that clings to its deep foundation, By the courage of bird's light wings on the long migration (Wonderful spirit of trust that abides in Nature's breast.) Teach me how to confide, and live my life, and rest." "It is very beautiful," Nan said in a low voice and then, starting their horses, they entered the shadow of the mountain walls and slowly began the ascent. The trail became so narrow that they had to ride single file for a long time. Each was quietly thinking, but at last they reached a wide place where the mountain brook formed a pool and at the girl's suggestion they dismounted to get a drink of the clear cold water. "How peaceful and still it is here," Nan said as she sat on a moss covered rock, and, folding her hands, listened to the murmuring sounds of trickling water, rustling leaves, and soughing of the soft breeze in the pines. Robert, standing with his arms folded, had been gazing far down the trail which they had just climbed, but chancing to glance at the girl he saw a troubled expression in her dark beautiful face. Sitting on a rock near her, the boy leaned forward as he asked eagerly. "Nan, you aren't longing for the old life, are you?" She turned toward him with a smile that put his fears at rest. "Not that, Robert Widdemere. I was wondering if I dare ask you a question?" "Why Lady Red Bird, of course you may. I will answer it gladly." The boy little dreamed how hard a question it was to be. For another moment the girl was silent, watching the water that barely moved in the pool at her feet. Then in a very low voice she said;--"We gypsies do not believe in a God." Although unprepared for this statement, the lad replied by asking, "What then do your people believe gave life to all this?" He waved an arm about to include all nature. "They believe that there are unseen spirits in streams and woods that can harm them, if they will. Sometimes, when a storm destroyed our camp, we tried to appease the wrath of the spirit of the tempest with rites and charms. That was all. Manna Lou had heard of the gorigo God, and often she told little Tirol and me about that one great Power, but if we asked questions, she would sadly reply 'Who can know?'" "Manna Lou was right in one way, Lady Red Bird, we cannot know, perhaps, but deep in the soul of each one of us has been implanted a faith and trust just as the poem tells. I do know that some Power, which I call God, brought me here and so sure I can trust that same Power to care for me and guide me if I have faith and trust." There was a sudden brightening of the girl's face, "Oh, Robert Widdemere," she said, "I am so glad I asked you. I understand now better how it is, I, also, shall trust and have faith." She arose and mounted on her pony and they began climbing the steeper trail which led to the summit of the low mountain. At last they rode out into the sunlight, and, dismounting, stood on the peak of the trail. Such beauty of scene as there was everywhere about them. Beyond the coast range, across a wide valley, there was still a higher and a more rugged mountain range and beyond that, in the far distance, a third, the peaks of which were scarcely visible in the haze and clouds. Then they turned toward the sea, which, from that high point could be seen far beyond the horizon that they had every day on the beach. "Lady Red Bird," the boy laughed, "you will think me very dull today, I fear, but I can't help philosophising a bit at times. I was just thinking that when troubles crowd around us, it would be a wonderful thing, if, in our thoughts, we could climb to a high place and look down at them, we would find that, after all, they were not very large nor very important." "Things do look small, surely," the girl said. "See the town nestling down there. The church steeple seems very little from here." "I see the pepper tree where we first met," the lad turned and took the girl's hand. "I shall always think of you as my Lady Red Bird," he told her. Hand in hand they continued to stand as brother and sister might. "And I see our marble fountain glistening in the sun," Nan declared. Suddenly the boy's clasp in the girl's hand tightened. "Look, quick," he said pointing downward, "there is a limousine turning from the highroad up into our drive. Who do you suppose is coming to call?" "Perhaps it is your doctor," Nan suggested. The lad laughed. "No indeed. For one thing he rides in an open run-about, and for another, he told me that since I had made up my mind to get well, he would have nothing more to do with me. There are enough truly sick people he said, who need his attention." "Then, who can it be?" Nan persisted, but the lad merrily declared that he knew not and cared not. After gazing for a moment at the girl who was still looking down at the highway he exclaimed with mingled earnestness and enthusiasm. "Nan, you don't know how much it means to me, to have a sister like you, a friend, or a pal, the name doesn't matter. You're going to fill the place, in a way, that Dad held, and truly he was the finest man that ever trod the earth. Often he said to me 'Son, when you give your word, stand by it. I would rather have my boy honest and dependable, than have him president,' and I'm going to try, Nan, to become just such a man as was my father." The girl's gaze had left the road and she looked straight into the clear blue-grey eyes of the boy at her side. "I am glad, Robert Widdemere," she said, "for I could never be proud of a friend whose word could not be depended upon." The boy caught both of the girl's hands in his as he said, "Nan, listen to me, you have no older brothers to take care of you, and as long as I shall live, I want you to think of me as one to whom you can always come. It doesn't matter who tries to separate us, Nan, no one ever shall, I give you my word." Tears sprang to the eyes of the girl, but that she need not show the depth of her emotion, she called laughingly, "Robert Widdemere, it is time that we were returning, for even before we left, the turkey had gone into the oven and we must not keep Miss Dahlia waiting." "Right you are!" the lad gaily replied as again they started down the trail, "although a month ago it would not have seemed possible, I am truly ravenously hungry." Down the mountain road they went, these two who so enjoyed each other's companionship, little dreaming who they would find at the end of the trail. CHAPTER XV. SUDDEN CHANGES. Leaving their ponies at the stables, the two hand in hand walked along the path in the glowing garden. "I'm glad the yellow crysanthemums are at their loveliest now," the girl cried. "I'm going to gather an armful to put on the table that we may have one more thing to be thankful for." "Good, I'll help you!" the boy broke a curling-petaled beauty. "Nan, these shall be our friendship flowers. They seem so like you, so bright and colorful; joyful within themselves, and radiating it on all who pass." When the girl's arms were heaped with the big curling, glowing blossoms, the lad suddenly cried; "Lady Red Bird, I completely forgot something very important." "What?" the girl turned toward him to inquire. "This!" he took from his pocket a folding kodak, "I wanted to take a picture of you at the top of the trail and I never thought of it until now. Please stand still, there, just where you are, with the fountain back of you and the crysanthemums all around you. Don't look so serious, Nan. Laugh won't you? There, I snapped it and you had not even smiled. You had such a sad far away look. What were you thinking." "I just happened to think of Little Tirol and how I hope it is all true, that there is a God to care for him and give him another body, one without pain." "Dear sister," the boy said, "you do have such strange and unexpected thoughts. How did you happen to think of Little Tirol now?" "Perhaps it was because I remembered that day only two months ago, when he and I first came to the garden. The yellow flowers were just beginning to bloom and I wanted one so. I hoped he knows now that I can gather them, a great armful if I wish." Then the girl skipped toward the house, as she called merrily: "If you were ravenously hungry on the mountain trail, what must you be now, I hope we are not late." "There is someone watching us from a front window," the boy said. "I saw a curtain move. Miss Dahlia would not do that, would she, Nan?" "I hardly think so. It was probably the maid; though I can't think what she would be doing in the front room when it must be almost time to serve dinner." Robert Widdemere paused a moment at the vine hung outside portal to speak with an old gardener whom he had known since his little boyhood. Nan, singing her joyous bird song without words, climbed the stairs to the library and before she had reached the door she called happily, "Oh Miss Dahlia, Robert Widdemere and I have had such a glorious ride up the mountain road, and too, we climbed to the very summit. Isn't it wonderful--" she got no farther, for having entered the library she realized that the fashionably dressed stranger standing there was not the little woman whom she so loved. "Oh, pardon me!" the gypsy girl said. "I thought you were Miss Dahlia." "Here I am, dearie," a trembling voice called as that little lady appeared from the dinning room. "I was needed for one moment in the kitchen," she explained, then turning toward the stranger she said almost defiantly, "Mrs. Widdemere, this is my dearly loved protege, Nan Barrington. Nan, Robert's mother has returned unexpectedly from France." "Yes, and at great inconvenience to myself, I can assure you, to forbid my son associating with a common gypsy girl." Miss Dahlia drew herself up proudly, and never before had she so closely resembled Miss Ursula. "Mrs. Widdemere," she said, "kindly remember that you are in my home, and that you are speaking of my protege." At that moment Robert appeared and was puzzled to see Miss Dahlia standing with a protecting arm about Nan, and the proud angry tone of her voice, he had never before heard. Then he saw the other woman with a sneering smile on her vain, pretty face, and he understood all. "Mother," he said, "did you not receive the message that I sent you? Did I not tell you that you need not return to the States, that my health was recovered?" "Yes," Mrs. Widdemere replied coldly, "and now I understand why you did not return to the school where I had placed you. You, a Widdemere, neglecting your education that you might associate with one of a class far beneath you; but I forbid you, from this day, ever again speaking to this gypsy girl." Nan's eyes flashed, but she replied proudly, "Mrs. Widdemere, you do not need to command. I myself shall never again speak to one of your kind," then turning, she left the library. A few moments later, when Robert and his mother were gone, Miss Dahlia went to the girl's room and found her lying on her bed sobbing as though her heart would break. "You see, Miss Dahlia," she said, "there's no use trying to make a lady of me. I'm merely a gypsy and I'll only bring sorrow to you." The little woman sat by the couch and tenderly smoothing the dark hair, she said: "Little girl, you are all I have to love in the world. My sister is too occupied with many things to be my companion. It grieves me deeply to have you so hurt, but I have thought out a plan, dearie, by which this may all be prevented in the future. Tomorrow morning, early, you and I are going away to a little town in the East which was my childhood home." Nan's sobs grew less and she passionately kissed the hand that carressed her. The little lady continued:--"I will legally adopt you, and then, truly, will your name be Nan Barrington. After that I am going to send you to the Pine Crest Seminary, which is conducted by a dear schoolmate of mine, Mrs. Dorsey. I want you to permit me to select your wardrobe, which shall be like that of other girls, and no one there will dream that you are a gypsy, for many there are who have dark hair and eyes and an olive complexion. Will you do all this for me, Nan darling, because I love you?" Nan's arms were about the little woman as she said, "How good you are to me, how kind! I'll try again to be a lady for your sake, and I hope that in time I'll be able to repay you for all that you do for me." That afternoon was spent in packing and the next morning, soon after sunrise, Miss Dahlia and Nan were driven away, but they did not leave a forwarding address. * * * * * * * * Robert Widdemere lifted the heavy iron knocker of the Barrington home about nine o'clock. He wanted to ask Miss Dahlia's pardon, and to tell Nan, that although he was about to return to the Military Academy to please his mother, he would never forget the promise he had made on the mountain, that he would always be her brother and her friend. When Robert learned that Nan was gone and that he had no way of communicating with her, he felt that again a great loss had come into his life. CHAPTER XVI. SCHOOL GIRLS. Several years have passed since that day in California when Nan Barrington and Robert Widdemere had parted so sadly and neither had heard ought of the other in all that time. Nan, in a home-like girls' school near Boston, The Pine Crest Seminary, had blossomed into as charming a young lady as even Miss Ursula could desire, and that proud woman, who had changed little with the years, often gazed at the beautiful dark girl, silently wondering if it might be possible that Nan was not a real gypsy after all. True to her promise to the dear Miss Dahlia, Nan had worn quiet colors like the other gorigo maidens, and, during the three and a half years that she had been at the school, nothing had occurred that would even suggest the roving life of her childhood, but unfortunately an hour was approaching when that suspicion would be aroused. The Miss Barringtons remained during the winter months in Boston, but they frequently visited the school, and, during the summer, they took Nan with them to their cabin on the rocky and picturesque coast of Maine. One Saturday afternoon Miss Dahlia was seated in the little reception room at the school and a maid had gone in search of the girl. First she referred to a chart in the corridor, which told where each of the forty pupils should be at that hour, and then, going to the music room, she tapped on the door. The sweet strains of a harp drifted out to her, and she tapped again. "Come in," a singing voice called, and the door opened. "Miss Nan, it's your aunt, Miss Barrington, who is waiting to see you." "Oh, I thank you, Marie!" the happy girl exclaimed, then, springing up from the seat by her beautiful golden instrument, she said happily to the friend who was standing near: "Phyllis do come with me and meet my Aunt. I am always telling her about you, but you have been so occupied with one task or another that I have never had the opportunity to have you two meet each other." Then as she covered her harp, she continued: "My Aunt Dahlia believes you to be as beautiful as a nymph and as joyous as a lark." Then whirling and catching both hands of her friend, Nan cried, "And when Aunt Dahlia really sees you, what do you suppose she will think?" "That I'm a frumpy old grumpy, I suppose," Phyllis laughingly replied. "Indeed not!" Nan declared. "You're the most beautiful creature that Nature ever fashioned with sunshine for hair, bits of June sky for eyes, the grace of a lily and--" "Nan, do stop! I'll think that you are making fun of me, and all this time your Aunt Dahlia waits above. Come let us go. I am eager to meet her." These two girls had been room-mates and most intimate friends since Phyllis came to the school at the beginning of the year. No two girls could be more unlike as Nan had said. She was like October night, and her friend was like a glad June day. "Aunt Dahlia, dearie," Nan exclaimed a few moments later, as she embraced the older lady, "here at last is my room-mate, Phyllis. You are the two whom I most love, and I have so wanted you to know each other." "And you look just exactly as I knew you would from all our Nan has told me about you. Just as sweet and pretty." Miss Dahlia's kind face did not reveal that she was even a day older than she had been that Thanksgiving nearly four years before. Nan asked about Miss Barrington, the elder and was told, that, as usual, she was busy with clubs of many kinds. "We are very unlike, my sister, and I," the little lady explained to Phyllis, "I like a quiet home life, Ursula is never happier than when she is addressing a large audience of women, and it does not in the least fluster her if there are men among them, on weighty questions of the day. Yes, we are very unlike." "I am glad that you are." Nan nestled lovingly close to the little old lady. "Not but that I greatly admire and truly do care for Aunt Ursula. She has been very kind to me since she began to like me." Nan laughed, then stopped as though she had been about to say something she ought not, as indeed she had been. She had nearly said that her Aunt Ursula had started to really like her when she felt that the girl had been properly civilized and Christianized, for, ever since the talk she had had with Robert Widdemere, Nan had really tried in every way to accept the religion of the gorigo. "Aunt Dahlia," she suddenly exclaimed, "what do you suppose is going to happen? The music master has offered a medal of gold to the one of us whose rendering of a certain piece, which he has selected, shall please him the most at our coming recital. Phyllis is trying for it on the violin; Muriel Metcalf and I on the harp, and Esther Willis on the piano. I do hope you and Aunt Ursula will be able to come." "Nothing but illness could keep me away," Miss Dahlia said as she rose to go. CHAPTER XVII. OLD MEMORIES REVIVED. The two girls with arms about each other stood on the front veranda watching as Miss Dahlia was being driven along the circling drive. Nan knew that she would turn and wave at the gate. A moment later she saw the fluttering of a small white handkerchief. The girls waved their hands, then turned indoors and climbed the wide, softly carpeted stairway and entered the room which they shared together. It was a strange room for each girl had decked her half of it as best suited her taste. On one side the birds' eye maple furniture was made even daintier with blue and white ruffled coverings. There was a crinkly blue and white bedspread with pillow shams to match, while on the dresser there was an array of dainty ivory and blue toilet articles, two ivory frames containing the photographs of Phyllis' father and mother, and a small book bound in blue leather in which she wrote the events of every day. There were a few forget-me-nots in a slender, silver glass vase, and indeed, everything on that side of the room suggested the dainty little maid who occupied it. But very unlike was the side occupied by the gypsy girl. Boughs of pine with the cones on were banked in one corner. Her toilet set was ebony showing off startlingly on the bureau cover which was a glowing red. There were photographs of Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Ursula in silver band frames, gifts to her from the aunts themselves, but on the walls there were pictures of wild canon places, long grey roads that seemed to lure one to follow, pools in quiet meadowy places, and a printed poem beginning-- "Oh, to be free as the wind is free! The vagabond life is the life for me." But the crowning touch was the gorgeous crimson and gold shawl with its long fringe mingled with black threads that was spread over her bed. Every girl who came into their room admired it, many asked questions about how it came into Nan's possession, but to one and all the gypsy girl gave some laughing reply, and as each and every explanation was different, they knew that she was inventing stories to amuse them. Indeed, Nan was often called upon, when storms kept the girls within doors, to invent tales for their entertainment as they sat about the great stone fireplace in the recreation hall, and the more thrilling the tales were, the more pleased her audience. Sometimes Nan recalled another group, to whom she had, in the long ago, so often told stories. Little dark, fox-like creatures with their unkempt hair hanging about their faces. How eagerly they had followed Nan's every word. Poor little neglected things! Nan often longed to be able to do something for them all, to give them a chance to make something of themselves as she had been given a chance. But would they want it? Had she not rebelled at first when Miss Ursula tried to civilize and Christianize her? Having entered their room, the gypsy girl went at once to the wide window and looked out across the school grounds where the trees and shrubs were still leafless. "Dearie," she said, "Spring is in the air and calling us to come out. I don't want to practice now. Suppose we climb to the top of Little Pine Hill that looks down on the highway." "But I ought to study my French verbs." Phyllis hesitated-- "French verbs on Saturday?" Nan protested, "When a merry breeze waits to run us a race!" The fair maiden laughingly donned her wraps and a few moments later these two were tramping across the fields, and then more slowly they began climbing the path that led over the little hill. There they stood side by side gazing down at the winding highway which, a short distance beyond, was entirely hidden by a bend and a massing of great old pines. "Aren't bends in the road interesting?" Nan said. "One never knows what may appear next. Let's guess what it will be, and see who is nearest right." "Very well," Phyllis replied, "I'll guess that it's the little Wharton girl out horse-back riding with her escort. She passes almost every afternoon at about this hour." "And I'll guess that it will be a motoring party from Boston in a handsome limousine," Nan replied. Then hand in hand these two girls stood intently watching the bend in the road. Several moments passed and Nan's attention had been attracted skyward by the flight of a bird, when she heard Phyllis' astonished exclamation: "We were both wrong, Nan! Will you look? I never saw such a queer equipage as the one which is coming. A covered wagon drawn by black horses and there is another following it and still another. How very curious! Did you ever see anything like it?" Phyllis was so intently watching the approaching wagons that she did not notice the almost frightened expression that had appeared in the dark eyes of the girl she so loved, but after a moment Nan was able to say quite calmly, "Why, yes, Joy, I have seen a gypsy caravan before. In California where it is always summer, they often pass the Barrington home in San Seritos." Then she added, "I'm going back to the school now." Her friend looked at her anxiously, "Why dear," she said, "do you feel faint or ill?" Nan shook her head and remarked lightly, with an attempt at gaiety: "Maybe my conscience is troubling me because I'm keeping you from the French verbs." They returned to the school, and although Phyllis said nothing, she was convinced that the sight of the gypsy caravan had in some way affected Nan. The truth was that the gypsy girl's emotions had been varied and conflicting. Her first impulse had been to run and hide, as though she feared that she might be discovered and claimed, but, a second thought assured her that this could not be the caravan of Queen Mizella and her cruel son Anselo Spico, for had she not left them in far-away California? And yet, as she gazed intently at the wagon in the lead, again came the chilling thought that it was strangely familiar, and then she recalled a memoried picture of one evening around the camp fire when Anselo had expressed a desire to some day return to Rumania, and, to do so, they would have to come to the Eastern States. Then another emotion rushed to the heart of the watching girl. She remembered with tenderness the long years of loving devotion that Manna Lou had given her. She wondered if that kind gypsy woman had missed her when she ran away. Tears rushed to her eyes as she thought how selfish she had been. She should have tried long ago to let Manna Lou know that all was well with her. Then it was that Nan decided to go close to the highway, and, from a hiding place watch the caravan as it passed, but she wanted to go alone. If it should be the band of Queen Mizella, then Nan would try in some way to communicate with Manna Lou. With this determination in her heart, she had suggested to return to school. Phyllis who was really glad to have an opportunity to study her French verbs, went back willingly, but she glanced often at the dark face of the friend she so loved. She could not understand why Nan had suddenly lost her merry mood and had become so quiet and thoughtful. Luckily for the gypsy girl's plan, the French teacher, Madame Reznor, delayed Phyllis in the lower corridor, and Nan, leaving them, hurried to her room. Taking from the closet a long, dark cloak with a hood-cape, she slipped it on, and looking cautiously about the upper corridor to be sure that she was unobserved, she tripped lightly down the back stairs and out at the basement door. She heard a gong ringing in the school, and she was glad, for it was calling all the pupils to the study hall, and there would be no one to spy upon her actions. But she was mistaken, for two of the girls who had been for a cross-country hike were returning, and one of them, Muriel Metcalf, chanced to glance in that direction just as Nan crouched behind the hedge that bordered the school grounds on the highway. "Daisy Wells," Muriel exclaimed, "how queerly Nan Barrington is acting. Let's watch her and see what she is going to do." This they did, standing behind a spreading pine tree. CHAPTER XVIII. A GYPSY CAMP. Several moments Nan Barrington waited crouching behind the hedge, but the caravan did not come, nor did she hear the rattle and rumble of approaching wagons. Perhaps after all they had passed while she was indoors. Disappointed, the girl arose, and was about to return to the school when she heard voices that seemed to come from a small grove beyond the seminary grounds. Hurrying along in the shelter of the hedge, Nan reached a small side gate, and, hidden, she looked up the highway. She saw that the gypsies had drawn to one side of the road and were preparing to make camp for the night. They were so near that she could plainly hear what they were saying and see the faces that were strange to her. Muriel Metcalf and Daisy Wells were more puzzled than before. "What do you suppose it is that Nan sees?" Muriel whispered. "She surely is much excited about something. Come, let's run to the tree that's nearest the hedge and then we will know." This they did, watching Nan intently, to be sure that they were not observed, but the gypsy girl looked only at the camp wondering what she should do. At last, assured that she had nothing to fear, and longing, if possible, to hear some word of Manna Lou, who had mothered her through the first fourteen years of her life, she drew her cloak more closely about her, and, opening the gate, she went over to the camp fire. How familiar it all seemed. There were the same little fox-like children scampering about gathering wood, and tears rushed to Nan's eyes as she remembered, how in the long ago, those other children had always run to meet her with arms outstretched when she returned to camp on her Binnie, but these children paid her little heed, for often fine young ladies come to have their fortunes told. A kindly-faced gypsy woman, who was bending over the fire, looked up as she said, "Ah, pretty leicheen, have you come to cross my palm with silver? A wonderful future awaits you, dearie. I can tell that from your eyes." Then to the amazement of all within hearing, Nan replied in the Romany language. The gypsy woman held out her arms with evident joy as she said in her own tongue, "So, pretty leicheen, you are one of us! Tell me, dearie, how did it happen? Was your mother a gypsy and your father, perhaps a gorigo?" "My mother was a gypsy," the girl replied, "but she has long been dead and I have been adopted by a kind gorigo lady, two of them, and I am attending this school." Other gypsy women gathered about and they urged Nan to remain with them for the evening meal, but she said that she would be missed from the school if she were not there for dinner. "But there is much that I want to ask you," the girl said, "and if I possibly can, I will return after dark." "Come, come, dearie leicheen," the gypsy women urged, "We will be glad to have you." Then, as it was late, Nan hurried away. The twilight was deepening and though she passed close to their hiding place, she did not see the two girls who had been spying upon her. When she was gone, Muriel exclaimed, "Daisy Wells, did you hear her? She spoke the gypsy language." "Yes," her friend replied. "I have always thought that there was something strange about Nan Barrington and now I know what it is. She is a gypsy." "If that is true, one of us will leave this school," Muriel said haughtily, "for my mother would not permit me to associate with a common gypsy." CHAPTER XIX. AN ENEMY. During the dinner hour Phyllis glanced often at her dearest friend wondering, almost troubled, at the change that had so recently come over her. Across the wide refectory, two other pairs of eyes were also watching Nan and in the proud face of Muriel Metcalf there was a sneering expression. "How guilty Nan Barrington acts," she said softly to the girl at her side. "She dreads having the truth found out, I suppose," Daisy Wells replied, "but probably we are the only ones who know it and of course we would not tell." Muriel's pale blue eyes turned toward her friend and her brows were lifted questioningly, as she inquired:--"Indeed? Who said that we would not tell?" "I will not," Daisy replied quietly. "My mother has told me to ask myself two questions before repeating something that might hurt another. First, is it kind; second, is it necessary? So, Muriel, why tell, since it is neither kind nor necessary?" Daisy's natural impulses were always good, but she often seemed to be easily led by her less conscientious friend, Muriel Metcalf. "Oh well, you may side with her if you prefer," the other said with a shrug of her shoulders, "but I shall watch her closely tonight and see what she does. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if she went back to the gypsy camp, and, as for telling, I shall do as I think best about that." To herself Muriel added, "If Nan Barrington wins the gold medal at the recital contest next Saturday, it shall be known all over the school before night that she is only a gypsy." Wisely, she said nothing of this to Daisy Wells, whose sense of justice, she knew, would scorn such an act of jealousy. Nan was planning, as soon as she left the dining hall, to go at once to the office of Mrs. Dorsey and ask permission to go out of grounds, and, since she was an honor student, she knew the request would be granted without question. As the girls were sauntering through the corridors after dinner in groups of two and three, Phyllis exclaimed:-- "Well, Nan dear, the wonderful night has arrived at last," and then when her friend's dark eyes were turned toward her questioningly, she added merrily, "Nan Barrington, do you mean to tell me that you have forgotten what we are to do tonight? Why only this morning you said how glad you were that the day had at last arrived." Then it was that Nan recalled the long-planned and much-anticipated theatre party. Madame Reznor was to chaperone her class in dramatics that they might see a noted actor in a Shakespearian play which they were studying. Since the appearance of the gypsy caravan, she had forgotten all else. What should she do? Nan, who had never told a lie, could not say that she was ill or that she did not want to go. "Come, dear," Phyllis was saying, "I will help you dress as we are to start in half an hour. The rest of us dressed before dinner, but though I hunted everywhere, I could not find you." Nan permitted herself to be led to their room and mechanically she let down her long dark hair. Suddenly the thought came to her that she would awaken at dawn and slip out to the camp and then she could ask her gypsy friends if they knew aught of her Manna Lou. Half an hour later, trying to assume a spirit of merriment that she might not mar the joyousness of the others, Nan climbed into the waiting car that was to take them to the city. Muriel watched her go, then turning to Daisy Wells, she said, "Now, you and I are going down to the gypsy camp and find out what it was that Nan Barrington said when she was talking in that queer language." The other girl looked up from the problem that she was trying to solve, as she replied, "No Muriel, I am not going. I promised little Janet that I would help her with her sums tonight. She has been ill and is eager to catch up with her class, and, moreover, I have no desire to spy upon actions of a schoolmate." "Oh, indeed!" Muriel said with a toss of her head and then she added sarcastically, "Aren't you afraid that you will soon be sprouting wings? It seems to me that you have become a saint very suddenly." Daisy had arisen and was gathering up her books and papers as she quietly replied, "No, Muriel, I am not pretending to be better than anyone else, but I like Nan Barrington, no one could help liking her, she is so kind and generous, and I do not in the least care what her ancestry may be. Yes, Janet dear, I'm coming right away," she added to the frail little girl who had appeared in the doorway. Muriel, left alone, put on a long cloak, and, winding a scarf about her head, she went out. Well she knew that it was against the rules to go beyond the seminary grounds at night, but she did not care. Something was all wrong in the heart of Muriel Metcalf, and that something was jealousy which was rapidly becoming hatred. She had so wanted to win the medal of gold, but she knew that Nan Barrington had practiced far more conscientiously. Vaguely Muriel thought that, perhaps, if she could find out something against Nan, she might have her barred from the coming contest. Having reached the gate in the hedge, Muriel peered through, and saw, in the light of the camp fire, the gypsies sitting close about it, for the night was cold. When the girl approached, one of the gypsy women rose and called in greeting, "Ha, pretty leicheen, I feared you were not coming." Then, as the firelight fell on the face of the girl, she added truly disappointed, "but you are not the same. Could she not come, the other little girl?" "No," Muriel replied. "She wished me to say that she had to go into the city." Then eager to obtain the information for which she had come, she added hurriedly, "Nan Barrington tells me that she too, is a gypsy." "Yes, the pretty leicheen is one of us." Then, in a wheedling voice, the gypsy woman said, "Let me tell your fortune, dearie. Cross my palm with silver. I see much happiness for you, but it is far off. First there is trouble. You are trying to harm someone who is your friend, someone who is to do much to help you. You should not do this." Muriel's eyes flashed as she said haughtily. "I did not come here to have my fortune told. Thanks to you I have learned what I wished to know." Then, without another word, she walked rapidly toward the side gate, but her heart was indeed troubled; she could not understand why, or would not, and it was late before she fell asleep. Too, it was late when Phyllis and Nan Barrington returned to their room and Nan's last conscious thought was that she wanted to waken before daybreak that she might visit the gypsy camp. CHAPTER XX. NAN DISAPPOINTED. In spite of her resolve to waken before dawn, Nan did not open her eyes until the sunlight was flooding in at the wide bow window. Springing up, she began at once to dress quietly, and then, with a last glance at Phyllis who seemed to be sleeping she left the room, but her friend had opened her eyes in time to see Nan stealing out so silently. However, this was not unusual, for the gypsy girl, who in her childhood had always been up to greet the dawn, often went to the top of Little Pine Hill to watch the sunrise and to remember many things, and so since it was still too early to dress, Phyllis nestled back for another few moments of slumber. Meanwhile Nan, with the dark cloak wrapped snugly about her, for the morning air was tinglingly cold, hurried across the wide grounds and down to the hedge near the highway, but she paused at the gate and gazed, not at the caravan as she had hoped, but at the charred remains of the camp fire. Her gypsy friends were gone! Truly disappointed, she was about to return when she saw something white pinned to a great pine tree, and wondering what it could be, she slipped through the gate and looked at it more closely. It was a piece of folded wrapping paper addressed to "The Pretty Leicheen." She was sure that it was intended for her. The kind gypsy woman had left some message. Opening it, she read: "We could not wait, dearie. We must be in the next town by noon. A girl from the school came to us last night. She tries to harm you. If you are not happy, come to us. We will be there until tomorrow, Queen Luella." Nan folded the paper again and placed it in her pocket. Then she stood looking down the highway, shining in the sun, and there were many emotions in her heart, but she was most conscious of a loneliness, for once more she had lost a possible opportunity of hearing about her dear Manna Lou. If only she had Binnie, she could gallop after the caravan and soon overtake it, but the pony, that had been her comrade in those other days, was still at San Seritos. Then, with a sigh, she turned back and slowly crossed the school grounds. Happening to slip her hand into the pocket of her coat, she touched the folded paper and then she remembered the message that it contained. What could Queen Luella have meant? She, Nan Barrington, had an enemy? Nan wished harm to no one and she always tried to be kind, then why should there be someone wishing to harm her? "Well, early bird," Phyllis sang out as Nan entered their room, "what did you capture this morning? Wet feet, for one thing." "Right you are," the gypsy girl gaily replied as she threw off the long wrap and sat on a low stool to change her shoes. The cloak fell over a chair and from the pocket a paper fluttered to the floor near Phyllis. Nan hurriedly reached for it and tearing it into small bits, she tossed the pieces into a waste basket. Her friend was indeed puzzled. It was so unlike her room-mate to have secrets. What could it all mean? She wondered as she gazed into the mirror and brushed her long, sunlit hair. Phyllis felt a desire to go to her friend and put her arms about her and beg to be allowed to help if anything had gone wrong, but she did not for she well knew that Nan would tell her if it were something that she wished to share. The gypsy girl said suddenly after several moments of deep thought, "do you think that I have an enemy in this school?" "An enemy? _You_, Nan? No indeed! Everyone loves you! How could they help it? You are always doing nice things for the girls and I never heard you say an unkind word about anyone, so how could you have an enemy?" Phyllis was amazed at the suggestion. Nan rose and laughingly embraced her friend. "Well," she merrily declared, "it is quite evident that you, at least, are not that enemy. Don't think anything more about it. I was sure that I did not have one. Good! There's the breakfast bell." But, try as she might to forget, she could not, and during the morning meal, Nan's glance roamed from one face to another as she wondered who among the pupils of Pine Crest Seminary had, the night before, visited the gypsy camp. CHAPTER XXI. THE POWER OF LOVING-KINDNESS. The next afternoon at four, Nan went down to the music room as it was her hour to practice on the harp, Muriel Metcalf having been there the hour preceding. Before opening the door, Nan listened to be sure that the other young harpist had finished, and, as she heard no sound within, she decided that Muriel had gone, but, upon opening the door, she saw the other girl seated by a table, her head on her arms and her shoulders shaken with sobs. Muriel sprang up when she heard the door close and in her pale blue eyes there was an expression of hatred when she saw who had entered the room. "Dear, what has happened?" Nan Barrington exclaimed with her ever-ready sympathy. Then, putting a loving arm about the girl, she added: "Is there something that I can do to help?" "No, there isn't!" Muriel flung out. "You'll probably be glad when you hear what has happened. That horrid old Professor Bentz told me that if I did not have this week's lesson perfect, he would no longer teach me on the harp. I suppose I am stupid, but I just can't, can't get it, and tomorrow is the day that he comes. I wouldn't care for myself, but my father will be heart-broken. He had a little sister, who played on the harp, and she died. Dad just idolized her, the way he does me. He kept the harp and he is so eager to have me play upon it. I just can't bear to disappoint him." For the moment Muriel seemed to have forgotten to whom she was talking. "Nor shall you," Nan said quietly. "Is this your free hour, Muriel?" "Yes," was the reply. "Why?" "I thought perhaps you would like to stay while I practice. Our lesson is hard this week, but I might be able to help you. Would you like to stay?" Muriel hardly knew how to reply. Judging others by her own selfish standard, she had supposed that Nan would be glad if she were barred from the coming recital, but instead, the gypsy girl was offering to help her master that part which had seemed to her most difficult. "Thank you, I will stay," she heard herself saying, and then she sat quietly near while Nan played the lesson through from beginning to the end. "Now, Muriel," the harpist said, with her friendly smile, "will you play it for me, and then I can better tell which part is your stumbling block?" Patiently Nan showed the other girl how to correct her mistakes, until, at length, a gong rang in the corridor calling them to the study hall. Springing up, the gypsy girl exclaimed: "You did splendidly, Muriel! If I could help you just once more before your lesson, I think that Professor Bentz would have no fault to find with you." Then she added kindly, "You really have talent, dear, but you haven't practiced very faithfully of late. If you wish, I will come with you to the music room this evening during our recreation hour and we can go over it once again." "Thank you! I would like to come," Muriel replied, but oh, what a strangely troubled feeling there was in her heart as she remembered the words of the gypsy woman: "You are trying to harm someone, who will do much to help you." That evening at 7 o'clock the two girls were again in the music room and Muriel played the piece through so well that Nan exclaimed with real enthusiasm, "Dearie, you did that beautifully, especially the part where it seems as though a restless spirit is yearning to be forgiven for something. Really, Muriel, the tears came into my eyes, for you played it with true feeling." Then to the gypsy girl's surprise the little harpist began to sob. "Oh, Nan, I do want to be forgiven for something. You've been so kind to help me and I've been so horrid and mean to you." "Why, Muriel, you have never been horrid or mean to me." "Oh, yes, I have. Only yesterday I was planning to do something that I thought would turn the girls all against you. I was jealous, I suppose, because Professor Bentz always holds you up as a model. Then I overheard you talking to the gypsies and that night I visited their camp and found out that you were one of them, and so I decided that if you won the gold medal I would tell every one in the school about it. There now, don't you call that being mean and horrid?" Nan's joyous laugh rang out, and she gaily exclaimed:--"Oho, so you are the enemy I have been looking for?" Then she added, with sudden seriousness: "My dear Muriel, I am not ashamed because I am a gypsy, and I would gladly have proclaimed it from the top of Little Pine Hill if I had not promised Miss Barrington that I would not." "And you're going to forgive me?" Muriel asked, although she knew the answer before it was spoken. "There is nothing to forgive. Hark! Someone is coming. Who do you suppose that it is?" There was a merry rapping on the door, and then it was opened, revealing two maidens. There was an expression of surprise on the pretty face of the younger girl, but it was Phyllis who exclaimed, "Well, Nan, here you are. I have hunted for you high and low. I just met Daisy in the corridor and she was searching for Muriel." Then, glancing from one expressive face to the other, she added: "What has happened? You girls look as though you had a secret." "So we have," Nan laughingly replied. "I was just going to tell Muriel a story and if you girls will come in and be seated, you too, may hear it." Phyllis, wondering what it all might mean, listened with increasing interest as Nan told about the caravan of Queen Mizella and about the loving kindness of Manna Lou to the little crippled boy, Tirol, and to the little orphan girl whose mother had died so long ago. "I didn't know that there were such good, unselfish women among the gypsies," Phyllis declared, "but, Nan, why are you telling us this story?" "Because I am the orphaned girl," was the quiet reply. "You!" Phyllis exclaimed. "Now I know why you are so wonderful and why you seem to understand the songs of the birds and feel such a comradeship for the trees and sky and all out-of-doors." "Then you don't love me any the less?" the question was asked in half seriousness. "Nan, what do I care who your ancestors are?" Phyllis declared. "It is you whom I love." "Hark!" the gypsy girl said with lifted finger. "The chapel bell is calling us to evening prayer." And then, as she and Muriel were the last to leave the room, she kissed the younger girl as she whispered, "Good night, dear little friend." CHAPTER XXII. THE CONTEST RECITAL. The day of the contest dawned gloriously. During the night pink and golden crocuses had blossomed on the seminary grounds and each bush and tree was a haze of silvery green. In the mid-afternoon two girls stood at an open library window. They were Muriel and Nan and they were waiting their turn at the recital. In the study hall beyond many parents and friends were gathered and with the teachers and pupils of the seminary, they were listening with pride and pleasure to the rendering of solos on violin and piano, while at one side of the platform, a golden harp stood waiting. "Daisy Wells is playing now," Muriel said, "Are you nervous Nan?" "No dearie." Then the older girl exclaimed joyfully, "Do look in the lilac bush! The first robin has come, and now he is going to sing for us. He surely would win the medal if he were to enter the contest." Muriel looked up at the other maiden and slipping an arm about her, she said impulsively, "I love you." Then, before the gypsy girl could reply, the younger harpist was called. "Oh Nan," she said in a sudden panic of fear. "Think of your father, dearie and just play for him." How calming that suggestion had been, and, while she played, Muriel was thinking of the twilight hours when her father had lifted her to his knee, and, holding her close, had told her of that other little girl whom he had so loved, and how lonely his boyhood had been when that little sister had died, and, how like her, Muriel was. "It will be a happy day for me, little daughter, when I hear you play as she did on the harp," he had often said. When the last sweet notes were stilled, there were tears in many eyes, for Muriel, forgetting all others, had played alone for her father. Professor Bentz was amazed and delighted. "I knew she had talent," he said to Mrs. Dorsey, the principal of the school, "but I did not know that she could play like that." When the recital was over, it was to Muriel that the medal of gold was awarded. "Oh Nan, I ought not to take it. You have done it all!" There was a happy light in the eyes of the gypsy girl as she stooped and kissed her little friend. "You played wonderfully dearie!" she said. Just at that moment a maid appeared in the library door, where the performers had gathered. "Miss Muriel," she called, "there is a gentleman here to see you." "It's father!" the little girl cried with eyes aglow. "I do believe that he came for the recital." And she was right. Mr. Metcalf was standing in the small reception room and he caught his little daughter in his arms and held her close for a moment without speaking. He said in a choking voice: "My dream is fulfilled. You play the harp, Muriel, as my sister did." Then he told her that he had long planned to visit her at the school and had timed that visit so that he might be present at the recital without her knowing it. "I think I must have known it, somehow," the happy little girl said, "for I was playing only for you." And Nan Barrington, who had done so much to help Muriel, felt that the winning of the love of her little "enemy" was far more to be desired than the winning of the medal of gold. CHAPTER XXIII. A JOYOUS INVITATION. A month had passed and the orchard back of the school was a bower of pink and white blooms, while oriole, robin and meadow lark made the fragrant sunlit air joyous with song. Gypsy Nan stood at the open window of their room gazing out over the treetops to the highway, and how she yearned for her pony Binnie. She longed to gallop away, away--where, she cared little. Then she thought of the happy ride she and Robert Widdemere had taken three years before, and, sitting down on the window seat, with her chin resting on one hand, she fell to musing of those other days. Again she was a little girl, clad in a cherry red dress and seated in the boughs of the far-away pepper tree which stood on the edge of the Barrington estate in San Seritos. She recalled the sad, pale invalid boy in the wheeled chair, and she smiled as she remembered his surprise when a cluster of pepper berries had dropped on his listlessly folded hands. What splendid friends those two became the weeks that followed, and then there had been that last morning on the mountain top when he had promised that he would always be her friend, come what might. Little had they dreamed that years would pass, and that neither would know what had become of the other. How she would like to see Robert Widdemere. He would be taller and broader, with a dignity of carriage which he surely would have acquired after three years' training in a military academy. How good looking he had been that long ago Thanksgiving morning when he had worn the gypsy costume! At this point Nan's revery was interrupted by Phyllis, who fairly danced into the room. She held an open letter and she gaily exclaimed: "Nan darling, you never could guess what you and I are going to do." "It must be a happy something, by the way you are shining." "Oh, it is the most exciting thing that ever happened in all my life," the other girl exclaimed joyously as she sat on the window seat facing her friend. "It's an invitation that came in this letter, and Mrs. Dorsey has granted us both permission to accept." Nan's dark eyes were wide with wonder. "Am I invited to go somewhere?" she asked. "Please don't keep me guessing about it any longer. Do tell me where." "Well, then, I'll have to begin at the beginning. You have often heard me speak of my cousins the Dorchesters." Nan nodded. "They have been in Florida all winter," she continued, "but now they have returned and have opened up their city home and the tenth of May will be Peggy's birthday and we are invited to her party. It will be on Saturday night, but Mrs. Dorsey said that we need not return to Pine Crest until the following day--and oh, I forgot to tell you! It's a masquerade and we must begin at once to think what costumes we will wear. I have the sweetest May Queen dress! I might wear that with a wreath of apple blossoms in my hair." "Joy, that would just suit you, but pray what shall I wear?" "Oh, Nan, do wear your red and gold gypsy dress. You look just beautiful in that. Say that you will to please me," Phyllis pleaded. "Very well; to please you and also to please myself. I would just love to have an excuse to wear that wonderful shawl that once long ago belonged to my beautiful mother." There was always a wistful expression in the dark eyes when Nan spoke of the mother whom she had never known. "Was your mother--" Phyllis hesitated. Nan turned clear eyes toward her friend. "Was she a gypsy, do you mean? Dearie, I don't in the least mind talking about it. Ask me anything that you wish. The only part that I regret is that I cannot answer anything with real knowledge. I have always supposed that my mother was the one of my parents who was a gypsy. That is what I told Queen Luella, but afterwards, in thinking it over, I wondered if it might not have been my father, or perhaps they both belonged to the band of Queen Mizella, I was not to be told until I was eighteen." After a thoughtful moment Phyllis ventured: "Nan, would you feel very badly if you were to discover that you are not a real gypsy at all; that perhaps your mother for some reason had given you into the keeping of Manna Lou and had died before she returned to claim you? You might have been a Rumanian princess and the throne might have been threatened and it was necessary to hide you." Nan's merry laughter pealed out. "Phyllis, you are trying to steal my thunder, making up exciting tales as you go along. Now you know, dearie, that I have won fame, if not fortune, by improvising impossible fiction, and I do not want to relinquish, even to you, the laurels I have won." Phyllis watching the glowing dark face asked another question. "What do the real Rumanians look like. I mean the ones that are not gypsies. Aren't they very dark and beautiful just as you are?" Nan sprang to her feet and made a sweeping curtsy as she exclaimed dramatically:--"Would that everyone had eyes like yours. But truly, dear," the gypsy girl dropped back into her deep easy chair, "I know no more of the Rumanians than you do. Just what we have learned in our illustrated book on 'Men and Manners of Many Lands.'" "But you haven't answered my question," the fair girl persisted. "Would you be dissappointed if some day it should be discovered that you are white and--." Again Nan laughingly interrupted, making an effort to look in the mirror without rising. "Goodness, am I black?" Then, before Phyllis could remonstrate, Nan continued; "I thought I was just a nice brown or--" Her friend sprang up and kissed her lovingly, then perched on the arm of the chair, she exclaimed warmly: "You have the most velvety smooth olive complexion. Many American girls have one similar, but not nearly as nice, and now, since you do not want to answer my question, we will change the subject." Nan, nestled lovingly against her friend. "Indeed I shall answer your question. I would be very, very sorry if I were to suddenly learn that I am not at all a gypsy. I would feel--well as though I were a stranger to myself or as though my past was a dream from which I had been rudely awakened. I wouldn't know how to begin to live as somebody quite different." Then, as a bell rang and Phyllis arose, Nan concluded: "But we need have no fear of such a sudden transforming, for I _know_ I am a gypsy. Manna Lou never told a lie and she said time and again that the only part of my story that she would or could tell me was that I am one of their own band." Impulsively Phyllis kissed her friend. "If being a gypsy is what makes you so adorable, I wish we had more of your band in our midst." Then after hastily tidying and washing in their very own wee lavatory, arm in arm the two girls went down to the dining hall again, chatting happily about the week-end treat that was in store for them. CHAPTER XXIV. NAN'S FIRST MASQUERADE. The home of the Dorchesters was brilliantly lighted and the little hostess Peggy, who represented a rose fairy, was exquisitely gowned in filmy pink. Her small black mask hung over her shoulder and she was arranging a huge basket of apple blossom sprays in the library when Phyllis, looking like a very lovely May Queen, entered the room. Peggy whirled around and holding out both hands, she kissed her cousin impulsively as she exclaimed: "Oh, I'm so glad that you could come. It's just ages since I saw you last, and ever so many things have happened. Tomorrow morning we'll have a talkfast and gossip for hours, but do tell me who is the room-mate that you asked if you might bring. I just saw her a minute as you came in, but I thought that she was very beautiful, dark like a Spanish of French girl, isn't she?" Then, without waiting for an answer, impetuous Peggy hurried on as a new thought presented itself. "Phyllis you never could guess who is coming tonight. One of our boy cousins whom we haven't seen in just ever so long, but there, I ought not to be calling him a boy, he's so big and good-looking? His mother is staying with us and she talks about her wonderful son all of the time. She plans to have him make a most eligible marriage, but he doesn't seem to care for girls at all. Oh, here comes your friend! Isn't that gypsy costume fascinating?" Nan Barrington was presented to the little hostess and to her mother, who appeared at that moment to assist in receiving, and then the guests began to arrive. Phyllis and Nan retreated to a seat beneath a bank of palms and not far from the hidden musicians. They had on their masks and Nan, who had never before attended a real party of any kind, was interested in all that she saw. Suddenly she caught her friend's hand as she said softly, "Phyllis, will you look at the young man who is just entering! Who do you suppose he is?" "Why, he has on a gypsy costume! That's rather strange, isn't it? Wouldn't it be amusing, Nan, if he should ask you to dance? There are to be no personal introductions, you know. Only close friends of Aunt Lucy's and Peg's are invited, and so, of course, that in itself is sufficient introduction." While Phyllis had been talking a youth dressed as a knight had approached and asked her to join the promenade with him, and so, for a moment Nan was left alone. She did not mind and she sat smiling as she thought how like a play it all was when suddenly she heard someone saying, "Lady Gypsy, will you promenade with me?" Nan sprang to her feet and held out both hands impulsively: "Robert!" she said. "I thought of you the moment that I saw that costume but it isn't the one that you wore so long ago and I never dreamed that it could be you, but your voice--I'm not mistaken in it, am I?" For answer the lad tore off his mask and looked down at the girl with an expression of radiant joy. "Lady Red Bird," the lad exclaimed as he led her back of the sheltering palms, "for three years I have tried and tried to find you. Did you think that I had broken the promise that I made to you high on the mountain? Indeed I have not, and I never will break it. Please remove your mask. I want to know what my sister-comrade looks like after all these years." "Robert, I wish to speak with you." It was the voice of his mother calling softly from an open door near. The lad although deploring the interruption, was too courteous to not heed his mother's request. Hurriedly he said: "I will be back directly. I have so much to tell you and so very, very much that I want to learn about you." He was leading the gypsy girl back to her seat beneath the palm. When he was gone Nan suddenly remembered that in her surprise and joy at finding her old-time comrade she had completely forgotten the promise that she had made his mother three years before on Thanksgiving day. Mrs. Widdemere had then forbidden Robert to ever again speak to the gypsy girl, but before the indignant lad had time to reply, it was Nan who had said: "You need not be troubled, Mrs. Widdemere, for I shall never again speak to one of your kind." Unconsciously she had broken that promise many times, for was not her dearly loved room-mate this woman's niece? Too, even now she had been speaking to her son. Rising, she decided that she must go away somewhere and think what would be the honorable thing for her to do, Just then she saw Phyllis approaching with her partner and, hurrying toward them, she said, "Phyllis, may I speak with you alone for a moment?" Her friend, excusing herself, led the way into a small reception room and closed the door. "What is it, Nan? You look as though something very unusual had happened." The gypsy girl's cheeks were burning and it was plainly evident that she was much excited. "Phyllis," she said hurriedly, "don't ask me to explain now. Please help me to get away at once. Can't I call a taxi and go to Aunt Dahlia? Something has happened and I will tell you all about it to-morrow. Don't worry dear, but I must go." Phyllis believing that her dearest friend was about to be seriously ill, hastened to comply with her wishes. First she explained this fear to Peggy's mother, who at once called their chauffeur and directed him to take Nan to the Barrington residence. It was not late and Miss Barrington and her younger sister. Miss Dahlia, were seated in the library reading when the girl entered. They were indeed surprised, for Nan had called on them not two hours before when she had first arrived in town. "Dearie," Miss Dahlia exclaimed, rising and going toward the girl with outstretched hands "what is it? Are you ill?" "No, not ill, but troubled in spirit," Nan said with a forlorn little laugh. Then she sat on a stool near the two old ladies and told all that had happened. Miss Ursula drew herself up proudly as she said, "Sister Dahlia, why did you not tell me this before? I did not know that Anne had been so humiliated. I shall certainly inform Mrs. Widdemere that a girl whom the Barringtons are proud to adopt as their own is quite worthy to be her son's companion. Anne, if you wish I will return with you to the party. Mrs. Dorchester and I were school-mates long ago." "No, thank you," Nan replied rather wistfully, "I would rather not go back." Meanwhile Robert, having left his mother, who merely wished to introduce him to an heiress, returned to find the seat beneath the palms unoccupied. Nan was gone and though he stood with folded arms and watched the passing dancers, he did not see her. At last he sought the little hostess and inquired what had become of the guest disguised as a gypsy. CHAPTER XXV. NAN'S DECISION. Miss Barrington, who had learned to love Nan as dearly as had her sister, Miss Dahlia, looked admiringly at the beautiful girl, who, having removed her gypsy costume, was clad in a clinging simple white voile. "Anne," she said, "will you play for us? The piano has not been touched in many a day." And so Nan, always glad to please these two, played and sang the selections chosen by the elderly ladies. Suddenly the telephone rang and a maid appeared. "Miss Barrington," she said. Nan ceased playing, and, to her surprise, she heard Miss Ursula replying to someone over the wire, "Yes indeed, you may come. We shall be glad to have you." For some unaccountable reason Nan's heart began to beat rapidly. Could it be Robert who was coming? She wondered as she resumed her playing, but her fingers went at random and then, before it seemed possible, the door bell rang and a moment later Robert in his military uniform, entered the room. He was gladly welcomed by the two old ladies who had known him since he wore knickerbockers and then when Nan went forward and held out her hand as she said in her frank friendly way, "Robert, forgive me for disappearing, but I suddenly remembered that I had promised your mother that I would never again speak to one of her kind, and I do sincerely wish to keep my promises." "But, Miss Barrington," the lad appealed to the elderly woman, "should one keep a hastily made promise when there is no justice in it? I am sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan, and though I regret my mother's attitude, I do not think that I should be influenced by it. If you and Miss Dahlia will grant me permission to be Nan's comrade once more, I will promise to care for her as I would wish another to care for a sister of mine." They were seated about the wide hearth for the evenings were cool. "Robert Widdemere," Miss Ursula said, "if Anne wishes your friendship, we will welcome you into our home whenever you desire to come. We wish Anne to remain at the Pine Crest seminary until June. We are then going to our cottage on the coast of Maine until October, when we will return to San Seritos for the winter." The lad's eyes were glowing. "How I would like to go back there," he said, then, turning to the girl, he added, laughingly, "I suppose Lady Red Bird is too grown now to climb the pepper tree." "I suppose so," Nan replied merrily. "That is one of the penalties of being civilized." Soon the lad rose reluctantly. "I promised Cousin Peggy that I would return for the supper dance at ten o'clock," he said, "and to keep that promise I must leave at once. But, Nan, you have not yet told me that you care to have my friendship." The girl looked thoughtfully into the fire a moment and then replied slowly, "Robert Widdemere, I do want your friendship, but I would be happier if I might have it with your mother's consent." "Then you shall," the boy replied. In the meanwhile Peggy had sought Phyllis. "I don't in the least understand what is happening," she said. "First your friend, disguised as a gypsy, leaves in a panic, then Cousin Robert insists on knowing where she has gone and follows her, and when his mother heard about it, she became so angry that she went at once to her room and bade us tell Robert to come to her the moment he returns. What can it all mean?" "It's just as much a mystery to me, Peg," Phyllis said. "But there comes Robert now. Perhaps he will explain." * * * * * * * * The interview that Robert Widdemere had with his mother on his return from the Barrington home was not a pleasant one for either of them but in the end Robert had said firmly but gently, "I feel sure that my father would approve of my friendship with Nan and, moreover, next summer I will be 21 and I shall consider myself old enough then to choose my own companions. My dad must have expected me to possess good judgment in some degree or his request would not have been that I assume the reins of his business on my 21st birthday." Then, going to the indignant woman, he put his arm about her as he said lovingly, "Mother, dear, I want you to tell me that you are willing that I may be Nan Barrington's friend." "It is a great disappointment," Mrs. Widdemere said, "but, since you are soon to be financially independent of me, I suppose that I might as well give my consent. However, do not expect me to receive that gypsy girl into my home as an equal, for I shall not." * * * * * * * * The next morning Phyllis and her cousin Robert visited the Barrington home and an hour later the lad accompanied the girls to the station where they were to take the train for Pine Crest. Robert had told Nan that he had won his mother's consent to their friendship but he did not tell how reluctantly that consent had been given. The next day the lad returned to the Military Academy where in another month he would complete his training, but each week he and Nan exchanged letters telling of the simple though pleasant experiences of their school life. Nan and Phyllis were to graduate in June and they were happily busy from dawn till dark. It had been the custom for many years at the Pine Crest Seminary for the pupils to make their own graduating dresses by hand. These were to be of dainty white organdie and the two girls, with their classmates, spent many pleasant hours sewing in one room and another. Tongues flew as fast as the needles while each young seamstress told what she hoped the summer and even the future would hold for her. Nan was often thoughtfully silent these last days of school. One twilight Phyllis found her standing alone at their open window watching the early stars come out. "What are you thinking, dear?" she asked. "I was wondering about my own mother," Nan replied. "Next week I will be eighteen and then it was that Manna Lou planned telling me who I am, I never could understand why she did not tell me before, but she said that she had promised, and now, that I might know, I am too far away." "Perhaps your mother was a sister of Manna Lou," her friend suggested. "Perhaps, but come dear," Nan added in a brighter tone, "we are due even now at French Conversation." Nan did not speak again of the mystery of her birth, but she often wondered about it as her eighteenth birthday neared and she longed to know more of her own mother, who must have loved her so dearly. CHAPTER XXVI. NAN'S EIGHTEENTH BIRTHDAY. Nan Barrington's eighteenth birthday dawned gloriously and as soon as they were dressed Phyllis disappeared to return a moment later with an armful of wonderful red roses. "It's a happy birthday greeting from a cousin of mine," she laughingly told the surprised girl. "Oh, are they from Peggy Dorchester?" Nan exclaimed as she took them. Her friend's eyes twinkled. "No," she said "this cousin's name is not Peg. Guess again." Nan's dark eyes were glowing above the beautiful bouquet. "Oh, then they are from Robert. How kind of him to remember my birthday." Lovingly she arranged the fragrant roses in a large green jar and, selecting a bud, she placed it in her friend's belt and fastened another at her own. Then slipping her arm about Phyllis and chatting happily, they went down the broad front stairway to the refectory. When they were returning, half an hour later, Mrs. Dorsey was in the corridor and she smiled lovingly in response to the girls' morning greeting. "Anne," she said, "this is your eighteenth birthday, is it not? Can you spare a few moments for a visit with me?" Nan's face brightened. "Oh yes, indeed, Mrs. Dorsey," she replied. Phyllis went on to the library and the gypsy girl entered the office with the kindly principal. "Be seated, dear," Mrs. Dorsey said. "I have long planned having this visit with you and now that you are soon to leave us, I must no longer delay. Miss Dahlia Barrington, who, as you know, was a schoolmate of mine, told me how you chanced to come into their lives. Miss Dahlia is very proud of you and Miss Ursula is also. I, too, am proud of your splendid accomplishments, Anne. I feel that you have made much progress in the three years that you have been with us and I deeply regret that you are about to graduate. I know nothing of your plans for the future but, if the time ever comes when you wish to be self-supporting, I will be glad to give you a position as a teacher of languages and music for the younger pupils." "Oh, Mrs. Dorsey!" Nan exclaimed gratefully, "how very kind of you to make me such an offer. If Miss Dahlia will permit me to do so, I will gladly start teaching the little ones at the beginning of the fall term. I have hoped that I might find some way to repay my benefactors, for, of course, I have been a great expense to them." Mrs. Dorsey smiled and, as she stood, Nan also arose. "I shall indeed be glad to have you with us, Anne," the kind woman said as she kissed the girl on each cheek, then she added brightly. "Happy birthday, dear, and may each coming year find you as unspoiled and lovable as you are today." Nan flushed happily at this praise and then she sought Phyllis to tell her the wonderful news. "You, a teacher!" her friend cried in dismay. "Oh Nan, I did so want you to go to college with me next year. Your aunts are very rich, I am sure, and I just know that they will not think of permitting you to earn your own living." Nan stood looking thoughtfully out of the open library window. "I would rather be independent," she declared. Then, noting her friend's dismal expression, she laughingly caught her hands as she said, "Well, we won't decide the matter, now. I'll talk it over with Aunt Dahlia when she comes." The two girls spent a happy morning together and in the afternoon Nan said, "I wonder why Aunt Dahlia and Aunt Ursula do not come. They wrote that they would be here early and take us both for a long drive." Another half hour passed and then there was a knock at the door. Nan sprang up joyously. "It's Marie to tell me that my dear aunts have arrived." It was indeed Marie, who held out a yellow envelope as she said, "This telegram just came, Miss Anne. Mrs. Dorsey isn't in, so I thought I'd better bring it right up to you." When the door had again closed, Nan turned toward her friend with startled eyes. "Oh Phyllis," she said fearfully, "do you suppose that Aunt Dahlia is ill?" Then, tearing open the yellow envelope, the two girls read the few words that the message contained. "Miss Ursula Barrington died last night. Miss Dahlia wishes you to come at once." The signature was that of a stranger. "Aunt Ursula dead!" Nan repeated in dazed uncomprehension. "It can't be. It must be a mistake, for only day before yesterday I received a long letter from her and she wrote that she was feeling unusually well." "I fear that it cannot be a mistake," her friend said tenderly, "but you must be brave and strong, Nan, for your Aunt Dahlia will need you to comfort her." "You are right, Phyllis, I will go to her at once. Have I time to get the three o'clock train?" "I think so, dear. You pack what we will need in your satchel and I will go and ask Patrick to bring around the school bus." "Why, Phyllis, are you going with me? Mrs. Dorsey is not here to ask." "I know Mrs. Dorsey would wish me to go with you. I would not think of permitting you to go alone." A few hours later these two girls entered the city home of the Barringtons. The lower hall seemed strangely silent, and at once they ascended the stairway to Miss Dahlia's room. They found her sitting there alone and when they entered she hurried toward the girl whom she so loved. "Oh Nan darling," she said with tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. "I can't understand it. I can't believe that it has really happened. It was all so sudden." The young girl held the feebled old lady in a close embrace, then leading her to a wide lounge, she sat beside her, taking the frail hands in her strong ones. "Dear Aunt Dahlia," she said, "tell me what has happened. Has Aunt Ursula been ill?" "No, not at all. Yesterday morning a business-like looking envelope was in the mail for her. She took it at once to her study and remained there until noon, continually writing, and when at last she came to lunch, she looked worn and haggard, but when I asked her if she felt ill, she said no, and then she did something very unusual for her. She kissed me, saying in an almost pitying tone, 'Poor little sister Dahlia.' "Directly after lunch she returned to her study and continued writing. In the afternoon she sent Dorcas to the postbox with several letters. Last night we sat by the fireplace reading when suddenly her book slipped to the floor. I looked up and saw that she seemed to be asleep. This was so very unusual that I tried to waken her, but could not. "The doctor whom I had Dorcas summon, said that my sister must have had some great and sudden shock. What it could have been, I do not know. I searched in her desk for that business-like envelope, but it was gone." Then leaning against the girl, she added, "Oh, Nan darling, how thankful I am that you came to us so long ago. If I did not have you, I would now be all alone in the world." The girl kissed the little old lady tenderly as she said, "Dear Aunt Dahlia, I, too, am thankful." Half an hour later Nan went to her own room and on her desk she saw a large envelope addressed, "To my beloved niece, Anne Barrington." The writing was Miss Ursula's. CHAPTER XXVII. NAN'S SUDDEN RESPONSIBILITY. With a rapidly-beating heart Nan sat at her desk and opened the large envelope in which there was a letter and another envelope that was evidently the one to which Miss Dahlia had referred as businesslike. "My dear Anne," the girl read, "I am prostrated with grief today and you will not wonder when I tell you that I was wrongly advised by one whom I considered a trustworthy friend, and I invested, not only my own fortune but also Sister Dahlia's in securities that I am now informed are absolutely worthless. "I did this, I assure you, with my sister's permission, for, as you know, she had great faith in my business ability and good judgment. The result is that we are suddenly reduced to straitened circumstances which will necessitate an entire change in our mode of living. "I am indeed glad that our Anne has been able to complete the course of studies at Pine Crest Seminary before this calamity befell us. There is one other thing which in this hour of humiliation and grief is a consolation to me, and that is that our home in San Seritos is in no way effected. It is in my sister's name and cannot be taken from her." A blot followed and then with an evidently shaking hand had been written: "Anne, a sharp pain in my heart warns me that I must cease writing for awhile and rest. I had intended mailing this letter to you, but, remembering that it would reach you on your eighteenth birthday and shadow the happiness which is rightfully yours at that time, I have decided to place it on your desk and when you come on Sunday, you and I will retire to your room and discuss the matter. "As you know, my dear Anne, it is difficult for me to express in words the emotions that I may feel, but I want you to know how proud I am of the little girl who came to us three years ago. You have brought a new happiness into my life and I must confess, that, though my original thought was merely to Christianize one whom I called a heathen, I myself have become more sympathetic and loving, more truly a Christian. "Good night, Anne. If I should be taken away before my dear sister Dahlia, I will go with far greater willingness knowing that you will care for her and comfort her as long as she shall live. "Your loving, Aunt Ursula." The postscript had evidently been written much later. The writing was easily legible. "Anne, another of those sharp heart attacks warns me that I would better place in your care the money that we have on hand. I sent Dorcas to the bank this afternoon to draw it out and I have locked it in my desk; the key I am enclosing. There will be sufficient to care for you and sister Dahlia for at least a year; after that I am sure that my brave Anne will find a way." * * * * * * * * Phyllis quietly entered the room a few moments later and saw Nan seated at her desk, her head on her arms. "Oh, Phyllis," she sobbed, as her friend sat beside her and tried to comfort her, "how Aunt Ursula must have suffered. If only I had been here. Perhaps if we had talked it over together, it might have been a help to her." Nan then gave the letter to Phyllis to read, and after a thoughtful moment, added, "I must be worthy of the trust that splendid woman has placed in me. How glad I am that I will be able to teach. I shall not tell Aunt Dahlia of the financial loss until it is necessary. She is very frail and it might be more than she could stand. Come dear, let us go to her. I do not want to leave her alone." A week later Nan returned to Pine Crest Seminary and Miss Dahlia was with her. Mrs. Dorsey had at once visited the Barrington home and had insisted that her old friend share her pleasant apartment at the school until Nan had successfully passed the final examinations and had received her diploma. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE VALEDICTORIAN. A few days before the closing exercises at Pine Crest Seminary, Phyllis entered their room and exclaimed jubilantly to the girl who was seated at the writing desk. "Nan Barrington, you never can guess who passed with the highest marks and is to be chosen class valedictorian." The other girl looked up brightly. "It was Phyllis Dorchester, I do believe," she declared. "No, indeed. That guess is far afield. The successful maiden is Anne Barrington. There, now, what do you think of that? Mrs. Dorsey just told me and I simply couldn't walk upstairs demurely, I was so eager to tell you. How proud I will be at the closing exercises to see my room-mate standing before a crowded assembly room reading her graduating essay on 'Comrading With Nature.' It's poetry in prose, Nan, and I am glad that you are to read it." "But I will not be here for the closing exercises, and so if that essay is read, you will have to do it for me." "Nan Barrington! Not be here, and the closing exercises less than a week away! Why, where are you going?" "Sit down and I will tell you. I would love to stay, as you well know, if I had only my own wishes to consider, but each day Aunt Dahlia seems to grow more frail. Naturally Mrs. Dorsey and I have been much occupied and Aunt Dahlia has often been left alone with her sorrow in a strange apartment. Each time that I go to her, she clings to me as a frightened child would, and over and over again she tells me that she knows she will be strong again as soon as we are back in the gardens at San Seritos, then she always ends by asking in a pathetic tone, 'Nan, do you think that we will be able to go tomorrow?' and today my answer was 'yes, Aunt Dahlia, we will go tomorrow.'" Phyllis reached for her friend's hand and held it in a sympathetic clasp and tears sprang to her eyes. She knew what a sacrifice Nan was making, for they had often talked of the happy time they would have at their graduation. "How disappointed Robert will be," Phyllis said at last, "but, dear, of course it is right that you should go. How I do wish that I might go with you, but Mother and Dad and I are leaving for England in another month. However, if you remain in California, do not be surprised next winter to see me appearing, bag and baggage." Nan smiled lovingly at her friend. "No one could be more welcome," she said, then she added thoughtfully, "I have indeed a difficult problem to solve for I want to live as economically as we possibly can and yet not disclose to poor Aunt Dahlia the truth concerning the lost fortune." Phyllis sprang to her feet and kissed her friend on the forehead, as she exclaimed, "And you will be able to do it, Nan darling, I'm sure of that! Now I must depart, and you must finish that letter if it is to go on the next mail." When Nan was alone, she continued writing until several sheets of note paper had been covered. She was telling her comrade all that had happened and explaining why she would not be able to attend her own graduating party. Two days later the letter reached Robert Widdemere, and, after reading it, he sat for a long time gazing thoughtfully into space. In another month he would be of age and master of his own actions and possessed of a goodly income. He sprang to his feet at the call of a bugle summoning him to drill, but in his heart there was a firm resolve. CHAPTER XXIX. FAITHFUL FRIENDS. A week had passed and it was nearing the end of June when Miss Dahlia and Nan arrived at the little station of San Seritos. They found Mr. Sperry, the gardener, waiting to take them home in the Barrington car, which had the family coat of arms emblazoned on the door. Nan had written a long letter to this faithful servant and his kindly wife, telling of Miss Ursula's death and also informing them that Miss Dahlia had but little money left, and, would be obliged to dispense with the services of so expert a gardener as Mr. Sperry. Nan had then added that since Miss Dahlia was very frail, she thought best not to tell her of the changed financial conditions, but if Mr. Sperry would accept a position elsewhere, Miss Dahlia would suppose that to be the reason he was leaving her service. When Mr. Sperry read this letter to his wife, he removed his spectacles and wiped them as he said, "Nell, Miss Dahlia is one of God's good women if there ever was one. Mind you the time little Bobsy had diphtheria and you couldn't get a nurse? You'd have died yourself with the care of it all if it hadn't been for that blessed woman coming right down here and staying quarantined in this lodge house where there weren't any comforts such as she had been used to, and now, that she's in trouble, it isn't likely we're going to desert her. No, sir, not us! The Baxters have been at me this month past to work on their place half time, and I'll do it. Then we can raise our own vegetables and plenty for Miss Dahlia besides, in the kitchen garden here and she'll never know but what Miss Nan is paying us a salary regular, just as we always had." "You are right, Samuel," Mrs. Sperry said wiping her eyes with the corner of her blue apron. "We're not the sort to be forgetting past kindness. I'll go up to the big house this minute with Bertha and we'll air it out and have Miss Dahlia's room cheerful and waiting for her." And so when Mr. Sperry saw Nan assisting Miss Barrington to the platform, he hurried forward, and, snatching off his cap, he took the hand the little lady held out to him. It was hard for him to steady his voice as he said, "Miss Dahlia, it's good to see your kind face again. It's been lonesome having the big house closed for so long and it's glad I am to have it opened." Tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of the little old lady. This home-coming was hard, for, during the last two years Miss Ursula had been much changed, more of a loving sister and a comrade. When they reached the house, Mrs. Sperry was on the veranda and Bertha, now a tall girl of eleven, was standing shyly at her mother's side. The doors were wide open, and Nan, glancing in, saw that there were bowls of ferns and flowers in the hall and library. As she greeted Mrs. Sperry, she said softly, "It was very kind of you to do all this." Then the girl assisted Miss Dahlia up the wide front stairs. The gardener's wife called after them "when you've laid off your wraps come down to the dining room. It's nearly noon and I thought you might be hungry after traveling so far." "Thank you, Mrs. Sperry, we will," Nan replied, and tears sprang to her eyes as she thought how loyal these kind people were and with no hope of remuneration. Later, while they were eating the appetizing luncheon which the gardener's wife was serving, Miss Dahlia asked, "Mrs. Sperry, will you see about hiring maids and a cook for us as soon as possible?" The woman glanced at Nan questioningly and that girl hurried to say: "Oh, Aunt Dahlia dear, please don't let's have any just yet. I do want to learn to keep house and the best way to learn, you know, is really to do it. Don't you think so, Mrs. Sperry?" "Indeed I do, Miss Nan," that little woman replied with enthusiasm, "and I'll be right handy by, whenever you need help extra, for cleaning days and the like." Miss Dahlia smiled. "Well dearie," she said, "you may try for a week or so, but at the end of that time, I'm pretty sure that you will be glad to hire a cook and at least one maid." The next morning, when Miss Dahlia awakened, it was to see a smiling lassie in a pretty ruffled white apron approaching her bedside with a tray on which was a cup of steaming coffee and a covered plate of delicately browned toast. "Top o' the morning to you, Aunt Dahlia," the girl laughingly called as she brought a wash cloth and towel and then a dainty lavender dressing jacket and cap. A few minutes later when the pleased little old lady was sitting up among comfortably placed pillows, Nan with arms akimbo, inquired, "Is there anything more ye'll be afther wantin' this mornin', Miss Barrington?" "Oh, Nan darling," the little woman replied brightly, "I truly did think that I wouldn't be able to get on without Norah, but I believe that after all my new maid is going to prove a much handier young person. Have you breakfasted, my dear?" "That I have, Aunt Dahlia, and my head is as full of delightful plans as a Christmas pudding is of plums, but first I wish to ask if I may have your permission to play the game just as I wish." "Indeed you have it without the asking. Get all the amusement that you can get of the experiment, but, Nan dearie, don't you think that you would better reconsider and have at least one house maid?" The girl shook her head and her dark eyes danced merrily as she again returned to Norah's brogue. "And is it discharging me, ye are, on the very fust day of me service wid ye? Arrah, and oi'll not be goin' till ye've given me a fair two weeks' triol." Miss Dahlia smiled happily. What a comfort this gypsy girl was to her. Then suddenly the little woman realized that she had not thought of Nan as a gypsy for a long time. It did not seem possible that this loving and lovable girl could be the same little wild waif who had climbed out of an upper window nearly four years ago because she did not want to be civilized. When the tray was ready to be carried away, the audacious maid stooped and kissed the smiling face of the little old lady as she inquired, "Will ye dress now, or will ye be staying' in bed for the mornin', Miss Dahlia?" "I'd like to remain in bed, dearie, if you are sure that you don't need me to help you around the house. It was a long journey across the continent and now that we are _really_ home it seems so nice to just rest and look out of the window at the garden and the sea." "Good! I'm glad!" Nan exclaimed as she drew the downy quilt over the frail shoulders. "Perhaps you'll return to dreamland awhile. Now, don't forget that you have granted me permission to carry out my plans in my own sweet way." When Nan was gone, the little old lady, resting luxuriously, wondered what her dear child might be planning, and then, truly weary, she again fell into a refreshing slumber. Meanwhile Nan had donned her riding habit and, having visited the barn, she found her Binnie in fine trim. The small horse whinnied joyfully when he beheld his mistress, and Nan, putting her arms about him, caressed him lovingly. Two years before she had written Mrs. Sperry, telling her to permit the children to ride Binnie, and so the small horse had had many a merry canter and had not been lonely. Saddling and mounting her mottled pony, Nan rode down the circling drive to the lodge house. She was about to carry out a plan, which was merely another way to economize and not let Miss Dahlia recognize it as such. CHAPTER XXX. NAN AS HOUSEKEEPER. "Good morning, Mrs. Sperry," Nan called as she drew rein at the door of the lodge. "Could Bertha go up to the house and stay until I have cantered into town and back? Miss Dahlia is still in bed and I have a few purchases to make." Then Nan told her new plan and the gardener's wife replied, "Bertha and Bobsy are in school. They take their lunch and stay all day and my husband works over at Baxters' now till mid-afternoon, so I'll take my basket of darning and go right up to be near Miss Dahlia if she should call." "Thank you, Mrs. Sperry, I won't be gone long and you'll find my room just flooded with sunshine." An hour later Nan returned and soon thereafter a delivery wagon left a bundle at the kitchen door. Mrs. Sperry declared that she could stay all the morning just as well as not. Miss Dahlia did not awaken. Now and then Mrs. Sperry heard the tapping of a hammer from the ground floor where the kitchen and maid's dining room were and she wondered what Miss Dahlia would think of the new plan. At about noon, Nan tiptoed upstairs and the gardener's wife looked up with a welcoming smile. "I'm on the last hole in the last stocking," she said softly. "I'm so glad to have them all done." Then she added, "Is the new plan finished?" The girl nodded. "I do hope Aunt Dahlia will like it," she said. "Nan, dearie," a sweet voice called from the next room, and Mrs. Sperry taking her basket of darned stockings, nodded goodbye and tiptoed away while the girl went to answer the call. "I've had such a restful sleep, dear," the little old lady said, "and now I'll dress and help you prepare our lunch. Really, Nan, I shall enjoy being allowed to go into a kitchen again. You know when I was a girl it was considered both proper and fashionable for a young lady to learn how to cook that she might direct her servants intelligently, if for no other reason, and many times I've wished I might slip down, when the cook was away, and see if I could still make some of the things as my dear mother taught me, but Sister Ursula did not approve. She said one of the maids might see me and think that I was queer." Nan laughed. "What fun we will have, Aunt Dahlia," she declared as she assisted the little old lady to dress, "for, if you will, I would like to have you teach me to cook as your mother taught you." Then, when they were ready to go down stairs, Miss Dahlia said with almost girlish eagerness, "This afternoon we'll go up in the attic. There's a box somewhere up there which is filled with books, and in one of them my mother kept her tried recipes." Nan led the way past the cold, formal dining room, with its polished table and high-backed carved chairs. The little old lay shuddered as she glanced in. "It will be hard to get used to having Sister Ursula's place always vacant," she said. "I knew it would, dear Aunt Dahlia," the girl replied, as she put an arm about the little lady, "and that's why I have planned to have our dining room somewhere else." They had reached the ground floor and the girl opened a door. Miss Dahlia glanced in and then she exclaimed with real pleasure, "Nan, how charmingly you have arranged this little room!" It had formerly been the maids' dining room. It was on a level with the ground. The wide windows opened upon the garden, a lilac bush, close to the house was fragrant with bloom, and a mocking bird, somewhere near, was singing joyously. But it was the inside which had been transformed as though by magic. Nan had scrubbed the creamy walls and woodwork and had hung blue and white draperies at the sunny windows, while at one side stood a high long basket-box of drooping ferns. The table was daintily set with blue bird dishes which Nan had used in boarding school when she had a spread for her friends. There were only two chairs, and, since Miss Ursula had never dined in this room, the loneliness of one gone could not be so keenly felt. "Be seated, my lady," the merry girl said as she drew out the chair that faced the garden. "You are now to partake of the very first meal that your new cook has ever prepared." Miss Dahlia was delighted with the dainty luncheon. Nan chatted joyously, although whenever she was alone, she pondered deeply on how to solve the serious problem that was confronting them. CHAPTER XXXI. NAN'S PROBLEM. That morning when Nan had been in the village of San Seritos, she deposited in the bank the money which Miss Ursula had left in her keeping. The interest from the few thousand dollars would be sufficient, the girl thought, to provide comforts and even some luxuries for Miss Dahlia, but the necessities Nan wished to earn, knowing that if they used the principal, it would soon be necessary to tell Miss Dahlia of the lost fortune, and the home which the little old lady so dearly loved, would have to be sold. Before leaving Pine Crest Nan had talked the matter over with Mrs. Dorsey and that kindly woman had written a letter telling whoever might be interested that in her opinion Nan Barrington was competent to teach the younger children all of the required studies, as well as languages and the harp. The girl was confident that she could obtain a position as governess but that would necessitate hiring a maid or leaving Miss Dahlia alone, and neither of these things did she wish to do. A week had passed when one morning Nan sitting on the sunny veranda reading the paper chanced to see in the want column something which she thought that she would like to investigate. Miss Dahlia was still asleep and Mrs. Sperry gladly took her sewing up to the big house while Nan rode away on Binnie. She had not far to go, for a quarter of a mile down the coast highway was a group of picturesque bungalows about a small hotel called Miracielo. Here each summer wealthy folk from the inland country came and took up their abode. This year it chanced that there were many young children among the tourists, and Mrs. Welton, manager of the exclusive hotel, had advertised for someone who would both instruct and entertain the little guests. Nan was admitted to Mrs. Welton's reception room and almost immediately a pleasant woman of refinement appeared and graciously welcomed the visitor. Nan explained her mission and showed the letter from Mrs. Dorsey. "This is indeed interesting," Mrs. Welton exclaimed. "My niece, Daisy Wells, attends that school and in her letters she has often mentioned Nan Barrington." Then the kindly woman hesitated as though not quite certain that she ought to voice the thought that had come to her. Finally she said: "You will pardon me, I know, for mentioning a matter so personal, but I have always understood that your aunt possessed great wealth. Will she be willing that you entertain these little ones?" Nan, after a moment's thought, decided to tell Mrs. Welton the whole truth and that good woman was much impressed in favor of the girl who was trying in every way to keep the frail Miss Dahlia Barrington from a knowledge of the loss. "It would not be possible for me to come each day to Miracielo," Nan said, "but we have such a delightful rustic house in our garden; do you suppose, Mrs. Welton, that the children might come there each afternoon if I can persuade Aunt Dahlia to think favorably of my plan?" "I do indeed," the pleased woman smilingly agreed. "That is the time when many of my guests desire to rest, and they would be glad to have the children away. If their mothers consent, I can send the little ones to you in our car every day." Nan arose, her dark eyes glowing. "I thank you Mrs. Welton," she said, "and tomorrow I will let you know if I have won my aunt's consent to the plan." That afternoon the gypsy girl broached the subject of the little class almost timidly, and her aunt said lovingly, "But, Nan, darling, don't you realize that all I have is also yours? You do not need to earn money." "Dear Aunt Dahlia," the girl replied with sudden tears in her eyes, "I well know that whatever you have, you wish to share with me, but truly I would just love to try teaching for a short time." "My Nan seems to wish to make many experiments," the little old lady said merrily. "Is not housekeeping enough?" Then, noting an expression of disappointment in the face of the girl, she added, "Bring your flock of children to our garden, if you wish dearie, I, too, will enjoy having them here." And so, the very next afternoon a dozen boys and girls, the oldest not seven, appeared, and though, for a time, some of them seemed shy, Nan soon won their confidence and had them merrily romping on a velvety stretch of lawn which she had chosen for a playground. Then when they were weary, they went into the vine-covered rustic house, and, sitting about the long table, they played quiet games that were both instructive and amusing. After receiving her first week's check, Nan visited the town and purchased books and materials that would assist her in teaching and entertaining her little "guests." Happy times Miss Dahlia and Nan had in the long evenings as they sat in the cheerfully lighted library reading these books, and then they would try to weave a pattern from gaily colored wools or bright strips of paper according to the instructions. The next day that particular pattern would be the one that Nan would show the children how to make. One afternoon Miss Dahlia wandered out to the rustic house during this rest period, and, sitting at one end of the table she assisted a darling five-year-old to make a paper mat of glowing colors. "See, Miss Nan," the little fairy called joyously when the task was done, "see my pitty mat! May I take it home to show muvver?" "Yes indeed, dearies, you may all take home whatever you make," their young teacher told them. "I wish we could make doggies or elphunts," one small boy said. And that night Miss Dahlia and Nan hunted through the books for instructions on "elphunt" making, but failed to find them. Then Nan, not wishing to disappoint the little lad, brought forth scissors and cardboard and after many amusing failures, at last cut out a figure which Miss Dahlia laughingly assured the artist could be recognized as an "elphunt" at a single glance. They then cut out a dozen that the children might each have a pattern. The little boy was delighted because his suggestion had been followed. Nan showed them how to make their card-board animals stand, and soon they had a long procession of rather queerly shaped "elphunts" and dogs all the way down the length of the table. The pleased children clapped their hands gleefully, and one little girl looked up with laughing eyes as she said: "Miss Nan, it's as nice as a party every day, isn't it?" Sometimes the older girl, watching these children of the rich as they romped about on the velvety lawn, recalled another picture of the long ago. A group of dark-haired, dark-skinned, fox-like little creatures scrambling and rolling over each other as puppies do, but, when Nan had appeared, they had left their play and raced to meet her with outstretched arms. How she would like to see them all again. Nan's life was happy but uneventful. The beautiful sunny, summery days passed and Nan's little class never wearied of the "Party-school." Then all at once unexpected and surprising, events followed close, one after another. CHAPTER XXXII. SURPRISING THINGS HAPPEN. It was Autumn once more. The children with their parents had returned to inland homes and the garden no longer echoed with their shouts and laughter. Mrs. Welton had told Nan that the winter tourists from the snowy East would arrive in January and that she would re-engage her at that time if she cared to continue her little class, which the eager girl gladly consented to do. The remuneration had been excellent, and, during the intervening months, Nan planned keeping happily busy with sewing and home-making. The garden was again glowing with yellow chrysanthemums as it had been on that long ago day when the gypsy girl and the little lad Tirol had first found the beach gate and the home which Nan had little dreamed was to be her own. During the summer there had been many letters from Phyllis who was traveling abroad and from Robert Widdemere. Upon leaving the military academy, the lad's first desire had been to cross the continent at once, but, when he found many tasks waiting in his father's office, he believed that he ought not to start on a pleasure trip until these had been in some measure accomplished and it was November before he decided that he could start on the long planned journey. When he told his mother of his decision, she announced that she intended accompanying him and remaining during the winter at their San Seritos home. This was a keen disappointment to the lad, who believed that his mother merely wished to try to prevent, if she could, his friendship with Nan Barrington, but Robert was too fine a lad to be discourteous, and so, on a blustery day, they left the East, and, in less than a week, they arrived in the garden village of San Seritos that was basking in the sunshine under a blue cloudless sky. An hour later, Robert leaped over the little gate in the hedge and raced like a schoolboy across the wide velvety lawns of the Barrington estate. He saw Nan and dear Miss Dahlia in the garden. At his joyous shout, they both looked up and beheld approaching them a tall lad who was jubilantly waving his cap. "It's Robert Widdemere!" Nan said, and then, as he came up and greeted them, she added, "But only yesterday I had a letter from you and in it you said nothing about coming." "I wanted to surprise you, Lady Red Bird," the lad exclaimed. "Isn't it grand and glorious, Nan, to be once more in this wonderful country. I wish we could start right now for a ride up the mountains." "I couldn't go today," the gypsy girl laughingly told him, "for I have something baking in the oven and it cannot be left." "I could tend to it," Miss Dahlia said, but Nan shook her head. "It's a surprise for tomorrow," she merrily declared, "and I don't want even you, Aunt Dahlia, to know what it is." Then turning happy eyes toward the lad, she said, "Think of it, Robert Widdemere, tomorrow will be Thanksgiving day and five years since you and I rode to the mountain top." "Nan, comrade," the boy said eagerly, "let's take that ride again tomorrow, dressed gypsy-wise as we were before, shall we?" "As you wish, Robert Widdemere," Nan laughingly replied. "Thanksgiving seems to be a fateful day for us." A happy hour the young people spent together. Robert wished to hear all that happened and when Nan protested that she had written every least little thing, he declared that it had all been so interesting, it would bear repeating. Suddenly the girl sprang up, holding out both hands as she exclaimed, "Robert, I shall have to ask you to come at some other time. I must look after that something which is baking for tomorrow." The lad caught the hands as he said, "Good-bye, then, I'll reappear at about ten." CHAPTER XXXIII. THE THANKSGIVING RIDE. Thanksgiving morning dawned gloriously, and as Nan stood at her open window looking at the garden, all aglow, at the gleaming blue sky and sea, listening the while to the joyous song of a mocking bird in a pepper tree near, she thought how truly thankful she was that Fate had guided her to this wonderful place on that long ago Autumn day. Miss Dahlia, who with the passing months had regained her strength, surprised the gypsy girl by appearing in the kitchen before that maiden had time to prepare the usual breakfast tray. "Oh Nan darling," the little woman said as she held out both hands. "I am so thankful, so thankful today that I have you. Think how dreary even this beautiful world would be if I were alone in it." The girl, with sudden tears in her eyes, kissed the little old lady lovingly as she replied, "I am the one who is most grateful. No mother could have been kinder to an own child than you have been to me." Then, brushing away a tear from the wrinkled cheeks, she laughingly added, "One might think that we were bemoaning some calamity instead of rejoicing because we have each other." Merrily assuming Norah's dialect, to make the little old lady smile, Nan said, with arms akimbo, "Miss Dahlia, will ye be havin' some cream of wheat with thick yellow cream on it? Bobsy was just this minute after lavin' it." And so it was a happy breakfast after all, and then, at ten o'clock Robert appeared dressed in gypsy fashion, and Nan, in her old costume of crimson and gold, the color of Autumn leaves in the sunshine, rode away with him on her pony Binnie. The lad seemed to be exuberantly happy, as side by side, the two horses picked their way up the rough mountain road. When at last they could ride no further, they dismounted and the lad turning to the girl said with tender solicitude, "Nan, every time that I glanced back without speaking, I caught a sad or troubled expression in your face. Won't you let me share whatever it is that causes you new anxiety?" The girl flashed a radiant smile as she said self-rebukingly. "Truly, Robert, I have no real sorrow. But I am thoughtful, I must confess, and quite without willing it, I assure you. It is as though a thought comes to me from somewhere from someone else to me." Then, knowing that she was not making herself clearly understood, she asked abruptly, "Robert, do you believe in mental telepathy." The lad nodded. "I do indeed," he said. "Several of us cadets at school tried the thing out and the results were positively uncanny." Then with a questioning glance at the dark girl, "Why, Nan, do you believe that you are receiving a telepathic communication?" "Oh, I really don't know that I mean anything half as high sounding as all that. But what I do know is this. It doesn't matter where my thoughts may start, they always wind up with wondering where Manna Lou is. I am continually asking myself a question which I cannot answer. "Will Manna Lou be remembering that I am now eighteen; indeed almost nineteen, and will she try to locate me that she may keep her long-ago-made promise to my mother?" The lad looked into the dark eyes that were lifted to his. "Nan dear," he said very gently, "would you be greatly disappointed if this Manna Lou should find you and if the tale she has to reveal, should prove to be that you are not a gypsy girl at all." This was very like the question he had asked her in the long ago. Her answer had not changed. Clearly she looked back at him. "Robert Widdemere," she said unhesitatingly, "all these years I have believed my mother to be a gypsy, and I have loved her as one. It would be very hard for me to change the picture, O the beautiful, beautiful picture I have in my heart of her!" The lad, gazing into the glowing face could not resist saying, "Lady Red Bird, it is you who are beautiful." But Nan, unlike many other girls, was not confused by so direct a compliment. She replied simply. "I hope I am like my mother." The lad could wait no longer to tell the dream which had made his summer bright with hope. "Nan," he cried, "nearly four years ago we stood on this very rock looking down over the valley and I asked you to let me be your brother-comrade." Then, taking both of her hands, his voice trembling with earnestness, he continued. "And now, Nan, I have brought you here to this same spot to ask you to be my wife." Then, as she did not at once reply, Robert hurried on, "I know now that I loved you, even then, but we were too young to understand." "Thank you, Robert Widdemere!" the girl replied. "I too care for you, but I could not marry you without your mother's consent." And with that answer, the lad had to be content. After a moment's silence, Nan caught his arm and pointed to the highway far below them. "Robert," she said, "years ago as we stood here, we saw a strange car entering your grounds and in it was your mother who separated us for so long; and today, a strange car is entering the Barrington grounds. Who do you suppose has come to pay us a visit?" "No one who can separate us again, Nan comrade," the lad said earnestly, "for no living creature can." CHAPTER XXXIV. A HAPPY SURPRISE. The gardener's boy came on a run to take Binnie when Nan Barrington dismounted, and then the girl holding out her hand to her companion said, "Good-bye, Robert Widdemere. I would ask you to dine with us since it is Thanksgiving, but I know that it is right that you should be with your mother." "But I'll be over by mid-afternoon, Nan," the lad earnestly replied, "and I shall ask you again the same question that I did this morning, but it will be with my mother's consent. Good-bye, dear, brave comrade." As Nan turned into the house, she noticed a handsome car standing in the drive. For the moment, she had forgotten the visitor about whom they had wondered. Her heart was heavy with dread. What if it were someone who had come to tell Miss Dahlia about her lost fortune. As she entered the wide hall, Miss Dahlia appeared in the library door and beckoned to her, and so the beautiful girl, dressed in crimson and gold, her cheeks flushed, her dark eyes glowing, accompanied her aunt, who seemed very much excited about something. A tall, elegant gentleman was standing near the hearth. "Monsieur Alecsandri," the little lady said, "this is the gypsy girl for whom you are searching. This is my Nan." Unheeded the tears rolled down the wrinkled cheeks of Miss Dahlia as the stranger, with evident emotion, stepped forward, and held out both hands to the wondering girl, "And so you are Elenan, my dear sister's little daughter." Nan looked, not only amazed, but distressed. "Oh, sir," she cried, "you are not a gypsy. My mother, wasn't she a gypsy after all?" Tears sprang to her dark eyes and the hand which Miss Dahlia held was trembling. The gentleman seemed surprised, but the little old lady explained, "Our Nan has been picturing her mother and father all these years as gypsies, and it is hard for her to change her thought about them." The man advanced and took the girl's hands, and looking down at her earnestly, he said sincerely: "I am glad to find that you are not ashamed of your father's people, for he truly was a gypsy. He was Manna Lou's only brother. Now, if we may all be seated I will tell you the story. Your mother was born in a grey stone chateau overlooking the Danube River. Our father died when she was very young and our mother soon followed and so my orphaned little sister was left to my care. I thought that I was doing my best for her when I had her instructed in languages and arts, and then, just as she was budding into a charming and cultivated young womanhood, I had her betrothed to a descendant of Prince Couza. "Other Rumanian young ladies envied my sister the social position which this alliance would give her, but Elenan begged me not to coerce her to marry a man whom she did not love. I was stern and unrelenting. All too late I learned that my sister loved Romola, a gypsy musician who was so rarely gifted that as a boy he had often played at the court for the king and queen. From them he had received many favors. He was placed in a monastery school to be educated, and, at his request, his younger sister Manna Lou was placed in a convent where she learned many things that other girls of her race never knew, but when they were old enough to do as they wished, gypsy fashion, they returned to the roaming life which was all that their ancestors had ever known. "Often, Romola played the small harp he had fashioned in the court of Prince Couza, and it was there my sister met him. They loved each other dearly and were secretly married. I was away in another part of the country at the time, and, when I returned they had been gone for a fortnight. I searched everywhere for the gypsy band to which Romola belonged, but no one knew where it had gone." The gentleman looked thoughtfully at the girl for a moment and then he continued: "I never fully abandoned the search, but, not knowing that they had come to America, I followed clues that led nowhere. I now know what happened. The son of Queen Mizella, fearing arrest for some misdeed, crossed the ocean to America and with them was my sister disguised as a gypsy. "But on the voyage over your father Romola sickened and died. My poor sister was heart-broken and lived only long enough to give birth to a daughter, whom she left in the care of Manna Lou. She asked that kind gypsy woman to bring you up as one of her own band until you were eighteen. Then as your mother knew, you would inherit her share of the Alecsandri estate, and she asked Manna Lou, if it were possible when you reached that age to take you back to Rumania and to me. This, of course, the faithful gypsy woman could not do, but, with her band, she returned last summer and came to tell me the story. I had long grieved over my sister's loss not knowing to what desperation I had driven her, and so I at once set sail for America in search of her child. All that Manna Lou could tell me was that you had left the caravan near San Seritos, in California. When I arrived here and made inquiries, I learned that a gypsy girl had been adopted five years ago by Miss Barrington, and now, my quest is ended. I have found my sister's little girl." Before Nan could reply. Miss Dahlia, glancing out of the window, exclaimed: "Nan, darling, Robert Widdemere is coming, and his mother is with him." The girl sprang up. "Aunt Dahlia, Monsieur Alecsandri, if you will excuse me, I will admit Mrs. Widdemere and Robert. I would rather meet them alone." And so, before the lad had time to lift the heavy carved knocker, the door was opened by Nan. After a rather formal greeting, she led them into a small reception room. It was hard for her to understand why Mrs. Widdemere had come, and she still felt dazed because of all she had so suddenly learned of her own dear mother. "Won't you be seated?" the girl heard herself saying. Then to her surprise, Mrs. Widdemere, who had always so disliked her, took both of her hands, as she said "Miss Barrington, can you ever forgive me for the unkind way that I have treated you? My son has been telling me what a splendid, brave girl you are, and when I compare with you the one I wanted him to marry, how sadly she is found wanting. Only yesterday I received a letter telling me that she had left her mother, who is in deep sorrow, to accompany a party of gay friends on a pleasure trip to Europe. You cannot think how glad I am that my son did not heed my wishes in this matter." Nan listened to this outburst, as one who could hardly comprehend, and for a moment she did not reply. Then she asked slowly, "Mrs. Widdemere, do I understand that you are now willing that your son should marry a gypsy girl?" "Oh, Miss Barrington, Nan, what matters one's ancestry when the descendants of noble families are themselves so often ignoble? I have been a vain, foolish woman, but I know that true worth counts more than all else. If you can't forgive me, because I wish it, then try to forgive me for the sake of my son." Tears gathered in the dark eyes of the girl, as she said, "Mrs. Widdemere, first I had a kind gypsy-aunt, Manna Lou, then two dear adopted aunts and no one could have been more loving than they, but now, at last, I am to have someone whom I can call 'mother.'" "Thank you dear," the woman said, "I shall try to deserve so lovely and lovable a daughter. Robert, my son, you and I are much to be congratulated." The lad, who had been standing quietly near, leaped forward and catching the hands of the girl whom he loved, he said joyously. "Nan, darling, let's have our wedding tomorrow out under the pepper tree." The girl smiled happily, and then, suddenly remembering the waiting visitor, she said, "Mrs. Widdemere, I would like you and Robert to meet my uncle, who has just arrived from Rumania." "A Rumanian gypsy," the lady was thinking, as she followed the girl. "That country is full of them." A moment later, after greeting Miss Dahlia, she saw an elegant gentleman approaching and heard Nan saying, "Mrs. Widdemere, may I present my uncle, Monsieur Alecsandri?" "Your uncle, Nan?" that lady exclaimed. "Surely this gentleman is not a gypsy." "No, indeed, madame, I am not, but I am proud to be the uncle of this little gypsy girl." He placed his hand lovingly on the dark head. "Elenan is my sister's child, but her father was Romola, one of the handsomest and most talented of gypsies." Then, that Robert and his mother might clearly understand, the story was retold from the beginning. The lad leaped forward, his hands outheld. "Oh Nan," he cried, "how glad you are that after all you are a real gypsy." Then he thought of something and turning toward the gentleman, he said in his frank, winning way. "Monsieur, Nan and I were to have been married soon. May we have your consent?" The foreigner, although surprised and perhaps disappointed if he had hoped his sister's daughter would return with him, was most gracious. "If the very kind woman with whom I find our Elenan has given her permission, I also give mine." There were sudden tears in the gentle eyes of the older woman. She had known of course, that some day these two would wed, but now, how could she live without Nan? Her hesitation was barely noticeable, then she said bravely. "I shall be proud, indeed, to have Robert Widdemere for a nephew." Nan, noting the quivering lips, took her benefactress by the hand as she said brightly; "Oh, Aunt Dahlia, what do you think? I forgot our Thanksgiving dinner." "But I didn't forget it!" that little lady quite herself again replied. "Mrs. Sperry has been in our kitchen all of the morning, and here she comes now to announce that dinner is ready for us and our three most welcomed guests." Nan's cup of joy seemed full to the over-flowing but the day held for her still another happiness. CHAPTER XXXV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL. On Thanksgiving afternoon Robert again said, "Nan, comrade, can't we be married tomorrow out under our very own pepper tree." "Son," Mrs. Widdemere smilingly protested, "what an uncivilized suggestion for you to make." "That's the very reason why I wish it," the lad replied. "Five years ago Nan and I met out under that tree and we both declared that we wanted to be uncivilized. I remember that I was pining to be a wild Indian or a pirate, but instead, we have both spent the intervening years in polishing our manners and intellects." Then turning to the girl, he pleaded, "Lady Red Bird, let me have my own way just this once, and then you may have your own way forever after." Nan laughed happily. "But Robert," she said, "ought there not to be a trousseau before one is married?" "Elenan." It was Monsieur Alecsandri who was speaking. "I was so confident I would find you, that I brought a trunk full of garments that were your dear mother's. It was the trousseau which I had provided for her when I betrothed her to a descendant of Prince Couza. The gowns are the loveliest that I could procure, but they were never worn." "Oh, Uncle Basil." (He had asked the girl to call him by his Christian name.) "How glad I shall be to have them." "But, Nan comrade," Robert repeated, "you have not yet said that I may plan our wedding and our trip away." The girl looked at the lad who was seated on the lounge at her side and said brightly, "Robert, you plan it all and let it be a surprise for me." Nan noticed that during the hour that followed Robert glanced at his watch and several times walked toward the window and gazed out toward the highway. "Why are you so restless, son?" his mother had just inquired, when wheels were heard in the drive, and soon after the call of the heavy iron knocker resounded through the house. Robert half arose, but sank back to the lounge when he saw Mrs. Sperry going to the front door. "Who can it be?" Little Miss Dahlia was quite in a flutter, but Nan had heard a voice inquiring if Miss Anne Barrington was at home? With a cry of joy Nan sprang forward and held the newcomer in a long and loving embrace. "Phyllis, I can't believe that it is you!" she cried as she stood back to survey the pretty, laughing face of her dearest friend. "Why, it seems too much like a story book to be really true." Then she led the newcomer into the library where she was gladly welcomed by all who knew her and introduced by Nan to "my uncle, Monsieur Alecsandri." Phyllis, who never had believed that her room-mate was really a gypsy, took the arrival of an aristocratic uncle quite as a matter of course, and when they were all seated, Nan, still curious, exclaimed: "Do tell me how you happened to know that it was time to come to my wedding." Phyllis looked up at Robert with a mischievous twinkle in her blue eyes. "Shall I tell?" she asked. "I'll tell," that lad replied. "Last week I wired my fair cousin to board a train at once for the West if she wished to attend our wedding which I hoped would be solemnized on Thanksgiving day." "Robert! How could you invite a guest to our wedding before you had asked me to marry you?" Nan laughingly declared. "It was rather presumptuous," the lad confessed, "but all's well that ends well." Monsieur Alecsandri accepted Miss Barrington's invitation to remain in her home, and Phyllis spent the night with Nan, for they had much to talk about. The latter maiden often fell to wondering what Robert's surprising plan was for their wedding. CHAPTER XXXVI. NAN'S TROUSSEAU. The wedding day dawned gloriously. The two girls were up early and as soon as they were dressed, Nan drew her friend to the wide open window and they looked out at the garden, where masses of yellow chrysanthemums were glowing in the sunlight. Beyond, the wide silvery beach was glistening, and, over the gleaming blue water a flock of shining white sea gulls dipped and circled. Silently the two girls stood with arms about each other, and, in memory, Nan was again in the long ago. She was watching two children dressed in gypsy garb as they stood near the rushing, singing fountain. One was a dark, eager-eyed girl of thirteen, and the other was a mis-shapen, goblin-like boy of ten. Tirol, dear little Tirol. How he had loved her, how he had clung to her! Tears gathered in the girl's eyes as she thought of the little fellow and she hoped that, somehow he might know what a happy day this was to be for his dear Sister Nan. "Look yonder!" Phyllis laughingly exclaimed, "Here comes a mounted messenger at full speed." "It's Bobsy, the gardener's son," Nan said. "He has been for an early ride on my Binnie." The boy, chancing to see the two girls at the upper window, waved a letter, and, believing that he wished to give it to them, they went downstairs and out on the veranda. The boy's freckled face was beaming. "Mr. Robert sent this over," he said jubilantly, "and he gave me a five dollar gold piece toward my new bicycle." Then away the boy galloped to tell this astounding news to his mother, while Nan opened the letter and read: "Good morning to you, Lady Red Bird. Can you believe it? This is our wedding day! I want to shout and sing, but I have much to do before that most wonderful of all hours, today at high noon. "Since you promised that I might plan everything, I am asking my Nan to be dressed in gypsy fashion. Then your kinsfolk and my kinsfolk are to meet under the pepper tree as the bells of the old mission tell the hour of noon. Last night as I went through the hedge, I told our tree the great honor that was to befall it, and this morning the birds in it are singing a riotous song of joy, and I am sure that the pepper berries are redder than ever before. "Then, at two o'clock will come the real surprise and the beginning of our joyous journey. Nan comrade, may I prove worthy of you! "Your "Robert." After breakfast Aunt Dahlia, Phyllis and Nan were wondering what the bride would wear for a wedding gown, when Monsieur Alecsandri returned from the station, whither he had gone at an early hour. A few moments later an expressman brought a trunk which was carried to Nan's room. Then her uncle Basil smilingly handed her a key as he said: "Elenan, do me the honor of wearing one of the gowns that were prepared for your mother's wedding." Nan was indeed puzzled to know how she could please her uncle Basil, and yet keep her promise to Robert. When the trunk was opened and the garments which it contained had been spread about on bed, lounge and chairs, Nan turned to the older lady, her dark eyes aglow as she said, "Aunt Dahlia, dear, did you ever see fabrics more beautiful?" "This one is especially lovely," the little lady said as she smoothed the folds of a soft, white silk. "I wish you would try it on, dearie." And then, when the girl stood arrayed in the gown, Phyllis exclaimed, "Nan, that surely was made for your wedding dress." "But, Phyllis, you are forgetting Robert's request." "No, I am not," the other maid laughingly replied. Then for a moment she looked about the room thoughtfully. Spying the gorgeous scarlet and gold shawl, which in the long ago Manna Lou had given the girl, she took it and threw one fringed corner over Nan's left shoulder, fastening it in front at the belt. Then, winding it about her waist, another point hung panelwise to the bottom of her skirt. The spangled yellow silk handkerchief was twined about the dark hair, and the picture reflected in the mirror was truly a beautiful one. "Tres charmante!" Phyllis exclaimed jubilantly. "Now, let me see, there should be something old and something new, something borrowed and something blue. The dress is new, to us anyway; that gorgeous shawl is old. I'll loan you a handkerchief with a yellow and crimson border, and now, what shall you wear that is blue?" Miss Dahlia slipped from the room to return a moment later with a velvet box which she handed to the girl she so loved. "My mother gave it to me when I was eighteen," the little lady said, "and I want to give it to my Nan on her wedding day." The dark head and the fair bent eagerly over the box and when the cover was removed, the two girls uttered exclamations of joy. "Oh, how lovely, lovely!" Phyllis cried as she lifted a sapphire necklace and clasped it about the throat of the happy Nan. A busy morning was spent by the two girls, and, as it neared noon, Nan resplendently arrayed, looked up at Phyllis as she said, "I wonder where Aunt Dahlia is. She hasn't been here for half an hour past. Perhaps she is in her room. Wait dear, and I will see." Miss Barrington's door was closed. Nan, after tapping, softly opened it. Miss Dahlia, with folded hands, was seated by the wide window gazing out at the sea and in her sweet grey eyes there was such a wistful loneliness. She looked up, as the girl entered, and smiled faintly, then her lips quivered and the tears came. "Oh, Aunt Dahlia, darling! How selfish I have been!" Nan cried, as heedless of her white silk dress, she knelt by the little woman and put her arms lovingly about her. "I never thought! Perhaps you didn't want me to get married. But it isn't too late, Aunt Dahlia, if you do not wish it." "Dear little girl," the old lady said tenderly, "of course I want you to be married. If I had searched the world over, I could not have chosen a lad whom I would like better. It is I who am selfish. I was fearing that Robert would take you away, and I don't want to lose my Nan." "Lose me, Aunt Dahlia? Do you think that I would let you lose me? You are dearer to me than all the world, and where I go, you shall go, but we will always come back, won't we dearie, back to our garden-all-aglow where we have been so happy. Hark, the first stroke of the mission bells is telling that it is noon, and we must not be late at our very own wedding. Yes, Phyllis we are coming." Monsieur Alecsandri was waiting for them in the library. Together they started along the flower bordered path toward the pepper tree, and Nan's wedding music was the joyous song of the birds. CHAPTER XXXVII. NAN'S WEDDING. The ceremony was a simple one, but the solemnity, which Mrs. Widdemere feared would be absent, seemed to be enhanced by the peaceful beauty of the surroundings. All was hushed, not a bird sang nor a breeze stirred as reverently the two, arrayed as gypsies spoke the sacred words that made them man and wife. Then, when the rector from St. Martin's-by-the-Sea had kissed the bride and congratulated the radiant Robert, he departed, leaving the kinsfolk alone. Nan turned first of all toward the little old lady in the silvery grey gown, who was smiling through tears, and she said joyously, "Aunt Dahlia darling, instead of losing your gypsy girl you have gained a gypsy boy." Then going to Mrs. Widdemere, Nan kissed her affectionately and said very softly, "Mother." Then turning to Monsieur Alecsandri she asked gayly, "Uncle Basil, what do you think of your nephew? Is he not a good looking Romany rye?" That stately gentleman shook hands with Robert as he replied: "In Rumania there is not one who can excel him in manliness, and I know that he will care for my dear sister's little girl as I would wish her cared for. I am indeed thankful, Elenan, that I arrived in time for your wedding. This afternoon I shall start on my homeward journey, hoping that in another year my niece and nephew, Mrs. Widdemere and Miss Barrington, will honor me with a long visit." Then he added earnestly, "Elenan, always remember that your mother's birthplace on the Danube River is as much your home as it is mine." Then Mrs. Widdemere invited them through the gate in the hedge and, to their surprise, there on the other side, still under the spreading branches of the great old pepper tree, was a bare board table on which an appetizing lunch was spread gypsy-wise. It was one o'clock when the feast was over. Robert, for a moment alone with Nan, said softly, "Little wife, put on that old gypsy dress now, for at two we will start on our trip away for a fortnight." The girl looked up with a radiant smile as she said, "It shall be done, my husband." The intervening hour was a busy one, for Monsieur Alecsandri took his departure, and then Nan, with the help of Phyllis, packed the few things she would need. Hearing a soft footfall back of her, the gypsy girl whirled about and caught Miss Barrington in her arms and held her in a long, loving embrace. "I'm so happy, Aunt Dahlia, so happy," she said, "and just think what I would have missed from my life if you had not wanted to keep that wild little gothlin five years ago. I would never have had you to love, nor my best friend," the girl hesitated, and then with laughing eyes she added, "nor my husband." "Hark!" Phyllis said. "I hear tinkling bells outside. What can it be?" "It's a gypsy van," Nan cried joyfully, "and Robert is driving. That is the surprise and surely a delightful one." Five minutes later these two joyful gypsies started away in a covered wagon, two horses in the lead, and Binnie, and Robert's saddle horse, Firefly, trailing behind. Phyllis was to remain with Aunt Dahlia during the fortnight and together they stood on the veranda waving until the gypsy van had turned into the highway. Nan looked up at the driver as she said happily, "Robert, this is a wonderful surprise." Then she added with sudden wistfulness, "I wish Manna Lou might have been at our wedding, but Uncle Basil promised to tell her all about it and give her my grateful love." They were slowly ascending the mountain road, and, when they reached the ridge, Robert drew to one side and stopped. "Nan comrade," he said, "I want to climb to the top, for, somehow, it seems as though that peak must be our shrine for thanksgiving." Then, when they reached the boulder where they had stood twice before, the lad took both of the girl's hands and looking into the dark glowing eyes, he said, "Elenan may be a fine Rumanian lady, if she wishes, but the comrade whom I love and always shall love is my dear, brave little wife, Gypsy Nan." Then together, hand in hand, they went down the trail and soon the tinkling of bells was heard as the gypsy van slowly crossed over the ridge and down another mountain road, where, at sunset, these two would make camp in a picturesque canyon called Happy Valley. * * * * * * Transcriber's note: A Table of Contents was added for the convenience of the reader. Obvious typographical errors were corrected without note. Inconsistent proper names were made consistent. Non-standard spellings and dialect were left unchanged. 
39641	----	[Illustration: Cover] GEORGINA'S SERVICE STARS [Illustration: "If anyone comes along I begin knitting."] GEORGINA'S SERVICE STARS BY ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON _Author of "Georgina of the Rainbows," "Two Little Knights of Kentucky," "The Giant Scissors," "The Desert of Waiting," Etc._ _Illustrations by Thelma Gooch_ "For the deed's sake have I done the deed." --"Idylls of the King." NEW YORK BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY Copyright, 1918 BRITTON PUBLISHING COMPANY, INC. Made in U. S. A. All rights reserved. _To THOSE BEHIND THE SERVICE FLAGS_ _whose part in this world-struggle can never be chronicled. Their sacrifices are unnumbered and their wounds are within._ _To the silent Heroism which shoulders the double load and faces the loneliness undaunted._ _To the Patriotism which, denied the sword, takes up whatever weapon lies at hand and wields it valiantly at home._ _To the Love which "beareth all things, endureth all things," that in its "Service Stars" may be written a righteous destiny for the Nations, and the prophecy of a lasting peace._ CONTENTS PART I CHAPTER PAGE I. GEORGINA BEGINS HER MEMOIRS 13 II. THE MISUNDERSTOOD 'TEENS 26 III. IN THE SHADOW OF WAR 37 IV. HER IDEAL GIRL STEPS IN 46 V. A PHOTOGRAPH AND SOME DAY-DREAMS 56 VI. THE ONE AND ONLY STAR 66 VII. A MODERN SIR GARETH 79 VIII. DISILLUSIONED 91 IX. SEVEN MONTHS LATER 104 X. AT HARRINGTON HALL 116 XI. THE MIDSHIPMAN HOP 126 XII. "SHOD GOES SURE" 140 XIII. A WORK-A-DAY VACATION 151 PART II XIV. THE CALL TO ARMS 163 XV. "THE GATES AJAR" 173 XVI. HOME-COMINGS 184 XVII. BACK WITH THE OLD CROWD 198 XVIII. A WAR WEDDING 210 XIX. THE VIGIL IN THE SWING 224 XX. THE HIGHWAY OF THE ANGELS 238 XXI. "PIRATE GOLD" 243 XXII. "THE MAID WHO BINDS HER WARRIOR'S SASH" 257 XXIII. MARKED ON THE CALENDAR 267 XXIV. BRAVE LITTLE CARRIER PIGEON! 277 XXV. "MISSING" 289 XXVI. "THE SERVICE OF SHINING" 300 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS "If anyone comes along I begin knitting"--_Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE "I don't think compliments are good for the male mind" 56 Richard salutes "Sallie Jane" 216 "Lieutenant Richard Moreland Missing----" 298 BARON: "What guerdon will ye?" GARETH: "_None._ For the deed's sake have I done the deed." --_Idylls of the King._ GEORGINA'S SERVICE STARS PART I "_My salad days, when I was green in judgment._" GEORGINA'S SERVICE STARS CHAPTER I GEORGINA BEGINS HER MEMOIRS UP the crooked street which curves for three miles around the harbor comes the sound of the Towncrier's bell. It seems strange that he should happen along this morning, just as I've seated myself by this garret window to begin the story of my life, for it was the sound of his bell five years ago which first put it into my head to write it. And yet, it isn't so strange after all, when one remembers the part the dear old man has had in my past. "Uncle Darcy," as I've always called him, has been mixed up with most of its important happenings. That day, when I first thought of writing my memoirs, was in Spring house-cleaning time, and I had been up here all morning, watching them drag out old heirlooms from the chests and cubby-holes under the rafters. Each one had a history. From one of the gable windows I could look down on the beach at the very spot where the Pilgrims first landed, and away over on the tongue of sand, which ends the Cape, I could see the place where they say the old Norse Viking, Thorwald, was buried nine hundred years ago. From this window where I am sitting, I looked down as I do now, on the narrow street with the harbor full of sails on one side and the gardens of the Portuguese fishermen spread out along the other, like blocks in a gay patchwork quilt. I remember as I stood looking out I heard Uncle Darcy's bell far down the street. He was crying a fish auction. And suddenly the queer feeling came over me that I was living in a story-book town, and that I was a part of it all, and some day I must write that story of it and me. I did not begin it then, being only ten years old at that time and not strong on spelling. It would have kept me continually hunting through the dictionary, or else asking Tippy how to spell things, and that would have led to her knowing all. Her curiosity about my affairs is almost unbelievable. But there is no reason why I should not begin it now. "The Life and Letters of Georgina Huntingdon" ought to make interesting reading some of these days when I am famous, as I have a right to expect, me being the granddaughter of such a great Kentucky editor as Colonel Clayton Shirley. To write is in my blood, although on the Huntingdon side it's only dry law books. I am going to jot down all sorts of innermost things in this blank book which will not be in the printed volume, because I might pass away before it is published, and if any one else had to undertake it he could do it more understandingly if he knew my secret ambitions and my opinion of life and people. But I shall bracket all such private remarks with red ink, and put a warning on the fly-leaf like the one on Shakespeare's tomb: "Cursed be he who moves these bones." He would have been dug up a thousand times, probably, if it had not been for that, so I shall protect the thoughts buried here between these red brackets in the same way. "Cursed be he who prints this part From the inmost sanctum of my heart." Up to this time there has been little in my life important enough to put into a record, so it is just as well that I waited. But now that this awful war is going on over in Europe, all sorts of thrilling things may begin to happen to us any minute. Father says there's no telling how soon our country may be fighting, too. He thinks it's shameful we haven't been doing our part all along. As he is a naval surgeon and has been in the service so many years, he will be among the first to be drawn into the thick of danger and adventure. I am old enough now to understand what that will mean to us all, for I am fifteen years and eleven months, and could easily pass for much older if Barby would only let me put my hair up. Barby is the dearest mother that ever lived, and I wouldn't for worlds appear to be criticizing her, but she _is_ a bit old-fashioned in some of her ideas about bringing up children. I believe she and Tippy would like to keep me the rest of my mortal life, "standing with reluctant feet where the brook and river meet," regardless of the fact that I am all ready to wade in and fully able to do so. I asked Tippy why nobody ever quotes that verse farther along in the poem, which exactly expresses my sentiments: "Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?" It stumped her to think of an answer for a moment, and she made an excuse of putting the cat out, in order to give herself more time. But when she came back all she had found to say was that I needn't think being grown up was any field Elysian. I was eating my white bread now, and if a girl only knew all that lay ahead of her she'd let well enough alone. She'd wait for trouble to come to her instead of running to meet it. Somehow I don't believe Tippy ever had any bright angels beckoning her, else she couldn't be so pessimistic about my growing up. I can't think of her as ever being anything but an elderly widow with her hair twisted into a peanut on the back of her head. And yet she had a lover once, and a wedding day, or she couldn't be Mrs. Maria Triplett now. But it's impossible to think of her as being gay fifteen and dancing down the stairs to meet the morning with a song. One feels that she met it with a broom, saying: "Shall birds and bees and ants be wise While I my moments waste? O let me with the morning rise And to my duties haste." She's said that to me probably as much as five hundred times. I shall bracket this part about her just as soon as I can get a bottle of red ink. But how I'm going to account to her for having red ink in my possession is more than I know. That's the worst about being the only child in a family. They're all so fond of you and so interested in your sayings and doings, that they watch every movement of your mind and body. You're like a clock in a glass case with your works open to the gaze of the older people. It's all very well during the first years for them to keep tab on your development, but the trouble is most relatives never seem to know when you're developed, and have reached the point where a little privacy is your _right_. It's maddening to have to give a reason every time you turn around. All the lives of noted people which I have read begin with the person's birthplace and who his parents were, and his early acts which showed he gave promise of being a genius. So I'll pause right here for a brief outline of such things. My name is Georgina Huntingdon. A name to be proud of--so Tippy has always impressed on me--and one hard to live up to. She used to show it to me on the silver christening cup that came down to me from the great-great-aunt for whom I am named. She'd take the tip of my finger in hers and solemnly trace the slim-looped letters around the rim, till I came to feel that it was a silver name, and that I must keep it shining by growing up unusually smart and good. That I owed it to the cup or the great-aunt or the Pilgrim monument or _something_, to act so as to add lustre to the name. Tippy is a distant cousin on father's side. She has lived with us ever since Barby brought me up here from Kentucky, where I was born. Father, being a naval surgeon, was off in foreign ports most of the time, and Barby, being such a young and inexperienced mother, needed her companionship. Barby is lots younger than father. It was hard for her at first, coming away with just me, from that jolly big family down South who adored her, to this old Cape Cod homestead that had been boarded up so long. Lonely and gray, it stands at the end of town, up by the breakwater, facing the very spot on the beach where the Pilgrims landed. One of them was an ancestor of mine, so the big monument overlooking the harbor and the tip of the Cape was put up partly in his honor. Really, several pages might well be devoted to my ancestors, for one was a minute-man whose name is in the history I studied at school. His powder-horn hangs over the dining-room mantel, and Tippy used to shame me with it when I was afraid of rats or the dark cellarway. If I were asked to name three things which have influenced me most in arousing my ambition to overcome my faults and to do something big and really worth while in the world, I'd name my christening cup, that Pilgrim monument and the old powder-horn. With such a heritage it is unthinkable that I should settle down to an ordinary career. Something inside of me tells me that I am destined to make my name an honored household word in many climes. I've considered doing this in several ways. It might be well to mention here that my earliest passion was for the stage. That will explain why quotations came so trippingly from my tongue at times. I learned yards and yards of poems and Shakespeare's plays for declamation, and I'm always given one of the leading parts in the amateur theatricals at the High School or the Town Hall. My looks may have something to do with that, however. As it might seem conceited for me to describe myself as my mirror shows me, I'll just paste some newspaper clippings on this page describing different plays I've been in. Several of them speak of my dark eyes and glowing complexion, also my "wealth of nut-brown curls," and my graceful dancing. But in my Sophomore year at High School I began to feel that literature might be my forte, even more than acting. R. B. (which initials will stand for "red brackets" until I get the ink). The reason for that feeling is that my themes in English were always marked so high that the class nicknamed me "Abou ben Ahdem." Last summer I began a novel called "Divided," which the girls were crazy about. It was suggested by Jean Ingelow's poem by that name and is awfully sad. Really, it kept me so depressed that I found I wasn't half enjoying my vacation. I simply lived the heroine's part myself. Now that I am a Senior, it seems to me that Journalism offers a greater field than fiction. We had a debate last term which convinced me of it. George Woodson had the affirmative, and I didn't mind being beaten because he used grandfather for one of his arguments, and said so many nice things about his editorials being epoch-making and his inspired phrases moulding public opinion, and being caught up as slogans by all parties, leading on to victory. He spoke, too, of them being quoted not only by _Punch_ and the London _Times_, but by papers in France and Australia. R. B. (I am fully determined either to write the leading novel of the century, or to own and edit a newspaper which shall be a world-power.) The seashore was my first schoolroom. Barby taught me to write in the sand and to spell words with shells and pebbles. I learned Arithmetic by adding and subtracting such things as the sails in the harbor and the gulls feeding at ebb-tide. On stormy days when we were home-bound, I counted the times the fog-bell tolled, or in the early dark counted how often Wood End lighthouse blinked its red eye at me. But I must get on with my story. If I am to have room in this book for all the big happenings of life, which I feel sure lie ahead of me, I cannot devote too much space to early memories, no matter how cherished. Probably in the final revision all the scenes I have lived through will be crowded into one act or chapter. I may start it in this fashion: _Time_ First fifteen years of life just ended. _Place_ An ancient fishing town between the sand-dunes and the sea, where artists flock every summer to paint, its chief attraction for them seeming to be its old streets and wharves, the Cape Cod people whom they call "quaint" and the Portuguese fisher-folk. _Principal characters besides myself and family, already described._ DANIEL DARCY The old Towncrier, whom I call "Uncle Darcy" and love as dearly as if he were really kin to me. AUNT ELSPETH His wife. They are my ideal Darby and Joan. CAPTAIN KIDD A darling Irish terrier, half mine and half Richard's. RICHARD MORELAND Who comes every summer to stay with his cousin, Mr. James Milford, in the bungalow with the Green Stairs. He has been like an own brother to me since the days when we first played pirate together, when he was "Dare-devil Dick, the Dread Destroyer," and I was "Gory George, the Menace of the Main." Barby took him under her wing then because his own mother was dead and they've been devoted to each other ever since. This summer Richard came alone, because his father, who always spends his vacations with him, did not come back from his Paris studio as usual. He is in the trenches now, fighting with the Allies. His friends shake their heads when they speak of him, and say what a pity such a brilliantly gifted fellow should run the risk of being killed or maimed. It would be such a terrible waste. He could serve his age better with his brush than a bayonet. But when Richard talks of him his face lights up as if he fairly worships him for being such a hero as to sacrifice his art for the cause and go in just as a private. He has said to me a dozen times, "That is why the Allies will win this war, Georgina, because men like _Dad_ are putting it through. They are fighting with their souls as well as their bodies." That's all Richard talks about now. He's perfectly wild to go himself. Though he's only seventeen and a half, he is six feet tall and so strong he could take a man's place. He says if they'd so much as give him a chance to drive an ambulance he'd be satisfied, but his father won't consent. He's running his Cousin James' car this summer instead of the regular chauffeur, and keeping it in repair. Mr. Milford pays him a small salary, and (nobody knows it but me) Richard is saving every cent. He says if he can once get across the water he'll find some way to do his part. In the meantime he's digging away at his French, and Uncle Darcy's son Dan is teaching him wireless. He's so busy some days I scarcely see him. It's so different from the way it was last summer when he was at our house from morning till night. The same jolly crowds are back this summer at the Gray Inn and the Nelson cottage, and Laura Nelson's midshipman cousin from Annapolis is here for a week. I shall not name and describe them now, but simply group them as minor characters. Laura says, however, that she feels sure that the midshipman is destined to be anything but a minor character in my life. She prophecies he will be leading man in a very short while. That is so silly in Laura, although, of course, she couldn't know just how silly, because I've never explained to her that I am dedicated to a Career. I have not said positively that I shall never marry, and sometimes I think I might be happier to have a home and about four beautiful and interesting children; that is, if it could be managed without interfering with my one great ambition in life. But positively, that must come first, _no matter what the cost_. Only thus can I reach the high goal I have set for myself and write mine as "one of the few, the immortal names that were not born to die." [Illustration] CHAPTER II THE MISUNDERSTOOD 'TEENS "O FOR a lodge in some vast wilderness" where I could write without anybody butting in to ask what I'm doing! I suppose it's the penalty I must pay now for having been such a vain little peacock in the beginning. Because father praised my first letters when I was learning to write, I passed them over to the family for more praise before sealing them. Now they've grown to feel that it is their right to read them, and to expect it as a matter of course. It is the same way with all my attempts at stories and verses. If I should take to turning the key in the door at this late day, they'd think it queer, and I'm afraid Barby would feel a bit hurt and shut out of my life, because we've always shared everything of that sort. So I just carry the book around with me in my knitting bag, and scribble a few lines whenever there is an opportunity. Most of this will have to be written down on the beach where I am now. It's too hot up in the garret these days. I sit cross-legged in the sand behind an overturned rowboat, drawn up out of reach of the tide. All that can be seen of me from the house is a big garden hat flopping down over the shoulders of my pink smock. Smocks and flopping hats are as common as clams in this old fishing town, full of artists and summer girls, so when I tuck my "wealth of nut-brown curls" up out of sight, nobody recognizes me at a little distance. If any one comes along I begin knitting on a bright blue muffler that I'm making for a Belgian orphan. It seems dreadfully deceitful, but what else can I do? I haven't any place where I can keep the book between times. Tippy is such a thorough-going housekeeper that she knows what is in every drawer and closet in this house, from top to bottom. Neither she nor Barby would dream of reading a diary or even a scrap of writing belonging to any one else but me. But they think of me as a part of themselves, I suppose, or as still such an infant that if they were to come across this they'd smile indulgently and say, "The dear child. Was anything ever so diverting and clever!" And they'd read it with that pleased, proud expression you see on a family's face when they discover the baby's first tooth or find that it can stand alone. I'd keep it at Uncle Darcy's, down at Fishburn Court, but I seldom go down there now oftener than once a week, and I want to make a practice of filling a few pages every day. Fishburn Court would be an ideal place in which to write. It's a cluster of little old houses set around the edge of a sand dune, and hidden away from the heart of the town by some tall buildings. A crooked, sandy lane leads into it from one of the back streets. There's an apple-tree in Uncle Darcy's yard with thick grass under it, and a two-seated wooden swing where an old yellow-nosed cat sleeps all day. You can look up and see billowy white clouds floating in the blue overhead, and smell the salt of the sea, but it's so shut in that although it's only a short distance from the beach you barely hear the chug of the motor boats, and the street cries are so faint, that you feel you're far, far away from the world, like a nun in a cloister. Sitting there, I've sometimes thought I'd like to be that--a nun in a cloister, to walk with rapt, saint-like face, my hands folded lily-wise over my breast. It must be lovely to feel that one is a pure white saint, a bride of heaven. Sometimes I think I'd rather be that than a world-renowned author. I often wonder what great part I'm destined to play in the universe. Really the world is so full of things to do and be, that one needs as many lives as a cat. I'd like one life in which to be a nun, another an actress, another in which to shine as a peerless wit and beauty, the social leader in a brilliant salon like that great French madame--I can't think of her name. Then, of course, there's the life I want for my literary career, and one in which to be just a plain wife and mother. One thing is certain, if I ever have a daughter I'll try to remember how a girl feels at my age; although I don't see how one who has been one can ever forget. And there are _some_ things she shall be allowed to decide for herself. R. B. (As long as I was a mere child Barby seemed to understand me perfectly. But now that I lack only one paltry inch of being as tall as she is, she doesn't seem able to get my point of view at all. She doesn't seem to realize that I've put away childish things, and that when you're in your teens you're done with doll-rags.) There is nothing so bitter in life as being misunderstood. If you have cruel step-parents who mistreat you out of pure meanness, everybody sympathizes with you. But if you have devoted own parents who hurt you through a mistaken idea that they're doing it for your own good, nobody sympathizes with you. I'd rather be beaten or locked in my room on bread and water than have Minnie Waite or Daisy Poole tagging after me forevermore. I wasn't at home the day Mrs. Saxe came around, organizing the "Busy Bees" to do Red Cross work for the Belgians. But Barby put my name down and paid the fifty cents dues, and said I'd be _glad_ to do my part. Well, I am glad, but I'd already been trying to do it ever since the war started "over there." I've rolled bandages every Saturday afternoon and taken part in two plays and waited on the table at all the lawn fetes, and I'm knitting my sixth sweater for French and Belgian orphans. But I draw the line at being a "Busy Bee," and meeting around with a lot of little girls not one of them over thirteen and most of them younger. And Minnie Waite has a crush on me anyhow, and is harder to get rid of than a plague of sand-fleas. I could have cried when Barby told me what she had let me in for, and I couldn't help sounding cross when I said she might at least have consulted me first. It was too much to have that miserable bunch of kids wished on to me. But Barby only reminded me that I was using slang, and said cheerfully, "Did it ever occur to you, Baby Mine, that you are three whole years younger than Laura Nelson, and yet you want to be with her every moment? Possibly she may feel that _you_ are tagging." Laura is one of the summer girls, and Barby never has approved of our intimacy, just because she is so much older and has college men coming to see her now instead of High School boys and all that sort of thing. I didn't attempt to explain to Barby that we are as congenial as twins, and that Laura seeks my society quite as much as I do hers. I think Barby hoped that I'd become so interested in the Busy Bees that I wouldn't have any time for Laura, and she said a great deal about them needing a leader, and how much good I could do if I went into it as an enthusiastic president instead of a half-hearted one. Of course, when she put it that way, the privilege and duty of being an inspiration whenever possible, I had to give in as gracefully as I could. But I'm done now, after yesterday's performance. I was over at Laura's to lunch. Her midshipman cousin, Mr. Tucker, was off on a fishing trip, but he was to be back early in the afternoon and she wanted me to take him off her hands while she talked to some one else. Her most ardent admirer was coming to call. So she put my hair up for me the way she wears hers, flat over her ears and a sort of soft, fluffy whirl on top, and loaned me a pair of her green silk stockings and high-heeled white slippers, instead of my "growing girl" pumps that Father insists upon. I have somewhere read that "The consciousness of being well dressed imparts a blissfulness to the human heart that even religion is powerless to give or take away, and its importance can hardly be over-estimated by the feminine mind." I heartily agree, for just that difference in hair and heels made me feel and act perfectly grown up. I knew that Mr. Tucker thought I was as old as I seemed from the way he called me "Miss Huntingdon." And he had such a complimentary way of looking at me, and was so appreciative of my repartee that I found it easier to talk to him than any one I had ever met before. I found myself discussing the deep questions of life with him with an ease I couldn't have had, if I had been conscious of juvenile curls bobbing over my shoulders. But right in the middle of our interesting conversation came the most awful racket. A donkey-cart full of girls drove in from the street, past the window where we were sitting. Minnie Waite was standing up, driving, her hair streaming like a wild Amazon. And they all yodelled and catcalled till I went out on the porch. It was the dreadfullest noise you ever heard, for the donkey balks every other step unless he's headed for home, and the only way they can make him travel is to shake a tin can half-full of pebbles behind him. They asked had I forgotten that the Busy Bees were to have an extra meeting at my house to dress dolls for the Bazaar, and the whole bunch was over there waiting. They couldn't start till I got there, me being president, and my mother said for me to get straight into the cart and go back with them. I knew perfectly well that Barby had never sent any such sounding message as that, but I also knew the only way to keep them from making matters worse was to get them away as soon as possible. They were talking at the tops of their voices, and nobody knew what they'd say next. The quickest way to stop them was to climb into that babyish donkey-cart and jolt off with them, just like a kid myself. So I ran back and explained to Laura and made my hurried adieux. Mr. Tucker went down the steps with me to help me in. Of course, those horrid children noticed my green stockings, as I'd never worn that color before, and they made remarks about them and my high heels, when I tripped going down the steps, not being used to them. I would have fallen all over myself if Mr. Tucker hadn't caught me. He didn't seem to hear what they were saying, but Laura's little sister Dodo, who was hanging over the railing of the upstairs porch, listening like the long-eared little pitcher that she is, called down in her high, shrill voice: "Oh, Georgina! You've forgotten your pumps, and are going off in Laura's. Wait. I'll throw them down to you." Well, of course the donkey balked just then and wouldn't start till they began rattling the tin can full of stones, and in the midst of the pandemonium there was a whack-bang! on the porch steps, and down came my old flat-heeled Mary-Jane pumps, with my white stockings stuffed inside of them. Mr. Tucker picked them up and put them in the cart. He made some awfully nice, polite speech about Cinderella, but I was so mortified and so mad that I turned perfectly plum-colored I am sure. As we dashed off I wished I could be a _real_ busy bee for about a minute. A vicious one. Now I feel that I never want to lay eyes on Mr. Tucker again after such a humiliating experience. It is a pity, for he is the most congenial man I ever met. Our views on the deeper things of life are exactly the same. The worst of it is I can't explain all that to Barby. She made light of the affair when I cried, and told her how the girls had mortified and embarrassed me. Said it was foolish to take such a trifle to heart so bitterly; that probably Mr. Tucker would never give it a second thought, or if he did he would laugh over the incident and the little girl, and forget them entirely. But that was cold comfort. I couldn't tell her that I didn't want to be laughed at, and I didn't want to be forgotten by the first and only really congenial man I had ever met. Yet I might have told her all that if she had approached me differently. I long to confide in her if she would talk to me as one woman to another. Instead, she referred to a little Rainbow Club that Richard and I started long ago. We pretended that every time we made anyone happy it was the same as making a rainbow in the world. She asked me if I was tired of being her little prism, and to think how happy I could make those girls by interesting myself in their affairs, and a whole lot more like that. It made me so cross to be soothed in that kind, kindergarten way that while she was talking I burrowed back in my closet as if looking for something and said "_Darn!_" in a hollow whisper, between set teeth. One can't "be a kitten and cry mew" always. [Illustration] CHAPTER III IN THE SHADOW OF WAR LAST Wednesday I spent the day at Fishburn Court. My visits seem to mean so much to Aunt Elspeth, now that her time is divided between her bed and wheeled chair. I improvised a costume and did the song and dance for her that I am going to give in the French Relief entertainment next week. And I made a blueberry pie for dinner, and set the little kitchen in shining order, and put fresh bows on her cap, and straightened out all the bureau drawers. When everything you do is appreciated and admired and praised until you are fairly basking in approval, it makes you feel so good inside that you want to keep on that way forever. You just _love_ to be sweet and considerate. But afterwards it's such a comedown to go back home to those who take it as a matter of course that you should be helpful, and who feel it is their duty to improve your character by telling you what _your_ duty is. It rubs you the wrong way, and makes life much harder. Somehow, going to Fishburn Court is like climbing up into the Pilgrim monument and looking down on the town. Seen from that height, the things that loomed up so big when you were down on their level shrink to nothing. Maybe it is because Uncle Darcy and Aunt Elspeth have lived so very, very long that they can look down on life that way and see it from a great height as God does. I always think of them when I read that verse, "A thousand years in thy sight is but as yesterday." That is why nothing seems to matter to them very much but loving each other and their neighbors as themselves. I came away from there resolved to turn over a new leaf. I am sorry now that I said what I did the other day in the closet, but I don't feel that I have a right to blot it out of this record. The good and the bad should stand together in one's memoirs. It makes a character seem more human. I never felt that I had anything in common with Washington until I read that he sometimes gave away to violent fits of anger. I am now resolved to make those Busy Bees the power for good which Barby thinks I can, and quit thinking of my own feelings in the matter, of how disagreeable it is to have them eternally tagging after me. After all, what difference will it make a thousand years from now if they do tag? What difference if one little ant in the universe is happy or unhappy for one atom of time? When you think of yourself that way, as just a tiny ant sitting on the equator of eternity you can put up with almost anything. * * * * * A whole week has gone by since I wrote the above sentence, and in that time the most exciting thing has happened, in addition to celebrating my sixteenth birthday. The birthday came first. Barby's gift to me was a darling rowboat, light and graceful as a cockle-shell. Uncle Darcy carved my initials on the oars, and Richard came after dark the night before and dragged it up into the yard, and tied it under the holiday tree. Next morning my presents were all piled in the boat instead of being tied to the branches, for which I was very thankful. It made me feel that I had come to a boundary line which the family recognized, when they discarded the old custom of decorating the holiday-tree. They no longer considered me an infant. I have been wild for a boat of my own for two years, and was so excited I could scarcely eat my breakfast. I was out in it all day, first with Barby and Richard, and, afterward, with Babe Nolan and Judith Gilfred, who came to lunch. Ordinarily, I would fill pages describing my presents and what we did, but I can't wait to tell the climax. Late in the afternoon Richard came again and rowed me over to the Lighthouse and back. When we came up the beach on our way home to supper the sun was just setting. It was all so beautiful and I was so happy that I began humming "The End of a Perfect Day." But it wasn't the end, for when we went into the house the exciting thing happened. Who should rise up suddenly in the dusk and put his arms around me but _Father_, home on unexpected shore leave. I hadn't seen him for a year. Even Barby didn't know he was coming. It seemed too good to be true that he should be in time for the lighting of my birthday candles. As if it wasn't more than enough just to have him back again, safe and sound, he brought me the most adorable little wrist-watch, and from then on till midnight when my eyes weren't on him they were on it. It's so heavenly to have everybody in the world that you love best and everything you want most all together at the same time. We had to talk fast and crowd as much as possible into the hours. I felt that I had at last stepped into my field Elysian, when nobody said a word about my running along to bed. I think they would have let me sit up though, even if I hadn't been sixteen, the time was so precious. Up till this time the war had seemed a faraway, unreal thing, just like the tales we used to shudder over, of the heathen babies thrown to the crocodiles. I had been working for the Red Cross and the Belgian orphans in the same spirit that I've worked for the Missionary Society, wanting to help the cause, but not feeling it a personal matter. But when Father talked about it in his grave, quiet way, I began to understand what war really is. It is like a great wild beast, devouring our next-door neighbors and liable to spring at our throats any minute. It is something everybody should rise up and help to throttle. I understand now why Richard is so crazy on the subject. It isn't just thirst for adventure, as his cousin James says, although "Dare-devil Dick" is a good name for him. He sees the danger as Father sees it, and wants to do his part to rid the world of it. He talked a long time with Father, begging him to use his influence to get him into some kind of service over there. But Father says the same thing that Mr. Moreland did. That he's too young, and the only thing for him to do is to go back to school in the fall and fit himself for bigger service when his country has greater need of him. Richard went off whistling, but I knew he was horribly disappointed from the way his hat was pulled down over his eyes. The next morning when I went down to breakfast I felt as if the wild beast had already sprung as far as our door-step, if not actually at our throats, for Barby sat pale and anxious-eyed behind the coffee urn, and her lips were trembly when I kissed her good-morning. Father had received his orders to report in Washington in forty-eight hours, and we had hoped to keep him with us at least two weeks. He is called to a consultation about some extensive preparations to be made for marine hospital work. He had already been notified that he was to be put at the head of it, and he may have to go abroad to study conditions, almost immediately. I knew from the dumb misery in Barby's eyes she was thinking of the same things I was--submarines and sunken mines, etc., but neither of us mentioned them, of course. Instead, we tried to be as jolly as possible, and began to plan the nicest way we could think of to spend our one day together. Suddenly Father said he'd settle it. He'd spend it all with me, any way I chose, while Barby packed her trunk and got ready to go back to Washington with him. He'd probably be there a week or ten days and he wasn't going one step without her. Then I realized how grown-up one really is at sixteen. A year ago I would have teased to be taken along, and maybe would have gone off in a corner and cried, and felt dreadfully left out over such an arrangement. But I saw the glance that passed between them when he said it, and I understood perfectly. Barby's face was radiant. You may adore your only child, but the love of your life comes first. And it should. I was _glad_ they wanted to go off that way on a sort of second honeymoon trip. It would be dreadfully sad to have one's parents cease to be all in all to each other. Babe Nolan's mother and stepfather seem that way, bored to death with each other. Two things stand out so vividly in that last day that I never can forget them. One is our walk down through the town, when I almost burst with pride, going along beside Father, so tall and distinguished looking in his uniform, and seeing the royal welcome people gave him at every step. They came out of the stores and the houses to shake hands with him, the people who'd known him as a little boy and gone to school with him, and they seemed so really fond of him and so glad to have him back, that I fairly loved them for it, even people I hadn't liked especially before. The second thing was the talk we had up here in the garret in the gable window-seat, when he came up to look for some things he had packed away in one of the chests, twenty years ago. We did lots of other things, of course; went rowing in the new boat to a place on the beach where he used to picnic when he was a boy. We took our lunch along and ate it there. Afterwards we tramped back into the dunes a little way, just to let him feel the Cape Cod sand in his shoes once more, he said. It was high tide when we got back to the boat-house, so we got our bathing suits and went in. He was so surprised and pleased at some of my diving stunts, and taught me a new one. He is a magnificent swimmer himself. His hair is iron gray at the temples, and I've always been halfway afraid of him before--that is, afraid to say right out whatever I happened to think or feel. But it was different this time. I felt that he understood me better than anybody else in the world, even as well as Barby used to, when I was younger. As we went back home he said the nicest thing. He said it seemed to him that we must have been boys together at some time in our lives. That I was such a jolly good chum. I can't think about that last evening or the going away yesterday morning without the tears starting. But I'm thankful I didn't break down at the station. I couldn't have kept from it if it hadn't been for Captain Kidd, who frisked along with us. Just at the hardest moment he stood up on his hind legs and saluted. I'd never seen him do it before. It's a trick Richard taught him lately. It was so cunning everybody laughed, and I managed to pull myself together till the train started. But I made up for it when I got back home and came up here to the gable window-seat where Father and I had that last precious talk together, with his arm around me and my head on his shoulder. I nearly bawled my eyes out as I recalled each dear thing he said about my being old enough now to understand business matters, and what he wanted me to do in case the United States went to war; how I was to look after Barby if anything happened to him; and what I was to do for Uncle Darcy and Dan's children. That he relied on me just as if I were a son, because I was a true Huntingdon, and no Huntingdon woman had ever flinched from a duty or failed to measure up to what was expected of her. I keep thinking, what if he should never come back to talk to me again in that near, dear way. But ... I'll have to stop before any more splashes blot up this page. CHAPTER IV HER IDEAL GIRL STEPS IN ALL the time Barby was gone I didn't write a line in this record. I couldn't. Things seemed too trivial. Besides, the house had that strange, hushed air that you feel at a funeral when you're waiting for it to begin. I couldn't bear to touch the piano. It didn't seem right to be playing gay tunes while there was such awful sorrow in the world, and in all probability Father and Barby were spending their last days together. I declined the invitation to Laura Nelson's dance on that account, and after Tippy had gone to bed I put on Barby's only black dress, a chiffon dinner gown that she had left behind in her closet, and sat by the window in the moonlight, listening to the music of piano and drum floating up from the Nelson cottage. I had turned the silver trimming in so as not to show, and looking down on the clinging black folds that trailed around me, I pictured to myself so vividly the way an orphan or a young widow must feel, that the tears splashed down into my lap till I was afraid it would make the chiffon all crinkly. The dance music sounded perfectly heartless to me. I could understand how bitter it might make one feel who was really in mourning. When Barby came home and I told her about it, she said that I should have gone to the dance; that our first duty to ourselves and the world is to keep ourselves normal. After I'd spent the morning helping her unpack and hearing everything she had to tell about her week with Father and his departure to some unknown port, she told me she wanted me to stay out of doors all the rest of the day. I must go on the Quest of Cheerful Things, and she hoped that I'd be able to report at least two adventures. The two things which happened are that I went to a furniture auction and met my ideal girl. While they're not particularly cheerful things, they're important enough to be recorded here. It began by Babe Nolan bumping into me as I turned a corner, after I'd been out nearly half the afternoon. Babe is a far cry from anybody's ideal girl, that is, as far as looks and manners are concerned, but she has her good points. For one thing she is absolutely sincere, and it's always interesting to hear what new trouble she's been in. She had her bathing suit bundled carelessly under her arm, and said she couldn't stay because she'd promised to be up at the West End beach by four o'clock, and it was almost that time then. But she'd heard that there was a furniture auction going on in front of the old Holloway house, which has been vacant for years, and she just had to go by and see if there was a white bedstead in the lot, with hollow brass balls on the posts. She was sure that there couldn't be, because she'd been told that the furniture had been brought up from Truro or Wellfleet, or some place down the Cape. It belonged to relatives of the Holloway family. Still she felt possessed to look, and she supposed she'd go through life like the Wandering Jew, looking for that bedstead and never finding it. Then she told me why. Babe is very unfortunate in her family life, having a stepfather which complicates matters. All her brothers and sisters are either steps or halves. She has no whole ones. And they are all socialists in a way, believing in a community of interests, such as wearing each other's clothes without asking, and using each other's things. Right while Babe was talking to me she had on one of her half-brother Jim's outing shirts, turned in V at the neck instead of her own middy blouse, because Viola had walked off with her last clean one. With everybody free to root through her bureau drawers, and with no locks in the house that work, of course she has absolutely no privacy, and she had several letters that she wouldn't have the family read for worlds. They were too sacred, and she couldn't bear to destroy them, for they breathed devotion in every line, and were her first of the kind. She thought of burying them under the garden hedge, but that would have necessitated digging them up every time she wanted to re-read them, and there was danger of the puppy trailing her and unearthing them if she went too often to that hallowed spot. One night just before she and Viola went to Yarmouth for a visit, she found, quite by accident, that the brass balls on her bedposts were screwed on and were hollow. So she folded the letters up small and stuffed them into one, with a dried rose and a broken cuff-link that had associations, and screwed it back tight. What was her horror when she came home two weeks later to find that her mother had had the room done over in their absence as a surprise for her and Viola. She had bought twin beds of bird's-eye maple and given one old bed to a Salvation Army man who was going through town collecting junk, and sent the other to a camp up in the White Mountains where her mother's people go every year. She didn't know which went where. Now there's no telling how, when or where those letters will next see the light of day. It was bad enough to lose the letters, but Babe says she'll simply die if they fall into her Aunt Mattie's hands. She's the prim, cold kind who makes you feel that anything sentimental should never be mentioned. It's something to be ashamed of. Tippy's that kind. I have written all this out not because it's important in itself, but because it's a link in a chain. If I hadn't happened to meet Babe and go with her to hunt for that bedstead, I wouldn't have been at the auction when my ideal girl came along, or when Richard drove by and I hailed him to borrow a quarter, and he stopped and saw her. What she said and what he said, and what happened afterward was like a game of "Consequences." All sorts of stuff lay around on the grass--dishes and bed-slats and odd andirons. There was a beaded mat and a glass case of wax flowers, and a motto, "The Lord is my Shepherd," cross-stitched in pink and gray worsted, sitting right out on the grass. Babe said probably it was the work of hands long dead and gone, and didn't it seem sad that they should come to this end? But the tide was in and she'd have to go. She might have known she'd not find that bedstead. Would I walk up to the beach with her? But I told her no, I'd just rummage around awhile longer to see what else there was for sale. Maybe I could get some "local color" that way. Babe knows about my writing. She is one of the girls I read my novel to, and she respects my talent. So she left me. I did get some local color by staying, and took out my pencil and pad, which I always carry around in my knitting bag, and made a note of it. An old-fashioned hoop-skirt was thrown across a rose-bush, and a black silk bonnet lay under it, beside a pair of worn shoes. Both the bonnet and the shoes had what Tippy calls a "genteel" air, and made me think they must have belonged to a prim maiden lady with proud nose and slender feet, probably called "Miss Althea." The name came to me like an inspiration, I could almost see her standing by the rose-bush. Just then some boys, who were wrestling around, bumping into everything, upset a barrel on the grass, and a great pile of framed photographs came rolling out. Some of them were comical enough for a Sunday supplement, women in tight basques and little saucer hats, and men with whiskers--beards or perfectly ridiculous bushy "burnsides." A crowd of summer people began making joking remarks about them to set each other to laughing. But there was one in an oval walnut frame that I couldn't bear to have them make fun of, the photograph of a lady with a little boy leaning against her shoulder. She had a strong, kind face, with such steadfast eyes looking straight at you, that you just knew everybody went to her with their troubles. The boy was a dear little fellow, serious as a judge, with his hair brushed in a long roll on the top of his head in one of those old-fashioned coxcomb curls. One of the girls from the hotel picked it up and began declaiming a verse from "Somebody's Darling," that's in one of our school readers. "Kiss him once for somebody's sake. * * * * * * One bright curl from its fair mates take---- They were somebody's pride you know." It came over me in a great wave how I would feel if it were Barby's picture thrown out that way for strangers to ridicule and step on, or the one I've always loved of Father, when he was a little boy, hugging his white rabbit. I felt that I simply must save it from further desecration. The only way was to buy it. The man said I could have any frame in the barrel, picture thrown in free, for twenty-five cents, without waiting for it to be put up at auction. They were in a hurry to get through. I told him I'd take it, then I discovered I hadn't a penny left in my knitting bag. I'd spent my last one on the way down, treating Babe to a soda water. It was right while I was standing there with the frame in my hands, uncertain whether to go to the bakery and borrow a quarter or ask the man if he'd take my note for it till next day, that Judith Gilfred came into the yard with a girl I'd never seen before. I knew at a glance that it must be the cousin she'd been expecting from the South. She's talked about her for a month, and said such gushing things that I was prepared to see quite a pretty girl, but not the most beautiful one I had ever seen in my life. That's what she is, and also my ideal of all that is gracious and lovely and sweet. She's a blonde with the most exquisite hair, the color of amber or honey, with little gold crinkles in it. And her eyes--well, they make you think of clear blue sapphires. I loved her from the moment Judith introduced us. Loved her smile, the way it lights up her face, and her voice, soft and slow, blurring her r's the way Barby does. From her little white-slippered feet to the jewelled vanity box on a slender chain around her neck, she looks exactly as I'd choose to look if I could make myself over. Her name is Esther Gilfred. Judith must have told her as much about me as me about her, for she was so cordial and dear. Judith has been my most intimate friend ever since I started to school. Esther was so interested in the auction. One of her greatest charms I think is her enthusiasm for whatever you happen to be interested in. She made the picture I was carrying around seem doubly desirable, just by saying in that indescribably charming way of hers that antique frames are quite the rage now. There is such a fad for them in her town. We must have spent more than half an hour poking around among all the queer old things being auctioned off, when I heard the honk of an automobile horn, which I recognized as Richard's. He was signaling me. He had slowed down as he came opposite the place, to see why such a crowd was gathered in there, and, as he did so, caught sight of us. He stopped when I waved to him, and I ran out and asked him to loan me a quarter. As he fished one out of his pocket, he told me he'd take me home if I was ready to go. So I ran back to pay for the frame, and ask the girls what time they'd be ready to go rowing next morning. While Judith was answering, Esther laid her hand on my arm in her enthusiastic way and exclaimed in a low tone, "Who is that young Apollo you spoke to? He has the most gorgeous dark eyes I ever saw, and the shoulders of an athlete. He's simply stunning!" On the way home I told Richard what Esther said about him. He looked so pleased and conscious, that it was funny to watch his face. "Which one said it?" he asked. "The little goldilocks in blue, or the one under the red parasol?" I surely was astonished, for I had no idea that Richard was so observing. Heretofore, he had never seemed to notice how girls looked, or what they wore. [Illustration] CHAPTER V A PHOTOGRAPH AND SOME DAY-DREAMS I DON'T believe compliments are good for the male mind. They go to their heads. Up to this time in all the years I've known Richard, I'd never seen him walk up to a mirror and deliberately stare at himself, except when we were having a face-making contest, and trying to see which could look the ugliest. [Illustration: "I don't think compliments are good for the male mind."] But the first thing he did after we went into the house was to stop in front of the hall mirror and square back his shoulders. Then he turned and looked at himself, a long, slow glance out of the corner of his eyes, and walked away with such a satisfied air that I was dying to laugh. All the rest of the evening he had a sort of set-up, lordly way about him that he had never had before. I am sure that it was the effect of Esther's compliment. Barby asked him to stay to supper, and he did, to hear all about her Washington trip. He talked to her sort of over my head, as if I were a little girl who couldn't understand the great war measures which interested him. It amused me immensely, for every one knows that a girl of sixteen is far more mature than a boy of seventeen and a half. But I didn't say anything, just smiled to myself as I sat and knit and listened. After supper when I brought out the oval frame to show the family what a bargain I got for a quarter, I had the surprise of my life. Tippy recognized the photograph in the frame. She said there were probably a dozen like it hanging up in various parlors in Wellfleet. It was the picture of a minister's wife she had known years ago. "Sister Wynne," everybody called her, whether they went to that church or not, because she was so widely beloved. The little boy's name was John. When this little John was just a baby, Brother Wynne had a call to a big church out West. On the way there they came up to Provincetown to take the boat, and they stayed all night with Grandfather Huntingdon in this very house. Tippy was here on a visit at the time, and remembers it perfectly. Several years later the Wynnes had this picture taken to send back to friends in their old parish, and let them see how little John had grown. Miss Susan Triplett at Wellfleet has one. It seems too strange for words to think that once upon a time they slept in our big downstairs guest chamber in the bed with the bird-o'-paradise valance and the pink silk tester, and that years and years afterward I should find their picture in a barrel at an auction, and bring it home and hang it up in that very room. That's what I did after supper while Richard was drawing maps on the margin of the _Boston Transcript_, showing Barby where the Allies were entrenched. I washed the glass and drove a nail, and hung it up over a little serving table between the windows. Then I stepped back and held up the lamp to see the effect. It seemed to belong there, and the little fellow's big, serious eyes looked straight out at me, as if they were saying: "Yes, I know you, and I came back on purpose to be put into your story." He seemed so real to me that as I went out, carrying the lamp, I looked back over my shoulder and whispered, "Good-night, little John Wynne." Then I went upstairs to get another skein of yarn and wind it on Tippy's swift. All the time I was doing it I kept thinking of the events of the afternoon, and how beautiful Esther Gilfred looked--how adorable she was in every way. Those lines from Wordsworth came to my mind: "She was a phantom of delight When first she gleamed upon my sight." Also she suggested that line "Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls!" Suddenly I thought, why not write a poem to her my own self. At that, a whole list of lovely words went slipping through my mind like beads along a string: lily ... pearl ... snow-crystal ... amber ... blue-of-deep-waters ... blue-of-sapphire-skies ... heart of gold. She makes me think of such fair and shining things. But it was hard to get started. After trying ever so long I concluded to look in the dictionary in the list of Christian names for the meaning of Esther. I thought that might suggest something which would do for a starter. When I went back downstairs Richard had finished his map drawing. He was lying on the leather couch, as he so often does, his eyes closed, and his hands clasped under his head, listening to Barby play the piano. He certainly did look long, stretched out full length that way, longer than he had ever seemed before. Maybe Esther's calling my attention to him the way she did made me see him in a new light, for, after staring at him critically a moment, I had to admit that he really was as good-looking as she said he was. I carried the big dictionary over to the library table and opened it under the reading lamp. Years ago we had looked up the meaning of our names, but I had forgotten what Richard meant until my eye chanced on the word, as I glanced down the page. I didn't want to interrupt the music, but I couldn't resist leaning towards him and saying in an undertone, just to get a rise out of him: "Listen to this, 'Apollo,' the name Richard means 'strong like a ruler, or powerful.' That's why you have the 'shoulders of an athlete.'" But he didn't even open his eyes. Just gave an indulgent sort of smile, in rather a bored, superior way that made me want to slap him. It was as much as to say that I was carrying coals to Newcastle in telling him that. "Well," I said, in Tippy's own tone, quoting what she always tells me when anybody compliments me in her presence, "'There's nothing lasting you will find but the treasures of the mind.' So you needn't be so uppity, mister." He ignored the remark so completely that I determined not to speak to him again all evening. But presently I was forced to on account of the interesting fact I found on the next page. It was too interesting not to be shared. "Beauteous Being," I remarked in a half whisper, "don't trouble to open those gorgeous dark eyes, but listen to this. The name Esther means _A Star_. Isn't that wonderfully appropriate?" His eyes flew open quickly enough at that. He turned over on his side and exclaimed in the most interested way: "Say, I was just thinking what a peach she is, but somehow peach didn't seem the right word. But _Star_--that fits her right down to the ground." And that from Richard, who never looks at girls! Seeing how interested he was in her I confided in him that I was trying to write a poem to her. That she seemed to be set to music in my thoughts, and that she continually reminded me of lines of poetry like that one of Tennyson's: "Shine out little head, running over with curls, to the flowers, and be their sun." He asked me what that was in. When I told him "Maude," he turned over on his back again and shut his eyes, with no more to say. But when Barby finished the "Reverie" she was playing and he got up to go home, he walked over to the bookcase and began hunting along the shelves. He always helps himself to whatever he wants. When he slipped a book into his pocket I looked up in time to see that it was one of the little blue and gold volumes of our set of Tennyson. Later I found he had carried off the one with "Maude" in it. I have wondered since if he would have taken the same interest in Esther if I hadn't repeated her compliment--if it was that which started him. Tippy lost no time next morning in hunting up the auctioneer and finding whose furniture he was selling, and all about it. What he told her sent her to Wellfleet on the noon train to talk over old times with her cousin Susan Triplett. She came back at supper time with a piece of news wonderfully interesting to me. Little John Wynne is alive and really is back on the Cape. But he's grown up now, of course. He's a physician. He worked his way through a Western college and then went to Harvard for his medical degree. This summer he is in Yarmouth, taking care of old Doctor Rawlins' practice, while he's off on a long vacation. I was so thrilled over all that Tippy told, that on my way up to bed I slipped across the hall for another look at the picture which I had rescued. It is a pity that "Sister Wynne" died before she knew how splendidly he turned out. She would have been so proud of him. But she must have known that he'd grow up to be the kind of man that Miss Susan says he is, because they look so much alike--the same steadfast, dependable sort of eyes and mouth. As I stood there, holding the flickering candle, with the wax melting and running down its side, I thought how wonderful it would be if fate should some time bring our paths in life together. There are so many ways that might be done. He might be called here in consultation any day. Dr. Rawlins often is. Or he might come up here to spend a week-end as hundreds of people do, because the town is quaint and has historic associations. I wondered if I'd recognize him from his likeness to this baby picture or to his mother, if I should happen to meet him suddenly--say going into the post-office or strolling along the wharf. I felt sure something would tell me that it might be he. Then I began imagining the most dramatic scene, just as if I were reading it in a novel of which I was the heroine. I would be taking part in an entertainment at the Town Hall, giving the Fire-fly dance maybe, first with the spot-light following me, and then with hall and stage darkened to give that wonderful fire-fly effect, and all the tiny points of electric lights hidden in my costume flashing on and off. And _he_ would be watching out there in the darkness, from the front row, watching intently every graceful move. Then all at once something would go wrong behind the scenes. A cloud of fire and smoke would suddenly sweep across the stage, shutting me off from escape and almost suffocating me. There would be a moment of awful silence while the audience gazed transfixed with horror. Then out of the darkness _he_ would leap forth, tearing off his coat as he sprang up on the stage to wrap it around my filmy dress, already aflame, and I would fall unconscious in his arms, overcome by the smoke. Long hours afterward when I opened my eyes, his face would be bending anxiously over me, and I'd smile wanly up at him, and he'd say in a choking whisper, "Thank heaven, she lives!" I would be lying in this downstairs guest chamber instead of my own room, this being handier, and presently he'd see this picture of himself hanging on the wall. Then--well, suffice it to say, it would lead finally to a beautiful and touching scene like the one I saw at the movies Wednesday afternoon, in the last act of "The Harvest Moon." After I went upstairs that night, I thought of still another way for us to meet, which I shall write down because it would make a good scene in a novel, and I am beginning to think I shall start another one soon instead of "Divided," which now seems amateurish and childish to me. This is the scene. I would be a beautiful Red Cross nurse, serving with the Allies somewhere in France. Into the ward, where I was keeping vigil some night, would be brought a wounded officer, a member of the medical corps who had risked his life giving aid to the dying in the trenches. He would be too badly hurt for me to recognize him at first, till I found his mother's picture over his heart, and my calling his name would bring him back to consciousness. "How did you find me?" he would murmur feebly. "How did you know?" And I'd say, "Because, far away across the seas in my old home on Cape Cod, hangs the picture of 'little John Wynne,' as he used to be. My guardian angel led me hither." "You ... are my ... angel," he would whisper, and relapse into unconsciousness. I could make it awfully effective to have him die, after I'd nursed him tenderly for weeks, but I can't bear to. I'd rather have it end the way I'd want it to end in real life if I should really meet him on a foreign battle-field. Probably, though, if I ever do meet him, it'll be just my luck to be coming in from blue-berrying the way I was last week with a bee-sting on my lip that swelled it up till I was a sight for the gods. Oh, if we could only make things happen actually the way we can in our day-dreams, what a thrilling thing Life would be from start to finish! CHAPTER VI THE ONE AND ONLY STAR "Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky." THAT'S Esther. She has been here two weeks, and all that time I've been trying to write a poem to her which would do her justice. It is impossible. So, since coming across the above line from Wordsworth, I've simply called her "Star" and given up trying. She likes to have me call her that. She is so wonderful that it is a privilege just to be in the same town with her. Merely to feel when I wake in the morning that I may see her some time during the day makes life so rich, so full, so beautiful! How I long to be like her in every way! Since that cannot be I try to live each hour in a way that is good for my character, so as to make myself as worthy as possible of her friendship. For instance, I dust the hind legs of the piano and the backs of the picture frames as conscientiously as the parts that show. I work overtime on my music instead of skipping practice hours as I have sometimes done in the past. The most unpleasant tasks I go through gladly, feeling that the rubbing of such, although disagreeable, puts a shine on one's soul in the same way that a buffer polishes the nails. At first Richard laughed at what he called my infatuation, and said it didn't pay to take Emerson's advice and "hitch your wagon to a star." You have to jerk along at such a rattling gait to keep up that it soon wears out an ordinary mortal. But before he realized what had happened to him his wagon was hitched as firmly as mine, and to the same star. Esther loves to motor, so he takes her for a long drive every day when his cousin James doesn't want the machine. As he furnishes his own gasoline for such pleasure trips, he hasn't saved very much of his wages since she's been here, to put in his "Going abroad" fund. Every time I go to the Gilfred's, Esther passes me a freshly opened box of candy. All the boys send it to her, but twice in the last week I've been sure it was from Richard. The first one had a card lying on top that she turned around for me to read. No name--just a pencilled line--"Queen Rose of the rose-bud garden of girls." But I know Richard's handwriting as well as I know my own. Besides he learned that very quotation from me. The next time the card was printed instead of written, but there was a pansy drawn in the corner, and the sentence was in French. Esther asked me to read it. She said she was so rusty in her French she wasn't sure she had translated it correctly. It said "Pansies are for thought." Then I remembered the pansy bed out by the Gilfreds' side porch. Richard had a big purple one in his button-hole the other day when he came back from there. But that was no proof, of course, because I'd seen George Woodson with one, and also Truman Long. Truman draws almost as well as Richard and is always making marginal sketches on things, but Truman never took any of the languages but dead ones. But later on when Esther said she and Richard were going to read some fables together to help her brush up her French, I was pretty sure he had sent that second box. I was altogether sure when he came over the second time with that same pansy in his buttonhole, so dry and dead it was all shriveled up. I knew just how he felt about it, that it was too sacred to throw away. I feel the same way about whatever her fingers touch. So just to let him know that I understood and sympathized like a real sister I picked up Barby's guitar and in an off-hand sort of way began to sing an old song of hers that he knows quite as well as I do. "Only a pansy blossom, only a withered flower, Yet to me far dearer than all in earth's fair bower." I hadn't the faintest intention of teasing him, but he seemed to take it that way. He got as red as fire and shrugged his shoulders impatiently and strode out of the room as if he were provoked. It seems so queer to think of _him_ having any sentiment in connection with a girl, when he's always been so indifferent towards them. Still, Esther is so star-like, so high above all other girls that I don't wonder that even he has yielded to her magic influence. All the boys are crazy about her. George Woodson spends most of his waking hours there. He sits around in the hammock with his ukelele, waiting for her to come out, and if they have an engagement and go off and leave him, he just sits and waits for them to come back. Truman Long has composed a serenade dedicated to her that's really awfully sweet, and when they dance at the Gilfreds' of an evening the boys break in so continually that Esther doesn't get to dance around the room without changing partners. It must be heavenly to be so popular. Babe Nolan has a sentence copied in her memory book which she says is a test of whether one is truly in love or not. She thinks it is from Emerson. "When a single tone of one voice can make the heart beat, and the most trivial circumstance associated with one form is put in the amber of memory. When we become all eye when one is present and all memory when one is gone." She says she was all eye when she used to be with the One who wrote those letters which are now in that bedpost somewhere in the Salvation Army or the White Mountains, and she was all memory when he was gone. And if it happened that it was his voice which answered when she called up the grocery where he clerked, she was all of a flutter, and couldn't remember whether her mother told her to order starch or stove polish. I wonder if I shall ever know that blissful sensation. According to Babe's test I am sure of the last two items in Richard's case. He certainly is all eye when Esther is present, and the most trifling thing she says or does is cherished in the amber of his memory. I can tell from the way he keeps coming back to them in a round-about way without mentioning her name. Barby has noticed the difference in him, too. He doesn't come to the house as often as usual for one thing, and he talks about something besides war. He doesn't mention Esther's name to Barby, but he brings up subjects connected with her that he's never been interested in before. Things they've discussed at the Gilfreds', such as the difference between Southern and Northern girls, and what constitutes charm in a woman, and why angels are always painted with golden hair and nobody ever thinks of there being brunette angels with snappy dark eyes. When I told Barby he was helping Esther brush up her French, she gave a funny sort of a groan, and said, "Of all the arrows in the little god's quiver that is the deadliest." When I asked what arrow, she said, "Conjugating a familiar verb in a foreign tongue with a----" Then she broke off suddenly and asked what kind of a girl I thought Esther really was. She said if she were the right kind it would do Richard worlds of good to be interested in her, but she couldn't bear to think of the dear boy being disillusioned this early, or having his confidence in woman-kind shaken by a shallow little flirt. I told her that shallowness and coquetry were not to be mentioned in the same breath with Esther. That while Richard's a nice boy, and feeling towards him as I do, as if he were a real brother, I want him to have the very best things Life can give him, I don't consider him fine enough and noble enough for such an angel as Esther. With her lofty ideals only a Sir Galahad or King Arthur himself is worthy of her. Barby has met her several times, but only when there were a lot of others present. She had no chance to talk with her and see what a truly fine and strong character she has. She could see only in a general way that she is lovely and gracious. So, not knowing her as I know her, she reminded me again of that old prism of mine and the way I used to go about with it in front of my eyes, putting rainbows around everything in sight. She asked if I was sure I wasn't looking at Esther in some such way, putting a halo of perfection around her that was largely of my own making. She said she did that twice when she was in her early teens. Once it was a music teacher she was infatuated with, and once her roommate at boarding school. She looked upon them as perfect, and nearly died of disappointment when she discovered they were only ordinary mortals. It hurt me dreadfully to have her think my adoration of Esther was nothing but a schoolgirl infatuation. She must have seen how I felt and she must have changed her mind about Esther, for lately she has been perfectly lovely about encouraging our intimacy. She says she'd like for me to invite her to the house often, and that I may have her here for a week after her visit with Judith is over. And she suggested several things we might do for her entertainment, such as a picnic at Highland Light, and a motor-boat trip over to the weirs to see the nets hauled in. * * * * * An age has gone by since I wrote of the above plans. There has been no chance to carry them out, because the very next day Mrs. Gilfred went to Boston and took Judith and Esther with her for a week. Ever since they left I've gone around humming: "What's this dull town to me? Robin's not here." Only I change it to "My Star is not here." The only thing that makes the loneliness bearable is that Barby has a guest, a Miss Helen Crewes, who is a Red Cross nurse. She is going to Flanders very soon, and she is up here resting. She gives "First Aid" lessons to Barby, Tippy and me in the evenings. Tuesday when the Busy Bees met here she put on her uniform and went down and talked to the girls. She seemed so wonderful and so set apart, all in white with the Red Cross blazing on her forehead, and she talked so inspiringly that the girls were ready to rise up and follow her to the death. They didn't want to go home when the time came, but hung around begging her to tell some more. And Minnie Waite said that if anybody in town would start a Melting Pot like the one Miss Crewes told about to put your jewels in for the cause, she'd throw in her gold thimble and her locket and her silver friendship bracelet that needs only one more link to complete it. Barby hasn't invited any of our friends to meet Miss Crewes yet, because she's just off a hard case that nearly wore her out. She says she must store up every bit of strength she can get from the dunes and the sea, for what lies ahead. So she sits down on the beach hours at a time, and goes on long walks by herself. When I take her out in the boat she scarcely says a word. But in the evenings while she's teaching us first aid bandaging, etc., she talks so thrillingly of her experiences and what her friends are doing over there that I could listen all night. Barby made several attempts to get Richard to come over and meet her, but he hasn't been near here since Esther went to Boston. He always makes some excuse when Barby telephones. Barby says it would do him good to meet a woman like Miss Crewes. That she'd wake him up out of the trance he is in, and rekindle his old enthusiasms. Miss Crewes is middle-aged, for she's at least thirty-eight, and she's very plain, except when she talks. Then her face lights up till you feel as if a lamp had suddenly been brought into the room. I know now what Barby meant by trance. It is the same thing as being "all memory when one is gone." Yesterday Babe Nolan and I were walking along the street together, she eating an apple, when Richard drove by without seeing us. It was up along in one of the narrowest turns, where he had to pass so close to the board walk that the machine nearly grazed it. Yet he went by, perfectly unconscious of us. Never looked to the right nor the left, and never even heard when I called to him. Usually he is on the look-out to wave his hand to anybody he knows. When he had gone by Babe said: "That boy doesn't know whether he's in the body or out of the body. Somebody ought to tell him about Esther Gilfred. It's a shame to let him go on that way making a goose of himself." "Tell him _what_ about her?" I demanded. "Oh, that it's all a bluff about her brushing up her French. She doesn't know enough French to brush. All she does is to hold the dictionary while he reads. She can't even find the words by herself half the time. Besides she's years older than he is, although she passes for the same age. And worse yet--_she's engaged_." I was so furious that I contradicted her hotly, but she just looked at me over the apple she was biting into, with the calm, unruffled gaze of an old Aztec. Babe can be the most provoking person at times that ever lived. She prides herself on having a mathematical mind, and being exact about facts and figures. The worst of it is she usually is, and will go any length to prove she's right. Although I know in this case she _must_ be mistaken, it worries me in spite of myself. She said that one day at the Gilfreds' they were laughing over some old photographs of Esther and Judith, taken when they were babies. On the back of one was written: "This is our little Esther at the age of six months and six days." It was signed with her father's name and the date. Esther snatched it away and tore it up before anyone else saw it, but, Babe says, counting up from that date to this, Esther is all of three years older than Richard. She is twenty and a half. And she said that twice while she and Viola were visiting in Yarmouth, their Aunt Rachel took them to a hop in Barnstable. Both times Esther, who was visiting in Barnstable then, was there with the man she's engaged to. He's a doctor. They met at a house-party when he was a medical student at Harvard and she was at a finishing school near Boston. Her aunt told Babe's aunt all about it. They've been engaged nearly a year, but Esther won't have it announced because she says it would spoil her good times wherever she goes. She'd never make any more conquests. He's so busy establishing his practice that he can't pay her the attention and give her the things that the other men do. When Babe told me that I felt as if the solid ground were giving away under my feet. She seemed perfectly sure that what she was telling was the straight, unvarnished truth. And yet, I cannot, I _will_ not believe that Esther would stoop to deceit in the smallest matter. She is the soul of honor. She _couldn't_ be sacredly betrothed to one man and then go on acting exactly as if she wasn't, with another. Besides, I heard her say one day that she is just Judith's age, which is seventeen, and another time that she was "heart whole and fancy free." When I triumphantly quoted that last to Babe to prove she was wrong she swallowed another bite of apple and then said, "Well, a coquette might be all that and at the same time engaged. And she _is_ engaged, and I can prove it." All I could trust myself to say was, "Babe Nolan, your remarks are perfectly insulting. I'll thank you to remember you're talking about my very best friend and the very finest and sweetest girl I've ever known in my whole life." With that I drew myself up in my most freezing manner and walked off and left her. I've wished since that I'd thought in time to hurl that quotation from Shakespeare over my shoulder at her, but I didn't think of it till I was nearly home: "Be thou chaste as ice, as pure as snow, Thou shalt not escape calumny." Those statements of Babe's were nothing but out and out calumny. [Illustration] CHAPTER VII A MODERN SIR GARETH YESTERDAY morning, just to oblige me, Miss Crewes put on her Red Cross uniform and went out in the garden with me to let me take some snapshots of her. Barby came out to watch us, sitting on the stone bench under the apple tree, with her knitting. I was using my last film, posing Miss Crewes among the hollyhocks by the garden wall, when we heard a machine drive up and stop out in front. The next minute Richard came dashing around the corner of the house, bareheaded, and calling Barby in such a breathless way that I knew he had exciting news from the front. Then he caught sight of her under the apple-tree, and came striding across the grass to her, his head up and his face fairly shining. As we walked over towards them we caught parts of his sentences, "It's Dad--all banged up and in the hospital. One of the bravest things--so proud of him--it chokes me." He didn't even see us when we joined them, for he had pulled a handful of letters out of his pocket, and was shuffling them over to find the one that brought the news. A comrade of Mr. Moreland's had written it and his nurse added a postscript. No one thought to introduce Miss Crewes and he never seemed to notice a stranger was present till he finished reading. And then there didn't seem to be any need of an introduction. She just held out her hand with tears in her eyes and that wonderful light in her face which comes when she talks of sacrifice and heroism, and he gripped it as if they were old friends. That's what they've seemed to be ever since. I think the sight of that red cross blazing on her uniform waked him up to the fact that she is connected in a way with the same cause his father is suffering for now in the hospital, and that she would be in sympathy with his desire to get into the service, and possibly might be able to help him. He couldn't stay then, because his Cousin James was in the machine out in front, waiting for him. But he promised to come back later, said there were a hundred questions he wanted to ask her. It seems strange that, in the midst of hearing such a big vital piece of news about a real hero, I should notice a trifle like the following. When Richard took the handful of letters from his pocket and began shuffling through them to find the one from France, I saw without being conscious that I was staring at them, that they were all strangely familiar--square and pale blue. In his excitement he dropped one, and there on the flap of the envelope were the two long slim silver initials that I know so well, "E. G." I had several notes written on that same silver and blue stationery before Esther went to Boston, though none since. I wasn't conscious of counting them as he passed them from hand to hand, but I must have done so automatically, for I seem to remember as far as five, and that it was the sixth one he dropped. He was so absorbed in the news that he didn't realize he was making a public display of Esther's letters, though of course nobody could recognize them but me. I think maybe for the moment she was so far in the background of his thoughts that she lost her importance for him. But not so with me. Mingled with a thrill of happiness over Richard's news, was a feeling that my faith in Esther had been vindicated. She _couldn't_ have written to him six times in seven days if she had been sacredly pledged to another. Babe Nolan is wrong for once in her life, and I shall have the joy of telling her so before this week is out. I know I am not putting a rainbow around Esther. It is simply that love gives me a clearer vision than the others have--the power to see the halo of charm which encircles her. * * * * * This has been such a wonderful day that I can't close my eyes until I have made a record of it. First, _I have seen Doctor John Wynne_! And second, I've found out something about him which makes me honor and admire him more than any man I know except Father. Miss Crewes told us the story, but she didn't intend to tell us his name, nurses being bound to respect a confidence. It came out quite by accident. She was dreadfully distressed at the slip and made us promise we'd never repeat it to a soul. It happened this way: Richard had the machine to do as he pleased with today, Mr. Milford being out of town, and he and Barby arranged a little picnic for Miss Crewes. He's taken the greatest fancy to her. We started out soon after breakfast and drove for hours through the perfectly heavenly summer morning, stopping at each little village along the Cape as we came to it, to tack up some posters. They were posters different artists had painted for that French Relief entertainment, which has been postponed so many times. At lunch time we stopped by the side of the road in the shade of a pine grove, so close to the water that we could see the blue shining through the trees. It was such a fascinating, restful spot that we sat there a long time after we finished our lunch. Richard stretched out full length on the pine needles with his hat over his eyes, and the rest of us took out our knitting. I knew he was thinking of Esther, for presently he brought up a subject which we have discussed several times at the Gilfreds', which she was particularly interested in. It's whether the days of chivalry are dead or not, and if men were not nobler in the days of King Arthur, when they rode forth to deeds of prowess and to redress wrongs, than they are now when their highest thought is making money or playing golf. Esther always took the side that nobody nowadays measures up to the knights of the Round Table, and that she wished she could have lived when life was picturesque and romantic instead of in these prosaic times. I think what she said rather rankled in Richard's mind, because I've heard him refer to it several times. Naturally I sided with Esther, for her arguments seemed unanswerable. Today I quoted some of them. That is what led to Miss Crewes telling one of her experiences. She was red-hot for the other side, and said I might name any deed of chivalry mentioned in the "Idylls of the King," and she could match it by something equally fine, done in this day of the world, by some man she was personally acquainted with. Instantly I thought of the story of "Gareth and Lynette," for that is one that Esther and George Woodson had the biggest argument over. The part where Gareth saves the baron's life, and when asked what reward he would have--"_What guerdon will ye?_"--answers, "_None! For the deed's sake have I done the deed_." Esther once said she thought that was one of the noblest sentences in all literature. As soon as I quoted it Richard raised himself on one elbow and then sat up straight. He could see by Miss Crewes' face that she had a story worth telling. "For the deed's sake have I done the deed," she repeated to herself as if searching through her memory. Then after a moment she said triumphantly, "Yes, I have a Sir Gareth to more than match yours. He is a young physician just beginning to make good in his practise, and he's had a far harder apprenticeship to win his professional spurs than ever Gareth served, as scullion in the King's kitchen." Of course, it being a nurse's confidential experience, she had to tell the story in the most impersonal way, like the censored war reports that begin "Somewhere in France." She began it: "Somewhere in a little seaport where I was resting one summer," and we didn't know till she finished it that it was Yarmouth she was talking about, and that it was this summer it happened, only two weeks ago, and that she was talking about the last case she nursed, the one that exhausted her so. She wouldn't have taken it, as she had given up regular nursing and was taking a vacation before going abroad in the Red Cross service, but the doctor was a good friend of hers and seemed to think it was a life and death matter to have her help in such a critical case. The patient was a fine-looking young fellow, not much more than a boy, although they found out later he had a wife and baby down in New Jersey. All they knew about him was that he had been in that neighborhood about three months, as agent for an insurance company, and was taken ill in the house where he was boarding. It was typhoid fever and a desperate case from the beginning. The first night they discovered why. It came out in his delirium, in broken sentences. He had been using the company's money, holding back the premiums in some way. Of course he always expected to replace the amounts in a short time, but his speculations were unfortunate and he had not succeeded in doing so when he was taken ill. And now he was in an agony of fear, tortured by the thought of exposure and disgrace. His ravings were something pitiful. He kept starting up in bed, thinking the detectives were after him, and begging them not to arrest him--to give him one more chance. He had a lucid interval next morning when the doctor questioned him and he made a full confession. There was no one he could apply to for help. His own people had nothing, and the thought of his wife finding out his dishonesty almost crazed him. Miss Crewes said it was one of the most harrowing experiences she ever lived through. There was no place for her to go but out on the tiny balcony. She stepped through the window and sat on the railing out of sight of the bed, but she couldn't help hearing. The way she told it made us feel that we were right there with her, watching the doctor's face, and reading in it as she did the struggle going on in his mind. He was turned so he could not see her, but she could see every expression that crossed his face. This stranger had no claim on him whatsoever. He had gotten into trouble through extravagance and a fast life, while what the doctor had managed to save after putting himself through school had been earned by the hardest work and most frugal living. It would take all his savings to replace the stolen funds, and he had been piling it up, bit by bit, for a cherished purpose of his own. Why should he sacrifice it for this careless young fellow, who by his own confession had never denied himself anything? And yet, to stand back and see him go down that path abhorred of all men to exposure and public disgrace probably would take away his one chance of recovery. For a long time the doctor sat there, looking past the restless form on the white bed to the sky-line of the little town that showed through the open window. It was a hard decision for him to make. Finally he said cheerfully: "It's all right, old chap. Don't worry about it any more. I'll stand between you and trouble. I'll send my check to the company for you this very day." Then the boy broke down again, and his relief and gratitude were almost as distressing as his fear had been. Well, he died after all, though they worked to the utmost to save him. There were some complications. And it was all so pitiful, the little wife's coming on with the baby to be with him those last few days, and her frantic imploring of them to save him, when they were already doing everything in human power. And the funeral and everything, and her going back home with his body. The one thing she clung to--the only thing that comforted her--was the thought of his goodness and nobility of character, and that she must live to bring up her little son to be worthy of his father's memory. She went away never knowing what she had been spared. The doctor didn't have even her gratitude to reward him, because she didn't know what he had done. And nobody will ever know but Miss Crewes how much he gave to wipe out a stranger's dishonor and let him die with his reputation unstained. Not that he ever mentioned the matter to Miss Crewes. All she knew was what she couldn't help overhearing. But, being old friends, he had told her in the beginning of the summer why he was working so hard and living so frugally. He was engaged to the loveliest girl in Christendom, and expected to marry her as soon as his bank account reached the place where he could give her the things she was accustomed to having. "And so you see," said Miss Crewes in ending the story, "there was no _possible_ 'guerdon' for him. It was done solely, purely, for the deed's sake." "I'd like to know that chap," said Richard thoughtfully. Then for a moment or two there was a deep silence. It was broken by the sound of a noisy little automobile rattling down the road. As it came nearer Miss Crewes recognized it and started to her feet in surprise. "Well, this is the most remarkable coincidence that ever was!" she exclaimed. "There he is this blessed minute!" If the man had driven on by we wouldn't have known his name, and probably might never have discovered it. But the surprise of seeing him made her forget that she was disclosing the identity of the hero of her story. At sight of her he stopped his car, got out and came over to where we were sitting, to speak to her. After a cordial greeting she introduced him to us. _And he was Doctor John Wynne._ My heart beat so hard that I was sure everybody must hear it. To meet in this unexpected fashion by the roadside when I had been picturing all sorts of romantic ways! And yet it wasn't a bit strange that he should happen by, for we were only a couple of miles out of Yarmouth, and his calls were liable to bring him along that road almost any hour of the day or night. He is an older looking man than I imagined him to be. He has that keen X-ray gaze that doctors have when they're asking you your symptoms, and I was afraid that he'd know just by looking at me how hard my heart was beating, and that I'd made up all those romantic day-dreams about him. My guilty conscience made my face burn like fire. I looked away every time he glanced at me. I'd never really expected to have him appear so unexpectedly. Fortunately he stayed only a few minutes and then was off again in a cloud of dust. Richard stood and looked after him till he was out of sight and then said slowly, "There's nothing picturesque about a rickety second-hand machine like that, and nothing heroic looking about an ordinary village doctor, but when it comes to a choice between them and one of your old guys in armor, it's me for the modern knight every time." Not till then did it dawn on Miss Crewes that she had unwittingly betrayed a confidence. Then she felt perfectly awful about it, and said so much that we swore over and over we'd never repeat what she told us, under any circumstance. But I'm glad she did let it slip. So glad I know that "little John Wynne" grew up to be that kind of a man. I wonder if the "loveliest girl in Christendom" is worthy of him. If she appreciates him as he deserves. CHAPTER VIII DISILLUSIONED MANY times since making that promise to Miss Crewes I have wished I could take it back. I'd give a fortune to tell just one person in this world what Dr. Wynne did, but Barby says no. Miss Crewes has sailed and I can't reach her for weeks to get her permission, and under the circumstances I'd not be justified in breaking my promise. I must keep my word. But I almost know it would right a great wrong if I could tell, and it almost breaks my heart not to be able to do it. The way of it is this. The French Relief entertainment took place last Saturday night, after being postponed four times, and I did the Spanish dance in my lovely green and gold costume. Esther got back Saturday morning, just in time for it. I was too busy to go over to see her, but she telephoned that she would be at the entertainment, and that I must look my prettiest. Some of her Yarmouth friends were coming. The posters had attracted people from all over the Cape. My heart sang for joy all the rest of the day. Everybody says that I am at my best in that Spanish dance and look my best in that costume, and naturally if one is to do any shining one wants one's best beloved there to see it. Babe Nolan was behind the scenes with me before the performance began. Jim and Viola were both on the program, and she was there to help them make up and prompt them if they forgot. It was the first chance I had to mention those letters of Esther to her, and I took advantage of it a few minutes before the curtain went up. Of course I didn't tell her it was Richard whom I saw with the six letters written in the seven days of Esther's absence. I just mentioned the fact that I had seen them and added, "So, of course, she couldn't be engaged to that doctor she danced with in Barnstable." Babe was standing with one eye glued to a peep-hole in the curtain, trying to see who was in the audience. She never turned her head but just kept on looking with one eye, and said in that flat, cocksure way of hers, "Well, that doesn't prove anything." It made me so mad I didn't know what to do. It wasn't what she said so much as the way she said it that was so odious. There have been a few times in my life when I've been sorry that I was born a Huntingdon with the family manners to live up to, and this was one of them. Before I could think of an answer she added in that calm, I'll-prove-it-to-you-voice: "She's down there with him right now, in the third row, next to the middle aisle, on the left." Then she stepped aside for me to put my eye to the peep-hole, and for one giddy instant I thought I was going to faint. The shock of the surprise was so great. There sat Esther looking like a dream and the man with her was Doctor John Wynne. So _she_ was the "loveliest girl in Christendom" whom he was working and waiting for, and whom he'd have to go on working and waiting for no telling how long, because he had acted the part of a true knight, helping an unfortunate stranger who had no claim on him whatsoever. When Babe talked about the doctor who was attentive to Esther, I took it for granted he was a Barnstable man. It never occurred to me that he had gone from Yarmouth to see her. My head was in such a whirl that I was thankful the orchestra struck up just then, and we had to scurry to seats in the wing before the curtain went up. My dance didn't come till near the last, so I had plenty of time to think it all over. My first and greatest feeling after the tremendous surprise was one of gladness for both of them. It seemed too good to be true that my ideal girl and my ideal man should have found each other--should belong to each other. It is exactly what I could have wished for each of them. But a little doubt kept raising its head like a tiny snake in a rose-bower. If she were really engaged to him how could she be writing daily to Richard, those long fat letters, and carrying on with him in that fascinating, flirtatious, little way of hers that keeps him simply out of his head about her? My mind went round and round in that same circle of questions like a squirrel in a cage, never getting anywhere, till all of a sudden my name was called. It was my time to go on the stage and I had forgotten my steps--forgotten everything. For a second I was as cold as ice. But at the first notes of the fandango my castanets seemed to click of their own accord, and I glided on to the stage feeling as light as a bubble and as live as a flash of fire. I was dancing for those two down there in the third row, next to the middle aisle. I would do my best, and not a doubt should cloud my belief in my beautiful Star. After the performance they were among the first to come up and congratulate me. This time I could meet his gaze fearlessly, and I saw his eyes were just like the little boy's in the picture. They hadn't changed a bit, but looked out on the world as if they trusted everybody in it and everybody could trust him. When he put Esther's scarf around her shoulders he did it in such a masterful, taking-care-of-her sort of way, and she looked up at him so understandingly that I realized Babe Nolan was right about their caring for each other. I could hardly go to sleep that night for thinking about them. I felt as if I had stepped into a real live story where I actually knew and loved both hero and heroine, and was personally interested in everything that happened to them. I didn't think of Richard's part in it. And now--oh how can I tell what followed, or how it began? I scarcely know how the change came about, or how it started--that "little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening, slowly silence all." Maybe Barby's suggestion that I was seeing Esther through a prism started me to looking at her more critically. And Babe Nolan's statements dropped with such calm precision every time we met, stuck in my memory like barbed arrows with poison on them. I had been mistaken in one thing, why not in others? At first I made excuses for everything. When Esther counted the pile of photographs given her by the different boys who have rushed her this summer, and said she would have plenty of scalps to show when she went back home, I thought it was just as Judith had said. It wasn't because she was a born flirt that she made each boy think his picture was the only one she cared for. They all did that way back in her home town. She was brought up to think that was part of the game. But if she were really engaged to Doctor Wynne, as Judith admitted when I asked her, then she had no business to treat Richard as she did. It wasn't fair to him to lead him on so far and to accept so much from him, and it wasn't fair to Dr. Wynne. But Judith said, "For the land sakes, Esther wasn't ready to settle down to any one person yet. Besides, Richard was too young for her to take him seriously, and John Wynne was too deadly in earnest for a girl like Esther. He was too intense. He couldn't understand a little butterfly like her whose only thought was to have a good time. She'd be utterly miserable tied for life to a man like him, who put duty ahead of her and her pleasure. It would probably end in her marrying one of the men back home that she'd been engaged to off and on ever since she was fifteen. She said of course it would make things dreadfully uncomfortable when it came to breaking her engagement with John Wynne, because he was so horribly in earnest that he considered her actually his. It was a mistake to let the affair go so far. When I asked how about Richard, Judith just shrugged her shoulders and said it wasn't to be wondered at that Esther should have a little summer affair with him, such a good-looking boy and so entertaining, with that lovely car at his disposal. Just then Esther came downstairs in a soft white dress, beaded in crystal, looking like such an angel with the lamplight falling on her amber hair and sweet upturned face, that all my old faith in her came back in a rush. "The loveliest girl in Christendom." No wonder he called her that. It was then that I first thought, oh, if I could only tell her the story that Miss Crewes told us, of that knightly deed her John Wynne did without any hope of guerdon, she wouldn't want to break tryst with him. But I couldn't tell then. I had given my promise. The next week-end he came up to Provincetown again. He was to stay all night at the hotel and take Esther down to Chatham next day to a house-party. Some old school friends of hers were giving it. But he went back without her. When she found he had come for her in the same shabby little old automobile that he had last Spring when she was in Barnstable, she refused to go with him. Said she'd be ashamed to have the girls know he drove such an old rattletrap, and that he'd promised her last Spring--at least halfway promised her--that he'd get a new one in time for this house-party, so that he could join them sometimes and take them on picnics. He explained to her that he had fully intended to do so, but that something came up lately which made it impossible. He wouldn't tell her what, although she coaxed and pouted. He just stuck to it doggedly that it was something he couldn't talk about. Somebody needed his help and he felt forced to give it. Then he grew stern and told her that she must believe him when he said the sacrifice was necessary, and forgive him if he couldn't humor her wishes. It was Judith who told me about it. She said that Esther has always queened it over everybody, and is so used to being considered first in everything that she wouldn't stand for his putting some old charity patient ahead of her wishes and her comfort. She just gave him his ring back and he went home that night. I wanted to cry out that I knew the reason. That I could tell her something that should make her proud to be seen in that shabby old machine, because of the gallant sacrifice it stood for. But my lips were sealed by my promise. Only once before in my whole life have I ever had such a gone-to-pieces feeling. That was when our old gardener, Jeremy Clapp sneezed his teeth into the fire. I was so little then I didn't know that teeth could be false, and when I saw all of his fly out of his mouth I thought he was coming apart right before my eyes. The shock was so awful I screamed myself almost into spasms. My faith in everything seemed crumbling. I felt the same way this time. I had been so sure of Esther, so absolutely sure of her high standards of honor, that the slightest flaw in her was harder to forgive than a crime in a less shining soul. And now to think that she had cruelly hurt and disappointed the man who, to me, was the knightliest of all men, was more than I could bear. I felt I could never take another person on trust as long as I lived. I wished I could have died before I found out that she wasn't all I believed her to be. Barby had guests when I reached home. I could hear their voices as I paused an instant on the front door-step. I knew that if I tried to slip up the stairs she'd see me and call me to come in, so I tip-toed across the hall into the big downstairs guest chamber, and threw myself on the couch by the open window. I was too miserable to face anybody. Too miserable even for tears. But the tears came presently when I looked up and caught sight of the picture that I had rescued at the auction, "little John Wynne," leaning against his mother's shoulder, looking out on the world so trustingly from that safe refuge. As I looked at the curl her fingers had brushed so carefully into shape, and the curve of the baby lips that had never known anything but truth, I just couldn't bear to think of him growing up to be deceived and disappointed. I had to admit that Esther wasn't worthy of him, but I recalled the way he looked at her as he put her scarf around her that night, and I felt that if he still wanted her as much as he did then, I wanted him to have her. It didn't seem fair for her not to be told about his Sir Gareth sacrifice. I believe I cried more for his disappointment than for my own, as I pictured his blighted future, although mine seemed empty enough, goodness knows. I wished I was old enough to be a trained nurse and go to Flanders right away. It was almost dark when the guests left. I had cried myself into a blinding headache. I hadn't intended to tell Barby, but she happened to glance in as she passed the door, and, seeing me face downward on the couch, came in with an exclamation of surprise, and before I knew it the whole miserable story was out. Then I was glad I told, for she was so sweet and comforting as she sat and stroked my forehead with her cool fingers. Some of the ache went away as she talked. It helped a lot to know that she had gone through the same kind of an experience. Everyone does, she said, "in their salad days." One can't expect to be an expert at reading character then. But she insisted that I mustn't tell Esther about the typhoid fever patient. She said it wouldn't help matters. That John Wynne had been looking through a prism too. He saw her pretty, fascinating, gracious ways and imagined her perfect as I had done. He hadn't seen what a shallow little creature she really is, vain and selfish. It was better for his disillusionment to come now than later. "But how is one ever to be sure?" I wailed. "There was Richard and Doctor Wynne and me, all three of us mistaken. She was like a star to each of us. I called her 'Star.' It seemed the most beautiful name in the world and I thought it fitted her perfectly." "Don't be too hard on her," Barby said. "It was your mistake in taking her measure, and giving her a misfit name. Remember how many mistakes the prince made before he found a perfect fit for Cinderella's slipper. But cheer up! You'll find some one worthy of the name some day." I didn't want to cheer up, so I just closed my eyes, and Barby, seeing that I didn't wish to talk, went on rubbing the headache away in silence. When I opened them again it was twilight, so I must have dozed off for a while. Barby was sitting across the room in the window-seat, her elbow on the sill. Her dress glimmered white. Beyond her, through the open casement, glowed the steady harbor lights and the winking red eye of the Wood End lighthouse. I went over to her and leaned out into the sweet-smelling summer dusk. It made me feel better just to sniff that delightful mingling of sea salt and garden fragrances. "Look up," said Barby. "Did you ever see the stars so bright? I've been sitting here taking a world of comfort out of them. It's good to feel that no matter what else goes wrong they keep right on, absolutely true to their orbits and their service of shining; so unfailingly true that the mariner can always steer his course by them. And Georgina--you don't believe it possible now, but I want you to take my word for it--_there are people in the world like that--there are friendships like that--there is love like that--just as dependable as the stars_!" She said it in a way I can never forget. It brought back the old feeling Tippy used to give me when she traced my name on my silver christening cup, the feeling that it was up to me to keep it shining. I've thought about it quite a lot since, but I am all mixed up as to which is the best way to do it. Maybe after all it would be more star-like of me to renounce my dream of becoming a famous author, and go in for duty alone, like Miss Crewes. [Illustration] CHAPTER IX SEVEN MONTHS LATER ONE might think, seeing that I am keeping two diaries now, that I am leading a double life. But such is not the case. When it was decided that I was to go to Washington this year, to the same school that Barby attended when she was my age, she suggested that I keep a journal, as she did while here. She called hers "Chronicles of Harrington Hall." So I am calling mine "The Second Book of Chronicles." Next vacation we are to read them together. Naturally I want to make mine as interesting as possible, so I've spent considerable time describing life here at school as I see it, and making character sketches of the different girls, teachers, etc. It would have been more satisfactory if I could have put all that in my Memoirs, thus making one continuous story, but it's too great a task to write it all out twice. So I have put a footnote in my Memoirs for the benefit of whoever my biographer may be, saying, "For what happened at Harrington Hall, see my Book of Chronicles." All during the first term I did not make a single entry in this old blank book, now open before me. It lay out of sight and out of mind in the back of my desk. But this morning I came across it while looking for something, and tonight I have just finished reading it from start to finish. I realize I have left quite a gap in the story by failing to record several things which happened after Esther went home. As I sit and re-read these last pages, how far away I seem now from that unhappy August afternoon when I came home from the Gilfreds', feeling that I could never take anyone on trust again. It was days before I got over the misery of that experience, and I really believe it was on account of the way I went moping around the house that Barby decided to send me away to school. Father had been urging it for some time, but she wanted to keep me at home with her one more year. It wasn't the excitement of getting ready to go away and trying on all my new clothes that restored me to my former cheerfulness, although Barby thinks so. It was just two little words that Richard said the last day he was with us, before going back to school. I wouldn't have believed that a mere exclamation could have brought about such an amazing change in my feelings, and I still wonder how it did. Next year I'm going to study psychology just to find out about such queer happenings in our brains. We were out in the boat, he and Captain Kidd and I, taking a farewell row. He hadn't mentioned Esther's name since the day she left, but Judith told me he never went back to the house after he found out the double game she had been playing. Remembering how infatuated he'd been I knew he must have felt almost as broken up as Babe says John Wynne was. I kept hoping he'd bring up the subject. I thought it would make it easier for him if he would confide in one who had known the same adoration and disappointment. Besides I brooded over it all the time. It was all I thought about. So on the way back I sat in pensive silence, trailing my hand languidly over the side of the boat through the water. Richard talked now and then, but of trivial things that could not possibly interest one communing with a secret sorrow, so I said nothing in reply. When we were almost at the pier he rested on the oars and let the boat drift, while we sat and listened to the waves tumbling up against the breakwater. As we paused thus in the gathering dusk, a verse came to me that seemed a fitting expression of the sad twilight time as well as both my mood and his. For his face looked sad as he sat there gazing out to sea, sad and almost stern. So I repeated it softly and so feelingly that the tears sprang to my eyes, and there was a little catch in my voice at the last line: "Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O sea, But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me." I had expected some sort of sympathetic response, at least an eloquent silence, for he knew I meant Esther, and it was like a dash of cold water to hear him exclaim in an exasperated sort of way, "_Oh rats!_" Captain Kidd took the exclamation to himself, and barked till he nearly fell out of the boat. And Richard laughed and rolled him over on the seat and asked him what he meant by making such a fuss about nothing. That was no way for a good sport to do. Then he began pulling for the landing with all his might. Considering that I had just bared to him one of the most sacred emotions of my heart, his answer seemed as unfeeling as it was rude and inappropriate, something I could never forgive nor forget. He couldn't help seeing that I was hurt and indignant, for I ran up the beach ahead of him and only answered in monosyllables when he called after me, pretending nothing had happened. But later when I was upstairs brushing my hair, I heard him down in the dining-room, teasing Tippy and telling her what he wanted for his farewell supper, in that jolly, audacious way of his that makes a joke of everything. I knew perfectly well that he felt blue about going back to school and that he was all broken up over the affair with Esther, but he was too good a sport to show it. And _that's_ what he meant by saying "Oh rats," in such an exasperated way! He had expected me to measure up to his idea of a good sport and I hadn't done it! My brooding over "a day that is dead" till it spoiled our enjoyment of the present one, seemed silly and sentimental to him. As he told the dog, "that was no way to do." From away back in our pirate-playing days the thought that Richard expected a thing of me, always spurred me on to do it, from walking the ridgepole to swinging down the well rope. He expected me to be as game and cheerful a chum as he is, and here I had spoiled our last boat-ride together by relapsing into that moody silence. It was as if those two words held a mirror before my eyes, in which I saw myself as I looked to him. "But I'll show him I _can_ be game," I declared between my teeth, and as soon as I had tied the ribbon on my hair I ran downstairs, determined to make that last evening the jolliest one we had ever had. I am so thankful that we did have such a gay time, for now that things can never be the same again, he will have it to look back on and remember happily. He went away next morning, but I did not leave until nearly two weeks later. It was the day before I started to Washington that I heard the news which changed things. I was down in the post-office, sending a money order, when Mr. Bart, the famous portrait painter, came in. Some other artist-looking man followed him in, and I heard him say as he caught up with him: "Bart, have you heard the news about Moreland? He's reported killed in action. No particulars yet, but, it goes without saying that when he went, he went bravely." Mr. Bart started as if he had been hit, and said something I didn't quite catch about dear old Dick, the most lovable man he ever knew. All the time the clerk was filling my money-order blank they stood there at the same window, talking about him and the winters they had spent together in Paris, their studios all in the same building, and how they'd never want to go back there now with so many of the old crowd gone. They said all sorts of nice things about Mr. Moreland. But not till one of them asked, "Where's the boy now?" did I realize the awfulness of what I had just heard. It was _Richard's_ father they were talking about, _and he was dead_. But I couldn't really believe that it was true until I got home and found Barby at the telephone. Mr. Milford had just called her up to tell her about it. And she was saying yes, she thought he ought to go to Richard at once by all means. He would feel so utterly desolate and alone in the world, for his father had been everything to him. Now that his Aunt Letty was dead he had no relatives left except Mr. Milford. She'd go herself if she thought she could be any comfort to the dear boy. Mr. Milford said he'd catch the _Dorothy Bradford_ within an hour, and he'd convey her messages. And that's the last I heard for ever so long. I wanted to write to Richard, but I just couldn't. There wasn't any way of telling him how sorry I was. But that night I scribbled a postscript at the end of Barby's letter to him, and signed it, "Your loving sister, Georgina." I wanted him to feel that he still had somebody who thought of him as their really own, and as belonging to the family. I had been here at school over two weeks before any news came about him. Then Barby wrote that Mr. Milford was back, and had told her that they had a trying interview. Richard was more determined than ever to get into the war. He kept saying, "I've _got_ to go, Cousin James. There's a double reason now, don't you see, with _Dad_ to be avenged? I'm not asking you to advance any of my money. All I want is your consent as my guardian. They won't let me in without that." Richard can't get the money his Aunt Letty left him till he is twenty-one. It's in trust. But he'll have a lot then, and there ought to be considerable when his father's affairs are settled. But because Mr. Moreland had said that Richard was too young to go now and must keep on in school, Mr. Milford feels it is his duty to be firm and carry out his cousin's wishes. But he told Barby he came away feeling that with the boy in that frantic frame of mind, school would do him no more good than it would a young lion. A caged and wounded one at that. The next news of him was that he had disappeared from the school and his Cousin James couldn't find a trace of him. About that time the expressman left a big flat box for Barby with a note inside that said, "Take care of this for me, please. If I shouldn't come back I'd like for you and Georgina to have it. Dad thought it was the best thing he ever did." In the box was the portrait that Mr. Moreland painted of Richard the first summer he came to Provincetown, called, "The thoughts of Youth are long, long thoughts." It has been given first place in every art exhibition in which it has been hung, and, besides being a wonderful piece of painting, is the darlingest portrait of Richard as he was at the age of ten that one could imagine. It was not until after Thanksgiving that I heard directly from him myself. Then I had a note from him, written up in Canada. He said, "I know you won't give me away, Georgina, even to Barby. She might feel it was her duty to tell Cousin James where I am. I couldn't enlist, even up here without his consent, but I've found a way that I can do my bit and make every lick count. I'm at the front, _by proxy_, and _more_. So I am satisfied. I haven't much time to write but that's no reason I wouldn't appreciate all the home news available. If you have any on hand just pass it along to yours truly who will be duly grateful." I was wild to know what he was doing, and exactly what he meant by being at the front "by proxy and more." But, although I wrote regularly after that and underscored the question each time, he never paid any attention to that part of my letters. I could see he was purposely ignoring it. I would have ignored his questions, just to get even, if they hadn't showed so plainly how hungry he was for news of us all. Remembering that he is all alone in the world now, since he and his Cousin James are at outs, and that I am the only one of his home folks who knows his whereabouts, I make my letters as entertaining as possible. Sometimes Babe Nolan, who is at this school, rooming just across the hall, hands over her brother Jim's letters. The spelling is awful and his grammar a disgrace, but he certainly has a nose for news. He tells about everybody in town from the Selectmen to the Portuguese fishermen. Babe never wants the letters back, so I send them on to Richard, also the Provincetown _Advocate_, which Tippy mails me every week as soon as she is done reading it. Hardly had I written the above when my roommate, Lillian Locke, came in. Being a Congressman's daughter, she is allowed to spend a lot of her spare time with her family, who are living at a hotel. She had been out all afternoon with them, consequently had not received her pile of letters which came in the last mail. The elevator boy gave them to her as she came up. One of mine had been put in with hers by mistake. That is why I didn't get it earlier. I was surprised to see that it was from Barby, because I had one from her only this morning. Late as it is I'll have to sit up and add a few more lines to this record, for it's all about Richard and fits right in here. Mr. Milford finally got track of him in some way and followed him to Canada. He has just returned. He found Richard working in what had once been an automobile factory. It is now turning out aeroplanes for the Canadian government. One of the first persons Richard met when he reached the town was a workman in this factory who was eager to go to the front, but couldn't for two reasons. He was badly needed in the factory, and he had a family dependent on his wages, two little children and a half-blind mother. His wife is dead. When Richard found he couldn't enlist, big and strong as he is, without swearing falsely as to his age, he went to the man and offered to take his place both in the factory and as a breadwinner for his family. It was the foreman who told Mr. Milford about it. He said there was no resisting a boy like him. He was in such dead earnest and such a likable sort of a lad. He walked into everybody's good graces from the start. They took him on trial and he went to work as if every blow was aimed at a Hun. When the man saw that he actually meant business and wanted it put down in black and white that he would look after the family left behind, the matter was arranged in short order. And now Richard feels that not only is there a man on the firing line who wouldn't be there but for him, but every day as he fashions some part of the aircraft, he is doing a man's work in helping to win the war. The foreman said, "He's the kind that won't be satisfied till he knows everything about airships there is to know," and Mr. Milford said he didn't feel that he was justified in opposing him any longer. A job like the one he had undertaken would do him more good than all the colleges in the country. Down at the bottom of the letter Barby said, "I have written all this to Miss Crewes, that she may have another Sir Gareth to add to her list of knightly souls who do their deed and ask no guerdon." CHAPTER X AT HARRINGTON HALL THE other day Miss Everett, the English teacher, took a book away from Jessica Archibald. She said it wasn't suitable for a girl in her teens. It was too sentimental and romantic. Jess didn't mind it very much, for she is one of the worshippers at Miss Everett's shrine. When a bunch of girls are so devoted to a person that they'll go to her room and take the hairs out of her comb to put in their lockets or their memory books, that is the limit. I don't see how any novel ever written could beat that for being sentimental. But Babe Nolan doesn't agree with me. She never does. She said, "Look at the old Romans. Didn't I remember in Anthony over Caesar's dead body: "Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, and dying, mention it within their wills, bequeathing it as a rich legacy." But Babe admits that Jessica is disgustingly sentimental. They are room-mates. And Babe says how any grown person can be the blind bat that Jess's mother is, is a mystery to her. Mrs. Archibald told Miss Everett that her little daughter is "an unawakened child as yet, just a shy, budding, white violet," and she wants to keep her so till she's through school. She says Jessica has always been totally indifferent to boys, never gives them a thought, and she doesn't want her to until she is grown and Prince Charming arrives on the scene. She's just fifteen now. And all the time, Babe says, shy little Jessica is having the worst kind of a case with one of the Military Academy cadets, who started up an acquaintance with her one day on the street-car, behind the chaperone's back. She's slipped off and gone alone to movies several times to meet him, when she was supposed to be taking tea with her aunt. Yet she looks up in such an innocent, wide-eyed way, and seems so shocked when such escapades are mentioned, that you wouldn't suspect her any more than you would a little gray kitten. But it's making her dreadfully deceitful. Babe came up to our room to talk to Lillian and me about it, for she's really worried over those clandestine meetings. She says the whole trouble is that Jess doesn't know boys as they exist in the flesh. She knows only the demi-gods created by her own imagination. She has been brought up on fairy-tales in which princes often go around disguised as swine-herds, and, not having any brothers which would give her the key to the whole species, she doesn't know a swineherd when she meets him. Babe told her no real prince would ask anything clandestine, and that this cadet she's mooning around about is only an overgrown schoolboy with a weak chin and a bad complexion, and if she could see him as he really is and as he looks to the rest of us girls, it would cure her of her romantic infatuation. And Babe told her, moreover, that no real prince would pretend to be a poet when he wasn't, and that the verses he sent her were not original as she fondly believed, wearing them around inside her middy blouse. Babe couldn't remember just what poem they were taken from, but said they were as well known to the public as "Casey at the bat." She is so blunt that when she begins handing out plain truths she never stops for anyone's feelings. Babe says that if she ever marries and is left a widow in poor circumstances, she will support herself by starting a Correspondence School in a branch that will do more good than all the curriculums of all the colleges. It will be a sort of Geography of Life, teaching maps and boundaries of the "_United States_" and general information to fit one for entering it. She said we shouldn't be left to stumble into it, in blindfold ignorance like Jessica's. Right there I couldn't resist breaking in to say, "Oh, speaking of a _correspondence_ course, Babe, did you ever find that brass-balled bedstead you were looking for at the auction?" Of course the question had no significance for Lillian, but it pointedly reminded Babe of the correspondence she had with the One for whom she was once all eyes when he was present, and all memory when he was gone. She's entirely over that foolishness now, but she turned as red as fire, just the same, and to keep Lillian from noticing, she turned to the bureau and began talking about the first thing she looked at. It happened to be a photograph of Lillian's brother, Duffield, who is an upper classman at Annapolis. Lillian is awfully proud of him, although from his picture you wouldn't call him anything extraordinary. His nose is sort of snub, but he has a nice face as if he really might be the jolly kind of a big brother that Lillian says he is. She's always quoting him. I've heard so much about what "Duff thinks" and "Duff used to say and do" that I feel that I know him as well as if we'd been brought up in the same house. So when she began singing his praises again, declaring that Duffield wouldn't ask a girl to meet him clandestinely and he wouldn't have any respect for one who wanted to, I withdrew from the conversation. It was time for me to go on copying the theme which Babe's entrance had interrupted. She must have been responsive enough to have pleased even Lillian, for when next I was conscious of what they were saying, Lillian was including Babe in the invitation she had given me some time ago, to go along with them next time her mother motored down to Annapolis to see Duff. They're going down to a hop in April, which is only a few days off now, and again in June week, and stay at John Carrol Hall. Mrs. Locke has already written to Barby, inviting me, and Barby has given her permission. Mrs. Locke is from Kentucky, and knows all the Shirleys. She always introduces me as "the granddaughter of our illustrious editor, you know." In that way I've met a lot of Barby's old friends when I've been invited to take dinner at the hotel with Lillian. That accounts also for my being included in their invitation to an informal musicale at the White House where I met the President and his wife. (See Book of Chronicles for six pages describing that grand occasion.) Of all the legacies in the world, nothing is more desirable for children to inherit than old friendships. One day when Mrs. Locke took Lillian and me shopping with her, we met a lady in one of the stores whom she introduced as Mrs. Waldon. No sooner had she been told who I am than she held out both hands to me, saying in the dearest way, "Not Barby Shirley's daughter, and half a head taller than I! Why, my dear, I was at your mother's wedding, and it seems only yesterday. Our families have been neighbors for three generations, so you see we inherited our friendship, and now here you come, walking into the same heritage." She insisted on taking us home to lunch with her. Mrs. Locke had another engagement, but Lillian and I went. She has the dearest apartment, on the top floor with a stairway running up to a little roof garden. Her husband served in the Civil War and was a general in the Cuban war, and two of her daughters have recently married naval officers. They were living in Annapolis when that happened, so she knows all about the place. Her other daughter, Miss Catherine, has just come back from a visit down there, and she told us so much about the place and the good times she has there that we are simply wild to go. I can hardly wait for the time to come. * * * * * We have just come to our rooms from the Current Events class. If it wasn't for Miss Allen's little lecture every Friday afternoon, reviewing the happenings of the week, we'd hardly know what is going on outside of the school premises. We rarely see the papers, and it is as sweet and peaceful as a cloister, here at the Hall, with its high-hedged park around it. We forget, sometimes, the awful suffering and horrors that have been shocking the world for nearly two years. Our lessons and recreations and friendships fill our days to the brim, and crowd the other things out. While we're digging into our mathematics or playing basketball with all our might, if we think of war at all, it's in the back of our heads, like the memory of a bad dream. But when Miss Allen tells us of some new horror as she did today, of the torpedoing of the _Sussex_, crowded with passengers and many Americans aboard, then we realize we are living on the edge of a smouldering volcano, which may burst into action any moment. It doesn't seem possible that our country can keep out of it much longer. I know Father thinks so. His letters are few and far between because he's so very busy, but there's always that same note of warning running through them. "Make the most of this year at school, Georgina. Nobody knows what is coming. So get all you can out of it in the way of preparation to meet the time of testing that lies ahead for all of us." After one of those letters I go at my lessons harder than ever, and the little school happenings, its games and rivalries and achievements, seem too trivial for words. I keep measuring them by Father and his work, and what Richard is doing so splendidly up there in Canada, and I wish there was something I could do to make them as proud of me as I am of them. If the family would only consent to my going in for a nurse's training! I'm going to talk Barby into letting me stop school this vacation, and beginning this fall to fit myself for Red Cross service. When Richard found that Mr. Milford had told us about him being the temporary head of a family, he began mentioning his proteges now and then in a joking way. But two snapshots which he sent of them told more than all his brief descriptions. The one labelled "Granny" shows more than just a patient-faced little woman knitting in the doorway. The glimpse of cottage behind her and the neat door-yard in front shows that he has something to go back to every night that has a real touch of home about it. He boards there, so that he can keep an eye on the boys. One is five, the other seven. He said he had to give the older one, Cuthbert, a fatherly spanking one day, but it didn't seem to make any difference in the kid's feeling towards him. They seem to be very fond of each other, judging from the second snapshot, labelled "Uncle Dick and his acrobats." The two boys were climbing up on his shoulders like little monkeys, all three in overalls and all grinning as if they enjoyed it. It seems too queer for words to think of Richard being dignified and settled down enough for anybody to look up to him as authority. But the sights he sees are enough to make him old and grave beyond his years. He has written several times of going to the station to help with a train-load of soldiers returned from the front. They are constantly coming back, crippled and blinded and maimed in all sorts of ways. He says that sights like that make him desperate to get a whack at the ones who did it. He'll soon be in shape to do something worth while, for he's learning to fly, so he can test the machines they are making. Lillian looked at the acrobat picture rather sniffily when it came. I think she took him for just an ordinary mechanic in his working clothes. But when I told her what a Sir Gareth deed he is doing her indifference changed almost to hero-worship. She's so temperamental. Not long ago he sent another picture of himself, a large one, in the act of seating himself in the plane, ready for flight. She wanted to know if she had anything I'd be willing to trade with her for it. She'd gladly give me one of Duff in place of it. It put me in rather an awkward position for I didn't want Duffield's picture, and I most certainly didn't want her to have Richard's. [Illustration] CHAPTER XI THE MIDSHIPMAN HOP IT is all in my Book of Chronicles, written out for Barby to read, how we motored down to Annapolis in the fresh April sunshine, and what we wore and what we did. But it is only in this "inmost sanctum" of these pages that "my tongue can utter the thoughts that arose in me." Mrs. Waldon was with us, as enthusiastic as a girl over going back to her old home, and she kept us amused most of the way with her reminiscences of different midshipmen, especially the two who married her daughters. But in between times my thoughts kept wandering forward uneasily to the hop, in spite of the reassuring knowledge of a lovely new coral-pink party dress, stowed away in the suitcase under my feet, and I couldn't help feeling a bit nervous over the coming event. It would be the first dance I had ever gone to among strangers, and I kept thinking, "Suppose I'd be a wall-flower!" Then, too, I was a trifle agitated over the prospect of seeing Mr. Tucker again, the most congenial man I had ever met. Naturally I wanted to meet him again, but I shrank from doing so, certain that the sight of me would recall to his mind that humiliating affair of the borrowed slippers and my old Mary-Jane pumps. I was wild to know if he still remembered me, or if he had forgotten "both the incident and the little girl" as Barby predicted he would. Besides I wanted him to see how mature I had grown since then--how boarding school broadened and developed my views of life. I made up several little opening speeches on the way down, but couldn't decide which to use. Whether to assume a rather indifferent air with a tinge of hauteur, or to be frankly and girlishly glad to see him, and ignore the past. I was still debating the question in my mind when we drove into "little old Crabtown" as Mrs. Waldon calls Annapolis. She asked the chauffeur to drive by the house where she used to live, so she could point out the place where the midshipmen used to swarm in for their favorite "eats" whenever they could get away from the Academy, and where she and her girls and their guests had those funny "guinea-hen teas" that she'd been telling us about. While we were drawn up by the curb in front of the house, a big, blond boy in midshipman uniform, swinging past at a lively gait, stopped and saluted, the surprise on his face spreading into a vast grin as he recognized Mrs. Waldon. The next instant he was on the running board, shaking hands with her, and they began talking a dialect none of us could understand, about "dragging" and "queens" and "Jimmy-legs." The regular Midshipman "lingo" she explained afterward when she had introduced him to us in ordinary English. He was Mac Gordon, a sort of a cousin of hers from out West. The conversation that we couldn't understand was nothing but that she was asking him if he intended taking a girl to the dance, and telling him that we would be there, and asking if the same old guards were at the gates, because she intended to take us over the Academy grounds next day and hoped someone she knew would be detailed to escort us. I could see right then and there that Mac was making up his mind to give Lillian a good time, from the way he kept looking at her, sort of bashfully, through his eyelashes. Well, I needn't have worried about anything. I had "crossed my bridge before I got to it," as Uncle Darcy often says, when I was fearing I'd be a wall flower. I had the first dance with Duffield, and the moment the band struck up I went into it, feeling as I did that night in the Spanish fandango. After that my card filled up so fast that I had to split dances. Mac Gordon was among the first, and Bailey Burrell, who once spent a summer in Provincetown, so long ago that I'd nearly forgotten him. But he remembered lots of things about me; the first time he ever saw me, for instance, dressed up at a bazaar as "A Little Maid of Long Ago." He even told how I was dressed, with a poke bonnet trimmed in rosebuds over my curls, sitting in a little rocking chair on a table. And he remembered about his sister Peggy breaking my prism. She's cured of her lameness now, and is grown up to be a very pretty girl, Bailey said. He promised to bring her picture around to the hotel next day. He and Duffield were so entertaining, that as I talked and danced with them, suddenly Mr. Tucker and his opinions ceased to interest me any more. When he came hurrying up to speak to me and to ask for a dance, it was the strangest thing--his personality seemed to have changed since last summer. I looked up to him then as being quite intellectual and fascinating, but, seeing him now with Duffield and Bailey and Bob Mayfield, he seemed really rather insignificant. They called him "Watty," and that expresses him exactly. But Babe seemed to find him very entertaining, and they danced together a lot. Good old Babe, so homely and so plain. Her nose was shiney and her hair straggling and her dress all sagging crooked before she'd been at it an hour. But she was having a beautiful time, and there's not a bit of jealousy in her nature. She came up to me once to ask for a pin and whispered, "Georgina, you're perfectly wonderful tonight--all sparkle and glow." It made me very happy, for Babe's compliments are few and far between. She is more apt to speak of your bad points than your good ones, and to be moved to say anything like _that_ meant a lot from her. When I took her over to Mrs. Waldon to get some pins out of her "chaperone bag," because I didn't have any and she needed nearly a dozen, I heard Mrs. Waldon and Mrs. Locke saying nice things about me in an undertone, that made me think of that little line in "The Battle of Waterloo," about "cheeks that blushed with praise of their own loveliness." It seemed to me that if the band would only keep on playing I could float on and on forever to the music. Oh, it's so wonderful to be a-tingle to the very finger-tips with the joy of just being alive--_radiantly_ alive! To have all eyes following you admiringly as if you were a flower swaying on its stem! Oh I know this sounds conceited, written out in black and white in plain daylight, but that night as they played the strains of "Poor Butterfly" again and again, I felt to the fullest the joy of being a social success, such as Esther was. I felt all wings and as if I really were--at least inwardly--"all sparkle and glow." I wished that the night need never, never end, and the music and the heavenly floating motion need never stop. I wonder if a time can ever come when I'll be so old and stiff and feeble like Aunt Elspeth, that the strains of "Poor Butterfly" will not give me wings again. How does one ever become reconciled to being old? Next morning when we went over to the Naval Academy none of the boys could get off to accompany us, but the "Jimmy-legs" detailed to escort us was an old acquaintance of Mrs. Waldon's, and she has seen the sights so many times that she is as good as a guide-book. Nothing escaped us. I could have spent a week in the building where the trophy flags are, especially in the room that is lined with them, ceiling and all. By the time we had seen them, from Commodore Perry's "Don't give up the ship" down to the Chinese flag captured from the Boxers, we were worked up to such a pitch of patriotic pride that we wanted to go right off and do something ourselves to add a guidon or an ensign to that "long honor roll of heroic victories on the high seas." We stayed so long looking at the flags that we didn't have time to go through the chapel before lunch, but we did take time to watch the boys a few moments as the signal sounded for formation and they came marching in every direction to form in front of Bancroft Hall. We sat down on some benches under the trees to watch them, and they did look so fine, marching along with their precise military swing that we girls were wildly enthusiastic about them. I couldn't understand why Mrs. Locke's eyes filled with tears, till Mrs. Waldon said reminiscently: "It seems only yesterday that my girls and I sat here, watching Oliver and Roy in that same line, and now one is on a submarine and the other on a destroyer." And then I remembered that out from this peaceful spot where the April flowers were springing up everywhere and robins hopping across the green grass, these boys might have to go right off after "June week" into a storm of shot and shell. A storm far worse than any that ever rained around those tattered old flags we had just been looking at, because now there is the added frightfulness of mines and U-boats, and aircraft overhead, dropping death from the very skies. And yet (it's shocking to confess) last night, while we were dancing in the very place where the boys are being made strong and fit for such fighting, I actually forgot that war is going on. I forgot it again when the boys came over after lunch to take us back to the Academy to finish our sight-seeing. There were five of them, one apiece on the way over. But after we got inside the grounds Mrs. Locke said she was too tired to climb any more stairs, and she'd seen everything several times before, anyhow. So she and Mrs. Waldon found a bench under the trees facing the water, where a boat drill was going on, and took out their knitting. We strolled off in the direction of the boathouse. Presently I noticed that no matter how we shifted positions as we went up steps or paused to look out of windows, three of the boys always came drifting back to me: Duff and Bob Mayfield and Bailey. And I wasn't doing a single thing to keep them with me, only laughing at their bright remarks and trying to be agreeable in a general way, for naturally I wanted them all to like me. But all of a sudden I realized that I was having the same effect on them that Esther had on the boys at home. They were falling all over themselves to make me like _them_. It was the queerest sensation, that feeling of power that came over me. And, although I didn't care for one a bit more than for the others, I was curious to see what would happen if I were to exert that mysterious influence that I seemed to have over each of them. I began to feel that maybe I had not been fair to Esther in judging her so harshly. Maybe she had felt that same way, and drifted into those different affairs without thinking of consequences. Pretty soon I could see that Duffield was maneuvering to get the other boys out of the way, and finally he succeeded after talking in an aside with his sister a moment. She immediately developed a great interest in an old wooden Indian which sits out on the campus on a pedestal. It was once a figurehead on the prow of a ship, and is supposed to be a likeness of the old war-chief Tecumpseh. The boys count it as their mascot. They decorate it with their colors before a football game and run around it for luck before exams, and all that sort of thing. Before I realized how it happened, Duff and I were walking off towards the chapel alone, and all the others were going down to watch Babe and Lillian run around old Tecumpseh for luck. It was nearly an hour before they joined us. We strolled around inside the chapel and read the tablets put up in memory of the heroes who had once been merely boyish midshipmen like the one beside me. One had lost his life in some Asiatic expedition among savages. It was awfully interesting to me, seeing it for the first time, but Duffield kept interrupting my thrills to talk about personal matters. By this time I felt as if I had known him all my life, for Lillian's daily reminiscences of him had done more to make me acquainted with him than years of occasional meetings could have done. So it didn't seem as startling as it would have been otherwise when he suddenly became very personal. We were sitting in one of the seats back under the gallery. The few tourists wandering about were up near the chancel, whispering together and looking up at the memorial windows. We talked almost in whispers, too, of course, being in this shrine of heroes as well as a place of worship, and that in itself gave a more intimate tone to our conversation. Duffield told me that he liked me better than any girl he ever met in his life. That he felt he had known me for years, for Lillian quoted me so often both in her letters and visits. And he wanted me to promise to correspond with him, and to give him my picture to put in the back of his watch, so's he'll have it with him when he goes off on his long cruise this summer. Of course I wouldn't promise. I told him I didn't know him well enough, but he wouldn't give up, and we kept on arguing about it for a long time, in a half-joking, half-serious way, till I was almost tempted to say I would, just to see what would happen. Then the others came in, and we all went down in the crypt to see the tomb of John Paul Jones. And even down there in that solemn place where a guard keeps vigil all the time, and the massive bronze wreaths and the flags and the silence make it so impressive, he edged in between Bailey and me and stooped down to whisper laughingly, "I won't give up the ship. You might as well promise." But just at that moment Bailey called my attention to the ceiling above the tomb. A map of the heavens is painted on it, with all the constellations that the mariners steer their ships by. Looking up at those stars set above the last resting place of the old Admiral, Barby's words came back to me as if she were right at my elbow: "There are people like that--there are friendships like that--there is love like that--_as dependable as the stars_." If Esther had been the "Star" I thought her she never would have drifted into those affairs with Richard and John Wynne and all the others. I think if it hadn't been for that I might have let myself drift a bit, for it certainly was a temptation to see how much Duffield might grow to care for me, although I was sure I could never feel any deep and lasting sentiment for him--the real Uncle-Darcy-and-Aunt-Elspeth kind. While I stood looking up at that map of the heavens, with these thoughts chasing through my mind, Babe came up and nudged me and told me for mercy's sake to quit star-gazing in a cellar. They were all ready and waiting to go. Babe has a lot of curiosity. As we started towards the stairs she gave me a puzzled look which said as plainly as words, "Now what did you do _that_ for?" I had stopped to lay my hand on a banner bearing the name of the old Admiral's flag-ship. It was a blue one with the name of the ship in white--_Bonhomme Richard_. I could not have told her why I did it, had she asked in words, instead of with her eyes. Even to myself I could not explain the impulse, save that the name brought a thought of Richard Moreland, and the feeling that what he had done made him, in his boyish way, as worthy of bronze wreaths and blue banners as any of those whose tablets shone in the chapel above. Seeing those tablets and the tomb and that map of stars, made my old dreams come back, my old longing to do something and be something in the world really worth while. I simply couldn't stand it to go through life and not write my name on the world's memory as it was written in the silver of my christening cup. Then I wondered what Richard would think of Duffield. That evening the same five boys who had been with us in the afternoon were lucky enough to get off again and come down to the hotel. Duffield and Mrs. Waldon's cousin were allowed to come earlier, in time for dinner. Afterwards we danced in the parlors and had just as an entrancing a time as we had the night before, "Where Youth and Pleasure meet To chase the glowing hours with flying feet." Duffield was all that Lillian had bragged he was. The more I saw him the better I liked him. He was so sweet to her and so dear to his mother and so lovely to me, that I began to have a real pang at the thought of him going off on that long cruise and our never meeting again perhaps, as long as we lived. I found myself liking him so much better as the evening wore on, and discovering so many attractive things about him, that I was halfway frightened. I was afraid that I was doing what Barby said--"putting a rainbow around him." That the charm I saw about him was maybe partly of my own imagining. It worried me dreadfully. How is one to know? As we floated through the last dance together I began to think that if we were thrown together often I might find that he was the one person in the world I would care for above all others. And yet, John Wynne had thought that about Esther and so had Richard. I wished I had some absolutely sure test, some magic charm, by which I could _know_ the gold of real love from the imitation that glitters like it. I lost the rhinestone buckle off one of my slippers and my coral dress caught on a jagged hoop of one of the tubs that the palms were in, and tore such a long slit in it that I can never wear it again. But it has served its purpose in the world. I've had two perfectly heavenly evenings in it. I've saved a handsbreadth of its pink loveliness to put away and keep in memory of that happy time. The boys wouldn't go home until Mrs. Locke promised to bring us down again for June week. She promised, but I'm almost sure Barby won't let me go. The last thing Duffield did was to ask me again for that picture. "Please," he said in an undertone when he stooped to pick up my handkerchief. And he said it again in a meaning half-whisper as we shook hands all around in the general chorus of "Goodbye till June week." CHAPTER XII "SHOD GOES SURE" JUNE week has come and gone, but I was not there when the midshipmen went marching by in their white uniforms across the green mall, and the band played and parasols and summer dresses fluttered their gay colors from the Armory to the training ship. Father wrote that he was coming, and would take me home with him if I didn't mind missing commencement. I did mind, terribly, but it was nothing when weighed in the balance with travelling back to the Cape with him and being with him a whole week. So Babe and Lillian went without me, but it was some comfort afterward to hear that the boys all seemed disappointed because I wasn't there. They sent ever so many nice messages. Duffield sent me a _Lucky Bag_, the midshipmen's Annual, full of jokes about each other and some very attractive pictures both of the men and the buildings. There was a splendid one of him, and he drew a little sketch of Commodore Perry's flag on the margin, changing the motto to the words, "_Won't_ give up the ship." Babe brought back a _Lucky Bag_, too; Watson gave it to her. She also had a postal card of that old Indian figurehead, Tecumpseh. I believe Babe must have made some wish while running around it which came true, or else Watson gave her the postal. It surely must have some association for her, for she brought it back to Provincetown and has it now, framed in a carved ivory frame, the handsomest one in the house, and wholly unsuitable for an old wooden Indian. She keeps it on her side of the bureau, and Viola simply loathes it. Father and I had a delightfully cosy visit on the way home. We stayed all night in Boston and came over on the boat. He has been under a frightful strain and shows it; looks so worn and tired and has ever so many more gray hairs than he had a year ago. He came right from the war zone, and twice has been on ships that had to go to the rescue of torpedoed vessels and pick up passengers adrift in life-boats. I couldn't get him to talk much about such things. He said he was trying to put them out of his mind as much as possible, and was hungry to get back to the sand dunes and just peaceful women folks. His eyes followed Barby's every movement. At times they had a grave, wistful expression which gave me dreadful forebodings. Coming over on the boat he questioned me about the course of study at Harrington Hall--how far I'd gone in mathematics and everything. Then he asked what I thought about learning typewriting this summer, and taking a short practical business course in Mr. Carver's office. I was so astonished I couldn't speak for a moment. All I could think of was Chicken-Little's cry--"The sky's a-failing. I was sitting under a rose-bush and a piece fell on _me_." Finally, instead of answering his question, I blurted out the one I was fixing to ask him later on, after I'd paved the way for it and led up to it diplomatically, about my stopping school and taking the training for a Red Cross nurse. The moment it was out I knew I had bungled it by being so abrupt. He simply waved it aside as impossible. He said I didn't understand the conditions at the front at all. They needed women there, not immature girls unfitted both physically and mentally to cope with its horrors. They would be nervous wrecks in a short time. He said he was speaking from a physician's standpoint. He recognized the Joan of Arc spirit in the school-girls who offered themselves. It was one of the most beautiful and touching things the war had called forth, but they needed something more than youthful enthusiasm and a passion for sacrifice. When I was through school if I still wanted to take the training he wouldn't say a word, but now---- The shake of his head and the gesture of his hand as he said that one word dismissed the subject so utterly that I simply couldn't insist. I couldn't offer a single one of the arguments which I had stored up to answer him with in case he objected, as I knew he would. Then he said he'd always hoped to give me some practical business training, just as if I'd been a boy, and now the war was making it even more necessary that I should have it. If I'd been a boy he would have wanted me to go into the Cold Storage Plant here that we have an interest in, long enough for me to learn how it is carried on and what its success depends upon. Mr. Samuel Carver II is at the head of it, and Titcomb Carver and Sammy III will take it up when they're through college. But they'll be the first to enlist when the call comes. They're that kind. And if they never come back the business will be eventually turned over to strangers. He wants me to know enough about it to safeguard our interests. I was perfectly aghast at the idea. Me, not seventeen till next month, spending all my vacation shut up in an office, banging on a typewriter, with the whole free sparkling harbor outside calling to me. I'd planned such good times for this summer, a regular "under-the-rose-bush" kind, no lessons, no rules. Now not only was the sky a-falling over my particular bush, it was hitting me hard. The boat had just rounded the point when Father finished unfolding his plan, and we were leaning over the railing of the upper deck watching for the old town to come in view. For the first time it failed to look beautiful to me. The straight, ugly lines of the huge Storage plant loomed up till it seemed the biggest thing alongshore except the Pilgrim monument. That, of course, stretched up grim and stern above everything else, and looked across at me as if it knew the hard thing Father had just asked me to do. I felt that it heard the rebellious answer I was making to myself. "I can't." "You must," it answered back, as it had done all my life. "It's your duty. The idea of a descendant of the Pilgrim Fathers and the Minute Men shirking her duty!" It always gets back at me that way. It knows that the stern and rockbound Huntingdon part of me could make only one answer when Father put the matter to me the way he did. It was a sacrifice, for I had hoped to begin my new novel this summer. But I had a sort of righteous, uplifted feeling after I had consented, such as I think the martyrs must have had, which is the reward of sacrifice. It's queer what a satisfaction one can get out of that martyr feeling at times. But I was ashamed of it next morning. I was going through the hall to join Barby and Father on the porch when I heard them talking about me. "No, Judson, she's only a child. I can't bear to have her go out into the rough business world this early. There'll be time enough for that if some actual need should arise." "But, Barbara, to let her grow up unprepared for what is almost sure to happen, would be like sending her out on a stony road in her little bare feet. 'Shod goes sure,' Uncle Darcy used to say. If she's properly shod she'll be spared much pain and weariness. If you could only realize what lies ahead of us--if you could only see what I have seen----" I walked out on the porch just then and he put out his hand to draw me to a seat beside him. Then he began to tell us of what he has just seen in France and England, the splendid way the women and girls over there are rising up and shouldering their burdens. Of their work in the munitions factories and on farms and in railroad yards. From peeresses to peasants they stop at nothing which needs doing, from oiling a locomotive to cleaning out a stable. Personal affairs are no longer regarded. Personal comfort no longer counts. Safety doesn't count. Life itself doesn't count. The only thing that does count is winning the war, and they are giving themselves magnificently, body and soul, "as one who does a deed for love nor counts it sacrifice." It's like listening to one of the old Crusaders when Father talks that way. It's a holy war to him. When I compared the selfish, easy existence I had planned for myself this vacation with what the girls over there are doing, and remembered how noble I had considered myself for giving it up, I felt ashamed of having called _it_ a sacrifice. I made up my mind then and there that I'll make good in the way Father wants me to if it kills me. He shall never have cause to regret my being just a girl. I'm sure he has envied Mr. Carver his sons many a time, but I'll show him I can answer my Country's call when it comes, fully as well as Titcomb or Sammy III. In the meantime, I'll put in my best licks at getting shod for whatever road that lies ahead. Of course I didn't start till Father's visit was over, but he took me down to the office one morning and made all the arrangements. It is the old Mr. Carver, Grandfather Huntingdon's friend, who is to take me in hand. Sammy Senior, everybody calls him. He doesn't do much now but sign checks and attend to some of the correspondence, so he'll have plenty of time to attend to me, and seems glad to do it. It was a solemn sort of morning, for we went into Mr. Sammy Senior's office, and Father took his private box out of the safe and looked over the papers in it. He made a lot of changes and told both of us what he told me up in the garret last time he was home, and a lot more besides. There are certain bonds he wants turned over to Uncle Darcy's grandchildren, Elspeth and little Judson, when they are old enough to go to college. Judson is Father's namesake. He explained to Mr. Sammy Senior that their father, Dan Darcy, saved his life once over in China, nursing him, that time he caught the strange disease which was attacking the sailors. Father had gone over there to study it for the government. Dan married Tippy's niece, Belle Triplett, after he came home and is working now in the wireless station over at Highland Light, but the government wants him for more important work in the Navy, and Father wants to make sure those children are provided for in case anything happens to Dan. Naturally that led to our going over the whole story. How Dan disappeared from town under a cloud years ago, everybody thinking he was the thief, instead of his friend Emmet Potter. (Dan just went away, like a scapegoat into the wilderness to shield him.) And how a year later Emmet was drowned, trying to save some people from a wreck on Peaked Hill bars, and the town put up a monument in his memory. And then a long time after that Richard and I found his confession in an old musket that we were cleaning up to play pirate with. It was as dramatic as a real play, the finding of that confession, and I enjoyed telling it again to such an appreciative audience. How Richard and I were sitting in the swing in front of Uncle Darcy's door, polishing the brass plate on the stock, when we found it, and I went screaming into the house that Danny was innocent. How Belle, who happened to be there by the strangest coincidence, read the confession over Uncle Darcy's shoulder, and cried out "Emmet a thief! God in heaven, it will kill me!" and how she carried on like a crazy woman till she made Uncle Darcy promise he'd never tell till she gave him permission, although he would have given his life to wipe the stain from Danny's name. She was engaged to Emmett when he died, and had been worshipping him as a hero up to this time. She didn't know till later that one of the reasons that Dan took Emmet's disgrace on himself was to shield her, because he had cared for her all along as much as Emmet did. Then Father took up the story again, and told how my letter reached him over there in China and led to the discovery that the silent young American who had saved his life was no other than Dan, who didn't know till then that Emmet had confessed and that exile was no longer necessary. "And so," said Father in conclusion, "he came back and married Belle, and, thanks to the little pirates, they lived happily ever after." "That would make a rattling good movie," Mr. Carver said. "That ship-wreck scene, and finding the confession, and you children burying that pouch of gold-pieces in the sand, for the storm to cover up forever. If the little pirate can write it as well as she can tell it there's the material all right." All the way home I kept thinking of his suggestion. I had never used material from real life before. I had always made up my characters. But now I began to see some of the familiar town people in a new light. Plain, quiet Dan, doing his deed regardless of the disgrace it brought upon him, was a real Sir Gareth. And dear old Uncle Darcy, vowed to silence so long, what a heroic part he had played! "I'll try it some day on the typewriter," I resolved. Then I thought Father was right when he said "shod goes sure." Knowing how to use the typewriter will be a help in my literary career. It begins to look as if every road I happen to take leads into the one of my great ambition. [Illustration] CHAPTER XIII A WORK-A-DAY VACATION IT was late in the afternoon when we crossed the sandy court and went through the picket gate into Uncle Darcy's grassy dooryard. As usual the old yellow-nosed cat was curled up in one of the seats in the wooden swing, and the place was so quiet and cool after the glare of the sun and sand we had tramped through, that Father took off his hat with a sigh of relief. Belle and Dan live next door now in the cottage where Mrs. Saggs used to live. We could see little Elspeth's flaxen head bobbing up and down as she played in the sandpile on the other side of the fence. I was just thinking that I was no bigger than she is now when I first began coming down to Fishburn Court, when Father startled me by saying the same thing. _He_ was just Elspeth's size when he began tagging after Uncle Darcy all day long. Aunt Elspeth sat dozing in her wheeled chair inside the screen door. When we went in she didn't recognize Father. Had to be told who he was. But when she got it through her head that it was "Judson, grown up and come back from sea," she was fairly childish in her welcome of him. She wanted him to hide as he used to do when he was a boy and let "Dan'l" guess who was there when he came home. And Father humored her, and we went out into the kitchen when we heard Uncle Darcy click the gate-latch. Then in her childish delight at his home-coming she forgot everything else. She even forgot we were in the house, so, of course, couldn't ask him to guess who was there. He came in breathing hard, for the length of the town is a long walk when one is "eighty odd." He had been crying a church supper, and was so tired his feet could scarcely drag him along. But he didn't sit down--just put the big bell on the mantel and went over to Aunt Elspeth. And then, somehow, the tenderness of a lifetime seemed expressed in the way he bent down and laid his weatherbeaten old cheek against her wrinkled one for a moment, and took her helpless old hands in his, feeling them anxiously and trying to warm them between his rough palms. There was something so touching in his unspoken devotion and the way she clung to him, as if the brief separation of a few hours had been one of days, that I felt a lump in my throat and glanced up to see that the little scene seemed to affect Father in the same way. Then Uncle Darcy fumbled in his pocket and brought out a paper bag and laid it in her lap, watching her with a pleased twinkle in his dim eyes, while she eagerly untwisted the neck and peered in to find a big, sugary cinnamon bun. "You're so good to me, Dan'l," she said quaveringly. "Always so good. You're the best man the Lord ever made." And he patted her shoulder and pulled the cushions up behind her, saying, "Tut, lass! You'll spoil me, talking that way." Then Father cleared his throat and went into the room, and Uncle Darcy's delight at seeing him was worth going far to see. You'd have thought it was his own son come home again. But even in the midst of all they had to say to each other it was plain that his mind was on Aunt Elspeth's comfort. Twice he got up to slap at a fly which had found its way in through the screens to her annoyance, and another time to change the position of her chair when the shifting sunlight reached her face. On the way home I asked, "Did you ever see such devotion?" I was so sure that Father would answer that he never had, that I was surprised and somewhat taken aback by his emphatic yes. His face looked so stern and sad that I couldn't understand it. We walked nearly a block before he added, "It was an old, old couple, just like Uncle Darcy and Aunt Elspeth. I kept thinking of them all the time I was at Fishburn Court. Their home was just as peaceful, their devotion to each other as absolute. It was in Belgium. The Huns came and tore them apart. Bayoneted _her_ right before the old man's agonized eyes, and drove him off with the other villagers like frightened, helpless sheep, to die in the open. When he wandered back weeks afterward, dazed and half-starved, he found every home in the village in ruins. His was burned to the ground. Only the well was left, but when he drank of it he nearly died. It had been poisoned. He's in an asylum now, near Paris. Fortunately, his memory is gone." When I cried out at the hideousness of it, Father put his arm across my shoulder a moment saying, "Forgive me, dear. I wish I might keep the knowledge of such horrors from you, but we are at a place now where even the youngest must be made to realize that the only thing in the world worth while is the winning of this war. Sometimes I feel that I must stop every one I meet and tell them of the horrors I have seen, till they feel and see as I do." I understood what was in his mind when a little farther along we met two young Portuguese fishermen. They were Joseph and Manuel Fayal. He had known them ever since the days when they used to go past our place dragging their puppy in a rusty tin pan tied to a string, and using such shocking language that I was forbidden to play with them. They are big, handsome men now, with black mustaches and such a flashing of white teeth and black eyes when they smile that the sudden illumination of their faces makes me think of a lightning-bug. They flashed that kind of a smile at Father, when he stopped to shake hands with them, plainly flattered at his remembering their names. I could see them eyeing his uniform admiringly, and they seemed much impressed when he said, "We need you in the navy, boys," and went on in his grave way to put the situation before them in a few forceful sentences. He was that way all the time he was at home. It made no difference where we went or what we were doing, he couldn't shake off the horror of things he had seen, and the knowledge that they were still going on. Several times he said he felt he oughtn't to be taking even a week's rest. It was like taking a vacation from fighting mad dogs. Every moment should be spent in beating them off. It worried Barby dreadfully to see him in such a state. She's afraid he'll break down under the strain. He's promised her that when the war is over he'll ask for a year's leave. * * * * * Father has been gone two weeks. It was hard to see him go this time, so much harder than usual, that I am glad to have my days filled up with work as well as play. Down at the office I'm so busy there isn't time to remember things that hurt. This arrangement isn't half as bad as it sounded at first. In fact, it isn't at all bad, and there's lots about it that I enjoy immensely. For one thing I go only in the mornings. The stenographer is a nice Boston girl who gives me lessons in shorthand in between times when she isn't busy, and I'm getting a lot by myself, just out of a text book. I can already run the typewriter, and I certainly bless Tippy these days for giving me such a thorough training in spelling. Old Mr. Carver is a darling. He likes taking me around inside the business and showing me how the wheels go round. It may sound disrespectful, to say it gives him a chance to show off, but I don't mean it that way. I'm learning all about the weirs and the fisheries connected with the Plant, and where our markets are, and what makes the prices go up and down, and where we buy chemicals to freeze with and what companies we're insured with and all that sort of thing. It's amazing to discover how many things one has to know--banking and payrolls and shipping and important clauses in contracts. I never before realized how pitifully ignorant I am and what a world full of things there is to learn outside of the school room. One of his ways of testing how much I have learned about shipments and prices and things, is to hand me a letter to answer, just for practice, not to send away. I've always been told that I write such good letters that I was awfully mortified over the way that he smiled at my first attempt. I had prided myself on its being quite a literary production. But I caught on right away what he meant, when he told me in his whimsical fashion that "frills are out of place in a business letter. They must be severely plain and tailor-made." Then he gave me a sample and after that it was easy enough. I've answered three "according to my lights," as he puts it, that were satisfactory enough to send, without any dictation from him. Often he drifts into little anecdotes about grandfather, and lots of things I never heard before about the Huntingdon family and the older town people. Usually the mornings fly by so fast that I'm surprised when the noon whistle blows and it's time to go home. At first I brought my knitting along to pick up at odd moments, such as the times when he gets to reminiscing. Then I got so interested in practising shorthand, that I began taking down his conversations, as much as I could get of them. That old saying of Uncle Darcy's, "All's fish that comes to my net," seems to be a true one. For everything that comes my way seems to help along towards the goal of my ambition. These very tales I am taking down in shorthand, once I am proficient enough to catch more than one word in a sentence, may prove to be very valuable material for future stories. * * * * * It isn't turning out to be a very gay summer after all. Babe and Viola are up in the White Mountains, and Judith is tied at home so closely, keeping house and nursing her mother who has been ill all vacation, that I never see her except when I go to the house. George Woodson is a reporter on a Boston paper, and comes home only on Sunday now and then, and Richard seems to have dropped entirely out of my life. He says he is so busy these days that there's never any time to write, except when he's so dead tired he can't spell his own name. There's so little going on here of interest to him that my letters to him are few and far between. It's strange how absence makes people drift apart. When he was home he was one of the biggest things in my landscape. If he were here now I'd find plenty of time to boat and ride and talk with him, but now it's hard to find a moment for even a short note; that is, when I'm in a mood for writing one. I surely do miss him, though. We've spent so many summers together. * * * * * For the few things that happened between my seventeenth birthday and this last day of August, see my "Book of Second Chronicles." Barby was so interested in reading my Harrington Hall record, and so very complimentary, that I have been writing in it this summer, to the neglect of this old blank book. But I'm going to put it in the bottom of my trunk and take it back to school with me. Babe is back home. She had a chance to investigate the brass balls of that bedstead in the White Mountains. She did it in fear and trembling, for it was in her Aunt Mattie's room, and she was afraid she'd walk in any minute and ask what she was doing. The balls were empty. So she's still wondering where in the Salvation Army those letters can be. We are going back to Washington together next week. To think of our being Seniors! Father is going to be pleased when he gets Mr. Carver's report of me. I never had a vacation fly by so fast. [Illustration] PART II "_True to One's Orbit and the Service of Shining._" CHAPTER XIV THE CALL TO ARMS IT has come at last--the call to arms--the biggest thing that may ever be my lot to record in all my life, or the life of my country. So I have hunted up this old book of Memoirs that I have not written in for months, in order that I may put down the date. _April 6, 1917. On this day the United States declared war against Germany!_ Far down the street a band is playing, and in every direction flags are flying in the warm April breeze. All Washington is a-flutter with banners. The girls are so excited that they can't talk of anything else. Some of them have been in tears ever since the announcement came. Many of them have brothers in Yale or Princeton or Harvard who've only been waiting for this to break away and enlist. Not that the girls don't glory in the fact that they've got some one to go, just as I glory in the thought that Father is in the service. But we've been on a fearful nervous strain ever since the last of January, when Germany declared she'd sink at sight all vessels found in certain zones, and those zones are the very waters where our ships are obliged to go. Lillian Locke's Uncle Charlie went down in one of the merchant ships they sank last month. He was her favorite uncle, and most of us girls knew him. He came to the school twice last year, and whenever he sent Lillian "eats" he sent enough for her to treat the entire class. Then there is Duffield, and Bailey Burrell and Watson Tucker all off on the high seas somewhere. Sometimes at vespers when we sing: "O hear us when we cry to Thee For those in peril on the sea," the thought of Father and of all those boys who danced with us just a year ago, and who went marching so gaily across the green mall, chokes me so that I can't sing another note. Sometimes all over the chapel voices waver and stop till only the organ is left to finish it alone. We Seniors have voted to cut out all frills in our Commencement exercises, and give the money to the Red Cross. We're going to wear simple white shirt-waist suits. It'll make it such a plain affair it won't be worth while for our families to come on to see us get our diplomas. Barby is coming anyhow, and I know she'll be disappointed. She has all the old-time ideas about flowers and fluffy ruffles for the "sweet girl graduates." She had them herself, with so many presents and congratulations that her graduation was almost as grand an occasion as her wedding. Her Aunt Barbara's pearl necklace which she inherited was handed over to her then, and I think she has visions of my wearing it on the same stage, on the occasion of my Commencement. There are only a few strands in the necklace and the pearls are quite small, though exquisitely beautiful, but, of course, I couldn't wear it with just a plain shirt-waist. * * * * * Easter has come and gone, and nothing of importance has happened here at school, but a letter from Barby brings news of happenings at home which have a place in this record, so I am copying it. "What a cold and snowy Spring this has been! All week we have had to pile on the wood as we do in midwinter. I am glad that you are away from this bleak tongue of sand, far enough inland and far enough South to escape these cold winds from the Atlantic, and to have Spring buds and Spring bird-calls in the school garden. "Yesterday, just before supper, while I sat knitting in the firelight, the front doorbell rang. Not hearing Tippy go out into the hall, I started to answer it. You know how she opens a door by degrees, one cautious inch and then another-- well, I was just in time to see a big man in a fur cap and burly overcoat shoulder his way in and throw his arms around her in a hearty embrace. I couldn't see his face in the dusk, nor did I recognize the deep voice that cried out--'Ah, Tippy! But you look good to me!' "The next instant I was caught up in a great bear hug by those same strong arms. It was Richard, home again after two long years, and so glad to be back that it was a joy to see his delight. He had come home to enlist. "You can easily picture for yourself the scene at the table a little while later. He teased and flattered Tippy till she was almost beside herself. She kept getting up to open some new jar of pickle or preserves, or to bring on something else from the pantry which she remembered he had an especial liking for. Afterwards he insisted on tying one of her aprons around him and wiping the dishes for her. He kept her quivering with concern as usual for the safety of the cups and saucers, when he tried his old juggling tricks of keeping several in the air at the same time. "But later, when we were alone, he dropped all his gay foolery and sat down on the hearthrug at my feet, as he used to do when he was a little lad, and, leaning his head against my knee, looked into the fire. "'You're all I've got now, Barby,' he said, and took my knitting away that my hand might be free to stray over his forehead as it used to do when he came to me for sympathy and comfort. After a moment he began talking about his father. It was the first time I had seen him, you know, since Mr. Moreland was killed. "Then he told me how circumstances had made it possible for him to come back to the States to enlist, as soon as war was declared. He is no longer bound by his promise to the Canadian whose family he was caring for. The man was sent back home two months ago, dismissed from a hospital in France. He was wounded twice so badly that one leg had to be amputated. But though he came home on crutches he came back with something which he values more than his leg--the Victoria Cross. He won it in an awful battle, one in which nearly his whole regiment was wiped out. "Richard sprang up from the rug and paced the floor as he talked about it. His face glowed so that I couldn't help asking, 'But how did you feel when you saw him with the cross that might have been yours had you gone in his stead!' "He stood a moment with one elbow resting on the mantel, looking down into the fire. Then he said slowly, 'Well, it would have been ripping, of course, to have had it one's self--worth dying for in fact; but after all, you know, little Mother, it isn't the "guerdon" any of us are after in this war. It's just that the deed gets done. I believe that is the spirit in which all America is going into it. Not for any gain--not for any glory--she's simply saying to herself and to the world, "_For the deed's sake_ will I do this."' "As he said that, he looked so like his father in one of his inspired moods, that I realized the two years in which he has been away has made a man of him. It was only that he was so boyishly glad to be at home again that I hadn't noticed before how earnest and mature he had grown to be. "Within a month after the Canadian's return, he was able to take a place in the factory. His artificial limb made it possible. Richard went at once to an aviation field to complete his training. He intended to go from there to join a flying squadron in France, for his Cousin James is ready now to do anything for him he asks. But just as he was about to start, the United States declared war, and he hurried home to enlist under his own flag. He has been promised a commission and an opportunity to go soon in some special capacity, for he passed all the tests in expert flying. He will probably be kept at Newport News while he is waiting for some bit of red tape to be untied. "He did not stay late, for there were some business matters he had to discuss with Mr. Milford, and he left town early this morning. Several times while here, he glanced around saying, 'Somehow I keep expecting Georgina to pop in every time the door opens. It doesn't seem like home without her here to keep things stirred up.' "He asked many questions about you and said that he hopes mightily to see you before he sails. I told him that was highly improbable as Commencement is to be so late this year owing to the enforced vacation in January when over half the school was in quarantine on account of mumps and measles. That was the first he had heard of it, and he said to congratulate you for him on your lucky escape." I am glad that Barby wrote in detail as she did, for I have not had a line from Richard in three months. Evidently he did not get my last letter, for in that I told him all about that quarantine, and the fun we girls had who escaped the contagion, but who were kept in durance vile on account of the others. I wish I had been at home when he surprised them. I wish I were a boy and could do what he is doing. It would be simply glorious to go winging one's way into battle as he will do. It's one thing to give your life for your country in one exalted moment of renunciation, and quite another to give it in little dribs of insignificant sacrifices and petty duties, the way we stay-at-home girls have to do. It is maddening to have the soul of an "Ace" who would dare any flight or of a "Sammie" who would endure any trench, and then have nothing but a pair of knitting needles handed out to you. * * * * * Another letter from Barby this week. Of course I knew the war would come close home in many ways, but I hadn't expected it would get that little mother-o'-mine first thing. This is what she writes: "It is quite possible that I may be in Washington by the last of May. Mrs. Waldon has written, begging me to come and stay with her while Catherine goes back to Kentucky for a visit. She writes that she is 'up to her ears' in the Army and Navy League work, and that is where I belong. She says I should be there getting inspiration for all this end of the state, and lending a hand in the grand drive they are planning for. Her letter is such a veritable call to arms that I feel that I'll be shirking my duty if I don't go. Tippy says there is no reason why I shouldn't go. She can get Miss Susan Triplett to come up from Wellfleet to stay with her till you come home. "Her patriotic old soul is fired with joy at no longer being under the ban of a 'neutral' silence. When it comes to her powers of speech, Tippy on the war-path is a wonder. I wish the Kaiser could hear her when she is once thoroughly warmed up on the subject. She'd be in the first soup-kitchen outfit that leaves for the front if it wasn't for her rheumatism. As it is, she is making the best self-appointed recruiting officer on the whole Cape. "I have written to your father, asking him if he can find me a place where I can be useful on one of the hospital ships; I can't nurse, but there ought to be many things I can do if it's nothing more than scrubbing the operating rooms and sterilizing instruments. And maybe in that way I could see him occasionally. Of course it isn't as if he were stationed on one particular ship. I believe he could manage it then, but being needed in many places and constantly moving he may not want me to go. In that case I shall join Mrs. Waldon. She says she can put me into a place where every hour's work will count for something worth while." It made the tears come to my eyes when I read that. Little Barby, out in the world doing things for her country! Since I have grown to be half a head taller than she, and especially since my office training last summer and Father's leaving her in my care, I've been thinking of her as _little_ Barby. She's never done anything in public but read her graduating essay. The tables are turned now. It is _she_ who is going out on a stony road in her little bare feet, and she's never been shod for such going. But she's got the spirit of the old Virginia Cavaliers, even if she didn't inherit a Pilgrim-father backbone as the Huntingdons did. She'll never stop for the stones, and she'll get to any place she starts out to reach. I'm as proud of her as I am of Father. I've simply _got_ to do something myself, as soon as school is out. [Illustration] CHAPTER XV "THE GATES AJAR" COMMENCEMENT is over, the good-byes are said and most of the girls have departed for home. Babe and I leave this morning at ten 'clock when Mrs. Waldon's machine is to come for us and take us to her apartment for a week's visit. Babe is included in the invitation because she can't go home till I do. Her family won't let her travel alone, although she's nineteen, a year and a month older than I. Father wasn't willing for Barby to leave this country, so she went into the Army and Navy League work with Mrs. Waldon, the first month she was here. But now she's at the head of one of the departments in the Red Cross and will be in Washington all summer, and longer if necessary. I've finished my Book of Second Chronicles and shall leave it for her to read whenever she can find an opportunity. But I'm keeping my Memoirs out of my trunk till the last moment, because there's something I want to write in it about Babe. It was agreed that nobody was to wear flowers at Commencement, and we asked our families not to send any, so it was generally understood that there was to be no display of any kind. But yesterday an enormous florist box arrived for Babe Nolan. If she hadn't been so mysterious about it we wouldn't have thought anything of it. Any one of us would have opened it right then and there in the hall, and passed it around to be sniffed and admired. But she got as red as fire and, grabbing the box, hurried into her room with it and shut the door. That's the last anybody saw of it. A little later when I had occasion to go to her room there wasn't a sign of a flower to be seen, not even the box or a piece of string. The girls all thought it was queer they should disappear so absolutely, and wondered why she didn't put them in the dining-room or the chapel if she didn't want them in her own room, and they teased her a good deal about her mysterious suitor. But last night, after Lillian and Jessica had started to the train, she called me to her room and threw open the wardrobe door with a tragic gesture, and asked me what on earth she was to do with _that_. Her trunk wouldn't hold another thing, and she supposed she'd have to go all the way to the Cape with it in her two hands, and it smelled so loud of tuberoses and such things she was afraid people would think she was taking it to a funeral. There on the wardrobe flood stood a floral design fully three feet high, that looked exactly as if intended for a funeral, for it was one of those pieces called "Gates Ajar." I didn't dare laugh because Babe stood there looking so worried and so deeply in earnest that I knew she'd be offended if I did. I suggested simply leaving it behind, or taking out the flowers and chucking the wire frame into the ash can. Then I saw my advice was unacceptable. Evidently she hadn't told me all, and didn't intend to for fear I'd laugh at the person who sent such a design. But when I said in a real sympathetic and understanding way that it was _so_ appropriate for a Commencement offering because everybody thinks of Commencement Day as being a gate ajar, through which a school girl steps into the wider life beyond, she gave me a sharp glance and then took me into her confidence. She had on one of those new sport skirts with two enormous side pockets, the most stylish thing I ever saw Babe wear. She drew a card out of one of the pockets. On it was engraved, "Lieutenant Watson Tucker." I nearly dropped with surprise, for two reasons. First, I didn't think he was the sort of a man to send such a queer thing. It would have been more like him to have sent a bunch of sweet peas. And second, I didn't know he had kept up with Babe enough to know the date of her graduation. She said yes, they correspond occasionally, and in his last letter he said he was expecting to have a two-weeks' shore leave soon. She wouldn't be surprised any day to hear that the ship was in. Although she said it airily, I know Babe. She couldn't fool me. She over-acted her indifference, and when she said she supposed she might as well box up the flowers and take them along when the machine came, I knew positively that she cared far more for Watty Tucker than she'd have me know. * * * * * Babe says it's like visiting in the Hall of Fame to be here at Mrs. Waldon's. Every way we turn are autographed pictures on the walls of celebrities who have helped to make history. Every time the door bell rings it is a call from somebody who is helping to make it now. And they're not Admirals and Generals and diplomats and their wives to Mrs. Waldon. They're just Joe and Ned and Nancy who took "pot luck" with her in the old army days on the frontier before they got to be famous or else somebody who knew her intimately in the Philippines. It is so thrilling to meet them and so interesting to hear intimate bits of their family history afterward. People she hasn't heard of in years are constantly turning up, brought to Washington by the war. Only this morning, a Major whom she thought was out among the "head-hunters" dropped in and stayed to lunch. We have spent the greater part of every day sight-seeing. Not the usual places like Mount Vernon and the Smithsonian, etc. We've been doing them for the last two years in school excursions with the teachers. But places that have taken on unusual interest because of these stirring war times. We went over to Fort Meyer in time for "Retreat" one afternoon, and again to see the trench-digging and the dummies being put up for bayonet practice. And we spent hours at the Wadsworth House, a palace of a home which has been turned over to relief work. There is where Barby spends most of her time. I was so thrilled when I found her there at a desk, directing things in her department, and looking so lovely in her uniform, white with a band around her sleeve, and a blue veil floating over her shoulders, bound on the forehead by a white band and a red cross. Two retired Admirals in their shirt sleeves were filling huge packing boxes in one of the side rooms. They give their services, working like Trojans all day long. Upstairs in the great dismantled ballroom, and the apartments adjoining, were long tables surrounded by the women working on surgical dressings and hospital garments and comfort kits. Downstairs, near the entrance, was the desk of the Motor Service Corps. A pretty society girl in a stunning uniform came in while we stood there, saluted her superior officer, received her orders and started out to drive her machine on some Red Cross errand, with all the neatness and dispatch of a regular enlisted soldier. That's what I'd love to do, if I only had a machine of my own. She looked too adorable for words in that uniform. One afternoon we went out to see the President receive the Sanitary Corps of a thousand men trained to carry litters. A temporary platform gay with bunting and flags was erected on the edge of the green where the President and his guests of honor sat. Barby was one of them in her floating blue veil, on account of the position she holds now. We parked the machine and sat down tailor-fashion on the grass in the front row of the crowd, which pressed against the rope that barred our entrance to the mall. After awhile there was a sound of music down the street, and the marine band came marching across the great field towards us, at the head of the litter-bearers. It was a sunny afternoon, and the band played a gay marching tune as they advanced. I was feeling so uplifted over Barby's being on the grandstand among the honor guests, looking her prettiest, that I didn't realize the significance of the scene at first. Then the thought stabbed me like a knife, that on every one of those litters somebody's best beloved might some day be stretched, desperately wounded maybe, dead or dying. I couldn't help thinking "suppose I should see Father brought in that way, or Richard." When I glanced across at Babe the tears were running down her cheeks, so it evidently affected her the same way. I'd have been willing to wager she was seeing Watson on one of those stretchers. When we got back to our room, which is a large one with twin beds in it, she dived under hers and pulled out the big florist's box and carried it to the bathroom to sprinkle the flowers. It's wonderful how fresh the thing has kept. She's had it nearly a week. She treats it like a mother would an idiot child, keeps it out of sight of the public, but hangs over it when alone with a tenderness that is positively touching. Babe's the funniest thing! Every time the hall door opens she is out and up the little stairway to the roof, like a cat. It is a nice place to go, for there is a magnificent view of the city from there, and at night it's entrancing, with the Monument illuminated, and the great dome showing up when the searchlights play. But I don't believe it's the view Babe is after. She wants to be alone. Twice when I went up after her to tell her it was time to start somewhere, I found her sitting staring at a rubber plant in front of her, as if she didn't see even that. And once she was leaning against the iron railing which surrounds the roof, oblivious to the fact that that section of it was rusty. It simply ruined her best evening dress, a delicate blue veiling made over white silk. When we got downstairs to the light there were great streaks of iron rust across the whole front, where the bars had pressed against it. Saturday night Mrs. Waldon had a long-distance call from her cousin, Mac Gordon. His ship was in from the long cruise, and the boys were scattering to their homes for a short visit before being sent to join the fleet abroad. He wanted to know if he could stop by next day to see her, on his way home. She told him to come and welcome, and bring any of the other boys who cared to come. That Babe and I were with her. Well, Sunday afternoon when Mac walked in there was a whole string of boys behind him; Bob Mayfield and Billy Burrell and Watty Tucker. Only four in all by actual count, but added to the six already in the room, the little apartment seemed brim full and running over. Two of her old army cronies were there besides Barby. I wondered what Mrs. Waldon was going to do about feeding them all, because the cook is always away on Sunday night. But when the time came she simply announced they'd serve supper in the time-honored Crabtown fashion. At that the men all got up and crowded out into the little kitchenette to see what she had on her "emergency shelf" and to announce what part each one would be responsible for on the menu. When we were ready to sit down to the table we noticed that Babe and Watson were missing, and when I tried to recall when I had seen them last, I was sure they had slipped away during the general exodus to the kitchen. And I am sure that when I ran up the steps to the roof garden with the announcement, "The rarebit is ready," neither one of them was a bit grateful to me. I was sorry Duffield Locke wasn't with the boys. His family met him in New York and they went on to New York together. Bob Mayfield tried to tease me about him. He said Duff had my picture in the back of his watch. When I hotly denied it, and vowed I had never given him one, except a little snapshot taken with Lillian of just our heads, he said, "Well, Duff had a pair of scissors." After we went to our room that night, late as it was, Babe re-packed her trunk and deliberately squeezed all her hats into one compartment, thereby ruining two of them for life, to make room in the tray for that florist box. The flowers were badly shriveled up by that time. Seeing from my face that an explanation was necessary, she said she couldn't carry it back on the train as she had intended, because Watson was going up to Provincetown the same time we were, to visit his cousins, the Nelsons, and she didn't want him to see it. "But the Nelsons aren't in Provincetown this summer," I answered. "And he knows it, because I told him what Laura said in her last letter. Besides, why shouldn't he see his own floral offering? He'd be complimented to think you cared enough for it to lug it all the way home." She seemed a bit confused at my answer, but I couldn't tell at which part of it. Then she said that he didn't pick it out. He thinks he sent roses, and he'd have a fit if he knew it was that awful Gates Ajar. He sent his card to some old relative in Georgetown with a check and asked him to order something appropriate for the occasion. I asked Babe then, why, if the design wasn't Watty's choice, and she thought it was so dreadful, _why_ did she cling to it so fondly, and take it back to the Cape at the risk of all her hats and the sure ruin of two of them. But she paid no attention to my remark, just went on with her packing. I know she's relieved to find out it wasn't Watty's taste. If they are not actually engaged, they have almost reached the gate, and it _is_ ajar. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVI HOME-COMINGS I MIGHT as well have traveled alone, for all the company Babe and Watson proved to be. They were so absorbed in their conversation with each other that they never once glanced out of the window, even when we were going along the Cape where one is apt to see a familiar face every time the train stops. I was so glad to get back to familiar scenes like cranberry bogs and dunes and marshes, with the pools of water shining in them like mirrors, that I kept exclaiming, "Oh, look!" I said it several times before I realized that the landscape had no attractions for them. Neither had the stuffy car any discomforts, although the hot July sunshine streamed in across the red velvet upholstery. With their chairs swung facing each other, they sat and talked like two Robinson Crusoes who had just found each other after aeons of solitude on separate islands. For a while I watched them over the top of my magazine; Watson mopping his shiny red face with his handkerchief, and Babe with her hat tilted crooked over one eye and a little wisp of hair straggling over her neck, and her collar all rumpled up behind. I kept wondering what on earth was the attraction that each had for the other. One can understand it when the heroine is beautiful and the hero fascinating, but how two such plain, average people as Babe Nolan and Watson Tucker can inspire the grand passion is a puzzle. I couldn't help smiling to myself when I looked back on the time when I had once imagined Watson to be the most congenial man I ever met. I was heartily glad that our acquaintance had been interrupted at that point, until I grew older and wiser. Suppose I had gone on looking at him through the prism of my ideals until I actually believed that the halo which my imagination put around him was a real one! What a little fool a girl of fifteen can be! It seems to me I have aged more in this last year at school, than in all the years that went before it put together. Only a few more days until I can count myself actually grown up--till I have reached that magic milestone, my eighteenth birthday! Growing up is like the dawning of Spring. For a long time there are just a few twitters, a hint of buds in the hedgerows. Then, suddenly as an April shower, a mist of green drops down over the bare branches like a delicate veil, and one awakens to a world of bloom and birdsong and romance. (That's a good paragraph to start a story with. I'll put an asterisk on the margin to mark it.) I had expected to awaken to my Springtime and romance this very summer--to find it perhaps, in Kentucky. Barby and I have planned for years that my eighteenth birthday should be spent there. The very word, Kentucky, suggests romance to me. But now that the war has upset everyone's plans, I'll have to give it up. And Romance is not likely to come riding by to such a gray old fishing port as Provincetown. This is what I told myself as we went along between the cranberry bogs and the dunes. But suddenly we made a turn that showed us the entire end of the Cape. There, with the sunset light upon it, was the town, curving around the harbor like a golden dream city, rising above a "sea of glass mingled with fire." Spires and towers and chimney tops, with the great shaft of the Pilgrims high above them all, stood transfigured in that wonderful shining. I took it as an omen--a good omen of all sorts of delightful and unexpected happenings that might come to me. When we reached the station, I had two completely separate and distinct impulses, which made me afraid that I still lack considerable of being grown up. The first fishy smell of the harbor which greeted me, with its tang of brine and tar, gave me the impulse to send my suitcase up to the house by the baggage man, and run all the way home. I wanted to go skipping along the streets as I used to when my skirts were knee high and my curls bobbing over my shoulders. I wanted to speak to everyone I met and have everyone call back at me, "Hello, Georgina," in friendly village fashion. I wanted to smell what was cooking for supper in every house I passed, and maybe if the baker's cart came along with its inviting step in the rear, "hang on behind" for a block or two. The second impulse was to powder my nose a trifle, put on a little face veil and a pair of perfectly fitting gloves, and then when the panel mirror between the car windows showed a modish and tailor-made young lady, correct in every detail, step into the bus and drive home to make an impression on Tippy. The latter impulse dominated, and I am glad it did, for Judith and George Woodson and several others of the old crowd were at the station to meet us. Babe hadn't even set her hat straight, but she didn't know it. Neither did Watson. They just went along, smiling vacuously (I guess that's as good a word as any, though I'm not exactly sure of it) on everything and everybody. It seemed so strange to come home to a house with no Barby in it, but it was such a satisfaction to feel that my arrival put Tippy into her little company flutter. It was the face veil which did it, I am sure, and the urban air which I acquired in Washington. I am taller than she, now, and I had to stoop a little to kiss her. Instead of her saying, as I expected, for me to run along and take my things off, because supper was getting cold, she led the way upstairs to my room, just as if I'd been the visiting missionary's wife, or relatives from out of the state. And she went around setting things straighter, which were already straight, and asking if there was anything I'd have to make me comfortable, till I hardly knew myself, her making such company out of me. Miss Susan Triplett has been here ever since Barby went to Washington, but she's going home soon, now that I have come back. Between them I got all the news of the town during supper. Aunt Elspeth is very, very ill. They're afraid she can't last long at this rate. They have a trained nurse for her and Belle has to spend so much of her time over there that Tippy has been taking care of little Elspeth and Judson in the daytime. Titcomb Carver and Sammy III have both enlisted, and the two Fayal boys, Manuel and Joseph, are in the Navy. Nearly everyone I asked about was in some kind of government service. Tippy says the Portuguese boys have responded splendidly, and she keeps tab on the whole town. But she said it is a tragedy about George Woodson. He's tried four times to enlist, but he can't pass the physical examination. His sight is imperfect and the old trouble with his knee that he got from a football accident in his Junior year bars him out. Tippy never liked George. He was impudent to her one time, years ago. Ran his tongue out at her when she told him to quit doing something that she thought he had no business to do, and she never forgave him. But now she respects him so much for the desperate way he has tried to get into the service, and is so sorry for his disappointment, that she can't say nice enough things about him. It was late when the expressman brought my trunk. Miss Susan had already gone upstairs and was putting up her front hair in crimping pins. But Tippy never made any objections when I started to unpack. I simply can't get used to being treated with so much deference. It's worth growing up just to have her listen so respectfully to my opinions and to know that she feels that my advice is worth asking for. I only unpacked the top tray to get some things Barby and I had bought for her in the Washington shops, and to take out something she was even more interested in than her gifts. It was a little silk service flag to hang up in honor of Father. She took it in her hands as if it were sacred. I never saw her so moved to admiration over anything, as she was over that little blue star in its field of white with the red border around it. Her voice didn't sound natural, because there was a queer sort of choke in it when she said: "I never before wanted to be a man. But I do now, just for the chance to be what that star stands for." I had intended to wait till morning before hanging it in the front window, but she had a hammer and a push-pin out of a box in the hall closet before I knew what she was looking for, and carried the lamp ahead of me down the stairs. "Liberty enlightening the World," I called it, as she stood holding the lamp up for me to see, while I drove the push-pin into the window sash. But she didn't laugh with me. It was a solemn thing to her, this placing of the symbol which showed the world that a patriot had gone out from the house in defence of his country. Although she's a thin, gaunt figure with her hair twisted into a hard little knot on the back of her head, and there's nothing statuesque about a black silk dress gathered full at the waist, and a ruffled white apron, her waiting attitude seemed to dignify the occasion and make a ceremony of it. I started to say something, jokingly, about firing a salute with our ancestral musket, or singing "America," but the expression on her face stopped me. The spirit of some old Revolutionary forbear seemed shining in her eyes. I hadn't dreamed that Patriotism meant _that_ to Tippy; something exalted enough to transform her homely old features with a kind of inner shining. Something wakened me very early next morning, soon after daybreak. Sitting up to look out of the window nearest my bed, I saw somebody hoeing in the garden. A Portuguese woman I supposed, who was taking the place of the regular gardener. Ever since old Jeremy Clapp reached his nineties, we've had his nephew, young Jeremy. But they told me the night before, that he's gone to be a surfman in the U. S. Coast patrol. It was especially hard to give him up as the war garden he had just put in was twice the size we usually have. Then I recognized the flapping old sport hat which the woman wore. It was one which I discarded last year. Underneath it, her skirts tucked up to her shoe-tops to avoid the heavy dew, was Tippy, hoeing weeds as if she were making a personal attack on the Hindenburg line and intended demolishing it before breakfast. Funny as she looked in her scare-crow working outfit, there was something in the sight that made me want to stand and salute. It gave me the kind of thrill one has when the troops march by, and everyone cheers as the colors pass. I can't put it into words, but it was the feeling that brusque, rheumatic old Tippy with her hoe, stood for as fine a kind of patriotism as there is in the world. She's just as eager to do some splendid, big, thrilling thing for her country as any man in khaki, yet all she can do is to whack weeds. I wish I were artist enough to make a companion piece for the poster I brought home in my trunk--a goddess of liberty unfurling a star-spangled banner across the world. I'd make a homely work-roughened old woman in her kitchen apron, her face shining like Tippy's did last night, when she looked at the star and wished she could be the hero it stood for. I made up my mind to say something like that to her, something to show her how fine I think it is for a woman of her age to put in such valiant licks in a vegetable garden when greater things are denied her. But when I went downstairs and found she had changed from her garden clothes into her immaculate gingham house dress, and was stepping around in the brisk, capable way that used to make me afraid of taking any liberties with her, I couldn't have made such a speech to her any more than I could have made it to the refrigerator. My first glance showed me she had lost her company flutter. I saw she would soon have me back in my old place of doing as I was bid and not questioning her authority, if I did not assert myself at once. The chance came while we were at breakfast. A man came with a great lot of blueberries that she had ordered last week. Not expecting them so soon she had promised Belle to spend most of the day in Fishburn Court, because the nurse wanted to get off for a while. She was dreadfully put out about the berries, afraid they wouldn't keep. She was starting to carry them down cellar when I rose and took the pails away from her, and announced that _I'd_ can the whole lot of them, myself. Goodness knows I didn't want to. I was simply aching to get down to the beach and go for a long row, and look in on the neighbors long enough to say howdy to everybody. But having once said I'd do it and been flatly refused, I simply had to carry my point. I grabbed her by the elbows in a laughing sort of scuffle and sat her down hard in a chair, and told her to stay put. To my astonishment, she gave right up, but for a reason that completely took the wind out of my sails. "Well," she said thoughtfully, "I suppose you do want to do your bit for Uncle Sam. It's about all a young thing like you _can_ do, so I oughtn't to stand in your way if you feel that way about it." Then I found out she has been canning and preserving everything she can get her hands on, as a patriotic measure, and she supposed that was my motive. It gave me a jolt to think that while I was saying: "Poor old thing, there's so little she can do," she was feeling the same pity for my youth and inefficiency. Many a time I've helped put up fruit, but this was the first time I'd ever been allowed the whole responsibility. The minute she took herself off I began. Miss Susan was upstairs, starting to pack her trunk, so I had the kitchen all to myself. It is an attractive old kitchen, every tin silver-bright, and all in such perfect order that I could go to any nail or shelf in the dark, absolutely sure of finding on it the utensil it is expected to hold. Just outside the screen door, on the back step, Captain Kidd lay with his head on his paws, watching every movement through his shaggy bangs. I think he is happy to have me at home again, but the house has been so quiet during my long absence, that my singing disconcerts him. He sleeps a lot now that he is such an old dog, and he couldn't take his usual nap while I was canning those berries. At Harrington Hall I never could let my voice out as I wanted to for fear of disturbing the public peace. Now with the whole downstairs to myself, I sang and sang, all the time I stirred and sweetened and weighed and screwed the tops on the long rows of waiting glass jars. I was pretty hot by the time I came to the last kettleful. My hands were stained, and I had burned my wrist and spilled juice all down the front of my bungalow apron. But the end was in sight, and I swung into the tune of "Tipperary" as the soldiers sometimes do on the last lap of a long march. All of a sudden, Captain Kidd, who had been drowsing for awhile, lifted his head with such an alert air that I stopped singing to listen, too. He seldom shows excitement now. Then with an eager little yelp that was half bark, half whine, he bounded off the step and tore around the house like a crazy thing. That cry meant but one thing. It had never meant anything else since he was a puppy. _Richard was coming._ He always heralded him that way. If I had had any doubt of that first little cry of announcement there could be none about the fury of barking which followed. That ecstasy of greeting was reserved for one person alone. It couldn't be any one but Richard. A figure in khaki strode past the window, the dog leaping up on him and almost turning somersaults in his efforts to lick his face. Then splash went the ladle into the kettle (I had been holding it suspended in my surprise), and the juice splashed all over the stove. The next instant Richard was in the kitchen, both hands outstretched to grasp mine, and we were looking questioningly into each others eyes. It was a long gaze, for we were each frankly curious to see if the other had changed. Barby was right. The two years had, made a man of him. He was larger in every way, and in his lieutenant's uniform looked every inch a soldier. He spoke first, smiling broadly. "The same old girl, only taller than Barby now!" "The same old Dare-devil Dick!" I retorted, "only----" I started to add "so tremendously good-looking in that uniform," but instead just laughed, as I drew my hands away. "Only what?" he persisted in his old teasing fashion. But I wouldn't tell, and there we were, right back again on our old squabbling grounds, just where we left off two years ago. [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII BACK WITH THE OLD CROWD RICHARD couldn't stay a minute, he said. It wasn't treating his Cousin James decently to throw his bag in at the door and rush off up here before he'd barely spoken to him. But he never felt that he'd really reached home till he'd been up here, and he couldn't wait to tell Barby about his good luck. He was dreadfully disappointed to find that she wasn't at home. He wouldn't sit down at first, just perched on the edge of the table, regardless of what the spattered blueberry juice might do to his new uniform, and hastily outlined his plans. He was so happy over the prospect of getting into active service that will count for a lot, that he couldn't talk fast enough. We both had so much to say, not having seen each other for two years, that first thing we knew the telephone rang, and it was his Cousin James saying that dinner was ready, and would he please come on. And here we'd been talking an hour and ten minutes by the clock, when all the time he "didn't have a minute to stay," and was in such a rush to be off that he couldn't sit down except on the edge of the table. He couldn't help laughing at himself, it was so absurd. Thinking about it after he'd gone, I was sure from the keen way he kept glancing at me that he did find me changed, after all. His recollection of me didn't fit the real me, any more than my last season's dresses do. He had to keep letting out seams and making allowance for my mental growth, as I had to for his. That's why neither of us noticed how time flew. We were so busy sort of exploring each other. That's why I found myself looking forward with such interest to his coming back after supper. It's like going back to a house you've known all your life, whose every nook and corner is familiar, and finding it done over and enlarged. You enjoy exploring it, to find what's left unchanged and what's been added. Miss Susan and I had a cold lunch together. Then it took me half the afternoon to put the kitchen back into its original order and get the blueberry stains off my fingernails. Tippy was pleased with the way she found things when she came back, though she wouldn't have complimented my achievement for worlds. But I know her silences now, which ones are approving and which displeased. I know I went up several pegs in her respect. I heard her intimating as much to Miss Susan. I wasn't out on the front porch with them when Richard came back after supper. A few minutes before he came I suddenly decided to change my dress--to put on a new one that Barby bought me the last day I was in Washington. It's a little love of a gown, white and rose-color. I'd never worn it before, so it took some time to locate all the hooks and snappers and get them fastened properly. Richard came before I was half through. I could hear quite plainly what he was saying to Tippy and Miss Susan, down on the front porch. After I was all ready to go down, I went to the mirror for one more look. There was no doubt about it. It was the most becoming dress I ever owned, so pretty and unusual, in fact, that I dreaded to face Tippy in it. She'd wonder why I put it on just to sit at home all evening, when the one I changed from was perfectly fresh. Too often she does her wondering aloud, and it's embarrassing. I was thankful they were sitting out on the porch. The rose vines darkened it, although the world outside was flooded with brilliant moonlight. She wouldn't be so apt to notice out there. Just as I put out the lamp and started towards the stairs, I heard Tippy say something about moving into the house because the night air was bad for her rheumatism. I didn't want to meet her in the full glare of the hall chandelier, so I waited on the upper landing long enough to give them time to go in. But Richard was slow about following them, and when I was half way down the stair he was only as far as the newel post. Glancing up, he saw me and stopped. I knew without his saying a word that he liked my dress. His eyes said it. He has wonderfully expressive eyes. It was nice to feel that I was making what theatrical people call an effective stage entrance. Quoting from a play we had been in together a long time ago, I held my head high in the haughty-princess manner and said airily, "Hath waited long, my lord?" He remembered the spirit of the reply if not the right words, and made up an answer that would have done credit to Sir Walter Raleigh for courtliness. We swept into the room, carrying on in a ridiculous stagey fashion for a moment or two, not giving Tippy a chance to comment on my dress. I saw her looking at it hard, but before she could get in a word edgeways, Richard asked me to go over to the Gilfreds' with him. He met Judith on the way up here and she asked him to bring me over. She said some others of the old crowd would be there. George Woodson was already there, sitting in the hammock as usual, but with Judith's guitar on his knees, instead of the ukelele that he used to tinkle. We could hear him tuning it as we went up the path. After we had been there a few minutes Babe and Watson strolled in. Evidently they had had some sort of a quarrel. The effect was to make Watson unmistakably grouchy and Babe sarcastic. It was so noticeable that George said to me in an aside, "Babe is singing in sharps to-night, and Watty's gone completely off the key." We'd been away so long that naturally our first wish was to find out where everybody was and what they were doing. The conversation was such for awhile that Watson was decidedly out of it. He doesn't know many Provincetown people, having been here only a few times on visits to the Nelsons, and now they're gone he is staying at the Gifford House, where everybody's strange. So he sat in one end of the porch swing, smoking. Sat in the kind of a silence that makes itself felt for the radius of half a mile. Nearly everybody brought up for discussion was away at some training camp or flying school, or getting ready for naval service. Naturally that cast a gloom on George's spirits, as he is always cursing his lot whenever he sees any one in khaki, because he feels left out of the game. I was feeling a bit gloomy myself because of the damper they cast, when in the midst of the questions about other people, Richard suddenly turned to Judith to ask about Esther. "By the way, Judith, where is that fascinating little flirt of a cousin of yours?" It was the first time I had heard him speak her name since she left, two years ago. For him to be able to refer to her as naturally as that, just as he would to any other human being, certainly took a load off my mind. Whenever I thought of these two in connection with each other, I've been afraid that the jolt she gave him had shaken his faith in some things. But evidently the old wound had healed without a scar. There was nothing but plain, ordinary curiosity in the questions he asked, when Judith answered that Esther was married last winter. She married Claude Millins, the man she's been engaged to off and on ever since she was a kid. Judith went down to the wedding. She said it was a brilliant affair. They started out with a rosy future ahead of them, but it was like that old missionary hymn, "Every prospect pleases, and only man is vile." They've been having a perfectly heathenish time ever since the war threw a bomb into their domestic relations. Claude is crazy about Esther, but he isn't crazy about enlisting. He is a pacifist. She had forty-one relatives in the Civil War on the Confederate side. Over half of them were killed in the battle of Chicamaugua, and she's ashamed of having a husband who's a slacker. She wants him to be a hero. He said wasn't it "better to be a live dog than a dead lion?" and she said in that honey-sweet way of hers, "a yellow dog?" "Gee!" said Watson suddenly, for the first time breaking into the conversation. "Did they quarrel that way _before_ they were married?" Judith said, "Evidently. She always spoke of it as an off and on engagement." "Well," said Richard reminiscently, "she certainly had _me_ going some, but after all, I don't know which she hit the hardest, old George here, or myself." "Or John Wynne," spoke up Babe, who was in the other end of the swing. "What's become of that good-looking doctor?" Richard was the only one who could answer that question. By the queerest coincidence they had met in a hotel lobby in Boston, and had lunched together afterward. The doctor will soon be in France. He's to take the place of a Harvard classmate of his, who was killed recently when the Ambulance Corps he was serving with was nearly wiped out. Babe said she wondered that he hadn't gone over long before. She expected him to right after Esther broke up his life the way she did. She imagined he'd be like Francesco, in the story of Ginevra--"Francesco, weary of his life, flew to Venice, and embarking, threw it away in battle with the Turks." "He isn't that kind of a man, Babe," said Richard. "You haven't got his right measure. He's too big and too fine to fling his life away for a little personal grievance. It's not morbid sentiment but a matter of principle that's taking him over. He asked for the place he's getting, because he thinks it's unattached men like himself who ought to fill them. Neither he nor I have any next of kin left now, who are near enough to worry over us or to mourn very long if we don't get back." It did me a world of good to hear Richard speak of that affair as "a little personal grievance." Evidently it didn't hurt him in the least to recall Esther and the incidents of that summer. Under cover of some anecdote that George began telling, Richard said in an aside to me, "You remember that story Miss Crewes told us about him, Georgina--his doing the deed for the deed's sake. He's just like that all the way through, keeping himself so modestly in the background that he never gets the appreciation that is his rightful due." It seems so nice to have a little secret like that Sir Gareth story with Richard. I can't explain just what it is, but I love the way he turns to me when he puts an intimate little parenthesis like that into the general conversation, just for me. Presently Judith mentioned Miss Crewes, and then Richard remembered to tell us what Doctor Wynne told him about her. He had news of her death recently. Two years of nursing at the front was too much for her. She died from exposure and overwork, and it was no wonder she went to pieces as she did, witnessing so much German frightfulness. She was in one of the hospitals that they bombed. Judith shivered and put her hands over her ears an instant. "Somehow we keep getting back to those awful subjects no matter what we talk about," she said. "And George has been strumming nothing but minors on that guitar ever since he picked it up. For goodness' sake, strike up something to make us forget such horrors--something more befitting such a glorious night." It was a glorious night. The Gilfred place runs right down to the water. By this time the moon was high overhead, flooding the porch steps with such a bright light one could almost see to read by it. We did read by it presently, when Lowry Gilfred came spinning up on his bicycle. He always goes downtown the minute he hears the night train whistling for the bridge, and brings up the Boston and New York papers. He held one up. The headlines were so big and black we could read them easily several feet away. "More atrocities by the Huns. Inhuman U-boat commander fires on life-boats escaping from torpedoed vessel." "Well, Moreland," said Watson, "that's what we'll be coming up against in a week or two." His face was turned towards Richard as he spoke, but I saw him glance at Babe out of the corner of his eye to see how she took his remark. Richard answered cheerfully that he looked on the prospect the same way that old "Horatius at the bridge" did. "To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late," and as long as he had to die some time, he'd rather go in a good cause than linger to a doddering old age, or be killed inch at a time by the germs that get you even when you do watch out. He was sitting on the porch railing with his back against one of the white pillars, and the moon shone full on his upturned face. Remarking something about the way he used to spout Horatius on Friday afternoons, when he was a kid at school, he went on repeating from it. The expression on his face must have been the one Barby spoke of when she said he reminded her of his father in his inspired moments. He said it in a low, intense voice, as if he were speaking to himself, and thrilled with the deep meaning of it: "_And how can men die better than facing fearful odds For the ashes of their fathers and the temples of their gods?_" Babe said afterwards it made the cold chills go down her back to hear him say it in such an impressive way, as if he'd really count it joy to die, "facing fearful odds." She was afraid maybe it was a sign he was going to. And she said that his saying what he did, _as_ he did, suddenly made her see things in a different light, herself. That's why she got up soon after, and said that they must be going. She wanted a chance to tell Watson she'd changed her mind, and that he was right in whatever matter it was they'd been arguing about. But before they went, George Woodson started a new song that's lately come to town. They say all the soldiers are singing it. It has a catchy sort of tune you can't resist, and in a few minutes we were all chiming in with him. It sounded awfully sweet, for George sings a lovely tenor and Richard a good bass, so we had a full quartette. It was just like old times. "There's a long, long trail a-winding Into the land of my dreams, Where the nightingales are singing And a white moon beams. There's a long, long night of waiting Until my dreams all come true, Till the day--when I'll be--going down That long, long trail with you." We sang it over till we had learned the words, and then we couldn't get rid of it. It has such a haunting sweetness that Richard and I hummed scraps of it all the way home. After we said good night and I went up to my room, I could hear him whistling it. I leaned out of my window to listen. He whistled it all the way down the street, until he reached the Green Stairs. It sounded so happy. I wished Babe hadn't said what she did about his facing fearful odds. CHAPTER XVIII A WAR WEDDING TALK about a clap of thunder out of a clear sky--that's nothing to the surprise Babe gave us the very next night. About nine o'clock she called me by telephone to say: "Listen, Georgina. Is Richard still there? Is it too late for you to come down for a few minutes? _Watson and I are to be married tomorrow afternoon._ We've just decided. Everything's in a dreadful tangle. We want you to help straighten us out." I was so surprised I could hardly speak. Tippy thought someone must be dead from the horrified way I gasped out, "Oh, you don't mean it!" The suddenness of it did horrify me in a way. It seems so dreadful to be snatched through the most beautiful and sacred occasion of one's life so fast that there's no chance to do any of the time-honored things that make it beautiful and impressive. For all Babe seems so matter of fact she's full of sentiment, and has always looked forward to doing those romantic things that brides do, such as filling a "hope chest" with Stitches set in long white seams To the silent music of tender dreams. Hurrying up a wedding in one day in such a combination family as the Nolan-Dorseys would be like scrambling eggs. Of course, we went right down. We had had an awfully nice day together, exploring the town to see how much it had changed, and calling on Uncle Darcy and dropping into the studios where we have been welcomed on Mr. Moreland's account since the first summer he joined the Artist's colony. We'd been in every store on Commercial street to speak to the clerks, and out to the end of Railroad Wharf to see how many of our old fishermen friends we could find. Down on the beach an art class pitched their easels and went on painting their favorite model, a Portuguese girl under a green parasol, quite as usual, and we sat on the sand in the shadow of a boathouse and watched them lazily, as if there weren't any Huns and their horrors in the universe. It had been a peaceful day up to the time we reached Babe's house. The tangle she spoke of was the usual kind in her family. Her stepfather, Mr. Dorsey, is a traveling man. He couldn't get home in time to give her away, and Babe's mother thought they ought to wait for him. It wasn't showing him proper respect not to; besides Jim wasn't old enough to do it. Jim didn't want to do it, but he objected to being thought too young, and Watson couldn't wait because he'd received his orders. That's why they were hurrying things up. He wants to be married in the Church of the Pilgrims because his people are the kind that'd feel better if it was done there. Circumstances were such that none of them could be present, so he wanted to do that much to please them. And Babe couldn't be married at the church unless Viola would loan her her new white dress that Miss Doan had just sent home after keeping her waiting three weeks for it. Her own white ones were out of commission and she wouldn't feel like a bride if she were married in anything but white. But Viola wanted to wear her own dress her own self, and be a bridesmaid. She always gets her own way when she cries, so she was beginning to sob on her mother's shoulder when we went in. And Mrs. Dorsey was saying she didn't see why they couldn't be married right there in the parlor, either in the bay window or under the chandelier with a wedding bell hung from it. Babe's shirt-waist suit that she graduated in was good enough for a home affair and could be laundered in a hurry. Babe wouldn't hear to that because Watson had expressed his preference for the church and had such a good reason, and Watson was provoked because Viola wouldn't give in to Babe. It was her wedding, he said, and ought to be run to suit her. Poor old Babe. Among them they worked her up into such a nervous, excited state that she was half crying, and when her mother said in an exasperated tone--"Oh, these war weddings! Why don't you wait till it's all over and he comes back in peace times?" Babe threw herself down on the library couch and wept. "How do I know he'll ever come back?" she wailed. "It's you who are making a war wedding out of it with all your disagreeing and arguing." Then Mrs. Dorsey explained all over again to me the way she thought things ought to be settled, and Viola explained her way and Babe sobbed out hers, and Jim made a few remarks till it made me think of the old nursery tale: "Fire won't burn stick, stick won't beat pig, pig won't get over the stile, and I sha'n't get home tonight." It was awfully embarrassing for Watson and uncomfortable for Richard. Presently they disappeared--went out on the front steps for a smoke. When I suggested the different dressmakers who might be persuaded to rush something through, there was a reason why each one on the list was unavailable. Miss Doan and the two next best had left town on a vacation. Then I happened to think of that evening dress Babe ruined up on Mrs. Waldon's roof, leaning against the rusty railing. It had a white silk under-dress, and in a flash an inspiration came to me. With that silk slip for a foundation _I_ would attempt to make that wedding gown myself, although there was less than a day in which to do it. I'd seen a lovely piece of tulle that morning, when we stopped in the Emporium. It didn't occur to me at first what a daring thing I was offering to do, or what a mess I'd make of everything if I failed. I was sure of the needlework part, for Tippy began my sewing-lessons so far back I can't remember the first one, and what passed muster with her was good enough for any bride or anybody. And I'd made simple wash dresses under Barby's direction. Babe accepted my offer with the sublime confidence and joy that Cinderella showed in her godmother's ability to get a ball gown out of a pumpkin, and then I began to have an awful panic. But there was no chance to back out. She rapturously called Watson in to tell him that everybody could be happy now, for I'd found the end of the string that would untangle the whole skein. From then on "stick began to beat pig, pig began to get over the stile, and the little old woman got home that night." During the next ten minutes two people were routed out of bed by telephone, but neither one minded it when they found it was for something as romantic as a war wedding. Miss Clara, chief clerk at the Emporium, promised to get the store keys early in the morning, cut off the goods with her own hands, and have it delivered to me by seven o'clock. The other was Mrs. Doan, mother of the dressmaker who had just left town. "Yes, indeed, we could have Sallie's dress form," she said cordially. "Send Jim right over for it." The dress form was collapsible, so Jim brought it over in a box, but it was a very startling and human-like figure that Richard had to carry up the street for me over his shoulder. There being no time for Babe to stand for fittings herself, we blew up the dummy like a balloon, till it was adjusted to fit the silk slip. Richard kept calling it Sallie Jane, and making such ridiculous remarks to it, that we were nearly hysterical from laughing when we finally started home with it. It was bright moonlight, but so late that we passed only a few people on the street. These few stared in open-mouthed wonder at the stiff lady in white thrown over Richard's shoulder, and one man turned and followed us half a block to satisfy his curiosity. [Illustration: Richard salutes "Sallie Jane."] Tippy would have helped next morning, but she had to bring Belle's children up to spend the day. Aunt Elspeth was very much worse. I took the downstairs guest chamber for my workshop. By five minutes past seven the tulle was spread out on the big four poster, and my scissors were slashing into it. From then on until noon I worked in nightmarish haste. Of course I couldn't have finished it if it had been satin goods or something like that, but the tulle was easy to handle, and I pinned and patted it into shape on patient Sallie Jane till it began to look like the picture I had in mind. Richard came up about the middle of the morning. I heard him go striding through the hall. Then his laugh rang out from the kitchen where Tippy was letting the children help her make oatmeal cookies. Then I heard him coming back, and looked up to see him in the doorway. He only saluted and did not venture in, as I was down on my knees before Sallie Jane, making the bridal skirts hang evenly. He could see it was a critical moment. He said he merely dropped in to report that everything was going smoothly at the Nolan-Dorseys. The license and the ring were ready, the auto engaged to take the happy couple to Chatham. They would proceed from there to Boston by rail next day. Judith was at the house now, helping the family keep their head between their ears, and the only trouble was the telephoning. The list of people who would be slighted if not notified was so long that Jim suggested sending out the town crier, and being done with it. "Poor Uncle Darcy," I said. "He won't be able to see the wedding. Aunt Elspeth is so much worse. He's always been mixed up in the important happenings of my life, and he would have taken such pride in seeing us march up the aisle, you as best man and me as maid of honor----" Then I broke off short and whirled Sallie Jane around on her pivot as if I had found something the matter which absorbed my attention. But in reality I had just remembered that it was my eighteenth birthday, and came very near reminding him of the fact. To think of having forgotten it myself till the morning was half gone! I had come to my "Field Elysian," and it was a lonely place, for nobody else remembered. The surest sign that I had reached it was that I did not frankly proclaim the fact, frankly expectant of birthday offerings. I didn't want anything if people had to be reminded of the date. I took the corner of a paper of pins between my teeth and stood up to pin the sleeves in place. Richard looked on approvingly. "That really begins to look like something," he said. "Looks like a white cloud. Even on old Sallie Jane you'd know it was a bridal outfit. You're a trump, Georgina, for rushing things through this way. Babe ought to be everlastingly grateful. But while it's 'Very nice for Mary Ann, it's rather hard on Abraham.' Do you realize I've only four more days left to spend in this old town? This wedding is knocking a whole quarter of it out of my calculations." Something made me glance up. He was looking down at me so intently it flustered me. I found myself trying to pin the left sleeve into the right arm. "I don't believe in these war weddings," he said almost fiercely. "Watt hadn't any right to ask her to marry him now and take such chances. Suppose he'd be killed?" "She'd feel that he was hers, at any rate," I said between my teeth, still holding on to the paper of pins. "She'd have the memory of this wedding, and the few happy days to follow, and she'd have the proud feeling that she was the wife of a man who'd given his life bravely. She'd be giving something to the cause herself, a continuing sacrifice, for it would keep on all the rest of her life." "But suppose he wasn't killed outright. Suppose he'd come back to her crippled or blinded or frightfully disfigured. He oughtn't to want to tie her for life to just a part of a man." Then I took up for Babe so emphatically that I dropped the pins. "Then she'd be eyes to him and feet to him and hands to him--and everything else. And she'd _glory_ in it. _I_ would if I loved a man as Babe does Watson Tucker, though I don't see what she sees in him to care for." "I believe you would," he answered slowly. Then after a long pause he added, "It certainly must make a difference to a man over there to know he's got somebody back home, caring for him like _that_!" He left in a few moments, and I had to work harder than ever for I had slowed up a bit while we talked. The wedding was at four. I am sure I was the happiest one in the crowd, for not only was the dress done in time, it was pronounced a real "creation." Babe never looked so well in her life. Judith had worked some sort of miracle on her hair, and in that simple fluff of white tulle she was almost pretty. Never did a Maid of Honor have less time for her own arraying. I hurriedly slipped into the same dress of rose-color and white that I wore the night of Richard's arrival, and put on the little pearl necklace that had been Barby's. When he came for me in his Cousin James' machine he brought a big armful of roses for me to carry. It made me awfully happy to have him say, "Many happy returns of the day" when he gave them to me, even when he laughingly confessed that he hadn't remembered the date himself. It was Judith who reminded them that the wedding day and my birthday were the same. Even so, it was nice to have the event marked by his lovely roses. Despite all Judith's precautions we had a wild scramble to get all the little Dorseys corralled for a final dress review. Each one of them came up with some important article missing, which had to be hunted for. Then a sudden calm descended. We found ourselves at the door of the Church of the Pilgrims. We were going slowly, very slowly up the aisle to the solemn organ music, conscious of a white blur of faces on each side. The church was packed. There had been no time for a rehearsal, but, for once, luck was with the Nolan-Dorseys. Nobody stumbled, nobody dropped anything, nobody responded in the wrong place. As Jim remarked afterward, "We did real well for a bunch of amateurs. We flocked all right though not even birds of a feather; one man in naval uniform, one in aviator's, and one in civilian's." Jim gave the bride away. I was strung up to such a nervous tension for fear it wouldn't go off all right that I never took a full breath till Jim was through his part, the ring on Babe's finger and her bouquet safely back in her hands again. It was only at the very last when the old minister who was perfectly devoted to Babe began to falter through a prayer, that I realized I hadn't really heard the ceremony. It had gone in one ear and out the other, leaving no impression of its sacred meaning. But if I missed the impressiveness of it Babe and Watson did not. He was as pale as a ghost, and her hands trembled so they could hardly hold her flowers. It was a solemn time for them. Then it grew solemn for me, as a sentence of the last prayer caught my attention. "_And take now, into Thy especial care and keeping, those who go forth from this altar to defend us, both upon the high seas and in the boundless battle plains of the air._" He was praying for Richard too. I glanced across at him and found that he was looking intently at me. I had never seen such an expression in his eyes before--a sort of goodbye, as if he were looking at me for the last time, and was sorry. It was the dearest look. Our eyes met gravely for an instant, then just the shadow of a smile crept into his, and mine dropped. I couldn't understand why that little half-smile should make me so sort of happy and confused. Then the "Amen!" sounded and the organ pealed out the wedding march, and with my hand on his arm we followed the bridal couple down the aisle, and out through the door to the automobile, waiting to take them to Chatham. Once out of the door Babe wasn't a bit dignified. In her hurry to get away before the crowd could follow and hold a curbstone reception, she chased down the long board walk leading from the church to the street so fast that Watson could hardly keep up. They didn't pretend to keep step. She had a long coat and a hat waiting for her in the machine. She had kissed her family all around before leaving the house, so she just piled in as she was, and began pulling off her veil while the chauffeur cranked up. "I'll change at Chatham," she called back to us. "No, Mrs. Tucker," Richard remarked as the machine dashed off, "you'll never change. You'll always be just like that." "The whole affair has been more like a whirlwind than a wedding," said Judith as she joined us. "I'm limp." [Illustration] CHAPTER XIX THE VIGIL IN THE SWING WHEN I look back on that hot July day it seems a week long; so much was crowded into it. After the ceremony we took Tippy up home in the machine with the children, and then went for a drive. I hadn't realized how tired I was till I sank back into the comfortable seat beside Richard. Nothing could have rested me more than that rapid spin toward Wellfleet with the salt breeze in my face. As we started out of town Richard glanced at his watch. "Only sixty-three hours more for this old burg," he announced. "I've got it figured down to a fine point now. Even to the minutes." "So anxious to get away?" I asked. "Oh, it isn't that. I'm keen enough to get busy over there, but----" He did not finish but presently nodded toward the water where a great fleet of fishing boats was putting into port. They filled the harbor with a flashing of sails in the late afternoon sunshine, like a flock of white-winged birds. "I'm wondering how long it will be before I see _that_ again." I answered with a line from "Kathleen Mavourneen," humming it airily: "It may be for years and it may be forever." "Don't you care?" he demanded almost crossly, with his eyes intent on the triple curve just ahead. "Of course I care," I answered. "If you were a truly own brother I couldn't feel any worse about your going off into all that danger, and I couldn't be any prouder of you. And I think that under the circumstances we might be allowed to put another star on our service flag, one for you as well as for Father. You belong to us more than anyone else now." "_Will_ you do that?" he asked quickly, and with such eagerness that I saw he was both touched and pleased. "It makes a tremendous difference to a fellow to feel that he's got some sort of family ties--that he isn't just floating around in space like a stray balloon. It's a mighty lonesome feeling to think that there's nobody left to miss you or care what becomes of you." "Oh, we'll care all right," I promised him. "We'll be a really truly family to you, and we'll miss you and write to you and _knit_ for you." He was in the midst of the triple curve now, with a machine honking somewhere ahead, but he turned to flash a pleased smile at me and we came very near to a collision. He had to veer to one side so suddenly that we were nearly thrown out. For two years he has been so eager to go overseas that I hadn't an idea he would have any homesick qualms when the time came, but to find that he was hanging on to each hour as something precious made me twice as sorry to see him go as I would have been otherwise. As we came back into town he glanced at his watch again but said nothing until I leaned over to look too. "How many hours now?" I asked. "Only sixty-one and a half," he answered, "and they'll whiz by like a streak of lightning." From then on I began counting them too. There was a birthday letter from Barby waiting for me when I got home, such a dear one that I took it off to my room to read by myself. The package she mentioned sending was evidently delayed. As I sat in front of my mirror, brushing my hair before going down to supper, I thought what a very, very different birthday this was from the one we had planned for my eighteenth anniversary. Still it had been a happy day. I felt repaid for my wild rush every time I recalled Babe's face when she saw herself for the first time in her wedding gown. Her delight was pathetic, and her gratitude will be something to remember always, that and the fact that I was a bridesmaid for the first time--and a Maid of Honor at that. Suddenly I came to myself with a start to find myself with my hair down over my shoulders and my brush held in mid air, while I gazed at something in the depths of the mirror. Something that wasn't there. The altar and the bridal party before it, and the Best Man looking across at me with that grave, wistful expression that was like a leave-taking. And then his smile as our eyes met. It seems strange that just recalling a little thing like that should make me glowingly happy, yet in some unaccountable way it did. Judith and George Woodson came up after supper. I was almost sorry they did, for Richard had asked me to play the "Reverie" that he always asks Barby for. He was stretched out on the leather couch with his hands clasped under his head, looking so comfortable and contented it seemed a pity to disturb him. He'll think of that old couch and the times he's lain on it listening to Barby play, many a time when he's off there in range of the enemy's guns. They stayed till after ten o'clock, talking aeroplanes mostly, for George got Richard started to describing nose dives and spirals and all the wonderful somersault stunts they do above the clouds. He knows so much about machines, having helped build them, that he could sketch the different parts of them while he was talking, and he knows the record of all the famous pilots, just as a baseball fan knows all about the popular players. While he was up in Canada he met two of the most daring aces who ever flew, one from the French Escadrille, and one an Englishman of the Royal Flying Corps. It was his acquaintance with the Englishman which led to Richard's being assigned to the Royal Naval Air Service. He's to learn the British methods of handling sea-planes, and he's hoping with all his heart that he won't be brought home as an instructor when he has learned it. He wants to stay right there patrolling the Channel and making daring raids now and then over the enemy's lines. It must have been torture for George to listen to his enthusiastic description of duels above the clouds and how it feels to whiz through space at a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour, because it was the dream of his life to get into that branch of the service. His disappointment makes him awfully bitter. Still he persisted in talking about it, because he's so interested he can't keep off the subject. It's a thousand times more thrilling than any of the old tales of knight errantry, and I'm glad George kept on asking questions. Otherwise I'd never have found out what an amazing lot Richard knows that I never even suspected. During the last few minutes of their visit I heard Tippy out in the hall, answering the telephone. She came in just as they were all leaving, to tell us it was a message from Belle. Aunt Elspeth was sinking rapidly. The end was very near now. Uncle Darcy had asked for Barby, forgetting she was away, and Belle thought it would be a comfort to him to feel that some of the family were in the house, keeping the vigil with him. Tippy had intended to go down herself as soon as the children were asleep, but little Judson kept waking up and crying at finding himself in a strange bed. He seemed a bit feverish and she was afraid to leave him. So Richard and I went. When Judith and George left we walked with them part of the way. I've seen many a moonlight night on the harbor before, when the water was turned to a glory of rippling silver, but never have I seen it such a sea of splendor as it was that night we strolled along beside it. It was entrancingly beautiful--that luminous path through the water, and the boats lifting up their white sails in the shining silence were like pearl-white moths spreading motionless wings. None of us felt like talking, the beauty was so unearthly, so we went along with scarcely a word, until we reached the business part of the town. There the buildings on the beach side of the street hid the view of the water. Both picture-shows were just out, and the gay summer crowds surging up and down the narrow board walk and overflowing into the middle of the street were as noisy as a flock of jaybirds. George and Judith left us at the drug-store corner, going in for ice-cream soda. When we turned into Fishburn Court, there on the edge of the dunes, we seemed entering a different world. It was so still, shut in by the high warehouses between it and town. We opened the gate noiselessly and went up the path past the old wooden swing. The full moon shining high overhead made the little doorway almost as bright as day, except for the circle of shadow under the apple tree. Even there the light filtered through in patches. All the doors and windows stood open. A candle flickered on the high black mantel in the sitting-room. In the bedroom beyond the lamp on the bureau was turned low. Belle met us at the door, motioning us toward the bedroom. Coming in from the white radiance outside the light seemed dim at first, but it was enough to show the big four-posted bed with Aunt Elspeth lying motionless on it. Such a frail little body she was, but her delicate, flower-like sort of beauty had lasted even into her silver-haired old age. She did not seem to be breathing, but Uncle Darcy, sitting beside her holding her hand, was leaning over talking to her as if she could still hear. Just bits of sentences, but with a cadence of such infinite tenderness in the broken words that it hurt one to hear them. "Dan'l's right here, lass.... He won't leave you.... No, no, my dear." I drew back, but Belle's motioning hand insisted. "Just let him see that you're here to keep watch with him," she whispered. "It'll be a comfort to him." So we went in. When I laid my hand on his shoulder he looked up with a dazed expression till he saw who it was and who was with me. Then he smiled at us both, and after that one welcoming glance turned back to the bed. We went back to the sitting room and stood there a moment, uncertainly. Then Richard opened the screen door, beckoning me to follow. He led the way to the swing, and we stepped in and sat down, facing each other. It stood so close to the cottage that to sit there opposite the open window was almost like being in the room. The glow from the lamp streamed out across the grass towards us, dimly yellow. We could see every movement, hear every rustle. Belle and the nurse tiptoed back and forth. Danny went out and came in again. Then they settled back into the shadowy corners. Somewhere away up in the town, a phonograph began playing "The Long, Long Trail." The notes came to us faintly a few moments, then stopped, and the silence grew deeper and deeper. Nothing broke it except a cricket's chirp in the grass, and now and then a half-whispered word of soothing from Uncle Darcy. He crooned as he would to a sleepy child. "There's naught to fear, lass.... All's well.... Dan'l's holding you." Already she was beyond the comfort of his voice, but he kept on murmuring reassuringly, as if the protecting care that had never failed her in a long half-century of devotion was great enough now in this extreme hour to push aside even Death. He would go with her down into the very Valley of the Shadow. As I sat there listening, dozens of little scenes came crowding up out of the past like mute witnesses to their beautiful love for each other. There was the day Mrs. Saggs found a nightgown of Aunt Elspeth's in the work-basket with a bungling patch half-stitched on by Uncle Darcy's stiff old fingers, and what she said about those old hands making a botch of patches, but never any botch in being kind. And the day Father and I, waiting in the kitchen, saw her cling to him and tell him quaveringly, "You're always so good to me, Dan'l. You're the best man the Lord ever made." I do not know how long we sat there, but there was time to review all the many happy days I had spent with them in the little cottage. Then some very new and startling thoughts came crowding up in the overwhelming way they do when one is drowning. It seems to me I grew years older in that time of waiting. I had always been afraid of Death before, but suddenly the fear left me. It was no longer to be dreaded as the strongest thing in the world, if Love could thrust it aside like that and walk on past it, immortal and unafraid. I didn't know I was crying till two tears splashed down on my hands, which were pressed tightly together in my lap. A little shiver ran over me. Richard leaned forward and took my white sweater from the back of the seat where I had thrown it, motioning for me to put it on. I shook my head but he kept on holding it out for me to slip my arms into, in that insistent, masterful way of his, till finally I did so. I hadn't known I was cold till I felt the warmth of it around me. Then I noticed that a breeze had sprung up and was stirring the boughs of the apple tree, and my hands were like ice from the long nervous strain. But even more comforting than the wrap which enveloped me was the inward warmth that came from the sense of being watched over and taken care of. The long vigil went on. Suddenly the nurse leaned over and said something. And then--Belle pulled down the shade. After a few moments Uncle Darcy came stumblingly out to the doorway and sat down on the step, burying his face in his hands. Richard and I looked at each other, uncertain what to do or to say, hesitating as the two children had done so long ago, when the old rifle gave up its secret. But this time we did not run away. This time we went up to him, each with a silent handclasp. Then putting my arm around the bent old shoulders I held him close for a moment. He leaned against me and reaching up with his stiff, crooked fingers gently patted my hand. "Aye," he said brokenly. "She's gone ... but--_her love abides_! Death couldn't take _that_ from me!" CHAPTER XX THE HIGHWAY OF THE ANGELS IT was so late when we started home that the streets were deserted. The only noise was the hollow sound our own footsteps made on the board walk. Even that ceased the last half of the way, for we crossed over and went along the beach, walking close to the curling edges of the tide. Several times we paused to stand and look at the path the moon made on the water--wide miles of rippling silver, like a highway for the feet of passing angels. I kept thinking of Aunt Elspeth as I looked. It took away my sadness to feel that she must have passed up that radiant road. And everything--the white night itself--seemed throbbing with the words, "But Love abides! Death cannot take that." I think Richard heard them too, for once as we stood looking back he said, "Somehow that belief of Uncle Darcy's changes one's conception of death, just as that moon changes the night and the sea. It takes all the blackness out. It gives ... Dad ... back to me again. It makes me feel differently about saying goodbye to you all." "I wish you didn't have to say goodbye," I exclaimed impetuously. "I wish that this awful war were over and you could stay right on here." "Without my having done my part to win it?" he asked in a reproachful sort of tone. "You've done your part," I told him. "And a big one. And I want you to know before you go away what we think about it. Barby wrote to Miss Crewes all about what you did up in Canada, and said, 'I am telling you this in order that you may have another Sir Gareth to add to your list of knightly souls who do their deed and ask no guerdon.' Ever since then we've thought of _you_, as Sir Gareth." Even in the moonlight I could see that he was embarrassed. He protested that we were giving him more credit than he deserved. Then to make light of the affair he went on about how he hadn't begun to do his part. He couldn't feel it was done till he'd bombed at least one Hun. "A hundred Huns" was his slogan, and the number he'd set for himself to get. We started to walk on again. I was making some teasing remark about his being a bloodthirsty creature, when I stepped on the end of a broken oar. It turned with me and almost tripped me up. He put out a steadying hand, then slipped my arm through his to help me along. "I know you're tired," he said as we walked on. "You had to rush through all that sewing this morning, and there was the excitement of the wedding and tonight--the waiting. It's been a hard day for you." His voice sounded almost as sympathetic and comforting as Uncle Darcy's. Away out across the dunes some belated home-goer began whistling. Clear and sweet the notes came dropping through the still night, as if blown from a far-off silver flute: "Till the day when I'll be going down That long, long trail with you." Instinctively we both turned to look at that shining path on the water, as if that were the trail, and stood listening till the last whistled note died away. Then suddenly Richard put his hand over mine as it lay on his arm, and held it close. After that there didn't seem to be any need of words. Somehow his very silence seemed to be saying something to me. I could feel it thrilling through me as one violin string thrills to the vibration of another. I know now, after the experience of that night, that I shall never be able to write the leading novel of the century, as I have long hoped to do. I shall never attempt one of any kind now, even a little mediocre one. And the reason is this: The greatest thing in the story of any life is that moment of miracle when love enters in and transfigures it. It is impossible to describe the coming of Dawn on a mountain-top so that another really feels the glory of it. If he has witnessed it himself anything one could say seems inadequate and commonplace. If he has never experienced such a revelation, all the words in the dictionary couldn't help him to see it. If I were to put down here the few words Richard said as he was leaving me at the door, they might seem incoherent and ordinary to anyone else, but uttered with his arms around me, the touch of his lips on mine--how _could_ one put into any story the sacredness of such an experience? The wonder of it, the rapture of it? And even if you did partially succeed, there would always be people like Tippy, for instance, to purse up their lips at the attempt, as if to say, "Sentimental!" So I shall never try. When Tippy, in her bathrobe and with a candle, came down the dark hall to fumble at the door and let me in, I didn't say a word. I couldn't. I just walked past her, so awed by the throbbing happiness that filled me that I couldn't think of anything else, and not for worlds would I have had her know. If it had been Barby I would have thrown my arms around her and whispered, "Oh, Barby! I'm so happy!" and she would have held me close and understood. But I felt that Tippy would say, "Tut, you're too young to be thinking of such things yet." She has shamed me that way, making me feel that she considered me a sentimental silly young thing, several times in the past. "Well?" she said questioningly, when I did not speak. Her waiting attitude reminded me that she was expecting me to tell her something. Then I remembered--about Aunt Elspeth--and I was conscience-smitten to think I had forgotten her entirely. It seemed ages since we had left Fishburn Court, with the sadness of her death the uppermost thing in our mind, but in reality it hadn't been more than a half an hour. But it had been long enough for the beginning of "a new heaven and a new earth" for me. My voice trembled so that I could hardly speak the words--"She's gone." Then I saw that Tippy attributed my agitation to grief. She questioned me for details, but there was little to tell. When we left no arrangements had been made for the funeral. "How did Uncle Darcy take it?" she asked as we reached the top of the stairs. I told her, repeating his own words. My voice shook again, but this time it was because I was remembering the stricken old figure on the doorstep, pathetic loneliness in every line of it, despite the brave words with which he tried to comfort himself. A tear started to roll down Tippy's cheek. She made a dab at it with the sleeve of her bathrobe. "Poor old soul!" she exclaimed. "Their devotion to each other was beautiful. Over sixty years they've been all in all to each other. Pity they both couldn't have been taken at the same time." A wonder came over me which I have often felt before. Why is it that people like Tippy, who show such tenderness for a love-story when it is flowing to its end in old age, are so unsympathetic with it at its beginning. What is there about it at the source that Youth cannot understand or should not talk about? At my door she waited till I struck a match and lighted my lamp. I wondered why she held up her candle and gave me such a keen glance as she said goodnight. When she closed the door behind her and I walked over to the dressing-table, I was suddenly confronted by the reason. The face that looked out at me from the mirror was not the face of one who has just looked on a great sorrow. I was startled by my own reflection. It had a sort of shining, exalted look. I wondered what she could have thought. I hurried with my undressing so that I could put out the lamp and swing open the casement window that looks down on the sea. The air came cool and salt against my hot cheeks. The silver radiance that flooded the harbor streamed in across me as I knelt down with my elbows on the sill and my hands folded to pray. Presently I realized with a guilty start that I wasn't following my usual petitions. I had prayed only for Richard, and then, gazing down on the beach where we stood such a short time ago, I re-lived that moment and the ones that followed. The memory was as sacred as any prayer. It was not for its intrusion that my conscience smote me, but it seemed wickedly selfish to be forgetting those whom I had knelt purposely to remember: Father and Barby, all those in peril on the sea, all the victims of war and the brave souls everywhere, fighting for the peace of the world. And dear old Uncle Darcy--in the very first hour of his terrible loneliness--how could I forget to ask comfort for _him_? Stretching out my arms to that shining space above the water I whispered, "Dear God, is it _right_ for me to be so happy with such awful heartache in the world?" But no answer came to me out of that wonderful glory. All I seemed to hear was Uncle Darcy's quavering words--"_But love abides! Death cannot take that!_" And presently as I kept on kneeling there I knew _that_ was the answer: "Love that beareth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things" is God-given. Heartache and Death may touch every life for a time, but Love abides through the ages. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXI "PIRATE GOLD" IF this were a novel instead of my memoirs, I'd skip now to Richard's part of it, and tell his thoughts and feelings as he lay awake for hours, trying to adjust himself to his new outlook on the future. But I didn't know about that till afterward. It only came out bits at a time in the few hours we had together before he went away. We had so little time by ourselves. The thing that worried him was the discovery that he no longer wanted to hurry off to the front. He was still as eager as ever to do his part. It wasn't that. It was _me_. He told me down at Uncle Darcy's next morning. I was staying there until time for the funeral, doing the little things that Barby would have done had she been here. Belle had gone home, worn out, and Tippy was over there with her, getting dinner for some of the out-of-town relatives who were expected on the noon train. It seemed as if everybody on the Cape must have sent flowers. The little house overflowed with them. Richard helped me find places for them and carry out the empty boxes. Uncle Darcy was so wonderful. He went about just as usual, talking in cautious half-whispers as he always did when Aunt Elspeth was asleep, tiptoeing into the darkened room now and then, to lean over and look at her. Sometimes he touched her hair caressingly, and sometimes smoothed down the long, soft folds of her white robe. Once when I took in a great basket full of ferns and roses to put on the table beside her he looked up with a smile. "That's right," he said. "Fix it all nice and pretty for her, Georgina. Mother likes to have things pretty." He was so calm, and seemingly so oblivious to the fact that she was no longer conscious of his presence, that we were awed by his wonderful composure. So when we were out by the pump, giving some of the floral designs a fresh sprinkling, it did not seem out of place for Richard to ask me if I had told Uncle Darcy--about us. It might have seemed strange at any other house of mourning for us to put our own affairs in the foreground, but not here. I said no, I couldn't tell anybody until Barby knew. She must be the very first. He said all right, if I felt that way, but we'd have to send a telegram, because he couldn't go away till he'd claimed me before the footlights as well as behind the scenes. I didn't see how we could put such a thing in a telegram, but he was so determined that finally I consented to try. Together we composed one that we thought would enlighten Barby, and at the same time mystify the telegraph operator, who happened to be one of the old High School boys. When the noon whistle blew Uncle Darcy's composure suddenly left him. He looked around, startled by the familiar sound as if its shrill summons pierced him with a realization of the truth. It was the signal for him to wheel Aunt Elspeth to the table; to uncover the tray Belle always sent in, to urge her appetite with the same old joke that never lost its flavor to her. It seemed to come over him in a terrifying wave of realization that all that was ended. He could never do it again, could never do anything for her. He looked at the clock and then turned stricken eyes on me, asking when they would take her away. When I told him his distress was pitiful. It is awful to hear an old man sob. It sent me hurrying from the room, fumbling for my handkerchief. Richard followed me and put his arms about me. The cheek pressed against mine was wet too. "Dearest," he whispered, "that's the way I care for _you_. That's what I want to do--stay with you to the end--be to you all he's been to her. I _can't_ go and leave you with so many chances of never getting back to you. I'm clinging to the few hours still left to us as desperately as he is." At the funeral that afternoon, as we stood together on the old burying-ground on the hill, listening to the brief service at the grave, such a comforting thought came to me. It was about the mantle of Elijah falling on Elisha as the chariot of fire bore him heavenward. He dropped it in token that a double portion of his spirit should rest on the younger prophet. I felt that Richard and I, in keeping vigil as the soul of Aunt Elspeth took its flight, had witnessed the earthly ending of the most beautiful devotion we had ever known. And its mantle had fallen on us. We would go down to old age as they had done. And we surely needed a double portion of their spirit, for we faced a long, uncertain separation, beset by danger and death. _They_ had gone all the way hand in hand. After it was all over and the crowd straggled away we stayed behind with Uncle Darcy for a while, telling Dan and Belle we would take him home in the machine when he was ready to go. We left him sitting beside the flower-covered mound under a scraggly old pine, and strolled off to the top of the hill. Richard asked me if I remembered that the very first day we ever saw each other he brought me out to this old burying-ground. He dared me to slip in through the picket fence and touch ten tombstones to test my courage. And after I'd touched them I went tearing down the hill with eyes as big as saucers, to tell him there was a whole row of pirates' graves up there, with a skull and cross bones on each headstone, and how disappointed we were when we found out that they were only early settlers. And I asked him if he remembered that the first compliment he ever paid me was that same day on our way home. I was so stuck up over it I never forgot it. It was, "You're a partner worth having. You've got a _head_." He said yes our partnership dated from that very first day. It certainly was a deep-rooted affair. Then I told him the lovely thought that had come to me about the mantle of those two old lovers falling on our shoulders, and he reached out and took my hand in the gentlest way, and said that all that they had been to one another _we'd_ be to each other, and more. And then we sat there on the hillside talking in low tones and watching the wind from the harbor blowing through the long sedge grass, till it was time to take Uncle Darcy home. He was ready to go when we went down to him. On the way home he talked about Aunt Elspeth in the most wonderful way, as if he'd been up in some high place where he could look down on life as God does and see how short the earth part of it is. He said "'Twould be a sin to fret for her." That she was safe in port now and he'd soon follow. He was so glad that she wasn't the one to be left behind. She'd have been so helpless without him. On the way home to supper we noticed an unusual number of boats putting into the harbor. The sky was overcast and the wind was rising. It was a disappointment because we'd planned for a moonlight row. We could see at a glance there wasn't going to be any moonlight. When we reached the house we found that Miss Susan Triplett was there. She had come back to town for the funeral and was going to stay all night with us. My heart sank when I thought of one of our last precious evenings being interrupted by her. She always takes the centre of the stage wherever she is. But to my unbounded surprise Tippy took Miss Susan upstairs with her after supper, to help her spread the batting in a quilt that she was getting ready to put in the quilting frames. It took them till bedtime. Richard vowed Tippy took her off purposely, out of pure goodness of heart, knowing that we wanted to be alone. I was positive that if she had thought that, or even suspected it, she wouldn't have budged an inch. She wouldn't approve of my being engaged. But Richard insisted that she was chuck full of sentiment herself, in spite of her apparent scorn of it, and that she not only suspected which way the wind was blowing, but knew it positively. We didn't have any difference of opinion about what Barby would say, however. So I did not feel that I had to wait for an answer to our telegram before I let him slip the ring on my finger which he brought for me. It's a beautiful solitaire in a quaint Florentine setting. "It's the one Dad gave mother," he said, "but if you'd rather have it in a modern setting----" I love the tone of his voice when he says "Dad" that way, and I wouldn't have the setting changed if it had been as ugly as sin, instead of what it is, the most artistic one I ever saw. It was blowing hard when he left the house. The waves were lashing angrily against the breakwater. We knew the fishermen must be expecting a storm. The night was so black we couldn't see the fleets they had brought in, but the harbor was full of lights, hundreds of them gleaming from the close-reefed boats lying at anchor. It was not until late in the night that the storm struck. Then a terrific wind swept the Cape. Shutters banged and windows rattled. The house itself shook at times, and now and then sand struck the window panes even of the second story, as if thrown against them in giant handfuls. Once there was a crash, and a big limb of the old willow went down. It has been years since we have had such a storm. Part of the willow went down that time. Lying there unable to sleep I recalled that other storm. I could remember distinctly old Jeremy's coming in next morning to report the damage, and saying it was so wild it was a wonder the dunes hadn't all blown into the sea. Some of them had. Captain Ames' cranberry bog was buried so deep in sand you couldn't see a leaf of it, and there was sand drifted over everything, as if a cyclone had swirled through the dunes, lifting them bodily and scattering them over the face of the earth. I had cause to remember that storm. It buried still deeper the little pouch of "pirate gold" which Richard and I had buried temporarily, and we had never been able to find it since. For days we dug with a hoe and the brass-handled fire shovel, trying to unearth it, but even the markers we had set above it never came to light. Lying there in the dark I could remember exactly how Richard looked then, in his little grass-stained white suit with a hole in the knee of his stocking. What a dear little dare-devil he was in those days, always coming to grief with his clothes, because of his thirst for adventure. All through the storm I lay thinking about him. I am so glad that I have those memories of him as a boy to add to my knowledge of him as a man. If I knew him only as I have known him since his return, a handsome young officer in his immaculate uniform and with his fascinating ways, I'd be afraid I was being attracted by his outward charm, and might be disillusioned some day as I was about Esther. But in all the years we've been growing up together I've had time to learn every one of his faults and short-comings. Though I've frankly told him of them in times past for his own good, I realize now that he never had as many as most boys, and he has outgrown the few he did have. I wouldn't have him changed now in any way whatever. An attachment like ours that blossoms out of such a long and intimate acquaintance must have deeper roots than one like Babe's and Watson's. Theirs hasn't any background, any past tense. Babe married him without having seen a single member of his family nearer than cousins, which is an awful risk, I think. Suppose one of his next of kin were a miser or a fanatic, and the same traits would crop out in him later in life. Knowing Richard's father as I did makes me feel that I know Richard in the future tense. They are so much alike. He'll always keep that sense of humor which was one of Mr. Moreland's charms, and the same feeling for things with old happy associations, like my ring. When I thought of that adorable ring I just couldn't wait till morning to see it again. Reaching for the little pocket flashlight which I keep on the stand beside my bed, I sat up and flashed it on the stone, turning it in every possible direction to see it sparkle. It was much more dazzling under the electric light than it had been under the lamp. I wondered if it made Richard's mother as happy when she wore it as it makes me. I wondered if she ever sat up in the dark to admire it as I was doing, and what she would think if she could see me press it to my lips in the consciousness that it is the precious link which binds me to Richard. I don't believe she would think it silly. She would be glad that I care so much--so very much. Next morning Richard was over early to take me out with him to see how much damage the storm had done. The beach was strewn with wreckage, trees were uprooted on every street, and roofs and chimneys had suffered all over town. But the strangest thing was that we found our little pouch of pirate gold. It was like the sea giving up its dead for the dunes to give up the treasure we'd buried in it so long ago. We hadn't the faintest expectation of such a thing when we started out; merely thought we'd go over for a look at the place where it was buried. When we ploughed through the sand to the fringe of bayberry bushes and wild beach plums that was our landmark, we found that the last storm had undone the work of that first one. It had scooped out the sand and left a hollow as it used to be years ago. Even then we hadn't any thought of really finding the money, but Captain Kidd was along, and just to give him some excitement Richard called "Rats!" That started him to digging frantically, and the first thing that flew out from under his paws was one of the pieces of broken crock which we had used as a marker. Then we tried him in other places, poking around ourselves with sticks, and presently he gave a short bark and stopped digging, to nose something else he had unearthed. It actually was the old baking-powder can. It was almost eaten up with rust, and the names and date we had scratched on it were almost illegible. But everything inside was intact. I watched Richard's face as he unrolled layer after layer of tin foil that was wrapped around the pouch, and thought again how nice it was that I shared his memories. I could understand the smile that curved his lips, for I knew the scenes that tin foil brought back to him. He had been weeks saving it. "Off Dad's tobacco," was all he said. But more than once I had climbed the Green Stairs up the cliff to the bungalow in time to see the laughing scuffle which invariably took place before it was handed over to him. They had been rare play-fellows, he and his father. In the pouch was the letter, the black rubber ring, the handful of change. "We'll pass all that over to Dan," I said, "but the gold we'll divide and gloat over." But Richard insisted that it shouldn't be divided. He wanted to take it down to the Arts and Crafts shop and have it made into a ring for me. Just a little circle, that I could wear as a guard for the other one. I wanted half of it made into some token for him "to have and to hold" but we couldn't think of anything suitable. He wouldn't wear a ring himself, and there wasn't time to make a locket. There's so little that a soldier going abroad can carry with him. It was the artist who does the lovely jewel work at the Shop who settled the question. We had to take her partly into our confidence in order to show her how necessary it was to have the keepsake done before Richard's departure. She was dear about it, and so thrilled with the romance of the affair that she said she'd sit up all night if necessary to finish it. Yes, she understood perfectly, she said. She would melt the two gold pieces together, and out of part would fashion the ring, just a little twist of a lover's knot, and out of the rest--well, why not an identification tag? The gentleman would have to wear one anyhow, and, being an officer could have it of gold if he wished. Richard liked the idea immensely, but it gave me a gruesome feeling at first. There would be no need of identification tags, were it not that possible death and wounds and capture face every man who wears one. Besides it seemed such a cold-blooded sort of token to give to one's best beloved, just starting off to the Field of Honor. About as romantic as a trunk check. But suddenly I thought of something which made me agree instantly. There was a name which I could have engraved upon the reverse side, which would make the little tag seem almost like a decoration, in commemoration of a noble deed. I managed to write it down and slip it to the artist without Richard's seeing it. Now whenever he looks at it he will remember it is the name I call him in my heart of hearts. He will know that I think of him as my true knight, as worthy of a royal accolade as any of those who fared forth in Arthur's time to redress the wrongs of the world. He is my "_Sir Gareth_." [Illustration] CHAPTER XXII "THE MAID WHO BINDS HER WARRIOR'S SASH" I COULDN'T tell Tippy. The way we did I just handed her Barby's night letter without a word and Richard gave her his. She read them with no more change of expression than if they'd been weather reports. Then she said that she'd known it all along. A wooden Indian couldn't have been less demonstrative, but later I found that nothing could have pleased her more. Richard says she can't help being born a Plymouth Rock. She's like an ice-bound brook that can't show the depth and force underlying the surface coldness. But her tenderness leaked out for us both afterwards, in all sorts of ways, and I began to understand her for the first time in my life. She watched me take down the service flag in the window and replace it with one bearing two stars, and I'm sure she read my thoughts. She's always had an uncanny way of doing that. I was thinking how much harder it was to put up that second star than the first one, because I hadn't really given Father to the service. He was in it before I was born. But the second star was the symbol of a real sacrifice that I was laying on the altar of my country. There was no laughing this time, or joking suggestion to make a ceremony of it. I felt to the bottom of my heart what I was doing, and did it in reverent silence. Soon after she followed me to my room and laid a couple of books on the table, open at the places marked for me to read. I smiled after she went out when I saw that one was an antiquated volume of poems. All my life she has tried to teach me morals and manners by the aid of such verse as "The boy stood on the burning deck" and "Fie! What a naughty child to pout." So I picked up the books wondering what lesson she thought I needed now. The poem she marked was "The Maid who binds her Warrior's sash." As I read I understood. Dear old Tippy! It was _courage_ she would teach me. Richard was right. She couldn't say these things to me, so she brought me the words of another to help me, knowing the lesson would soon be sorely needed. The other book was a new one she had just drawn from the library, the adventures of a young gunner in the Navy. He had won the Croix de Guerre for distinguished service and escaped the horrors of a German prison camp, so he knew what he was talking about when he wrote the words she left for me to read. "When you say goodbye to your son or your husband or your sweetheart, take it from me that what he will like to remember the best of all is your face _with a smile on it_. It will be hard work; you will feel more like crying and so will he, maybe. That smile is your bit. I will back a smile against the weeps in a race to Berlin any time. So I am telling you, and I can't make it strong enough--_send him away with a smile_." This is the verse: "The maid, who binds her warrior's sash With smile, which well the pain dissembles, The while, beneath the drooping lash, One starry tear-drop hangs and trembles, Though heaven alone record the tear And fame shall never know her story, Her heart has shed a drop as dear As ever dewed the field of glory." I didn't realize then how hard it was going to be to live up to those quotations, but Tippy, with so much of her life behind her full of its hard lessons--Tippy knew and took this mute way of warning me. The storm did us a good turn in more ways than unearthing our buried treasure. It brought such cold weather in its wake that when we came in glowing from a tramp along shore just before supper, we found a jolly big fire waiting for us in the living-room. Such a one, Richard said, as would warm him many a time, thinking of it, nights when he was miles up in the air, numb as the North Pole. We had such a long cosy evening afterward, there in the firelight. "We'll have it just like this in our own little home when I get back," Richard kept saying. We planned the dearest house. We decided to make his Cousin James sell us his bungalow studio, not only because the Green Stairs running up the cliff to it is the place where we first saw each other when we were infants, but because it's such an artistic place, and has such a wonderful view of the sea. It's a place far too delightful to be wasted on a single person, even such a nice old bachelor as his Cousin James. We even planned what we'd have for our first breakfast when we started to housekeeping, with Aunt Georgina's coffee urn shining at one end of the table and an old beaten-silver chop dish, that is one of Richard's memories of their studio days in Paris, at the other. "If I could only see that picture in reality before I go!" Richard exclaimed--"if I could only sit down at that table once with you across from me, and know that it was my home and my little wife----" Then he confessed that he wanted to take back everything he'd said about Watson and war weddings. He believed in 'em now and _couldn't_ I, _wouldn't_ I----? But without waiting to finish the question he hurried on to answer it himself. No, he mustn't ask it. He wouldn't. It wouldn't be fair to me, young as I was, with Barby gone, nor to her. But if he could only feel that I really belonged to him---- I told him I didn't see how rushing through a whirlwind ceremony as Babe did could make us feel we belonged to each other any more than we already did, and I _couldn't_ do it without Barby, but we could say the betrothal part to each other, and that would make him feel that we were almost married. So we hunted it up in the prayer book and each repeated the part that says, "I take thee ... from this day forward ... to love and to cherish ... and thereto I plight thee my troth." But after we said it I couldn't see that it made the thought of parting any easier. Really it seemed even harder after we'd solemnly promised ourselves to each other that way. After a while he said there were several things he wanted to speak of before he went away. One was that his Cousin James has all his belongings in charge. Among them is a beautiful old Venetian jewel casket with his mother's rings and necklaces and things in it. His Cousin James understands that everything in it is to be mine and he hoped that I'd wear them sometimes--even if--in any event---- He didn't go on to say even if _what_, but the unfinished sentence filled me with its unspoken dread, more than if he'd really said it. After a long silence he said lightly that there was some satisfaction in the thought that I'd always be comfortably provided for no matter what happened, and that I could have the bungalow and the motor-boat and all the other things we'd planned. He'd made his will the day before and his Cousin James had promised to see it was carried out in every detail. At the thought of what his speech implied and the mere idea of me having or doing any of those lovely things without _him_, I couldn't stand it any longer. I simply hid my face in the sofa cushions and let the dykes wash out to sea. It must have broken him up somewhat himself, to see the way I took it, for his voice was shaky when he tried to comfort me. But it was so dear and tender, just like Uncle Darcy's that time he kept saying, "There's naught to fear lass, Dan'l's holding you." Every word only made me cry that much harder. Presently he cleared his throat and asked if I supposed there was any powder left in the old powder horn over the mantel, and did I remember the time we fed some to Captain Kidd to make him game. He'd confess now, after all these years, he ate some himself that day when I wasn't looking, but its effect was about worn off by this time, and if I kept on that way much longer he'd have to have another nip at that old horn or go to pieces himself. I sat up then and laughed, despite the big, gulpy sobs that nearly choked me. For I had to tell him that I'd eaten some of that powder myself that same time. I licked it out of the palm of my hand when his back was turned. And if the powder had lost its effect on me the horn itself hadn't. The mere mention of it made me stiffen. Hereafter I'd be just as brave as that old Revolutionary grandmother of mine who snatched it from the wall with the musket, and hustled her Minute Man off with the one grim word, "Hurry!" I promised him that hereafter he shouldn't see me shed another drop. And he didn't. Mr. Milford came up for me early next morning to take me down to the station to see Richard off. Maybe it was because I had had that spell of wild weeps the night before, that I felt like the-morning-after-a-storm, all cleared up and shiney. At any rate I sent him off laughing. He looked so fit and so fine, starting off on his great adventure like some knight of old, that I told him I pined to go along; that under the circumstances I'd gladly change places with him. I'd much rather be Richard Moreland than G. Huntingdon. But he said right before his Cousin James that he'd much rather I'd be _Mrs._ Richard Moreland. It was my blushing so furiously at hearing that name applied to me for the first time which made him laugh. Then there was only time to be caught up in a good-bye embrace before the train pulled out. He swung himself up on the rear platform just as it started. He did look so handsome and so dear and I was so proud of him in his khaki that there was nothing forced in the last smile I gave him. It was the real spangled-bannery kind; such as shines in your eyes when the band plays martial music and the troops march by. Your heart beats awfully fast and you hold your breath, but you have the feeling that in your soul you are one of the color bearers yourself. You are keeping step with your head held high. Afterwards when Mr. Milford helped me into the machine he said, "Georgina, you're a trump. You wear your service stars in your eyes." When I looked at him questioningly, wondering what he meant, he said, "Oh, I know they're brown, not blue, but you showed my boy the star of 'true blue' courage in them, and I was horribly afraid for a few minutes there that maybe you wouldn't." He talked about service flags all the way home, for we kept coming across them in the windows in every street. Over two hundred men have gone out from this little fishing town. When I told him how I felt that way, about "keeping step," he said he wished I could make some other people he knew feel the same way. "There's poor Mrs. Carver, for instance, crying her eyes out over Titcomb and Sammy III, and talking as if she's the only mother in the world who's sacrificing anything. If you could suggest that those boys would be a bit prouder of her if she could keep step with the rest of the mothers, make her sacrifice with her head up, it would do her a world of good. She mustn't fly service stars in her window unless she can back them on the inside with the same true blue courage they stand for on the outside--the kind that sends the men to the front." [Illustration] CHAPTER XXIII MARKED ON THE CALENDAR IT'S queer what a way Doctor Wynne has of stepping abruptly into my life and out again. It's been so ever since I found his picture in the barrel. A few days after Richard left he unexpectedly opened the front gate and came up to the porch where Tippy and I sat knitting. I did not recognize him at first in his captain's uniform, and no one could have been further from my thoughts. I supposed he had already sailed for France. Some business with old Mr. Carver, who is giving an ambulance to the Red Cross, brought him to Provincetown, and, happening to hear that Miss Susan Triplett was at our house, he came up to say goodbye to her before starting to join the unit to which he's been assigned. He was disappointed when he found that Miss Susan had gone back to Wellfleet. He said she was one of the few people left who had known his family intimately, and who remembered him as a child. It gave him a sense of kinship to have her call him "Johnny" in a world where everyone else said "Doctor." That was enough for Tippy. In her opinion any man in khaki is entitled to all the "sugar and spice and everything nice" the world can give. When she found that he has no home ties now, she adopted him on the spot. He didn't know he was being adopted, but I did, just from the positive tone of her voice. She told him her claim on him was about as old as Susan's. She'd known him when he was a bald-headed baby--held him in her arms in this very house, and sat under his father's preaching many a time in Wellfleet. And indeed he'd stay to supper. He needn't think she'd let a son of Sister Wynne's leave the house without breaking bread with her, especially when he was starting off to a far country where he was liable to get nothing but husks. If what Tippy wanted was to give him a little slice of home to pack up and take away in his "old kit bag," she certainly succeeded. It will be many a moon before he can forget the table she spread for him, the advice she gave him and the sock she hurried to "toe off" in order that there might be a full half dozen in the package she thrust upon him at parting. An own aunt could not have been more solicitous for his comfort, and she did all but call him Johnny. It's the first time I ever had any conversation with him more than a sentence or two. Now as he "reminisced" with Tippy, and told experiences of his boyhood on a Western farm and of his medical student days, I saw that the real John Wynne was not the person I imagined him to be. What a sentimental little goose I must have been at sixteen; truly "green in judgment" to have woven such a fabric of dreams around him. Miss Crewes' story started it, putting him on a sort of pedestal, and the affair with Esther added to it, till I imagined him a romantic and knightly figure, "wrapped in the solitude" of a sad and patient melancholy. The real John Wynne is a busy, matter-of-fact physician, absorbingly interested in the war and keen to be into it, also ready to talk about anything from "cabbages to kings." Yet I suppose if anyone had told me then that I was mistaken in that early estimate of him I would have resented it. I _wanted_ him to fit the role I assigned him. It made him more interesting to my callow mind to imagine him like that king in the poem when,--"The barque which held the prince went down he never smiled again." He was so warmly interested in my account of finding his picture at that auction and keeping it all these years, that I took him across the hall to look at it. The thought came to me that maybe he'd like to have it, but when I offered it to him he said no, he had a more recent one of his mother, one more like her as he remembered her. He stood looking at it a long while and finally said it seemed so much at home there on the wall that he hoped I'd keep it there. It would sort of anchor him to the old Cape to look back and know that it was hanging in the very room where they had once been together. Then he added almost wistfully: "If _she_ were here to wish me Godspeed, I could go away better equipped, perhaps, for what lies ahead." Some sudden impulse prompted me to open the table drawer and take out the little service flag with the one star which I had thrust in there when I put up the new one. As I hung it under the picture I was surprised to hear myself saying, "See! She _does_ wish you Godspeed." It was exactly as if someone else put the words into my mouth, for I had never thought of them before, and I'm sure I never quoted Scripture that way before, outside of Sunday school. It gave me the queerest sensation to be doing it as if some force outside of myself were impelling me to speak. "Don't you suppose," I said slowly, "that if God so loved the world that He could give His only son to die for it, that he must know how _human_ fathers and mothers feel when they do the same thing? Don't you believe that He'd let a mother, even up in heaven, have some way to comfort and help a son who was offering _his_ life to save the world? The men in the trenches can't see the stars we hang out for them here at home, but they feel our spirit of helpfulness flowing out to them. How do we know that the windows of heaven are not hung with stars that mean the same thing? How do we know but what those who watch and wait for us up there are not aiding us in ways greater than we dream possible? Helping us as Israel was helped, by the invisible hosts and chariots of fire, in the mountain round about Elisha?" The tenderest smile lit up his face. "It's strange you should have hit upon that particular story," he said. "It was one of my mother's favorites. She began telling it to me when I was no bigger than that little chap there, leaning against her shoulder." Then he turned and held out his hand, saying, "You've given me more than you can ever know, Miss Huntingdon. Thank you for hanging that little service star there. She does say Godspeed, and its help will go with me overseas." A little while later he went away, and I've wondered a dozen times since what made me say that to him. * * * * * The month of July in my 1917 calendar is a motley page, the first half of it being marked with a perfect jumble of red rings and black crosses. They stand for all that happened between my home-coming after Commencement and Richard's goodbye. When you consider that into one day alone was crowded my birthday anniversary, Babe's wedding, Aunt Elspeth's death, and the greatest experience of my life, it's no wonder that in looking back over it all July seems almost as long and eventful as all the years which went before it. There is a triple ring around the twenty-seventh. I couldn't make it red enough, for that is the joyful day that Richard's cablegram came, saying that he was safe in England. It was also the day that Babe came home from her honeymoon, alone, of course. Watson joined his ship two days after they left here, and she visited his people the rest of the time. I've not marked that event but I'll not forget it soon, because she was so provoking when I ran in to tell her my news. Not that she wasn't interested in hearing of Richard's safety, or that she wasn't enthusiastic about my engagement and my solitaire, but she had such a superior married air, as if the mere fact of her being Mrs. Watson Tucker made all she said and felt important. She gave me to understand that while it was natural that she should worry about Watson, and almost die of anxiety when the mails were late, I oughtn't to feel the separation as keenly as she, because I was merely engaged. "My _dear_, you can't realize the difference until you've had the experience," she said patronizingly. I told her Richard had been a part of my life ever since I was a child, and it stood to reason that he filled a larger place in it than Watson could in hers, having only come into it recently. It's no use arguing with Babe. You never get anywhere. So I just looked down on my little ring of pirate gold and felt sorry for her. She has no link like that to remind her of such buried treasure as Richard and I share--the memory of all those years when we were growing up together. Early in August I had the joy of putting a big red capital L on my calendar, to mark the day that Richard's first letter came. He was well, he had had a comfortable crossing, he had passed all his tests and begun his special training for the coast patrol. It is almost worth the separation to have a letter like that. Not only did he tell me right out in the dearest way how much he cares for me, regardless of the censor's possible embarrassment, but every line showed his buoyant spirits over the chance that has come to him at last. He has wanted it so desperately, tried for it so gallantly and worked and waited so patiently that I would be a selfish pig not to be glad too, and I _am_ glad. Judith asked how I had the heart to go into the tableaux that Mrs. Tupman is getting up for the Yarn fund. She was sure she couldn't if she were in my place. She'd be thinking all the time of the danger he is in. She wondered if I realized that the elements themselves conspire against an aviator--fire, earth and even water, if he's in the naval force, to say nothing of the risk of the enemy's guns. She couldn't understand it when I said I wasn't going to make myself miserable thinking of such things. And I'm not. He's having his heart's desire at last, and I'm so happy for him that I won't let myself be sorry for me. His next letter was written five thousand feet up in the air. He went to twenty thousand feet that trip, but couldn't write at such a height, because his hand got so cold he had to put his glove on. Of course it was only a short scribbled note, but it thrilled me to the core to have one written under such circumstances. In the postscript, added after landing, he said, "I never go up without wishing you could share with me the amazing sensations of such a flight. You would love the diving and twirling and swooping. You were always such a good little sport I don't like to have you left out of the game. Never mind, we'll have a flier of our own when I come back, and we'll go up every day. We had an exciting chase after some enemy planes the other day. We sent down one raiding Boche and came near getting winged ourselves. I wish I might tell you the important particulars, but the things which would interest you most are the very ones we are not at liberty to write about. All I can say is that life over here now is one perpetual thrill, and it's a source of constant thanksgiving to me that Fate landed me in this branch of the service instead of the one I was headed for when I skipped off to Canada." Even Richard's reference to the enemy planes which came near winging them did not fill me with uneasiness, because all his life he's gone through accidents unscathed. Once when he was only half-grown he brought his sailboat safely into port through a squall which crippled it, and old Captain Ames declared if it had been any other boy alongshore he'd have been drowned. That for level head and steady nerve he'd never seen his beat. Even back in the days when his crazy stunts in bicycle riding made the town's hair stand on end, he never had a bad fall. So I didn't worry when two weeks went by without bringing further word from him. But when three passed and then a whole month, I began to get anxious. Now that it's beginning on the second month, I'm awfully worried. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXIV BRAVE LITTLE CARRIER PIGEON! WE have had another storm. It wrecked so many vessels and sent so many fishermen to their death that the dreadful tenth of August will go down in the annals of Provincetown as a day of dole for the whole Cape. So many families suffered from it. Most of them are Portuguese, and many of them are totally unprovided for, now that their breadwinners are taken. At first it seemed to me that I just couldn't go down to the Fayals', but Tippy, who had been several times, said I ought to, because Mrs. Fayal has always been so good about coming in for an extra day's cleaning and has done our washing so many years, and I used to play with Rosalie. I didn't know what to say or do that could be of any possible comfort. But Rosalie clung to me so the night that her father was brought home, that I sat with them till morning. There wasn't a stronger, sturdier fisherman along the coast than Joe Fayal. I've seen him go clumping past our house a thousand times in his high boots and yellow oilskins, and the flash of his white teeth and black eyes always gave the impression of his being more alive than most people. When I saw the white drowned thing they brought home in place of him I began to be afraid--afraid of the "peril of the sea." If it can do _that_ to one strong man it can do it to another. All night Mrs. Fayal sat in a corner behind the stove. Sometimes she wrung her hands without a word, and sometimes she kept up a sort of moaning whimper--"The War took both my boys and now the Sea's taken my man!" I can hear her yet. The days that followed were too full for me to worry as much as I would have done otherwise over Richard's long silence. The poverty of all those desolate families came uppermost. A fund was started for the widows and orphans, and all parts of New England came to the rescue. Artists, actors, the summer people, the home folks--everybody responded. A series of benefits and tag days began. I was asked to serve on so many committees and to help in so many enterprises that I raced through the days as if I were a fast express train, trying to make connections. I didn't have time to think during the day, but at night when I lay counting up the time since I'd had a letter, the waves booming up against the breakwater took to repeating that wail of Mrs. Fayal's, and the fog bell tolled it: "_The Sea's taken my man_." And I'd be so afraid I'd pull the covers over my ears to shut out the sound. Then seven letters came in a bunch. The long silence had not been Richard's fault, nor was anything the matter. There had simply been delays in the mail service. I vowed I'd let that be a lesson to me, not to worry next time. Barby came home late in the summer, and the very day of her arrival I had to go to Brewster on a "war-bread" campaign. I had promised to be demonstrator any time they called for me. It was tough luck to have the call hit that first day. I hadn't had her to myself for ages, and after the wild scramble of the summer I longed for a quiet day in a rocking chair at home, where we could talk over all the things that had happened since the last time we were together--principally Richard. If there were no war now, I suppose that's about all we'd be doing these days, spending long, placid hours together, embroidering dainty lingerie and putting my initials on table linen and such things. But there'll be no "hope chest" for me while there's a soldier left in a hospital to need pajamas and bandages, or one in the trenches who needs socks. The wild beast is not only on our door-steps now, he has us by the very throats. Barby came with the intention of taking me back with her, and Tippy, too, if she could persuade her to go. Although we're not the very important hub of a very important wheel as she is in Washington, we are the hubs of a good many little wheels which we have started, and which would stop if we left. I was wild to go, but Tippy has no patience with people who put their hands to the plow and then look back. She kept reminding me of the various things that I have gotten into good running order, such as the Junior Red Cross, and a new Busy Bees Circle which Minnie Waite is running, under my direction and prodding. They are doing wonderfully well as long as the prodding never lets up. While we were debating the question it was settled for us in a most unexpected way. Old Mr. Carver telephoned that he needed me dreadfully in the office. Could I come and help him hold the fort for awhile? His son was very ill and had been taken to Boston for an operation. The draft had called so many men that practically the whole office force was new, and his stenographer had just left to take a government position. Much as Barby wanted me with her, she said that that settled it. Nothing a girl of my age could find to do in Washington was as important as that. Fish is a big item in the Nation's food supply and anything I could do to help carry on that business helped carry on the war. Also some of our income depended on the success of the Plant, and if old Mr. Sammy broke down under the responsibility, strangers would have to step in. Besides, Father would be gratified to have me called on in the emergency, just as Titcomb and Sammy III would have been if they were not in training camp. It was wonderful the way that old man rose up and took the reins again, after having been little more than a figurehead in the business for some years. He seemed to be in a dozen places at once, and he found many places to use me besides at the typewriter; sending me to bank, and helping the new bookkeeper fill out checks for the pay-roll, etc. I had the surprise of my life when I found my own name on the pay-roll. I had gone in to help out in the emergency, just as I would have gone to a neighbor's house in time of sickness. Also it was partly for our own interests, and I was being more than compensated by the feeling that I was doing something worth while filling in in place of drafted employees. I had no thought of being paid for it, nor of being wanted more than a few weeks. But Mr. Carver said I was worth more to him than an ordinary stenographer, even if I had forgotten a lot and lost my speed. I could answer many of the letters without dictation, and I knew so much of the inside workings of the business, he could trust me with confidential matters, and he could blow off steam to me when things went wrong. In other words, I could keep up his morale. Poor old fellow, he needed to have somebody keep it up, as time proved. His son had a relapse and there were weeks when he was desperately worried over his condition. He blew off steam principally about his daughter-in-law, whom he held responsible for the relapse. "Always a-crying and a-fretting about those boys," he would fume. "Min's a good woman and a good mother, but she's a selfish slacker with Sammy. Doesn't seem to think that a father _has_ any feelings. Doesn't realize that those boys are the apple of his eye. All her goings on about them, and how it's killing her, knowing they will surely be killed, when he's as weak as he is--it's a downright shame. She's only one of many, why can't she do like a million other mothers, keep her own hurt out of sight, at least till his life's out of danger." Well, when I found I was to be paid for my work, that he really thought I was worth the salary the other girl got, and that he wanted to keep me permanently, I was the happiest creature that ever banged the keys of a typewriter. For while I banged them I was counting up all the Liberty Bonds I could buy in the course of a year, and how much I'd have for the Red Cross, and how much for all the other things I wanted to do. Of course, I've always had my allowance, but it's nothing to the bliss of earning money with your own fingers, to do exactly as you please with. _There is no other sensation in the whole universe so gratifying, so satisfying and so beatifying!_ When the noon whistle blew I ran down the wharf and all the way home to tell Barby, then I put a big red ring round the date on the calendar. Before nightfall I put another ring around that one, for the postman brought me a long letter from Richard, a letter that made me so happy I felt like putting a red ring around the whole world. It was somewhat of a shock to find that it was written in a hospital, although he assured me in the very first paragraph that he was perfectly well, and over all the ill effects, before he went on to say ill effects of _what_. This is part of it: "Lieutenant Robbins and I went out for an observation flight over the enemy ports last Monday. Coming back something went wrong with the engine and we were compelled to drop at once to the sea. It was unusually rough and the waves so high there was danger of our light seaplane being beaten to pieces before we could be rescued. There was one chance in a thousand that some cruising patrol vessel might happen along near enough to sight us, but there were all sorts of chances a submarine might get us first. The wireless apparatus wouldn't work. We had been flying so high to get out of the bumps of air currents, and had been up so long that we were not in any shape to stand a long strain. Our chief hope of rescue was in the little carrier pigeon we had with us. We always take one, but this one had never made a trial trip as long as the one it would have to take now, and we didn't know whether it would fail us or not. Imagine us tossing about in that frail bit of wood and canvas, the waves washing over us at intervals, and land nowhere to be seen, watching that white speck wing its way out of sight. There was a while there when I'd have been willing to change places with old Noah, even if I had to crowd in with the whole Zoo. Well, we tossed around there for ages, it seemed to me, wet to the skin and chilled to the bone. All that night, all next day, and till dark again, we hung on desperately before a searchlight swept across us, and we saw a cruiser coming to our rescue. It had been hunting us all that time, for the bird went straight as an arrow with our S. O. S. call. "The other man was past talking when they found us, and I could barely chatter. We were both so exhausted we had to be hauled aboard like a couple of water-soaked logs. But a while in the hospital has put us back to normal again, and here we are as good as new and ready to go up again. We report for duty in the morning. "It bowled me over when I heard what happened to our brave little pigeon. Some fool took a shot at it, somewhere near the station probably, for it managed to keep going till it got home. Then, just as it reached the floor of its loft, it fell dead. A bell always rings as a carrier alights on the balanced platform. When the attendant answered the summons he found the pigeon lying there, one foot shot away, and blood on its little white breast. It had managed to fly the last part of its way, mortally wounded. Lucky for us it wasn't the leg with the message that was hit. I tell you it makes me feel mighty serious to think that but for those little wings, faithful to the last beat, I wouldn't be writing this letter at this present moment of A. D. 1917. "Two things kept coming into my mind, while numb and exhausted. I clung to that busted plane, expecting every minute it would give way under us. I saw that old wooden figurehead of "Hope" that sits up on the roof of the Tupman's portico at home. Probably I was going a bit nutty, for I could see it as plain as day. It opened its mouth and called to me over and over, that saying of Uncle Darcy's that you are always throwing at people. 'As long as a man keeps hope at the prow he keeps afloat.' It kept holding its old green, wooden wreath out at me as if it were a life preserver, and I'll give you my word it shouted loud enough for me to hear across the noise of the wind, 'as long as a man'--'as long as a man,' until I began to try to concentrate my mind on what it was saying. I actually believe the illusion or whatever it was helped me to hold on, for I began to obey orders. I hoped that the bird would reach home and hoped it so hard and long that it kept my wits awake. I was just at the point of letting go from sheer exhaustion and dropping into the sea, when it loomed up on the horizon. "Then a star came out in the sky, and I thought in a hazy way of the one in your service flag that stands for me, and I felt that if I didn't manage to hang on and get back to you in some way, you'd think I wasn't 'true blue.' Then as I kept on staring at it, gradually I began to confuse it with you. But that's not to be wondered at. Ever since I've known you I've unconsciously steered my course by you. You're so dependable. That's one of your finest traits. No matter what happens you'll just go around in the circle of your days, true to your ideals and your sense of duty. "And though everything was getting sort of confused to me out there in the black water, staring death in the face, there was an underlying comfort in the belief that even if I didn't get back you wouldn't go into a cloud of mourning for the rest of your days. You'd live out your life as it was intended, just like that star. I saw it again last night from the hospital window. It rises here before daylight has entirely faded. The astronomers may call it Hesperus if they want to, but I'll never see it again without calling it _you_." I have read that letter till I know it by heart. It is getting worn in the creases. But last night when the tolling of the fog-bell awakened me, I groped for it under my pillow and read it once more by the glow of my little flashlight. I wanted to see the words again in his own handwriting. I cannot read often enough the part that calls me "Star." That has always been the most beautiful of names to me, even when I gave it to one who wasn't worthy of it. I wonder if it would be possible to live up to it, though, if Richard should never come back to me. How could I endure the ordinary orbit of my days? Yet how could I disappoint him? Next day a package came which should have reached me with the letter. It was the little link of aluminum they took from the leg of the dead pigeon. Fastened to it was the cartridge that held the message. Brave little bird! It gave its life in the cause of liberty just as truly as any man in the trenches. I wish its deed could be immortalized in some way. It makes me shudder to think on what a frail thing Richard's life depended, just those little white wings, speeding through trackless space on their mission of rescue. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXV "MISSING" JANUARY 1, 1918.--I came up to my room tonight, thinking I'd start the New Year by bringing this record up to date; but when I look back on the long five months to be filled in, the task seems hopeless. It was Thanksgiving before Mr. Sammy was able to come back to work. Since then I've had shorter hours at the office, because they don't have so much work for a stenographer in the winter, but the extra time outside has been taken up by one breathless chase after another. When it isn't selling Liberty Bonds it is distributing leaflets about food conservation and the crime of wasting. Or it's a drive for a million more Red Cross members or a hurry call for surgical dressings. Then every minute in between it's knit, knit, knit everlastingly. Barby did not come home Christmas, and we did not keep the day for ourselves. We had our hands full doing for the families of the fishermen who were drowned last summer, and for the boys at the front and in the camps at home. I hope Richard got his box all right, and that Doctor John Wynne enjoyed the one Tippy packed for him, and the round-robin letter that Miss Susan and some of the Wellfleet people sent him. They started on their way before Thanksgiving. I saw "Cousin James" a few minutes to-day. He came down to take a look at his premises. The bungalow has been boarded up ever since last fall, when he joined the class of "a dollar a year" men, working for the government. We had such a good time talking about Richard. He's so optimistic about the war ending soon, that he left me feeling more light-hearted than I've been for months. It will, indeed, be a happy New Year if it brings us peace. * * * * * WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. Shades of Valley Forge! What a winter this is! It will go down in history with its wheatless and meatless days, and now that the fuel shortage is pinching all classes of people alike, the ant as well as the grasshopper, the heatless days make the situation almost hopeless. Tippy and I are living mostly in the kitchen now, because we are nearly at the end of our coal supply, and the railroads are not able to bring in any more. The open wood fires make little impression on the general iciness of the house. I am sitting up in my room to-night with furs and arctics on, and a big lamp burning to supplement the efforts of a little coal-oil heater. With all that it's so cold that I can see my breath. My fingers are so numb that I can scarcely manage my pen, but I must make a note of the news which came to-day. It's about Doctor Wynne. In January Tippy had a letter from him, a charmingly written account of Christmas in the trenches, and a grateful acknowledgment of the box and the letter. This morning a small package came to me, addressed in a strange hand. An English nurse sent it. Inside she wrote: "Captain John Wynne asked me to send you the enclosed. He was in this hospital three weeks, and died last night from the effect of injuries received in doing one of the bravest things the war has yet called forth. He faced what seemed to be instant and inevitable death to avert an explosion that would have killed his Major and many men with him. In the attempt he was so badly wounded that it was thought he could not live to reach the hospital. But maimed and shattered as he was, he lived until last night. "He was one of the most efficient surgeons we had at the front, and one of the best beloved. His fortitude through his time of intense suffering was a marvel to the whole hospital staff, accustomed as we are to nurse brave men. It really seemed as if he were sustained by some power other than mere human endurance, some strength of the spirit few mortals attain. "It was a source of regret to all who knew of his case that the decoration awarded him did not arrive until after he lapsed into unconsciousness. But he knew he was to receive it. His Colonel told him he was to have the highest award for valor that your country bestows. He had already told me what disposition to make of his effects, and when I asked him in regard to the expected decoration he gave me your address whispering, 'She will know.'" I _did_ know. It is hanging now where he knew I would put it. This afternoon when I came home I brought with me a little gold star to take the place of the blue one on the service flag under his mother's picture. And over it I hung the medal--that other star, bronze and laurel-wreathed, with its one word "Valor," surmounted by its eagle and its bit of ribbon. Tippy, watching me, suddenly buried her face in her apron and went out of the room, crying as I have never seen her cry before. I knew it wasn't the thought that he was gone which hurt her so keenly. It was the fact that the little token of his country's appreciation reached him too late. He missed the comfort of it himself, and there was no one of his own left to know the honor done him and to take pride in it. I had been feeling the hurt of it myself, ever since the news came. But it left me as I stood there, looking at the pictures in the little antique frame. The winter sunset, streaming red across the icicles outside the western window, touched everything in the room with a tinge of rose. It lighted up both faces, and, as I looked at his, I whispered through tears: "What does a little guerdon matter to a soul like yours, John Wynne? The deed was all you cared for." And when I looked into his mother's face and recalled what the nurse had written, I dried my eyes and smiled into her eyes, that were looking so steadfastly out at me. I _knew_ she had helped him at the last. In some way her comfort had been with him, as the hosts "were round about Elisha in the mountain." * * * * * ST. PATRICK'S DAY. March came in like a lion, but we're comfortable now, thank goodness, in spite of the fact that the winds are still keen and there is much ice in the harbor. The coal cars reached town at last, and the big base-burner in the hall sends waves of delicious warmth all through the house. This past winter has been a nightmare of discomfort for nearly everybody. Babe says her experiences since 1918 set in would make the angels weep. She's been doing the housekeeping since New Year, because her mother simply cannot adjust herself to war conditions. Mrs. Dorsey announced that she was born extravagant and it wasn't her nature to save, but if Babe thought it was her duty and was willing to undertake it, she'd put up with the results no matter how harrowing. They get along pretty well when Mr. Dorsey is off on his trips, but I imagine harrowing is the right word for it when he's at home. He simply won't eat cornbread, and he swears at the mere sight of meat substitutes, such as mock turkey made of beans and peanut butter and things. Babe, having married into the Navy, feels that she is under special obligation to Hooverize to the limit. She wants to end the war as soon as possible on Watson's account. In fact, she makes such a personal matter of it that she's getting herself disliked in some parts of town, and some people seem to think she is in a way responsible for the whole thing. A Portuguese woman asked Tippy the other day how long she supposed that "Mrs. Tucker's war" was going to last. She said Babe is down in their back yards every few days, looking into their slop-pails and scolding something fierce if she finds the potato parings thicker than she says they can be. Poor Babe! Between the demands of her patriotism and the demands of her difficult parents she is almost distracted at times. I wish I could write down in these pages all the funny things that happen. Never a day goes by, either at the office or the Red Cross work-rooms, that something amusing doesn't come up. But by the time I've told it in one letter for Barby to pass on to Father, and in another to make Richard laugh, I haven't the patience to write it all out again here. The consequence is I'm afraid I've given the wrong impression of these last few months. One would think there have been no good times, no good cheer. That it's been all work and grim duty. But such is not the case. My letters will testify to that, and it's only because so much time and energy have gone into them that things have to be crowded into a few brief paragraphs in this book. Despite all the gruesomeness of war and my separation from my family, I am so busy that I'm really and truly happy from morning till night. I enjoy my work at the office and my work at home and all the kinds of war-work that come my way. It's a satisfaction merely to turn out clean, well-typed pages, but it's bliss unalloyed to know that the money I'm getting for doing it is going to buy bread and bullets to bring about the downfall of the Kaiser. Sometimes when old Mr. Sammy is feeling especially hopeful and there's nobody in the office but me, he begins to hum an old camp-meeting tune that they sing at his church: "Coming bye and bye, coming bye and bye! A better day is dawning, the morning draweth nigh." I join in with a convincing alto, and afterwards we say what a glorious old world this will be when that day really gets here. "When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah," the war won and the world made a safe place for everybody. How lovely it will be just to draw a full breath and settle down and _live_. At such times it seems such a grand privilege to have even the smallest share in bringing that victory about, that he's all but shouting when we get through talking, and I've accumulated enough enthusiasm to send me through the next week with a whoop. Sometimes if there isn't anything to do right then in the office, I turn from the desk and look out of the window, with eyes that see far beyond the harbor to the happy dawning we've been singing about. I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the little home we furnished together in fancy ... the little Dream-home where I've spent so many happy hours since. I can see the smile in his dear eyes as he holds his arms out to me ... having earned the right to make all our dreams come true ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith ... that all homes may be safe and sacred everywhere the wide world over.... When one can dream dreams like that, one can put up with "the long, long night of waiting," knowing it will have such a heavenly ending. APRIL 6, 1918. One year ago to-day the United States declared---- I had written only that far last Saturday night when I looked up to see Tippy standing in the door holding out the evening paper. I felt as I heard her coming along the hall that something was the matter. She walked so hesitatingly. Something in her face seemed to make my heart stand still, and stopped the question I started to ask. She didn't seem to be able to speak, just spread the paper on the table in front of me and pointed to something. Her finger was shaking. The four black words she pointed to seemed to leap up into my face as I read them: "_Lieutenant Richard Moreland, Missing._" Those four black words have been in front of my eyes ever since. They were in the official announcement that "Cousin James" brought down next day. He had been notified as next of kin. [Illustration: "Lieutenant Richard Moreland Missing"] At first they seemed more bearable than if they'd said killed or seriously wounded. I didn't quite grasp the full meaning of "missing." But I do now. I heard "Cousin James" say in a low tone to Tippy, out in the hall, something about death being more merciful than falling alive into the hands of the Germans. He told her some of the things they do. I know he's afraid that Richard has been taken prisoner. He keeps telling me that we mustn't be down-hearted. That we must go on hoping as hard as we can that everything will turn out all right. The War Department is doing its best to trace him, and if he's a prisoner we'll spare no expense and effort to get food through to him. They always treat aviators with more consideration than other soldiers, and I mustn't worry. But he doesn't look one bit the way he talks. His face is so haggard that I know he's frightened sick. Barby is, too, or she wouldn't have come all the way home to tell me the very same things that he did. She wants to take me back to Washington with her till we have farther news. She's cabled to Father. I know they all think it's strange that I take it so quietly, but I've felt numb and dazed ever since those four black words leaped up at me from the paper. I wish they wouldn't be so tender with me and so solicitous for my comfort. It's exactly the way they'd act if Richard were dead. I'm glad "Cousin James" went right back. He looked at me the way Tippy does, as if she pities me so that it breaks her heart. She doesn't know what her face shows. None of them realize that their very efforts to be cheerful and comforting show that their hopefulness is only make-believe. [Illustration] CHAPTER XXVI "THE SERVICE OF SHINING" AWAY down the crooked street sounds a faint clang of the Towncrier's bell. Uncle Darcy is out again with it, after his long, shut-in winter. But he is coming very, very slowly. Even the warm sunshine of this wonderful May afternoon cannot quicken his rheumatic old feet so that they do more than crawl along. It will be at least half an hour before he reaches the Green Stairs. He will sit down to rest a bit on the bottom step, as he always does now, and I'll run down and meet him there. He helps me more than anyone else, because, more than anyone else, he understands what I am enduring. He remembers what he endured all those anxious years when Danny was missing. It's a comfort to have him tell me over and over how his "line to live by" kept him afloat and brought him into port with all flags flying, and that it will do the same for me if I only hold to it fast and hard enough. So I set my teeth together and repeat grimly as he used to do: "I will not bate a jot Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer Right onward." But my imagination won't let me say it in a way to do much good. It keeps showing me dreadful pictures of Richard; of what might have happened to him. I keep seeing his body in some God-forsaken field, lying shattered and marred past recognition by the enemy's guns, his dead face turned up to the sky. Or I see him falling headlong to earth in a blazing plane, or, worst of all, in the filth of a German prison camp, weak, wounded, famishing for food and water and tortured in a thousand ways that only the minds of those demons can invent. All the things I've read as happening to other men I imagine happening to him. I see those things over and over and over till I nearly go mad. When I fold the gauze into bandages and sew the long seams in the hospital garments, with every movement and every stitch I wonder if he needs such comforts, and if needing them, they are given or denied him. I know it doesn't do any good to say that I am hoping as long as I persist in such imaginings, but I don't want to think about anything but Richard. My hands go on working in a normal way, but when I'm not torturing myself as to his whereabouts, I am re-living the past, or picturing the empty years ahead if he should never come back to me. I can't help it. Because in one of his letters he mentioned that old figurehead on the roof of the Tupman's portico, I have taken to walking past the house every day. Everything even remotely connected with him seems sacred now, even the things he used to laugh at. Because the memory of the figurehead helped him to hang on to the wrecked plane till rescue came, I feel as grateful to it as if it were a human being. Every time I pass it I tell myself I won't stop hoping for a single minute. I won't let myself believe anything else but that he'll come back to me some day. Then with the next breath comes that awful vision of him lying dead in some lonely spot where he can never be found, and it seems to me I simply can't go on living. "Cousin James" still writes encouragingly, but as the weeks go by and no trace of him can be found in any of the hospitals and no news of him comes through any of the foreign offices, the suspense is getting to be unbearable. I can't admit to anyone how horribly afraid I am, but it is a relief to confess it here. Now that I've done so, I'll run down and talk to Uncle Darcy awhile. He is the living embodiment of hope and faith. The confident, happy way with which he looks forward to joining Aunt Elspeth soon makes me feel better every time I am with him. It brings back what Richard said the day she was buried: "All that they were to each other we will be to one another, and _more_." If I could only be sure that after this terrible waiting will come such long, placid years as they had! Years of growing nearer and dearer, in a union that old age only strengthens, and death cannot sever. * * * * * _Mid-June, and still no word!_ Now that no new letters ever come, I read the old ones over and over. The one I take out oftenest is the one which says, "No matter what happens, you'll go around in the circle of your days, true to your ideals and your sense of duty. You won't go into a cloud of mourning.... You will live out your life as it was intended, just like that star." Always, until to-night, that letter has been a comfort, because it tells of his wonderful rescue, and gives me the feeling that if he could escape so marvelously one time he can another. But re-reading that paragraph a while ago, I suddenly saw something in it that I'd never discovered before. It shows he must have had a presentiment that he'd never get back to me. He knew what was going to happen, else why should he have said "you won't go into a cloud of mourning ... you'll live out your life as it was intended!" The discovery of that premonition takes away the last little straw that I've been clinging to. He felt what was going to happen. It has happened. It must be so, for it is over two months now since he was first reported missing. * * * * * One goes on because one must. We're made that way on purpose, I suppose. When sight fails we still have touch. We can feel our way through the dark with groping fingers. All the glad incentive for living is gone, but when I look at the star in the little service flag which stands for Richard, every atom of me lifts itself like a drawn sword to pledge itself to greater effort. _His sacrifice shall not be in vain!_ And when I look at the star that stands for Father, I make the same vow. He is sacrificing himself just as surely as Richard did, though he's giving his life by inches. His health is going, and his strength. Twenty-four hours at a stretch at the operating table is too much for any man, and that's what he's had to endure a number of times recently after the big enemy offensives. Always he's on a strain. One of Mr. Carver's friends who saw him not long ago, wrote home that he has aged terribly. He looks fifteen years older than when we saw him. Tippy says I'm burning the candle at both ends, but I don't care if I can only keep burning till we've put an end to this mad carnage. The other day when I passed the Figurehead House, Mrs. Tupman called me in and asked me if I'd be willing to tell the story of Richard's rescue and the little Carrier Pigeon's part in it, at the Town Hall this week. There's to be a big rally for selling Thrift Stamps. She wanted me to show the children the tiny aluminum bracelet and cartridge which held the S. O. S. call. She was sure that if they could hear how one little pigeon saved the lives of two officers, they would be impressed with the importance of small things. They would be more interested in saving their pennies if they could think of their stamps as little wings, speeding across the seas to save the lives of our armies. But I told her I couldn't. I'd do anything impersonal that she might ask, but I couldn't get up before a crowd and speak of anything so intimately connected with Richard. I could have done it gladly when he was alive, but now that little link of aluminum has associations too sacred for me to hold up for the curious public to gape at. But after supper, out in the row-boat, I saw things differently. I was paddling around near shore, watching the wonderful afterglow reflected in the water, pink and mother-of-pearl and faintest lavender. It was all unspeakably beautiful, as it has been countless times when Richard was out with me. Because of the conviction that we'd never again see it together, the very beauty of it gave me a lonely, hopeless sort of heart-ache. It is one of the most desolate sensations in the world, and it is a poignant pain to remember that "tender grace of a day that is dead," which "can never come back to me." As those words floated dreamily through my memory, with them came the recollection of the time I had repeated them in this very boat, and Richard's unexpected answer which set Captain Kidd to barking. I could hear again his hearty laugh and the teasing way he said, "That's no way for a good sport to do." It brought him back so plainly that I could almost see him sitting there opposite me in the boat, so big and cheerful and _alive_. The sense of nearness to him was almost as comforting as if he had really spoken. And then, knowing him as well as I do, knowing exactly how he always responded, in such a common-sense, matter-of-fact way, I could imagine the answer he would make were I to tell him of Mrs. Tupman's request. "Why, sure!" he'd say. "_Tell_ the story of the little pigeon, and make it such a ripping good one there won't be a dry eye in the house. It'll give the little fellow the chance for another flight. Every stamp they sell will be in answer to an S.O.S. call of some kind, and if it's the bird that makes them buy, it'll be just the same as if his own little wings had carried the message." The thought cheered me up so much that I went straight home and telephoned to Mrs. Tupman that I'd reconsidered, and I'd gladly do what she asked me to. Since then I've taken to going out in the boat whenever my courage is at low ebb. Out there on the water, in the peace of the vast twilight dropping down on the sea, I can conjure up that sense of his nearness as nowhere else. It has the same effect on my feverish spirit as if his big firm hand closed gently over mine. It quiets my forebodings. It steadies me. It makes me know past all doubting that no matter what has happened, he is still mine. His love abides. Death cannot take _that_. * * * * * Oh, what does a person do who is so glad--so _crazy_ glad that he must find vent for his joy, when there are no words made great enough to express it? _We've had news of Richard!_ He's safe! He escaped from a German prison camp. That's all we know now, but it is all of heaven to know that much. The news of his safety came as suddenly as the word that he was missing. Tippy called me to come down to the telephone. Long distance wanted me. It was "Cousin James." He had a cablegram from that Canadian friend of Richard's. We had an expensive little jubilee for a while there. You don't think of how much it's costing a minute when you're talking about the dead coming to life. It was as wonderful as that. "Cousin James" said undoubtedly we would have letters soon. The fact that Richard had not cabled for himself, made him afraid that he was laid up for repairs. He was probably half-starved and weak to the point of exhaustion from all he'd gone through in making his escape. So we must have patience if we didn't hear right away. We could wait for details now that we had the greatest news of all, and so forth and so on. The moment he rang off I started down to Uncle Darcy's, telling Tippy all there was to tell, as I clapped on my hat and hurried through the hall. I started down the back street half running. The baker's cart gave me a lift down Bradford Street. I was almost breathless when I reached the gate. Uncle Darcy was dozing in his arm-chair set out in the dooryard. There flashed into my mind that day long ago, when _his_ hopes found happy fulfillment and Dan came home. That day Father came back from China and we all went out to meet the ship and came ashore in the motor boat. And now I called out to him what I had called to him then, through the dashing spray and the noise of the wind and waves and motor: "It _pays_ to keep hope at the prow, Uncle Darcy!" And he, rousing up with a start at the familiar call, smiled a welcome and answered as he did when I was a child, the same affectionate light in his patient old eyes. "Aye, lass, it does _that_!" "And we're coming into port with all flags flying!" Then he knew. The trembling joy in my voice told him. "You've heard from Richard!" he exclaimed quaveringly, "and you've come to tell the old man first of all. I knew you would." And then for a little while we sat and rejoiced together as only two old mariners might, who had each known shipwreck and storm and who had each known the joy of finding happy anchorage in his desired haven. * * * * * On the way home I stopped to tell Babe. Good old Babe. She was so glad that the tears streamed down her face. "Now I can help with _your_ wedding," was her first remark. "Of course, he'll have to be invalided home, for I don't suppose he's more than skin and bone if he's been in the hands of the Germans all this time. But, under the circumstances, you won't mind marrying a living skeleton. I know _I_ wouldn't if I were in your place. He'll be coming right back, of course." Everybody I met seemed to think the same thing. They took it for granted that he'd done all that could be expected of a man. That three months in a German prison was equal to several dyings. After I got home I told Captain Kidd. He was lying on the rug inside the hall door with his nose between his paws, seemingly asleep. "Richard's coming," was all I said to him, but up he scrambled with that little yap of joy and ran to the screen door scratching and whining to be let out. It was so human of him that I just grabbed his shaggy old head in my arms and hugged him tight. "He's coming some day," I explained to him, "but we'll have to wait a while, old fellow, maybe a long, long while. But we won't mind that now, after all we've been through. Just now it's enough to know that he's alive and safe." * * * * * MY NINETEENTH BIRTHDAY. It's wonderful that Richard's letter should happen to get here on this particular day. The sight of his familiar handwriting gave me such a thrill that it brought the tears. It was almost as if he had called my name, seeing it written out in his big, bold hand. He says he can't tell me the details of his experiences now. They are too fierce for him to attempt to put on paper till he is stronger. Babe was right. He's almost the shadow of his former self. But he says he is beginning to pick up famously. He is in Switzerland, staying with a family who were old friends of his father's. They are taking royal care of him, and he's coming around all right. The wound in his arm (he doesn't say how he got it) is healing rapidly. Oh, it's a dear letter--all the parts in between about wanting to see me, and my being doubly dear to him now--but he doesn't say a word about coming home. Not one word! * * * * * A WEEK LATER. He has written again, and he is not coming home until the war is over. He'll be able to go back into the service in a couple of months, maybe sooner, if he stays on quietly there. It isn't that he does not want to come. He has been behind the lines and seen the awfulness. It must be stopped. Those prison camps must be wiped out! We must win as soon as possible! He feels, as never before, the necessity for quick action, and he makes me feel it too. "Dad's sacrifice must not be in vain," he writes. "Nor Belgium's, nor the hordes of brave men who have fallen since. And we must not go on sacrificing other lives. _This thing has got to be stopped!_ "I know you feel the same way about it, Georgina. I'm sure that you want me to stay on here without asking for a furlough, since by staying I can be up and at it again sooner. Say that you do, dearest, so that I may feel your courage back of me to the last ditch." I have said it. The answer is already on its way. How could I be selfish enough to think of anything but the great need? I am only one of many. In millions of windows hang stars that tell of anxious hearts, just as anxious as mine, and of men at the front just as dear to those who love them as mine. I can wait! And waiting-- _I see Richard ... climbing the Green Stairs ... coming into the little Home of our Dreams! I see the smile in his dear eyes as he holds out his arms to me ... having earned the right to make all those dreams come true ... having fought the good fight ... and kept the faith ... that all homes may be safe and sacred everywhere, the wide world over...._ And seeing thus, I can put up with my "long, long night of waiting," thinking only of that heavenly ending! [Illustration] WHERE THE SOULS OF MEN ARE CALLING The first big love story to come out of the war zone--founded on fact more strange, more powerful than fiction. The author, Lt. Credo Harris, stationed in France with the International Red Cross, is a Kentuckian. He just couldn't keep out of it "Over There." His story starts with the entrance of America into the war and ends on the firing line of France. There is charm and skill in his style which insures keenest interest on the part of the reader. What the Critics are saying: "A story of strong characters blended, it exemplifies the old maxim that 'truth is stranger than fiction,' and in this case more powerful."--Buffalo News. "One of those books that grip and grip."--Milwaukee Sentinel. "A book worth while and a book to recommend."--Louisville Herald. "Combines the interest of character study with a realistic picture of life in the war zone."--Courier Journal. "Jeb proves that a coward can become the bravest of men."--Pittsburgh Chronicle-Telegraph. Attractively bound in cloth $1.35 net By All Means Read this Book Britton Publishing Company New York Every grown-up will remember the time when "Chicken Little" was a most wonderful tale with which to open wide the eyes of children. Many a fond mother will be glad to know of another "Chicken Little" just brought to light in handsome book form under the alluring title CHICKEN LITTLE JANE A DELIGHTFUL STORY BY LILY MUNSELL RITCHIE Little folk will at once fall in love with this new "Chicken Little" of the far western prairies--the same being an affectionate nick-name given to a dear little girl and always used when she was very, very good--but when she misbehaved it was "Jane"!--just Jane! This book is illustrated and decorated with unusually attractive pictures by Charles D. Hubbard. Cloth, $1.25 Britton Publishing Company New York Over the Seas for Uncle Sam By ELAINE STERNE, Author of "The Road of Ambition" Miss Sterne is Senior Lieutenant of the Navy League Honor Guard, which has charge of entertainment and visitation in behalf of sick and wounded sailors sent home for hospital treatment. Their experiences, such as may be published at this time, now appear in book form. This book brings out many thrilling adventures that have occurred in the war zone of the high seas--and has official sanction. Miss Sterne's descriptive powers are equaled by few. She has the dramatic touch which compels interest. Her book, which contains many photographic scenes, will be warmly welcomed in navy circles, and particularly by those in active service. Cloth Illuminated Jacket $1.35 Net Ambulancing on the French Front By EDWARD P. COYLE Here is a collection of intensely interesting episodes related by a Young American who served as a volunteer with the French Army--Red Cross Division. His book is to the field of mercy what those of Empey, Holmes and Peat have been in describing the vicissitudes of army life. The author spent ten months in ambulance work on the Verdun firing line. What he saw and did is recounted with most graphic clearness. This book contains many illustrations photographed on the spot showing with vivid exactitude the terrors of rescue work under the fire of the big guns. Cloth 16 Full page Illustrations $1.35 Net Britton Publishing Company New York A THOUSAND WAYS TO PLEASE A HUSBAND By LOUISE BENNETT WEAVER and HELEN COWLES LE CRON _With Decorations in Color_ By ELIZABETH COLBORNE _A SPLENDID GIFT FOR A BRIDE_ This volume is not the usual dull plodding kitchen cook book made up from "collected" recipes and enlivened by photographic reproductions of cakes, pies, roasted turkeys, and tables set with knives and forks placed "just so." Rather it is the "life and adventures" of "Bob" and "Bettina," who sail into the complexities of housekeeping the moment the wedding journey is at an end. Bettina's "know-how," plus "Bob's" good-natured helpfulness, bring about immediate success to a lively and interesting attempt at home-building. Unique--practical--for two people in particular and small families in general. For economy and plenty at one and the same time it has no equal. 479 Pages Extra Illustrated $1.50 net Britton Publishing Company New York * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Author spells shiny both as "shiny" and "shiney." Varied hyphenation retained. Page 119, "State" changed to "States" (of the "_United States_") Page 193, "celler" changed to "cellar" (them down cellar) Page 247, "worthing" changed to "worth" (worth having) Page 249, "soltaire" changed to "solitaire" (a beautiful solitaire) 
60776	----	THE TRANSFORMATION OF PHILIP JETTAN GEORGETTE HEYER _Bibliographical Note_ First publication: Mills & Boon, London, 1923 The original edition was published with the subtitle _A Comedy of Manners_, and the author used the pseudonym Stella Martin. The book was later published as _Powder and Patch_, with Chapter Twenty deleted. One The House of Jettan If you searched among the Downs in Sussex, somewhere between Midhurst and Brighthelmstone, inland a little, and nestling in modest seclusion between two waves of hills, you would find Little Fittledean, a village round which three gentlemen had built their homes. One chose the north side, half a mile away, and on the slope of the Downs. He was Mr. Winton, a dull man with no wife, but two children, James and Jennifer. The second built his house west of the village, not far from the London Road and Great Fittledean. He was one Sir Thomas Jettan. He chose his site carefully, beside a wood, and laid out gardens after the Dutch style. That was way back in the last century when Charles the Second was King, and what had then been a glaring white erection, stark-naked and blatant in its sylvan setting, was now, some seventy years later, a fair place, creeper-hung, and made kindly by the passing of the years. The Jettan who built it became inordinately proud of the house. Never a day passed but he would strut round the grounds, looking at the nude structure from a hundred different points of vantage. It was to be the country seat of the Jettans in their old age; they were to think of it almost as they would think of their children. It was never to be sold; it was to pass from father to son and from son to grandson through countless ages. Nor must it accrue to a female heir, be she never so direct, for old Tom determined that the name of Jettan should always be associated with the house. Old Tom propounded these notions to the whole countryside. All his friends and his acquaintances were shown the white house and told the tale of its owner's past misdemeanours and his present virtue--a virtue due, he assured them, to the possession of so fair an estate. No more would he pursue the butterfly existence that all his ancestors had pursued before him. This house was his anchor and his interest; he would rear his two sons to reverence it, and it might even be that the tradition which held every Jettan to be a wild fellow at heart should be broken at last. The neighbours laughed behind their hands at old Tom's childishness. They dubbed the hitherto unnamed house "Tom's Pride," in good-humoured raillery. Tom Jettan was busy thinking out a suitable name for his home when the countryside's nickname came to his ears. He was not without humour in spite of his vanity, and when the sobriquet had sunk into his brain, he chuckled deep in his chest, and slapped his knee in appreciation. Not a month later the neighbours were horrified to find, cunningly inserted in the wrought-iron gates of the white house, a gilded scroll bearing the legend, "Jettan's Pride." No little apprehension was felt amongst them at having their secret joke thus discovered and utilised, and those who next waited on Tom did so with an air of ashamed nervousness. But Tom soon made it clear that, far from being offended, he was grateful to them for finding an appropriate name for his home. His hopeful prophecy concerning the breaking of tradition was not realised in either of his sons. The elder, Maurice, sowed all the wild oats of which he was capable before taking up his abode at the Pride; the other, Thomas, never ceased sowing wild oats, and showed no love for the house whatsoever. When old Tom died he left a will which gave Maurice to understand that if, by the time he was fifty years of age, he still refused to settle down at the Pride, it was to pass to his brother and his brother's heirs. Thomas counselled Maurice to marry and produce some children. "For damme if I do, my boy! The old man must have lost his faculties to expect a Jettan to live in this hole! I tell ye flat, Maurice, I'll not have the place. 'Tis you who are the elder, and you must assume the--the responsibilities!" At that he fell a-chuckling, for he was an irrepressible scamp. "Certainly I shall live here," answered Maurice. "Three months here, and nine months--not here. What's to stop me?" "Does the will allow it?" asked Tom doubtfully. "It does not forbid it. And I shall get me a wife." At that Tom burst out laughing, but checked himself hurriedly as he met his brother's reproving eye. "God save us, and the old gentleman but three days dead! Not that I meant any disrespect, y'know. Faith, the old man 'ud be the first to laugh with me, stap me if he wouldn't!" He stifled another laugh, and shrugged his shoulders. "Or he would before he went crazy-pious over this devilish great barn of a house. You'll never have the money to keep it, Maurry," he added cheerfully, "let alone a wife." Maurice twirled his eyeglass, frowning. "My father has left even more than I expected," he said. "Oh ay! But it'll be gone after a week's play! God ha' mercy, Maurry, do ye hope to husband it?" "Nay, I hope to husband a wife. The rest I'll leave to her." Tom came heavily to his feet. He stared at his brother, round-eyed. "Blister me, but I believe the place is turning you like the old gentleman! Now, Maurry, Maurry, stiffen your back, man!" Maurice smiled. "It'll take more than the Pride to reform me, Tom. I'm thinking that the place is too good to sell or throw away." "If I could lay my hand on two thousand guineas," said Tom, "anyone could have the Pride for me!" Maurice looked up quickly. "Why, Tom, all I've got's yours, you know very well! Take what you want--two thousand or twenty." "Devilish good of you, Maurry, but I'll not sponge on you yet. No, don't start to argue with me, for my head's not strong enough what with one thing and another. Tell me more of this wife of yours. Who is it to be?" "I haven't decided," replied Maurice. He yawned slightly. "There are so many to choose from." "Ay--you're an attractive devil--'pon my word you are! What d'ye say to Lucy Farmer?" Maurice shuddered. "Spare me. I had thought of Marianne Tempest." "What, old Castlehill's daughter? She'd kill you in a month, lad." "But she is not--dowerless." "No. But think of it, Maurry! Think of it! A shrew at twenty!" "Then what do you think of Jane Butterfield?" Thomas pulled at his lip, irresolute. "I'm not decrying the girl, Maurice, but Lord! could you live with her?" "I've not essayed it," answered Maurice. "No, and marriage is so damned final! 'Tisn't as though ye could live together for a month or so before ye made up your minds. I doubt the girl would not consent to that." "And if she did consent, one would not desire to wed her," remarked Maurice. "A pity. No, I believe I could not live with Jane." Thomas sat down again. "The truth of it is, Maurry, we Jettans must marry for love. There's not one of us ever married without it, whether for money or no." "'Tis so unfashionable," objected Maurice. "One marries for convenience. One may have fifty different loves." "What! All at once? I think you'd find that a trifle inconvenient, Maurry! Lord! just fancy fifty loves, oh, the devil! And three's enough to drive one crazed, bruise me if 'tis not." Maurice's thin lips twitched responsively. "Gad no! Fifty loves spread over a lifetime, and you're not bound to one of them. There's bliss, Tom, you rogue!" Thomas shook a wise finger at him, his plump, good-humoured face solemn all at once. "And not one of them's the true love, Maurry. For if she were, faith, she'd not be one of fifty! Now, you take my advice, lad, and wait. Damme, we'll not spoil the family record! "A rakish youth, says the Jettan adage, Marriage for love, and a staid old age. "I don't know that it's true about the staid old age, though. Maybe 'tis only those who wed for love who acquire virtue. Anyway, you'll not break the second maxim, Maurry." "Oh?" smiled Maurice. "What's to prevent me?" Thomas had risen again. Now he slipped his arm in his brother's. "If it comes to prevention, old sobersides, I'm game. I'll make an uproar in the church and carry off the bride. Gad, but 'twould be amusing! Carry off one's brother's bride, under his stern nose. Devil take it, Maurry, that's just what your nose is! I never thought on't before--stern, grim, old--now, steady, Tom, my boy, or you'll be laughing again with the old gentleman not yet underground!" Maurice waited for his brother's mirth to abate. "But, Tom, 'tis very well for you to counsel me not to wed without love! I must marry, for 'tis certain you'll not, and we must have heirs. What's to be done, I'd like to know?" "Wait, lad, wait! You're not so old that you can't afford to hold back yet awhile." "I'm thirty-five, Tom." "Then you have fifteen years to run before you need settle down. Take my advice, and wait!" The end of it was that Maurice did wait. For four years he continued to rove through Europe, amusing himself in the usual way of gentlemen of his day, but in 1729 he wrote a long letter from Paris to his brother in London, declaring himself in love, and the lady an angel of goodness, sweetness, amiability, and affection. He said much more in this vein, all of which Tom had to read, yawning and chuckling by turns. The lady was one Maria Marchant. She brought with her a fair dowry and a placid disposition. So Tom wrote off to Maurice at once, congratulating him, and bestowing his blessing on the alliance. He desired his dear old Maurry to quit travelling, and to come home to his affectionate brother Tom. In a postscript he added that he dropped five hundred guineas at Newmarket, only to win fifteen hundred at dice the very next week, so that had it not been for his plaguey ill-luck in the matter of a small wager with Harry Besham, he would to-day be the most care-free of mortals, instead of a jaded creature, creeping about in terror of the bailiffs from hour to hour. After that there was no more correspondence. Neither brother felt that there was anything further to be said, and they were not men to waste their time writing to one another for no urgent matter. Thomas thought very little more about Maurice's marriage. He supposed that the wedding would take place in England before many months had gone by; possibly Maurice would see fit to return at once, as he, Tom, had suggested. In the meantime, there was nothing to be done. Tom laid his brother's letter aside, and went on with his ordinary occupations. He lived in Half-Moon Street. His house was ruled by his cook, the wife of Moggat, his valet-footman. She also ruled the hapless Moggat. Moggat retaliated by ruling his jovial master as far as he was able, so one might really say Mrs. Moggat ruled them all. As Tom was quite unaware of this fact, it troubled him not a whit. A month after he had answered his brother's letter, Tom was disturbed one morning while he sipped his chocolate with the news that a gentleman wished to speak to him. Tom was in his bed-chamber, his round person swathed in a silken wrapper of astonishing brightness. He had not yet doffed his nightcap, and his wig lay on the dressing-table. The lean, long Moggat crept in at the door, which he seemed hardly to open, and ahem'd directly behind his master. Tom was in the act of swallowing his chocolate, and as he had not heard Moggat's slithering approach, the violent clearing of that worthy's throat startled him not a little, and he choked. Tenderly solicitous, Moggat patted him on the back until the coughs and splutters had abated. Tom bounced round in his chair to face the man. "Damn and curse it, Moggat! What d'ye mean by it? What d'ye mean by it, I say? Crawling into a room to make a noise at me just as I'm drinking! Yes, sir! Just as I'm drinking! Devil take you! D'ye hear me? Devil take you!" Moggat listened in mournful silence. When Tom ceased for want of breath, he bowed, and continued as though there had been no interruption. "There is a gentleman below, sir, as desires to have speech with you." "A gentleman? Don't you know that gentlemen don't come calling at this hour, ye ninny-pated jackass? Bring me some more chocolate!" "Yes, sir, a gentleman." "I tell you no gentleman would disturb another at this hour! Have done now, Moggat!" "And although I told the gentleman, sir, as how my master was not yet robed and accordingly could not see any visitors, he said it was of no consequence to him whatsoever, and he would be obliged to you to ask him upstairs at once, sir. So I--" "Confound his impudence!" growled Tom. "What's his name?" "The gentleman, sir, on my asking what name I was to tell you, gave me to understand that it was of no matter." "Devil take him! Show him out, Moggat! Like as not 'tis one of these cursed bailiffs. Why, you fool, what d'ye mean by letting him in?" Moggat sighed in patient resignation. "If you will allow me to say so, sir, this gentleman is not a bailiff." "Well, who is he?" "I regret, sir, I do not know." "You're a fool! What's this fellow like?" "The gentleman"--Moggat laid ever so little stress on the word--"is tall, sir, and--er--slim. He is somewhat dark as regards eyes and brows, and he is dressed, if I may say so, exceedingly modishly, with a point-edged hat, and very full-skirted puce coat, laced, French fashion, with--" Tom snatched his nightcap off and threw it at Moggat. "Numskull! D'ye think I want a list of his clothes? Show him out, the swarthy rogue! Show him out!" Moggat picked up the nightcap, and smoothed it sadly. "The gentleman seems anxious to see you, sir." "Ay! Trying to dun me, the rascal! Don't I know it! Blustering and--" "No, sir," said Moggat firmly. "I could not truthfully say that the gentleman blustered. Indeed, sir, if I may say so, I think him a singularly quiet, cool gentleman. Very soft-spoken, sir--oh, very soft-spoken!" "Take him away!" shouted Tom. "I tell you I'll not be pestered at this hour! I might be asleep, damme! Tell the fellow to come again at a godly time--not at dawn! Now, don't try to argue, Moggat! I tell you, if it were my brother himself, I'd not see him!" Moggat bowed again. "I will hinform the gentleman, sir." When the door closed behind Moggat, Tom leaned back in his chair and picked up one of his letters. Not five minutes later the door creaked again. Tom turned, to find Moggat at his elbow. "Eh? What d'ye want?" "Hif you please, sir, the gentleman says as how he is your brother," said Moggat gently. Tom jumped as though he had been shot. "What? My brother? What d'ye mean? My brother?" "Sir Maurice, sir." Up flew Tom, catching at his wig and cramming it on his head all awry. "Thunder an' turf! Maurry! Here, you raving wooden-pate! How dare you leave my brother downstairs? How dare you, I say?" He wrapped himself more tightly in his robe than ever, and dashed headlong out of the room, down the stairs to where Maurice awaited him. Sir Maurice was standing by the window in the library, drumming his fingers on the sill. At his brother's tempestuous entrance he turned and bowed. "A nice welcome you give me, Tom! 'Tell him to come again at a godly time--I'd not see him if 'twere my brother himself,' forsooth!" Thomas hopped across the room and seized both Maurice's long, thin hands in his plump, chubby ones. "My dear Maurry! My dear old fellow! I'd no notion 'twas you! My dolt of a lackey--but there! When did you arrive in England?" "A week ago. I have been at the Pride." "A week? What a plague d'ye mean by not coming to me till now, ye rogue?" As he spoke, Tom thrust Maurice into a chair, and himself sat down opposite him, beaming with pleasure. Maurice leaned back, crossing his legs. A little smile flickered across his mouth, but his eyes were solemn as he answered. "I had first to see my wife installed in her new home," he said. For a moment Tom stared at him. "Wife? Tare an' 'ouns, ye don't waste your time! Where and when did you marry the lady?" "Three weeks ago, at Paris. Now I have come home to fulfil the last part of the Jettan adage." "God ha' mercy!" ejaculated Thomas. "Not a staid old age, lad! Not you?" "Something like it," nodded Maurice. "Wait till you have seen my wife!" "Ay, I'm waiting," said Tom. "What's to do now, then? The country squire, and half a dozen children?" The grey eyes twinkled. "Tom, I'll thank you not to be so coarse." "Coarse? _Coarse?_ Gad, Maurice, what's come over you?" "I am a married man," replied Maurice. "As such I have--er--learned to guard my tongue. My wife--" "Maurry, couldn't ye call the lady by her name?" begged Tom. "Faith, I can't bear those two words so often, proud though ye may be of them." Maurice flushed slightly and smiled. "Maria, then. She is a very--sweet, delicate lady." "Lord! I'd made up my mind you'd wed a bold, strapping wench with a saucy smile, Maurry!" "I? Good God, no! My w--Maria is gentle, and meek, and--" "Ay, ay, Maurry, I know!" hastily interrupted Thomas. "I must see her for myself, so don't spoil the surprise for me, there's a good fellow! Now have you breakfasted? No? Then come upstairs with me. Where's that rascal Moggat? Moggat! Moggat! Ah, there you are! Go and prepare breakfast at once, man! And bring some more chocolate to my room." He wrapped the voluminous robe about him once more, and, seizing his brother by the arm, led him forth to the staircase. * * * * * Thus it was that Maurice Jettan brought home his bride. She was a gentle lady, with a sweet disposition; she adored her handsome husband, and duly presented him with a son, Philip. When the babe was shown to him, Tom discovered that he was a true Jettan, with all their characteristics. His father confessed that he saw no resemblance either to himself or to anyone, but he was nevertheless gratified by his brother's remarks. Tom chuckled mightily and prophesied that young Philip would prove himself a Jettan in more ways than one. He hinted at a youth which should surpass his father's in brilliancy, and Maurice smiled, looking proudly down at the red, crumpled face. "And," concluded Tom, "he'll have a papa who can advise him in all matters of fashion better than any man I know. Why, Maurice, you will show him the fashionable world! You must take care you do not stagnate here. You must not fall out of Society." Maurice was still smiling down at his offspring. "No. I must not fall out, Tom. The youngster will need me later on." * * * * * For five years he continued to take his place in London Society, but he found that the desire for excitement and gaiety was growing less and less within him. The death of Maria gave this desire the _coup de grâce_. Maurice took his small son down to the Pride as soon as he had recovered from the first shock of bereavement, and after that for some years he rarely visited London, except sometimes to see his brother or his tailor. Then he seemed to grow restless again, and started to spend more time with Tom. Bit by bit he re-entered the world he had quitted, yet never did he give himself up to it as once he had done. The Pride seemed to call him, and little Philip held his heart with both hands. Thereafter he spent his time between London and the Pride. When he felt restless, he packed his bags and flitted either to London or to Paris; when the restlessness had passed, back he came to the Pride, there to spend two or three peaceful months. When Philip was eighteen, he took him to London. Philip was very thoroughly bored. Sir Maurice concluded that he was too young to be introduced into Society, and he sent him back to the country, thinking that in two or three years' time the lad would be only too anxious to leave it. But the years slipped by, and Philip showed no desire to follow in his father's footsteps. He refused to go on the Grand Tour; he cared nothing for Dress or Fashionable Manners; he despised the life of Courts; he preferred to remain in the country, usurping, to a great extent, his father's position as squire. He was now some twenty-three years old, tall and handsome, but, as his father told his uncle, "an unpolished cub." Two In Which Is Presented Mistress Cleone Charteris A while back I spoke of three gentlemen who built their homes round Little Fittledean. Of one I said but little, of the second I spoke at length and to the tune of one whole chapter. It now behoves me to mention the third gentleman, who chose his site on the outskirts of the village, some two miles from Jettan's Pride, and to the east. To reach it you must walk along the main street until the cottages grow sparse and yet more sparse, and the cobblestones and pavement cease altogether. The street turns then into a lane with trees flanking it and grass growing to the sides. A few steps further, and the moss-covered roof of Sharley House peeps above a high holly hedge which screens the place from the passer-by. There lived Mr. Charteris, and his father and grandfather before him. Mr. Charteris was the happy possessor of a wife and a daughter. It is with the daughter that I am most concerned. Her name was Cleone, and she was very lovely. She had thick gold curls, eyes of cornflower blue, and a pair of red lips that pouted or smiled in equal fascination. She was just eighteen, and the joy and despair of all the young men of the countryside. Particularly was she the despair of Mr. Philip Jettan. Philip was head over ears in love with Cleone. He had been so ever since she returned from the convent where she had received a slight education. Before her departure for this convent, she and Philip, James and Jennifer Winton, had played together and quarrelled together since any of them could walk. Then Cleone went away to acquire polish, and the two boys thought very little more about her, until she returned, and then they thought of nothing else but her. The romping playfellow was gone for ever, but in her place was a Vision. Philip and James began to eye one another askance. Delighted by the new state of affairs, Cleone queened it right royally, and played one young man against the other. But it was not long before she found herself thinking far more about Mr. Jettan than was seemly. He began to haunt her dreams, and when he came to visit the house her heart fluttered a little and showed a tendency to jump into her throat. Cleone was stern with her heart, for there was much in Mr. Jettan that did not meet with her approval. However masterful and handsome he might be--and Philip was both--he was distressingly boorish in many ways. Before her return to Sharley House Cleone had spent a few months with her aunt, who lived in Town. Several men had made very elegant love to her and showered compliments about her golden head. She had not cared the snap of her fingers for any one of them, but their graceful homage was very gratifying. Philip's speech was direct and purposeful, and his compliments were never neat. His clothes also left much to be desired. Cleone had an eye for colour and style; she liked her cavaliers to be _à la mode_. Sir Matthew Trelawney, for instance, had affected the most wonderful stockings, clocked with butterflies; Frederick King wore so excellently fitting a coat that, it was said, he required three men to ease him into it. Philip's coat was made for comfort; he would have scorned the stockings of Matthew Trelawney. He even refused to buy a wig, but wore his own brown hair brushed back from his face and tied loosely at his neck with a piece of black ribbon. No powder, no curls, unpolished nails, and an unpainted face--guiltless, too, of even the smallest patch--it was, thought Cleone, enough to make one weep. Nevertheless, she did not weep, because, for one thing, it would have made her eyes red, and another, it would be of very little use. Philip must be reformed, since she--well, since she did not dislike him. At the present time Philip had just returned from Town, whither he had been sent by his father, ostensibly to transact some business concerning the estate, but really that his unfashionable soul might succumb to the delights of Town. Philip was not aware of this secret purpose, but Cleone knew all about it. She was very fond of Sir Maurice, and he of her. When Sir Maurice saw which way Philip looked for a wife, he was pleased enough, although a Jettan might have cast his eyes much higher. But Sir Maurice, mindful of the old adage, was content to let things run their course. All that worried him was the apparent obduracy of his son in the matter of the first prophecy. He loved Philip, he did not wish to lose him, he liked his companionship, but--"By God, sir, you are a damned dull dog!" At that young Philip's straight brows drew close over the bridge of his nose, only to relax again as he smiled. "Well, sir, I hold two gay dogs in the family to be enough." Sir Maurice's mouth quivered responsively. "What's that, Philip? Do you seek to reprove me?" "Not a whit, sir. You are you, but I--am I." "So it seems," said his father. "And you being yourself have fallen in love with a mighty pretty child; still being yourself, you are like to be left disconsolate." Philip had flushed slightly at the reference to Cleone. The end of the sentence left him frowning. "What mean you, sir?" The shrewd grey eyes, so like his own, regarded him pityingly. "Little Mistress Cleone will have none of you an you fail to mend your ways, my son. Do you not know it? What has that dainty piece to do with a raw clodhopper like yourself?" Philip answered low. "If Mistress Cleone gives me her love it will be for me as I am. She is worthy a man, not a powdered, ruffled beau." "A man! _Sacré tonnerre_, 'tis what you are, _hein_? Philip, child, get you to Town to your uncle and buy a wig." "No, sir, I thank you. I shall do very well without a wig." Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards at the floor in exasperation. "_Mille diables!_ You'll to Town as I say, defiant boy! You may finish the business with that scoundrel Jenkins while you are about it!" Philip nodded. "That I will do, sir, since you wish it." "Bah!" retorted his father. * * * * * He had gone; now he had come back, the business details settled to his satisfaction, but with no wig. Sir Maurice was pleased to see him again, more pleased than he appeared, as Philip was well aware. He listened to what his son had to tell him of Tom Jettan, failed to glean any of the latest society gossip, and dismissed Philip from his presence. Half an hour later Philip rode in at the gates of Sharley House, sitting straight in his saddle, a pulse in his throat throbbing in anticipation. Cleone saw him coming. She was seated in the parlour window, embroidering in a languid fashion. Truth to tell, she was tired of her own company and not at all averse from seeing Philip. As he passed the window she bent forward a little, smiling down at him. Philip saw her at once; indeed, he had been eyeing every window of the warm, red house in the hope that she might be sitting in one. He reined in his horse and bowed to her, hat in hand. Cleone opened the casement wider, leaning over the sill, her golden curls falling forward under the strings of her cap. "Why, sir, are you back already?" she asked, dimpling. "Already!" he echoed. "It has been years! Ten years, Cleone!" "Pooh!" she said. "Ten days--not a moment more!" "Is that all it has seemed to you?" he said. Cleone's cheek became faintly tinged with pink. "What more?" she retorted. "'Tis all it is!" Into Philip's eyes came a gleam of triumph. "Aha! You've counted, then! Oh, Cleone!" The roguish look fled. "Oh!" cried Cleone, pouting. "How--how--monstrous--" "Monstrous what, dear Cleone?" "Impudent!" she ended. "I declare I won't see you!" As if to add weight to this statement, she shut the casement and moved away into the room. Presently, however, she relented, and tripped downstairs to the withdrawing-room, where she found Mr. Jettan paying his respects to her mamma. She curtseyed very demurely, allowed him to kiss the tips of her fingers, and seated herself beside Madam Charteris. Madam patted her hand. "Well, child, here is Philip returned from Town with not a word to tell us of his gaiety!" Cleone raised her eyes to survey Philip. "Mamma, there is naught to tell. Philip is such a staid, sober person." "Tut-tut!" said her mother. "Now, Philip, tell us all! Did you not meet _one_ beauty to whom you lost your heart?" "No, madam," answered Philip. "The painted society dames attract me not at all." His eyes rested on Cleone as he spoke. "I dare say you've not yet heard the news?" Cleone said, after a slight pause. "Or did Sir Maurice tell you?" "No--that is, I do not know. What is it? Good news?" "It remains to be seen," she replied. "'Tis that Mr. Bancroft is to return! What think you of that?" Philip stiffened. "Bancroft? Sir Harold's son?" "Yes, Henry Bancroft. Is it not exciting? Only think--he has been away nigh on eight years! Why, he must be--" she began to count on her rosy-tipped fingers "--twenty-six, or twenty-seven. Oh, a man! I do so wonder what he is like now!" "H'm!" remarked Philip. His voice held no enthusiasm. "What does he want here?" Cleone's long lashes fluttered down to hide the laugh in her eyes. "To see his papa, of course. After so many years!" Philip gave vent to a sound very like a snort. "I'll wager there's a more potent reason! Else had he come home ere now." "Well, I will tell you. Papa rode over to Great Fittledean two days ago, and he found Sir Harold mightily amused, did he not, Mamma?" Madam Charteris assented vaguely. She was stitching at a length of satin, content to drop out of the conversation. "Yes. It seems that Henry--" "Who?" Philip straightened in his chair. "Mr. Bancroft," said Cleone. A smile trembled on her lips. "It seems that Mr. Bancroft has had occasion to fight a duel. Is it not too dreadful?" Philip agreed with more heartiness than he had yet shown. "I am sure I do not know why gentlemen must fight. 'Tis very terrible, I think. But, of course, 'tis monstrous gallant and exciting. And poor Mr. Bancroft has been advised to leave London for a while, because some great personage is angered. Papa did not say who was the gentleman he fought, but Sir Harold was vastly amused." She glanced up at Philip, in time to catch sight of the scornful frown on his face. "Oh, Philip, do _you_ know? Have you perhaps heard?" "No one who has been in Town this last week could fail to have heard," said Philip shortly. Then, very abruptly, he changed the subject. * * * * * When Philip came back to the Pride it was close on the dinner hour. He walked slowly upstairs to change his clothes, for on that point Sir Maurice was obdurate. He would not allow buckskins or riding-boots at his table. He himself was fastidious to a fault. Every evening he donned stiff satins and velvets; his thin face was painted, powdered and patched; his wig tied with great precision in the nape of his neck. He walked now with a stick, but his carriage was still fairly upright. The stick was, as Philip told him, a mere affectation. Philip was rather silent during the first part of the meal, but when the lackeys left the room, and Sir Maurice pushed the port towards him, he spoke suddenly, as if the words had hovered on his tongue for some time. "Father, do you hear that Bancroft is to return?" Sir Maurice selected a nut from the dish before him, cracking it between his long, white fingers. "I believe someone told me. What of it?" "You said nothing of it to me." The grey eyes lifted. "Is he a friend of yours? I did not know." "A friend!" Philip set his glass down with a snap. "Hardly, sir!" "Now what's to do?" asked his father. "Why the scorn?" "Sir, if you could but hear the gossip about him!" "I have no doubt I should be vastly entertained," said Sir Maurice. "What's the tale?" "The fellow is for ever embroiling himself in some low quarrel. This time it is Lady Marchand. Faugh!" "Lady Marchand? Not Dolly Marchand?" "I believe so. Why, sir, do you know her?" "I--er--knew her mother. Tell me, is she as charming?" "As I know neither her mother, nor Lady Marchand--" Sir Maurice sighed. "No. Of course not. Go on." "It's a damned sordid tale, sir, and I'll spare you the details. Lord Marchand and Bancroft fought out at Ipswich. Bancroft wounded him in the lung, and 'tis said he'll not recover." "Clumsy," remarked Sir Maurice. "So Bancroft retires?" "The Prince of Wales is furious, as well he might be. And Bancroft brings himself and his morals here." A faint smile hovered on Sir Maurice's lips. "And Mr. Jettan is righteously indignant. From which I gather that Mistress Cleone is prepared to welcome this slayer of hearts. You'd best have bought a wig, Philip." In spite of himself, Philip laughed. "Sir, you are incorrigible!" "_Faute de mieux._ And whence, if I may ask, did you glean all this--sordid information, oh my righteous son?" "From Tom, of course. He could talk of nothing else." "Alack! The saint is still upon his pedestal. In fact, the story was forced upon you. Philip, you enrage me." He looked up and met his son's amused glance. "Yes, child, I am enraged. Pass the wine." Philip pushed the decanter towards him. His rather stern eyes were twinkling. "I'll swear no one ever before possessed so outrageous a sire," he said. "I've heard of some who disinherited their sons for disreputable behaviour, but it seems you are like to disinherit me for irreproachable conduct." "It's a _piquante_ situation," agreed Sir Maurice. "But I shan't disinherit you." "No?" "Where's the use? With no money you could not hope to--ah--follow in my footsteps. I've a mind to turn you out of the house, though." "Half a mind," corrected Philip. "The other half, sir, rejoices in my unblemished reputation." "Does it?" Sir Maurice was mildly interested. "Faith, I did not know that." "Sir, were I to break away and become as flighty as you wish, no one would be more aghast than yourself." "You infer, my son, that I desire you to follow not in my footsteps, but in--let us say, Bancroft's. Nothing could more thoroughly disgust me." "Ah!" Philip leaned forward eagerly. "You admit that?" Sir Maurice sipped his wine. "Certainly. I abhor clumsiness in an _affaire_." He watched Philip draw back. "An _affaire_ of the heart should be daintily conducted. A Jettan should bear in mind that for him there can be only one love; the others," he waved his hand, "should be treated with the delicacy that they deserve. Above all, they should end lightly. I would have no woman the worse for you, child, but I would have you know women and the world. I would have you experience the pleasures and the displeasures of Polite Society; I would have you taste the joys of Hazard, and the exhilaration of your sword against another's; I would have you take pains in the selection of a cravat, or the designing of a vest; I would have you learn the way to turn a neat compliment and a pretty phrase; above all, I would have you know yourself, your fellow-men, and the world." He paused, studying his son. Then he smiled. "Well? What have you to say to my peroration?" Philip answered simply, and in admiration. "Why, sir, that I am spellbound by your fluency. In truth, Father, you have a remarkably beautiful voice." "Bah!" snapped Sir Maurice. Three Mr. Bancroft Brings Trouble into Little Fittledean On a particularly sunny morning, some five or six days after Mr. Jettan's return from London town, the main street of Little Fittledean was made brighter still by the passage of an Apparition. The Apparition wore a coat of palest apricot cloth, with a flowered vest of fine brocade, and startling white small-clothes. Red-heeled shoes were on his feet, and his stockings were adorned by sprawling golden clocks. He carried an amber-clouded cane and a jewelled snuff-box, while ever and anon he raised a cobwebby handkerchief to his aristocratic nose. He minced down the street towards the market-place, followed by the awe-stricken glances of an amazed population. The inhabitants of the village had never seen anything so wonderful or so remarkable as this gorgeous gentleman. They watched the high red heels click along the road, and admired the beautiful set of the Apparition's coat. A group of children stopped playing to stare, open-mouthed. The Apparition heeded them not. It may have been that he was oblivious of their existence. Not even when a piping treble requested "John" to "look'ee now at them shoes!" did he show that he realised the presence of anyone but himself in the village. He minced on, very languid, and suitably bored. Further down the street a gentleman had reined in his horse to speak to a curtseying dame, who plucked shyly at her apron, smiling up at him. Presently he, too, became aware of the sound of clicking heels. Even as the buxom dame gazed past him with wide eyes, he looked up and saw the Apparition. I would not have you think that the Apparition noticed him. On he went, swinging his cane and yawning. Sir Maurice turned in his saddle the better to see those pearly small-clothes. His horse cocked both ears inquiringly and blew down his nostrils. "Well, I'm damned!" said Sir Maurice beneath his breath. "Puppy!" Mr. Bancroft proceeded leisurely towards the market-place. He was very, very bored, and he had walked over from Great Fittledean in search of possible amusement. He almost despaired of finding it, but Fate favoured him. Crossing the market-place, a basket on her arm and a very becoming hat tied over her curls, was Mistress Cleone. She was tripping along quite unconcernedly, her cheeks just tinged with colour, and her big eyes bluer than ever. Mr. Bancroft lost a little of his languor. It might almost be said that his eye brightened. Cleone was coming towards him, and it was markedly evident that Mr. Bancroft made no attempt to step aside. On the contrary, he appeared to be engrossed in the contemplation of a cat right away on his left. Cleone was peeping inside her basket; she did not perceive Mr. Bancroft until she had walked into him. Then she gave a startled cry, fell back, and stared. Mr. Bancroft was profuse in his apologies. He swept off his hat and made her a low bow, sinking back and back on his bent left leg. "Oh!" gasped Cleone, becomingly flustered. "Gracious! Is it you, Mr. Bancroft?" Mr. Bancroft said that it was. He was very modest about it, and he dubbed himself a clodhopping oaf so to have discommoded Cleone. Cleone dimpled, curtseyed, and prepared to go on her way. This, however, Mr. Bancroft would not allow. He insisted on taking her basket, which, he protested, was monstrous heavy for her fair hands to support. Cleone looked up at him provocatively. "Sir, I fear I am a stranger to you!" "A stranger! Why, madam, is it likely that once I had seen I could ever forget your sweet face?" cried Mr. Bancroft. "Those blue eyes, madam, left a deep imprint on my soul; those soft lips--" "But," interrupted Cleone, blushing, "my name escaped your memory. Confess, Mr. Bancroft, it is indeed so?" Mr. Bancroft waved his handkerchief with a superb gesture. "A name--bah! What is it? 'Tis the face that remains with me. Names do, indeed, escape me. How could a mere name conjure up this fair image?" He bowed slightly. "Your name should be Venus, madam." "Sir!" Cleone was shocked. "I am Cleone Charteris, Mr. Bancroft," she said primly. Mr. Bancroft was quite equal to the occasion. "My dear," he said fondly, "do you think I did not know it?" Cleone shook her head. "You did not know it. And, indeed, I am prodigiously hurt and offended that you should have forgot me." "Forgot you?" Mr. Bancroft was derisive. "Forget the little nymph who so tormented me in my youth? Fie on you, madam!" "Oh, I did not! How can you say so, sir? 'Twas you who were always so provoking! Do you remember how we played? You and Jennifer and I and Philip--oh, and James." "The games I remember," he answered. "But Jennifer, no. And who are Philip and James?" "You've a monstrous short memory," reproved Cleone. "Of course you remember Philip Jettan?" "How could I hope to remember anyone but your fair self?" he protested. "Could I be sensible of another's presence when you were there?" Cleone giggled. She found Mr. Bancroft's compliments very entertaining and novel. "You are quite ridiculous, sir. And this is my home." "Alas!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "I would it were a mile away." He opened the gate and held it for her, bowing. "May I pay my respects to Madam Charteris?" he begged. "If you please, sir," said Cleone, eyes cast down. They found madam in the hall, speaking to one of the servants. When she saw the resplendent Mr. Bancroft she gasped, and fell back a pace. Bancroft stepped forward, hat in hand. "I dare not hope for recognition, madam," he bowed. "Henry Bancroft begs you will allow him to kiss your hand." Madam Charteris extended it weakly. "Henry Bancroft? Gracious heaven, is it indeed you?" Bancroft kissed the tips of her fingers, holding them lightly to his mouth with two fingers and a thumb. "I met Mistress Cleone in the market-place," he told her. "Conceive my surprise, madam, my joyful ecstasy!" "Indeed!" stammered madam. "In the market-place--to be sure." "Mr. Bancroft was so kind as to relieve me of my basket," explained her daughter. "He pretends that he had not forgot me, Mamma! But he cannot deceive me." "He never sought to deceive you, Mistress Cleone. He spoke sooth when he said your image had remained with him throughout." "Take him into the garden, Cleone," begged madam. "He will wish to see your papa." It had not occurred to Mr. Bancroft, but he swallowed it with a good grace. "Will you conduct me thither, Mistress Cleone?" He bowed, one arm extended. Cleone laid the tips of her fingers on the arm. "Certainly, sir. We shall find Papa among the roses." They walked to the door. "The roses!" sighed Mr. Bancroft. "A fit setting for your beauty, dear Cleone." Cleone gave a little gurgle of laughter. "'Tis Papa's beauty they frame, sir, not mine," she replied. Twenty minutes later Sir Maurice walked into the rose-garden to find Bancroft and Cleone seated in an arbour engaged in close converse, while Mr. Charteris nipped off the dead flowers nearby. Mr. Charteris welcomed his visitor with a wave of his large scissors. "Good day, Sir Maurice! What a very pleasant, warm day it is, to be sure! Did you ride over to see us?" Sir Maurice drew him apart. "I met that--that rainbow in the village. What a plague is it? What does he do here?" Mr. Charteris' chubby countenance was wreathed in a great, sly smile, suspiciously like a grin. "Have you ever seen aught to equal it?" he chuckled. "'Tis young Bancroft--in seclusion." "I guessed as much. In seclusion, is he? Puppy!" Mr. Charteris held up his hands. "Oh, but Sir Maurice! A mighty soft-spoken youth--a polished gentleman, I assure you." "Polished coxcomb!" snapped Sir Maurice. "Confound his impudence!" He turned and walked towards the arbour. Cleone rose and came forward. "Why, Sir Maurice! I did not see you!" Sir Maurice raised both her hands to his lips. "You were otherwise engaged, my dear. Will you present your cavalier?" Cleone frowned upon him. "Sir Maurice--! This is Mr. Bancroft, sir. Mr. Bancroft, Sir Maurice Jettan." Mr. Bancroft's hat swept the ground. His powdered head was bent. "I am delighted to renew my acquaintance with you, sir." Sir Maurice inclined his head. "I hear you intend to honour Fittledean for some few weeks?" he said. An inward laugh seemed to shake him. "You must meet my son, Philip." "Nothing could give me more pleasure," Bancroft assured him. "I shall hope to do so at once. I am transported to meet such old friends, and to find that one"--he bowed to Cleone--"had not forgot me." "H'm!" said Sir Maurice cryptically. Suddenly he smiled upon the younger man. "I have ridden over to beg Mr. Charteris to honour me at dinner on Wednesday--" "Delighted, delighted!" nodded Charteris, who had joined them. "--with madam and Cleone. You'll come, my dear? I have already spoken to your mamma." Cleone slipped her hand in his arm. "Why, it's very kind of you, Sir Maurice. Thank you very much." He patted the little hand. Then he again transferred his attention to Mr. Bancroft. "I trust you too will honour us, sir?" "It is prodigious amiable of you, sir. I hasten to accept. On Wednesday, I think you said? With all the pleasure on earth!" "Cleone, my dear, give me your arm as far as that rose-bush. You shall choose me a button-hole, if you will. No, no, Charteris, with her own fair fingers!" He bore Cleone away to the other end of the garden, leaving Mr. Bancroft disconsolate. When they were out of hearing Sir Maurice looked down into the roguish blue eyes. "My dear, you are a minx." Cleone dimpled charmingly. "I don't know why you should say so, sir." "Of course not," agreed Sir Maurice. "Now what is the game? It's to make Philip jealous, eh?" "Sir! How can you?" "My love, I know all about you, for I am an old man. Make Philip jealous by all means." "I'm sure I never--" "Of course not. But I think, with you, that it would be a very good plan. The boy is too stolid and cock-sure." "Cock--Oh, indeed!" "So if you shake Philip up from his toes to his head--you'll earn a father's blessing." Cleone controlled a trembling lip. "Sir--you are--a very naughty--conspirator." "We'll leave it at that," said Sir Maurice. "Now choose me a rose, little witch. Gad, if I were ten years younger I'd make Philip jealous myself!" Cleone tip-toed, her hands on his shoulders. "You are very, very wicked," she told him gravely. Sir Maurice kissed her. "So are you, minx, and I want you for my daughter. We are so well suited." Cleone blushed fiery red and hid her face in his coat. * * * * * Sir Maurice rode home wrapped in thought. Now and again he chuckled softly to himself, but when later he met his son he was as solemn as ever. Philip came into the library, riding-whip in hand. He had been on the fields all the morning, and Sir Maurice eyed his boots with disfavour. Philip sank into a chair. "Two of the big meadows are cut, sir. We should finish by next week." He glanced anxiously out of the window. "I hope the rain holds off." "Oh, it will," replied his father placidly. "I am not so sure. Last summer the hay was black. Did you--er--did you ride into the village?" "I did." "And--and did you go to--Sharley House?" "Ay." "Are they--did they accept?" Philip played with his whip, feigning unconcern. "They did. I met that fellow Bancroft." "Oh!" said Philip. "Where?" "In the rose-garden," yawned Sir Maurice. The whip fell to the ground. "What? In the rose-garden? Whose rose-garden?" "At Sharley House, of course." "Where--was--What was he doing there?" "He was sitting in the arbour, talking to Cleone." "Confound him!" growled Philip, as if his worst fears were realised. "What's he like?" Sir Maurice glanced across at him. "He is about your height--perhaps a little taller. He--ah--seems to have a soft tongue and an engaging manner." "Oh, has he?" Philip's voice was startlingly grim. "He and Cleone were renewing their old friendship." "Oh, were they? What old friendship? He was never our friend!" "No, I suppose not," said Sir Maurice innocently. "He is some six or seven years older than you, is he not?" "Five!" said Philip emphatically. "Only five? Of course, he looks and seems older, but he has seen more of the world, which accounts for it." To this Philip vouchsafed no answer at all, but he looked at his father with some suspicion. Sir Maurice allowed two or three minutes to elapse before he spoke again. "By the way, Philip, Bancroft dines with us on Wednesday." Up sprang Philip in great annoyance. "What's that, sir? Dines here, and on Wednesday? Surely you did not invite the fellow?" "But I did," answered Sir Maurice blandly. "Why not?" "Why not? What do we want with him?" "It remains to be seen." Sir Maurice hid a smile. "Bancroft is most desirous of meeting you." Philip made a sound betwixt a grunt and a snort. "More like he wishes to pursue his acquaintance with Cl--Mistress Cleone," he retorted. "Well, she's a pretty piece," said his father. Philip glared at him. "If I find him annoying Cleone with his damned officious attentions, I'll--I'll--" "Oh, I do not think she is annoyed," replied Sir Maurice. At that Philip stalked out of the room, leaving his father a prey to indecent mirth. Four The Trouble Comes to a Head At half-past five on Wednesday Mr. Henry Bancroft was ushered into the withdrawing-room at the Pride. He was, as he had intended he should be, the last to arrive. Sir Maurice stood in front of the empty grate, talking to Mr. Charteris; madam sat on a couch, her daughter beside her, and Philip nearby. They all looked up as Mr. Bancroft was announced, and Philip rose, for the first time in his life acutely conscious of an ill-fitting coat and unpowdered hair. Mr. Bancroft was a dream of lilac and rose. He might have been dressed for a ball, thought Cleone. Diamonds and rubies flashed from his buckles, and from his cravat; a diamond clasp was above the riband that tied his wig. He minced forward daintily and bowed, one be-ringed hand over his heart. Sir Maurice came forward, very stately in black with touches of purple. "Ah, Mr. Bancroft! I need not present you to the ladies, I know." He paused to allow Bancroft to throw a languishing glance towards the couch. "I think you and my son are not altogether unknown to one another?" Bancroft turned on his heel to face Philip. He bowed again, slightly flourishing his handkerchief. "My playmate of long ago," he murmured. "Your very obedient, Mr. Jettan." Philip returned the bow awkwardly. "I am very pleased to meet you again, sir," he said, determined to be polite to this most obnoxious guest. "Do you--er--intend to make a long stay?" Bancroft raised his shoulders and spread out his hands. "I had thought not, sir, but now"--another glance was cast at Cleone--"I think--perhaps--!" He smiled, running quick, appraising eyes over Philip's person. "Do you know, sir, I swear I'd not have known you. You have grown prodigiously." Cleone broke into the conversation. "You were so much older than Philip or James or me, Mr. Bancroft!" Instantly he swept round. "I thank you for the past tense, Mistress Cleone! At least, I am no longer so aged." "Why, sir, have you lost your years?" she asked. "In your company, yes, madam. Can you wonder?" "Oh, I am monstrous flattered, sir!" Cleone spread out her fan and held it before her face. "Not flattered, Mistress Cleone; justly appreciated." "La!" said Madam Charteris. "How can you say such things, Mr. Bancroft? I declare you will make my daughter vain!" "Vanity, madam, mates not with such beauty as that of your daughter," he retaliated. To the right he could see Philip, glowering, and his mischievous soul laughed. Then Sir Maurice claimed his attention, and he turned away. Philip walked to the couch and stood behind it, resting his arm on the back. He leaned over Cleone with an air of possession. "Pranked out mummer!" he muttered in her ear. Cleone smiled up at him. "Why, sir, are you at variance with him in the matter of my looks?" she asked, and thereby bereft him of speech. Her smile turned to a look of reproach. "'Tis your cue, sir; am I to be slighted?" A dull red crept to the roots of Philip's hair. He spoke lower still. "You know--what I think of you, Cleone. I cannot--mouth what I feel--in pretty phrases." A strangely tender light came into her eyes. "You might try, Philip," she said. "What, here? Not I! I am not one to sing your charms in public." He laughed shortly. "So that is what you desire?" The tender light died. "No, sir. I desire you will not lean so close. You inconvenience me." Philip straightened at once, but he still stood behind her. Bancroft met his eyes and was quick to read the challenge they held. He smiled, twirling his eyeglass. When dinner was announced, Cleone was talking to Bancroft. It was but natural that he should offer her his arm, but to Philip it seemed a most officious, impudent action. Sir Maurice led Madam Charteris into the dining-room; Mr. Charteris and Philip brought up the rear. From Philip's point of view the meal was not a success. Seated side by side, Cleone and Bancroft exchanged a flood of conversation. Philip, at the foot of the table, had on his right Mr. Bancroft, and on his left Mr. Charteris. To the latter he made grave conversation. Occasionally Bancroft dragged him into a discussion; once or twice Madam Charteris and Sir Maurice appealed to him. But Cleone seemed unaware of his existence. She was very gay, too; her eyes sparkled and shone, her cheeks were faintly flushed. She answered Mr. Bancroft's sallies with delightful little laughs and applause. As the dinner proceeded, Philip was made to feel more than ever his own shortcomings. When he looked at Mr. Bancroft's white hands with their highly polished nails, and many rings, he compared them with his strong brown ones, tanned and--coarse? Covertly he inspected them; no, they were better hands than that nincompoop's, but his nails ... bah! only fops such as this puppy polished their nails!... The lilac satin of Mr. Bancroft's coat shimmered in the light of the candles. How tightly it fitted him across the shoulders! How heavily it was laced, and how full were its skirts! A coat for a drawing-room! Unconsciously Philip squared his shoulders. All that foaming lace ... more suited to a woman than to a man. The quizzing-glass ... abominable affectation! The jewels ... flaunting them in the country! Patched and painted, mincing, prattling puppy-dog! How could Cleone bear him so near, with his fat, soft hands, and his person reeking of some sickly scent?... Now he was talking of town and its allure, toying with the names of first one celebrity and then another. And Cleone drinking in the silly, smug talk!... Now hints at conquests made--veiled allusions to his own charms. Ape!--truckling, overdressed ape! Suddenly Philip wanted to throw his glass at Bancroft. He choked down the mad impulse, and strove to listen to Mr. Charteris. Back in the withdrawing-room again it was worse. Sir Maurice asked Cleone to sing, and she went to the spinet. Bancroft followed, to choose her music, to turn the pages, to gaze at her in frank admiration. Damn him, damn him, damn him! * * * * * The party came to an end at last; Philip was alone with his father. Sir Maurice leaned his chin in his hand, watching him amusedly. For a long while Philip said nothing, but presently he brought his eyes away from the window and looked at his father. "And that," he said bitingly, "is what you would have me. A conceited, painted puppy, fawning and leering on every woman that crosses his path!" "Not at all." Sir Maurice took out his snuff-box and opened it. "'Tis the last thing in the world I would have you." "You said--" "I said I would have you a very perfect gentleman, knowing the world and its ways." "Well?--" "You perhaps conceive Mr. Bancroft a perfect gentleman?" "Not I! 'Tis you who--" Sir Maurice raised one delicate hand. "Pardon me! You choose to assume that I thought it. Mr. Bancroft is, as you so truly remark, a conceited, painted puppet. But he apes, so far as he is able, the thing that I am; that I wish you to become. You are a country-bumpkin, my dear; he is a coddled doll. Strive to become something betwixt the two." "I had sooner be what I am!" "Which is a conceited oaf." "Sir!" Sir Maurice rose, leaning on his cane. "Remain what you are, my son, but bethink you--which will Cleone prefer? Him who gives her graceful homage, and charms her ears with honeyed words, or him who is tongue-tied before her, who is careless of his appearance, and who treats her, not as a young and beautiful girl, but as his inevitable possession?" Philip answered quickly. "Cleone, sir, will--give herself where she pleases, but she is not one to over-rate the tricks of such as Bancroft." "Or to under-rate the discomforts of tying herself to one who is tied to the soil and his own pleasure," said Sir Maurice softly. The grey eyes met his, a trifle hurt. "I am selfish, Father? Because I will not become the thing I despise?" "And narrow, Philip, to despise what you do not know." "Thank you!" The young voice was exceedingly bitter. "I am to be a painted popinjay! I tell you, sir, Cleone must take me as I am." "Or leave you as you are," said Sir Maurice gently. "A warning, sir?" "That's for you to judge, child. And now I'll to bed." He paused, looking at his son. Philip went to him. "Good night, sir." Sir Maurice smiled, holding out his hand. "Good night, my son." Philip kissed his fingers. Followed a week of disturbing trivialities. Mr. Bancroft was more often in Little Fittledean than at home, and most often at Sharley House. He there met Philip, not once, but many times, hostile and possessive. He laughed softly, and sought to engage Philip in a war of wits, but Philip's tongue was stiff and reluctant. So Mr. Bancroft made covert sport of him and renewed his attentions to Cleone. Cleone herself was living in a strange whirl. There was much in Mr. Bancroft that displeased her; I do not think she ever had it in her mind to wed him, which was perhaps fortunate, as Mr. Bancroft certainly had it not in his. But homage is grateful to women, and ardent yet dainty love-making fascinating to the young. She played with Mr. Bancroft, but thought no less of Philip. Yet Philip contrived to irritate her. His air of ownership, his angry, reproachful looks, fired the spirit of coquetry within her. Mastery thrilled her, but a mastery that offered to take all, giving nothing, annoyed her. That Philip loved her to distraction, she knew; also she knew that Philip would expect her to bend before his will. He would not change, it would be she who must conform to his pleasure. Philip was determined to remain as he was, faithful but dull. She wanted all that he despised: life, gaiety, society, and frivolity. She weighed the question carefully, a little too carefully for a maid in love. She wanted Philip and she did not want him. As he was, she would have none of him; as she wished him to be, he might have her. But for the present she was no man's, and no man had the right to chide her. Philip had made a mistake in his wooing in showing her how much his own he thought her. All unwitting, he was paving the way to his own downfall. Despite the lisping conceit of Mr. Bancroft, his polished phrases and his elegancy when compared with Philip's brusqueness threw Philip in the shade. Mr. Bancroft could taunt and gibe at Philip, sure of triumph; Philip tied his tongue in knots and relapsed into silence, leaving Mr. Bancroft to shine in his victory. The man Cleone chose to wed must be a match for all, with words or swords. Cleone continued to smile upon Mr. Bancroft. At the end of the week the trouble came to a head. In the garden of Sharley House, before Cleone, Mr. Bancroft threw veiled taunts at Philip, and very thinly veiled sneers. He continued to hold the younger man's lack of polish up to scorn, always smiling and urbane. Cleone recognised the gleam in Philip's eye. She was a little frightened and sought to smooth over the breach. But when she presently retired to the house, Philip arrested Mr. Bancroft, who was following. "A word with you, sir." Bancroft turned, brows raised, lips curled almost sneeringly. Philip stood very straight, shoulders squared. "You have seen fit to mock at me, sir--" "I?" interpolated Bancroft languidly. "My dear sir!" "--and I resent it. There is that in your manner to which I object." Bancroft's brows rose higher. "To--which--you--object...." he echoed softly. "I trust I make myself clear?" snapped Philip. Bancroft raised his eyeglass. Through it he studied Philip from his toes to his head. "Is it possible that you want satisfaction?" he drawled. "More than that," retorted Philip. "It is certain." Once again he was scrutinised. Mr. Bancroft's smile grew. "I do not fight with schoolboys," he said. The colour flooded Philip's face. "Perhaps because you are afraid," he said quickly, guarding his temper. "Perhaps," nodded Bancroft. "Yet I have not the reputation of a coward." Swift as a hawk Philip pounced. "You have, sir, as I well know, the reputation of a libertine!" It was Bancroft's turn to flush. "I--beg--your--pardon?" "It is necessary," bowed Philip, enjoying himself now for the first time in many days. "You--impudent boy!" gasped Bancroft. "I would sooner be that, sir, than an impudent, painted puppy." Under his powder Bancroft was fiery red. "I see you will have it, Mr. Jettan. I will meet you when and where you will." Philip patted his sword-hilt, and Bancroft observed for the first time that he was wearing a sword. "I have noticed, Mr. Bancroft, that you habitually don your sword. So I took the precaution of wearing mine. 'When' is now, and 'where' is yonder!" He pointed above the hedge that encircled the garden to the copse beyond. It was a very fine theatrical effect, and he was pleased with it. Bancroft sneered at him. "A trifle countrified, Mr. Jettan. Do you propose to dispense with such needless formalities as seconds?" "I think we can trust each other," said Philip grandly. "Then pray lead the way," bowed Bancroft. What followed was not so fine. Bancroft was proficient in the art of the duello; Philip had never fought in his life. Fencing had never interested him, and Sir Maurice had long since despaired of teaching him anything more than the rudiments. However, he was very angry and very reckless, while Bancroft thought to play with him. He thrust so wildly and so insanely that Bancroft was taken unawares and received a fine slash across the arm. After that he fenced more carefully, and in a very short time pinked Philip neatly and artistically above the elbow of his sword arm. As Philip's blade wavered and fell, he wiped his own on his handkerchief, sheathed it, and bowed. "Let this be a lesson to you, sir," he said, and walked away before Philip could pick up his sword. Twenty minutes later Philip walked into the hall of Sharley House, a handkerchief tied tightly round his arm, and asked for Mistress Cleone. On being told that she was in the parlour, he stalked in upon her. Cleone's eyes flew to his crooked arm. "Oh!" she cried, and half rose. "What--what have you done? You are hurt!" "It is less than nothing, I thank you," replied Philip. "I want you to answer me plainly, Cleone. What is that fellow to you?" Cleone sat down again. Her eyes flashed; Philip was nearer than ever to his downfall. "I entirely fail to understand you, sir," she answered. "Do you love that--that prancing ninny?" asked Philip. "I consider such a question an--an impertinence!" cried Cleone. "What right have you to ask me such a thing?" Philip's brows met across the bridge of his nose. "You do love him?" "No, I don't! I mean--Oh, how dare you?" Philip came closer. The frown faded. "Cleone--do you--could you--love me?" Cleone was silent. Closer still came Philip, and spoke rather huskily. "Will you--marry me, Cleone?" Still silence, but the blue eyes were downcast. "Cleone," blundered Philip, "you--don't want a--mincing, powdered--beau." "I do not want a--a--raw--country-bumpkin," she said cruelly. Philip drew himself up. "That is what you think me, Cleone?" Something in his voice brought tears to her eyes. "I--no--I--oh, Philip, I _could_ not marry you as you are!" "No?" Philip spoke very evenly. "But if I became--your ideal--you could marry me?" "I--oh, you should not--ask such questions!" "As I am--you'll none of me. You do not want--an honest man's love. You want the pretty compliments of a doll. If I will learn to be--a doll--you'll wed me. Well, I will learn. You shall not be--annoyed--by an honest man's love--any longer. I will go to London--and one day I'll return. Farewell, Cleone." "Oh--goodness--are you--going to town?" she gasped. "Since that is your desire, yes," he answered. She held out her hand, and when he kissed it her fingers clung for an instant. "Come back to me, Philip," she whispered. He bowed, still holding her hand, and then, without a word, released it, and marched out, very dignified. It was another fine tragic effect, but Cleone, when the door closed behind him, broke into an hysterical laugh. She was rather amazed, and a little apprehensive. Five In Which Philip Finds That His Uncle Is More Sympathetic Than His Father Home went Philip, a prey to conflicting emotions. He was angry with Cleone, and hurt at what he termed her fickleness, but she was very lovely, and still wholly desirable. Never until now had he realised how necessary she was to his happiness. She would not marry him unless he reformed, learned to behave like Bancroft--that was what she meant. She did not love him as he was; she wanted polish, and frills and furbelows. Philip's lips tightened. She should have them--but he was very, very angry. Then he thought of his father, and the anger grew. What right had these two to seek to change him into something that was utterly insincere, trifling, and unmanly? His father would be rejoiced to hear that he was going "to become a gentleman." Even he had no use for Philip as he was. Well, they should have what they wanted--and then perhaps they would be sorry. In a wave of self-pity he considered how dearly he loved these two people. He wanted neither to change, he loved them for what they were; but they.... He felt very sore and ill-used. Something else there was that troubled him. He had set about the task of punishing Mr. Bancroft, and Mr. Bancroft had ended by punishing him. No pleasant thought, that. Bancroft was master not only of words but of swords; he, Philip, was master of neither. He brooded over the question, chafed and irritable. And so came home to Sir Maurice. He found him seated on the terrace, reading Juvenal. Sir Maurice, glancing up, observed Philip's sling. He said nothing, but his eyes gleamed an instant. Philip threw himself down upon a bench. "Well, sir, Bancroft and I have met." "I thought it would come," nodded his father. "I'm no match for him. He--pinked me with some ease." Again Sir Maurice nodded. "Also"--Philip spoke with difficulty--"Cleone--will have none of me--as I am." He looked across at his father with some bitterness. "As you prophesied, sir, she prefers the attentions of such as Bancroft." "And so--?" Philip was silent. "And so Mr. Jettan withdraws from the lists. Very fine," added Sir Maurice. "Have I said so, sir?" Philip spoke sharply. "Cleone desires a beau--she shall have one! I have told her that I shall not come to her until I am what--she thinks--is her desire! I will show her and you that I am not the dull-witted bumpkin you think me, fit for nothing better than"--he mimicked his father's tone--"to till the earth! I'll learn to be the painted fop you'd like to see me! Neither you nor she shall be offended longer by the sight of me as I am!" "Now, here's a heat!" remarked Sir Maurice. "So you'll to London, boy? To your uncle?" Philip shrugged. "As well to him as any other. I care not." "That's the wrong spirit for your emprise," said Sir Maurice, a laugh in his eyes. "You must enter into your venture heart and soul." Philip flung out his arm. "My heart's here, sir, at home!" "It's also at Sharley House," said his father dryly, "or why do you go to London?" "Ay, it's there! And I have the felicity of knowing that Cleone cares not one snap of her fingers for me! She trifles with me, and makes sport of me for her amusement!" "Tra-la-la-la!" said Sir Maurice. "Then why go to London?" "To show her that I am not the brainless oaf she thinks me!" answered Philip, and marched off. Sir Maurice returned to Juvenal. Not until his arm was healed did Philip set forth to London town. He parted amicably enough from his father, who gave him much advice, many introductions, and his blessing. Cleone he did not see at all, but when he had gone she went up to the Pride and held Sir Maurice's hand very tightly. She shed a few tears; also she laughed a little. As for Sir Maurice--well, he chided himself for a sentimental old fool, but with Philip's departure had come a void which could only be filled by Philip's return. * * * * * Tom was breakfasting when his nephew was announced. It was noon, but Tom had spent a strenuous night. Philip walked into the room, under the gloomy eye of Moggat, travel-stained and stiff from the saddle. He was quite unexpected, but his uncle showed no surprise at seeing him. "Well met, Philip, my boy! What's to do now?" Philip sank into a chair. "I'll tell you when I'm fed," he grinned. "That sirloin pleases my eye." "Not an artistic colour," said Tom, studying it, "but appetising, I grant you." "Artistic be damned!" said Philip, attacking it. Then he frowned. "H'm! No, Tom, 'tis a displeasing blend--red and brown." Tom looked at him in surprise. "What's colour to you, Philip?" "Naught, God help me," answered Philip, and fell to with a will. "I echo that sentiment," said Tom. "How does your father?" "Well enough; he sends you his love." Tom thereupon buried himself in the mass of correspondence that lay by his plate. When he came to the end, Philip had finished his repast. Tom pushed back his chair. "Well, Philip, what brings you here? Moggat, you rascal, away with you!" Philip waited until the door had closed upon Moggat's reluctant back. "I've--to learn to be--a gentleman," he said. Tom stared at him. Then he burst out laughing. "God ha' mercy, Philip, has it come to that?" "I do not take your meaning," said Philip crossly. "What! It's not a petticoat?" "Tom, I'll thank you to--to--be quiet!" Tom choked his laughter. "Oh, I'm dumb! How do you propose to set about the task?" "'Tis what I want to know, Tom." "And I'm to teach you?" Philip hesitated. "Is it perhaps--a thing I can best learn alone?" he asked, surprisingly diffident. "What is it exactly you want to learn?" "To become a gentleman. Have I not said it?" "Odd rot, what are ye now?" Philip's lips curled. "I have it on the best authority, Tom, that I am a clumsy, witless clodhopper." His uncle regarded him with some kindliness. "Little vixen," he remarked sapiently. "I beg your pardon?" Philip was cold. "Not at all," said Tom hastily. "So Maurice has been at you again, eh? Now, Philip, lad, come off your pinnacle and be sensible, for God's sake! What do ye want?" "I want, or rather, they--he--wants me to learn how to dress, how to walk across a room, how to play with words, how to make love to women, how to bow, how to--" "Oh, stop, stop!" cried Tom. "I have the whole picture! And it's no easy task, my boy. It will take you years to learn." "Why, I trust you're pessimistic, sir," said Philip, "for I intend to acquire all these arts--within a year." "Well, I like your spirit," acknowledged Tom. "Take some more ale, lad, and let me have the whole story." This advice Philip saw fit to follow. In a very short time he found that he had unburdened his sore heart to an astonishingly sympathetic uncle. Tom forbore to laugh--although now and then he was seized by an inward paroxysm which he had much ado to choke down. When Philip came to the end of his recital and stared gloomily across at him, he tapped his teeth with one polished finger-nail and looked exceeding wise. "My opinion is, Philip, that you are the best of all us Jettans, but that's neither here nor there. Now it seems to me that the folk at home don't appreciate your sterling qualities--" "Oh, 'tis not my qualities they object to! 'Tis my lack of vice." "Don't interrupt my peroration, lad. They think you a noble--what was the word you used?--clodhopper. 'Tis marvellously apt. They doubt your ability to shine in society. 'Tis for us to prove them to be mistaken. You must surprise them." "I doubt I shall," said Philip, with the glimmering of a smile. Tom was wrapped in thought; his eyes ran over his nephew's form appraisingly. "Ye've a fine figure, and good legs. Your hands?" Philip extended them, laughing. "Um! a little attention, and I'd not wish to see better. Like all the Jettans, you are passable of countenance, not to say handsome." "Am I?" Philip was startled. "I never knew that before!" "Then ye know it now. You're the spit of your father in his young days. Gad, what days they were! Before I grew fat," he added sadly. "But I wander, I wander. Maurice and the petticoat--what's the girl's name?" "I don't see why you should assu--" "Don't be a fool, lad! It's that fair chit, eh? Charlotte--no, damn it, some heathenish name!" "Cleone," supplied Philip, submitting. "Ay, that's it--Cleone. Well, Maurice and Cleone think that ye'll gain a little polish and some style. What you must do is excel. Excel!" "I doubt I could not," said Philip. "And, indeed, I've no mind to." "Then I've done with you." Tom leaned back in his chair with an air of finality. "No, no, Tom! You must help me!" A stern eye was fixed on him. "Ye must put yourself in my hands, then." "Ay, but--" "Completely," said Tom inexorably. Philip collapsed. "Oh, very well!" The round, good-tempered face lost its unaccustomed severity. Tom was again wrapped in thought. "Paris," he said at length, to the bewilderment of his nephew. "You must go there," he explained. Philip was horrified. "What! I? To Paris? Never!" "Then I wash my--" "But, Tom, consider! I know so little French!" "The more reason." "But--but--damn it, I say I will not!" Tom yawned. "As ye will." Philip became more and more unhappy. "Why should I go to Paris?" he growled. "You're like a surly bear," reproved Tom. "Where else would you go?" "Can't I--surely I can learn all I want here?" "Ay, and have all your friends nudging each other as you transform from what you are to what you are to become!" Philip had not thought of that. He relapsed into sulky silence. "To Paris," resumed Tom, "within the week. Luckily, you've more money than is good for you. You've no need to pinch and scrape. I'll take you, clothe you, and introduce you." Philip brightened. "Will you? That's devilish good of you, Tom!" "It is," agreed Tom. "But I dare swear I'll find entertainment there." He chuckled. "And not a word to your father or to anyone. You'll vanish, and when you reappear no one will know you." This dazzling prospect did not appear to allure Philip. He sighed heavily. "I suppose I must do it. But--" He rose and walked to the window. "It's all that I despise and that I detest. Mere love--does not suffice. Well, we shall see." He thrust his hands deep in his pockets. "The thing they want me to be is neither noble nor estimable. They--he--they--don't care what may be a man's reputation or his character! He must speak them softly, and charm their ears with silly compliments, and their eyes with pretty silks and satins. Naught else is of consequence. Faugh!" "Ay, you're taking it hard," nodded his uncle. "But they're all the same, lad--bless 'em!" "I thought--this one--was different." "More fool you," said Tom cynically. Six The Beginning of the Transformation Philip stood in the middle of the floor, expostulating. A sleek valet was kneeling before him, coaxing his gold-clocked stockings over the knee of his small-clothes, and a middle-aged exquisite was arranging his Mechlin cravat for the seventh time, a frown crinkling his forehead, and French oaths proceeding from his tinted lips. Mr. Thomas Jettan was giving the nails of Philip's right hand a last, lingering polish. And Philip, supremely miserable, expostulated in vain. François sat back on his heels and eyed Philip's legs adoringly. "But of an excellence, m'sieur! So perfect a calf, m'sieur! So vairy fine a laig," he explained in English. Philip tried to squint down at them, and was rewarded by an impatient exclamation from the gentleman who was wrestling with his cravat. "_Tais--toi, imbécile!_ 'Ow is it zat I shall arrange your cravat if you tweest and turn like zis? Lift your chin, Philippe!" "_Mais, monsieur, je--je--cela me donne--mal au cou._" "_Il faut souffrir pour être bel_," replied the Marquis severely. "So it seems," said Philip irritably. "Tom, for God's sake, have done!" His uncle chuckled. "I've finished, never fear. Jean, that is wonderful!" Le Marquis de Château-Banvau stepped back to view his handiwork. "I am not altogether satisfied," he said musingly. Philip warded him off. "No, no, m'sieur! I am sure it is perfection!" The Marquis disregarded him. Once more his nimble fingers busied themselves amongst the folds of soft lace. His eyes gleamed suddenly. "It is well! François, the sapphire pin! Quickly!" The valet held it out. He and Tom watched anxiously as the Marquis' hand hovered, uncertain. Philip felt that this was a supreme moment; he held his breath. Then the pin was fixed with one unerring movement, and the two onlookers drew deep breaths of relief. The Marquis nodded. "Yes, Tom, you are right. It is a triumph. Sit down, Philippe." Philip sank into a chair by the dressing-table. "What now? Have you nearly finished?" "Now the rouge. François, haste!" Philip tried to rebel. "I will not be painted and powdered!" The Marquis fixed him with a cold eye. "_Plaît--il?_" "M'sieur--I--I will not!" "Philippe--if it were not for the love I bear your papa, I would leave you zis minute. You will do as I say, _hein_?" "But, m'sieur, can I not go without paint?" "You can not." Philip smiled ruefully. "Then do your worst!" "It is not my worst, _ingrat_. It is my best!" "Your best, then. I am really very grateful, sir." The Marquis' lips twitched. He signed to François. Under his deft hands Philip squirmed and screwed up his face. He complained that the haresfoot tickled him, and he winced when the Marquis pressed two patches on his face. When François dusted his cheeks with powder he sneezed, and when a single sapphire ear-ring was placed in his left ear he scowled and muttered direfully. But the supreme torture was to come. He discovered that it required the united energies of the three men to coax him into his coat. When at last it was on he assured them it would split across the shoulders if he so much as moved a finger. The Marquis found him _fort amusant_, but troublesome. "Forget it, little fool!" "Forget it?" cried Philip. "How can I forget it when it prevents my moving?" "_Quelle absurdité!_ The sword, Tom!" "How can I dance in a sword?" protested Philip. "It is _de rigueur_," said the Marquis. Philip fingered the jewelled hilt. "A pretty plaything," he said. "I have never spent so much money on fripperies before." François arranged the full skirts of his coat about the sword, and Tom slipped rings on to Philip's fingers. A point-edged hat was put into his hand, an enamelled snuff-box, and a handkerchief. Thomas looked at the Marquis, the Marquis nodded complacently. He led Philip to a long glass. "Well, my friend?" But Philip said never a word. He stared and stared again at his reflection. He could not believe that it was himself. He saw a tall, slight figure dressed in a pale blue satin coat, and white small-clothes, flowered waistcoat, and gold-clocked stockings. High red-heeled shoes, diamond-buckled, were on his feet, lace foamed over his hands and at his neck, while a white wig, marvellously curled and powdered, replaced his shorn locks. Unconsciously he drew himself up, tilting his chin a little, and shook out his handkerchief. "Well!" The Marquis grew impatient. "You have nothing to say?" Philip turned. "_C'est merveilleux!_" he breathed. The Marquis beamed, but he shook his head. "In time, yes. At present, a thousand times no! _C'est gauche, c'est impossible!_" Unwontedly humble, Philip begged to be made less _gauche_. "It is my intention," said the Marquis. "A month or so and I shall be proud of my pupil." "Faith, I'm proud of ye now!" cried Tom. "Why, lad, you'll be more modish than ever Maurice was!" Philip flushed beneath his powder. A ruby on his finger caught his eye. He regarded it for a moment, frowning, then he took it off. "Oh?" queried the Marquis. "Why?" "I don't like it." "You don't like it? Why not?" "I don't know. I'll only wear sapphires and diamonds." "By heaven, the boy's right!" exclaimed Tom. "He should be all blue!" "In a month--two months--I shall present you at Versailles," decided the Marquis. "François, remove that abominable ruby. And now--_en avant_!" And so went Philip to his first ball. * * * * * At the end of the month Tom went home to London, having set his nephew's feet on the path he was to tread. He left him in charge of M. de Château-Banvau, who had by now developed a lively interest in him. After that first ball Philip threw off the last shreds of rebellion; he played his part well, and he became very busy. Every morning he fenced with an expert until he had acquired some skill with a small-sword; he spoke nothing but French from morn to night; he permitted the Marquis to introduce him into society; he strove to loosen his tongue, and he paid flippant court to several damsels who ogled him for his fine appearance, until his light conversation grew less forced and uncomfortable. For a while he took no interest in his tailoring, allowing Tom or François to garb him as they pleased. But one day, when François extended a pair of cream stockings to his gaze, he eyed them through his quizzing-glass for a long moment. Then he waved them aside. François was hurt; he liked those stockings. Would not M'sieur consider them? M'sieur most emphatically would not. If François admired pink clocks on a cream ground, let him take the stockings. M'sieur would not wear them; they offended him. Before very long "le jeune Anglais" was looked for and welcomed. Ladies liked him for his firm chin, and his palpable manliness; men liked him for his modesty and his money. He was invited to routs and _bals masqués_, and to card-parties and _soirées_. Philip began to enjoy himself; he was tasting the delights of popularity. Bit by bit he grew to expect invitations from these new acquaintances. But still M. le Marquis was dissatisfied. It was all very well, but not well enough for him. However, it was quite well enough for Thomas, and he departed, chuckling and elated. He left Philip debating over two wigs and the arrangement of his jewels. * * * * * Hardly a fortnight later Philip made secure his position in Polite Society by fighting a duel with a jealous husband. Lest you should be shocked at this sudden depravity, I will tell you that there was little enough cause for fighting, as Philip considered the lady as he might consider an aunt. Happily she was unaware of this. Philip's friends did not hold back; he had no difficulty in finding seconds, and the _affaire_ ended in a neat thrust which pinked the husband, and a fresh wave of popularity for Philip. The Marquis told his pupil that he was a gay dog, and was met by a chilling stare. "I--beg--your pardon?" said Philip stiffly. "But what a modesty!" cried the Marquis, much amused. "Is it conceivable that you think me attracted by the smiles of Madame de Foli-Martin?" "But yes! Of course I think it!" "Permit me to enlighten you," said Philip. "My affections are with a lady--at home." "Oh, la, la!" deplored the Marquis. "A lady of the country? A simple country wench?" "I thank God, yes," said Philip. He depressed his friend, who had hoped for better things of him. But he thought it wiser to change the subject. "Philip, I will take you to Court." Philip crossed one elegantly breeched leg over the other. He was, if anything, a little bored. "Yes? Next week, perhaps? I am very much engaged until then." The shrewd eyes twinkled. "The manner is excellent, my friend. You will like to make your bow to the King." Philip shrugged. "Certainly. I trust the King will consider himself sufficiently honoured." "_Sans doute_," bowed the Marquis. "But I counsel you, slayer of hearts, to cast your eyes away from la Pompadour." "M'sieur, I have already told you--" "Oh, yes. But you have now the name for--slaying of hearts." Philip dropped his affectation. "Good gad! Do you say so, sir? I?" "It is very fashionable," said the Marquis mischievously. "You become a figure." "But I--" He checked himself, and relapsed into languor. "They fatigue me." And he yawned. "What! Even la Salévier?" "The woman with the enormous wig--oh--ah! She is well enough, but _passée, mon cher Marquis, passée_!" "_Sangdieu_, you are fastidious of a sudden! Is the little country chit so lovely?" "Your pardon, Marquis, but I prefer to leave that lady's name out of this or any discussion." "Or I shall have a small-sword through my heart, _hein_?" Philip smiled. "That is absurd, sir." * * * * * That night he gave a card-party. The play was high and the bottles numerous. He lost some money, won a little, and was put to bed by his valet long after dawn. He awoke later with a splitting headache, but he considered himself a man. That was in September. Seven Mr. Bancroft Comes to Paris and Is Annoyed In February came Mr. Bancroft to Paris. Philip's departure from Little Fittledean had been closely followed by his own, for he found that Cleone no longer smiled. Also, the spice of wooing her was gone when there was no jealous lover to flout. He waited until his _affaire_ had blown over, and then he went back to London. Now, very blasé, he came to Paris in search of new pastimes. It was not long before he met Philip. And the manner of the meeting was delightfully sensational. Under the auspices of his friend, M. de Chambert, he attended a rout at the hotel of the Duchesse de Maugry. He was presented to one Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, a sprightly little lady, with roguish black eyes. Mr. Bancroft was content to form one of the small court she held. Several old acquaintances he met, for he was not unknown in Paris. Conversation flourished for some time. But suddenly Mademoiselle cried out, clapping her hands: "_Le voilà, notre petit Philippe! Eh bien, petit Anglais?_" A slight gentleman in peach-coloured satin, powdered, painted, perfumed, came quickly through the group and went down on one knee before her. "At thy most exquisite feet, my lady!" Delighted, she gave him her hand to kiss. "And where have you been this long while, _vaurien_?" Philip kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one. "Languishing in outer darkness, _chérie_." "The darkness of the Court!" laughed the Comte de Saint-Dantin. "Philippe, I know you for a rogue and a trifler!" Philip looked up, still holding Mademoiselle's hand. "Someone has maligned me. Of what am I accused?" Mademoiselle rapped his knuckles with her fan. "_Voyons!_ Have you finished with my hand?" Instantly he turned back to her. "I have lost count! Now I must begin again. One moment, Comte, I am much occupied!" Gravely he kissed each rosy finger a second time. "And one for the lovely whole. _Voilà!_" "You are indeed a rogue," she told him. "For you care--not one jot!" "If that were true I were a rogue beyond reprieve," he answered gaily. "You don't deceive me, _le petit Philippe_!... So sweet, so amiable, so great a flatterer--with no heart to lose!" "Rumour hath it that 'tis already lost," smiled De Bergeret. "Eh, Philippe?" "Lost an hundred times," mourned Philip, "and retrieved never!" "Oh!" Mademoiselle started back in mock-anger. "Wretch that thou art, and so fickle! Rise! I'll no more of you!" "Alack!" Philip came to his feet, and dusted his knee with his handkerchief. "I give you thanks, _mignonne_, 'twas very hard." "But you do not say! How is she, la Pompadour?" cried De Salmy. Philip pressed a hand to his forehead. "La Pompadour? I do not know; I have forgotten. She has blue eyes, not black." Mademoiselle promptly hid behind her fan. Mr. Bancroft was staring at Philip as one in a trance. At that moment Philip looked his way. The grey eyes held no recognition and passed on. "Good heavens!" exclaimed Bancroft. '"Tis never Mr. Jettan?" "_Que lui dit-il?_" asked Mademoiselle, for Bancroft had spoken in English. Philip bowed distantly. "M'sieur?" "You've not forgotten me? Bancroft?" "Ah--Mr. Bancroft! I remember. Your servant, sir." He bowed again. "Gad, I could scarce credit mine eyes! _Nom de Dieu!_" "Aha, that I understand!" said Mademoiselle relievedly. "It is one of your friends, Philippe?" She smiled upon Mr. Bancroft with more warmth, and extended her hand. "_L'ami de Philippe_--ah, but you should have said!" Mr. Bancroft was not elated at being classed as Philip's friend, but he bowed over Mademoiselle's hand with a good grace. "I had no notion of finding him here, mademoiselle. The last time we met was--in a wood." "Tell!" besought the lady. Philip threw out his hands. "Ah, no, _chérie_! That meeting was so disastrous to my vanity!" "_Raison de plus_," decided Mademoiselle. "Tell me about it!" "Mr. Bancroft and I had some slight difference in opinion which we settled in a wood. I was very easily worsted." "_You?_" cried Mademoiselle. "Impossible!" "On the contrary, _bien aimée_; I was, in those days, a very sorry spectacle, was I not, sir?" "Not so long since," said Mr. Bancroft. "Six months," nodded Philip, and turned to speak to the Comte de Saint-Dantin. Mademoiselle was still incredulous. "A sorry spectacle? Philippe?" "I scent an intrigue," said a little Vicomte. "Clothilde, make him tell!" "Of course," she said. "Philippe!" Philip swung neatly round to face her. "_Chère Clothilde?_" "Come here! I want you to tell me what you mean by a sorry spectacle. If you refuse--_bien_! I shall ask Mr. Bancroft!" "Oh, I'll give away no man's secrets!" simpered Bancroft. Philip raised his eyeglass. He observed Mr. Bancroft dispassionately. Then he shrugged, and turned back to Clothilde. "_Petite ange_, it's a sad tale. Six months ago I lived in the country, and I was a very churlish bumpkin. Then I was made to see the folly of my ways, and now--_me voici_!" "I said that I scented an intrigue," said the Vicomte tranquilly. "But wait, wait! _You_ in the country, Philippe? You jest!" "On my honour, no, _chérie_! I came to Paris to learn the ways of Polite Society." "Six months ago?" De Bergeret was astonished. "It is your first visit? You learned all this in so short a time?" "I have a natural aptitude," smiled Philip. "Now are you satisfied?" "_Je n'en reviendrai jamais!_" Mademoiselle spoke emphatically. "_Jamais, jamais, jamais!_" "I am not at all satisfied." Philip cocked one eyebrow at the dainty Vicomte. "What more would you have?" "I would know of what like she is." "She?" "The lady to whom your heart is lost." "That's an hundred she's," replied Philip airily. "And they are all different!" "I dare swear I could enlighten M. de Ravel," drawled Bancroft. All eyes turned his way. Philip seated himself beside Mademoiselle. He was smiling faintly. "Proceed, _mon ami_. Who is this lady that I have forgotten?" "Forgotten? Oh, come now, Jettan!" Philip played with Clothilde's fan; he was still smiling, but the bright grey eyes that met Bancroft's held a challenge. "If it transpired, m'sieur, that I had not forgotten it is possible that I might resent any liberties you or others thought to take with that lady's name," he said softly. There was a sudden silence. No one could mistake the menacing note in Philip's smooth voice. Saint-Dantin made haste to fill the breach. "The little Philippe is ready to fight us all, but it cannot be permitted. We'll not plague him, for he is very devilish when he is roused, I assure you!" He laughed easily and offered Bancroft snuff. "He is very fastidious," sneered Bancroft. M. le Comte closed his snuff-box and stepped back. He became politely bored. "The subject grows somewhat tedious, I think. Mademoiselle, will you dance?" Bancroft flushed. Mademoiselle sprang up. "I am promised to Jules!" She nodded, smiling, to De Bergeret. Together they walked away from the little group. Saint-Dantin linked arms with Philip. "Come with me to the card-room, Philippe. Unless you wish to lead out la Salévier?" He nodded to where an opulent beauty stood. "It's too fatiguing," said Philip. "I'll come." "Who is he, the ill-disposed gentleman in pink?" inquired the Comte, when they were out of earshot. "A creature of no importance," shrugged Philip. "So I see. Yet he contrives to arouse your anger?" "Yes," admitted Philip. "I do not like the colour of his coat." "You may call upon me," said Saint-Dantin at once. "I do not like anything about him. He was here before--last year. His conversation lacks _finesse_. He is tolerated in London, _hein_?" "I don't know. I trust not." "_Hé, hé!_ So he interfered between you and the lady?" Philip withdrew his arm. "Saint-Dantin!" "Oh, yes, yes, I know! We all know that in the background lurks--a lady! Else why your so chaste and cold demeanour?" "Am I cold?" "At the bottom, yes. Is it not so?" "Certainly it is so. It's unfashionable to possess a heart." "Oh, Philippe, thou art a rogue." "So I have been told. Presumably because I am innocent of the slightest indiscretion. Curious. No one dubs you rogue who so fully merit the title. But I, whose reputation is spotless, am necessarily a wicked one and a deceiver. I shall write a sonnet on the subject." "Ah, no!" begged Saint-Dantin in alarm. "Your sonnets are vile, Philippe! So let us have no more verse from you, I pray! All else you can do, but, _sacré nom de Dieu_, your verse--!" "Alas!" sighed Philip, "'tis my only ambition. I shall persevere." Saint-Dantin paused, a hand on the curtain that shut off the card-room. "Your only ambition, Philippe?" "For the moment," answered Philip sweetly. "All things pall on one after a time." "Save the greatest ambition?" Saint-Dantin's eyes were purely mischievous. "You are as inquisitive as a monkey," said Philip, and propelled him into the card-room. * * * * * "For how long has that fellow lorded it here?" asked Bancroft of his friend. M. de Chambert flicked one great cuff with his handkerchief. "Oh, some months! He is refreshing, is it not so? So young, so lovable." "Lovable be damned!" said Bancroft. De Chambert looked at him in surprise. "You don't like our little Philippe?" "No, I do not. Conceited young upstart!" "Con--ah, but no! You misunderstand him! He pretends, and it is very amusing, but he is not conceited; he is just a _bébé_." "Damn it, is he everyone's pet?" "_C'est le dernier cri de Paris._ There are some who are jealous, naturally, but all who know him like him too much to be jealous." "Jealous!" Bancroft snorted. "Jealous of that sprig!" De Chambert cast him a shrewd glance. "A word in your ear, m'sieu'! Do not speak your dislike too widely. _Le petit Philippe_ has powerful friends. You will be frowned upon if you sneer at him." Bancroft struggled for words. "I'll--not conceal from you, De Chambert, that I've a grudge against your little Philippe. I punished him once before for impudence." "Aha? I don't think you were well advised to do so again. He would have no lack of friends, and with a small-sword he is a veritable devil. It would not be wise to show your enmity, for you will meet him everywhere, and he is the ladies' darling. That says much, _hein_?" "And when I saw him last," spluttered Bancroft, "he was clad in a coat I'd not give a lackey, and had as much conversation as a scarecrow!" "Yes? I heard some talk of that. He is a marvel, our Philippe." "Curse all marvels!" said Bancroft fervently. Eight In Which Philip Delivers Himself of a Rondeau M. Le Comte De Saint-Dantin gave a select dinner and card-party some few weeks after the coming of Mr. Bancroft. Only his chosen intimates were invited, and amongst them was Philip. At half-past five all the guests, save one, were assembled in the library, and Saint-Dantin was comparing his chronometer with the clock on the mantelpiece. "Now what comes to Philippe?" he inquired of no one in particular. "Where is the child?" "He was at the ball last night," said M. de Chatelin, smoothing his ruffles. "He left early and in great haste." He raised his eyes and they were twinkling. "The pearl that hung from Mademoiselle de Marcherand's right ear inspired him and he fled." "Fled? Why?" "I believe, to compose a ballade in its honour." Saint-Dantin flung up his hands. "May the devil fly away with Philippe and his verse! I dare swear it's that that keeps him now." Paul de Vangrisse turned his head. "Do you speak of Philippe? I thought I heard his name?" "But yes! Henri declares he is possessed of an inspiration for a ballade to Julie de Marcherand's pearl." De Vangrisse came towards them, stiff silks rustling. "Alas, it is too true. I visited him this morning and found him _en déshabillé_, clasping his brow. He seized on me and demanded a rhyme to some word which I have forgot. So I left him." "Can no one convince Philippe that he is not a poet?" asked De Bergeret plaintively. De Vangrisse shook his head. "One may tell him that he is no swordsman, and no true _cavalier_; one may decry all his graces and he will laugh with one; but one may not say that he will never be a poet. He will not believe it." "Oh, he believes it, _au fond_," answered Saint-Dantin. "It amuses him to pretend. Ah, here he is!" Into the room came Philip, a vision in shades of yellow. He carried a rolled sheet of parchment, tied with an amber ribbon. He walked with a spring, and his eyes sparkled with pure merriment. He waved the parchment roll triumphantly. Saint-Dantin went forward to greet him. "But of a lateness, Philippe," he cried, holding out his hands. "A thousand pardons, Louis! I was consumed of a rondeau until an hour ago." "A rondeau?" said De Vangrisse. "This morning it was a ballade!" "This morning? Bah! That was a year ago. Since then it has been a sonnet!" "_A Dieu ne plaise!_" exclaimed Saint-Dantin devoutly. "Of course," agreed Philip. "The theme demanded a rondeau. At three this afternoon I discovered that it was so. Did you come to see me this morning, Paul?" "You asked me for a rhyme," De Vangrisse reminded him. "So I did! A rhyme for _tout_ and _fou_, and you gave me _chou_!" "Whereupon you threw your wig at me, and I fled." "_Chou!_" repeated Philip with awful scorn. "_Chou!_" Gently but firmly Saint-Dantin took the parchment from him. "You shall read it to us later," he promised. "But now you will dine." "It goes well before meat," pleaded Philip. He was answered by ribald protests. "I'll not listen to your verse on an empty stomach," declared the Vicomte. "Belike I shall appreciate it when in my cups." "You have no soul," said Philip sadly. "But I have a stomach, _petit Anglais_, and it cries aloud for sustenance." "I weep for you," said Philip. "Why do I waste my poetic gems upon you?" Saint-Dantin took him by the elbow and led him to the door. "_Parbleu_, Philippe, it's what we wish to know. You shall expound to us at dinner." * * * * * Midway through the meal the Vicomte remembered something. He nodded across the table to Philip, who was engaged in a lively and witty argument with De Bergeret. "_A propos_, Philippe. Your so dear friend has been talking about you!" "Which so dear friend?" asked Philip. "Jules, if you maintain in the face of my exposition that Jeanne de Fontenay can rival la Salévier in the matter of--" "But attend!" insisted the Vicomte. "The Englishman--the Bancroft--_peste_, what a name for my tongue!" Philip broke off in the middle of his discourse. His eyes gleamed in the candlelight. "Bancroft? What does he say of me?" "A great deal, if all I hear is true." Philip set down his glass. "Indeed! Now, what might you have heard, De Ravel?" "It would appear that _ce cher_ Bancroft feels no love for you, _mon pauvre_. If De Graune is to be believed, he resents your presence here. He says he has been deceived in you. It is all very sad." "Yes," said Philip. He frowned. "Very sad. But what does he say?" "He divulges your close-guarded secret," said the Vicomte solemnly. "Oh!" Philip turned in his chair and leaned his elbows on the table. "It is possible that I shall have a word to say to M. Bancroft. Continue, Charles!" "He speaks of a lady in 'Leetle Feeteldean' who has blue, blue eyes, and--" "Shall we pass over her eyes?" smiled Philip. "But certainly! Her hair--" "And her hair? In fact, shall we pass over all her attractions?" "He is very much in love," loudly whispered De Bergeret. Philip flashed a smile at him. "Very much, Jules. Proceed, Vicomte." The Vicomte sipped his wine. "M. Bancroft, he told of your--ah--infatuation. He described the lady--oh, fully!" The thin lips were growing into a straight, smiling line, tightly compressed. Philip nodded. "_Allons! Allons!_" "Vicomte, does the gossip of the gaming-halls amuse you?" asked Saint-Dantin sharply. But the Vicomte was a mischief-loving soul. He disregarded the rebuke. "A pretty piece, he called her, but no more than a simple country wench. By name--" "Oh, have done!" exclaimed Saint-Dantin impatiently. "But no!" Philip waved him aside. "I am very interested in what M'sieur has to say." "By name, Cleone. We have it from M. Bancroft that she falls in love with him for his _beaux yeux_ and his so charming manner." "Ah!" Philip's chin sank into his cupped palms. "_Et puis?_" "It is further recorded that one M. Philippe Jettan importuned her with his clumsy attentions, so that M. Bancroft was compelled to teach this M. Philippe a sharp lesson. And when one asks, 'What of the pretty Cleone?' he shrugs his shoulders and replies, very superbly, that he wearied of her as of all others." Saint-Dantin's crisp voice cut into the sudden silence. "Philippe, fill your glass. Paul here tells me of a pass he conceived in his duel with Mardry last month. A--" "I will ask Paul to show me that pass," said Philip. He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. A moment later he had resumed his interrupted discussion with De Bergeret. Afterwards Saint-Dantin took him aside. "Philippe, I would not have had that happen at my table! Charles is incorrigible!" "On the contrary, I am grateful to him," replied Philip. "I might not have heard else. Now I will shut that fellow's mouth." "How?" asked Saint-Dantin blankly. Philip made an imaginary pass in the air. "Short of killing him," objected Saint-Dantin, "I don't see--" "Kill him? Not I! I may count on you to--uphold me?" "Of course. But what do you mean to do?" "First I will reverse the tables. I will punish him. Then I will assure him that my friends will espouse my cause if he again mentions my lady's name in public." Saint-Dantin nodded. "I'll vouch for those here to-night." "Wait! Any mention of her name will be reported to me, and I shall send François to administer a little beating. It is well." The Comte laughed outright. "Oh, Philippe, thou art a young hot-head! Is this Cleone of so great account?" Philip drew himself up. "She is the lady whom I hope one day to make my wife." "_Comment?_ Your wife? _Ah, voyons! Cela change l'affaire!_ I did not know that. Stop his talk, by all means." "It's what I am going to do," said Philip. "_Scélérat!_" "With a vile taste for pink, _hein_? You'll call upon me?" "If you please. And, I think, De Bergeret." "Saint-Dantin, a wager!" called De Vangrisse. "What are you talking of so earnestly?" "Of pink coats," answered Philip. "Oh, my rondeau! Where is it?" "Devil take your rondeau!" cried the Vicomte. "Come and hazard a throw with me." "_A l'instant!_" Philip untied the ribbon about his rondeau and spread out the parchment. "I insist that you shall listen to this product of my brain!" He mounted a chair amid derisive cheers, and bowed right and left in mock solemnity. "To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear. "_Cette petite perle qui tremblotte_ _Au bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte_ _Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin._ _A l'air à la fois modeste et coquin,_ _Si goguenarde est elle et si dévote._ "_A regarder c'est toute une gavotte_ _Où l'on s'avance, se penche, et pivote,_ _Lors que tu branles d'un movement fin_ _Cette petite perle._ "_C'est une étoile dans le ciel qui flotte--_ _Un vif éclair qui luit dans une grotte--_ _Un feu follet qui hors de mon chemin_ _M'attire, m'éblouit, m'égare--_" Philip paused for his final effect. Arose Saint-Dantin, and like a flash interjected: "_Enfin,_ _Elle m'embête--saperlipopette!--_ _Cette petite perle._" Outraged, Philip threw the parchment at his head. Nine Mr. Bancroft Is Enraged "Philippe, do you go to De Farraud's to-night?" asked De Bergeret suddenly. He was lounging on the couch in Philip's room, watching Philip adjust his patches. "De Farraud's? I'd not thought of it. Whom shall I meet there?" "Your very obedient," said De Bergeret, flourishing his hat. "The prospect does not entice me," answered Philip. "No, don't retort! Don't speak. Don't move!" He leaned forward, shifting a candle to throw its light on his face, and frowned at his reflection. The white hand that held the haresfoot wavered an instant, and then alighted at the corner of his mouth. Philip sat back, studying the effect. "Whom else shall I meet, Jules?" "The usual people, I fancy. And some others, no doubt." "De Farraud's friends are so very mixed," deplored Philip. "Do you suppose that De Chambert will be present?" "Nothing is more certain," yawned De Bergeret. "But it will be amusing, and the play will be high, which is all that matters." "But De Chambert wears puce small-clothes," objected Philip. "Does he? _Mordieu_, I'd like to see that! Puce small-clothes, forsooth! And what does our Philippe wear?" Philip glanced lovingly down at his pearl-grey breeches. "Grey, and palest pink, with lacings of silver." He slipped out of his gaily-hued robe, and stood up. De Bergeret levelled his eyeglass at him. "_Parbleu, Philippe!_ Grey lace!" Philip shook out his ruffles. "A sweet conceit, _hein_? But wait! François, my vest!" His valet brought it, and helped Philip to put it on. It was a very exquisite confection of pink and silver brocade. De Bergeret was interested. "I'll swear you designed that, Philippe! Now for the coat!" When Philip had at last succeeded in entering into the coat it was some ten minutes later. François stepped back, panting; Philip arranged his sword to his satisfaction. "A careless sprinkling of rubies, _hein_? One in the cravat, one here, another in my wig. And on my fingers, so!..." "Perfect!" applauded De Bergeret. "_Tonnerre de Dieu_, pink hummingbirds on your stockings!" François beamed and clasped his hands, gazing in rapt admiration at Philip's startlingly clocked legs. Philip laughed. "Do they please your artistic soul, Jules? And are they to be wasted on De Farraud? I had intended to go to the Saint-Clamond rout, where I know I shall meet Clothilde. Come with me!" De Bergeret shook his head. "I promised De Vangrisse I'd be at De Farraud's some time to-night. Forget the lovely Clothilde, Philippe. Bethink you, your so dear friend Bancroft will come to Farraud's in De Chambert's train!" Philip was fixing a long ruby ear-ring in his right ear, but he stopped suddenly, and looked over his shoulder at De Bergeret. "_Comment?_" "Why, you leap to my bait!" said De Bergeret, amused. "I thought you could not resist so great an attraction!" Philip fixed the ruby and swept round for his cloak and hat. "Faith, that can I not. I come, Jules, I come! François, thou rogue, my snuff-box! Would that he may be wearing that salmon-pink! François, my cane! Jules, you are sitting on my cloak! _Sangdieu!_ My new cloak!" He swept De Bergeret off the coat, and shook out the soft, rose-lined folds. "God be praised, it is unhurt!" With a deft movement he swung it over his shoulders and fastened it. "My hat! Jules, what think you of my hat?" "A grey hat! Philippe, what an audacity! You are really coming to De Farraud's?" "To meet the so dear M. Bancroft. _En avant, Jules!_" De Bergeret went to the glass. "Cultivate a more restful manner, _mon petit_! I am not to be hurried. Do you like this mixture of violet and cream?" "I like everything you have on, even the so badly arranged cravat! I am consumed with impatience! Come!" "But why? Are you hasting to see the unspeakable Bancroft?" "But yes! Whom else? I will explain _en route_." De Bergeret suffered himself to be led to the door. "Philippe, it is not _convenable_ to display such enthusiasm. Languor is now the fashion." "I am a fashion unto myself, then. I am an original. And I go to call out M. Bancroft!" De Bergeret stopped short. "What! A brawl? No, then, I'll not come!" "A brawl? Is it possible? I shall conduct the affair with great _douceur_, I assure you! You and Saint-Dantin are to be my seconds." "_Miséricorde!_ Philippe, you become more and more tiresome!" expostulated his friend. "Why must you fight this fellow?" "An old quarrel--the settling of an unpaid score! _Allons!_" * * * * * "Oh, the devil," muttered Bancroft. "_Où donc?_" inquired Le Vallon, who was sitting next to him and who understood English. Bancroft shot an angry glance towards the door. Le Vallon turned to see what had excited his wrath. Talking to De Farraud, with many quick gestures and smiles, was Philip. He had just arrived, and he was apologizing for his lateness, throwing all the blame on De Bergeret, who accepted it meekly. "Oh, the little Englishman!" said Le Vallon scornfully. "Always late, always eccentric. And grey lace! What an affectation!" Philip cast a swift glance round the room. His eyes rested an instant on Bancroft's face, then they passed on. Two or three men called to him, and he presently went to dice with De Vangrisse. But when Le Vallon left Bancroft to join a faro group, Philip swept up his dice, and with a laughing word to De Vangrisse, promising to return, he walked over to Bancroft's table, and sat down in Le Vallon's chair with a swirl of his full skirts. Bancroft was about to rise. Astonished at Philip's sudden advent, he sank back again. "To what do I owe this honour?" he demanded. Philip dealt out the cards. "I will tell you. A hand of piquet? You will declare?" Bancroft sorted his hand rather sullenly. Not until he had declared and played his card did Philip speak again. Then he took the trick and leaned forward. "It comes to my ears that you have been bandying a certain lady's name about Paris in a way that does not please me. You understand, yes?" "What the devil is it to you?" cried Bancroft, crimson-faced. "Sh, sh! Not so loud, if you please! Go on playing! I am informed that you speak of this lady as a pretty piece! It is not how I will have you speak of her. Also, you say that she fell in love with you _en désespéré_. _Eh bien_, I say that you lie in your throat!" "Sir!" "_Doucement, doucement._ Further, I say that if so be you again mention this lady's name in public I shall send my lackeys to punish you. It is understood?" "You--you--you impudent young cockerel! I shall know how to answer this! What's Cleone to you, eh?" The pleasant smile died. Philip leaned forward. "That name I will not have spoken, m'sieur. Strive to bear it in mind. I have many friends, and they will tell me if you speak of the lady when I am not by. And of the rest I have warned you." "Ye can understand this, Mr. Jettan--I'll speak of her how and when I like!" Philip shrugged. "You talk foolishly. There is no question of refusal to comply with my wishes. If I so please I can make Paris ve-ry uncomfortable for you. You know that, I think." Bancroft was speechless with rage. "There is another matter," continued Philip amiably. "Once before I had occasion to complain of your manner. I do so again. And I find the colour of your ribbons most distasteful to mine eye." Bancroft sprang up, his chair grating on the polished floor. "Perhaps you'll have the goodness to name your friends, sir?" he choked. Philip bowed. "This time, yes. It is a little debt I have to pay. M. le Comte de Saint-Dantin and M. de Bergeret will act for me. Or De Vangrisse yonder, or M. le Duc de Vally-Martin." "The first named will suffice," snapped Bancroft. "My friends will wait on them as soon as may be." With that he flounced away to the other end of the room. Philip walked back to De Vangrisse and perched on the arm of his chair. De Bergeret cast his dice and nodded at Philip. "The deed is done?" "Most satisfactorily," answered Philip. "Throw, Paul, you can beat that." "Not I! Jules has the devil's own luck to-night. If it is not an impertinence, are you to meet M. Bancroft?" "Of course. Oh, _peste_!"--as De Vangrisse cast his dice. "What did I tell you? May I second you?" "A thousand thanks, Paul. But Saint-Dantin and Jules have consented to act for me." "Well, I shall come as a spectator," said De Vangrisse. "Jules, another hundred! I'll not be beaten by you!" * * * * * Le Vallon, who had watched the brief encounter between his friend and Philip with great curiosity, now edged across to where Bancroft was standing. Bancroft turned. "Come apart a moment," he said. His voice was still trembling with passion. He and Le Vallon drew near to the window. "You saw that damned fellow come up to me just now?" "But yes! I watched very closely. What did he want with you?" "He came to impose his will--his will!--on mine. Curse his impudence!" "Why? What did he say?" asked Le Vallon inquisitively. Bancroft did not answer. "I want you to act for me," he said abruptly. "He--insulted me, and I've sworn to teach him a lesson." Le Vallon drew back a little. "What? You seek to kill him? Kill _le petit Anglais_?" His tone was dubious. "No, not quite that. I've no wish for trouble. He has too many friends. I'll teach him to leave me alone!" "Oh, yes! But..." Le Vallon pursed his lips. "But what?" barked Bancroft. "It is said that he is a not-to-be-despised swordsman. He pinked Armand de Sedlamont with great ease." "Pooh!" said Bancroft. "Six months ago--" "I know, I know, but he has changed." Bancroft scowled. "Well, will you act for me or not?" Le Vallon drew himself up. "M'sieur, I do not entirely appreciate your manner." Bancroft laughed uneasily. "Oh, come, Le Vallon! Don't take offence! That puppy has so annoyed me that I can scarce keep my temper. Where's De Chambert?" "Playing at lansquenet with De Farraud. And I think we had best mingle with the others. I do not care to appear conspicuous." Bancroft caught at his arm. "But you will second me?" "I shall be honoured," bowed Le Vallon. "And I hope you will succeed in showing my fine gentleman his place." Later in the evening Saint-Dantin sauntered over to where Philip sat, perched on the edge of the table, toasting some of his friends. Saint-Dantin joined the gathering and laid a hand on Philip's shoulder. Philip, who was drinking, choked. "_Malédiction!_ Oh, 'tis you, Louis! What now?" "There is a rumour that you go to fight _ce cher_ Bancroft, Philippe." "Already?" Philip was startled. "Who told you?" "_Personne._" Saint-Dantin smiled. "It is whispered here and there. And Bancroft looks so black at you. It's true?" "Of course it's true! Did I not say I should do it? His seconds are to wait upon you and Jules." "How very fatiguing!" sighed Saint-Dantin. "But quite amusing. One jubilates. Bancroft is not at all liked. He is so _entreprenant_. An' I mistake not, you will have an audience," he chuckled. "What?" Philip gripped his wrist. "I won't have an audience!" Saint-Dantin blinked, loosening the clasp on his wrist. "_Pas si éclatant_, Philippe," he said. "You twist and turn like a puppet on wires! I only know that at least five here to-night swear they'll see the fight." "But it is monstrous!" objected Philip. "I forbid you to divulge the whereabouts of the meeting." "Oh, _entendu_! But the secret will out." "How am I to keep a steady wrist with a dozen ogling fools watching?" demanded Philip. "You must keep it steady," said De Chatelin. "My money's for you, _petit Anglais_!" Philip looked genuinely perturbed. "Henri, it is iniquitous! It is not a public exhibition that I engage in! One would say we were gladiators!" "_Reste tranquille_," grinned De Vangrisse. "We are all backing you, _mon petit_." "I trust you'll not forget to inform His Majesty of the rendezvous," said Philip, resorting to bitter sarcasm. "And have you engaged a fiddler to enliven the meeting?" "_Philippe se fâche_," teased De Chatelin. "Quiet, little fighting cock!" "I shall write an ode!" threatened Philip direfully. "Ah no, that is too much!" cried De Vangrisse with feeling. "And I shall read it to you before I engage. Well?" "It is a heavy price to pay," answered Paul, "but not too heavy for the entertainment." Ten In Which a Letter Is Read Cleone sat on a stool at Sir Maurice's knee and sighed. So did Sir Maurice, and knew that they sighed for the same thing. "Well, my dear," he said, trying to speak cheerfully, "how is your mamma?" "The same as ever, I thank you," answered Cleone. Sir Maurice patted her hand. "And how is little Cleone?" "Oh, sir, can you ask? I am very well," she said, with great sprightliness. "And you?" Sir Maurice was more honest. "To tell the truth, my dear, I miss that young scamp." Cleone played with her fingers, her head bent. "Do you, sir? He should be home again ere long. Do you--do you yet know where he is?" "No. That does not worry me. My family does not write letters." "Mr. Tom--has not told you, I suppose." "No. I've not seen Tom for some time.... The boy has been away six months now. Gad, but I'd like to see him walk in at that door!" Cleone's head sank a little lower. "Do you think--harm could have come to him, sir?" "No. Else had I heard. Faith, it's our own fault, Cleone, and we are grumbling!" "I never--" "My dear, don't pretend to me! Do you think I don't know?" Cleone was silent. "We sent Philip to acquire polish. Heaven knows what has happened to him! Would you care greatly if he returned--without the polish, child?" "No!" whispered Cleone. "Nor should I. Strange! But I should prefer it, I confess." "Do you think--do you think he--he will be--very elegant, Sir Maurice?" He smiled. "I fear not, Cleone. Can you see our Philip tricked up in town clothes, apeing town ways?" "N--no." There was silence for a few minutes. "Sir Maurice." "My dear?" "Mamma has a letter from my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke." "So? And what does she say therein?" "She--she wants me to go to her for the season." Sir Maurice looked down at her. "And you are going?" "I don't--know. I--do not wish to leave you, sir." "That is very kind of you, child. But I'd not have you stay for my sake." "It's no such thing, sir. I do not want to go." "Why, Cleone, not for the season? Think of the balls and the routs." "I don't--care about it." It was a forlorn little voice, and Sir Maurice patted her hand again. "Tut-tut, my love!" Another silence. "I do not think it is very kind in Philip to stay away from you for so long a time," said Cleone wistfully. "You forget, dear. I sent him. He is but obeying me." "And--and me." Sir Maurice found nothing to say to that. "Was I--perhaps--very wicked--to--to--do what he said--I did?" "What was that, Cleone?" "Th--throw away--an honest man's love for--for--oh, you know the things he said!" "Silly young fool! You gave him his just deserts, Cleone. And you may vouch for it that he will be back here at your feet in a very short while." Cleone glanced up through her lashes. "Do you really think so?" she asked eagerly. "Of course I do!" he answered stoutly. Just then a bell clanged somewhere in the distance. Cleone jumped up and ran to the window which looked out on the avenue. She tip-toed, craning her neck to see who stood in the porch. "Why, it is Sir Harold Bancroft!" she exclaimed. "Plague take him, then!" said Sir Maurice, disagreeably. "I can't stand the fellow or his sprig of a son!" Cleone blushed and continued to stand with her back to the room until footsteps sounded along the passage, and the door opened to admit the visitor. Sir Maurice rose. "Give ye good den, Bancroft. It's good of you to come to visit me this cold day." Bancroft wrung the thin hand, pressing Sir Maurice's rings into his fingers. He bowed jerkily to the curtseying Cleone, and blurted forth his errand. "'Tis a joke I must have you share! 'Twill be the death of you, I vow. You knew my son was in Paris?" Sir Maurice put forward a chair. "Really? No, I did not know." "Well, he is. And"--a chuckle escaped him--"so is yours!" "Oh!" It was a smothered exclamation from Cleone. Sir Maurice smiled. "I guessed as much," he said, quite untruthfully. "Have you news from Henry?" "No, not I! But I've a letter from an old friend of mine--Satterthwaite. Do ye know him?" Sir Maurice shook his head. Having seen his guest into a chair, he sat down on the couch, and beckoned Cleone to his side. "No. He, too, is in Paris?" "Ay. Now wait while I find the letter! You'll split o' laughter when you've heard me read it!" He rummaged in his capacious pockets, and drew forth two or three crumpled sheets. These he spread out, and proceeded to find the place. "'I trust....' No, that's not it! 'We are' ... Hum, hum, hum! Ah, here we have it! Just listen to this!" He held the parchment close to his nose and began to read: "'... Whom should I meet but your boy, Henry! I had no notion he was in Paris, or I should have sought him out, you may depend. The manner of my meeting with him was most singular, as you will agree, and it is the more interesting as the occasion affords the subject for the latest joke of Paris, nay, I may almost say scandal, though to be sure I mean not our meeting, but that which I am about to relate....' A bit involved, that," remarked Bancroft, frowning. "Not at all," said Sir Maurice. "I understand perfectly." "Well, it's more than I do! However: 'I came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day....'" "Château-Banvau!" "Eh? Do ye know him?" "Do I know him! As I know my brother!" "Fancy! There's a coincidence! But there's more to come! Where was I? Oh, yes--'came upon Moosoo de Château-Banvau the other day and found him in great amusement, which he offered me to share, and the which I agreed to. He propounded me the joke that we were to see, and one in which his _protégé_, a Mr. Philip Jettan, was the part cause of and your son, Henry, the other!' Gad, that's a fine sentence! Are ye listening to me, Jettan?" There was no need to ask that question. Both his auditors had their whole attention fixed on him. Satisfied, he continued: "'This young Jettan is, so says the Marquis, the craze of Fashionable Paris, the ladies' darling'--do ye hear that now?--'and the maddest young scamp that you could wish for. Then the Marquis further told me that Henry was in Paris and engaged to fight a duel with this Jettan.'" "Oh, heavens!" cried Cleone. "Ye may well say so, my dear! Now, wait a while--the joke's against me, I confess, but I had to tell you--'The cause whereof, it is rumoured, is some lady whom both are enamoured of, some French wench, I think.'" Cleone was rigid. Her fingers tightened unconsciously on Sir Maurice's arm. "'Jettan being a great favourite among the young sparks here, they all, having got wind of the affair, combined among themselves, laying wagers about the fight, the most of the money being laid on Jettan, as I hear. Then to bait him, or what-not, they conspired to be present at the meeting despite Jettan's protests. The Marquis laughed mightily here, and said that Jettan threatened to read them an ode should they appear, which he seemed to find vastly entertaining on account of some joke or other concerning Jettan's poetry.'" "Philip's _poetry_?..." said Sir Maurice faintly. "Proceed, Bancroft." "Ay, wait a bit! Here we are: 'The Marquis was going to be present, having heard of the rumour, and swore to take me along with him. The which I did consent to, as you may imagine. Well, we came out to Neuilly in due course at half-after eight one morning, and mighty cold it was, but that's neither here nor there. There we found a fair gathering of young rakes with their horses or chariots, some half dozen in all, laying wagers and all mightily amused. And, stap me, if there was not a fiddler scraping away as if his life depended on it. Soon after we were come, up drives a coach and out jumps three men, the first in great disorder at finding so many there assembled. This was Jettan, and prodigious elegant and finicky he was, too, all patched and painted, and tricked up in velvets and silks and I don't know what. He fell into a great rage, though he was laughing half the time, and, indeed, 'twas a ridiculous situation, and he could scarce help but to be tickled by it. He turns to his seconds and rates them, but they were too amused to do aught but to hold their sides. Then young Jettan orders us all off and especially begs the Marquis to exert his influence, which he would not do. Then Jettan appealed to us to withdraw, whereat they were all the more entertained, and adjured him to _se taire_, as they call it, calling him _petit Philippe_ and the like. Then Jettan started to laugh himself and pulls out a roll of parchment from his pocket, and was for declaiming some ode he had writ, but that three of them took it from him. Then he says, "At least, send that damned fiddler away!" and they replied, "All in good time," but 'twas himself had asked for him. Before he could say more, which he was about to do, up comes another coach, and out gets your boy, Henry, and his seconds. When they saw what was toward they were mightily put out, as you may imagine, and, indeed, Henry was white and purple with rage, saying this was an insult and he was not to be so mocked, and the like. His seconds spoke apart with young Jettan's, and I give you my word, they were dancing with fury, at least one was, but the little one seemed more entertained. Then up comes Jettan, very solemn and dignified, and bows to Henry. "I ask you to believe, moosoo," says he, "that this is none of my designing. I desire," says he, "to offer you my apologies for my friends' ill-timed pleasantry." Henry could scarce mouth forth a word, so enraged was he, and was for retiring at once, saying that he had borne much, but this was too much. The fiddler was ordered to stop his scraping now, and the onlookers all vowed they had come with serious intent to watch the fight, and would not go until they had done so. Jettan offers to meet Henry another day, when and where he will, but I could see Henry was burning to run him through. "Since we are here," says he, "let us go on with it. I await your convenience," he says, and, "I thank you," replies Jettan and stands back. Henry's seconds were all for retiring, but he'd have none of it, and bids them go to and choose the ground. At last all was prepared, and the two stripped off their coats and vests. Everyone was becomingly sober now, and, indeed, mighty anxious for young Jettan, who is the smaller of the two, and Henry looking murder as he was. Henry fought devilish hard, and, indeed, is a cunning fencer, as you no doubt apprehend, but young Jettan was like a bit of quicksilver, in and out with his sword most finicky and dainty. Soon we saw that Henry was no match for him at all, and, indeed, could have been run through the body a score of times, Jettan playing with him very pretty to see, but I was sore distressed to see Henry so put to it. He gave Jettan but the faintest scratch, and before we knew what was to do, there was Henry reeling back and his sword on the ground. At which Jettan bows very polite, and but a mite out of breath, and picks up the sword and hands it to Henry. Henry was for continuing, and a brave lad he is, but the seconds would have none of it, and 'twas all over. "I trust you are satisfied, sir?" says Jettan. "Satisfied be damned!" pants Henry, clutching at his shoulder. "Of the other matter between us," says Jettan, "I can only counsel you to remember, for I meant what I said." Then he walks off and we rode away.'" Bancroft stopped. "I saw the joke was against me. What do ye think of that, Sir Maurice?" Sir Maurice drew a deep breath. "My God, I would I had been there!" he said fervently. "Ay, 'twould have been a fine sight, I vow! But did ye ever hear the like of it? Philip and the petticoats, eh? These lads, Sir Maurice! These lads! Satterthwaite says he writes madrigals and what-not to the ladies' eyelashes!" Bancroft went off into a long chuckle. "And so ruffled my young hot-head, who had always a way with the petticoats!" Cleone rose and walked to the window. She opened it, cooling her hot cheeks. And there she stayed, seated on the low couch that ran under the window, until Bancroft finally took his departure. When Sir Maurice returned from seeing his guest out of the house, he found her pale again, and very stiff. "Ahem!" said Sir Maurice. Then, brusquely: "Pack o' lies!" "Do you think so?" said Cleone hopefully. "Of course I do! The boy is but doing what I told him to do--acquiring polish and _savoir faire_ with your sex, my dear." Cleone sprang up. "You told him to--oh, how could you, sir?" "My dear, it's less than nothing, I dare swear. But Philip worsting Bancroft like that! Philip the pet of Society! Gad, I never hoped for this!" "Nor I," said Cleone bitterly. "And--and 'tis my own--f-fault--for--s-sending him away--s-so c-cruelly, but--but--oh, how _dare_ he?" Sir Maurice was silent. "He--he--I thought he--" she broke off, biting her lip. After a slight pause she spoke again, with would-be lightness. "I--do you know, I think I shall go to my aunt after all?" "Will you, my dear?" said Sir Maurice. * * * * * That evening he was moved to write to his brother, an infrequent proceeding. The outcome of that letter was a brief note from Tom, which reached Philip a week later. "Dear Nephew,--The Devil's in it now and no Mistake. Old Satterthwaite was Present at your crazy Duel, and has writ the whole Tale to Harry Bancroft, who, curse him for an interfering old Fool, read it to your Father and Cleone. The Tale is that you and B. quarrelled over some French Minx, which may be True for all I know. In any Case, Cleone is monstrous put out, and Comes to Towne to her Aunt, old Sally Malmerstoke. Maurice writes me this and demands your Return, being Upset for the Girl's sake, but secretly Delighted at the Story, if I read his Letter aright. Do as you please, dear Boy, but I warn you, Cleone is in the Mood for any Madness, as is the way when a Maid thinks herself slighted. And she is a Prodigious pretty Chit. My love to Château-Banvau and to Yr Self.--Tom." Eleven Philip Astonishes His Uncle Thomas, deep in the latest copy of the _Rambler_, was aroused by the sound of wheels drawing up outside the house. He rose and stretched himself, wondering who could choose such a day wherein to visit him. He strolled to the window and peered out into the foggy street. He was surprised to see, not a light town-chariot, but a large travelling coach, top-heavy with baggage, and drawn by four steaming horses. As he watched, the door of the vehicle was thrown open and a slight gentleman sprang out, not waiting for the steps to be let down. He was muffled in a many-caped overcoat of Parisian cut, and shining leather boots were on his feet. Tom was puzzled. Then, from out the coach, issued two other men, evidently servants, the one small and wiry, the other lank and cadaverous. Both seemed depressed. The man in the well-cut cloak waved his hands at them and appeared to shoot forth a number of instructions. The little man, scarcely visible beneath the bandboxes that he carried, nodded, shivered, and rounded on the lean man. Then the man in the cloak turned, and ran up the steps to Tom's front door. A long bell-peal sounded through the house. Tom walked to the fire and stood with his back to it. Possibly this was his friend Mainwaring come to visit him, but why did he bring so much baggage? Tom rather hoped that the unknown guest had come to his house in mistake for another's. But a quick tread came across the hall and the door of the library was swept open. Hat in hand, the visitor stood before Tom, bowing. "Revered uncle, I kiss your hands!" And he proceeded to do so. "God ha' mercy, it's Philip!" gasped Tom. "I never expected you for another week, lad!" Philip tossed his hat and gloves on to the table and wriggled out of his cloak. "I am _de trop_, no?" "Never in your life!" Tom assured him. "Stand up, child, and let me look at you!" Then, as Philip clicked his heels together and faced him, laughing, his eyes widened, and his lips formed a soundless whistle. "By the Lord Harry, Philip, it's marvellous! How could you do it in six months----!" Philip rustled over to the fire and stooped, warming his hands. "Fog, cold, damp! Brrh! The unspeakable climate! Tom, it is permitted that I stay with you until I find an abode?" With difficulty his uncle withdrew his gape from Philip's claret-coloured coat of fine cloth, laced with gold. "Can you ask? Stay as long as you will, lad, you're a joy to behold!" "_Merci du compliment!_" smiled Philip. "You perhaps admire the mixture of claret and biscuit as I wear it?" Tom's eyes travelled down to the creaseless biscuit-coloured small-clothes. "Ay. I admire everything. The boots most of all. The boots--Philip, where did you obtain them?" Philip glanced carelessly down at his shapely leg. "They were made for me. Me, I am not satisfied with them. I shall give them to François." "Give them to François?" cried his uncle. "Ye wicked boy! Where is the fellow?" "He and Jacques are struggling with my baggage and Moggat." He stretched out a detaining hand as Tom started forward to the door. "Ah, do not disturb yourself. I have spoken with _ce bon_ Moggat, and all is well. He will arrange everything." Tom came back. "He will be in a frenzy, Philip! All that baggage!" "All--that baggage?" Philip spoke with uplifted brows. "It has arrived?" He went to the window and looked out. "But no, not yet." "B--but--is there more to come?" asked Tom. "But of course! The bulk follows me." Tom sat down weakly. "And you who six months ago thought yourself rich in the possession of three coats." Philip came back to the fire. He made a little grimace of distaste. "Those far-off days! That is ended--completely!" Tom cast him a shrewd glance. "What, all of it? Cleone?" "Ah!" Philip smiled. "That is--another--matter. I have to thank you for your letter, Tom." "It brought you back?" "_En partie._ She is here?" "Ay, with Sally Malmerstoke. She is already noticed. Sally takes her everywhere. She is now looked for--and courted." His eyes twinkled. "Oho!" said Philip. He poured out a glass of burgundy from the decanter that stood on a small table. "So she is furious with me, yes?" "So I believe. Satterthwaite wrote that you and Bancroft fought over the fair name of some French lass. Did you?" Philip sipped his wine. "Not a whit. 'Twas her own fair name, _à vrai dire_." "Oh! You'll tell her that, of course?" "Not at all." Tom stared. "What then? Have you some deep game in mind, Philip?" "Perhaps. Oh, I don't know! I thank her for reforming me, but, being human, I am hurt and angry! _Le petit Philippe se fâche_," he said, smiling suddenly. "He would see whether it is himself she loves, or--a painted puppet. It's foolish, but what would you?" "So you are now a painted puppet?" said Tom politely. "What else?" "Dear me!" said Tom, and relapsed into profound meditation. "I want to have her love me for--myself, and not for my clothes, or my airs and graces. It's incomprehensible?" "Not entirely," answered Tom. "I understand your feelings. What's to do?" "Merely my baggage," said Philip, with another glance towards the window. "It is the coach that you hear." "No, not that." Tom listened. Voices raised in altercation sounded in the hall. Philip laughed. "That is the inimitable François. I do not think that Moggat finds favour in his eyes." "I'll swear he does not find favour in Moggat's eyes! Who is the other one?" "Jacques, my groom and _homme à tout faire_!" "Faith, ye've a retinue!" "What would you?" shrugged Philip. He sat down opposite his uncle, and stretched his legs to the fire. "Heigh-ho! I do not like this weather." "Nor anyone else. What are you going to do, now that you have returned?" "Who knows? I make my bow to London Society, I amuse myself a little--ah yes! and I procure a house." "Do you make your bow to Cleone?" An impish smile danced into Philip's eyes. "I present myself to Cleone--as she would have had me. A drawling, conceited, and mincing fop. Which I am not, believe me!" Tom considered him. "No, you're not. You don't drawl." "I shall drawl," promised Philip. "And I shall be very languid." "It's the fashion, of course. You did not adopt it?" "It did not entice me. I am _le petit sans repos_, and _le petit_ Philippe _au C[oe]ur Perdu_, and _petit original_. _Hé, hé_, I shall be homesick! It is inevitable." "Are you so much at home in Paris?" asked Tom, rather surprised. "You liked the Frenchies?" "Liked them! Could I have disliked them?" "I should have thought it possible--for you. Did you make many friends?" "_A revendre!_ They took me to their bosoms." "Did they indeed! Who do you count amongst your intimates?" "Saint-Dantin--you know him?" "I've met him. Tall and dark?" "Ay. Paul de Vangrisse, Jules de Bergeret, Henri de Chatelin--oh, I can't tell you! They are all charming!" "And the ladies?" "Also charming. Did you ever meet Clothilde de Chaucheron, or Julie de Marcherand? _Ah, voilà ce qui fait ressouvenir!_ I count that _rondeau_ one of my most successful efforts. You shall hear it some time or other." "That _what_?" ejaculated Tom, sitting upright in his surprise. "A _rondeau_: 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear.' I would you could have seen it." "Which? The _rondeau_?" "The pearl, man! The _rondeau_ you shall most assuredly see." "Merciful heaven!" gasped Tom. "A _rondeau_! Philip--poet! _Sacr-ré mille petits cochons!_" * * * * * "Monsieur dines at home this evening?" asked François. Philip sat at his dressing-table, busy with many pots and his face. He nodded. "The uncle of Monsieur receives, without doubt?" "A card-party," said Philip, tracing his eyebrows with a careful hand. François skipped to the wardrobe and flung it open. With a finger to his nose he meditated aloud. "The blue and silver ... _un peu trop soigné_. The orange ... _peu convenable_. The purple the purple _essayons_!" Philip opened the rouge-jar. "The grey I wore at De Flaubert's last month." François clapped a hand to his head. "_Ah, sot!_" he apostrophised himself. "_Voilà qui est très bien._" He dived into the wardrobe, emerging presently with the required dress. He laid it on the bed, stroking it lovingly, and darted away to a large chest. From it he brought forth the pink and silver waistcoat that De Bergeret had admired, and the silver lace. Then he paused. "_Les bas?... Les bas aux oiseaux-mouches ... où sont-ils?_" He peered into a drawer, turning over neat piles of stockings. A convulsion of fury seemed to seize him, and he sped to the door. "Ah, _sapristi! Coquin! Jacques!_" In answer to his frenzied call came the cadaverous one, shivering. François seized him by the arm and shook him. "Thou misbegotten son of a toad!" he raved. "Where is the small box I bade you guard with your life? Where is it, I say. Thou--" "I gave it into your hands," said Jacques sadly. "Into your hands, your very hands, in this room here by the door! I swear it." "Swear it? What is it to me, your swear? I say I have not seen the box! At Dover, what did I do? _Nom d'un nom_, did I not say to you, lose thy head sooner than that box?" His voice rose higher and higher. "And now, where is it?" "I tell you I gave it you! It is this bleak country that has warped your brain. Never did the box leave my hands until I gave it into yours!" "And I say you did not! _Saperlipopette_, am I a fool that I should forget? Now listen to what you have done! You have lost the stockings of Monsieur! By your incalculable stupidity, the stupidity of a pig, an ass--" "_Sacré nom de Dieu!_ Am I to be disturbed by your shrieking?" Philip had flung down the haresfoot. He slewed round in his chair. "Shut the door! Is it that you wish to annoy my uncle that you shout and scream in his house?" His voice was thunderous. François spread out his hands. "M'sieur, I ask pardon! It is this _âne_, this careless _gaillard_--" "_Mais, m'sieur!_" protested Jacques. "It is unjust; it is false!" "_Ecoutez donc, m'sieur!_" begged François, as the stern grey eyes went from his face to that of the unhappy Jacques. "It is the band-box that contains your stockings--the stockings _aux oiseaux-mouches_! Ah, would that I had carried it myself! Would that--" "Would that you would be quiet!" said Philip severely. "If either of you have lost those stockings ..." He paused, and once more his eyes travelled from one to the other. "I shall seek another valet." François became tearful. "Ah, no, no, m'sieur! It is this _imbécile_, this _crapaud_--" "_M'sieu, je vous implore_--" Philip pointed dramatically across the room. Both men looked fearfully in the direction of that accusing finger. "Ah!" François darted forward. "_La voilà!_ What did I say?" He clasped the box to his breast. "What did I say?" "But it is not so!" cried Jacques. "What did you say? You said you had not seen the box! What did _I_ say? I said--" "Enough!" commanded Philip. "I will not endure this bickering! Be quiet, François! Little monkey that you are!" "_M'sieur!_" François was hurt. His sharp little face fell into lines of misery. "Little monkey," continued Philip inexorably, "with more thought for your chattering than for my welfare." "Ah, no, no, m'sieur! I swear it is not so! By the--" "I do not want your oaths," said Philip cruelly. "Am I to wait all night for my cravat, while you revile the good Jacques?" François cast the box from him. "Ah, _misérable_! The cravat! _Malheureux_, get thee gone!" He waved agitated hands at Jacques. "You hinder me! You retard me! You upset Monsieur! _Va-t-en!_" Jacques obeyed meekly, and Philip turned back to the mirror. To him came François, wreathed once more in smiles. "He means well, _ce bon Jacques_," he said, busy with the cravat. "But he is _sot_, you understand, _très sot_!" He pushed Philip's chin up with a gentle hand. "He annoys m'sieur, _ah oui_! But he is a good _garçon_, when all is said." "It is you who annoy me," answered Philip. "Not so tight, not so tight! Do you wish to choke me?" "_Pardon_, m'sieur! No, it is not François who annoys you! _Ah, mille fois non!_ François--perhaps he is a little monkey, if m'sieur says so, but he is a very good valet, _n'est-ce pas_? A monkey, if m'sieur pleases, but very clever with a cravat. M'sieur has said it himself." "You are a child," said Philip. "Yes, that is very fair." He studied his reflection. "I am pleased with it." "Aha!" François clasped his hands delightedly. "M'sieur is no longer enraged! _Voyons_, I go to fetch the vest of m'sieur!" Presently, kneeling before his master and adjusting his stockings, he volunteered another piece of information. "Me, I have been in this country before. I understand well the ways of it. I understand the English, oh, _de part en part_! I know them for a foolish race, _en somme_--saving always m'sieur, who is more French than English--but never, never have I had the misfortune to meet so terrible an Englishman as this servant of m'sieur's uncle, this Moggat. _Si entêté, si impoli!_ He looks on me with a suspicion! I cannot tell m'sieur of his so churlish demeanour! He thinks, perhaps, that I go to take his fine coat. Bah! I spit upon it! I speak to him as m'sieur has bid me--_très doucement_. He pretends he cannot understand what it is I say! Me, who speak English _aussi bien que le Français_! Deign to enter into these shoes, m'sieur! I tell him I hold him in contempt! He makes a _reniflement_ in his nose, and he mutters 'damned leetle frog-eater!' _Grand Dieu_, I could have boxed his ears, the impudent!" "I hope you did not?" said Philip anxiously. "Ah, bah! Would I so demean myself, m'sieur? It is I who am of a peaceable nature, _n'est-ce pas_? But Jacques--_voyons, c'est autre chose_! He is possessed of the hot temper, _ce pauvre_ Jacques. I fear for that Moggat if he enrages our Jacques." He shook his head solemnly, and picked up the grey satin coat. "If m'sieur would find it convenient to rise? Ah, _bien_!" He coaxed Philip into the coat, bit by bit. "I say to you, m'sieur, I am consumed of an anxiety. Jacques, he is a veritable fire-eater when he is roused, not like me, who am always _doux comme un enfant_. I think, perhaps, he will refuse to remain in the house with this pig of a Moggat." Philip shook out his ruffles. "I have never noticed that Jacques showed signs of a so violent temper," he remarked. "But no! Of a surety, he would not exhibit his terrible passion to m'sieur! Is it that I should permit him?" "Well," Philip slipped a ring on to his finger, "I am sorry for Jacques, but he must be patient. Soon I shall go to a house of my own." François' face cleared as if by magic. "M'sieur is kind! A house of his own. _Je me rangerai bien!_ M'sieur contemplates a _mariage_, perhaps?" Philip dropped his snuff-box. "_Que diable--?_" he began, and checked himself. "Mind your own business, François!" "_Ah, pardon, m'sieur!_" replied the irrepressible François. "I but thought that m'sieur had the desire to wed, that he should return to England so hurriedly!" "Hold your tongue!" said Philip sharply. "Understand me, François, I'll have no meddling _bavardage_ about me either to my face or below stairs! _C'est entendu?_" "But yes, m'sieur," said François, abashed. "It is that my tongue runs away with me." "You'd best keep a guard over it," answered Philip curtly. "Yes, m'sieur!" Meekly he handed Philip his cane and handkerchief. Then, as his master still frowned, "M'sieur is still enraged?" he ventured. Philip glanced down at him. At the sight of François' anxious, naïve expression, the frown faded, and he laughed. "You are quite ridiculous," he said. François broke into responsive smiles at once. * * * * * But when Philip had rustled away to join his uncle, the little valet nodded shrewdly to himself and clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "_En vérité, c'est une femme_," he remarked. "_C'est ce que j'ai cru._" Twelve Philip Plays a Dangerous Game François endured the detestable Moggat for a week. He was then rewarded for his patience by the news that Philip was shortly to move into a small house in Curzon Street, which belonged to a friend of Tom. This gentleman consented to let his house for the space of two months, as he was going abroad for that time. Philip went to inspect the prospective abode, and found it to be furnished in excellent style. He closed with its owner and went back to Half-Moon Street to break the joyful news to François. From that moment the excitable valet's spirits soared high. He would manage the affairs of the house for M'sieur; he would find M'sieur a _chef_. Philip was content to waive responsibility. François sallied forth with the air of one about to conquer, to find, so he told Philip, the son of his aunt, a very fair _chef_ and a good _garçon_. Philip had no idea that François possessed any relations, much less one in London. When he said this, François looked very waggish, and admitted that he himself had forgotten the existence of this cousin until the moment when M'sieur told him of the new home. "Then, _subitement_, I remember, for m'sieur will require a _chef_ is it not so?" "Assuredly," said Philip. "But your cousin may not wish to take service with me, in which case I shall seek an English cook." "An English cook? Ah, bah! Is it that I would permit m'sieur to be so ill served? No! M'sieur shall have a French _chef, bien sûr_. What does an Englishman know of the _cuisine_? Is m'sieur to be insulted by the tasteless, watery vegetables of such as the wife of Moggat? No! I go to find my cousin!" "Very well," said Philip. "And then we have a household _bien tenu_. It is our poor Jacques who could not support an Englishman in the house." "I hope I am not to be excluded?" smiled Philip. "_M'sieur se moque de moi!_ Is it that m'sieur is English? M'sieur is _tout comme un Français_." He bustled away, full of importance. The cousin was forthcoming, a stout, good-tempered soul, who rejoiced in the name of Marie-Guillaume. François exhibited him with pride, and he was engaged. That ended all Philip's responsibility. François gathered up the reins of government, and in a week they were installed in Curzon Street. Philip had done no more than say that he wished to enter his new abode on Thursday. On Thursday he went out to Ranelagh; when he returned to Half-Moon Street he found that his baggage had gone. He took his leave of Tom, and walked up the road and round the corner, into Curzon Street. His house was as neat as a new pin; his baggage was unpacked; François was complacent. They might have lived in the house for months; there was no disorder, no fuss, none of the slow settling down. François, Jacques and Marie-Guillaume had fitted into their respective niches in one short hour. Philip was moved to inform François that he was a treasure. That evening he went to a ball given by the Duchess of Queensberry. And there he met Cleone, for the first time since his return to England. The Duchess welcomed him effusively, for already Philip was a _persona grata_ in Society, and much sought after by hostesses. Tom had lost no time in introducing him to the Fashionable World. The ladies were captivated by his French air, and ogled him shamelessly. Then men found that he was, for all his graces, singularly modest and unaffected at heart, and they extended the hand of friendship towards him. People began to look for him, and to be disappointed if he were absent. Until now, however, Philip had seen nothing of Cleone, but on all sides he had heard of her. She was, he learned, London's newest beauty. * * * * * She was dancing when Philip saw her first, smiling up at her partner with blue eyes that seemed bluer than ever, and lips that lay in a happy curve. Her golden hair was unpowdered and piled in curls upon the top of her head. Philip thought she was more beautiful than ever. He stood apart, watching her. She had not seen him; she was not even thinking of him; those eyes were clear and joyous. Who was her partner? Brainless-looking fool! Simpering ninny! Ay, that was all she cared for! Philip's hand clenched slowly on his snuff-box. "Aha, Jettan! You have espied the lovely Cleone?" Philip turned. Lord Charles Fairfax stood at his elbow. "Yes," he said. "But how stern and forbidding!" exclaimed Fairfax. "What ails you?" Philip's mouth lost its hard line. "I am struck dumb," he answered gaily. "Can you wonder at it?" "So are we all. She is very beautiful, is she not?" "Ravishing!" agreed Philip. He saw Cleone's partner lead her to a chair. "Will you present me?" "What! And destroy my own chances? We have heard of your killing ways with the fair sex!" "I protest I have been maligned!" cried Philip. "I do implore your mercy! Present me!" "Against my will, then!" said his lordship roguishly. He walked forward to where Cleone sat. "Mistress Cleone, have you no smile for the humblest of your admirers?" Cleone turned her head. "Oh, Lord Charles! Give you good even, sir! Do you know you have not been near me the whole evening? I am monstrous hurt, I assure you!" "Dear lady, how was I to come near you?" protested Fairfax. "Until this moment you have been surrounded." Cleone gave a happy little laugh. "I am sure 'tis untrue, sir! You delight in teasing me!" Her eyes wandered past him to Philip. Fairfax drew him forward. "Mistress Cleone, may I present one who is newly come from Paris, and is, he swears, struck dumb by your beauty? Mr. Jettan, of whom we all know some naughty tales!" The colour drained from Cleone's cheeks. She felt faint all at once, and her fingers gripped together over her fan. For one moment she thought she must be mistaken. This was not Philip, this foppish gentleman who stood bowing so profoundly! Heavens, he was speaking! It _was_ Philip! How could she mistake that square chin? "Mademoiselle, this is a scarce-hoped-for honour," he said. "I have watched and I have hungered. Lord Charles took pity on me, for which I shall never cease to thank him." Cleone tried to answer, and failed. Dazedly she stared at him, from the powdered curls of his wig to the diamond buckles on his shoes. Philip! _Philip!_ Philip in stiff silks and laces! Philip patched and painted! Philip with jewels scattered about his person, and polished nails! Was she dreaming? This foppish gentleman her blunt Philip? It was incredible, impossible! What was he saying now? "I little thought to find you here, mademoiselle! You are with Madame Charteris, no doubt?" Cleone collected her scattered wits. An awful numbness was stealing over her. "No, I--I am with my aunt, Lady Malmerstoke," she answered. "Lady Malmerstoke?..." Philip raised his quizzing-glass with one delicate white hand, and through it scanned the room. "Ah yes, the lady in the apple-green toilette! I remember her well, that lady." "Oh--do you--do you know her?" asked Cleone. She could not drag her eyes from his face. "I had the felicity of meeting her some nights ago. I forget where." "R--really?" Cleone decided that this was a nightmare. Philip sat down beside her. "You have been long in town, mademoiselle? You find all this very fatiguing, no doubt?" He waved a languid hand. Indignation was dispersing the numbness. How dared Philip drawl at her like this? How dared he behave as though they were strangers? "I have been in London nigh on a month. I do not find it fatiguing at all. I enjoy it." Slowly the straight brows rose. "But how refreshing!" said Philip. "When everyone is _ennuyé_ à _l'agonie_, how delightful to meet one who frankly enjoys." He looked at her admiringly. "And enjoyment becomes you better than boredom becomes other women." Cleone felt that she was drifting further and further into the nightmare. "I am happy to find favour in your eyes, sir. When did you return from Paris?" "A fortnight since. In a fog which chilled me to the marrow. Almost I fled back to France. But now"--he bowed gracefully--"I thank a kindly Fate which forbade me to retreat thus precipitately." "Indeed?" said Cleone tartly. "How do you find Sir Maurice?" "As yet I have not found him," replied Philip. There was a laugh at the back of his eyes. How dared he laugh at her? "I have written to beg him to honour my house with his presence." "You do not propose to go to him?" Cleone's voice trembled. Philip started. "Mademoiselle speaks _en plaisantant_? The country in this weather?" He shuddered. "I see," said Cleone, and thought that she spoke the truth. Her foot tapped the ground angrily. Philip eyed it through his glass. "That little foot ..." he said softly. It was withdrawn. "Ah, cruel! It inspired me with--I think--a madrigal. Cased in silver satin.... Ah!" "It pleases you to make merry of my foot, sir?" "_Jamais de ma vie!_" Philip threw out his hands. "It is neither food for merriment nor sighs. It is food for pure joy. My eye, _chère mademoiselle_, is susceptible to beauty, be it beauty of face, or beauty of foot; the eye whispers to the brain, and a madrigal blossoms. I dare swear you have listened to an hundred such? Everywhere I have heard tell of your conquests until I am nigh dead with jealousy." "How very absurd!" tittered Cleone. "Absurd? Ah, if I could think that!" "I do not understand you, sir!" "I can only beg that I, too, may worship at those little feet." "Mr. Jettan, I can only beg that you will cease to make yourself ridiculous." "If it is ridiculous to adore, then must I refuse to obey you, fairest. For the sake of one smile, all would I do, save that which is without my power." Cleone's eyes glittered. "You have become very adept at flattery, sir." "But no! Flattery shall never be among my accomplishments, even were it necessary, which here"--he smiled ardently--"it most assuredly is not." "You surprise me, sir! I thought Paris to be the home of flattery." "_On l'a diffamée._ Paris teaches appreciation." "La!" Cleone, too, could be affected. "You go too deep for me, Mr. Jettan! I fear I am no match for your wit. I am but newly come from the country." The words bit. "It is almost inconceivable," he said, studying her with the air of a connoisseur. "Almost as inconceivable as the fact that little more than six months ago you despised all this!" She made a gesture with her fan towards his shimmering coat. "Was it only six months? It seems to belong to another life. You remember so well, mademoiselle." "I?" Cleone saw her mistake, and made haste to cover it. "No, sir. It is dear Sir Maurice who remembers." Her eyes sought his face for some change of expression. But not an eyelash flickered; Mr. Jettan was still smiling. "Now I am desolated!" he sighed. "Mademoiselle Cleone does not remember the manner of my going? But I see that it is so. She is blessed with forgetfulness." Cleone's heart leaped. Was there a note of _pique_, of hurt, in the smooth voice? "My memory is not of the longest either, mademoiselle, but I am sure that I am indebted to you." "Really? I think you must be mistaken, sir." "It is possible," he bowed. "Yet I seem to recollect that 'twas you who bade me go--to learn to be a gentleman." Cleone laughed carelessly. "Did I?--It is so long ago, I have forgotten. And--and here is Mr. Winton come to claim me!" Philip glanced round quickly. Young James Winton was threading his way towards them. Philip sprang up. "James!" He held out his hands to the puzzled youth. "You have forgotten, James? And it is, so Mademoiselle tells me, but six months since I saw you every day." Winton stared. Then suddenly he grasped Philip's jewelled hand. "Jettan--Philip! Merciful heavens, man, is it indeed you?" "He is quite transformed, is he not?" said Cleone lightly. A little barb was piercing her heart that Philip should show such pleasure at seeing James, and merely bored affectation with her. Philip's gay laugh rang out. "I shall write a sonnet in melancholy vein," he promised. "A sonnet to "Friends Who Knew Me Not." It will be a _chef-d'[oe]uvre_, and I shall send it you tied with a sprig of myrtle." Winton stepped back the better to observe him. "Thunder and turf, tis marvellous! What's this about a sonnet? Don't tell me ye have turned poet!" "In Paris they do not love my verses," mourned Philip. "They would say, 'No, _le petit Philippe se trompe_.' But you shall see! Where are you staying?" "With Darchit--in Jermyn Street. I came to London in my lady's train." He bowed to Cleone. Philip's eyes narrowed. "Aha! James, you will come to a card-party that I am giving to-morrow? I am at 14 Curzon Street." "Thank you very much, I shall be delighted. Have you set up a house of your own?" "Sir Humphrey Grandcourt has hired his house to me for a month or so. My _ménage_ will amuse you. I am ruled by my valet, the redoubtable François." "A French valet!" "But yes! He would allow no English servant to insult me with his boorishness, so I have his cousin for _chef_." He threw a laughing glance at Cleone. "You would smile, Mademoiselle, could you but hear his so fierce denunciation of the English race." Cleone forced a laugh. "I suppose he does not regard you as English, Mr. Jettan?" "If I suggest such a thing he accuses me of mocking him. Ah, there is Miss Florence who beckons me! Mademoiselle will excuse me?" He bowed with a great flourish. "I shall hope to be allowed to wait on madame, your aunt. James, do not forget! To-morrow at 14 Curzon Street!" He swept round on his heel and went quickly to where Mistress Florence Farmer was seated. Cleone watched him kiss the lady's plump hand, and saw the ogling glances that Florence sent him. Desperately she sought to swallow the lump in her throat. She started to flirt with the adoring James. Out of the corner of his eye Philip watched her. * * * * * Scalding tears dropped on to Cleone's pillow that night. Philip had returned, indifferent, _blasé_, even scornful! Philip who had once loved her so dearly, Philip who had once been so strong and masterful, was now a dainty, affected Court gallant. Why, why had she sent him away? And, oh, how dared he treat her with that mocking admiration? Suddenly Cleone sat up. "I hate him!" she told the bed-post. "I hate him, and hate him, and hate him." * * * * * Philip was smiling when François disrobed him, a smile that held much of tenderness. "_Cela marche_," decided François. "I go to have a mistress." Thirteen Sir Maurice Comes to Town A tall gentleman rang the bell of Mr. Thomas Jettan's house with some vigour. The door was presently opened by the depressed Moggat. "Where's your master, Moggat?" demanded the visitor abruptly. Moggat held the door wide. "In the library, sir. Will you step inside?" Sir Maurice swept in. He gave his cloak and hat to Moggat and walked to the library door. Moggat watched him somewhat fearfully. It was not often that Sir Maurice showed signs of perturbation. "By the way--" Sir Maurice paused, looking back. "My baggage follows me." "Very good, sir." Sir Maurice opened the door and disappeared. * * * * * Thomas was seated at his desk, but at the sound of the opening door he turned. "Why, Maurry!" He sprang up. "Gad, this is a surprise! How are ye, lad?" He wrung his brother's hand. Sir Maurice flung a sheet of paper on to the table. "What the devil's the meaning of _that_?" he demanded. "Why the heat?" asked the surprised Thomas. "Read that--that impertinence!" ordered Sir Maurice. Tom picked up the paper and spread it open. At sight of the writing he smiled. "Oh, Philip!" he remarked. "Philip? Philip write me that letter? It's no more Philip than--than a cock-robin!" Tom sat down. "Oh, yes it is!" he said. "I recognise his hand. Now don't tramp up and down like that, Maurry! Sit down!" He glanced down the sheet and smothered a laugh. "'My very dear Papa,'" he read aloud. "'I do trust that you are enjoying your Customary Good Health and that these fogs and bitter winds have not permeated so far as to Little Fittledean. As you will observe by the above written address, I have returned to this most barbarous land. For how long I shall allow myself to be persuaded to remain I cannot tell you, but after the affinity of Paris and the charm of the Parisians, London is quite insupportable. But for the present I remain, _malgré tout_. You will forgive me, I know, that I do not come to visit you at the Pride. The mere thought of the country at this season fills me with incalculable dismay. So I suggest, dear Father, that you honour me by enlivening with your presence this house that I have acquired from Sir Humphrey Grandcourt. Some small entertainment I can promise you, and my friends assure me that the culinary efforts of my _chef_ are beyond compare. An exaggeration, believe me, which one who has tasted the wonders of a Paris _cuisine_ will easily descry. I have to convey to you the compliments of M. de Château-Banvau and others. I would write more but that I am in labour with an ode. Believe me, Dear Father, thy most devoted, humble, and obedient son,--PHILIPPE.'" Tom folded the paper. "Very proper," he remarked. "What's amiss?" Sir Maurice had stalked to the window. Now he turned. "What's amiss? Everything's amiss! That Philip--my son Philip!--should write me a--an impertinent letter like that! It's--it's monstrous!" "For God's sake, sit down, Maurry! You're as bad as Philip himself for restlessness! Now I take this as a very dutiful, filial letter." "Dutiful be damned!" snorted Sir Maurice. "Has the boy no other feelings than he shows in that letter? Why did he not come down to see me?" Tom re-opened the letter. "The mere thought of the country at this season appalled him. What's wrong with that? You have said the same." "I? I? What matters it what I should have said? I thought Philip cared for me! He trusts I will enliven his house with my presence! I'm more like to break my stick across his back!" "Not a whit," said Tom, cheerfully. "You sent Philip away to acquire polish, and I don't know what besides. He has obeyed you. Is it likely that, being what he now is, he'll fly back to the country? What's the matter with you, Maurice? Are you grumbling because he has obeyed your behests?" Sir Maurice sank on to the couch. "If you but knew how I have missed him and longed for him," he began, and checked himself. "I am well served," he said bitterly. "I should have been content to have him as he was." "So I thought at the time, but I've changed my opinion." "I cannot bear to think of Philip as being callous, flippant, and--a mere fop!" "'Twould be your own fault if he were," said Tom severely. "But he's not. Something inside him has blossomed forth. Philip is now pure joy." Sir Maurice grunted. "It's true, lad. That letter--oh, ay! He's a young rascal, but 'twas to avenge his injured feelings, I take it. He was devilish hurt when you and Cleone sent him away betwixt you. He's still hurt that you should have done it. I can't fathom the workings of his mind, but he assures me they are very complex. He is glad that you sent him, but he wants you to be sorry. Or rather, Cleone. The lad is very forgiving to you"--Tom laughed--"but that letter is a piece of devilry--he has plenty of it, I warn you! He hoped you'd be as angry as you are and wish your work undone. There's no lack of affection." Sir Maurice looked up. "He's--the same Philip?" "Never think it! In a way he's the same, but there's more of him--ay, and a score of affectations. In about ten minutes"--he glanced at the clock--"he'll be here. So you'll see for yourself." Sir Maurice straightened himself. He sighed. "An old fool, eh, Tom? But it cut me to the quick, that letter." "Of course it did, the young devil! Oh, Maurry, Maurry, ye never saw the like of our Philip!" "Is he so remarkable? I heard about that absurd duel, as I told you. There'll be a reckoning between him and Cleone." "Ay. That's what I don't understand. The pair of them are playing a queer game. Old Sally Malmerstoke told me that Cleone vows she hates Philip. The chit is flirting outrageously with every man who comes--always under Philip's nose. And Philip laughs. Yet I'll swear he means to have her. I don't interfere. They must work out their own quarrel." "Clo doesn't hate Philip," said Sir Maurice. "She was pining for him until that fool Bancroft read us Satterthwaite's letter. Was it true that Philip fought over some French hussy?" "No, over Clo herself. But he says naught, and if the truth were told, I believe it's because he has had _affaires_ in Paris, even if that was not one. He's too dangerously popular." "So it seemed from Satterthwaite's account. Is he so popular? I cannot understand it." "He's novel, y'see. I'd a letter from Château-Banvau the other day, mourning the loss of _ce cher petit_ Philippe, and demanding whether he had found his heart or no!" Sir Maurice drove his cane downwards. "By Gad, if Philip's so great a success, it's--it's more than ever I expected," he ended lamely. "Wait till you see him!" smiled Thomas. "The boy's for all the world like a bit o' quicksilver. He splutters out French almost every time he opens his mouth, and--here he is!" A door banged loudly outside, and a clear, crisp voice floated into the library from the hall. "_Mordieu_, what a climate! Moggat, you rogue, am I not depressed enough without your glum face to make me more so? Smile, _vieux crétin_, for the love of God!" "Were I to call Moggat one-half of the names Philip bestows on him, he'd leave me," remarked Tom. "With him, Philip can do no wrong. Now what's to do?" "_Doucement, malheureux!_ Gently, I say! Do you wish to pull my arms off with the coat? _Ah, voilà!_ Spread it to dry, Moggat, and take care not to crease it. Yes, that is well!" Then came Moggat's voice, very self-conscious. "_C'est comme moosoo désire?_" There was a sound of hand-clapping, and an amused laugh. "_Voyons, c'est fameux!_ Quite the French scholar, eh, Moggat? Where's my uncle? In the library?" Came a quick step across the hall. Philip swirled into the room. "Much have I borne in silence, Tom, but this rain--" He broke off. The next moment he was on one knee before his father, Sir Maurice's thin hands pressed to his lips. "Father!" Tom coughed and walked to the window. Sir Maurice drew his hands away. He took Philip's chin in his long fingers and forced his head up. Silently he scrutinised his son's face. Then he smiled. "You patched and painted puppy-dog," he mimicked softly. Philip laughed. His hands found Sir Maurice's again and gripped hard. "Alack, too true! Father, you're looking older." "Impudent young scapegrace! What would you? I have but one son." "And you missed him?" "A little," acknowledged Sir Maurice. Philip rose to his feet. "Ah, but I am glad! And you are sorry you sent him away?" "Not now. But when I received this--very." Sir Maurice held out the sheet of paper. "That! Bah!" Philip sent it whirling into the fire. "For that I apologise. If you had not been hurt--oh, heaven knows what I should have done! Where is your baggage, Father?" "Here by now." "Here? But no, no! It must go to Curzon Street!" "My dear son, I thank you very much, but an old man is better with an old man." Tom wheeled round. "What's that? Who are you calling an old man, Maurry? I'm as young as ever I was!" "In any case, it is to Curzon Street that you come, Father." "As often as you wish, dear boy, but I'll stay with Tom." Then, as Philip prepared to argue the point, "No, Philip, my mind is made up. Sit down and tell me the tale of your ridiculous duel with Bancroft." "Oh, that!" Philip laughed. "It was amusing, but scandalous. My sympathies were with my adversary." "And what was the ode you threatened to read?" "An ode to importunate friends, especially composed for the occasion. They took it from me--Paul and Louis--oh, and Henri de Chatelin! They do not like my verse." Sir Maurice lay back in his seat and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks. "Gad, Philip, but I wish I'd been there! To hear you declaim an ode of your own making! Faith, is it really my blunt, brusque, impossible Philip?" "Not at all! It is your elegant, smooth, and wholly possible Philip!" Sir Maurice sat up again. "Ah! And does this Philip contemplate marriage?" "That," said his son, "is on the knees of the gods." "I see. Is it woe unto him who seeks to interfere?" "_Parfaitement!_" bowed Philip. "I play now--a little game." "And Cleone?" "Cleone ... I don't know. It is what I wish to find out. Lady Malmerstoke stands my friend." "Trust Sally," said Tom. Philip's eyes sparkled. "Ah, Tom, Tom, art a rogue! Father, he is in love with her ladyship!" "He always has been," answered Sir Maurice. "Even before old Malmerstoke died." Tom cleared his throat. "I--" "Then why do you not wed her?" demanded Philip. "She would not. Now she says--perhaps. We are very good friends," he added contentedly. "I doubt neither of us is at the age when one loves with heat." "Philip, how do you like Paris?" interrupted Sir Maurice. "I cannot tell you, sir! My feeling for Paris and my Paris friends is beyond all words." "Ay. I thought the same. But in the end one is glad to come home." "May it please heaven, then, to make the end far, far away," said Philip. "When I go back, you will go with me, Father." "Ah, I am too old for that now," answered Sir Maurice. He smiled reminiscently. "Too old? _Quelle absurdité!_ M. de Château-Banvau has made me swear to bring you. M. de Richelieu asked when he was to see your face again. A score--" "De Richelieu? Where did you meet him, boy?" "At Versailles. He was very kind to me for your sake." "Ay, he would be. So you went to Versailles, then!" "Often." "Philip, I begin to think you are somewhat of a rake. What attracted you to Versailles?" "Many things," parried Philip. "Female things?" "What curiosity! Sometimes, yes, but not _au sérieux_." "Little Philip without a heart, eh?" "Who told you that?" Philip leaned forward. "Satterthwaite wrote it, or something like it." "_Le petit_ Philippe au _C[oe]ur Perdu_. Most of them would give their eyes to know who the fair unknown may be!" "Is it still Cleone?" Sir Maurice looked sharply across at him. "It has--never been anyone else," answered Philip simply. "I am glad. I want you to marry her, Philip." "Sir," said Philip superbly, "I have every intention of so doing." Fourteen The Strange Behaviour of Mistress Cleone "François, there is one below who desires m'sieu." François shook out a fine lace ruffle. "_Qui est-ce?_" "_Le père de M'sieur_," answered Jacques gloomily. François cast the ruffle aside. "_Le père de M'sieur!_ I go at once." He vanished out of the door and scuttled downstairs to the library. Sir Maurice was startled by his sudden entrance, and raised his eyeglass the better to observe this very abrupt, diminutive creature. François bowed very low. "M'sieu, eet ees zat my mastaire 'e ees wiz hees _barbier_. Eef m'sieu would come up to ze chamber of my mastaire?" Sir Maurice smiled. "_Assurément. Vous allez marcher en tête?_" François' face broke into a delighted smile. "_Ah, m'sieur parle Français! Si m'sieur veut me suivre?_" "_M'sieur veut bien_," nodded Sir Maurice. He followed François upstairs to Philip's luxurious bedroom. François put forward a chair. "M'sieur will be graciously pleased to seat himself? M'sieur Philippe will come very soon. It is the visit of the barber, you understand." "A serious matter," agreed Sir Maurice. "M'sieur understands well. Me, I am valet of M'sieur Philippe." "I had guessed it. You are François?" "Yes, m'sieur. It is perhaps that M'sieur Philippe has spoken of me?" He looked anxiously at Sir Maurice. "Certainly he has spoken of you," smiled Sir Maurice. "It is perhaps--that he tell you I am _un petit singe_?" "No, he said no such thing," answered Sir Maurice gravely. "He told me he possessed a veritable treasure for a valet." "Ah!" François clapped his hands. "It is true, m'sieur. I am a very good valet--oh, but very good!" He skipped to the bed and picked up an embroidered satin vest. This he laid over a chair-back. "The vest of M'sieur Philippe," he said reverently. "So I see," said Sir Maurice. "What's he doing, lying abed so late?" "_Ah, non, m'sieur!_ He does not lie abed late! Oh, but never, never. It is that the barber is here, and the tailor--imbeciles, both! They put M'sieur Philippe in a bad humour with their so terrible stupidity. He spends an hour explaining what it is that he wishes." François cast up his eyes. "And they do not understand, no! They are of so great a density! M'sieur Philippe he become much enraged, naturally." "Monsieur Philippe is very particular, eh?" François beamed. He was opening various pots in readiness for his master. "Yes, m'sieur. M'sieur Philippe must have everything just as he likes it." At that moment Philip walked in, wrapped in a gorgeous silk robe, and looking thunderous. When he saw his father his brow cleared. "You, sir? Have you waited long?" "No, only ten minutes or so. Have you strangled the tailor?" Philip laughed. "_De près! François_, I will be alone with M'sieur." François bowed. He went out with his usual hurried gait. Philip sat down before his dressing-table. "What do you think of the incomparable François?" he asked. "He startled me at first," smiled Sir Maurice. "A droll little creature." "But quite inimitable. You're out early this morning, sir?" "My dear Philip, it is close on noon! I have been to see Cleone." Philip picked up a nail-polisher and passed it gently across his fingers. "Ah?" "Philip, I am worried." "Yes?" Philip was intent on his nails. "And why?" "I don't understand the child! I could have sworn she was dying for you to return!" Philip glanced up quickly. "That is true?" "I thought so. At home--yes, I am certain of it! But now she seems a changed being." He frowned, looking at his son. Philip was again occupied with his hands. "She is in excellent spirits; she tells me that she enjoys every moment of every day. She was in ecstasies! I spoke of you and she was quite indifferent. What have you done to make her so, Philip?" "I do not quite know. I have become what she would have had me. To test her, I aped the mincing extravagance of the typical town-gallant. She was surprised at first, and then angry. That pleased me. I thought: Cleone does not like the thing I am; she would prefer the real me. Then I waited on Lady Malmerstoke. Cleone was there. She was, as you say, quite changed. I suppose she was charming; it did not seem so to me. She laughed and flirted with her fan; she encouraged me to praise her beauty; she demanded the madrigal I had promised her. When I read it she was delighted. She asked her aunt if I were not a dreadful, flattering creature. Then came young Winton, who is, I take it, _amoureux à en perdre la tête_. To him she was all smiles, behaving like some Court miss. Since then she has always been the same. She is kind to every man who comes her way, and to me. You say you do not understand? Nor do I. She is not the Cleone I knew, and not the Cleone I love. She makes herself as--Clothilde de Chaucheron. _Charmante, spirituelle_, one to whom a man makes trifling love, but not the one a man will wed." He spoke quietly, and with none of his usual sparkle. Sir Maurice leaned forward, striking his fist on his knee. "But she is not that type of woman, Philip! That's what I can't understand!" Philip shrugged slightly. "She is not, you say? I wonder now whether that is so. She flirted before, you remember, with Bancroft." "Ay! To tease you!" "_Cela se peut._ This time it is not to tease me. That I know." "But, Philip, if it is not for that, why does she do it?" "Presumably because she so wishes. It is possible that the adulation she receives has flown to her head. It is almost as though she sought to captivate me." "Cleone would never do such a thing!" "Well, sir, you will see. Come with us this afternoon. Tom and I are bidden to take a dish of Bohea with her ladyship." "Sally has already asked me. I shall certainly come. _Mordieu_, what ails the child?" Philip rubbed some rouge on to his cheeks. "If you can tell me the answer to that riddle, sir, I shall--thank you." "You do care, Philip? Still?" He watched Philip pick up the haresfoot with fingers that trembled a little. "Care?" said Philip. "I--yes, sir. I care--greatly." * * * * * Lady Malmerstoke glanced critically at her niece. "You are very gay, Clo," she remarked. "Gay?" cried Cleone. "How could I be sober, Aunt Sally? I am enjoying myself so much!" Lady Malmerstoke pushed a bracelet farther up one plump arm. "H'm!" she said. "It's very unfashionable, my dear, not to say _bourgeois_." "Oh, fiddle!" answered Cleone. "Who thinks that?" "I really don't know. It is what one says. To be in the mode you must be fatigued to death." "Then I am not in the mode," laughed Cleone. "Don't forget, Aunt, that I am but a simple country-maid!" She swept a mock curtsey. "No," said her ladyship placidly. "One is not like to forget it." "What do you mean?" demanded Cleone. "Don't eat me," sighed her aunt. "'Tis your principal charm--freshness." "Oh!" said Cleone doubtfully. "Or it was," added Lady Malmerstoke, folding her hands and closing her eyes. "Was! Aunt Sally, I insist that you tell me what it is you mean!" "My love, you know very well what I mean." "No, I do not! I--I--Aunt Sally, wake up!" Her ladyship's brown eyes opened. "Well, my dear, if you must have it, 'tis this--you make yourself cheap by your flirtatious ways." Cleone's cheeks flamed. "I--oh, I don't f--flirt! I--Auntie, how can you say so?" "Quite easily," said her ladyship. "Else had I left it unsaid. Since this Mr. Philip Jettan has returned you have acquired all the tricks of the sex. I do not find it becoming in you, but mayhap I am wrong." "It has nothing to do with Ph--Mr. Jettan!" "I beg your pardon, my dear, I thought it had. But if you wish to attract him--" "Aunt!" almost shrieked Cleone. "I wish you would not interrupt," complained Lady Malmerstoke wearily. "I said if you wish to attract him you should employ less obvious methods." "H--how _dare_ you, Aunt Sally! I wish to attract him? I hate him! I hate the very sight of him!" The sleepy brown eyes grew more alert. "Is that the way the wind lies?" murmured Lady Malmerstoke. "What's he done?" she added, ever practical. "He hasn't done anything. He--I--" "Then what hasn't he done?" "Aunt Sally--Aunt Sally--you--I won't answer! He--nothing at all! 'Tis merely that I do not like him." "It's not apparent in your manner," remarked her ladyship. "Are you determined that he shall fall in love with you?" "Of course I never thought of such a thing! I--why should I?" "For the pleasure of seeing him at your feet, and then kicking him away. Revenge, my love, revenge." "How dare you say such things, Aunt! It--it isn't true!" Lady Malmerstoke continued to pursue her own line of thought. "From all I can see of this Philip, he's not the man to be beaten by a chit of a girl. I think he is in love with you. Have a care, my dear. Men with chins like his are not safe. I've had experience, and I know. He'll win in the end, if he has a mind to do so." "Mind!" Cleone was scornful. "He has no mind above clothes or poems!" Lady Malmerstoke eyed her lazily. "Who told you that, Clo?" "No one. I can see for myself." "There is nothing blinder than a very young woman," philosophised her ladyship. "One lives and one learns. Your Philip--" "He isn't my Philip!" cried Cleone, nearly in tears. "You put me out," complained her aunt. "Your Philip is no fool. He's dangerous. On account of that chin, you understand. Don't have him, my dear; he's one of your masterful men. They are the worst; old Jeremy Fletcher was like that. Dear me, what years ago that was!" "He--he's no more masterful than--than his uncle!" "No, thank heaven, Tom's an easy-going creature," agreed her aunt. "A pity Philip is not the same." "But I tell you he is! If--if he were more masterful I should like him better! I like a man to be a man and not--a--a pranked-out doll!" "How you have changed!" sighed her aunt. "I thought that was just what you did not want. Didn't you send your Philip away to become a beau?" "He is not my Philip--Aunt! I--no, of course I did--didn't. And if I d-did, it was very st-stupid of me, and now I'd rather have a--a masterful man." "Ay, we're all like that in our youth," nodded her aunt. "When you grow older you'll appreciate the milder sort. I nearly married Jerry Fletcher. Luckily I changed my mind and had Malmerstoke. God rest his soul, poor fellow! Now I shall have Tom, I suppose." Cleone broke into a hysterical laugh. "Aunt, you are incorrigible! How can you talk so?" "Dreadful, isn't it? But I was always like that. Very attractive, you know. I never was beautiful, but I made a great success. I quite shocked my poor mother. But it was all a pose, of course. It made me noticed. I was so amusing and novel--like you, my love, but in a different way. All a pose." "Why, is it still a pose, Aunt?" "Oh, now it's a habit. So much less fatiguing, my dear. But to return to what I was saying, you--" "Don't--don't let's talk--about me," begged Cleone unsteadily. "I--hardly know what possesses me, but--Oh, there's the bell!" Lady Malmerstoke dragged herself up. "Already? Clo, is my wig on straight? Drat the men, I've not had a wink of sleep the whole afternoon. A nice hag I shall look to-night. Which of them is it, my dear?" Cleone was peering out of the window. "'Tis James and Jennifer, Aunt." She came back into the room. "It seems an age since I saw Jenny." Lady Malmerstoke studied herself in her little mirror. "Is she the child who lives down in the country?" "Yes--Jenny Winton, such a sweet little thing. She has come up with Mr. Winton for a few weeks. I am so glad she managed to induce him to bring her!" Cleone ran forward as the two Wintons were ushered in. "Jenny, dear!" Jennifer was half a head shorter than Cleone, a shy child with soft grey eyes and mouse-coloured hair. She flung her arms round Cleone's neck. "Oh, Clo, how prodigious elegant you look!" she whispered. "And oh, Jenny, how pretty you look!" retorted Cleone. "Aunt Sally, this is my dear Jennifer!" Jennifer curtseyed. "How do you do, ma'am?" she said in a voice fluttering with nervousness. "I am very well, child. Come and sit down beside me." She patted the couch invitingly. "Is this your first visit to town, my dear?" Jennifer sat down on the edge of the couch. She stole an awed glance at Lady Malmerstoke's powdered wig. "Yes, ma'am. It is so exciting." "I'll warrant it is! And have you been to many balls, yet?" "N-no." The little face clouded over. "Papa does not go out very much," she explained. Cleone sank on to a stool beside them, her silks swirling about her. "Oh, Auntie, please take Jenny to the Dering ball next week!" she said impulsively. "You will come, won't you, sweet?" Jennifer blushed and stammered. "To be sure," nodded her ladyship. "Of course she will come! James, sit down! You should know by now how the sight of anyone on their feet fatigues me, silly boy! Dear me, child, how like you are to your brother! Are you looking at my wig? Monstrous, isn't it?" Jennifer was covered with confusion. "Oh, no, ma'am, I--" Her ladyship chuckled. "Of course you were. How could you help it? Cleone tells me it is a ridiculous creation, don't you, my love?" "I do, and I truly think it!" answered Cleone, her eyes dancing. "'Tis just a little more impossible than the last." "There!" Lady Malmerstoke turned back to Jennifer. "She is an impertinent hussy, is she not?" "Could she be impertinent?" asked James fondly. "Very easily she could, and is," nodded her ladyship. "A minx." "Oh!" Jennifer was shocked. "Don't attend to her!" besought Cleone. "Sometimes she is very ill-natured, as you see." Jennifer ventured a very small laugh. She had resolutely dragged her eyes from the prodigious wig, and was now gazing at Cleone. "You--you seem quite different," she told her. Cleone shook her golden head. "'Tis only that Aunt Sally has tricked me out in fine clothes," she replied. "I'm--oh, I am the same!" she laughed, but not very steadily. "Am I not, James?" "Always the same," he said ardently. "Always beautiful." "I will not have it," said Lady Malmerstoke severely. "You'll turn the child's head, if 'tis not turned already." "Oh, it is, it is!" cried Cleone. "I am quite too dreadfully vain! And there is the bell again! James, who is it? It's vastly bad-mannered to peep, but you may do it. Quick!" James went to the window. "Too late," he said. "They are in, whoever they are." "'Twill be Thomas," decided Lady Malmerstoke. "I wonder if he is any fatter?" Jennifer giggled. She had never met anything quite like this queer, voluminous old lady before. "Is--is Sir Maurice coming?" she inquired. "I told him to be sure to come," answered her ladyship. "You know him, don't you?" "Oh, yes!" breathed Jennifer. "Sah Maurice and Mr. Jettan," announced the little black page. "Drat!" said her ladyship. She rose. "Where's your son?" she demanded, shaking her finger at Sir Maurice. Sir Maurice kissed her hand. "Sally, you grow ruder and ruder," he reproved her. "Maurice," she retorted, "you were ever a punctilious ramrod. Philip's the only one of you I want to see. He says such audacious things," she explained. "So gratifying to an old woman. Well, Tom?" Thomas bowed very low. "Well, Sally?" "That's not polite," she said. "You can see I am very well. I declare you are growing thinner!" Thomas drew himself up sheepishly. "Am I, my dear?" Her ladyship gave a little crow of delight. "You've been taking exercise!" she exclaimed. "If you continue at this rate--I vow I'll marry you in a month!" "I wish you would, my dear," said Tom seriously. "Oh, I shall one day, never fear!" She caught sight of Jennifer's astonished expression and chuckled. "Now, Tom, behave yourself! You are shocking the child!" she whispered. "I? What have I done? She's shocked at your forwardness!" Sir Maurice had walked over to Cleone. She held out her hands, and he made as if to kiss them. She snatched them back. "Oh, no, no!" she cried. "Sir Maurice!" He smiled down at her upturned face. "In truth, my dear, you've so changed from the little Cleone I know that I dare take no liberties." Her mouth quivered suddenly; she caught at the lapels of his coat. "No, no, don't say it, sir! I am the same! Oh, I am, I am!" "What's Cleone doing?" inquired Lady Malmerstoke. "Kissing Maurice? Now who's forward?" Cleone smiled through her tears. "You are, Aunt Sally. And you are in a very teasing humour!" Sir Maurice pressed her hands gently. He turned to the curtseying Jennifer. "Why, Jenny? This is a surprise! How are you, child?" "Very well, I thank you, sir," she answered. "Very happy to be in London." "The first visit! Where are you staying?" "With Grandmamma, out at Kensington," she said. Lady Malmerstoke clutched Tom's arm. "Kensington, poor child!" she murmured. "For heaven's sake everyone sit down! No, Maurice, that chair is too low for me. I'll take the couch." She proceeded to do so. As a matter of course, Tom sat down beside her. The others arranged themselves in two pairs, Sir Maurice leading Jennifer to a chair near the fire, and Cleone going to the window-seat with the admiring James. Five minutes later the bell rang for the third time, and Jennifer received the worst shock of the afternoon. The page announced Mr. Philip Jettan, and Philip came into the room. Sir Maurice felt Jennifer's start of surprise, and saw her stare past him as though she saw at least three ghosts. Philip went to his hostess and dropped on one knee to kiss her hand. He was dressed in puce and old gold. Jennifer thought she had never seen anything so gorgeous, or so astonishing. She did not believe for a moment that it was her old playfellow, Philip. "Madame, I am late!" said Philip. "I ask a thousand pardons." "And you are sure you'll receive them!" chuckled her ladyship. "I'd give them, but that it would fatigue me so. Where's that ode? Don't tell me you've forgotten it!" "Forgotten it! Never! It is a very beautiful ode, too, in my best style. _Le voici!_" He handed her a rolled parchment sheet, tied with mauve ribbons, and with violets cunningly inserted. "You delightful boy!" cried her ladyship, inspecting it. "Violets! How did you know they were my favourite flowers?" "I knew instinctively," answered Philip solemnly. "Of course you did! But how charming of you! I declare I daren't untie it till the violets are dead. Look, Tom, is it not pretty? And isn't Philip sweet to write me an ode?" "I am looking," said Tom gloomily. "Ye rascal, how dare you try to steal my lady's heart away from me?" "I should be more than human an I did not!" replied Philip promptly. Lady Malmerstoke was showing the dainty roll to Sir Maurice. "An ode to my wig," she told him. "Written in French." "An ode to your what?" asked Thomas. "My wig, Tom, my wig! You were not here when we discussed it. Cleone thought it a prodigious ugly wig, but Philip would have none of it. He said such pretty things about it, and promised me an ode for it! Philip, did I thank you?" Philip was bowing over Cleone's hand. He turned. "With your eyes, madame, eloquently! But I need no thanks; it was an honour and a joy." "Think of that!" nodded my lady, looking from Tom to Sir Maurice. "Philip, come and be presented to Mistress Jennifer. Or do you know her?" Philip released Cleone's hand, and swung round. "Jennifer! Of course I know her!" He went across the room. "Why, Jenny, where do you spring from? How are you?" Jennifer gazed up at him with wide eyes. "Philip? Is--is it really--you?" she whispered. "You didn't know me? Jenny, how unkind! Surely I haven't changed as much as that?" "Y-you have," she averred. "More!" "I have not, I swear I have not! Father, go away! Let me sit here and talk to Jennifer!" Only too glad to obey, Sir Maurice rose. "He is very peremptory and autocratic, isn't he, my dear?" he smiled. Philip sank into the vacated chair. "I--I feel I ought to call you Mr. Jettan!" said Jennifer. "Jenny! If you dare to do such a thing I shall--I shall--" "What will you do?" "Write a canzonet to your big eyes!" he laughed. Jennifer blushed, and her lips trembled into a smile. "Will you really? I should like that, I think, Mr. Jettan." "It shall be ready by noon to-morrow," said Philip at once, "if you will promise not to misname me!" "But--" "Jenny, I vow I have not changed so much! 'Tis only my silly clothes!" "That's--what Clo said when I told her _she_ had changed." "Oh!" Philip shot a glance towards the unconscious Cleone. "Did she say that?" "Yes. But I think she has changed, don't you?" "_De tête en pieds_," said Philip slowly. "What is that?" Jennifer looked rather alarmed. Philip turned back to her. "That is a foolish habit, Jenny. They say I chatter French all day. Which is very affected." "French? Do you talk French now? How wonderful!" breathed Jennifer. "Say something else! Please!" "_La lumière de tes beaux yeux me pénètre jusqu'au c[oe]ur._" He bowed, smiling. "Oh! What does that mean?" "It wouldn't be good for you to know," answered Philip gravely. "Oh! but I would like to know, I think," she said naïvely. "I said that--you have very beautiful eyes." "Did you? How--how dreadful of you! And you won't forget the--the can--can--what you were going to write for me, will you?" "The canzonet. No, I think it must be a sonnet. And the flower--alas, your flower is out of season!" "Is it? What is my flower?" "A daisy." She considered this. "I do not like daisies very much. Haven't I another flower?" "Yes, a snowdrop." "Oh, that is pretty!" She clapped her hands. "Is it too late for snowdrops?" "I defy it to be too late!" said Philip. "You shall have them if I have to fly to the ends of the earth for them!" Jennifer giggled. "But you couldn't, could you? Cleone! Cleone!" Cleone came across the room. "Yes, Jenny? Has Mr. Jettan been saying dreadfully flattering things to you?" "N--yes, I think he has! And he says I must still call him Philip. And oh! he is going to write a--a sonnet to my eyes, tied with snowdrops! Mr. J--Philip, what is Cleone's flower?" Philip had risen. He put a chair forward for Cleone. "Can you ask, Jenny? What but a rose?" Cleone sat down. Her lips smiled steadily. "A rose? Surely it's a flaunting flower, sir?" "Ah, mademoiselle, it must be that you have never seen a rose just bursting from the bud!" "Oh, la! I am overcome, sir! And I have not yet thanked you for the bouquet you sent me this morning!" Philip's eyes travelled to the violets at her breast. "I did not send violets," he said mournfully. Cleone's eyes flashed. "No. These"--she touched the flowers caressingly--"I have from Sir Deryk Brenderby." "He is very fortunate, mademoiselle. Would that I were also!" "I think you are, sir. Mistress Ann Nutley wore your carnations yesterday the whole evening." Cleone found that she was looking straight into his eyes. Hurriedly she looked away, but a pulse was beating in her throat. For one fleeting instant she had seen the old Philip, grave, honest, a little appealing. If only--if only-- "Mr. Jett--I mean Philip! Will you teach me to say something in French?" "Why, of course, _chérie_. What would you say?" The pulse stopped its excited beating; the blue eyes lost their wistful softness. Cleone turned to James, who stood at her elbow. Fifteen Lady Malmerstoke on Husbands "And he brought it himself, yesterday morning, tied with snowdrops. I don't know how he got them, for they are over, are they not, Clo? But there they were, with the prettiest verse you can imagine. It said my eyes were twin pools of grey! Isn't that beautiful?" Cleone jerked one shoulder. "It is not very original," she said. "Don't you like it?" asked Jennifer reproachfully. Cleone was ashamed of her flash of ill-humour. "Yes, dear, of course I do. So Mr. Jettan brought it to you himself, did he?" "Indeed, yes! And stayed a full hour, talking to Papa and to me. What do you think? He has begged me to be sure and dance with him on Wednesday! Is it not kind of him?" "Very," said Cleone dully. "I cannot imagine why he should want them," Jennifer prattled on. "Jamie says he is at Mistress Nutley's feet. Is she very lovely, Clo?" "I don't know. Yes, I suppose she is." "Philip is teaching me to speak French. It is so droll, and he laughs at my accent. Can you speak French, Clo?" "A little. No doubt he would laugh at my accent if he ever heard it." "Oh, I do not think so! He could not, could he? Clo, I asked if he did not think you were very beautiful, and he said--" "Jenny, you must not ask things like that!" "He did not mind! Truly, he did not! He just laughed--he is always laughing, Clo!--and said that there was no one who did not think so. Was not that neat?" "Very," said Cleone. Jennifer drew nearer. "Cleone, may I tell you a secret?" A fierce pain shot through Cleone. "A secret? What is it?" she asked quickly. "Why, Clo, how strange you look! 'Tis only that I know James to be in love with--you!" Cleone sank back. She started to laugh from sheer relief. "I do not see that it is funny," said Jennifer, hurt. "No, no, dear! It--it is not that--I mean, of course, of course, I knew that James was--was--fond of me." "Did you? Oh--oh, are you going to marry him?" Jennifer's voice squeaked with excitement. "Jenny, you ask such dreadful questions! No, I am not." "But--but he loves you, Clo! Don't you love him?" "Not like that. James only thinks he loves me. He's too young. I--Tell me about your dress, dear!" "For the ball?" Jennifer sat up, nothing loth. "'Tis of white silk--" "Sir Deryk Brenderby!" Jennifer started. "Oh, dear!" she said regretfully. A tall, loose-limbed man came in. "Fair Mistress Cleone! I am happy, indeed, to have found you in! I kiss your hands, dear lady!" Cleone drew them away, smiling. "Mistress Jennifer Winton, Sir Deryk." Brenderby seemed to become suddenly aware of Jenny's presence. He bowed. Jennifer curtseyed demurely, and took refuge behind her friend. Sir Deryk lowered himself into a chair. "Mistress Cleone, can you guess why I have come?" "To see me!" said Cleone archly. "That is the obvious, fair tormentor! Another reason had I." "The first should be enough, sir," answered Cleone, with downcast eyes. "And is, Most Beautiful. But the other reason concerns you also." "La! You intrigue me, sir! Pray, what is it?" "To beg, on my knees, that you will dance with me on Wednesday!" "Oh, I don't know!" Cleone shook her head. "I doubt all the dances are gone." "Ah, no, dearest lady! Not all!" "Indeed, I think so! I cannot promise anything." "But you give me hope?" "I will not take it from you," said Cleone. "Perhaps Jennifer will give you a dance." Sir Deryk did not look much elated. But he bowed to Jennifer. "May that happiness be mine, madam?" "Th--thank you," stammered Jennifer. "If you please!" Sir Deryk bowed again and straightway forgot her existence. "You wear my primroses, fairest!" he said to Cleone. "I scarce dared to hope so modest a posy would be so honoured." Cleone glanced down at the pale yellow blooms. "Oh, are they yours? I had forgot," she said cruelly. "Ah, Cleone!" Cleone raised her brows. "My name, sir?" "Mistress Cleone," corrected Brenderby, bowing. Lady Malmerstoke chose that moment at which to billow into the room. She leaned on the arm of one Mr. Jettan. "Philip, you are a sad fellow! You do not mean one word of what you say! Oh, lud! I have chanced on a reception. Give ye good den, Jenny, my dear. Sir Deryk? Thus early in the morning? I think you know Mr. Jettan?" The two men bowed. "I have the pleasure, Lady Malmerstoke," said Brenderby. "I did not see you last night, Jettan? You were not at Gregory's card-party?" "Last night?--last night? No, I was at White's with my father. Mademoiselle, your very obedient! _Et la petite!_" "_Bonjour, monsieur!_" ventured Jennifer shyly. Philip swept her a leg. "_Mademoiselle a fait des grands progrès_," he said. She wrinkled her brow. "Great--progress?" she hazarded. "Of course! And how is mademoiselle?" "Very well, I thank you, sir." Lady Malmerstoke sank into a large armchair. "Well, I trust I don't intrude?" she remarked. "Clo, where is my embroidery?" She turned to her guests. "I never set a stitch, of course. It would fatigue me too much. But it looks industrious to have it by me, doesn't it?" Cleone and Brenderby had walked to the table in search of the missing embroidery. Cleone looked over her shoulder. "You must not believe what she says," she told them. "Aunt Sarah embroiders beautifully. She is not nearly as lazy as she would have you think." "Not lazy, my love--indolent. A much nicer word. Thank you, my dear." She received her stitchery and laid it down. "I will tell you all a secret. Oh, Philip knows! Philip, you need not listen." Philip was perched on a chair-arm. "A million thanks, Aunt!" "That is very unkind of you!" she reproached him. "You tell my secret before ever I have time to say a word!" "_Eh bien!_ You should not have suggested that I did not want to listen to your voice." "When I am, indeed, your aunt, I shall talk to you very seriously about flattering old women," she said severely. Cleone clapped her hands. "Oh, Aunt Sally! You are going to wed Mr. Jettan?" "One of them," nodded her aunt. "I gather that this one"--she smiled up at Philip--"is going to wed Someone Else. And I do not think I would have him in any case." "And now who is unkind?" cried Philip. "I've a mind to run away with you as you enter the church!" Cold fear was stealing through Cleone. Mechanically she congratulated her aunt. Through a haze she heard Brenderby's voice and Jennifer's. So Philip was going to marry Someone Else? No doubt it was Ann Nutley, the designing minx! When Philip came presently to her side she was gayer than ever, sparkling with merriment, and seemingly without a care in the world. She drew Sir Deryk into the conversation, flirting outrageously. She parried all Philip's sallies and laughed at Sir Deryk's witticisms. Then Philip went to talk to Jennifer. A pair of hungry, angry, jealous, and would-be careless blue eyes followed him and grew almost hard. When the guests had gone Cleone felt as though her head were full of fire. Her cheeks burned, her eyes were glittering. Lady Malmerstoke looked at her. "You are hot, my love. Open the window." Cleone obeyed, cooling her cheeks against the glass panes. "How very shy that child is!" remarked my lady. "Jenny? Yes. Very, is she not?" "I thought Sir Deryk might have noticed her a little more than he did." "He had no chance, had he? She was quite monopolised." Her ladyship cast a shrewd glance towards the back of Cleone's head. She smiled unseen. "Well, my love, to turn to other matters, which is it to be--Philip or Sir Deryk?" Cleone started. "What do you mean, Aunt? Which is it to _be_?" "Which are you going to smile upon? You have given both a deal of encouragement. I don't count young James, of course. He's a babe." "Please, please--" "I don't like Sir Deryk. No, I don't like him at all. He has no true politeness, or he would have talked a little more to me, or to Jenny. Which do you intend to wed, my dear?" "Neither?" "My dear Cleone!" Her ladyship was shocked. "Then why do you encourage them to make love to you? Now be advised by me! Have Sir Deryk!" Cleone gave a trembling laugh. "I thought you did not like him?" "No more I do. But that's not to say he'd make a bad husband. On the contrary. He'd let you do as you please, and he'd not be for ever pestering you with his presence." "For these very reasons I'll none of him!" "Then that leaves Philip?" Cleone whirled about. "Whom I would not marry were he the last man in the world!" "Luckily he is not. Don't be so violent, my dear." Cleone stood for a moment, irresolute. Then she burst into tears and ran out of the room. Lady Malmerstoke leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes. "There's hope for you yet, Philip," she remarked, and prepared to go to sleep. It was not to be. Barely five minutes later Sir Maurice was ushered into the room. Her ladyship sat up, a hand to her wig. "Really, Maurice, you should know better than to take a woman unawares!" she said severely. "Your family has been in and out the house all the morning. What's the matter now?" Sir Maurice kissed her hand. "First, my heartiest congratulations, Sarah! I have just seen Tom." If a lady could grin, Sarah Malmerstoke grinned then. "Thank you, Maurice. And how did you find Tom?" "Quite incoherent," said Sir Maurice. "He has talked a deal of nonsense about love-passions belonging only to the young, but I never saw a man so madly elated in my life." "How nice!" sighed my lady blissfully. "And what's your second point?" Sir Maurice walked to the fire and stared into it. "Sally, it's Cleone." "Dear me! What's to do?" "If anyone can help me, it's you," he began. Her ladyship held up her hands. "No, Maurice, no! You're too old!" "You ridiculous woman!" He smiled a little. "Does she care for Philip, or does she not?" "Well"--my lady bit her finger--"I've been asking her that question, or one like it, myself." "What did she say?" "That she wouldn't marry him were he the last man in the world." Sir Maurice looked at her wretchedly. "What's come over her? I thought--She said nothing more?" "Not a word. She burst into tears and fled." His face brightened. "Surely that augurs well for him?" "Very well," nodded my lady. "But--" "But what? Tell me, Sally!" "You're very anxious," she observed. "Of course I am anxious! I tell you Philip is head over ears in love with the child! And she--" "And she," finished her ladyship deliberately, "will need a deal of convincing that it is so. We are told that Philip is in love with Ann Nutley. We know that Philip trifled elegantly with various French ladies. We see him being kind to little Jennifer. And so on." "But he means nothing! You know that!" "I? Does it matter what I know? It is what Cleone knows, but there's naught under the sun so unreasonable as a maid in love." "But if Philip assures her--" "Pho!" said her ladyship, and snapped her fingers. "Pho!" "She wouldn't believe it?" "She might. But she might not choose to show it." "But it's ridiculous! It's--" "Of course. All girls are ridiculous." "Sally, don't be tiresome! What's to be done?" "Leave 'em alone," counselled her ladyship. "There's no good to be got out of interfering. Philip must play his own game." "He intends to. But he does not know whether she loves him or not!" "You can tell him from me that there is hope, but that he must go carefully. And now I'm going to sleep. Good bye, Maurice." Sixteen Mistress Cleone Finds There Is No Safety in Numbers When Philip entered the ballroom of my lady Dering's house, on Wednesday evening, Lady Malmerstoke had already arrived. Cleone was dancing with Sir Deryk; Jennifer was sitting beside her ladyship, looking very shy and very bewildered. As soon as he could do so, Philip made his way to that end of the room. Lady Malmerstoke welcomed him with a laugh. "Good even, Philip! Have you brought your papa?" Philip shook his head. "He preferred to go to White's with Tom. Jenny, you'll dance with me, will you not? Remember, you promised!" Jennifer raised her eyes. "I--I doubt I--cannot. I--I have danced so few times, sir." "Don't tell me those little feet cannot dance, _chérie_!" Jennifer glanced down at them. "It's monstrous kind of you, Philip--but--but are you sure you want to lead me out?" Philip offered her his arm. "I see you are in a very teasing mood, Jenny," he scolded. Jennifer rose. "Well, I will--but--oh, I am very nervous! I expect you dance so well." "I don't think I do, but I am sure you under-rate your dancing. Let us essay each other!" * * * * * From across the room Cleone saw them. She promptly looked away, but contrived, nevertheless, to keep an eye on their movements. She saw Philip presently lead Jenny to a chair and sit talking to her. Then he hailed a passing friend and presented him to Jennifer. Cleone watched him walk across the room to a knot of men. He returned to Jennifer with several of them. Unreasoning anger shook Cleone. Why did Philip care what happened to Jennifer? Why was he so assiduous in his attentions? She told herself she was an ill-natured cat, but she was still angry. From Jennifer Philip went to Ann Nutley. Sir Deryk stopped fanning Cleone. "There he goes! I declare, Philip Jettan makes love to every pretty woman he meets! Just look at them!" Cleone was looking. Her little teeth were tightly clenched. "Mr. Jettan is a flatterer," she said. "Always so abominably French, too. Mistress Ann seems amused. I believe Jettan is a great favourite with the ladies of Paris." Suddenly Cleone remembered that duel that Philip had fought "over the fair name of some French maid." "Yes?" she said carelessly. "Of course, he is very handsome." "Do you think so? Oh, here he comes! Evidently the lovely Ann does not satisfy him.... Your servant, sir!" Philip smiled and bowed. "Mademoiselle, may I have the honour of leading you out?" he asked. Above all, she must not show Philip that she cared what he did. "Oh, I have but this instant sat down!" she said. "I protest I am fatigued and very hot!" "I know of a cool withdrawing-room," said Brenderby at once. "Let me take you to it, fairest!" "It's very kind, Sir Deryk, but I do not think I will go. If I might have a glass of ratafia?" she added plaintively, looking at Philip. For once he was backward in responding. Sir Deryk bowed. "At once, dear lady! I go to procure it!" "Oh, thank you, sir!" This was not what Cleone wanted at all. "Well, Mr. Jettan, you have not yet fled to Paris?" Philip sat down beside her. "No, mademoiselle, not yet. To-night will decide whether I go or stay." His voice was rather stern. "Indeed? How vastly exciting!" "Is it not! I am going to ask you a plain question, Cleone. Will you marry me?" Cleone gasped in amazement. Unreasoning fury shook her. That Philip should dare to come to her straight from the smiles of Ann Nutley! She glanced at him. He was quite solemn. Could it be that he mocked her? She forced herself to speak lightly. "I can hardly suppose that you are serious, sir!" "I am in earnest, Cleone, never more so. We have played at cross-purposes long enough." His voice sent a thrill through her. Almost he was the Philip of Little Fittledean. Cleone forced herself to remember that he was not. "Cross-purposes, sir? I fail to understand you!" "Yes? Have you ever been honest with me, Cleone?" "Have you ever been honest with me, Mr. Jettan?" she said sharply. "Yes, Cleone. Before you sent me away I was honest with you. When I came back, no. I wished to see whether you wanted me as I was, or as I pretended to be. You foiled me. Now I am again honest with you. I say that I love you, and I want you to be my wife." * * * * * "You say that you love me...." Cleone tapped her fan on her knee. "Perhaps you will continue to be honest with me, sir. Am I the only one you have loved?" "You are the only one." The blue eyes flashed. "And what of the ladies of the French Court, Mr. Jettan? What of a certain duel you fought with a French husband? You can explain that, no doubt?" Philip was silent for a moment, frowning. "So the news of that absurd affair reached you, Cleone?" She laughed, clenching her teeth. "Oh, yes, sir! It reached me. A pity, was it not?" "A great pity, Cleone, if on that gossip you judge me." "Ah! There was no truth in the tale?" Suppressed eagerness was in her voice. "I will be frank with you. A certain measure of truth there was. M. de Foli-Martin thought himself injured. It was not so." "And why should he think so, sir?" "Presumably because I paid court to madame, his wife." "Yes?" Cleone spoke gently, dangerously. "You paid court to madame. No doubt she was very lovely?" "Very." Philip was nettled. "As lovely, perhaps, as Mademoiselle de Marcherand, of whom I have heard, or as Mistress Ann Nutley yonder? Or as lovely as Jennifer?" Philip took a false step. "Cleone, surely you are not jealous of little Jenny?" he cried. She drew herself up. "Jealous? What right have I to be jealous? You are nothing to me, Mr. Jettan! I confess that once I--liked you. You have changed since then. You cannot deny that you have made love to a score of beautiful women since you left home. I do not blame you for that. You are free to do as you please. What I will not support is that you should come to me with your proposal, having shown me during the time that you have spent in England that I am no more to you than Ann Nutley, or Julie de Marcherand. 'To the Pearl that Trembles in her Ear,' was it not? Very pretty, sir. And now I intrigue you for the moment. I cannot consider myself flattered, Mr. Jettan." Philip had grown pale under his paint. "Cleone, you wrong me! It is true that I have trifled harmlessly with those ladies. It is the fashion--the fashion you bade me follow. There has never been aught serious betwixt any woman and me. That I swear!" "You probably swore the same to M. de Foli-Martin?" "When I had given him the satisfaction he craved, yes." "I suppose he believed you?" "No." Philip bit his lip. "No? Then will you tell me, sir, how it is that you expect me to believe what M. de Foli-Martin--closely concerned--would not believe?" Philip looked straight into her eyes. "I can only give you my word, Cleone." Still she fought on, wishing to be defeated. "So you have never trifled with any of these women, sir?" Philip was silent again. "You bring me"--Cleone's voice trembled--"a tarnished reputation. I've no mind to it, sir. You have made love to a dozen other women. Perhaps you have kissed them. And--and now you offer me--your kisses! I like unspoilt wares, sir." Philip rose, very stiff and stern. "I am sorry that you consider yourself insulted by my offer, Cleone." Her hand half flew towards him and fell again. Couldn't he understand that she wanted him to beat down her resistance? Did he care no more than that? If only he would deny everything and master her! "I hasten to relieve you of my obnoxious presence. Your servant, mademoiselle." Philip bowed. He turned on his heel and walked away, leaving Cleone stricken. Her fan dropped unheeded to the ground. Philip had gone! He had not understood that she wanted to be overruled, overcome. He had gone, and he would never come back. In those few minutes he had been the Philip she loved, not the flippant gallant of the past weeks. Tears came into Cleone's eyes. Why, why had he been so provoking? And oh, why had she let him go? She knew now beyond question that he was the only man she could ever love, or had ever loved. Now he had left her, and would go back to Paris. Nothing mattered, she did not care what became of her once she had lost Philip. James Winton, never far away, came to her side and sat down. Cleone greeted him mechanically and proceeded to follow out her own line of dismal thought. Through a haze of misery she heard James' voice. It sounded rather shy, and very anxious. She had not the faintest idea of what he was saying, but she felt vaguely annoyed by his persistency. Presently these words filtered through to her brain: "Say yes, Cleone! Say yes! Oh, say yes, Cleone!" How importunate he was! Cleone turned impatiently. "Oh, yes, yes! What is it?" As James had been blurting out a carefully-worded proposal of marriage, he was not flattered by this answer. He rose, hurt to the bottom of his youthful soul. "It is evident that you have not heard a word of what I said, Cleone!" "Oh, don't worry me, James! I've said yes. What is it? You are so persistent, and I wish to be quiet!" James bowed. "I will leave you, madam. I offered you my hand and my heart." With that he walked off, a picture of outraged dignity. Cleone broke into hysterical laughter. Up came Sir Deryk. "You seem vastly entertained, lady fair. May I share the pleasantry?" Cleone sprang up. "Take me away from this!" she begged. "I--I am nigh fainting from the heat! I--oh, I must be quiet! The fiddling goes through and through my head. I--oh, take me somewhere cool!" Sir Deryk was surprised, but he did not show it. "Why, of course, dearest! I know of a small withdrawing-room nearby. Take my arm, it's stifling in here!" He led her across the room to where a heavy curtain hung, shutting off a small, dimly-lighted apartment. Meanwhile Philip had gone to Lady Malmerstoke's side. He sat down, frowning gloomily. Her ladyship eyed him speculatively. "Well?" she demanded. Philip laughed bitterly. "Oh, I have been rebuffed! Do I conceal it so admirably?" "No, you do not," said her ladyship. "You must have played your cards monstrously badly. Trust a man." "Oh, no! Tis merely that your niece does not love me." "Fiddle! Don't tell me that. D'you think I'm a fool, Philip?" "She objects, madam, to my--tarnished reputation. She was quite final." "You thought she was quite final. Now, don't be stately, child! What happened?" "I asked her to marry me--and she flung my wretched Paris _affaires_ in my face." "Of course, you denied everything?" "No, I did not. How could I? There was a certain measure of tr--" Lady Malmerstoke leaned back disgustedly. "God preserve me from young men! You admitted it?" "No--that is, I was frank with her." "Great heavens, Philip! Frank with a woman? God help you, then! And what next? Did you tell Cleone not to be a fool? Did you insist that she should listen to you?" "How could I? She--" "You didn't. You walked off when you should have mastered her. I'll wager my best necklet she was waiting for you to assert yourself. And now she's probably miserable. Serve her right, and you too." "But, Lady Malmerstoke--" "Not but what I don't sympathise with the child," continued her ladyship inexorably. "Of course, she is a fool, but so are all girls. A woman of my age don't inquire too closely into a man's past--we've learned wisdom. Cleone knows that you have trifled with a dozen other women. Bless you, she don't think the worse of you for that!" "She does! She said--" "For goodness' sake, don't try to tell me what she said, Philip! What's that to do with it?" "But you don't understand! Cleone said--" "So she may have. That does not mean that she meant it, does it?" asked her ladyship in great scorn. "_Mais_--" "Don't start talking French at me, child, for I can't bear it! You should know by now that no woman means what she says when it's to a man." "Oh, stop, stop! Lady Malmerstoke, you don't understand! Cleone does think the worse of me for those intrigues! She is very angry!" "Of course she is. What do you expect?" Philip clasped his head. "_Mais, voyons!_ Just now you said that she does _not_ think the worse of me for it!" "Who said she did? Can't one think two things at the same time?" "But surely not two such--such contradictory things! I have never done so in my life!" "You! You're only a man! You've not our gifts! I can tell you!" My lady spread out her fan. "Why, a woman can think of a hundred different things at once, all of them contradictory!" She nodded at him complacently. "It's ridiculous! It's impossible! Are women's brains so--so incoherent?" "Most of 'em," answered her ladyship. "They jump, you see." "Jump?" Philip was thoroughly bewildered. "Jump. From one thing to another. You'll arrive at a new thought by degrees, and you'll know how you got there. Women don't think like that. Cleone could not tell you why she thinks well and ill of you at once, but she does." "But surely if she reasons with herself she'll see how absurd--" "If she what?" "Reasons. I mean--" "You're mad," said Lady Malmerstoke with conviction. "Women don't reason. That's a man's part. Why, do you suppose that if Cleone thought as you think, and had a brain like a man's, you'd be in love with her? Of course you'd not. You'd not be able to feel your superiority over her. Don't tell me!" "I don't feel--" Her ladyship chuckled. "Oh, don't you, Philip? You think that Clo is reasonable-minded, and able to care for herself, needing no master?" "I--no, I don't!" "That's what I say. Goodness me, how blind you are! If you didn't consider that you had to care for Cleone and guard her from everyone else and herself, you wouldn't love her. Now don't be foolish!" Philip laughed ruefully. "You're a fount of wisdom, Lady Sally!" "Well, I should be at my age. I've had experience, you see, and I never was a fool." "Then--tell me what I am to do?" Lady Malmerstoke wagged an impressive finger at him. "Take that girl and shake her. Tell her you'll not be flouted. Tell her she's a little fool, and kiss her. And if she protests, go on kissing her. Dear me, what things I do say!" "Yes, but, dear Lady Sally, how am I to kiss her when she's as cold as ice--and--and so unapproachable?" "And why is she cold?" said her ladyship. "Tell me that!" "Because she--thinks me naught but an elegant trifler!" "Not a bit of it. Because you treat her gently and politely, and let her flout you. God bless my soul, women don't want gentle politeness! Not Cleone, at all events! They like a man to be brutal!" "Brutal?" "Well, not exactly. They like to feel he'll stand no airs and graces. Oh, they want gentleness, never fear! But they want to feel helpless. They want mastering, most of 'em. When you kiss the tips of Clo's fingers, and treat her as though you thought she was made o' porcelain, she thinks you're no man, and don't care for her." "She cannot! She--" "She don't know it, of course, but it's true. Be advised by me, Philip, and insist on having your way with her. Don't be finicky!" "It's very well, but she doesn't love me!" "Oh, drat the man!" said her ladyship. "You fatigue me! Go your own road, but don't blame me when everything goes awry. If you have made Clo miserable she'll do something mad. And now I've warned you. Oh, here is James, looking like a sulky bear! James, my good boy, I've left my handkerchief in another room. Will you fetch it for me, please? Over there, behind the curtain. Yes, shocking, isn't it? But 'twas only old Fotheringham, so you can tell your uncle, Philip." He rose and laughed down at her. "And will he master you, my lady?" "Not he," said Lady Malmerstoke placidly. "I'm past the age of wanting that nonsense. Not that I ever wanted it, but I was always unusual. Be off with you!" Philip took James by the arm. "We are summarily dismissed! Come, Jamie, we'll find her handkerchief, and she'll smile again." In the withdrawing-room Cleone was dicing with Sir Deryk. A very unmaidenly proceeding. She had just lost the rose at her breast to Brenderby, and he was trying to undo the pin that held it in place. Failing in that, he grasped the stem firmly, and broke off the bloom. But with the rose he had clutched a thin blue riband from which hung a locket. It snapped, and the trinket rolled on to the floor. Cleone was already overwrought. She sprang up. "Oh, my locket!" And searched wildly on the floor. Surprised at her earnestness, Brenderby went down on his knees, and presently retrieved the locket just as Cleone had seen it. He rose, and was about to present it to her when she clasped agitated hands and demanded that it should be given her at once! This aroused Sir Deryk's curiosity. He withheld it. "Why so anxious, Cleone? What secret does it hide?" "Naught! Oh, give it me, give it me!" Sir Deryk held fast to the trophy. "Not so fast, Cleone! I'll swear there's some mystery here! I've a mind to peep inside!" "I forbid you!" said Cleone. "Sir Deryk--" She controlled herself. "Please give it me!" "And so I will, fairest, but first I must see what is inside!" "Oh, no, no! There's naught! I could not bear you to look! Besides, it's--it's empty. I--oh, give it me!" She stamped angrily. Brenderby's eyes were alight with impish laughter. "I'll make a bargain, sweetest! You shall play me for it." He picked up the dice-box. "If you beat my throw, I will give you the locket unopened. If you lose you shall pay a price for it." "I don't understand! What do you mean?" "You shall kiss me for it. One hard-earned kiss. Come, you must admit my terms are generous!" "I won't! How dare you, sir! And it is _my_ locket! You have no right to it!" "What I find I keep! Come! The odds are equal, and in neither case do I open the locket." "I--I thought you a gentleman!" "So I am, Clo. Were I not--I'd take the price and then the locket. There's no one to see, and no one need know. Cleone--you lovely creature!" Cleone wrung her hands. "I should die of shame! Oh, Sir Deryk, please be kind!" "Why should I be kind when you are not? You'll none of my terms? Very well!" He made as if to open the locket. "No, no, no!" almost shrieked Cleone. "I'll do anything, anything! Only don't open it!" "You'll play me?" Cleone drew a deep breath. "Yes. I will. And I'll never, never, never speak to you again!" He laughed. "Oh, I trust you'll change your mind! Now!" He cast the dice. "Aha! Can you beat that?" Cleone took the box in a firm clasp, and shook it long and violently. Her cheeks were burning, her eyes tight shut. She threw the dice. Brenderby bent over the table. "Alack!" Her eyes flew open. "I've won? Oh, I have won!" "No. I was grieving for you, fairest, not for myself. You have lost." Tears glistened on the end of her long lashes. "Sir Deryk--p-please be gen-generous now! I don't want to--kiss you!" "What! You cry off? Shame, Cleone!" he teased. "You are monstrous unk-kind! It's my locket, and I d-don't want to kiss you! I don't, I don't! I hate you!" "That adds spice, my dear. Must I take the price?" She choked down a sob. "Very well. Kiss me." She stood where she was, face upturned, with the resignation of a martyr. He laid his hands on her shoulders, looking down at her. "By God, Cleone, you're damnably beautiful!" he said thickly. "You've played with fire to-night--but I won't burn you too much!" He bent his head till his lips met hers. At that inauspicious moment James and Philip walked into the room. "No, it was here she said, Philip. I re--" With a cry of horror Cleone sprang away from Sir Deryk, her cheeks flaming. Her wide eyes went from James' face of frozen astonishment to Philip's pale, furious countenance. Philip took a half-step forward, his hand wrenching at his sword-hilt. Then he checked and slammed the sword back into the scabbard. Cleone had not struggled in Brenderby's embrace. What could he do? He had always thought her in love with the fellow. And on the top of his own proposal.... He swept a magnificent bow. "_Mille pardons, mademoiselle!_ It seems that I intrude." Cleone winced at the biting sarcasm in his voice. She tried to speak, and failed. What could she say? James came out of his stupor. He strode forward. "What in thunder--" "I don't kn-know!" quavered Cleone. "Oh--oh, heaven!" Quickly Brenderby stepped to her side. He took her hand in his, and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "Gentlemen, you have the honour of addressing my affianced wife," he said haughtily. Philip's hand was on the curtain. It clenched slowly. He stood very still, his eyes on Cleone's face. "Oh!" cried Cleone. "Oh, I--" She stopped helplessly. Heavens, what a position she was in! If she denied that she was betrothed to Brenderby, what could Philip think? What must he think? He had seen her in Sir Deryk's arms; the only excuse was a betrothal. And she had accused Philip of loose behaviour! Whatever happened, he must not think her a light woman! But, oh! how could she say she was betrothed to another when she desired nothing better than to fly to him for protection? She compromised. "I--oh, I think I am about--to faint!" she said. Sir Deryk drew her hand through his arm. "No, no, my love! Tell these gentlemen that it is as I say." Cleone looked at Philip. Was he sneering? She couldn't bear it. "Yes," she said. "It is." Philip seemed to stiffen. He bowed again. "Permit me to offer my felicitations," he said, but his voice was not quite steady. James hurried forward, furious. "Your pardon, sir! I beg leave to contradict that statement!" They all stared at him in amazement. Philip eyed him through his quizzing-glass. "I--beg--your--pardon?" drawled Brenderby. "I am betrothed to her myself!" shouted James. Cleone's hands flew to her cheeks. "Oh!" she fluttered. "Oh--oh, I _am_ going to faint!" Brenderby's eyes twinkled. "Bear up a little longer, dear! Of course, I know there is no truth in what Mr. Winton says!" "It is true!" James danced in his fury. "Cleone promised to wed me, only a little while back! You can't deny it, Clo! You did!" "I did not!" "You did! You said yes! You know you did!" Cleone leaned on the nearest thing to her for support. It chanced to be Sir Deryk, but she was past caring. "James, you know I--never meant it!" Suddenly Philip's lips twitched. Brenderby was bubbling over with ill-suppressed merriment. "My dear, this is most serious! Did you, indeed, accept Mr. Winton's proposal?" "Yes, but he knows I did not mean it! I--" "Cleone, do you tell me you accepted him and--" "Yes, she did! And I hold her to her promise!" Cleone's knees threatened to give way. "James, I can't marry you! I won't marry you!" "I hold you to your promise!" repeated James, almost beside himself. "And I." Sir Deryk passed his arm round Cleone's waist. "I hold Cleone to the promise she has given me!" Philip interposed. "Probably the lady would be glad of a chair," he suggested evenly. "James, Brenderby--let your future wife sit down!" Sir Deryk's shoulders shook. He led Cleone to the couch, and she sank on to it, hiding her face. Philip swung the curtain aside. "Permit me to withdraw. Decidedly I am _de trop_. Mademoiselle, messieurs!" He went out, and the curtain fell back into place. "Oh, oh, oh!" moaned Cleone. James bent over her. "Come, Clo! Let me take you back to your aunt!" Brenderby stepped to Cleone's other side. "Cleone needs no other escort than that of her affianced husband, sir!" "And that is I!" "On the contrary, it is I! Cleone, sweet, come!" Cleone sprang up. "It's neither of you! Don't--touch me! Oh, that I should be so humiliated! I will not marry you, James! You know that I never heard what you said!" James set his chin stubbornly. "I'll not release you from your promise," he said. "And nor will I." Sir Deryk was enjoying himself. "You must release me, James!" cried Cleone. "I--I am going to wed--Sir Deryk!" She dissolved into tears. "Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? How--how dreadful it is! Let me go! I hate you both!" She fled from them and was at her aunt's side before either had time to follow her. "Good gracious, child, what's amiss?" exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. "You're as white as my wig!" "Take me home!" begged Cleone. "I am b-betrothed to Sir Deryk and James! Oh, for heaven's sake, take me home!" Seventeen Mistress Cleone at Her Wits' End Sir Maurice and his brother were sitting at breakfast next morning when Philip burst in on them. Tom jumped up and swore. "Damn you, Philip! At this hour!" Philip paid not the slightest heed to him. He grasped his father by the shoulder. "Father, you must to Lady Malmerstoke's house at once!" Sir Maurice ate another mouthful of beef. "Sit down, my son, and be calm. What's to do?" "God alone knows!" cried Philip. He sank into a chair and rejected his uncle's offer of breakfast. "Breakfast? What have I to do with food when I'm nigh demented?" "Drink's the thing," agreed Tom placidly. He pushed a tankard of ale towards his nephew. "What ails you, lad?" "Cleone's betrothed to Brenderby," announced Philip wretchedly. "No!" Tom was dumbfounded. "And to Winton." Philip sought to drown his troubles in the tankard. "What!" Sir Maurice dropped his knife. "Betrothed to Brenderby _and_ Winton? You're raving!" "Would to God I were!" Philip emerged from the tankard, and wiped his lips with his fathers napkin. "I asked her to marry me at the ball last night. She refused; I won't tell you her exact words. Half an hour later I found her kissing _ce scélérat_ Brenderby in a secluded corner!" He laughed savagely. "You mean that Brenderby kissed her?" suggested Tom. "No, I do not! _Voyons_, would he be alive now had he dared embrace Cleone against her will? She submitted--she wished it!" "I'll not believe that!" exclaimed Sir Maurice. "You must believe it. She is betrothed to him. She said it herself. James was with me. He interposed, saying that she was already promised to him." Tom gave a chuckle. "Faith, the child is rich in--" He caught Philips eye and subsided. "Oh, ay, ay! Go on." "I know no more. I deemed it time for me to withdraw." "The proper thing to have done," said Tom solemnly, "was to have struck an attitude and said, 'Not so! The girl is mine!'" "What right had I? I was not amongst the favoured ones." "Don't sneer, Philip," interposed Sir Maurice. "There must be something behind all this." Philip turned to him. "That's what I hope and trust! You must go at once to Lady Malmerstoke's!" His head sank into his hands and he gave way to a gust of laughter. "Oh, Gad! neither would give way an inch. Both held Clo to her promise!" "Ye seem monstrous light-hearted about it," said his uncle. Philip sprang up. "Because I thought that--for one moment--she looked at me for help!" "Which you declined to give?" asked Sir Maurice dryly. "_Mon cher père_, I have my own game to play. Now go to Lady Malmerstoke's, I implore you!" Sir Maurice rose. "I'll go at once. What madness can have seized Cleone?" Philip almost pushed him out of the room. "That is what I want to know. Quickly, Father!" The little black page swung open the door of my lady's boudoir. "Sah Maurice Jettan!" "The very man I wish to see!" exclaimed Lady Malmerstoke. "Maurry, never were you more opportune!" Sir Maurice kissed her hand with punctilious politeness. He then smiled at Cleone, who stood by the table, pale and wan-looking. "I hope I see you well, Cleone?" "Very well, thank you, sir," said Cleone dully. Lady Malmerstoke sat down. "Clo has disgraced me," she said comfortably. "Is it not exciting?" Cleone turned her head away. Sir Maurice saw her lips tremble. "Please, Aunt--please don't--don't--I shall wed--Sir Deryk." "And what's to happen to t'other? You can't wed two men, my dear. I'm not sure that I shall consent to your marrying either." "Sir Deryk--has my word." "But so has James." "What's this?" Sir Maurice spoke with well-feigned astonishment. "Cleone, you are not betrothed, surely?" "To two men," nodded her aunt. "I have never been so amused in my life. I always considered myself to be flighty, but I'll swear I never was engaged to two men at one and the same time!" Cleone sat down, staring out of the window and biting her lips. "What!" cried Sir Maurice in liveliest horror. "Engaged to two men? Cleone!" The golden head was bowed. A great sob shook Cleone. "But--good heavens, my dear! This is dreadful! How could such a thing have come to pass?" "Of course it's dreadful," said her ladyship. "Think of the scandal when it is known. And that'll be soon, I'll wager. Brenderby will never keep such a piece of spice to himself." As she spoke, one of her eyelids flickered. Sir Maurice smiled, unseen by Cleone. "You--forget, Aunt. I am going to--wed--Sir Deryk." A shudder ran through her at the thought. "But I don't understand! Tell me how it happened, Cleone!" "Yes, tell him, Clo. Mayhap he can help you." "No one can help me," said Cleone miserably. "I must bear the pain of my own folly. I--oh, I have been so wicked!" "Now, Cleone? Why? What happened?" "I may as well tell you. It will be all over town by to-night--everyone will know me for a flirtatious, flighty woman. I--" "You won't have a shred of reputation left," said her aunt maliciously. Cleone started. "Rep--Oh, and I said--!" "Said what, my love?" "Naught. I--I--oh, Sir Maurice, Sir Maurice, I am so unhappy!" Cleone burst into tears. Sir Maurice patted one heaving shoulder. "There, there, Cleone! Tell me all about it!" "It--it was at the ball last n-night. I--I--no, first James proposed--to me, and I said yes, but I didn't mean it!" "You said yes, but you didn't mean it?" "I didn't hear what he said--I--I said yes because he worried so! And--and he knew I didn't mean it, for he walked away. Then I--I--went with Sir Deryk to a room apart--" "Cle-one!" "Oh, I know, I know! It was terrible of me, but I was so upset--I hardly cared what I did!" "But why were you upset? Because James had proposed?" "No--I--I--something--else--I can't tell you! Anyway--Sir Deryk took me to this room, and--and taught me to--to dice--yes, I know it was horrid! And--and I lost my rose to him, and when he--was taking it, he broke the string of my locket, and he wouldn't give it me, but said he must see what was inside, and I _couldn't_ let him! I _couldn't_!" "What was inside?" asked Sir Maurice. "For heaven's sake, don't ask her that!" begged Lady Malmerstoke. "It sets her off into floods of tears!" "Aunt, _please_! And--and so I played him--for it--and I lost and had to--to kiss him--for it. Don't, don't look at me! And then--and then _he_ came--with James--and saw! What he must _think_ of me! And I said that he--Oh, he must--" "Who is 'he'?" asked Sir Maurice innocently. He watched a tell-tale blush steal up under Cleone's fingers. "Mr.--Mr. Jettan--I--he--saw me kiss--Sir Deryk! Then--then--I think, to spare me--Sir Deryk said I was his betrothed wife. I could not say I was not, could I? It was too dreadful! And Phil--Mr. Jettan congratulated us! But James suddenly said he was going to marry me because I had said yes to him--by mistake! Of course I said I was not, but he wouldn't release me from my word, and nor would Sir Deryk! Then--then he--Ph--I mean Mr. Jettan--just bowed and went away, but I could see what he--thought of--of me. Oh, what shall I do? Neither will let me go! I am betrothed to two gentlemen, and--oh, _what_ shall I do?" Sir Maurice took a pinch of snuff. A smile hovered about his mouth. He shut the box with a snap. "It seems, my dear, that the situation calls for a third gentleman," he said, and picked up his hat. Cleone sprang to her feet. "Oh--oh, what are you going to do?" she cried. Sir Maurice walked to the door. "It needs a masterful hand to extricate you from your delicate position," he said. "I go in search of such a hand." Cleone ran to him, clasping his arm. "No, no, no! Oh, for heaven's sake, Sir Maurice, stop!" He laid a hand over her clutching fingers. "My dear, do you want a scandal?" "No, oh no! But I must persuade James!" "And do you want to marry this Brenderby?" "I--am going to marry him." "Cleone, answer me! Do you want to marry him?" "I don't want to marry anyone! I wish I were dead!" "Well, child, you are not dead. I refuse to see you fall into Brenderby's clutches, and I refuse to countenance the scandal that would arise if you rejected him. I am too old to serve you, but I know of one who is not." "Sir Maurice, I implore you, do not speak to him! You don't understand! You--Oh, stop, stop!" Sir Maurice had disengaged himself. He opened the door. "You need not fear that the third gentleman will cause you any annoyance, my dear. I can vouch for his discretion." Cleone tried to hold him back. "Sir Maurice, you don't understand! You must not ask Ph--your son to--to--help me! I--I didn't tell you all! I--Oh, come back!" The door closed behind Sir Maurice. "A very prompt, wise man," commented Lady Malmerstoke. "Now I am to be baulked of the scandal. Hey-dey!" Cleone paced to and fro. "I can't face him! I can't, I can't! What must he _think_ of me? What must he think? Aunt, you don't know all!" "Oh, yes, I do," retorted her ladyship. "No, no, you do not! Philip asked me to marry him--and--I refused! I--I--told him--I would not marry a man with a tarnished reputation! I--I said that--and worse! I accused him of trifling and--and--oh, it's too awful! That he should have been the one to see! How he must scorn me. Oh, Aunt, Aunt, can't you say something?" "Ay, one thing. That you will have to be very humble to Master Philip. At least, he was never betrothed twice in one night." Cleone collapsed on to the couch. "I'll not see him! I--oh, I must go home at once! I must, I must! Everything is all my fault! I ought never to have--sent him away! And now--and now he despises me!" "Who says so?" "I--how could he do else? Don't--don't you realise how dreadful I have been? And--and his face--when--when he--heard everything! He'll never never believe--the truth!" "What matters it?" asked my lady carelessly. "Since you do not love him--" "Oh, I do, I do, I do!" wept Cleone. * * * * * François admitted Sir Maurice. His round face was perturbed. It cleared somewhat at the sight of Sir Maurice. "_Ah, m'sieur, entrez donc!_ M'sieur Philippe he is like one mad!--He rage, he go up and down the room like a caged beast! It is a woman, without doubt it is a woman! I have known it _depuis longtemps_! Something terrible has happened! M'sieur is _hors de lui-même_!" Sir Maurice laughed. "Poor François! I go to reassure m'sieur." "Ah, if m'sieur can do that!" "I can--most effectively. Where is he?" François pointed to the library door. * * * * * Philip literally pounced on his father. "Well? You have seen her? Is she in love with Brenderby? Is she to wed him? What did she tell you?" Sir Maurice pushed him away. "You are the second distracted lover who has clutched me to-day. Have done." Philip danced with impatience. "But speak, Father! Speak!" Sir Maurice sat down leisurely and crossed his legs. "At the present moment Cleone is betrothed. Very much so," he added, chuckling. "I am about to put the whole matter into your hands." "My hands? She wants my help?" "Not at all. She is insistent that you shall not be appealed to. In fact, she was almost frantic when I suggested it." "Then does she not want to marry Brenderby?" "Certainly not. But she will do if you fail to intervene." Philip flung out his hands. "But tell me, sir! What happened last night?" "Sit down and be quiet," said Sir Maurice severely. "I am on the point of telling you." Philip obeyed meekly. "And don't interrupt." Sir Maurice proceeded to relate all that he had heard from Cleone.... "And she was so upset that she went with Brenderby, not caring what happened. That is the whole story," he ended. "Upset? But--was she upset--because I had offered and been rejected?" "Presumably. Now she is so hopelessly compromised that she daren't face you." Philip sank his head into his hands and gave way to a long peal of laughter. "_Sacré nom de Dieu_, the tables are turned, indeed. Oh, Clo, Clo, you wicked little hussy! And what was in that locket?" "That you will have to ask her yourself," answered Sir Maurice. Philip jumped up. "And I shall. _Mordieu_, never did I dream of such a solution to my difficulties!" "Perhaps she still will not have you, Philip," warned Sir Maurice. Philip flung back his head. "Thunder of God, she will have me now if I have to force her to the altar! _Ciel_, you have taken a load off my mind, sir! I thought she cared for Brenderby! She smiled on him so consistently. And now for _ce cher_ Brenderby! I am going to enjoy myself." "Remember, Philip! No breath of scandal!" "Am I so clumsy? Not a whisper shall there be! François, François! My hat, my cloak, my boots, and my SWORD!" Eighteen Philip Takes Charge of the Situation Sir Deryk's valet came to him, bowing. "There is a gentleman below who desires speech with you, sir." "Oh? Who is he?" "Mr. Philip Jettan, sir." Sir Deryk raised his eyebrows. "Jettan? What can he want with me? Ay, I'll come." He rose and went languidly downstairs. "This is an unexpected honour, Jettan! Come in!" He led Philip into a large room. "Is it a mere friendly visit?" "Anything but that," said Philip. "I have come to tell you that you will not be able to wed Mistress Cleone Charteris." "Oh?" Brenderby laughed. "Why do you say that?" "Because," Philip smiled a little, "I am going to wed her myself." "You? Oh, Gad, you make the third!" "And there is, as you know, luck in odd numbers. Are you satisfied?" "Satisfied? Damme, no! The girl's lovely! I've a mind to her." "Even though I tell you that she desires to be released?" "Even though she told it me herself!" "I trust you will allow me to persuade you?" Philip patted his sword-hilt lovingly. A light sprang to Brenderby's eyes. "Is it a fight you're wanting? By Gad, no man has ever had need to challenge me twice! Here? Now? Help me push the table back!" "One moment! You love a hazard, I think? I fight you for the right to wed Mistress Cleone. If I win you relinquish all claim upon her, and you swear never to breathe a word of what passed last night. If you win--oh, if you win, you do as you please!" "Ay, aught you will! I've been pining for a fight for many a long day. You're a man after my heart, stap me if you're not! Here, wait while I fetch my sword!" He hurried out of the room, returning in a very short time with a rapier. "I've told my man that you have come to fence with me. But we'll lock the door in case of accidents. How does my sword measure with yours?" Philip compared them. "Very well." His eyes danced suddenly. "_Dieu!_ I never thought to fight so strange a duel!" He pulled off his boots. "We'll fight in wigs, yes? One is so displeasing without a hair to one's head." "A dozen, if you like!" Brenderby struggled out of his coat and vest. "You know, you are shorter than I am. We're not fair matched." Philip laughed, tucking up his ruffles. "No matter. You see, I must win!" "Why?" Brenderby made an imaginary pass in the air. "So much depends on it," explained Philip. "Is the light fair to both?" "Fair enough," said Brenderby. "You are ready, then? _Eh bien!_" The blades met and hissed together. Opening in quarte, Brenderby seemed at first to be the better of the two. Philip stayed on the defensive, parrying deftly and allowing Brenderby to expend his energies. Once Brenderby's blade flashed out and all but pinked Philip, but he managed to recover his opposition in time. His eyes opened wider; he became more cautious. Suddenly he descried an opening and lunged forward. There was a moment's scuffle, and Brenderby put the murderous point aside. Then Philip seemed to quicken. When Brenderby began to pant, Philip changed his tactics, and gave back thrust for thrust. His wrist was like flexible steel; his footwork was superb; the whole style of his fencing was different from that of Brenderby. All at once Brenderby saw an opening. He thrust in quinte, steel scraped against steel, and Philip's point flashed into his right arm above the elbow. Brenderby staggered back, clutched at his arm, and tried to raise his sword again. But Philip was at his side, supporting him. "It's only a flesh wound--painful now--_bien sûr_. It will--heal quickly. I do not--mistake," he gasped. "Damme--I'm not done for--yet!" "But yes! I fight--no more. You cannot--keep your blade--steady--now! Sit down!" He lowered Brenderby into a chair, and whisked out his handkerchief. He bound up Sir Deryk's wound and fetched him a glass of wine from a decanter on the sideboard. "Thanks!" Sir Deryk gulped it down. "But where are my manners? Pour some for yourself, Jettan! Gad, but you pinked me neatly!" He seemed to slip back into his habitual drawl. "As pretty a piece of sword-play as I wish to see. But you fence French-fashion." Philip drank some wine. "Yes. It was at Paris that I learned. With Guillaume Corvoisier." "No!" Brenderby heaved himself up. "Corvoisier, forsooth! No wonder you're so quick!" Philip smiled and bowed. "You frightened me more than once, sir." "Faith, it wasn't apparent then! You were so intent on winning?" "It means so much, you see," said Philip simply. "My whole life's happiness." "What! You really intend to wed Cleone?" Again Philip bowed. "I have always intended to wed her." "You?" Brenderby stared. "I never knew that! What of that young sprig Winton?" "Oh, I think I can persuade James!" "Like this?" Brenderby glanced down at his arm. "No, not like that. Tell me, sir, did you intend to wed Mademoiselle?" "Heaven forbid! I've no mind to tie myself up yet awhile. Your entrance last night forced me to say what I did to spare the lady's blushes. I'd no notion of continuing the comedy, until young Winton thrust in with his prior claim. Gad, but 'twas amusing! Did you not find it so?" "I? No. But I was closely concerned in the affair, you see. I may take it that you will say naught of last night's work?" "Of course not. 'Twas a mad jest, but I'd not let it go so far as to damage a lady's reputation. And you may tell Mistress Cleone that I apologise--for what happened before. She's too damnably beautiful." Philip worked himself into his coat. "'Damnably' is not the word I should employ, but _n'importe_." He sat down and started to pull on his boots. "I have enjoyed myself. I said I should." "Tare an' 'ouns, so have I! It's an age since I've had a sword in my hand. I am indebted to you, sir." "Yes, you are out of practice. I thank the kind fates for that!" "Ay, I'd have kept you at it longer, but I don't know that the issue would have been different. You must go?" Philip picked up his hat. "I must. I have to thank you for--" "Oh, stuff! I'd no notion of holding Cleone to her promise, but I could not resist the offer of a fight. I wish you could see how monstrous amusing it was, though!" Philip laughed. "Had it been anyone but Cleone I might have been able to appreciate the humour of the situation! I trust the wound will heal quickly." "Oh, that's naught! A mere prick, but I was winded. Fare ye well, Jettan. My felicitations! You felicitated me last night, did you not?" He laughed. "With black murder in my heart!" nodded Philip. "I do not say good bye, but _au revoir_!" "Here's my hand on it then--my left hand, alack!" Philip grasped it. Brenderby accompanied him to the front door and waved to him as he ran down the steps. "_Bonne chance_, as you'd say yourself! _Au 'voir!_" Philip waved back at him and turned to hail a passing chair. He instructed the bearers to carry him to Jermyn Street. It seemed that the luck was indeed with him, for he arrived just as James was descending the steps of his house. Philip sprang out, paid the chairmen, and took Winton's arm. "My friend, a word with you!" "Yes?" said James. "You seem excited, Philip." "It's what I am, then. I've come to speak to you of Cleone." James stiffened. "I'll not give her up to that fellow Brenderby!" he said fiercely. "It's more than flesh and blood can bear." "Assuredly. But will you give her up to me?" James turned to stare at him. "You? But she is to wed Brenderby!" "Ah, but no! that is at an end. Brenderby releases her. He is not so bad a man as you think. _En effet_, I like him." "I loathe the sight of him, drawling fop!" "To-day I have seen him in another light. But that is not what I have to say. Cleone does not wish to marry you, _mon enfant_, and it is churlish to persist." "I know she'll never marry me," answered James gloomily. "I only held her to her word because I thought she'd have Brenderby if I did not." "I understand. You'll release her--for me?" "I suppose so. Why did you say naught last night?" "There were reasons. They no longer exist. Come, Jamie, don't look so glum! You are young yet." "It's easy to say that. Oh, I knew I never had a chance with her! I congratulate you, Philip." Philip pressed his arm. "My thanks. You're very generous! And now I must fly!" "Where? May I accompany you?" "Again many thanks, but no! I have an engagement. _Au revoir, mon cher!_" Nineteen Philip Justifies His Chin Once more Lady Malmerstoke's page went up to the boudoir. "Mistah Philip Jettan is below, m'lady!" Up started Cleone. "I will not see him! Aunt Sarah, I beg you will go to him! Please spare me this--humiliation!" Lady Malmerstoke waved her aside. "Admit him, Sambo. Yes, here. Cleone, control yourself!" "I can't see him! I can't! I can't! How _can_ I face him?" "Turn your back, then," said her unsympathetic aunt. "I wonder what he has done?" "D-do you think he--could have--arranged everything?" asked Cleone, with a gleam of hope. "From what I have seen of him, I should say yes. A masterful young man, my dear. Else why that chin?" She moved to the door. Philip came in, immaculate as ever. "Ah, Philip!" Philip shot a look past her. Cleone had fled to the window. He bent and kissed Lady Malmerstoke's hand. "_Bonjour, madame!_" He held open the door and bowed. Her ladyship laughed. "What! Turning me from my own boudoir?" "If you please, madame." "Aunt--Sarah!" The whisper came from the window. Philip smiled faintly. "Madame...." "Oh, that chin!" said her ladyship, and patted it. She went out and Philip closed the door behind her. Cleone's fingers clasped one another desperately. Her heart seemed to have jumped into her throat. It almost choked her. She dared not look round. She heard the rustle of Philip's coat-skirts. Never, never had she felt so ashamed, or so frightened. "Your devoted servant, mademoiselle!" Cleone could not speak. She stood where she was, trembling uncontrollably. "I have the honour of informing you, mademoiselle, that you are released from your engagements." Was there a note of laughter in the prim voice? "I--thank you--sir," whispered Cleone. Her teeth clenched in an effort to keep back the tears. She was blinded by them, and her bosom was heaving. There was a slight pause. Why did he not go? Did he wish to see her still more humiliated? "I have also to offer, on Sir Deryk's behalf, his apologies for the happenings of last night, mademoiselle." "Th--thank--you, sir." Again the nerve-killing silence. If only he would go before she broke down! "Cleone...." said Philip gently. The tears were running down her cheeks, but she kept her head turned away. "Please--go!" she begged huskily. He was coming across the room towards her.... Cleone gripped her hands. "Cleone ... dearest!" A heartbroken sob betrayed her. Philip took her in his arms. "My sweetheart! Crying? Oh no, no! There is naught now to distress you." The feel of his arms about her was sheer bliss; their strength was like a haven of refuge. Yet Cleone tried to thrust him away. "What--must you--think of me!" she sobbed. He drew her closer, till her head rested against his shoulder. "Why, that you are a dear, foolish, naughty little Cleone. _Chérie_, don't cry. It is only your Philip--your own Philip, who has always loved you, and only you. Look up, my darling, look up!" Cleone gave way to the insistence of his arms. "Oh, Philip--forgive me!" she wept. "I have--been mad!" She raised her head and Philips arms tightened still more. He bent over her and kissed her parted lips almost fiercely. * * * * * Later, seated beside him on the couch, her head on his shoulder, and his arm about her, Cleone gave a great sigh. "But why--why did you treat me so--hatefully--when you--came back, Philip?" "I was hurt, darling, and wished to see whether you wanted the real me--or a painted puppet. But then you changed suddenly--and I knew not what to think." Cleone nestled closer. "Because I thought you--did not care! But oh, Philip, Philip, I have been so unhappy!" Philip promptly kissed her. "And--last night--Philip, you don't think I--" "Sweetheart! Is it likely that I'd believe ill of you?" She hid her face. "I--I believed--ill--of you," she whispered. "But you do not believe it now, sweetheart?" "No, oh no! But--but--that duel with Mr. Bancroft. Was it--was it--some--French lady?" Philip was silent for a moment. "No, Cleone. That is all I can say." "Was it"--her voice was breathless--"was it--me?" Philip did not answer. "It was! How wonderful!" Philip was startled. "You are pleased, Cleone? Pleased?" "Of course I am! I--oo!" She gave a little wriggle of delight. "Why did you not tell me?" "It is not--one of the things one tells one's lady-love," said Philip. "Oh! And to-day? How did you--persuade Sir Deryk?" "Through the arm. But he had no intention of holding you to your word." Cleone grew rather rigid. "Oh--indeed? In-deed?" Philip was mystified. "You did not want to be held to it, did you, _chérie_?" "N-no. But--I don't like him, Philip." "I did not, I confess. I think I do now." "Do you? And what of James?" "Oh, James! He will recover." There was a pause while Cleone digested this. "Philip?" "Cleone?" "You--you--don't care for Jenny, do you?" "Jenny? Cleone, for shame! Because I was polite--" "More than that, Philip!" "Well, dearest, no one paid any heed to her or was kind. What would you?" "It was only that? I thought--I thought--" "Cleone, you think too much," he chided her. "Next you will accuse me of loving Ann Nutley!" It was a master-stroke, and he knew it. "You didn't? Not a tiny bit?" "Not an atom!" "And no one--in Paris?" "No one. I have pretended, but they all knew that I had already lost my heart." "You pretended?... Oh!" "One must, sweetest." "But--" He drew her closer. "But never, most beautiful, did I become engaged--twice in one evening!" He stifled the cry that rose to her lips. "Philip, that is ungallant, and--and hateful!" He laughed. "Is it not? Ah, Cleone! Tell me, my dearest, what is in your locket?" "Something I meant to burn," she murmured. "But did not?" "No--I could not." She fumbled at her bosom and drew out the trinket. "See for yourself, Philip." He opened it. A rolled lock of brown hair fell out and a torn scrap of parchment. Philip turned it over. "Yours till death, Philip," he read. "Cleone, my love." She buried her face on his shoulder. "Your--hair--your poor hair!" she said. "All gone! Look up, Cleone!" She lifted her face. He gazed down at her, rapt. "Oh, Cleone--I shall write a sonnet to your wonderful eyes!" he breathed. Twenty Mademoiselle de Chaucheron Rings Down the Curtain Sir Maurice Jettan stood in the withdrawing-room of the Hotel Cleone and studied himself in the glass. He smiled a little and straightened his shoulders. There came a swish of skirts in the passage without, and the door opened. In walked Cleone, a fair vision in a gown of pure white satin and lace. Sir Maurice turned. He raised his quizzing-glass the better to inspect his daughter-in-law. "Upon my soul, Cleone!" he ejaculated. Cleone swept him a curtsey, laughing. "Is it not ridiculous? Philip insisted. Wait till you see him!" She ran to the mirror. "Do you like the way my hair is dressed, father?" "I am struck dumb by the whole effect!" answered Sir Maurice. "Yes, I like that white rose in your hair." "Oh, you must tell Philip that! He spent hours and hours trying to place it to his entire satisfaction! It has been terrible, _je t'assure_. Yes, I am beginning to acquire an accent, am I not? Philip nearly tore his beautiful wig in his anxiety!" She re-arranged the roses at her breast. "At one time I expected him to summon François to his assistance. But he refrained, and here am I!" Sir Maurice sat down. "Has he been dressing you, my dear?" "Has he--! For the past three hours, sir! He has driven my maid distracted." She started to count on her fingers. "He spent half an hour superintending my hair-dressing and another half an hour placing this rose and the pearls. Then half an hour went to my patches--this is when he nearly tore his wig!--he could not decide where to put them. The arrangement of my gown occupied quite an hour in all. And then he was much put out over my jewels." She held up her fingers. "I vow they are red and sore, sir! I have had rings pushed on them, and dragged off them, until I was nigh screaming with impatience! But now I am dressed--and I have been told on pain of Philip's direst wrath to _n'y toucher pas_!" She sat down on the couch beside Sir Maurice and slipped her hand in his. "Is he not absurd? And oh, I am prodigious nervous!" "Why, my dear? What should make you so?" "You see, it is my first appearance in Paris--it is to be my first ball--and I am so afraid I shall not understand what is said to me, or--or something mortifying!" "Not understand? Nonsense, Clo! Why, you have talked hardly any English since you have been married." "Yes, but I am not at all fluent. Philip says everyone will be most amiable, but--oh, dear!" At that moment François darted into the room, a harassed frown on his face. "Ah, _pardon, madame! Pardon, m'sieu'! Je cherche la tabatière de m'sieu' Philippe!_" "_Laquelle?_" asked Cleone. Sir Maurice was amused by her serious air. "The one with the pearls?" "_Mais oui, madame._ It is this fool of a Jacques who has lost it, _sans doute_! Ah, _la voilà_!" He seized the errant box and skipped out again. Cleone breathed a sigh of relief. "How terrible if it had been really lost!" she said. Sir Maurice laughed. "Would it have been so great a catastrophe?" "But of course! It matches his dress, you understand." "I see." Sir Maurice smothered another laugh. "My dear, do you know that it is three years since last I was in this city of cities?" "Is it? Don't you think it is a wonderful place? Philip took me for a walk yesterday, and I was enchanted! And this house--I know I shall never bear to leave it! Philip says that the Hotel Cleone will be the most fashionable one in Paris! I was so surprised when he brought me here! I had no idea that there was a house waiting for me. He and François got all ready the week before our marriage! I've never been so happy in my life! And to-night I am to see Philip in what he calls his milieu. He tells me he was never at home in London." "Philip in his milieu. Paris." Sir Maurice smiled down at her. "When I think of what Philip was not quite a year ago...." "It seems impossible, doesn't it? But oh, I am glad now that I sent him away. He is quite, quite perfect!" "H'm!" said Sir Maurice. Cleone laughed at him. "You pretend! I know how proud you are!" "Minx! I confess I am curious to see Philip in his Parisian Society. No one knows that he is here?" "Not a soul. He insisted on guarding the secret until he could make a really dramatic appearance at the Duchesse de Sauverin's ball to-night. He is mad, you know, quite mad! Oh, here he is!" Philip came into the room with a rustle of stiff silks. Sir Maurice started at him. "Good God, Philip, what audacity!" From head to foot his son was clad in white. The only splash of colour was the red heels of his shoes; his only jewels were pearls and diamonds; on the lapel of his coat he wore a single white rose. "Isn't it ridiculous?" said Cleone. "But doesn't he look beautiful?" "Stand up, child, and let me see you side by side.... Yes. What audacity! Had I known, I would have attired myself in black--the old man at the ball." "'Twould have made an excellent foil," agreed Philip. "But no matter. Cleone, you have re-arranged your roses!" Cleone backed, warding him off. "I cry your pardon, sir! Oh no, let me be!" Philip came to her, and with deft fingers pulled the flowers into position. "One of them must kiss your skin, so! To show that it is no whiter than the skin. _Voilà, c'est bien!_" "Who is likely to be at the ball to-night, Philip?" asked his father. "_Tout le monde._ One always goes to Madame de Sauverin's balls. It is de rigueur." "We shall be late!" warned Cleone. "Oh, we are late now!" "That is also de rigueur," said Philip. "Sir Maurice, _M'sieu', et Madame Jettan_!" announced the lackey. There was a sudden hush. All eyes turned to the late-comers. In the doorway stood a tall gentleman, at his side two dazzling visions in white. Madame de Sauverin stared for a moment in wonderment. Then she hurried forward, hands outstretched. "Philippe!" "Philippe! _Le petit_ Philippe!" A score of voices took up the cry. Nearly everyone there surged forward. Philip kissed Madame's hand. "_Chère madame!_ I may present my wife? My father you know." Cleone curtseyed low. "Your--wife!" Madame took Cleone's hands. "_Voyons, voyons, notre petit Philippe s'est_ éspousé! _Et Maurice!_" Philip and Cleone were at the centre of a welcoming throng. Cleone's hand was kissed a dozen times. Delighted questions were shot at Philip. Saint-Dantin grasped his hand. "_Mon cher petit!_ You have returned at last? _Et madame!_" He bowed to the blushing Cleone. "There is no need to ask who is, _madame_." He smiled at her. "It is evident that her name is Cleone!" De Vangrisse pressed forward. "The mysterious Cleone! _Madame, votre serviteur!_ We have all longed to see the lady who so consistently held Philip's heart!" "Philippe, how long have you been in Paris?" demanded De Chatelin. "You are going to remain? _Ah bon!_" "Philippe, have you an ode for the occasion?" asked another laughing voice. Clothilde de Chaucheron pushed through the ring. "_Le petit Philippe au c[oe]ur perdu!_" she cried. Philip disengaged himself from the clutches of Saint-Dantin and took his wife's hand. "_Mademoiselle de Chaucheron, chérie_," he said, and bowed. Clothilde gazed at Cleone for a moment. Then she swept a deep curtsey. "_Je me trompe_," she said, smiling. "_Le petit Philippe au c[oe]ur trouvé._" 
43769	----	Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. Examples include peddler and peddlar, grandmere and gran'mere, Mr. de Ronville and M. de Ronville. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal signs=. A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg The "Little Girl" Series By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS In Handsome Cloth Binding Price, per Volume 60 Cents A Little Girl in Old New York A Little Girl of Long Ago A sequel to "A Little Girl in Old New York" A Little Girl in Old Boston A Little Girl in Old Philadelphia A Little Girl in Old Washington A Little Girl in Old New Orleans A Little Girl in Old Detroit A Little Girl in Old St. Louis A Little Girl in Old Chicago A Little Girl in Old San Francisco A Little Girl in Old Quebec A Little Girl in Old Baltimore A Little Girl in Old Salem A Little Girl in Old Pittsburg For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price. A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS 52, 58 Duane Street New York A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PITTSBURG By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS [Illustration] A. L. BURT COMPANY PUBLISHERS NEW YORK Copyright, 1909, by DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY Published, September, 1909 CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A LITTLE GIRL 1 II A JOYFUL RETURN 19 III WELCOME 39 IV OLD PITTSBURG 60 V HOW THE WORLD WIDENED 81 VI A NEW FRIEND 103 VII DAFFODIL'S NEW WORLD 120 VIII IN SILK ATTIRE 141 IX WITH THE EYES OF YOUTH 152 X THE PASSING OF THE OLD 169 XI THE WOOF OF DAILY THINGS 189 XII SPINNING WITH VARIOUS THREADS 209 XIII THE SWEETNESS OF LOVE 227 XIV SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW 242 XV ANOTHER FLITTING 261 XVI SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER 284 XVII OH, WHICH IS LOVE? 305 XVIII A REVELATION 320 CHAPTER I A LITTLE GIRL "Oh, what is it, grandad! Why is Kirsty ringing two bells and oh, what is he saying?" Grandfather Carrick had come out of his cottage and stood in the small yard place that a young oak had nearly filled with a carpet of leaves. He was a medium-sized man with reddish hair streaked with white, and a spare reddish beard, rather ragged, bright blue eyes and a nose _retroussé_ at the best, but in moments of temper or disdain it turned almost upside down, as now. "What is he sayin'. Well, it's a dirty black lee! Lord Cornwallis isn't the man to give in to a rabble of tatterdemalions with not a shoe to their feet an' hardly a rag to their back! By the beard of St. Patrick they're all rags!" and he gave an insolent laugh! "It's a black lee, I tell you!" He turned and went in the door with a derisive snort. Daffodil stood irresolute. Kirsty was still ringing his two bells and now people were coming out to question. The street was a rather winding lane with the houses set any way, and very primitive they were, built of logs, some of them filled in with rude mortar and thatched with straw. Then Nelly Mullin came flying along, a bright, dark-haired, rosy-cheeked woman, with a shawl about her shoulders. She caught up the child and kissed her rapturously. "Oh, isn't it full grand!" she cried. "Cornwallis has surrendered to General Washington! Our folks caught him in a trap. An' now the men folks will come home, my man an' your father, Dilly. Thank the Saints there wasna a big battle. Rin tell your mither!" "But grandad said it was a--a lee!" and the child gave a questioning look. "Lie indeed!" she laughed merrily. "They wouldna be sending all over the country such blessed news if it was na true. Clear from Yorktown an' their Cornwallis was the biggest man England could send, a rale Lord beside. Rin honey, I must go to my sisters." The little girl walked rather slowly instead, much perturbed in her mind. The Duvernay place joined the Carrick place and at present they were mostly ranged round the Fort. That was much smaller, but better kept and there were even some late hardy flowers in bloom. "What's all the noise, Posy?" asked Grandfather Duvernay. He was an old, old man, a bright little Frenchman with snowy white hair, but bright dark eyes. He was a good deal wrinkled as became a great-grandfather, and he sat in a high-backed chair at one corner of the wide stone chimney that was all built in the room. There was a fine log fire and Grandmother Bradin was stirring a savory mass of herbs. The real grandfather was out in the barn, looking after the stock. "It was Kirsty ringing two bells. Cornwallis is taken." "No!" The little man sprang up and clasped his hands. "You are sure you heard straight! It wasn't Washington?" "I'm quite sure. And Nelly Mullin said 'run and tell your mother, your father'll be coming home.'" "Thank the good God." He dropped down in the chair again and closed his eyes, bent his head reverently and prayed. "Your mother's asleep now. She's had a pretty good night. Run out and tell gran." Grandfather Bradin kissed his little girl, though he was almost afraid to believe the good news. Three years Bernard Carrick had been following the fortunes of war and many a dark day had intervened. "Oh, that won't end the war. There's Charleston and New York. But Cornwallis! I must go out and find where the news came from." "Grandad don't believe it!" There was still a look of doubt in her eyes. Bradin laughed. "I d' know as he'd believe it if he saw the articles of peace signed. He'll stick to King George till he's laid in his coffin. There, I've finished mending the steps and I'll slip on my coat and go." "I couldn't go with you?" wistfully. "No, dear. I'll run all about and get the surest news. I s'pose it came to the Fort, but maybe by the South road." He took the child's hand and they went into the house. The streets were all astir. Grandfather stood by the window looking out, but he turned and smiled and suddenly broke out in his native French. His face then had the prettiness of enthusiastic old age. "We'll shake hands on it," said Bradin. "I'm going out to see. There couldn't be a better word." The autumnal air was chilly and he wrapped his old friese cloak around him. "Mother's awake now," said Mrs. Bradin. "You may go in and see her." The door was wide open now. It was as large as the living room, but divided by a curtain swung across, now pushed aside partly. There was a bed in each corner. A light stand by the head of the bed, a chest of drawers, a brass bound trunk and two chairs completed the furnishing of this part. The yellow walls gave it a sort of cheerful, almost sunshiny look, and the curtain at the window with its hand-made lace was snowy white. The painted floor had a rug through the centre that had come from some foreign loom. The bedstead had high slender carved posts, but was without a canopy. A woman still young and comely as to feature lay there. She was thin, which made the eyes seem larger and darker. The brown hair had a certain duskiness and was a curly fringe about the forehead. She smiled up at the little girl, who leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "You are better, mother dear," she said as she seated herself with a little spring on the side of the bed. "But you said so yesterday. When will it be real, so you can get up and go out?" and a touch of perplexity crossed the child's face. "Gra'mere thinks I may sit up a little while this afternoon. I had no fever yesterday nor last night." "Oh, mother, I was to tell you that Cornwallis has--it's a long word that has slipped out of my mind. Nelly Mullin said her husband would come home and my father. Kirsty Boyle rang two bells----" "Oh, what was it? Go and ask grandfather, child," and the mother half rose in her eagerness. "It was 'sur-ren-dered' with his army. Father has gone to see. And then the war will end." "Oh, thank heaven, the good God, and all the saints, for I think they must have interceded. They must be glad when dreadful wars come to an end." She laid her head back on the pillow and the tears fringed her dark lashes. The child was thinking, puzzling over something. Then she said suddenly, "What is my father like? I seem to remember just a little--that he carried me about in his arms and that we all cried a good deal." "It was three years and more ago. He loved us very much. But he felt the country needed him. And the good Allfather has kept him safe. He has never been wounded or taken prisoner, and if he comes back to us----" "But what is surrendered?" "Why, the British army has given up. And Lord Cornwallis is a great man. England, I believe, thought he could conquer the Colonies. Oh, Daffodil, you are too little to understand;" in a sort of helpless fashion. "He isn't like grandad then. Grandad wants England to beat." "No, he isn't much like grandad. And yet dear grandad has been very good to us. Of course he was desperately angry that your father should go for a soldier. Oh, if he comes home safe!" "Dilly," said gran'mere, pausing at the door with a piece of yellow pumpkin in her hand which she was peeling, "you must come away now. You have talked enough to your mother and she must rest." The child slipped down and kissed the pale cheek again, then came out in the living-room and looked around. The cat sat washing her face and at every dab the paw went nearer her ear. "You shan't, Judy! We don't want rain, do we, grandfather?" She caught up the cat in her arms, but not before pussy had washed over one ear. Grandfather laughed. "Well, it _does_ make it rain when she washes over her ear," the little girl said with a very positive air. "It did on Sunday." "And I guess pussy washes over her ear every day in the week." "It's saved up then for the big storms;" with a triumphant air. "Get the board and let's have a game. You're so smart I feel it in my bones that you will beat." She put Judy down very gently, but the cat switched her tail around and wondered why. She brought out the board that was marked like "Tit tat toe," and a box that she rattled laughingly. Pussy came when they had adjusted it on their knees and put two white paws on it, preparatory to a jump. "Oh, Judy, I can't have you now. Come round and sit by the fire." Judy went round to the back of Dilly's chair and washed over both ears in a very indignant manner. The play was Fox and Geese. There was one red grain of corn for the fox and all the geese were white. One block at the side was left vacant. If you could pen the fox in there without losing a goose or at the most two or three, you were the winner. But if once you let the fox out the geese had to fly for their lives. Grandfather often let the little girl beat. He was very fond of her, and he was a sweet-natured old man who liked to bestow what pleasure he could. Just now he was feeling impatient for the news and wanted to pass away the time. Dilly was quite shrewd, too, for a little girl not yet seven. She considered now and moved a far off goose, and the fox knew that was sour grapes. "Oh, you're a sharp one!" exclaimed grandfather. "I'll have to mind how I doze on this bout." But alas! On the next move she let him in a little way, then she fenced him out again, and lost one goose repairing her defences. But it wasn't a bad move. The great art was to keep one goose behind another for protection. He couldn't jump over but one at a time. She beat grandfather, who pretended to be quite put out about it and said she'd do for an army general. Grandmother was making a pumpkin pudding with milk and eggs and sugar and stick-cinnamon, which was quite a luxury. Then she poured it into an iron pan that stood upon little feet, drew out a bed of coal, and plumped it down. The cover had a rim around the top, and she placed some coals on the top of this. She baked her bread in it, too. Stoves were great luxuries and costly. Then she laid some potatoes in the hot ashes and hung a kettle of turnips on the crane. Grandfather and the little girl had another game and she was the fox this time and lost, getting penned up. "Grandfather," she said sagely, "if you know the good early moves and don't make any mistake, you're sure to win." "I believe that is so. You're getting a stock of wisdom, Dilly. Oh, won't your father be surprised when he comes home. You were a mere baby when he went away." She was an oddly pretty child. Her hair was really yellow, soft and curly, then her eyes were of so dark a blue that you often thought them black. The eyebrows and lashes were dark, the nose rather piquant, the mouth sweet and rosy, curved, with dimples in the corners. But in those days no one thought much about beauty in children. The door was flung open. "Ugh!" ejaculated Gran Bradin. "It's fairly wintry. Fire feels good! The news is just glorious! They headed off Cornwallis after having destroyed their fortifications and dismantled their cannon. The British works were so in ruins they tried escape. One section of troops crossed over to Glous'ter Point, but a storm set in and dispersed the boats. There was nothing left but surrender. So the great army and the great general who were to give us the finishing stroke, handed in their capitulation to General Washington. There are between seven and eight thousand prisoners and all the shipping in the harbor. Grandfather, you may be proud. We had, it is thought, seven thousand French troops, with Count De Rochambeau, and Count De Grasse." He reached over and wrung grandfather's slim white hand with its tracery of blue veins. Then he kissed his wife. "They've been good friends to us. We'll never forget that!" "And the war is over?" "Not exactly that. We've yet to dislodge them from various places. But they think now England will be willing to treat. And we'll have a country of our own! Well, it was three weeks ago." There were no telegraphs, and only the more important places had post roads. Pittsburg was quite out of the way. It had no dreams of grandeur in those days, and about its only claim to eminence was Braddock's defeat. "Lang brought some copies of the Philadelphia _Gazette_, but you couldn't get near one, they were rushed off so. But we'll hear it all in a few days. Too much good news might puff us up with vain glory. We may look for letters any day. Such a splendid victory!" Grandfather was wiping the tears from his eyes. Marc Bradin went in to comfort his daughter, though he could hardly forbear smiling with a sense of inward amusement as he thought of Sandy Carrick, who had as good as disowned his son for joining the Colonial army. He'd be glad enough to have him back again. Though he had been rather disgruntled at his marrying Barbe Bradin because she had French blood in her veins, as if the Irish Bradin could not in some degree counteract that! Sandy Carrick had been in the sore battle of Braddock's defeat. But after all the cowardly French had thought retreat the better part of valor and left the Fort that had been partly burned, left that section as well, and the government had erected the new Fort Pitt. He insisted that the French had been really driven out. They certainly had been checked in their advance to the Mississippi. Pittsburg was a conglomerate in these early days. Welsh, Irish, and English had contributed to its then small population of the few hundreds whose history and beginning were like so many other emigrants. The houses were ranged largely about the Fort for protection from the Indians. There were small crooked lanes, a few dignified by-streets, Penn Street, Duquesne way, Water and Ferry streets. Colonel George Morgan had built a double-hewn log house of considerable dimensions, the first house in the settlement to have a shingle roof. Though the "Manor of Pittsburg" had been surveyed and Fort Pitt had been abandoned by the British under orders of General Gage and occupied by Virginia troops under Captain John Neville. There were some French residents, some Acadians as well, and a few Virginians who were mostly refugees. The houses were of very primitive construction, generally built of logs, but made comfortable on the inside. The emigrants had brought their industries with them. The women spun and knit, there were several rude looms, but they depended largely on Philadelphia for supplies. Pierre Duvernay had fled to Ireland in one of the Huguenot persecutions, but more fortunate than many, he had been able to take some of his worldly possessions. Here his only daughter had married Marc Bradin, his only son had died, and his wife had followed. Broken-hearted he had accompanied his daughter and son-in-law to the new Colonies. They had spent a few years in Virginia, then with some French friends had come to Pittsburg and bought a large holding, which seemed at the time a misadventure, and so they had built in nearer to the Fort. Here pretty Barbe Bradin had grown up and married Bernard Carrick, their neighbor's son, but they had not let the hospitable Bradin home. Here Daffodil had been born, and the French and Irish blended again. "What made you call me Daffodil?" the child said one day to her mother. "You were named after your mother and gran'mere after hers, and you should have called me Barbe." "It would have made no end of confusion. You see it does with great-grandfather. And when you were born it was lovely sunshiny weather and the daffodils were in bloom with their tender gold. Then you had such a funny fuzzy yellow head. I loved the Daffodils so. They come so early and look so cheerful, and you were such a cheerful baby, always ready to smile." "Do you suppose my hair will always stay yellow?" "Oh, no. It will grow darker." "Like yours?" "Well, perhaps not quite as dark. I like it. You are my spring. If I were in any sorrow, your brightness would comfort me." Then the sorrow came. The young husband felt it his duty to join the struggling army and fight for his country. It was in doubtful times. This queer, rural, primitive settlement knew little about the great causes. Since the new fort had been built and the French repulsed, absolutely driven out of their strongholds, there had been only the infrequent Indian encounters to rouse them. The stern resolves, the mighty enthusiasm of the Eastern Colonies had not inspired them. Even the Declaration of Independence, while it had stirred up their alien and contradictory blood, had not evoked the sturdy patriotism of the larger towns having so much more at stake. They added to their flocks and herds, they hunted game and wild animals, and on the whole enjoyed their rural life. Sandy Carrick had never known which side to affiliate with the most strongly. There was the brave old Scottish strain that his mother had handed down in many a romantic tale, there was the Irish of his father that had come down almost from royalty itself, from the famous Dukes that had once divided Ireland between them. Why the Carricks had espoused the English side he could not have told. He was glad to come to the new countries. And when, after being a widower for several years, he married pretty buxom widow Boyle, he was well satisfied with his place in life. He had been in the fateful encounter at Braddock's defeat at his first introduction to the country. The French were well enough in Canada, which seemed not very far from the North Pole, and a land of eternal snow, but when they came farther down with their forts and their claims it was time to drive them out, and nothing gave him greater satisfaction than to think they were mostly out. He took a great fancy to his next-door neighbor, Marc Bradin, but he fought shy of the old black-eyed Frenchman. Pierre Duvernay had passed through too many vicissitudes and experiences to believe that any one party had all the right; then, too, he was a sweet-natured old man, thinking often of the time when he should rejoin friends and relatives, not a few of whom had died for their faith. Sandy had not liked his son's marriage with Barbe Bradin, who certainly was more French than Irish, but she had a winsome brightness and vivacity, and indulged in many a laughing tilt with her father-in-law. Nora Boyle openly favored them all. They spun and knit and made lace and wove rugs of rags and compared cookery, and she and Mrs. Bradin were wildly happy over Daffodil. "If 't had been a boy now!" exclaimed Sandy. "A gal's good for naught when it comes to handin' down the name. Though if its hair'll turn out red, an 't looks so now, it may flout t'other blood," putting a strong expletive to it. "Don't now, Sandy!" said his wife's coaxing voice. "There's sorts and kinds in the world. The good Lord didn't mean us all to be alike or he'd made 'em so to start with." "Did make 'em so, woman. There was only two of 'em!" "Well, some others came from somewhere. And Cain went off an got himself a wife. An' when you think of the baby there's good three parts Irish to the one French. An' I'm sure no one keeps a tidier house, an' the little old man sittin' by the chimney corner hurts no one. And it's handy to have a neebur to play at cards." When there came an urgent call for men to join what seemed almost a lost cause Bernard Carrick went to Philadelphia with perhaps twenty other recruits, to the sorrow of his wife and the anger of his father. "For they can't win, the blunderin' fules! D'y spose King George's goin' to let a gran' country like this slip out of his fingers. Barbery, if you were half a woman you'd 'a' held onto him if y'd had to spit on yer han's to do it. You'll never see him agen, an' it comforts me for the loss of my son that you've lost your husband. Ye can git anither one, but I'll have no more sons to comfort me in my old age." Poor Barbe was wild with grief, yet somehow Bernard's sense of duty to his country _had_ inspired her, and then she had her little darling, her mother, and father, and grandfather, who had not outlived a certain heroic strain if his blood had come through French channels. The people of Pittsburg had no tea to throw overboard. The Stamp Act bore lightly on them. They could brew good beer, they could distil whiskey and make passable wine. Fish and game were in abundance, the fields laughed with riotous harvests, so what if a few did go to war? Sandy relented after a little and they took up the evenings of card-playing, with the cider or beer and doughnuts, or a brittle kind of spice cake that Mrs. Bradin could make in perfection. They had arguments, to be sure: Marc Bradin was on the side of the Colonies, and he had taken pains to keep informed of the causes of disaffection. It was going to be a big country and could govern itself since it must know better what was needed than a king thousands of miles away! Sandy held his spite against the French sufficiently in abeyance to learn to play piquet with great-grandfather. It interested him wonderfully, and since two could play a game the women could knit and sew and gossip. News came infrequently. Bradin often went to the Fort to hear. If there were reverses, he held his peace in a cheerful sort of way--if victories, there was rejoicing among themselves. For they tried not to ruffle Sandy Carrick unnecessarily. Daffodil went often to see grandad and Norry, as they called the merry-hearted second wife, who nearly always had some tidbit for her. And grandad took her on journeys sitting in front of him on an improvised pillion, teaching her to sit astride and buckling a strap around both bodies. "For you'll have to be my boy, Dilly. My other boy'll never come back to us." "Where will he go?" in her wondering tone. "The Lord only knows, child." CHAPTER II A JOYFUL RETURN "It is so good to get out among you all," Barbe Carrick said, as she was pillowed up in a big high-backed chair and wrapped in a soft gray blanket. Her hair was gathered in a pretty white cap with a ruffle of lace about the edge, framing in her rather thin face. "So good! And the good news! Why, I feel almost well." It had been a slow autumnal fever, never very serious, but wearing. Mrs. Bradin knew the use of many herbs and was considered as good as a doctor by most of the settlers. The room would have made a fine "Interior," if there had been a Dutch artist at hand. It was of good dimensions, or the great fireplace would have dwarfed it. Marc Bradin was a handy man, as not a few were in those days when new settlers could not encumber themselves with much furniture. There were some of the old French belongings, a sort of escritoire that had drawers below and shelves above and was in two pieces. But the tables and chairs and the corner cupboard were of his fashioning. There was china, really beautiful pewter ware, some pieces of hammered brass, candlesticks, and one curious lamp. The rafters were dark with age and smoke, but they were not ornamented with flitches of bacon, for there was a smoke-house out one side. The chairs would pass for modern Mission furniture. A few had rockers, notably that in which the little girl sat, with Judy on her lap, and the cat almost covered her. Grandfather was in his accustomed place. There was a small table beside him on which were his old French Bible, a book of devotion, and a volume or two of poems, and a tall candlestick with two branches. Gran'mere was doing some white embroidery, a frock for the little girl's next summer's wear. Mrs. Bradin had been settling her daughter and now stood undecided as to her next duty. "Has father gone out again?" Barbe asked. "Yes, to the Fort--to see if he can't get one of the papers." "It's wonderful news!" and the invalid drew a long breath of delight. "But it isn't real peace yet." "Oh, no, I do believe it is the beginning, though," said her mother. "I wish the sun would shine. It ought to;" and Barbe gave a wan half smile. "But it isn't going to," announced Daffodil confidently. "And it _is_ going to rain." Grandfather laughed. "Why, Dilly?" "Because." The child colored. "Oh, you will see." There was a tap at the door and then it opened. Norah Carrick dropped the shawl she had thrown over her head. A still pretty, heartsome-looking woman, with a merry face bright with roses, laughing blue eyes, and dark hair. "It's good for sore eyes to see you up, Barbe. I hope we'll have some fine weather to brace up one. An'--an' 'twas good news you heard the morn." Then she gave a funny, rippling laugh. "But he'll be glad to have Bernard come back," Barbe exclaimed resentfully. "Ah, that he will! Ye mustna mind him child, if he's cranky for a bit. He's been that set about England winning the game that you'd take him for wan of the high dukes that sit in state and tell what shall be done. I've been for the country all along. It runs in my mind that Ireland owes the king a gredge. She's been a cross-grained stepmother, say your best. An' why couldn't she let us go on an' prosper! We'd been willin' enough to work for her part of the time. An' it's not such an easy thing to lave your own bit of a home and come over here in these wilds, an' hew down trees for your houses and clear land for the corn, an' fight Indians. So I'm wishin' the country to win. But Sandy's carryin' the black cat round on his back to-day, an' it makes me laugh, too. He's that smart when he gets a little riled up, and he's husked corn to-day as if he was keepin' time with Nickey Nick's fiddle." "What makes the black cat stay on his back?" asked Daffodil, stroking her own pussy softly. "Ah, that's just a say so, Dilly darlin', for a spell of gettin' out of temper when there's no need. But he made a good dinner. I had just the stew he liked, an' a Donegal puddin' that come down from my great-grandmother. An', Barbe, you begin to look like crawlin' about again an' not so washed out. The good news should make a warm streak all through you." "Oh, I'm much better. If it will come off nice an' warm----" "We'll have a storm first. And is there any more news?" She had been taking some work out of a bag after she had nodded to gran'mere and shaken hands with great-grandfather. Now she settled herself and began to sew. She was never idle. Sandy Carrick had the smartest wife anywhere about and few women would have minded his queer quips so little. Then the door opened and Marc Bradin entered, thrusting out a newspaper. "I've been waiting my turn and have promised to have it back in half an hour, but I'll not count the coming and going," laughing. "And it's news worth waiting for. It's all true and more, too. And if we want a King or an Emperor, General Washington's the man. Now I'll read, since that's the cheapest way, as you can all hear at once." He dropped into a chair and threw his old cap on the floor. Bradin was an excellent reader. Yes, it was glorious news. A big battle averted and soldiers disabled by honor rather than wounds. A vivid description of what had led up to the surrender and the conditions, the enthusiasm and the predictions that at last victory was achieved for the Colonies. And although numerous points were still held by the English, it would be difficult to rouse enthusiasm after this crushing blow. "Time's up," said the reader. "But you have all the real gist of the matter. Norah, how's Sandy?" Norah gave a laugh and a shrug of the shoulders. "Oh, he'll come round. I can't see, with all the Scotch an' Irish in him, why he must be shoutin' for King George just because he happened to fight on that side years ago. An' it was under Washington, too, an' people do say if Braddock hadn't been so high an' mighty, and taken some of the young man's counsel, there wouldna have been such an awful defeat." "I'll come right back, jinky! It begins to rain." Dilly looked up in triumph. "I told you so," she said, "and you just laughed, grandfather. Now you see Judy knew." She gave Judy an extra hug and squeezed a faint mew out of her. "Judy is a wise cat," admitted grandfather. "And I must run home an' get a supper that'll be a soothin' poultice to the inside of the man," laughed Norah. "I'm glad I know about how things stand, so my heart will be light. An' we will have Bernard home safe and sound, never you fear, so, Barbe, get well to welcome him. I'm cooking chicken to-morrow an' I'll send over broth an' a bit of the breast. Run over to-morrow, little one. Grandad'll be all right." Barbe was tired and went to bed. Dilly moved over by grandfather and begged for a story. He and Norah had a packful of them. It grew darker and rained, with a sort of rushing wind. When Dilly grew older and began to understand what real living was, it seemed as if this was her actual induction into it. She had run about and played, listened to stories and songs, gravitated between the two houses, ridden with grandad, who was always a little jealous that most of her relatives should be on the French side. She could shut her eyes and hear Kirsty's raucous voice and the two bells he was ringing and see grandad's upturned nose and his derisive tone. She awoke to the fact that she really had a father. Grandad used to come over in the evening and play piquet with old grandfather. It was a game two could enjoy, and the women folk were no great hands at card-playing. Now and then, when Norah was not too busy, they had a friendly, social game. It rained two days and then cleared up in the glory of perfect autumn weather. Nothing came to counteract the good tidings. Grandad came for Daffodil to take a ride with him, and that evening he sauntered in and had a game of piquet and beat. It always delighted him. It was fighting the French over again. Barbe improved rapidly now. People were quite apt to have what was called a run of fever in the autumn at the change of the seasons, and there were some excellent home-brewed remedies and tonics that answered, if the case was not too severe. Dilly and her mother talked a great deal about the return of the husband and father. "Is he like grandad?" she inquired with a little contraction of the brows. "Oh, not much. He was called a handsome young fellow. Your eyes are like his, and he had such a brilliant color then," sighing a little and wondering if the hardships had made him old before his time. "And--and his nose?" hesitatingly. Barbe laughed. "It isn't short like grandad's. His mother was a handsome woman." "It's queer," said the child reflectively, "that you can have so many grand relatives and only one father. And only one gran'mere. For Norry isn't _real_, is she, since she isn't father's mother. And how many wives can one have?" "Only one at a time. It's quite a puzzle to little folks. It was to me." Daffodil looked at her mother with wondering eyes and said thoughtfully, "Were you truly little like me? And did you like grandad? Did he take you out on his big horse?" "We were living in Virginia then. Great-grandfather and great-grandmother were living there--she was alive then. And when she died gran'mere and gran came out here. I was about eight. And we didn't like it here. The children were so different." "It is all very queer," said Dilly. "You are little, and then you grow, and--and you get married. Will I be married? Must you find some one----" "Oh, Dilly, I think some one will find you;" and her mother laughed. "You will have to grow up and be--well, eighteen, I think, almost a dozen years before you need to think about it." "I'm very glad," she said soberly. She did not like things that puzzled her. The war was another. What had it been about? Grandad was sure the English were right, and great-grandfather was glad they were going to be beaten. She used to dream of her father, and watch out for him. For some of the companies were furloughed, his among them. And now he was Captain Carrick. Christmas came. There was not much made of it here, as there had been in Virginia, no gift-giving, but family dinners that often ended in a regular carouse, sometimes a fight. For Pittsburg had not reached any high point of refinement, and was such a conglomerate that they could hardly be expected to agree on all points. The little girl lost interest presently in watching for her father, and half believed he was not coming. She was very fond of grandad, and Norry, and the wonderful stories she heard about fairies and "little folk," who came to your house at night, and did wonderful things--sometimes spun the whole night long, and at others did bits of mischief. This was when you had offended them some way. She liked the Leprecawn so much. He was a fairy shoemaker, and when all was still in the night you sometimes heard him. "Tip tap, rip rap, Tick a tack too!" And the little Eily, who wished so for red shoes, but her folks were too poor to buy them. So she was to find six four-leaf clovers, and lay them on the doorstep, which she did. "What a queer noise there was in the night," said the mother. "It was like this, 'Tip tap, rip rap.'" "Sho!" said the father, "it was the swallows in the chimney." Eily held her peace, but she put four-leafed clovers again on the doorstep, and tried to keep awake, so she could hear the little shoemaker. "I'll clear them swallows out of the chimney, they disturb me so," declared the father, and he got a long pole and scraped down several nests. But the next night the sound came again, and the mother began to feel afeared. But when Eily went downstairs there was a pair of little red shoes standing in the corner, and Eily caught them up and kissed them, she was so full of joy. Then her mother said, "The Leprecawn has been here. And, Eily, you must never wear them out of doors at the full of the moon, or you'll be carried off." "Was she ever, do you think, Norry?" "Oh, her mother'd be very careful. For if you go to fairyland, you'll have to stay seven years." "I shouldn't like that," subjoined Dilly. "But I _would_ like the red shoes. And if I could find some four-leaf clovers----" "You can't in winter." "Well--next summer." "Maybe grandad can find you some red leather, and lame Pete can make them." "But I rather have the fairy shoemaker, with his 'tip tap, rip rap';" laughing. "Don't minch about him. Here's a nice chunk of cake." Dilly had cake enough to spoil a modern child's digestion. But no one understood hygiene in those days, and kept well. There were no schools for little girls to go to. But a queer old fellow, who lived by himself, taught the boys, and tried to thrash some knowledge in their brains. It was considered the best method. Dilly's mother taught her to read English, and great-grandfather inducted her into French. Gran'mere talked French to the old man. Every morning she brushed his hair and tied it in a queue with a black ribbon. He wore a ruffled shirt front, and lace ruffles at his wrist; knee breeches, silk stockings, and low shoes with great buckles. Dilly learned to sew a little as well. But early industry was not held in as high esteem as in the Eastern Colonies. There was plenty of spinning and knitting. Fashions did not change much in the way of dress, so you could go on with your clothes until they were worn out. The nicest goods were imported, but there was a kind of flannelly cloth for winter wear, that was dyed various colors, mostly blue and copperas, which made a kind of yellow. So the winter went on, and in February there came a great thaw. Oh, how the river swelled, and rushed on to the Ohio. It was very warm. And one day Daffodil sat on the great stone doorstep, holding the cat, and munching a piece of cake. Judy ate a few crumbs, but she did not care much for it. "There's a peddler," said Dilly to Judy. "He has a big pack on his back, and he walks with a cane, as if he was tired. And there's something hanging to his waist, and a queer cap. He seems looking--why, he's coming here. Gran'mere wants some thread, but he isn't our----Mother," she called. He was thin, and pale, and travel-stained, and had not the brisk, jaunty air of the peddlar. But he came up the little path, and looked at her so sharply she jumped up, hugging Judy tightly. "Some one, mother," she said, half frightened. Mrs. Carrick stepped to the door, and glanced. Then, with a cry, she went to her husband's arms. They both almost fell on the doorstep. "Oh," she cried, "you are tired to death! And----" "Never mind; I'm home. And I have all my limbs, and have never been ill. It has been a desperate struggle, but it's ending grandly. And everybody----" "They are all alive and well. Oh, we've been watching, and hoping--it doesn't matter now, you are here;" and she leaned down on his shoulder and cried. "Three years and four months. I couldn't get word very well, and thought I'd rather come on. You see, my horse gave out, and I've had a ten-mile walk. And--the baby?" "Oh, she's a big girl. She was sitting here----" "Not that child!" in surprise. "Daffodil," called her mother. The child came shyly, hesitatingly. "Dilly, it's father. We've talked of him so much, you know. And you have watched out for him many a time." Somehow he didn't seem the father of her imagination. He took her in his arms, and dragged her over in his lap. "Oh, I forgot you could grow," in a tone broken with emotion. "But her blue eyes, and her yellow hair. Oh, my little darling! We shall have to get acquainted over again;" and he kissed the reluctant lips. "Oh, it is all like a dream! Many and many a time I thought I should never see you again;" and he wiped the tears from his eyes. "If you are glad, what makes you cry?" asked the child, in a curious sort of way. Barbe put her arms around Dilly. Of course, no child could understand. "And the others," began Bernard Carrick. "Oh, let us go in." There was a tremble of joy in her voice. "Mother, grandfather, he has come!" Mrs. Bradin greeted her son-in-law with fond affection, and a great thanksgiving that he had been spared to return to them. They talked and cried, and Daffodil looked on wonderingly. Great-grandfather Duvernay, who had been taking his afternoon rest, came out of his room, and laid his hand tremblingly in the younger one, that had not lost its strength. Yes, he was here again, in the old home, amid them all, after many hardships. "Oh, sit down," said Mother Bradin. "You look fit to drop. And you must have something to eat, and a cup of tea. Or, will it be a man's tipple? There's some good home-brewed beer--or a sup of whiskey." "I'll take the tea. It's long since I've had any. And if I could wash some of the dust off--it must be an inch thick." Ah, that was something like the old smile, only there was a hollow in the cheek, that used to be so round and so pink. She took him into her room, and, filling a basin with warm water, set it on the cedar chest, spreading a cloth over it, that he might splash in comfort. "It's been a long journey," he said. "But the poor horse gave out first. Boyle, and Truart, and Lowy were with me, but not to come quite so far. Some of the young fellows remained, though the feeling is that there won't be much more fighting. The impression is that England's about as tired of the war as we." "But you wouldn't have to go back again?" Barbe protested, in a sort of terror. "Well--no;" yet the tone was not altogether reassuring. She took his coat out by the door and brushed it, but it was very shabby. Still, he looked much improved when he re-entered the room, where Mrs. Bradin had set a tempting lunch at the corner of the table. But he could hardly eat for talking. Barbe sat beside him--she could scarce believe he was there in the flesh. Daffodil went out in the sunshine again. She started to run over to grandad's. Norry would be so glad. Well, grandad too, she supposed. Had he really believed father would never come home? Somehow, it was different. In Norry's stories the soldiers were strong, and handsome, and glittering with gold lace, and full of laughter. She couldn't recall whether they had any little girls or not. And there was her mother hanging over the strange man--yes, he _was_ strange to her. And her mother would care for him, and stay beside him, and she somehow would be left out. Her little heart swelled. She did not understand about jealousy, she had had all the attention, and it was not pleasant to be pushed one side. Oh, how long he was eating, and drinking, and talking, and--yes, they laughed. Grandad was coming up to the house with a great two-handled basket--she knew it was full of ears of corn, and she did so like to see him shell it, and hear the rattle as it fell down in the tub. He sat on a board across the tub, and had a queer sort of affair, made by two blades, and as he drew the ears of corn through it, scraped off both sides. No, she wouldn't even go and see grandad, for he would say, "Well, yellow-top, your father hasna come home yet;" and, she--well, she could not tell a wrong story, and she would not tell the true one. Grandad wouldn't go back on her, but he could wait. "Oh, Dilly, here you are!" said her mother, coming out of the door, with her husband's arm around her. "We're going over to grandad's; come;" and she held out her hand. The soldier looked more attractive. His faded cap had been thrown aside, and his short dark hair was a mass of curls. He looked sharply at the little girl, and she turned away her face. Still, she took her mother's hand. Norry had been sitting by the window. Now she rushed out with a shriek of joy. "Oh, Barney! Barney! Sure, I've been afraid we'd never set eyes on you again! The saints be praised! Sandy!" Sandy Carrick came and put his arms around his son. Both were rather tall men. For some moments neither spoke. Then the father said, "Cross the threshold, Barney. An' here's a silver shilling--kiss it for good luck an' a long stay." Bernard did as his father bade him, and the two crossed the threshold together. "Now, you must have something to eat and drink," began hospitable Norah. "Deed an' true, the crows would hardly make a meal of you." "But I've been stuffed already," he protested. "No matter. There's always room intil you're laid on your back for the last time. An' you're that thin, 't would take two of you to make a shadow." She set out cold chicken, and boiled bacon, and bread that would tempt one on a fast day, with a great loaf of cake, and Bernard and Barbe sat down. Sandy brought out the whiskey bottle. No one thought of objecting in those days. "Oh, where's the colleen?" and Norah stepped to the door. "Has she gone back home? She takes it a little strange," said Barbe. "She can't remember well. But she'll come to it presently." Then Barbe raised her eyes and met her husband's, that were so full of adoration; she blushed like a girl. "And the war is over," declared Norah. "Did they all have leave to go home?" "Oh, no. We can't say it's over, though the thought is there'll be no more hard fighting. And we've some good friends on the other side to argue the case for us." "No, no," snorted Sandy. "It's not over by a long shot. An' then they'll get to fightin' atween theirselves, and split here an' there. Weel, Mr. Captain, are we to have a King or a great Emperor, like him of France, with a court an' all that?" Bernard laughed. "We'll have neither. We've gotten rid of kings for all time." "Don't do your skreeking until you're well out o' the woods. But I hope you'll be wise enough next time to let t'other fellow take his chance. An' it beats me to think a great Lord an' a great soldier, too, should be put about, and captured by a crowd of ignoramuses without training." "Oh, you learn a good deal in five or six years," said the son good-naturedly. "There have been the Indians and the French." "And I can't abide turn-coats. First we fight for th' old country, then turn around and fight forninst it. We lick the French, an' then ask their aid. A fine country we'll have, when no one knows his own mind!" "You'll see the sort of country we'll make when we get about it. And we have no end of brave fine men who'll plan it out for us. Here's to your health and luck. And now tell me what Pittsburg has been doing." He raised his glass and barely touched it to his lips. Sandy drained his. "There's not much doin'--how could there be, with no money?" he answered shortly. "But you've the place for a fine town. New York and Philadelphia may have the start, but it's up to us to come out fair in the race. You have the key to the great West. Some day we'll clear the French out of that." "Oh, don't talk war," interposed Norah. "Tell us if you're glad to get home. And should you have known Dilly? She'll be the one to set hearts aching with those eyes of hers, when she gets a bit grown up." "We must go back," said Barbe. "And, Bernard, you must be stiff with your long tramp. They rode mostly all night, and when the horses gave out, walked. You must go to bed with the chickens." Sandy gave a snort. "I'll be over in the morn, ready for a talk or a fight," laughed Bernard. "God be praised that He has cared for us all these years, and let us meet again." Sandy looked after his son, who had the fine air of a trained soldier. "An' when we get him fatted up," said Norah, "he will be main good-looking." Daffodil had sauntered slowly homeward. She looked for some one to call after her, but there was no sound. Oh, her mother did not care for her now, and Norry had not so much as coaxed her in and offered her a piece of cake. She entered the house rather sadly. Gran'mere was concocting some treat for supper. She just turned and said, "Were they glad to see your father?" "I don't know. I didn't go in." Then she crept up alongside of grandfather, and leaned her face down on his breast and cried softly. "Dear, what has hurt my little girl?" pushing aside the mop of hair. "Mother won't want me any more. Nor grandad, nor Norry, nor--nor any one;" and Daffodil seemed very lonesome in a great cold world, colder than any winter day. "Yes, I want you. Oh, they'll all want you after a day or two. And it's a great thing for your father to come home safe." "I don't believe I am going to like him. He isn't like what I thought." Grandfather smiled. "Wait and see what he is like to-morrow. It's almost night now, and things look different, cloudy-like. There, dear, don't cry when we are all full of joy." CHAPTER III WELCOME Neighbors kept dropping in, and the table was crowded at supper time. Hospitality was ungrudging in those days. Grandfather had the little girl close under his wing, but she had a curiously strange feeling, as if she was outside of it all. Then her mother said: "Wouldn't you rather go to bed, dear? The men will want to talk about battles, and things, not best for little girls to hear. When you are older they will interest you more." "Yes," she replied, and kissed grandfather. Then her mother undressed her and tucked her in her little pallet. "Oh, you _will_ always love me?" she cried, in a tremulous tone. "Always, always. And father, too." Even if other children should come, the years when Daffodil had been her all could never be dimmed. The mother shut the door softly. They were kindly enough, this conglomerate population, but rough, and the French strain in the Bradins had tended to refinement, as well as living somewhat to themselves. Daffodil cried a little, it seemed a comfort. But she was tired and soon fell asleep, never hearing a sound, and the company was rather noisy. When she woke, the door to the living room was partly open, and the yellow candlelight was shining through. Mornings were dark, for they had come to the shortest days. There was a curious rustling sound, and Dilly ran out in her little bare feet, though the carpet was thick and warm. Gran'mere was cooking, Barbe was washing dishes, Judy sat by the fire in a grave upright fashion. How white the windows were! "Oh, it's snow!" cried the little girl. "Are we snowed up, as grandad tells about? Why, we can't see out!" "Yes, it's a tremendous snow. Bring out your clothes, and let me dress you. Don't be noisy." The child seldom was noisy. She wondered at the request. And what had happened? She had a confused sense of something unusual in her mind. "Father is asleep. It was late when he went to bed last night, and he is so tired out that we shall let him sleep as long as he will. Get your clothes, and shut the door softly." She did as she was bidden, with a furtive glance at the mound under the blankets. Her mother soon had her dressed in a sort of brownish red flannel frock, and a blue and white checked apron. Then she brushed out her silky hair, and made three or four thick curls. "Oh, isn't it funny! Why, we can't see anything, not a house, or a tree, nor grandad's." They could see that in almost any storm. She went and patted Judy. Gran'mere was frying bacon, and when that was brown and crisp, she slipped some eggs in the pan. Grandfather kept his bed late winter mornings, and only wanted a bit of toast and a cup of coffee. That was generally made by roasting wheat grains, with a tiny bit of corn, and made very fair coffee. But it was necessity then, not any question of nerves or health. So they ate their breakfast and everything seemed quite as usual except the snow. So far there had been none to speak of. Gran'mere put out the candle, and the room was in a sort of whitey-gray light. There was queer, muffled banging outside, that came nearer, and finally touched the door, and a voice said "Hello! hello!" Barbe opened it. There was grandad, in his frieze coat and fur cap, a veritable Santa Claus. "Well, was there ever the beat of this! Stars out at twelve? The old woman's geese are gettin' plucked close to the skin. Why, it's furious! Dilly, come out and let me tumble you in the snow bank." She shrank back, laughing. "I'd have to dig you out again. How is the lad? Did we upset grandfather with the racket?" "Oh, no. He always sleeps late. Have a cup of hot coffee." "An' that's just what I will. Well, the lad's lucky that he was no' a day later, he'd been stumped for good. By the nose of St. Andrew, I never saw so much snow fall in a little time. An' it's dark as the chimney back." "The snow is white," interposed Daffodil. "Ah, ye're a cunnin' bairn. But put a lot of it together, and it turns the air. The coffee's fine, it warm the cockles of one's heart." "What are they?" "Oh, the little fellys that get hot, an' cold, an' keep the blood racin' round. And have delight bottled up to give out now and then when one is well treated." Daffodil nodded. She was not going to say she did not understand. "An' the b'y? He wants fat, sure. The country's made a poor shoat out of him. Well, I must go back, shovelin' for the path's about grown up. The boss out to the barn?" "Yes." "Well, I'll kem over agin, an' give him a hand." "Grandad has a good heart," said Mrs. Bradin. Mr. Bradin came in presently with a pail of milk. "This beats all for a storm," he said. "Now, I'll take a second breakfast. Dilly, come and sit here beside me, and take a taste of things. Not a livin' hen is up yet, just balls of feathers on the perch." "Couldn't you take me out to see them?" "If you get snowed under, we'll have to send for grandad. Well, they did have a roarin' time last night. He was plucky to take that long walk, though the poor fellows have had many a wearisome march." He wrapped Dilly in a blanket, and carried her out to the barn. There was Mooley munchin' her hay, there was the pen of sheep that was always safe-guarded at night, and the hens, funny balls of feathers, sure enough. But the head of the flock stretched up his long neck and crowed. The pigs grunted and squealed a request for breakfast. Mr. Bradin threw them a lot of corn. "Oh, let me walk back," she exclaimed. But the snow drifted in her eyes, and she tumbled over in the snow bank. He picked her up, and they both laughed. Grandfather was up now, looking as neat and trim as possible. He always read a chapter in his French Bible, and Daffodil sat on the broad arm of the chair and liked to listen. Then he had his breakfast on the little stand, and Dilly ate the crust of his toast. She liked so to crunch it in her teeth. Then she always wanted a story about France, that seemed heroic to her, though she hardly knew the meaning of the word. But Norah's stories were generally amusing, and grandfather did not believe in the "little people." It was noon when the soldier made his appearance. He really looked much refreshed, though his clothes were worn and shabby. And he kissed his little girl very fondly. Why, his blue eyes were very much like hers, and his smile won one to smile in return. And then the sun suddenly broke through the gray clouds, and a gust of wind began tearing them to tatters, and letting the blue through. Gran'mere opened the door, and the very air was warm. She drew long, reviving breaths. Grandad was coming over again, with a great dish of roasted apples Norah had sent. "I should be ungrateful if I didn't get fat by the minute," Bernard Carrick said. "But such a snow!" "I never saw so much business done in the same time, but it'll run off like a river. And the sun is fairly hot. But there's plenty of time for winter yet. How does it seem to be out of barracks, or tents, or whatever you had, or didn't have?" "There was a good deal of _not_ having. But no one hardly knows all the hardships, and the danger. The wonder to me is that so many come out of it alive. And home is a better thing for all a man has passed through. I'm anxious to see how the town has gone on." "H-u-g," with a sort of disdain. "It hasn't gone on. How could it, with the likeliest men thrashin' round the country worse than wild Indians. For we counted on their having a little more sense." Bernard laughed. His father had been very angry about his going, and it was funny to see him try to be a little ungracious over his return, as he had been so sure he would never come back alive. "Suppose we go out and take a look at it?" "In all the snow!" so amazed he reverted to the ancient tongue. With the variety of people, and the admixture of English, the rugged points of dialect were being rubbed off. "I've seen some snow, and travelled through it. But this is rather queer. Such a glorious air, and fairly a May day sun. "Who dances barefoot in Janiveer will greet in March." "But they wouldn't go barefooted in the snow," exclaimed Daffodil, in surprise. "They wouldn't do it for choice, though I've seen them dance with their feet tied up in rags. Dance to keep themselves warm," said her father. "Yes. Let us go to the Fort. You'll be wanting to see the b'y's grown up now. An' the old folk." "You haven't grown much older;" looking his father over affectionately. "Bedad! It's not much beyant three years, and does a man get bowed over, an' knock-kneed, an' half-blind, an' bald-headed, an' walk with a stick in that little time. Havers! Did you expect to see me bed-ridden!" Bernard laughed. The same old contrarity that was not so much temper after all. "I can't say the same of you, more's the pity. You've given the country, a pack of men who'll never give you a thankee, your good looks, an' your flesh, an' at least ten years. Ye're a middle-aged man, Bernard Carrick!" Bernard laughed again. It was like old times, and, oh, how glad he was to be home again. "Come, then; and, Dilly, run down an' see Norah, an' have a good time." Sandy took his son's arm, and they went off together. Daffodil looked after them with long breaths that almost brought tears to her eyes. Grandad hadn't been glad when the news came; she could see just how he had turned with his nose in the air, and now he was claiming his son as if he had all the right. Gran'mere was concocting some mystery on the kitchen table, Barbe sat at the little wheel, spinning. And she was singing, too. A faint pink had come back to her cheek, and her eyes almost laughed with delight. "What's a' the steer, kimmer. What's a' the steer, Jamie has landed, and soon he will be here." She had a soft sweet voice. How long since she had sung with that gayety. True, she had been ill, and now she was well again, and Jamie had come home. But grandad had taken him off, and that somehow rankled in the child's heart. She stood by the window, uncertainly. There were only two small windows in the large room that were of glass, for glass was costly. Another much larger had board shutters, closed tightly, and a blanket hung over it to keep out the cold. They called it the summer window. One looked over to the other house and Daffodil was there. "I wouldn't go over if I were you," said her mother. "It is very wet. Grandad might have carried you, but he hardly knows whether he's on his head or his heels." "He'd look very funny on his head. What makes him so glad? He was angry about--if that great general hadn't--I can't say the long word, father couldn't have come home." She turned a very puzzled face to her mother. "There might have been a big battle;" and the mother shuddered. "Oh, grandad will be as glad as the rest of us presently that we have a country. Now we can begin to live." It was all very strange to her small mind. The sun was making rivulets through the snow, and the great white unbroken sheets sparkled with iridescent lights. Out beyond there was the Fort; she could see figures moving to and fro. Everything seemed so strange to her. And a country of one's own! Would the farms be larger, and, if England was beaten, what would become of it? Would they, our people, go over and take what they wanted? Would they drive the people away as they did the Indians? She was tired of so much thinking. She went over to grandfather, and seated herself on the arm of the chair. She did not want Norry's fairy stories. Leaning her head down on the dear old shoulder, she said, "Tell me about a great King, who beat the English." "Are you going mad about the English?" her mother asked laughingly. "We shall all be friends again. Quarrels are made up. And so many of us came from England." "We didn't," returned Dilly decisively. "Well--on the one side Scotch and Irish." "And on the other French, pure French, until your mother married a Bradin, and you----" "And Marc Bradin has been a good husband to me," said his wife, looking up from her preparations. Truly, he had, and a kind son to him as well, though he had not been in favor of the marriage at first. The story was about the grand old times in France. He never told of the religious persecutions to the little girl. He had a soft winsome sort of voice, and often lapsed into French idioms, but she was always charmed with it, even if she could not understand all he said. Presently she went fast asleep. Then the darkness began to fall. The candles were lighted, and that roused both sleepers. There was a savory smell of supper, even Judy went around sniffing. "We won't wait any longer," gran'mere said, with a little impatience. She had been cooking some messes that she remembered her son-in-law was very fond of, and she was disappointed that he was not here to enjoy it. After that grandfather went to bed. Dilly was wide awake and held her cat, telling her a wonderful tale of a beautiful woman who had been turned into a cat by an ugly witch, and all the adventures she could remember. Judy purred very loudly now and then. "Don't you want to go to bed?" asked Mrs. Carrick. "Oh, I'm not a bit sleepy." Then, after a pause, "Will father stay at grandad's?" "Oh, no. He is with the men at the Fort." "But grandad took him away." "Oh, they all want to see him." "Doesn't he belong to us?" "Yes, dear. But they always make a time when one comes home from the war." "What queer things there are in the flames," the child went on. "I think they fight, too. Look at that long blue streak. Just as soon as the little red ones come out, he swallows them up. Then he sits and waits for some more, just as Judy does for a mouse. It's funny!" "There, I've spun out all my flax. Now let us both come to bed." There was a sound of voices outside. Then the door was flung open, and Bernard Carrick entered, with a rather noisy greeting, catching his wife in his arms, and kissing her vehemently. Then he clasped his arms about Dilly, and threw her up, she was so small and light. She stretched out her hands to her mother. "Don't, Bernard; you frighten the child. We have been waiting for you to come home. And now Dilly must go to bed." She took her little girl by the hand. Bernard dropped in the big chair. Barbe seldom undressed her now, but she did this night. Presently Daffodil said in an imperious tone, "Do you like my father? I don't. I like grandfather, and gran, and grandad sometimes, but not always. And--father----" "Hush, dear. You will come to like him very much, I know, for I love him dearly. Now, say your little prayer and go to bed." Barbe went out, poked the fire a little, put on another log, and then sat down by her husband, who had fallen into a heavy sleep. Had he given the country something more than his service these three years--his manhood, the tender and upright qualities that dominated him when he went away? Sandy Carrick was of the old school, strong and stalwart, and not easily overcome, although he could not be called dissipated in any sense. But Bernard had never been of the roystering kind. She prayed from the depths of her heart that he might be made aware of the danger. The fire dropped down again, and she roused with a sudden shiver, rising and looking intently at him. The flush was gone, he was pale and thin again. Then he opened his eyes and saw her standing there. After a moment he held out both hands, and clasped hers. "Forgive me, Barbe," he said. "I ought not have come home to you like that, but they are a wild lot and I hadn't the strength to stand it after the months of privations. Zounds! what a head my father has! I haven't been indulging in such junkets. I wanted to come home alive to you and the little one. But I couldn't get away without offence and one goes farther than one can bear. Don't think I brought the detestable habit home with me, though many a poor fellow does yield to it and you can't blame them so much, either." "No," she answered softly, and kissed him on the forehead, much relieved at his frankness. Then as an afterthought--"I hope you didn't quarrel with anybody." "Oh, no. Party spirit runs high. A man who has never seen anything beyond an Indian skirmish thinks he could set the country on its feet by any wild plan. And here we have so many shades of opinion. Father's amuse me; I wonder how he and great-grandfather keep such amicable friends!" "Oh, he has no one nearby to play a game of piquet with him. And the Duvernay temper is much milder. But you must be tired. Let us fix the fire for the night." "Tell me when I have it right. I am not quite sure, though I have looked after many a camp fire. And now I am here to ease you up somewhat, and look out for you. Your father has been very good through these troublous times, and I will see that he need not be ashamed of his son." "Oh," she cried with deep emotion, "you make me very happy. So much of our lives are yet to come." There followed several pleasant days. The snow ran off and another came and vanished. There was little doing. Some people had looms in their houses and were weaving goods of various rather common kinds and many of the women were kept busy spinning thread and woolen yarns for cloth. Money was scarce, most of the trade was carried on by barter. "It has the making of a magnificent city," Bernard Carrick said, surveying its many fine points. "From here you will go straight over to the Mississippi. Some day we shall have both sides. What have the French been about to let such a splendid opportunity slip through their hands." "Don't stir up a hornet's nest at home," counseled the elder Carrick. "Oh, you mean great-grandfather! He sees the mistakes and shortsightedness, and while he would have been proud enough to live here under French rule, he understands some aspects at the old home better than we, the extravagance of the Court, the corruption of society, and," laughing, "he is hardly as hot for France as you are for England. After all, what so much has been done for you or Scotland or Ireland for that matter?" "This will be fought all over again. You will see. The country will be broken up into little provinces. Yankee and Virginian will never agree; Catholic and Puritan are bound to fight each other." "Hardly! They fought together for the great cause and they'll hardly turn their swords on each other. I've been from New York to Yorktown. And now the great work is for every man to improve his own holding, his own town." Pittsburg then had enjoyed or hated successive rulers. Great Britain, then France, Great Britain again, Virginia and Pennsylvania. It had been a strategic point worth holding, but no one then had dreamed of its later renown. Bernard Carrick did not seem to make much headway with his little daughter. She had been startled with his rudeness, though he was gentle enough now. But what with her mother, grandad, and Norah, who was the most charming of stepmothers, she felt he had enough care and attention. She was not going to sue for any favors. "Daffodil," he said one pleasant day when they had been rambling round the old Block House, not so very old then, though it could count on over twenty years, "Daffodil, why can't you love me as well as you love great-grandfather. I think you scarcely love me at all." She kicked some gravelly stones out of her path and looked over the river. It was all so beautiful then, no smoke to obscure it anywhere. "They all love you, they're always wanting you. Grandad doesn't care for me any more. And he wasn't a bit glad when the news came. He went in the house saying it was a 'lee' and Norry said the black cat was on his back. It wasn't a real cat, but like those in the stories. And he stayed there all day. And he wouldn't believe you were coming home or that the war was ended." "He hardly believes it yet;" laughing. "But he _was_ glad to have me come back. And are you not a little glad?" "You have all mother's gladness. And gran'mere's." She made a funny little movement with her dimpled chin, that if she had been older would have been coquettish. Her lashes were long and a sort of bronze brown, and her eyes made a glitter through them. Barbe had been a very pretty girl but the child was not much like her mother only in certain dainty ways. And her blue eyes came from him. He was rather glad of that. "Don't you want them to be glad that I am back?" "Why?"--she looked up perplexed. She was not old enough to define her emotions. "Of course I should want them to be glad." "Yet you are a little jealous." "Jealous!" she repeated. The word had no clearly definite meaning to her. "Maybe I have crowded you out a little. But you will find as you grow that there is a great deal of love that can be given and not make any one the poorer." "What is jealousy?" She had been following out her own thought and hardly minded his truism. "Why"--how could he define it to the child's limited understanding? "Jealousy is wanting _all_ of another's regard and not being willing that any other shall have a share. Not being willing that grandad shall care for me." "He wasn't glad at first." She could not forget that. "It wasn't a question of wanting or not wanting me that made him captious. He could not enjoy the English being beaten. I do not understand that in him since he means to spend all the rest of his life here, and has never wanted to go back. He was only a little boy, not older than you when he came here. And he fought in the battle of Braddock's defeat. Though the French gained the day it was no great victory for them, for they gave up their plan of taking possession of all the country here about. And he has not much faith in the rebels, as he used to call us, and didn't see what we wanted to fight for. And he _is_ glad to have me back. But he isn't going to love you any less." "Oh, yes he does," she returned quickly. "I used to ride with him and he never asks me now. And he takes you away--then they all come asking for you and if everybody likes you so much----" "And don't you like me a little?" He gave a soft, wholesome laugh and it teased her. She hung her head and returned rather doubtfully--"I don't know." "Oh, and you are my one little girl! I love you dearly. Are you not glad to have me come back and bring all my limbs? For some poor fellows have left an arm or a leg on the battlefield. Suppose I had to walk with a crutch like poor old Pete Nares?" She stopped short and viewed him from head to foot. "No, I shouldn't like it," she returned decisively. "But you would feel sorry for me?" "You couldn't dance then. And grandad tells of your dancing and that you and mother looked so pretty, that you could dance longer and better than any one. And he was quite sure you would come home all--all----" "All battered up. But I think he and Norry would have been very good to me. And mother and everybody. And now say you love me a little." "I was afraid of you," rather reluctantly. "You were not like--oh, you were so strange." What an elusive little thing she was! "But you are not afraid now. I think I never heard of a little girl who didn't love her father." "But you see the fathers stay home with them. There are the Mullin children and the Boyles. But I shouldn't like Mr. Boyle for a father." "Why?" with a touch of curiosity. "Oh, because----" "Andy Boyle seems very nice and jolly. We used to be great friends. And he gave me a warm welcome." "I can't like him;" emphatically. "He beat Teddy." "I suppose Teddy was bad. Children are not always good. What would you have done if you had been Teddy?" he asked with a half smile. "I would--I would have bitten his hand, the one that struck. And then I should have run away, out in the woods and frozen to death, maybe." "Why my father thrashed me and I know I deserved it. And you are not going to hate grandad for it?" She raised her lovely eyes and looked him all over. "Were you very little?" she asked. "Well--I think I wasn't very good as a boy." "Then I don't like grandad as well. I'm bigger than Judy, but do you suppose I would beat her?" "But if she went in the pantry and stole something?" "Can you steal things in your own house?" "Oh what a little casuist you are. But we haven't settled the other question--are you going to love me?" "I can't tell right away;" reluctantly. "Well, I am going to love you. You are all the little girl I have." "But you have all the other people." He laughed good-naturedly. She was very amusing in her unreason. And unlike most children he had seen she held her love rather high. "I shall get a horse," he said, "and you will ride with me. And when the spring fairly comes in we will take walks and find wild flowers and watch the birds as they go singing about. Maybe I can think up some stories to tell you. I am going to be very good to you for I want you to love me." She seemed to consider. Then she saw grandad, who had a little squirrel in his hands. Some of them were very tame, so she ran to look at it. "A queer little thing," said the father to himself. CHAPTER IV OLD PITTSBURG Spring came with a rush. Barbe Carrick glanced out of the south window one morning and called her little girl. "Look, Dilly, the daffodils are opening and they make the garden fairly joyous. They are like the sun." There was a long border of them. The green stalks stood up stiff like guards and the yellow heads nodded as if they were laughing. Wild hyacinths were showing color as well, but these were the first save a few snowdrops and violets one found in woody nooks. Birds were singing and flying to and fro in search of nesting places. Pittsburg was not much of a town then, but its surroundings were beautiful. The two rivers were rushing and foaming now in their wild haste to pour their overflow into the Ohio. The houses had begun to stretch out beyond the Fort. Colonel Campbell some years before had laid out several streets, the nucleus of the coming city. Then Thomas Hickory completed the plans and new houses were in the course of erection. Still the great business of the time was in the hands of the Indian traders that the French had found profitable. Beyond were farms, and the great tract, afterward to be Allegheny City, lay in fields and woods. A post road had been ordered by the government between Philadelphia and the town. And there were plans for a paper. For now most people were convinced that the war was at an end, and the Southern cities had been turned over to the Continental government. There was a brisk, stirring air pervading the place. Business projects were discussed. Iron had been discovered, in fact the whole land was rich in minerals. The traders were bringing down their furs. It had not been a specially cold winter and in this latitude the spring came earlier. "Oh, it's beautiful!" The child clapped her hands. "Can't I bring in some of them?" "Oh, yes. But pick only the largest ones. Leave the others on to grow." She came in with an apron full. "Some are for grandfather," she said. "Yes, fill this bowl and put it on his table." She had just finished when he came out. He was always immaculate, and his hair had the silvery tint. His daughter saw that it was always neatly brushed and the queue tied with a black ribbon. He was growing a trifle thinner and weaker. "Oh, little one," he cried, "did you get a posy for me? Is it your birthday?" and he stooped to kiss the golden hair, then the rosy lips. "Her birthday will not be until next week," said her mother. "I had forgotten. I am almost a hundred. And she is----" "Seven." "And when I get to be a hundred I'll have a little table like yours, and read out of the Bible, and we'll talk over things that happened when we were children." He laughed and patted her shoulder. "I shall not be here," he said slowly. "Oh, where are you going? I do not want you to go away," and she drew an apprehensive breath. "We do not always stay in one place. I came from France years and years ago. And I shall go to another country, heaven. It is always summer there." "Can't you take me?" with an eager, upward look. "Mother wants you. And you are to be a little old lady and sit in this chair." "And wear a cap like gran'mere? And have two little creases in my forehead, so?" She tried to make them but they were not much of a success, and the smile returned. "Now let us read." She took her seat on the arm of the chair. Gran'mere came in and busied herself about breakfast. The reading was from one of the minor prophets. Dilly did not understand it very well but she could converse in the language quite fluently. Her mother had taught her to spell and read English. Girls were not expected to have much education in those days; indeed, here they grew up mostly like the flowers of the field. While the little girls to the eastward were working samplers, sewing long overhand seams, hemming, and doing beautiful darning, these little girls ran about, romped, helped to take care of the next younger baby, grew up and married, no one could have told just how. After breakfast when the sun was warm and bright grandfather started for his walk. He always felt stronger in the morning. Sometimes Barbe went, often only Dilly. He liked the child's prattle. He liked, too, the way the denizens of the woods came to her, and the birds. True she always had some bread to crumble and she talked in her low sunny voice. Now and then a squirrel would run up her shoulder, watch her with beady eyes that almost laughed and whisk his feathery tail about. "It does seem as if they ought to talk," she often said. "They do in their language, only we can't understand them; at least we do in part. Doesn't he say in his fashion, 'I'm glad to see you? Have you any crumbs to-day.' And how one of them scolded when another ran off with that piece you dropped." "That was funny, wasn't it!" and she laughed. They were sitting on a fallen log in the warm sunshine. Bees were out also, buzzing and no doubt grumbling a little because there were not more sweet flowers in bloom. And the birds sang and whistled in great glee. They returned from their walk presently through the woods, where she gathered some curious wild flowers. Then they came out by the river, foaming and tumbling about as if it longed to overflow its banks. Now and then a rough kind of boat came down laden with stores of some kind, but there was no hurry visible anywhere. About sixteen years before the Indians had ceded all the lands about Pittsburg to the Colonies. The six nations assembled with their principal chiefs and warriors and gave the strongest assurance of treaty keeping, which after all were not well kept, as usual. But they had retreated to better hunting grounds and for some time had made little trouble, though many friendly Indians remained. The wanderers came out to the town proper. Streets were being surveyed, straightened, new ones laid out. There were about a hundred houses ranged round the Fort, but they had begun to spread outside. The disputes with the Pitt family, who had held the charter of Pennsylvania, had been mostly settled and grants of land given to many of the returned soldiers in lieu of the money the Colonial government could not pay. Pittsburg now belonged to the State, and a project had been broached to make it the county seat. Grandfather looked very tired and pale as he came in and went straight to his chair. His daughter took his hat and cane. "I did not mean to go so far. I wanted to look at the spot where I had buried my money;" with a little hollow laugh. "Did you bury some money?" asked Daffodil, with eager curiosity. "Can't you dig it up again?" "No, dear; it has to stay there for years. It may be dug up in your time, but I shall not need it." She looked puzzled. "You must have a cup of tea," said Mrs. Bradin, and immediately she set about it. Grandfather leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Dilly espied her mother in the adjoining room and went thither to exploit the splendid time with the squirrels and show the flowers she had gathered. Then she stood rather wistfully. "Well?" said her mother in a tone of inquiry. "Grandfather went to look at the money he had buried, but he couldn't find it. Do you suppose some one has taken it away?" "Buried?" She seemed mystified a moment, then smiled. "It wasn't as we bury things. A long time ago when the French held the Fort and seemed likely to keep a good part of the country grandfather bought a large tract of land. Then the French were driven out by the English and they in their turn by the Colonists. But the land is there and some day the money may come out of it. Grandad thinks he might as well have thrown it into the river. But he has never wanted for anything, and it would likely have been spent for something else. It's odd grandfather should have said that to-day. He seldom mentions it. He was quite troubled over it at first--when _I_ was a little girl." "Oh," returned Daffodil, relieved, though she did not understand the matter. "Go and put your flowers in water;" said her mother. Grandfather was soundly asleep and did not wake until dinner was on the table. Then he scarcely tasted it. "You must not take such long walks," his daughter said. "You cannot stand it any more." "No, I am getting old," rather sadly. "When your mother died I felt that I didn't want to live, and now I am content to go on in this lovely world until the Lord calls me home. I thought once I should round out the century. There have been many changes in the hundred years." And though he had been on exile for his faith's sake, though he had seen the blunders and sins of his country's rulers, he could not help reverting to the grand old dream of the magnificent empire of New France that would never come to pass now. How they had let all the advantages slip through their fingers that had grasped only at the wildest pleasures and dissipations. Barbe went out in the sunshine to garden a little. She was so fond of growing and blooming things. And they yielded such a beautiful return. She sang snatches of songs, sometimes in French, sometimes the gay or sad Scotch ditties. Dilly went over to see Norah, all the men were out now at the spring work. Norah was spinning on the big wheel, but she could raise her voice above its whir and to-day she was full of merry legends. Dilly had brought the cat and Judy never objected to being held. "I'm going to be seven years old," she said in a pause. "And when will I be almost a hundred like great-grandfather?" "Oh, you've gone only a little bit toward it," laughed Norah. "Why I'm not half way there myself. And I don't want to be. I'd like never to grow any older. But you shouldn't stop at seven. You haven't come to the cream of life. There's more fun at seventeen and that's ten years away. But you're big enough to have a party." "What is a party like?" "Oh, you little innocent! A party is a lot of people together who laugh and tell stories and have a good time and something to eat and drink. And you must have a cake with seven candles around it." "What are the candles for?" "To light your way;" laughing. "No, to tell how many years you have lived. I'll make the cake, and the candles too. They'll have to be dips for I haven't any small mould. Don't you remember how your mother and gran'mere made candles last fall? And I haven't a bit of wax myrtle. Oh, I can melt up two or three of mine. They are more fragrant than tallow. Yes, you shall have a party. I'll talk to your mother about it." Dilly was all interest and excitement. Her mother agreed at once. A modern little girl would have refused such a party. For there would be all grown people. Barbe Carrick had been a little exclusive with her child and she had not felt the need of playmates. Then they were rather out of the range of the Fort people as the somewhat crowded settlement was called. There were no schools nor Sunday-schools for little folks. Sunday was not very strictly kept. The schoolmaster read prayers, the litany, and a sermon from some volume on Sunday morning and the rest of the day was given over to social life. There were a few Friends who held their meeting in each other's houses; some of the Acadians had found their way thither, and now and then a priest came who took in the more devout of the Irish population. But there was a large liberty of opinion. Norah would have the house decorated with blossoming shrubs and she made a wreath for the little girl to wear, for a few neighbors were asked in. James Langdale had been in Bernard's company, and Mrs. Langdale and Barbe had exchanged many a fear and a few hopes. There were two Langdale boys, but of course they were not eligible for a girl's party. They had some idea of the fitness of things even then. Barbe and Bernard Carrick were at the head of the table with Daffodil on her mother's side and great-grandfather on the other. At the foot were grandfather and grandmother Bradin and on one side grandfather Carrick and Norah, fresh and smiling and full of gayety in the pretty lavender crêpe she had worn at her own wedding and that she saved now for high occasions, with her sapphire earrings and brooch that had come down to her through several generations and had been worn at Court and danced with royalty. It was what we would call a high tea, a bountiful spread, and there was much jesting and joking. I think they didn't mind the little girl very much. She was perched up higher than usual and wore a white robe that was kept as a sort of heirloom when she outgrew it, for it was lace and needlework of her mother's making. Jetty, a half Indian woman, waited on the table, and when the meats were taken out and the dessert brought in there was Daffodil's beautiful cake with the seven candles all alight. She thrilled with the pleasure. They passed around other cakes and home-made wine and drank great-grandfather's health and wished him many more years. Grandfather Carrick drank to Daffodil's future, wishing her long life and a happy marriage with great prosperity. Then her mother helped her up on her feet. She felt very bashful with everybody's eyes upon her and almost forgot the little speech Norah had taught her, but her mother prompted and she replied amid great applause. The toasting went all around, then her candles were put out and she had to cut the cake, which she did with a silver knife that had a Louis stamp upon it. The cake was declared excellent. "I'm going to take my piece home to the boys," declared Mrs. Langdale. "Husband, give me a taste of yours." After that there was more merriment. Then Jetty took off the things, the tables were pushed back, and Norah and grandfather Carrick danced a jig. And it _was_ dancing such as you seldom see nowadays. Norah could have made her fortune on a modern stage. After Daffodil's party broke up the men went over to grandfather Carrick's, where they made a night of it, as was the fashion of the times. But Dilly and great-grandfather wanted to go to bed. "A party is just beautiful!" declared Dilly. "Couldn't I have another sometime!" "Oh, you are getting spoiled," laughed her mother. "Let me see--when you are ten, maybe." So many new thoughts came to Daffodil that she was surprised at herself. Of course it was being seven years old. She began to sew a little and knit and make lace over a cushion. Very simple at first, and oh, the mistakes! Then there was gardening. How curious to plant a dainty little seed and have it poke a green head out of the ground. But funniest of all were the beans coming up with their shells on their heads; she was sure at first they must be upside down. The men were very busy about the new town and sometimes they almost quarreled over the improvements. It was taking on quite a changed aspect. They were giving names to the streets and building much better houses of hewn logs, making plaster walls. But glass was very dear and for a long while they could only put in a few windows. The rest were openings, closed by shutters at night or in a storm. The paper was a great source of interest, the Pittsburg _Gazette_. What they did without any telegraph and depending only on post horses puzzles us now. And the General Government had a hard task on its hands reconciling the different states and trying ways of getting money. "They'll see, an' a sorry time they'll have of it," predicted Sandy Carrick. "It's settin' up housekeeping for yourself on nothing. Th' ould country's paid our bills and sent us what we needed an' they'll be glad to go back, mark my words now." Bernard took his father's talk in good part. His knowledge was so much wider. There would be hard times, but there were brave men to meet it. Sometimes he wished they could go to a big city, but it would be cruel to tear Barbe away from the household when she was its light. Daffodil had another wonderful pleasure. The old English people kept up some of their customs and they had a gay time over the Maypole. It was like a grand picnic. They had a smooth grassy place at the edge of the woods and the pole was a young tree that was denuded of its limbs as it stood in just the right place. They could not get ribbon, but strips of dyed muslin answered for the streamers. There were two fiddlers, there were gay choruses. One song grandad sang with great gusto. Captious as he could be when people did not agree with him, he had a fund of Irish drollery. "Come, lasses and lads, get leave of your dads And away to the Maypole hie; For every fair has a sweetheart there, And the fiddlers standing by, Then trip it, trip it, up and down." And grandad did trip it merrily. It was fortunate for Norah that she was not jealous, but she enjoyed a bit of fun, and her arch smile, the merry flash of her eyes, with the color coming and going, made her very attractive. Dilly wished she was big enough to dance--her little feet kept patting the turf and keeping time with the fiddle. "You're Daffodil Carrick, aren't you?" said a boyish voice almost in her ear. She turned, startled, and her eyes were so lovely they fairly transfixed him, and she stared unconsciously. She did not speak but nodded. "I'm Ned Langdale. My mother was at your party and brought us home a piece of your birthday cake. She said you were seven and as pretty as a fairy, and I'm fourteen, just twice as old." "Oh," she said, "that's funny. And will you always be twice as old." "Why--no. You can never be that but just once in your life--I mean with that special person. And when you were twenty I wouldn't like to be forty." "Is that so very old? Great-grandfather is ninety-seven." "Whew! That is old! But you see now I am seven years older than you and that is the way it will be all our lives. Do you go to school? There's a lady in Water Street who takes little girls, though she's only just begun." "No; but I can spell, and read, and do little sums. And read in French." "Oh, that's great! I'm studying Latin, but it's awful tough. Isn't it gay here? Can you dance?" "I never tried with music." "I can, just a little. Oh, say, it's splendid! If I knew just how I'd ask you to try it with me. It seems so easy when you look at them. It's so and so----" moving his hands. "Yes, do try. You whirl round----" And without any real intention they started. It was like floating. Yes, she had done it when she thought of the little people dancing on the green. "Oh," with a soft laugh of protest, and all out of breath. "It's--delicious! I didn't think I could do it for fair. I sometimes make believe. I'll get Norry to teach me." "Norry? Who?" "Why----" she flushed daintily. "That's grandad's wife." "Then she's your grandmother." "Oh, no, she isn't. You see the other wife died; she was father's mother and he married Norah. We all call her Norry." "She doesn't look old enough to be any one's grandmother. And isn't she gay? She has such a merry face, pretty too." "And she sings such gay songs. She knows all about the fairies, too, and she's seen them at home, that's Ireland. Why don't they come to America?" "Maybe the witches drive them away. Witches are just awful! Come; let us try again." He placed his arm around her and they whirled off to the fascinating music. Is there anything like a fiddle to put the spirit of delight in one's feet? Other couples were floating round or doing jigs with fancy steps and laughter. Now and then a bright, mirthful young lad ran off with some girl and left the first partner in the lurch, at which there was a shout. "Oh, I wish you were my sister! Wouldn't we have fun! I have only one brother, Archie, and he's stupid as an owl--well, I mean he hasn't any fun in him, and he'd dance about like a cow. Oh, there's your--well, it would be queer to call her grandmother." They both laughed at that. "I wondered where you were, Daffodil. Isn't this Ned Langdale? I know your mother. Dilly, I think I had better take you home. I promised your mother I wouldn't keep you very long." "Oh, no; let me stay just a little while. It's all so gay and they dance so--so--isn't it like a fairy ring?" Norah laughed. "Well, I'll take another round, then we must go. You keep her just about here, then I shall know where to find you. Aren't you tired, though?" "Oh, not a bit." Her eyes shone like stars and there was a most delicious color in her cheeks like the dainty first ripeness of a peach. "There's a tree over there--go and sit down. I won't be long." The great tree had been cut down and there were no end of chips lying about. "Now, if I was home I'd get a basket and gather them up," said Ned. "Mother thinks they make such a splendid fire. It's odd that our fathers were out in the war together, and are real good friends. I mean to be a soldier." "But if there isn't any war?" "There'll be Indian wars until they are all cleared out. They're a treacherous lot and never keep their word. And governments need an army all the time." "But it's dreadful to fight and kill each other." "Still you have to. History is full of wars. And there were so many in the Bible times. The children of Israel had to fight so many people to get the land of Canaan that the Lord promised them. And we've been fighting for a country--that is, our fathers have--and now we've gained it. Oh, wasn't it splendid when Cornwallis surrendered. Did you hear Kirsty that morning? I thought the place was on fire." That brought grandad's face before her and she laughed. "I didn't know what it meant nor who Cornwallis was. I'm only a little girl----" "But you're awful smart to read French. Can you talk it?" "Oh, yes. Grandmother Bradin was French. They went to Ireland and then came to America, and since father has been away they have talked it a great deal more, so you see I know both." "Mother said your party was so nice. And the old grandfather was like a picture. When they drank your health you had to reply." Daffodil's face was scarlet. "I almost forgot. Norry made me say it over and over, but mother whispered and then I remembered." "Oh, I wish I could have seen you. And you are so little and pretty. I'd like to see your French grandfather. Could I come some time?" "Why, yes. And you'd like Norry so much." "Do they live with you?" "Oh, no; but it's only a little way off----" Norah came flying back. "Come," she said hurriedly. "Grandad's had a fit about you because I did not have you tucked under my wing. Why, I should have dropped you while I was dancing. Glad you've taken such good care of her;" and Norah nodded to him as she took the child by the hand. "Don't say a word about the lad, or grandad will show his claws and scratch all round." He was waiting where a path turned off. "Well, Yellow-top," he began, "so you're not lost. Had a good time?" "I was watching them dance. And they were so merry. Oh it was fine!" "No place for a little youngster like you. Norry was crazy to think of it." "I saw some other little children----" "Yes, rabble;" and the nose went up. "Grandad, don't be cross. I had such a nice time;" and she slipped her small hand in his. "You're 'most a witch, you cunning little thing;" and he gave her a squeeze. "Now, Norry, take her to her mother's arms before you let her go." They turned off, and grandad, who had not had his fun out, went back. "It was all splendid, Norry. I want you to show me how to dance and teach me some songs--some of those gay and pretty ones." "Well, well! you _are_ getting along. Daffodil Carrick, you'll break hearts some day;" and Norah laughed. She had so much to tell them at home and she spoke of Ned Langdale, but she did not quite like to tell about the dancing, wondering if there had been anything wrong in it, and she did not want to have Norah blamed. She liked the gayety so much. It was rather grave at home, with all grown people. And her mother was not _all_ hers now. Father was very fond of her. And she was coming to like him very much. He was pleased that she had such a nice time. He wondered if it would not be well to send her to this school for small children that had lately been opened. But her mother objected decidedly. Oh, how beautiful the summer was with its flowers, and then its fruits. One Sunday afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Langdale came up with their son Edward, and Daffodil was glad to see him again. He was a nice, well-behaved lad, and very deferential to great-grandfather. The two soldiers talked over their battles and the state of the country. The preliminaries of peace were under way, but the settlement seemed to drag along. France still stood our friend. Daffodil took him out to see the squirrels that came at her call and inspected him with such curious, inquiring eyes that he laughed about it. "You see they are not used to boys," she explained. The quails were very much at their ease as well, and robins flew and fluttered. Judy never tried to catch them, though sometimes she hunted out in the woods. "Ned Langdale is a nice boy," said Dilly's father. "I don't wonder they are proud of him. His heart is set on being a soldier." "I'm glad he isn't my son if that is his bent," Barbe said. "And I hope we'll hear no more of war." CHAPTER V HOW THE WORLD WIDENED The summer passed rapidly. Daffodil found many things to entertain her, but grandfather demanded much of her time. He took his morning walk with her hand in his, but he did not go as far as formerly. Then, on his return, he had a nap in his chair. He lost his appetite during the latter part of the season. In the afternoon he took a long nap. Daffodil read to him now, and he did not appear to notice her blunders. "Father fails rapidly, I think," Mrs. Bradin said to her husband. He shook his head with a slow, sympathetic movement. "We shall miss him very much. And Dilly will feel it. I am sorry to have her know the mystery no child can understand." "We won't go for a walk this morning, Dilly," he said one day in later August. "The air is very close. We will wait until evening." "But you go to bed so early." "Yes, I'm getting old," with his faint, sweet smile. "But everybody says you must live to be a hundred. That's a whole century." "Sometimes I feel as if it were two centuries since I began. But it has been a pleasant journey toward the last. I'm glad to have had you, Dilly." "I'm glad, too," the child said with her bright smile. "Now you may sing to me a little." So she sang him to sleep. Then she went to wait on her grandmother. Her mother was sewing by the window in their sleeping-room. "Go and look at grandfather," she said presently. "He is still asleep. Mother, I wish you would show me that stitch I began yesterday." So she sat down at her work. Mrs. Bradin went to her father. His head had drooped a little forward. She placed her hand on his forehead, and drew a long quivering breath. The summons had come, peacefully, for him. She was still standing there when her husband entered, and at a glance he knew what had happened. "It is best so," he said. Barbe was startled beyond measure. Latterly her thoughts had been revolving much about herself, and though she had remarked the slow alteration, she had put off the assumption of the great change. Somewhere in the winter--maybe spring, and here it was with the ripening of summer. They carried him to his room and laid him tenderly on his bed. A long, well-used life it had been. To Daffodil it was a profound mystery. No child could comprehend it. This was the journey grandfather had spoken of, that she had imagined going back to France. "What is it, mother? How do people go to heaven?" she asked. "Some day we will talk it all over, when you can understand better. We must all go sometime. And we shall see each other there." "Then it isn't so bad as never seeing one again," and there was a great tremble in her voice. "No, dear. And God knows about the best times. We must trust to that." He looked so peaceful the day of the burial that Daffodil thought he must be simply asleep. She said good-by to him softly. There had been no tragedy about it, but a quiet, reverent passing away. Still, they missed him very much. Barbe wanted to set away the chair that had been so much to him. She could not bear to see it empty. "Oh, no, mother," pleaded Daffodil. "When I go and sit in it I can talk to him, and he seems to come back and answer me. It's so lovely where he is and there isn't any winter. Think of having flowers all the year round. And no one ever is ill. There are such beautiful walks, and woods full of birds, the like of which one never sees here. And I can put my head down on his shoulder, just as I used, and I can feel his hand holding mine. Oh, no, don't take it away, for then I should lose him." The child's eyes had a wonderful exalted light in them, and her voice had a tender, appealing sound, that went to the mother's heart. She was thankful, too, that Daffodil had no terror of death. She shrank from it as from some dread spectre standing in her way. The child missed him most in her walks. Norah liked neighbors to chaff and gossip with; rambles, with no special motive, did not appeal to her. Gran'mere was always busy, her mother was easily tired out. She rode, as of old, with grandad, but she could not use the pillion, her arms were too short to go around his stout body. Her father took her out with him when he could; he did a good deal of surveying. On Saturday Ned Langdale would hunt them up, and one day he brought Archie, who was three years younger, and not exactly stupid, either, but always wanting to examine the beginning of things, and how the Indians came to own the continent, and why the Africans were black and had woolly hair and in the country called Asia they were yellow? And if God created only two at first, how did they come to be so different? And how did Adam know what to name the animals? Were there people living in the stars? "Oh, do hush up," his mother would exclaim impatiently. "You are enough to turn one's brain upside down! And you can't say half the multiplication table. I don't believe you know how many black beans make five!" It had been a great puzzle to him. He sprung it on Daffodil one day. She considered. "Why, five would be five of anything, wouldn't it?" "Oh, how quick you are with a good reason, too. I couldn't see into it for ever so long. I'm awful dull." Then they both laughed. His face was such a good honest one, but not full of mirth, like Ned's. They were really nice boys, and her father felt he could trust her with them. But he wished there were some tolerably well trained girls for her to know. Then the winter came on again. Her father had to go to Philadelphia on some business, and there were stirring times in the brave old city. They missed him so much. Grandfather Bradin was promoted to the whole name now, as there was no chance of confusion, but the little girl as often endearingly called him "gran." Bernard Carrick brought home with him great-grandfather's will that had been made five years before, and intrusted to a legal friend, who was, like himself, a Huguenot refugee. To his wife Felix Duvernay had entrusted his strong box, with the gold pieces that were almost heirlooms, and various jewels, to do with whatever she chose. There were some deeds of property that he brought home with him, and the will. "I was amazed," he said to Barbe. "Why, there are acres and acres of ground that will be worth a mint of money some day. And it is all securely made over to Daffodil Carrick. Your father and I are appointed guardians, and this Mr. de Ronville is administrator. His father was exiled about the same time, but he came at once to America. It seems a little queer that great-grandfather shouldn't have made more of it." "I think, after the purchase he felt rather sore about it, as if it was a foolish bargain. But he thought then that the French would be the real rulers of America," said Mrs. Bradin. "Yet he never alluded to the will; and you know he was always very fond of Dilly, and that there was no other child." "Dear old man! When Dilly is grown up she will be an heiress. It can only be leased until she comes of age. I wish it was on this side of the river. Well, as my father says, 'it will neither eat nor drink,' except the rains of heaven. We won't proclaim it on the housetops." So matters went on just the same. No one gave much thought to "over the river" then. One morning Mrs. Carrick was not very well. Norah came over, and there was grave consulting. She took Dilly back with her, and in the afternoon grandad bundled her up and drove her over to the mill with him, and was very jolly. They did not return until dusk, and then Norry's supper had such a savory fragrance she decided to share it. Norry had been over to the other house, and "mother" had a bad headache, and Dilly was to stay all night. She had brought over her nightgown. "That's funny!" exclaimed Daffodil. "Mother seldom has a headache. Oh," with a sudden alarm, "you don't think mother will be ill for weeks and weeks, and grow pale and thin, as she did before father came home." "Oh, no;" and Norry threw up her head with a laugh. "She'll be up again in no time." Grandad was teaching the little girl to play checkers, and she was deeply interested. Norry was knitting a long woollen stocking for him, and sang bits of gay Irish songs. But by and by the little girl began to yawn, and made some bad plays. "You're sleepy," said grandad. "Yes, I can't get over to the king row;" and she smiled. "But you just wait until to-morrow, when I'm bright and fresh." So Norry put her to bed, and, leaving grandad to read the _Gazette_, she ran over to see how it fared with Barbe, and did not come home until morning. Grandad had a nice fire, and had made the coffee. "Oh, dear," began Daffodil, coming out in her trained nightgown, as they made garments for children to grow in, in those days, "isn't it funny? When I woke up I couldn't think where I was, and it came into my mind about little Bridget, that fairies took away for seven years. Then I would be fourteen." "That's some of Norry's nonsense. Get on your clothes, and come and have these grand griddle cakes and sausage, that'll make you sing in your sleep." "Why not when I am awake?" with laughing eyes. "Anybody can do that. But it takes something extra good to make you sing in your sleep." She thought they were quite good enough, and wondered how it would seem to sing in the night, and the dark, and if she could hear herself. Then her father came after her. Grandad wrung his hand and said, "Lad, I wish you joy and the best of luck." What did that mean? "Daffodil, something wonderful has happened to us, and I hope--you will like it. We are very happy over it. We have a little boy who came in the night. A little brother for you. And we want you to be glad." "Oh, was that what grandad meant?" she asked gravely. "Yes. You see, girls marry and give up their name. But a boy carries it on. And grandad hated to have the name die out. He will be very proud of the boy, but I think no one will be quite as dear to him as Daffodil." The child was revolving various thoughts in her mind, and made no comment. When they entered the house, Grandmother Bradin took off her hat and cloak, and kissed her very fondly. Her father watched the small serious face. Then he sat down in the big chair, and took her on his knee. "Dilly," he began in a pleading tone, "I hope you won't feel as if--as if you would be crowded out. We have had you the longest, and you were our first sweet joy. We can never love any other child quite like that. And nothing can ever change our love for you. So you must not feel jealous because we shall love him and be glad to have him----" "Oh, that was what you said a long time ago, when you first came home--that I was jealous. No, I didn't like mother to love you so much. And you were strange, and you can't love any one all at once;" incoherently. "But you are not jealous now?" "No. It didn't take her love from me, only a little while." "It did not take it away at all. And there were two people to love you, instead of one. Suppose I had felt hurt because you loved grandfather so much?" "Was it like that?" She raised her lovely eyes with an appealing light in them. "And was I very bad?" He stooped and kissed her. "It was very natural, and the only thing, the best thing, is to wait until the other one understands. You love me now?" She reached up and twined her arms about his neck. "I love you very much," she returned in an earnest tone. "And I am gladder than ever to have you love me, now that grandfather has gone away. But I don't want any one else to go." He clasped her more tightly. No, any other break in the circle would mean a more poignant grief. There was no one to spare. "And you will not mind if we love the little boy a good deal?" "No--since it is a little boy. I am glad it is not a girl, that you chose a boy," she made answer simply. "We all wanted the boy. Dilly, I am glad to have you love me, and I hope it will grow stronger as you grow older, and understand how sweet affection really is." Mr. Bradin called him away. He put Daffodil in the chair and she leaned her head down and whispered to grandfather that a little boy had come, and she was going to be glad, because they all wanted him. And then a curious thought flashed over her. Death and life are profound mysteries, even out of childhood. "Would you like to see the baby?" asked gran'mere Bradin. "Oh, yes." Her mother glanced up out of fond dark eyes. Why, she was as pale as in her long sickness, but not so thin. She said, "Kiss me, Daffodil." "Oh, mother!" "And here is little brother." Daffodil's first feeling was disappointment. She had thought of some angelic beauty. He was red and crumpled up, and there was a crown of thick black hair, and his mouth was puckered up. The mother patted his little face. "He will look better by and by," she said reassuringly. "Mother, I was thinking--it came to me in the chair--isn't it old grandfather come back to us again to live his life over? You know, everything begins little. The flowers die, but they spring up again, most of them in the same places." "Why, child, that is a pretty thought;" and the mother smiled. "And he will have his name, only Grandfather Carrick must have his in, so it will be Alexander Felix Duvernay." "I don't want him to be called Sandy." "I think he won't be. And, Daffodil, you won't mind--I mean, you won't feel jealous. We wanted him so much." There was a touch of anxiety in the mother's voice. "Oh, no. Father asked me that. No, you may love him ever so much, while you love me as well." "She takes it very calmly," said Gran'mere Bradin afterward. "Some children as old as she, and been the only one so long, would have made a great fuss. We have all spoiled her a little, but she has such a sweet temper. It is the Duvernay temper;" smiling. "I hope I have a good share of it," resumed Barbe. The baby was not small, and he grew by the hour. He had soft, large dark eyes. Grandad did not like so much French about him, but he was glad to have a grandson, even at that estate. He soon bleached out, though he was not fair like Daffodil. "I'll have to see about making a fortune for him," said grandad. "Though those acres of wood and farmland will not amount to much, and I don't see what a girl can do with a farm." But the acres lay smiling in the sunshine, perhaps dreaming of the time when they should be homes of beauty. Meanwhile events had been going on rapidly, if not harmoniously, for a stable government for the Colonies. And there must be some sort of a head. A government of the largest liberty it must be, the states forming a great federation for protection and advancement. Out of the discussion came the Federal Constitution, and a President, the man who had never lost faith in the possibility of a great nation. There were, of course, a few dissenting voices, and many fears. For the nation was only an infant. "What did I tell you," said grandad to his son. He had to argue, it was one of his satisfactions. "Four years, they say. In two years the silly things will make him a king, and in ten years you'll be fighting for liberty again. There's no money to be had--we shall be glad enough to run back to England, and beg to be taken in. The French will throw us over." "Don't look so far ahead." Bernard kept his temper under these onslaughts. But he did hate to have his father haranguing little crowds here and there over the spirits that were being so largely manufactured. "Oh, yes! And have them catch us unprepared. Where's the money coming from to build a navy, to pay new soldiers when the old ones are half starving, to keep your grand President. You see, he'll have a court and a style, while we common folks can kneel outside the gates." "We're going to look out for our own town, and let the men at the helm take care of the larger interests. We have everything for a fine city, and work for all, so we will take up the nearby business." People were straggling in; they are generally gregarious. And there was plenty of work. There was felling of trees, a sawmill, and rough log houses were meant for only temporary housing. Wharfs and docks sprung up by magic. Then the school was merged into the Pittsburg Academy, afterward to be the University of Pennsylvania. Smaller schools came into existence, yet they were a great working people, and in those years the three R's were esteemed the most necessary. Then, after a heated discussion, Pittsburg was established as the county seat, which enhanced its prestige. Some rigorous laws were passed, and a ducking stool was set up at the junction of the three rivers, much to the disgust of the better classes. At first there were crowds haunting the place, and jokes bandied about, but there was found small use for it. "It's a good thing," said Sandy Carrick. "It'll keep the women in check, anyhow." "Isn't it as well for the men?" asked Norah mischievously. "An', Sandy, you better look out, ye're scoldin' about the country 'cause you daren't try much of it on me. Don't I keep your house clean, mend your clothes, and knit you long stockings, so's you shan't get rheumatiz in your knees. An' if you know a woman who cooks a better meal of vittles, you had better go an' board with her." She was so pretty and saucy that Sandy turned on his heel and laughed. Then the _Mayflower_, with a lot of New England emigrants, passed Pittsburg for the shores of the Muskingum. "Them Eastern states must just have overflowed," was the verdict. "Goin' out to Ohio, an' spreadin' theirselves abroad as bait for the Indians, when there's civilized lands lyin' about." And as if Pittsburg was not large enough, they turned to consider Alleghany, and began to lay it out. It would make another fine city. Meanwhile matters went on prosperously, with the Carricks and the Bradins. Bernard added a room to his house for Daffodil, and placed a window so she could see her mother's garden of posies. The baby grew amazingly, was well and strong, and positively pretty, looking a little like his mother, getting teeth without any trouble, walking, saying all manner of crooked words, and then straightening them, being a jolly, healthy child, and Norah's heart was bound up in him. She borrowed him half her time. "I'd be a happier woman with a houseful of them," she said, "Sandy always insisted he didn't care, but I know he does. He's just ready to eat up little Sandy without a grain of salt." They _would_ call him that, while his home name was Felix. His father called him baby at first, then son. He liked everybody, but he adored his own father. Barbe stood a little in the background, not that she loved him less, but she gave a continual thanksgiving that he had met with such a warm welcome. Daffodil was amused at his pretty ways, and the cunning bits of mischief that she often kept from his mother. She was so certain of her father's affection now. She took a warm interest in his doings, she sided with him about the country, and listened delightedly to the stories of bravery and endurance, and absolutely quarrelled with grandad when he predicted the wretched times that would follow throwing off the protection of the mother country, and the surety that an appeal would be made again for her protection. "An' just look at what they are saying about your precious Washington! They'll turn him out before he's served his four years. No two of them think alike! And how's the money to be raised for expenses! You silly child, you don't know anything about it. An' your father's a gey fule!" "I'll never come in this house again, grandad!" with a dignity that made her pink cheeks red and her blue eyes black. "Then sure you'll never go out of it on such terms!" and grandad caught her and scrubbed her with his stubby beard, and hugged her so tight she was glad to promise she would come to-morrow. And likely she ran over that very evening. "He's not worth the minding," Norry would declare. "He don't believe the half of it, and says it to see you spurt up. He's half the time spilin' for a quarrel that has no more in it than an empty eggshell." Daffodil began to have some new interests in her life. She was growing rapidly, she went to school, and met children of her own age. Several chapels had been started, and there was a real clergyman, though they could not have him regularly, and then a reader took the service. The men had various outdoor diversions that had been brought from "the old country," and were never loath to join the women's frolics, at which there was dancing, and, it must be admitted, not a little drinking. Norah took her out occasionally, "for," she said to Barbe, "it isn't just right to make an old woman of her. They love the fun when they're young, and that's natural, an' it's a sin to crowd them out of it." Barbe was very domestic. Her house, her little boy, her sewing and spinning, filled up all her time. The child was a marvel to her. He was so bright and active, so pretty and merry, but altogether different from Daffodil. Once when they had talked over great-grandfather's bequest, Bernard had said, "It seems almost a pity that Dilly had not been the boy, with that great estate to come to him. A man can do so much more in a business way than a woman. Not but that the boy will be cared for, father's heart is set on him. And I shall see that he is well provided for if I live." Bernard Carrick was deeply interested in the welfare and advancement of the town, and found much work to do outside of the farm that his father-in-law attended to, indeed, had the greater interest in. Sandy Carrick had a great outlying tract. Grain of all kinds, especially wheat, grew for the mere planting in the virgin soil. And the staple product of the time was whiskey. Nearly every farmer had a still. The morality of drinking was not called in question, and the better class of people were temperate. It was the great thing they could exchange for their needs. They sent it over the mountains to Kentucky and Ohio. They built rough sort of tugs, and freighted it through the Ohio to the Mississippi, disposing of it anywhere along the route. The mouth of the great river was still in the hands of the Spanish. It must be confessed, since the birth of Felix, Barbe had shared her motherhood a good deal with Norah, who laid claim largely to Daffodil. They wandered through the woods together, for the child peopled them with the old stories that Norah's faith made so real. She stopped for her at school, and brought her home to supper. Grandad at times tried to tease her. Strangely enough she was never jealous, even of her father's love for the little brother. And she said to grandad: "You may love him all you like. He is a boy. Men ought to love boys. And he is named after you, though I don't like the name." "Oh, you don't! One grandfather is as good as the other, and I'm nearer of kin. It's a good old Scotch name, an' they're good as the French any day." "I don't like Sandy." "And I don't like Felix. But I put up with it. You won't make a Frenchman out of him. I'll see to that;" and he gave a funny wink out of his eye. "And if some day he should want to go to France?" "I'll see that he doesn't. This place will be big enough and good enough for him. There's fortunes to be made here. I'm going to leave him mine, an' I'll bet you a gallon of whiskey it'll be worth more than your wild land." "Well, I shan't care!" archly, and with laughing eyes. "I like the woods and the birds and the squirrels. Some day I'll have a house built, and I'll take Norah to live with me." "You will, hey? I'll have something to say about that. Do you suppose I'll stay here and starve?" He tried to look very angry, but she knew all about his face, and his tone, and said nonchalantly, "Oh, you can go over to the other house and get something to eat." "Well, we'll see, little Miss Madam. You'll be gravely mistook!" So they jested and pretended to bicker. Then grandad set up Norah with a pony and a sort of jaunting car, that would only hold two. For Daffodil could no longer keep her seat in the old fashion, neither would her arms reach around grandad. Sometimes Norah took out Barbe and the little boy. For Daffodil went to school quite regularly about eight months of the year. The remaining time most of the children were needed to help at home. Any other child would have been spoiled with the favoritism at school. The older ones helped her at her lessons, and in those days there were no easy kindergarten methods. They gave her tidbits of their luncheons, they piled her little basket with fruit, although she insisted there was so much at home. They brought her some strange flower they had found, they hovered about her as if there was some impelling sweetness, some charm. She had a way of dispensing her regard impartially, but with so tender a grace that no one was hurt. "I just wish we could go to the same school," Ned Langdale said in one of the Sunday rambles. He was always on the lookout for Norah and her. "But--the big boys go there." "Yes. Oh, you wouldn't like it a bit. Beside, you couldn't. And the lessons are just awful. And the thrashings----" "Don't. I can't hear about that;" shaking her pretty golden head. "No. Girls oughtn't. But they say it's good for children----" "For boys. Why, are boys worse than girls?" "Oh, they are not. I know some girls who are mean, and tricky, and don't tell the truth. All girls are not like you." "Maybe it's because everybody is so good to me. I couldn't be bad in return, you know." "Oh, I just wish you were my sister, and lived with us." "Well, you see that couldn't have been. God sent me to mother." "But a fellow can wish it." "It's queer, but there are a great many things wishing doesn't bring. I suppose it's because they _can't_ happen." He gave a sigh. She knew how to dance now; Norah had taught her, but it comes natural to most children, and it did to her. She used to dance by herself, and sometimes whirl little brother round, to the great amusement of her father. Ned used to stray over summer evenings to hear Mr. Carrick talk about the war, and the dangers he had escaped. He never told the hardest side of it, not even to Barbe. There were other boys who made various errands, and if she was not home, went over to Sandy's for her. "This thing must stop," grandad said angrily. "What are they running after such a child as that for? Oh, don't tell me it's some trumped-up errand. It's just to sit and look at her as if they never saw a girl before! She's pretty to look at, to be sure, but she's not going to have lovers in a long time yet." "Sandy, don't get your head fuddled with that kind of nonsense. It's a heap worse than whiskey." Sandy gave an indignant grunt. CHAPTER VI A NEW FRIEND "Oh, here's a letter for father. Grandad brought it. From Philadelphia. And here's a queer red something"--and Dilly peered over it. "Seal," said her mother. "And, why, it's from that friend of great-grandfather's," studying the French emblem. And an odd shiver ran over her, as she suddenly studied her child. Dilly laughed. "You look as if you were afraid he wanted me, as if he was some cruel old ogre, who might eat me up." Then Barbe laughed also, and stood the letter on the high shelf over the chimney, that she could just reach. It was from Monsieur de Ronville. He was coming to Pittsburg on some quite important business, for parties who had heard about the discovery of minerals, and that a blast furnace had been started; that Pittsburg was coming to be a point of connection with the west and south; and he would also like to see his ward and her possessions, that he might be able to advise in time to come. Would Mr. Carrick be kind enough to meet him and bespeak accommodations at some hotel for himself and his man, for all of which he would be extremely obliged. Bernard Carrick looked at his wife in sheer amazement. "Hotel! Well, there are only two or three taverns good enough for traders, and that ilk, who don't mind a roystering crew, gaming, and drinking. If it was government business, he might be taken in at the Fort. Why, what can we do? And a man. You see, he is used to the habits of civilized life, and we have had no time to fall into the traces. The Lindsays are in their new house, but I couldn't ask them to take in our guest." "And we;" Barbe hesitated, then said laughingly, "we shall have to enlarge our borders. Sometime the boy will want a room." Bernard dropped into grandfather's chair and considered. He had been about the world enough to know the place would look rather rough to a person from one of the chief cities. Somehow, they were a little different. There were pieces of fine old furniture that had come from France, then their ways were rather more refined. It would be the proper thing to take him in. And he would be here in about a week. Mrs. Bradin agreed on that point. Truth to tell, she was anxious to see this M. de Ronville, whose father had been her father's boyhood's companion. "Why, you could give him Dilly's room, and she could go over to Norry's," she said as they were discussing the next day what was to be done. "It is a good thing we brought down that old bedstead, though Dilly hated it so." Dilly had outgrown her little pallet, though at first she declared the high posts were the little brown men grown into giants, who would carry her away. But when grandmere exhumed some faded silk hangings where the roses were of a creamy pink, and cupids with wings were flying about, she was soon reconciled. Then Grandfather Bradin had made her a chest of drawers and two chairs that looked as though they might have been imported. "And I can fix a bed in the attic for the man, so we will have it all running smoothly." "You are a great comfort," said Bernard to his mother-in-law. The post now came every week. Even the busy folks went to meet it for the sake of the newspapers and the occasional letters, though those mostly went to the Fort. Sometimes a few emigrants had joined the train. For now there seemed to have broken out a fever for adventure, for founding new settlements, although in some places the Indians were still troublesome. Bernard Carrick went to meet his guest. He could have picked him from the group at once by his decidedly foreign air, the French aspect. He was past sixty, rather tall, and very erect, almost soldierly, with a beautiful white beard, though his hair was only half sprinkled with snow. Clear, rather soft dark eyes, and a high-bred air that gave a grave, yet kindly, expression to his countenance. He had his horse, as well as his servant, who was a rather small, shrewd-eyed Frenchman. Carrick introduced himself, and welcomed his guest cordially, explaining to him that they had not arrived at the dignity of hotels, and that the taverns were but poor affairs, so he would be pleased to offer him the hospitality of his own house. "Thank you," he returned. "You are the father of my ward, I presume." "Yes, she is my little girl;" with a smile. "An odd sort of charge. Though I suppose it was because I was of his country. Nations are clannish." "We shall get so mixed up that we shall hardly be able to trace our forbears. On her mother's side my little girl is mostly French." "A little girl!" He seemed surprised. "She will always be that to me. Only heaven knows my joy and gratitude at coming home from the long struggle, and finding her and her mother alive; indeed, the whole household. I have had a son born since." "Yes. You were in the war. You may be proud of that. It will be an honor to hand down to your son. But your town----" With a vague glance around, and an expression that was clearly not admiration. "It has not had your advantages, nor your people, and is much younger. It seems to me on the verge of civilization." Bernard Carrick laughed good humoredly. "That is true," he returned. "Except for the confluence of the rivers there seems no special advantage, though the land is thought to be rich in minerals. And the Fort being built here--the French planned a long chain of them." "It seems a just return to France for her indifference to her splendid Colonies. And I have lived long enough to see if there are no fatal mistakes made, that this will be a grand country. From the depths of my heart I pray for her welfare." "And I fought for it," was the younger man's proud reply. De Ronville had hardly expected to see such a house as this. The aspect was undeniably French, heightened by the old furniture that he had been used to in his boyhood. His room was delightful. Barbe had taken out most of the girl's fancy touches, and odd things her grandfather Bradin had made, and left a grave aspect. Outside, everything was a-bloom, and a rose climbed up a trellis at the side of the window, shaking its nodding fragrant blossoms against the window-pane, and, when it was open, showering in its sweet silky leaves. They made friends readily. Great-grandfather Duvernay was the link between, and the women were more French than of any other race. It was almost supper time when Daffodil came in, leading her little brother by the hand. In him again the mother's type predominated; he was a fine, robust child, with a fearless, upright expression, and a voice that had none of the rougher tones of so many of the early settlers. But Daffodil! He studied her with a little wonder. For her abundant hair had not yet shaken off its gold, and lay in loose thick curls about her neck. Her complexion was of that rare texture that neither sun nor wind roughened, and all the care it had was cleanliness and the big bonnets of those days. Her features were quite regular, the nose straight, rather defiant, but the beautiful mouth, full of the most tantalizing curves, fun, laughter, sweetness, and the something termed coquetry in older women, that is not always experience either. She was slender and full of grace, tall for her age, but most girls grew up quickly, though she had not left the fairyland of childhood. "I am glad to see the darling of my old friend," smiling as he took her soft, dimpled hand. "I have always thought of her as a very little girl, sitting on the arm of her grandfather's chair----" "Oh, did he tell you that!" in her bright, eager tone. "Yes, and we used to talk--he told me so much about France and--it was your father--was it not? I thought you must be quite young;" and a faint touch of surprise passed over her face. "We were both set back in memory, it seems. And even I am getting to be quite an old man." "But I like old men," she said, with charming frankness, and a tint of color deepened in her cheek. "They are all old except father, and the men who come in to play games are wrinkled up, and some of them have white hair. I've had such a lot of grandfathers, and only one grandmother." "How did you get more than two?" "It was great-grandfather Duvernay," explained Barbe, "that made the third." "And this is his chair. Mother wanted to take it away, but I could not bear to have it leave this corner. I could see him in it. Strange how you can see one who is not really there, or do they come back for a moment? Here is the arm where I sat, and I used to put my arm round his neck. I am going to let you sit in his chair. Father won't mind;" glancing inquiringly at her mother. "Dilly, you are too forward," and Barbe colored. Felix was climbing in her lap and almost upset her. "No, no; her prattle is the most cordial welcome. And I hope you will soon like me well enough to come and sit on the arm and hear my stories." "Oh, have you what Norry calls a bag of stories, that the little brown men carry about? They're queer, and they drop them over you while you are asleep, and that makes dreams, and you see people, and have good times with them." M. de Ronville laughed. Bernard came in; he had been settling the man, and the luggage, and now repeated his hearty welcome. When M. de Ronville settled himself in the corner and the chair you could almost fancy grandfather had come back. They had a strong likeness of race of the higher type, those who had been pure livers and held strongly to their religion. He was very tired with the journey and looked pale as he sat there, relaxed. Barbe and her mother spread the table. They had a sort of outdoor kitchen they used for cooking in the warm weather. Felix was asking questions of his sister, who answered them with a sort of teasing gayety. Why was this so and that, and did she ever see a panther. Jimmy Servy's father killed a wolf out by the Fort, and Jimmy said a wolf would eat you up. Would it truly? "Then when I am big enough to fire a gun I'll go out and shoot all I can find." The supper was most appetizing if it did not have the style of his own house. He was really pleased with the simplicity of the two women, and Mr. Bradin and his son-in-law certainly were intelligent if they had not the range of the greater world. Daffodil was quiet and well-mannered he observed. In truth he was agreeably surprised with these people who were not held in high esteem by the culture of the large city. Dilly came to him afterward. "I am going over to grandad's," she announced. "I stay all night with them sometimes. Oh, I hope you will like Norry. I love her dearly and you mustn't mind if grandad is a little queer." "No, I will not," amused at her frankness. "He is just a splendid old man!" she announced to Norah. "And he looks like great-grandfather. I'm going to like him ever so much, and I want you to." "Oh, yes, I'll like him," responded Norah readily. "I fancied he was one of the high and mighty dukes like that Colonel Leavitt, and I'm glad for your mother's sake that he's comfortable to get along with. It never would have done for him to go to a tavern." They talked a little at the other house and then retired for the night. And the next day was a busy one. Bernard Carrick took him about and they inspected the blast furnace on which high hopes were built, but the knowledge in those times was rather limited. It struggled along for some years and then better things came in its stead. The river front was quite a busy place. Yes, de Ronville admitted there was great promise of a thriving city. And over opposite might be another. He knew how the cities on the eastern coast had improved and grown in power. One had only to wait. And his ward was young. Though he wondered a little at the faith of his friend Duvernay. But the old man, not so old then, had in his mind the beautiful estates in the land of his birth, and this land commanding the river and what would sometime be a thriving town attracted his fancy. He had hoped so that Barbe's child would be a son, but he had loved Daffodil with the passion of declining years. Felix had come too late. M. de Ronville found much to interest him. The eastern shore would not be all of the country. Explorers were sending back glowing tales of western possibilities. Towns were springing up and this was the key to them all. There were large tracts of fertile lands that seemed to have been deserted by the Indians and that were of amazing fertility. After all Felix Duvernay had made no mistake. And Daffodil found her way to the guest's heart with very little effort. It might have been her beauty, that no one around seemed aware of, or her pretty, winsome manner. She accompanied him and her father on their rides about. She was a graceful and well-trained horsewoman. She had so many dainty legends of out-of-the-way nooks; most of them Norah had grafted on old country tales. And the evenings at home came to be quite a delight for them all, listening to the glories of his city and the strides it had made. Of the famous men, of the many incidents in the great struggle, its churches and various entertainments as well as the social aspect. Daffodil listened enchanted. They had come to be such friends that she sat on the broad arm of the chair, but he noted her wonderful delicacy in never dropping into familiarities, while they were so common with her father, and grandad was almost rough with her. True, Barbe had an innate refinement and it was the child's birth-right as well. She sat there one afternoon. Mother and grandmother were busy preserving fruit for winter use, it grew so plentifully, but they had not mastered the art of keeping some of the choicest through the winter uncooked. "Daffodil," he began gravely, "your parents have entertained me most delightfully. You have a charming home and I shall hate to leave it. But on Thursday there is a return post and I have overstayed the time I thought would be ample to transact the business I came about. And now I must return." "Oh!" she exclaimed. "Oh, I do not want you to go." What pleading, beautiful eyes she raised to him. Old as he was it thrilled through his pulses. "But, my child, I cannot live here. And I shall miss you so much. Why I have half a mind to run away with you. I wonder if you would like a visit to my beautiful city." "Oh, it would be splendid! But--is there any one----" "To take care of you? There is a housekeeper and a maid, and a jolly, good-natured black woman, who cooks in the kitchen. There are two carriages and horses, and there will be so much to see. It is so different from this." She seemed to consider. "Yes," rather irresolutely, "if I could go. They would miss me so much here." "And would you be homesick?" "Not in a good long while, with you;" she returned with a child's innocence. "And you would surely let me come back?" "Yes, my dear; even if it broke my heart to do it. I wish you were my little granddaughter." "Then I would have another grandfather," and she gave a soft, musical ripple. After an instant she caught his hand in hers so plump and warm, and exclaimed--"Oh, I should like to go." "Dilly; Dilly!" exclaimed the fresh boyish voice; "come and see what I have. Grandad and I have been fishing." There was a string of shining plump fish that as Felix said still wiggled in their freshness. "Oh, Dilly, if you only were a boy! Grandad says you are not worth a button at fishing." "They're fine, little brother. No, I don't love to fish. And baiting!" She shuddered as she spoke. "But you can eat them afterward." "I couldn't if I caught them myself." "I wanted a nice lot before the gentleman went away. And Katy and Peg Boyle were out and they are great. It was a fine afternoon for fishing I tell you!" She went through to the kitchen with him. He was a boy for all kinds of sport, but he abhorred school and was glad when it closed early in the summer, for the boys and girls were needed at home. Sandy Carrick inducted his grandson into all boyish pursuits. His heart was bound up in Felix. He began to prepare the fish for cooking. Dilly looked out over the wide expanse where trees were thick with leaves and laden with fruit. But she did not truly see anything for her eyes were following her thoughts. To go to a great and wonderful city where they had rung the first bell for independence, to see the splendid houses and the ladies in fine array and to hear beautiful music. But of course she could not go. They would miss her so much. Yet it seemed as if she did very little now. They had not the strenuous methods of to-day. If those old settlers of Pittsburg with their simple living could come back they would lose their senses at the luxury and striving for gain, the magnificence, the continual hurry and restlessness, the whirl of business undreamed of then. No one was striving to outshine his neighbor. House furnishing lasted through generations. Fashions in gowns and hats went on year after year, and it left time for many other things. Barbe Carrick found hours for lace-making; as was the custom of that time she was laying by in the old oaken chest articles and napery for the time when Daffodil would go to a home of her own. For then it was a great disappointment to the mother if a girl did not marry. In the old chair Gaspard de Ronville sat dreaming. He should have married long ago and had children and grandchildren. Would there have been one pretty, golden-haired girl among them with a sweet voice and such eyes as were sure to find the way to one's heart, such rosy, laughing lips, sweet for lovers to kiss when the time came? And then--oh, if it could be! That evening he laid his plan before the household. Might he take Daffodil for a few months' visit, and thereby return their cordial hospitality that had given him a most unexpected pleasure. She would be well taken care of, that he could assure them. And in event of her losing her natural protectors he as her trustee and guardian would be only too happy to take charge of her. He would have her best interests at heart always. And it might be well for her to see a little of the world. She might desire more education than the place could afford. They were all too much amazed to reply at once. "Pittsburg is good enough!" flung out grandad. "Her interests will be here. She'll marry here, she'll die and be buried here, and she'll know enough to get to heaven at the last without all the folderols of a great city, as those folks think it because they rung their bell when they cut loose from the mother country!" "Oh, we couldn't spare her," said the mother. "And, Dilly, you wouldn't want to go away among strangers." "Oh, no," returned the little girl, and she knew then she had two sides to her nature, and one was longing for the new and untried, and the other clung to what was familiar. There were tears in her eyes, but she could not have told which chord of her soul of all the many was touched. "I should just die without you!" protested Norah. "I couldn't love a colleen of my own better." Grandmere said but little. She saw there was an unquiet longing in the child's heart. She could not quite approve of trusting her to strangers, but she knew girls had come from the old world to Virginia and married men they had never seen before, and made good wives and mothers. Daffodil was too young to think of lovers, two years hence there might be danger. "I'd go!" declared Felix in his most manly fashion. "Why, Tim Byerly has been out to Ohio, which is a real country, not all a river. And Joe Avery went over to the Mes'sipy and down to New Orleans." "Mississippi," corrected his mother. "That's what Joe calls it. And men haven't time for such long names. Yes, I mean to go about when I'm big and have some money. Father 'n' I'll set out and discover some new state and take possession of it in the name of the President. Of course girls can't set out to discover things. And Philadelphia has been discovered already." They had not long to think about it. And as if to make it the more possible an old neighbor, Mrs. Craig, who was going to spend the winter in the distant city with a married daughter, offered to give her a mother's care on the journey. Girl friends came in and envied her the wonderful luck. Most of the neighbors took it for granted that she would go. As for the little girl she changed her mind about every hour. She had come to care a great deal about M. de Ronville. In youth one responds so readily to affection and he had learned to love her as he had never loved anything in his life. He was charmed with her frankness and simplicity, her utter unworldliness. She seemed to care no more for the great estate over the river than if it had been a mere garden patch. And he thought her too lovely to be wasted upon any of these rather rough, commonplace young men. She must be taught to know and appreciate her own value. It was only settled the night before. There was no need of much making ready, they could get what she wanted in the great city. And they must allow him the pleasure of providing for her. No one would be wronged by whatever he might do for her. Grandad had been very grumpy about it, and Norah cried and scolded and then admitted it was the most splendid thing, like a fairy story. Felix was full of delight. And the good-by's were so crowded at the last that her head was in a whirl. She felt as if she should come back that same night and talk over her day's journey. And so the little girl went out of Pittsburg with good wishes, and perhaps a little envy from those who would like to have been in her place. CHAPTER VII DAFFODIL'S NEW WORLD Their first stage was in the coach. There was really quite a caravan for the weather was very pleasant for such a trip. Mrs. Craig fussed a little in a motherly way, and M. de Ronville watched her attentively, fearful she might give way to tears. But she had a stunned, incredulous feeling. Two men in the coach were arguing about the feasibility of Philadelphia becoming the capital of the Nation. It should never have gone to New York, which, after all, had been a nest of Tories. One of the men recalled grandad to her mind and she could not forbear a vague little smile. It roused her to an amused interest and she asked M. de Ronville in a low tone which was right. "The stout man is right, but he might be less dogmatic about it. I wondered at its going so far North." Mrs. Craig was quite chatty and a very sensible body who saw several amusing things outside of the coach. All the passengers had brought luncheons along and they stopped by a wayside spring for a refreshing drink and to water the horses. Most of the travellers took a little walk around to rest their limbs. And then on again. The afternoon seemed long to Daffodil, though M. de Ronville entertained her with some reminiscences of the war and before that time, and how queer and unpromising the first beginnings were, and about William Penn, whose dream and desire had been "A fair roomy city with houses set in gardens of greenery," and Benjamin Franklin, who had done so much brave work for the country. The post road had been made very tolerable. The darkness dropped down and the woods seemed full of strange things that made her shiver. Then they stopped at an inn--taverns they were called in those days--and had a good supper. "Are you very tired?" asked M. de Ronville with much solicitude. "Not so much tired as stiff. I think I never sat still so long even at school," and she smiled. "It's a rather long journey, and I hope," he was going to say, "you will not be homesick," but checked himself and added, "that you will not get clear tired out. I will see if we cannot get some horses for to-morrow. That will make a change." "Oh, I shall like that," her face in a glow of pleasure. The supper was very good and she was healthily hungry. Mrs. Craig found some amusement to keep up the little girl's spirits, and she fared very well until she was safe in bed beside her kind companion. Then she turned her face to the wall and her mind went back to all the nights in her short life when she had been kissed and cuddled by mother or grandmere, or for the last ten days by Norry, and now she suddenly realized what the separation meant. The glamour was gone. She could not go back. Oh, why had she come! She wanted to fly to the dear ones. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her nightdress, and sighed very softly, but she need not have minded, for Mrs. Craig was gently snoring. The next morning was bright and clear, but she wondered where she was when Mrs. Craig spoke to her. What a little bit of a room and a tin basin to wash in! "I hope you slept well. And I never dreamed a word! What a shame, when your dreams in a strange place come true--but you wouldn't want a bad dream to come true." "No," in a very sober tone. There was noise enough, but it was not the familiar home tones and Felix bustling about. Daffodil made a great effort to restrain her feelings and laughed a little at some of the sallies. M. de Ronville was pacing up and down the hall, and he held out both hands, but his eyes wore an anxious expression. "My dear little girl, I could not help thinking last night that it was very selfish of me to want to take you away from your home and those who love you so dearly just for a bit of pleasure to myself. Did you go to sleep thinking hard thoughts of me?" She raised her lovely eyes, but the face was sweet and grave. "Oh, you know I need not have come unless I had wanted to. I didn't think it would be so--so hard," and there was a little quiver in her voice. "And are you sorry? Do you want to go back?" "No," she answered with a certain bravery. "I like you very much and you want to do the things that please those you care a great deal for. And I want to see the beautiful city and the wonderful places where things have happened. And I am going to be very happy, only I shall think of them all at home." "That is right. And I am going to do all I can to make you happy. The journey will be tiresome--I have seldom had to take any delicate person into consideration and I didn't think----" "Oh, I shall not get tired out," laughing with some of her olden spirit. He had been upbraiding himself during the night for his covetous desire of having her a little longer. Yes, he would have been glad if she was in reality his ward, if she were some friendless, homeless child that he could take to his heart for all time. There were many of them who would be glad and thankful for the shelter. But he wanted this one. The riding for awhile was a pleasant change, and they talked of themselves, of M. de Ronville's home, one of the early old houses where he had lived for years, alone with the servants. She had heard most of it before, but she liked to go over it again. "I wonder why you didn't marry and have children of your own," and there was a cadence of regret in her tone that touched him. "I supposed I would. But year after year passed by and then I grew settled in my ways, and satisfied. I was a great reader." "Oh, I wonder if I shall disturb you?" and there is a charm in her accent that warms his heart. "You must have seen that we live so altogether, that word just expresses it, as if all our interests were just the same. And they are. And I shall be--strange. Is the housekeeper nice?" "Well--a little formal and dignified perhaps. Mrs. Jarvis. And she is a widow without children. Then there is Jane, quite a young woman. Of course, Chloe belongs to the kitchen department. And there is a young man." There is no new accession of interest. She only says--"And is that all in a great big house?" "Oh, there are visitors at times. I've had General Lafayette and Count de Grasse and not a few of our own brave men. But they have largely dispersed now, and sometimes I have a rather lonely feeling. I suppose I am getting old." "Oh, I don't know how any one can live without folks, real folks of their very own," she said with emphasis. "Yet, the friends have ties and interests elsewhere, and you have no close claim on them. It is not a good thing. Suppose grandfather Duvernay had been all alone those later years." "Oh, I don't believe he could have lived. He was so fond of us all. And I loved him so. But I couldn't truly think he had gone away. I used to sit on the arm of the chair and talk to him. Do you know just where they go, and can't they come back for a little while? Oh, I know mother would. She couldn't stay away!" Her eyes had a beautiful expression, almost as if she had a vision of the other world. "Oh, he was to be envied," exclaimed de Ronville, with deep feeling. His own life looked lonelier than ever. By noon she was glad to go back to the coach. It had changed some of its passengers and there were two children that attracted Daffodil's interest and put her in a still more charming light. It was a long and tiresome journey with one wild storm and some cloudy days, but at last they reached the much desired city, and were driven out to the end of Broad Street. It was still the "greene country towne," although it had taken on city ways. This house stood then in the midst of greenery, having a garden on both sides, one devoted to choice fruit, the other to flowers and a sort of kitchen garden. It was a square brick house with green blinds, a wide doorway, and a hall running through the centre. Mrs. Jarvis answered the summons herself. "A hundred warm welcomes, my dear friend," she said most cordially. "We have missed you so much. I hope you are well?" "Quite worn with the journey. And this is my ward--Miss Daffodil Carrick." She held out her hand to the young girl and smiled at the attractive face. "Will you go upstairs at once? There will be time for a rest before supper. Oh, sir, you can hardly think how glad we are to get you back." The hall and stairs seemed to Daffodil as if they were carpeted with moss. Four rooms opened on the upper hall. Jules had his master's portmanteau as well as that of the girl, which he set down at the opposite door. Mrs. Jarvis led her in. "This is my room and you see there is a connecting doorway so you need not feel lonely. You must be tired with the dreadful journey. How people ever ventured before there was a post road I can't imagine. Yet there are families going out to Ohio and Kentucky, as if there was not land enough here to settle. Now I'll send up Jane with some warm water that will refresh you very much. And then you had better take a rest. Supper is at six. You have nearly two hours." Left to herself Daffodil took a survey of the room. It looked quite splendid to her untrained eyes with its soft carpet, its pretty chairs, its bedstead and bureau of light wood, its clock and tall candlesticks on the mantel, and the dressing mirror that stood on feet and in which you could see the whole figure. Then in a little nook curtained off was a washing stand with beautiful appointments in white and old blue. She glanced around in amazement and was still standing there when Jane entered. A quaint enough figure in a short, scant frock, short-waisted as was the fashion of the times, of home-dyed blue linen that would have been one of the new colors of to-day where we have gone through every conceivable shade and hue. The sleeves were short, but there were long-armed mitts for summer wear. The cape was of the same material and the straw gipsy hat had a bow on the top and the strings to tie under the chin when it was not too warm. "Oh, you look as if you did not mean to stay," cried Jane. "Let me take your hat and cape." Jane was nearer thirty than twenty, a comely, fresh-faced girl with an air of youthfulness, attired in a sort of Quaker gray gown, with a lace kerchief crossed over her bosom. Her hair was banded straight above her ears and gathered in a knot behind. "Oh, miss, you look fagged out. Mrs. Jarvis said when you'd had a good wash you must go to bed awhile. There's nothing freshens you up like that. It must have been an awful journey! My brother has gone out to Ohio. Do you live anywhere near that?" "Not so very far away. And the Ohio river runs by us." "I want to know now! The world's a funny sort of place, isn't it, Miss, with land here and water there and great lakes up North and a gulf at the South that they do say is part of the ocean. Now--shan't I unpack your portmanteau?" "Monsieur de Ronville wouldn't let mother pack up much, he said things could be bought here." "Yes, there's no end of them now that we are trading openly with France." "And I was growing so fast," she continued apologetically, for the two frocks looked but a meagre outfit. One was a delicate gingham made out of a skirt of her mother's when gowns were fuller, the other her best white one tucked up to the waist and with some rare embroidery. "Can I help you any?" "No," returned Daffodil in a soft tone and with a half smile. "I'm used to waiting on myself." "I'll come in and fasten your frock. You'll put on the white one;" and Jane withdrew. Oh, how good the fresh water and soap scented with rose and violet seemed! She loitered in her bathing, it was so refreshing. Then she did throw herself across the foot of the bed and in a few moments was soundly asleep, never stirring until some one said--"Miss; Miss!" "Oh! I had a lovely rest. You get so jolted in a stage coach that it seems as if your joints were all spinning out." "Oh, miss, what beautiful hair? It's just like threads of gold. And it curls in such a lovely fashion! And such dark lashes and eyebrows sets you off." Jane was such a fervent note of admiration that Daffodil blushed. She was very pretty in her frock that ended above the ankles, and her fine white linen home-knit stockings were clocked. True her shoes were rather clumsy, but her shoulders made amends for any shortcomings. Her skin was very fair; sometimes it burned a little, but it never tanned. "Oh, miss, if you had a ribbon to tie your curls up high! All the young ladies wear it so." "I'm not _quite_ a young lady," archly. M. de Ronville came out of the library to meet her. The little flush and the shy way of raising her eyes was enchanting. She seemed a part of the handsome surroundings, really more attractive than in the plainness of her own home. "You are a most excellent traveller," he began. "And I give you a warm and heartfelt welcome to my house. You should have been my granddaughter. What now?" seeing a grave look settled in her face. "I was thinking. I wish I might call you uncle. It's queer but I never had an uncle with all the other relations. They seem to run in one line," and she laughed. "Oh, if you will. I've wished there was some way of bringing us nearer together. Yes, you shall be my niece. You won't forget?" "Oh, no; I am so glad." She seemed to come a little closer, and he placed his arm around her. Oh why did he never know before how sweet love could be! Then he kisses down amid the golden hair. Even her cheek is sacred to him and her lips must be kept for some lover. There was a little musical string of bells that summoned them to supper. A young man of three- or four-and-twenty stood just inside the door. "For convenience sake Miss Carrick will be announced as my niece as she is my ward. Allow me to present Mr. Bartram." Daffodil flushed and bowed. M. de Ronville placed her chair for her. The table was round and very beautifully appointed. She and the young man were opposite. He was rather tall, well looking without being especially handsome. Mrs. Jarvis poured the tea. The two men talked a little business. "I shall lay the matter before the Wetherills to-morrow," de Ronville said. "I was surprised at the promise of the place and it has a most excellent location. At present it is rather wild, but after seething and settling down the real town comes to the surface. It will not be a bad investment if one can wait. And the Wetherills are not likely to lack descendants. "I am glad you were not disappointed," returned the young man. "We know so little about Pittsburg," said Mrs. Jarvis, "except the great defeat of Braddock in the old war. Your people are French, I believe," turning to Daffodil. "Yes, on the one side. The town seems to be made up of all nations, but they agree pretty well. And they have many queer ways and fashions." Daffodil did not feel as strange as she had been fearing for the last two or three days that she would. Mother and grandmere would stand a comparison with Mrs. Jarvis, who had the dignity and bearing of a lady. Some friends came in to congratulate M. de Ronville on his safe return. Mrs. Jarvis was much relieved at Daffodil's quiet manner. And she certainly was a pretty girl. They had quite a little talk by themselves when the guests were gone and Mrs. Jarvis was well pleased that she had come of a good family, as the town set much store by grandfathers and the French were in high repute. Before M. de Ronville went to business the next morning he made a call on Miss Betty Wharton, who was a person of consequence and had had a romance, a lover who had been lost at sea when he was coming to marry her and the wedding finery was all in order. She and her mother lived together, then the mother died and Betty went on in her small house with a man and a maid and a negro cook. They were in high favor at that time. She had been quite a belle and even now was in with the Franks and the Shippens and the Henrys, and through the war her house had been quite a rendezvous for the patriots. She was an excellent card player, good humored and full of spirits, helpful in many society ways. She could have married, that all her friends knew; indeed two or three elderly beaux were still dangling after her. "I am come to ask a favor," he said after the talk of his journey was over. "I have brought back with me a young girl, my ward, who will some day have a big and valuable estate as the country improves. Mrs. Jarvis hardly feels capable of shopping for her, and of course does not go about much. She is a charming girl and my father and her great-grandfather were the dearest of friends. M. Duvernay almost rounded out his hundred years. I call her my niece as the French blood makes us kin. Could you oblige me by taking her in hand, seeing that she has the proper attire and showing her through the paths of pleasure? You will find her a beautiful and attractive young girl." "Why--really!" and her tone as well as her smile bespoke amusement. "French! Where did you unearth this paragon? And is she to have a lover and be married off? Has she a fortune or is she to look for one?" He would not yield to annoyance at the bantering tone. "Why, she is a mere child, and has no thought of lovers. She will have fortune enough if times go well with us, and need not think of that until her time of loving comes. She has been brought up very simply. There is a brother much younger. Her father was in the war the last three years. She is not ignorant nor unrefined, though Pittsburg does not aim at intellectuality." "Pittsburg! Isn't it a sort of Indian settlement, and--well I really do not know much about it except that it is on the western borders." "Oh, it is being civilized like all new places. We have had to work and struggle to plant towns and bring them into shape. Pittsburg has a most admirable position for traffic and abounds in iron ore as well as other minerals." "And the girl _is_ presentable?" "Oh, she is not old enough for society. I did not mean that. But to go about a little and perhaps to a play, and places where it would look odd for me to take her without some womenkind. We French have rather strict ideas about our girls. Come to supper to-night and see her." "Why, I'll come gladly. I like your young man, too. He has not been spoiled by the flirting young women. It is a shame I did not marry and have such a son to lean on in my old age;" and she laughed gayly. "Then you can see for yourself. And if you do not like Miss Carrick we will let the matter drop through." "Yes, I will be happy to come." M. de Ronville went on to his office. Already there began to be business streets in the Quaker City that was rapidly losing its plainer appearance. This was rather old-fashioned and wore a quiet aspect. One clerk sat on a high stool transcribing a lengthy deed, and young Bartram had just deposited another pile of letters on his employer's desk which was at the far end of the place and could be shut off. "I think these are not worth your first consideration," he said in a quiet tone. "And here is a list of people anxious to see you to-day. And--if you can spare me a little while--I am due at the Surrogate's office." "Yes," nodding politely. Then he watched the young man as he walked away with a light, firm tread. There had always been a certain manliness in Aldis Bartram since the time he had attracted his employer's favor and been taken in as a clerk. Then he had an invalid mother to whom he had been devoted, that had been another passport to the elder's favor. On her death M. de Ronville had offered him a home and he was now confidential clerk and might one day be taken in the business which had been made a most excellent one from the Frenchman's uprightness and probity as well as his knowledge and judgment. Many a time he had settled a dispute and made friends between two hot-headed litigants. He did not read his letters at first but dropped into a peculiar train of thought. He was in good health and vigor, his mind was clear and alert. But he was growing old. And if Betty Wharton in the prime of a delightful life thought a son would conduce to the pleasure and security of her old age, why not to his? Could he have a better son than Aldis Bartram? But he wanted the feminine contingent and he was past marrying. He wanted some one young and bright, and, yes, charming to look at, tender of heart. And here were these two in the very blossom time of life. Why they might fancy each other and in the course of time have it ripen to a real and lasting regard. Oh, the old house would be a Paradise. And if there were children---- He had to rouse himself from the dream with an effort and look over the accumulation. For perhaps the first time business seemed irksome to him, and he had always been fond of it, too fond perhaps. Men nearly always went home to a noon dinner. He found Mrs. Jarvis and Daffodil in a comfortable state of friendliness, but the girl's eyes lighted with pleasure at the sight of him and her voice was full of gay gladness. No, she was not homesick; she had been in the garden and there were so many flowers she had never seen before and the ripe luscious fruit. There had been so many things to look at that she had not finished her letter, but she would do that this afternoon. She is a gleam of the most enchanting sunshine in the old house, and her voice soft and merry, the tiredness and discomfort of travelling gone out of it is sweetest music to him and warms his heart. The eyes are very blue to-day, not so much brilliant as gladsome and her rosy lips curve and smile and dimple and every change seems more fascinating than the previous one. There is no young man in the room, it is the outcome of her own delightful golden heart. Oh, any young man might fall in love on the spot. "Miss Wharton will be in to supper," M. de Ronville remarked casually. "She is not a young girl," seeing the look of interest in Daffodil's face; "but you will find her a very agreeable companion." "It's queer, but I don't know many young girls. Some of the older ones were married in the spring, and I have been so much with mother and grandmere and Norah that I'm a little girl, a big little girl, I've grown so much." Her laugh was a gay ripple of sound. He took it with him to the office and her golden head seemed dancing about everywhere, just as it had at home. "Of course," Miss Wharton said to herself as she lifted the brass knocker, "de Ronville never could be so foolish as to fall in love with a chit of a thing, though I have heard of men training a young girl just to their fancy. He has always been so discreet and punctilious. French _are_ a little different." No, he had not overpraised her beauty. Betty Wharton admitted that at once. And her manners had a natural grace, it ran in the French blood. Why it would be a pleasure to take her about and have men stare at her as they would be sure to do. She and Mrs. Jarvis found enough to talk about, and while the housekeeper had gone to look after the tea she turned her attention to Daffodil. "Oh, I can't help liking the place," the child said with charming eagerness. "Mrs. Jarvis has been telling me about the stores and the gardens a dozen times prettier than this, though I don't see how that can be. They don't seem to care much about gardens at home, they have a few posy beds, but you can go out and gather basketsful in the woods, only they are not grand like these. And there are no such beautiful houses. Oh, there are lots of log huts, really, the older ones, and people are not--I don't just know what to call it, but they do not seem to care." "All towns improve after a while. The people in New York think they are much finer than we, and then there is Boston--where the people are starched so stiff with the essence of fine breeding that they can hardly curtsey to one another. I like my town the best, having seen them all." "Oh, how splendid it must be to go about to strange, beautiful places," the child said wistfully, with glowing eyes. "But I have not been to France;" laughingly. "Neither have I. But great-grandfather came from there when he was a young man. And he had been to Paris, but he did not live there. And he and grandmother, whom I never saw, had to fly for their lives because they worshipped God in a different fashion from Royalty. And I can talk quite a good deal in French, but I like English better. It seems to mean more." Miss Wharton laughed at that. They had a very delightful meal and Betty, by a well known society art, brought out the brightness of the little girl, that made her very charming without any overboldness. "Why you have unearthed quite a prize," Miss Wharton said to her host later in the evening. "Has Pittsburg many such girls? If so I am afraid our young men will be running after them. You may command me for any service, only I must have her as my guest now and then." "A thousand thanks. Will you see about her wardrobe to-morrow? There is no need to stint." "I shall be very glad to oblige you. I suppose you do not mean to turn her into a young lady?" "No--o," rather hesitatingly. "Then it shall be simple prettiness." After that Miss Wharton played on the spinet and sang several old songs. Daffodil wished grandad could hear two that were his favorites, and she was quite sure Norry could not have resisted jumping up and dancing at the sound of "The Campbells Are Coming." Mr. Bartram turned over the leaves of the music, while Daffodil snuggled in the corner of the sofa beside her guardian. And when she went to bed her head was full of Norah's fairy stories come true. CHAPTER VIII IN SILK ATTIRE The shopping the next day was something wonderful. Daffodil was quite sure the fairies must have had a hand in it. And such beautiful things, she fairly held her breath over them. "But, madam, when am I to wear these lovely garments? For mother says I grow so fast, and there is no one to take them afterward." Betty Wharton laughed many times at the fascinating simplicity of the child. Then she took her to the mantua-makers, where she was measured, and where she hardly understood a word of what they were saying, but between whiles played with a beautiful yellow cat, who sat on a silken cushion and purred his delight at the touch of the gentle hands. "Now, you are to come home to dinner with me." "Did uncle say I might? For mother told me to do nothing without his permission." "Oh, you darling infant!" She squeezed the slim little body that, after all, was plump enough. It was shocking for a young person to be fat in those days. "I will make it all right with him." Miss Wharton's house was much smaller. A square sort of hall, with oddly pretty furnishing, a parlor and a dining-room off it, and all were filled with curiosities that were family heirlooms, beautiful things, for Miss Wharton abhorred ugliness and despised horrid Chinese idols. The dinner was very dainty, and Daffodil wondered how she could feel so much at home. "And to-morrow we will go out again, but we will drive around, and you shall see the city. What means that sober look?" "Oh, madam, I shall feel so spoiled with beauty, that I don't know how I shall content myself to go back to Pittsburg;" and her eyes swam in a soft lustre that was almost tears. "Perhaps we shall not let you go back;" laughingly. Jane came around for her in the afternoon, and she said, "We missed you so much at dinner time. And ever so many bundles have come for you." "And I've been so full of pleasure, that any more would run over. Oh, madam, how can I thank you!" "By coming again. I'll call for you to-morrow." They walked home, past pretty gardens all a-bloom with summer richness. Daffodil was so full of delight she wanted to dance. In her room was one large box--that was the new hat. A rather fancy straw, and she had not seen it trimmed. It had a wreath of fine roses inside, and larger ones on the outside, and beautiful wide strings of some gauzy stuff, that in warm weather were to float around, but in a high wind they were tied under the chin. And there was a dainty pair of red slippers, laced across the top, with a red cord fastened diamond-wise, and a pair of black shoes. They were not "boots" then. These came up almost to the ankles, and were laced across with ribbon and tied in a bow. There were some imported stockings, but Mrs. Jarvis declared she had never seen such pretty home-knit ones as the little girl wore, that looked quite as if they were of silk, and the clocks were perfect. In another package was a beautiful scarf, with threads of gold in the border, and some fine handkerchiefs. "Mother has some at home, two that have wide borders of beautiful lace, that she made herself. And bibs that you wear over the neck of your frocks. And she is making a lovely skirt for me, that is lace and needlework, and I am to have it when I am quite grown up and go out to tea." Barbe Carrick had begun to think of her daughter's marriage, and as there was but little ready money, outfits were made at home, and packed away against the time. For most mothers counted on it, even thought of grandchildren. Daffodil had enough to talk about that evening. Mr. Bartram went out, and for an hour Dilly had her guardian quite to herself. Then two gentlemen came in, and the tired little girl went to bed. About ten the next morning a pony chaise stopped at the door. Jules came out and took the reins, and Miss Wharton stepped lightly down and was greeted by Mrs. Jarvis. "I have come for the little girl," she said, "having her guardian's permission. I am going to show her the sights, and make her sick of Pittsburg. We want her here. Why, I never supposed I had such a motherly streak in my nature, or I would have wedded and had a houseful. Or else the child has some bewitchment about her. Jane, put on her new hat and the scarf. The frocks will be here in a day or two." Daffodil did look bewitching as she stepped into the chaise. Miss Wharton was quite used to driving. They went along Chestnut Street first, past the stores, then looked at some of the old places that were to be historical. Mistress Betty told over many of the war adventures and the coming of the good news. "And I remember that," said Daffodil. "Grandad was angry about it. He still believes England will get us back sometime." "Yet your father went to war. How did he take that?" "I was so little then. I think I didn't know much about him until we heard he would come home. Then I really began to remember. I didn't like him so much at first, and I went to great-grandfather for comfort. Oh, madam, he was so sweet and dear. And when M. de Ronville came, and I put him in the old chair, it seemed almost as if grandfather had come back. And I liked him at once. Now he is to be my uncle, we have settled that." Then they went out on the beautiful road, where the Shippens and several of the old families had their capacious estates, and their large old mansions. Oh, how lovely and orderly everything looked, the picture of peace and plenty. "Some day we will go over to Valley Forge. But it is nearing noon, and I must not starve you. I know of a nice place, where ladies often go at noon, and you do not need to have a man tagging after you. Start up, Dolly!" to the pony. They came back to busy streets. There were Quakers at Pittsburg, but they did not seem so pronounced as here. And there were such fine-looking men, in their drab suits, widebrimmed hats, and they wore knee-breeches and silk stockings, quite like the world's people. Here and there one nodded to Miss Wharton. The elegance and harmony appealed to the child, without her understanding why. They paused at a house set back a little from the street, with a courtyard of blooming flowers. There was a wide covered porch and a trellis work wreathed with vines. A wide door opened into a spacious hall. A young colored boy came out to them. "Pomp," Miss Wharton said, "take the pony and give him a little feed and water, not too much, mind now. He wants a little rest, so do we." Pompey assisted them out with a flourish, and led the pony up a side way. They walked to the porch, raised by three steps, and Miss Wharton was greeted warmly by several parties. "Here is a table," said Mrs. Mason. "My dear creature, I haven't seen you in an age. Have you been getting married, and is this _his_ daughter? Did you take him for the sake of the child?" "Alas! I have not been so fortunate! The child has both parents. And she has just come from Pittsburg. You know, M. de Ronville went out there and brought back--well, it is his grandniece, I suppose--Miss Daffodil Carrick." The waiter, another colored servant--they were quite favorites in the city for their obsequious politeness--placed chairs for them. "Pittsburg! Why, that's way at the West in the Indian countries, on the way to Ohio, I believe. What a long journey. And how is M. de Ronville?" "Rather improved by his journey, I think. Now, Daffodil, what will you have? You ought to be hungry." "You choose for me, madam;" in a low tone, and with a tint of exquisite coloring. It kept wavering over the sweet face, for she felt somehow that she was being observed. She wished she had on one of the pretty frocks, but Jane had ironed out this white one, and Mrs. Jarvis had found her a sash. But she was not accustomed to much consideration of herself, and she was hungry. The ladies were prettily dressed, some of them in rather quakerish colors and they had beautiful fans and parasols. It was quite a meeting-place, where they exchanged bits of news, a little gossip, and had most excellent tea. "Carrick isn't a French name," said Madam Neville, rather critically. "No. She is French on the mother's side. M. de Ronville's father and her grandfather were Huguenot exiles in the old times. He is her guardian now, and there is some property, enough for a town, I believe. And you know the French once had possession of most of that country." Betty Wharton knew that would settle her status at once, more decisively than her beauty. Then some other ladies, having finished their tea, came over for a little chat. Had she been to see the new play? For "The Academy of Polite Science" seemed rather above an ordinary theatre, and Philadelphia had swung back to amusements. Was she going to Mrs. Chew's card party this evening? "Oh, yes. She wouldn't miss it for anything." "What a beautiful child!" whispered another. "Will she live here in town?" "Oh, she is only on a visit now." "She's too nice to be wasted on such an outlandish place as Pittsburg, where they do nothing but make whiskey." The pony came round, and the ladies said their good-bys. Since the closing of the war, indeed, in gratitude for French assistance, much honor had been paid to our noble allies. That evening M. de Ronville went to his card club. But Daffodil had Mrs. Jarvis for audience, and in return heard many wonderful things about the great city. If Daffodil had not been so utterly simple-hearted and had so little self-consciousness, it might have proved a rather dangerous ordeal for her. In a few days she certainly was the light of the house. Even Mr. Bartram yielded to her charm, though he fancied girls of that age were seldom interesting: either painfully shy, or overbold. She was neither. She seemed to radiate a pervasive atmosphere of happiness, her smile was so full of light and joy; and her sweet voice touched the springs of one's heart. M. de Ronville had never met with any such experience. A shy young man, he had kept much to his own compatriots. Then he had devoted himself to business, with a vague idea that when he had made a fortune he would go back to France, that had grown much more liberal in matters of religion. But he had become warmly interested in the new country, and especially the city. He had been pleased with the household at Pittsburg, the plain sensible soldier, who was making an excellent citizen, but the two ladies he found most interesting. It was golden-crowned Daffodil that stirred his heart in a new fashion, and made him feel how much had been lost out of his life. And now he had her. A sweet, dazzling, bird-like creature, that gave the house an altogether new aspect. She went with Jane to call on Mrs. Craig. The daughter was well married, and had four small children, though their house was rather simple. "And have you cried yourself to sleep with homesickness?" asked Mrs. Craig. "I've heard it is rather quiet in the big house where you are, with only a few grown people. True, Mr. de Ronville is like a father or, perhaps, a grandfather would be nearer, and you have been used to elderly men." "Oh, madam, it is delightful. I like him so much. I did at home, or I never could have come. And Mrs. Jarvis is nice and pleasant, and tells me what is good manners for little girls, and Jane spoils me by waiting on me." "Madam, indeed!" laughed Mrs. Craig. "Why, you make me feel as if I belonged to the quality!" "They call the grown-up ladies that, the elder ones I mean. And there is one who has been so good to me, Miss Wharton, who bought my new clothes, and tells me what to wear, and things to say that are the fashion here. I think we have not much fashion at home. She takes me out, and, oh, there are so many things to see. And now uncle has hired a pony, and I ride with him in the morning, and we all went to a play, where the people made believe they were part of a story, and I was charmed, for it seemed so real. And there was a fine concert, I never heard so many instruments. And going to church is quite grand. I wish we had a lovely church at home. Oh, I hardly have a moment, but I do think of them all, and how wild Felix will be over all I shall have to tell him." "I'm afraid you won't want to go back." "Not go back to mother and all the others? Why, every day makes it one day nearer;" and the lovely light in her face showed she was not forgetting them. "I am going before real cold weather. It would be too hard a journey to take in winter. But I find it very pleasant, too." "And the stores are so full of beautiful things. People must be very rich, they spend so much money." "It is a big town, and there are many people." "And one can't help being joyous and happy." She looked as if she could dance or fly. "And uncle likes me best to be gay, and I should be ungrateful to mope when so much is being done for me." "Yes, that is true." "And next week Miss Wharton is going to take me to a grand out-of-door party of young people. Mrs. Pemberton came and gave uncle the invitation for me, and he has promised to come in the evening to see us, and to fetch me home." "Oh, but they're on the Schuylkill! Well, you are going among the quality. You'll never do for Pittsburg again." "But I shall do for father and mother, and I shall have such fun hearing grandad scold about all the doings, and say that I am spoiled, and not worth a pewter platter. And then he will hug me so tightly that it will almost squeeze the breath out of me." She laughed so merrily and her face was in a glow of mirth and mischief. Then Jane came for her, though she was quick about learning the city streets. But M. de Ronville thought her too precious to be trusted out alone, though now the town was safe enough. CHAPTER IX WITH THE EYES OF YOUTH The place was like a picture by some fine artist, and the midsummer coloring, the shade of the tall trees, the great beds of flowers made it lovely, indeed. There was a space of greensward that ran down to the river, then a series of steps up the terrace, where a large level lawn with another row of steps led and a wide porch, with fluted columns. The house was large, and hospitable of aspect. Now it was filled with graceful figures, flitting to and fro, of all ages, it seemed. For it was quite a notable occasion. There were two Pemberton sons, one married; then Miss Bessy, who was eighteen; Mary of sixteen, and Belinda, a growing girl, whose birthday was the same as Bessy's, though there was five years between them. This is why young people are asked to the birthday party. And the mothers of the girls, the brothers, and other young men. The tables will be set out on the lawn, three of them. Bessy was to be married early in the autumn, and lovers in those days were in no wise abashed by their engagement. Mr. Morris hovered about his betrothed, young Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton had not outlived their honeymoon. There were other engaged couples, and quite a merry crowd of children. Betty Wharton glanced over the group, as they ascended the steps. Not a girl was as handsome as her _protégée_. They had come in a coach, and the child had just a light scarf thrown over her shoulders. Her frock was of some white crapy stuff, the bodice cut square in the neck after the fashion of the day, and edged with a bit of lace; the short waist defined with a soft blue silk sash. Her curls were caught up high on her head, with a blue bow, and every movement seemed to shake off a shower of gold. Where the chin melted in her neck, and the neck sloped to her shoulder, there were exquisite lines. "That's the little girl from Pittsburg," exclaimed Anton Wetherell. "I didn't suppose they could raise anything like that. She's not so little, either; why, she must be well on to fifteen. Some connection of that old French lawyer, de Ronville. I wonder if he means to make her his heir? I fancy there's a good deal of money." "Miss Wharton has been making much of her, it seems, and she isn't the one to fall into a mistake." The elder ladies greeted her cordially. There was such a charming simplicity about her and her enjoyment of everything was infectious. She gravitated to the younger girls, and Belinda was really fascinated with her. They played some games, and she was so ready to assent to what they proposed, so frank to admit her ignorance of some things, that they were all ready to help her and explain. Presently they sat on the grass in a little ring, and asked her about Pittsburg. Was it a great city? "Oh, you would think it very queer," she said laughingly. "Only the rivers are beautiful, and the hills, and the woods over opposite. But the people"--then she flushed a little, but she was too honest to embellish--"well, they are Scotch, and Irish, and English, and a few from the East, but now those folks are going out to Ohio. And----" "But you're French," said one of the girls. "Though I thought all French people were dark." "Mother and grandmere have beautiful dark eyes and hair. So has my little brother Felix. But my father has blue eyes, and I don't know where the yellow hair came from. That was why my mother called me Daffodil." "What an odd, pretty name. And your hair is beautiful, like silk. Does it curl that way without----" For little girls and big ones, too, had their hair put up in curl papers, or the hairdresser used tongs. "Oh, yes, it curls naturally, and tangles, too. When I was little I wanted it cut off, there were such awful pulls. But mother wouldn't, because father was away soldiering, and when he came home he wouldn't hear to it. One grandfather used to call me Yellowtop." The nearest girl was petting one of the soft, silky curls. Another said, "Can you talk French? I'm studying it at school. It's awful hard and queer." "Oh, yes. You see, I learned to talk in both languages. Then I had a lovely great-grandfather, who lived to be almost a hundred, and he taught me to read quite well. There are some French Acadians, who come in to see us now and then. But their speech has been mixed up so much. I've been reading a little with uncle. After grandfather died, I almost forgot." "And are there fine stores and churches, and do you have plays, and entertainments, and parties?" "Oh, no. It's queer and plain, quite rough, though now they are making nice streets, and people are spinning and weaving. Some of the women make beautiful lace. There's always a May party and a dance; and then a time when the new year begins, and tea drinkings, and some birthdays are kept. No, you wouldn't like it, after such a beautiful city." "Oh, you won't want to go back!" "Mother and all my people are there," she answered simply. "But if I had always lived in a beautiful city like this, I wouldn't want to." By this time the tables were arranged, and they were summoned to the repast. Several young lads had joined the company, and Mary took the head of the children's table. The lawn was a picturesque sight. Afterward some lanterns were strung about, but it was clear and moonlight, which added to the beauty of the scene, and presently dancing began. There was much rambling around. Miss Wharton found her, and asked if she was having a good time. She had been dancing with two of the boys. "And Mr. Wetherell wants the pleasure of dancing with the young lady from Pittsburg;" laughing. "But I am not a real young lady. And I don't know all the dances;" in a hesitating tone. "You do it at your own risk, Anton," Betty said to the young man. "You have been warned." "I'll take the risk." He piloted her through very skilfully. Then young Mr. Pemberton asked her. She met Mr. Bartram in this quadrille, and he talked to her afterward. She wished he would ask her to dance, but he seemed very much occupied with the older girls. And presently she spied out uncle de Ronville, and went over to the step of the porch, where he was sitting in a chair. He felt very proud of her. She was so full of enjoyment she fairly bubbled over with delight, as she detailed the pleasures. "And we must be thinking of going home. That is one of the penalties of old age." "Oh," with a kind of _riant_ sweetness in her voice, "if you could go back halfway, and I could come on halfway, wouldn't it be delightful! But I get sleepy often in the evening, not like to-night;" as an afterthought. "I suppose that comes of living in a country place, where people go to bed at nine! But you sometimes go to bed quite late." Yes, if they could meet halfway! Oh, what a foolish old man! It has been a delightful evening, and Miss Wharton joins them. "Daffodil, you have had honors enough to turn your head. M. de Ronville, are we spoiling her?" He gave her a fatherly look, and taking her soft little hand in his, they rose together. "Will you go home in our coach?" he asked of Miss Wharton. "Very glad, indeed, my dear sir, I am rather tired. Our party began early." There were a good many adieus to make, and some very flattering invitations for Daffodil. They put Mistress Betty down at her own door, and when they reached home M. de Ronville gave her a tender good-night. "It was splendid, Jane," she said as the finery was being removed. "And I danced with several of the young men. I didn't quite know how, but I thought of Norry's stories about the fairy dances in the moonlight, and I guess the real moonlight helped." "I don't believe there was as pretty a girl among them all," declared Jane admiringly. It was late when Mr. Bartram came in, and he had enjoyed himself as well. But it was not all dissipation. There were evenings when Daffodil read French to her host, and he corrected any faulty pronunciation. At other times it was the newspaper. She had such a clear young voice, and she did everything with such charming cheerfulness. The rides with him in the morning were a delight. And though her figure had not rounded out, there was something exquisite in the virginal lines. She did not realize herself that she was a big girl now, so gradual was the change, and she had been a little girl all her life to those at home. He thought it was the French blood, as he could recall the girls of his youth, with their pretty deference, but it is the little admixture of Irish that makes her so winsome and frank. Yet there were times when Daffodil was surprised at herself, and the strange feelings and stronger emotions that would flash across her. Was it the wider life, the variety of people and incident, the deeper and more comprehensive tone of the talk, and the new pleasures of the higher type? There was no special dividing line in those days. Little girls wore ankle-length frocks, so the tucks were let out as they grew taller. After a little the hair was put up high with a pretty comb discarded by an older sister. When she had a lover, the next younger girl came to the fore. "If the child was two years older I might make an excellent match for her," thought Betty Wharton. "But she isn't thinking about lovers or admiration. She will be very lovely presently, when she knows how to use those heart-breaking eyes and that dangerous smile. When she comes again--of course, it would be a sin to bury such a girl alive in that dozy, drowsy old Pittsburg!" The days flew by so rapidly. Letters did not come frequently, postage was high, and there was a sort of secret faith in most people that things were going on well, according to the old adage that "no news was good news." But when a rare letter came, she cried over it secretly for two or three days, and was rather grave, but she thought it ungracious not to be bright and happy when so much was being done for her. Mrs. Craig was planning to go before the autumnal rains set in, and she took it for granted that it was her place to return Daffodil. The child had been talking this over one afternoon, and a flood of home love had overwhelmed her. Mrs. Jarvis had an old friend to supper and to spend the evening, Jane had gone out, and M. de Ronville had gone to a sort of sociable dinner, with some of the citizens who were interested in the library project. It had proved a rather lonesome evening, and she had really longed for home. She wandered about aimlessly, and presently settled herself in the corner of the vine-covered porch, and yielded to the beauty and fragrance of the night. Everything had a richer aspect and meaning to her. It was moonlight again. The tall trees seemed outlined in silver, and the flower-beds were transformed into fairy haunts. Only a few stars were out, they were larger and more golden than usual. She drank in the honeyed fragrance all about her, and it seemed a land of enchantment. Some one came into the library, but did not make a light. She heard M. de Ronville's low, but clear-toned, voice. "I have wanted to talk this matter over with you. There need be no hurry, one or two years here will answer. You see, I am getting to be an old man. Latterly I have come to long for some one of my own, that I could go down the valley of life with, and who would care to make the journey more cheerful. You have been almost like a son to me. I should like you to be that, indeed. And this child has grown very dear to me. To think of you both going on here in the old house when I have left it, would give me my heart's desire. She is lovely, she is sweet, and has a most admirable temper. Then those people are in comfortable circumstances, and of the better class. You know it is a trait of our nation to be deeply interested in the marriage of our children, to advise, often to choose for them, with our wider experience." "But she is such a child, eager, unformed, and I have thought of some one, companionable, with a wider education----" That was Mr. Bartram's voice. "We can remedy all that. I could have her here, and I think she is an apt scholar. She is well up in French, and that is quite in demand now. She could be trained in music, she has a sweet voice. And she is very graceful. If you could see the indifferent manners of most people in that queer, backward town, you would wonder at her refinement, her nice adjustment. Her mother, the Duvernay people, are high-bred, yet in no wise pretentious." There was a brief silence, then the young man began. "Mr. de Ronville, you have been the best and kindest friend a young man could have. I owe you a great deal. But I would not like to bind myself by any such promise. I have an old-fashioned notion that one must or should choose for one's self, and another perhaps foolish one, that I should like to win the woman I marry, not have her take me because some one else desired it. She would naturally be impressionable----" All this talk was about her. She just realized it. She had listened as if some one was reading out of a book. She started now, and light and fleet as a deer flashed across the porch and up to her own room, in a queer, frightened state, hardly knowing what it meant, and yet vaguely suspicious. She had not been especially drawn to Mr. Bartram. He treated her quite as a child, sometimes teased, and evoked quick, mirthful replies, at others passed her by indifferently. All her experience had been with boys, and men of middle age, and she had no idea of lovers. Did uncle de Ronville mean that she should come here and love, and then be married to Mr. Bartram! She was suddenly and unreasonably homesick for ugly old Pittsburg. The shops and the drives, the gayeties and delights, had lost their charm. If she could fly home to her mother's arms! If she could sit on her father's knee and have him hug her to his heart, or even grandad's rough love. And Norah, and Felix, and grandfather Bradin, who took her out in his boat, and sang funny sea-going songs. No, she couldn't come here to live! Yet it was curious the next morning. Everything seemed exactly the same. Uncle said, "Will you get ready for your ride?" in that gentle, courtly manner, and they went off together. Mr. Bartram had been very quiet, she had hardly ventured to raise her eyes to him. Oh, maybe she had fallen asleep and dreamed it. Mary Pemberton came over early. A host of girls were going to have a picnic up the river, and Belinda wanted her. They would bring her back by five in the afternoon. It was to be just a girls' party, only her brother would be there to see that Darius, the black servitor, attended to them properly. It was a bright, jolly day, with swinging, and a gipsy campfire, playing tag and telling riddles, and even running races. And she was so joyous talking it all over that evening, M. de Ronville felt he could never let her go. Could he persuade her to stay? Young people were fond of pleasure, and after this Pittsburg would be dull. All the week the desire in Daffodil's heart had grown into absolute longing to go home. Yet she cares so much for them here: Uncle, Mrs. Jarvis, Miss Wharton, and a number of other people. But how could the return be planned. No one had suggested such a thing. Providence comes to her assistance, opening the way in the shape of Mrs. Craig, who stays to supper, as she has a matter to lay before M. de Ronville. And that is, that she has finished her visit, and desires to return before the autumnal rains set in, while the going is still good. And she will take Daffodil. "I am afraid we can't spare her," returned M. de Ronville. "She has become such a part of our household." "But I must go home sometime," said the child with a quick gasp in her breath. "Are you tired of us?" "Tired!" She came and placed her arm caressingly over his shoulder. "Oh, I have never been tired, but there is mother and--the rest," with a tremble in her voice, while her eyes had the softness of coming tears. "Think how long I have been away!" "And they've had many a heartache, I dare say. I don't know how they could spare you long. Of course, where your daughters marry it is a different thing. You resign yourself to that," said Mrs. Craig. "When did you think of starting?" "Well, so as to miss the equinoctial." People pinned their faith to its coming regularly in those days. "And perhaps no one would care to take such a journey if they had no need, and she couldn't come alone." "No;" in a grave, slow tone. "We must talk it over. I've thought of her staying in the winter and going to school, perhaps. And you might study music," glancing at her. "Oh, you are very good. But--I ought to go." "Yes. You've had a nice long time, and lots of going about, I've heard. I hope you have not been spoiled. And you are the only girl your mother has. Then she had you so long before Felix came and while your father was away, and I know she's missed you sorely." The tears did come into Daffodil's eyes then. After Mrs. Craig had gone, her guardian drew her down on the sofa beside him. "Daffodil," he began, "I have come to love you very dearly. There has been no one in my life to call forth any special affection. There might have been, I see now that there should have been. It is along the last of life that we feel most of the need of these ties. And if you could give me a little----" "Oh, I do love you. You have been so kind, and given me so many pleasures. But not altogether for that. I liked you when you first came, you know. There was something--I can't quite express it--even if I had not come to Philadelphia, I should have thought of you so often. And it has been such a delightful visit. But I know mother has missed me very much, and she has the first claim. And oh, I want to see her." The longing and piteousness in her tone touched him. She was not all lightness and pleasure-loving. "My dear, it is hard to give you up. Child, why can you not divide some time between us, and let me do for you as a father would. They have Felix--and each other. They have parents as well. And I am all alone. It would be a joy to my latter years to have some one to care for, to share my almost useless fortune, and my home." She leaned her golden head down on his shoulder, and he knew she was crying. "Oh," she sobbed, "it is very hard. I do love you. But, you see, they have the best right, and I love them. I am torn in two." Yes, it was selfish to try her this way. He had dreamed of what might happen if he could keep her here, a girl sweet and lovely enough to charm any one. But it was wrong thus to covet, to make it harder for her. "My child, it shall be as you wish. Sometime you may like to come again. My home and heart will always be open to you, and I shall study your best interests. When you want any favor do not hesitate to ask me. I shall be only too glad to do anything." "Oh, do not think me ungrateful for all this love and kindness. Every day I shall think of you. Yes," and the brightness in her tone thrilled him. "I may come again if you want me----" "I shall always want you, remember that." M. de Ronville was not the only one who made an outcry. Miss Wharton took her to task. "Daffodil, you are not old enough to realize what a foolish girl you are, and so we must not be too severe. Mr. de Ronville is a rich man, a fine and noble one as well. I have no doubt but that he would leave you a handsome portion, for he loves you sincerely. And think of the advantages of a city like this. But when you go back to Pittsburg, you will see a great difference. If all is true, there is no society, no interest for such a woman as you may become with proper training, such as you would get here. You are--yes, I will say it, too lovely to be wasted on a place like that. I am really vexed with you." The tears stood in her beautiful eyes. "Oh, one can't be angry with you, you are so sweet! A year or two hence you could have no end of admirers at your feet, and take your pick of them. I hate to give you up. I want to see you a queen in society, you lovely, winsome, short-sighted thing! I don't believe you have a bit of vanity, and they say no girl child was ever born without it. I shall make your uncle, as you call him, keep track of you, for I shall want to know where you throw away your sweetness. I believe if I was Mr. de Ronville I would offer to buy you from your father." "Oh, he couldn't." It sounded as if she said it exultantly. Jane bemoaned the proposed departure as well. "The house will feel just like a funeral when you have gone out of it, Miss Daffodil. You've been like the sunshine floating up and down. We never missed it on the rainiest day, for there was your flashing golden head. And, oh, I wish you could stay and, grow up a young woman, and go to parties, and then have a splendid lover. Oh, dear!" and then Jane broke down crying. Poor Daffodil's heart was torn by the regrets. It seemed as if uncle was the only one who was like to help her bear the parting, and he was so tender that at times she almost relented. Mr. Bartram did not count. He was polite, and to a degree sympathetic. He did not tease her, nor laugh about Pittsburg, that would have made her indignant now. She had come with such a little parcel, now there was a trunk to be packed. M. de Ronville slipped in some dainty little boxes that were not to be opened until she reached home. And at last the day came, and there were sad enough good-by's. There was a new Post coach in its shining paint, and four stout horses. Mr. de Ronville pressed Daffodil's hand the last one, but he turned his eyes away. Yes, the light of his house had gone. But he could not give up all hope. CHAPTER X THE PASSING OF THE OLD Oh, how queer it looked at Old Pittsburg, after the fine city she had left. Daffodil almost shrank from the sight of the old dilapidated log houses, the streets that were still lanes. But there were the two households to greet her, with not a change in them. Oh, how dear they were! The familiar room, the chair so endeared to her, the high shelf, with its brass candlestick, and there in the corner her mother's little flax wheel. "We were so afraid they'd keep you," said Felix. "Didn't they want you to stay?" "Ah, yes," and the tears came to her eyes. "And you look queer, changed somehow. Your voice has a funny sound. And I want you to tell me all about Philadelphia. Did you see that Mr. Benjamin Franklin, and the men who signed the Declaration of Independence?" "Mr. Franklin was abroad. And they don't all live there. I believe I saw only three of them. But there was Governor Mifflin. And they hope sometime to have the Capitol there." "Felix, let your sister have a little rest. There will be days and days to talk. Dilly, are you not tired to death? Such a long journey as it is. I don't see how Mrs. Craig stood it." "Yes, I am tired," she answered. How plain her room looked, though it had been put in nice order with the best knitted white quilt on her bed, and a bowl of flowers on a pretty new stand grandfather Bradin had made. She hung her coat in the closet, and took off the frock she was so tired of, glad to change it for a fresher one. "Now you look natural," declared grandmere. "We have our little girl back, but it does seem as if you had grown. And, oh, how glad we are to have her!" There certainly was some mysterious change. Her mother studied it as well. It seemed as if the little girl had vanished, one could almost imagine the seven years had come and gone, and she had been to fairyland. But she put her face down on her mother's shoulder and cried. "Dear, are you glad to see us all again, to come back to us? For I have had a heart-breaking fear that I know it must have been delightful there, and Mr. de Ronville had a great love for you. Oh, I really wonder that he let you come." "He wanted me to stay--yes. To stay and be educated in music and many things. It is so different there. I don't know that I can make you understand." "Dear," subjoined her mother, "he wrote to us. It was the kindliest letter. If he had persuaded you----" They clung more closely together, each answering with the pressure. But she made no mention of Mr. Bartram. The talk had not been meant for her ears, indeed, she did not rightly understand the real desire that underlay it. "Now you must rest awhile," said her mother. "There will be a crowd in to supper." Felix had been denied the pleasure of a half holiday. "You will have time enough to see your sister," Barbe said to the importunate boy. "She is going to stay at home now." Daffodil did have a nap and awoke refreshed, though she still looked tired and pale. "Put on one of your pretty frocks," said her mother, with a touch of pride. Indeed, much as she had missed her darling she had enjoyed the honor. Not every girl could have such an opportunity to see the great city where so many notable events had happened. There were few formal invitations in those early days. Evenings were generally given over to pleasure, for the day was devoted to work. You were sure of a welcome unless somewhere there was a family feud and even that was often overlooked after a few glasses of whiskey. So there were guests in--to supper. Daffodil was inspected, questioned, commented upon in a friendly fashion. They drank to her health, to the fact of her return safe and sound, for, after all, was not a big city where they had all sorts of dissipations dangerous. But all that was nothing to the evening. Then there was a crowd. Grandad did get very merry and dance a jig, the laughter grew uproarious. Dilly shrank with a fear that was half disgust. Barbe caught Norah's arm presently. "Ask them over to finish their merriment," she said persuasively. "Daffodil is very tired and must go to bed." She looked like a little ghost now and her eyes were heavy. "Yes, yes; we ought to have a little thought," and Norah rapped on the table and gave her invitation, which was cordially accepted. "Dear little daughter," began her father. "It's rather wild and rough, but it is their idea of a good, hearty welcome. And you must pardon grandad. He has a warm, loving heart." "Oh, yes; I know all that. But I _am_ tired." And her voice was full of tears. "Oh, child, it would be hard to have you outgrow us. And I love you so! I had such hard work to win your love in the beginning. But you don't remember." "Oh, yes, I do. Was I dreadful? I think I couldn't love any one all at once. And I didn't like mother to care so, when she had loved me best. But I know better now. Her love for me is different from her love for Felix and her love for you. Oh, I am glad to be back." And she clung to him convulsively. He hoped in his heart she would never go away again. There were some promising beaux in the town. Of course she would marry. He wouldn't want his little girl to be an "old maid." She said a long prayer that night, it seemed as if there had never been so many things to pray for. Then she crawled into bed and cried softly, she did not know why. Did she wish herself back? Was it that the place had changed so much or was it all in her. Felix seemed such a big boy, good looking too, with beautiful dark eyes and a very rosy face much sunburned. His dark hair was a mass of clustering curls, they inherited that from their mother. But he talked with his mouth full, he clattered his knife and fork, dropped them occasionally, and asked more questions than one could answer in an hour. She looked up at her father and smiled her approval. He understood it was that. He had some gentlemanly ways and she was very glad that M. de Ronville had not been shocked by the rude manners that obtained largely in the town. Grandmere waited on the table for there was generally a second cooking. People had stout appetites in those days. It seemed to her the trees had grown, they were longer armed. And here was the pretty flower garden a-bloom now with marigolds, which were not field flowers. There were large balls of pale yellow and deep orange, bronze ones with a pile as if made of velvet. How beautiful they were. Not a weed was to be seen. It was a half-cloudy day, not dark or sullen, but with friendly gray under roof. She put on her sun-bonnet, her mother had it starched and ironed for her. Up at the back of the house it was still wild land, a sloping hill, a tangle of summer growth rhododendrons half smothered with it. She threaded her way up, then there was a long level of stubble turning brown. Far to the north vaster bulks loomed up. There was a great world beyond. What if some day it should be cities like Philadelphia. And--people, men and women living in pretty houses and having nice times. It was a beautiful world, too. There was the fragrance of wild grapes in the air, the sweetness of dying clover blooms and the rich autumnal smells. She drew long breaths and broke into song with the birds. Then she started and ran. How little the houses looked down there! "Oh," she cried in dismay as she ran through the open doorway, "is it dinner time. I've been up in the woods. It _is_ beautiful." Her mother looked up smilingly. She had been paring apples to dry and had a great tubful. They strung them on a cord and hung them out in the sunshine to dry. Grandmere had the dinner ready to dish up. "Oh, I could have been stringing the apples!" she said remorsefully. "And I've been way up the hill. I wondered if it would look so lovely to me. For the Schuylkill is like a dream, but our rivers are finer than the Delaware." "Don't worry about work so soon. You must get used to it by degrees. And get rested over the journey. Janie and Kate Byerly were in. They want you to come to supper to-morrow night. Janie has a lover and she's promised. 'Tisn't a good sign when the youngest goes off first." "Why, Janie isn't----" in surprise. "She was fifteen a month ago;" said grandmere. "Would you want me to get married?" she asked soberly, recalling the talk she could not confess for honor's sake. "We are in no hurry," said grandmere. "Though I approve of early marriages. You settle to one another more easily. And women are happier in their own homes." "I'll get father to put up an addition and bring my husband here;" she rejoined with a kind of reckless gayety. "I couldn't go very far away from you." Her mother glanced up with fond eyes. And just then her father entered. Most people at that time were little given to caressing ways. But his own had been much dearer to Bernard Carrick after his three years' absence, and now he kissed his daughter, taking her sweet face in both hands. "Why, you look fresh as a rose. I half expected to find you in bed. Are you equal to a ride this afternoon?" "Oh, yes; only--mother----" glancing at her. "Can't mother spare you?" "Yes, yes. There will be time enough to work, child." Her mother was made very happy at the deference. Felix did not always come home at noon. "They were pretty gay last night," he began apologetically. "Seen grandad this morning?" "No, I went up in the woods. I wondered how it would look to me. It was beautiful. And it was a shame not to run over there first." "Well, you may go a bit before we start. I have some papers to look over. We're in a great wrastle about some whiskey business. And now a man has to hold his tongue sharp if he isn't on the right side." "You are on the right side?" She looked at him with laughing, trusting eyes. "I wouldn't dare go agin grandad," he laughed back. It was the old time to her. The cloth was coarse homespun partly bleached; they had some fine ones laid away for the little girl's outfit; the dishes were a motley lot, some pewter plates among them. The pretty accessories that she had become so accustomed to were missing. Was it this way when M. de Ronville was here? She colored vividly. "I'll get up, Doll," her father said, "and stop for you." So she ran down to the other house. Norah kissed her effusively. "I'm glad you weren't in this morning. I was on thorns an' briars all the time for fear. The men were in howling an' shouting until you'd thought they'd upset the government. An' they will, too. We're not going to pay tax on our very bread. Why they're coming the old game that they fit about for seven years. And grandad's fierce. He'd turn us all back to England to-morrer." "I don't know----" Daffodil looked up confused. "No, I s'pose not. Women has husbands to think for them an' gals needn't think about anything but beaux. Did you have any over there?" nodding her head. "Body o' me! but you've grown tall. You ain't a little girl any more. And we'll have to look you up a nice beau." "Must everybody be married?" Norah put both hands on her lips and laughed. "Well, I don't know as there's a _must_, only old maids ain't of much account an' get sticks poked at 'em pretty often. I wouldn't be one for any money. I'd go out in the woods and ask the first man I met to marry me." "How old must you be?" asked Daffodil soberly, thinking of Miss Wharton. "Well, if you ain't married by twenty, lovers ain't so plenty, and at twenty-four you're pushed out of the door and at thirty you might as well go down. But you're not likely to have to ring the bell for them. My! but you're pretty, only I wish your cheeks were redder. I guess you've been housed up too much. I want to hear all about the sort of time you had! Wasn't the old gentleman a little stiff?" "Oh, no. He seemed so much like great-grandfather to me. I loved him a great deal. And there was a splendid housekeeper. The maid was sweet and she cried when I came away." "Little Girl," called her father. "Oh, are you going to ride away? Come over to-night. Grandad is going to the meeting where they will spout like a leaky gargoyle. Or stay, your father will go too. I'll come over instead." Daffodil mounted Dolly, who certainly had not grown fat in her absence. Felix had attended to that. "Dear old Dolly!" patting her neck, and the mare whinnied as if overjoyed. "You haven't forgotten, dear old Dolly;" and Daffodil was minded to lean over and give her a hug as she had times before. "We'll go down town. We are stretching out our borders. Here is the new dock. We are building boats for the western trade, and here is the shipyard." It had doubled itself since spring. Everybody seemed hurrying to and fro. Brawny, sunburned men with shirt sleeves rolled nearly to the shoulders, jesting, whistling, sometimes swearing, the younger ones pausing now and then to indulge in a few jig steps. There were boats loading with a variety of freight, but largely whiskey. Carrick took some drawings out of his memorandum book. "Look them over sharp, Cap'n Boyle, though I think you'll find them all right." There was the long point, the two rivers flowing into the Ohio, the murmur like the undertone of the sea. And over beyond, far beyond an endless stretch. There were some Indian wigwams, there were long reaches of cornfields yet uncut, a few stacked; apples ripening in the mellow sunshine, a wild kind of fruit, great tangles of grapevine enough to smother any tree. "It is beautiful," she said with deep feeling. "Oh, do you suppose there'll ever be anything--over there--like a town, houses and such?" She nodded upward. That was her portion. "If we go on this way. There's a line for trade between this and Cincinnati all planned out, boats being built, there's coal and iron to supply places around, and they're talking about glass even. We shall be the head centre. Oh, land doesn't cost much since taxes are so light. Yes, some likely young fellow will take it in hand and evolve a fortune for you. Daffodil, you will not go back to de Ronville?" "To live? Oh, no." "I couldn't spare my little girl. I want you to marry and settle here." She seemed to shrink from the thought. Down here they were working streets. New houses were going up. Store-houses were being built. Carrick had to stop and discuss several openings. And no matter what subject was in hand it came round to the whiskey. "What is it all about, father?" she asked, raising her perplexed face to his. "I don't know that you can understand. We were all served with a summons in the summer to appear at court over the other side of the mountains. Crops were just at the point where they would be ruined if left. The distillers were very angry, the farmers, too. They held meetings and decided they wouldn't go. It's a matter of the general government. The country is behind in everything and is striving to meet its expenses. It could not be otherwise after such a war as we have had. The tax is four pence per gallon--it seems a big figure on hundreds of gallons, still they can recoup themselves on the other end." "And who is right?" Bernard Carrick laughed. "There is but one side to be on just now. Grandad is among the distillers and Norah is as hotheaded as he. But women ought to stay out of it. Take pattern by mother and grandmere and have no opinions. You can't help hearing it talked about. I'm glad it wasn't one of M. de Ronville's interests or you might have heard hard things said about us. There now, business is done, let us have a fine gallop over this road." Dolly went very well for a while then said plainly she could not keep it up. "You are a good rider, Dilly. I'm glad you did not get out of practice. Your guardian must have been indulgent." "We had a ride every fine morning. He was very fond of it." He was glad to have her talk about her visit. The life would be very different here. Not only were all his interests here, and he was getting to be one of the rising men of the town, but the Bradins held the house they lived in and he was as a son to them. Barbe had never been parted from her mother. And though he had gone to his country's call with their consent he knew his own father would never forgive a second defection. No, he must stay here, and his daughter must marry here. Felix begged her to come out with him and see the great bee tree where father was going to take up the honey some night, but she was tired and curled herself up in the grandfather chair. Her thoughts wandered a little. "I don't believe you are paying a bit of attention to me!" the boy flung out angrily. "I wish you hadn't gone to that old city. You were twice as good fun before. And I s'pose you won't climb trees or run races or--or do any of the things that used to be such good fun. What in the world _did_ you do there?" "Oh, I'll try them with you again. But I've been out with father all the afternoon----" "And now he'll be so taken up with you he won't want me. Girls haven't any call to be out so much with men." "Not when they are our own fathers?" smiling. "Well--there's knitting, and spinning, and sewing, and darning stockings----" "I thought you were begging me to go out and have a good romp with you?" "Oh, that's different." She laughed. Then father came in and they had supper. After that until he went out he had to help Felix with sums, then the boy was sleepy, and went to bed. Daffodil had to talk about her visit. She had been to the theatre twice and to some fine out-of-doors concerts. Then the afternoon at the Pembertons, where the ladies had been so beautifully dressed, and the dance and the tea on the lawn. She had been sent to a dancing class and knew the modern steps. "And I just don't believe any one can beat grandad;" said Norah with pride. "And stout as he is, he's as light on his feet as a young girl. And about this Miss Wharton and her living alone with servants just as if she was a widow, and she must be an old maid. It's queer they should make so much of her." "But she's so nice and sweet. Everybody likes her. And her house is so full of pretty things. The gentlemen are always wanting to dance with her and come to tea." "Well, it's very queer except for a queen. There was a great queen once who didn't and wouldn't get married." "That was Queen Elizabeth and Virginia was named in her honor." "Well, I hope you won't get sick of us after a little. But blood's thicker than water;" and Norah nodded confidently to Daffodil's mother. Then it seemed really strange to go over to the Byerly's to tea. They had been older girls in school. Now they were busy all day spinning and Kate wove on a hand loom. Girls worked through the day and frolicked in the evening. They all seemed so large to Daffodil. They joked one another about beaux. Half a dozen young men were invited. Kitchen and dining-room was all one, and the two tables were put together, and would have groaned with their burden if they had not been strong. "I want Daffodil Carrick," said Ned Langdale rather peremptorily. "I went to her first party and she came to mine." "That's whether she wants you," said Janie saucily. "Do you, Daffodil?" "Do I--what?" "Want Ned to take you in to supper. We're pairing off. By right you ought to take Kate," to Ned. "She can have some of the younger boys." Daffodil was rather startled at Ned. He had grown so tall and looked so manly. "I'll take Archie," she said a little timidly. Archie smiled and came over to her, clasping her hand. "I'm so glad," he said in a half whisper. "Oh, Daffodil, you're so pretty, like some of the sweet pictures in a book mother has. Yes, I'm so glad." Did Daffodil go to school with most of these girls? She felt curiously strange. After the first greeting and the question about her visit, that she was getting rather tired of, there was a new diversion at the entrance of Mr. Josephus Sanders, who was announced to the company by his betrothed. He was a great, rather coarse-looking fellow, with a red face burned by wind and water, and reddish hair that seemed to stand up all over his head. Even at the back it hardly lay down. He was a boatman, had made two trips to New Orleans, and now was going regular between Pittsburg and Cincinnati with a share in the boat which he meant to own by and by. He had a loud voice and took the jesting in good part, giving back replies of coarse wit and much laughter. Mrs. Byerly waited on the guests, though the viands were so arranged that there was a dish for every three or four. Cold chicken, cold ham, cold roast pork temptingly sliced. White bread and brown, fried nuts as they called them, the old Dutch doughnuts and spiced cakes, beside the great round one cut in generous slices. And after that luscious fruits of all kinds. "Yes, I am so glad to see you. And you have been off among the quality. But I hope you have not forgotten--" and he raised his eyes, then colored and added, "but you weren't so much with the boys. I do suppose girls' schools are different. Still there were Saturdays." "I don't know why I lagged behind," and she gave a soft laugh that was delicious. "Maybe it was because some of them were older. Even now I feel like a little girl and I don't mean to be married in a long time. Oh, yes, I remember the May day fun and the races and tag----" pausing. "And the tree climbing and the big jumps and prisoner's base, and 'open the gates' and 'tug of war.' Ned was famous in them. I liked often to go off by myself and read, but once in a while it was fun." "Oh, you should go to Philadelphia. There are so many fine books. And many of the people have libraries of their own. My guardian had. And pictures." He bent his head quite low. "I'm going some day. That's my secret. I mean to be a doctor." "Oh!" The eyes she turned upon him thrilled him to the heart. Oh, she was the prettiest and sweetest girl in the room. But she wasn't glowing and red-cheeked and black-eyed. Then yellow hair wasn't particularly in favor. The table was cleared and the dessert was grapes and melons, yellow-hearted cantelopes and rosy watermelons, and they snapped seeds at one another, a rather rude play, which made a great deal of dodging. Afterward they went to the best room and had some more refined plays. They "picked cherries," they had to call their sweetheart and stand with him in the middle of the room. Ned chose Daffodil Carrick and he kissed her of course, that made her blush like a peony. And she chose Archie. But, alas! Archie had to choose some one else. He said afterward--"I had a great mind to choose you again, but I knew they'd laugh and say it wasn't fair. But I didn't care at all for Emma Watkins." They wound up with "Oats, Peas, Beans, and Barley Grows." Then Janie Byerly took her betrothed's hand and stood in the middle of the room. "Joe and I are to be married in October somewhere about the middle. We haven't set the day yet, but you'll all know it and I want a great crowd to come and see the knot tied. Then we're going to Cincinnati on Joe's boat to visit his folks, and if I like it first-class we may settle there. I hope you have all had a good time." They said they had in a shout. "I'm coming over to see your pretty frocks," Janie whispered to Daffodil. "My, I shall be so busy that my head will spin." Of course Archie had to see her home, but as Ned's girl was already home, he walked with them and did most of the talking, to Archie's chagrin. And he ended with--"I've so much to tell you. I'm coming over right soon." CHAPTER XI THE WOOF OF DAILY THINGS "Dilly, you're not worth shucks since you came back!" exclaimed the boy in a severely upbraiding tone. "You don't do nothin' as you used, you just sit and moon. Do you want to go back to that old man? I sh'd think you'd been awful dull." "Do you talk that way at school?" "Oh, well, a fellow needn't be so fussy at home." "What would you like me to do? You are off with the boys----" "That's because you're no good. You don't run races nor climb trees nor wade in the brook to catch frogs, nor jump--I'll bet you don't know how to jump any more. And you were a staver!" "Girls leave off those things. And you are a good deal younger, and ought to have a boy's good times. I must sew and spin and help keep house and work in the garden to take care of the flowers and learn to cook." "My! I wouldn't be a girl for anything! Dilly, who will you marry?" Her face was scarlet. Must a girl marry? She understood now the drift of the talk she had unwittingly overheard. And her cheek burned thinking that she had been offered and declined. "I'm not going to marry any one in a good while," she returned gravely. "Tim Garvin asked me----" he looked at her hesitatingly. "Well?" "If he might come round. He thinks you sing like a mocking bird. And he says he likes yellow hair. I don't. I wish yours was black and that you had red cheeks and that you'd laugh real loud, and want to play games." "There are plenty of little girls, Felix, who are ready for any sort of fun." He spun round on his heel and went off. It had been one of the resplendent early autumn days with a breath of summer in the air and the richness of all ripening things. The call of the wood thrush came softly through the trees with a lingering delicious tenderness. She sat on a large boulder nearly at the foot of a great sycamore tree. She used to have a play-house here. What had changed her so? She did not want to go back to Philadelphia. She would never want to see Mr. Bartram again. In a way she was content. Her father loved her very much, it was a stronger love in one way, a man's love, though her mother was tender and planning a nice future for her. She did not understand that it was the dawning of womanhood, the opening of a new, strange life different from what had gone before. There was a sort of delicious mystery about it and she stood in tremulous awe. It was going to bring her something that she half dreaded, half desired. She had gone down by the schoolhouse one afternoon. They had built a new one, really quite smart, and now they had taken off an hour of the last session. The children were out at play, racing, screaming, wrestling, here playing ring around a rosy, here London bridge is falling down, here a boy chasing a girl and kissing her roughly, she slapping his face and being kissed half a dozen times more. Had she ever been one of this boisterous, romping group? The French blood had brought in more refinement, like the Quaker element. And she had been rather diffident. At home they were more delicate, while they had too much good breeding and kindliness to hold themselves much above their neighbors. The marriage of Janie Byerly was quite an event. It took place at ten in the morning and there was a great wedding cake with slices for the girls to dream on. Then they went down to the boat in a procession and there was a merry time as the boat made ready to push out. Rice had not come in yet, but old shoes were there in abundance. There were other marriages and the little girl went to them because she did not want to slight her old companions. Some of the couples set up housekeeping in a two-roomed cabin and the new wife went on with her spinning or weaving and some of them were quite expert at tailoring. There was plenty of work getting ready for winter. Tim Garvin had been as good as his word and came on Sunday evening. Daffodil sheltered herself behind her father's protecting wing. They talked of the whiskey question, of the Ohio trade, and then there was a lagging, rather embarrassing time. Four elderly people sat around--they generally retired and gave the young folks a chance, but it was Daffodil who disappeared first. And Tim did not make a second attempt. The Langdale boys had better luck in establishing friendliness. Ned came over in high feather one afternoon. Daffodil was practising a rather intricate piece of lace making. He looked manly and proud. He was tall and well filled out, very well looking. "I hope you'll all congratulate me," he began in a buoyant tone. "I've enlisted. I'm going to live up at the Fort and begin soldier life in earnest." "And I do most heartily wish you success," declared grandmere, her eyes lighting up with a kind of admiration at the manly face in the pride of youth. "We shall need soldiers many a day yet, though I hope the worst is over. Still the Indians are treacherous and stubborn." "And we may have another fight on our hands;" laughing. "For we are not going to be ridden over rough shod." "But you must belong to the government side now." "I suppose so;" flushing. The delinquent distillers had been summoned to Philadelphia and had refused to go. "This is our very living," declared grandad, who was one of the most fiery insurgents. "Then they will tax our grain, our crops of all kinds. A king could do no worse! What did I tell you about these men! Why, we'll have to emigrate t'other side of the Mississippi and start a new town. That's all we get for our labor and hard work." "I ought to have waited until this thing was settled," Ned said rather ruefully, studying Daffodil's face. "But I had hard work to coax father, and when he consented I rushed off at once. He thinks there's going to be fortunes in this iron business, and Archie won't be worth shucks at it. He hates it as much as I do, but he's all for books, and getting his living by his brains. Maybe he'll be a lawyer." Daffodil flushed. She held Archie's secret. "You don't like it," Ned began when he had persuaded her to walk a little way with him. "You said once you didn't like soldiering. Yet it is a noble profession, and I'm not going to stay down at the bottom of the line." "No," with a sweet reluctance as if she was sorry to admit it. "It seems cruel to me, why men should like to kill each other." "They don't like it in the way of enjoyment, but do their duty. And they are for the protection of the homes, the women and children. We may have another Indian raid; we have some"--then he paused, he was going to say, "some French to clear out," but refrained. The French still held some desirable western points. "Father talks of the war occasionally, and mother shivers and says--'My heart would have broken if I had known that!' And to be away three years or more, never knowing if one was alive!" No, she wouldn't do for a soldier's wife. And Archie had prefigured himself a bachelor; he really had nothing to fear there, only would she not take more interest in his brother? There were other young fellows in the town, but not many of her kind. Well, he would wait--she seemed quite like a child yet. Somehow she had not made the same impression as she had in Philadelphia. No one praised her hair or her beautiful complexion or her grace in dancing. It did not hurt her exactly, but she felt sorry she could not please as readily. Only--she did not care for that kind of florid approbation. Grandmere looked up from her work when they had gone out. "He is a fine lad," she commented. "And they are of a good family. Daffodil is nearing sixteen. Though there doesn't seem much need of soldiers--it is a noble profession. It seems just the thing for him." "She is such a child yet. I don't know how we could spare her. And her father is so fond of her." Mrs. Bradin had a rather coveting regard for the young man. And a pretty girl like Daffodil should not hang on hand. Ned Langdale made friends easily at the Fort. And during the second month, on account of a little misbehavior in the ranks, he was advanced to the sergeantship. Meanwhile feeling ran higher and higher. Those who understood that the power of the general government must be the law of the land were compelled to keep silence lest they should make matters worse. Even the clergy were forced to hold their peace. Processes were served and thrown into the fire or torn to bits. Then the government interfered and troops were ordered out. Bernard Carrick had tried to keep his father within bounds. It did not do to protest openly, but he felt the government should be obeyed, or Pittsburg would be the loser. Bradford and several others ordered the troops to march to Braddock's field, and then to Pittsburg. The town was all astir and in deadly terror lest if the insurgents could not rule they would ruin. But after all it was a bloodless revolution. Governor Mifflin, after a temperate explanation, softening some of the apparently arbitrary points, commanded the insurgents to disperse. Breckenridge thought it safest to give good words rather than powder and balls. So they marched through the town in excellent order and came out on the plains of the Monogahela where the talking was softened with libations of whiskey, and a better understanding prevailed, the large distillers giving in to the majesty of the law. Some of the still disgruntled insurgents set fire to several barns, but no special damage was done. And thus ended the year's turmoil and business went on with renewed vigor. There was also an influx of people, some to settle, others from curiosity. But the West was awakening a new interest and calling for immigrants. Mrs. Janie Sanders came back with glowing accounts of the town on the Ohio. And now trade was fairly established by the line of boats. And from there down to New Orleans continual traffic was established. The older log houses were disappearing or turned into kitchens with a finer exterior in front. People began to laugh at the old times when there was much less than a thousand inhabitants. And though Bernard Carrick still called his daughter "Little Girl," she was quite grown up with a slim lissome figure and her golden hair was scarcely a shade darker. She was past sixteen, and yet she had never had a lover. Young men dropped in of a Sunday afternoon or evening, but she seemed to act as if they were her father's guests. After two or three attempts they dropped out again. Archie had gone to Philadelphia for a year at a preparatory school, then was to enter college. Ned now was first lieutenant, having been promoted for bravery and foresight in warding off an Indian sortie that might have been a rather serious matter. The little girl had vanished with the old Pittsburg. She hardly knew herself in these days. Something seemed to touch her with a magic wand. She was full of joy with all things of the outside world, and the spring and the early summer, nature seemed to speak in all manner of wooing tongues and she answered. She took long walks in the woods and came home with strange new flowers. There was not much to read, it was not a season of intellectuality but a busy, thrifty time laying the foundation for the great city of industry and prosperity that was to be. Barbe Carrick made pretty garments with fine needlework and lace and laid them by in an old oaken chest. Grandmere was sometimes a little impatient over the dreaming child. Another year was going and she had counted on Daffodil being married before the next generation of girls came to the fore. Plain ones, loud, awkward ones were married and had a jollification. Some of them at twenty had three or four children. She was very sweet, charming and helpful. Grandad had taken the "knuckling down," as he called it, rather hard, but it seemed as if the tax and more came back in increased sales. He was very fond of small Sandy, now a fast-growing boy, but there was a different love for Daffodil, who looked over his accounts, read the paper to him, and listened to his stories as well as his complaints. "I wish it wasn't so much the fashion for girls to marry," he said one day to Norah. "I don't know how we could spare Dilly." "And keep her an old maid!" with scorn in her voice. "But it's queer! One would think lovers would buzz about her like bees." Now and then there came a letter from Philadelphia that she answered with a good long one, yet she wondered afterward what she found to say. That visit seemed such a long, long while ago, almost in another life. And Mistress Betty Wharton had married and gone to Paris, as her husband was connected with the embassy. There were many questions yet to settle. "Don't you want to go over to the Fort with me, Daffodil?" her father asked one afternoon. He had a fondness for Lieutenant Langdale, and not the slightest objection to him as a future son-in-law. "Oh, yes," eagerly, and joined him, smiling under the great hat with its flaring front filled in with gathered silk, her white frock short enough to show the trim ankles and dainty feet, and her green silk parasol that had come from Philadelphia that very spring. She generally wore her hair in curls, though it was cut much shorter in the front and arranged not unlike more modern finger puffs. A very pretty girl of the refined type. Fort Pitt was then in all its glory though the old block house of Colonel Bouquet was still standing, up Duquesne way, and there were soldiers strolling about and a few officers in uniform. Langdale was on duty somewhere. Captain Forbes came to greet them. "You'll find the general in his office, Mr. Carrick. May I take charge of Miss Carrick, meanwhile?" "Yes, I shall be glad to have you." Captain Forbes was a Philadelphian, so they were not at loss for conversation. Here two or three men were in earnest discussion, there one deeply interested in a book, who touched his cap without looking up. In a shady corner two men were playing chess, one a civilian, the other a young private. "Well, Hugh, how goes it?" asked the captain. "Why, I am not discouraged;" laughing and bowing to Daffodil. "He is going to make a good, careful player, and I think a fine soldier." "Allow me--Mr. Andsdell, Miss Carrick." There had come with General Lee and his body of soldiers sent to quell the insurgents, a number of citizens out of curiosity to see the place. Among them a young Englishman, who had been in the country several years seeking his fortune and having various successes. He had tried the stage at Williamsburg, Virginia, and won not a little applause. He was an agreeable well-mannered person and always had excellent luck at cards without being a regular gamester. He made no secret of belonging to a titled family, but being a younger son with four lives between him and the succession he had come to America to try his fortune. Yet even in this new world fortunes were not so easily found or made. Daffodil watched them with interest. M. de Ronville had played it with an elderly friend. "You have seen it before?" Andsdell asked, raising his eyes and meeting the interested ones. "Oh, yes; in Philadelphia. I spent a few months there." Her voice had a charm. She seemed indeed not an ordinary girl. "I have been there part of the last year. I was much interested." He kept a wary eye on the young fellow's moves. Once he said--"No, don't do that; think." The other thought to some purpose and smiled. "You are improving." A flush of pleasure lighted the boyish face. "Check," said Andsdell presently. "I had half a mind to let you win, but you made two wrong moves." The young man glanced at his watch. "Now I must go and drill," he exclaimed. "Can we say to-morrow afternoon again?" "With pleasure;" smiling readily. He bowed himself away. Andsdell rose. "I wonder if I might join your walk? I have met a Mr. Carrick----" "That was my father likely. Grandfather is quite an old man." "And figured in the--what shall we call it--_émeute_?" Captain Forbes laughed. "That was about it. Yet at one time I was a good deal afraid there would be a fierce struggle. Better counsels prevailed, however. When the army arrived those who had not really dared to say the government was right so far as obedience was concerned came out on the right side. A thousand or so soldiers carried weight," with a half sarcastic laugh. Andsdell stole furtive glances at the girl the other side of Forbes. What a graceful, spirited walk she had; just what one would expect with that well poised figure. Then she stopped suddenly and the captain paused in his talk as she half turned. "There's father," she exclaimed with a smile that Andsdell thought enchanting. He had met the Englishman before and greeted him politely. After a little talk he slipped his daughter's arm through his and said mostly to her--"I am ready now." She made her adieu with a kind of nonchalant grace in which there was not a particle of coquetry. He followed her with his eyes until they had turned the corner of the bastion. Then again he saw her as they were going out. "I should think that girl would have half the men in the town at her feet," he said. "Oh, Miss Carrick?" as if he was not quite certain. Then with a half smile--"Do you think so? Well, she hasn't." "She is very lovely." "In a certain way, yes. I believe our people like more color, more dash and spirit. We are not up on a very high round, pioneers seldom are. It takes a generation or so to do the hard work, then comes the embellishment. They are rather dignified and have some French ways. An old grandfather, the fourth generation back, might have stood for a portrait of the grand Marquis. It is on the mother's side." "She doesn't favor the French." "No, but the boy does, a bright, handsome fellow, wild as a deer and full of pranks. It will be hard to tell what race we do favor most. A hundred years hence we will be going back with a sort of pride, hunting up ancestors. At present there is too much to do." Andsdell went his way presently. He was comfortably well lodged. He had a bountiful supper and then he went out for a walk. There was a young moon over in the west just light enough to bring out the silvery beech trunks and touch the tips of the grasses. The woodthrush still gave his long sweet call at intervals. This path led into the town. He would not go that way. He wished he knew just where these Carricks lived. He fancied her sitting on the porch drinking in the loveliness of the evening. How absurd! He had seen pretty girls before, danced with them, flirted with them. There were the imperious belles of Virginia, who bewitched a man's fancy in one evening. There were the fair seductive maids of Philadelphia, and so far he had not been specially impressed with the girls of this town. A crowd were coming this way--he heard the strident laughter and loud voices, so he stepped aside. Dilly was not sitting out in the fragrant air, but trying to explain a lesson to Felix. Neither did she give one thought to the young Englishman. She was glad in her inmost heart that Ned Langdale had been engaged elsewhere. Something in his eyes troubled her. She did not want to make him unhappy. She hated to be cold and distant to her friend, yet when she warmed a little he seemed to take so much for granted that she did not feel inclined to grant. Why couldn't one be satisfied with friendship? Occasionally she heard from Archie. They were eager, ambitious letters and she always read them aloud. But if there could come any warmer interest Archie never would be content with this busy, bustling, working town, and then they would lose her. Every day she grew dearer to the mother. Geoffrey Andsdell decided he did not like the place very well either. He could not be winning money all the time from the garrison, and no business opening had been really thrust upon him, though he felt it was high time he turned his attention to the fact of making an honest living. He had wasted four years since he left England. It would be folly to return, and when that thought crossed his mind he bit his lip and an ugly look settled in his eyes. He had come to the New World to forget all that. Yes, he would go back to Philadelphia. There were genteel opportunities there, and he was not a dullard if he had not been business bred. He was asking a little advice of Mrs. Forbes as they had been sauntering about the hills that were showing bits of autumnal scenery and scattering the fragrance of all ripening things on the air. The jocund song of the birds had settled into a sort of leisurely sweetness, their summer work was done, nest building and caring for the young was over with for the season, and they could review their losses and gains. Somewhere along the stream that wound in and out a great frog boomed hoarsely and the younger ones had lost their fine soprano in trying to emulate him. Insects of all kinds were shrilling and whirring, yet underneath it all there was a curious stillness. Then a human voice broke on their ear singing a merry Irish lilt. "Oh, that's Daffodil Carrick. I could tell her voice from fifty others. It is never loud but it carries so distinctly. Let's see where she is." They turned into the wider path zigzagging through the woods. Yes, there she sat on the limb of a tree she had bent down and was gently swaying to and fro. Her sun-bonnet was held by the strings serving to drive troublesome insects away. Her golden hair clustered about her temples in rings and then floated off by the motion of the swinging, a lovely bewildering cloud. She did not notice them at first; then she sprang up, her face a delicate rosy tint. "Oh, Mrs. Forbes! And--Mr. Andsdell!" She looked a startled woodland nymph. He thought he had never seen a more lovely picture. "Are you having a nice time to yourself in your parlor among the hills? Can't we sit down and share it with you? I am tired. We have been rambling up hill and down dale." A great hollow tree had fallen some time and Mrs. Forbes seated herself waving her hand to Mr. Andsdell, who looked a little uncertain. "Oh, yes," Daffodil said. "I have been roaming around also. It is just the day for it. Now the sun comes out and tints everything, then it is shade and a beautiful gray green." "You were singing," he said, thinking what compliment would not be too ornate. Out here in the woods with nature and truth one could not use flattery. "Yes." She laughed softly a sound that was enchanting. "When I was little I was a devout believer in fairies. Grandfather Carrick's second wife came from Ireland when she was fifteen, and she knew the most charming stories. You know there are stories that seem true and hers did. I used to feel sure they would come and dance in the grass. That was the song little Eileen sang, and they carried her off, but they couldn't keep her because she wore a cross that had been put round her neck when she was christened." "And did you want to be carried off?" he asked. "Yes, I think I did. But I had a cross that I made of beads and named them after the saints. We are not Catholics, but Huguenots. I took my cross out in the woods with me, but the fairies never came." "There is a great deal of really beautiful faith about those things," said Mrs. Forbes. "And some of the Indian legends as well. Old Watersee has stores of them. Some one ought to collect the best of them. Fairy stories go all over the world, I think, in different guise. They are the delight of our early lives. It's sad to lose that childhood faith." "Oh, I don't want to lose it all," Daffodil said earnestly. "I just say to myself it might have been true somewhere." Then they branched off into other matters. The sky grew grayer and the wind moaned through the trees, shaking down a cloud of ripe leaves. "Is it going to rain?" asked Andsdell. "I think it will storm by to-morrow, but not now. You see, evening is coming on. We might go down;" tentatively, not sure she was the one to propose it. The path was beautiful, winding in and out, sometimes over the pile of richest moss, then stirring up the fragrance of pennyroyal. But the streets and houses began to appear. Barbe Carrick sat on the porch waiting for her daughter, always feeling a little anxious if she loitered, though these woods were free from stragglers. She came to meet them now, she knew Mrs. Forbes and invited them to rest awhile, and they cheerfully accepted. Then she went for some cake and grapes and brought some foaming spruce beer. Even grandmere came out to meet the guests. Andsdell was delighted and praised everything and Mrs. Bradin said with her fine French courtesy--"You must come again." "I shall be most happy to," he replied. They finished their walk almost in silence. Andsdell was recalling the many charms of the young girl. Mrs. Forbes was looking upon him in the light of a lover. She could understand that the ordinary young man of the town could not make much headway with Daffodil Carrick. There were some nice men in the garrison, but after all----And it was high time Daffodil had a lover. All women are matchmakers by instinct and delight in pairing off young folks. She was a happy wife herself, but she recalled the fact that the girl was not in love with soldiers. CHAPTER XII SPINNING WITH VARIOUS THREADS "Richard," Mrs. Forbes began, looking up from the beaded purse she was knitting, "do you know anything about that Englishman, Andsdell?" He had been reading, and smoking his pipe. He laid down both. "A sort of goodish, well-informed fellow, who doesn't drink to excess, and is always a gentleman. He plays a good deal, and wins oftener than he loses, but that's luck and knowledge. Like so many young men, he came over to seek his fortune. He was in Virginia, was some general's aide, I believe. Why are you so eager to know his record?" "Why?" laughing softly. "I think he is very much smitten with Daffodil Carrick. She is pretty and sweet, a most admirable daughter, but, somehow, the beaux do not flock about her. She will make some one a lovely wife." "Young Langdale has a fancy for her." "And she is not at all charmed with military glory. Her father was a good, brave soldier, and went at the darkest of times, because his country needed him, not for fame or enthusiasm. She has heard too much of the dangers and struggles. Edward Langdale is full of soldierly ardor. They have had opportunities enough to be in love, and she rather shrinks from him. No, her husband, whoever he is, must be a civilian." "Why, I think I can learn about him. The Harrisons are at Williamsburg, you know. And there is a slight relationship between us. Yes, it would be well to learn before you dream of wedding rings and all that." Still she could not resist asking Daffodil in to tea to meet some friends. There were Mrs. Trent, the wife of the first lieutenant, and Bessy Lowy, young Langdale, and the Englishman. Bessy was a charming, dark-eyed coquette, ready of wit, and she did admire Ned. Andsdell was almost a stranger to her, and in the prettiest, most winsome fashion she relegated him to Miss Carrick. They had a gay time, for Mrs. Trent was very bright and chatty, and her husband had a fund of small-talk. Afterward they played cards, the amusement of the times. In two of the games Ned had Daffodil for a partner, but she was not an enthusiastic player. And she had accepted Andsdell's escort home, much to Ned's chagrin. "I did not know whether you would be at liberty," she said simply. "I'll have an afternoon off Thursday. Will you go for a walk?" She hesitated, and he remarked it. "I see so little of you now. And you always seem--different." "But you know I am quite grown up. We are no longer children. And that makes a change in every one." "But that need not break friendship." "I think it doesn't break friendship always," she returned thoughtfully. "Daffodil, you are the loveliest and sweetest girl I have ever known." "But not in the whole world," she rejoined archly. "In my world. That is enough for me. Good-night;" and he longed to kiss her hand. She and Andsdell came down from the Fort, crossed several streets, and then turned to the east. Philadelphia was their theme of conversation. "I was such a little girl then," she said, with almost childish eagerness. "Everything was so different. I felt as if I was in a palace, and the maid dressed me with so much care, and went out to walk with me, and Miss Wharton was so charming. And now she is in France." "Would you like to go to France--Paris?" "Oh, I don't know. You have been there?" "Yes, for a short stay." "And London, and ever so many places?" "Yes. But I never want to see it again." Something in his tone jarred a little. "I am glad you like America." Then they met her father, who was coming for her, but Mr. Andsdell went on with them to the very door. "Did you have a fine time?" asked her mother. "Oh, yes, delightful. Mrs. Trent was so amusing, and Bessy Lowy was like some one in a play. I wish my eyes were dark, like yours. I think they are prettier." Her mother smiled and kissed her. All the next morning Dilly sat and spun on the little wheel, and sang merry snatches from old ballads. She wished she were not going to walk with Lieutenant Langdale. "Is there any wrong in it, mother?" she asked, turning her perplexed face to Barbe. "Why, not as I see. You have been friends for so long. And it is seldom that he gets out now." The Post brought a letter from Archie. It was really very joyous. He had won a prize for a fine treatise, and had joined a club, not for pleasure or card playing, but debating and improvement of the mind. She was very glad they would have this to talk about. And when Ned saw her joyous face, and had her gay greeting, his heart gave a great bound. They went off together in a merry fashion. "Oh, you cannot think"--then pausing suddenly--"Did you have word from Archie in the post?" "No, but a letter came for mother." "You hurried me so, or I should have remembered to bring it. Father thought it so fine. He has won a prize, twenty-five pounds. And he thinks another year he may pass all the examinations. Oh, won't your mother be glad?" There was such a sweet, joyous satisfaction in her tone, such a lovely light in her eyes, that his heart made a protest. "You care a great deal about his success?" he said jealously. "Yes, why not?" in surprise. "And none about mine?" "Why--it is so different;" faltering a little. "And you know I never was overfond of soldiering." "Where would the country have been but for the brave men who fought and gained her liberty? Look at General Washington, and that brave noble-hearted Lafayette. And there was General Steuben that winter at Valley Forge, sharing hardship when he might have lived at ease. It stirs my blood when I think of the hundreds of brave men, and I am proud to be a soldier." He stood up very straight, and there was a world of resolution in his eyes, a flush on his cheek. "But you are glad of his success?" "And why should you not be as glad of mine?" not answering her question. "Why--I am. But you see that appeals to me the more. Yet I shall be glad for you to rise in your profession, and win honors, only--fighting shocks me all through. I am a coward." "And he will come back a doctor, and you will rejoice with him. I shouldn't mind that so much, but you will marry him----" "Marry him! Ned, what are you thinking of!" There was a curious protest in her face almost strong enough for horror. Even her lips lost their rosy tint. "What I am thinking of is this," and there was a fierce desperation in his tone. "I love you! love you! and I cannot bear to think of you going to any other man, of any person calling you wife. I've always loved you, and it has grown with my manhood's strength. Archie will always be lost in his books, and his care for others. A doctor ought never to marry, he belongs to the world at large. And I want you in my very life;" then his arms were about her, and clasped her so tightly that for an instant she could make no protest. She pushed away and dropped on a great stone, beginning to cry. "Oh, Daffodil, what have I done! It is my wild love. It is like some plant that grows and grows, and suddenly bursts into bloom. I almost hated Bessy Lowy taking possession of me in that fashion. I wanted to talk to you, to be near you, to touch your dear hand. All last night I lay awake thinking of you. It was so sweet that I did not want to sleep." "Oh, hush," she entreated, "hush," making as if she would put him away with her slim hands. "You must not talk so to me. It is a language I do not understand, do not like. I think I am not meant for lovers and marriage. I will be friends always, and rejoice in your success. And it is the same with Archie. Oh, let me live my own quiet life with father and mother----" "And never marry?" "Not for years to come, perhaps never. I am not afraid of being called an old maid. For Miss Wharton was delightful and merry, and like a mother to me, though I shall not be as gay and fond of good times. I like quiet and my own pretty dreams, and to talk with the birds and squirrels in the woods, and the lambs in the fields, and sometimes great-grandfather comes back." Her face was partly turned away, and had a rapt expression. He was walking moodily up and down. Why was she so different from most girls? And yet he loved her. She might outgrow this--was it childishness? "Well," with a long sigh, "I will wait. If it is not Archie----" "It is no one. And when some nice girl loves you--oh, Ned, you should find some nice sweet girl, who will be glad of your love. I think girls are when they meet with the right one. And do not think of me in that way." "I shall think of you in that way all the rest of my life. And if you do not marry, I shall not marry either." Then there was a long silence. "Shall we go on?" she asked timidly. "The walk is spoiled. It doesn't matter now;" moodily. "Oh, Ned, let us be friends again. I cannot bear to have any one angry with me. No one ever is but grandad, when we talk about the country or the whiskey tax," and she laughed, but it was half-heartedly. What a child she was, after all. For a moment or two he fancied he did not care so much, but her sweet face, her lovely eyes, the dainty hands hanging listlessly at her side, brought him back to his allegiance. They walked on, but the glory had gone out of the day, the hope in his heart, the simple gladness of hers. Then the wind began to blow up chilly, and dark clouds were drifting about. She shivered. "Are you cold? Perhaps we had better go back?" "Well"--in a sort of resigned tone. Then, after a pause--"Are you very angry with me?" "Perhaps not angry--disappointed. I had meant to have such a nice time." "I am sorry. If I could have guessed, I would not have agreed to come." They paused at the gate. No, he would not come in. The fine face betrayed disappointment. "But you will come sometime, when you have quite forgiven me," and the adorable tenderness in her tone reawakened hope. After all, Archie was not looking forward to marriage. Jeffrey Andsdell had not even entered his mind. She went in, and threw aside her hat. "Did you have a nice walk? You came back soon." "No, I did not. Ned neither." She went and stood straight before her mother, pale, yet with a certain dignity. "You did not quarrel, I hope. Is it true he is charmed by Bessy?" "He asked me to love him. He wants to marry me;" in a tone that was almost a cry. "Well?" subjoined her mother. The young lieutenant was a favorite with her, worth any girl's acceptance, in her estimation. "I--I don't understand about love. To give away your whole life, years and years;" and she shivered. "But if you loved him, if you were glad to do it;" and the mother's tone was encouraging. "Ah. I think one ought to be glad. And I wasn't glad when he kissed me." Her face was scarlet now, her bosom heaving with indignation, her eyes full of protest. "He will make a nice husband. His father is devoted to his mother. He has learned what a true and tender love really is." "Mother, would you like me to marry?" She knelt down at her mother's knee. "Oh, my dear, not until you love some one;" and she kissed her fondly. "Do you think there was ever a girl who could not love in that way?" "I should be sorry for her; love is the sweetest thing in life, the best gift of the good Lord is a good husband." Autumn was coming on slowly. Housewives were making preparations for winter. Daffodil was cheery and helpful. Grandmere was not as well as usual. She said she was growing old. There was a great deal of outside business for the men. Pittsburg was a borough town, and its citizens were considering various industries. Every day almost, new things came to the fore, and now they were trying some experiments in making glass. The country round was rich in minerals. Boat-building required larger accommodations. The post road had been improved, straightened, the distance shortened. There were sundry alterations in looms, and homespun cloth was made of a better quality. Daffodil Carrick watched some of the lovers, who came under her notice. She met Lieutenant Langdale occasionally, and they were outwardly friends. They even danced together, but her very frankness and honesty kept up the barrier between them. He tried to make her jealous, but it never quickened a pulse within her. Yet in a curious way she was speculating on the master passion. There were not many books to distract her attention, but one day there came a package from her guardian that contained a few of the old rather stilted novels, and some volumes of poems by the older English poets, dainty little songs that her mother sung, and love verses to this one or that one, names as odd as hers. And how they seemed to love Daisies and Daffodils. She took them out with her on her walks, and read them aloud to the woods, and the birds, or sometimes sang them. Jeffrey Andsdell found a wood nymph one day and listened. He had met her twice since the evening at Mrs. Forbes'. And he wondered now whether he should surprise her or go his way. She rose presently, and by a sudden turn surprised him. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I have been listening, enchanted. First I could not imagine whether it was some wandering fay or wood nymph wild." "Oh, do I look very wild?" with a most charming smile. "Why"--he colored a little--"perhaps the word may have more than one meaning. Oh, you look as if you were part of the forest, a sprite or fairy being." "Oh, do you believe in them? I sit here sometimes and call them up. There was an odd volume sent me awhile ago, a play by Shakespere, 'Midsummer Night's Dream,' and it is full of those little mischievous elves and dainty darlings." "That is not it?" coming nearer and looking at her book. "Oh, it is verses by one Mr. Herrick. Some of them almost sing themselves, and I put tunes to them." "And sing to the woods and waters. You should have a more appreciative audience." "Oh, I couldn't sing to real people," and she flushed. "I wonder if"--and there came a far-away look in her eyes that passed him, and yet he saw it. "What is the wonder?" "That if you could write verses, songs." She asked it in all simplicity. "No, I couldn't;" in the frankest of tones. "One must know a good deal." "And be a genius beside." "What queer names they give the girls. Chloe, that isn't a bit pretty, and Phyllis, that is a slave name. And Lesbia, that isn't so bad." "I think I have found Daffodil among them. And that is beautiful." "Do you think so?" She could not tell why she was glad, but he saw it in her face, and what a sweet face it was! He wondered then how such a fascinating bit of sweetness and innocence could have kept its charm in this rather rough soil. Her frankness was fascinating. "Do you come here often?" he asked presently. "Oh, yes, in the summer." "That was when I first met you. I was with Mrs. Forbes. And her little tea was very nice and social. I've not seen you since. Don't you go to the Fort only on special invitation? There are quite a number of visitors. Strangers always come." "I am quite busy," she replied. "Grandmere has not been well, and I help mother. There is a great deal to do in the fall." Such a pretty housewifely look settled in her face. How lovely it was, with the purity of girlhood. The wind swayed the wooded expanse, and sent showers of scarlet and golden maple leaves down upon them. The hickory was a blaze of yellow, some oaks were turning coppery. Acorns fell now and then, squirrels ran about and disputed over them. He reached over and took her book, seating himself on the fallen log, and began reading to her. The sound of his voice and the melody of the poems took her into another land, the land of her fancy. If one could live in it always! The sun dropped down, and it seemed evening, though it was more the darkness of the woods. She rose. They walked down together, there was no third person, and he helped her with the gentlest touch over some hillocks made by the rain-washed roots of the trees. Then she slipped on some dead pine needles, and his arm was around her for several paces, and quietly withdrawn. Daffodil laughed and raised her face to his. "Once I slipped this way, it was over on the other path, where it is steeper, and slid down some distance, but caught a tree and saved myself, for there was a big rock I was afraid I should hit. And I was pretty well scratched. Now I catch the first thing handy. That rock is a splendid big thing. You ought to see it." "You must pilot me some day." They emerged into the light. The rivers were still gleaming with the sunset fire, but over eastward it was twilight gray. "Good-night;" as they reached her house. "I am glad I found you there in the woods. I have had a most enjoyable time." "Good-night," she said in return. A neighbor was sitting by the candle her mother had just lighted. "Dilly, you come over here and write these recipes. My eyes ain't what they used to be. And your mother does make some of that peppery sauce that my man thinks the best in Pittsburg. And that grape jam is hard to beat. Your fingers are young and spry, they hain't washed, and scrubbed, and kneaded bread, 'n' all that for forty year." Daffodil complied readily. Mrs. Carrick told the processes as well. "For there's so much in the doin'," said Mrs. Moss. "That's the real luck of it." Felix went down to the shipyard after school, and came home with his father. To go to New Orleans now was his great aim. "Grandad wants you to come over there," Mrs. Carrick said to her daughter. "Then I'll have to read my paper myself," Mr. Carrick complained. Grandad wanted her to go over some papers. They were all right, he knew, but two heads were better than one, if one was a pin's head. Then she must gossip awhile with Norah, while grandad leaned back in his chair and snored. Her father came for her, and she went to bed to the music of the dainty poems read in an impressive voice. And when she awoke in the morning there seemed a strange music surging in her ears, and in her heart, and she listened to it like one entranced. But she had gone past the days of fairy lore, she was no longer a little girl to build wonderful magic haunts, and people them. Yet what was it, this new anticipation of something to come that would exceed all that had gone before? It came on to rain at noon, a sort of sullen autumn storm, with not much wind at first, but it would gain power at nightfall. Daffodil and her mother were sewing on some clothes for the boy, women had learned to make almost everything. It took time, too. There were no magic sewing machines. Grandmere was spinning on the big wheel the other side of the room, running to and fro, and pulling out the wool into yarn. "Why so grave, child? Is it a thought of pity for the lieutenant?" and Mrs. Carrick gave a faint smile that would have invited confidence if there had been any to give. She could hardly relinquish the idea that her daughter might relent. "Oh, no. One can hardly fix the fleeting thoughts that wander idly through one's brain. The loneliness of the woods when the squirrels hide in their holes, and no bird voices make merry. And bits of verses and remembrance of half-forgotten things. Is any one's mind altogether set upon work? There are two lives going on within us." Barbe Carrick had never lived but the one life, except when her husband was with the army, and she was glad enough to lay down the other. Had it been wise for Daffodil to spend those months in Philadelphia? Yet she had accepted her old home cheerfully. And all unconsciously she had worked changes in it to her grandmother's delight. Now her father was prospering. They would be among the "best people" as time went on. The storm lasted three days. There had been some hours of wild fury in it, when the trees groaned and split, and the rivers lashed themselves into fury. Then it cleared up with a soft May air, and some things took a second growth. There was a sort of wild pear tree at the corner of the garden, and it budded. Daffodil did not take her accustomed walk up in the woods. Something held her back, but she would not allow to herself it was that. Instead, she took rides on Dolly in different directions. One day she went down to the shipyard with a message for her father. Mr. Andsdell stood talking with him. Her pulses suddenly quickened. "Well, you've started at the right end," Bernard Carrick was saying. "This place has a big future before it. If it was a good place for a fort, it's a splendid place for a town. Philadelphia can't hold a candle to it, if she did have more than a hundred years the start. Why they should have gone way up the Delaware River beats me. Yes, come up to the house, and we'll talk it over." Then they both turned to the young girl. There was a pleasurable light in Andsdell's eyes. Afterward he walked some distance beside her horse. The storm, the beautiful weather since, the busy aspect of the town, the nothings that are so convenient when it is best to leave some things in abeyance. Then he said adieu and turned to his own street, where he had lodgings. She went on with a curiously light heart. Her father had said, "Come up to the house," and she was glad she had not gone to the woods in the hope of meeting him. She slipped off Dolly and ran to the garden. "Oh, Norry, what are you doing?" she cried with a sound of anger in her voice. "My beautiful pear blossoms! I've been watching them every day." They lay on the ground. Norry even sprang up for the last one. "They're bad luck, child! Blossoms or fruit out of season is trouble without reason. I hadn't spied them before, or I wouldn't have let them come to light. That's as true as true can be. There, don't cry, child. I hope I haven't been too late." "Yes. I've heard the adage," said her mother. "Norry is superstitious." CHAPTER XIII THE SWEETNESS OF LOVE "Still, I'm glad you inquired," Mrs. Forbes said to her husband. "And that there's nothing derogatory to the young man. He's likely now to settle down, and he will have a fine chance with Mr. Carrick, who certainly is taking fortune at the flood tide. And one can guess what will happen." "A woman generally guesses that. I hoped it would be Langdale. He is a fine fellow, and will make his mark," was the reply. "Daffodil isn't in love with military life. Most girls are;" laughing. "Why, I never had two thoughts about the matter. I must give them a little tea again." "Ask Jack Remsen and Peggy Ray, and make them happy, but leave out the lieutenant. Something surely happened between them." Andsdell came to the Carricks according to agreement. How cosy the place looked, with the great blaze of the logs in the fireplace, that shed a radiance around. He was formally presented to Mrs. Carrick and the Bradins. Daffodil and her mother sat in the far corner, with two candles burning on the light stand. The girl was knitting some fine thread stockings, with a new pattern of clocks, that Jane had sent her from Philadelphia. Felix had a cold, and had gone to bed immediately after supper, and they were all relieved at that. Jeffrey Andsdell had stated his case. He was tired of desultory wandering, and seven-and-twenty was high time to take up some life work. He was the fourth son of a titled family, with no especial longing for the army or the church, therefore he, like other young men without prospects, had emigrated. The heir to the title and estates, the elder brother, was married and had two sons, the next one was married also, but so far had only girls, and the entail was in the male line. The brother next older than Jeffrey had been a sort of imbecile, and died. But there was no chance of his succeeding, so he must make his own way. He had spent two years at Richmond and Williamsburg, then at Philadelphia. At Williamsburg he had taken quite a fancy to the stage, and achieved some success, but the company had disbanded. It was a rather precarious profession at best, though he had tried a little of it in London. The straightforward story tallied with Captain Forbes' information. True, there was one episode he had not dwelt upon, it would never come up in this new life. How he had been crazy enough to take such a step he could not now imagine. But it was over, and done with, and henceforward life should be an honorable success. Daffodil listened between counting her stitches. She stole shy glances now and then, he sat so the firelight threw up his face in strong relief. The brown hair had a little tumbled look, the remnant of some boyish curls. The features were good, rather of the aquiline order, the eyes well opened, of a sort of nondescript hazel, the brown beard worn in the pointed style, with a very narrow moustache, for the upper lip was short and the smiling aspect not quite hidden. When he rose to go the ladies rose also. He shook hands, and held Daffodil's a moment with a pressure that brought a faint color to her soft cheek. "He is very much of a gentleman," commented Mrs. Bradin. "And, taking up a steady occupation is greatly to his credit. Though it seems as if a soldier's life would have been more to his taste." "I am glad he did not fight against us," said Barbe. "Some have, and have repented," added her husband, with a touch of humor in his tone. "And we are large-minded enough to forgive them." Daffodil did not see him until she went over to the Fort. Langdale dropped in to see her, but there was no cordial invitation to remain. He knew later on that Andsdell was there, and in his heart he felt it was not Archie who would be his strongest rival. If there was something that could be unearthed against the Englishman! The Remsens, mother and son, were very agreeable people, quite singers, but there was no piano for accompaniment, though there were flutes and violins at the Fort. Andsdell, after some pressing, sang also, and his voice showed training. Then he repeated a scene from "The Tempest" that enchanted his hearers. Daffodil was curiously proud of him. "You did not haunt the woods much," he began on the way home. "I looked for you." "Did you?" Her heart beat with delicious pleasure. "But I did not promise to come." "No. But I looked all the same, day after day. What were you so busy about?" "Oh, I don't know. I thought--that perhaps it wasn't quite--right;" hesitatingly. "It will be right now." He pressed the arm closer that had been slipped in his. Then they were silent, but both understood. There was something so sweet and true about her, so delicate, yet wise, that needed no blurting out of any fact, for both to take it into their lives. "And who was there to-night?" asked her mother, with a little fear. For Mrs. Forbes would hardly know how matters stood between her and Lieutenant Langdale. "The Remsens only. And they sing beautifully together. Oh, it was really charming. Mrs. Remsen asked me to visit her. It's odd, mother, but do you know my friends have mostly fallen out! So many of the girls have married, and I seem older than the others. Does a year or two change one so? I sometimes wonder if I was the eager little girl who went to Philadelphia, and to whom everything was a delight." "You are no longer a little girl." "And at the nutting the other day, I went to please Felix, you know. But the boys seemed so rough. And though I climbed a tree when they all insisted, I--I was ashamed;" and her face was scarlet. Yes, the Little Girl was gone forever. Her mother kissed her, and she felt now that her child would need no one to tell her what love was like. For it took root in one's heart, and sprang up to its hallowed blooming. It was too soon for confidences. Dilly did not know that she had any that could be put into words. Only the world looked beautiful and bright, as if it was spring, instead of winter. "You've changed again," Felix said observantly. "You're very sweet, Dilly. Maybe as girls grow older they grow sweeter. I shan't mind your being an old maid if you stay like this. Dilly, didn't you ever have a beau? It seems to me no one has come----" "Oh, you silly child!" She laughed and blushed. There were sleighing parties and dances. It is odd that in some communities a girl is so soon dropped out. The dancing parties, rather rough frolics they were, took in the girls from twelve to sixteen, and each one strove boldly for a beau. She was not going to be left behind in the running. But Daffodil Carrick was already left behind, they thought, though she was asked to the big houses, and the dinners, and teas at the Fort. Andsdell dropped in now and then ostensibly to consult Mr. Carrick. Then he was invited to tea on Sunday night, and to dinner at the holidays, when he summoned courage to ask Bernard Carrick for his daughter. For he had begun a new life truly. The past was buried, and never would be exhumed. And why should a man's whole life be blighted by a moment of folly! They grew brave enough to look at one another in the glowing firelight, even if the family were about. One evening she stepped out in the moonlight with him. There was a soft snow on the ground, and some of the branches were yet jewelled with it. Half the lovers in the town would have caught a handful of it and rubbed crimson roses on her cheeks. He said, "Daffodil," and drew her closely in his arms, kissed the lips that throbbed with bashful joy and tremulous sweetness. "Dear, I love you. And you--you are mine." There was a long delicious breath. The story of love is easily told when both understand the divine language. She came in glowing, with eyes like stars, and went straight to her mother, who was sitting alone. Both of the men had gone to some borough business. She kissed her joyous secret into the waiting heart. "You love him. You know now what love is? That is the way I loved your father." "It is wonderful, isn't it? You grow into it, hardly knowing, and then it is told without words, though the words come afterward. Oh, did you think----" "Foolish child, we all saw. He carried the story in his eyes. Your father knew. He has been very honest and upright. Oh, my dear, I am so glad for you. Marriage is the crown of womanhood." Her mother drew her down in her lap. Daffodil's arms were around her neck, and they were heart to heart, a happy mother and a happy child. "You will not mind if I go to bed? I--I want to be alone." "No, dear. Happy dreams, whether you wake or sleep." She lay in a delicious tremor. There was a radiant light all about her, though the room was dark. This was what it was to be loved and to love, and she could not tell which was best. Then at home he was her acknowledged lover. He came on Wednesday night and Sunday to tea. But Norry soon found it out, and was glad for her. Grandad teased her a little. "And you needn't think I'm going to leave you any fortune," he said, almost grumblingly. "The blamed whiskey tax is eating it up every year, and the little left will go to Felix. You have all that land over there that you don't need more than a dog needs two tails. Well, I think there are times when a dog would be glad to wag both, if he had 'em. That will be enough for you and your children. But I'll dance at the wedding." Barbe Carrick looked over the chest of treasures that she had been adding to year after year. There was _her_ wedding gown, and it had been her mother's before her. The lace was exquisite, and no one could do such needlework nowadays. What if it had grown creamy by age, that only enhanced it. Here were the other things she had accumulated, sometimes with a pang lest they should not be needed. Laid away in rose leaves and lavender blooms. Oh, how daintily sweet they were, but not sweeter than the girl who was to have them. And here were some jewels that had been great-grandmother Duvernay's. She would have no mean outfit to hand down again to posterity. Barbe was doubly glad that she would live here. She could not bear the thought of her going away, and a soldier's wife was never quite sure where he might be called, or into what danger. There would be a nice home not very far away, there would be sweet, dainty grandchildren. It was worth waiting for. Jeffrey Andsdell was minded not to wait very long. Love was growing by what it fed upon, but he wanted the feast daily. They could stay at home until their new house was built. "We ought to go over across the river," she said, "and be pioneers in the wilderness. And, oh, there is one thing that perhaps you won't like. Whoever married me was to take the name of Duvernay, go back to the French line." "Why, yes, I like that immensely." That would sever the last link. He would be free of all the old life. "It isn't as pretty as yours." "Oh, do you think so? Now, I am of the other opinion;" laughing into her lovely eyes. She grew sweeter day by day, even her mother could see that. Yes, love was the atmosphere in which a woman throve. Barbe settled the wedding time. "When the Daffodils are in bloom," she said, and the lover agreed. Archie Langdale wrote her a brotherly letter, but said, "If you could put it off until my vacation. I'm coming back to take another year, there have been so many new discoveries, and I want to get to the very top. Dilly--that was the child's name, I used to have a little dream about you. You know I was a dull sort of fellow, always stuffing my head with books, and you were sweet and never flouted me. I loved you very much. I thought you would marry Ned, and then you would be my sister, you could understand things that other girls didn't. I am quite sure he loved you, too. But your happiness is the first thing to be considered, and I hope you will be very happy." The engagement was suspected before it was really admitted. There were various comments, of course. Daffodil Carrick had been waiting for something fine, and she could afford to marry a poor man with her possible fortune, and her father's prosperity. And some day a girl would be in luck to get young Sandy Carrick. Lieutenant Langdale took it pretty hard. He had somehow hoped against hope, for he believed the Carricks would refuse a man who had come a stranger in the place. If he could call him out and shoot him down in a duel! He shut himself up in his room, and drank madly for two days before he came to his senses. March came in like the lion and then dropped down with radiant suns that set all nature aglow. There were freshets, but they did little damage. Trees budded and birds came and built in the branches. Bees flew out in the sunshine, squirrels chattered, and the whole world was gay and glad. One day the lovers went up the winding path to the old hill-top, where Jeffrey insisted he had first lost his heart to her. They sat on the same tree trunk, and he said verses to her, but instead of Clorinda it was Daffodil. And they talked sweet nonsense, such as never goes out of date between lovers. And when they came down they looked at the daffodil bed. The buds had swollen, some were showing yellow. "Why, it can be next week!" cried the lover joyously. "Yes," said the mother, with limpid eyes, remembering when the child was born. There was not much to make ready. The cake had been laid away to season, so that it would cut nicely. There was a pretty new church now, and the marriage would be solemnized there, with a wedding feast at home, and then a round of parties for several evenings at different houses. The Trents had just finished their house, which was considered quite a mansion, and the carpets had come from France. They would give the first entertainment. She had written to her guardian, who sent her a kindly letter, wishing her all happiness. The winter had been a rather hard one for him, for an old enemy that had been held in abeyance for several years, rheumatism, had returned, and though it was routed now, it had left him rather enfeebled, otherwise he would have taken the journey to see his ward, the little girl grown up, whose visit he had enjoyed so much, and whom he hoped to welcome in his home some time again. And with it came a beautiful watch and chain. Presents were not much in vogue in those days, and their rarity made them all the more precious. They dressed the house with daffodils, but the bride-to-be was all in white, the veil the great-grandmother had worn in Paris, fastened with a diamond circlet just as she had had it. "Oh!" Daffodil exclaimed, "if great-grandfather could see me!" Jeffrey Andsdell took her in his arms and kissed her. This was, indeed, a true marriage, and could there ever be a sweeter bride? She was smiling and happy, for every one was pleased, so why should she not be! She even forgot the young man pacing about the Fort wishing--ah, what could he wish except that he was in Andsdell's place? For surely he was not mean enough to grudge _her_ any happiness. She walked up the church aisle on her lover's arm and next came her parents. Once Andsdell's lips compressed themselves, and a strange pallor and shudder came over him. Her father gave her away. The clergyman pronounced them man and wife. Then friends thronged around. They were privileged to kiss the bride in those days. "My wife," was what Jeffrey Andsdell said in a breathless, quivering tone. They could not rush out in modern fashion. She cast her smiles on every side, she was so happy and light-hearted. They reached the porch just as a coach drove up at furious speed. A woman sprang out, a tall, imperious-looking person, dressed in grand style. Her cheeks were painted, her black eyes snapped defiance. One and another fell back and stared as she cried in an imperious tone, looking fiercely at the bride, "Am I too late? Have you married him? But you cannot be his wife. I am his lawful, legal wife, and the mother of his son, who is the future heir of Hurst Abbey. I have come from England to claim him. His father, the Earl of Wrexham, sends for him, to have him restored to his ancestral home." She had uttered this almost in a breath. Daffodil, with the utmost incredulity, turned to her husband and smiled, but the lines almost froze in her face. For his was deadly white and his eyes were fixed on the woman with absolute terror. "It is God's own truth," she continued. "I have your father's letter, and you will hardly disown his signature. Your son is at Hurst Abbey----" "Woman!" he thundered, "it is a base trumped-up lie! There are four lives between me and the succession, and there may be more." "There _were_, but last autumn they were all swept suddenly out of existence. The Earl was crazed with grief. I went to him and took his grandson, a beautiful child, that would appeal to any heart. And at his desire I have come to America for you." Jeffrey Andsdell placed his wife in her father's arms. "Take her home," he said hoarsely, "I will follow and disprove this wild, baseless tale." Then he pressed her to his heart. "Whatever happens, you are the only woman I have ever loved, remember that;" and taking the woman's arm, entered her coach with her. The small group dispersed without a word. What could be said! There was consternation on all faces. Bernard Carrick took his daughter home. Once her mother kissed the pallid cheek, and essayed some word of comfort. "Oh, don't!" she cried piteously. "Let me be still. I must wait and bear it until----" She did not cry or faint, but seemed turning to stone. And when they reached the house she went straight through the room where the feast was spread, to her own, and threw herself on the bed. "Oh, acushla darlin'," cried Norah, "sure we had the warning when the pear tree bloomed. I said it was trouble without reason, and though I broke them all off it couldn't save you." "Oh, my darlin', God help us all." CHAPTER XIV SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW "Whatever happens!" The words rang through Daffodil's brain like a knell. There was something to happen. She had been so happy, so serenely, so trustingly happy. For her youthful inexperience had not taught her doubt. The cup of love had been held to her lips and she had drank the divine draught fearlessly, with no thought of bitter dregs at the bottom. Grandmere came and unpinned the veil; it was too fine and precious an article to be tumbled about. "Let the rest be," she said. "He is coming and I want to be as I was then." Then they left her lying there on the bed, the gold of her young life turning slowly to dross. Some curious prescience told her how it would be. She heard the low voices in the other room. There was crying too. That was her mother. Felix asked questions and was hushed. Was it hours or half a lifetime! All in her brain was chaos, the chaos of belief striving with disbelief that was somehow illumined but not with hope. He came at last. She heard his step striding through the room and no one seemed to speak to him. He came straight to her, knelt at the bed's side, and took her cold hands in his that were at fever heat. "My poor darling!" he said brokenly. "I should not have learned to love you so well, I should not have asked for your love. But in this new country and beginning a new life it seemed as if I might bury the old past. And you were the centre, the star of the new. Perhaps if I had told you the story----" "Tell it now," she made answer, but it did not sound like her voice. She made no effort to release her hands though his seemed to scorch them. "You can hardly understand that old life in London. There is nothing like it here. I was with a lot of gay companions, and all we thought of was amusement. I had a gift for acting and was persuaded to take part in a play. It was a success. I was flattered and fêted. Women made much of me. I was only a boy after all. And the leading lady, some seven years my senior, fascinated me by her attention and her flatteries. It did turn my head. I was her devoted admirer, yet it was not the sort of love that a man knows later on. How it came about, why she should have done such a thing I cannot divine even now, for at that time I was only a poor, younger son, loaded with debts, though most of my compeers were in the same case. But she married me with really nothing to gain. She kept to the stage. I was tired of it and gave it up, which led to our first dissension. She fancied she saw in me some of the qualities that might make a name. And then--she was angry about the child. We bickered continually. She was very fond of admiration and men went down to her. After a little I ceased to be jealous. I suppose it was because I ceased to care and could only think of the wretched blunder I had made and how I could undo it. We had kept the marriage a secret except from her aunt and a few friends. She would have it so. The child was put out to nurse and the company was going to try their fortunes elsewhere. I would not go with her. In a certain way I had been useful to her and we had a little scene. I went to my father and asked him for money enough to take me to America, where I could cut loose from old associates and begin a new life. He did more. He paid my debts, but told me that henceforward I must look out for myself as this was the last he should do for me." "And now he asks you to return?" There was a certainty in her voice and she was as unemotional as if they were talking of some one else. "It is true that now I am his only living son. Late last autumn Lord Veron, his wife and two sons, with my next brother, Archibald, were out for an afternoon's pleasure in a sailboat when there came up an awful blow and a sudden dash of rain. They were about in the middle of the lake. The wind twisted them around, the mast snapped, they found afterward that it was not seaworthy. There was no help at hand. They battled for awhile, then the boat turned over. Lady Veron never rose, the others swam for some time, but Archibald was the only one who came in to shore and he was so spent that he died two days later. I wonder the awful blow did not kill poor father. He was ill for a long while. My wife went to him then and took the child and had sufficient proof to establish the fact of the marriage, and her aunt had always been a foster mother to the boy. There must be some curious fascination about her, though I do not wonder father felt drawn to his only remaining son. Archibald's two children are girls and so are not in the entail. Hurst Abbey would go to some distant cousins. And she offered to come to America and find me. She has succeeded," he ended bitterly. There was a long pause. He raised his head, but her face was turned away. Did she really care for him? She was taking it all so calmly. "You will go," she said presently. "Oh, how can I leave you? For now I know what real love is like. And this is a new country. I have begun a new life, Daffodil----" "But I cannot be your wife, you see that. Would you give up your father's love, the position awaiting you for a tie that could never be sanctified? You must return." "There is my son, you know. I shall not matter so much to them. It shall be as you say, my darling. And we need not stay here. It is a big and prospering country and I know now that I can make my way----" It was not the tone of ardent desire. How she could tell she did not know, but the words dropped on her heart like a knell. Apart from the sacrifice he seemed ready to make for her there was the cruel fact that would mar her whole life, and an intangible knowledge that he would regret it. "You must go." Her voice was firm. Did she love so deeply? He expected passionate upbraiding and then despairing love, clinging tenderness. One moment he was wild to have the frank, innocent sweetness of their courtship; he was minded to take her in his arms and press bewildering kisses on the sweet mouth, the fair brow, the delicately tinted cheek, as if he could not give her up. Then Hurst Abbey rose before him, his father bowed with the weight of sorrow ready to welcome him, the fine position he could fill, and after all would the wife be such a drawback? There were many marriages without overwhelming love. If his father accepted her--and from his letter he seemed to unreservedly. He rose from his kneeling posture and leaned over her. She looked in her quaint wedding dress and marble paleness as if it was death rather than life. "You can never forgive me." His voice was broken with emotion, though he did not realize all the havoc he had made. "But I shall dream of you and go on loving----" "No! no!" raising her hand. "We must both forget. You have other duties and I must rouse myself and overlive the vision of a life that would have been complete, perhaps too exquisite for daily wear. It may all be a dream, a youthful fancy. Others have had it vanish after marriage. Now, go." He bent over to kiss her. She put up her hand. Was it really more anger than love? "I wish you all success for your poor father's sake." She was going to add--"And try to love your wife," but her whole soul protested. He went slowly out of the room. She did not turn or make the slightest motion. She heard the low sound of voices in the other room, his among them, and then all was silence. He had gone away out of her life. Her mother entered quietly, came near, and took her in her arms. "Oh, my darling, how could the good All Father, who cares for his children, let such a cruel thing happen? If that woman had come a month ago! And he fancied being here, marrying, never to go back, made him in a sense free. But he should not have hidden the fact. I can never forgive him. Yet one feels sorry as well that he should have misspent so much of his life." "Help me take off my gown, mother. No one must ever wear it again. And we will try not to talk it over, but put it out of our minds. I am very tired. You won't mind if I lie here and see no one except you who are so dear to me." It was too soon for any comfort, that the mother felt as she moved about with lightest tread. Then she kissed her and left her to her sorrow. Mr. Carrick had been very much incensed and blamed the suitor severely. Andsdell had taken it with such real concern and regret and apparent heart-break that the father felt some lenity might be allowed in thought, at least. Grandad was very bitter and thought condign punishment should overtake him. "And instead," said warm-hearted Norah indignantly, "he turns into a great lord and has everything to his hand. I could wish his wife was ten times worse and I hope she'll lead him such a life that he'll never see a happy day nor hour, the mean, despicable wretch." In the night tears came to Daffodil's relief, yet she felt the exposure had come none too soon. With her sorrow there was a sense of deception to counteract it. He had not been honest in spite of apparent frankness, and it hurt her to think he had accepted her verdict so readily. Hard as it would have been to combat his protestations in her moment of longing and despair, any woman would rather have remembered them afterward. Daffodil kept her bed for several days. She felt weak and distraught. Yet she had her own consciousness of rectitude. She had not been so easily won, and she had been firm and upright at the last. There was no weak kiss of longing to remember. The one he had given her in the church could be recalled without shame. For a few moments she had been in a trance of happiness as his wife. And putting him away she must also bury out of sight all that had gone before. She took her olden place in the household, she went to church after a week or two and began to see friends again, who all seemed to stand in a little awe of her. The weather was lovely. She was out in the garden with her mother. She rode about with her father. But she felt as if years had passed over her and she was no longer the lightsome girl. It made her smile too, to think how everything else was changing. The old log houses were disappearing. Alleyways were transformed into streets and quite noteworthy residences were going up. General O'Hara and Mayor Craig enlarged their glass house and improved the quality of glass. She remembered when her father had tacked some fine cloth over the window-casing and oiled it to give it a sort of transparency so that they could have a little light until it was cold enough to shut the wooden shutters all the time, for glass was so dear it could not be put in all the windows. Not that it was cheap now, the processes were cumbersome and slow, but most of the material was at hand. Mrs. Forbes was a warm and trusty friend through this time of sorrow. She would not let Daffodil blame herself. "We all liked Mr. Andsdell very much, I am sure. I can count up half a dozen girls who were eager enough to meet him and who were sending him invitations. He really was superior to most of our young men in the way of education and manners. And, my dear, I rather picked him out for you, and when I saw he was attracted I made the captain write to a friend of his at Williamsburg and learn if there was anything serious against him, and everything came back in his favor. Of course none of us suspected a marriage. He talked frankly about his family when there was need, but not in any boastful way. And this is not as disgraceful as some young men who have really had to leave their country for their country's good. But, my dear, if it had not been for this horrid marriage you would have gone off in style and been my lady." "But maybe none of it would have happened then;" with a rather wan smile. "True enough! But you're not going to settle down in sober ways and wear hodden gray. And it's not as if you had been jilted by some gay gallant who had married another girl before your eyes as Christy Speers' lover did. And she found a much better man without any long waiting, for Everlom has never succeeded in anything and now he has taken to drink. Don't you suppose Christy is glad she missed her chance with him!" "It won't be that way, though. I think now he will make a fine man and we shall hear nothing disgraceful about him, if we ever hear at all, which I pray may never come to pass. For I want to put it out of my mind like a story I have read with a bad ending." "You are a brave girl, Daffodil." "I don't know why I should be really unhappy. I have so many to love me. And it doesn't matter if I should never marry." Mrs. Forbes laughed at that, but made no reply. Here was the young lieutenant, who was taking heart of grace again, though he did not push himself forward. On the whole it was not an unhappy summer for Daffodil. She found a great interest in helping Felix though he was not a booky boy. Always his mind seemed running on some kind of machinery, something that would save time and labor. "Now, if you were to do so," he would say to his father, "you see it would bring about this result and save a good deal of time. Why doesn't some one see----" "You get through with your books and try it yourself. There's plenty of space in the world for real improvements." Daffodil went up to the old trysting place one day. How still and lonesome it seemed. Had the squirrels forgotten her? They no longer ran up her arm and peered into her eyes. He was at Hurst Abbey and that arrogant, imperious woman was queening it as my lady. Was all this satisfying him? It was the right thing to do even if his motives were not of the highest. To comfort his father in the deep sorrow, and there was his little son. "No," she said to herself, "I should not want to come here often. The old remembrances had better die out." She had written to her guardian explaining the broken marriage, and he wondered a little at the high courage with which she had accepted all the events. He had sent her a most kindly answer. And now came another letter from him. There had been inquiries about leasing some property at Allegheny. Also there were several improvements to be made in view of establishing a future city. His health would not admit of the journey and the necessary going about, so he had decided to send his partner, Mr. Bartram, whom she must remember, and whom he could trust to study the interests of his ward. And what he wanted to ask now was another visit from her, though he was well aware she was no longer the little girl he had known and whose brightness he had enjoyed so much. He was not exactly an invalid, but now he had to be careful in the winter and stay in the house a good deal. Sometimes the days were long and lonesome and he wondered if out of the goodness of her heart she could spare him a few months and if her parents would spare her. Philadelphia had improved greatly and was now the Capitol of the country, though it was still staid and had not lost all of its old nice formality. Couldn't she take pity on him and come and read to him, talk over books and happenings, drive out now and then and be like a granddaughter as she was to his friend Duvernay? "Oh, mother, read it," and she laid the letter in her mother's lap. Did she want to go? She had been so undecided before. Bernard Carrick had received a letter also. Mr. Bartram was to start in a short time, as it seemed necessary that some one should look after Daffodil's estate and he wished to make her father co-trustee if at any time he should be disabled, or pass out of life. He could depend upon the uprightness and good judgment of Mr. Bartram in every respect. And he put in a very earnest plea for the loan of his daughter awhile in the winter. "Oh, I should let her go by all means," declared Mrs. Forbes. "You see that unlucky marriage service has put her rather out of gear with gayeties and when she comes back she will be something fresh and they will all be eager to have her and hear about the President and Lady Washington. And it will cheer her up immensely. She must not grow old too fast." Daffodil went to tea at Mrs. Ramsen's and there was to be a card party with some of the young men from the Fort. Mrs. Forbes and the captain were at tea and the Major's wife. They talked over the great rush of everything, the treasures that were turning up from the earth, the boats going to and fro. Booms had not come in as a word applicable to this ferment, but certainly Pittsburg had a boom and her people would have been struck dumb if the vision of fifty or a hundred years had been unrolled. Lieutenant Langdale came in to the card playing. They really were very merry, and he thought Daffodil was not so much changed after all, nor heartbroken. He was very glad. And then he asked and was granted permission to see her home. He wanted to say something sympathetic and friendly without seeming officious, yet he did not know how to begin. They talked of his mother, of Archie and how well he was doing. "And at times I wish I had not enlisted," he remarked in a rather dissatisfied tone. "Not that the feeling of heroism has died out--it is a grand thing to know you stand ready at any call for your country's defence, but now we are dropping into humdrum ways except for the Indian skirmishes. And it gets monotonous. Then there's no chance of making money. I didn't think much of that, it seemed to me rather ignoble, but now when I see some of those stupid fellows turning their money over and over,--and there's that Joe Sanders; do you remember the wedding feast and his going off to Cincinnati with his new wife, who was a very ordinary girl?" and Ned gave an almost bitter laugh. "Now he owns his boat and is captain of it and trades all the way to New Orleans." "Oh, yes." She gave a soft little laugh as the vision rose before her. "I remember how sweet you looked that night. And I had to be dancing attendance on her sister. How many changes there have been." "Yes; I suppose that is life. The older people say so. Otherwise existence would be monotonous as you said. But you did admire military life." "Well, I like it still, only there seem so few chances of advancement." "But you wouldn't want real war?" "I'd like an opportunity to do something worth while, or else go back to business." If she had expressed a little enthusiasm about that he would have taken it as an interest in his future, but she said-- "You have a very warm friend in Captain Forbes." "Oh, yes;" rather languidly. Then they talked of the improvements her father had made in the house. There had been two rooms added before the wedding. And the trees had grown so, the garden was bright with flowering shrubs. "I wonder if I might drop in and see you occasionally," he said rather awkwardly, as they paused at the gate. "We used to be such friends." "Why, yes;" with girlish frankness. "Father takes a warm interest in you two boys." Her mother sat knitting. Barbe Carrick hated to be idle. Her father was dozing in his chair. "Did you have a nice time, little one?" "Oh, yes. But I am not an enthusiastic card player. I like the bright bits of talk and that leads to carelessness;" laughing. "Mrs. Remsen is charming." Then she kissed them both and went her way. "She is getting over her sorrow," admitted her father. "Still I think a change will be good for her, only we shall miss her very much." "She has been a brave girl. But it was the thought of his insincerity, his holding back the fact that would have rendered him only the merest acquaintance. She has the old French love of honor and truth." "And the Scotch are not far behind." Lieutenant Langdale tried his luck one evening. Mr. Carrick welcomed him cordially, and Felix was very insistent that he should share the conversation. He wanted to know about the Fort and old Fort Duquesne, and why the French were driven out. Didn't they have as good right as any other nation to settle in America? And hadn't France been a splendid friend to us? And why should the French and English be continually at war? "It would take a whole history to answer you and that hasn't been written yet," subjoined his father. Ned had stolen glances at the fair girl, who was sitting under grandmother Bradin's wing, knitting a purse that was beaded, and she had to look down frequently to count the beads. Yes, she had grown prettier. There was a fine sweetness in her face that gave poise to her character. Had she really loved that detestable Englishman? They made ready for Mr. Bartram. Not but what there were tolerable inns now, but taking him in as a friend seemed so much more hospitable. Daffodil wondered a little. He had not made much of an impression on her as a girl. Sometimes he had fallen into good-natured teasing ways, at others barely noticed her. Of course she was such a child. And when the talk that had alarmed her so much and inflamed her childish temper recurred to her she laughed with a sense of wholesome amusement. She knew now a man must have some preference. The old French people betrothed their children without a demur on their part, but here each one had a right to his or her own most sacred feelings. Mr. Bartram was nearing thirty at this period. Daffodil felt that she really had forgotten how he looked. He had grown stouter and now had a firm, compact figure, a fine dignified face that was gentle and kindly as well, and the sort of manliness that would lead one to depend upon him whether in an emergency or not. Her father brought him home and they all gave him a cordial welcome for M. de Ronville's sake first, and then for his own. He had the refined and easy adaptiveness that marked the true gentleman. They talked of the journey. So many improvements had been made and towns had sprung up along the route that afforded comfortable accommodations. Harrisburg had grown to be a thriving town and was the seat of government. He had spent two very entertaining days within its borders. "Yes, M. de Ronville was in failing health, but his mind was clear and bright and had gone back to the delights and entertainments of his early youth. He had a fine library which was to go largely to that started in the city for the general public. He kept a great deal of interest in and ambition for the city that had been a real home. Through the summer he took many outside pleasures, but now the winters confined him largely to the house. "I do what I can in the way of entertainment, but now that I have all the business matters to attend to, I can only devote evenings to him and not always those, but friends drop in frequently. He has been like a father to me and I ought to pay him a son's devotion and regard, which it is not only my duty, but my pleasure as well. But he has a warm remembrance of the little girl he found so entertaining." "Was I entertaining?" Daffodil glanced at him with a charming laugh. "Everybody, it seems, was devoted to me, and my pleasure was being consulted all the time. Mrs. Jarvis was so good and kindly. And Jane! Why, it appears now as if I must have been a spoiled child, and spoiled children I have heard are disagreeable." "I do not recall anything of that. And Jane is married to a sober-going Quaker and wears gray with great complacency, but she stumbles over the thees and thous. Our new maid is very nice, however." "Oh, that is funny. And Jane was so fond of gay attire and bows in my hair and shoulder knots and buckles on slippers. Why, it is all like a happy dream, a fairy story," and her eyes shone as she recalled her visit. They still kept to the old living room, but now there was an outside kitchen for cooking. And some logs were piled up in the wide fire-place to be handy for the first cold evening. "M. de Ronville talked about an old chair that came from France," Mr. Bartram said as he rose from the table. "His old friend used to sit in it----" "It's this," and Daffodil placed her hand on the high back. "Won't you take it? Yes, great-grandfather used it always and after he was gone I used to creep up in it and shut my eyes and talk to him. What curious things you can see with eyes shut! And I often sat here on the arm while he taught me French." "I suppose it is sacred now?" He looked at it rather wistfully. "Oh, you may try it," with her gay smile. "Father has quite fallen heir to it. Grandfather Bradin insists it is too big for him." "I'm always wanting a chair by the light stand so that I can see to read or make fish-nets," said that grandfather. The room was put in order presently and the ladies brought out their work. Daffodil saw with a smile how comfortably the guest adapted himself to the old chair while her father talked to him about the town and its prospects, and Allegheny across the river that was coming rapidly to the attention of business men. What a picture it made, Aldis Bartram thought, and, the pretty golden-haired girl glancing up now and then with smiling eyes. CHAPTER XV ANOTHER FLITTING Mr. Carrick convoyed his guest around Pittsburg the next day, through the Fort and the historical point of Braddock's defeat, that still rankled in men's minds. A survey of the three rivers that would always make it commercially attractive, and the land over opposite. Then they looked up the parties who were quite impatient for the lease which was to comprise a tract of the water front. And by that time it was too late to go over. "Well, you certainly have a fair prospect. And the iron mines are enough to make the fortune of a town. But the other is a fine patrimony for a girl." "There was no boy then," said Bernard Carrick. "And she was the idol of great-grandfather. She does not come in possession of it until she is twenty-five and that is quite a long while yet." They discussed it during the evening and the next day went over the river with a surveyor, and Bartram was astonished at its possibilities. There were many points to be considered for a ten years' lease, which was the utmost M. de Ronville would consent to. Meanwhile Aldis Bartram became very much interested in the family life, which was extremely simple without being coarse or common. Yet it had changed somewhat since M. de Ronville's visit. "And enlarged its borders," explained Daffodil. "There are three more rooms. And now we have all windows of real glass. You see there were board shutters to fasten tight as soon as cold weather came, and thick blankets were hung on the inside. And now we have a chimney in the best room and keep fire in the winter, and another small one in the kitchen." "It is this room I know best. It seems as if I must have been here and seen your great-grandfather sitting here and you on the arm of his chair. I suppose it was because you talked about it so much." "Oh, did I?" she interrupted, and her face was scarlet, her down-dropped eyelids quivered. "Please do not misunderstand me. M. de Ronville was very fond of your home descriptions and brought them out by his questions. And you were such an eager enthusiastic child when you chose, and at others prim and stiff as a Quaker. Those moods amused me. I think I used to tease you." "You did;" resentfully, then forgiving it. "Well, I beg your pardon now for all my naughty ways;" smiling a little. "What was I saying? Oh, you know he brought home so many reminiscences. And he loves to talk them over." "And bore you with them?" "No; they gave me a feeling of going through a picture gallery and examining interiors. When I see one with a delicate white-haired old man, it suggests Mr. Felix Duvernay. I had a brief journey over to Paris and found one of these that I brought home to my best friend and I can not tell you how delighted he was. And because we have talked it over so much, this room had no surprises for me. I am glad to find it so little changed." "We are--what the papers call, primitive people. It seemed queer and funny to me when I came back. But the ones I love were here." She paused suddenly and blushed with what seemed to him uncalled for vividness. She thought how she had been offered to him and he had declined her. It was like a sharp, sudden sting. "I'm glad you don't----" Then she stopped short again with drooping eyes. The brown lashes were like a fringe of finest silk. How beautiful the lids were! "Don't what?" It was a curious tone, quite as if he meant to be answered. "Why--why--not despise us exactly, but think we are ignorant and unformed;" and she winked hard as if tears were not far off. "My child--pardon me, you brought back the little girl that came to visit us. I do not think anything derogatory. I admire your father and he is a man that would be appreciated anywhere. And your grandparents. Your mother is a well-bred lady. I can find queer and _outré_ people not far from us at home, all towns have them, but I should not class the Carricks nor the Bradins with them." "Grandad is queer," she admitted. "He is Scotch-Irish. And Norry is Irish altogether, but she's the dearest, kindliest, most generous and helpful body I know. Oh, she made my childhood just one delightful fairy story with her legends and her fun, and she taught me to dance, to sing. I should want to strike any one who laughed at her!" "Do you remember Mistress Betty Wharton?" His tone was quite serious now. "She was one of the favorites of our town. And she was charmed with you. If you hadn't been worthy of taking about, do you suppose she would have presented you among her friends and paid you so much attention? She considered you a very charming little girl. Oh, don't think any one could despise you or yours. And if you could understand how M. de Ronville longs for you, and how much pleasure another visit from you would give him, I do not think you would be hard to persuade." He had laid the matter before her mother, who had said as before that the choice must be left with her. He and Felix had become great friends. The boy's insatiable curiosity was devoted to really knowledgeable subjects, and was never pert or pretentious. When he decided, since he was so near, to visit Cincinnati, Felix said-- "When I get to be a man like you, I mean to travel about and see what people are doing and bring home new ideas if they are any better than ours." "That is the way to do. And the best citizen is he who desires to improve his own town, not he who believes it better than any other. Now, do you suppose your father would trust you with me for the journey? I should like to have you for a companion." "Would you, really?" and the boy's face flushed with delight. "Oh, I am almost sure he would. That's awful good of you." "We'll see, my boy." "If you won't find him too troublesome. I meant to take him on the journey some time when urgent business called me thither. You are very kind," said Bernard Carrick. "You see you're not going to have it all," Felix said to Daffodil. "I just wish you had been a boy, we would have such fun. For another boy isn't quite like some one belonging to you." The child was in such a fever of delight that he could hardly contain himself. His mother gave him many cautions about obeying Mr. Bartram and not making trouble. "Oh, you will hear a good account of me;" with a resolute nod. Meanwhile the business went on and papers were ready to sign when the two enthusiastic travellers returned. Mr. Carrick was to be joint trustee with Mr. Bartram in Daffodil's affairs. "It is a pity we cannot take in Felix as well," Mr. Bartram said. "He will make a very earnest business man, and I look to see him an inventor of some kind." Felix had been wonderfully interested in the model of William Ramsey's boat forty years before of a wheel enclosed in a box to be worked by one man sitting in the end, treading on treadles with his feet that set the wheel going and worked two paddles, saving the labor of one or two men. It was to be brought to perfection later on. Meanwhile Daffodil and her mother discussed the plan for her visit. It would last all winter. Could they spare her? Did she want to stay that long? Yet she felt she would like the change to her life. There was another happening that disturbed her not a little. This was Lieutenant Langdale's visit. When he came in the evening the whole family were around and each one did a share of the entertaining. And if she took a pleasure walk she always asked some friend to accompany her. Mrs. Carrick was not averse to a serious ending. Daffodil had reached a stage of content, was even happy, but the unfortunate circumstance was rarely touched upon between them. It seemed as if she had quite resolved to have no real lovers. What if an untoward fate should send the man back again. The thought haunted the mother, though there was no possible likelihood of it. And her sympathies went out to the lieutenant. If she went away, he would realize that there was no hope of rekindling love out of an old friendship. It would pain her very much to deny him. They spoke of her going one evening, quite to his surprise. "Oh," he said regretfully, "can you not be content here? I am sure they all need you, we all do. Mrs. Forbes will be lost without you. You are quite a star in the Fort society." "In spite of my poor card-playing," she laughed. "But you dance. That's more real pleasure than the cards. And we will try to have a gay winter for you. But after all we cannot compete with Philadelphia. I believe I shall try to get transferred from this dull little hole." "I do not expect to be gay. The great friend I made before married and went to Paris. And M. de Ronville is an invalid, confined mostly to the house during the winter. I am going to be a sort of companion to him. He begs so to have me come." Archie would be there. A sudden unreasoning anger flamed up in his heart and then dropped down to the white ashes of despair. Was there any use caring for a woman who would not or could not care for you? There were other girls---- "You have really decided to go?" her mother said afterward. "Oh, I hate to leave you." Her arms were about her mother's neck. "Yet for some things it seems best. And the old story will be the more easily forgotten. I may make it appear of less importance to myself. It has grown quite dreamlike to me." "Yes," answered the mother under her breath. So the fact was accepted. "You will never regret giving a few months to an old man near his journey's end," said Mr. Bartram. "And I am very glad for his sake." Then preparations were made for the journey. "You must not want for anything, nor be dependent on your good friend," said her father. "And have all the pleasures you can. Youth is the time to enjoy them." It gave them a heartache to let her go. Mrs. Craig wished she could be her companion again, but she was too old to take such a journey. And now travelling was a more usual occurrence, and she found two ladies who were going to Harrisburg, and who had travelled a great deal, even been to Paris. Aldis Bartram was much relieved, for he hardly knew how to entertain a being who was one hour a child and the next a serious woman. The last two years he had sought mostly the society of men. There were many grave questions to discuss, for the affairs of the country were by no means settled. It was a very pleasant journey in the early autumn. She enjoyed everything with so much spirit and delight, but she was never tiresomely effusive. The ladies had come from New Orleans and were full of amazement at the rapid strides the country was making, and the towns that were growing up along the route. Their stay in Pittsburg had been brief and they were much amused at some of the descriptions of the earlier days the little girl could recall, the memories of the French great-grandfather, who had lived almost a hundred years, and grandad, who in his earlier years had been what we should call an athlete and was a master hand at games of all sorts. They were much in vogue yet, since there were no play-houses to draw people together for social enjoyment. Mr. Bartram used to watch her with growing interest. Yes, she would be invaluable to M. de Ronville, and a great relief to him this winter. How had she so easily overlived the great blow of her wedding day! She was a very child then, and truly knew nothing about love. "We shall be in Philadelphia sometime before Christmas," explained Mrs. Danvers, who was a widow. "We are thinking of settling ourselves there, or in New York, and we shall be glad to take up the acquaintance again. We have enjoyed your society very much, and truly we are indebted to Mr. Bartram for many favors that a maid is apt to blunder over. Women never get quite used to the rougher ways of the world." "And I shall be glad to see you again," the girl said with unaffected pleasure. "I have enjoyed the journey with you very much." How did she know just what to say without awkwardness, Mr. Bartram wondered. The quiet street and the old house seemed to give her a cordial and familiar greeting. Mrs. Jarvis herself came to the door. "Oh, my dear, we are so glad to have you back again," she cried with emotion. "But how tall you are! You are no longer a little girl." "I have the same heart after all that has happened;" and though she smiled there were tears in her eyes. A slow step came through the hall, and then she was held close to the heart of her guardian, who had longed for her as one longs for a child. Yes, he was quite an old man. Pale now, with snowy hair and beard, and a complexion full of fine wrinkles, but his eyes were soft and tender, and had the glow of life in them. "Oh," he exclaimed, "you still have the golden hair, and the peachy cheeks, and smiling mouth. I was almost afraid you had changed and grown grave. And your voice has the same ring. I am so thankful to your parents for sparing you again. And, Aldis, you must not mind me, for the business has fallen so behind that I shall not feel neglected if you go to the office at once. We will devote the evening to talk. Are you very tired with your journey?" That to Daffodil. "No, it was so pleasant and entertaining, and some of it beautiful. Then I do not tire easily." M. de Ronville held her hand as if he was afraid she might escape, and his longing eyes touched her very heart. But Mrs. Jarvis stepped up on the stairs, and giving him a tender smile, she followed. Nothing had been changed. Why, she might have left it only yesterday. As if Mrs. Jarvis had a similar thought about her she said, "My dear, you are just the same, only grown up." "And everything here is the same. I am very glad; it is like home." There was the pretty dark blue-and-white toilette set, where the blue looked as if somehow it had melted a little and run over the white. She smiled, thinking how she used to wonder about it. "This is Susan, our new maid. Mr. Bartram may have told you that Jane was married. She has a good husband and a nice home. But Susan fills the place very well, and now she will wait upon you with pleasure," announced Mrs. Jarvis. Susan courtesied and smiled. She was younger than Jane, a fresh, fair-looking girl, who had the appearance of having been scrubbed from top to toe. "And now, when you are ready, come down to the library and have a cup of tea. Oh, I remember, you didn't care for tea, that's an old ladies' comfort. Well, there are other refreshing things that will stay you until supper. We have our dinner now in the middle of the day. M. de Ronville likes it better. Feel thoroughly at home, child." Susan unpacked her belongings and put them in drawers and the spacious closet, where Daffodil thought they must feel lonesome. She went downstairs presently, fresh and bright, having chosen her simplest frock, and tied her curls in a bunch behind, instead of putting them high on her head with a comb. On her pretty neck she wore the chain and pendant M. de Ronville had given her. She looked very sweet and youthful. He motioned her to the sofa beside him. "I understand how it is, that children and grandchildren keep one young," he began. "It is the new flow of life that vivifies the old pulses. And I advise all young men to marry;" smiling a little. "After awhile business loses its keen interest, and when you have made enough, why should you go on toiling and moiling? Then comes the time you want to take an interest in younger lives. And now tell me about your mother and father, who is prospering greatly, Aldis has written. And the little brother." She was in full flow of eager talk when Susan brought in the tray with some tea and dainty biscuits, and golden-hearted cake, and Mrs. Jarvis followed her and drew up the little table. "You see, I am quite pampered. I like a cup of tea at mid-afternoon, for the reason that it makes a break in a rather lonely time. I go out in the morning, when I can, but I take the garden and the porch in the afternoon, and in the evening friends drop in." Daffodil had a glass of milk. There were some delightful sandwiches, and she was really hungry, as they had not stopped for much dinner at noon. And as she glanced around she saw more cases had been added, and were filled with books, and two or three paintings and beautiful vases. The room did have a cosy aspect, with some easy chairs that were just coming in for elderly people. Young people were expected to sit up straight. Afterward they walked in the garden. There were choice late roses in bloom, and flowers she had never seen before. Smooth paths of sand beaten hard, here a way of fine white gravel that looked like a snowy ribbon between the green. How beautiful it was! This was what money and education and taste could do. Pittsburg was beginning to have the money, to prosper and boast, but all things seemed in a muddle, compared to this. She was merry and sweet, and yet it did not seem to her as if it came from a true heart. Was she sorry she had come. Was not her place back there! Was it not her duty _not_ to outgrow Pittsburg, for there she must live her life out. And when she was an old lady there would be Felix, who would marry and have children growing up, true Duvernays, for he would take the name, not her husband. When they went in the paper had come, and she read that to him. She had stepped so naturally into the old place. Susan began to arrange the table, Mr. Bartram came in looking really fagged out, but cordially attentive and chatty with the happenings. It was a sort of high tea, and there was an air about everything different from their simplicity at home, but Mr. Bartram had adapted himself so readily to that. Was it out of kindly consideration? "Now, I am going to dismiss you, my little dear," exclaimed the old man gently, "for I want to hear what Aldis has to say. And you have been very sweet and patient. Promise that you will not disappear in the night." "Oh, I promise. I am not a bird that I could fly back in the night, and then I think only evil birds fly at that period." He kissed her on the forehead. She sat on the porch awhile with Mrs. Jarvis, and then went to bed in the room that was sweet with rose and lavender. Well, so was her pillow at home. But it was so still here. Even the insects seemed to have modulated their shrillness. She buried her face in the softness and cried. Was she regretting the change? Was some gladness, some hope, lost out of her life, that could never come again? It was bright morning when she woke. Even the very sun seemed to shine in gladness. Susan came, bringing her some water, and wished her good-morning. Yes, it should be a good morning and a good day. They went to drive when the mists of the night had blown away. Oh, how gay everything looked! Stores had increased, beautiful buildings had gone up, and there was the President's residence. Lady Washington, as many people still called her, came out with her maid and her black servant, with a huge basket. There were others doing the same thing, for it was quite a fashion of the day, though some people were beginning to be waited on by the market men. Ladies in carriages and men walking or riding bowed to M. de Ronville, and wondered who the pretty girl beside him could be. He quite enjoyed the surprised look they gave her. Then he took a rest on the sofa, and begged her to tell him of the changes they had made in the house, and the boats her father was building, and what new industries had been started. And was grandad as bright and merry as ever? And the ignoble whiskey insurrection; the soldiers at the Fort! Everything had so much interest for him, and the time passed so rapidly, that Mr. Bartram came home before they hardly thought of dinner. He asked with a smile if she was homesick yet, and although she shook her head with vague amusement, she wondered why she had cried last night? They had some bright talk and then M. de Ronville asked her if she did not want to go shopping with Mrs. Jarvis, who would like very much to have her. Mr. Bartram had brought some papers that must be looked over and signed. But she must not stay out too late for his cup of afternoon tea. The shopping was really a great diversion. They met several people, who remembered her. And how funny it seemed to pay away so much money for an article, but then there seemed plenty of paper money. Chestnut Street was gay with riders, both men and women, and some of the latter looked fine in their dark-green habits and gilt buttons. There were many promenading, dressed in the quaint style of the day, and not a few Friends in silvery-gray, with the close-fitting scuttle-shaped bonnets. "I am so glad you have come," was Susan's greeting. "There are two ladies waiting to see you, Miss Daffodil, and M. de Ronville would make me bring in the tea for them." "Oh, what are their names?" cried the girl eagerly. "I was not to tell you;" and a smile lurked behind Susan's lips. She ran upstairs and took off her hat and mantle, and came into the library wondering. "Oh;" pausing to think for a moment. "It's Miss Pemberton, and--is it Belinda?" "Oh, you haven't changed a bit, except to grow tall;" and Belinda almost hugged her. "But Mary is Mrs. Hassel, and has the darlingest little boy you ever saw. Oh, do you remember our party out on the lawn, and our picnic? I'm so glad you have come again. I'm the only girl home now;" and then Belinda blushed deeply. "And Mr. de Ronville would have us share his tea. I've heard it's a kind of English fashion, which he ought not countenance, since he is French, I tell him," said Mrs. Hassel jestingly. "But it is delightful. I think I'll start it. A cup of tea seems to loosen one's tongue." "Do women really need the lubrication?" asked M. de Ronville with a smile. "Yes, they do. Think of three or four different women hardly knowing what to say to each other, and after a few sips of tea they are as chatty as you please. But I must say I was so delighted with his charming news that I would have waited until dark for the chance of seeing you." "Oh, thank you;" and Daffodil blushed prettily. "And we know a friend of yours, at least Jack does, a young doctor, who is going to be great some day, and who is from Pittsburg, Dr. Langdale." "Oh, yes, I knew he was studying here." "And he has made one or two remarkable discoveries about something or other. Dr. Rush considers him one of the coming men." "I am very glad to hear that. Oh, we all seemed children together. And his older brother is a lieutenant at Fort Pitt." "Can't he get a furlough? I'd like to see him," said Belinda gayly. "He's tired of dull Fort Pitt, and was talking of getting exchanged. That isn't quite right, I believe; it sounds as if he was a prisoner." "We must go," insisted Mrs. Hassel. "We will hardly have time for another call. M. de Ronville has been so fascinating." "Oh, did I hold out a fascination?" mischievously. "It was both," admitted Belinda. "And now we want to see ever so much of you. Mary, give us a regular tea party; she only lives round in Arch Street. And you will want to see the baby." "Of course I will," said the young girl. Then they made their adieus. Susan took away the tea-things. "Was the shopping nice?" enquired her guardian. "Oh, there are so many lovely things! I didn't mean to buy anything, you know, but we looked at such an elegant pelisse. Only everything costs so much!" "Oh, economical little girl!" "And the shopwoman would try on such a splendid white beaver that had just come in with a beautiful long plume and a white satin bow on top. Why, I felt as if I had just arrived from Paris!" M. de Ronville leaned back and laughed. She looked so pretty and spirited, standing here. He could imagine her in the white beaver and handsome pelisse. "How about the French?" he asked. "Have you forgotten it all?" "Oh, no. Grandmere and I talk sometimes." "We must have a little reading. Why, _we_ could talk as well. I sometimes get rusty." "It was very nice of the Pembertons to remember me," she said reflectively. "I had said you were likely to come, and they heard Mr. Bartram had returned. So they came at once." She could see he was proud of the compliment paid her. "Now, you are tired," he said. "I'll read the paper for myself." "No, no." She took it away playfully. "When my voice gets shaky, you may ask me to stop;" and the mirth in her tone was good to hear. How delightful it was to lean back comfortably and listen to the pleasant voice, with its subtle variations. Ah, if Aldis Bartram could have made sure of her in that other time, before she had learned to love and had her sorrow. And now he seemed to be settled in bachelor ways, and resolved to miss the sweetness of love and life. "Aldis," he said, at the tea table, "do you know young Dr. Langdale?" "In a way. He is not in my line, you know. A very promising young fellow. Were you thinking of trying him?" "Oh, no. But he is from Pittsburg. The Hassels and Miss Pemberton seem to know him quite well. And he is a friend of Daffodil's." "Oh, and is that lieutenant his brother?" Daffodil blushed, though why, she could not have told, and she merely nodded. "Mrs. Hassel seems to think very highly of him." "He's made some sort of discovery--they had him at Dr. Rush's, and he is in a fair way to success. Score one for Pittsburg." "But he has been studying here," rejoined Daffodil frankly. The next day it rained, and rainy days seemed to affect M. de Ronville, but he hardly noted it. They read and talked French, and had a rather laughable time. And in the afternoon an old friend, Colonel Plumsted, came in to play chess, and Daffodil watched, much interested. Aldis was surprised to find his host in such good spirits when he returned. Mrs. Hassel gave her tea party soon after. Daffodil met several old friends, who remembered the little girl. Belinda found time to impart the secret that she and Jack Willing were engaged, though she meant to have one good winter of fun before she was married. Jack seemed to be a nice, jolly fellow. And there was Anton Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton, and Arthur was asked to take her out to the supper table. "Why, it's quite like old times to have you here again! Truly, I never thought of your growing up. You were always in my mind as a little golden-haired fairy that flashes about and then--do they return to the 'little folk'?" "I haven't, you see. But I was not quite a fairy. And one grandfather used to call me Yellowtop." She laughed musically. "One? How many grandfathers did you have?" "I had three at one time, one in every generation. But the oldest one went away, and now there are only two." "And I danced with you, I remember. I hope you haven't forgotten how. We have dancing parties, as well as tea parties. We are considered quite staid and sober-going people, but we young folks put in a good deal of fun. Bel's engaged, I dare say she told you, and I am the only solitary--shall I call myself a blossom? left on the parent stalk." They both laughed at that. It takes so little to amuse young people. "You'll have to go to one of Lady Washington's receptions, though in the whisper of confidence be it said they are rather stiff. There's the Norris house, that's the place for fun. The Norris girls find so many bright people, and they're not the jealous kind, but they make everybody shine." Then Bel took her off to meet Miss Plumsted. "I'm very glad to see you;" and Miss Plumsted's voice was honestly sweet. "Grandfather goes to play chess with M. de Ronville. He is your guardian, I believe. And now, are you going to live here?" "Oh, no. I am here only on a visit. My parents and all my folks live at Pittsburg." "Oh, that seems way out West. The Ohio River is there, and they go out to St. Louis and down to New Orleans. Is it a real city?" "Not yet, but they are talking about it." Then some one else came. Two or three of the young men dropped in during the evening, and there was some music on a flute and a violin. Altogether it was a very pleasant time, and Arthur Pemberton took her home and asked if he might not have the pleasure of calling occasionally. She hardly knew what was proper. It seemed ungracious to say "no," so she answered that he might. CHAPTER XVI SAINT MARTIN'S SUMMER One of the quiet evenings, the two men were playing chess and Daffodil was watching them; Susan came in and said in her most respectful manner: "A gentleman wishes to see Miss Carrick. Here is his card." Daffodil took it and read, "Archibald Langdale, M.D." "Oh," in a glad, girlish tone, "it's my old friend, Archie, that I haven't seen in ever so long. Dr. Langdale;" with a pretty assumption of dignity. "Yes." "And, uncle, you must see him. Not that I want you to accept him for a family physician, for really I don't know what he is like. He may be the veriest prig;" and she gave a dainty half laugh. "If he is spoiled it will be the fault of your city, he was very nice at Pittsburg. And you, too, Mr. Bartram." "I have met the young man. I didn't see that he was much puffed up with his honors." "Thank you." She made a fascinating courtesy. How pleased she was, he could see that. "We will soon be through with the game. Yes, I'll come," said M. de Ronville. She would hardly have known Archie. He stood up straight and he was quite as tall as Ned. He had filled out somewhat, though he was still rather thin, but his face had lost that deprecating expression, and had a clear notion not only of truth and honor, but of his own power as well. It was a tender face also, with the light in it that draws one unconsciously. The eyes seemed to have grown darker, but the hair was light as in boyhood. "I am so glad to see you again;" and he took both hands in a warm clasp. "I couldn't wait until some accidental meeting, where you might kindly invite me for old friendship's sake." "That would not have been worth while. I have heard about you, and I wondered if you had outgrown childish remembrances." "You would bring them all back if I had. How little you have changed, except to grow tall. And now tell me about yours and mine. Once in a great while Ned writes, and mother doesn't seem to have the gift of chatty letters. Hers are mostly about my humble self, _her_ son rather, and how he must avoid certain things and do other certain things, and not grow hard-hearted and irreligious and careless of his health;" smiling with a touch of tenderness. "So, you see, I do not hear much about the real Pittsburg." "Oh, you would hardly know it now, there are so many changes, and so much business. New streets, instead of the old lanes, and the old log houses are fast disappearing. We are making real glass, you know, and there is talk of a paper mill. And nearly all the girls are married; the older ones, I mean. Families are coming in from the country, others go out to Ohio and Kentucky. Why, it is a whirl all the time." "I'd like to see it and mother. I've planned to go several times, but some study or lectures that I couldn't miss would crop up. And it takes so much time. Why doesn't some one invent a quicker way of travelling? Now, if we could fly." "Oh, that would be just splendid!" eagerly. "I used to watch the birds when I was a boy, and flying seemed so easy for them. Now, why can't some one think up a pair of wings that you could slip on like a jacket and work them with some sort of springs, and go sailing off? I'm learning to put people together, but I never was any hand for machinery." "Oh, think of it! A winged jacket;" and they both laughed gleefully. Then M. de Ronville entered and expressed his pleasure at meeting the young man, who was already distinguishing himself, and who was an old friend of Miss Carrick. "Not that either of you are very old," he commented smilingly. Mr. Bartram he recalled. And certainly the generally quiet student talked his best. Was Daffodil a sort of inspiration? Was that one of the graces of early friendship? He apologized presently for his long stay. He so seldom made calls, that he must plead ignorance of the correct length, but he had enjoyed himself very much. And then M. de Ronville invited him to drop in to tea. He would like to discuss some new medical methods with him. "A very intelligent, well-balanced young man," the host remarked. "If the other one is as sensible, they are sons to be proud of." "Their mother _is_ proud of them, but their father would rather have had them in business," said Daffodil. Belinda Pemberton was quite fascinated with Daffodil. "You are such a sweet, quaint, honest little thing," she said, "and you do make such delightfully naïve remarks. And Arthur declares you must have learned to dance in fairyland." "I think I did," she returned gayly. "And I do love it so." Then the little circle, and the wider one, had a fine surprise. Betty Wharton, now Madame Clerval, returned quite unexpectedly, as her husband had resigned his position. "I had quite enough of Paris," she said to a friend. "One wants an immense fortune to truly enjoy it. And somehow things seem shaky. Then, too, one does have a longing for home when one gets past youth." So she opened her house and set up a carriage. Monsieur Clerval found himself quite in demand by the government, as the country needed a multitude of counsellors. She came in to see M. de Ronville, who gallantly said she had renewed her youth, and begged for the secret. "It is simply to keep young, to resolve _not_ to grow old;" with a gay emphasis. "But time passes, my dear lady." "And where is that pretty, golden-haired Daffodil?" she enquired. The girl was summoned. Yes, she had outgrown childhood, but there was a delightful charm in her young womanhood. "We were such friends--if you can remember so far back." "And you were so good to me, and made everything so enjoyable. Wasn't I very ignorant?" "You were very frank, and honest, and adaptable. So we must take up the old intimacy again. M. de Ronville, I shall drop in often and say, 'Lend me your daughter for this or that occasion.' Or is it your niece? And if some one falls in love with her you must not scold me. Young men have eyes, and really, I am too kindly-hearted to throw dust in them." Daffodil turned scarlet. "Is it quite right to go about so much?" she said to M. de Ronville afterward, and the tone had a great uncertainty in it, while the curves of her pretty mouth quivered. "For you know----" He drew her down beside him on the sofa. "I thought some time we would talk it over--your unfortunate marriage, I suppose, comes up now and then to haunt you. Yet, it was fortunate, too, that the explanation came just as it did. I honestly believe it was an ignorant child's fancy. You were not old enough to understand real love. I think he could hardly have been a thorough villain, but an incident like this has happened more than once. And I truly believe you have overlived it." She shuddered, and her eyes were limpid with tears. It was good to feel his friendly arm about her. "It is like a dream to me, most of the time. And I think now, if he had made a passionate, despairing protest, it would have gone much harder with me. But it was right for him to go away when his father sent, and he was the next in succession to Hurst Abbey. And there was his child, his boy. I could never have been his true wife, but it hurt to be given up so readily, yet it was best. It gave me courage. And what if he had tired of me later on? They all helped me to bear it. And there was the deception. For if he had told the truth, there might have been pity, but no love." "It was a sad thing to happen. My heart ached for you. But you know, Daffodil, you never were a wife in the true sense of the word. You are quite free, you have always been free. And you must feel so. You must not carry about with you any uncertainty. It is something buried fathoms deep, that you need never draw up to the surface, unless in time to come you tell the story to the man you marry." "I shall never marry," she returned gravely. "I have it all planned. Felix shall have the fortune, for what could a woman do with it in her own hands? And he has the name, he has only to leave off the Carrick. And it shall be my business to make every one as happy as I can. And if it is not wrong to take pleasure for myself--I do love joy and happiness, and I could not grieve forever, when I knew the thing I would grieve for was wrong." There were tears dropping off the bronze lashes, but she was not really crying. He pressed her closer. There was an exquisite depth to her that did not often come to the surface. "So you have it all planned for the years to come," he returned after a moment or two. "That is quite far off. Meanwhile you must have a good time with other young people. That will make me the happiest, if you care for me." "Oh, indeed I do, indeed I do," she cried earnestly. Then, after quite a pause, she continued-- "I almost lost sight of what I wanted to ask. It was whether I ought to explain anything, whether it would be sailing under false colors when no one knew;" and she gave a tangled sort of breath that she would not allow to break into a sob. "My dear child, there would be no use in explaining what could only be a matter of gossip. I think, nay, I am certain, Aldis and myself are the only ones who know, and if there had been any trouble I should have sent him to your assistance. I dare say, some of your friends and neighbors at home have wellnigh forgotten about it. And now, do not let it disturb you, but be as happy as God meant you should be, when He snatched you from the peril." "Oh, thank you," she rejoined with a grateful emotion that he felt quiver through her slender body. She wondered if she was too light-minded, too easily pleased. For every joyous thing seemed to come her way. The girls sought her out, the young men wanted to dance with her, and were willing to bore themselves going out to supper, if they knew she would be there. It was not because she was brighter or wittier than the others, or could think of more entertaining plays, but just that she seemed to radiate an atmosphere of happiness. She did not give up all her time to pleasure. She drove with her guardian on pleasant days; he had left off riding now, but he sent her out occasionally with Mr. Bartram, lest she should get out of practice, he said. Then she read to him, or they took up French. She made merry over her blunders. The autumn was long and warm. They sat in the garden in the sunshine, or walked up and down. Now and then he went to the office, when there were some important matters on hand. Madame Clerval gave a dance after she had her house set in order. It might have been called a ball. It was mostly for the young people; she was just as fond of them as ever, and secretly admitted that she didn't enjoy prosy old people, who could talk of nothing but their pains and aches, and how fast the country was going to ruin. "Do you think Mr. Bartram would consider it a nuisance to come for me?" she asked of her guardian, with a face like a peony. "Why, no, child. Madame made quite a point of his coming. He is growing old too fast." "Why, he isn't old," she said rather indignantly. "And you see--it's hard sometimes not to offend this one or that one, and if he is really coming, will you ask him to bring me home? Wouldn't _you_ prefer it?" "I think I would;" very gravely, though he wanted to smile. Wetherell and Arthur Pemberton were pushing each other for her favors, and she tried to distribute them impartially. The dance was a splendid success, and the dainty supper had a French air. Mr. Bartram came in just before that. Daffodil was engaged, of course. Madame provided him with a charming partner. There was only a galop afterward. At private affairs it was not considered good taste to stay after midnight. Mr. Bartram made his way to Daffodil, and asked her if she was ready to go, and she nodded gracefully. She looked so pretty as she came down the stairs, wrapped in something white and fleecy, smiling on this side and that. "It was very enjoyable," he said, "at least to you young people. I'm not much of a dancer nowadays, so I didn't come early." "It was just full of pleasure. Madame Clerval always plans admirably." He smiled to himself. Most girls would have protested about his being late, even if they had not specially cared. The young people took up the habit of calling in the evening, three or four of them, sometimes half a dozen. Mrs. Jarvis would send in some cake and nice home-made wine, which was quite a fashion then. They made merry, of course. "Dear uncle," she said one morning, it was raining so they couldn't go out, "didn't we disturb you last evening with our noise and laughter? I don't know why they are so eager to come here, and think they have a good time, for I am not as full of bright sayings as some of the girls. And if it annoys you----" "My child, no. I lay on the sofa and listened to it, and it almost made me young again. I had no merry youth like that. Oh, am I coming to second childhood?" His eyes were bright, and she thought she had never seen them so merry, save at first, when he had laughed at some of Felix's pranks. And his complexion was less pallid, his lips were red. "Then second childhood is lovely. And you have grown so interested in everything. You don't get tired as you used. Are you real happy, or are you doing it just to make me happy?" She gave him such a sweet, enquiring look, that he was touched at her solicitude. "It is both, I fancy. You see, last winter I was ill and alone a great deal. I missed Betty Wharton, who was always flying in with some fun, or a bright story that had been told. Aldis had all the business to attend to, and sometimes wrote in the evenings. Time hung very heavy on my hands, and I began to think it was time for me to go hence. And by spring I had quite lost heart, though I began to crawl about a little. And I kept thinking how I should live through another dreary winter, and be half sick. It kept looming up before me. Then I thought I ought to settle something about your business when your father wrote concerning the lease. You came into my mind. I thought how brave you had been through that unfortunate time, and wondered if you would not like a change. I wanted some one to bring in the sunshine of youth, and you had spent so many of your years with elderly people, I thought you must have some art. I could make it pleasant for you, and the reflected light would brighten me. So I begged a little of your sweet young life." "I am glad if it has made you happy," she said, much moved. "It has given me new zest, it has made me almost well. True, I have had some twinges of my old enemy, rheumatism, but they have not been severe. I have not been lonely. There was some pleasure within my reach all the time. Oh, old people do want a little of the sun of youth to shine on them. And if you had no dear ones at home, I should keep you always, golden-haired Daffodil." She took his hand in hers, so full of fresh young life. "And I should stay," she said. "So, do not think your little merry-makings annoy me at all. I am glad for you to have them, and next day it is like reading a page out of a book, a human book that we are apt to pass by, and say we have no pleasure in it, but it is what we need, and what we want, down in our very heart of hearts, but often we are ashamed to ask for it." It was true, he was much better. The house was losing its grave aspect. Jane had been used to flinging about wise old saws, and comparisons, and finding things to enjoy; Susan was quiet, falling into routine, and staying there until some new duty fairly pushed her out in another direction. She had no sense of humor or enthusiasm, yet she performed all the requirements of her place with ease and industry. Mrs. Jarvis was just as kindly solicitous as ever, but intellectually there was a great gulf between her and M. de Ronville. She entertained whatever guests came with an air of precision, never forgetting she was a higher sort of housekeeper. She enjoyed the quiet of her own room, where she sewed a little, and read a good deal, the old-fashioned English novels, such as "Children of the Abbey," "Mysterious Marriage," "The Cottage on the Cliff," and stories of the latter half of the century. She thought it no part of a woman's business to concern herself with politics, she would have preferred living under a real King and nobility, but she accepted the powers that ruled, and stayed in her own little world, though she, as well as M. de Ronville, enjoyed the stir and interest that Daffodil brought about. After Madame Clerval came, there was more variety and gayety in Daffodil's life, and she helped to rouse M. de Ronville as well. Then came a reception at the Presidential mansion. "Of course, you will go," Madame said to him, in her persuasive, yet imperious, manner. "We must not be a whit behind those New York people in the attention we pay our President. And one need not stay the whole evening through, you know. You will meet so many old friends. Come, I cannot have you getting old before your time." "But I am an old man," he protested. "In our new country we must not get old. It is to be the land of perennial youth," she answered gayly. Aldis Bartram joined his persuasions as well, and M. de Ronville went almost in spite of himself. He had kept his delicate, high-bred air and French atmosphere, and looked well in the attire of that day, with his flowered waistcoat, his black velvet suit and silk stockings, with a jewelled buckle on his low shoes. His beautiful white hair was just tied in a queue, with a black ribbon. There was something dignified and gracious about him, and friends thronged around to congratulate him. And though he had seen Washington in many different phases of his eventful life, he had not as yet met him as President of the nation he had fought for and cemented together. There were handsomer girls than Daffodil; indeed, the fame of the beauties of Philadelphia in that day has been the theme of many a song and story. But she was very pretty in her simple white frock that in the fashion of the day showed her exquisite neck and shoulders, though the golden curls, tied high on her head, shaded and dazzled about it in a most bewitching manner. Madame Clerval was wise, she was not trying to outshine any of the belles, yet there was a bevy of young men about her constantly, and most devoted to her and to M. de Ronville, was Dr. Langdale. In fact, he was really the favorite visitor at the house. He ran in now and then with news of some new book, or some old translation, and a talk of the progress of the library and the trend of general education. Why should Boston have it all? Or a new medical discovery, though he was in no sense M. de Ronville's physician. Was it strange that both these young people, having passed their childhood in Pittsburg, should come to a nearer and dearer understanding? Aldis Bartram watched them with the sense of a new revelation. Yet he could not subscribe to it cordially. The medical enthusiast was hardly the one he would choose for a girl like Daffodil. Arthur Pemberton would do better, yet he was not quite up to her mark. She was a simple seeming girl, yet he was learning that she had a great deal of character and sweetness. Somehow she kept herself curiously enfranchised from lovers. Her friendly frankness gave them a status it was difficult to overcome. "I never expected to enjoy myself so much again," said M. de Ronville, when they were in the carriage. "It is an excellent thing to go on moving with the world, to keep in touch with the things that make up the sum of life, instead of feeling they belong to the gone-by time, and you have no interest in them." How much like his olden self he was, Aldis Bartram thought. He wondered if he had been at fault in letting him drop down. There was much perplexing business, and he had hated to bother the elder man with it. Sometimes it seemed tedious to explain. Had he grown selfish in certain ways, preferring to take the burthen, rather than the trouble of sharing it with another? He had much personal ambition, he was in full earnest of a man's aims and life purposes. Yet it was this man who had helped him to the place whereon he stood, and it was not honorable to crowd him out under the plea that his best days were over. It seemed, indeed, as if days fairly flew by, there was so much crowded in them. When the morning was fine, Daffodil insisted they should drive out. It was delightful to keep bowing and smiling to friends, with this attractive girl beside him. He went to some meetings of the Philosophical Society, and he took a new interest in the Library plans. "You certainly have worked a transformation," Bartram said to Daffodil, when M. de Ronville consented to go to a concert with them, to hear two remarkable singers, who had come from abroad. "You will have to stay. Didn't I hear you discussing Pittsburg with Mrs. Jarvis?" "Oh, they are longing for me to return. And in two days March will come in, that will be spring. And I was only to stay through the winter." "But March is a cruel and deceitful travesty on spring. February has been too short." "But they want me. And, yes, I want to see them all, and the garden, and the woods, and what new things have happened to Pittsburg. For there is something new coming in all the time." Her face was so eager and full of happy interest. "Well--I don't know what we shall do without you"; and the inflection of his voice was disconsolate. "I am afraid we shall fall back to the old routine. I am a busy man, you know, and have to shoulder a great many cares not really my own. Perhaps, too, I haven't the divine art of making a house bright, a woman's province." "Oh, Mr. Bartram, I will tell you;" in a clear, earnest tone. "Why do you not marry, and bring some one here to do it? There are so many charming girls, sometimes I feel quite unimportant and ignorant beside them." She uttered it in the same manner she might have asked why he did not bring home some flowers to grace the study table. Her lovely eyes were raised to his in the utmost innocence, and not a tint of color wavered on her cheek. His flushed with sudden surprise. "Perhaps the charming young girl would consider it a dull house for life, and then elderly people have whims and fancies--well, younger men do. I have myself. And it would be asking a good deal." "I think uncle hasn't many whims, and he does keep them in the background. You almost have to watch for them. Why, think of grandad!" and she laughed with a soft musical sound. "What he liked yesterday he may not like at all to-day, so Norry does the new thing, and says nothing about the other. And he often disputes with father as to whether there was any real need for the war, and that we would be better off under King George. But uncle is so large-minded, and then he has so many refined and delightful tastes. But you would get lonesome if you were not very well, and no one came to cheer you up, or bring you new thoughts and bright bits of things, that were going on in the world outside." She paused suddenly, and flushed like a culprit, looking more beguiling than ever, with her downcast eyes. "I suppose I oughtn't have said it, but it seems true to me, only I'm not blaming you. You have a great many things to attend to, and you must do them in a man's way, devote your whole mind to them, and you can't be frivolous, or other people's business would suffer. If I hadn't any one I would come and stay, but--I love them, and sometimes, in spite of the pleasure, my heart is almost torn in two with the longing. I said I would come back in the spring, and I must go. Then it will not be quite so bad, for Madame Clerval will be in and out, and he is so much better. And you'll let him take an interest in business, when he feels like it--oh, I seem to be giving you advice, and I sincerely beg your pardon. After all, I am not much more than a little girl, and I am talking as if I was old and wise;" and a sudden shame flamed her cheeks with scarlet. "I think you have been wise, and sweet, and patient, without growing old. You have done a great deal for your guardian this winter--I really was afraid we should not have him with us for very long, and he did seem to wish for you so. Perhaps we were selfish, he and I." "Oh, I was ready to come, too. It has been a delightful winter, and everybody has been so good to me, I've been just full of pleasure. But when you love those you have left behind, you sometimes feel as if you could fly." She winked very fast, then made a sudden dab at her eyes, and half laughed, too. "I think I understand. I have had no one to love dearly since I was a little lad, and all I remember about my mother is that she was pale, and ill, and could not endure a noise. Then I was put in school, and my father went away and died. When I was eighteen I went in M. de Ronville's office, and finished my studies. He has been my best friend, really like a father to me. I ought to make all the return in my power." "Oh;" and there was a bewildering sweetness in her tone. "I have been so happy most of my life, and had so many to love me." Then that unfortunate episode had not cost her any deep-seated grief. Had she loved at all, or was it only a childish fancy? He hoped it was, for the sake of her future. He turned then and went out of the room. M. de Ronville had been up in his dressing-room, with his valet, and now he went to the library, and she followed him. There were some reports to look over, then the carriage came for them. It was sunny, with very little wind, and they had plenty of wraps. Aldis Bartram went his way to the office. The two clerks were there and busy. He opened his letters, and answered several, the others had need of some legal opinions to be looked up. Then he took up a rather complicated case, but he soon lost the thread of it, for Daffodil's almost upbraiding voice haunted him. He had been outwardly patient many a time when all was irritation within, for he was too manly and too really grateful to show impatience. Had Daffodil's being there this winter proved the source of the reaction in M. de Ronville's health? Had loneliness intensified the disease and discomfort? Perhaps. And now two or three young men dropped in, and had entertaining talks with him. Or was it because they liked the byplay of the pretty, vivacious girl, who never made herself the first attraction. "Marry some pretty, charming young girl!" Where would he find one to M. de Ronville's liking? CHAPTER XVII OH, WHICH IS LOVE? March opened cold and stormy. Rheumatism made a clutch at M. de Ronville. For several days he did not come downstairs, but insisted that some of the guests must come to him. Dr. Langdale skipped away from a lecture he really desired to hear, and spent an hour comforting the invalid. Madame Clerval came in with a budget of news and friendly gossip, and Daffodil talked of her little girlhood, and old Pittsburg, as they had begun to call it, and sitting on the arm of great-grandfather's chair, and listening to tales of a still older time. He did not wonder that his friend Duvernay had lived to be almost a hundred, with all that affection to make the way pleasant. Then he improved and came downstairs, took up chess-playing, and little promenades on the porch when the sun shone. And then the talk veered round to Daffodil's departure. He would not hear anything about it at first. "Yet we have no right to keep her away from her own household, when she has been brave enough to give up all the winter to us," Mr. Bartram said. "Oh, no, I suppose not. If I was younger, or in assured health, I should go and spend the summer with them. Oh, don't look so startled. I know it wouldn't do, with my uncertain health." Aldis smiled. "If the summer is fine, and you keep pretty well, we might both take a trip. I would hardly trust you to go alone." "So we might." The elder was gratified with the consideration. "Aldis?" presently, in a half-enquiring tone. "Well?" glancing up. "Do you think--that Dr. Langdale--that there is anything between him and Daffodil?" "There has been some talk. But young Pemberton is devoted to her as well." "With either she would have to come back here to live. I like the doctor. He is such a fine, large-hearted, sympathetic young fellow, with so much real charity for suffering. I seem to be envying other people's sons and daughters;" ending with a longing sound. "Yes, if she were in love with him." Aldis Bartram experienced a feeling of protest. Yet, why should he object? They were both young, they had been friends from childhood, and he was certainly worthy of her. That very evening he dropped in. There had been a wonderful surgical operation on a poor fellow, who had been mashed and broken by a bad fall. There had been a dispute at first, whether they could save him intact, but after hours of the most careful work there was a good chance. Dr. Langdale was so proud and enthusiastic, giving every one his due with no narrowness. Then he said, "Oh, Daffodil, are you really going home?" "They have sent for me. The winter has gone!" and there was a piquant smile hovering about her face. "It has been such a short winter I have not done half the things I planned to do. But I am resolved to run away some time in the summer. It is ungrateful not to visit mother. And I do want to see the town, and all the old friends." "Oh, do come!" There was a joyous light in her eyes, and a sweetness played about her lips. Yes, he surely thought he would. Then they went on about other matters. Bartram was not much versed in love indications, but something rose within him--as if there should be a higher, stronger, more overwhelming love for _her_. She would make them talk cheerfully about her going. She said sagely there was such a thing as wearing out one's welcome, and that now she should feel free to come again. "Next winter," said her guardian. "I think I can get along through the summer with this thought to sustain me, but I shall be a year older, and perhaps more feeble." "I strictly forbid either of the consequences;" she laughed with adorable gayety, her eyes alight with fun. "One would think I was of great consequence," she exclaimed a few days later, "by the lamentations my friends make. Or is it a fashion? It will make it harder for me to go. If we could move Pittsburg over! But there are the splendid rivers, and the hills covered with rhododendrons. And, you see, I shall miss the daffodils." "If it is such sorrow to part with one, I hardly know how you can endure losing so many," said Aldis Bartram gravely. She looked at him enquiringly. He seldom paid compliments to any one but Madame Clerval. There were bloom and beauty enough in the grand old town, where every point was romantic. Every day Daffodil and her guardian were out driving, until it seemed to her she could have found her way about in the dark. And in his office Aldis Bartram sat thinking how lonely the house would be without the sunshine of her golden head, and the sound of her sweet, merry voice, her small, thoughtful ways, and the ease with which she could change from one mode of action that she saw was not bringing about a desirable result. At first he considered this a sort of frivolity, but he understood presently that she not infrequently gave up her own pleasure or method for something that suited M. de Ronville better. He was ambitious, and he had marked out a career for himself. He meant to be rich and respected, his instincts were all honorable, and this had commended him to his employer, who detested anything bordering on double dealing. So, from one position he had been advanced to another, and by persistent study had taken his degree with honor. He enjoyed the life of the class with which he was in keen touch, and he found he could maintain a degree of mental superiority that satisfied his ambition. There had been a partnership; he was junior counsel, and some of the clients preferred the young, broad-minded man. Then had come the proffer of a home that really surprised him. There were no relatives to be jealous; why, then, should he not be as a son to this man, who no longer felt equal to the burthen and heat of the new day that had dawned on the country, and was calling forth the highest aims and energies of the men of the time? There had been one intense fascination in his life that had turned to the ashes of bitterness. And now, while he was affable and enjoyed the society of women, he considered himself proof against their blandishments. He had heard of Daffodil's interrupted marriage, and gave her a very sincere sympathy. But he had not been warmly in favor of her visit. Still, it seemed cruel and selfish not to agree to the longing of the invalid, who had an obstinate idea that his days were numbered. A pet and play-thing was perhaps what he needed, for sometimes the devotion exacted bored him and seemed a painful waste of time and energy. Then M. de Ronville saw the necessity of arranging his guardianship of Daffodil Carrick on a different basis, so that there might be no trouble at his death. Her father might not understand all the fine points, and need some legal aid. This had brought about the visit to Pittsburg, and he had joined his solicitation to that of the guardian, truly believing M. de Ronville's days were numbered, and he did fervently desire to give him whatever happiness and comfort was possible. But Daffodil was different from the vague idea he had formed of her. She was not a sentimental girl, even if she had been caught by a specious love, and though gay and eager, had a tender, truthful, and noble side to her nature. They were all of a higher class than he had thought possible, and Felix he considered quite an unusual boy. Mr. Carrick had made one brief explanation of the marriage, none of the others alluded to it. "But you know that the law holds her as an unmarried woman. There was nothing binding in the vows on her side, and pure fraud on his," said Bartram decisively. "Yes, we are aware of that, but young as she is, it has changed her in some respects. But she is dearer than ever to us. I deprecate this fashion of such youthful marriages, though mine has been very happy," returned the father. Dr. Langdale came in one morning with a face full of the highest satisfaction. Bartram had been lingering about, discussing the journey. Madame Clerval had offered one of her French maids, but she knew so little of American ways. "Daffodil," the doctor exclaimed, "will you take me for an escort? I find there is nothing very important for the next few weeks. I have but one more lecture in my course. And I do want to see mother. So, if you have no objection----" "Why, I should be delighted, though I begin to feel quite like a wise and travelled body. And think how women are coming from abroad and from Canada, and going West, and all over, and reach their destination safely. But I shall be very glad all the same, and your mother will be wild with joy." "I am afraid we do not think of the pleasure we can give our elders, who, in the nature of things, have less time for the enjoyment of their children. And I feel ashamed that I have allowed the time to slip by, content with a hurried letter. I mean to do better in the future." "And I applaud your decision," exclaimed M. de Ronville. "Oh, I think you young people really do not know how much happiness you can give us elders just by the sight of your happy faces, and a little cordial attention." Daffodil glanced at Dr. Langdale with a smile that seemed almost a caress, it was so approving, enchanting. Aldis Bartram caught it and turned away, saying-- "I must leave you to perfect arrangements. I am late now, so I must wish you good-morning," bowing himself out of the room. He was very busy, and did not go home to dinner, as he had been doing of late. And it was not until he was walking home in the late afternoon that he allowed himself to think of Daffodil's departure. "She will marry Dr. Langdale and come back here to live, which will be a great pleasure to M. de Ronville," he said to himself, remembering it had his friend's approval. And why should it not have his? Yet he felt as if he did not cordially assent. And if she returned next winter--he lost a sudden interest in the plan. They would be lovers and there would be their joy and satisfaction flaunted in everybody's face. How could Daffodil keep so bright and cheerful? Had she any real depth? Did not every change, every new plan appeal to her just the same? But if he had seen her with her arms about Mrs. Jarvis' neck, and the tears in her eyes, he would not have made the comment to himself. And the tender, beseeching tone in which she was saying-- "Oh, you will not let him miss me too much. And when it is pleasant, won't you walk about the garden with him and praise his roses and the flowers he cares for? And keep him thinking that he is better, and has years yet to live, and if Mr. Bartram will go on being devoted to him." "Mr. Bartram seems to have grown more tenderly thoughtful. Of course, he has a great deal on his mind, and now there are so many perplexing questions about the country, and when one is tired out with the day's work it is hard to rehearse it all over. Oh, my dear, I think you have worked a change in us all with your sweet, generous ways, and your lovely outflowing youth. I am afraid I was beginning to think too much of my own comfort." Dr. Langdale proved himself most solicitous. Bartram found the planning was taken quite out of his hands, and he chafed a little. Madame Clerval declared herself inconsolable, but she had the fine grace that speeds the parting guest when the going is inevitable. There was only one day more. M. de Ronville had his breakfast sent upstairs. Daffodil went to find some papers her guardian was going over, and turning, she met Aldis Bartram entering the library. "I was afraid you might forget them," she said, handing the packet to him. "Thank you." How often she had charged her mind with these little things. "I suppose," he began in a wandering sort of tone, as if his mind had strayed to something else, "that it will not really be out of order to congratulate you, since it will be a long while before I shall see you again." "Oh, about going home? But I shall often think of you all here, and wish the old fairy stories were true, where you could be transported elsewhere in a moment. I think I did truly believe in them once." How charming she was in that absolute simplicity, the exquisite, innocent, glowing face too frank for concealment. He had no business to probe her secret, and yet he must know. "Oh, I meant, you will not come back to us the same. You will have learned the lesson of love, and I hope--you will be very happy." "I don't understand"--a puzzled line settling in her fair brow. "Oh!" suddenly relieved, and then half smiling, "did you think," and then her face crimsoned to its utmost capacity, "that I, that Dr. Langdale--it is a mistake. We were dear friends in childhood, we are warm friends now. For, you see, he has been like a little bit of Pittsburg to me, and sometimes, when I was longing for the dear ones at home, it was comforting to talk them over. And he has no thought of marrying in a long, long while. He means to do so much first." Was she a finished coquette by the grace of nature? Young men were not given to consideration of this or that when the bewildering passion seized them. But coquette or not, a sharp, overmastering knowledge seized him. Once she had advised him to marry and bring in the household a charming girl. She recognized that his duty would be to M. de Ronville while he lived. He knew that, too, if he would not prove himself an ingrate. And here was the charming girl. He looked at her so long and steadily that there came faint colors in her face, growing deeper, the lines about her mouth showed tremors, the bronze-fringed lids drooped over her eyes, and she turned away. But the delicious half-bashful movement set his pulses aflame. "Daffodil," and he caught her hand, "if there is no other among these young men, or even at home, may I not sue for a little favor? I know it surprises you; then perhaps I am too old to win a young girl's regard, love I mean----" "Oh, you must not," she interrupted. "For I think you hardly like me--you did not at first. And then, I--well--I do not mean to marry. You know there was the----" "Which simply has no weight in your life." "But you see, I thought I loved him. Oh, I _did_ love him. And I was so happy. Why, I would have gone to the end of the world with him! Only when one deceives you, when one dares not tell the whole truth, and when one cannot, does not want to give up wealth and station, what was love is some way crushed out. But how could I tell if any new love was the right thing? I might be mistaken again. And there are fickle women in the world I have heard, who can love many times. I don't desire to be one of them. Maybe it is only friendship I am fitted for." She was trembling in every pulse, though she had made such a brave defence. And she seemed to him a hundred times sweeter than she ever had before. He had much ado not to clasp her to his heart. "My dear little Daffodil," he said with passionate tenderness, "though you have been wooed and said marriage vows, you know nothing about a true and fervent love. That was not much beyond a child's fancy, and you have overlived it, or you could not be so light-hearted. It is only a dream in your life. And I will wait until the woman's soul in you wakes. But I shall not let you go from my influence, I shall keep watch and ward, and try to win you." "No, no, I am not worth all that trouble. No, do not try," she pleaded. "I shall take your earlier advice. You said I must marry some charming girl and bring her here. No other girl or woman could satisfy M. de Ronville as well." "Did I advise you to do that?" and she blushed daintily. "Well," and there was a glint of mischief in her eyes, soft as they were, "once I was offered to you, and you declined." "Offered to me?" in surprise. "When I was here before. It was in this very library. I was outside, and when I knew who was meant I ran away." "Oh, you were such a child then! And I was doing something that I have always despised myself for. I knew a beautiful and fascinating woman, who led me to believe she cared a great deal for me. And then she laughed at my folly. I deserved it for my blindness. So you see, I too had a rude awakening, and found that it was not love, but a mere sham. I believe for a month or so I have been trying _not_ to love you, shutting my eyes to a longing that stirred all my nature. And now that I have admitted it, it has taken a giant's growth in a few hours. I will wait until you can give me the true, sincere regard of your soul. But I could not let you go until I had settled whether I had any ground for hope. Shall we be friends, dear and fond friends, until that time? But I want to be loved sincerely, deeply." She stood like a lovely culprit before him, and then he did enfold her in his arms, and pressed his lips against her blushing cheek. "Oh, I cannot tell--yes, I like you--and you will be good to _him_ while I am gone. But it is new and strange to me, and I cannot promise." "But there is no one else--tell me that." "There is no one else. But whether--I can love again;" and there was a great tremble in her voice, "whether it would be right." "Oh, little innocent, you will find the right and the truth some day, I feel assured of that. I can trust you to tell me by word or sign when that day comes, for I know you will be honest. And now I must go, but I take with me a joy that will make glad the days and weeks of separation. Oh, my little darling!" He went out of the house with a proud tread. He would never pause until he had won her. His soul was startled and roused by the sudden revelation of himself. He had supposed he should marry sometime, after his duty was done here, for he could not imagine a woman broad enough to share it with him. And here an angel had touched him with her fine beneficence, and shown him the duty in a stronger, truer light. There was not much time for the ardent side of love, though Aldis Bartram had to fight with himself for a show of mere friendliness. She was to go at ten the next morning, and friends came to escort her. "And I shall stay and help our good friend to bear the trial of parting," declared Madame Clerval. "We will talk over your virtues and your shortcomings, the lovers you might have had if you had been an astute young woman, and try to shed some sunshine on the doleful days until next winter." There was the maid with some budgets, there was Dr. Langdale, proud and serene enough for a lover, and it did rouse a spasm of jealousy in the soul of Aldis Bartram. But he knew she was truth itself, and he could depend upon her. CHAPTER XVIII A REVELATION It was a lovely journey if the term could be applied to the old-fashioned stagecoach. But the season of the year, the bloom and beauty everywhere, and the pleasant companionship lightened the few discomforts for Daffodil. There are natures that refrain from spoiling anticipations by cares or perplexities left behind, and hers was one. Indeed, hers was not complex, and people, women especially, had not learned to crowd so many interests, and fears, and hopes together. She would see those she loved the best, yes, she did love them the best of all now. How glad they were to get her back! Yes, there were changes and changes. New business plans and firms, old ones enlarged, discoveries of coal and iron all about, materials for glass-making, a paper mill under consideration. But the war was not yet over. The advisers of the King had begun to adopt a tone of insolence toward the young Republic; indeed, in spite of peace being signed, there was still an endeavor to stir up the Indians on the outskirts of many of the towns. The Indian villages along the Maumee received supplies of arms and ammunition, and were fortifying their own forts. The alarm spread down the Ohio. The British had not yet given up all the forts they had held in the preceding war, in spite of the agreements. Tired of inaction, Lieutenant Langdale had, with several others, offered his services to General Anthony Wayne, as there was great need of trained officers. So Mrs. Langdale was doubly delighted with this visit of her son, of whom she was quite as proud as of her soldier. "And I hope you have made good your chance with Daffodil Carrick," she said to him a few days after his return. "She'll be quite worth the winning, even if the father's money should all go to the son, who is a very promising lad, I hear. But they count on having a big place over the river, and that is all her share. One of you boys ought to win her. I thought it would be Ned. And you have had a chance all winter." Archibald smiled, but there was no disappointment in it. "She was a great favorite all through the winter, and she can marry any time she likes. But I have too much to do to take upon myself family cares, and I think she isn't the sort of girl to be in a hurry. We are just fine, sincere friends." "But I want you to marry. And I've counted on grandchildren. I wish I had you both settled just around me. I shall be a lonesome old woman." "Then when I am rich enough to set up a house, you shall come and live with me." "Do you think Dilly's going to let that miserable mess of a marriage spoil all her life?" "Oh, she is very happy, mother; girls don't marry as young as they did, and it is a good thing, too. They have some years of bright, gay girlhood, and won't get worn out so soon. Daffodil is a charming girl." "But she's getting quite along, and it isn't like being a widow either," said the mother, who thought every girl ought to marry. Daffodil watched mother and grandmere with longing eyes. Yes, grandmere _was_ getting old. Her mother was losing the pretty girlishness, but she was very happy in her husband, and her son, who was tall and very good-looking, quite toned down in manner. The house had no more changes. Here was her pretty room. Oh, yes, there was a new bright rag carpet on the floor. She went around with a tender touch on everything, patting the white pillow-slips, straightening a picture or two, and wondering in a curious fashion if sometime her brother's wife would be here and a group of merry children--she hoped there would be a houseful of them. And gran would be a great-grandfather, and sit in the big chair at the corner of the fireplace, that he had covered over with buckskin of his own tanning. Where she would be she did not plan. Only she would not mind being an old maid, she thought. Everybody in the little circle supposed she would marry Dr. Langdale, and were surprised when his mother sorrowfully admitted it was not to be. "There's them that goes through the woods, and picks up a crooked stick at the last;" and Norah shook her head resentfully. "My stick won't be crooked, I promise you," laughed the girl. "You may have no stick at all and go limping afoot and alone," was the curt rejoinder. She was very happy, why she could hardly tell, for she felt she ought not to be. There came a letter with the stamp of the office on it and it had two enclosures. Her guardian's was most pleasant and fatherly. They missed her very much, but Mrs. Jarvis had taken on a new phase of kindliness so that he should not long too much for Daffodil, and Aldis was like a son. They went out driving together. And Aldis had grown so fond of the garden that he had not used to care much about. The weather was fine and he really was quite well for an old gentleman. She almost dreaded to open the other. A blinding sort of consciousness pervaded her as if she were a prisoner, as if there was asked of her a curious, undefined surrender that she could hardly understand. Before, she had gone on simply and been overtaken, as it were, given without knowing just what she gave. Was it because she was older, wiser? She had still to learn that there were many mysteries in love that only a lifetime could explain. She let her eyes wander over it in a vague sort of fashion. Did she really belong to him? He seemed to take possession of her in a way that she could not gainsay, could not even refuse. But did she want to refuse? She went out to the keeping room after awhile. Her mother sat alone, sewing some trifle. She came and laid both letters in her lap, then went and sat on the door sill where a great maple threw its green arms about in the soft breeze. There was a cuckoo somewhere, a yellow-hammer searching for half-hidden food, and a thrush with his long, sweet note. "Yes," her mother remarked, as if in answer to a question. "He laid the matter before your father a month ago in the letter that came with you." "Oh!" Then after a long while--"Mother, it is nothing like it was before. Then I did not doubt myself, now I wonder. He is so wise in many ways, I feel as if I had to reach up and up and I am a little afraid. I have seen so many fine girls in the city. And beautiful women." "The woman a man chooses is the best to him always." She did not torment herself with the thought that he was doing this for her guardian's sake. She felt that he was not the kind of man to take the mere crumbs of love while some one else feasted on the heart of love divine. What troubled her was whether she could love enough. And she hated to think there had been any previous regard. But did he not say, too, that he had been fascinated by an unworthy liking? The summer seemed to check the wave of prosperity and men looked at each other in half affright. For no one knew just how the tide might turn. When the Indians made their sortie on Fort Recovery word came that the garrison had been massacred, but Captain Gibson bravely held it in spite of an all-day attack, and at night the enemy retreated. General Wayne was in command of all the forces and the Indians made various feints, hoping to be joined by the British, who were urging them on, but there was no big regular battle until that of Fallen Timbers, where a tornado had swept through the woods some time before. A few miles below was a British fort, the meeting place of the western fur traders. It was a hard fought field, but the victory for the Americans was such a signal one that it ended the terror of a frontier war that had hung over the border so long. No town rejoiced more than Pittsburg, which lost some men and was proud of heroes who had come through the conflict unscathed. Among these was Lieutenant Langdale, whose bravery and foresight gained him a captaincy. "He's a brave fellow!" declared grandad, and Daffodil was glad he had won some of the fame and glory for which he had longed. "It's fine to be a soldier when you can fight and have nothing happen to you," declared Felix. "But I wouldn't want to be among the killed. There's so many splendid things in life. I hope I will live to be a hundred." There were many matters to share Daffodil's attention, though she did miss the bright society and the knowledge branching out on every side. Yet these girls who had married half a dozen years ago and had grown common and careless with their little ones about them seemed very happy. It certainly was an industrious community, but they played as they worked. There were games that would have been no discredit to modern scores, there was dancing and merriment and happiness as well. Was Daffodil learning her lesson? Aldis Bartram thought very slowly. But he was a man who prized hard won contests. And if with the attractive young men about her through the winter she had not been won, then she was not an easy prize. He smiled at times over her careful and futile reasoning. At least they would have the winter to go over the ground. And though he was becoming an ardent lover he was not an impatient one. There are some events and decisions in life that are precipitated by a shock, the film that held one in thrall, veiling the clear sight, is suddenly disrupted. And this happened to Daffodil Carrick. Her father put an English paper in her hand one evening as he came up the path where roses were still blooming. It had been remailed in Philadelphia. "From Madame Clerval," she said with a smile. "Some gay doings, I fancy. She has friends in London." She glanced it over carelessly. The summer struggles had made her more of a patriot, and brought to her mind vividly the morning she had run out to know the cause of Kirsty Boyle's call and the ringing of his bell. A very little girl. She was always glad she had heard it. She turned the paper to and fro rather impatiently. Oh, what was here with the black insignia of death: "_Died, at Hurst Abbey, of a malignant fever. Margaretta, wife of Jeffrey, Lord Andsdell, only remaining son of the Earl of Wrenham._" She was not interested in the beauty of the bride, who had been a great belle in her day and won no little fame on the stage, nor the terrible accident that had deprived the Earl of two older sons and two grandsons, paving the way for the succession of Lord Andsdell. She shuddered and turned ghostly pale, and was terrified with a strange presentiment. But she could not talk of it just yet and was glad Norry and grandad came in to spend the evening with them. The next morning she gave her father a little note with "important" written on the corner of the folded paper. "What now?" enquired her father laughingly, "Did you forget your postscript?" She assented with a nod. Then she went about her daily duties, but a great terror surged at her heart. She was to remember through everything that she was the only woman Jeffrey Andsdell loved. Long ago she had cast it out. No doubt he had been happy in his ancestral home, at least, he had chosen that, well, wisely, too. But to ask that the woman he wronged should cling to her burthen! How slowly the days passed. Aldis Bartram might have been away when the note came--he had been to Baltimore on some troublesome business--but waiting seemed very hard. And when it drew near to the time, she used to take different paths down by the square where the stage came in, just far enough away to see, but not be seen, and stand with a blushing face and a strange trembling at her heart. One day she was rewarded. There was the manly figure, the erect head, the firm, yet elastic step. A sudden pride leaped up in her heart. She waylaid him in a bypath. "Daffodil!" he cried in surprise. "What has happened? "Nothing, nothing; I wanted to see you," but her voice trembled. "Come this way." "How mysterious you are!" If she meant to give him his _congé_ she could have done it better by letter. And the clasp of her hand on his arm had a clinging force. "There is something for you to see. Let us turn here." After a space through intervening trees they came to the open, where she paused and unfolded a paper she had held in her hand. "Read this," she said, and he stared a moment silently. One moment, another moment. How still it was, every bird had hushed its singing, even the crickets were not chirping. "He will come back to America. He will come back for you now that he is free," Bartram subjoined hoarsely. Should he hold her or let her go? Was the old love---- She faced him and slipped both hands over his shoulders, clasped them at the back of his neck. It seemed to him he had never seen such an entrancing light in her eyes. "Aldis," she began, with tremulous sweetness, "I would rather be your wife than the greatest duchess of them all." And then she hid her blushing face on his breast. It would not be raised, but he kissed the brow, the eyelids, and said in a shaken voice: "Were you afraid----" Then she raised the sweet face where he saw tears and the quick rifts of color, but there were high lights of resolve in the beautiful eyes. "Not afraid anything could rekindle the glamor of that mistake, nor any repentance on his part mend the deception. I was a child then. I did not understand the depths that go to the making of a true love. All summer I have been learning----" Then she paused and hid her face again. "And there is a great deal more to learn, sweetheart. We shall go on studying the delightful lesson all our lives, I trust, and never reach the bottom of the cup of joy. Daffodil, you have already roused me to a wider, higher life. A year ago I would not have been worthy of you. Yes, I was blind and self-engrossed then. We will study the sweet lesson together." Then they paused at a fallen log, not the old place that she never cared to see again. A little stream came trickling down the high hill and there were tender bird voices as accompaniments to the delicious confession. It had grown slowly, she was so afraid of another mistake, but he would never need to doubt its truth, its duration, its comprehensiveness. It seemed minutes only and yet held the mysterious sweetness of hours. Then she heard a voice calling. "Why--see! It is almost night! And that is Felix's voice. Oh, what have I been doing?" and she rose in a startled manner. "We will explain our iniquity," he said laughingly. They met Felix. "Oh!" he exclaimed in surprise. "We couldn't think! And we had supper." Then mother said, "Why, did you come in the stage? That was here hours ago," to Mr. Bartram, in a wondering tone. "Yes; but we had a good deal of business to settle. I hope you didn't eat up all the supper?" He studied them both curiously. Daffodil's face was scarlet. "Mr. Bartram, are you going to marry her?" he asked with a boy's frank eagerness. "I hope to. Are you going to object?" "No," rather reluctantly. "Only I wish you were going to live here." Bernard Carrick had gone downtown. It showed the strides Pittsburg had made when there was already a downtown. Barbe stood in the doorway watching, for now the sky was growing gray with coming evening. But before Mr. Bartram spoke, she knew. One of the delights of the other engagement had been the certainty of keeping her daughter, now the pang of separation pierced her to the quick. "Mrs. Carrick," he said in an appealing tone, "will you take me for a son?" but Daffodil kissed her. They did not want much supper, but the others returned to the table and talked. He had only come for a few days, but he begged that they might have a wedding in the early fall, just as soon as possible indeed, for the journey was so long they could not afford to waste much time in courtship. They must be lovers afterward. So, after much discussion to shorten the time, mid-September was settled upon. "Oh," Daffodil said in her most adorable tone, "I shall pray daily that nothing will befall you, that God will send you back safely to me." "And I shall be praying for you. Love surely opens one's heart to God." There was not much to be made ready. The girl laid aside this and that for the son's wife when he should take one, "for," said she, "there is so much in my new house already. And Felix must marry young, so you will have a new daughter in my place." She would not be married in church nor wear the olden wedding gown. "Let it skip a generation," she said, "and that may change the luck." So the time came and the lover so full of impatience. She would have the ceremony in the old room that had been so interwoven with her life, and she fancied the spirit of great-grandfather was sitting there in the old chair and she went for his blessing. The little girl passed out of Old Pittsburg and left behind lonely hearts. Grandad could not be reconciled, there were some fine young fellows in the town that would make good husbands. But Norah gave her a blessing and the best of wishes. So Daffodil Bartram went out to her new life, wondering how one could be so glad and happy when they were leaving behind so much love. Old Pittsburg did not vanish with the little girl, however. But she went on her way steadily, industriously. The new century came in with great acclaim. Shipbuilding prospered. Iron foundries sprang up. The glass works went from the eight pots and the capacity of three boxes at a blowing to double that number, then doubled it again. The primitive structure erected by George Anshuts before the century ended was the progenitor of many others sending their smoke defiantly up in the clear sky. And all along the Monogahela valley as well as in other places the earth gave up its stores of coal as it had given up its stores of iron. And in 1816 Pittsburg was incorporated as a city and had a mayor and aldermen and her own bank. It was a new Pittsburg then, a hive of human industry, where one business after another gathered and where fortunes were evolved from real work, and labor reaps a rich reward. There are not many of the old things left. The block house built in 1764 by Colonel Bouquet still stands. A great depot covers the site of the ancient Fort, and the spot of Braddock's defeat. But there are Duquesne Heights, all her hills have not been levelled, if most of the old things have passed away. She is the workshop of the world now, one writer calls her "the most unique city in the world." And she has not neglected the finer arts of beautifying. She has magnificent buildings, fine libraries, and cultivated people, musical societies, and half a hundred benevolent institutions. And we must not forget that in six days after the firing on Fort Sumter a company of Pittsburgers marched to Washington and offered their services to the secretary of war. If the little girl had vanished, Daffodil Bartram found much happiness in the new home. M. de Ronville was not only delighted, but grateful over his two children who were not of kindred blood, but of the finer and higher kin of love. There came children to the household, three boys and one golden-haired girl, but he did not quite reach the years of his friend Duvernay. And when the two older sons were grown they cast their lot with Allegheny City, which in the course of time grew into a lovely residential city, free from smoke and dust and noise, and theirs proved a noble patrimony. The Bartrams still had a son and daughter, and the journey to Pittsburg no longer had to be made in a stage coach. Felix Duvernay Carrick made one of the notable citizens of the town, the author of several useful inventions and a most thriving business man, not needing any of his sister's fortune, for grandad left him one, beside the one he was making with his brains and industry. And Barbe was a happy grandmother to a merry flock, but she would never leave the old house, though the farm was cut up by streets and houses crowded in upon them. And she kept her bed of daffodils to the very last. If there was not so much romance, it was the old story of the Rhinegelt of the land and the rivers yielding up such treasures as few cities possess, but without the tragedy of their legend. Work and thrift and the ingenuity of man have reared a magnificent city. [Illustration] THE LITTLE GIRL SERIES By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS ALL COPYRIGHT STORIES HANDSOME CLOTH BINDING PRICE, 60 CENTS A series of stories for girls by that popular author, Amanda M. Douglas, in which are described something of the life and times of the early days of the places wherein the stories are located. Now for the first time published in a cheap edition. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK This is a pretty story of life in New York 60 years ago. The story is charmingly told. The book is full of vivacious narrative, describing the amusements, employments and the social and domestic life of Old New York. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BOSTON The story deals with the bringing up of little Doris by these Boston people, who were her nearest relatives. It is a series of pictures of life in Boston ninety years ago. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BALTIMORE This tells the story of how a little girl grew up in a Southern city a hundred years ago. A host of characters of all sorts--women, children, slaves, rich people and poor people, fill the pages. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PITTSBURG An interesting picture is given of the pioneer settlement and its people; while the heroine, Daffodil, is a winsome lass who develops into a charming woman. A LITTLE GIRL OF LONG AGO This story is a sequel to A Little Girl in Old New York. This is a book for girls and boys of the present age, who will enjoy going back to the old times. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD CHICAGO Ruth Gaynor comes to Chicago with her father when she is but eight or nine years old. Ruth is a keen observer and makes a capital heroine. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW ORLEANS The story gives a very picturesque account of the life in the old Creole city. It is a well told and interesting story with a historical background. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD SAN FRANCISCO This is the story of the little Maine girl who went to live in the strange new city of the Golden Gate; she grows up a bright and charming girl. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD WASHINGTON This story carries one back to Washington, a city then in its infancy. The story throws a strong light on the early customs and life of the people. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA Little Primrose was the child of Friends, or Quakers. The author tells Primrose's experiences among very strict Quakers, and then among worldly people. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD QUEBEC The heroine is called "The Rose of Quebec." The picturesque life of this old French city, as seen through the eyes of the little girl, is here pictured. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD SALEM Cynthia Leveritt lived in old Salem about one hundred years ago. Cynthia grows up, and so dear a girl could scarce have failed to have a romance develop. The book will be enjoyed by all girls. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD ST. LOUIS This story will give a delightful treat to any girl who reads it. The early days of this historical old city are depicted in a manner at once true and picturesque. A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD DETROIT The stirring times in which the little girl lived, and the social life of a bygone age are depicted very happily. The heroine is a charming girl. The Girl Comrade's Series ALL AMERICAN AUTHORS. ALL COPYRIGHT STORIES. A carefully selected series of books for girls, written by popular authors. These are charming stories for young girls, well told and full of interest. Their simplicity, tenderness, healthy, interesting motives, vigorous action, and character painting will please all girl readers. HANDSOME CLOTH BINDING. PRICE, 60 CENTS. =A BACHELOR MAID AND HER BROTHER.= By I. T. Thurston. =ALL ABOARD. A Story For Girls.= By Fanny E. Newberry. =ALMOST A GENIUS. A Story For Girls.= By Adelaide L. Rouse. =ANNICE WYNKOOP, Artist. Story of a Country Girl.= By Adelaide L. Rouse. =BUBBLES. A Girl's Story.= By Fannie E. Newberry. =COMRADES.= By Fannie E. Newberry. =DEANE GIRLS, THE. A Home Story.= By Adelaide L. Rouse. =HELEN BEATON, COLLEGE WOMAN.= By Adelaide L. Rouse. =JOYCE'S INVESTMENTS. A Story For Girls.= By Fannie E. Newberry. =MELLICENT RAYMOND. A Story For Girls.= By Fannie E. Newberry. =MISS ASHTON'S NEW PUPIL. A School Girl's Story.= By Mrs. S. S. Robbins. =NOT FOR PROFIT. A Story For Girls.= By Fannie E. Newberry. =ODD ONE, THE. A Story For Girls.= By Fannie E. Newberry. =SARA, A PRINCESS. A Story For Girls.= By Fannie E. Newberry. The Girl Chum's Series ALL AMERICAN AUTHORS. ALL COPYRIGHT STORIES. A carefully selected series of books for girls, written by popular authors. These are charming stories for young girls, well told and full of interest. Their simplicity, tenderness, healthy, interesting motives, vigorous action, and character painting will please all girl readers. HANDSOME CLOTH BINDING. PRICE, 60 CENTS. =BENHURST, CLUB, THE.= By Howe Benning. =BERTHA'S SUMMER BOARDERS.= By Linnie S. Harris. =BILLOW PRAIRIE. A Story of Life in the Great West.= By Joy Allison. =DUXBERRY DOINGS. A New England Story.= By Caroline B. Le Row. =FUSSBUDGET'S FOLKS. A Story For Young Girls.= By Anna F. Burnham. =HAPPY DISCIPLINE, A.= By Elizabeth Cummings. =JOLLY TEN, THE; and Their Year of Stories.= By Agnes Carr Sage. =KATIE ROBERTSON. A Girl's Story of Factory Life.= By M. E. Winslow. =LONELY HILL. A Story For Girls.= By M. L. Thornton-Wilder. =MAJORIBANKS. A Girl's Story.= By Elvirton Wright. =MISS CHARITY'S HOUSE.= By Howe Benning. =MISS ELLIOT'S GIRLS. A Story For Young Girls.= By Mary Spring Corning. =MISS MALCOLM'S TEN. A Story For Girls.= By Margaret E. Winslow. =ONE GIRL'S WAY OUT.= By Howe Benning. =PEN'S VENTURE.= By Elvirton Wright. =RUTH PRENTICE. A Story For Girls.= By Marion Thorne. =THREE YEARS AT GLENWOOD. A Story of School Life.= By M. E. Winslow. The Boy Spies Series These stories are based on important historical events, scenes wherein boys are prominent characters being selected. They are the romance of history, vigorously told, with careful fidelity to picturing the home life and accurate in every particular wherein mention is made of movement of troops, or the doings of noted persons. THE BOY SPIES WITH LAFAYETTE. The story of how two boys joined the Continental Army. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES ON CHESAPEAKE BAY. The story of two young spies under Commodore Barney. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES WITH THE REGULATORS. The story of how the boys assisted the Carolina Patriots to drive the British from that State. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES WITH THE SWAMP FOX. The story of General Marion and his young spies. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES AT YORKTOWN. The story of how the spies helped General Lafayette in the Siege of Yorktown. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES OF PHILADELPHIA. The story of how the young spies helped the Continental Army at Valley Forge. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES AT FORT GRISWOLD. The story of the part they took in its brave defense. By William P. Chipman. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE BOY SPIES OF OLD NEW YORK. The story of how the young spies prevented the capture of General Washington. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. The Navy Boys Series These stories are based on important historical naval events, scenes wherein boys are prominent characters being selected. They are the romance of history, vigorously told, with careful fidelity to picturing the life on ship-board, and accurate in every particular wherein mention is made of movement of vessels or the doings of noted persons. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE WITH PAUL JONES. A boys' story of a cruise with the Great Commodore in 1776. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS ON LAKE ONTARIO. The story of two boys and their adventures in the war of 1812. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE ON THE PICKERING. A boy's story of privateering in 1780. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS IN NEW YORK BAY. A story of three boys who took command of the schooner "The Laughing Mary," the first vessel of the American Navy. By James Otis. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS IN THE TRACK OF THE ENEMY. The story of a remarkable cruise with the Sloop of War "Providence" and the Frigate "Alfred." By William P. Chipman. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS' DARING CAPTURE. The story of how the navy boys helped to capture the British Cutter "Margaretta," in 1775. By William P. Chipman. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE TO THE BAHAMAS. The adventures of two Yankee Middies with the first cruise of an American Squadron in 1775. By William P. Chipman. Cloth. Price 60 cents. THE NAVY BOYS' CRUISE WITH COLUMBUS. The adventures of two boys who sailed with the great Admiral in his discovery of America. By Frederick A. Ober. Cloth. Price 60 cents. The Boy Chums Series By WILMER M. ELY Handsome Cloth Binding. Price, 60 Cents Per Volume. In this series of remarkable stories by Wilmer M. Ely are described the adventures of two boy chums--Charley West and Walter Hazard--in the great swamps of interior Florida and among the cays off the Florida Coast, and through the Bahama Islands. These are real, live boys, and their experiences are well worth following. If you read one book you will surely be anxious for those that are to follow. THE BOY CHUMS ON INDIAN RIVER, or The Boy Partners of the Schooner "Orphan." In this story Charley West and Walter Hazard meet deadly rattlesnakes; have a battle with a wild panther; are attacked by outlaws; their boat is towed by a swordfish; they are shipwrecked by a monster manatee fish, and pass safely through many exciting scenes of danger. THE BOY CHUMS ON HAUNTED ISLAND, or Hunting for Pearls in the Bahama Islands. This book tells the story of the boy chums, Charley West and Walter Hazard, whose adventures on the schooner "Eager Quest," hunting for pearls among the Bahama Islands, are fully recorded. Their hairbreadth escapes from the treacherous quicksands and dangerous water spouts; how they lost their vessel and were cast away on a lonely island, and their escape therefrom are fully told. THE BOY CHUMS IN THE FOREST, or Hunting for Plume Birds in the Florida Everglades. The story of the boy chums hunting the blue herons and the pink and white egrets for their plumes in the forests of Florida is full of danger and excitement. How the chums encountered the Indians; their battles with the escaped convicts; their fight with the wild boars and alligators are fully told. THE BOY CHUMS' PERILOUS CRUISE, or Searching for Wreckage on the Florida Coast. This story of the boy chums' adventures on and off the Florida Coast describes many scenes of daring and adventure, in hunting for ships stranded and cargoes washed ashore. The boy chums passed through many exciting scenes, on shore and island; and the loss of their vessel, the "Eager Quest," they will long remember. THE BOY CHUMS IN THE GULF OF MEXICO, or a Dangerous Cruise with the Greek Spongers. This story of the boy chums, Charley West and Walter Hazard, hunting for sponges, is filled with many adventures. The dangers of gathering sponges are fully described; the chums meet with sharks and alligators; and they are cast away on a desert island. Their rescue and arrival home make a most interesting story. The Boy Scout Series By HERBERT CARTER New stories of Camp Life, telling the wonderful and thrilling adventures of the Boys of the Silver Fox Patrol. HANDSOME CLOTH BINDINGS. PRICE, 60 CENTS PER VOLUME THE BOY SCOUTS FIRST CAMP FIRE; or, Scouting with the Silver Fox Patrol. This book, every up-to-date Boy Scout will want to read. It is brimming over with thrilling adventure, woods lore and the story of the wonderful experiences that befel the Cranford troop of Boy Scouts when spending a part of their vacation in the wilderness. The story is clean and wholesome in tone, yet with not a dull line from cover to cover. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE BLUE RIDGE; or, Marooned Among the Moonshiners. Those lads who have read The Boy Scouts First Camp Fire and followed the fortunes of Thad Brewster, the Young Patrol leader, will be delighted to read this story. It tells of the strange and mysterious adventures that happened to the Patrol in their trip through the "mountains of the sky" in the Moonshiners' Paradise of the old Tar Heel State, North Carolina. When you start to read you will not lay the book down until the last word has been reached. THE BOY SCOUTS ON THE TRAIL; or, Scouting through the Big Game Country. In this story the Boy Scouts once more find themselves in camp and following the trail. The story recites the many adventures that befel the members of the Silver Fox Patrol with wild animals of the forest trails, as well as the desperate men who had sought a refuge in this lonely country, making most delightful reading for every lad who has red blood in his veins. This is a story which every boy will be glad to read and recommend to his chums. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE MAINE WOODS; or, The New Test for the Silver Fox Patrol. In the rough field of experience the tenderfoots and greenhorns of the Silver Fox Patrol are fast learning to take care of themselves when abroad. Many of the secrets of the woods, usually known only to old hunters and trappers, are laid bare to the eyes of the reader. Thad and his chums have a wonderful experience when they are employed by the State of Maine to act as Fire Wardens, since every year terrible conflagrations sweep through the pine forests, doing great damage. THE BOY SCOUTS THROUGH THE BIG TIMBER; or, The Search for the Lost Tenderfoot. A serious calamity threatens the Silver Fox Patrol when on one of their vacation trips to the wonderland of the great Northwest. How apparent disaster is bravely met and overcome by Thad and his friends, forms the main theme of the story, which abounds in plenty of humor, rollicking situations, hairbreadth escapes and thrilling adventures, such as all boys like to read about. If you ever dream of camping out in the woods, here you may learn how to do it. THE BOY SCOUTS IN THE ROCKIES; or, The Secret of The Hidden Silver Mine. By this time the boys of the Silver Fox Patrol have learned through experience how to rough it upon a long hike. Their last tour takes them into the wildest region of the great Rocky Mountains, and here they meet with many strange adventures that severely test their grit, as well as their ability to grapple with emergencies. This is one of the most interesting of the stories in the Boy Scout Series,--the experiences of Thad Brewster and his Cranford troop abounds in plenty of humor, and hairbreadth escapes. For sale by all booksellers, or sent post-paid on receipt of price by the publishers, A. L. BURT COMPANY, 52-58 Duane Street, New York