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THE GIRLS CAME TRIPPIN(i DOWN IN THEIR DAINTY EVENING DRESSES 
 
O A K L E I G H 
 
 BY 
 
 ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND 
 
 // 
 
 ILLUSTRATED BY 
 
 ALICE BARBER STEPHENS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
 
 1898 
 
Copyright, 1895, by Harper & Brothers. 
 All rights reserved. 
 
TO 
 
 MY SISTERS 
 
 912717 
 
ILLUSTEATIOI!^S 
 
 "the GinLS CAME TRIPPING DOWN IN THEIR DAINTY 
 
 EVENING dresses" Frontispiece 
 
 " JACK LAY AT FULL LENGTH ON THE GRASS "... Facing page 2 
 " MISS TRINKETT TOOK AN AFFECTIONATE FAREWELL THE 
 
 NEXT DAY " '« 
 
 " ' YOUR VOICE SOUNDS SORT OF UNNATURAL, TOO,' ADDED 
 
 MRS. PARKER" <« 
 
 " * CYNTHY FRANKLIN, IT'S MORE THAN TIME YOU HAD 
 
 A mother' " " 
 
 " ' I don't LIKE HER, AND I WON't '" " 52 
 
 "'you ARE A PERFECT DEAR !' SHE WHISPERED. * EV- 
 ERYTHING IS NICER SINCE Y'OU CAME '".... " 68 
 "then they STARTED HOME, CARRYING THE CUSHIONS 
 
 BETWEEN THEM " " gO 
 
 *' ' I WANT TO KNOW !' SHE EXCLAIMED, DRAWING OFF 
 
 HER OLD GLOVES " *' ' gS 
 
 THE START FROM OAKLEIGH " 102 
 
 "*WE SHALL SINK IP THIS GOES ON,' SHE SAID " . . " II4 
 " POOR BOB ! HIS JOY HAD BEEN QUICKLY TURNED TO 
 
 MOURNING " «' 14Q 
 
 "'don't HOLD AIY ARM SO TIGHT; IT HURTS'" . . " 158 
 " CYNTHIA CRIED UNTIL HER EYES SMARTED AND HER 
 
 HEAD ached" « 16(5 
 
 "' OH, NEAL, won't YOU COME BACK?'" " 184 
 
 " 'l HOPE THEE IS NEITHER EXTRAVAGANT NOR LAZY ' " " 196 
 
 " SHE FOUND HER PERFECTLY CONSCIOUS " . . . . " 204 
 
 *" there! LOOK, my own rag DOLL !' " " 214 
 
 "'l WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU, CYNTH ' " " 232 
 
OAKLEIGH 
 
 " CHAPTER I 
 
 It was a large house, standing well back from the 
 broad highway that leads from Brenton to Pelham — so far 
 back, indeed, and at the end of such a long, shady drive, 
 that it could not be seen for some few minutes after turn- 
 ing in from the road. 
 
 The approach was pretty, the avenue winding through 
 the trees, with an occasional glimpse of the meadows be- 
 yond. The road forked where the trees ended, and en- 
 circled the lawn, or the "heater-piece," as the family 
 called it, it being in the exact shape of a flat-iron. The 
 house stood on high ground, and there were no trees very 
 near. 
 
 It was a white house, with green blinds, solid and sub- 
 stantial looking. The roof of the piazza was upheld by 
 tall white columns, and vines growing at either end re- 
 lieved the bareness. On the southern side of the house a 
 small conservatory had been added. On the other side 
 the ground sloped to the Charles Paver, though in summer 
 one could only see the water from the upper windows, 
 because of the trees which grew so thick upon the banks. 
 1 
 
This was Oakleigh, the homo of the Franklins, so named 
 because of a giant oakiti^e which spread its huge branches 
 not .fa.-: horn the Bach of the hoi^se. 
 
 As to the Franklins, th6re were five of them, and they 
 were all assembled on the front porch. 
 
 Though it was the last day of April, spring was very 
 early for Massachusetts this year, and the day was warm 
 and clear, suggesting summer and delightful possibilities 
 of out-door fun. 
 
 Edith, the eldest, sat with her work. It was unusual 
 work for a girl of barely sixteen. A large, old-fashioned 
 basket was on the floor by her side, with piles of chil- 
 dren's clothes in it, and she was slowly and laboriously 
 darning a stocking over a china egg. 
 
 The children had no mother, and a good deal devolved 
 upon Edith. 
 
 Jack and Cynthia, the twins, came next in age, and 
 they were just fourteen. They looked alike, though Jack 
 was much the taller of the two, and his hair did not curl 
 as tightly as Cynthia's. She sat on the step of the piazza. 
 Her sailor-hat was cast on the ground at her feet, and her 
 pretty golden-brown hair was, as usual, somewhat awry. 
 
 It was one of the trials of Edith's life that Cynthia's hair 
 would not keep smooth. 
 
 Jack lay at full length on the grass, sometimes flat on 
 his back, staring at '^the sky, sometimes rolling over, the 
 more easily to address his sisters. 
 
 Jack had a project in his mind, and he was very much in 
 earnest. Cynthia, of course, was already on his side — she 
 had known of it from the first moment the idea popped into 
 his head, but Edith had just been told, and she needed con- 
 vincing. 
 
Janet and Willy, "the children," were playing at the 
 other end of the porch. They were only six and five, and 
 did not count in the family discussions. 
 
 " There's money in it, I'm sure," said Jack, " and if I 
 can only get father to agree with me and advance some 
 money, I can pay him back in less than a year." 
 
 " Papa hasn't much money to spare just now," said 
 Edith, " and I have always heard there was a good deal 
 of risk about raising chickens from an incubator." 
 
 " My dear girl," returned Jack, with an air of lofty au- 
 thority, " allow me to say that you don't know much about 
 it. I've been reading up hens for two days, and I find 
 that, allowing for all risks — bad eggs, inexperience, weasels 
 and skunks and diseases, you're sure to make some profit 
 at the end of a year. Now, I'm late in thinking of it, I 
 know. To-morrow is the 1st of May, and I couldn't get 
 more than three hatches this summer, but that would prob- 
 ably pay the cost of the incubator. I can get a first-rate 
 one for forty dollars, and I can buy one ' brooder.' If I 
 bought one I could make the others like it." 
 
 " But your eggs," said Edith. " You would have to pay 
 a great deal for eggs." 
 
 " Eggs would be about five or six dollars a hundred, and 
 it takes two hundred to fill the machine. I should want 
 to get a fine breed, of course — Brahmas or Cochins or Leg- 
 horns, probably — and they cost more ; but, you see, when 
 they begin to lay, there comes my money right back to 
 me." 
 
 " When they do !" said Edith, sceptically. 
 
 " Edith, don't be so mean," cried Cynthia. " Jack wants 
 to begin to make money, and I think he's right. I'm go- 
 ing to help him all I can, and we want you to be on our 
 
side to help talk over papa. He is always telling Jack 
 that he'll soon have to begin to work, and now here's a 
 chance." 
 
 " Papa wants Jack to make some money to help support 
 US when he is old enough, but he wants him to finish his 
 education first, of course. And I am sure he doesn't want 
 him to lay out a lot of money, as he would have to do in 
 raising hens." 
 
 " That's just like a girl," said Jack, scornfully. *' Don't 
 you know that there's always a lot of risk in anything you 
 undertake, and you've got to take the chances ? There are 
 very few things you don't have to put money into." 
 
 " Of course, for a grown man ; but a boy of your age 
 ought to work for a salary, or something of that sort — not 
 go investing." 
 
 Cynthia stirred uneasily. She knew this was just the 
 wrong thing to say to Jack. Unfortunately, Edith was 
 so apt to say the wrong thing. 
 
 Jack sprang to his feet. 
 
 "There's no use arguing with girls. I may be a 'boy 
 of my age,' but I've got some sense, and I know there's 
 money in this. I'm not going to say another word about 
 it to anybody until father comes home, and I can talk it 
 over with him." 
 
 And Jack walked off around the corner of the house, 
 whistling to Ben and Chester, the two big setters, to fol- 
 low him, which they did with joyful alacrity. 
 
 " There !" exclaimed Cynthia, " now he's gone off mad. 
 I don't see why you said that, Edith." 
 
 " Said what ? I'm sure it is true. The idea of a boy of 
 his age — " 
 
 " There you go again. Jack may be young, but he is 
 
trying awfully hard to help papa, and you needn't go twit- 
 ting him about his age." 
 
 " I'm sure I never meant to twit him," said Edith, '' and 
 I think he's very touchy. But it is half-past four, Cyn- 
 thia, and time to go meet papa. Won't you be sure to 
 brush your hair and put on a fresh necktie or something ? 
 You do look so untidy. That skirt is all frayed out 
 around the bottom." 
 
 " Oh, bother my hair and my necktie, and everything 
 else!" cried Cynthia, though with perfect good -nature. 
 *' Edith, you are such a fuss 1 Shall I go meet papa ?" 
 
 " No, I'll go ; but I wish you would order the horse. 
 Now, Cynthia, don't forget your hair, will you? Papa 
 hates to see you untidy." 
 
 For answer Cynthia banged the screen-door as she dis- 
 appeared into the house and walked through the wide hall, 
 humming as she went. 
 
 <' What shall I do with these children ?" sighed Edith 
 to herself, as she laid down the stocking, mended at last, 
 and prepared to put up her work. " I'm sure I do the 
 best I can, and what I think our mother would have 
 liked; but it's very hard. If Cynthia only would be 
 more neat !" 
 
 A loud crash interrupted her thoughts. At the end of 
 the piazza, where the children had been playing, was a 
 mass of chairs and tables, while from the midst of the 
 confusion came roars of pain, anger, and fright. 
 
 "What is the matter?" cried Edith, running to the 
 scene, and overturning her work-basket in her flight. 
 
 It took several minutes to extricate the screaming chil- 
 dren, set them on their feet, and ascertain that no bones 
 were broken. 
 
" Get the red url !" shrieked Janet ; " that naughty boy 
 has killed me ! I'm dead ! I'm dead ! Get the red url !" 
 
 " It's no such a thing !" shouted Willy. " I didn't do 
 it, and I'm dead, too. TJgh ! I'm all bludgy ! Get the 
 red url !" 
 
 Cynthia had witnessed the scene from the window, and 
 appeared just in time with the bottle of red oil, the pan- 
 acea for all Franklin bumps and bruises. 
 
 " AVhat were you doing, you naughty children ?" said 
 Edith, as she wiped the "bludge" from Willy's lip, and 
 found that it came from a very small scratch, while Janet 
 was scarcely hurt at all. 
 
 " We were only playing cars, and Willy would ride on 
 the engine, and made it topple over, and — " 
 
 " It's no such a thing !" interposed Willy. " Girls don't 
 know nothin' 'bout steam-cars, and Janet went and put her 
 feet on the back of my chair, and — " 
 
 He was interrupted by a blow from Janet's small fat 
 fist, which he immediately returned in kind, and then both 
 began again to scream. 
 
 "You are both as bad as you can be, and I've a good 
 mind to send you to bed," said Edith, severely, shaking 
 Janet as she spoke. 
 
 Janet cast herself upon Cynthia. 
 
 " Edith's horrid to us ! She's so cross. Cynthia, don't 
 let her send us to bed. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I hit Willy ; 
 I'm sorry we upset the chairs ; I'm sorry for everything." 
 
 "Well, here comes the horse, and I must go," said 
 Edith. " Oh, look at my basket !" 
 
 And it was indeed a sight. Spools, scissors, china 
 eggs, stockings — everything lay in wild confusion on the 
 floor. 
 
" Never mind. I'll pick them up," said Cynthia. " Don't 
 bother about them, Edith. The children will help me. 
 Come along, Willy and Janet. Let's see which can find 
 the most spools." 
 
 Edith looked back doubtfully as, having put on her hat, 
 she got into the carriage. What would her basket be like 
 when she next saw it ? But it was kind of Cynthia, and 
 how much better Cynthia managed the children than she 
 did. What was the reason? She was thinking it over 
 when she heard her name called loudly from behind, and, 
 pulling in her horse quickly, she waited, wondering what 
 had happened now. 
 
 Cynthia came flying down the avenue. 
 
 " Edith, Edith ! Wait a minute ! I forgot to tell you. 
 Don't say anything to papa about Jack's scheme, will you ? 
 Let him tell him himself." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia, how you frightened me ! I thought 
 something dreadful was the matter." 
 
 "But don't, wilt you, Edith? Promise ! You know — 
 well, Edith, Jack can explain it so much better him- 
 self." 
 
 Cynthia was too kind-hearted to tell Edith that she 
 would spoil it all if she said anything first, but Edith knew 
 that was what she meant. A sharp reply was on her lips, 
 but she controlled herself in time. 
 
 " Very well," she said, quietly, " I won't." 
 
 And then she drove on, and Cynthia went back to the 
 house satisfied. 
 
 Edith had a quick, impatient temper, and it was not an 
 easy matter for her to curb her tongue. Her mother had 
 died five years ago when she was but eleven years old. 
 Then an aunt had come to live with them, but she had 
 
8 
 
 lately married and gone to South America, and now there 
 was no one else, and Edith was considered old enough to 
 keep house and look after the children. 
 
 It would have been more difficult had it not been for 
 the servants, who had lived with the family long before 
 Edith was born. As it was, it made a good deal of care 
 for the young girl, but she wanted to do it, and had her- 
 self urged the plan, assuring her father and aunt that she 
 was fully equal to the task. 
 
 She enjoyed sitting at the head of the table and pouring 
 her father's coffee, and it pleased her to have things just 
 as she wished them about the house. 
 
 Edith, though a dear, lovable girl, was just a little bit 
 vain of her own importance. 
 
 She was a pretty girl, very tall, with thick, dark hair 
 that waved naturally about the temples, but was always 
 brushed smoothly back into a knot, and brown eyes that 
 looked out rather seriously upon the world, especially at 
 this moment when she was driving down to Brenton to 
 meet her father, who was coming out from his business in 
 Boston. 
 
 The road wound through the woods, with here and 
 there a view of the river, leading finally into the old New 
 England town and forming its main street. 
 
 Tall elm-trees shaded the approach to the village, and 
 fine old houses, with well-kept lawns in front, were to be 
 seen on either side. 
 
 The horse that Edith drove was by no means a fine one, 
 and the old buggy was somewhat unsteady and rattled 
 alarmingly. In other words, the Franklins were poor, 
 but they had hosts of friends, and as Edith entered the 
 village she nodded right and left to the various people she 
 
met. Every one liked the Franklins, and the family had 
 lived at Oakleigh for generations. 
 
 As she reached the station the train came in. A throng 
 of carriages filled the Lroad space in front, and Edith was 
 oblio-ed to draw up at some little distance from the cars. 
 Presently she saw her father coming towards her, and 
 with him was an odd little figure, the sight of which made 
 Edith's heart sink with apprehension. 
 
 " Oh, dear! oh, dear !" she exclaimed to herself, " if there 
 isn't Aunt Betsey 1" 
 
 Then she shrank back into the corner of the buggy, and 
 watched the amused glances that were cast upon her rela- 
 tive by all who saw her. 
 
 Miss Betsey Trinkett, of Wayborough, was Edith's great- 
 aunt, and constituted one of the largest thorns in her side. 
 She was old, she was odd, she was distinctly conspicu- 
 ous, and Edith disliked above all things to be made con- 
 spicuous. 
 
 Miss Betsey trotted along the platform by her nephew's 
 side, quite unconscious of the tumult she was raising in the 
 breast of her grandniece. She was dressed in a short, 
 scant velveteen gown that might have belonged to her 
 grandmother, and a large bonnet of the same date, from 
 which hung a figured lace veil. A gay shawl was folded 
 about her slender shoulders, and Mr. Franklin carried her 
 carpet-bag with the silver lock and key. 
 
 She waved a welcome to Edith with a mittened hand, and 
 Edith, recovering herself, nodded in response. 
 
 " How do you do, Aunt Betsey ?" she said. " What a 
 surprise !" 
 
 " Yes, my dear, I like to surprise you now and then. I 
 came up to Boston town on business, and your father in- 
 
10 
 
 sisted upon my coming out to see you all. In fact, I knew 
 he would, so I just popped my best cap and my knitting 
 into my bag, along with some little things for you chil- 
 dren, and here I am." 
 
 And she stepped nimbly into the buggy, followed by 
 Mr. Franklin. 
 
 '' We shall be a * Marblehead couple,' " he said, as he 
 balanced himself on the edge of the seat and took the 
 reins. 
 
 Edith detested " Marblehead couples " — otherwise, driv- 
 ing three on a seat — and she hid herself as much as possi- 
 ble in her corner, and hoped that people would not know 
 she was there. 
 
 Miss Betsey chatted away with her nephew, and in time 
 the three miles were covered, and they turned into the 
 Oakleigh drive. Edith had recovered somewhat by this 
 time, having been engaged in scolding herself all the way 
 from the village for her uncordial feelings. She was even 
 able to tell her aunt with perfect sincerity that she was 
 glad she had come. After all, the old lady was a dear old 
 soul, and devoted to her nephew and his children. 
 
 The others welcomed her most cordially. Aunt Betsey's 
 carpet-bag always contained some rare treat for the little 
 ones ; and, besides, they were a hospitable family. 
 
 " But come with me, girls," said Miss Betsey, myste- 
 riously, when she had bestowed her gifts ; " there is some- 
 thing I want to consult you about." 
 
 She trotted up the long flight of stairs to her accustomed 
 room with the springiness of a young girl, Edith and 
 Cynthia following her. She closed the door behind them, 
 and seating herself in the rocking-chair, looked at them 
 solemnly. 
 
11 
 
 " Do you remark anything different about my appear- 
 ance ?" 
 
 " Why, of course, Aunt Betsey !" exclaimed Cynthia. 
 "Your hair." 
 
 " Well, I want to know ! Cynthy, you are very smart ! 
 You get it from your great -grandmother Trinkett, for 
 whom you were named. Well, what do you think 
 of it?" 
 
 Edith had hastened to the closet, and was opening 
 drawers and removing garments from the hooks in, appar- 
 ently, a sudden desire for neatness. In reality she was 
 convulsed with laughter. 
 
 Cynthia controlled herself, and replied, with gravity : 
 
 "Did it grow there?" 
 
 Miss Betsey rocked with satisfaction, her hands folded 
 in her velveteen lap. 
 
 " I knew it was a success. No one would ever know 
 it, would they ? My dears, I bought it to-day in Boston 
 town! The woman told me it looked real naturah I 
 don't know as I like the idea exactly of wearing other 
 people's hair ; but one has to keep up with the times, and 
 mine was getting very scant. Silas said to me the other 
 night, said he, ' Betsey, strikes me your hair isn't as thick 
 as it used to be.' That set me thinking, and I remem- 
 bered I'd heard tell of these frontispieces, and I then and 
 there made up some business I'd have to come up to Bos- 
 • ton town about, and here I am. I bought two while I 
 was about it. The woman said it was a good plan, in 
 case one got lost or rumpled, and here it is in this box. 
 Just lay it away carefully for me, Cynthy, my dear." 
 
 The old lady's thin and grayish locks had been replaced 
 by a false front of smooth brown, with puffs at the side 
 
13 
 
 and a nice white part of most unnatural straightness 
 down tlie middle. 
 
 " You see, I like to please Silas," she continued. " I'll 
 tell you again, as I've told you before, girls, Silas Green 
 and I, we've been keeping steady company now these forty 
 years. But I can't give up the view from my sitting- 
 room windows to go and live at his house on the other 
 hill, and he can't give up the view from his best-room 
 windows to come and live at my house. We've tried and 
 tried, and we can't either of us give up. And so he just 
 comes every Sunday night to see me, as he's done these 
 forty years, and I guess it '11 go on so a while longer. And 
 that's what makes me a spinster instead of an old maid. 
 I wonder, now, if you know the difference ?" 
 
 The girls had heard it a hundred times before, but they 
 politely asked w^hy. 
 
 Miss Betsey rocked more violently yet. 
 
 "An old maid, ray dears," she said, solemnly, "is one 
 who never had the chance to change her state in life. A 
 spinster is one who has the chance and prefers not to 
 make use of it." 
 
 They were interrupted by the sound of the tea-bell. 
 
 Miss Betsey hastily settled her cap over the new front, 
 and they all went down-stairs, Cynthia pinching Edith to 
 express her feelings, and longing to tell Jack about Aunt 
 Betsey's latest. 
 
 But they found Jack having an animated discussion 
 with his father, his thoughts on business plans intent. 
 
 Cynthia anxiously surveyed the two, and she feared 
 from appearances that Mr. Franklin did not intend to 
 yield. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 They were all in the "long parlor" after tea. It was a 
 beautiful room, extending the length of the house, and it 
 was large enough to contain four windows and two fire- 
 places. The paper on the walls was old-fashioned — indeed, 
 it had been there when the children's grandmother was a 
 gh-1, and the furniture was of equally early date. 
 
 It was all handsome, but shabby-looking. A few dollars 
 wisely spent would have made a vast difference in its ap- 
 pearance ; but, unfortunately, there were never any dollars 
 to spare. 
 
 However, the room was comfortable, and the Franklins 
 thought it the dearest place in the world. They all loved 
 their home. 
 
 Jack had resumed the argument. 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, Jack !" said Mr. Franklin. " It is 
 absurd for a boy like you to ask me for so much mouey. 
 Incubators are of no good, anyhov/. Give me a good old- 
 fashioned hen." 
 
 *' Perhaps, papa," said Cynthia, demurely, "Jack will 
 give you a good old-fashioned hen if you let him buy an 
 incubator to raise her with." 
 
 Mr. Franklin laughed. Then he grew very grave again, 
 even stern - looking, though he was a very kind-hearted 
 man and a devoted father. 
 
 Jack pursued the advantage given by Cynthia's remark. 
 
 " There's no doubt about my making something of it. 
 
14 
 
 I wish you would let me try, father ! I'll pay back what- 
 ever you lend me. Indeed I will. It's only forty dollars 
 for the machine." 
 
 "You speak as if forty dollars grew on every bush. 
 I tell you I haven't got the money to spare. Look at the 
 place, going to rack and ruin ! Now let me hear no more 
 about the incubator business. Jack, my boy. I know your 
 intentions are good. You want to make some money to 
 help your poor old father, I have no doubt; but if you 
 were to argue from now until the year 2000 you could not 
 make me believe there was money in poultry, nor in any- 
 thing else connected with farming." 
 
 Mr. Franklin was very determined. He could seldom 
 be induced to change his mind, and his prejudices were 
 very strong. Jack's face fell. It was of no use; he 
 would have to give it up. 
 
 Presently Aunt Betsey spoke. She had been an atten- 
 tive listener to the conversation, and now she settled her- 
 self anew in her rocking-chair, and folded her hands in 
 the way she always did when she had something of es- 
 pecial importance to say. 
 
 " How much money do you need, Jackie ? Forty dol- 
 lars, did you say ?" 
 
 "Forty for the incubator," said Jack, rather shortly. 
 He felt like crying, though he was a boy, and he wished 
 Aunt Betsey would not question him. 
 
 " And then you must buy the eggs," put in Cynthia. 
 
 " And what do the chicks live in after they come out ?" 
 asked Miss Trinkett, who knew something about farming, 
 and with all her eccentricities was very practical. 
 
 " They live in brooders," said Jack, warming to his be- 
 loved subject. " If I could buy one brooder for a pattern 
 
15 
 
 I could make others like it. I'd liave to fence off places 
 for the chicks to run in, and that would take a little 
 money. I suppose I'd have to have fifty-five or sixty dol- 
 lars to start nicely with and have things in good shape." 
 
 "Nephew John," said Miss Betsey, solemnly, turning to 
 Mr. Franklin, " I don't wish to interfere between parent 
 and child, it's not my way ; but if you have no other ob- 
 jections to Jackie's hen-making machine — I forget its 
 outlandish name — I am willing, in fact I'd be very pleased, 
 to advance him the money. What do you say to it ?" 
 
 Jack sprang to his feet, and Cynthia enthusiastically 
 threw her arms about x\unt Betsey's neck. 
 
 "You dear thing 1" she whispered. "And you look 
 sweet in your new hair." Upon which Miss Trinkett 
 smiled complacently. 
 
 Mr. Franklin expostulated at first, but he was finally 
 persuaded to give his consent. After all. Aunt Betsey 
 could do what she liked with her money, and Jack's object 
 was a good one. So it was finally settled. 
 
 "I will lend you seventy -five dollars," said Miss 
 Trinkett. " You may be obliged to pay more than you 
 think, and it's well to have a little on hand in case of 
 emergencies. I must say I don't like the idea of the 
 machine, but you seem to know what you are talking 
 about. It does depress me to think of all those poor 
 little chicks running about without any mother ! Who's 
 to teach them to scratch for worms ? Who's to call them 
 in at night, or when it rains ? Poor little orphans, it does 
 seem cruel !" 
 
 Jack was afraid that his aunt's feelings would overcome 
 her to such an extent that she would withdraw her offer, 
 and he hastened to reassure her. He had been to a large 
 
16 
 
 poultry farm the week before, and he was confident that 
 all the dwellers there were very happy and seemed to en- 
 joy their independence. 
 
 "That's just it," said Miss Betsey, solemnly, as she 
 looked from one to the other. " They get very indepen- 
 dent without an older person to look after them. I only 
 hope it won't come into this family, that independent 
 feeling." 
 
 The next day Miss Trinkett departed, although urged to 
 stay over Sunday. 
 
 " No," she said ; " if it were any other day but Saturday 
 I might stay, but I don't like to be away Sunday night 
 on Silas's account. You know he might get out of the 
 way of coming so regular, and I scarcely like to risk it. 
 You have to be careful with men -folks, my dears, as 
 you'll know when you've seen as much of them as I have. 
 They're terribly set in their ways." 
 
 And then she kissed them all good-bye, promising to 
 send Jack the money by an early date. 
 
 " And a book on raising poultry that my father used to 
 consult," she added ; " I always keep it on the table in 
 the best parlor. I'll send it by mail. It's wonderful what 
 things can go through the post-office nowadays. These 
 are times to live in, I do declare, what with chicks without 
 a mother and everything else." 
 
 Aunt Betsey was true to her word. During the follow- 
 ing week a package arrived most lightly tied up, and 
 addressed in an old-fashioned, indefinite hand to " Jackie 
 Franklin, Brenton, Mass." Within was an ancient book 
 which described the methods of raising poultry in the 
 early days of the century, and inside of the book were 
 seventy-five dollars in crisp new bank-notes. 
 
> ' 3 ' 
 
17 
 
 The incubator was sent for, and very soon Jack was 
 embarked in the poultry business. There was much to be 
 done, and Cynthia acted as partner, assistant, and slave. 
 Even Edith, for all her early disapproval, was much in- 
 terested. Mr. Franklin scoffed, but awaited with curiosity 
 the first hatch, while as for Janet and Willy, they were 
 beside themselves with an interest which, though well- 
 meant, was often troublesome. 
 
 Jack was tremendously in earnest with his scheme, and 
 even his father was impressed. 
 
 It was a week or two after the installation of the incu- 
 bator that Edith was seized with what Cynthia called " one 
 of her terribly tidy fits." 
 
 " I am going to do some house-cleaning," she announced 
 one beautiful Saturday morning, when Cynthia was hurry- 
 inc^ through her Monday's lessons in a wild desire to get 
 to the river. " Cynthia, you must help me. We'll clear 
 out all the drawers and closets in the 'north room,' and 
 give away everything we don't need, and then have 
 Martha clean the room." 
 
 " Oh no !" exclaimed Cynthia ; " everything in this 
 house is as neat as a pin. And we haven't got anything we 
 don't need, Edith. And I can't. I must go on the river." 
 
 " You can go afterwards. You can spend all the after- 
 noon on the river. This is a splendid chance for house- 
 cleaning, with the children off for the morning. Come 
 along, Cynthia — there's a dear." 
 
 Cynthia slowly and mournfully followed Edith up the 
 stairs. She might have held out and gone on the river, 
 but she knew Edith would do it alone if she deserted her, 
 and Cynthia was unselfish, much as she detested house- 
 cleaning. 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 " I am going to be very particular to-day," said Edith, 
 as she wiped the ornaments of the room with her dusting 
 cloth and laid them on the bed to be covered, and took 
 down some of the pictures. 
 
 " More particular than usual ?" 
 
 "Yes, ever so much. I've been thinking about it a 
 great deal. In all probability I shall always keep house 
 for papa, and I mean to be the very best kind of a house- 
 keeper. I am going to make a study of it. The house 
 shall always be as neat as it can possibly be, and the 
 meals shall be perfect. If we only had a little more money 
 I would take some cooking lessons. I wonder if I could 
 earn some money to do it. Can you think of any way, 
 Cynthia ?" 
 
 "Not a Avay," returned Cynthia, with decision, "and 
 I'm terribly sorry you are going to be tidier than ever. 
 There will be no peace for any of us. "What difference 
 does it make whether there are three specks of dust 
 behind the left-hand corner of that picture ? No one 
 would ever be any the wiser." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia, that is a horrible idea, only to have 
 things clean where they are going to be seen !" cried 
 Edith, taking down the picture and looking carefully for 
 the three specks of dust. " And I wish you would not 
 use a feather-duster. That is one of my firm theories, 
 never to use a feather-duster." 
 
 " I wish you didn't have so many theories," grumbled 
 Cynthia, good-naturedly, as she exchanged the censured 
 feathers for a cloth. 
 
 " Then another thing," pursued Edith, from the closet 
 where she was lifting down boxes and pulling out drawers. 
 " I am going to be lovely with the children. They are to 
 
19 
 
 be taught to obey me implicitly, the very minute I speak. 
 I am going to train them that way. I shall say one word, 
 very gently, and that will be enough. I have been read- 
 ing a book on that very subject. The eldest sister made 
 up her mind to do that, and it worked splendidly." 
 
 " I hope it will this time, but things are so much easier 
 in a book than out of it. Perhaps the children were not 
 just like our Janet and Willy." 
 
 " They were a great deal worse. Our children are per- 
 fect angels compared to them." 
 
 " Here they come now, speaking of angels," announced 
 Cynthia, as the tramp of small but determined feet was 
 heard on the stairs and the door burst open. 
 
 " Edith, we've come home. We're hungry !" cried Janet. 
 
 " Edith, we want sumpun to do," said Willy, in a some- 
 what whiny voice. 
 
 " Dear me, you don't mean to say you are back !" ex- 
 claimed Edith. " I thought you were going to play out- 
 of-doors all the morning." 
 
 " We're tired of it, and we're terrible hungry." 
 
 " An' we want sumpun to do." 
 
 " If this isn't the most provoking thing !" cried Edith, 
 wrathfully, emerging from the closet. " I thought you 
 were well out of the way, and here I am in the midst of 
 house-cleaning ! You are the most provoking children — 
 don't touch that !" 
 
 For Janet had seized upon a box and was investigating 
 its contents. 
 
 " Go straight out of this room, and don't come near me 
 till it is done." 
 
 " We won't go !" they roared in chorus ; " we're going 
 to stay and have some fun." 
 
20 
 
 Edith walked up to tliem with determination written on 
 her face and grasped each child tightly by the hand. 
 The roars increased, and Cynthia concluded that it was 
 about time to interfere. 
 
 " Come down-stairs with me," she said, " and I'll give 
 you some nice crackers. And very soon one of the men 
 is going over to Pelham to take the farm-horses to be 
 shod. Who would like to go ?" 
 
 This idea was seized upon with avidity. The three de- 
 parted in search of the crackers and quiet reigned once 
 more. When Cynthia came back Edith said nothing for 
 a few minutes. Then she remarked : 
 
 " Those children in the book were not quite as provok- 
 ing as ours, but I suppose I ought to have begun right 
 away to be gentle. Somehow, Cynthia, you always seem 
 to know just what to say to everybody. I ^vish I did ! 
 Janet and Willy both mind you a great deal better than 
 they do me." 
 
 She was interrupted by a shout of joy from Cyn- 
 thia. 
 
 " Edith, Edith, do look at this ! Aunt Betsey's extra 
 false front ! She left it behind. Don't you know she told 
 me to put it away ? It's a wonder she hasn't sent for it. 
 There, look !" 
 
 Edith turned with a brush in one hand and a dust-pan 
 in the other, which dropped with a clatter when she saw 
 her sister. 
 
 Cynthia had drawn back her own curly bang, and fast- 
 ened on the smooth brown hair of her great-aunt. The 
 puffs adorned either side of her rosy face, and she was 
 for all the world exactly like Miss Betsey Trinkett, whose 
 eyes were as blue and nose as straight as those of four- 
 
21 
 
 teen-year-old Cynthia, who was always said to greatly re- 
 semble her. 
 
 " You're the very image of her," laughed Edith. " No 
 one would ever know you apart if you had on a bonnet 
 and shawl like hers." 
 
 " Edith," exclaimed Cynthia, " I have an idea ! I'm go- 
 ing to dress up and make Jack think Aunt Betsey has 
 come back. He'll never know me in the world, and it 
 will be such fun to get a rise out of him." 
 
 " Cynthia, don't use such horrible slang ! You know 
 papa hates it. And you would never be able to make 
 Jack think you are Aunt Betsey." 
 
 *' Yes, I will. You'll see. Come along, Edith, help me ! 
 We'll finish the house-cleaning afterwards. I'll help all 
 the afternoon. Don't you know that old dress of grand- 
 mother's? Where is it?" 
 
 " In the camphor closet, and it will smell horribly." 
 
 *' No matter, Jack won't notice. And that old bonnet 
 we used to dress up in. That's the very thing." 
 
 Cynthia's enthusiasm was contagious, and Edith, leav- 
 ing bureau-drawers standing open and boxes uncovered, 
 hurried off to find the desired articles. 
 
 Cynthia was soon dressed in exact reproduction of 
 Aunt Betsey's usual costume, with a figured black -lace 
 veil over her face, and, as luck would have it, Jack was at 
 that moment seen coming up the drive. She hastily de- 
 scended to the parlor, where she and Edith were discov- 
 ered in conversation when Jack entered the house. 
 
 "Holloa, Aunt Betsey 1" he exclaimed, as he kissed her 
 unsuspectingly. " Have you come back?" 
 
 "Yes, Jackie," said a prim New England voice with a 
 slightly provincial accent. "I thought I'd like to hear 
 
22 
 
 about those little orphan chicks, and so I said to Silas, 
 said I, ' Silas—' " 
 
 Edith darted from her chair to a distant window, and 
 Cynthia was obliged to break off abruptly, or she would 
 have laughed aloud. Jack, however, took no notice. The 
 mention of the chickens was enough for him. 
 
 "Don't you want to come down and see the machine? 
 I say, Aunt Betsey, you were a regular brick to send me 
 the money. Did you get my letter ?" 
 
 " Yes, Jackie, and I hope you are reading the book 
 carefully. You will learn a great deal from that book 
 about hens." 
 
 " Yes. Well, I haven't got any hens yet. Look out 
 for these stairs, Aunt Betsey. They're rather dangerous." 
 
 This was too much for Cynthia. To be warned about 
 the cellar stairs, over which she gayly tripped at least a 
 dozen times a day, was the crowning joke of the per- 
 formance. She sat down on the lowest step and shouted 
 with laughter. Jack, who was studying his thermometer, 
 turned in surprise. 
 
 " Why, I didn't know Cynthia was here. AVhy — why, 
 Aunt Betsey, what's the matter ? And where is Cynthia ? 
 And Edith ! Are you all crazy ?" 
 
 For the dignified Edith was sitting on the top step, also 
 bent double with laughter. 
 
 It was too good. Cynthia tossed up her veil, and turned 
 her crimson face to her brother. 
 
 " Oh, Jack, Jack, I have you this time ! This pays off 
 a hundred old scores. Oh, oh, oh ! I never dreamed you 
 would be so taken in !" 
 
 And she danced up and down with glee. 
 
 Jack's first feeling was one of anger. How stupid he 
 
23 
 
 had been ! Then his sense of the hidicrous overcame him, 
 and he joined in the mirth, laughing until the tears rolled 
 down his face. 
 
 " It's too good to be wasted," he said, as soon as he 
 could speak. " AVhy don't you go and see somebody ? 
 Go to those dear friends of Aunt Betsey's, the Parkers." 
 
 " I will, I will !" cried Cynthia. " I'll go right away 
 now. Jack, yon can drive me there." 
 
 '•' Oh no !" exclaimed Edith. "They would be sure to 
 find you out, and it would be all over town. You sha'n't 
 do it, Cynthia." 
 
 '' They'll never find me out. If Jack, my own twin 
 brother, didn't, I'm sure they wouldn't. I'm going! 
 Hurry up. Jack, and harness the horse." 
 
 Jack went up the stairs like lightning, and was off to 
 the barn. All Edith's pleadings and expostulations were 
 in vain. Cynthia could be very determined when she 
 pleased, and this time she had made up her mind to pay 
 no attention to the too-cautious Edith. 
 
 She waved farewell to her sister in exact imitation of 
 Aunt Betsey's gesture, and drove away by Jack's side in 
 the old buggy. 
 
 "Mrs. Parker is so gossipy, I shall be sure to hear 
 something funny," she remarked to Jack. " I must tell 
 her all about the new false front, and what 'Silas' said, 
 and all. It wdll be such fun ! I wish you could go in too, 
 Jack, but you'd be sure to laugh and spoil it all. You 
 couldn't help it. Oh, here w^e are, turning in already 1 
 I'm so excited I can scarcely speak." 
 
 They drew up at the door, and Jack with great polite- 
 ness assisted " Aunt Betsey " from the carriage. He ran 
 up the steps and rang the bell for her, and then, taking 
 
24 
 
 his place again in the buggy, he drove off to a shady spot 
 at a little distance, and waited for his supposed aunt to 
 reappear. 
 
 *' Don't be too long," he had whispered at parting. 
 
 It seemed hours, but it was really only twenty minutes 
 later, when the front door opened and the quaint little 
 figure descended the steps amid the voluble good-byes of 
 Mrs. Parker. 
 
 " So glad to have seen you, my dear Miss Trinkett ! I 
 never saw you looking so well or so young. You are a 
 marvel. And you won't repeat that little piece of news 
 I told you, will yon? You will probably hear it all in 
 good time. Good-bye !" 
 
 It was a very quiet and depressed Aunt Betsey who 
 got into the carriage and drove away with Jack, very 
 different from the gay little lady who had entered the 
 Parkers' gates. 
 
 " Well, was it a success ? Did she know you ? Tell us 
 about it," said Jack, eagerly. 
 
 " Jack, don't ask me a word." 
 
 " Why ? I say, what's up ? What's the matter ? Did 
 she find you out ?" 
 
 " No, of course not. She never guessed it. But — but 
 — oh. Jack, she told me something." 
 
 " But what was it ?" 
 
 " I — I don't believe I can tell you 1" 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 When Cynthia asked at Mrs. Parker's door if that lady 
 were at home it was not necessary for her to give her 
 name. The maid recognized Miss Trinkett at once. 
 
 *' Yes, she's at home, ma'am. And won't you please 
 step into the parlor, Miss Trinkett ? Mrs. Parker '11 be 
 glad to see you." 
 
 Mrs. Parker came hurrying down. 
 
 " Dear Miss Trinkett, how are you ? Why, I should 
 scarcely have known you ! What have you done to 
 yourself ?" 
 
 Cynthia laughed her great-aunt's high staccato laugh. 
 
 " Well, now, I want to know, Mrs. Parker ! Don't you 
 see what it is ? Why, my nieces at Oakleigh, they saw 
 right away what the difference was. I thought 'twas 
 about time I was keeping up with the fashions, and so I 
 bought me a fine new piece of hair for my front. I was 
 growing somewhat gray, and I thought 'twas best to keep 
 young on Silas's account. It isn't that I care for my- 
 self, but you have to be particular about men-folks, as 
 you'll know when you've seen as much of them as I 
 have." 
 
 Cynthia was a good actress, and she carried herself 
 precisely as Miss Betsey did, and imitated her voice to 
 perfection. 
 
 She repeated some of her aunt's best-known tales, and 
 good Mrs. Parker never dreamed of the possibility of her 
 
26 
 
 caller being any one but worthy Miss Betsey Trinkett, of 
 Wayborough, whom she had known for years. 
 
 Mrs. Parker was a great talker, and usually she was 
 obliged to fight hard to surpass Miss Trinkett in that 
 respect. During the first part of the call to-day it was 
 as difficult as usual, but Mrs.. Parker presently made a 
 remark which reduced her visitor to a state of alarming 
 silence. 
 
 " I suppose you have come to announce the news," 
 said the hostess, smiling sympathetically. 
 
 " Now I don't know a bit of news. Why, my dear 
 Mrs. Parker, Silas and I we never — " 
 
 " Ah, but this has nothing to do with Silas, though it 
 may affect you, more or less. Surely you know what I 
 am alluding to ?" 
 
 " I haven't the least idea." 
 
 And Cynthia bridled with curiosity on her own account 
 as well as Aunt Betsey's. She thought something inter- 
 esting must be coming. 
 
 " Well, now, to think of my being the one to tell you 
 something about your own family ! I don't know whether 
 I ought to, but I think it must be true, and you'll hear it 
 in other ways soon enough. You know 1 have relatives 
 in Albany, where she lives." 
 
 " Where who lives ?" 
 
 "Miss Gordon, Hester Gordon. They say — but, of 
 course, I don't know that it's true, it may be just report, 
 but they do say — I don't know whether I ought to tell 
 you, I declare ! — that it won't be long before she's Mrs. 
 Franklin." 
 
 " Mrs. Franklin ?" 
 
 " Yes, Mrs. John Franklin. Hasn't your nephew told 
 
27 
 
 you ? Well, well, these men ! They do beat all for keep- 
 ing things quiet." 
 
 " Is it true ?" 
 
 It was Cynthia's natural voice that asked this question. 
 She quite forgot that she was supposed to be Miss Betsey 
 Trinkett. 
 
 " I suppose it is. But, dear me. Miss Trinkett, don't 
 be worried ! Seems to me you look very queer, though 
 I can't see your face very well through that veil, and you 
 with your back to the light. Your voice sounds sort of 
 unnatural, too. Let me get you a glass of water." 
 
 " Oh no, it is nothing," said Cynthia, who had quickly 
 recovered herself, and was now summoning all her energy 
 to finish the call in a proper manner. " You surprised 
 me, that's all, and I never did care much for surprises. 
 But I think there's not much truth in that, Mrs. Parker. 
 I don't believe ray fa — nephew is going to be married 
 again. In fact, I'm very sure he is not." And she nod- 
 ded her head emphatically. 
 
 '< Ah, my dear Miss Trinkett, you never can tell. Some- 
 times a man's family is the last to hear those things. And 
 it will be a good match, too. She comes of an old fam- 
 ily and she has a great deal of money. The Gordons are 
 all rich." 
 
 " Do you suppose he'd care for that ?" exclaimed her 
 visitor, wrathfully. 
 
 " Well, well, one never knows ! And think how much 
 better it would be for the children. Edith is too young 
 to have so much care, and they say Cynthia runs wild most 
 of the time, just like a boy. Indeed, I call it a very good 
 thino-. Though I must say she is a pretty brave woman 
 to take on herself the care of that family." 
 
28 
 
 Here "Miss Betsey" suddenly darted for tlie door. 
 It could be endured no longer; Mrs. Parker bade her 
 farewell, and then went back to tell her daughters that 
 Miss Trinkett was sadly changed. Though she was still 
 so young in appearance, she was evidently very much 
 broken. 
 
 For some time Jack could obtain no reply to his ques- 
 tions, but at last Cynthia's resolution broke down and she 
 burst into tears. They had turned into a shady lane in- 
 stead of going directly home, and there was no danger of 
 meeting any one. 
 
 " Jack, Jack !" she moaned, *' I'll have to tell you. 
 Mrs. Parker says papa is going to be married again ! 
 What shall we do ? What shall we do ?" 
 
 For answer Jack indulged in a prolonged whistle. 
 
 " Isn't it the most dreadful thing you ever heard of ? 
 Jack, how shall we ever endure it ?" 
 
 "Well, it mayn't be as bad as you think. If she's 
 nice — " 
 
 " Oh, Jack, she won't be ! Step-mothers are never nice. 
 I never in my life heard of one that was. She'll be horrid 
 to us all." 
 
 "Oh, I say, that's nonsense. If you were to marry a 
 widower with a lot of children you'd be nice to them." 
 
 " Jack, the very idea ! I marry a widower with a lot 
 of children ! I'd like to see myself doing such a thing !" 
 
 Cynthia almost forgot her present trouble in her wrath 
 at her brother's suG^sfestion. 
 
 "Well, after all, it may not be true. Because Mrs. 
 Parker says so doesn't prove it. Where did she hear it ?" 
 
 " From some of her Albany relations, I suppose. The 
 i— the lady lives there. But, oh, Jack ! Do you think 
 
YOUR VOICE SOUiNDS SORT OF UNNAVUh'AL,' 'iW/' ADDED MRS. PARKER " 
 
there is any chance of its not being true?" cried Cyn- 
 thia, catching at the least straw of hope. 
 
 " Why, of course ! Father hasn't told us, and you can't 
 believe all the gossip you hear," said Jack, loftily. 
 
 " Perhaps it isn't true, after all," exclaimed Cynthia, 
 drying her eyes and smiling once more, " and I've been 
 boo-hooing all for nothing ! I sha'n't say a word about it 
 to Edith, and don't you either, Jack. It isn't worth 
 while to worry her, and Mrs. Parker is a terrible gossip." 
 
 They went home, and Cynthia gave her sister a gay ac- 
 count of her visit, carefully omitting all exciting items, 
 and then she helped Edith put away some of the things, 
 and finally was free to go on the river in the afternoon. 
 Jack, boy-like, had forgotten all about Mrs. Parker's news. 
 He did not believe it, and therefore it was not worth 
 thinking of. But Cynthia's mind was not so easily di- 
 verted. She did not believe it, either, but then it might 
 be true, and if it were, what was to be done ? It seemed 
 as if a worse calamity could not happen. 
 
 Jack, her usual companion on the river, was busy with 
 some carpentry. He was making a "brooder" like one 
 he had bought, to serve as a home for the little chicks 
 when they should be hatched. He used the " barn cham- 
 ber " for a workshop, and the sound of his saw and his 
 hammer could be heard through the open window. 
 
 Cynthia was deeply interested in poultry raising, but 
 she wished it did not consume so much of her brother's 
 time and attention. 
 
 Edith was going to the village to an afternoon tea at the 
 Morgans'. Gertrude Morgan was her most intimate friend, 
 and all the nicest girls and boys would be there to talk 
 over a tennis tournament. Cynthia was rather sorry that 
 
30 
 
 she had not been asked. She said to herself that she 
 would be of more value in the discussion than Edith, for she 
 really played tennis, while Edith merely stood about look- 
 ing graceful and pretty. However, she had not been in- 
 vited, and, after all, the river was more fun than any after- 
 noon tea. 
 
 One of the men put the canoe in the water for her, and, 
 with a huge stone to act as ballast, she paddled up stream, 
 browsing along the banks looking for wild -flowers, or 
 steering her way through the rocks, of which the river was 
 very full just at this point. 
 
 Cynthia, fond as she was of companionship, being of 
 an extremely sociable disposition, was never lonely on her 
 beloved river. 
 
 Edith dressed herself carefully and drove off to the tea. 
 She looked very attractive in her spring gown of gray and 
 her large black hat, and as she studied herself in the small, 
 old-fashioned mirror that hung in her room she felt quite 
 pleased with her appearance. 
 
 " If I only had more nice gloves I should be satisfied," 
 she thought. " It is so horrid to be always saving up one 
 pair, and having to wear such old things for driving, and 
 whisk them off just before I get to a place, and put on the 
 good ones. And a handsome parasol would be so nice. I 
 don't think I'll take this old thing. I don't really need one 
 to-day. I wonder where the children are. I ought to look 
 them up, I suppose ; but they must be all right, somewhere, 
 and it is getting late. After all, why should I always be 
 the one to run after those children ?" 
 
 And then she drove away to Brenton, leaving house- 
 keeping cares behind her, and prepared for a pleasant after- 
 noon. 
 
31 
 
 About half-a-dozen boys and girls had already arrived 
 at the Morgans' when Edith drove in. It was a fine old 
 house, standing far back from the road and surrounded 
 ■with shady grounds. The river was at the back. A 
 smooth and well-kept tennis-court was on the left of the 
 drive as one approached the house, and here the guests 
 were assembled. 
 
 " Oh, here's Edith Franklin at last !" cried Gertrude 
 Morgan, while her brother went forward and, after helping 
 Edith to alight, took her horse and drove down to the 
 stable. 
 
 Presently all the tongues were buzzing, each one sug- 
 gesting what he or she considered the very best plan for 
 holding a tournament. It was finally arranged to have 
 it at the tennis club rather than at the Morgans', as had at 
 first been thought best, and it would be open to all comers 
 who had reached the age of fourteen. 
 
 "That is very young," said Gertrude, "but we really 
 ought to have it open to Cynthia Franklin. She is one of 
 the best players in Brenton." 
 
 " By all means," said her brother, who was always on 
 the side of the Franklins ; " and, Edith, you'll play with me, 
 won't you, in mixed doubles?" 
 
 " Oh, I don't play well enough," exclaimed Edith. 
 " Thank you ever so much, Dennis, but you had better ask 
 some one else. I don't think I'll play." 
 
 Every one objected to this, but it was finally settled that 
 Edith should act as one of the hostesses for the important 
 occasion, which was greatly to her satisfaction. She rather 
 enjoyed moving slowly and gracefully about, pouring tea 
 and lemonade, and handing them to the poor, heated play- 
 ers, who were obliged to work so hard for their fun. 
 
They were startled by the sound of the clock on the 
 church across the road. It struck six, and Edith rose in 
 haste. 
 
 " I must go," she said. " I had no idea it was so late ! 
 Those children have probably gotten into all kinds of mis- 
 chief while I've been away, and papa will not be home un- 
 til late, so I am not to wait in the village for him." 
 
 The others looked after her as she drove away. 
 
 " Isn't she the sweetest, dearest girl ?" cried Gertrude. 
 " And won't it be hard for her if her father marries again, 
 as every one says he is going to do ? But, after all, it may 
 be a good thing, for then Edith wouldn't have to do so 
 much for the children. I wonder if she knows about it. 
 She hasn't breathed a word of it, even to me." 
 
 Janet and Willy, the inseparable but ever-fighting pair, 
 came in at the side door not very long after Edith went to 
 the village. They found the house empty and the coast 
 clear, and their active brains immediately set to work to 
 solve the question of what mischief they could do. 
 
 They wandered into the big silent kitchen. The ser- 
 vants were up-stairs, and beyond the buzzing of a fly on 
 the window-pane, and the singing of the kettle on the 
 range, perfect quiet reigned. 
 
 " Let's go down and see the inkerbaker," said Willy. 
 
 *' All right," returned Janet, affably, and down they pat- 
 tered as fast as their sturdy little legs could carry them. 
 
 They peered in through the glass front at the eggs which 
 lay so peacefully within. 
 
 " It must be turrible stupid in there," said Janet, pity- 
 ingly. " Shouldn't you think those chickens would be 
 tired of waiting to come out ?" 
 
33 
 
 " Yes. We might crack a lot and help 'em out." 
 
 " Oh no. Jack says they won't be ready for two days. 
 But I'll tell you what we might do. We might see whether 
 it's hot enough for 'em in there. I guess Jack's forgotten 
 all about 'em. I don't believe he's been near 'em to-day, 
 nor Martha either." 
 
 " How d' yer find out whever it's hot enough ?" 
 
 " I don't know. Guess you open the door and put your 
 hand in and feel." 
 
 For Janet had never been taught the significance of the 
 thermometer inside, and knew nothing of the proper means 
 of ventilating the machine. 
 
 No sooner said than done. One of the doors was 
 promptly opened, and two fat hands were thrust into the 
 chamber. 
 
 " My goodies, it's hot there !" cried Janet. "We ought 
 to cool it off. Let's leave the door open and turn down 
 the lamp and open the cellar window." 
 
 Mounted on an old barrel, Janet, at the risk of her life, 
 struggled in vain with the window. She chose one that 
 was never used, and it refused to respond to her efforts. 
 Then she descended, and returned to the incubator. 
 
 " Can't do it," she said. " But I'll tell you what we'll 
 do." 
 
 " What ?" asked the ever-ready Willy. 
 
 " Pour some ice-water over 'em. That '11 cool 'em nice- 
 
 ly." 
 
 They travelled up the cellar stairs to the " cooler," which 
 stood in the hall. 
 
 " Wish we had a pitcher," said Janet. " You take the 
 tum'ler, and I'll get a dipper." 
 
 It required several journeys to and fro to suflBciently cool 
 
34 
 
 the eo'gs, according to their way of thinking, but at last 
 it was accomplished, with much dripping of water and 
 splashing of clean clothes. 
 
 The water-cooler was left empty, and the incubator was 
 in a state of dampness alarming to behold. 
 
 " There ; I guess it's cool enough now !" said Janet, when 
 the last trip had been taken. 
 
 Alas, the mercury, which should have remained at 103°, 
 had dropped quietly down to 10° ! 
 
 " I'd like to see what's in those eggs," said Willy, medi- 
 tatively. " D' yer s'pose they're chickies yet ?" 
 
 " I guess so. I'd like to see, too. I'll tell you Avhat, 
 Willy ! Let's take one, and carry it off and see." 
 
 " All right. I'll be the one to take it. What '11 Jack 
 say ?" 
 
 " He won't mind. Just one egg, and he has such a lot. 
 And we've been helping him lots this afternoon, cooling 
 'em off so nicely. But I'll be the one to take it." 
 
 *' No, me !" 
 
 "Let's both do it," said Janet, for once anxious to 
 avoid a quarrel. " I speak for that big one over there," 
 and she abstracted one from the "thermometer row " — the 
 row that was most important and precious in the eyes of 
 the owner of the machine. 
 
 "And I'll take dis one. It's awful heavy, and I guess 
 dc dear little chicken '11 be glad to get out and have some 
 nice fresh air." 
 
 " Let's go down behind the carriage-house and look at 
 'em." 
 
 They fastened the door of the incubator, and departed 
 with their treasures. 
 
 Half an hour later Jack, having finished his work, came 
 
35 
 
 whistling into the house. He would go down and have a 
 look at the machine, and then walk up the river bank to meet 
 Cynthia, whom he had seen as she paddled off early in the 
 afternoon. 
 
 His first glance at the thermometer gave him a shock ; 
 75° it registered. What had happened? He looked at 
 the lamp which heated the chambers, and found that it 
 had been turned down very low. What could Martha 
 have been thinking of, when he told her it was so im- 
 portant to keep up the temperature this last day or so ? 
 The day after to-morrow he expected the hatching to be- 
 gin, and he had closed the door of the incubator that 
 morning. It was not to be opened again until all the 
 chicks were out. 
 
 Jack was on tiptoe with excitement. If they came out 
 well, what a triumph it would be ! If they failed, what 
 would his father say ? 
 
 He looked again, and a most unexpected sight met his 
 eyes. Water was dripping from the trays, and the fine 
 gravel beneath had become mud. 
 
 And there was a vacant space in one of the trays. An 
 ego; had gone — and it was from the third row, the row 
 which he had been so careful about, which contained the 
 best eggs. 
 
 And — yes, surely there was another hole. Another egg 
 gone ! What could have happened ? 
 
 He ran up-stairs three steps at a time, shouting for 
 Martha. 
 
 " What have you been doing, Martha?" he cried. " Two 
 eggs are gone, and the thermometer way below 80°, and 
 all that water !" 
 
 " Sure, Mr. Jack, I haven't been there at all ! You were 
 
36 
 
 at home yourself to-day, and I never go near the place of 
 a Saturday." 
 
 "Well, some one has been at it. Where's Cynthia? 
 Where's Edith ? W^hy isn't somebody at home to attend 
 to things ?" 
 
 No one could be found. Jack rushed frantically about, 
 and at last heard the sound of wheels. Edith was return- 
 ing from the tea. And, at the same moment, around the 
 corner of the house came Cynthia, leading two crying chil- 
 dren. 
 
 They all met on the front porch. 
 
 " They've been up to mischief. Jack," said Cynthia ; 
 " I hope they haven't done much harm. I found them on 
 the bank, behind the carriage - house. They must have 
 been at the incubator, for they had two eggs, and the 
 chickens are dead. And they are two bad, naughty chil- 
 dren 1" 
 
 Even Cynthia, the peacemaker, had been stirred to right- 
 eous wrath by the sight on the river bank. 
 
 " You rascals !" cried Jack, in a fury, shaking them each 
 in turn ; " I'd like to lick you to pieces ! You've ruined 
 the whole hatch." 
 
 *' Go straight to bed," said Edith, sternly ; " you are 
 the very worst children I ever knew. I ought not to leave 
 the house a minute. You can't be trusted at all." 
 
 They all went in, scolding, storming, crying. In the 
 midst of the confusion Mr. Franklin arrived, earlier than 
 he had been expected. It was some minutes before he 
 could understand the meaning of the uproar. 
 
 He looked about from one to the other. 
 
 " It only serves to justify me in a conclusion that I 
 have reached," he said. " You are all too young to be 
 
37 
 
 without some one to look after you. Take the children 
 to bed, Edith, and then come to me. I have something 
 to tell you." 
 
 Edith, wondering, did as she was told. Cynthia gave 
 Jack one despairing look and fled from the room. Her 
 worst fears were on the point of being realized. 
 
 And after tea, when they were sitting as usual in the 
 long parlor, Mr. Franklin, with some hesitation and much 
 embarrassment, informed them that he was engaged to be 
 married to Miss Hester Gordon, of Albany. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Mr. Franklin's announcement at first almost stunned 
 liis children. They could not believe it. Jack and Cyn- 
 thia were somewhat prepared for it, it is true, but when 
 they heard the news from their father's own lips it was 
 none the less startling. 
 
 o 
 
 To Edith it came like a thunderbolt. She had never 
 had the smallest suspicion that her father would marry 
 again. She had always supposed that she would be suf- 
 ficient for him. She would never marry herself, she 
 thought, but would stay at home and be the comfort of 
 his declining years. It had never occurred to her that 
 her father, still a young and good-looking man of barely 
 forty, would be exceedingly likely to marry a second 
 time. 
 
 And now what was to happen ? A stranger was coming 
 to rule over them. Edith would never endure it, never ! 
 She would go away and live with Aunt Betsey. Anything 
 would be better than a step-mother. 
 
 When she spoke her voice was hard and unnatural. 
 
 "Haven't I done right, papa? Weren't you satisfied 
 with me? I have tried." 
 
 "My dear child, you have done your best, but you are 
 too young. No one can expect a girl of sixteen to take 
 entire charge of a house and family. And it is not only 
 that. Hester is a charming woman. She reminds me 
 something of your mother, Edith. It w^as that which 
 
39 
 
 first attracted ine. She will be a companion to you — a 
 sister." 
 
 " Thank you, but I don't need either. Cynthia is all 
 the sister I want. Oh, papa, papa, why are you going to 
 do it !" 
 
 She went to her own room and shut the door. After 
 this one outbreak she said no more. Small things made 
 Edith storm and even cry, dignified though she was. This 
 great shock stunned her. She did not shed a tear, and 
 she bore it in silence ; but a hard feeling came into her 
 heart, and she determined that she would never forgive 
 this Miss Gordon who had entrapped her father (so she 
 put it), and was coming to rule over them and order them 
 about. She, for one, would never submit to it. 
 
 Jack did not mind it in the least, and Cynthia, who 
 idolized her father, was sure from what he said that he 
 was doing what he considered was for his happiness. Of 
 course it was terrible for them, but they must make the 
 best of it. 
 
 They passed a dreary Sunday, but Monday was expect- 
 ed to be an exciting day, for on that date the chickens 
 were to appear. But when the children returned from 
 school there were but small signs of the anticipated hatch 
 in the incubator ; one shell only had a little crack on the 
 end. 
 
 Cynthia took up her position in front of the machine 
 with a book, and waited patiently hour after hour. Noth- 
 ing came. The next morning there was another crack in 
 the next egg, and the first had spread a little, but that 
 was all. The children all went to school but Edith, and 
 she felt too low-spirited to go down to the cellar to watch. 
 
 Janet and Willy were forbidden to go near the place. 
 
40 
 
 As punishment for their conduct on Saturday, they were 
 not to be present at the hatching. It was thought that 
 owing to what they had done the chickens were not forth- 
 coming, and indeed it had been most disastrous. 
 
 When Jack and Cynthia returned from school they 
 found that two Httle chicks — probably the only two which 
 had escaped the cold bath — had emerged from their shells, 
 and were hopping dismally about in the gravel beneath 
 the trays. One hundred and ninety-eight hoped-for com- 
 panions failed to appear. 
 
 Jack's first hatch was anything but a success. He bore 
 it bravely, but it was a bitter disappointment. After wait- 
 ing many hours in the vain hope of seeing another shell 
 crack, he removed the two little comrades to the large 
 brooder built to hold a hundred, and then, nothing daunt- 
 ed, sent for more eggs. He still had some of Aunt Bet- 
 sey's money left. 
 
 Jack was plucky, and his pride would not permit him 
 to give up. He would profit by this experience, and next 
 time he would be victorious. He feared that, besides the 
 mischief done by the children, he had been over-fussy in 
 his care of the eggs, and he determined to act more wise- 
 ly in every respect. 
 
 In after years Cynthia looked back upon the first hatch 
 as one of the most depressing events in her life. The 
 children in disgrace, Edith silent and woe-begone in her 
 own room, she and Jack watching hour after hour in the 
 big cellar for the chickens that never came — and, above 
 all, the impending arrival of the second Mrs. Franklin. 
 
 Aunt Betsey journeyed down from Wayborough as 
 soon as she heard the news. They did not know she was 
 coming until they saw one of the station carriages slowly 
 
41 
 
 approaching the house, with Miss Trinkett's well -'known 
 bonnet inside of it. She waved her hand gayly, and 
 opened the subject at once. 
 
 " Well, well," she cried, " this is news indeed ! I want 
 to know ! Nephew John going to be married again ! Just 
 what I always thought he had best do for the good of you 
 children. Have you seen the bride, and what is she like ?" 
 
 It was a warm June day, and the Franklins were on the 
 piazza when this was shouted to them from the carriage 
 in their aunt's shrill voice. Edith writhed. Though the 
 news was all over Brenton by now, this would be a fine 
 bit for the driver to take back. 
 
 Jack and Cynthia offered to help Aunt Betsey to alight, 
 but she waved them aside. 
 
 " Don't think you must help me, my dears. This good 
 news has put new life into me. How do you all do ?" 
 giving each one of her birdlike kisses, and settling herself 
 in a favorite rocking-chair. 
 
 The younger children ran to her, hoping for treasures 
 from the carpet-bag. 
 
 " I do declare," exclaimed she, '* if I didn't forget all 
 about you in the news of the bride ! Never mind ; wait 
 till next time, and I'll bring you something extry nice 
 when I come to see the bride." 
 
 " What's a bride ?" asked Willy. 
 
 " La, child, don't you know ? They haven't been kept 
 in ignorance, I hope ?" 
 
 " Oh no, but they haven't heard her called that," ex- 
 plained Cynthia. 
 
 " Do you mean the lady that is coming here to live ?" 
 asked Janet. "Well, we don't like her, me and Willy. 
 She's made Edith cross and sobby, and she's made you 
 
42 
 
 forget our presents, and she's made a lot of fuss. We 
 don't want her here at all." 
 
 Miss Trinkett looked shocked. " My dear children !" 
 she exclaimed, too much aghast to say more. Then she 
 turned to Edith. 
 
 " But now tell me all about it. Have you seen her, and 
 is she young ?" 
 
 " I have not seen her, Aunt Betsey, and I don't wish to. 
 I don't know whether she is young or old, and I don't care. 
 Won't you take me home with you, Aunt Betsey? Can't 
 I live with you now ? I'm not needed here." 
 
 Miss Betsey stared at her in amazement. 
 
 " Edith Franklin," she said, folding her hands in her 
 lap, " I a7n astonished at the state of things I find in this 
 household ! Rebelling against circumstances in this way, 
 and wishing to run away from your duties! No, indeed, 
 my dear. Much as I'd admire to have you live with me — 
 and there's a nice little chamber over the living-room that 
 would suit you to a T — I'd never be the one to encourage 
 your leaving your family. You are setting them a bad 
 example as it is, teaching these young things to look with 
 disfavor on their new mother that is to be. No, indeed. 
 Far be it from me to encourage you. And, indeed, I 
 should have no right, when my own mother was a second 
 wife. Why, in the early days of the colonies it was 
 thought nothing at all for a man to marry three or four 
 tim.es, as you'd know if you had read Judge Sewall's Diary 
 as much as I have, or other valuable works." 
 
 Miss Trinkett rocked violently when she had finished 
 this harangue. Edith did not reply. She had looked for 
 sympathy from Aunt Betsey ; but she, like all the rest of the 
 world, seemed to think it the best thing that could happen. 
 
4B 
 
 As for Miss Betsey, she too was somewhat disappointed. 
 She had hoped for some interesting items, and none seemed 
 to be forthcoming. 
 
 " Where's your father ?" she asked, presently. 
 
 Edith did not reply. 
 
 " He has gone to Albany," said Cynthia. 
 
 " Well, well 1 And when is the wedding to be ?" 
 
 Edith rose and went into the house. Cynthia glanced 
 after her regretfully, and then answered her aunt's ques- 
 tion. 
 
 " It is to be in a week. It is to be very quiet, because 
 — ^because Miss Gordon is in deep mourning." 
 
 '' Do tell ! I want to know 1" ejaculated Miss Trinkett. 
 " And are none of you going ?" 
 
 "No, papa did not think it was best. Hardly any one 
 will be there. Only her brother and one or two others." 
 
 " So she has a brother. Any other relatives ?" 
 
 <' I think not. She lost her father and mother when 
 she was very young, and her grandmother died rather 
 lately." 
 
 " I want to know ! And when are they coming home ?" 
 
 " Very soon," said Cynthia, almost inaudibl3\ 
 
 " Do tell!" 
 
 Miss Betsey said no more at present, but her mind was 
 busy. 
 
 " Where is Jackie ?" she next asked. 
 
 " I don't know. Gone to see about the chickens, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 " Oh, those little orphans. Well, I haven't time to ask 
 about them now, for I think, Cynthia, I would like to call 
 upon my friend, Mrs. Parker. It is a long time since I was 
 there." 
 
44 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Betsey !" exclaimed Cynthia. It would never 
 do for her aunt to see Mrs. Parker. The secret of her es- 
 capade at that good lady's house would surely be found 
 out. "Why do you go there this afternoon ?" 
 
 " Because, my dear, I am only here for a night, and I 
 must see Mrs. Parker." 
 
 Cynthia groaned inwardly. 
 
 " And hear all the village gossip about papa," she 
 thought. 
 
 It must be prevented. 
 
 But Miss Trinkett was not to be turned from her purpose. 
 Go she would. Every available excuse in the world was 
 brought up to deter her, but the end of it was that Jack 
 drove around in the buggy, and Miss Betsey departed tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 Cynthia awaited her return in suspense. She wished 
 that she could run away. Her impersonation of her aunt 
 did not seem such a joke as it had at the time, and then 
 she had heard the dreadful news there. 
 
 Miss Trinkett came back before very long in high dud- 
 geon. Cynthia was alone on the piazza, for Edith had not 
 appeared again. She noticed that Jack was apparently en- 
 joying a huge joke, and instead of taking the horse to the 
 barn, he remained to hear what Aunt Betsey had to say. 
 
 Miss Trinkett sank into a chair and untied her bonnet- 
 strings with a jerk. 
 
 " Maria Parker is losing her mind," she announced. 
 " As for me, I shall never go there again." 
 
 " Why not, Aunt Betsey ?" murmured Cynthia, prepar- 
 ing herself for the worst. 
 
 " She declares that I was there two weeks ago, and that 
 she — she told me the news of my own nephew's engage- 
 
45 
 
 ment ! She actually had the effrontery to say, ' I told you 
 so !' My own nephew ! When his letter the other day 
 was the first I heard of it, and I said to Silas, said I, ' Si- 
 las, nephew John Franklin is going to marry again, and 
 give a mother to those children, and I'm glad of it, and 
 I've just heard the news.' And now for Maria Parker 
 to tell me that she told me, and that I was there two 
 weeks ago ! Is the woman crazy, or am I the one that has 
 lost mv mind ? Why don't you say something, Cynthy ? 
 Is it possible you agree with Mrs. Parker ? Come, now, 
 answer a question. Was I here two weeks ago, and did I 
 go and see Maria Parker ?" 
 
 " No," murmured Cynthia, her face crimson, her voice 
 almost inaudible. But Aunt Betsey was too much excited 
 to notice. 
 
 "Jackie," she said, turning to him, "will you answer 
 me a question ? Did I visit you two weeks ago, and did I 
 call upon Mrs. Parker ?" 
 
 Jack gave one look at Cynthia, and then, dropping on 
 the grass, rolled over and over in an ecstasy of mirth. 
 
 " You're in for it now, Miss Cynthia !" he chuckled. 
 
 Miss Betsey drew herself up. 
 
 " You have not answered my questions. Was I here 
 two weeks asfo, and did I call upon Mrs. Parker?" 
 
 " No, no. Aunt Betsey !" shouted Jack. " You weren't ! 
 You didn't ! Go ahead, Cynth ! Out with it ! My eye, 
 I'm glad I'm here and nowhere else ! I've been waiting 
 for this happy day. Now you'll get paid up for fooling 
 me." 
 
 And again he rolled, his long legs beating the air. 
 
 " I think you are mean. Jack, when you were the one 
 that made me go !" exclaimed Cynthia, indignantly. Then 
 
46 
 
 she relapsed into silence. How could slie ever confess to 
 Aunt Betsey ? 
 
 Miss Trinkett hastened the climax. 
 
 " I don't know why Jack finds this so amusing. It is 
 not so to ray mind ; but if you are quite sure that I was 
 not here, and that I did not call upon Mrs. Parker, I must 
 ask you to drive down there with me at once and state 
 the facts to her. I cannot have it insinuated that I am no 
 longer capable of judging for myself, and of knowing what 
 I do and what I don't do. She actually told me to my 
 face that I was getting childish. What would Silas say ! 
 But I'll never tell him that. I would like to go at once." 
 
 Alas, there was no help for it. Cynthia must confess. 
 If only Jack had not been there ! 
 
 She rose from the step where she had been sitting, and 
 standing in front of her little grandaunt she spoke very 
 rapidly. 
 
 " You are right, and so is Mrs. Parker. You weren't 
 here, but I dressed up and went to see her. I pretended 
 I was you. I found your other false — I mean your new 
 hair. You left it in the drawer. I looked just like you, 
 and we thought it would be such fun. I'm awfully sorry, 
 Aunt Betsey, indeed I am. It wasn't such great fun, after 
 all." 
 
 At first Miss Betsey was speechless. Then she rose in 
 extreme wrath. 
 
 *' Cynthy Franklin, it is more than time you had a moth- 
 er. I nev^er supposed you could be so — impertinent; yes, 
 impertinent 1 Made yourself look like me, indeed, and 
 going to my most intimate friend ! Poor Mrs. Parker ! 
 There's no knowing what she might have said, thinking it 
 was I. And I telling her to-day she was out of her mind, 
 
■J^^^' 
 
 CVNTHV FKANKLIN, It's MORK THAN TIME YOU HAD A MOTHER'" 
 
47 
 
 and various other tilings I'm distressed to think of. AVhy^ 
 CynthyP' 
 
 " Oh, I'm so sorry," cried Cynthia, bursting into tears. 
 "Do forgive me, Aunt Betsey." 
 
 " I am not ready to forgive you just yet, and whether I 
 ever will or not remains to be proved. I am disappointed 
 in you all. Edith going and shutting herself up when I 
 come, because she doesn't want a step- mother, and you 
 making fun of an aged aunt — not so very aged either. 
 Why, when Silas hears this I just dread to think what 
 he'll say. I am going home at once, Jack. You are the 
 only well-behaved one among them. You may drive me 
 to the train." 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Betsey, not to-day ! Please don't go." 
 
 *' I couldn't answer for my tongue if I stayed here to- 
 night. I had best go home and think it out. When I 
 remember all I said to Maria Parker, and all she said to 
 me, Pm about crazy, just as she said I was." 
 
 And presently she drove away, sitting very stiff and 
 very erect in the old buggy that had held her prototype 
 two weeks before, and Cynthia was left in tears, with one 
 more calamity added to her already burdened soul. 
 
 Why had she ever played a practical joke ? If she lived 
 a hundred years she never would again. 
 
 Edith heard the news of Aunt Betsey's sudden departure 
 in silence, and Cynthia received no sympathy from her. 
 And very soon it was temporarily forgotten in preparations 
 for the advent of the bride. 
 
 The day came at last, a beautiful one in June. The 
 house was filled with lovely flowers which Cynthia had ar- 
 ranged — Edith would have nothing to do with it — and 
 the supper-table was decked with the finest china and 
 
48 
 
 the old silver service and candelabra of their great-grand- 
 mother. 
 
 The servants, who had lived with them so long, could 
 scarcely do their work. They peered from the kitchen 
 windows for a first sight of their new mistress, and won- 
 dered what she would be like. 
 
 " These are sorry times," said Mary Ann, the old cook, 
 as she wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron. 
 
 Outside the place had never looked so peacefully lovely. 
 It was late, and the afternoon sun cast long shadows from 
 the few trees on the lawn. In the distance the cows were 
 heard lowing at milking -time. At one spot the river 
 could be seen glinting through the trees, and June roses 
 filled the air with fragrance. 
 
 All was to the outward eye just as it had always been, 
 summer after summer, since the Franklins could remem- 
 ber, and yet how different it really was. 
 
 Jack had gone to the station to meet the travellers. 
 Edith, Cynthia, Janet, and Willy were waiting on the 
 porch, all in their nicest clothes. The children had been 
 bribed to keep their hands clean, and up to this moment 
 they were immaculate. Ben and Chester lay at full length 
 on the banking in front of the house ; they alone did not 
 share the excitement. 
 
 The sound of wheels was heard. 
 
 " They are coming," whispered Cynthia. 
 
 As for Edith, she was voiceless. 
 
 And then the carriage emerged from the trees. 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 " Do you tliink they will really like me ?" asked Mrs. 
 Franklin for the liundredth time, and for the hundredth 
 time her husband answered, smiling, " I think they really 
 will." 
 
 They were just arriving at Brenton. Many inquiring 
 eyes had been turned towards them in the train, for every 
 one knew John Franklin, and every one surmised at once 
 that this was the much-discussed second wife. 
 
 It was decided by those who saw her that she was a 
 very attractive-looking woman. She was rather slight and 
 of medium height, and she was quietly dressed in black, 
 for she was in mourning. Though not actually pretty, she 
 had a charming and very expressive face, and she was very 
 young-looking. Somebody who sat in front of her said 
 that her voice was low and very musical. 
 
 Brenton decided at the first glance that Mr. John Frank- 
 lin had done very well for himself. 
 
 " There is the carriage," said he, as they crossed the 
 station platform. 
 
 " And this is Jack, I am sure," said his wife, holding out 
 her hand with a smile which won her step-son on the spot. 
 He was too shy, however, to do more than grasp it warmly 
 as he stood beside her with uncovered head. 
 
 " He is a dear," she said to herself, " and just like John. 
 If only the others are as cordial. Somehow I dread 
 Edith." 
 
 4 
 
50 
 
 She was quite as excited as were her step -daughters 
 when she drove up the avenue and her eyes fell for the 
 first time upon the group on the piazza. 
 
 Cynthia walked down the path to meet her, holding 
 Janet and Willy by either hand. Edith remained stand- 
 ing on the step. 
 
 " How do you do ?" said Cynthia, with a cordial smile. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin looked at her. Then she put her arms 
 around her and kissed her. 
 
 "This is Cynthia, I am sure," she whispered, tremulous- 
 ly, " and these are ' the children.' " 
 
 She kissed them and passed on to her husband's eldest 
 daughter, while they greeted their father. 
 
 Edith was very tall, and her position on the step gave 
 her the advantage of several inches in addition. She fairly 
 towered above the new-comer. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Franklin," she said, holding out 
 a very stiff hand and arm. She had made up her mind 
 that she for one would not be kissed. 
 
 " And you are Edith ?" 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Franklin, I am Edith. I hope your journey 
 has not tired you ?" 
 
 " Not at all. I am not easily tired." 
 
 Edith kissed her father, then turned again to the stranger. 
 
 " Let me show you the way up-stairs." 
 
 And thus Mrs. Franklin entered her new home. 
 
 "I am afraid it is going to be war with Edith at first, 
 but I won't be disheartened," she thought. "I'll make 
 her like me. It is natural for her to feel so, I suppose. 
 Ah me, I am in a difficult position." 
 
 Edith and Cynthia shared the same room. It was a 
 
51 
 
 large one with a bay-window, which commanded a fine 
 view of the winding river and the meadows beyond. 
 
 One could tell at a glance upon entering the room which 
 part of it Edith occupied, and which Cynthia. Cynthia's 
 dressing-table, with its ungainly pin-cushion, its tangle of 
 ribbons and neckties tossed down anywhere that they 
 might happen to fall, its medley of horseshoes, tennis 
 balls, and other treasures, was a constant source of trial to 
 Edith, whose possessions were always kept in perfect neat- 
 ness. She scolded and lectured her sister in vain ; Cyn- 
 thia was incorrigible. 
 
 "It's too much bother to keep things in order," she 
 would say. " After you have been around with your 
 duster and your tixings-up I never can find a thing, Edith." 
 
 The night of Mrs. Franklin's arrival they talked over the 
 new state of family affairs. 
 
 " I think she is nice," said Cynthia, with decision. " I 
 like her, and so does Jack." 
 
 She was perched on the side of the bed, leaning against 
 the tall post, her favorite position when she had anything 
 of especial interest to discuss. 
 
 <' I don't," said Edith, who was brushing out her long 
 hair with great vigor. " I don't, and I won't P'' 
 
 "That is just it, Edith. You have made up your 
 mind you won't like her just because you didn't want 
 her to come. Now she is here, why don't you make the 
 best of it ? What do you dislike about her ?" 
 
 " Her coming here. She had no right to." 
 
 " Edith, how silly you are ! She wouldn't have come if 
 papa had not asked her, and she wouldn't have if she had 
 not loved papa. I should think you would like her for 
 that if nothing else. I do. And she is pretty and sweet 
 
and dear, and I am going to help her all I can. I think I 
 shall even call her * mamma.' " 
 
 " Cynthia, I shall never do that. Never, to my dying 
 day!" 
 
 " Well, I shall ; that is, if she doesn't mind." 
 
 " She will. It will make her seem too old." 
 
 " I don't believe she would mind that, and any one can 
 see she isn't a bit old. I think we are very fortunate, as 
 long as papa was going to marry again, to have him find 
 such a nice, lovely woman." 
 
 Edith did not reply. She finished her braid and tied it 
 up. Then she said : 
 
 " Of course, it is a great deal harder for me than for the 
 rest of you. I thought I was always going to help father, 
 and now I can't." 
 
 *' Of course it's hard, Edith, but — but don't you think 
 you could still help him if — if you were nice to his wife ?" 
 
 " I don't want to help him that way," said Edith, hon- 
 estly, as she blew out the light. 
 
 The next day when Cynthia asked somewhat timidly if 
 she might call her step-mother " mamma," she was sur- 
 prised and touched by the expression that came into Mrs. 
 Franklin's face. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, Cynthia !" she said. " I thought I 
 would not ask you, I would just leave it to you, but I 
 should like it so much." 
 
 And so they all called her by her new title except Edith. 
 
 Preparations for the tennis tournament were in full 
 swing, and Cynthia and Jack, who were to play together 
 in mixed doubles, were practising hard. 
 
 The court at Oakleigh was not a good one, so they 
 were in the habit of going to the tennis club at the village 
 
i M 
 
 I don't like her, and I won't ' " 
 
53 
 
 when they could get there in the afternoon. It was not 
 always easy, for they were short of horses, and it was too 
 far to walk both ways. 
 
 " Why do we not have some more horses ?" said Mrs. 
 Franklin one morning when the question was being dis- 
 cussed. 
 
 "Why, we can't afford to," replied Cynthia, in some 
 surprise. *' Besides the farm horses we only have two, 
 vou know, and they get all used up going to and from 
 the village so much." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin glanced at her husband. Then she said, 
 *' It seems as if we ought to have more. You know, 
 John, there is all that money of mine. Why not buy a 
 horse and trap for the children to use ?" 
 
 " My dear Hester, I can never consent. You know I wish 
 you to keep all your money for your own exclusive use. 
 You may have all the horses you want for yourself, but — " 
 
 " John, don't be absurd. What can I do with all that 
 money, and no one but Neal to provide for ? Your chil- 
 dren are mine now, and I wish them to have a horse of 
 their own." 
 
 The thing of all others for which Edith had been long- 
 ing for years. But she determined that she would never 
 use her step-mother's gift. 
 
 " Is Neal your brother ?" asked Cynthia. 
 
 " Yes. Haven't I told you about him ? He is my dear 
 and only brother. He is off on a yacht now, but he is 
 coming here soon. He is older than you and Jack, just 
 about Edith's age." 
 
 Jack looked up with interest. 
 
 " I'm glad there's another fellow coming," he said. 
 " There are almost too many girls round here." 
 
54 
 
 " Jack, how hateful of yon, when you always have said 
 I was as good as another fellow !" exclaimed Cynthia. 
 
 " Well, so you are, almost ; but I'm glad he's coming, 
 anyway." 
 
 The new horse was bought, and a pretty and comfort- 
 able cart for them to use, a "surrey" that would hold two 
 or four, as occasion required. At first Edith would not 
 use it. She jogged about with the old horse and buggy 
 when she went to the village, thereby exciting much com- 
 ment among her friends. Every one suspected that Edith 
 could not reconcile herself to the coming of her step- 
 mother. 
 
 The day of the tournament arrived. Before Mr. Frank- 
 lin went to Boston that morning he called Edith into the 
 library and closed the door. 
 
 " I have something to say to you, Edith. I have been 
 perfectly observant of your conduct since I came home, 
 though I have not spoken of it before. I preferred to 
 wait, to give you a chance to think better of it. Your 
 treatment of my wife is not only rude, it is unkind, as 
 rudeness always is." 
 
 " Father, I haven't been rude. Why do you speak to 
 me so ? It is all her fault. She has made you do it." 
 
 " Hester has not mentioned the subject to me, Edith. 
 You are most unjust. You are making yourself very con- 
 spicuous, and are placing me in a very false light by your 
 behavior. Are you going to the tennis tournament to-day ?'* 
 
 "Yes, papa." 
 
 " How do you intend to get there ?" 
 
 " Drive myself in the buggy, of course." 
 
 "There is no *of course' about it," said her father, 
 growing more and more angry. " If you go, yon will go 
 
55 
 
 as the others do, in the surrey. I will not have them go 
 down with an empty seat, while you rattle in to the 
 grounds in the old buggy in the eyes of all Brenton." 
 
 " Then I won't go at all. The buggy was good enough 
 before ; why isn't it now ?" 
 
 " Not another word ! I am ashamed of you, Edith, and 
 disappointed. I have no time for more, but remember 
 what I have said. You go in the surrey to the tourna- 
 ment, or you stay at home." 
 
 He left her and hurried off to the train. Edith went to 
 her own room and shut herself in. For more than an hour 
 a bitter fight raged within her. Her pride was up in arms. 
 
 If she gave up and drove to the club in the surrey, 
 every one would know that she was countenancing her 
 step-mother, as she expressed it, and she had told Ger- 
 trude Morgan that she would never do it. If she stayed 
 at home she would excite more comment still, for it was 
 generally known that she was to act as one of the host- 
 esses, and she had no reasonable excuse to offer for stay- 
 ing away. 
 
 Altogether Edith thought herself a much-abused person, 
 and she cried until her eyes were swollen, her cheeks pale, 
 and her nose red. 
 
 Cynthia burst in upon her. 
 
 " What is the matter, Edith ? You look like a perfect 
 fright ! Are you ill ?" 
 
 " 111 ! No, of course not. I wish you would leave me 
 in peace, Cynthia. What do you want ?" 
 
 " To come into my own room, of course. But what is 
 the matter, Edith ? Was papa scolding you ?" 
 
 Edith, longing for sympathy, poured out the story, but 
 she did not receive much from that practical young person. 
 
56 
 
 " I wouldn't cry my eyes out about that. Of course 
 you will have to do as papa says, or he won't like it at 
 all. And it is a thousand times nicer to drive in the 
 surrey than that old rattle-trap of a buggy. The surrey 
 runs so smoothly, and Bess goes like a breeze. You had 
 better give in gracefully, Edith. But see this lovely 
 silver buckle and belt mamma has just given me to wear 
 this afternoon. Isn't it perfect ? She says she has more 
 than she can wear. It was one of her own. / think she's 
 a dear. But there is Jack calling me to practise." 
 
 And happy-hearted Cynthia -was off again like a flash. 
 
 Edith bathed her face and began to think better of the 
 subject. After all, she would go. It was a lovely day, 
 every one would be there, and it was not worth while 
 to make people talk. Above all, she would be sorry to 
 miss the affair to which she had been looking forward for 
 weeks. 
 
 She dressed herself that afternoon in a simple gingham 
 that had seen the wash-tub many times, and took her 
 place on the back seat of the surrey, with Mrs. Franklin, 
 Jack, and Cynthia sitting in front. Mrs. Franklin was in 
 the daintiest of summer frocks, and Edith glanced at her 
 somewhat enviously. 
 
 " I wish we were the ones that had the money," she 
 thought, " and that she were poor. I believe then I should 
 not mind having her so much." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin had a gay and cheery disposition, and 
 she tried to pay no attention to Edith's coldness. 
 
 " I wish I were going to play myself," she said, as they 
 drove off. 
 
 " Why, do you play ?" asked Cynthia, turning around in 
 surprise. 
 
57 
 
 " To be sure 1 do. I used to play a great deal at one 
 time. I mean to ask your father to have the tennis-court 
 at Oaldeigh made over, and then we can have some games 
 there." 
 
 " How jolly !" exclaimed Jack and Cynthia together. 
 
 " "VVe cannot afford to," put in Edith, coldly. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin paid no attention to this. " It will be 
 nice when Neal comes," she added. 
 
 "Neal, always Neal," thought Edith. "Pleasant for 
 us to have a strange boy here all the time. Oh, dear, 
 how hateful I am ! I don't feel nice towards anybody. 
 If only papa had never seen or heard of the Gordons, how 
 much happier we should all have been." 
 
 But she was the only one of the household that thought 
 so. The younger children had been completely won over', 
 and it was a constant source of surprise and chagrin to 
 Edith to see how easily their step-mother managed the 
 hitherto refractory pair. 
 
 Before long the party reached the grounds. The Bren- 
 ton Tennis Club was a very attractive place. The smooth 
 and well-kept courts stretched away to the river, which 
 wound and curved towards the old town, for the club was 
 on the outskirts of the village. The river was wider here 
 than it was farther up at Oakleigh, and picturesque stone 
 bridges crossed it at intervals. 
 
 Benches had been placed all about the grounds, from 
 which the spectators could watch the game, and under a 
 marquee was a dainty table, with huge bowls of lemonade 
 and plates of cake. Edith presided at the tea-kettle, look- 
 ing very pretty, notwithstanding her old gown and the 
 stormy morning she had passed. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin, upon whom most of the Brenton people 
 
58 
 
 had already called, sat on one of the benches with some 
 friends, and was soon absorbed in the game. 
 
 Cynthia played well. She flew about the court, here, 
 there, everywhere at once, never interfering with her part- 
 ner's game, but always ready with her own play. She and 
 Jack, though younger than the other players, held their 
 ground well. 
 
 It was only a small tournament, and "mixed doubles" 
 were finished up in one afternoon. Jack and Cynthia car- 
 rying off second prizes with great glee. 
 
 "Just what I wanted, mamma," said Cynthia, as she 
 displayed a fine racket of the latest style and shape ; " I 
 hope they will have another tournament before the sum- 
 mer is over, so that I'll have a chance to win first prize 
 with this ncAV racket." 
 
 They were driving home in the dusk, for the game had 
 lasted late, when they overtook and passed a boy who was 
 walking on the road to Oakleigh, with a bag slung over 
 his shoulder on a stick, while a black spaniel trotted along 
 at his heels. Mrs. Franklin did not see him. 
 
 " I say there, Hessie i Can't you give a fellow a lift ?" 
 he shouted. 
 
 " Why, Neal !" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin ; " where did 
 you come from ? Jack, stop, please. It is Neal ! You 
 dear boy, I am so glad to see you ! This is my brother, 
 children ; and, Neal, here are Edith, Cynthia, and Jack 
 Franklin." 
 
 " Whew, what a lot ! I say, Hessie, what were you 
 thinking of when you married such a family as that? 
 But I fancy you haven't got room for me in there. I can 
 walk it easily enough. Don't mind a bit." 
 
 " Nonsense ! we can squeeze up," said his sister, which 
 
59 
 
 they did forthwith, and Neal Gordon climbed into the 
 cart. 
 
 " No room for you, Bob," he remarked to the spaniel, 
 ■who danced about the road in a vain endeavor to follow 
 his master; "you can go ahead on your own legs." 
 
 He was a tall, well-developed fellow, with a hearty, 
 cheery voice, and a frank, sometimes embarrassing, way 
 of saying the first thing that came into his head. 
 
 " What a crowd !" he continued. " Any more at 
 home ?" 
 
 " Yes, two," said his sister, gayly — " Janet and Willy. 
 T am so glad you have come, Neal. But why didn't you 
 let us know ?" 
 
 " Couldn't. The Dolphin put in at Marblehead, and I 
 had gotten rather tired of it aboard, so I thought I'd cut 
 loose and drop down on you awhile. Got out of cash, 
 too." 
 
 " Oh, Neal !" 
 
 "Now you needn't say anything. You didn't give me 
 half enough this time. Too much absorbed getting mar- 
 ried, I suppose. I say," he added, turning to Jack, " what 
 kind of a step-ma does Hessie make ?" 
 
 "Bully," replied Jack, laconically. 
 
 " I thought she would, but she's on her best behavior 
 now. She'll order you all round soon, the way she does 
 me." 
 
 " They don't deserve it as you do, you silly boy," said 
 his sister. 
 
 They were a merry party that night at supper. It 
 seemed as if Neal would be a great addition to the fam- 
 ily, and even Edith thawed somewhat. This pleased Mr. 
 Franklin, who had been thoroughly annoyed by her be- 
 
60 
 
 havior, and who had been really afraid that she would 
 stay at home from the tournament rather than use his 
 wife's gift. 
 
 "Everything will run smoothly now," he said to him- 
 self, and, manlike, he soon forgot all about the trouble. 
 
 " By-the-way, what relation am I to this family ?" asked 
 Neal, presently. " If Hester is your mother, of course I 
 must be your uncle. I hope you will all treat me with 
 proper respect." 
 
 " I hope we shall be able to," said Cynthia, looking 
 up with a saucy smile. She liked the new-comer im- 
 mensely. 
 
 " Did you ever run an incubator ?" asked Jack, after 
 supper. 
 
 " Not I. Have you got one ?" 
 
 " Yes. Come along down and see it." 
 
 They descended to the cellar, and Jack turned the eggs 
 while he explained his methods to his new friend. 
 
 " Is there money in it?" asked Neal. 
 
 " Lots, I hope. But the trouble is, you've got to spend 
 a lot to start with, and if you're not successful it's a dead 
 loss. My first hatch went to smash." 
 
 " How would you like to take me into partnership ? I 
 want to make some money." 
 
 " First-rate." 
 
 They were deep in a discussion of business arrange- 
 ments when they went back to the others. 
 
 " We'll make a ' go ' of it," said Neal. " It's just the 
 thing I've been looking for." 
 
 " I have an idea. Jack," said Mrs. Franklin, as they 
 came in. " When are the chickens to come out?" 
 
 " Next Thursday." 
 
61 
 
 "Then we will celebrate the event in proper style. We 
 will ask our friends to come to a ' hatching bee.' " 
 
 " But suppose they don't hatch ? Suppose they act the 
 way they did before ?" said Jack, dubiously. 
 
 <' Oh, they'll hatch, I will answer for them. You have 
 learned how to take better care of them, and no one has 
 interfered, and — oh, I am sure they will be out in fine 
 shape !" 
 
 Only Edith objected to this proposition, and she dared 
 not say so before her father. 
 
 Apparently the Gordons were going to carry all before 
 them, and she, who until so recently had been to all in- 
 tents and purposes the mistress of the house, was not even 
 asked if she approved of the idea. She went to bed feel- 
 ing that her lot was a very hard one. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Jack and Neal entered into partnership in tlie poultry 
 business. 
 
 " You see I slia'n't have a cent of my own until I am 
 twenty-five," explained Neal, " and my old grandmother 
 left most of the cash to Hessie. She had some crazy, old- 
 fashioned notions about men being able to work for their 
 living, but women couldn't. It's all a mistake. Nowadays 
 women can work just as well as men, if not better. Be- 
 sides, they marry, and their husbands ought to support 
 them. Now what am I going to do when I marry?" 
 
 Cynthia, who was present at this discussion, gave a little 
 laugh. 
 
 "Are you thinking of taking this important step very 
 soon ? Perhaps you will have time to earn a little first. 
 Chickens may help you. Or you might choose a wife 
 who will work — you say women do it better than men — 
 and she will be pleased to support you, I have no doubt." 
 
 They were on the river, tied up under an overhanging 
 tree. Cynthia, who had been paddling, sat in the stern of 
 the canoe ; the boys were stretched in the bottom. It was 
 a warm, lazy-feeling day for all but Cynthia. The boys 
 had been taking their ease and allowing her to do the 
 work, which she was always quite w^illing to do. 
 
 " I'll tell you how it is," continued Neal, ignoring Cyn- 
 thia's sarcasm, <' I'll have a tidy little sum when I am 
 twenty-five, and until then ITessie is to make me an allow- 
 
63 
 
 ance and pay my school and college expenses. She's 
 pretty good about it — about giving me extras now and 
 then, I mean — but you sort of hate to be always nagging at 
 a girl for money. It was a rum way of doing the thing, 
 anyhow, making me dependent on her. I wish my grand- 
 mother hadn't been such a hoot-owl." 
 
 Cynthia looked at him reprovingly. 
 
 " You are terribly disrespectful," she said, " and I 
 think you needn't make such a fuss. You're pretty lucky 
 to have such a sister as mamma." 
 
 "Oh, Hessie might be worse, I don't deny. It's im- 
 mense to hear you great girls calling her 'mamma,' though, 
 I never thought to see Hessie marry a widower with a lot 
 of children. What was she thinking of, anyway ?" 
 
 " Well, you are polite ! She was probably thinking 
 what a very nice man my father is," returned Cynthia, 
 loftily. 
 
 " He is a pretty good fellow. So far I haven't found 
 him a bad sort of brother-in-law. I don't know how it 
 •will be when I put in my demand for a bigger allowance 
 in the fall. I have an idea he could be pretty stiff on 
 those occasions. But that's why I want to go into the 
 poultry business." 
 
 " And I don't mind having you," said Jack. " Sharing 
 the profits is sharing the expense, and so far I've seen 
 more expense than profit. However, when they begin to 
 lay and we send the eggs to market then the money will 
 pour in. I say, we don't do anything but sell eggs. It 
 would be an awful bore to get broilers ready for market. 
 By-the-way, I think we had better go back now and finish 
 up that brooder we were making." 
 
 "Oh, no hurry," said Neal. "It won't take three min- 
 
64 
 
 utes to do that, and it's jolly out here. It's the coolest 
 place I've been in to-day. Let's talk some more about the 
 poultry business. We'll call ourselves ' Franklin & Gor- 
 don, Oakleigh Poultry Farm.' That will look dandy on 
 the bill-heads. And we'll make a specialty of those pure 
 white eggs. I say, Cynthia, what are you grinning at?" 
 
 " I am not grinning. I am not a Cheshire cat." 
 
 *' I don't know. I've already felt your claws once or 
 twice. But you've got something funny in your head. 
 The corners of your mouth are twitching, and your eyes 
 are dancing like — like the river." 
 
 Cynthia cast up her blue eyes in mock admiration. 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! He grows poetical. But as you are so 
 very anxious to know what I am ' grinning ' at," she add- 
 ed, demurely, " I'll tell you. I was only thinking of a little 
 proverb I have heard. It had something to do with 
 counting chickens before they are hatched." 
 
 "Oh, come off!" exclaimed Jack, while Neal laughed 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 " And I've also a suggestion to make," went on Cyn- 
 thia. " From what I have gathered during our short ac- 
 quaintance, I think Mr. Neal Gordon isn't over-fond of 
 exerting himself. I think it would be a good idea. Jack, 
 when you sign your partnership papers, or whatever they 
 are, to put in something about dividing the work as well as 
 the expense and the profits." 
 
 *' There go your claws again," said Neal. " Let's 
 change the subject by trying to catch a * lucky-bug,' " and 
 he made a grab towards the myriads of insects that were 
 darting hither and thither on the surface of the water. 
 *' I'll give a prize. This fine new silver quarter to the 
 one who catches a 'lucky-bug.' " 
 
65 
 
 He laid the money on the thwart of the boat and made 
 another dash. 
 
 " When you have lived on the river as long as I have 
 you'll know that ' lucky-bugs ' can't be caught," said Cyn- 
 thia. " Now see what you have done, you silly boy !" 
 
 For with Neal's last effort the quarter had flown from 
 the canoe and sunk with a splash in the river. 
 
 " Good-bye, quarter !" sang Neal. " I might find you 
 if I thought it would pay to get wet for the likes of you." 
 
 " If that is the way you treat quarters, I don't wonder 
 you think your allowance isn't big enough," said Cynthia, 
 severely ; " and may I ask you a question?" 
 
 " You may ask a dozen ; but the thing is, will I answer 
 them ?" 
 
 " You will if I ask them. Were you ever in a canoe 
 before ?" 
 
 *' A desire to crush you tempts me to say * yea,' but a 
 stern regard for truth compels me to answer ' nay.' " 
 
 " You couldn't crush me if you tried for a week, and 
 you couldn't make me believe you had ever been in a 
 canoe before, for your actions show you haven't. People 
 that have spent their time on yachts and sail-boats think 
 they can go prancing about in a canoe and catch all the 
 lucky-bugs they want. When you have upset us all you 
 will stop prancing, I suppose." 
 
 *' Claws again," groaned Neal, in exaggerated despair. 
 
 " I say, Cynth, let's go back and put him to work on 
 that brooder," said Jack, who had been enjoying this 
 sparring - match. "We'll see what work we can get out 
 of him." 
 
 And, notwithstanding his remonstrances, Neal was pad- 
 dled home and put to work. Cynthia's <' claws " did take 
 
66 
 
 effect, and for the first time in his life he began to feel a 
 little ashamed of being so lazy. 
 
 Jack was one of the plodding kind. His mind was not 
 as brilliant as Neal's nor his tongue as ready, but at the 
 end of the year he would have more to show than Neal 
 Gordon. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin carried out her plan of inviting their 
 friends to the " hatching bee," and Thursday was the day 
 on which the chicks were expected to come out. As the 
 morning wore on Cynthia's excitement grew more and 
 more intense, and all the family shared it. 
 
 "What shall we do if they don't come out?" she ex- 
 claimed a dozen times. 
 
 At one o'clock a crack was discovered in one of the 
 eggs in the " thermometer row." At three it was a de- 
 cided break, and several others could be seen. Cynthia 
 declared that she heard a chirping, but it was very faint. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin remained up-stairs to receive the guests, 
 who came down as soon as they arrived. There were 
 about a dozen girls and boys. Fortunately the cellar was 
 large and airy, and the coolest place to be found on this 
 warm summer day. 
 
 And presently the fun began. Pop ! pop ! went one 
 egg after another, and out came a little struggling chick, 
 which in due time floundered across the other eggs or the 
 deserted egg-shells, and flopped down to the gravel be- 
 neath on the lower floor of the machine. It was funny 
 to see them, and, as they gradually recovered from their 
 efforts and their feathers dried off, the little downy balls 
 crowded at the front and, chirping loudly, peeked* at the 
 glass. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin joined them now and then, and at last, 
 
67 
 
 when about seventy chicks had been hatched, she insisted 
 upon all coming up-stairs for a breath of fresh air before 
 supper. 
 
 Here a surprise awaited them. Unknown to her 
 daughters Mrs. Franklin had given orders that the supper- 
 table should be arranged upon the lawn in the shade of 
 the house, and when Edith stepped out on the piazza she 
 paused in astonishment. 
 
 What terrible innovation into the manners and customs 
 of Oakleigh was this? Last year, for a little party the 
 children gave, she had wanted tea on the lawn, but it could 
 not be accomplished. How had the new-comer managed 
 to do it ? 
 
 " Isn't this too lovely !" cried Gertrude Morgan, enthu- 
 siastically, turning to Edith. "My dear, I think you are 
 the luckiest girl I ever knew, to have any one give you 
 such a surprise. Didn't you really know a thing about 
 it?" 
 
 '' I have been consulted about nothing," returned Edith, 
 stiffly. She would have liked to run up-stairs and hide, 
 out of sight of the whole affair. 
 
 " I hope you like the effect, Edith," said Mrs. Franklin, 
 coming up to her as she stood on the piazza step. "I 
 thought it would be great fun to surprise you." 
 
 " I detest surprises of all kinds," replied Edith, turning 
 away, "and it seems to me I have had nothing else, 
 lately." 
 
 Much disappointed and greatly hurt, Mrs. Franklin was 
 about to speak again, but at this moment Cynthia, en- 
 chanted with the success of the hatch and with the pretty 
 sight on the lawn, rushed up to her step-mother and 
 squeezed her arm. 
 
68 
 
 " You are a perfect dear !" she whispered. " Everything 
 is nicer since you came. Even the chickens came out for 
 you, and last time it was so dreadful." And Mrs. Frank- 
 lin smiled again and felt comforted. 
 
 The table was decorated with roses and lovely ferns, 
 strewn here and there with apparent carelessness, but 
 really after much earnest study of effects. Bowls of great 
 unhulled strawberries added their touch of color, as did 
 the generous slices of golden sponge-cake. The dainty 
 china and glass gleamed in the afternoon light, and the 
 artistic arrangement added not a little to the already good 
 appetites of the boys and girls. 
 
 Fortunately Oakleigh was equal to any emergency in 
 the eating line, and as rapidly as the piles of three-cornered 
 sandwiches, fairy-like rolls, and other goodies disappeared 
 the dishes were replenished as if by magic. 
 
 After supper the piano was rolled over to the front win- 
 dow in the long parlor. 
 
 " Put it close to the window," said Mrs. Franklin, " and 
 I will sit outside, like the eldest daughter in ' The Peter- 
 kins,' to play. That will give me the air, and you can 
 hear the music better." 
 
 They danced on the lawn and played games to the 
 music ; then they gathered on the porch and sang college 
 songs, while the sun sank at the end of the long summer 
 day, and the stars came twinkling out, and by-and-by the 
 full moon rose over the tree-tops and flooded them with 
 her light. 
 
 Altogether Jack's second "hatching bee" was a suc- 
 cess. A good time, a good supper, and, best of all, one 
 hundred and forty chickens. Yes, it really seemed as if 
 poultry were going to pay, and " Franklin & Gordon," of 
 
69 
 
 tlie Oakleigli Poultry Farm, went to bed quite elated with 
 prosperity. 
 
 The next morning at breakfast they were discussing 
 the matter, and Mr. Franklin expressed his unqualified ap- 
 proval of the scheme. 
 
 " If you succeed in raising your chickens, now that they 
 are hatched, Jack, my boy, I think you are all right. You 
 owe Aunt Betsey a debt of thanks. By-the-way, where is 
 Aunt Betsey ? Have you heard from her lately ?" 
 
 There was no answer. Jack exploded into a laugh 
 which he quickly repressed, Edith looked very solemn, 
 while Cynthia had the appearance of being on the verge of 
 tears. 
 
 " I want to see Aunt Betsey," said Mrs. Franklin, as she 
 buttered a roll for Willy ; " I think she must be a very 
 interesting character." 
 
 " It is very extraordinary that we have heard nothing 
 from her," went on Mr. Franklin. " What can be the 
 meaning of it ? When was she last here, Edith ?" 
 
 " In June." 
 
 " Was it when I was at home ? Hasn't she been here 
 since the time she gave Jack the money for the incuba- 
 tor ?" 
 
 "That was in May. You were in Albany when she 
 was here the last time." 
 
 " It is very strange that she has never written nor come 
 to see you, Hester. It can't be that she is offended with 
 something, can it? I must take you up to Wayborough 
 to see the dear old lady. I am very fond of Aunt Betsey, 
 and I would not hurt her feelings for the world." 
 
 There was a pause, and then into the silence came 
 Janet's shrill tones. 
 
70 
 
 " I know why Aunt Betsey's feelings are hurted. They 
 was turribly hurted. Edith an' Cynthia an' Jack all knows 
 too." 
 
 "Janet, hush!" interposed Edith. 
 
 " Not at all ; let the child speak," said her father. 
 "What do you know, Janet?" 
 
 "Aunt Betsey came an' she went to see Mrs. Parker, 
 an' Mrs. Parker said she'd been there before an' Aunt 
 Betsey said she hadn't, an' it wasn't Aunt Betsey at all, it 
 was Cynthia dressed up like her, an' Aunt Betsey said we 
 was all naughty 'cause we didn't want the bride to come, 
 an' the bride was mamma an' we didn't want her, it was 
 the trufe, an' Aunt Betsey went off mad 'cause Cynthia 
 dressed up like her. She wouldn't stay all night, she just 
 ■went off slam-bang hopping mad." 
 
 And then Janet's face disappeared behind her silver 
 mug; she needed the refreshment of milk after this 
 long harangue. But she peered over the top of the cup 
 at her sisters, and there was a wicked delight in her eyes 
 at the effect of her words. 
 
 "What does the child mean?" exclaimed her father. 
 " Will some one explain ? Edith, what was the trouble ?" 
 
 "I would rather not say," said Edith, her eyes fastened 
 on her plate. 
 
 " That is no way to speak to your father. Answer me 
 at once." 
 
 " Papa, I cannot. It is not my affair — " 
 
 " It is your affair. I insist — " 
 
 " Wait, John," interposed Mrs. Franklin. 
 
 " Not at all ; I can't wait. Edith was here in charge of 
 the family. Something happened to offend Aunt Betsey. 
 Now she must explain what it was. I hold her responsible.'* 
 
71 
 
 *' Indeed she's not, papa," said Cynthia, at last finding 
 her voice. " Edith is not to blame ; I am the one. I 
 found Aunt Betsey's false front, and I dressed up and 
 looked exactly like her, and Jack drove me to see Mrs. 
 Parker. Edith didn't want me to go and I would do it. 
 Really, papa, Edith isn't a bit to blame. And then when 
 Aunt Betsey came soon afterwards she went to see Mrs. 
 Parker, and she didn't like it because she said she had 
 been there two weeks ago and told her — I mean, Mrs. 
 Parker told me about — " 
 
 Cynthia stopped abruptly. 
 
 " Well, go on," said her father, impatiently. 
 
 Still Cynthia said nothing. 
 
 *' Cynthia, will you continue ? If not — " 
 
 " Oh yes, papa, though — but — well, Mrs. Parker told 
 me that you were going to marry again. x\nd then when 
 Aunt Betsey really went, Mrs. Parker said, ' I told you so.' 
 Aunt Betsey didn't like that, and when she asked us if 
 she had been here, of course we had to say no, and she was 
 going right back to tell Mrs. Parker what we said ; so I 
 had to confess, and, of course. Aunt Betsey didn't like it, 
 and she went right home that day." 
 
 Mr. Franklin pushed back his chair from the table, and 
 began to walk up and down. 
 
 " I am perfectly astonished at your doing such a thing, 
 and more astonished still that Edith — " 
 
 " Papa, please don't say another word about Edith. 
 She didn't want me to go, and I would do it." 
 
 " Why have you not told me all this before ?" 
 
 " Because, you see, I couldn't. I had heard that you 
 were going to be married, and I didn't believe it until you 
 told me ; at least — " 
 
72 
 
 Cynthia paused and grew uncomfortably red. 
 
 " Poor child !" said Mrs. Franklin, smiling at her sym- 
 pathetically. " It must have been very hard for you." 
 
 " It was," said Cynthia, simply ; " only you know, 
 mamma, I don't feel a bit so now. And then when you 
 came home, papa, it was all so exciting I forgot about it, 
 and I have only thought of it once in a while, and — well, 
 I've been afraid to tell you," she added, honestly. 
 
 " I should think so ! I am glad you have the grace to 
 be ashamed of yourself, Cynthia. Has no apology gone 
 to Aunt Betsey ?" 
 
 " No, papa." 
 
 " It is outrageous. The only thing to do is to go there 
 at once. Jack, get the Pathfinder^ 
 
 The Pathfinder^ boon of New England households, 
 was brought, and Mr. Franklin studied the trains for 
 Way borough. 
 
 " Hester, you had better come too. It is only proper 
 that I should take you to call on Aunt Betsey. Get 
 ready now, and we will go for the day." 
 
 The Franklins were quite accustomed to these sudden 
 decisions on the part of their father, and Mrs. Franklin 
 did not demur. She and Cynthia hurried off to make 
 ready, and the carriage was ordered to take them to the 
 station. 
 
 Cynthia's preparations did not take long. Her sailor- 
 hat perched sadly to one side, her hair tied with a faded 
 blue ribbon, one of the cuffs of her shirt-waist fastened 
 with a pin. All this Edith took in at a glance. 
 
 " Cynthia, you look like a guy." 
 
 " I guess I am one." 
 
 " Don't be so terribly Yankee as to say * guess.' " 
 
73 
 
 " I am a Yankee, so -vvhy shouldn't I talk like one ? 
 Oh, Edith, what do I care about ribbons and sleeve-but- 
 tons when I have to go apologize to Aunt Betsey ?" 
 
 Edith was supplying the deficiencies in her sister's 
 toilet. 
 
 " It is too bad. Janet ought not to have told. But it 
 is just like everything else — all Mrs. Franklin's fault." 
 
 " Edith, what do you mean ? Mamma did not make 
 Janet tell ; she tried to stop papa." 
 
 " I know she api^eared to. But if papa had not mar- 
 ried again would this ever have happened? You would 
 not have heard at Mrs. Parker's that he was going to, 
 Mrs. Parker wouldn't have said ' I told you so ' to Aunt 
 Betsey, Aunt Betsey wouldn't have found out you were 
 there—" 
 
 " Edith, what a goose you are ! Any other time you 
 would scold me for having done it, and I know I deserve 
 it. Now you are putting all the blame on mamma. You 
 are terribly unjust." 
 
 " There, now, you have turned against me, all because 
 of Mrs. Franklin. I declare, it is too bad !" 
 
 " Oh, Edith, I do wonder when you will find out what 
 a lovely woman mamma is ! Of course, you will have to 
 some day ; you can't help it. There, they are calling, and 
 I must run ! Good-bye." 
 
 Hastily kissing her sister, Cynthia ran off. 
 
 Neal had much enjoyed the scene at the breakfast-table. 
 He only wished that he had been present when Cynthia 
 impersonated her aunt. It must have been immense. He 
 wished that he could go also to Wayborough, but he was 
 not invited to join the party. He was to be left alone for 
 the day T>^ith Edith, for Mr. Franklin had decided that 
 
74 
 
 Jack should accompany them, to thank Aunt Betsey once 
 more, and to tell her himself of the success of the hatch. 
 
 " I'll have to step round pretty lively, then," said Jack. 
 " Those birds must get to the brooders before I go. Come 
 along, Neal. It's an awful bore having to go to Way- 
 borough the very first day. You'll have to look after the 
 chicks, and don't you forget it." 
 
 The chickens safely housed, and the family gone, Neal 
 prepared to enjoy the day. He had made up his mind 
 to see something of Edith, and he had no idea of working 
 by himself, especially as there was no absolute necessity 
 for it. 
 
 "The day is too hot for work, anyhow," he said to 
 himself. 
 
CHAPTER Vn 
 
 Neal dropped into the hammock that -was hung across 
 the corner of the porch and waited for Edith to come. 
 This was where she was apt to sit in the morning, with 
 her work or a book. 
 
 Bob lay on the grass near, panting with the heat. He 
 had just had an exciting chase after a bird that would 
 perch occasionally on a low bush, then flap its wings tri- 
 umphantly, and fly away just as naughty Bob drew near. 
 He thought it a most mistaken arrangement of affairs that 
 birds were able to fly. Now, disgusted, he had apparently 
 given up the game, but lay with one eye open awaiting 
 further developments. Presently Edith came out, followed 
 by the children with their toys. She had her work-basket, 
 for she continued to take care of their clothes, notwith- 
 standinor Mrs. Franklin's remonstrances. 
 
 She was not particularly pleased to see Neal in her fa- 
 vorite corner. She said to herself that she would have 
 liked to have one day at least free from the Gordons. 
 Edith felt cross with herself and every one else this 
 morning. 
 
 Neal rolled out of the hammock when he saw her, and 
 sprang to draw up her chair with extreme politeness. 
 
 " And you would like this little table for your basket, 
 wouldn't you ?" he said, lifting it across the porch. 
 
 "Thank you," said Edith, mollified in spite of herself. 
 Then she stiffened again. 
 
"Where are Ben and Chester?" slie asked, with a se- 
 vere glance at Bob. 
 
 " I saw them around at the side door." 
 
 " It does seem a shame that they should be banished 
 from the front of the house. For years they have had the 
 use of this piazza; and now, just because Bob chooses to 
 monopolize the place, they feel that they must go." 
 
 "Very foolish feelings," said Neal, who had returned 
 to his hammock. " If they only had a little spirit they 
 would soon show Bob his proper place. Why don't they 
 give him a good shaking when he nips their legs ?" 
 
 " Because they are larger than he, and because they are 
 too polite to do it in their own home." 
 
 Neal laughed. He had a hearty, contagious laugh, and 
 Edith could not refrain from joining in it. 
 
 "They set you a very good example," he said. " Come, 
 now, Edith, confess that you hate the Gordons, from Bob 
 up." 
 
 Edith colored. 
 
 " How silly you are !" she said, with supreme dignity. 
 " Why should I trouble myself to dishke you ?" 
 
 " Why, indeed ? There's no accounting for tastes. Then, 
 * love me, love my dog.' But I say, Edith, it rather pays 
 to make you mad. You grow two inches visibly, while I 
 shrink in proportion. It is just as if you had some of that 
 cake in your pocket that Alice came across in Wonder- 
 land, don't you know ?" 
 
 " Oh, Neal, tell us about it !" cried Janet, dropping her 
 dolls and flinging herself on the end of the hammock. " I 
 just love your stories." 
 
 " It is more than can be said of your big sister, Janet, 
 my child. Bob and I are in disgrace." 
 
" Bob's no good," said Willy ; *' he won't play." 
 
 " His coat is too thick," remarked Neal. " Bob wishes 
 it were the fashion to wear short hair in summer. I say, 
 Edith, where are you going?" for she had put up her 
 work. 
 
 " I think I shall take the buggy and go down to see 
 Gertrude Morgan. I'm tired of it here." 
 
 " Thank you," said Neal, meekly. 
 
 "Children, you can stay here," she continued. "I 
 sha'n't be gone more than an hour or two." 
 
 The children did not object. They counted upon hav- 
 ing Neal for a companion, and he was all-sufficient. 
 
 But when the old buggy rounded the corner, and, in- 
 stead of coming up to the house, rattled down the drive 
 on the farther side of the " heater-piece," Neal sprang out 
 of the hammock with a bounce and ran across the grass. 
 Bob wanted to follow, but he ordered him back. He 
 reached the fork in the avenue before Edith did. 
 
 " You're pretty cool, to go off this way when I'm going 
 with you." 
 
 " And you are very cool, to come when you are not 
 invited," said Edith, wrathfully, as Neal climbed into the 
 carriage without waiting for her to stop. 
 
 " I know. It's pleasant to be cool on such a hot day as 
 this." 
 
 "AVhere is your hat?" 
 
 " I'm under the impression it is on the hall table ; but 
 no, it may be in my room. On second thoughts, it is 
 probably in the cellar. In fact — " 
 
 " Oh, hush !" said Edith, laughing involuntarily. " Where 
 are you going in this plight?" 
 
 "To see Miss Gertrude Morgan." 
 
78 
 
 "Indeed you are not. I have no intention of driving 
 to Brenton with a hatless boy." 
 
 " ' " Then we'll go to the woods," says this pig ;' " and 
 seizing the reins, he turned abruptly, as they reached the 
 gate of Oakleigh, into a rocky, hilly lane that led up 
 through the woods. 
 
 " Now, isn't this jolly ?" said he, leaning back in his 
 corner of the buggy. " Just the place for a hot day." 
 
 " Oh, I must go back !" exclaimed Edith, suddenly. " It 
 has just occurred to me you have left the children." 
 
 "They're all right. They've got Bob, and we sha'n't 
 be gone long. Great Scott ! what a road this is. I don't 
 believe these wheels will stay on long. Why don't you 
 use the surrey ?" 
 
 " Because the surrey is not mine, and this is." 
 
 " So that's your line of march, is it ? I suspected as 
 much. But I think you are pretty hard on Hessie. She 
 means well and she's not a bad sort, though I say it as 
 shouldn't." 
 
 Edith made no answer. 
 
 "Why don't you try and make the best of things? 
 I always do. It doesn't really pay to do anything 
 else." 
 
 " Very good philosophy. But if you have come out 
 merely to lecture me on my duties as a step-daughter I 
 think we may as well turn round and go home again." 
 
 " Oh, come off, Edith ! You're a nice girl in the main, 
 and I think it's a howling shame for you to make yourself 
 so mighty offish and disagreeable to Hessie. Why, if any 
 one ought to mind it — her marrying, I mean — I'm the 
 one. It makes a big difference to me." 
 
 " Will you let me get out and walk home, if you have 
 
not the grace to drive me there ? You have no manner 
 of right to talk to me this way." 
 
 " I know I haven't, and I'm awfully sorry if Pve of- 
 fended you. I'm afraid I have. You'll forgive me, 
 Edith, please ! Don't go home. I've put my foot in it, 
 like the great awkward fellow I am. But I hate to see 
 things all at sixes and sevens the way they are, and I 
 thought perhaps if I told you what Hessie really is you 
 would feel differently. If you only knew what a good 
 sister she's been to me ! You know our father and moth- 
 er died when I was a little duffer, and Hessie's been an 
 Al sister ever since. Oar grandmother didn't take 
 much stock in me because I was a boy, and Hessie al- 
 ways stood up for me. It's natural I should take her 
 side. I hate to see any one dislike her. But I see it's 
 no ^use, and I'm sorry I spoke. But say you will excuse 
 me, Edith. You don't like it, and I ought not to have 
 said anything, and I apologize." 
 
 This was Neal in a new light. Edith was astonished. 
 She had supposed that he was only a rollicking boy, too 
 lazy to amount to anything, and too fond of a joke to 
 think of the more serious side of life. 
 
 She hesitated. She was very angry with him. Of 
 course he had no business to speak to her on this sub- 
 ject, but he was evidently sorry. His brown eyes looked 
 very repentant, and there was not a shadow of the usual 
 smile in them. 
 
 " Come now, Edith," he urged, " do it up handsomely, 
 and forgive and forget. Give me your hand on it." 
 
 And Edith did so, and with difficulty repressed a shriek 
 at the hearty squeeze that was given it. And just as they 
 had reached this point in their conversation there was a 
 
80 
 
 sudden crash. Off went tlie wlieel, and down went buggy, 
 Edith, and Neal in a heap in the lane. 
 
 Fortunately the horse stood still. They were in the 
 depths of the wood, two miles from any house. A few 
 startled birds fluttered among the trees, and a gray squir- 
 rel paused in his day's work to view the scene. 
 
 Neal and Edith crawled out from the debris. 
 
 " Here's a pretty how-d'y' do," said Neal, surveying the 
 wreck. " Edith, I greatly fear you'll never drive in that 
 buggy again." 
 
 He unhitched the horse, and then removed the rem- 
 nants of the vehicle to the side of what road there was, 
 and partially hid them in the bushes. 
 
 " On that rock we split," said he, solemnly, pointing to 
 a big stone that rose high above a rut. " If I hadn't been 
 so busy apologizing, Edith, we wouldn't have gone to pieces. 
 However, perhaps now you will use the surrey." 
 
 It was a dangerous speech, but Edith tried not to mind 
 it, and she helped Neal to clear away the stuff. Then they 
 started for home, Neal leading Robin, the -old horse, while 
 together they carried the cushions and a lap-robe that had 
 been under the seat. 
 
 Neal, his spirits raised by the accident, was in his gay- 
 est humor, and the quiet air rang with his laughter as they 
 trudged home in the heat. Edith quite forgot her previous 
 displeasure, and was so like her old self that Neal in his 
 turn was surprised, and thought she was almost as nice 
 as Cynthia. He had never seen her in this mood be- 
 fore. 
 
 When Neal abruptly deserted the children in his pur- 
 suit of Edith they were at first too much amazed to do 
 
81 
 
 anything but stand perfectly still and watch him. Then, 
 as the back of the buggy disappeared behind the trees, 
 their wrath found words. 
 
 " Mean old things !" exclaimed Janet. " They've gone 
 oS and left us, an' I tickerlarly wanted Neal to tell us a 
 story. What can we do ?" 
 
 Bob joined the group, his tail disconsolately lowered. 
 His master had been very harsh and unfeeling to leave 
 him at home, he thought. The trio stood in a row on 
 the top step of the piazza. Then, with a feeble and 
 melancholy wag of the tail, Bob again stretched himself 
 on the grass and prepared to make the best of a bad bar- 
 gain. 
 
 The others were not so easily appeased. 
 
 " We've got nuffin' to do," grumbled Willy. " I wish 
 we could play wif de chickens." 
 
 " We can't do that," said Janet, decidedly. " We can't 
 touch those chickens if we don't want a turrible spanking. 
 You know what papa said." 
 
 " Maybe mamma wouldn't let him spank us." 
 
 The chickens presented a powerful fascination for Wih 
 ly. He was revolving in his mind the question as to wheth- 
 er it would or would not pay to be spanked for the sake 
 of having some fun with the chicks. 
 
 " No, no," said Janet, who had no fancy for a whipping. 
 " We've got to do somethin' else." 
 
 She paused. Slowly a gleam of mischief came into 
 her eyes, and a smile broke over her round and rosy 
 face. 
 
 " Willy, we'll play barber." 
 
 " How do we do it ?" 
 
 " I speak to be barber. Don't you remember when papa 
 
took you to have your hair cut? Well, you be papa an' 
 you bring Bob, an' we'll cut his hair. Neal said it was 
 turrible hot for him. Neal '11 be glad when he comes 
 home an' finds it all nicely cut." 
 
 *' Course he will. Only I'd like to be barber, Janet." 
 
 " No, I will. It is my game, so I can be barber. Get 
 the hat and be papa." 
 
 Willy obeyed, and presently returned in a large straw 
 hat that had once been his father's farm hat, and was now 
 relegated to a back closet for use in the children's games. 
 Janet, meanwhile, had found a large pair of scissors in 
 Edith's basket, unfortunately left on the porch, with which 
 she was viciously snipping the air. 
 
 " We'll have some fun even if they did go off an' 
 leave us," said she. *' Bring along Bob. Here's the 
 chair." 
 
 But Bob refused to be brought. He lay stretched on 
 his side, now and then weakly wagging his tail in re- 
 sponse to their commands, but otherwise not stirring. It 
 was too hot to move for any one but his master. 
 
 " We'll have to do it there. We'll pretend he's a sick 
 person that has to have her hair cut off. They do some- 
 times, you know," said Janet, with an air of superior 
 knowledge. " You can be my 'sistant. Here's a scissor 
 for you ;" extracting another pair from the too convenient 
 basket. 
 
 In a moment they were botb hard at work. Snippity, 
 snip, clip, clip, went the two pairs of scissors. Bob's 
 beautiful long black hair, the pride of his master's heart 
 and the means of securing a prize at the last dog- show, 
 lay in a heap on the grass. 
 
 " That's nice," said Janet, surveying the result with 
 
83 
 
 satisfaction. " He must feel lovely and cool. Now let's 
 do tlie other side." 
 
 But that was not so easy. Bob still refused to stir. They 
 pulled and punched and pushed, but he would not turn over. 
 
 "Well, we'll just have to leave it an' do it'nother time," 
 said Janet at last, with a parting clip at ear and tail. " Let's 
 go down an' play in the brook." 
 
 And flinging the scissors on the grass, these two young 
 persons deserted the scene of their labors, and were soon 
 building a fine dam across the brook in the pasture. There 
 they remained until the sound of the bell on the carriage- 
 house, rung to summon to dinner the men at work in the 
 distant fields, warned them that it was twelve o'clock and 
 almost time to go in themselves. 
 
 Edith and Neal plodded slowly homeward. It was very 
 warm, for though it was not sunny in the woods the trees 
 shut off the air. They turned in from the lane and walked 
 up the avenue, Robin's hoofs falling regularly on the gravel 
 with a hot, thumping sound. 
 
 " Jiminy, this is a scorcher 1" said Neal, wiping his fore- 
 head. *' Here comes Bob. He doesn't seem to mind the 
 weather. No, it isn't Bob, either. What dog is it ? Great 
 Scott, Edith, it is Bob ! What has happened to him ?" 
 
 He dropped the reins, and Robin trudged off alone to 
 his stall. 
 
 " Why, Neal, I never saw such a sight !" cried Edith. 
 
 Bob, bounding merrily over the grass, overjoyed at see- 
 ing his master return, was quite unconscious of the effect 
 he produced. On one side he was the same beautiful, 
 glossy-coated creature he had ever been ; on the other, 
 through stray, uneven bunches of hair gleamed touches of 
 
84 
 
 whitish skin. His ears, which had measured a proud eigh- 
 teen inches from tip to tip, flapped on either side in un- 
 graceful scantness ; and liis tail, from which so short a 
 time before had waved a beautiful raven plume, now 
 wagged in uncompromising stubbiness. 
 
 " Bob, Bob, what has happened to you ? You look as if 
 you had been in a fire !" 
 
 Edith, with an awful foreboding in her heart, hurried 
 towards the house. Yes, her fears were realized ! Two 
 pairs of scissors and a mass of black hair told the tale. 
 She sank down on the steps and covered her face. 
 
 " The children have done it," she murmured ; " oh, Neal, 
 
 we ought never to have left them !" 
 
 Neal stood there perfectly silent. He had grown very 
 white, and his eyes looked dangerously dark. 
 
 "Confound those children!" he said at last, between set 
 teeth ; " you had better keep them out of my way for a 
 time, Edith. I'd just like to murder them, the way I feel 
 now." 
 
 " Oh, Neal, I am so sorry ! I can't tell you how dread- 
 fully I feel. But we oughtn't to have both gone. You 
 see, I didn't know you were coming too." 
 
 " And I didn't know I was expected to act as child's 
 nurse," said Neal, angrily. " The dog is done for, as far as 
 shows are concerned. His coat will never be the same 
 again ; it ruins it to cut it." He stopped abruptly. 
 
 " I guess I had better get out of the way," he said, pres- 
 ently. " I can't answer for my temper. Come, Bob." 
 
 And he walked down across the grass and went off into 
 the woods. 
 
 Edith, left alone, began to cry. She would not have 
 had this happen for the world. Again she said to herself, 
 
85 
 
 why had the Gordons ever come there to disturb their 
 peace of mind in so many ways? And where were the 
 children ? They should be severely punished. 
 
 She looked for them all over the house, but, of course, 
 they were not to be found. After a long time she saw 
 them coming slowly homeward. They were wet and be- 
 draggled, for the stones had been as obdurate as Bob and 
 refused to move. Willy had tumbled into the brook, 
 and Janet had followed, in a vain attempt to help him 
 out. 
 
 And now they were met by an irate sister who, seizing 
 them roughly, dragged them up-stairs. 
 
 " You shall go straight to bed and stay there ! You 
 have ruined Neal's dog, and he'll never get over it. You 
 are bad, naughty children !" 
 
 " I think you're silly, Edith !" screamed Janet. " We 
 didn't hurt him, and we only cooled him off. You're 
 mean to make us go to bed in the middle of the day, an' 
 you'd orter not drag us this way. Mamma wouldn't." 
 
 " I don't care what your mamma would do ; it's what I 
 do." 
 
 Edith did not realize that a few words spoken calmly 
 but sternly to Janet and Willy would have more lasting 
 effect than this summary mode of punishment. The truth 
 was, she was too angry to trust her tongue at all, and 
 this reference to Mrs. Franklin annoyed her. Everything 
 seemed against her, and the hot weather made things 
 worse. 
 
 She ate her dinner in solitude, and then, when the after- 
 noon had worn on for an hour or two, she at last saw 
 Neal coming across the fields. 
 
 Edith went to meet him. 
 
86 
 
 " You want sometliing to eat," she said. " Come in 
 and I'll find you something. Neal, I am so sorry." 
 
 "Oh, don't say anything. What's done can't be un- 
 done. Lend me your shears after dinner and I'll finish 
 things up with a flourish. I can get him into better shape 
 than he is. He looks like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde just 
 now. I'm as hungry as a hunter, so I don't mind accept- 
 ing your ofier of a bite." 
 
 Edith went off to find something, and as she prepared 
 a dainty meal for the boy she thought to herself that he 
 set her a good example. She knew what pride he had 
 taken in Bob's appearance, and she knew how angry he 
 had been at first. It must have been a hard battle for him. 
 
 And it was. Edith was far from realizing what a tem- 
 per Neal had. He had felt that morning that his only 
 safety lay in flight, and he had tramped many miles 
 through the woods in the endeavor to overcome his anger. 
 
 After luncheon he took the scissors and set to work 
 upon Bob's other side. He could not repress a groan of 
 dismay once or twice. 
 
 " If they had only done it decently !" he said. " In 
 some places it looks as if it had been torn out by the 
 roots, they've cropped it so close, and here again are these 
 long pieces. Well, well, Bobby, my boy, I fancy we were 
 too vain of our appearance. Here goes 1" 
 
 In a short time Bob had the appearance of a closely 
 shaven French poodle. 
 
 Edith watched the process for a few minutes, but pres- 
 ently went to her room. 
 
 '< I shall be held accountable for this too, I suppose," 
 she said to herself. " Oh, why did those Gordons ever 
 
 pomp. 1" 
 
CHAPTER Vm 
 
 Miss Betsey Trinkett had risen betimes this Friday- 
 morning. She had planned to do some work in her gar- 
 den, and, besides. Miss Betsey was always an early riser. 
 
 Ebenezer, the " hired man," when he came back from 
 driving the cows to pasture, found her hard at work in her 
 huge sunbonnet and garden gloves, pruning the box that 
 formed the border of the old-fashioned garden. 
 
 Here bloomed together in delicious profusion roses, 
 white, red, and pink, sweet-william, dahlias, peonies, 
 mignonette, and heart's-ease, while the labyrinth which 
 wound in and out among them was the pride of Miss 
 Betsey's heart. 
 
 After a time she straightened herself and stood gazing 
 at the view, her quaint little figure, in its old-time, gay- 
 colored gown, looking not unlike the flowers among 
 which it stood. 
 
 " Well, I want to know !" she said, aloud, her hand 
 raised to shield her eyes. " Any one who says his view is 
 better than mine must be just about daft. Land sakes ! 
 I'd just about die if I didn't get that sweep of the Merri- 
 mac and those mountings beyond !" And then, satisfied, 
 she returned to her weeding. 
 
 Miss Betsey's house, in which she had been born and 
 her father also, stood on the side of a hill. Behind was a 
 steep pasture, full of rocks and stubby bushes. In front, 
 on the other side of the road, the ground sloped abruptly 
 
to the village. Even the old white meeting-house, built 
 on a hill though it was, stood lower than the Trinkett 
 farm. Beyond the village flowed the beautiful Merrimac. 
 A broad stretch of meadow land and cultivated fields rest- 
 ed the eye with their peaceful greens, and far away was 
 the dim outline of the hills. 
 
 " Silas don't get a touch of the river," continued Miss 
 Betsey, " and as for the medders, they're nowhere to be 
 seen. He thinks because he can see the Common and the 
 Soldiers' Monument his view 's better than mine ! He ex- 
 pects me to give up the Merrimac for the Soldiers' Monu- 
 ment I Sakes alive 1" 
 
 She worked steadily for some time until the click of the 
 gate attracted her attention. 
 
 "I want to know 1" she exclaimed, laying down her tools 
 and drawing off her old gloves; "if here ain't Nephew 
 John and Jackie and that naughty Cynthy. Well, well ! 
 And this must be the bride." And she hurried down the 
 path to meet them. 
 
 Cynthia came shyly forward after the introduction of 
 her step-mother and the greetings were over. All the way 
 in the train she had been meditating what she should say. 
 "With Jack's help she had composed a little speech. His 
 help had consisted in acting as audience, for Cynthia was 
 seldom at a loss for words. But when the tinae came the 
 speecb deserted her, and all she could think of doing was 
 to put her arms around Aunt Betsey's neck, and, looking 
 into the depths of the big sun-bonnet, say, softly : 
 
 " Aunt Betsey, I'm so sorry ! Will you forgive me ?" 
 
 " Forgive you, child !" exclaimed the old lady, her re- 
 sentment melting at sight of her favorite niece. " I want to 
 know ! Did you suppose I'd remembered to be angry all 
 
lis 
 
 I"- -I:-; 
 
 "'I MANT TO know!' SHE EXCLAIMED, DRAWING OFF HER OLD GLOVES ' 
 
this time ? La, Cynthy, -when you're as old as I am you'll 
 have learced to take a little joke. And don't you suppose 
 I'm real pleased to have you look so much like me ? If 
 Mrs. Parker couldn't tell us apart there must be some re- 
 semblance." 
 
 " Nor Jack either," put in Cynthia, eagerly, with a light- 
 ened heart. 
 
 " I think you are too good to her. Aunt Betsey," said 
 Mr. Franklin, as they walked towards the house. "I 
 brought her up here to-day for the sole purpose of apolo- 
 gizing." 
 
 " Do tell ! And I nearly disremembered it entirely ! 
 But I'm real glad to see you and my new niece. Come 
 right into the best parlor." 
 
 She opened the door and, with reverent step, ushered 
 them into the carefully kept " best parlor." An immacu- 
 late carpet, ever shielded from the light of day, covered 
 the floor, and a horse -hair sofa and a few chairs of the 
 same inhospitable material stood at regular intervals of 
 distance from one another. 
 
 A pair of tall vases and some sea-shells decked the 
 mantel-piece. During their childhood it had been a rare 
 treat to Jack and Cynthia to hold these shells to their eare 
 and listen to the " roar of the ocean " within. On a table 
 between the windows were some wax-flowers under a glass, 
 and on the marble-topped centre-table were a few books 
 placed together in neat little piles. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin was given the place of honor, the large 
 arm-chair. The chair being a high one and she being a 
 rather small woman, her feet barely touched the floor, and 
 she sat in constant terror lest she should slide ignomin- 
 iously to the ground. 
 
90 
 
 It was so dark wlien they entered the room that Mr. 
 Franklin stumbled over a worsted -work footstool which 
 stood in a prominent place, but Miss Trinkett opened the 
 blinds a crack, and two bars of blazing July sunshine fell 
 across the carpet. Then she sat down to entertain her 
 guests, but her mind wandered. The Franklins all talked, 
 but Miss Betsey was unusually silent. " I want to know !" 
 and " Do tell !" came at random. Finally she said, with a 
 hasty glance at the sunlight : 
 
 " I wonder now if you'd mind coming into my sitting- 
 room ? I'd be real pleased to have you, and maybe we'd 
 find it cooler." 
 
 They all jumped to their feet with alacrity. Miss Betsey 
 closed her blinds again with a sigh of relief, and in the 
 freer atmosphere of the sitting-room, secure in the knowl- 
 edge that her best-parlor carpet was no longer fading, she 
 found her tongue. 
 
 " I was coming to see you, niece, just as soon as I could 
 see my way to it. Marthy, my hired girl, has been off for 
 a spell, and that's kept me busy. I'd have written, but I'm 
 a poor hand at writing. Silas he says he wonders the let- 
 ters I write ever get there, but then he's one of the doubting 
 kind, Silas is. I've great faith in government. I think 
 as long as they undertake to carry letters about at all, 
 they've got sense enough to carry 'em safe, even if I do 
 disremember part of the direction sometimes. And it's 
 wonderful, as I've said many a time before, what you can 
 send through the mails nowadays. But now tell me about 
 those poor little orphans in the poultry-yard." 
 
 The success of the last hatch was described to her ; in 
 fact, all the news of Brenton was asked for and received, 
 and in turn bits of Wayborough gossip were told to the 
 
91 
 
 attentive Mrs. Franklin, while Silas's latest sayings were 
 repeated and commented upon. 
 
 When Jack and Cynthia had gone out-doors, Miss Bet- 
 sey drew her chair a little closer to that of Mrs. Franklin. 
 
 " My dear — Hester, I think, your name is, and Hester it 
 will be ray pleasure to call you — my dear Hester, I want 
 to tell you first and foremost that Fm real pleased you 
 should come and be a mother to those children of Nephew 
 John's. They needed you, they needed you badly. And 
 now Fm going to treat you as one of the family, and talk 
 over a little matter with you and John. 
 
 "You've probably heard of Silas Green. He's been 
 courting me these forty years, and now he's got it into his 
 head that he can't be climbing this hill any more of a Sun- 
 day night. He w^ants me to fix the day ! I declare, it 
 kind of takes the stiffening right out of me to think of 
 fixing the day after all these years, and I still hold out, as 
 I can't give up ray view of the river." 
 
 " AVhat are you going to do about it. Aunt Betsey ?" 
 
 " That's just it, John. Well, Fm going to hold out a 
 little longer, and I think — in fact, Fm pretty sure — that Silas 
 is weakening. You see, it's kind of lonesome for him 
 down there, now his sister's dead that kept house for him, 
 and it is depressing to have nothing much to look at but 
 the Common and the Soldiers' Monument. Yes, I think 
 he's weakening, and I shouldn't wonder if you were to find 
 him here next time you come. But Fll let you know in 
 time to come to the wedding, you may be sure of that. 
 But there's something else I want to speak about." 
 
 Here Miss Betsey paused. She folded her hands anew 
 in her lap, and, rocking briskly, waited for some one to 
 speak. The clock on the chimney-shelf ticked comfortably, 
 
92 
 
 and Miss Trinkett's canary chirped and hopped about in 
 its cage at the window. Mrs. Franklin looked at her hus- 
 band. 
 
 " And what is that, Aunt Betsey ?" said he. " Somehow 
 you have so taken my breath away by hinting that you 
 are going to make Mr. Silas Green happy, after all these 
 years, that I can't take in anything else." 
 
 " Ah now, my dear boy, don't jump too quickly at a 
 conclusion. Things may not be any nearer a settling now 
 than they were forty years ago. It's all a question of 
 view, and men are terribly set in their ways. However, to 
 continue : I want to make each of the children a present. 
 I feel that I'm getting on in life — though I'm not so very 
 old either, but, still, no one knows what may happen — and 
 I'd rather do things up before I die than have it all a-going 
 on after I'm laid away. I never did think much of wills, 
 anyhow. So I'm going to send 'em each a present from 
 time to time as I feel inclined." 
 
 " Nonsense, Aunt Betsey !" said Mr. Franklin. " You 
 are not going to die for many a year yet, and you give the 
 children enough. Keep your money — " 
 
 " Now you needn't say a word, John. My mind's made 
 up, and it takes a deal to make me change it — it's in the 
 Trinkett blood. And then I like to get the letters the 
 children write to thank me. I must say I'm powerful 
 fond of their letters, 'specially Cynthy's. She does write 
 a beautiful letter. I'll send 'em each in turn, beginning 
 with Edith and ending up with Willy. Of course, they 
 can do what they like with the money, but it would be 
 my advice to put it in the savings-bank. It's wonderful 
 how money does roll up in an institution of that kind." 
 
 Miss Betsey could not be turned from her purpose, so 
 
her nephew was forced to content himself with begging 
 her, if she sent money through the mails, to address it 
 carefully. 
 
 " One would think, nephew, from the way you talk that 
 I didn't know how to write," said the old lady, with some 
 asperity. 
 
 Jack and Cynthia in the meantime Avere exploring the 
 farm. It was a never-failing source of pleasure to them, 
 accustomed to farm life though they were. 
 
 "This is a really true farm," said Cynthia; "not a 
 make-believe, like ours, with a hired farmer to do it all. 
 And Aunt Betsey's garden is a thousand times nicer than 
 ours, and her hens are all so big and strong-looking." 
 
 "That's only because you've been looking so much at 
 the ' little orphans.' By-the-way, 1 wonder how they're 
 getting on. I do wish I hadn't had to leave home to-day. 
 I wonder if Gordon will attend to things. Queer kind of 
 a duffer, isn't he, Cyntli ?" 
 
 "Yes, but I like him. He's awfully lazy and all that, 
 but I think I'd trust him." 
 
 " Oh, I'd trust him far enough, except where hard work's 
 concerned. In that line I think I'd rather trust myself. 
 But I wish it was time to go home." 
 
 " So do I," said Cynthia, thoughtfully. " I have a 
 feeling that something is going on there and we are 
 missing it. Aunt Betsey's isn't as much fun as usual, 
 though she was awfully good to forgive me so easily. 
 And you have been frightening me about it all the way, 
 Jack." 
 
 At last the day wore on, and amid cordial good-byes 
 from Miss Betsey, her relatives took leave. 
 
 " I'll send you something for those little orphans at 
 
94 
 
 Christmas-time, Jackie," she called after them, "though 
 this being only July I hope to see you before then." 
 
 AVhen the party reached home they found Bob shaven 
 and shorn, Neal in his most careless and teasing frame of 
 mind, Edith depressed and silent, and the children in dis- 
 grace. 
 
 " I knew something was happening while we were 
 away," whispered Cynthia to Jack. 
 
 "If only we hadn't missed it," returned he. "Smash- 
 ing the buggy and shaving Bob, all in one day ! It's a 
 regular shame that we weren't on hand." 
 
 " It seems to me that you were neglecting things some- 
 what to-day, Edith," said her father, when he heard the 
 story. 
 
 There, it had come ! Of course she was to be censured 
 as she had expected. 
 
 " I didn't know I was to be tied hand and foot and look 
 after the children every minute of the day," she answered, 
 crossly, " and it was not my fault that we went to the 
 woods and broke the buggy." 
 
 " I don't care in the least about the buggy, but about 
 Neal's dog." 
 
 This was too much. Edith felt badly herself about the 
 dog, but surely she was not responsible. She had not 
 been the means of bringing him to Oakleigh, she said 
 to herself. She was about to reply, when Mrs. Franklin 
 interposed and diverted her husband's mind from the sub- 
 ject. This still further annoyed Edith. 
 
 Why should Mrs. Franklin feel called upon to interfere 
 between her and her father ? And she encouraged herself 
 to dislike more tban ever the " intruders " at Oakleigh. 
 
 The summer went by. More chickens were hatched. 
 
95 
 
 until they nnmbered four hundred, and then " Franklin & 
 Gordon " concluded that they would not fill the machine 
 again this season. The stock must be carefully tended 
 during the winter, and Jack would have his hands full, 
 though one of the men would help him if necessary. 
 
 Jack was to go to Boston to school this winter. Neal 
 was going back to boarding-school ; it was his last year, 
 and next autumn he hoped to begin college life. 
 
 One fine day towards the end of the summer Cynthia 
 and Neal walked out over the pasture to the " far mead- 
 ow," and sat down in the shade of a huge hay-stack. The 
 air was full of the hum of fall insects, and grasshoppers 
 alighted here, there, and everywhere about them. Neal 
 tried in vain to catch one with his hat. Then he tossed 
 it to one side, and clasping his hands behind his head, 
 leaned back against the hay with a heavy sigh. 
 
 " What is the matter ?" asked Cynthia. " I should 
 think you had the weight of the world on your shoulders." 
 
 " And so I have. I've a good mind to trot out the 
 whole story to you, Cynth. I wonder if it would do any 
 good." 
 
 "Of course it would," replied Cynthia, promptly. 
 " There is nothing like talking a thing over, and, besides, 
 I've wanted dreadfully to know what has been the matter 
 with you." 
 
 " How did you know anything was ?" 
 
 " I have seen you growing glummer and glummer. You 
 haven't been nearly as jolly lately. And when you got 
 that letter this morning you looked as if you would like 
 to punch somebody." 
 
 "You do take in a lot! I never supposed anybody 
 would notice. I wonder if Ilessie did." 
 
96 
 
 " I saw her looking at you." 
 
 " I wish she'd look to some purpose, and hand out what 
 I want. She's so taken up with you Franklins nowa- 
 days." 
 
 " What do you want ?" 
 
 " Money, of course." 
 
 " Why, Neal, mamma gave you a lot the other day !" 
 
 " Oh, that was a mere drop in the bucket. Yes, I really 
 think I'll have to tell you what a fix I'm in. Perhaps 
 you'll see some way out of it." 
 
 " Do," said Cynthia, sympathetically ; "I am sure I 
 will." 
 
 '' Well, it's just this. I owe a lot of money to a fellow 
 that goes to St. Asaph's, and I had a letter from him this 
 morning asking me to fork out at once, or he would write 
 to my guardians or speak to the trustees at th© school. It's 
 a nasty thing to do, anyhow. I don't think the fellow is 
 a gentleman." 
 
 " Then why did you ever have anything to do with 
 him ?" 
 
 " That's just like a girl ! I'm sorry I told you." 
 
 " Oh, don't say that ! Indeed, it only just struck me 
 that people who are not gentlemen are so horrid. Please 
 go on, Neal, and tell me the rest." 
 
 " There's nothing to tell except that I owe him a hun- 
 dred dollars." 
 
 " One hundred dollars ! Neal !" To Cynthia this seemed 
 a fortune. "Why, how did you ever spend it all?" 
 
 " Spend it ! Easily enough. Suppers once in a while, 
 ginger-pop, candy, cigarettes." 
 
 " I didn't know you smoked." 
 
 " Neither I do. I just do it occasionally to show I'm 
 
97 
 
 up to it. But it's no go if you're training, and Pm train- 
 ing most of the time. But you have to keep cigarettes 
 on hand for the fellows." 
 
 " But, Neal, you told me once how large your allowance 
 is, and I don't see how you ever in the world managed to 
 spend so much more." 
 
 " Easily enough, as I said before. You see, I have the 
 name of being a rich fellow, and I have to live up to it, 
 which makes it hard. I have to live up to it, when, after 
 all, I'm practically dependent on Hessie. I haven't a cent 
 of my own until I'm twenty-five. This fellow, Bronson, 
 offered to lend me a fiver one day, aud I got into the habit 
 of askino^ him. I didn't mean to let it run on so lonef. 
 He's a queer lot — awfully smooth on the outside, and inside 
 hard as nails. We were good friends at first ; then he did 
 something I didn't like and I cut him, but he didn't seem 
 to mind it, and afterwards when he offered me the fiver I 
 thought I might as well take it. AVhat a mean will that 
 ■svas anyhow of grandmother's." 
 
 Neal moodily tugged at a wisp of straw which he held 
 in his teeth, and looked across the meadow. A herd of 
 cows came down on the opposite side of the river for a 
 drink, and Bob barked at them loudly, running as near to 
 them as he dared. 
 
 For a time Cynthia did not speak. Then she said : 
 
 " Aren't you going to ask mamma ?" 
 
 " I suppose I'll have to. I wouldn't mind a bit if she 
 were not married, but I suppose your father will have to 
 know about it." 
 
 " I suppose," said Cynthia, sagely, " mamma would have 
 just given it to you without saying anything, while papa 
 will ask questions." 
 
98 
 
 *' That's just about the size of it. And he will not only 
 ask the questions, but he won't like the answers. I think 
 I won't tackle them for a hundred all at once. I'll put it 
 at fifty, and try to get Bronson to wait for the rest. I 
 suppose I'll get some tips at Christmas-time." 
 
 " I think it would be ever so much better, Neal, to tell 
 the whole truth. It will save ever so much trouble in the 
 end." 
 
 " But it won't save trouble now, and I hate a fuss. The 
 fifty business will be bad enough. I like to take things 
 quietly." 
 
 "That's just it, Neal. Do take my advice, and tell 
 mamma the whole thing." 
 
 "That's the worst of telling a girl anything. They al- 
 ways want to give advice. I wonder why it is that a 
 woman from her earliest years loves to advise." 
 
 "Much you know about it," said Cynthia; "and you 
 needn't have told me about your scrape if you didn't want 
 me to say anything." 
 
 " Well, I've told you now, and you must give me your 
 word of honor that you will never give me away. Now 
 promise, Cynthia." 
 
 " Of course I'll promise, Neal. I wouldn't tell it for 
 the world if you don't want me to. But oh, I wish you 
 would tell the whole thing yourself !" 
 
 But Neal was obdurate ; and when he found how his 
 brother-in-law received his demand for fifty dollars he 
 thought he had acted wisely. 
 
 " Of course it is not really my affair," said Mr. Frank- 
 lin, " except that I am your sister's husband and have a 
 right to advise her. The money is hers to do with it 
 what she likes, and she can spend it all on you if she 
 
99 
 
 wishes. But I think fifty dollars is a good deal for a 
 school-boy, with the allowance that you have, to owe. If 
 you were my boy I should look into the matter pretty 
 carefully, you may be sure. However, I am neither your 
 father nor your guardian. But it is a bad precedent. If 
 you spend money in this way at school, what will you 
 do in college ?" 
 
 Hester expostulated with her brother, but wrote a check 
 and gave it to him. Neal was almost sorry then that he 
 had not placed the sum at one hundred. It would have 
 been about as easy, perhaps. 
 
 He sent the check to Bronson, assuring him that he 
 would pay him the balance before long. This done, Neal 
 became as gay and debonair as ever. Cynthia, knowing 
 the facts, wondered that he could so completely forget the 
 burden of debt that was still resting upon him. She 
 thought that he must have discovered some other way of 
 settling the matter. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 The last excitement of the summer before school began 
 was a river picnic, given by Gertrude Morgan. A note 
 was brought to Edith one afternoon which ran thus : 
 
 " My DEAREST Edith, — Will you, Cynthia, Jack, and 
 Neal Gordon join us on the river to-morrow ? My cous- 
 ins, Tom and Kitty Morgan, are here, and another fellow, 
 awfully nice, that Tom brought with him, and we want 
 to do something to entertain them. This is such perfect 
 weather for the river. We will come up from Brenton early, 
 and reach Oakleigh before noon. You can join us in your 
 boats, and we will go higher up above the rapids for din- 
 ner. If you will bring your chafiug-dish and your alcohol 
 lamp for the coffee it is all I ask. On the whole, you need 
 not bring the lamp. We will build a fire. But the chafing- 
 dish would be nice. Do come ! DonH fail. Au revoir 
 until to-morrow at about twelve. Devotedly, 
 
 " Gertrude. 
 
 " P.S. I am sure you will lose your heart to Tom's friend. 
 I have !" 
 
 The next day, shortly before noon, the Franklins were 
 awaiting their friends on the Oakleigh boat -landing. 
 They had two canoes, one that the family had owned for 
 a year or two, and another that Mrs. Franklin had given 
 her brother on his birthday. 
 
101 ,.' 
 
 Baskets were packed in tlic "boats, Go'ntaining tlie eiiaf- 
 ino--dish, some sandwiches, and delicious cake that Mrs. 
 Franklin had had made as her contribution to the picnic, 
 and a large box of candy which Neal had bought. 
 
 It was a glorious day. The September sun shone 
 brightly, and a trifle warmly, on the dancing river. The 
 gay foliage along the banks — for the autumn tints had come 
 early this year — was reflected in the clear water, and a gen- 
 tle wind stirred the white birches. An army of crows had 
 encamped near by, and the woods rang with their cawing 
 as they carried on an important debate among themselves. 
 
 Presently around the curve came the advance guard of 
 the picnic, a canoe containing Dennis Morgan and his 
 cousin Kitty, while closely following them was another, 
 paddled by Tom Morgan, in which sat Gertrude and a 
 stranger. 
 
 They all waved their hats and handkerchiefs, and when 
 they came within speaking distance Gertrude shouted : 
 
 " Isn't it fun ? Such a perfect day, and more fellows 
 than girls! You know my cousins, don't you, except 
 Neal ? Kitty and Tom, let me present Mr. Gordon, and 
 this is Mr. Bronson. The Misses Edith and Cynthia 
 Franklin, Mr. Tony Bronson. There now, did I do it 
 correctly ? Did I mention the ladies' names first, and then 
 the gentlemen's ? I picked up a book on etiquette in a 
 shop the other day, and it said you must." 
 
 Every one laughed, and no one noticed but Cynthia that 
 Neal's face darkened when he heard Bronson's name and 
 saw him for the first time. Of course, she knew at once 
 who he was. 
 
 " There ought to be a grand change of partners," con- 
 tinued the lively Gertrude, " but it's too much trouble. 
 
102 
 
 However, Tom, you had better get out and take one of the 
 Oakleigh canoes, and an Oakleigh girl and Jack can get 
 in here — unless Mr. Bronson would rather be the one to 
 change." 
 
 This was said with a coquettish glance at Bronson, who 
 in a low voice hastened to assure her that he was more 
 than satisfied with his present position. 
 
 He was a handsome fellow of about seventeen, tall and 
 of somewhat slight build, with very regular features. His 
 eyes were his weak point. They were of a pale greenish- 
 blue, and were too close together. 
 
 His greeting to Neal was most cordial. *' Holloa, old 
 fellow !" he said, " this is a piece of luck. Miss Morgan 
 told me you were stopping here, so I was prepared for the 
 pleasure." 
 
 " As if he hadn't known it before," muttered Neal to 
 Cynthia, as he helped her into the canoe, and they pushed 
 off. " He sent that letter here and he got mine from 
 here. He's a hypocritical ass." 
 
 " Look out, Neal !" cautioned Cynthia ; " you know how 
 sound carries on the water." And she was quite sure from 
 the expression on Bronson's face that he had heard. 
 
 There was some discussion as to where their destination 
 should be. 
 
 " Let's go as high as we can," said Gertrude. "Above 
 Charles River village." 
 
 *' But there is the ' carry,' " objected her brother. 
 
 " What of that ? We've often carried before." 
 
 " Not with an average of one fellow to a boat. No, I 
 say we stop the other side of the small rapids. If any 
 one wants to explore above there on his own account he 
 can do so." 
 
103 
 
 It was finally settled thus, and the party set forth. It 
 ■was a pretty sight. The cedar canoes, with gay carpets 
 and cushions, and freight of girls and boys in white boat- 
 ing costumes, gave the needed touch of life to the peace- 
 ful Charles River. So Mrs. Franklin thought when she 
 came down to see them off. 
 
 " I have not been invited," she said, " but I really think 
 I must drive up this afternoon and see your encampment." 
 
 " Oh, do, Mrs. Franklin !" cried Gertrude, enthusiasti- 
 cally. <'We would just love to have you come, and we 
 ought to have a chaperon, though we are all brothers and 
 sisters and cousins ! She is the most perfect creature," 
 she added to Bronson, as they moved off. "You know 
 she is the Franklins' step-mother. Isn't she a dear. Jack ?" 
 
 Jack, who was paddling, acquiesced. Bronson sat at 
 ease in the bow. He was always lazy. Neal, though 
 averse to hard work which was work only, was ready for 
 anything in the way of athletics. He was now an ac- 
 complished paddler, and had already far outstripped the 
 others. 
 
 Their destination was some two or three miles up the 
 river. The water was low, and Cynthia kept a sharp look- 
 out for rocks. 
 
 " Keep to the left here, Neal," she directed ; " that 
 ledge runs all across the river." 
 
 " I bet those Brenton fellows will scrape going through 
 here. Not one in a hundred would take the left. I haven't 
 scraped once since I had the canoe. The bottom is as 
 smooth as the day she came, and that is saying a good 
 deal when the river is as low as it is now." 
 
 They skirted a huge oak-tree which had fallen half 
 across the river, and, passing through some gentle rapids, 
 
104 
 
 readied the cleared shady spot on the bank where they 
 were to eat their luncheon. The others soon arrived, and 
 preparations vv'ere immediately begun for building a fire. 
 The boys explored the neighborhood for dry sticks, and a 
 cheerful little blaze was soon crackling away on the bank. 
 Potatoes had been buried beneath to roast in the ashes, 
 and the coffee-pot, filled with water from a neighboring 
 spring, was placed above. Dennis Morgan, whose coffee 
 was far-famed and unrivalled, superintended this part of 
 the work. 
 
 The girls unpacked the baskets, and spreading a table- 
 cloth, arranged the goodies most temptingly thereon. 
 
 ''Edith, you must do the oysters on the chafing-dish," 
 said Gertrude ; " no one does them like you." 
 
 " Oysters ! Have you really got oysters ? How per- 
 fect !" cried Cynthia, who, laden with cups and saucers, 
 was stumbling over some stray boughs at the imminent 
 risk of herself and the crockery. 
 
 " Let me help you, Miss Franklin," said Bronson, com- 
 ing languidly forward. 
 
 " Oh no, thanks !" returned Cynthia, tartly. " I would 
 not trouble you for the world. You have quite enough to 
 do." 
 
 Dennis Morgan, who heard her, turned away to hide a 
 laugh. Bronson had been leaning against a tree most of 
 the time with his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " Come now, don't be too hard on a fellow, Miss Frank- 
 lin. I'll do anything ypu ask. A fellow feels kind of 
 out of place, don't you know, with so many working." 
 
 " Really ! Well, if you are truly anxious to make your- 
 self useful, perhaps you will get some ferns to decorate 
 the table ?" 
 
105 
 
 "Certainly," said Bronson, looking about him in a help- 
 less way ; '' will these do ?" and he broke o2 a large brake. 
 
 " No, of course not. The ones I want grow at quite a 
 distance from here, over in those woods there," pointing. 
 " Please get some." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Franklin, so far ? But you will go with me, 
 of course." 
 
 "'Of course,' did I hear you say?" asked Cynthia, 
 straightening herself from her arrangement of the table 
 and standing very erect, with a bottle in one hand and an 
 olive on the end of a fork in the other. " What can you 
 be thinking of? Of course ?20^. /am busy. Bat you 
 have no time to lose if you want to get them here before 
 lunch is ready. It is a good half-mile there and back." 
 
 " When Miss Franklin commands I have but to obey," 
 said Bronson, with a bow, though there was a disagreeable 
 light in his steely eyes. " Who will take pity on me and 
 go with me ? Miss Morgan, surely you will be so good ?" 
 
 Gertrude was much pleased at being singled out by the 
 guest of the occasion, and although she knew that the 
 ferns which were growing in profusion all about them 
 would adorn the table just as well, she gave no hint of 
 it, for she was not averse to taking the walk with Bron- 
 son. 
 
 "Tell me about the Franklins," said he, as he took her 
 red umbrella and opened it. "Are they fond of their 
 step-mother?" 
 
 " All but Edith, and she can't bear her, and I don't 
 think she is over-fond of Neal, either. Tell me somethino- 
 about him, Mr. Bronson. He is a school-mate of yours, 
 you say ?" 
 
 " Oh, don't ask me ! I think it's awfully bad form for 
 
106 
 
 one fellow to give away another, don't you know. Of 
 course, some fellows would, but I'm not that kind." 
 
 Gertrude admired these sentiments extremely. She 
 wished that Bronson would hold the umbrella at an angle 
 that would shield her a little more. It was entirely over 
 him, while she herself was in the sun, and it was rather 
 warm walking. However, it was a pleasure to have her 
 umbrella carried by such an elegant-looking individual, 
 even though she derived no benefit from it. 
 
 From his words and manner Gertrude gathered the idea 
 that Bronson, if he chose, could tell something very much 
 against Neal Gordon, but his high sense of honor held him 
 back. 
 
 " What a lovely fellow he is !" thought Gertrude ; then 
 she said aloud, " Of course I would not have you for the 
 world. I have always fancied there might be something, 
 don't you know ?" 
 
 Now Gertrude had really never fancied anything of the 
 kind, and yet she did not dream of being untruthful. It was 
 an idea born of the moment. Her vanity prompted her 
 to agree with Bronson, who was apparently such a very 
 charming fellow. 
 
 " Oh, don't say that, Miss Morgan ! I didn't mean to 
 give you that idea. You're so awfully clever, you have 
 guessed what I never intended to say. Don't ever tell 
 what I said, will you ? I wouldn't take away the fellow's 
 character for the world." 
 
 Gertrude blushed and promised, pleased to find herself 
 in the position of having a secret with Bronson. She told 
 her cousin Kitty, afterwards, that he really talked most 
 confidentially with her. 
 
 When thev returned, luncheon was ready. Cynthia 
 
107 
 
 took the ferns with a cool " Thank you," looked at them 
 critically and somewhat dubiously, and laid them on the 
 impromptu table. 
 
 " Terribly anty," she said, shaking a spray vigorously in 
 the air. " Us^h ! look at the ants I" 
 
 " Perhaps those that grow over here would not have had 
 any ants," said Bronson, " but I am so much obliged to you 
 for sending me for these, Miss Franklin. I had such a 
 charming walk. It quite repaid me, even though you are 
 so chary of your thanks." 
 
 " I'm so glad," returned Cynthia, " but not as glad as I 
 am famished." 
 
 She left Bronson, and walking around to the farther 
 side of the table, sat down. Neal followed her, and 
 presently they were all seated and enjoying the dainty 
 meal. Never was there such clear and fragrant coftee, 
 and the rich cream that the Franklins had brought made 
 it " equal to the nectar of Olympus," said Bronson ; he 
 was addicted to airy speech. 
 
 The oysters were done to a turn and seasoned to a 
 nicety, and the sandwiches melted in one's mouth. In 
 the midst of the feast they heard the sound of wheels on 
 the bridge, and looking up, they saw Mrs. Franklin, who 
 was driving herself. 
 
 "You see I couldn't stay away," she called to them. 
 " Jack, come tie Bess for me, and then let me have a bite, 
 if you have anything to spare." 
 
 Edith's face clouded. " Why did she have to come so 
 soon?" she thought, and her expression was not lost on 
 Bronson. 
 
 '* So this is the rich sister and step-mother," thought 
 Bronson ; " and the eldest daughter doesn't like her com- 
 
108 
 
 ing. Now, I don't exactly see why Gordon can't settle the 
 balance if she has such a pile. Bat I'll lie low and work 
 him easily." 
 
 He watched his opportunity, and after luncheon he fol- 
 lowed Neal to the river-bank, where he was getting a pail 
 of water for dish-washing purposes. 
 
 " I say, Gordon, old fellow, I haven't had a chance be- 
 fore to thank you for sending me the fifty. You see I 
 was in a confounded hole myself, and there was no way 
 out of it but to ask you. I hated to dun you. As for 
 the rest, there's no hurry about that whatever." 
 
 Neal looked at him. His brown eyes could be very 
 searching when occasion required. Bronson stooped, and 
 picking up a flat stone from the little beach on which they 
 were standing, he tossed it across the river. 
 
 " Five skips," said he, lightly, as he turned away. 
 
 " Hold on a minute," said Neah " Your offer is very 
 kind, but you may be pretty sure that I'll pay you as soon 
 as I can. I've no wish to be under obligations to you any 
 longer than is necessary." 
 
 " As you like," returned Bronson, with a shrug ; " I 
 only thought it might ease your mind to know that there's 
 no actual hurry. x\h, Miss Franklin," as Cynthia drew 
 near, " can't I persuade you to go out on the river with 
 me?" 
 
 " I am afraid not. I should think that you hadn't pad- 
 dled a great deal, as I noticed that you took your ease 
 coming up." 
 
 " Miss Franklin, I never should have imagined that you 
 were timid on the water. How little one can tell !" 
 
 *' I am not a bit timid, but I don't care to be upset." 
 
 <* Upset !" laughed Bronson. " Why, I've been upset a 
 
109 
 
 dozen times. In such a shallow ditch as this it wouldn't 
 make much difference, as long as we're suitably dressed." 
 
 Cynthia looked at him slowly, criticisingly, scornfully. 
 Then she said : 
 
 "I should think bathing clothes were the only things 
 suitable for upsetting. And the Charles River isn't a 
 ditch. Of course you didn't know, and we can pardon the 
 ignorant a good deal." 
 
 Bronson turned away and left them. 
 
 " That last was a scorcher," chuckled Neal, who had 
 been listening attentively. " If there is one thing Bron- 
 son hates above another, it is to be thought not to ' know 
 it all,' and he caught on to what you meant." 
 
 Cynthia, however, felt a little remorseful. She was 
 quite sure that she had been rude. Bronson was a stran- 
 ger, and should have been treated with the politeness 
 due to such. But then he was Neal's enemy, and Cyn- 
 thia could never be anything but loyal to Neal. Thus she 
 soothed her conscience. 
 
 When luncheon had been cleared away and the bas- 
 kets packed to go home, Bronson asked Edith if she 
 would go out with him on the river. 
 
 " Just for a little paddle. Miss Franklin," he said. *' Do 
 
 come 1 
 
 1" 
 
 Cynthia heard him, and she frowned and shook her head 
 vigorously at her sister, hoping that she would not go, but 
 Edith had no intention of dechning the invitation. She 
 said yes, with one of her prettiest smiles, and accompa- 
 nied Bronson to the place where the canoes were drawn 
 up on the bank. 
 
 " I suppose it doesn't make any difference which one I 
 take," he said, and, either by accident or design, he singled 
 
110 
 
 out Neal's boat and put it into the water. Edith stepped 
 in, and then watched Bronson's movements with some 
 trepidation. He did not seem to know much about the 
 management of a canoe, and they rocked alarmingly with 
 his short, uncertain strokes. 
 
 "I'll soon get the hang of it," he said, reassuringly. 
 " I have never been much on a river, but it's easy enough." 
 
 Cynthia walked along the bank, watching them. 
 
 " I hope you've got a life-preserver, Edith ! Mr. Bron- 
 son says he is in the habit of upsetting — likes it, in fact — 
 and I'm dreadfully afraid for you. You know you can't 
 swim, and Mr. Bronson will never be able to save you as 
 well as himself. Do be careful of my sister, Mr. Bronson. 
 The ditch is rather deep just there. Oh, look at him wig- 
 gle 1" she added to Neal, who had followed her. 
 
 " And the fellow has taken my canoe !" growled Neal. 
 
 *' Poor Neal ! You boasted too soon. You'll never 
 again be able to say there isn't a scratch on the bottom." 
 
 " I only hope I shall ever see the boat again. He'll prob- 
 ably smash her all to smithereens." 
 
 " I suppose it makes no difference if Edith is ' smashed 
 to smithereens,' only the canoe," remarked Cynthia, de- 
 murely. 
 
 In the meantime Edith was having an exciting voyage. 
 Bronson paddled slowly and unevenly up the river until 
 he found himself in the rapids, which were much swifter 
 and more dangerous than those they had passed through 
 on the way from Oakleigh. The canoe scraped and 
 creaked over the rocks. The only wonder was that a hole 
 was not stove at once in the bottom. 
 
 They were in the midst now of the rushing water. 
 Suddenly the boat lodged for a moment on a rock, and 
 
Ill 
 
 swayed to and fro. Down to the very water's edge went 
 first one side and then the other. A half-inch more and 
 they would have capsized. 
 
 Edith sat perfectly silent, scarcely daring to breathe. 
 Bronson, never before so quick in his movements, righted 
 the craft, and with a vigorous push of the paddle got off 
 the dangerous rock. 
 
 "I — I think it would be rather pleasanter to tie up," 
 faltered Edith. 
 
 " So do I. AVish you had said so before. Not that I 
 mind exploring, but it's hot work such a day as this." 
 
 They found a shady bank and drew up under the bushes. 
 Edith gave a sigh of relief. 
 
 " Do you mind if I smoke ?" asked Bronson, getting 
 out a silver cigarette-case with a hlase air. 
 
 " Oh, not at all." 
 
 " That's nice. Now we can be comfortable. I am so 
 glad you came with me this afternoon, for I want to talk 
 to you, Miss Franklin. I want to talk freely to you about 
 something." 
 
 Edith's face expressed her astonishment. 
 
 " You look surprised," he continued, " but you will not 
 be when I tell you what it is. You are the only person 
 whom I can rely on to manage the matter well and to 
 help me. It is connected with Neal Gordon." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 Tony Bronson was the son of a man -who had made a 
 great deal of money in a doubtful line of business by 
 rather shady proceedings. In other words, he was not 
 strictly honest, and had amassed a large fortune in a man- 
 ner that would not bear investigation. 
 
 Of this Tony, of course, was ignorant ; but he inherited 
 from his father a mean spirit and a determination to turn 
 every circumstance to his own account. He had been 
 sent early to St. Asaph's school that he might associate 
 with the sons of gentlemen and become a gentleman him- 
 self, but he had acquired only the outward veneering. 
 His manners were most courteous, his language carefully 
 chosen, and he had sufficient wit to enable him to readily 
 adapt himself to his companions, but he had not the in- 
 stincts of a true gentleman. He was mean, he was some- 
 thing of a coward, and he was very much of a bully. 
 
 Years ago, soon after the two boys first met at St. 
 Asaph's, Neal detected Tony in a cowardly, dishonorable 
 action, and had openly accused him of it. Tony never 
 forgave him, but he bided his time. With an unlimited 
 amount of pocket-money of his own, he soon discovered 
 that Neal was running short. When a convenient oppor- 
 tunity came he offered to lend him a small sum. Neal, 
 after a moment's hesitation, weakly accepted the money, 
 assuring himself that it was only for a short time and 
 that he could easily repay it, and then have no more to do 
 
113 
 
 with Bronson. It saved him trouble, and Neal was only 
 too ready to save himself trouble. 
 
 Thus it had gone on. The time never came when Neal 
 felt able to pay the debt ; on the other hand, he borrowed 
 more, and now it had reached alarming proportions. His 
 monthly allowance, when it arrived, was gone in a flash, 
 for Neal had never been in the habit of denying himself. 
 It would have been hard for him to explain why he did 
 not go frankly to his sister, tell her the whole story, and 
 ask for her help, except that he was thoroughly ashamed 
 of having placed himself in such straits and did not want 
 to acknowledge it. 
 
 Tony Bronson had become intimate with Tom Morgan 
 at St. Asaph's, Tom not being particular in his choice of 
 friends. In that way he had come to visit the Morgans 
 in Brenton. His handsome face and apparently perfect 
 manner attracted many to him who could not see beneath 
 the surface, and his languid man-of-the-world air made an 
 impression. 
 
 He cultivated this to the last degree. He was not 
 naturally so lazy, but he thought it effective. 
 
 When he said to Edith that he wished to tell her some- 
 thing about Neal Gordon she looked at him in still greater 
 surprise. 
 
 " I want to ask your help. Miss Franklin. A girl can 
 manage these things so much better than a fellow. I 
 like Gordon immensely, and I want to do all I can to help 
 him out of a scrape." 
 
 "Does he know that you are speaking to me about 
 him?" 
 
 " No, of course not. The fact is — " 
 
 " Then I think, Mr. Bronson," interrupted Edith, gently, 
 
114 
 
 but with decision, " that perhaps it would be better for us 
 not to discuss him." 
 
 *' But you quite misunderstand me, Miss Franklin. I 
 am speaking only for his own good. I can't bear to see 
 a fellow going straight to the bad, as I really am very 
 much afraid he is, and not lift a finger to help him. I 
 thought if I told you that perhaps you might speak to 
 his sister — " 
 
 Edith interrupted him again, with heightened color. 
 *'I can do nothing of the sort. Nothing would induce 
 me to speak to Mrs. Franklin on the subject. I — I 
 couldn't possibly." 
 
 Bronson looked at her compassionately. 
 
 " Ah, it is as I thought ! You and Mrs. Franklin are 
 not congenial. I am so sorry." 
 
 Edith said nothing. She knew that he should not 
 make sucli a remark to her, a perfect stranger. She felt 
 that he did not ring true. And yet she could not bring 
 herself to administer the reproof that Cynthia would have 
 given under like circumstances. 
 
 " I am afraid I have offended you," said Bronson, pres- 
 ently; "do forgive me! And if you like I will say no 
 more about the bad scrape Gordon is in. I thought per- 
 haps I could prevent a letter coming from the faculty, but 
 I see it's of no use. I'm awfully sorry for the fellow. 
 You don't really think you could do anything to influence 
 his sister ?" 
 
 At last Edith found her voice. 
 
 " I don't think I can. And if you don't mind I would 
 rather not discuss the Gordons — I mean, Mrs. Franklin 
 and her brother." 
 
 " Certainly not, if you don't wish, and you won't re- 
 
115 
 
 peat what I said, of course. If we can't help him, of 
 course we had better not let it get out about Gordon any 
 sooner than necessary. But holloa ! What's this ? The 
 carpet seems to be getting damp." 
 
 It undoubtedly was, and gave forth a most unpleasantly 
 moist sound when pressed. Upon investigation they found 
 that the bottom of the canoe was filled with water. They 
 had sprung a leak. 
 
 " We had better get back as quickly as possible," said 
 Edith, rather relieved to have the conversation come to an 
 end. " Is there a sponge there ? I can bail if it gets any 
 worse." 
 
 But no sponge was to be found, and it rapidly grew 
 worse ; Edith's skirts were damp and draggled. Present- 
 ly there was an inch of water above the carpet. 
 
 " We shall sink if this goes on," she said. 
 
 " Oh, I fancy not," returned Bronson, easily ; " we haven't 
 very far to go." 
 
 But their progress was not rapid, and the pool in the 
 canoe grew deeper. 
 
 " Perhaps you will lend me your cap," said Edith ; " I 
 can use it as a dipper." He did so, and she bailed vigor- 
 ously. " It must be a very large leak. I suppose we got 
 it on that rock in the rapids, arid we scraped again just 
 before we tied up, which made it worse. If it were our 
 boat I would not care, but I think it is Neal's." 
 
 She was so occupied that she did not see Bronson smile. 
 His smile was not attractive, though his teeth were per- 
 fect. 
 
 Matters would have gone badly with them if they had 
 not at this moment met Jack and Kitty Morgan in the 
 Franklins' canoe. 
 
116 
 
 " What's the row ?" called Jack. 
 
 " Nothing much," said Bronson. " We've sprung a lit- 
 tle leak, that's all." 
 
 " A little leak ! I should think so. My eye ! Why, 
 man, you must have a regular hole for the water to come 
 in like that. Where have you been, anyhow ? You had 
 better put in here at this little beach and step over into 
 my boat." 
 
 " What's the matter with stepping over right where we 
 are ? No need of going to shore." 
 
 Jack eyed him with curiosity and contempt. He looked 
 so much like Cynthia that Bronson felt withered. He did 
 not" care for Cynthia, for he knew that she did not like 
 
 him. 
 
 Jack did not speak at once, but paddled towards the 
 bank. Then he said : 
 
 " You won't try stepping from one canoe to another in 
 mid-stream if I have anything to say about it." 
 
 The change was safely accomplished, and they proceed- 
 ed down the river towing the injured boat, the carpet and 
 cushions having been transferred with the passengers. 
 Kelieved of the weight it did not fill as rapidly, and they 
 at last reached the picnic ground. 
 
 Bronson was mortified at coming back in such ignomin- 
 ious plight, but he made the best of it. 
 
 " I am awfully sorry, Gordon, if it is your canoe. It 
 must have been pretty frail, though, to go to pieces at a 
 mere scratch." 
 
 " She's the finest cedar canoe to be found in the city of 
 Boston, and it would take more than a mere scratch to do 
 her up this way. From appearances I should say you had 
 pounded round in the rocks pretty freely," growled Neal, 
 
117 
 
 who had turned the boat upsidedown, and was examining 
 it carefully. 
 
 Bronson stooped over him. For the moment they were 
 alone. 
 
 " Of course I would feel worse about it if it were any 
 one's but yours. As it is, we'll just call ten off of that 
 fifty still owing. That will go towards repairs. More 
 than cover them, I should say." 
 
 Then he sauntered off, his hands in his pockets. 
 
 " What a cad the fellow is !" muttered Neal. " It would 
 give me real pleasure to knock him down." 
 
 "I heard him," said Cynthia. Her cheeks were red 
 and her blue eyes had grown very dark. " He is an odi- 
 ous, hateful creature, and I de-spise him !" 
 
 Having delivered herself of this, Cynthia felt better. 
 
 They all went home soon afterwards, Edith leaving ear- 
 lier in the carriage with Mrs. Franklin, for her shoes and 
 skirts were too wet for her to wait for the slower move- 
 ments of the canoes. It was an unfortunate ending to the 
 day, and Edith was uncomfortable also about her conversa- 
 tion with Bronson. She knew that she ought not to have 
 listened to a word of it. 
 
 She wondered if it were really true that Neal was in dif- 
 ficulty. She thought she must talk it over with Cynthia 
 that night. Of course Cynthia would stand up for Neal, 
 that went without saying, but it was always a relief to 
 Edith to talk things over with her. 
 
 It was a rather silent drive home, and Mrs. Franklin 
 sighed to herself when Edith barely replied to her re- 
 marks. It seemed perfectly hopeless ; she and Edith 
 would never grow any nearer to each other ; but there was 
 nothing to be done. 
 
118 
 
 That night, when the girls went to their room, Edith 
 was spared the necessity of opening the subject, for Cyn- 
 thia began at once. 
 
 " What a perfectly hateful creature that Bronson is ! I 
 don't see how you could go on the river with him, Edith. 
 I think you got well paid for it." 
 
 " I don't see why you dislike him so, Cynthia. You 
 take such tremendous prejudices. He is awfully hand- 
 some." 
 
 " Handsome ! I don't admire that style. That la-de- 
 da-it -is-I-just-please-look-at-me kind doesn't go down with 
 me." 
 
 Cynthia thrust her hands into imaginary pockets, leaned 
 languidly against the bedpost, and rolled her eyes. 
 
 "Er — Miss Franklin — carnt I persuade you to go out 
 on the rivah ?" she said, with an exaggerated manner and 
 accent, and a throaty voice. 
 
 Edith laughed. Cynthia was a capital mimic. 
 
 " I like a broad A, and, of course, 1 never would use any- 
 thing else myself, but his is broader than the Mississippi. 
 It just shows it isn't natural to him. To hear him talk 
 about ' darmp grarss,' and he'd just come from ' Soutli- 
 armpton.' He is a regular sharm himself. I dare say he 
 was brought up to say * ca'm ' and * pa'm ' and ' hain't ' and 
 * ain't.' " 
 
 " Cynthia, what a goose you are !" 
 
 *' Well, I can't bear him, and neither can Neal. Jack 
 doesn't like him either." 
 
 " There, that is just it. You are so influenced by Neal 
 and Jack. Tony Bronson spoke very nicely of Neal, as if 
 he were a true friend of his." 
 
 " Pooh ! Much friend, he !" 
 
*119 
 
 " Well, he did, Cyntliia, and that is just what I want 
 to talk over with you. Neal must be in some terrible 
 scrape." 
 
 " Has that Bronson been telling you about that ?" cried 
 Cynthia, indignantly. 
 
 " Oh, then it is really true ! I thought it must be." 
 
 *' No, it isn't — at least, not what Bronson told you. I 
 am just certain that whatever he told you wasn't true," 
 said Cynthia, who felt that she had said more than she 
 should. " I shouldn't think you would have discussed 
 Neal with him. Neal is one of our family." 
 
 " I didn't," said Edith, somewhat curtly, " though I 
 don't exactly see why you should speak of Neal Gordon 
 as one of our family. I told Mr. Bronson I preferred 
 not to talk about him. But he spoke so nicely of Neal, 
 and said he wanted to help him, and he was afraid the 
 faculty would write about him, and he wanted to get him 
 out of the scrape if he could." 
 
 " Oh, the hypocrite ! But what is the scrape ? Did he 
 say ?" 
 
 " No, I wouldn't let him. But it is absurd to call him a 
 hypocrite, Cynthia. I shall never believe it unless you 
 tell me why you think so." 
 
 " I can't do that, but I know he is," said Cynthia, stoutly ; 
 " you have just got to take my word for it, for I can't ex- 
 plain." 
 
 The girls talked far into the night, but Edith was not 
 convinced. She felt that there was something at the bot- 
 tom of it all, for Cynthia could not deny it. After all, 
 she was sorry. Edith liked Neal, a Gordon though he 
 was. But she did not doubt that he was in a difficulty of 
 some kind. 
 
120 
 
 The summer was over and the glorious autumn leaves 
 dropped from the trees, leaving the branches bare and 
 ready for the coming of snow. One could see the course 
 of the river plainly now from Oakleigh windows. Beauti- 
 ful October was swallowed up by chill November, and the 
 wind grew biting. One was glad of the long evenings, 
 when the curtains could be drawn and the lamps lighted 
 early to shut out the gray skies and dreary landscape. 
 
 Neal was back at St. Asaph's and the winter work had 
 begun. Cynthia and Jack went every day to Boston, and 
 Edith also went in three times a week for lessons. She 
 objected to this on the plea of expense, much as she de- 
 sired a thorough education. She greatly feared her step- 
 mother had brought it about. But her father reprimanded 
 her sharply when she said something of this, and insisted 
 that she should do as he desired. 
 
 The poultry had already begun to bring in a little mon- 
 ey, for Jack sold a few " broilers " to his mother at mar- 
 ket prices, though she usually added a few cents more a 
 pound. 
 
 ^' They are so delicious, Jack," said she ; " better than I 
 could get anywhere else, and worth the money." 
 
 He kept his accounts most carefully, and it was pleas- 
 ant to write down a few figures on the page for receipts, 
 which thus far had presented an appalling blank. 
 
 In due time came a present to Edith from Aunt Betsey : 
 a package containing an old-fashioned camel's-hair scarf 
 that had belonged to " Grandmother Trinkett," and, scat- 
 tered among its folds, five ten-dollar gold pieces. 
 
 Government had proved worthy of the old lady's trust, 
 for the money had come safely ; but then she had actually 
 addressed the package clearly and correctly. 
 
131 
 
 Edith, of course, was much pleased, and notwithstanding 
 her aunt's suggestion that she should place it in the sav- 
 ings-bank, she determined to expend the money in a hand- 
 some winter suit and hat. She dearly loved nice clothes. 
 
 Cynthia looked somewhat scornfully at the new gar- 
 ments. 
 
 " If Aunt Betsey sends me fifty dollars, you won't catch 
 me spending it on finery," she informed her family ; " I 
 have other things to do with my money." 
 
 She did not know how truly she spoke, nor what would 
 be the result of her manner of spending Aunt Betsey's 
 present. 
 
 The fall slipped quickly by, and the Christmas holidays 
 drew near, Neal was coming to Oakleigh, and many things 
 were planned for the entertainment of the young people. 
 
 Cynthia went about fairly bursting with excitement and 
 secrets. This was her best-loved time of the whole year, 
 and she was making the most of it. 
 
 The 25th of December fell on a Wednesday this year, 
 and Neal came down from St. Asaph's on Monday, to 
 be in good season for the festivities of Christmas Eve. 
 Plenty of snow had fallen, and all kinds of jolly times were 
 looked for. 
 
 Outside the scene was wintry indeed, and the white 
 walls of Oakleigh looked cold and dreary in the setting 
 of snow which lay so thickly over river, meadow, and 
 hill, but in the house there v/as plenty of life and cheery 
 warmth. Great fires burned briskly in all the chimneys, 
 and the rooms were bright and cosey with warm-looking 
 carpets and curtains and comfortable furniture. There 
 had been a good deal done to the house, both outside and 
 in, since the coming of Mrs. Franklin. Edith still main- 
 
123 
 
 tained to herself that she did not like it, but every one 
 else thought matters vastly improved. 
 
 " Hurray ! hurray !" cried Jack, rushing into the house 
 on Tuesday and slamming down his books ; " good-bye to 
 school for ten days ! It was a mean shame that we had 
 to have school at all this week. Neal, you were in luck. 
 St. Asaph's must be mighty good fun, anyhow. By-the- 
 way," continued he, holding his chilled hands to the fire, 
 " I saw that Bronson fellow in town to-day — the one that 
 smashed your canoe." 
 
 "You did?" said Neal, glancing up from his book, 
 while Cynthia gave an exclamation of disgust. 
 
 " Yes," said Jack, " and he said the Morgans had asked 
 him out here for the holidays, so I guess we are in for an- 
 other dose. It strikes me they must be pretty hard up for 
 company to want him." 
 
 Neal said nothing. Edith looked up from her work 
 and watched him sharply, but his face told little. 
 
 " Hateful thing !" exclaimed Cynthia ; " I would like to 
 pack my trunk and take a train out of Brenton as he comes 
 in on another." 
 
 " I can't see why you all dislike him so," observed 
 Edith. "You detest him, don't you, Neal ?" 
 
 " Oh, Edith, do hush !" cried Cynthia. "Yes, of course 
 he does ; he's hateful." But Neal still said nothing, and 
 Edith got no satisfaction. 
 
 Christmas Eve closed in early. At about four o'clock it 
 began to snow, and the wind blew great drifts against the 
 side of the house. Every one said it was going to be an 
 old-fashioned Christmas. 
 
 It was the custom in the Franklin household to look at 
 the presents that night. As Cynthia said, when arguing 
 
123 
 
 the point with some one who thought it a shocking idea 
 to see one's gifts before Christmas morning, it made it so 
 much more exciting to open their own packages and to 
 look at their treasures by lamplight. Then in the morn- 
 ing they had the pleasure of seeing them a second time, 
 and of investigating their stockings, which, of course, were 
 hung ready for the coming of Santa Claus. 
 
 After supper Jack and Neal carried in the great clothes- 
 basket which for days had been the receptacle for pack- 
 ages of all sizes and kinds, those that had come by post 
 and those which the family themselves had carefully tied 
 up, until now it looked like Santa Claus's own pack. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin presided at the basket and read the names, 
 and when the colored ribbons were untied and the tempt- 
 ing-looking white parcels were opened there were shrieks 
 and exclamations of delight, for every one declared that 
 this particular gift was just what he or she most desired. 
 
 Each one had a table covered with a white cloth, upon 
 which to place his treasures, and when all was done the 
 "long parlor" at Oakleigh looked like a fancy bazaar, so 
 many and varied were the articles displayed. 
 
 There was an odd-looking package addressed to Jack 
 and Cynthia. It was heavy and was covered with post- 
 age-stamps in consequence, and proved to be a large box 
 stuffed with straw. 
 
 *' What under the sun is it ? Of course it's from Aunt 
 Betsey," said Jack, as he rooted down into the hay, scatter- 
 injr it in all directions. Out came what appeared to be 
 an egg tied up with old-fashioned plaided ribbon, and an 
 ancient -looking beaded purse. The purse was marked 
 " Cynthia," so Jack appropriated the eggj but with an ex- 
 clamation of chagrin. 
 
124 
 
 " She is sending coals to Newcastle," said he. " Aunt 
 Betsey must have thought it was Easter. But it is the 
 queerest-feeling egg I ever came across. It's as heavy as 
 lead." 
 
 He shook it and held it up to the light. 
 
 " Ha, ha !" said he ; *' a good egg ! I'd like to have 
 the machine packed with just such eggs." 
 
 Inside were ten five -dollar gold pieces, and Cynthia 
 found the same in her purse. 
 
 "I will put mine away for a 'safety' in the spring," 
 said Jack, clinking his gold with the air of a miser, and 
 examining the empty egg-shells. " Isn't Aunt Betsey a 
 daisy and no mistake? Just see the way she's fixed up 
 this e^'g-shell ; she cut it in half as neat as a pin. I don't 
 see how she ever did it." 
 
 " I wish I had an Aunt Betsey," remarked Neal ; " those 
 gold pieces would come in pretty handy just now." 
 
 " Aunt Betsey is so fond of giving gold," said Cynthia. 
 " She always says it is real money, and bills are nothing 
 hut paper. I shall put mine away for the present, until I 
 think of something I want terribly much, and then I will 
 go grandly to Boston and buy it like a duchess. Goody 
 Two-shoes, but I feel rich !" 
 
 And she danced gayly up and down the room, waving 
 her purse in the air. 
 
 Neal had very nice presents, but he was disappointed to 
 find that there was no money among them. He suspected, 
 and correctly, that his sister and her husband had thought 
 it wiser not to give him any more at present. 
 
 " Then I'm in for it," thought he. " I'll have to ask 
 Hessie, and there'll be no end of a row. Of course she 
 will give it to me in the end, but it would have been nicer 
 
125 
 
 all round if she had come out handsomely with a Christ- 
 mas check. Of course these skates are dandy, and so is 
 the dress-suit case and the nobby umbrella and the sleeve- 
 buttons ; but just at present I would rather have the cash 
 they all cost." 
 
 He said something of this afterwards to Cynthia. 
 
 "Bronson is screwing me for all he's worth," said he. 
 " I'll have to get the money somehow, and fifty dollars is 
 no joke. Of course, I am not going to take off the ten he 
 so kindly offered for the canoe ; I'd like to see myself ! 
 If Hessie doesn't see matters in the same light I'll have 
 to do something desperate. But, of course, she will give 
 it to me." 
 
 " Neal," said Cynthia, impulsively, " if mamma doesn't 
 give you the money you must borrow it of me. There is 
 that fifty dollars Aunt Betsey has given me. You can 
 have it just as well as not." 
 
 " Cynthia, you're a brick, and no mistake," said Neal, 
 looking at her affectionately, " but you know I wouldn't 
 take your money for the world. You must think me a 
 low-down sort of fellow if you think I would." 
 
 " How absurd ! It is a great deal better to owe it to 
 me instead of to a stranger like Bronson, or any one else. 
 I'm sure I think of you just as if you were my brother, 
 and Jack wouldn't mind taking it. You can pay it back 
 when you get your own money." 
 
 " Yes, nine years from now," said NeaL " No, indeed, 
 Cynth, I'll have to be pretty hard up before I borrow of a 
 girl." 
 
 " I think you are too bad," said Cynthia, almost crying ; 
 " I don't see the difference between a girl and anybody 
 else. I don't need the money ; I don't know what to buy 
 
126 
 
 with it. I would just love to have you take it. It would 
 be lovely to think my money had paid your debts, and 
 then you could start all fresh. Please, Neal, say you will 
 if mamma does not give it to you." 
 But Neal would not promise. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Christmas morning dawned cloudy and very cold, but 
 it had stopped snowing, and after a while the sun came out 
 and turned the country into a radiant, dazzling spectacle. 
 
 Cynthia and the boys went forth to dig out some of the 
 paths and have a good time in the snow. Bob, frantic 
 with delight, ploughed about in the drifts, jumping, diving, 
 shaking off the dry flakes, and turning wonderful somer- 
 saults, to the great entertainment of Janet and Willy, who, 
 too small to venture out before the paths were cut, watched 
 the others from the window. 
 
 A gigantic snow man was in course of construction when 
 it became time to go to church, and they all bundled them- 
 selves up in furs and warm clothes, and packed themselves 
 in the three-seated sleigh under the buffalo-robes. It was 
 great fun to drive the three miles to the village after such 
 a storm, the children thought, for, although a four-horse 
 team had been sent out early from Oakleigh to break the 
 road, their progress was slow and exciting. 
 
 Then came the Christmas dinner, with turkey and plum- 
 pudding and mince-pie, and plenty of laughter and jokes, 
 and after that the family settled down to read their new 
 books, look at their presents anew, and amuse themselves 
 in various ways. 
 
 The Franklins were to have a party during the holidays, 
 and it had been planned for the following Tuesday — New 
 Year's Eve. 
 
128 
 
 "If we had only arranged to have it earlier we might 
 have escaped that horrid Bronson," said Cynthia, regret- 
 fully, the day after Christmas. " Now, of course, he will 
 come with the Morgans, and, worse still, we shall have to 
 be polite to him in our own house." 
 
 "I should hope so," said Edith. "You were rude 
 enough to him at the picnic, and I do think good manners 
 are so attractive. I am going to cultivate them as much 
 as possible. No one will ever like you unless you are 
 polite, Cynthia." 
 
 " I seem to have plenty of friends," returned her sister, 
 composedly, " and I don't really care to have Bronson like 
 me. In fact, I would rather prefer that he shouldn't. I 
 wouldn't consider it much of a compliment to be liked by 
 a — a — creature like that !" 
 
 It would be impossible to convey an idea of the con- 
 tempt in Cynthia's voice as she said this. 
 
 " And if you are going to have such lovely manners, I 
 should think it would be just as well to begin at home," 
 she added. 
 
 " What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Well, I don't suppose you will like it, but really, Edith, 
 sometimes it does seem as if you just tried to hurt mamma's 
 feelings. I know I ought not to say this, perhaps, for you 
 think I am only a younger sister, I suppose, and haven't 
 any right to lecture you ; but when I remember how nice 
 you really are, I can't bear to have you act so. If you 
 only would try to like her, instead of trying not to like 
 her ! There, don't cry, dear ; I didn't mean to hurt your 
 feelings." 
 
 And Cynthia threw her arms around her sister and 
 kissed her. 
 
129 
 
 *' You have hurt them," said Edith, with a sob, "but I 
 know I deserve it. I don't know what has gotten into me 
 since the Gordons came. I canH like her being here. Oh, 
 Cynthia, you don't know how I feel sometimes ! I wish I 
 didn't have such bad, wicked thoughts." 
 
 " Do you really try to get over it, Edith ?" 
 
 " No-o, not very hard," she faltered ; " I can't forgive 
 her for coming and taking my place, and — and — I don't 
 want to forgive her. There, I know you will think I am 
 bad and horrible and everything else, but I can't help it." 
 
 And, rising abruptly, she left the room. 
 
 "Poor old Edith!" sighed Cynthia, compassionately. 
 *' She will come round some time ; she can't help it." 
 
 Now that Christmas was over, the Franklins devoted 
 themselves to coasting, which, owing to a slight thaw and 
 a freeze, had become excellent. It slightly lessened the 
 pleasure of Cynthia and Neal that the Morgans, with Tony 
 Bronson in attendance, usually met them on their favorite 
 hill with their sleds ; but the Christmas spirit was in the air, 
 and nothing was said or done to mar the peace, and to out- 
 w\ard seeming the two boys were perfectly good friends. 
 
 On New Year's Eve was to be the Franklins' party. 
 
 " Edith, we must have it very original and unique, some- 
 thing quite different from anything we have ever had in 
 our lives," said Cynthia, a few days before. 
 
 " How can we ? There's nothing new." 
 
 " Yes, there is, right in my head. I have an idea." 
 
 " What in the world is it ?" 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you," and she proceeded to unfold it. 
 
 It proved to be a good one, and with Mrs. Franklin's 
 help it was carried into effect. The suggestion was to 
 
130 
 
 have a " cliaracter " party, but to enact the parts without 
 dressing especially for them. A list was made of persons 
 well known in history or fiction, and from this list Mrs. 
 Franklin chose those she considered the best, and wrote 
 against each name that of some girl or boy in Brenton. 
 This she did without telling her daughters how she had 
 apportioned the parts, that they might be as ignorant as 
 their guests about one another's characters. 
 
 "It is a truly Bostonese party," said Mrs. Franklin, 
 laughing, when they talked it over. "There is an intel- 
 lectual flavor to it that you wouldn't find far away from 
 nhe Hub,' but it is a capital idea, nevertheless, Cynthia." 
 
 AVhen the list was duly made Mrs. Franklin drove about 
 Brenton to the various girls and boys who were expected, 
 and invited them for Tuesday evening, explaining to them 
 at the same time what they were to do. 
 
 It was an old-fashioned tea-party, and the guests began 
 to arrive at six o'clock. There were twenty in all, and 
 they came hurrying in out of the cold, and up-stairs to 
 remove their heavy wraps, the girls tripping down again 
 in their dainty evening dresses, while the boys stood about 
 the doorways in rather an aimless fashion, wondering what 
 they were expected to do at such a very peculiar tea-party 
 as this seemed to be. 
 
 It added to the mystery that each was given a card with 
 his or her own name prettily printed upon it, and a little 
 pencil attached. 
 
 " I never heard of anything like it, don't you know," 
 drawled Bronson. "I'll be hanged if I know what to 
 talk about." 
 
 After supper, which was very jolly and effectually broke 
 the ice, Mr. Franklin made a little speech. 
 
131 
 
 " You are all supposed to be somebody, and no one but 
 my wife knows which is which," he said. *' The object is 
 for each one to guess as many characters as possible from 
 their conversation, and when you have made up your mind 
 who some one is, you will write the name on your card, 
 with the name of the person you are guessing about. 
 When your card is filled with twenty-four names, which 
 means that you have given a guess about every one here, 
 you will hand it in. Then the prizes will be bestowed." 
 
 " Prizes !" was murmured by the girls ; '' how lovely !" 
 while the boys looked reheved as the matter became 
 clearer. 
 
 Cynthia turned to her nearest neighbor and began to 
 talk. 
 
 " Good-evening !" she said ; " did you see anything of 
 my broom ? I forgot to bring it along. Dear me, there's 
 a lot to bo done up there," gazing towards the ceiling ; 
 " why didn't I bring it along ?" 
 
 The neighbor chanced to be Dennis Morgan. 
 
 " I haven't seen your broom," he replied, " but I'm go- 
 ing to find out why you want it. The trouble is, I've 
 come too soon, I think, and I can't find my way ; but I 
 can't tell you where I want to go, or you would guess me 
 on the spot." 
 
 " Ho 1" laughed Cynthia ; " I know where you want to 
 go. I think you would like a glass of water, wouldn't 
 you ? For I am sure you have burned your mouth," she 
 added, in a whisper. 
 
 Then she wrote on her card: "Dennis Morgan — Man 
 in the Moon." 
 
 " Pshaw ! How did you guess me so soon ? And I 
 haven't the ghost of an idea who you are. Let me see, 
 
133 
 
 you want your broom. I can't imagine why you need a 
 broom." 
 
 "Cobwebs, cobwebs everywhere," murmured CyntLia, 
 as she turned away and listened to the conversation that 
 was being carried on between Neal and Gertrude Mor- 
 gan. 
 
 <' I'm a wonderful man," said Neal. *' In fact, I don't 
 know but what I'm about as great a person as you ever 
 heard of. You can't mention my name without alluding 
 to it." 
 
 " I don't believe you are half as great as I am," retorted 
 Gertrude, " only I don't talk as much about it. Why, I 
 am a queen." 
 
 " And I am a king. What kind of a queen are you ?" 
 " I rule over a very important kingdom, and not only 
 do I reign but I can cook, too. I am one of those very 
 convenient people to have about that can turn their hand 
 to almost anything, but I am chiefly celebrated for my 
 cookery. I made something very nice one hot summer 
 day-'' 
 
 " Take care, Gertrude !" cried Cynthia ; " I know you." 
 And she wrote on her card : " Gertrude Morgan — Queen 
 of Hearts." 
 
 " Oh come, Cynth, that's too bad !" exclaimed Neal. " I 
 can't guess her at all, but it's because I am so taken up 
 reading a wonderful book when I am very young, and 
 making colored candles, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " Why, I thought you said you were a king ?" said Ger- 
 trude. 
 
 " So I am ; a terribly good sort, too." 
 At last Gertrude guessed him, and wrote " Alfred the 
 Great " with his name on her card. 
 
133 
 
 Neal, however, could not discover who she was, not be- 
 ing as well posted in " Mother Goose " as was Cynthia. 
 
 The one who was most mysterious was Edith. For a 
 long time no one could imagine who she was. 
 
 "I have had a great many adventures," she said, as 
 they gathered about her. " I have travelled to places that 
 the rest of you have never been to. I have played games 
 with a duchess, and I've taken care of a duchess's baby. 
 A great many of my friends talk poetry. I have long, light 
 hair, and sometimes I'm tall and sometimes I'm short." 
 
 " Never short, Edith, I'm sure," said Neal. Every one 
 laughed, for they teased Edith about her stately height. 
 
 " I know you ! I know you !" cried Cynthia, dancing 
 with glee ; " you told too much that time," and she has- 
 tily scribbled " Alice in Wonderland " on her card. 
 
 She herself, as the " Old woman who swept the cobwebs 
 from the sky," was easily guessed, much to her own cha- 
 grin. 
 
 At last each one had written twenty -four names on his 
 or her card, and they were given to Mrs. Franklin for in- 
 spection. Some funny mistakes were made, and as they 
 were read out they created much merriment. 
 
 Somebody thought Yankee Doodle must be Paul Re- 
 vere, because he had been spoken of as a rider ; Julius 
 Caesar and Columbus were hopelessly mixed, both having 
 mentioned themselves as crossing the water, and it being 
 impossible, from the description given, to distinguish be- 
 tween the Rubicon and the Atlantic Ocean ; the Lady of 
 the Lake and Pocahontas were confused, as they each 
 saved a life ; and every one mistook the Old Woman that 
 lived in a Shoe for Puss in Boots, because of her persistent 
 talk about foot-wear. 
 
134 
 
 Cynthia had made a greater number of correct guesses 
 than any one, but as she was one of the hostesses she 
 could not, of course, claim a prize, so it fell to Tony 
 Bronson, who was next on the list. Cynthia turned away 
 to hide the grimace which she could not repress when the 
 dear little clock in a red-leather case was given to him as 
 first prize. 
 
 Kitty Morgan, Gertrude's cousin, was awarded the 
 "booby" prize, for having made the poorest guesses — a 
 dainty little pin, which, she said, quite repaid her for her 
 stupidity ; while one of the Brenton girls, whose list was 
 next best to Bronson's, received a pretty silver -framed 
 calendar as "Consolation." 
 
 It made a merry evening, and after the game was over 
 they danced and played other games until it was time 
 to go home. It was eleven o'clock when the last sleigh 
 drove away. 
 
 *' Only an hour to midnight," said Cynthia ; " can't we 
 sit up and see the old year out ? Do, papa, let us ! We 
 never have, and it must be such fun. We couldn't go to 
 sleep, anyhow, after such an exciting evening." 
 
 Mr. Franklin consented, and they sat about the fire dis- 
 cussing the success of the game and the girls and boys 
 who had been there, one or two of whom remained for 
 the night at Oakleigh. 
 
 Neal and Cynthia were alone for a few moments. They 
 had gone out into the hall to see the hour by the tall 
 clock, and they found the hands pointing to ten minutes 
 of twelve. 
 
 " Let us wait here for it to strike," said Cynthia, going 
 to the window. 
 
 The lamp had gone out in the hall, and it was but dimly 
 
135 
 
 lighted from the room where the family were sitting. 
 Outside, the moon was shining on the white fields and 
 frozen river. The old year was dying in a flood of glory. 
 
 "I always feel so full of good resolutions on New 
 Year's Eve," said Cynthia, in a low voice; "I wish I 
 could keep them all." 
 
 " So do I," returned Neal. " I am always turning over 
 a new leaf. I must have turned over three volumes of 
 new leaves by this time. But they don't amount to much." 
 
 " It is discouraging, isn't it ? I have never said any- 
 thing about it to any one before. It seems to me I am 
 always breaking my good resolutions." 
 
 " I don't see how. First of all, it doesn't seem as if 
 you did anything that is wrong — a girl doesn't have much 
 chance to." 
 
 '' Oh yes, she does. You don't know. And I have so 
 many faults. There are my bureau drawers — I can't keep 
 them neat, and my clothes would be all in tatters if it were 
 not for Edith and mamma. And, worst of all, there is my 
 tongue." 
 
 " Your tongue ?" 
 
 " Yes. It is such fun to make fun of people and say 
 sharp things when I don't like them — the kind of thing I 
 am always saying to that Bronson." 
 
 Neal laughed, and then he sighed. 
 
 " You are putting me into a bad corner. If you think 
 your faults are so tremendous, what must you think of 
 mine ? I'm a thief and a coward." 
 
 " Neal !" 
 
 " Yes, I am. I am a thief because I don't pay that 
 money. I had no business to borrow it in the first place, 
 and I could save it out of my allowance if I w^ould take 
 
136 
 
 the trouble, but I am too lazy ; and I am such a coward I 
 won't ask Hessie for it, because I am ashamed to have 
 your father know it. It's all a nasty business, anyway." 
 
 He looked moodily out on the snow, drumming his 
 fingers on the window-pane. 
 
 " Neal," said Cynthia, softly touching his arm with her 
 hand as she spoke, " let's turn over one more new leaf. 
 I will look out for my tongue and my bureau drawers, and 
 you will tell mamma everything and start fresh. Will 
 you, Neal ? Promise !" 
 
 Before he answered the clock began to strike. 
 
 " Happy New Year ! Happy New Year !" was heard 
 from the parlor. *' Neal and Cynthia, where are you? 
 Come in here, that we may all be together when the clock 
 stops striking." 
 
 So the old year died, and Neal had not given the re- 
 quired promise. 
 
 One day, shortly before he returned to St. Asaph's, he 
 said to his sister : 
 
 ■" Hessie, if I had been of age I think I would have 
 tried to break that will of grandmother's." 
 
 " Oh, Neal dear, don't say that 1 What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Well, it isn't that I mind your having the money ; you 
 have always been a brick about keeping me supplied ; but 
 the trouble is, I need more than you give me." 
 
 " Neal, I am afraid you are spending too much," said 
 Mrs. Franklin, looking at him anxiously. " Are you in debt 
 again? You know I would love to give you all I have, 
 but your guardians and the trustees of the estate and 
 John all think that you have a very large allowance for a 
 school-boy, and it would not be a good plan to let you 
 have any more." 
 
137 
 
 " Bother them all !" exclaimed Neal, seizing the poker 
 and giving the fire an angry thrust. A shower of sparks 
 flew out, but he let one burn a hole in the rug without 
 noticing. " I'm tired of being tied to your apron-string. 
 I've a good mind to cut loose altogether." 
 
 *' Don't say that !" cried Mrs. Franklin, in distress, going 
 to him and putting her arm through his. He was taller 
 than she, and she had to look up at him. 
 
 " If it were only you, it would be different," continued 
 her brother ; " but you see you're married now, and every- 
 thing is changed." 
 
 " But John is fond of you, Neal ; I know he is. But he 
 knows all about boys, and his advice is good. Would — 
 would five dollars help you ?" 
 
 " You're a good little soul, Hessie," said Neal, looking 
 down at her affectionately, his momentary ill-humor pass- 
 ing, " and I suppose it is not your fault if you can't give 
 me any more. No, thank you ; I won't take the fiver. 
 Don't worry about me. Here comes Jack in the cutter; 
 we're going to the village." And in a moment he was off. 
 
 The next day he went back to St. Asaph's. 
 
 The winter passed quickly after Christmas had come 
 and gone, and all had settled down again to the regular 
 routine of work. Mrs. Franklin could not help feeling 
 anxious about Neal. She confided her fears to her hus- 
 band, but he made light of them. 
 
 "The boy only wanted more spending-money, Hester. 
 He is very extravagant, and you will be doing very wrong- 
 ly if you supply him Avith more money. His allowance is 
 too large, at any rate, for a boy of his age. Jack gets 
 along perfectly well with just one-fifth the amount." 
 
 " But Jack is different." 
 
138 
 
 " Very different, and Neal ongLt to be different, too. 
 You paid his debts in tlie fall, which were enormous for a 
 school-boy, and then he was free to start afresh. You vrill 
 never cure him of extravagance if you keep him supplied 
 with all the money he wants." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin was forced to acknowledge the truth of 
 ber husband's remarks. She said no more, though she 
 was none the less worried. 
 
 Cynthia noticed that her step-mother was not as light- 
 hearted as formerly. They w'ere going in to Boston one 
 Saturday morning to do some shopping together. Cynthia 
 had decided to buy a watch with Aunt Betsey's money, 
 and she had brought the gold pieces with her. 
 
 " I am so afraid of losing them I don't know what to 
 do," she said. " Fifty dollars is so enormous, isn't it ? 
 Please take it in your bag, mamma ; I know I shall lose it." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin smiled absently, and when she had put 
 away the money she looked out of the window again. 
 
 "Mamma," said Cynthia, leaning towards her, "you 
 are worried about something, aren't you ? Tell me, is it 
 Neal ?" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin looked startled. 
 
 " I did not know I had such a tell-tale face," she said ; 
 " yes, you have guessed it, Cynthia. I cannot help feel- 
 ing worried about him. I have not heard from him for 
 some time, and that makes me uneasy. But it is just 
 fancy, and will pass off. Probably there will be a letter 
 from him to-night." 
 
 Cynthia also had remarked on Neal's silence, and this 
 confirmed her fears. She did not say anything more to 
 Mrs. Franklin, however, for Neal had again made her prom- 
 ise to repeat nothing he had told her. 
 
139 
 
 " I'll never confide in you again if you tell," he had said ; 
 so, of course, Cynthia had promised. 
 
 Her mind was busy during* the remainder of the trip to 
 Boston, and when the train glided into the station she had 
 determined to put her thoughts into action. 
 
 " We will go to Shreve's and then to Bigelow's to look 
 at watches," said Mrs. Franklin, as they walked across the 
 Common. " We had better look at both places before you 
 decide." 
 
 " I have changed my mind, mamma. I don't think I 
 will buy a watch." 
 
 " Why, Cynthia !" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin, almost stop- 
 ping short in her surprise ; " you want one so much 1" 
 
 " No, I don't think I do — at least, not just now. Let 
 us just go buy the clothes, and I'll keep Aunt Betsey's 
 money a little longer." 
 
 She would give no further explanation, and her mother 
 could not induce her even to glance at the watches in 
 Shreve's window. No ; she had decided that she did not 
 need one. 
 
 When they reached home she took the money and went 
 to her own room. She was standing by the window, care- 
 fully packing the coins in a little box with cotton, and 
 about to do it up for the mail — for she knew no better 
 wav of sending the money — when she heard the sound of 
 wheels on the drive. 
 
 Looking out, she saw one of the depot carriages ap- 
 proaching, and in the vehicle was Neal liimself. 
 
 Full of apprehension, dreading she knew not what, Cyn- 
 thia dropped the box of money and flew down-stairs. 
 
 It was not vacation, it was the middle of the school-term. 
 
 Why had Neal come home ? 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 " Why has lie come home ?" 
 
 This was the question on the lips of each one of the 
 family when they heard of Neal's arrival. 
 
 It was soon answered. He had been suspended. 
 
 He would give little explanation ; he merely asserted 
 that he was innocent of that of which he was accused. 
 Some of the boys, the most unmanageable at St. Asaph's, 
 had plotted to do some mischief. Neal, being more or 
 less intimate with the set, was asked to join in the plot, 
 but refused. He was with the boys, however, up to the 
 moment of their putting it into execution. Afterwards, 
 circumstances pointed to his having been concerned in it, 
 and his known intimacy with these very boys condemned 
 him. 
 
 There was but one person who could prove absolutely 
 that he had not been with the culprits that night, and 
 that person held his peace. 
 
 Of course Cynthia rightly suspected that it was Bronson. 
 
 A letter came from the head -master of the school, 
 stating the facts as they appeared to him, and announc- 
 ing with regret that he had been obliged to suspend Neal 
 Gordon for the remainder of the term. 
 
 It was an unfortunate affair altogether. Neal was 
 moody and low-spirited, and he was deeply offended that 
 his story was not universally believed, for the household 
 was divided in resfard to it. 
 
141 
 
 Jack and Cynthia stoutly maintained his innocence, Mr. 
 Franklin and Edith looked at the worst side of it, while 
 Mrs. Franklin was undecided in her opinion. 
 
 She wanted to believe her brother's word, she did be- 
 lieve it, and yet all the proven facts were so hopelessly 
 against him. The other boys that had been suspended 
 were his friends. Neal had been reproved before for 
 mischief that he had been in with them. It was one of 
 those sad cases when a man's past record counts against 
 him, no matter how innocent he may be of the present 
 offence. But Hester could not believe that her brother 
 would lie to her. 
 
 One morning Edith drove her father to the train. Not 
 a vestige of snow was left near the road ; only a patch or 
 two on the hills, and even that was rapidly disappearing 
 in the spring sunshine which every day grew warmer. 
 
 " Have you heard much about St. Asaph's from any 
 one but Neal ?" asked Mr. Franklin, abruptly. " Doesn't 
 that cousin of the Morgans' go there ?" 
 
 " Do you mean Tom, papa ? Yes, he does, and Tony 
 Bronson, too, who stays at the Morgans' occasionally. 
 Don't you know ? He was at our New Year's Eve party." 
 
 " I think I remember. Did you ever hear either of 
 them speak of Neal, or discuss him in any way ?" 
 
 Edith hesitated. 
 
 " Tom Morgan never did," she said at last. 
 
 " And the other fellow ?" 
 
 " Yes, he said something. Keally, papa, I wish you 
 wouldn't ask me." 
 
 " What nonsense ! Of course it is your duty to tell 
 me, Edith. It is right that I should know how Neal 
 stands with his class. What did the boy say ?" 
 
142 
 
 *<■ He spoke as if Neal were in some scrape, and lie 
 wished that he could help him out." 
 
 " He is a friend of NeaPs, then ?" 
 
 " I don't know. He spoke very nicely of him and 
 really seemed to want to help him, but Cynthia didn't 
 believe that when I told her. She seemed to think he 
 was an enemy of Neal's. But then Cynthia can't bear 
 him, you know. She took one of her tremendous preju- 
 dices against Tony Bronson, the way she often does, and 
 she wouldn't believe there was a bit of good in him." 
 
 " But you liked him ?" 
 
 *' Yes, very much. I think he is conceited, but then 
 so many boys are that. As far as I could see he is a very 
 nice fellow and the Morgans like him ever so much. The 
 only people that I know of who don't like him are Jack 
 and Cynthia and Neal." 
 
 " I don't believe there is much doubt that Neal has 
 been very wild all the time he has been at St. Asaph's," 
 observed Mr. Franklin ; " this only goes to prove it. 
 Bronson was not in that set, evidently, as he was not one 
 of those who were suspended, and I have no doubt he is 
 a very good sort of fellow. It is a pity Neal doesn't see 
 more of him." 
 
 They drew up at the post-office, and Mr. Franklin went 
 in to get the letters. He came out with quite a budget, 
 and stood at the carriage looking hastily over them. 
 
 " All of these are to go home," he said, giving a num- 
 ber to Edith ; " here is one for me with the St. Asaph's 
 post-mark. I will see what it is." 
 
 He tore it open and glanced at the signature. Then he 
 looked up quickly. 
 
 " What was that Bronson fellow's name, Edith ?" 
 
143 
 
 " Tony." 
 
 "Then this is from him. Odd we should just have 
 been talking about him. Humph !" 
 
 Mr. Franklin's face grew grave, then angry, as he read 
 the letter. 
 
 "That boy will come to no good end," he muttered. 
 " I don't know what we arc going to do with him." 
 
 Edith watched him curiously. She wished that her fa- 
 ther would give her the letter to read, but he did not. 
 People were hurrying by to the station, which was but a 
 few steps from the post-office. 
 
 " You will miss your train, Franklin," said some one, 
 tapping him on the shoulder. 
 
 Mr. Franklin glanced at the clock in the station tower, 
 found that he had but half a minute, and with a hasty 
 good-bye to Edith, and strict injunctions not to mention 
 Bronson's letter at home, he ran for his train, thrusting 
 the mysterious note into his pocket as he went. 
 
 Edith did the errands and drove home again, after a 
 brief call upon Gertrude Morgan, who was full of curiosity 
 about Neal's return. 
 
 " I always knew he was pretty gay," she said. " Of 
 course Tom and Tony Bronson wouldn't say much — boys 
 never do, you know ; but I gathered from certain things 
 that Neal was — well, rather sporty, to say the least." 
 
 Edith drove homeward rather slowly. She was very 
 sorry about it all : sorry for Neal himself, whom she liked, 
 despite the fact that he was a Gordon ; sorry for her step- 
 mother, whom she told herself she disliked ; and yet Mrs. 
 Franklin's unvarying kindness and sweet temper had not 
 been without good results. Edith had softened greatly 
 towards her, more than she herself was aware of. She 
 
144 
 
 still continued to assure herself that it was an unfortunate 
 day for them when the Gordons came, and she worked 
 herself into a temper when she thought of the added wor- 
 riment it gave her father to have Neal behave as he had 
 done. 
 
 " Papa looked so anxious this morning when he read 
 that letter," she said to herself ; " it is too bad. I do 
 wonder what was in it, and from Tony Bronson, too ! 
 What would Gertrude have said if I had told her ?" 
 
 In the meantime Mr. Franklin was reading his letter 
 again. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Franklin [it ran], — It is with great 
 regret that I am obliged to call a little matter to your atten- 
 tion. I had hoped that it would not be necessary. Your 
 brother-in-law, Neal Gordon, owes me a small amount, fifty 
 dollars, in fact, and 1 am at present really in need of the 
 money. I have waited for it a good while, nearly a year, 
 and there are one or two bills that I am expected to pay 
 out of my allowance, which I am unable to do until Gor- 
 don pays me. 
 
 " Of course, I dislike very much to dun him for it when 
 he is in disgrace, but really I see no other way out of the 
 difficulty than to ask you if you will kindly forward a 
 check to my order. 
 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 " Anthony Bkonson. 
 
 " St. Asaph's, April 2d." 
 
 This letter had cost the writer much thought. He had 
 written several copies before he was altogether satisfied, 
 but at last the result pleased him. 
 
145 
 
 " I call it rather neat," lie said, as he folded it carefully 
 and addressed the envelope with an extra flourish. " This 
 ■will bring the roof down on our fine high -and -mighty 
 Mr. Gordon, if nothing else does. I fancy that brother- 
 in-law of his has a nice little temper of his own, and it 
 will be so pleasant for Gordie to be nagged by a brother- 
 in-law !" 
 
 When Edith got back to Oakleigh the morning that 
 Bronson's note was received, she found wild excitement 
 raging, which, for a time, made her forget the letter. 
 
 Some of the Leghorn pullets, which, unfortunately, could 
 fly high, had escaped from the yard, notwithstanding the 
 wire netting which enclosed them, and had been having a 
 fine time scratching and pecking in entirely new hunting 
 grounds, when Bob happened along. 
 
 Here was his chance. For many months he had been 
 waiting for this very moment. AVhat was the use of be- 
 ing a sporting dog, if he could not now and then indulge 
 his hunting proclivities? His master had gone on the 
 river and left him at home — his master did not treat hira 
 well, nowadays. Bob felt neglected. He would have one 
 good time. 
 
 He waited his opportunity, and when it came he made 
 the most of it. A fine fat hen, peacefully pecking a 
 worm, found the tables suddenly turned. Instead of the 
 worm being in her mouth, she found herself in the mouth 
 of the horrible black object which she had often seen 
 peering greedily at her through the fence. Oh, that she 
 had never flown over that fence ! She gave one despair- 
 ing "cluck" as she was borne madly through the air, 
 and then was silent forever. 
 
 10 
 
146 
 
 Janet and Willy, playing near, heard tlie noise and fol- 
 lowed in pursuit, calling Cynthia as they did so, who, see- 
 ing what w^as the matter, flew from the house, dog-whip in 
 hand. The boys were both on the river. 
 
 For a time the chase was hopeless. Bob had not wait- 
 ed all these months for nothing; he had no intention 
 of dropping the prize at the first command. Round and 
 round he tore, leading his pursuers a pretty dance, through 
 orchard and field, over the lawn and through the currant- 
 bushes. Cynthia fell at this particular point with Janet 
 and Willy on top of her, but they picked themselves up 
 and started again. 
 
 At last Mrs. Franklin, coming out, headed Bob off, and 
 Cynthia grasped his collar. 
 
 '' Bad dog !" she cried. " Neal told me I was to punish 
 you, and I mean to do it." 
 
 She cut him with the short whip, but it was of no avail. 
 Bob had dropped the chicken, and, wild with excitement, 
 sprang for her hand. She only succeeded in lashing her- 
 self with the whip. 
 
 " It's no use," she said, at last ; "I've got to punish him 
 some other way. The boys won't be home for eVer so long, 
 and it won't do to wait." 
 
 " I have always heard the only way of curing a dog of 
 killing hens was to tie one around his neck," said Mrs. 
 Franklin, doubtfully. "Perhaps it had better be done. 
 We will call one of the men." 
 
 " No, I will do it all," said Cynthia ; " it's not a very 
 nice piece of work, but I'll do it." 
 
 Cord was brought, and she finally succeeded in attaching 
 the defunct hen to Bob's collar. Poor Bob ! His joy had 
 been quickly turned to mourning. And now this stern 
 
/ 
 
 
 "poor bob! his joy had been qcickly turned to mourning' 
 
147 
 
 Cynthia — she who had hitherto been apparently so affably 
 disposed towards him — fastened him to the hitching-post, 
 and came with a horrid horsewhip to chastise him ! Bob 
 never forgot that morning. He always thought of Cynthia 
 with more respect after that. 
 
 When Neal came home he highly approved of all the 
 proceedings except the horsewhip. 
 
 " Couldn't you do it with his own whip ?" he asked. 
 *' It places a dog at a mean disadvantage to tie him up and 
 then whip him. It is so lowering to his dignity." 
 
 " One of us had to be at a disadvantage," said Cynthia, 
 indignantly, " and I should think it was better for Bob to 
 be at it than for me. And as for his dignity, I think it 
 ought to be lowered." 
 
 To which wise remark Neal was forced to agree. 
 
 Jack was much disgusted at losing one of his best hens. 
 What with the fox last winter, and a neighbor's dog that 
 had killed seven, and a peculiar disease which had taken 
 off fifty, luck seemed to be against the poultry business. 
 But, undiscouraged. Jack had refilled the machine and was 
 awaiting results. Some of last year's hens had begun to 
 lay, and he was sending eggs to the Boston markets. 
 There were actually a few more figures on the page for re- 
 ceipts. 
 
 Bob's misdemeanor temporarily diverted the minds of 
 the family from the trouble about Neal, but Mr. Franklin's 
 return that night brought up the subject again to some of 
 them. 
 
 He told his wife that he wished to speak with her, and 
 together they went into the library and shut the door. He 
 laid two letters before her on the table — the one he had re- 
 ceived that morning from Bronson, and a second one from 
 
148 
 
 the same source, which had come by the evening mail. The 
 latter was very brief : 
 
 " My dear Mr. Franklin, — The very day that I sent 
 my letter to you I received a money-order from Gordon 
 for the amount he owed me. 
 
 "Regretting very much that I should have troubled you, 
 I have the honor to be 
 
 " Very truly yours, 
 
 "Anthony Bronson." 
 
 " What does it mean ?" asked Mr. Franklin, when his 
 wife had finished reading the letters. 
 
 " I cannot imagine," said she, looking up, completely 
 mystified. 
 
 " Did you lend him the money ?" 
 
 " No, certainly not. I should have told you, John, if I 
 had," she added, reproachfully. 
 
 " I know," he said, as he walked up and down the room, 
 " but I could not account for it in any other way. It is 
 extraordinary." 
 
 " Suppose we send for Neal and ask him about it." 
 
 When Neal came he was given the two letters to read. 
 He did so, and laid them down without a word. 
 
 " Well, what have you got to say for yourself ?" asked 
 his brother-in-law, impatiently. 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Neal, dear, you must explain," said Hester. 
 
 " Why should I explain ? I paid the debt. It doesn't 
 make any difference to either of you how I did it." 
 
 "It makes a great deal of difference," exclaimed Mr. 
 Franklin, who was rapidly growing angry. " In the first 
 
149 
 
 place, liow did you come to be owing fifty dollars so soon 
 after the other debt was paid ? What did you do with the 
 first fifty your sister gave you in the fall ?" 
 
 " Spent it." 
 
 " Neal !" cried Hester. " Didn't you pay your debts 
 then ? Why didn't you ?" 
 
 He said nothing. 
 
 " It is an abominable affair altogether," said Mr. Frank- 
 lin. " You were in debt, which you had no business to be. 
 You obtained money from Hester to pay the debt, and 
 then, according to your own words, you spent it otherwise. 
 You get into a bad scrape and are suspended. And now 
 you obtain money in some peculiar way, and refuse to ex- 
 plain how." 
 
 " Hold on a minute, Mr. Franklin," said Neal, who was 
 in a towering rage by this time. " You go a little too far. 
 I don't consider that it is at all necessary for me to explain 
 to you, but I am willing to do it on Hessie's account. I 
 did not say that I spent her money otherwise. I merely 
 said that I spent it, which was perfectly true. I spent it 
 paying half my debt. I owed a hundred dollars at that 
 time, instead of fifty as I told you. I paid half then, and 
 the rest I paid a few days ago, and it doesn't make any 
 difference to you or any one else how I got the money. 
 As for the scrape, I was not in it. You can believe my 
 word or not, as you like. I've said all I am going to say, 
 and if you don't mind I'll leave you. I've had enough of 
 this." 
 
 He stalked out of the library, and went up to his own 
 room. No one saw him again that evening. 
 
 "You are too hard on him, John," said Mrs. Franklin. 
 " Hard on him ! It would have been better for the boy 
 
150 
 
 if some one had begun earlier to be hard on him. It is 
 the most extraordinary thing where he got that money." 
 
 Nothing was said to the others about it all. They 
 knew that Neal'was in fresh disgrace, but Mr. and Mrs. 
 Franklin withheld the details at present. Neal himself 
 was dumb. Not even to his only confidante, Cynthia, did 
 he unburden himself. He was too angry with her father to 
 trust himself to speak to her on the subject, and his silence 
 made Cynthia miserable. 
 
 Neal did not acknowledge for a moment that the stand 
 taken by Mr. Franklin was perfectly justifiable and natural, 
 and he allowed his resentment to burn furiously, making 
 no effort to overcome it. 
 
 His mistake from the beginning had been concealment, 
 but this he had yet to realize. He fancied that it would 
 be lowering to his pride to make any explanation what- 
 ever. 
 
 Let them think what they liked, he did not care, he said 
 to himself again and again. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 During these early months of the year a change had 
 come over Miss Betsey Trinkett's life. Silas Green had 
 died. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Franklin went to Wayborough for the fu- 
 neral, and found Miss Betsey quite broken. 
 
 " To think that the day was fixed at last," she said, " and 
 he died only the week before. Well, well, it does seem 
 passing queer, after all these years. It doesn't do to put 
 a thing off too long. And yet, perhaps, it's all for the 
 best, for if I'd given up and gone down there to live, I 
 should have had nothing now to look at but the Soldiers' 
 Monument, and I'd have felt real lonesome without the 
 Merrimac." 
 
 And with this consolation the old lady took up her life 
 again, and found it very much the same thing it had been 
 before, with the exception of Sunday night. On that even- 
 ing she would not have the lamps lighted, but would sit 
 in her favorite window and look out across the valley at 
 her beloved view, her eyes turned in that direction long 
 after it became too dark to see. 
 
 Sometimes then she regretted that she had not yielded 
 to Silas's arguments, and gone to live in the house in the 
 village. It would have pleased him. And it seemed very 
 lonely Sunday night without Silas. 
 
 After a while — it was a day or two after the communi- 
 cations came from Bronson — Mr. Franklin received a letter 
 
153 
 
 from his aunt. She was pretty well, but felt as if she had 
 not heard from them for a long time. She would send 
 Willy's present soon. Had Janet's been placed in the sav- 
 inofs-bank? She had not heard from Janet since she sent 
 it. Why did not the child write ? 
 
 As nothing had come to Janet from Miss Trinkett, this 
 caused some surprise. 
 
 " I am afraid Aunt Betsey has trusted to government 
 once too often," said Mr. Franklin, " for evidently the 
 package has gone astray. I wonder what was there be- 
 sides the gold dollars." 
 
 " Something to make it an odd-looking package, you 
 may be sure, papa," said Cynthia. 
 
 Mr. Franklin inquired of the postmaster. That person- 
 age was a nervous little man, much harassed with the re- 
 sponsibilities and duties of his position. 
 
 " Something lost, Mr. Franklin ? Now that's very 
 strange. I can't think it's lost. Yes, I remember a num- 
 ber of odd-looking packages that have come for your fam- 
 ily from Wayborough. There may have been one lately, 
 though T can't say for sure. Let me see. I remember 
 young Gordon coming for the mail one day, and getting — 
 no, he didn't get one, he sent it — a money-order. Hap- 
 pen to remember it because he paid for it in gold. That's 
 all I can safely say about anything, Mr. Franklin. There 
 may have been a package — what did you say, Miss? 
 Stamps and postal-cards? Yes, yes." 
 
 And the busy little man turned to the next comer. 
 
 Mr. Franklin left the ofRce with a thoughtful face. He 
 was a very impulsive man, too apt to say the first thing 
 that occurred to him, without regard to consequences. 
 Therefore, when he got into the carriage and, taking the 
 
153 
 
 reins from Edith, drove hurriedly out High Street towards 
 Oakleigh, he exclaimed: 
 
 " I am almost inclined to believe that Neal knows more 
 about Aunt Betsey's present to Janet than any of us." 
 
 Janet, who was perched on the back seat, heard her 
 own name mentioned, and proceeded to listen attentively. 
 Both her father and sister forgot that she was there, and 
 she took especial pains not to remind them of her pres- 
 ence. 
 
 " How do you mean, papa ?" asked Edith. 
 
 " I think it is a remarkable coincidence, if nothing^ more. 
 I had a letter the other day from young Bronson, stating 
 that Neal owed him fifty dollars. The same night I had 
 another letter from him, saying that he had received a 
 money-order from Neal for the amount. We questioned 
 Neal, and he would give no satisfactory answer as to 
 where he got the money. The postmaster tells me that 
 Neal paid for his money-order in gold. Aunt Betsey's 
 present to Janet is missing ; we all know that Aunt Bet- 
 sey always sends gold. The postmaster seems to think 
 that a package may have come through the office to us, 
 though he is not absolutely certain of it. What more nat- 
 ural than to suppose that the gold Neal had was meant 
 for Janet ? He may have called for the mail that day, rec- 
 ognized the package from Aunt Betsey, and the tempta- 
 tion was too much for him." 
 
 " Oh, papa !" cried Edith, much shocked, " I can't be- 
 lieve that Neal would do a thing like that." 
 
 " I can't either," said her father, cutting the air with 
 his whip in his impatience, and making his horse prance 
 madly — "I can't either, and I am sure I don't want to ! 
 Let us forget that I said it, Edith. Don't think of it again, 
 
154 
 
 and on no account repeat what I said. The idea came 
 into my head, and I spoke without thinking. I wouldn't 
 have Hester know it for the world. But it is strange, 
 isn't it, that Neal paid gold for his money-order. Where 
 did he get it?" 
 
 " It is strange, papa, but indeed I think Neal is honest. 
 I am sure — oh, I am very sure — that it couldn't have been 
 Janet's." 
 
 " Then where did he get it?" repeated Mr. Franklin, with 
 another cut of his whip. 
 
 *' Perhaps Mrs. Franklin gave it to him." 
 
 " Of course she didn't," exclaimed her father, with irri- 
 tation, " and I wish you would oblige me, Edith, by not 
 calling my wife ' Mrs. Franklin.' If you do not choose to 
 speak of her as the rest of my children do, you can at 
 least call her ' Hester.' You annoy me beyond measure." 
 
 Edith turned very white as she said : 
 
 " I am sorry, papa. Then I will call her nothing. I 
 can't possibly say * mamma ' to her, and I don't feel like 
 speaking to her by her first name." 
 
 " What nonsense it all is," said Mr. Franklin. " I am 
 thoroughly disappointed in you, Edith." 
 
 *' I don't know why you should be, papa. I have noth- 
 ing to do with it. If the Gordons had not come here this 
 would never have happened. The money would not be 
 missing, you wouldn't have had the letters from Tony 
 Bronson, and I — oh, I would have been so much happier I" 
 
 " If you are not happy, it is entirely your own fault," 
 said her father, sternly. " Now let me hear no more of 
 these absurd notions of yours. I have too much to think 
 of that is of more importance." 
 
 Edith wanted to cry, but she controlled herself. She 
 
155 
 
 was to drive with her father over to Upper Falls, where 
 he had to attend to some business, and now she had made 
 him seriously angry, she knew. She swallowed the lumps 
 that rose in her throat, and presently she managed to 
 speak on some indifferent subject ; but her father made 
 no reply, and they soon turned in at Oakleigh gates. 
 Janet, the small, quiet person on the back seat, could 
 scarcely wait to get home. She must find Neal at once. 
 
 But Neal was not easily to be found. She trotted up 
 to his room, but he was not there. She went to the cellar 
 stairs and called, but Neal had neglected his duties of late 
 as partner in the poultry business ; in fact, he had retired 
 altogether, and the eggs reposed there alone. Janet was 
 not allowed to descend the stairs because of her misde- 
 meanors last year. 
 
 She went to the workshop, but all was quiet. Look- 
 ing out from the upper window, however, she spied Bob 
 in the pasture ; perhaps Neal was with him. She went 
 down and unfastened the big gate that opened into the 
 barn-yard. 
 
 Country child though she was, Janet was sorely afraid 
 of venturing through the barn-yard alone. Were there 
 any pigs there? Yes, there were a great many. Janet 
 detested pigs, ugly grunting creatures ! And there were 
 some cows also, and she had on her red jacket. She 
 promptly laid it aside and made a bold rush through the 
 yard. 
 
 On the whole, she rather enjoyed the excitement. She 
 was alone, for Willy had gone to Boston with her mother, 
 and Cynthia and Jack were at school. Janet herself was 
 enjoying an unlooked-for holiday owing to the illness of 
 her teacher, and she was about to fulfil the proverb which 
 
156 
 
 tells of the occupation that is found for idle bands to do, 
 though in this case it was an idle tongue. 
 
 The dangers of the barn-yard overcome, Janet pursued 
 her way along the cart-road that led to the far meadow, 
 and there, sitting on a rock near the river, she found the 
 object of her search. He was whittling a boat while he 
 pondered moodily about his affairs. 
 
 " Neal, Neal !" she called, breathless from excitement 
 and haste, " I want to speak to you. What have you 
 done with my present ?" 
 
 " Where did you come from, you small imp ?" said 
 Neal, with lazy good-nature. Preoccupied though he was, 
 he was fond of children, and particularly of mischief-lov- 
 ing Janet, and he was not sorry to have his solitude re- 
 lieved by her coming. 
 
 " Where's my present ?" repeated Janet ; " I want it 
 dreadful bad." 
 
 "Your present! What do you mean, young one? 
 You don't suppose for an instant that I'm making this 
 boat for you, do you ?" 
 
 " Boat !" cried Janet, disdainfully ; " I don't want any 
 old boat ; I want Aunt Betsey's present." 
 
 " I suppose you do. I would myself if I were so lucky 
 as to own an Aunt Betsey. But I'm afraid I can't help 
 you in that line, my child." 
 
 " Yes, you can," said Janet, tugging at his elbow, " you 
 can too. You've got it. Papa said so." 
 *' Got what ?" 
 
 " Aunt Betsey's present. He and the postmaster man 
 said you took it." 
 *'Said I took it?" 
 " Yes. Come, Neal, give it to me. I don't want the 
 
157 
 
 gold dollars— you can have those— but I'd like the funny 
 thing she sent with them. Aunt Betsey alius sends funny 
 things. Come along, Neal. Give it to me." 
 " Did your father say I took that money ?" 
 " Yes, he did. Didn't I say so lots of times ? Edith 
 said you didn't, and papa said you did. What's the mat- 
 ter with your face ? It looks awful funny." 
 
 " Never mind what it looks like. Tell me what your 
 father said." 
 
 «0h, I don't know what he said, and I've told you ten 
 hundred times. Don't hold my arm so tight ; it hurts. 
 Let me go, Neal." 
 
 " I won't, till you tell me what he said." 
 " I'll never tell unless you let go. I'll scream and peo- 
 ple '11 know you're killing me dead, and then you'll get 
 punished." 
 
 She opened her mouth and gave a long, shrill shriek. 
 " Oh, hush up !" exclaimed Neal, roughly ; " if I let go 
 will you tell me ?" 
 
 " Yes, if you'll give me that boat. I think I'd like it, 
 after all." 
 
 Neal released her and thrust the boat into her hand. 
 " Now what ?" he said. 
 
 " Oh, nothing much, except papa came out of the post- 
 office and told Edith the postmaster man said maybe you'd 
 taken Aunt Betsey's package, 'cause you gave him some 
 gold dollars. And papa said it must have been my pres- 
 ent, 'cause you couldn't get gold dollars any other way no- 
 how, and papa was mad, I guess, 'cause his face looked 
 the way it does when some of us chillens is naughty, with 
 his mouth all shut up tight. There, that's all. Now, Neal, 
 give me the thing Aunt Betsey sent." 
 
158 
 
 " I haven't got it and I never Lad it. And now good-bye 
 to you, every one of you, forever ! Do you hear ? Forever ! 
 I'm not going to stay another minute in a place where I'm 
 insulted." 
 
 He strode away, and Janet, frightened at she knew not 
 what, sat down on a rock and began to cry. How very 
 queer Neal was, and how queer his face looked ! She won- 
 dered what he was going to do. Perhaps he was going 
 down to the cellar to smash all the eggs. He looked that 
 way. 
 
 She sat there a while, but it was cool without the red 
 jacket, left on the other side of the barn-yard — for although 
 it was spring according to the almanac, there was still a 
 sharpness in the air — and very soon she too went towards 
 home. She had not found Aunt Betsey's present, after 
 all, and she had nothing to repay her for her search but 
 a half-made wooden boat and an aching arm. 
 
 And there were those pigs, still at large. She got 
 through safely, but left the gate open, thereby allowing 
 the animals to escape, and incurring the wrath of the 
 farmer. 
 
 When she reached the house Neal was not to be found. 
 There was no one at home, for Edith and her father had 
 driven over to Upper Falls on business, after leaving Janet 
 at the door. There was nothing to do but to go out and 
 tease the good-natured kitchen-maid into giving her a 
 huge slice of bread and butter and sugar. Mary Ann and 
 Martha, the old servants, would never do it, but the youth- 
 ful Amanda was more lenient. 
 
 *' Where's Neal, 'Manda?" asked Janet, as she munched 
 the dehcious portion which was placed before her. They 
 were in the pantry, beyond the ken of the other maids. 
 
159 
 
 " I don't know. He came a-stalkin' past the kitching 
 •windies a little while ago, an' I heard him run up-stairs 
 an' down like a house a-fire, an' out the front door with 
 a bang." 
 
 " Guess he's excited," murmured Janet, with her mouth 
 full ; " guess that must be it. He's gone o£E mad. We 
 had a fight out in the pasture." 
 
 " La, child ! What do you mean ?" 
 
 " Oh, I'm not going to say any more, 'cept me and Neal, 
 we fit a fight in the pasture. I made him awful mad," 
 with another huge bite. 
 
 "La, child, you do beat everything! But there's Mary 
 Ann caUing me. Don't you take a bit more sugar. Now 
 mind 1" 
 
 But Janet, left to herself in the pantry, made a fine 
 repast. 
 
 The family came home to dinner, with the exception of 
 Mr. Franklin and Edith, and although Neal's absence was 
 commented upon, no one thought anything of it. Ho 
 frequently went off for a long day alone on the river. 
 
 When the meal was nearly over and dessert had been 
 placed upon the table, Janet thought that she would an- 
 nounce what had taken place. She felt quite important 
 at being the cause of Neal's disappearance. 
 
 " Guess Neal's awful mad with me," she said, suddenly. 
 No one paid much attention. She would try again. 
 
 " Guess Neal's awful mad with me 'bout what I said 
 'bout Aunt Betsey's present." 
 
 "What did you say about it?" asked Jack, who sat 
 next to her. There was a lull in the conversation, and 
 every one heard her reply. 
 
 " Ob, I told him to give it to me. I said papa said he 
 
160 
 
 took it, and he could have the gold dollars, but I wanted 
 the funny thing. Why, maybe it was a doll or a purse 
 or some other nice thing. Course I wanted it. My, 
 though, JSTeal was mad !" 
 
 " What did you tell him, Janet ?" asked Mrs. Franklin, 
 in much astonishment ; " that your father said Neal had 
 taken your present ? When did he say so, and what do 
 you mean?" 
 
 " Goody, mamma, you're asking most as many questions 
 as Neal did. Guess you're excited, like he was. I told 
 him papa said he'd taken ray present from Aunt Betsey. 
 The postmaster man said so this morning. And Neal 
 looked awful queer when I told him, and he hurted my 
 arm awful bad. And then he went off and left me." 
 
 ISIrs. Franklin became very white. 
 
 " I think you will have to excuse me, children. I — I do not 
 feel very well. I will go lie down. Jack, your arm, please." 
 
 Jack sprang to help her and led her from the room. 
 Cynthia only waited to scold Janet for her idle chatter and 
 then followed. 
 
 "But it's true, Cynthia," her small sister called after 
 her. " It's true, and you're real mean to say it isn't. 
 You just ask Edith." 
 
 W^hen Mr. Franklin returned and learned that his hastily 
 uttered words of the morning had been repeated to his 
 wife and to Neal, he was distressed beyond measure. 
 
 " My dear, I never meant it," he said. " Hester, you 
 must know that I could not really believe that Neal would 
 do such a thing. It was impossible to help remarking 
 upon the singular coincidence. I never thought the child 
 would hear me. What shall I do with her? She ought 
 not to have repeated what I said." 
 
161 
 
 " Do nothing, Jolin. Janet is not to blame ; naturally 
 a child of her age would get it wrong. But oh, I am re- 
 lieved to find you did not really think it ! It gave me 
 such a shock to he^r that you thought him capable of 
 such an action." 
 
 " Where is the boy ? I want to tell him myself." 
 
 But Neal could not be found. Cynthia and Jack hunt- 
 ed over the place, looking for him in all his haunts. He 
 was not on the river, for his canoe was in its place. 
 He had not gone to the village, for no horse was out, and, 
 whether he had walked or driven, his sister would have 
 met him when she returned from Boston. He could not 
 have gone for a walk, for Bob had been left at home, and 
 Neal never walked without Bob. 
 
 A horrible foreboding seized Cynthia. What if Neal 
 had run away ? But no, surely he would never do such a 
 thing. The idea of her -even thinking of it when such a 
 course would only make people believe that he had really 
 taken the money. Cynthia scolded herself severely for 
 having allowed the supposition to come into her mind. 
 But where was he ? As a last resource she called Janet 
 to her and again questioned the child closely. They were 
 standing on the drive in front of the house. 
 
 "What did Neal say to you, Janet, when he went 
 off?" 
 
 " Oh, he was awful mad, I told you, Cynthia. He was 
 just mad." 
 
 "But did he say anything?" 
 
 " Oh yes, lots. But I forget what." 
 
 " Can't you remember anything, Janet ? Not one word? 
 
 Did he say where he was going ?" 
 
 " No-o," drawled Janet, " he just said — My, Cynthia, 
 11 
 
162 
 
 look at that bluebird ! It's a real bluebird, sure's you're 
 alive. Wisb I could catcli bim." 
 
 " But, Janet, never mind the bird. What did Neal 
 say ?" 
 
 " Oh, he said good-bye and he was going. Cynthia, I 
 b'lieve if I had some salt to put on that bird's tail I could 
 catch him. Mayn't I, Cynthia? Mayn't I get some salt 
 and put it on his tail ?" 
 
 " No, you can't !" cried Cynthia, stamping her foot. 
 " I do wish you would tell me all Neal said." 
 
 " There now, you're in an angry passion," observed her 
 small sister, gazing at her calmly ; " you've let your angry 
 passions rise. You frightened that bird away, a-stampin' 
 of your foot that way. Aren't you 'shamed !" 
 
 "Oh, Janet, never mind. Please tell me. Did he 
 really say good-bye ?" 
 
 " Will you give me your coral necklace if I tell you all 
 he said?" said Janet, who was ever prompt to seize an 
 opportunity. 
 
 " Yes, yes ! Anything 1" 
 
 "Well, he said — are you sure you mean it, Cynthia? 
 I want the coral necklace with the nice little gold clasp 
 and—" 
 
 " Yes, I know," groaned Cynthia. " I've only got 
 one coral necklace, you dreadful child ! Go on, do go 
 on!" 
 
 " My, Cynthia ! You're terrible impatient, and I guess 
 your angry passions have riz again. Well, he said, 
 * Good-bye forever, I'm going away,' and ofE he went." 
 
 ^' Was that all ? Truthfully, Janet ?" 
 
 "Yes, truthfully all. He said he wouldn't stay any 
 longer 'cause he was salted, or something." 
 
163 
 
 " Salted !" 
 
 " Yes, or suited, or some word like that." 
 
 " /?2salted, do you mean ?" 
 
 " Yes, I guess so. And now, where's the necklace 2" 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 It was true, then. Neal had gone. 
 
 Cynthia went to her mother's room and told her what 
 Janet had said. 
 
 " It is what I feared," cried Mrs. Franklin ; " he has left 
 me forever ! My dear and only brother ! And where is 
 he? Cynthia, Cynthia, why did he go? It almost makes 
 me think he may have taken the money." 
 
 " Mamma, how can you !" exclaimed Cynthia, indignant- 
 ly. "Neal never took it. I — I — oh, I knoio he didn't 
 take it ! Can't you believe me, mamma ?" She was al- 
 most crying. 
 
 " Dear child," said Mrs. Franklin, looking at her affec- 
 tionately, " you have more faith in him than I have. But 
 this running away is so much against him, Cynthia. If 
 he had been innocent, would he not have stayed to brave 
 it out?" 
 
 " No ; he is so proud, mamma. That is the reason he 
 went, I am sure. He thought papa suspected him. Oh, 
 why did papa ever think it? Why did he say anything 
 to Edith for Janet to hear?" 
 
 " Hush, dear. Your father spoke thoughtlessly, but it 
 was natural ; of course it was natural. But Neal should 
 not have gone. It is a false kind of pride. If he is inno- 
 cent he should have the pride of innocence and stay here." 
 
 It was what they all said. Cynthia went from one to 
 the other, trying to convince them and to imbue them 
 
165 
 
 ■with her own belief in Neal, but she could not. Even 
 Jack, her beloved twiu-brother, was on the other side. 
 
 "Of course I want to believe in Neal, Cyuth," he said. 
 " I like him, and I never supposed before he'd do a low- 
 down thing like this. In fact, I can't really believe it now. 
 But why on earth did the fellow run away ? If he came 
 by the money all fair and square, why under the sun didn't 
 he say so, instead of shutting himself up like an oyster 
 and never letting on where he got it ?" 
 
 " He had his reasons," persisted Cynthia. " Oh, Jack, 
 can't you believe me? You always used to believe me." 
 
 "Well, you used to tell a fellow more than you do now. 
 You get mighty shut up yourself now and then. You 
 won't tell me what you're going to do with Aunt Betsey's 
 money, or why you didn't buy a watch, or anything. I'm 
 sure I don't want you to if you don't want to, but there's 
 no reason why I should always think as you do." 
 
 If they had not been sitting side by side Jack could 
 not have failed to notice the peculiar expression that came 
 into Cynthia's face when he mentioned Aunt Betsey's pres- 
 ent. They were on the stone wall which crossed the river 
 path. Bob was with them, darting hither and thither, per- 
 haps in the vain hope of finding his master. 
 
 " I don't need a watch, I've told you over and over 
 again," said Cynthia. " But oh, Jack, I wish you would 
 agree with me ! Indeed, Neal is honest." 
 
 " I believe he is myself, on the whole," said Jack at 
 last; "but it's a mighty queer thing he doesn't own up and 
 tell where he got that money, and he's a great ass not to. 
 You see the postmaster thinks that perhaps the package 
 did come from Aunt Betsey, and Neal paid gold just a few 
 days later. Of course it looks queer." 
 
166 
 
 It was the same way with Edith. She would not be 
 convinced, and after a vain argument with her Cynthia 
 retired to the only place where she was sure of being un- 
 disturbed, and cried until her eyes smarted and her head 
 ached. It was to the garret that she went when she 
 wished to be alone, and, amid the piles of empty paper 
 boxes and bars of soap and all the varied possessions that 
 were stored there, she sat and thought over the matter. 
 
 ** Ought I to tell ?" she said again and again, speaking 
 in a hoarse whisper; " oh ! why did I ever promise ?" 
 
 For Cynthia had at last prevailed upon Neal to borrow 
 her money to pay Bronson with, and had promised that she 
 would not tell, and Cynthia had a very strict sense of honor. 
 
 " Ought I to tell ?" she repeated ; " no, a promise is a 
 promise, and I have no right to break it. I was silly, I 
 was idiotic ever to promise such a thing, but how did I 
 know it was coming out this way ? If Neal had only not 
 gone ofE ! Perhaps he will come back soon ; then I can 
 make him tell. He does not realize how foolish, how 
 wrong it is to keep it a secret. Oh, if he would only 
 come back !" 
 
 But Neal did not come back. Instead of that, the next 
 morning Mrs. Franklin received a letter from him. He 
 repeated the same words. He could not stay where he 
 was insulted. If they could not believe him he would go. 
 He had a perfect right to use the money which he had 
 paid for the money-order, and he would never condescend 
 to explain where he got it. He was visiting a friend at 
 present, but he was going at once in search of some work. 
 He intended to support himself henceforth. 
 
 It was a very absurd letter, and it made Mr. Franklin 
 more anorrv than ever and his wife more distressed. 
 
167 
 
 *' It is perfect nonsense," said he. " The boy is not of 
 age and he can be stopped. I will write at once to his 
 guardians. In the meantime we will look him up in Bos- 
 ton ; from the postmark I suppose he is there." 
 
 " One of his guardians is abroad, and the other is that 
 old Quaker cousin of my mother's," sighed Mrs. Frank- 
 lin. 
 
 " Give me his address, and don't worry, Hester. The 
 affair will come around all right, I have no doubt. He is 
 a headstrong boy and he needs a leash." 
 
 They could not find him in Boston. On going to the 
 houses of his various friends there they learned that he 
 had spent the night with one of them, but had left to go 
 to his guardian in Philadelphia, they said. 
 
 " I am inclined to let it stand as it is," said Mr. Frank- 
 lin, when he returned ; " if he has gone to Philadelphia, 
 let him stay there. His old guardian vrill probably keep 
 him in better order than we can ; perhaps it will be better 
 not to interfere. I don't want to prejudice him against 
 the boy, and yet how can I explain why he left here ? He 
 can tell his own story." 
 
 His wife, however, wrote a letter to her brother, and ad- 
 dressed it to the care of her cousin, William Carpenter, of 
 Philadelphia. She hoped for an answer, but none came, and 
 in a few days Mr. Franklin wrote to Mr. Carpenter, asking if 
 his brother-in-law had arrived, and then, without w^aiting 
 for a reply, he concluded to go himself to Philadelphia. 
 
 The following Sunday was Easter Day — it came late 
 this year. Cynthia, sitting in the Franklin pew, saw to 
 her dismay Tony Bronson on the other side of the 
 church. He was with the Morgans. Gertrude, in a new 
 spring hat with nodding flowers, looked triumphantly 
 
168 
 
 over at her friends. It pleased her immensely to have 
 Bronson come so often. 
 
 "Dear me," thought Cynthia, "there will be more 
 trouble now that he has come, for he will tell hateful 
 things about Neal, I'm sure. I do hope Edith won't have 
 anything to do with him." 
 
 Her thoughts wandered during the service. When it 
 was over and the congregation streamed out of church 
 into the mild spring air, the Morgans invited Edith to 
 come home with them to dinner. This she agreed to do, 
 much to her sister's disgust ; but Cynthia was still fur- 
 ther incensed when Edith came back that afternoon and 
 announced, in a would-be careless manner, that she had 
 promised to drive with Tony Bronson the next day. 
 
 " Why, Edith !" said Cynthia, indignantly, " I shouldn't 
 think you would have anything to do with that Bronson. 
 He has been hateful to Neal." 
 
 " I don't know why you should say that," returned 
 Edith ; " any one would say that he had been exceedingly 
 nice to Neal. He lent him all that money, I'm sure. 
 And besides, what difference does it make ? Neal has be- 
 haved badly and run away. There is no reason why we 
 should give up people that Neal doesn't happen to like. 
 Papa said the other day that Tony Bronson was probably 
 a very good sort of fellow, because he wasn't in that last 
 scrape of Ncal's." 
 
 "Papa doesn't know a thing about him, and, at any 
 rate, papa wouldn't let you go to drive if he were at home. 
 You know he wouldnH." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin came into the room just at this moment. 
 
 " Would not let Edith go to drive, Cynthia ?" she said. 
 " What do you mean, dear ?" 
 
169 
 
 " Go to drive with strange young men like tbat Bron- 
 son." 
 
 " What nonsense !" said Edith, crossly ; " of course I can 
 go. Papa never in his life forbade my going to drive 
 with any of the boys. How silly you are, Cynthia." 
 
 *' Were you going to drive with Tony Bronson, Edith ?" 
 asked her step-mother. 
 
 " Yes, I am going, to-morrow." 
 
 " I think I agree with Cynthia, then. I hardly think 
 your father would wish you to go." 
 
 " Why, how perfectly absurd !" exclaimed Edith, grow- 
 ing very angry. " There has never been any question of 
 my going to drive with any one who asked me. Do you 
 suppose I am going to give it up now ?" 
 
 " I suppose you are, Edith," said Mrs. Franklin, quietly, 
 but with decision. " In your father's absence you are in 
 my charge, and I do not consider it desirable for you to 
 drive with Mr. Bronson, nor with any other young man 
 whom you know so slightly. It is not in good taste, to 
 say the least. Please oblige me by giving it up this time. 
 If I am mistaken in your father's views on the subject 
 you can go after he gets home." 
 
 " I won't give it up 1" exclaimed Edith, hotly. " Tony 
 Bronson will be gone when papa gets home, and, besides, 
 what can I tell him ? I've said I would go." 
 
 " It is always possible to break an engagement of that 
 kind," said her mother ; " you can tell him that you find 
 I have made other plans for you." 
 
 " I sha'n't tell him any such thing, Mrs. Franklin. I 
 think it is too bad. You have no right to order me in 
 this way." 
 
 " No right, Edith ? I have at least a right to be spoken 
 
170 
 
 to with respect, and you "will oblige me by doing so. 
 Please send a note to Mr. Bronson by the man who goes 
 to the village to-night." 
 
 She left the room, and Cynthia, -who had restrained 
 herself with great difficulty, now gave vent to her feelings. 
 
 *' I don't see how you can be so horrid to mamma, 
 Edith. AVhat are you thinking of ? And when she is so 
 worried about Neal, too." 
 
 "Neal ! "Why should we suffer for Neal? She has no 
 right to order me ; I won't be treated like a small child. 
 The idea of it not being in good taste to drive with Tony 
 Bronson !" 
 
 " Don't be so absurd, Edith. Why, even I know papa 
 wouldn't want you to. It's very different from going with 
 the Brenton boys that we have known all our lives. You 
 think I'm such an infant, but I know that much, and any 
 other time you would yourself. It is just because it is 
 that hateful Bronson. I can't understand what you and 
 Gertrude see in him. You are both so silly about him." 
 
 Edith colored hotly. 
 
 "I am not silly. I think he is very nice, that's all. I 
 wish you wouldn't interfere, Cynthia. You are silly to 
 have such a prejudice against him. I suppose I shall 
 have to write that note, and I do hate to give in to Mrs. 
 Franklin. Oh, why, why, whi/ did papa marry again ?" 
 
 She raised her voice irritably as she said this, and added : 
 
 " All this fuss about Neal and everything ! We never 
 should have had it if the Gordons hadn't come into the 
 family. Oh ! I beg your pardon, I didn't see you." For 
 standing in the doorway was her step-mother. 
 
 " I am sorry that the coming of the Gordons has caused 
 you so much trouble, Edith. We — we are unfortunate." 
 
171 
 
 She turned away and went up-stairs. 
 
 " Edith, I don't see how you can," exclaimed Cynthia. 
 " Mamma had so much trouble when she was a young 
 girl, and she was so alone until she came here, and now 
 all this about Neal. Really, I don't see how you can." 
 
 And she ran after her mother. 
 
 Edith, left alone, was a prey to conflicting emotions. 
 She knew she had done wrong — very wrong. She was 
 really sorry for the grief that Mrs. Franklin was suffering 
 on Neal's account, and she had not wanted to hurt her. 
 
 " Of course, I did not intend her to hear me. How did 
 I know she was there ? It makes me so angry to think 
 that I can't do what I want." 
 
 That was the gist of the whole matter. Edith wanted 
 her own way, and she was determined to have it. She sat 
 for a long time, thinking it all over. She did not make 
 any great effort to quench her resentment, and so, of 
 course, it became more intense. After a while she rose 
 and went to the desk. 
 
 " 1 simply can't write him that I won't go," she said to 
 herself. " How they would all laugh if I said Mrs. Frank- 
 lin ' had made other plans for me,' as if I were Janet^s 
 age ! No, I'll write Gertrude that I'll come down and 
 spend the day with her, and perhaps when I get there I 
 can induce Tony to play tennis, or something, instead of 
 going to drive. I'll try and get out of it, as long as I 
 must, but I'm going to have a good time of some sort. 
 I won't be cheated out of that." 
 
 She wrote the note, and it was sent to the Morgans 
 that night. Mrs. Franklin supposed, of course, that it 
 was merely to give up the drive ; so she was surprised 
 when Edith announced that she was going to spend the 
 
172 
 
 next day with Gertrude. However, she raised no objec- 
 tions, nor indeed did she have any. Her mind was too 
 full of Neal to think of much else. Even the altercation 
 with Edith, painful though it had been, failed to make 
 any lasting impression. Hester longed for her husband 
 to return and tell her what he had learned. She had an 
 uneasy feeling that something was wrong. It was so 
 strange that Neal had not written from Philadelphia. 
 
 Cynthia did not take it so quietly. 
 
 " I think you are a goose, Edith," she said, the next 
 morning. "Every one will think you are running after 
 Tony Bronson. You were there to dinner yesterday, and 
 now you are going again to-day." 
 
 Edith was greatly incensed. 
 
 " I am not running after him. How can you say such 
 things ? I often go there two days in succession." 
 
 And she went ofiE holding her head very high, being 
 driven to the village by Jack. Arrived at the Morgans, 
 she was warmly greeted by all. 
 
 "So good of you to come," murmured Bronson ; "now we 
 can start from here on our drive, and go over to Blue Hill." 
 
 " I think I can't go to drive to-day. I — I thought 
 perhaps we would play tennis, instead." 
 
 " Oh, Miss Edith ! After your promise ? I am not 
 going to let you off so easily. No, indeed, we are going 
 to drive. It is a fine day, and I've engaged a gay little 
 mare at the livery stable." 
 
 Edith remonstrated feebly, but Bronson would not 
 listen. She had half hoped it would be this way, she 
 wanted so much to go. However, she would try again. 
 She supposed no one at home would object to her taking 
 the drive if they all went together. 
 
173 
 
 When she and Gertrude were alone for a minute, she 
 said : 
 
 " Why don't you go too to drive ? We might all go 
 to Blue Hill." 
 
 " No indeed 1" laughed Gertrude. " I am not going a 
 step. I haven't been asked, and I wouldn't think of in- 
 truding." 
 
 "But it would be such fun," persisted Edith; "you 
 know we always used to go in a crowd, and walk up the 
 hill." 
 
 " Times have changed," returned her friend, pointedly. 
 " This time you are asked to go alone. If it were any 
 one but you, Edith, I should be wildly jealous." 
 ' Edith blushed and looked conscious, and afterwards 
 when Bronson renewed his pleading she consented to go 
 with him. Naturally it was great fun to drive off with 
 Tony Bronson in that stylish little trap he had described. 
 She had tried to get out of it ; she would tell Mrs. Frank- 
 lin how they overcame her scruples. After all, Mrs. Frank- 
 lin had no real right to prevent her going, she said to 
 herself. Perhaps it would not be necessary to explain. 
 Unless they chanced to meet some of the family, why 
 need she tell that she had been to drive at all ? 
 
 Thus she deceived herself into thinking that she was 
 doing no wrong, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of 
 the moment. 
 
 That afternoon Mrs. Parker, Miss Betsey Trinkett's old 
 friend, called at Oakleigh. 
 
 " So glad to find you at home, Mrs. Franklin," she said. 
 " I met Edith a while ago, and she did look so sweet and 
 pretty, driving with that nice young man that stays at the 
 Morgans'. What's his name ?" 
 
174 
 
 " You cannot mean Mr. Bronson ?" 
 
 *' Bronson, yes; that's it — Bronson. Yes, they were 
 driving away over towards Milton. I guess they were go- 
 ing to Blue Hill ; it's a favorite drive for young folks. 
 You Jet her have plenty of liberty, Mrs. Franklin, don't 
 you ? AVell, I suppose you have to, being but a step- 
 mother. And now^ do tell me about your brother. They 
 say all kinds of things in Brenton, but you can't believe 
 half of them. I dare say you know just where he is, 
 after all." 
 
 " My brother went to Philadelphia, Mrs. Parker," said 
 her hostess, controlling herself with difficulty. The shock 
 of hearing that Edith had directly disobeyed her was 
 almost too much for her. 
 
 " To Philadelphia ! Have you friends there ?" 
 
 " Yes, I have a cousin." 
 
 " Well, now, Pm glad to hear that ! Pll just tell people 
 and stop their tongues ; they do say so much they don't 
 mean. Why, only this afternoon somebody said they'd 
 been told that Neal Gordon had been seen walking over 
 the Boston road. That's the very reason I came up here, 
 to see if it was true, and here he is away off in Philadel- 
 phia 1" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin started. 
 
 " the Boston road ?" 
 
 " Yes, and to think of his being in Philadelphia all the 
 time ! Well, I must be going, Mrs. Franklin. Edith did 
 look sweet. You dress her so prettily. I always did 
 think those girls needed a mother. And here comes 
 Cynthia." 
 
 Walking up across the green from the river came Cyn- 
 thia, with a paper in her hand which she was reading. At 
 
175 
 
 sight of Mrs. Parker and her mother standing at the car- 
 riage door, she hastily thrust the paper into her pocket. 
 
 Cynthia had been after wild-flowers to plant in the bed 
 she had for them. She was in the woods not far from 
 home when a small and ragged boy approached her. 
 
 " Be you Cynthy ?" he asked. 
 
 She looked up from her digging, startled. 
 
 "Yes," she said. 
 
 " Then here's for yer, an' yer not to tell nobody." 
 
 So saying, the messenger disappeared as rapidly and 
 mysteriously as he had come, his bare feet making little 
 noise in last year's dead leaves. 
 
 Cynthia opened the crushed and dirty paper, and to her 
 astonishment found Neal's handwriting within. 
 
 " Meet me on Brenton Island near the bridge, Tuesday, 
 as early as you can. And don't tell I am here. Remem- 
 ber, dori't tell.'''' 
 
 The last words were heavily underlined. 
 
 Cynthia's heart stood still from excitement. Neal so 
 near, and his sister not to know it ! But she would pre- 
 vail upon him to come home. He could not refuse her 
 after all they had been through on his account. 
 
 Full of hope, she gathered up her trowel and her basket 
 of plants and ran towards the house. Fortunately that 
 tiresome Mrs. Parker was there, and so her mother would 
 not notice her excitement. For once Cynthia was glad 
 to see the lady. Since her escapade of the year before 
 she had always been somewhat ashamed of meeting her. 
 
 An hour or two later a closed carriage came slowly up 
 the avenue. Dennis Morgan was on the box with the 
 coachman. Inside were Gertrude, Dr. Farley, and Edith, 
 and Edith was unconscious. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 The drive to Blue Hill liad been delightful and the 
 view from the top exceptionally fine, it being one of those 
 clear, still days when distant objects are brought near. It 
 seemed almost possible to lay one's finger upon the spires 
 of Boston and the glistening dome of the State - house, 
 miles away. 
 
 Bronson bad exerted himself to the utmost. He wished 
 to stand well with all men, and particularly with the 
 Franklin family. From a worldly point of view it would 
 have a most excellent effect for him to be seen driving 
 with pretty Edith Franklin, of Oakleigh. He was glad 
 whenever they passed a handsome turnout from Milton 
 and he was obliged to take off his hat to its occupants. 
 He felt that he had really gone up in the world during 
 the last year or two. It was a lucky thing for him, he 
 thought, that he had fallen in with Tom Morgan at St. 
 Asaph's. By the time he left college, which he was en- 
 tering this year, he would have made quite a number of 
 desirable acquaintances. 
 
 His talk was clever, but every now and then he said 
 something that made Edith wince. He spoke of Neal, 
 and was sorry he had gone to the bad altogether. Had 
 he really disappeared ? 
 
 Edith hesitated ; she had not the ready wit with which 
 Cynthia would have parried the question. 
 
 " We think he is in Philadelphia," she said, finally. 
 
177 
 
 Bronson laughed. 
 
 "Hardly," he said; "I saw him in Boston a day or 
 two ago. He looked rather seedy, I thought, and I felt 
 sorry for him, but I didn't stop and speak. Thought it 
 wouldn't do, don't you know ; and I'm glad I didn't, as 
 you feel this way.'* 
 
 " I hardly know what you mean," said Edith, somewhat 
 distantly ; " we are sorry Neal went away, that is all." 
 
 Though she thought he must have taken the money, 
 Edith felt obliged to defend Neal for the sake of the fam- 
 ily honor. She had suffered extremely from the talk that 
 there had been in Brenton ; she did so dislike to be talked 
 about, and this affair had given rise to much gossip. 
 
 " You are very good to say that," said Bronson. " How 
 generous you are not to acknowledge that Gordon stole 
 the money to pay me." 
 
 " Stole !" repeated Edith, shuddering. 
 
 " I beg pardon, I shouldn't have stated it so broadly ; 
 but I'm so mixed up in it, don't you know. It was really 
 my fault, you see, that he felt obliged to — er — to take it. 
 But, of course, I'd no idea it would lead to any such thing 
 as this. I fancied Gordon could get hold of as much 
 money as he wanted by perfectly fair means. Will you 
 believe me. Miss Edith, when I tell you how awfully sorry 
 I am that I should have indirectly caused you any annoy- 
 ance ?" 
 
 He looked very handsome, and Edith could not see the 
 expression of triumph in his steely eyes. It was nice of 
 him, perhaps, to say this, even though there was some- 
 thing " out " in his way of doing it. 
 
 What was it about Bronson that always affected her 
 
 thus, even though she liked him and was flattered by his 
 12 
 
178 
 
 attentions ? She said to herself that it was merely the ef- 
 fect of Cynthia's outspoken dislike. Unreasonable though 
 it was, it influenced her. 
 
 But now it came over Edith with overwhelming force 
 that she had done very wrong to come with Tony Bronson 
 this afternoon. She was disobeying her step-mother, be- 
 sides acting most deceitfully. Yes ; she had deliberately 
 deceived Mrs. Franklin when she wrote the note the day 
 before ; for had she not had it in her mind then to allow 
 herself to be over-persuaded in regard to the drive ? These 
 thoughts made Edith very silent. 
 
 And then they had driven through Brenton. Unfort- 
 unately an electric car reached the corner just as they 
 did. The gay little mare from the livery stable, which 
 had been rather resentful of control all the afternoon, 
 bolted and ran. A heavy ice-cart barred the way. There 
 was a crash, and Bronson and Edith were both thrown out. 
 
 It was all over in a moment ; but Edith had time to 
 realize what was about to happen, and again there flashed 
 through her mind the conviction of how wrongly she had 
 behaved. What would mamma say ? 
 
 It was significant that she thought of Mrs. Franklin 
 then for the first time as "mamma." 
 
 Bronson escaped with a few bruises, but Edith was very 
 mucli hurt — just how much the doctor could not tell. She 
 was unconscious for several hours. 
 
 Cynthia never forgot that night ; her father away ; her 
 mother, with tense, strained face, watching by the bed- 
 side ; and, above all, the awful stillness in Edith's room 
 while they waited for her to open her eyes. Perhaps 
 she would never open them. What then ? Beyond that 
 Cynthia's imagination refused to go. 
 
179 
 
 She was sorry that she had been so cross with Edith 
 about Bronson. Suppose she never were able to speak to 
 her sister again ! Her last words would have been angry 
 ones. She would not remember that Edith had done 
 wrong to go ; all that was forgotten in the vivid terror 
 of the present moment. 
 
 The tall clock in the hall struck twelve. It was midnight 
 again, just as it had been on New Year's Eve when she 
 and Neal stood by the window and looked out on the 
 snow. The clock had struck and Neal had not promised. 
 
 Reminded of Neal, she put her hand in her pocket and 
 drew out the crumpled note. It had quite escaped her 
 mind that she was to meet him to-morrow. To-morrow ? 
 It was to-day! She was to see Neal to-day, and bring 
 him back to her mother. Poor mamma ! And Cynthia 
 looked lovingly at the silent watcher by the bed. 
 
 Edith did not die. The doctor, who spent the night 
 at Oakleigh, spoke more hopefully in the morning. She 
 was very seriously hurt, but he thought that in time she 
 would recover. She was conscious when he left. 
 
 The morning dawned fair, but by nine o'clock the sun 
 was obscured. It was one of those warm spring days when 
 the clouds hang low and showers are imminent. Mrs. 
 Franklin was surprised when Cynthia told her that she was 
 going on the river. 
 
 " To-day, Cynthia ? It looks like rain, and you must be 
 tired, for you had little sleep last night. Besides, your 
 father may arrive at any moment if he got my telegram 
 promptly, and then, dear Edith !" 
 
 " I know, mamma," faltered Cjmthia. It was hard to 
 explain away her apparent thoughtlessness. " But I sha'n't 
 be gone long. It always does me good to paddle, and 
 
180 
 
 Jack will be at home and the nurse has come. Do you 
 really need me, mamma ?" 
 
 " Oh no, not if you want to go so much. I thought per- 
 haps Edith would like to have you near. But I must go 
 back to her now. Don't stay away too long, Cynthia. I 
 like to have you within call." 
 
 Cynthia would have preferred to stay close by Edith's 
 side, but there was no help for it ; she must go to Neal. 
 Afterwards, when she came back and brought Neal with 
 her, her mother would understand. 
 
 She was soon in the canoe, paddling rapidly down-stream. 
 A year had not made great alteration in Cynthia's appear- 
 ance. As she was fifteen years old now her gowns were 
 a few inches longer, and her hair was braided and looped 
 up at the neck, instead of hanging in curly disorder as it 
 once did ; and this was done only out of regard for Edith. 
 Cynthia herself cared no more about the way she looked 
 than she ever did. She did not want to grow up, she said. 
 She preferred to remain a little girl, and have a good time 
 just as long as she possibly could. 
 
 It was quite a warm morning for the time of year, and 
 the low-hanging clouds made exercise irksome, but Cynthia 
 did not heed the weather. Her one idea was to reach Neal 
 as quickly as possible and bring him home. How happy 
 her mother would be 1 She wondered why he had not re- 
 turned to the house at once, instead of sending for her in 
 this mysterious fashion ; it would have been so much nicer. 
 However, she was glad he had come, even this way. It 
 was far better than not coming at all. 
 
 Her destination lay several miles from Oakleigh ; but 
 the current and what breeze there was were both in Cyn- 
 thia's favor, and it was not long before she had passed 
 
181 
 
 under the stone bridge wliicli stood about half way be- 
 tween. She met no one ; the river was little frequented 
 at this hour of the morning so far from the town, for the 
 numerous curves in the Charles made it a much longer 
 trip by water than by road from Oakleigh to Brenton. A 
 farmer's boy or two watched her pass, and criticised loud- 
 ly, though amiably, the long, free sweep of her paddle. 
 
 Cynthia did not notice them. Her mind was fully 
 occupied, and her eyes were fixed upon the distance. As 
 each bend in the river was rounded she hoped that she 
 might see Neal's familiar figure waiting for her. 
 
 And at last she did see him. He was sitting on the 
 bank, leaning against the trunk of a tree, and when she 
 came in sight he ran down to the little beach that made a 
 good landing-place just at this point. 
 
 " Cynthia, you're a brick !" he exclaimed. '' I was 
 afraid you were not coming." 
 
 " Oh, Neal, I'm ,90 glad to see you ! Get in quickly, and 
 we'll go back as fast as we can. Of course I came, but 
 we mustn't lose a minute on account of Edith. Hurry 1" 
 
 " What do you mean ? I'm not going back with you." 
 
 " Not going back ? "VVhy, Neal, of course you are." 
 
 " Not by a long shot. Did you think I would ever go 
 back there ?" 
 
 " Neal !" 
 
 Cynthia's voice trembled. The color rose in her face 
 and her eyes filled with tears. 
 
 " Neal, you can't really mean it." 
 
 " Of course I do." 
 
 "Then why did you send for me ?" 
 
 " Because I wanted to see you. There, don't look as if 
 you were going to cry, Cynthia. I hate girls that cry, and 
 
183 
 
 you never were that sort. I'll be sorry I sent for you if 
 you do." 
 
 Cynthia struggled to regain her composure. This was 
 a bitter disappointment, but she must make every effort 
 to prevail upon Neal to yield. 
 
 " I'm not crying," she said, blinking her eyes very hard ; 
 " tell me what you mean." 
 
 " I don't mean anything in particular, except that I 
 wanted to see you again, perhaps for the last time." This 
 with a rather tragic air. 
 
 « The last time ?" 
 
 " Yes. I've made up my mind to cut loose from every- 
 body, and just look out for myself after this. If my only 
 sister suspects me of stealing, I don't care to have any- 
 thing more to do with her. I can easily get along until 
 I'm twenty-five. I'll just knock round and take things 
 easily, and if I go to the bad no one will care particularly." 
 
 "Neal, I had no idea you were such a coward!" ex- 
 claimed Cynthia, indignantly. 
 
 " Coward ! You had better look out, Cynthia. I won't 
 stand much of that sort of thing." 
 
 " You've got to stand it. I call you a coward. You ran 
 away like a boy in a dime novel, just because you couldn't 
 stand having anything go wrong. You were afraid to 
 brave it out. Afraid P^ 
 
 There was no suspicion of tears now in Cynthia's voice. 
 She knelt in the canoe very erect and very angry. Her 
 cheeks were crimson, and her blue eyes had grown very 
 dark. 
 
 " I tell you again to take care," said Neal, restraining 
 his anger with difl[iculty ; " I did not send for you to come 
 down here and rave this way." 
 
183 
 
 " And I never would have come if I'd thought you were 
 going to behave this way. I'm dreadfully, dreadfully dis- 
 appointed in you, Neal. I always thought you were a 
 very nice boy, and I was awfully fond of you — almost as 
 fond of you as I am of Jack, and now — " 
 
 She broke off abruptly and looked away across the 
 river. 
 
 If Neal was touched by this speech he did not show it 
 at the moment. He stood with his hands in his pockets, 
 kickinor the toe of his boot ag^ainst a rock. 
 
 " Of course I couldn't stay there," he said, presently ; 
 " your father as good as called me a thief." 
 
 "He didn't at all. He didn't really believe you had 
 taken the money until you ran away. Then, of course, 
 every one thought it strange that you went, and I don't 
 wonder. And I couldn't tell how it really was, because I 
 had promised you ; but I'm not going to keep the promise 
 any longer, Neal. I am going to tell." 
 
 " No, you can't. You've promised, and I won't release 
 you. I am not going to demean myself by explaining ; 
 they ought to have believed in me. But I wish you 
 would stop scolding, Cynthia, and come up here on the 
 bank. I can't talk while you are swinging round there 
 with the current." 
 
 After a moment's hesitation Cynthia comphed with his 
 request. It occurred to her that perhaps she could ac- 
 complish more by persuasion than by wrath. Neal drew 
 up the boat and they sat down under the tree. 
 
 *' Where have you been all this time ?" asked Cynthia. 
 
 " In Boston, first. I've been staying with several fel- 
 lows. I gave out that I was going to Philadelphia, for I 
 thought you would be looking for me, and it is true, for I 
 
184 
 
 am going, some time soon. Then I went to Roxbury, and 
 yesterday I walked out from there and found that little 
 shaver to take the note to you." 
 
 " Have you told your friends that you ran away ?" 
 
 "No. Why should I? Fortunately I took enough 
 clothes, though these are beginning to look a little shabby. 
 I spent last night in a shed. I've only got a little money 
 left, but it will answer until I get something to do." 
 
 " Neal, do you know you are just breaking mamma's 
 heart?" 
 
 Neal said nothing. 
 
 " She has looked so awfully ever since you left, and she 
 wrote to you in Philadelphia and papa went on, but we 
 had to send for him to come back on account of Edith." 
 
 *' What about Edith ?" 
 
 " Oh, didn't I tell you ? Edith had a fearful accident 
 yesterday. She was driving with — she went to drive, and 
 was thrown out and was terribly hurt." 
 
 " I'm awfully sorry," said Neal, with real concern in 
 his voice ; " how did it happen ? Was it one of your 
 horses ?" 
 
 " No," said Cynthia, hurrying over that part of it, for 
 she did not want Neal to know that Edith had been with 
 Bronson ; " but she was very much hurt, Neal. She was 
 unconscious nearly all night, and the doctor thought per- 
 haps she — she would die." 
 
 A great sob rose in Cynthia's throat, and this time Neal 
 did not reprove her for it. Instead, he expressed his re- 
 gret and his sympathy with such real feeling in his voice 
 that Cynthia broke down altogether. 
 
 " Oh, it is all so dreadful !" she cried ; " Edith so terri- 
 bly hurt — dying, perhaps — and mamma looking as if she 
 
^ 
 
 I 
 
185 
 
 were in perfect despair, and you away. Oli, Neal, won't 
 you come back? Won't you please come back?" 
 
 Neal rose abruptly, and began to walk up and down the 
 little clearing. 
 
 " I wish you wouldn't, Cynthia," he remonstrated ; 
 " I've told you I couldn't, and you ought not to ask me. 
 I'm awfully sorry about Edith, and I'm sorry Hessie feels 
 so badly about me. I'll give in about one thing. You 
 can tell her you have seen me and I am well. You needn't 
 say I'm going to the bad, but very likely I shall. You 
 mustn't say a word about having lent me the money ; I 
 will not have that explained. There, it has begun to rain." 
 
 A few big drops came pattering down, falling with loud 
 splashes into the river. 
 
 " Oh, I must hurry back !" exclaimed Cynthia, hastily 
 drying her eyes. 
 
 " It's only going to be a shower. Come up here where 
 the trees are thicker and wait till it is over. See, it's all 
 bright over there." 
 
 Cynthia looked in the direction indicated, and seeing a 
 streak of cloud that was somewhat lighter than the rest, 
 concluded to wait. Perhaps she could yet prevail upon 
 Neal to come. 
 
 They went into the woods a short distance, and though 
 there were not many leaves upon the trees as yet, they 
 were more protected than in the open. It was raining 
 hard now. 
 
 " Neal," said Cynthia, in her gentlest tones, " when you 
 have thought it over a little more I am sure you will agree 
 with me. Indeed, you ought to come." 
 
 " I have done nothing else but think it over, and I tell 
 you I am not coming, Cynthia. I wish you wouldn't say 
 
186 
 
 any more. I sent for you because I wanted to see you 
 once more, and now you're spoiling it all. I don't believe 
 you care a bit about me." 
 
 " Oh, Ncal, how can you say so ? You know I do care, 
 very mucli. I'm awfully disappointed in you, that's all. 
 I always thought you were brave and good and would do 
 things you ought to do, even when you didn't want to. It 
 does seem selfish to stay away and make mamma feel so 
 badly, when it would only be necessary to come home and 
 say you had borrowed the money of me, to make every- 
 thing all right. It seems very selfish indeed, but perhaps 
 I am mistaken. I dare say I'm very selfish myself and 
 have no right to preach to you, but if you could see mam- 
 ma I'm sure you would feel as I do." 
 
 Neal remained silent. 
 
 " But I still have faith in you," continued Cynthia. " I 
 think some day you will see it as I do. I am sure you 
 will. Oh, dear, how wet it is getting ! I ought to have 
 gone home." 
 
 The rain was coming down in torrents. The ground 
 was wet and soggy, and their feet sank in the drenched 
 leaves. The canoe, drawn up on the bank, was full of 
 water. 
 
 " I ought to have gone home. It is going to rain all 
 day, and mamma will be so worried. It's not going to 
 clear ; that bright streak is all gone." 
 
 The clouds had settled down heavily, and there was no 
 prospect whatever of the rain stopping. 
 
 " I must go right away ; I am wet through now. Oh, 
 Neal, if you would only go with me I Won't you go, 
 Neal, dear?" 
 
 But Neal shook his head. 
 
187 
 
 " Very well ; then it is good-bye. But remember what 
 I said, Neal. It's your own fault that the family think 
 you took it. And if mamma or any one ever asks me any 
 questions about what I am going to do with Aunt Betsey's 
 present I'm not going to pretend anything. If they choose 
 to find out I lent it to you they can. You won't say I 
 can tell them, so of course I can't do it, as I promised, 
 but I sha'n't prevent their finding it out. Oh, Neal, do, 
 do come !" 
 
 She stood in front of him and put her hands on his wet 
 coat-sleeve. Neal's voice was husky when he spoke. 
 
 " I'm a brute, Cynth, I know, but I can't give in. You 
 don't know how hard it is for me ever to give in. I'll re- 
 member what you said. Please shake hands for good-bye 
 to me, if you don't think I'm too mean and selfish and 
 heartless and a coward and everything else you've said." 
 
 "Oh, Neall" cried Cynthia, as she grasped his hand with 
 both of hers, " some day I'm sure you will come. Good- 
 bye, Neal." 
 
 They turned over the canoe, which was full of rain- 
 water, and then Cynthia embarked. Suddenly an idea oc- 
 curred to her ; she would make one more effort. 
 
 "Neal, you will have to go part way with me. I'm 
 really afraid to go alone. It is raining so hard the boat 
 will fill up, and it will take me so long to go alone. I'm 
 afraid, Neal." 
 
 Neal could not resist this very feminine appeal. He 
 hesitated, and then got in and took the extra paddle. 
 
 " I'll go part way, Cynthia, but I won't go home. Of 
 course I can't let you go off alone if you're afraid. I 
 never knew you to be so before." 
 
 With long, vigorous strokes they were soon pulling up- 
 
188 
 
 stream. Occasionally one of tliem would stop and bail 
 with the big sponge, kept in the boat for emergencies. 
 
 The rain splashed into the river, and the dull gray- 
 stream seemed to run more swiftly than usual. It looked 
 very different from its wont. Cynthia and Neal, many 
 times as they had been together on the Charles, had never 
 before been there in a storm. One could scarcely believe 
 it to be the cheerful, peaceful little river on which they 
 had passed so many happy hours, 
 
 "Everything is changed," thought Cynthia*, "even my 
 own river is different. Will things ever be the same again ? 
 Oh, if Neal will only give in when we get near home I" 
 
CHAPTEK XYI 
 
 But Neal would not "give in." Cynthia's renewed 
 entreaties were of no more avail than they had been 
 before. 
 
 " I will not come," he repeated again and again ; and 
 at last Cynthia gave up asking. 
 
 He got out of the canoe just below the Oaldeigh land- 
 ing, and where he was hidden from the house. 
 
 " I hope you won't be ill, Cynthia," he said. " I am sorry 
 I made you come out such a day ; it will be my fault if 
 you take cold. One more bad thing I have done. My 
 life isn't a bit of good, anyhow ; I've a good mind to go 
 and drown myself — I'm half drowned now." 
 
 He laughed, somewhat bitterly, as he looked down at 
 his drenched clothes. 
 
 " Cynthia, I'm a brute. Hurry in and change your 
 things. I'm off to Pelham ; I'll take a train there for 
 Boston. I'll let you know where I go ; and I say, Cynth, 
 won't you write to a fellow now and then? I don't de- 
 serve it, I know, but I'd like to hear from you, and I'll 
 want to know how Edith gets along." 
 
 " Yes, if you will let me know your address. Good-bye, 
 Neal," she said, sadly. 
 
 " Good-byo." 
 
 He stood and watched her. She rounded the curve 
 where the boat-house was and waved her hand as she dis- 
 appeared. She was only a few yards away, and yet he 
 
190 
 
 could no longer see lier. He could easily imagine how it 
 would all be. 
 
 A man would come down from the barn and help her 
 with the canoe. She would go up the hill and follow the 
 path to the side door behind the conservatory. There 
 would be exclamations of dismay when she came in, all 
 dripping wet. Hester and the servants would hurry to 
 help her, and she would be thoroughly dried and warmed ; 
 his sister would see to that — his sister, who thought him 
 no better than a common thief ! 
 
 And then Cynthia would tell how she had met him, and 
 that he would not come home. How astonished Hester 
 would be to hear that he was so near. He turned abruptly 
 when he thought of this, and sprang up the bank to the 
 road that lay between Brenton and Pelham. He crossed 
 the bridge, and with one more look at the dark river, 
 struck out at a good pace for Pelham, the nearest railway 
 station. 
 
 He glanced back once at the chimneys and white walls 
 of Oakleigh when he reached the spot from which they 
 could be seen for the last time on the Pelham road. Then, 
 bidding good-bye to his past life, he hastened on. 
 
 The road that runs from Brenton to Pelham is very 
 straight after one has passed Oakleigh. There are but 
 few houses — nothing but meadows, trees, and bushes on 
 either side. Neal, tramping over the broad expanse of 
 gray mud, had nothing to distract his mind from the 
 thoughts that filled it. At first they were very desperate 
 ones. 
 
 "Cynthia had no right to come and rant the way she 
 did. The idea of calling me a coward, and telling me I 
 was like a boy in a dime novel because I ran away ! It 
 
191 
 
 was the only thing; to do. They had no business to suspect 
 me. They — confound it ! I won't put up with such treat- 
 ment. I'll stick to ray resolution and drop the whole 
 concern. What a long, straight road this is, and how I 
 hate the rain !" 
 
 At last he reached the end of it and entered the little 
 town of Pelham, uninteresting at the best of times, and 
 doubly so on such a day as this. The inhabitants were 
 all within doors ; not even a dog was stirring, 
 
 "Every one is dry and comfortable but me," thought 
 Neal, miserably, as he went into the station. 
 
 Fortunately, the next train for Boston was soon due, and 
 it did not take long for him to reach the friend's house in 
 one of the suburbs at which he had left his possessions. 
 
 A merry party was staying there for the Easter holi- 
 days, and Neal was the subject of much speculation and 
 concern when he appeared, weary and wet, in their midst. 
 Every one supposed that he had gone to Brenton to visit 
 his sister, and they wondered why he had come back on 
 such a stormy day. 
 
 Though the story of Neal was well known in Brenton, 
 oddly enough it had not yet reached his friends in Boston, 
 and he did not enlighten them. He went to his room 
 and stayed there for several hours. With dry clothes he 
 came into a better frame of mind. 
 
 Poor little Cynthia! How good she was to come to 
 meet him such a day, when she must have wanted to stay 
 with Edith. And how badly she felt about him ; much 
 more so than he deserved. He was not worth it. How 
 she had fired up when she told him that he was a coward I 
 He must prove to her that he was not. He would never 
 give in and go back there, never! But there were other 
 
192 
 
 ways of proving it ; lie could go to work and stow lier 
 tliat he was made of good stuff after all. He should not 
 have frightened Cynthia by saying that he would " go to 
 the bad." But, then, he had been abominably treated. 
 He could not go to college now, for he would never ac- 
 cept it from Hessie, who had been willing to believe he 
 took the money. He lashed himself into a fury again as 
 he thought of it. He was utterly unreasonable, but of 
 course he was quite unconscious of being so. 
 
 Finally the better thoughts came uppermost again, and 
 he decided what to do. He would go to Philadelphia and 
 ask his guardian to put him in the way of getting some 
 work. He would tell him the whole story. Fortunately, 
 he did not remember that Cynthia had said her father 
 went to Philadelphia ; if he had he would not have gone, 
 thinking that his guardian would have been prejudiced 
 against him by his brother-in-law. 
 
 He packed his valise and started that night, though 
 his friends urged him to stay longer. He felt a feverish 
 impatience to be off and have things settled. With it 
 was a feeling of excitement ; he was going to seek his 
 fortune. Thrown upon a cold world by the unkind and 
 unjust suspicions of his nearest relatives, he would rise 
 above adverse circumstances and " ennoble fate by nobly 
 bearing it!" 
 
 It was a very heroic martyr that bought a ticket for 
 Philadelphia that night. 
 
 He did not engage a berth in the sleeping-car ; he was 
 a poor man now and must begin to economize. Besides, 
 upon counting his money he found that he had but just 
 enough with which to reach his destination. 
 
 He was very tired with the adventures of the last two 
 
193 
 
 days, and tlie night before, spent in a slied, had not been 
 comfortable, so he slept well, notwithstanding the fact 
 that he was not in a Pullman sleeper. He did not wake 
 until it Y/as broad daylight, and the train was speeding 
 along through New Jersey. The storm was over, the sun 
 was shining down upon a bright and rain-washed world, 
 and Neal Gordon was entering upon a new life. 
 
 " So this is the ' Quaker City,' " he thought, as the 
 train glided over the bridges and into the huge station. 
 " I wonder if every one is in a broad-brimmed hat ! And 
 now to find cousin William Carpenter. He's a Quaker of 
 the Quakers, I suppose ; I can never get into the habit of 
 saying ' thee ' and ' thou.' " 
 
 He did not see much of the Quaker element in the busy 
 station, nor when he went down -stairs and out on to 
 Broad Street. He was on the point of jumping into a 
 hansom to be driven to his cousin's house, when he re- 
 membered that he had not a cent in his pocket with which 
 to pay for it. It was a novel experience for Neal. 
 
 He inquired the way to Arch Street, and found that it 
 was not very far from where he was, and he soon reached 
 the designated number. 
 
 " Not a broad-brimmer have I seen yet," he said to him- 
 self, as he pulled the bell -handle. He looked up and 
 down the street while he waited. It was wider than some 
 that he had passed through, and rather quiet except for the 
 jingling horse- cars. It was very straight, and lined with 
 red brick houses with white marble steps and heavy wood- 
 en shutters. 
 
 He looked down, as he stood on the dazzling steps, at his 
 boots splashed with Boston mud, and he shuddered at the 
 effect they might have on his cousins. He should have 
 
 13 
 
194 
 
 had tliem cleaned at the station ; but, then, he did not 
 have five cents to spend. 
 
 The door was opened, and he walked into the parlor and 
 sent up his card. It was a large room with very little fur- 
 niture in it, and the few chairs and sofas that there were 
 stood stiffly apart. Not an ornament was to be seen but 
 a large clock that ticked slowly and sedately on the mar- 
 ble mantel-piece. There were no curtains, but " Venetian 
 blinds," formed of green slats, hung at the windows. It 
 all looked very neat and very bare, and extremely stiff. 
 
 It was not long before Neal heard a step in the hall, and 
 an elderly man entered the room. He was very tall, and 
 wore a long, quaint-looking coat that flapped as he walked. 
 His face was smooth, and of a calm, benign expression 
 that Neal afterwards found was never known to vary. He 
 came in with outstretched hand. 
 
 "Thee is Neal Gordon. I am pleased to meet thee 
 ao-ain, cousin. Come up-stairs to breakfast; Rachel will 
 be glad to see thee." 
 
 Who Rachel was Neal could not imagine, as he followed 
 his host up a short flight of stairs to the breakfast-room. 
 He supposed she must be a young daughter of the house, 
 for although William Carpenter was both his kinsman and 
 his guardian, the relationship had until now been mere- 
 ly nominal, and Neal knew very little about him or his 
 family. 
 
 Sitting at the table, behind the tall silver urn and the 
 cups and saucers, was an old lady in a close white cap and 
 spectacles. A snowy kerchief of some fine white material 
 was folded about her shoulders over a gray dress. Her 
 face, also, was calm and sweet, and wore the same expres- 
 sion as did her husband's. 
 
195 
 
 " Rachel/' said he, " this is our cousin, Neal Gordon. 
 Neal, this is my wife, Rachel." 
 
 " I am glad to see thee, Neal," she said, extending her 
 hand without rising; " sit down. Thee'll be glad to have 
 a cup of coffee, doubtless, if thee's just arrived from the 
 train, as thee has the look of doing." This with a glance 
 at his travel-stained clothes. 
 
 Neal, very conscious of his muddy boots, thanked her, 
 and sat down at the table, where a neat-looking servant 
 had made ready a place for him. It seemed funny that 
 they took his arrival as a matter of course, but he sup- 
 posed that was the Quaker way. At any rate, they were 
 very kind, and it was the best breakfast he ever ate. Even 
 if he had not been so hungry, the coffee would have been 
 delicious, and all the rest of it, too. 
 
 His cousins asked him no questions, but after break- 
 fast he was shown to a room and told to make himself 
 comfortable. 
 
 "But I would like to speak to you, sir," he said to his 
 host — " that is, if you don't mind. I came on to Philadel- 
 phia on business." This with a rather grand air. 
 
 " Verily," said William Carpenter ; " but I have no time 
 now. I go to my office every day at this hour. Thee can 
 come with me if thee wishes, and we will converse there." 
 
 Neal agreed, and hastily brushing his clothes and giv- 
 ing a dab to his boots he set out, much amused at the 
 new company in which he found himself. Mr. Carpenter 
 wore a tall beaver hat, of wide brim and ancient shape, 
 which he never removed from his head, even though he 
 met one or two ladies who bowed to him. 
 
 " They don't all seem to be Quakers, though," thought 
 Neal, as, leaving Arch Street, they took their way across 
 
196 
 
 the city, and met and passed many people of as worldly 
 an aspect as any to be seen in Boston — in fact, his com- 
 panion's broad-brimmed hat seemed sadly out of place. 
 
 The houses too were different in this locality. Easter 
 flowers bloomed in the windows between handsome cur- 
 tains, and there were not so many white shutters and mar- 
 ble steps — in fact, with a street -band playing on the 
 corner and the merry peal of chimes that rang from a 
 neighboring steeple, it seemed quite a gay little town, 
 thought Neal, with condescension. 
 
 His cousin pointed out the sights as they walked. 
 
 " There are the public buildings," he said, " and be- 
 yond is the great store of John Wanamaker. This is 
 Chestnut Street, and yonder is the Mint. Thee will go 
 there and to Independence Hall while thee is here, and 
 to Girard College — that is, if thee has a proper amount of 
 public spirit, as I hope to be the case." 
 
 Neal humbly acquiesced, and then remarked upon the 
 distance of his cousin's place of business from his house. 
 
 " Do you always walk ?" he asked. 
 
 " Always. I have found that exercise is good, and the 
 car-fare worth saving. 'A penny saved is a penny gained,' 
 I have made my motto through life, and for that reason I 
 have never known want. I hope thee is neither extrava- 
 gant nor lazy ?" 
 
 This with a keen, shrewd, not unkindly glance from be- 
 neath the level, gray eyebrows. 
 
 Neal colored and hoped he was not, knowing all the 
 time that these were two serious faults of his. 
 
 They had passed through the fashionable part of the 
 city, and were walking down a narrow, low -built street. 
 In the distance was a huge space filled with great piles of 
 
I HOPE THEE IS NEITHER EXTRAVAGANT NOR LAZY 
 
197 
 
 boards that came far up above the high fence which sur- 
 rounded the whole square. 
 
 *' This is my oflSce," said Mr. Carpenter, as he opened 
 the door of a small, low building in the corner of the great 
 yard. " I am in the lumber business." 
 
 It was some time before he could say any more to his 
 cousin. There were letters to be opened, his head-clerk 
 to be interviewed, men to be directed. 
 
 Neal sat at a window that looked out on the yard, and 
 watched some men that were loading a huge dray. There 
 were boards, boards, boards everywhere. How tired he 
 should get of lumber if he had to stay here. He hoped 
 that his business, whatever it might prove to be, would be 
 more exciting, and more in the heart of things than this 
 remote lumber-yard. He thought from what he had heard 
 that he would like to be a stock-broker, as long as he was 
 barred out of the professions by not going through 
 college. 
 
 He was just imagining himself on 'Change, in the midst 
 of an eager crowd of other successful brokers, a panic im- 
 minent, and he alone cool and self-possessed, when his 
 cousin's voice rudely interrupted his revery. It sounded 
 calmer than ever in contrast to Neal's day-dream. 
 
 " Cousin, if thee will come into my private office I wiK 
 listen to thee for fifteen or twenty minutes." 
 
 Neal obeyed, but found it difficult to begin his story. 
 It is a very hard thing to tell a man that you are suspected 
 of being a thief. 
 
 " I don't know whether you know," he began, rather 
 haltingly, "that I — that — in fact, I've left Hester for good 
 and all. You are my guardian, so you must know all 
 about that conf — that abom — that — er, well, that will of 
 
198 
 
 my grandmother's. Hester didn't give me a large enough 
 allowance — at least, I didn't think it was enough — and I got 
 into debt at school. It was not very much of a debt for 
 a fellow with such a rich sister." 
 
 He paused, rather taken aback by the quick glance that 
 was shot at him from the mild blue eyes of his Quaker 
 cousin. 
 
 " What does thee call ' not much ' ?" 
 
 " A hundred dollars. I knew they would think it a lot, 
 so I only told Hessie and John fifty, and she gave it to 
 me. Afterwards the fellow I owed it to came down on 
 me for the rest, and wrote to John, Hessie's husband. In 
 the meantime I had got hold of some money in a 'per- 
 fectly fair ^ honorable way, and sent it to the fellow, and he 
 wrote again to John Franklin and said I had paid up. 
 Then, just because a present one of the Franklin children 
 expected at that time didn't come, they accused me of 
 taking it. They had no earthly reason for supposing it 
 except that I paid fifty dollars in gold for the money- 
 order I sent, and the child's present was fifty dollars in 
 gold." 
 
 " And where did thee get the money V 
 
 The question came so quietly and naturally that Neal 
 was taken unawares, and answered before he thought. 
 
 " Cynthia Franklin lent it to me. I hated to borrow of 
 a girl, and I made her promise not to tell ; afterwards I 
 was glad I had. If they choose to suspect me, I'm not 
 going to lower myself by explaining. And I will ask you, 
 as a particular favor, cousin William, not to tell any one. 
 I didn't mean to mention it." 
 
 His cousin merely bowed, and asked him to com 
 tinue. 
 
199 
 
 " Well, there's not much more, except that I was sus- 
 pended from school before that for a scrape I wasn't in, 
 and it put everybody against me, and now I want to get 
 something to do. I am going to support myself, and I 
 thought I'd come to you, as you're my guardian and a 
 cousin, and perhaps you would help me." 
 
 " Did thee know that thy brother-in-law, John Franklin, 
 was here within a few days ?" 
 
 Neal sprang to his feet. 
 
 " He was ! Then he told you all this. I might have 
 known it I" 
 
 *' Thee may as well remain calm, Neal. Thee will gain 
 nothing in this world by giving vent to undue excitement. 
 John Franklin told me nothing, except that thee had left 
 his home, and he had supposed thee was with me. He 
 did not tell me of the gold, but he did say he feared thee 
 was extravagant, in which I agree with him. Thee has 
 nothing to find fault with in what he said." 
 
 Neal felt rather ashamed of himself. After all, it had 
 been generous in his brother-in-law not to prejudice his 
 guardian against him. 
 
 " And now what does thee wish to do ?" asked the old 
 man, as he looked at his large gold-faced watch. 
 
 " I want to get some work," replied Neal. 
 
 " Is thee willing to take anything thee can get ?" 
 
 "Yes, almost anything," with a hasty glance at the 
 piles of lumber without. 
 
 "Does thee know that times are hard, and it is almost 
 impossible for even young men of experience to get a 
 situation, while thee is but a boy 2" 
 
 " Ye-es. I suppose so." 
 
 " Thee need not expect much salary." 
 
200 
 
 *'No, only enough to live on. I'm going to be very 
 economical." 
 
 William Carpenter smiled, and looked at the boy kindly. 
 He w^as silent for a iew minutes, and then he said : 
 
 " Neal, as thee is my ward and also my cousin, I am 
 willing to make a place for thee here. We can give thee 
 but a small stipend, but it is better than nothing for one 
 who is anxious for work, as thee says thee is. Thee will 
 not have board and lodging to pay for, however, as thee 
 can make thy home with Kachel and myself. Our boy, 
 had he lived, would have been about thy age." 
 
 This was said calmly, with no suspicion of emotion. It 
 was simply the statement of a fact. 
 
 " Oh, thank you, cousin William, you are very kind ! 
 But — do you think I could ever learn the lumber business ? 
 It — it seems so — well, I don't exactly see what there is to 
 do." 
 
 " Thee is too hasty, by far. Thee could not be expected 
 to know the business before thee has set foot in the yard. 
 But thee must learn first that it is well to make the most 
 of every opportunity that comes to hand. Will thee, or 
 will thee not, come into my home and my employ ? It is 
 the best I can do for thee." 
 
 And after a moment's hesitation, and one wild regret 
 for the lost pleasures of the Stock Exchange, Neal agreed 
 to do it. 
 
 It was thus he began his business life» 
 
CHAPTER XVn 
 
 With dripping clothes and a sad heart Cynthia went up 
 to the house after Neal had left her. She was bitterly- 
 disappointed and extremely uncomfortable. Her hair, 
 never very securely fastened, had fallen down and lay in a 
 wet mass about her face and neck ; her hat felt heavy as 
 lead, and water oozed from her shoes as she walked. 
 
 " Nothing will ever be right again," she thought, as she 
 gave a depressed glance at all the familiar objects on the 
 place. " I feel as if it were going to rain forever, and the 
 sun would never shine again. It would have been so dif- 
 ferent if Neal had only come home !" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin was thankful to see her appear, and re- 
 frained from reproaching her until she had been thoroughly 
 dried and warmed. Then all she said was : 
 
 " I thought you would never come, Cynthia ! Was it 
 worth while to go on the river such a morning as this ?" 
 
 " No, mamma, but you will forgive me when you hear 
 why I went," said Cynthia, setting down the cup of ginger- 
 tea which Mary Ann had made so hot and so strong that 
 she could scarcely swallow it ; " but tell me how Edith is, 
 first." 
 
 "She is about the same. She seems anxious about 
 something. She is restless and uneasy, but it is difficult 
 for her to speak. Perhaps she wants you. I think that 
 is it, for you know I do not satisfy her," added Mrs. 
 Franklin, with a sigh. 
 
202 
 
 Cynthia knelt beside her, and put her arms around 
 her. 
 
 " Dear raararaa !" she said, lovingly. Mrs. Franklin 
 rested her head on her step-daughter's shoulder. 
 
 " Cynthia, darling, you are a great comfort to me ! Are 
 you sure you feel perfectly warm? You must not take 
 cold." 
 
 " I'm as warm as toast. It won't hurt me a bit ; you 
 know I never take cold. But let me tell you something 
 — the reason I went. You could never guess ! I went to 
 see some one." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin raised her head and looked at Cynthia 
 eagerly. 
 
 " You can't mean — " 
 
 "Yes, I do. Neal!" 
 
 " Child, where is he ? Is he here ? Has- he come back ?" 
 
 " No, mamma," said Cynthia, shaking her head sadly, 
 " he wouldn't come. I begged and implored him to, but 
 he wouldn't." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia, why didn't you tell me ? I could have 
 made him come ; I would have gone down on my knees to 
 him ! Why didn't you tell me ?" 
 
 " Because he said I mustn't. He sent me a note yes- 
 terday. I knew he would never forgive me if I told." 
 
 " Yesterday ! You knew he was coming yesterday ? 
 Cynthia, you ought to have told !" 
 
 " But, mamma, he told me not to, and I didn't have 
 time to think it over, for we were so frightened with 
 Edith's accident. It all came at once. But you could 
 not have made him come." 
 
 " Where is he now ?" 
 
 "He has gone to Pelham to take the train, and he is 
 
203 
 
 going to write to me, mamma. He says he — lie is going 
 to work." 
 
 " My poor boy !" said Mrs. Franklin, going to the win- 
 dow. " Tramping about the country such a day as this 
 without a home ! I wonder if he has any money, Cyn- 
 thia?" 
 
 " I don't know, mamma." 
 
 Neither of them remembered that Neal had wilfully de- 
 serted his home, and that it was entirely his own fault if 
 he had no money in his pockets. 
 
 "Cynthia," said Mrs. Franklin, turning abruptly and 
 facing her daughter, " I want you to understand that I 
 don't think Neal took that money. I cannot believe it. I 
 am sure he got it in some other way. Why do you look 
 so odd, Cynthia?" 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 " I believe you know something about it. Tell me !" 
 
 Still no answer. 
 
 *' Could you have helped him in any way ? AVhere 
 would you get it ? Why, of course ! How stupid we 
 have all been! You had Aunt Betsey's present; you 
 never spent it, you would not buy the watch. Cynthia, 
 you cannot deny it, I have guessed it !" 
 
 The next moment Mrs. Franklin was enveloped in a vig- 
 orous hug. 
 
 " You dear darling, I'm so thankful you have ! He 
 wouldn't let me tell, but I jaid this morning I wouldn't 
 deny it if you happened to guess." 
 
 " Oh, Cynthia, though I said I didn't believe the other, 
 this has taken a thousand-pound weight from my heart !" 
 
 They were interrupted by the entrance of the nurse, 
 who came to say that her patient was growing more un- 
 
204 
 
 easy, and she tliougbt some one had better come to her. 
 At the same moment Mr. Franklin arrived, so Cynthia 
 went alone to her sister. 
 
 She found her perfectly conscious, with large, wide-open 
 eyes, watching for her. Edith's head was bound up, and 
 the pretty hands, of which she had always been somewhat 
 vain, moved restlessl3\ Cynthia took one of them in her 
 warm, firm grasp, and leaned over the bed. 
 
 " Dearest, you wanted me," she said, in a low voice ; 
 " I am going to stay with you now." 
 
 But Edith was not satisfied. She tried to say some- 
 thing, but in so faint a voice that Cynthia could not hear. 
 
 " I can't hear you," she said, in distress ; " don't try to 
 speak, it will tire you." 
 
 But still Edith persisted. Cynthia put her ear close to 
 her sister. 
 
 "Did you say ' mamma ' ?" she asked. 
 
 The great brown eyes said " Yes." 
 
 " Do you want her ?" 
 
 No, that was not it. Cynthia thought a moment. 
 
 " Oh, I know !" she exclaimed. " You are sorry about 
 the drive, Edith, is that it ? You want mamma to forgive 
 you ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Cynthia flew down-stairs. 
 
 " Mamma, mamma !" she cried, scarcely heeding her 
 father, whom she had not seen before, " come quickly ! I 
 have found out what Edith wants. She wants you to for- 
 give her for going to drive, and you will, won't you ?" 
 
 And in a few minutes, satisfied, Edith fell asleep with 
 her hand in that of her mother's. 
 
 Many people came to inquire for Edith, for the news of 
 
205 
 
 her accident spread like wildfire. Cynthia was obliged 
 to see them all, as Editli would scarcely let her mother go 
 out of her sight. Now that her pride bad given way, sbe 
 showed how completely her step - mother bad won her 
 heart, entirely against her own will. 
 
 Among others came Gertrude Morgan. 
 
 "And bow is your dear friend, Tony Bronson ?" asked 
 Cynthia. " He nearly killed Edith ; what did be do to 
 himself ?" 
 
 " Ob, he didn't get very much hurt — at least, he didn't 
 show it much. He went home right away. He thought 
 he had better." 
 
 " Well, I should think he might have had the grace to 
 come and inquire for Edith, after upsetting her in that 
 style, and almost breaking her neck." 
 
 "He seemed to think he ought to get home. He 
 tbought he might be a good deal hurt, only it didn't come 
 out just at first. He said there were inward bruises." 
 
 " Inward bruises 1" repeated Cyntbia, scornfully. " I 
 guess the inward bruise was that he was ashamed of him- 
 self for letting the horse run away. Now don't you really 
 think so, Gertrude? Don't you think yourself that it 
 was outrageous of him not to find out more about Edith 
 before he went ?" 
 
 Gertrude was forced to acknowledge that she did think 
 so ; and, furthermore, she confessed that her brother Den- 
 nis was so enraged at Bronson's conduct that he declared 
 he should never be asked there asrain 
 
 " I'm glad of it 1" declared Cynthia, emphatically. " It's 
 about -time you all found out what a cad that Bronson 
 is. If you knew as much as I know about him you would 
 have come to that conclusion loner asfo." 
 
206 
 
 " Oh, of course you are prejudiced by Neal Gordon ! I 
 wouldn't take his word for anything. By-the-way, have 
 you seen him lately ?'' 
 
 " Yes, very lately. He came out to Brenton the other 
 day." 
 
 " Did he really ?" cried Gertrude, curiously. " I thought 
 he was never coming back. The last story was that your 
 father had turned him out-of-doors." 
 
 "How perfectly absurd! I should think you knew 
 enough about us to contradict that, Gertrude ! Will you 
 please tell every one there is no truth in it at all?" 
 
 "But where is he now? Is he here? AVhy has no- 
 body seen him ? Wasn't any of it true ?" 
 
 " Dear me, Gertrude, you are nothing but a big interro- 
 gation point !" laughed Cynthia, who had no intention of 
 replying to any of these questions ; and Gertrude, baffled 
 and somewhat ashamed of herself, soon took her departure 
 without having learned anything beyond the fact that Neal 
 had lately been in town and, as she supposed, at his sister's. 
 
 Aunt Betsey came from Wayborough as soon as she 
 heard of what had happened. It was her first visit there 
 since the death of Silas Green, and naturally she was 
 much affected. 
 
 " Cynthy, my dear," she said, after talking about him 
 for some time to her nieces, " let me give you a word of 
 warning: Never put off till to-morrow what can be done 
 to-day ! It is a good proverb, and worth remembrance. 
 If I hadn't put off and put off, and been so unwilling to 
 give up my view, I might have made Silas's last years 
 happier. Perhaps he'd have been here yet if I'd been 
 with him to take care of him. Oh, one has to give up — 
 one has to give up in this world !" 
 
 J 
 
207 
 
 They were in Edith's room, and Edith, listening, felt 
 that Aunt Betsey was right. She, too, had learned — many, 
 many years earlier in life than did her aunt — that one must 
 learn to give up. 
 
 Miss Betsey did not look the same. The gay dress 
 that she once wore was discarded, and she was soberly 
 clad in black. She really was not unlike other people 
 now, but her speech was as quaint as ever. 
 
 She brought Willy's present with her, and was shocked 
 to find that Janet's had never been received. 
 
 " Well now, I want to know !" she exlaimed, rocking 
 violently. " I did it up with my own hands. I remember 
 it exactly, for it was a few days after the funeral, and I 
 was that flustered I could scarcely tie the cord or hold the 
 pen. It was a large rag doll I had made for the child, 
 just about life size, and a face as natural as a baby's. 
 And I made a nice little satchel to hang at the side, and 
 in the satchel was the money. Too bad she didn't get 
 it ! I remember I gave it to old Mr. Peters to mail. He 
 was going down Tottenham way, and he said he'd take 
 it to the post-office there. He'd stopped to see if there 
 was anything he could do for me just as I was tying it 
 up, so I let him take it along. He's half blind, and just 
 as likely as not he went to the meeting-house instead of 
 the post -office. He wouldn't know them apart. You 
 may depend upon it, it warn't Government's fault you 
 didn't get it. Of that I'm very sure." 
 
 And, true to her principles, the patriotic little lady 
 rocked again. No one told her of the suspicion which 
 had rested upon Neal. It would have distressed her too 
 deeply, and nothing would be gained by it. 
 
 "And now, Jack, I must see those little orphans," she 
 
208 
 
 said to her great-neplaew, when he came home that after- 
 noon. " Poor little things, are they at all happy ?" 
 
 Jack led her in triumph to the poultry-yard. 
 
 " Well, I want to know !" she exclaimed, throwing up 
 her mitted hands when she saw six or seven hundred very 
 contented-looking fowls of all sizes, kinds, and ages, each 
 brood in its allotted habitation, pecking, running, crowing, 
 and clucking, and enjoying life generally. 
 
 " You don't mean to say, Jackie, that not one of these 
 hens ever had any mother but that heartless box in the 
 cellar? Well, I want to know! They do look real con- 
 tented. Do tell !" 
 
 Her nephew proudly assured her that they appeared to 
 be exceedingly happy, and that he also was happy ; for 
 they paid well, and he would soon be able to return the 
 money that he had borrowed of her. 
 
 And indeed in a few weeks Jack travelled out to Way- 
 borough, and with his own hands gave back to his aunt 
 the seventy-five dollars which she had advanced to him, 
 and which he had earned with his own hard work. 
 
 The best part of it all was when his father spoke to 
 him with unqualified praise. 
 
 " I am really proud of my son, Jack," he said. " You 
 have done well. I have watched you carefully, and I saw 
 the plucky way in which you met your discouragements. 
 It makes me feel that I have a son worth having. Keep 
 at it, my boy. If you put the same pluck and persever- 
 ance into everything you undertake you will make a name 
 some day." 
 
 And when Jack remembered how his father had frowned 
 down the idea of the incubator he felt more pleased than 
 ever. 
 
209 
 
 One day a letter came to Cynthia from Neal. It was 
 the first they had received. Mr. Carpenter had written to 
 Mrs. Franklin, telling her that Neal was with him, and that 
 he had taken him into his office ; and Hester wrote to her 
 brother at once, but he answered neither that letter nor 
 the many that followed. He was still obdurate. It was 
 an exciting moment, therefore, when Cynthia recognized 
 the bold, boyish handwriting on the envelope. 
 
 "Dear Cynth [he wrote], — I promised to write to 
 you, so here goes. I am living with cousin William 
 Carpenter, and probably shall for the rest of my days. 
 He is in the lumber business, and lumber's awfully poky. 
 However, Pm earning my living. Did you ever see a 
 Quaker ? They are a queer lot. It would not do for you 
 to be one, for they never get excited. If the house got 
 on fire cousin William and cousin Rachel would walk 
 calmly about and thee and thou each other as quietly as 
 ever. They don't say 'thou' though. Cousin William 
 says it has become obsolete. 
 
 " I do nothing but measure boards and write down fig- 
 ures. Boards are tiresome things. I go to Quaker meet- 
 ing sometimes, though I should say Friends' meeting. 
 They call themselves Friends. All the men sit on one 
 side and all the women on the other, and the men keep 
 their hats on all through. Sometimes there isn't any ser- 
 mon and sometimes there are five or six, just as it happens. 
 The women preach too, if they feel like it. One day it 
 was terribly still, and I was just beginning to think I 
 should blow up and bust if somebody didn't say some- 
 thing — had serious thoughts of giving a sermon myself — 
 when I heard a familiar voice, and I looked over, and there 
 
 14 
 
210 
 
 was cousin Rachel preaching away for dear life. And a 
 mighty good sermon it was, too — better than any of the 
 men's. 
 
 " Cousin William takes me to see the sights on Satur- 
 day (or, rather. Seventh day, as he would say) afternoon, 
 and I have been about myself a good deal. I would like 
 to get to know the people, but have no chance. I wish 
 you would write to a fellow, Cynth. I would like to see 
 you pretty awfully much. How you did give it to me 
 that day on the river! You were a brick, though, to come. 
 I have not forgotten what you said. I am going to show 
 you I am no coward, though you said I was. I'll stick at 
 the lumber trade until I die in the harness, and here's my 
 hand and seal ! Yours, 
 
 "Neal Gordon. 
 
 " P.S. — Give my love to Hessie. I hope Edith is com- 
 ing round all right." 
 
 It was better than nothing, though Mrs. Franklin wished 
 that the letter had been to her. Still, it was far, far bet- 
 ter than if it had not been written at all. And then he 
 had sent his love to her. It was in a postscript and 
 was probably an after-thought, but she was glad he did 
 it. He seemed well and moderately happy, and for that 
 his sister was very grateful. Fortunately, Hester could 
 not read between the lines and learn that the boy was eat- 
 ing his heart out with homesickness and a longing to see 
 his only sister. 
 
 Neal found this quiet life, so far from his family and 
 friends, very different from that to which he had been ac- 
 customed, and sometimes it seemed very dreary and hard 
 
311 
 
 to bear. Then again, he was quite unused to steady occu- 
 pation, and his cousin demanded unflagging attention to 
 business. It was good for the boy, just what he needed j 
 but that made it none the less irksome. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Edith recovered slowly ; but the shock had told upon 
 her, and it was thought she needed a change of air. 
 
 " Take her to a city," suggested the doctor ; " she re- 
 quires diversion." 
 
 And very hurriedly and unexpectedly they decided to 
 go to Washington for a week or two, stopping in Phila- 
 delphia on their way back for a glimpse of Neal. 
 
 The party consisted of Mrs. Franklin, Edith, and Cyn- 
 thia, with the addition at the last moment of Aunt Betsey. 
 Each of the three Franklins felt a slight pang of disap- 
 pointment when they heard that Miss Trinkett intended 
 to join them ; it would have been just a little nicer to go 
 alone. But the old lady never suspected this, and she met 
 them in Boston on the morning of the 1st of June, full of 
 excitement and pleasure at the thought of seeing "the 
 inner workings of this wonderful government of ours." 
 
 Hester's one thought was that she should soon see her 
 brother again. During the last few weeks a letter had come 
 from the head-master at St. Asaph's, deeply regretting the 
 unjust judgment that had been passed upon Neal in sus- 
 pending him from school. It had since been proved that 
 be was innocent, and the faculty would be only too glad to 
 welcome him back. Mrs. Franklin felt that she could not 
 do too much to atone to Neal for having suspected him, 
 and she longed to tell him so. 
 
213 
 
 " And if I once see liim I can persuade him to come 
 back. I know I can !" she said, joyfully, to Cynthia. 
 
 The visit was an unqualified success. The Franklin 
 party did a vast amount of sight-seeing, Miss Trinkett 
 being the most indefatigable of all. Indeed, Cynthia was 
 the only one who was able physically to keep up with her 
 energetic little grandaunt, and even she was sometimes 
 forced to plead fatigue. 
 
 Miss Betsey left nothing undone. She journeyed to 
 the top of the Monument, she made a solemn pilgrimage 
 to Alexandria. She was never too tired to go to the Cap- 
 itol, and her little black-robed figure and large black bon- 
 net soon became familiar objects in the visitors' gallery, 
 while she listened carefully to all the speeches, thrilling 
 or dull as they chanced to be. When the latter was the 
 case, as frequently happened. Miss Trinkett waxed warm 
 with indignation at the lack of attention paid to the prosy 
 old member by his inconsiderate colleagues. 
 
 " Look !" she would whisper to Cynthia ; " they are 
 actually reading and writing and talking quite loud to 
 each other while that poor old gentleman is speaking ; 
 and some have gone out. How shocking !" 
 
 And she would lean forward again in an attitude of 
 renewed attention, and listen to the reasons for or against 
 some very unimportant project. 
 
 At Mount Vernon Miss Trinkett's joy and patriotism 
 knew no bounds. She bought little hatchets by the score, 
 and herself drew up the bucket from the general's own 
 well. She was even guilty of breaking off a twig in Mrs. 
 Washington's garden, notwithstanding the signs which 
 informed her that she was doing it under penalty of the 
 law. 
 
214 
 
 "I just couldn't help it," she said afterwards to her 
 nieces, in apologetic tones. " To think of that labyrinth 
 and that box-border being Martha Washington's own, and 
 me with the same thing in ray garden at home ! It made 
 me fairly thrill to think of Martha and me having the 
 same tastes in common. I knew she'd have let me take 
 it if she'd been here, for I always heard she was real 
 kind-hearted, if she ivas dignified, so I just did it." 
 
 But the most exciting day of all was when they visited 
 the Dead-letter Office. Miss Trinkett, interested as she 
 had always been in the mail service, was much impressed. 
 She sat up-stairs for hours, and gazed over the railing at 
 the rows of men who were opening and examining thou- 
 sands of missent letters. She could only be torn away 
 by the entreaties of Cynthia, who begged her to come see 
 the collection of curiosities which had found their way to 
 this vast receptacle. 
 
 At the first glass-case Miss Betsey stood appalled. 
 
 " Cynthy Franklin," she exclaimed, " look there !" 
 
 Cynthia looked. There was every conceivable thing 
 in the place, from a bee-hive to a baby's rattle. 
 
 <' Do you see ?" 
 
 " What, Aunt Betsey ?" 
 
 " There ! Look, my own rag doll !" 
 
 " Aunt Betsey, it can't be !" 
 
 " It is, Cynthy. Don't I know the work of my own 
 hands, I should like to ask ? Well, well, I want to know ! 
 I want— to — know ! Find me a chair, Cynthy. I feel 
 that taken aback I don't know but what I'm going to 
 faint, though I never did such a thing. But do tell ! do 
 tell ! Oh, this government of ours ! It is an age to live 
 in, Cvnthv." 
 
"'theue! look, my own rag doll!'" 
 
215 
 
 Cynthia brouglit her the chair, and the old lady seated 
 herself in front of the case. 
 
 " I do declare, if there ain't the very eyes I sewed in 
 with my own hands — black beads they are, Cynthy — and 
 the hair I embroidered with fine black yarn ! And the 
 petticoats, Cynthy ! The flannel one's feather-stitched. 
 I could tell you what that doll has on to her very stock- 
 ings. To think that something I made so innocently, 
 away off in Way borough, for our little Janet, now belongs 
 to the United States Government ! Well, well, it's a great 
 honor; almost too good to be true. But the little satchel, 
 Cynthy ? The satchel that hung at her side with the gold 
 in it, where's that ?" 
 
 That indeed was missing. 
 
 " Well, well, we won't say anything. I'm sure Govern- 
 ment deserves it for all the trouble it takes, opening all 
 those letters and bundles." 
 
 But her family thought differently, and Avheels within 
 wheels were set in motion by whicli the fifty dollars in 
 gold were recovered — the famous fifty dollars, the loss of 
 which had so affected the fortunes of Neal Gordon. 
 
 It seemed that in her agitation after the death of Silas 
 Green, Miss Betsey, though she stamped it generously, 
 had put no address at all on the package, and having sent 
 it off by the half blind Mr. Peters, the deficiency had not 
 been discovered. 
 
 He had taken it to Tottenham post-oflnce, where both 
 he and Miss Trinkett were unknown, and hurried away, 
 leaving the valuable package to the mercies of Govern- 
 ment. 
 
 " And to think that Government takes care of things 
 and gives them back to you when you are as careless as 
 
216 
 
 all that !" said Miss Betsey. The doll she would not re- 
 ceive. 
 
 " No, no," she said ; " let it stay where it is. I'll make 
 another for Janet, some day. It's an honor I never ex- 
 pected, to have one of my rag dolls set up in a glass case 
 in a public building in the city of Washington for thou- 
 sands and thousands of the American people to gaze at ! 
 Indeed, I want to know !" 
 
 The two weeks in Washington finally came to an end, 
 and the Franklins bade farewell to the beautiful city with 
 its parks and circles, its magnificent avenues, its public 
 buildings, and towering Monument. 
 
 " Well, well," said Miss Betsey, as she took her last 
 look, " I haven't lived all these years for nothing ! I've 
 been to the capital of my country and I've visited the 
 tomb of Washington. And, Cynthy, now it's all over and 
 we're safely out of the way, I'm real glad I took that twig 
 from the garden. I had a kind of an uneasy feeling about 
 it all the time I was in town, but now I feel better." 
 
 When they arrived at Philadelphia Mr. Carpenter was 
 waiting for them at the station. Neal, he explained, was 
 at the lumber-yard ; he could not get off at that hour. 
 They had intended going to a hotel, but William Carpen- 
 ter, with Quaker hospitality, insisted that they should stay 
 under his roof while they were in the city. 
 
 " Rachel expects thee," he said to his cousin when she 
 remonstrated ; " she has made the necessary preparations." 
 
 " But there are so many of us," said Mrs. Franklin. 
 
 "There is room for all, and more," he replied, calmly. 
 
 Miss Trinkett was much pleased with all she saw, though 
 somewhat surprised when she heard herself called by her 
 given name on so short an acquaintance. 
 
217 
 
 " However, it gives you an at-home feeling right away," 
 she confided to her nieces. " It seems as if I were back 
 in Wayborough with the people that have known me ever 
 since I was born, I wouldn't like to say how many years 
 ago, though not so very many, either." 
 
 It was the middle of the afternoon when Neal came in. 
 Hester heard his familiar step coming down the long, 
 narrow hall to her room, where she was resting. There 
 was a knock at the door, and she called to him to come in. 
 In another instant his arras were around her. 
 
 " Neal, Neal," she cried, " is it really you at last ? Oh, 
 how I have longed to see you ! Let me look at you." 
 
 She held herself away from him, and scrutinized the 
 face which was far above hers. 
 
 "You've grown. You are taller than ever. I only 
 come up to your shoulder, NeaL What a big man you 
 are going to be ! And you have altered — your face looks 
 different. What is it ?" 
 
 " Can't say," he laughed. " Don't stare a fellow out of 
 countenance, Hessie ; it's embarrassing. Did you have a 
 good time in Washington ?" 
 
 It was evident that he did not wish to refer to past events, 
 but Hester insisted upon speaking. She felt that some- 
 thing must be said sooner or later, and there was no time 
 like the present. It would be well to get it over. 
 
 " Neal," she said, tenderly, taking his hand as they sat 
 together on the sofa, " I never really thought you took the 
 money. I only did for an instant after you ran away. Of 
 course that seemed strange. But, Neal, you will forgive 
 us for thinking so at all. You will come back, won't you, 
 dear ? John wants you to as well as I, and you will go to 
 college." 
 
218 
 
 Neal rose and walked to the window. He stood there 
 for a moment, with his hands in his pockets. Then he 
 turned, and, coming back, stood in front of her. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is. Hessie, we've both got some- 
 thing to forgive. I was beastly extravagant at St. Asaph's, 
 and not at all fair and square when I asked you for the 
 money that time. Then, being suspended was all against 
 me, and of course John had a right to get mad. It's aw- 
 fully hard to swallow the fact that he wouldn't believe 
 me, and he thought I would steal ; however, he had some 
 excuse for it. My old pride was at the bottom of it all. 
 You see I've had time to think it over since I've been 
 here ; two months is a good long time. I've been alone 
 a lot, and when you're not measuring boards at a lumber- 
 yard you have plenty of time for thinking over )^our sins. 
 And I suppose I was pretty well in the wrong, too. I 
 ought not to have run away ; I know that." 
 
 Now that Neal had reached this conclusion he was 
 courageous enough to acknowledge it. 
 
 "And you will come home now, and go to college." 
 
 " No, I don't think I will. Cousin William seems to 
 think I do pretty well in the business, and I shouldn't 
 wonder if he'd feel rather badly to have me go. He was 
 very good to take me in. Then I made up my mind I'd 
 stick at the old thing and show Cyn — show some people 
 I'm no coward. Then I'm not very much gone on books, 
 Hessie, and if I went to college I'd want to give a good 
 deal of time to sports and all that, and I'd need a lot of 
 money. Somehow I don't seem to be able to see other 
 fellows spending a pile without doing likewise. I haven't 
 got it, and I am not going to be dependent on you, Hes- 
 sie dear, much as I know you would like to give me every 
 
219 
 
 cent you own. But, on the whole, I think I like better to 
 make my own living. I rather like the feeling of it." 
 
 Hester felt that Neal was showing that he was made of 
 good stuff. She was not a little proud of his independent 
 spirit. She was greatly disappointed that he was not go- 
 ing through college ; but, after all, she reflected, there was 
 great wisdom in what he said. She determined to say no 
 more until she had consulted with her husband, but she 
 knew that he would agree with Neah 
 
 " And now where are the girls ?" demanded Neal, with 
 a view to changing the subject. " I want to see them." 
 
 His sister called them in from the next room, and they 
 had a merry meeting. 
 
 "How funny it is," thought Cynthia. " The last time I 
 saw Neal we were like two drenched water-rats on the 
 river at home. Whoever thought we should meet away 
 off here in a strange house and a strange city, where all is 
 so different? I believe things are really going to come 
 right after all, and that day I was perfectly certain they 
 never would. Here is Edith well and strong when I 
 thought she was surely going to die, and mamma has 
 seen Neal and seems as happy as a lark, and Neal himself 
 looks fine. Somehow he seems more like a man. I'm 
 proud of him." 
 
 All of which train of thought took place while Cynthia 
 was indulging in an unwonted fit of silence. 
 
 Neal soon suggested that they should take a walk, and 
 the girls acceding to it, the three set forth, Neal feeling 
 extremely proud of the two pretty maidens with whom he 
 was walking. 
 
 " Philadelphia has an awfully forlorn look in summer," 
 he said, with the air of having been born and brought up 
 
220 
 
 a Philadelphian. " You see, everybody goes out of town, 
 and the houses are all boarded up. You're here at just 
 the wrong time." 
 
 " We are certainly here at a very hot time," remarked 
 Edith, as she raised her parasol. 
 
 " They call it very cool for this time of year," said 
 Neal. " You forget you are farther south than old Massa- 
 chusetts. It is a dandy place, I think, though I wouldn't 
 mind knowing a few people that are not Friends." 
 
 " How can you know people unless they are friends?" 
 asked Cynthia, gayly. 
 
 " Cynth, what a pun 1" said Neal, with an attempt at a 
 frown. " I say, though, it's awfully jolly to have you two 
 girls here, even if Cynthia does keep at her old tricks 
 and make very poor puns. How long are you going to 
 stay ?" 
 
 " As long as we're bidden, I suppose," returned Cynthia, 
 with one of her well-known little skips, as they set foot 
 on Walnut Street Bridge. 
 
 It was six o'clock, but being June the sun was still 
 high above the horizon. A gentle breeze came off the 
 river, and the afternoon light threw a soft radiance over 
 the masts of the vessels which lay at anchor at the 
 wharves, and the spires and chimneys of the town. 
 
 They wandered through the pretty streets of West 
 Philadelphia ; Neal, happy in having companions of his 
 own age again, laughing and talking in his old way, care- 
 free and fun-loving once more. 
 
 To Cynthia the past year seemed a hideous dream, now 
 to be blotted out forever. 
 
 She and Neal had one conversation alone together. It 
 was the night before the visitors were to leave Phila- 
 
231 
 
 delphia, and the two were in the old garden that was at 
 the back of Mr. Carpenter's house. It was not like Aunt 
 Betsey's garden, nor the more modern one at Oakleio-h, 
 but the roses and the lilac blossoms suggested a bit of 
 country here among city bricks and mortar. 
 
 Neal was very quiet, and Cynthia raUied him for being 
 so, as she herself laughed heartily at one of her own 
 jokes. 
 
 " Well, perhaps I am rather glum," said he ; " but I think 
 you are horribly heartless, Cynthia, laughing that way when 
 you're going off to-morrow, and nobody knows when I 
 shall see you again." 
 
 Cynthia was sobered in a moment. 
 " Neal, I want to tell you something," she said. <' Mam- 
 ma told me that you have decided to stay here and work 
 instead of going to college, and I admire you for doing 
 it. Of course, it's a great pity for a boy not to go to 
 college, but then yours is a peculiar case, and I'm proud 
 of you, Neal. Yes, I am ! You're plucky to stick it out." 
 " Wait until I do stick it out," said Neal, coloring hotly 
 at the unexpected praise. '' But it's rather nice to hear 
 you tell me I'm something besides a coward." 
 
 " Hush ! Don't remember what I said that day. Just 
 forget it all." 
 
 " Indeed, I won't ! It is written down in my brain, 
 every word of it, in indelible ink. There was something 
 else you said, Cynth. You said you had faith in me. I 
 mean to show you that you didn't make a mistake. It 
 will be harder work than ever now, though. Having 
 seen you all makes the idea of toiling and moiling here 
 pretty poky. However, my mind is made up. I will 
 stick it out !" 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 It was four years later, and it was again the day before 
 Christmas. 
 
 Cynthia sat in her own room by the bed, which was 
 covered with presents in various stages of completion ; 
 some tied up and marked, ready to be sent, others only 
 half finished, and one or two but just begun. Bob, as 
 usual, lay at her feet. 
 
 " There !" cried she, as with a loud snap her needle 
 broke for the third time ; " there it goes again. I believe 
 I'll give up this wretched frame and all the other things 
 that are not finished, and go to Boston this morning. I'll 
 just buy everything I see, regardless of price." 
 
 " You would never get near the counters, the shops are 
 so packed," observed Edith, who was hovering over a 
 table full of lovely articles on the other side of the large 
 room. " Just send what you have, Cynthia, and let the 
 rest go. You can't possibly finish them in time. You 
 give so many Christmas presents." 
 
 " Oh, it's all very well for you, with all those wedding- 
 presents and the Christmas things you'll have besides, to 
 think other people won't want them ! You don't take 
 half as much interest in Christmas as usual this year, 
 Edith, just because you are going to be married so soon. 
 Now I should never change about Christmas if I were to 
 be married forty times — which I hope I sha'n't be. In 
 fact, I've about made up my mind never to marry at all." 
 
" Nonsense ! I think I used to say that myself when 
 I was as young as you are." 
 
 " And you're just two years older, so according to that 
 you were saying so this time two years ago, which was 
 not by any means the case, for you were already engaged 
 to Dennis then ! In fact, I don't believe you ever said it. 
 Oh, another needle ! I'm too excited to work, anyhow. 
 What with weddings and Christmas and the boys coming 
 home, I am utterly incapable of further exertion." 
 
 She tossed the unfinished photograph-frame across the 
 bed and leaned back in her chair. Then she began to 
 gather up her work materials. Finally she moved rest- 
 lessly to the window. 
 
 ^< It is beginning to snow. I hope the boys won't be 
 blocked up on the way. Wouldn't it be dreadful !" 
 
 " I suppose you mean Neal. Of course. Jack can get 
 out from Cambridge. Ah, here comes Dennis !" and Edith 
 hastily left the room. 
 
 " Dennis, Dennis— always Dennis !" said Cynthia to her- 
 self. *' I wonder if I could ever become so silly. Cer- 
 tainly I never could about Dennis Morgan, though he is a 
 dear old fellow, and I'm very glad I'm going to have him 
 for a brother-in-law." 
 
 Cynthia stood for some time at the window, lookino- 
 out at the swiftly falling flakes which were already whiten- 
 ing the ground. Bob stood beside her, his fore-paws rest- 
 ing on the window-sill. He belonged to Cynthia now ; 
 but she patted his head and whispered in his ear that his 
 master was coming, which made the black tail wag joy- 
 fully. 
 
 Four years had, of course, made considerable change in 
 Cynthia ; and yet her face did not look very much older. 
 
234 
 
 Iler fearless blue eyes were just as merry or as thought- 
 ful by turns as they had always been — at this moment 
 very thoughtful ; and the pretty head, with the hair gath- 
 ered in a soft knot at the back, drooped somewhat as she 
 looked out on the fast gathering snow. 
 
 She was wondering how Neal would be this time. Dur- 
 ing his last visit he had seemed different. She wished 
 that people would not change. Why was one obliged to 
 grow up ? If they could only remain boys and girls for- 
 ever, what a lovely place the world would be ! She had 
 hated to have Edith become engaged, and now in two 
 days she was going to be married and leave the old home 
 forever. To be sure, she was to live in Brenton, in a dear 
 little house of her own, but it would not be the same thing 
 at all. 
 
 Of one thing Cynthia was sure. She would never marry 
 and go away from Oakleigh ; she would stay with her 
 father and mother forever. The next wedding in the fam- 
 ily would be either Jack's or Janet's. Jack had overcome 
 his shyness and become quite a " lady's man," and as for 
 Janet — but just then the young woman in question came 
 into the room. 
 
 She was eleven years old now, tall for her age, and with 
 her hair in a " pig-tail," but the roguish look in her eyes 
 showed that, like the Janet of former times, she was ever 
 ready for mischief. 
 
 She carried a pile of boxes in her arms, and was fol- 
 lowed by Willy, who staggered under a similar load, and 
 by Mrs. Franklin, also with her arms full. 
 
 " More wedding-presents," Janet announced. " Edith 
 and Dennis have been looking at them, and they sent them 
 up for you to see and fix." 
 
225 
 
 As slie uttered the last words one of tlie boxes slipped, 
 and away went a quantity of articles over the floor — spoons, 
 forks, gravy-ladles, and salt-cellars in wild confusion, cards 
 scattered, and no means of telling who sent what, nor in 
 which box anything belonged. 
 
 "Janet," groaned Cynthia, "if that isn't just like you! 
 You ought to be called ' The Great American Dropper,' for 
 everthing goes from you." 
 
 " Never mind," returned Janet, cheerfully. " Willy, you 
 pick them up while I see who's coming. I hear wheels. 
 It's a station carriage." 
 
 " Is it?" cried Cynthia. " Can it be already ?" 
 
 " It's Aunt Betsey," was Janet's next piece of informa- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh !" came from Cynthia, in disappointed tones. 
 
 " Why, who did you think it was ?" asked her young- 
 sister, turning and surveying her calmly and critically. 
 " Aren't you glad to see Aunt Betsey ? And why is your 
 face so very red ? Are you expecting any one else ?" 
 
 " No, only the boys," said Cynthia, busying herself 
 with the scattered silverware. 
 
 " The boys ! I don't see why your face should look so 
 queer for them." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin glanced at Cynthia quickly. 
 
 " Come," said she, much to her daughter's relief, " we 
 must go welcome Aunt Betsey." 
 
 The little old lady was as agile as ever. She had 
 come for Christmas and for the wedding, which was to 
 take place on the twenty -sixth. 
 
 "I am glad you didn't put it oft','' she said to Edith 
 when she had kissed her and kissed Dennis, and patted 
 them both on the shoulder. " Never put oft till to-morrow 
 
 15 
 
what can be done to-day, as I learned to my cost late in 
 life — though not so very late, either. And now I want 
 to see the wedding-presents." 
 
 And she trotted up-stairs in front of them just as nim- 
 bly as she did years ago, when she went up to show her 
 nieces her new false front. 
 
 Jack arrived in the afternoon. He was a sophomore at 
 Harvard now — very elegant in appearance, very superior as 
 to knowledge of the world, but underneath the same old 
 Jack, good - natured, plodding, persevering. He still ran 
 the poultry farm, though he paid a man to look after it 
 while he was away. 
 
 The day wore on, night came down upon them, and still 
 Neal did not appear. He was to have left Philadelphia 
 that morning, where he had been living during the past 
 four years. He had grown more accustomed to the con- 
 finement of business, he had made a number of friends 
 outside of the Quaker element, and he expected Philadel- 
 phia to be his permanent home. 
 
 His cousin was apparently satisfied with his success, for 
 Neal had risen steadily since the beginning, and would one 
 day be a partner. He had come home to Oakleigh every 
 summer for two weeks' vacation, but he had not spent 
 the Christmas holidays there since the year that his sister 
 was married. 
 
 This Christmas Eve Cynthia, in her prettiest gown 
 donned for the occasion, grew visibly more and more im- 
 patient, in which feeling her step - mother shared. Mr. 
 Franklin laughed at them as he sat by the lamp reading 
 the evening paper as usual. 
 
 " Watching w^on't bring him," he said, when they 
 opened the front door a crack for the twentieth time and 
 
227 
 
 then shut it hastily because of the snow that blew in ; 
 " and in the meantime you're freezing me !" 
 
 " Papa, how can you be so prosaic as to read a stupid 
 old newspaper Christmas Eve?" cried Cynthia, as she 
 caught the paper out of his hand, tossed it aside, and 
 seated herself on his knee. 
 
 "Seems to me my little daughter looks very nice to- 
 night," he said, looking at her affectionately. " She has 
 on a very fine frock and some very superior color in her 
 cheeks." 
 
 "Well, it is Christmas Eve, and the fire is hot," ex- 
 plained Cynthia. 
 
 " Ho !" laughed Janet, " that isn't it ! You began to 
 get blushy when you thought the boys were coming this 
 morning. You thought — " 
 
 " Janet," interposed Mrs. Franklin, "run up-stairs quick- 
 ly and get the little white package on my dressing-table, 
 dear. I forgot to put it in the basket. You can slip it 
 in." 
 
 For the old Oakleigh custom still obtained, and the 
 presents were deposited in the basket in the hall. 
 
 Janet, her explanations nipped in the bud, departed 
 obediently, her love of teasing overcome by her desire to 
 see, feel, and even shake the " little white package," which 
 had an attractive sound. 
 
 And at last Neal arrived. The storm had begun at the 
 south, and there had been much detention ; but he had 
 finally reached his journey's end, and here he was, cold 
 and hungry, and very glad to reach the friendly shelter 
 of Oakleigh. 
 
 From the moment he came in Cynthia found a great 
 deal to do in other parts of the house — things which 
 
238 
 
 seemed to require lier immediate and closest attention. 
 She left lier mother and sister to attend to the ^vants of 
 the traveller, and beyond the first shy greeting she had 
 verv little to say to him. When there was nothing left to 
 be done she devoted herself to Aunt Betsey. But as 
 soon as Neal had appeased his appetite the excitement of 
 opening the presents began, and the assumption of indif- 
 ference to his coming was no longer necessary. 
 
 On Christmas afternoon Neal asked Cynthia to go out 
 with him. The day was clear, the sleighing fine, and he 
 anticipated having an opportunity for a long talk with 
 her, uninterrupted by the claims of relatives. It seemed 
 to him that there were more people than ever who re- 
 ceived a share of Cynthia's attention. He would like to 
 have her all to himself just once. 
 
 Very much to his chagrin, however, Cynthia, who ac- 
 cepted his invitation with apparent cordiality, insisted 
 that they should go in the double sleigh, and that Aunt 
 Betsey and some one else should go too. 
 
 " It would be very selfish and quite unnecessary for us 
 to go in the cutter when Aunt Betsey is so fond of a 
 sleigh-ride," she said, severely. 
 
 Neal grumbled under his breath, but could say nothing 
 aloud, as Miss Trinkett was in the room. To be sure, when 
 they drove off, Cynthia sat in front with him, while his 
 sister entertained her aunt on the back seat ; but it was 
 not by any means the same thing as going with Cynthia 
 alone would have been. 
 
 That young woman, with apparent unconsciousness of 
 his dissatisfaction, chatted gayly about the wedding, the 
 various bits of Brenton gossip, and everything that she 
 could think of to keep the ball of conversation rolling. 
 
229 
 
 Somehow it had never before been so difficult to talk to 
 Neal. She wished that he would exert himself a little 
 more. 
 
 " How do you like the idea of being usher," she asked — 
 " you and Jack and four others, you know ? Tom Morgan 
 is to be best man, Gertrude and Kitty Morgan are to be 
 bridesmaids, and I maid of honor. But, Neal, did you hear 
 the story about Tony Br on son ?" 
 
 <'No; what?" 
 
 " Oh, he did some terrible thing not very long ago. He 
 forged his uncle's name, I believe. It got into the papers 
 at first, and then it was all hushed up, and his father paid 
 the money. But wasn't it dreadful ?" 
 
 " I should say so ! But it is just what one might have 
 expected Bronson to do, Cynth." 
 
 And then Neal relapsed into silence again, and Cynthia 
 determined that she would make no further effort at con- 
 versation. If Neal would not talk he need not, but neither 
 would she. And after this, with the exception of Miss 
 Betsey's voice from behind, nothing was heard but the jin- 
 gle of the sleigh-bells until the drive was over and they 
 were at home again. 
 
 The wedding the next day passed off well. The bride 
 looked lovely, as all brides should, and Cynthia was as 
 pretty as, if not more so, than her sister. After the cere- 
 mony at the church there was a reception at the house, 
 which, notwithstanding the winter aspect without, looked 
 warm and gay in its dress of Christmas-greens and wed- 
 ding-flowers. 
 
 Edith was up-stairs in her old room, and her mother and 
 Cynthia were putting the last touches to her toilet when 
 she had changed her dress to go away. 
 
230 
 
 " Mamma, I want to say something to you," she said, 
 putting her arms around Mrs. Franklin's neck. " You 
 know how I love you now, and you know only too well 
 how hateful I was to you when you first came to us. I look 
 back on it now with horror, especially the day you heard 
 me say it was so dreadful to have the Gordons come. I 
 want to tell you, mamma, that next to Dennis the coming 
 of the Gordons was the very best thing that ever happened 
 to me in my whole life !" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin could not speak ; she could only kiss her 
 and hold her tenderly. 
 
 Cynthia said nothing aloud, but she thought that the 
 coming of the Gordons was the very best thing that had 
 ever happened to her, without any exception whatever. 
 Dennis, in her eyes, was of minor importance. 
 
 The bride and groom went off amid a shower of old 
 shoes, and then the guests slowly betook themselves to 
 their homes. It was the first weddino- at Oakleioii for 
 many years, and it was celebrated in a manner befitting 
 such an important occasion. Some of the intimate friends 
 stayed during the evening, and when they left, the family, 
 tired and worn with excitement, separated early. 
 
 The next day Neal went to see some of his former 
 friends. He was absent several days, for he had been 
 granted extended leave, and was not due in Philadelphia 
 until the 2d of January. 
 
 It seemed very lonely and strange at Oakleigh after 
 the wedding was over. It was the first break in the fam- 
 ily of that kind, and Cynthia could not become accus- 
 tomed to it. She thought that accounted for the unus- 
 ual fit of depression which seized her the morning Neal went 
 away, and which she could not shake off, try as she would. 
 
Edith and Dennis were to return the last day of the 
 year, and spend a short time at the old homestead before 
 going to their new house. Neal also was to come back 
 that day, and Cynthia found herself longing for New- 
 year's Eve. She did want to see Edith so much, she said 
 to herself a dozen times a day. 
 
 And at last New-year's Eve came, and with it the ab- 
 sent members of the household. A merry party sat about 
 the supper-table that night. Cynthia was the gayest of 
 the gay. Her contagious laugh rang out on all occasions, 
 but, indeed, everybody laughed at every one else's joke, 
 and particularly at one's own joke, apparently without re- 
 gard to the amount of wit contained therein. 
 
 But as the evening lengthened Cynthia grew more quiet. 
 The last night of the year always impressed her with its 
 solemnity, young though she was. She left the others 
 where they were sitting about the fire waiting for the 
 clock to strike, and wandered oS to the dining-room, 
 to the library, up-stairs — anywhere. She could not sit 
 still. 
 
 She was just coming down the broad old staircase when 
 Neal suddenly appeared at the foot. He had been wait- 
 ing for her. He was to go back to-morrow, and he had 
 determined to speak to her before he left. 
 
 She paused a moment in surprise, and the light from 
 the Venetian lantern which hung in the hall shone down 
 on her soft curly hair and young face as she stood with 
 her hand resting on the bannister. Neal thought he had 
 never seen so lovely a picture. 
 
 " I want to speak to you, Cynth," he said, leaning 
 against the carved post at the foot of the stairs and effect- 
 ually barring the way. There was nothing for her to do 
 
233 
 
 but to listen. " I have tried for ages, ever since I came, 
 and you never will give me a cLance." 
 
 " Nonsense ! You have been away. How could you 
 expect to talk to me if you went away ?" 
 
 " I know ; but I had to go. Besides, you wouldn't have 
 let me if I had been here." 
 
 " Let us go back to the parlor. It is almost twelve." 
 
 " No, I want you here." 
 
 Cynthia was about to reply defiantly, but something in 
 Neal's eyes made her drop her own. She stood there in 
 silence. 
 
 " Cynthia, do you remember that day on the river in 
 the rain?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Do you remember what you called me then ?" 
 
 No reply. 
 
 " Tell me, Cynth ; do you remember what you called 
 me ?" 
 
 " Yes," very low. 
 
 *' You called mo a coward. Do you think I am one 
 now ?" 
 
 « Oh no." 
 
 " But you also said you had faith in me, Cynthia ; and in 
 Philadelphia that spring I told you I was going to prove 
 to you that I was worthy of your faith. Do you think I 
 have, Cynthia?" 
 
 "Yes, Neal." 
 
 He said nothing for a minute. Then he glanced at the 
 old clock in the back part of the hall. It was five min- 
 utes of twelve. 
 
 " Come to the hall window, Cynthia," he said, taking 
 her hand, and Cynthia went with him. 
 
I WANT TO SPEAK TO VOU, CYNTII '" 
 
s 4 • 
 
" That other New-year's Eve we stood here and looked 
 out on the snow just as we're doing noAv. Do you re- 
 member ?" 
 
 " And I made good resolutions which I never kept," 
 said Cynthia, finding her voice at last. " Oh, Neal, my 
 bureau drawers are just as untidy and my tongue is just as 
 unruly as ever ! I make the same good resolutions every 
 New-year's Eve, but I always break them. You were 
 wiser. You would not promise that night when I wanted 
 you to, but you have done a great deal better than if you 
 had." 
 
 "I would not promise when I should have done so. 
 But won't you return good for evil, Cynthia, and promise 
 me something ? Promise me that before many more New- 
 year's Eves have come and gone you will be my wife ! For 
 I love you — love you, Cynthia ! I have loved you ever 
 since that day on the river — indeed, long before that! 
 Hark ! the clock is beginning to strike. Promise before 
 it stops." 
 
 And Cynthia promised. 
 
 And the old clock struck twelve, as it had done thou- 
 sands of times before, and the old year died, and for us 
 the story is finished. But for Neal and Cynthia a new 
 year and a new life were dawning, and for them the story 
 had but just begun. 
 
 THE END 
 
^^ 9iS717 
 D337 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA UBRARV